“Dirt?” Lacey repeated, appalled at the idea.
“Do it.”
Certain she was doing the wrong thing, Lacey took handfuls of dirt and patted it over her husband’s wounds. Miraculously, the bleeding stopped.
“Old Indian remedy,” Matt rasped.
Lacey nodded as she wrapped a strip of cloth around Matt’s midsection.
“Lacey…go get our horses.”
“Horses? What for?”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“No. You need help, and you need it now.”
“Trouble,” Matt mumbled.
Lacey nodded. There would indeed be trouble when High Yellow Cloud’s death was discovered, but right now Matt needed help. Her stomach churned as she recalled the amount of blood he had lost. How much blood could a man lose and still live?
“Rest,” Lacey said. “I’m going for help.”
Matt nodded weakly, and Lacey pulled her tunic over her head and ran back toward the village and her father’s lodge. Royce Montana listened gravely as Lacey told him what had happened.
“There’s going to be trouble, all right,” he muttered. But they couldn’t worry about that now. Catching up his horse, he followed Lacey to the river. Matt groaned as Royce lifted him onto the back of his horse.
“You’d better ride up here behind him,” Lacey’s father advised her. “He’s liable to pass out and fall off.”
The journey back to the village seemed to take forever. Lacey held onto Matt, knowing that each step the horse took was causing him pain. Blood oozed from his side and lay warm and sticky against her arm. Matt’s blood. It was all she could do to keep from vomiting.
Blue Willow did not waste time asking questions when Royce carried Matt into their lodge. She quickly sent her husband after the medicine man, and while they waited for the shaman to arrive, she began to wash the dirt and blood from Matt’s side. He flinched each time the Indian woman touched him, and Lacey flinched, too, her heart aching to see him in such pain. He might have been killed, and it would have been all her fault.
The medicine man entered the lodge on quiet feet. He was a short, stocky man with long gray braids and a weathered face that bespoke many years of hard living, yet his deep-set black eyes were kind. He knelt beside Matt, his hands moving lightly over Matt’s wounds, and then he laid out several small pouches which contained the various herbs and poultices he used for healing.
Lacey stood beside her father, helplessly wringing her hands, as the shaman began to chant softly. He ground several leaves together in a shallow bowl, added a small amount of water, and mixed the concoction until it was a pasty yellow, and then he smeared the sticky salve over the wounds in Matt’s side and arm. All the while he chanted softly, the words melodic and strangely compelling.
When he finished spreading the salve over Matt’s injuries, he sprinkled sacred pollen into the fire and then, still chanting in an eerie minor key, he passed his hands over the fire, drawing the smoke toward Matt.
Lacey wanted to scream that pollen and smoke and endless chanting would not heal her husband. He needed medicine, real medicine.
“I’ve seen old Blue Hawk work some real miracles, Lacey,” Royce Montana said, squeezing her shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t be fooled and think Indian medicine men are just a lot of hokum. They’ve lived out here a long time. Some of those herbs are pretty effective.”
Lacey nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. When Blue Hawk left the lodge a short time later, Lacey knelt at Matt’s side. He was breathing heavily; his face and body were damp with sweat. The wound in his side was deep, so deep. How could she bear it if he died?
Sensing her presence, Matt opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
Lacey nodded, wanting to believe him, but was so afraid. She stayed at his bedside constantly, refusing to budge, refusing to sleep. Blue Hawk returned later that night with more sacred pollen and more chanting. He applied a foul-smelling poultice to the wound in Matt’s side, nodded to himself, and left the lodge. Outside, he sat near the doorway, chanting softly all through the night.
Lacey added her own prayers to those of Blue Hawk, beseeching the Lord to heal the man she loved. She would never forgive herself if Matt died. She would never have begged Matt to help her find her father if she had thought it would cost him his life.
The announcement of High Yellow Cloud’s death stirred a great controversy within the tribe. His friends and family demanded that the white man be killed immediately. The shedding of Apache blood by another Apache was a strict taboo, and the penalty was death or banishment from the tribe. High Yellow Cloud’s family demanded the death penalty.
Red Knife disagreed. All knew of High Yellow Cloud’s desire for the white woman. The white man had done right to protect his wife from High Yellow Cloud’s lust. Indeed, he had almost lost his own life in defending his woman’s honor.
In the midst of all the turmoil, Lacey remained at Matt’s side. Two days passed, and Lacey had not been away from Matt’s bedside for more than a few minutes at a time. Now, late at night, she sat beside him, dozing fitfully, afraid to sleep for fear she might not hear him if he should awake and need her. It was after midnight when exhaustion claimed her and she fell into a deep sleep.
It was quiet, so quiet. Wondering if he had died, Matt opened his eyes and glanced around the lodge. Lacey was lying beside him, her head pillowed on her arm. Her face looked drawn and haggard, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t been getting enough sleep.
For a moment he lay still, just looking at her. The pain in his side was a dull ache that could not be ignored. Life was funny, he mused. He had spent four years in the Confederate Army and never got a scratch. Now, in less than a year, he had been wounded more times than he cared to count.
He tried to shift his weight on the hide pallet, and swore under his breath as the movement intensified the pain in his side.
His muffled oath woke Lacey instantly. “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?”
“You look like hell,” Matt rasped.
“Matt—”
“I’m all right, Lacey,” he said reassuringly. “Lie down beside me and get some sleep.”
Too weary to argue, she stretched out beside him, careful not to touch him lest she hurt him in some way, but Matt put his arm around her and drew her close.
“I’ve missed you beside me,” he murmured. His lips brushed against her cheek, soft and light as a butterfly landing on the petal of a rose.
“Oh, Matt.”
“Don’t worry, Lacey. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Lacey nodded, but in her heart she was afraid. High Yellow Cloud’s death was still causing contention in the Apache camp. There were many meetings in the days that followed. Lacey’s father was not permitted to attend, but Red Knife kept them informed. The meetings were to determine Matt’s future. Each warrior in the tribe was permitted to voice his opinion as to what should be done with the white man who had killed High Yellow Cloud, and when all the men had spoken, they would vote.
“It isn’t just up to Lame Bear,” Royce Montana explained to Lacey. “He’s a chief, but he isn’t the only chief. Each man in the village has a say in what goes on.”
In the end, it was decided that High Yellow Cloud’s death should be avenged, and that Matt’s life would be forfeit. He was half Apache and he had shed the blood of a brother. Had High Yellow Cloud killed Matt, the penalty would have been the same. Lacey would be permitted to stay with her father, if that was her wish, or she could leave the village and return to her own people.
Lacey felt her heart turn to stone as her father recounted the council’s decision.
“No.” She shook her head, refusing to believe that Matt was going to die. They had been through so much already. Surely they deserved a chance at happiness.
“Lacey.” Royce Montana’s voice was soft and sympathetic
as he placed his hand on his daughter’s arm.
“No!” she cried. “He isn’t even well yet.” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at her father, silently pleading with him to make everything right.
Royce Montana drew a deep breath, then cleared his throat. “You’re going to have to be strong about this, Lacey,” he said sternly. “If you try to interfere, you’ll only put your own life in danger. There’s nothing you can do.”
“He’s right, Lacey,” Matt said. “Do what your father says.”
She was still trying to comprehend the terrible turn of events when two warriors burst into the lodge and took hold of Matt. Jerking him to his feet, they dragged him outside.
Lacey started to run after Matt, but her father laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“No, Lacey.”
“Let me go!”
“You can’t help him now, daughter. Face it.”
“Please, Papa, do something.”
“There’s nothing to be done,” Royce Montana said heavily. “I’m sorry, honey.”
Matt didn’t resist as the warriors tied him to the tree in the center of camp. To do so would only anger the Indians further, perhaps goading them into harming Lacey and her father.
His gaze wandered around the village. How much time did he have left? What kind of death did they have planned for him? Something quick and merciful, or something long and lingering and painful? He swallowed hard, wondering if he had the guts to die like a man, or if he’d go out screaming and kicking and begging for mercy. How did a man know how much he could take until he had to face it? It was said the Indians never showed fear or pain in the presence of an enemy. How did they manage to exert such iron control over their emotions? Could he do the same?
Matt twisted his head around so he could see his lodge. Damn. If only he’d been able to make love to Lacey one last time. If only his side didn’t hurt so damn bad. If only he’d met Lacey in another time, another place…
* * * * *
Lacey stared into the empty darkness of the lodge, her cheeks damp with tears, her heart aching. Matt was going to die unless she did something to help him. Courage had never been her strong suit, and now, when she needed it more than ever, she could feel it ebbing away. Somehow she had to free Matt, even if in so doing she would be risking her own life. It was a frightening thought. And yet, what else could she do? She could not sit quietly by and watch while Matt was killed. She simply could not. Nor could she ask her father for help. Royce Montana would try to stop her, of that she had no doubt. At any rate, her father had made a good life for himself here with the Apache. She could not ask him to jeopardize that, could not put his life in danger, too.
Rising, she made her way to the lodge flap and peered cautiously outside. The camp was dark and quiet. A lone warrior sat near a small fire, guarding Matt. The Indian seemed to be dozing. She would never have a better chance.
She quickly gathered their belongings and stuffed them into one of Matt’s saddlebags. Picking up one of the rocks that shaped the firepit, she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then stepped outside. Carefully she made her way toward the warrior, the rock clutched in her fist, her heart pounding so loud she was certain it would wake the whole camp. Quietly, step by wary step, she crept up on the warrior.
Matt woke abruptly, unaware of what had roused him. Lifting his head, he saw Lacey stealing toward the warrior on guard, a rock in one hand, his saddlebag in the other. He shook his head vigorously, trying to warn her away. He had come to terms with his own death, had accepted it because he knew Lacey would be safe with her father. Now, because of him, she was putting her own life in jeopardy.
Lacey did not look at Matt. She had eyes only for the warrior, her whole attention focused on what she was about to do. Her hand was trembling visibly as she lifted the rock and brought it down on the back of the Indian’s head. There was a muffled thud as the Apache toppled sideways to the ground.
She felt suddenly sick to her stomach as she realized she might have killed him, but there was no time to worry about that. Quickly she took the Indian’s knife and cut Matt free.
“You little fool,” Matt hissed, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“I think I’m saving your life,” Lacey retorted.
Matt grinned broadly as he took the knife from her hand and stuck it in his belt. “I think you’re right,” he agreed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Matt quickly bound the warrior’s hands and feet, stuffed the Indian’s headband into his mouth, took his rifle, and then, like shadows, they drifted out of the village.
Wordlessly Matt led the way to the horse herd. A sharp right cross rendered the herd boy unconscious. Moments later they were riding away from the village.
“Do you think they will come after us?” Lacey asked when they were well away from the Apache camp.
Matt shrugged. “Who knows? The Apache are unpredictable creatures at best.”
Lacey nodded. There was no way to tell what the Indians would do. She could only hope for the best.
They rode for several hours, then Matt dismounted and, handing the reins of his horse to Lacey, began to erase their tracks as they went along. It was a tedious job, but when he was finished, he was reasonably certain the Indians wouldn’t be able to guess which way they had gone. Hopefully, finding them would take more time and effort than the Apache would wish to spend.
It was dawn when Matt lifted Lacey from the back of her horse. Unsaddling her mount, he hobbled the mare next to his own horse. Then, taking the saddle blanket in one hand and Lacey’s arm in the other, he made his way through the brush until he came to a small thicket. Spreading the blanket on the ground, he took Lacey in his arms.
“That was a brave thing you did,” he said gruffly. “If you’d been caught, you might have been killed.”
“It was a chance I had to take,” Lacey replied. “I couldn’t let them kill you.”
“You could have,” Matt countered quietly. He gazed into her eyes, his heart filling with love and gratitude for the woman in his arms. She was shy and soft-spoken, yet she had the heart of a lioness.
Lacey returned Matt’s gaze and then, overwhelmed with happiness because they were both alive and well, she grinned up at him.
“You don’t act very grateful,” she said impishly.
Matt quirked an eyebrow at her. “Don’t I?”
“No. If you were really grateful, you’d kiss me and—”
His mouth dropped over hers, silencing her as he kissed her again and again. Hardly aware that he was doing so, he sank to the ground, carrying Lacey with him. His kisses became more intense, more ardent, until he was on fire with his need for her. His hands roamed over her back and shoulders, caressing her satiny skin as he impatiently removed her clothing, delighting in the smooth perfection of each lovely limb.
Lacey responded to his touch eagerly, willingly, joyfully. Her hands tugged at Matt’s clothing, wanting to feel his body next to her own, needing his touch. Her fingertips traced the muscles in his arms, delighting in the strength sleeping there. Her tongue danced over his flat belly and she laughed softly, seductively, as he shivered with pleasure. He was here, he was hers.
She sat up abruptly as her fingers encountered the bandage swathed around his middle. In the excitement of being with him, she had forgotten about his wound. Now she saw that there was fresh blood on the bandage. He was bleeding, hurting, and she had been so mad with desire she hadn’t even noticed.
“Lacey.” Matt groaned her name as she drew away from him.
“Oh, Matt,” Lacey whispered, mistaking his groan of desire for pain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think…I mean, I forgot you were hurt.”
“It isn’t my side that’s hurting,” Matt said, his dark eyes glinting roguishly.
“Matt, we shouldn’t.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Come here, and I’ll prove it to you.”
Still, Lacey did not relent. As much as she
wanted to make love to him, his recovery was more important. There would be other days, other nights.
“Stubborn wench,” Matt muttered, and pulling her down beside him once more, he rose over her, his hands on either side of her head as his mouth plundered her.
The touch of Matt’s lips drove the last shred of resistance from Lacey’s mind. With a sigh, she arched up to meet him, her thighs parting to receive that part of him that made her whole, complete. Little moans of ecstasy rumbled in her throat as Matt made sweet love to her, his hands gently stroking her breasts and thighs and belly as his body joined hers, their souls almost touching as they soared to the pinnacle of rapture that only true lovers ever know.
Afterward, Matt held Lacey close, his fingertips tenderly tracing the outline of her face, drifting over her lips, down the slender column of her neck.
“You might have been killed,” he muttered, the thought haunting him still. “Don’t ever take a risk like that again. Promise me.”
“No,” Lacey said, shaking her head. “Whatever happens to you happens to me.” She smiled at him, hoping to lighten his mood. “I plan to follow you right into heaven.”
“Or hell?” Matt mused, grinning back at her.
“Or hell,” she whispered, and surrendered her lips to his kiss.
They were traveling again at first light, crossing a flat gray desert that was covered with cacti and palo-verde and greasewood.
“Where are we going?” Lacey asked.
“Tucson,” Matt replied, and then he laughed. “Seems we’re always starting out broke and on the run.”
“We may be on the run,” Lacey said, “but we’re not broke.”
“We’re not?”
Lacey shook her head. “We’ve still got the money you won in that awful little town, remember?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it.”
“Why are we going to Tucson?”
“We need clothes and supplies.”
Lacey nodded. “And then what?”
“I’ve got to find out who killed Billy Henderson. If we’re gonna have any kind of life together, I’ve got to clear my name.”
LaceysWay Page 19
