Hostage Heart

by Lindsay McKenna

  Lark turned toward the bank, leaning over and squeezing the excess water from her hip-length hair. She smiled over at Matt. “I feel alive again!”

  He handed her a fresh red cotton shirt. “You look beautiful.”

  Looking up, Lark heard the tremor in Matt’s tone. Heat collected between her thighs as she stood before him. His eyes burned with desire, telling her of his need for her.

  Lark barely grazed his stubbled cheek with her fingers. “Let me dress and then I’ll lie down and sleep.”

  Matt knew she was right not to encourage his lust. It would be far too dangerous to make love now. Sunlight made her black hair dance with sapphire highlights as it outlined her glorious young form. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch this time.”

  Lark awoke slowly in the late afternoon heat, sprawled across the blanket on her belly. The whirring of a katydid caught her groggy attention as she lifted her lashes to see Matt standing naked in the river washing himself. He was beautiful….

  Matt left the river and pulled on a set of fresh clothes. His face, once lined with fatigue and tension, looked more relaxed. Lark’s gaze settled hotly on his mouth.

  So, this is what love is, she thought. A wonderful, euphoric sensation, like an eagle soaring through the sky. No wonder her mother had been so happy with her father. No wonder she’d often had a soft, shy smile on her mouth. No wonder her father’s eyes had danced with undisguised warmth. Lark felt closer to her parents because of her new understanding. Simultaneously she understood her father’s raw grief when Mourning Dove had died.

  The thought that Matt might be killed by either Shanks or Ga’n sent such an unexpected pang through her heart that she sat up. Her unbound hair slid across her shoulders as she drew her legs up to her chest.

  “Feel any better?” Matt asked, sitting down on a log to pull on his boots.

  Lark’s eyes were fraught with darkness. “No…yes.”

  He knelt in front of her. “What’s this I see?” he teased, lightly smoothing her wrinkled brow with his thumb. “Did you have bad dreams?”

  With a muffled sound, Lark threw herself into his arms, and clung to him, burying her head beneath his chin. The moment his strong arms closed around her, she took a deep, ragged breath.

  Stroking her hair, Matt held her tightly, sensing her anguish. “What is it, my golden cougar?”

  His deep, calm voice soothed her terror. “I—I now understand my father’s grief after my mother died,” she began haltingly. “Four seasons ago, Mourning Dove died of the white man’s sickness. I couldn’t understand then why my father never smiled or laughed afterward, why he became like a ghost.”

  Matt gently eased her from him, forcing her to look up at him. “Your father loved your mother very much, Lark.”

  She nodded, feeling the heat of tears pricking her eyes. “And I love you with that same fierce feeling. I never understood their love, Matt. Until now…”

  •He leaned over, kissing her cheek. “We’ve got a love like that, yes. It’s so rare, Lark, that sometimes it scares me.

  Nuzzling Matt’s cleanly shaven cheek, Lark stole her hands around his massive neck. “I’m afraid of losing you,” she quavered.

  “I carry the same fear of losing you, Lark.”

  “Now I understand why you didn’t want me along.” She rubbed the cleft between her breasts, trying to will away the fear in her heart.

  With a faint smile, Matt tilted her stubborn chin upward. “We’re going to live to be very old and very happy together, my woman. That’s a promise.”

  “How do you know? Only medicine men and women can see future events.”

  “I feel it here, in my heart.”

  Leaning her head against his chest, Lark closed her eyes. “My heart is too frightened to feel anything else, right now.”

  “Then trust mine,” Matt teased huskily.

  It would be so easy to bring Lark into his arms and love her. He wanted to take away the pain in her eyes and kiss away the hurt on her thinned lips. He wanted to hear her cry out in passion and satisfaction, not out of fear of their unknown future.

  Breaking the warmth that bound them to each other, Matt murmured, “We’ve got to get going. While you were asleep, I did a little tracking, and it looks like Shanks is continuing to follow the river south.”

  Reluctantly Lark sat up, forcing her thoughts back to the present situation. “Ga’n’s being forced to stay near rivers or creeks in order to provide Kentucky with water,” she observed.

  “That will save us the problem of finding water for our own animals,” Matt said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand. Her grip was firm, her fingers slender.

  “I’d like to know whether Ga’n’s going to take Kentucky to an Apache chief or sell him to the whites,” Lark said.

  “With Shanks along, my guess is he’s taking the stud to a white man.”

  “Is it possible Shanks is taking Kentucky to someone in the Tucson Indian Ring?”

  Matt walked with her toward the hobbled horses. “That’s what I was thinking. It would make sense to assume Cameron’s behind all this, and that Shanks is acting on his behalf. If that’s true, they’re probably heading to either Phoenix or Tucson.”

  Lark saddled Four Winds. “Why?”

  “Frank said the members of the Ring are probably located in the major cities of Arizona, where they have access to a telegraph and can keep in touch with one another.” Matt threw the heavy leather saddle over his bay gelding. “A buyer for Kentucky may have already been found.”

  Lark nodded. “Cameron knows how important Kentucky is to our ranch. If I lose the stallion, I’ve lost everything.”

  Matt mounted up. “There are a lot of rich land barons around either city who would pay good money for your stallion.”

  Lark leaped gracefully into the saddle and gave Matt a disgruntled look as they began to follow the river southward. “If Ga’n sells him to the Apaches, we’ll have a good chance of getting him back. Once a chief found out he was stolen from me, he’d give him to us. That’s the Apache way.”

  Matt pulled his hat a little lower to shade his eyes from the glaring sun. “We’ll have an idea where they’re heading once the Agua Fria meets up with the Gila River,” he told her. “If they go east, they’ll be heading toward Phoenix. If they go southeast, Tucson.”

  Near dusk, they spotted a wagon train consisting of five schooners camped near the river. Matt gave Lark a worried glance. “Better let me do the talking. These people are from back East and might panic when they see you.”

  Lark understood and dropped behind Matt’s horse. Spotted oxen and a few horses were foraging near the river. A knot of white people were standing together outside the wagon train itself. Lark’s hand tightened around the Winchester balanced across her lap.

  As Matt drew closer, he saw why the fifteen people were gathered in a tight circle: someone had recently died and a cross had just been erected over a freshly dug grave. Those faces were now trained on him and Lark.

  He could feel their distrust. The children hid behind their mothers’ skirts. The men held their rifles in readiness. Matt’s heart started a slow, hard pound. They didn’t look at all friendly. How would they react to Lark? He didn’t want to lose her to a bullet from one of these bearded men dressed in somber black trousers and wrinkled cotton shirts. The apparent leader, a man with a flaming red beard, wearing a flat-brimmed black hat, stepped out of the group, his rifle pointed at Matt.

  “Best stop there, mister,” he warned in a gravelly voice.

  Matt glanced back at Lark. There wasn’t time to instruct her on what he wanted her to do. He sat easily in the saddle, purposely keeping his hand away from his own gun.

  “We’re just passing through,” he called. “Was wondering if you might have seen a drover and an Apache with a big sorrel stud in tow.”

  “We saw ’em all right.” The man’s round face grew scarlet and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That Apac
he savage just killed our wagon master.””

  Lark gasped.

  Matt held up his hand. “The name’s Matt Kincaid. The woman with me, Lark Gallagher, is tracking for me. We’re hunting those two down. They stole the horse they’ve got with them.”

  The leader eyed them angrily, his green gaze settling on Lark. “That’s a white name yore puttin’ on that squaw.”

  Squaw. The word hit Lark squarely, it had been spoken like a vile insult.

  “My blood’s just as red as yours, mister! You have no right to call me anything except by my given name.”

  The leader’s thick brows rose in surprise at her clear, flawless English. He raised the rifle a little higher, keeping it trained on them.

  “Lark,” Matt warned darkly.

  She glared at the red-haired leader and then over at Matt.

  “Kincaid, you and that squaw better move on. We’re in deep enough trouble now without having you two around. When that drover and Injun rode in asking for supplies, we were generous with them. Then that Injun turned around and killed Mr. Gerard. Nothing says you two ain’t up to no good, either.”

  Hostility was evident in every face. Keeping, his voice low and calm, Matt said to the leader, “We come in peace and we’ll leave in peace. If you can tell us which direction they went, we’d be obliged.”

  “I overheard the drover, Shanks, say that they were headin’ for Tucson.”

  “How long ago did they ride through?”

  “Six hours ago.”

  Lark couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Please, can you tell me about the sorrel stallion? Was he all right?”

  “I’ve answered all the questions I’m gonna. Now, both o’ ya, git! We’re without a wagon master now and need help ourselves.”

  Matt held out his hand, cautioning Lark to say nothing further. “Maybe we can help. Which way were you headed?”

  “We’re goin’ to California. The wagon master was takin’ us as far as Fort Yuma.”

  Matt pointed west. “Turn your wagons around and follow this river until it intersects with another one. You’ll be on the Gila River. Follow it west. Fort Yuma sits right on it. The only thing you’ll have to watch for are Yavapai raiding parties. They make their home along the Gila.”

  Eyeing him warily, the leader gradually lowered his rifle. “How do we know you ain’t lyin’ to us, Kincaid?”

  Matt held on to his temper. “You don’t. But if you keep following this river, you’re going to end up in the middle of a desert and you’ll never survive.” He glanced over at Lark. “Let’s go.”

  They steered a wide circle around the group. Lark smarted beneath the glares of the women. When one child, a boy of seven, came racing over, throwing stones in her direction, Lark ignored the attack. Matt gave her an apologetic look. They were a mile from the wagon train before he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  She set her lips, staring straight ahead. “I don’t blame them for their anger, Matt. Ga’n killed their leader.” She rubbed her brow. “How could he? Why? Those people were generous to them and he repaid them with murder.”

  He gripped Lark’s hand. “He’s a renegade, honey. Don’t take on Ga’n’s guilt because you share the same blood.”

  “How can I not? Did you see their hate? With Ga’n murdering whites, it’s no wonder they hate all Indians!”

  There was no way Matt could assuage Lark’s pain. He released her hand and tried to get her to focus on more important matters. “We repaid those people by giving them good directions.”

  Miserably, Lark nodded.

  “Now that we know they’re heading for Tucson, we can skirt Phoenix and cut across the desert. If we’re lucky, we might arrive there ahead of Shanks.”

  “You aren’t going to try and catch them on the desert?”

  “No, not now.” He didn’t want to tell Lark that she’d be safer in Tucson. Already a plan was forming in his head. He forced a smile he didn’t feel and was glad to see Lark rally. “Feel like riding hard for the next couple of days?”

  She nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  Urging the gelding into a fast trot, Matt said, “Set a trap for two foxes.”

  For three days, they pushed their mounts to the limit, riding at night and sleeping during the heat of the day. It was in the rocky Sacton Mountains, south of Phoenix, that a group of Apaches swooped down upon them.

  Lark saw the four warriors, mounted on sturdy, thin mustangs, appear out of a canyon. She gave Matt a quick look.

  “Don’t go for your gun,” she told him, pulling her mare to a halt. “Let me talk to them.”

  Matt watched as the warriors galloped toward them in a cloud of dust. They were dressed in colorful, long-sleeved cotton shirts and dark trousers with bandoliers of ammunition slung across their chests. One wore a turquoise-and-silver necklace. They were darkly browned by the sun and kept their long black hair out of their eyes with cotton headbands wrapped about their foreheads. Lark’s eyes widened. Could it be? She glanced over at Matt.

  “Goyathlay,” she whispered.

  Matt scowled. The Apache name for Geronimo.

  Matt had never met the savage leader, who had refused to live on a reservation, but he’d heard stories of his many raids between the border of Arizona and Mexico. What would Geronimo do with Lark? Would he respect her? As the group drew nearer, he saw that one of the warriors was a tall, proud woman. Matt had heard of Apache women riding with their men to make war, but he’d never seen one. She was a striking woman with hair as long as Lark’s and golden eyes.

  Matt tensed as Geronimo drew to a halt in front of Lark.

  “Shis-inday”—hail to the chief—Lark greeted.

  Geronimo’s piercing black eyes stared out of his square face at Lark for a long moment. “You speak the People’s tongue, yet you are not like us,” he finally said, gesturing at Lark’s eyes.

  “I greet you through my mother, Mourning Dove, of the Chiricahua. I am Lark Gallagher.”

  Geronimo’s eyes glinted with an unreadable emotion. Twisting in his cottonwood saddle, he gestured for the woman to come forward. “Shanaei, is this the message the eagle brought to us earlier this morning?”

  Lark watched as the Apache woman drew alongside Geronimo. She was young, perhaps Lark’s age, but her youth didn’t detract from her dignity. Lark had heard of the famous medicine woman who possessed eyes the color of the cougar.

  “Great chief, the eagle we saw wheeled from the north, flying south. It was a message from Us’an telling us of an important passage.” She gestured toward the two people. “An eagle is fitting. I remember Mourning Dove. Her wisdom and bravery as a leader beneath Cochise’s command are well known.” Shanaei focused on Lark. “I greet you, daughter of the great woman chief.”

  Drawing a sigh of relief, Lark knew that Geronimo’s medicine woman may have saved their lives by openly acknowledging her birthright and place in the world of the Apache. One of the warriors gave Shanaei a disgruntled look, but he didn’t challenge her greeting.

  “I greet you, Shanaei,” Lark returned. “I’ve heard of your power as a medicine woman.”

  “She is more than that,” Geronimo informed Lark testily. “She is my chief. Five days ago, she battled four enemy Comancheros, killing their chief, who had been abducting our women and children for slaves.” He looked upon Shanaei with obvious admiration.

  Lark saw the medicine woman grow uncomfortable at such praise and wondered why. Surely she was a fine example of an Apache woman in every sense. “Goyathlay, we come in peace to your land and ask permission to cross it,” Lark said. “Matt Kincaid and I are tracking down two men who stole a horse from my father’s ranch up north.”

  Geronimo relaxed, eyeing Kincaid. “What does this horse look like?”

  “He is a red stallion, great chief. Without him, our ranch will perish. Perhaps you have seen the two men who have stolen him? One is a gunslinger, a pindah. The other is…” She hesitated, glancing at Sh
anaei for support. “Ga’n.”

  “Ga’n!” the Apache chief exploded. “That miserable bastard of a renegade is no longer a member of my rancheria! He has disgraced me! He has dishonored the People!”

  “My chief,” Shanaei interceded in her husky voice, “the daughter of Mourning Dove does not blame you. Rather, she acknowledges your shame of this warrior and tries not to upset you.”

  Lark closed her eyes for a second. Thank Us’an the medicine woman understood. She reminded Lark of Ny-Oden, for both possessed wisdom far beyond their years. Shanaei’s understanding would help bridge any misunderstandings between Lark and the volatile Apache leader.

  Yawning, Geronimo shrugged. “Ga’n is a ghost. He no longer exists.”

  “I understand that,” Lark murmured, “but he lives to murder innocent people. Apache or pindah, it does not matter to him.”

  “This I know,” he muttered with a wave of his hand. “So what do you want of me?”

  “The honor of finally meeting you is enough,” Lark answered diplomatically, watching Geronimo preen beneath the compliment. Such power emanated from the chief that she felt frightened. But she mustn’t show her fear, because no Apache honored weakness. “We know Ga’n is heading to Tucson and we wonder if you’ve seen him or this red horse.”

  “No, we’ve not seen them.” Geronimo’s eyes glittered with animosity. “But hear me, Mourning Dove’s daughter. Ga’n is dead. Shortly, I will send Shanaei and a band of warriors with her to hunt down and kill Ga’n. I will not tolerate his killing of the People. He has no heart. I don’t care if he lifts the scalps of pindah or greaser, but not those of his own blood. If you find and kill him, I ask that you bring me the amulet he wears around his neck. Shanaei’s mother, the great medicine woman Nadina, made it for him many seasons ago. It is a powerful amulet that protects him from our arrows. So if you stalk him, do so with your rifle or knife. To those, he is vulnerable.”