Hostage Heart

by Lindsay McKenna

Hobbling slowly to the entrance, Ny-Oden said, “And I have warned you before: don’t judge all pindahs by the actions of only a few men. I will tell Maria you are awake. You must eat.”

  Barely able to contain her simmering anger, Lark forced her feet to the floor, gripping the sides of the bed for support. Her head swam with dizziness, but she fought it off.

  “I’m sorry you were beaten up, for whatever it’s worth, Lark.”

  She tried to steel herself against Matt’s softly spoken apology. She had to get away from him! “I’d rather have your hatred and anger than your pity,” she spat back.

  Matt grimaced. “You have my compassion and understanding. Never my pity.”

  Making a harsh sound in her throat, Lark said, “I’d rather deal with your hate. That’s something I can understand.”

  “You’re hurt and angry, Lark. I know what you’re going through.”

  She twisted toward him, glaring. “Do you? How long has it been since five men took you down, hit you, kicked you, and held a knife to your throat?”

  “I want to hear what happened to you,” he replied quietly.

  Lark gauged him in silence. “Why?”

  “Because it’s important for me to know.”

  “So you can tell your friends that the beating of a half-breed woman was just payment for your family’s death?” Lark forced herself to stand, wavering unsteadily. “You can go to your white man’s hell before I tell you anything!”

  Matt recoiled at the raw hatred in her hoarse voice. Lark swayed, and he watched as she forced herself to walk with faltering steps across the room to the dresser.

  Bending down with great difficulty, she pulled a pair of Levi’s and a black cotton shirt from a drawer. She glowered at Kincaid as she walked with halting steps past the bed, out the door, and down the hall.

  “Dammit,” he snarled under his breath. But he couldn’t blame her for her behavior.

  Defying Maria’s orders, Lark got dressed. Her own discomfort didn’t matter. The ranch was more important than her small aches and pains. More important, Lark had to convince her people that she was still in charge.

  The sun was an hour away from its zenith, the “The warm afternoon air lifted the lace curtains…” warm and fragrant. Lark tried to keep her face impassive as she headed toward the Old Ones’ bunkhouse. She knew from experience that if the Old Ones understood, then they would help dispel the shock of the event to the rest of the people who worked and lived on the ranch.

  Sitting on the wooden porch was Lame Deer, an aged but still spry Apache woman. In her arms was Sancho, the five-year-old son of Primo, one of her best wranglers.

  Sancho’s squeal of laughter was cut short at Lark’s approach. His huge brown eyes widened with fear and he scrambled to hide behind Lame Deer’s cotton skirt.

  Shocked, Lark halted. Of course, she probably looked almost unrecognizable. Swallowing hard, she mounted the steps to where Lame Deer sat in silence.

  “Granddaughter,” the Old One greeted her in Apache, “you have frightened young Sancho.” She reached around, patting the boy’s shiny black hair. “He thinks you are Owl-Man Monster.”

  Lark forced a smile to her lips and sat down on the steps. “You must help me, Lame Deer.”

  “How, granddaughter?”

  “I was beaten by pindahs near Prescott.” Wryly she added, “I may look like a ghost of my former self, but I am alive, not dead. Will you tell the other Old Ones that I am still able to run the ranch?”

  “I shall tell them,” Lame Deer promised.

  Sancho peeked from behind her skirt, his chin coming to rest on Lame Deer’s ample lap. He blinked twice, his small voice shaking with fear. “Señorita Lark?”

  She held her hand out to the boy. “Yes, it’s Lark, Sancho. Come to me?”

  Hesitating, Sancho looked up at Lame Deer’s darkly browned, wrinkled face.

  “Go, Sancho. Patrona Lark is not Owl-Man Monster. She merely hurt herself. Does not your knee or elbow swell up and look angry when you fall on it? Well, she fell on her face. Go to her. She is the same Lark Who Sings you knew before her accident.”

  Grateful for Lame Deer’s explanation, and for her help, Lark opened her arms. Sancho stood up and came around the Apache woman. Like the other small children, he wore few clothes. His trousers were thin and worn, his feet bare. Shyly, he stepped forward.

  Without a word, Lark folded the child into her arms as she had done so many times in the past. The children of the ranch were special to her…as children were to all Apache people.

  “There,” she murmured to the boy, setting him on her lap and allowing him to snuggle deep into her arms. “Even though I look like Owl-Man Monster, do I act like him?”

  Sancho shook his head. “No, Señorita Lark. Did you bring back a surprise for all of us?”

  Lark kissed his wrinkled brow. Her father always brought candy for the children. They had crowded around his buckboard, dancing about and begging for the sweets they knew he was hiding in his pockets. Lark gently tucked away the memory, remembering her father’s generosity with deep affection. “No, I didn’t bring any candy, Sancho. But I promise that the next time I go into town, I’ll bring you a very special surprise.”

  Satisfied with her promise, Sancho allowed her to place him back in the elderly woman’s arms. She ruffled his hair.

  “Thank you for your help, Grandmother.”

  “You need not even ask, my child. I will tell the others.”

  Relieved that Lame Deer understood, Lark left the porch. Her next task was to visit the small homes of the wranglers, located in a small grove of fir trees opposite the main house.

  At the end of her rounds, Lark felt confident that the people of the ranch would accept what had happened to her with less concern because she was up and around. With a grimace, she returned to the ranch house. Next she would have to tackle the account books.

  Rubbing her aching brow, Lark slowly climbed the porch stairs and went inside. Maria gave her a worried look, but was wise enough not to say anything. Lark went to the office, in too much pain to be pleasant to anyone right now.

  At noon Maria brought Matt his meal, flashing him a shy smile of welcome as she set down a tray filled with fried venison steak, potatoes and warm bread. “Will you at least be a good patient and eat, Señor Matt?”

  He nodded, his mouth watering. Since the fever had broken, his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He tied a cotton cloth around his neck to protect his bare chest. “I’m hungry enough to eat a bear,” he assured her.

  Tittering, Maria sat down in the rocker and picked up her mending. “You are like a bear, señor.”

  He managed a smile between bites. “What about Lark? How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “Aiyee, Señor Matt, she should be in her bedroom, resting.” Maria folded her plump hands on the mending. “Instead she wrestles with numbers in the office.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Sí. Her father kept books, but she doesn’t know how to read them. I think the patrona is trying to teach herself so she can find out if there is any money left to pay the wranglers.”

  Matt nodded. “I see.”

  Sadly, Maria shook her head. “No, señor,, you do not. When the patrona was in the seventh grade, they told her never to come back to school. She sees words and numbers backward sometimes. The teacher said it was her Apache blood that made her stupid. The teacher refused to allow Lark to continue schooling. Instead, the patron tried to teach Lark to read, write, and understand sums.” With a vague shrug, Maria added mournfully, “He could not help her. The patrona has the hardest time with numbers. They scare her, I think.”

  “Because she sees them backward?” Lark should never have been denied schooling. Any fool with an ounce of brains could see the intelligence in her lupine eyes.

  “Sí. I do not understand it, señor. No one does. The teacher embarrassed Lark in front of the gringo class. She took much teasing from everyone for so long that she began to be
lieve she was as stupid as they accused her of being.”

  Matt’s mouth drew into a straight line. He set the empty tray aside. “Maria, get me my clothes.”

  “Señor?”

  “Just do as I ask. It’s important.”

  “But your leg…”

  He smiled grimly. “Some things are more important than a little pain. Help me wrap the wound tightly so it won’t bleed.”

  Lark’s cheek throbbed with pain. She rested her wrinkled brow against one palm, watching as the numbers swam before her watering eyes. Nothing made any sense. Certainly not the two account logs her father had kept. Beside her lay the savings and the mortgage payment books. Where was she going to find an extra three hundred dollars to pay her wranglers? And another hundred for more supplies?

  A noise at the office door drew her attention. There in the doorway, looking as if he was too large for it, stood Matt Kincaid.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she exclaimed.

  Matt gave her a shrug, barely succeeding in hiding his pain. “Neither should you, but here you are.”

  Lark’s eyes rounded as he limped to the desk and sat down in the chair next to it. She wasn’t sure who looked worse right then. Dark stubble shadowed Matt’s gaunt cheeks, and a fierce light was burning in his gray eyes. His flesh was waxen from exertion, brow beaded with perspiration.

  “I have good reason to be up and around,” she snapped, closing the account books and resting her hands protectively on top of them. “I own this ranch and it’s my responsibility to keep it running.”

  Straightening his wounded leg, Matt nodded. “Commendable loyalty,” he commented.

  “Then why are you here? If you want to exercise, you could have chosen any other part of the house.”

  Lark looked incredibly fragile in that moment. Matt had to stop himself from reaching out and touching her. He cleared his throat. “I was bored.”

  “Bored?” Lark repeated, taken off guard by his casual response.

  “I’m tired of sitting in that bed staring out the windows. I need something to do. Anything.”

  Lark gave him a look of disbelief. She gestured toward the shelves lined with leather-bound books. “Then read. Take one of them back with you to bed. You shouldn’t be up so soon.”

  “I don’t feel like reading,” he muttered, studying the shelves. “I need something more challenging.”

  Lark’s patience thinned as she surveyed him, trying to ignore the powerful force drawing her to him. “I don’t have time to keep you entertained by sitting with you.”

  “Maria did.”

  “I’m not Maria! I have a ranch to run.”

  Matt slowly turned his attention from the library shelves back to her. He eyed the green books. “Are those ledgers?”

  “Ledgers?”

  “Another word for bookkeeping.”

  Grudgingly she nodded. She’d never heard the term before. “How do you know what these are?”

  Matt disguised his interest and continued to study the office. “No reason. My father owns a bank back in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. While I was going to school, I studied accounting, budgets and banking.”

  “I see….”

  “For some reason, numbers never bored me,” he went on in a conversational tone. “I always found them interesting.”

  Lark had to force herself to relax her grip on the account books. “Y-you like numbers?” She tried to disguise the hope in her voice. If only he would answer a few of her questions, perhaps even show her how to read the books…

  Matt proffered a hint of a smile. “Prefer them. Say, that’s a good idea. I’ll go back to bed, providing you let me work with some numbers. I’m pretty handy at balancing budgets.”

  “Well, I don’t know….”

  “Look, I’ve got to repay you in some way for saving my life. At least let me earn my keep while I’m here. Fair enough?” Matt offered his hand to seal the deal.

  Lark stared. It was a large hand with powerful fingers and a palm thickly callused from years of hard, outdoor labor. Hesitantly she slipped her hand into his, immediately aware of the warmth and gentleness of his grip. Drowning in the dove-gray warmth of Matt’s eyes, Lark became aware of good, cleansing feelings washing through her. She quickly pulled her hand free, and stood nervously.

  “Will you be able to tell me what I need to know through those numbers?”

  Matt retrieved the two ledgers from the desk, plus the banking books, and tucked them under one arm. “Sure. Let me take a look at them, and if you want, drop by in a couple of hours with your questions.” As Lark shifted restlessly from one foot to another, he was surprised to realize he wanted to simply open his arms and tell her to come into them. As badly beaten as she was, he didn’t see how she could be up and about, much less trying to tackle something as difficult as accounting. Had Ny-Oden’s poultices and chants made the difference?

  With a faint smile, he held Lark’s unsure gaze. “Better yet, how about sharing dinner with me this evening? That will give me plenty of time to prepare for your questions.”

  Lark was about to answer when the pounding of horses’ hooves drew her to the window. There, coming down the valley, rode her wranglers leading the herd of mustang broodmares. Hope stirred in her breast, and she turned abruptly, catching a look of longing on Matt’s face. Uncertain what it meant, she ignored his expression and skirted the desk.

  “My wranglers are back. I’ll be very busy for the next few hours. If I can join you for dinner, I will. If not, later tonight.”

  Before he could protest, Lark was gone. From the window Matt watched the approach of men and horses. He saw Lark head for the stock pens near the barns. Her shoulders were proudly squared, her chin up, and her walk confident. With a shake of his head, Matt made his way back to the smaller bedroom. Only Maria knew the cost of his effort. As she removed the tight bandage that was now bright red with fresh blood, he began to assess the ranch’s financial situation.

  Paco’s eyes widened in shock as he dismounted in the yard and caught sight of Lark coming toward him. The whinnies of horses filled the air and dust rolled across the ranch in huge, billowing clouds. The yips and yells of his wranglers as they maneuvered the herd into holding pens drowned out his first words.

  Lark held up her hand, seeing the disbelief in Paco’s eyes. “It’s all right, Paco.”

  He dropped the reins to his tired, sweaty horse. “Patrona, what happened? Dios, did you—”

  As briefly as she could, Lark told her foreman what had happened. She saw anger replace Paco’s shock as she ended the brief explanation.

  “Those gringo bastards!” he exclaimed. “I will ride there and call Shanks out! It will do no good to go to Sheriff Cole. He’s as crooked as Cameron.” He grabbed the reins of his horse, prepared to remount.

  “No!” Lark clutched the Mexican’s arm. “Paco! Don’t go!”

  He stared levelly at her. “Patrona, no one is going to get away with hurting you like that.” He jabbed his gloved finger toward Prescott. “I will even the score. That is a promise!”

  Lark held her ground. “Look, Paco, I need you alive, not dead. My father ran this ranch, I didn’t. I know the horse business, but you have more knowledge about general ranch duties. I need you. Please…don’t go.”

  The foreman slowly relaxed, then took off his dusty hat to wipe his sweaty brow. “You should be avenged, Patrona,” he told her firmly.

  Trying to control her own feelings, Lark nodded. “Yes, Paco, but not right now and not in that way. If you go gunning for Shanks, you’ll be acting no better than he has.”

  “Shanks deserves nothing better than a bullet in his back. That’s what he’s famed for, Patrona, for sneaking up behind a man and drilling him.”

  Relief spread through Lark when she realized Paco would obey her order. She released his sleeve. “Shanks is a coward. We both agree on that. But right now we have to devote all our attention to the ranch. Later, when things are in order, I’ll p
ursue Shanks’s attack on me.”

  Paco’s face hardened. “If I see him, I will draw on him.”

  Lark’s mouth tightened. “You won’t do anything, Paco, unless I tell you to. Is that clear?”

  Grudgingly, he nodded. “Sí, Patrona. Excuse me, I must help the men settle the mares.”

  She watched Paco mount and trot off toward the corrals. She wished mightily that her father was there. He had the authority to force the men, including Paco, to obey his commands. Fleetingly she wondered if she could ask Matt for help. The wranglers would respect him because he was a natural leader.

  It was near midnight when all the ranch activity finally ceased. The throbbing in Lark’s head had worsened, and she knew she had pushed beyond even her own considerable powers of endurance. From the porch steps, she perused the silent yard, then turned and walked into the house, her heart beginning to pound. She tried to tell herself that Matt’s offer to work off his debt meant nothing to her, but it did. The Apache way was to repay an obligation. Lark fought the attraction that held her every time she thought of him. The physical pull that bound her to him left her feeling vulnerable in a way she’d never experienced.

  She stopped in the kitchen to make a fresh poultice for Matt’s leg, then, girding herself for the possible bad news he might have concerning the ledgers, she went to his room. Lamplight spilled into the hallway from the opened door, indicating he was still awake.

  A soft knock on the door made Matt look up. He saw Lark standing uncertainly in the entrance. In the dim light, her golden flesh looked taut with fatigue. Hoping to ease the anxiety in her expression, he offered a slight smile.

  “Come on in. That was quite a herd your men brought in,” he complimented, wanting to establish some neutral ground with her.

  “My foreman brought in twenty-five mares. They’ll be bred to either the Kentucky Stud or to Huelga.” She sat on the edge of the mattress, avoiding his intense gaze. There was something so powerful about his broad chest, about the dark, curling hair exposed above the unfastened top button of his red full-length long johns. He was so male. Trying to ignore him, she set about cleaning his wound.