LaceysWay (15 page)

“What is it?” High Yellow Cloud asked, frowning.

“I need to…to go outside.”

“Ah.” Comprehension dawned in the warrior’s eyes. “Come, I
will take you.”

“You?”

“I will not look,” High Yellow Cloud assured her.

“Very well,” Lacey agreed doubtfully, and followed the
Apache warrior out of the lodge. She quickly glanced in Matt’s direction. He
was still tied to the tree in the center of the camp. His chin was resting on
his chest and he appeared to be asleep.

“Come along,” High Yellow Cloud said curtly.

“Can’t I speak to my husband?”

“No.”

There was no point in arguing with that tone of voice, Lacey
thought resentfully, and followed High Yellow Cloud away from the village
toward a small copse of scrawny trees.

“I will wait for you here,” the warrior said. “Do not be
long. And do not try to run away. The white man will suffer for it if you do.”

With a nod, Lacey walked several yards further into the
darkness. Where was the white man the Apache had spoke of? Oh, if only it was
her father!

Later, back in the lodge, Lacey stretched out on the robes
and closed her eyes. What were they going to do? Why did High Yellow Cloud want
to marry her? She was not Indian. She would never be Indian. Why would he want
to marry a stranger? And Matt. What would happen to Matt if he refused to sell
her? Lacey laughed hollowly. What would she do if Matt
did
sell her to
High Yellow Cloud? But he would never do that. And where was her father…

Matt Drago lifted his head. Morning. Somehow he had managed
to sleep through the night, but he still felt weary. His arms and legs felt
heavy, his mouth was like cotton. And he was hungry. So damned hungry. And
thirsty enough to drink the Missouri dry.

He frowned as High Yellow Cloud approached him.

“Did you sleep well, white man?” the warrior asked with a
wry grin.

“Yeah,” Matt answered sarcastically. “I slept like a baby.”

“Have you decided to sell your woman yet?”

“No.”

High Yellow Cloud nodded. “I am a patient man. But not too
patient. You would be wise to give me what I want.”

Slowly, stubbornly, Matt shook his head. “No.”

“You cannot win,” the warrior said confidently. “In the end,
she will be mine.”

“Never,” Matt muttered as High Yellow Cloud walked away.
“Not so long as I live.” And that, Matt thought sourly, was High Yellow Cloud’s
ace in the hole. If Matt continued to refuse to give the warrior what he
wanted, all the Apache had to do was end Matt’s life and Lacey would be a
widow. She would have little choice but to marry High Yellow Cloud or become a
slave.

The sun rose in the sky and Matt’s strength waned, leeched
away by the heat and the sweat that poured from his body. He gazed longingly at
the narrow ribbon of blue that zigzagged behind the village, deeply envious of
the women and children who played at the water’s edge or sought relief from the
heat in its clear, cool depths.

His legs grew weary of bearing his weight, yet there was no
relief in sight. He could not sit down, but could only stand there hour after
hour. He dozed fitfully, his dreams haunted by images of Lacey caught up in the
arms of another man.

At sundown the warrior came to see Matt once again. “I want
your woman,” he said. “I will give you your freedom, food and water. What say
you?”

“No.”

High Yellow Cloud nodded sadly as he withdrew his knife from
the buckskin sheath on his belt. Walking to a nearby cook-fire, he heated the
blade until it glowed red-hot, then returned to Matt. Lifting the white man’s
shirt, he laid the hot metal against Matt’s stomach. A sickly-sweet odor filled
the air as the blade seared Matt’s flesh.

Matt gasped, the pain driving the breath from his body as
his flesh recoiled from the heat of the blade.

Wordlessly High Yellow Cloud heated the blade a second time.
Matt stared at the glowing steel, his insides shrinking with fear as the Indian
came toward him again.

“Your woman,” the warrior said.

“No.” Matt hissed the word from between clenched teeth as
the heated blade touched his flesh. “I don’t care if you burn every inch of my
flesh from my body,” he snarled angrily. “She’s my wife and I won’t give her
up.”

“I believe you,” High Yellow Cloud said. He gazed at Matt
with grudging admiration. “You are a brave man. Brave, but foolish, I have only
to kill you to take what I want.”

“If you kill me, she’ll hate you forever.”

“I do not need her love,” the warrior retorted. “I want only
to bend her will to mine, to plant my seed in her belly. I think she will give
me sons. Many sons.” He nodded to himself. “Prepare to die, white man. I have
left you alive long enough. Tonight, she will be mine.”

Matt let out a long breath, fear for his own life swallowed
up in his concern for Lacey. He struggled against the ropes that held him to
the post, his only thought to get free, to kill the man who spoke of
impregnating Lacey as though she were nothing more than a brood mare, someone
to be used and abused. And then, out of the blue, an idea formed in his mind.
Squaring his shoulders, he glared at High Yellow Cloud.

“You shame our people,” he said with as much dignity as he
could muster under the circumstances.

High Yellow Cloud frowned. “What do you mean,
our
people?”

“I carry the blood of the
Dineh
in my veins,” Matt
declared haughtily.

“You lie!”

“I speak the truth. My mother was a daughter of the
Chiricahua. She was called Hummingbird.”

“The name means nothing to me,” High Yellow Cloud retorted.
“But since you claim to be of our blood, I will fight you for the woman.”

“Suits me,” Matt said.

High Yellow Cloud grinned wolfishly. No one in the village
was more skilled than he with knife or lance. “We will fight,” he said
arrogantly. “And you will lose.”

“Maybe,” Matt replied. “Maybe not.”

“We will fight now,” High Yellow Cloud decided. “Tonight she
will warm my bed.”

“I haven’t had anything to eat or drink for two days,” Matt
remarked. “How about giving me thirty minutes to get something to eat and
stretch my legs?”

“As you wish,” High Yellow Cloud agreed smugly. “But it will
not make any difference.” The warrior cut Matt loose and said, “I will have one
of the women bring you something to eat. Do not try to see your woman or leave
this place.”

Matt nodded, and High Yellow Cloud went to his lodge. Alone,
Matt began to stretch his arms and legs. The burns on his belly ached dully,
but were of little consequence now. He walked back and forth for several
minutes, and then an old woman brought him a half a dozen slices of cold
venison and a small gourd of cold water. Sitting against the post, Matt ate the
meal slowly, sipped the water. There was no point in gulping it down and having
it sit like a hard lump in his belly.

He ate only half the meat, drank half the water, then
emptied the gourd over his hands and face. That done, he rested his head
against the post and closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax.

Fifteen minutes later High Yellow Cloud dropped a knife in
Matt’s lap. “Get up, white man. It is time.”

With a low groan, Matt stood up. All he wanted to do was
sleep. He thought briefly of asking High Yellow Cloud to postpone their fight
until tomorrow, but he knew the warrior would refuse. Better to hold his tongue
and retain his pride than ask a favor and be refused.

Glancing around, Matt saw that most of the Indians had
gathered near the center of the camp to watch the fight. He felt his heart skip
a beat when he saw Lacey standing off to one side, flanked by two Apache
warriors. Of course, Matt thought with a wry grin, High Yellow Cloud would want
her to be there to see his victory.

“Now,” High Yellow Cloud said, and dropped into a crouch,
his chin tucked in, his knife hand held out in front of him.

Automatically Matt took a similar stance and the two men
circled each other. High Yellow Cloud made several sharp passes in Matt’s
direction, testing the white man’s reflexes and finding them fast and accurate.
Wary now, he moved more cautiously.

Lacey watched, mesmerized by the sight of two men fighting
to the death. She knew they were fighting over her, like two dogs over a bone,
and the idea filled her with revulsion. How could she live with herself if Matt
was killed because of her? How could she bear it if he had to kill a man? She
longed to look away, yet she could not draw her gaze from the two men who were
even now lunging at each other, knives flashing in the firelight like angry
fangs. High Yellow Cloud was perhaps two inches shorter than Matt, but he was
solid and strong. His dark eyes were fierce, his face set in determined lines
as he lashed out at his opponent. He was clad in a loincloth and moccasins,
nothing more.

Matt looked weary but determined as he parried the thrust of
the warrior’s blade, and Lacey wondered how long he would be able to withstand
the Apache’s assault. She knew that Matt had had little sleep in the last two
days, and that he was in no fit condition for a fight. She uttered a little cry
of dismay as the two men came together, knives seeking flesh, and when they
parted, both were bleeding from shallow cuts on their bodies. Again and again
they came together, the harsh rasp of their breathing and the ring of steel
striking steel rising above the cheers of the crowd.

Matt and High Yellow Cloud came together in a rush, bodies
straining, muscles taut, bronzed skin sheened with sweat. Tears filled Lacey’s
eyes as she saw the blood oozing from Matt’s side, and she glanced away,
sickened by the sight of his blood and by the thought that he might be killed.
Her breath caught in her throat as her wandering gaze came to rest on a handful
of mounted men riding into the village. The man in front was dressed in
buckskins and moccasins. His face was tanned a dark brown. An eagle feather was
tied in his long gray hair. But there was no mistaking the fact that he was a
white man.

“Daddy!” Darting from between the two warriors who were
guarding her, she ran to her father.

Royce Montana’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he saw
Lacey running toward him. Dismounting, he caught her in his arms, tears
blurring his vision as he held her tight.

“Lacey,” he murmured. “My God, Lacey, what are you doing
here?”

“Looking for you. Daddy, stop the fight, please.”

Royce Montana glanced over his daughter’s head to see the
two men locked in mortal combat. He recognized High Yellow Cloud immediately
and assumed that Lacey’s fears were for the white man who was obviously
fighting for his life.

“I can’t stop it, Lacey,” Royce Montana said sadly. “They’ll
have to fight it out.”

Lacey’s shoulders sagged in discouragement. The fight seemed
to have lasted forever, though in reality perhaps only five or six minutes had
gone by. Both men had sustained a number of superficial cuts and there was
blood everywhere, and still they fought, snarling like angry wolves. It was
brutal and savage and ugly, and yet strangely compelling at the same time.

Lacey looked away as High Yellow Cloud’s knife opened a
long, shallow gash in Matt’s right side. For a moment she watched the faces of
the Indians, baffled that they could find pleasure in the sight of two men
fighting for their lives. Were the Indians so primitive, so savage, that they
had no regard for human life? They cheered loudly when High Yellow Cloud drew
blood, readily voiced their approval for Matt’s agility when he managed to
elude a brutal thrust that would have cost him his life. Dimly she realized
that the warriors were not cruel or cold-blooded. They valued a man’s bravery
and his skill with a knife, and she realized that, even though Matt was the
enemy, they still cheered for his courage and cunning.

The hard clang of metal scraping metal drew Lacey’s
attention once again, and as she turned back toward the fight, she saw that
Matt was tiring. His movements were becoming slow, his reflexes sluggish, and
even as she watched, he seemed to be falling. Her hand went to her throat as
High Yellow Cloud instantly moved in for the kill. And then, miraculously, Matt
regained his balance. Pivoting on his heel, he drove his knotted fist into the
Indian’s jaw. High Yellow Cloud went down heavily and Matt was on him. Sides
heaving, body bathed in sweat and blood, Matt pressed the edge of his blade
against the warrior’s throat.

“Live or die,” Matt hissed. “It’s up to you.”

High Yellow Cloud glared at Matt, his dark eyes glinting
with anger and humiliation. “I will live,” he said hoarsely. “But know this,
white man. It is not over between us. Not until one of us is dead.”

“Whatever you say,” Matt replied, grinning. “But if I can
whip your ass after two days without food or water, just think what I might do
when I’m feeling good.”

High Yellow Cloud made a sound of disgust low in his throat.
“You do not frighten me,” he said disdainfully. “The woman will yet be mine.”

“Give it up,” Matt said wearily, and rising to his feet, he
walked away from the defeated warrior, and away from the crowd.

“Matt! Matt, come here.”

He turned at the sound of Lacey’s voice and saw her standing
beside a man that Matt recognized as Royce Montana.
So
, he mused,
she
was right not to give up her search after all.

Royce Montana watched his daughter’s face light up as the
man called Matt walked toward them.
So
, he thought,
it’s happened. My
little girl’s fallen in love.

“Matt, this is my father. Daddy, this is Matt Drago. My
husband.”

“Husband!” Royce Montana could not keep the surprise out of
his voice. “When did that happen?”

“Several months ago,” Lacey said. “We can talk about all
that later, Daddy. Matt’s hurt.”