Lacey’s Way
Madeline Baker
Blush sensuality level: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic).
When Lacey Montana’s father is sentenced to twenty years in Yuma Penitentiary, she’s left all alone and has little choice except to follow the prison wagon. But the trip ends well before they get to Yuma when the wagon is attacked by a group of Indians. Her father is kidnapped—and only one prisoner is left alive. Lacey isn’t sure she can trust the half-breed Apache gambler, Matt Drago. But he swears he’s innocent. Helpless and alone, stranded in the middle of nowhere with him, she has no other recourse except to throw her lot in with his.
Lacey agrees to tend to Matt’s wounds in return for his help in finding her father. But desperation soon ripens into desire, and when lust turns to love, Matt discovers he wants Lacey, body and soul. But to win her heart, he’ll have to do it Lacey’s way.
A Blush® historical romance from Ellora’s Cave
LACEY’S WAY
Madeline Baker
Dedication
To all the heroes of the Old West, who gave me a lifelong love for cowboys and Indians.
Chapter One
Lacey Montana stared blankly at the empty courtroom, her ears still ringing with the resounding bang of the judge’s gavel as he sentenced her father to twenty years in the Yuma Penitentiary. Twenty years, she thought numbly. Her father would be an old man when he got out. If he ever got out. Royce Montana was not in the best of health. His heart was bad, the doctor had told her only a few months earlier; might give out at any time. How would her father survive the hardships and deprivations of prison life?
It was an effort to make her legs move, and Lacey walked stiffly out of the courtroom, her eyes filling with tears. Her father was her only kin left since her mother died five years ago. What would she do without him? She was not quite eighteen years old and she had no money to speak of. No close friends to turn to for help. No family.
She walked slowly down the main street toward the south end of town, and then kept walking, hardly aware of her surroundings. Only a few weeks ago, everything had been wonderful. Her father had had a steady job as cook at the Double L cattle ranch, and Lacey had helped out in the kitchen on weekends and after school. For once, her father’s future seemed secure, and Lacey had been looking forward to finally staying in one place for longer than a month or two. She had been thrilled at the idea of making friends, of settling down and becoming part of the community. Life had been good at the Double L. She’d had a room of her own, a horse, a growing wardrobe. The housekeeper, Mrs. Drebin, had been teaching Lacey how to sew, and Lacey had made herself two dresses she was quite proud of. She had met several girls her age at church and had been certain that, in time, she would be welcomed into their circle. Yes, life had been good and had promised to get better.
And then, in a moment, it was all over.
Lemuel Webster, owner of the Double L, had caught Royce Montana drinking on the job. There had been a heated argument. Angry words. A fight. Her father had hit Mr. Webster over the head with a whiskey bottle. And killed him.
Lacey choked back a sob as she sat down on a broad tree stump. Her father had promised on his word of honor that he would not take another drink. It was a promise he had made at least two dozen times in the last five years. But this time she had believed him. He’d been dry for over a year. And now this.
She stared into the distance, not seeing the stark beauty of the land around her, unaware of the clump of yellow wildflowers growing at her feet. The last few weeks had been awful. Visiting her father in jail, seeing the guilt and remorse in his eyes, hearing him beg for her forgiveness because he had failed her again. Then sitting through the trial, seeing the pity on the faces of people she knew…
The sun had slipped behind the distant hills when Lacey began the long walk back to town. She had been spending her nights in the loft of the livery stable since her father’s arrest. She had been too ashamed to return to the Double L to collect her few belongings, too ashamed to face Mrs. Webster and the others who had been kind to her. Consequently, she had nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and her horse, Cinder.
The wind began to blow, and Lacey shivered as she ducked down the alley and made her way to the livery barn. Climbing up the ladder that rested against the west side of the building, Lacey pulled herself through the narrow window of the loft and nestled in the hay. It was warm and fragrant inside the barn, quiet save for the soft snorts of the horses in the stalls below. Her own mare was corralled behind the stable.
With a sigh, Lacey closed her eyes. Tomorrow they were taking her father to the territorial prison. Until now, she had not known what she was going to do, but in a lightning-like decision, she decided she would follow the prison wagon to Yuma. Perhaps there was a rooming house near the penitentiary. Perhaps she could find a job there, cooking or cleaning or making beds. At least then she would be close to her father. Perhaps she could even visit him occasionally.
She fell asleep with that thought in mind.
It was in the cool gray hours just before dawn when Lacey crept out of the loft and made her way through the town’s back alleys until she found a pair of boy’s pants hanging from a washline. They looked to be about her size, as did the plaid flannel shirt hanging beside them.
Her conscience bothered her as she tucked the stolen clothing under her arm and darted back down the alley. Her mother had taught her that stealing and lying and cheating were wrong, and that nothing ever made them right. But Lacey needed a change of clothing and she didn’t have any money. What other choice did she have? She couldn’t go back to the Double L and ask for charity, not after what her father had done. No one in town would give her credit, and her pride would not let her beg from people she hardly knew.
Running lightly, Lacey went back to the loft and quickly changed out of her blue cotton dress into the pants and shirt. The pants felt strange. They hugged her legs and thighs like a second skin. She knew her father would be scandalized if he saw her in such an outrageous outfit. No decent lady ever wore pants, but there was no help for it. Riding across country in a dress was out of the question.
Coiling her long, russet-colored hair into a knot on top of her head, she pulled on her hat, carefully tucking the loose ends of hair under the broad brim. Lastly, she pulled on her boots. Hopefully, no one would notice she was a girl. Hopefully, from a distance, she would be mistaken for a cowhand, or a drifter on the move.
Saddling Cinder, Lacey mounted the mare and rode down the main street toward the jailhouse. It was still early and no one was out on the street yet. She slowed her horse as the sheriff’s office came into view. The prison wagon was just pulling away from the boardwalk. She could see her father, his face pale and haggard, his eyes downcast, sitting on the narrow wooden bench that ran the length of the heavy iron-barred wagon on both sides. He looked old, she thought sadly, old and ashamed.
One other man caught Lacey’s eye. He appeared to be in his early thirties. His hair was long and black and straight, his eyes dark. He was staring out of the bars, a decidedly sour expression on his face.
Two uniformed guards sat on the wagon’s high spring seat. One held the reins of the four-horse team in his gloved hands, the other held a sawed-off shotgun across his lap. Two deputies rode alongside the wagon, both heavily armed.
Lacey waited until the heavy prison cart had a good start, then, with a look of determination on her face, she touched her heels to Cinder’s flanks and set out after the wagon. She had no money, no clothing other than what was on her back and the simple blue cotton dress stuffed inside her saddlebag. But she had plenty of food, thanks to her nimble fingers. She had managed to steal quite a good supply of beans, hardtack, beef je
rky, and canned peaches from the general store. She had a canteen filled with fresh water.
Lacey grinned ruefully. If her name was written in the Lord’s Good Book in Heaven, there were likely a number of black marks beside it now. But it couldn’t be helped. She had needed something suitable to wear for her journey, and she had needed food to eat along the way. Perhaps at some future date she would be able to make restitution for the items she had stolen. If not, she would just have to trust that the good Lord would understand her motives and forgive her.
Belatedly, she wished she had thought to steal a kerchief to keep the dust out of her nose and mouth.
Ordinarily it was only a five-day ride to Yuma, but the prison cart was heavy and cumbersome and traveled slowly, doubling the travel time, and after four days in the saddle, Lacey began to wonder if they would ever reach their destination. She knew little about Yuma, only that it was a small town near the Colorado River in the southeast corner of Arizona, and that temperatures often reached over one hundred degrees in the summertime.
She was bone weary by the end of each day. The guards halted the wagon only once each afternoon to rest the horses and eat lunch. Lacey’s heart went out to her father, knowing that the long hours he was forced to spend caged in the wagon must be miserable. The only time the prisoners were allowed out of the cart was at night, and then they were shackled to the wagon wheels to prevent any escape attempts.
Lacey slept fitfully at night, afraid the wagon would leave before she woke in the morning, afraid she would be left behind, lost and alone in the trackless Arizona desert. There were snakes in the desert, and she was deathly afraid of snakes. During the day, she was careful to keep a goodly distance between herself and the wagon, leery of getting too close to the prison guards for fear they would make her go back to Salt Creek.
The guards were mean-spirited and cruel, free with their fists if a prisoner did not immediately do whatever he was told. She had watched in horror as one of the guards struck her father for not climbing out of the cart fast enough to suit him. Another time, one of the guards had kicked one of the prisoners in the stomach because he spilled a cup of water. The two deputies who were accompanying the wagon never interfered, apparently feeling that the prisoners deserved whatever they got.
On the evening of the fifth day, Lacey climbed wearily from the saddle. Her legs, back, and shoulders were a constant, throbbing ache. She was a good horsewoman, skilled and knowledgeable about horses and horsemanship, but spending almost ten hours a day on horseback was eight hours more than she was accustomed to. She had ridden often at the Double L, but only for pleasure, never like this.
Smothering a yawn, she stripped the bridle and saddle from Cinder, slipped a halter over the mare’s head, and tethered the animal to a stout tree. With that done, she sank down on the ground and pulled off her boots and thick wool socks. With a sigh of pleasure, she wriggled her toes, yawning again as she did so.
Sitting there, contemplating a cold meal and another night spent on the hard ground, she fell asleep.
She woke with a start to find the sun high in the sky. Alarmed, she jumped to her feet and uttered a cry of dismay when she saw that the prison wagon was gone.
Muttering under her breath, she pulled on her socks and boots and quickly saddled her horse. Reluctantly she climbed into the saddle. Pulling a hunk of jerky from one of her saddlebags, she gnawed the tough strip of dried meat as she followed the deep ruts left by the heavy prison wagon.
Absently she noted that the desert was in bloom. Cactus flowers made bold splashes of color against the dun-colored sand. The palo-verde trees were flowering, and the gray-green ironwood trees were crowned with beautiful pale violet blossoms. The flowers of the ocotillo were as red as flame, the blooms of the yucca as white as snow. Once, she passed a giant saguaro cactus that stood over forty feet high.
But she was too busy watching the trail of the wagon and keeping an eye out for snakes and scorpions to really give heed to the wonders of nature. While living at the Double L, she had not given much thought to the wildlife of Arizona, but it was frequently uppermost in her mind now. Besides snakes and scorpions, there were poisonous spiders in the desert. And a poisonous lizard, as well. She had seen only one Gila monster in her life, and it had been dead, but she had been repulsed by its chunky black and orange body.
An hour passed. Two. The wagon left deep ruts that made the trail easy to follow, and for that Lacey was grateful. She breathed a sigh of relief when, at last, she saw the wooden cart far ahead.
Matt Drago grunted softly when he saw the small cloud of dust rising from the southeast. So, the mysterious rider was still trailing them. He wondered, not for the first time, who the rider was, and what he wanted. Was it a friend of one of the prisoners? A father or a brother, perhaps, hoping for a chance to spring his kin before the wagon reached Yuma?
Matt shrugged. Whoever the unknown rider was, it had nothing to do with him. He had no friends in this part of the territory, no family to speak of.
He swore under his breath as he contemplated the heavy iron shackles on his hands and feet. Their infernal clanking was a constant reminder of the precious freedom he had lost. He had spent the last five years wandering across the southwest, never staying long in any one place, keeping to himself as he roamed from town to town. After the misery and deprivation of the war, it felt good to roam at will, to be his own man again. He rubbed his wrists, noting they were chafed and red from the constant rubbing of metal against his flesh. Damn. He’d go crazy if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars, doing hard time for a crime he was certain he hadn’t committed. If only he could remember what had happened that night.
Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander backward in time, back to the very beginning of his life…
He had been born deep in the wilds of the Sierra Madre Mountains. His father, Saul Drago, had been an itchy-footed wanderer, roaming far and wide in search of fortune and adventure, returning home to Virginia from time to time, staying just long enough to get his wife pregnant again, then riding off to explore mountains and valleys he had never seen. One year, Saul had gone West. In his travels, he had acquired an Apache squaw to warm his blankets and had quickly gotten her with child. Matt Drago was the result of their union. The squaw had died in childbirth. Saul had contemplated letting the squalling brat he had so carelessly sired die with the mother, but, in the end, he had taken his newborn son home to Virginia. Leticia Drago had raised the boy as if he were her own. She had been a devout Christian woman, and although she spent the rest of her life hating Saul Drago for what he had done, she had not blamed the child for the father’s sins.
Matt had grown up in poverty. He had hunted the verdant hills for game to feed his family from the time he had been old enough to lift a rifle. It had been evident to everyone from the beginning that Matthew Drago was a born marksman. In his spare time, he had practiced shooting with an old Walker Colt that belonged to his older brother, Abraham. Matt had a natural feel for guns, a steady hand, and a keen eye. No one in all Virginia could outshoot him.
As he grew to manhood, Matt had often wondered why he looked so different from his two brothers and his sister, who were all blond and fair while he was dark-skinned and had hair as black as midnight. He had been sixteen when Leticia Drago told him the truth about his parentage. It had been a hard thing to accept, being a half-breed and a bastard, harder still to learn that the mother he had idolized was not his mother at all. After that, he had pestered his father for information about his true mother, but Saul had insisted he didn’t know anything about her except that she had been a Chiricahua Apache, pretty as a spring flower, and that her name had been Hummingbird. It hadn’t been until Matt met old Smoke Johnson that he learned anything about the Apache people. Smoke had lived among the Apache and admired them. They were a proud and fierce people, Smoke had said, loyal to their friends, deadly to their enemies. There was no shame in being a half-breed, Smoke had remarked, no shame a
t all so long as a man was true to his word and loyal to his kin and country.
For a time, Matt had toyed with the idea of going West to learn more about his mother’s people. The stories Smoke Johnson had told him excited him, making him anxious to see the mountains where he was born, to lie under a desert sky and listen to the night wind sigh across the face of the land. But then the war had come and he had gone to fight for the South. Smoke Johnson had joined up, too.
The war had been hell. Matt saw men blown to bits, felt his stomach churn as he heard horses and men scream in agony. He suffered hunger and fatigue, marched through the snow in his bare feet, ate food that would make a hog puke. His two brothers were killed at Vicksburg, and his sister entered a convent. Leticia (he never called her Mother again after he learned who he was) died of smallpox. Saul Drago had gone to war and was never heard from again, no doubt long dead and buried in an unmarked grave.
After Lee surrendered, Matt headed West, settling in Texas for no reason other than he’d never been there before and was eager to start a new life in a place that held no memories. There he met Claire Duprey. He fell for her the minute he saw her alighting from her father’s carriage, a vision of loveliness in a fashionable gown of the palest pink satin and lace. He idolized her for months, always from a distance, of course. After all, she was a lady of quality, and he was just a no-account wrangler. She was rich and beautiful and well-educated, everything he was not, and he never dreamed she would give him a second look. And then, one soft summer night at a church social, she had noticed him, seemingly for the first time. Encouraged by the angelic smile she had bestowed upon him, Matt had taken his courage in hand and asked Claire to dance. Things had progressed beautifully after that. He had walked her home, mesmerized by her charm and elegance, by the slightly haughty tilt of her chin. Many carriage rides and dances and barbecues followed in the months ahead, and he had been a happy man, secure in her love. And then, out of the blue, she had changed her mind.
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