“Why did you leave Texas?”
“It’s time to go,” Matt said brusquely, and rising to his feet, he stepped into the saddle and gigged his horse into a trot.
There was nothing for Lacey to do but climb onto her horse and follow him. In his present mood, she feared he just might leave her behind.
Matt was withdrawn and quiet the rest of the day. Lacey slid several sidelong glances in his direction, but he seemed oblivious to her presence. His face was set in hard lines, his eyes were dark and sullen, as though he were remembering something unpleasant. Apparently talking about Texas had reminded him of something he wanted to forget, but what?
She puzzled over the matter all that day, her imagination running wild.
That night they bedded down in the shadow of a tall sandstone bluff. Lacey held her peace until after dinner, and then, while they were sipping a last cup of coffee before bedtime, she said quietly, “I’m sorry if I made you angry this afternoon. I didn’t mean to pry into something that’s none of my business.”
“It’s all right, Lacey,” Matt said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
“Then you’re not mad?” Somehow she could not stand to have him angry with her.
“No.”
Lacey smiled at him, and Matt felt as though he had stepped into a pool of sunlight. The warmth of her smile seemed to engulf him, and he was conscious of a sudden heat flooding through his veins. He was reminded of the kiss they had shared the night before, the way her body had molded to his, the way she had trembled at his touch.
“Good night, Lacey,” Matt said abruptly, and crawled into his blankets, knowing if he didn’t get away from her, he would grab her and ease the awful longing that was tying him in knots.
“Good night, Matt,” Lacey murmured. Tossing the last drops of coffee into the fire, she slipped under her blankets, baffled by Matt’s behavior. If he wasn’t mad, why did his voice sound so gruff, and why had he gone to bed so abruptly, as though he couldn’t stand to be near her? It was most peculiar, but she was too saddle-weary to fret for long and she was soon asleep.
Matt Drago remained awake for some time, acutely aware that he had a real problem on his hands. And that problem was Lacey, or, more specifically, his growing desire for her. Certainly he had known women who were more beautiful, better educated, more ladylike than Lacey, but he had never met a woman who had tempted him so deeply, or one he could not resist if he put his mind to it. He wasn’t sure what was so special about Lacey Montana, but she had certainly captured his attention. Riding beside her every day, hour after hour, was hell. He tried not to look at her, tried not to notice the way her brown eyes glowed when she saw a deer grazing on a hillside or a bear playing with its cubs. He tried to ignore the sweet curve of her thigh, and the swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. He tried not to notice how the sun danced in her hair, and the merry laughter bubbled in her throat when they raced up a hill.
Turning on his side, he gazed at Lacey, sleeping across the fire from him. Her eyelashes made dark crescents against her cheeks, her hair framed her face like a thick red-gold cloud. Her chest rose and fell with each soft breath and he tried not to think of the sweet feminine shape nestled beneath the rough blanket, but all he could dwell on was the way she had kissed him the day before, her lips sweetly yielding, her lush body molding to his, warm and soft and desirable.
Damn, but she was lovely! So lovely, and so young, surely not more than eighteen. Far too young for a man pushing thirty. But it wasn’t just the difference in their ages. She was innocent in the ways of the world, and the ways of men. Innocent and vulnerable. She still believed in miracles, still believed that wanting something badly enough would make it happen. Had he ever been that young, he mused sardonically, that trusting?
Muttering an oath, he rolled onto his back and stared out into the inky night until, at long last, he fell asleep.
Lacey smothered a yawn as she urged Cinder across a shallow stream. Sometimes she thought she was becoming permanently attached to her saddle. Matt did not seem to mind the long hours they spent on the trail. Indeed, he never seemed to get tired at all.
It was late in the afternoon almost a week later when Matt drew his horse to a halt and gestured for Lacey to dismount and stay quiet. Lacey quickly did as bidden, her eyes watching Matt as he ground-reined his bay and dropped to his belly, snaking his way to the top of a brush-covered slope. He stayed there for a long time, and Lacey’s heart began to pound with excitement. Had they found her father at last?
Some twenty minutes later, Matt made his way back to Lacey. “Well, we’ve found some Indians,” he said in a low voice. “There’s about twenty lodges just over that rise.”
“Did you see my father?” Lacey asked, her eyes wide with excitement and hope.
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here before someone spots us.”
With a nod, Lacey followed Matt away from the slope toward a thick copse of trees.
“We’ll lay low until nightfall,” Matt explained, “and then I’ll go scout around and see if I can locate your old man. No fires,” he added.
Lacey nodded again. They were finally here. For the first time, she realized the danger they were in. There was no telling what might happen if the Indians became aware of their presence.
It seemed as if the sun would never go down. Lacey gnawed on a piece of beef jerky to ease her hunger. Matt rolled a cigarette, but didn’t light it.
As darkness dropped over the land, Matt took Lacey’s hand in his. “Listen to me. You stay here, no matter what. Understand? If I’m not back by the time the moon is over that tall pine, you jump on your horse and hightail it outta here.”
“But Matt—”
“Don’t argue with me. If I’m not back by then, it means I’m not coming back. You get on that horse and ride like hell. If you head due south, you’ll come to a little mining town in a day or two. You can’t miss it.”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of greenbacks. It was what was left of the money he had won in the card game. “This should be enough to take care of you for quite a while.”
“Matt, I…” Her voice seemed weak, her throat tight. He talked as if he doubted he would return to her. She had been so eager to find her father, so anxious to have everything her own way, that she had never given any real thought to the danger involved. Until now.
“Take it.” Matt pushed the money into her hand, then, with a sigh, he put his arms around Lacey and kissed her gently. Her mouth was soft and warm, sweeter than life itself, and what began as a chaste token of affection quickly turned into a burning kiss filled with passion and desire.
For a moment, Lacey stood rigid in Matt’s arms, stunned by the force of his kiss, and her reaction to it. His kiss, at first no more than the mere pressing of his lips against hers, suddenly became urgent, and Lacey clung to him as the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control. Her legs began to tremble and her heart began to pound a quick staccato in her breast. Heat from his lips coursed through her, filling her with a raw hunger that was new and wildly exciting. If only he would kiss her thus forever.
Abruptly, Matt released her, and Lacey swayed on her feet, her lips bereft, her legs weak.
“Wish me luck,” he said laconically, and then he was gone.
Lacey stared after him, shaken to the core of her being by the force of his kiss, and by the stark realization that he might well be killed and it would be all her fault.
She shoved the wad of greenbacks into her pocket, hardly aware that she had done so, then sat down, her fingers drumming nervously on the ground, her heart sending urgent prayers to Heaven, beseeching an all-knowing God to protect Matt from harm.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Where was he? What was taking so long? She peered into the darkness, hoping to see him striding toward her, but she saw only shadows and the outline of a lonely tree silhouetted in the distance.
Ears straining, she listened to the night, hoping to hear Matt’s footsteps, but she heard only the soft sigh of the wind and the occasional screech of an owl searching for prey.
The minutes dragged by, and her stomach knotted with tension. Where was he?
Matt Drago hunkered down on his heels in the shadow of a large boulder, his eyes sweeping back and forth as he scanned the Apache camp for some sign of Lacey’s father. There were about eighty Indians in the camp, mostly women and children. But there were more than enough warriors to make a good fight.
He sat there for over an hour, but there was no sign of Royce Montana, no way of knowing if Lacey’s father had ever been there at all. Of course, it was possible that Royce Montana had been killed long ago, or that they were trailing the wrong bunch of Indians. It was just as possible, though doubtful, that Lacey’s father was inside one of the lodges. Apaches weren’t known for their hospitality to those considered the enemy.
Matt grimaced as he changed positions. Below, the Indians were getting ready to turn in for the night. The women hustled their young ones off to bed, the men put their pipes away and left the community campfire for the warmth of their lodges.
Watching the scene below, Matt found himself thinking of Lacey, of how she felt in his arms, the way she had kissed him back. Kissing her had been a grave mistake. He had not meant to touch her again after that first time. She was a nice girl, too good for him by half, and too damn young. Yet he kept remembering the pressure of her breasts against his chest, the little sigh of pleasure that had escaped her lips when he held her close, the fragrance of her hair and skin that was hers and hers alone.
He was telling himself all the reasons why loving her would never work when he felt the sharp prick of a knife below his right ear.
Matt froze, his gun in his hand, as two other warriors materialized out of the darkness.
The warrior holding the knife against Matt’s neck reached around and plucked the gun from his hand.
“Stand up, white man,” he said in a deep bass voice. The Indian spoke stilted English. He was short and stocky; a long scar ran from his left temple to his jawline.
Matt stood up slowly, his fists clenched at his sides as one of the other warriors searched him for weapons. The warrior uttered a little cry of satisfaction when he withdrew the derringer from Matt’s hip pocket.
“Go.” The Indian with the scar gave Matt a shove in the direction of the Indian camp, and Matt obligingly made his way down the hill. It was all over now, he thought bleakly.
When they reached the Apache camp, one of the warriors tied Matt’s hands behind his back, lashed his feet together at the ankles, then dropped a rope around his neck and tethered him to a stout sapling on the outskirts of the village.
The warrior with the scarred face grinned at Matt as he drew a finger across his throat. “Tomorrow, white man,” he said menacingly. “Tomorrow you will die.”
“Go to hell,” Matt retorted with more bravado than he felt, and was rewarded by a swift kick in the stomach. He doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit, as the other warriors lashed out at him with their hands and feet, driving Matt to the ground as they rained blow after blow to his face, chest, rib cage, and back.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Matt curled into a tight ball in an effort to protect his face and stomach. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth and pounded in his ears as he fought to stay conscious.
Abruptly, the beating came to a halt. Spitting blood from his mouth, Matt risked a glance at his captors.
“You have a fighting heart, I think,” Scarface said grudgingly. “Tomorrow we will find out which is stronger, the knives of the Mescalero or the heart of a white man.”
“Would you kill a brother?” Matt rasped, clutching at a straw of hope.
“I see no brother,” Scarface sneered. “Only a foolish white man.”
“My mother was of the Dineh.”
“What tribe did she belong to?” Scarface asked, interested in spite of himself. “What was her name?”
“Her name was Hummingbird. She was of the Chiricahua.”
Scarface shook his head. “I have never heard of her. Who was her father?”
“I don’t know,” Matt answered, and the tiny shred of hope that had surfaced quickly died.
The three warriors spoke to each other in rapid Apache, and then Scarface knelt beside Matt.
“We do not believe you are of the Dineh, white man. Do not lie to us again.” Scarface studied Matt for a long moment. “What are you doing in the land of the Apache?”
“Just passing through,” Matt replied through clenched teeth.
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“On foot?” the warrior asked skeptically.
“My horse broke a leg a couple of days back. I was hoping to steal one of yours.”
Scarface nodded. To steal a horse from the enemy was a worthy accomplishment, one the Apache regarded highly. Was it possible the white man possessed Apache blood? His hair was as black and coarse as an Indian’s, his skin was dark. It was possible, perhaps, that the white man was of the People, and yet a man would say anything that might save him when his life was at stake.
Scarface had not yet made up his mind about the prisoner when he rose to his feet and walked toward his lodge. Tomorrow would be time enough to decide what to do with the white man.
The other two warriors stared at Matt for a few minutes, their eyes fathomless, and then they, too, went to their lodges.
Matt watched the Indians ride out of sight. He had not really expected them to believe he was half Apache. It had simply been a last-ditch effort to save himself from a long and painful death, and it had failed.
Muttering an oath, Matt made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard ground. He was hurting. The rawhide binding his wrists had been tied tight and soon his hands grew numb, but the pain in his wrists was small compared to the dull, throbbing ache that racked him from head to foot. There was the taste of blood in his mouth, but stronger than the taste of blood was the brassy taste of fear. He was afraid, and he didn’t like it. Of course, he had been afraid before. No sane man went into battle without experiencing fear, but at least then he’d had a fighting chance. He hadn’t been trussed up like a sacrificial offering, helpless to defend himself. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead as he contemplated what lay ahead. Better to rot in the bowels of the Yuma pen than die a slow and agonizing death at the skilled hands of the Apache.
He shivered convulsively. He was afraid. Afraid of the pain to come, afraid of behaving like a coward in the face of the enemy. He had always thought of himself as a brave man, but he’d never really been put to the test. What if he cracked under the pressure? Everyone knew that the Apache were the unchallenged masters in the fine art of inflicting torture and pain. How did a man know how much agony he could endure? He had no desire to die screaming for mercy, or whimpering like a child afraid of the dark. Damn!
He tried to shift to a more comfortable position, and the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through him. Get used to it, he thought morbidly. There’s worse to come.
Matt gazed up at the midnight sky. Each breath caused new waves of pain to ripple down his left side, and he wondered if Scarface had broken a rib or two. At least the Indians had not gone to scout his back trail. He could be grateful for that. Lacey was safe. If she had obeyed his instructions, she would be heading south by now. With any luck at all, she would make it to safety without any trouble.
Lacey. He wished he had made love to her just once, and he felt a rush of envy for the man, whoever he might be, who would be lucky enough to bed Lacey the first time, to see her beautiful brown eyes glaze with passion, hear the quickened intake of her breath as she experienced fulfillment in the arms of the man she loved. He felt a peculiar emptiness in his heart when he realized he would never see her again. So many things he had not yet done, would never do…
He focused his attention on the North Star, trying
not to think about alabaster skin and pouting pink lips; trying not to think about what lay waiting for him the following day, but, unbidden, came the stories of torture and treachery that old Smoke Johnson had related with great delight, tales of men who had been disemboweled, or burned alive, or covered with honey and buried up to their necks in an ant hill. Matt could not suppress a shudder of revulsion as visions of a long and lingering death danced in his mind. Was that what the future held for him?
Lacey felt a shiver of apprehension slither down her spine as the moon crawled across the sky. It was past midnight now, and still Matt had not returned.
Too nervous to sit still any longer, Lacey stood up, uncertain as to what to do. Matt had told her to leave if he hadn’t returned at the specified time, but she could not bring herself to ride away and leave him. They had traveled together for several weeks now. She had tended his wounds, perhaps even saved his life. And now he was risking his life to search for her father, indeed, even now he might be dead, and it would be all her fault. She might never see him again. The thought hurt more deeply than she had dreamed possible.
After another ten minutes of indecision, she began to walk toward the Indian camp. She had to know if her father was there. She had to know if Matt was dead or alive.
She walked slowly, putting each foot down carefully lest she step on a dry branch that might betray her presence to any Indians lurking in the darkness.
Twenty minutes later she was lying on her stomach at the top of the rise. The Apache camp was spread below, dark and quiet. At first she couldn’t see much of anything, but then her eyes picked up a faint sign of movement near the far edge of the village. It was a man tied to a tree. Was it Matt? Her heart lurched in her chest. Perhaps it was her father!
Moving as fast as she dared, Lacey went back to the grove of trees and collected the horses, then made her way through the shadows toward the prisoner. Sweet relief washed through her when she saw that it was Matt, and that he was alone.
LaceysWay Page 7
