LaceysWay

by Madeline Baker

  “You make a good crutch,” Matt remarked when they reached his bedroll.

  “Thanks,” Lacey muttered. “How long do you think it will take for the men from Yuma to get here?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt replied curtly. “And I don’t aim to wait around to find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m leaving. First thing in the morning.”

  “Leaving? Where will you go?”

  “Back to Salt Creek. I’ve got some unfinished business there.”

  Lacey frowned at him. “You don’t mean to walk all that way?” she exclaimed. “Not in your condition.”

  “I don’t intend to walk.”

  Lacey mulled that over for a moment, then gasped as realization struck her. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head at him. “You’re not taking my horse.”

  Matt nodded slowly. “Your horse. And you.”

  Lacey shook her head again. “No. I’m going after my father. I don’t care what you do.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have any choice in the matter,” Matt said firmly.

  “Oh, really?” Lacey retorted. “Well, we’ll just see about that.” And so saying, she ran toward Cinder, grabbed the halter rope, and swung onto the mare’s bare back, intending to ride away from Matt Drago as quickly as possible.

  She screamed in bitter protest as Matt’s hands closed around her waist and yanked her from Cinder’s back.

  “Put me down!” Lacey shrieked, pummeling Matt’s face and chest with her puny fists. “Put me down this instant!”

  Matt’s hands tightened around Lacey’s waist as he tried to avoid her angry fists. He swore under his breath as her fist smashed into his nose. Lacey gasped as she saw a thin trickle of blood oozing from Matt’s nostrils. Good Lord, had she broken his nose? Well, it served him right!

  “Let me go,” she demanded, and when he still refused to release her, she began to kick him, her booted feet slamming into his shins.

  “Damn you, you little hellcat!” Matt growled. “Cut it out before I take you over my knee and teach you some manners.”

  “Manners! Oh, I wish I were a man, Matt Drago! I’d teach you some manners,” she cried petulantly, and when he still refused to unhand her, she lashed out at him, her fist striking his wounded shoulder with all the force at her command.

  Matt released her immediately, a vile oath erupting from between his clenched teeth as bright shafts of pain danced up and down the length of his arm.

  Lacey’s moment of triumph quickly turned to remorse when she saw how pale Matt’s face was, and noticed the bright red blood seeping from under the bandage on his shoulder.

  “Oh, Matt,” she murmured, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. Here, sit down and let me look at your arm.”

  He didn’t argue, only sat down heavily, his lips compressed into a tight line, his dark eyes glazed with pain.

  “Does it hurt?” Lacey asked anxiously.

  “What the hell do you think?” Matt rasped.

  With gentle hands, Lacey removed the sodden bandage. The wound was bleeding again, and it was all her fault. Silently chastising herself for taking unfair advantage of him, she made a clean dressing and pressed it firmly over the angry wound, then wrapped it with a strip of clean cloth.

  “I’m sorry, Matt,” she said again. “Truly I am.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Matt grated, and before Lacey was quite aware of what he was about, he had caught both her hands in one of his and tied her wrists together with the bloody bandage she had removed from his arm.

  “Oh!” Lacey cried in exasperation. “You’re despicable, you swine! I hope they hang you! Twice!”

  “I need that horse, Lacey,” Matt explained calmly. “I can’t leave you out here alone. And I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life cooling my heels in the Yuma pen for something I didn’t do.”

  Lacey made a face at him. “Don’t all convicted men claim they’re innocent?”

  “I guess so,” Matt allowed wearily. “I don’t know about anyone else. All I know is that I didn’t kill that kid.” He shook his head ruefully. “At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “I was drunk. But, dammit, I couldn’t have killed a man and forgotten it. I’ve never been that drunk.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” Lacey asked, tugging against the cloth that bound her wrists together.

  “I’ll take you back to Salt Creek with me, and then you’re on your own.”

  Lacey shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No, Matt, please. I’ve got to go after my father. Don’t you understand? I’ve got to find him. He’s all the family I have left in the world. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering what happened to him, wondering if he’s dead or alive.”

  Matt felt a tug at his heart as he looked at Lacey, her cheeks stained with tears, her hands bound with a bloody rag, her eyes wide and pleading. How could he refuse her? She had saved his life, after all. What if it was his father the Indians had taken? Wouldn’t he move heaven and earth to try to rescue him? Why should Lacey Montana feel differently just because she was a girl?

  With a sigh, Matt gave in. “All right, Lacey. I’ll help you look for your father. We’ll start at first light.”

  “Thank you, Matt,” she said sincerely. “Will you untie me now, please?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think I’ll rest a mite easier knowing you can’t pick up and leave in the middle of the night.”

  Lacey ranted for several minutes, calling Matt Drago every vile name she could think of, but he refused to change his mind, and in the end she sank down on her blankets and fumed in angry silence. The gall of the man! Tying her up like she was some kind of criminal.

  Her eyes blazed with silent fury when he solicitously covered her with a blanket.

  “Sleep tight,” he murmured, and smiled when she stuck her tongue out at him.

  Chapter Three

  Matt Drago dismounted and studied the ground, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The trail was three days old, but still clear. The Indians were moving at a slow but steady pace, always heading south. Royce Montana was still on foot. Still alive. So far.

  Matt frowned as he swung back into the saddle. They were on a fool’s errand, he thought darkly. Even if they found the Indian camp, they had little chance of rescuing Lacey’s father. They had no weapons other than a knife Matt had found on one of the dead lawmen, and he was doubtful if one man armed with a knife and one little bit of a girl would intimidate the Indians. The Apaches were as hard as nails, ruthless as a cornered lobo. They had little respect for anyone or anything that was not of the Dineh, the People, as they called themselves. Their men were among the most savage, the most warlike, of all the tribes in the Southwest. They had little regard for horseflesh and often ran a horse to death, then ate the carcass. Only children seemed to hold a soft spot in Apache hearts, and the Indians welcomed young ones of any race into the tribe, treating them as their own. Apache women owned the lodge and all its belongings save for her warrior’s weapons. She raised the children, and she often fought at her husband’s side, as valiant and fearless as her man.

  Matt shook his head ruefully. He had been a fool to agree to take Lacey after her father and yet, he had been like putty in her hands. One look into those wistful brown eyes and he had been hooked and helpless. She was so young, so damned innocent. So vulnerable.

  They rode for several hours, not talking much. Lacey rode behind Matt, her arms around his lean waist. She tried not to touch him any more than necessary, but every now and then her breasts rubbed against his broad back. Once, she dozed off, only to wake with her cheek pillowed comfortably on his back. Embarrassed, she had straightened up immediately. She thought she heard him chuckle softly as she pulled away, but she couldn’t be sure.

  He was a hard man, she thought, hard and unforgiving. She had expected him to bury the dead men before th
ey left the site of the slaughter, but he just shook his head when she suggested it.

  “They never did me any favors,” he had said laconically.

  “But—”

  “But nothing. My arm’s sore as hell as it is. I’m not gonna make it worse by digging a grave for those bastards,” he had explained coldly, and then he had grinned at her. “Besides, the wolves and the vultures have to eat, too, same as the worms.”

  Matt reined Cinder to a halt shortly after noon, and while he took care of the horse, Lacey prepared a quick, cold lunch.

  “Do you think we’ll find him?” Lacey asked, hoping for some reassurance.

  Matt shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on how well the trail holds up.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He didn’t want to discourage her, but she needed to be prepared for the worst. “Listen, Lacey, your father’s chances are pretty slim. The Apache aren’t the most forgiving people in the world, and the whites have been treating them pretty bad over the last few years. They might… I mean, your father could be in for a rough time. He might even be dead. I think you’d best be prepared for that.”

  Slowly, Lacey shook her head. “No. He’s all right. I know he is. He has to be.”

  “I hope you’re right, for your sake,” Matt replied kindly. He gestured toward her saddlebag. “You don’t happen to have a gun in there, do you?”

  Lacey stared at him. She did have a gun. She had forgotten all about it until now. Her father had given it to her when they moved West. He had patiently taught her how to load and clean the weapon, and instructed her in how to fire it if necessary. Occasionally she had even hit what she aimed at. But she did not like firearms, and she had only kept the deadly little weapon because it made her father feel better to know she had it if she needed it.

  “I…it’s just a little derringer,” Lacey answered. “My father gave it to me.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Of course it’s loaded. What good is an unloaded gun?”

  “Not much,” Matt muttered. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Help yourself. It’s in my saddlebag.”

  Matt Drago’s spirits lifted about one hundred and ten percent as he rummaged around in Lacey’s gear. The gun was just a little two-shot over-and-under derringer. It was obviously a lady’s weapon. Lightweight, small in size, with carved pearl handles. It fit snugly in the palm of his hand.

  “Any extra shells?”

  “A box,” Lacey said.

  Matt found the extra ammunition and dumped a handful into his pants pocket. At least they were no longer totally defenseless, although the gun wasn’t much good for long-range shooting. Still, it was better than nothing.

  After lunch, Matt picked up the trail again. He swore under his breath as the tracks changed.

  “What is it?” Lacey asked anxiously.

  “Your old man’s not walking any more. Either they’ve put him on a horse because he was slowing them down too much, or…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Or they’ve killed him,” Lacey said in a small voice.

  Matt nodded. It was what he had been afraid of all along, and his eyes swept the countryside, searching for some sign of a body. The Indians wouldn’t bother to bury Lacey’s old man. If he were out there on the desert somewhere, there would be vultures in the sky if the body was fresh, scattered remains if the scavengers had finished with him.

  “He couldn’t straddle a horse with shackles on his feet,” Lacey said. Her eyes, big and brown, looked to Matt for a thread of hope, no matter how tenuous.

  Matt couldn’t stand to see the hurt in her eyes, or the way her slight shoulders sagged in defeat. “They might have dumped him face down over the back of a horse,” Matt ventured, injecting a note of cheerfulness into his tone. “It’s not the most comfortable way to travel, but it’s a possibility. It doesn’t seem likely they’d haul him all this way and then kill him before they reached their destination.”

  “That’s true,” Lacey agreed, brightening. “Oh, Matt, let’s hurry.”

  They rode until nightfall. Lacey thought constantly of her father, praying that he was safe. In spite of his drinking, in spite of his many failings, he was her father and she loved him dearly.

  That night they made camp in the shelter of a grove of stunted cottonwoods. Lacey made dinner while Matt unsaddled and curried the mare. Lacey watched Matt from the corner of her eye as the beans and bacon simmered over the fire, noting the way he talked to the horse, the gentle way his hands moved over Cinder’s coat as he ran the brush briskly over her sleek black hide. He checked the mare’s legs, cleaned her feet, ran his hands skillfully over her shoes to make sure they were still tight.

  He was a remarkable man, Lacey mused. She knew his arm must still be sore, but he never complained. He rode effortlessly, tirelessly, and she had to admire his strength and stamina, as well as his knowledge about surviving in the wilderness. And he was a handsome man, more handsome than any man she had ever known. The firelight danced in his black hair, and she could not help but notice the rhythmic play of corded muscles beneath his shirt as he gave Cinder a vigorous rubdown. He had been awfully kind, Lacey thought. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad sort after all. And yet, he had been accused and convicted of killing a man. Probably he was guilty. If so, why wasn’t she afraid to be out here in the middle of nowhere with him? She should be scared out of her wits, afraid for her very life, but she wasn’t. She was certain that Matt Drago would protect her from any harm that threatened her, just as he had protected her from the snake.

  Some of her confidence waned when he came to sit beside her. He was so tall, his shoulders so broad, his arms thick with muscle, that she felt dwarfed sitting beside him. He was so virile, so terribly masculine.

  She didn’t quite meet his eyes as she handed him a plate of beans, bacon, and biscuits, then busied herself with her own meal. She could feel Matt’s eyes watching her, and color washed into her cheeks. Why was he staring at her like that? What was he thinking?

  “That’s a good horse you’ve got there,” Matt remarked, hoping to ease the tension building between them.

  “Yes. Mr. Webster gave her to me for my birthday.”

  “Webster?”

  “He owned the ranch where my father worked before…before he was arrested.”

  Matt didn’t pursue the matter. He could see by the expression on Lacey’s face that she didn’t want to discuss it further.

  Matt poured himself a cup of coffee and filled Lacey’s cup. She sipped the hot, bitter brew slowly, and he watched her surreptitiously. She was quite a girl. She hadn’t complained once since he’d met her. Not about taking care of him, not about the long hours they spent in the saddle, not about the sameness of the food they ate or the hard ground they slept on.

  Feeling Matt’s gaze, Lacey glanced up. Why was he looking at her like that, as if she had done something wonderful? Her stomach started to flutter in the most peculiar way, as if a million winged creatures were trapped inside. Warmth flooded her limbs and crept up into her cheeks, and she licked her lips nervously, wondering why her mouth was suddenly so dry.

  “I…I’m going to turn in,” she stammered. “I…it’s been a long day.”

  Matt nodded. “Good night, Lacey.”

  “Good night.”

  But, tucked snugly beneath her blankets, Lacey could not sleep. Her gaze was drawn toward Matt, and she watched from behind the veil of her lashes as he banked the fire, then walked slowly around the perimeter of their camp, his dark eyes searching the shadows, his ears listening to the sounds of the night. Satisfied that there was no danger lurking nearby, he sat down on his bedroll and checked the derringer.

  Lacey continued to watch him, fascinated by his hands as they moved knowingly over the gun, then slid the weapon back into his pocket. His hands were large, with long fingers. They were remarkably gentle hands at times, she mused, and felt a tickle of excitement in the pit of her stomach as she recalled how soothing thos
e hands had been as they lightly stroked her back the day she had encountered the rattlesnake. There was strength in Matt’s hands, strength and comfort. She experienced a sense of shame as she found herself wishing he would hold her in his arms again. Hold her and kiss her and…she pulled her wayward thoughts away from such wicked daydreams. What would he think if he knew she was yearning for his touch? Likely he would laugh, or worse yet, take advantage of her.

  She held her breath as Matt’s gaze swung in her direction, her cheeks flaming because of what she had been thinking.

  Matt smiled faintly, and then he crawled between his own blankets. “Go to sleep, Lacey,” he called softly.

  Wordlessly she let out her breath in a long, angry sigh. He had known all along that she had been watching him! Humiliation washed over her, making her feel as if her very soul had been laid bare to his mocking eyes.

  Sleep was a long time coming.

  * * * * *

  Lacey stared at the remains of the Indian village, her expression one of utter dismay. “Where have they gone?”

  Matt shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Likely moved on toward their winter camp.”

  Dismounting, he walked through the deserted campsite. Nothing was left now but the remains of many campfires, a few lodgepoles, the skull of a deer, a few scraps of rawhide, and mounds of waste.

  Matt chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he wandered through the abandoned village. There were many pony and travois tracks, and he followed them for some distance, then cursed aloud. The Indians had split into two groups, one bunch heading south toward the border, the other heading toward the Territory of New Mexico. Why had they split up? Were both groups Apache, or had the Apache spent the summer with another tribe? He studied the divided tracks, hoping to find some clear moccasin prints, but to no avail.

  “Well, that’s it,” he muttered. “We’ll head back to Salt Creek first thing in the morning.”

  “Head back?” Lacey exclaimed. “Why?”

  “Because the Indians have split up, that’s why,” Matt retorted. “There’s no telling which bunch has your father.”