LaceysWay (14 page)

Chapter Ten

Matt Drago let out a long sigh of relief as they left the
dingy little town behind. It was good to be out in the open again, out of the
smoke-filled cantina, out of the dreary hotel room. He had spent the past three
months dealing poker and during that time he had remembered, vividly, why he
had given up gambling for a living. The hours were long, the atmosphere was
sleazy and smoky, the people were, for the most part, losers who hoped to make
one big score at the poker table and then retire for life. But it never
happened. Gambling got in a man’s blood, and sooner or later you always lost
everything you’d won, and more.

Dealing for the house had paid pretty well, though. He and
Lacey were well supplied for their journey, they had clothes and food and
blankets, money in their pocket. It was a good feeling.

He smiled at Lacey riding beside him. Lord, she was
beautiful, and easily the best thing that had ever happened to him. The months
they had shared had been like a taste of heaven, and he loved her more than
he’d ever thought possible.

Lacey smiled back at Matt, her eyes warm with love. She was
glad to be traveling again, glad to be away from the dirty little town where
they had spent the winter. It had been hard, living in the hotel, staying alone
at night while Matt worked in the cantina. She had worried about him
constantly, even though she knew he could take care of himself. Still, she had
not been able to keep from worrying that he might be hurt in a brawl, or killed
in a gunfight. Sometimes when he came home she had smelled liquor on his
breath, and a terrible fear had engulfed her. What if he began to drink
excessively? What if he changed, as her father had changed?

One night she had poured out her heart to him, begging him
not to drink anymore. She had spoken in a rush, fearful that he might become
angry, and yet needing to tell him how she felt. When the words were out, she
had waited, breathless, for his reply. He had not been angry with her, as she
had feared. Instead, he had promised her that he would never touch another drop
so long as he lived, if that was what she wanted.

The memory of that night warmed her even now.

“How long will it take us to reach our destination?” she
asked.

“Not long.”

And it didn’t seem long. The days were warm and sunny, the
nights cool and filled with stars. And always Matt was there beside her,
smiling at her, loving her. She had never been happier. He had only to look at
her and she seemed to melt inside. Her heart would pound, her cheeks grew
flushed, and she felt as if her whole being was drenched in liquid sunshine.
She blossomed under his caresses, reveling in the way he made her feel,
rejoicing in his love. His hands knew every inch of her flesh, every curve,
just as she knew his. She had thought that such feelings would surely diminish
with time, yet she never tired of his lovemaking, never thought of refusing his
touch. Nor did she ever grow weary of looking at him. When he smiled at her,
she knew she had never seen a more handsome man. She loved the color of his
eyes, the way his hair curled over his collar, the texture of his skin, the
spread of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the sound of his voice.

It was on a sunlit April morning when they saw the smoke.
Matt reined his horse to a halt, his narrowed eyes sweeping over the landscape.
A prickle of fear rose in the pit of his stomach as a dozen mounted warriors
appeared out of a fold in the ground.

“Don’t move,” he warned Lacey. Carefully he lifted his hands
away from his gunbelt.

The Indians quickly surrounded them, their dark eyes filled
with suspicion and malice.

“You are on Chiricahua land,” one of the warriors said in
stilted English. “What are you doing here?”

“We are looking for someone,” Matt replied. He studied the
warrior nearest him.
Chiricahua land
, the Indian had said. These were
his people. “Perhaps you can help us?”

“Perhaps.” The warrior’s eyes lingered on Lacey. “Who are
you looking for?”

“A white man.”

The warrior nodded. “We have a white man in our village. He
is married to one of our women.”

“How is he called?”

“He is known to us as Pale Buffalo.”

“What is his white name?”

The warrior shrugged. “It is of no importance to us.” His
dark eyes moved over Lacey again. His own woman had been dead for two summers
now, raped and then killed by soldiers who had attacked their village while
most of the men were away. From that day forward he had vowed to take his
vengeance on every white man and every white woman who crossed his path. His
eyes swept over Lacey again. One way or another, he intended to have her, to
hear her cry out with fear and pain when he took his pleasure between her thighs,
as River Woman had undoubtedly cried out when the soldiers violated her. He
smiled inwardly as he imagined the white woman writhing beneath him, and then
he looked at Matt. “Is she your woman?”

Matt nodded. He had not missed the lust in the Apache’s eyes
when he looked at Lacey.

“I will give you six ponies for her.”

“She is my wife,” Matt said. “She is not for sale at any
price.”

“I would have her for
my
woman,” the warrior said
flatly. And suddenly his rifle was in his hand, pointed at Matt’s midsection.
The other warriors drew their weapons as well, waiting to see what would happen
next.

“Matt!”

“Keep out of this, Lacey,” Matt admonished quietly. Hands
clenched at his sides, he kept his gaze fixed on the warrior who seemed to be
the leader.

The warrior grinned wryly. The white man was afraid, but it
did not show on his face, only in his tightly clenched fists and in the sudden
sweat across his brow. Killing him now would be too quick, too easy. Better to
keep him alive, to let him wait and wonder when death would come, to torture
him a little each day.

“We will go to the village,” the warrior decided, relieving
Matt of his rifle and sidearm. “Perhaps I will be able to persuade you to sell
me your woman. And if not…” The warrior shrugged.

If not
, Matt thought,
he can always kill me and
take her anyway
.

The warrior grinned at Matt. Wheeling his horse around, he
headed for the Apache camp.

Lacey followed Matt into the Indian encampment, her heart
pounding with fear as women and warriors quickly surrounded them on all sides.
Matt was pulled from his horse and tied to a stout post in the center of the
camp. When Lacey tried to go to him, she was grabbed from behind and led into a
brush-covered wickiup.

“You will stay here,” the warrior instructed. “Do not try to
leave.”

“What are you going to do to my husband?”

The warrior smiled. “I am going to persuade him that it
would be wise to give me what I desire.”

“And if he refuses?”

The warrior smiled again. It was a decidedly cruel smile.
“If he is wise, he will not refuse.”

“Please let us go. We mean you no harm.”

The warrior did not answer her. Instead, he turned on his
heel and left the lodge.

Lacey stood in the middle of the wickiup, her mind reeling.
What was going to happen to them? One minute she had been filled with
excitement at the thought that they might have found her father, and the next
she was in fear for Matt’s life. Dropping to her knees, she peered under the
lodge flap. Immediately a moccasined foot appeared in her line of vision, and
then another as someone paced back and forth in front of the lodge. So, she was
being held under guard.

Rising to her feet, she began to pace the lodge, her
thoughts chasing round and round like mice in a maze. What would happen now?
She paced until her legs ached and then she sank down on a pile of robes,
intending to rest for a moment. In seconds she was asleep.

Matt’s gaze wandered around the village, his eyes and ears
absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the Indian camp. His mother had
been born and raised in a village like this one. He studied the women as they
moved about. Had his mother laughed as those women were laughing? Had she loved
Saul Drago, or hated him because he had been a white man? If she had lived,
Matt might have been raised in a village much like this one. He might never
have known any other way of life.

He watched several boys who were shooting arrows at a rabbit
skin pegged to a tree trunk. What would it have been like to grow up here, to
have been taught from childhood to hunt and track and fight? He glanced at his
skin. He was nearly as dark as the Indians. His hair was black and long. Only
his eyes betrayed the white blood in his veins.

His gaze strayed toward the wickiup where Lacey had been
taken. Three hours had passed since their arrival, and no one had entered the
lodge. He wished he could go to her, comfort her. He knew she must be
frightened half to death. And rightfully so. They were in a hell of a
predicament, there was no doubt of that. He wondered what his captors would say
if he told them he was half Apache. Would they believe him, or accuse him of
lying to save his skin?

Matt swore under his breath as the sun moved slowly across
the sky. Sweat stood out on his brow and trickled down his back and arms and
legs. He longed for a drink of water, but knew he was not likely to get one,
even if he humbled himself enough to ask.

Another hour passed, and another, and now the sun was at its
zenith. The village lay quiet. Warriors lounged in the shade of their lodges,
gambling or chatting with their neighbors. Women put their babies down for
naps. The dogs lay sprawled in the shade; the horses stood head to tail, idly
swishing flies.

Matt closed his eyes against the sun’s burning brightness.
His whole body was damp with sweat. His throat was as hot and dry as the desert
in mid-July, and he thought he might easily sell his soul for just one drink of
ice cold water. The heat made him lethargic, and he longed to lie down and
sleep for just a few minutes. Resting the back of his head against the post, he
dozed fitfully.

At sunset the women began to prepare the evening meal.
Matt’s stomach rumbled loudly as the aroma of roasting meat tickled his
nostrils. The Indians went about their business as though he were not there.
Behind the village, a dozen young braves were engaged in a horse race. Several
young girls made their way to the river for water, their dark eyes sliding
curiously in his direction. Little boys chased each other around the wickiups,
shrieking loudly, while doe-eyed little girls trailed at their mother’s skirts,
or played with dolls made of corn husks and rawhide.

An elderly squaw carrying a bowl of stew made her way to the
lodge where Lacey was being held. She, at least, would be fed, Matt thought
with relief.

Later that evening the warrior who had captured Matt
strutted into view. He looked well-fed and highly pleased with himself, Matt
thought irritably, and steeled himself for whatever was to come.

“I am called High Yellow Cloud,” the warrior said
arrogantly. “My bravery and wisdom are well-known among the People. I have
counted many coup against our enemies. It is my wish to have your wife for my
woman. I ask you once again, will you sell her to me?”

“And I tell you again, my answer is no.”

High Yellow Cloud nodded, but his eyes were dark and angry.
“I will come again at this time tomorrow and see if you have changed your
mind.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Matt retorted, but he was talking
to empty air.

Lacey stared blankly at the entrance to the wickiup. The
hours passed so slowly. She had seen no one all day except for the old woman
who had brought her something to eat. Lacey had eaten ravenously, but that had
been hours ago, and now she was hungry again. And thirsty. She wondered how
Matt was. Were the Indians treating him well?

Rising, she began to pace the floor of the lodge again. It
was awful, not knowing what was going to happen to them. She was contemplating
whether it would be wise to try to leave the lodge when the old woman stepped
inside. She carried a bowl of boiled meat and vegetables in one hand and a
doeskin tunic and moccasins in the other. With gestures, she indicated that
Lacey should eat and then change her clothes.

Lacey nodded that she understood, and the old woman flashed
a toothless grin and left the wickiup.

The food was plentiful and tasty, and Lacey ate it all and
wished for more. With a sigh, she laid the empty bowl aside and picked up the
tunic. It was made of cream-colored doeskin, incredibly soft to the touch.
Somewhat hesitantly, Lacey slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the
tunic. The bodice was a trifle snug across her breasts, the skirt fell past her
knees. The moccasins were soft and comfortable.

She had no sooner changed clothes than High Yellow Cloud
entered the lodge. His dark eyes moved approvingly over Lacey.

“You are very beautiful,” he said. “My people will be
envious when I make you my woman.”

“Your woman!” Lacey exclaimed. “I’ll never be your woman.”

High Yellow Cloud smiled indulgently. He liked a woman with
spirit.

“Where’s Matt?” Lacey demanded. “Where’s my husband?”

“He is well, for the moment.”

“What do you mean, for the moment?”

“Do not concern yourself with him,” High Yellow Cloud
admonished. “Tomorrow I will have Sky Woman take you to the river so that you
may bathe. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Lacey answered sullenly. It had been on the tip of
her tongue to refuse, but to do so would only deprive her of something she
desired. And going outside might afford her a chance to see Matt.

“Good. Is there anything you need?”

“Yes, I…” Lacey’s cheeks turned scarlet. She badly needed to
relieve herself and there were no facilities for such a necessity inside the
lodge.