LaceysWay (8 page)

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.

Taking a knife from her saddlebag, Lacey left the horses
ground-reined out of sight and crept toward Matt. Hardly daring to breathe, she
dropped to her hands and knees, inching closer and closer to the sleeping
village, every nerve in her body stretched taut, her eyes and ears straining
for any sound that would indicate she was no longer alone.

Matt was on the brink of sleep when he heard someone whisper
his name. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lacey creeping up behind him. His
first emotion was one of relief. Thank God, help was on the way! And then he
grew angry. Stupid girl! What the hell did she think she was doing, prowling
around an Apache camp in the dead of night. Didn’t she realize the danger she
was in?

“Lacey, get out of here,” he hissed.

Wordlessly, she shook her head and began sawing through the
rope binding Matt’s wrists. The knife was sharp and quickly sliced through the
rawhide, freeing Matt’s hands. Keeping one eye on the camp, Matt hurriedly
untied his feet and removed the rope from his neck.

He was about to grab Lacey by the hand and make a run for it
when a low growl sounded behind him. Turning, he saw a large yellow hound
staring at him, lips curled back to reveal sharp white teeth.

“Don’t move,” Matt warned Lacey as the dog growled again.
“If he starts barking, he’ll rouse the whole damn camp.”

Lacey nodded, her eyes fixed on the dog. Seconds passed like
hours.
They’ll find us here in the morning
, she thought bleakly,
unmoving
as statues
.

“Lacey,” Matt whispered. “Pass me the knife.”

She was too frightened to ask questions. Moving as slowly as
she could, she slipped the knife to Matt. She was unprepared for what happened
next. Without warning, Matt lunged forward, his left arm in front of his face,
the knife in his right hand. His sudden movement startled the dog, who let out
a low growl and attacked, his jaws closing over Matt’s arm. Matt was ready, and
when the dog attacked, he drove the knife into the animal’s throat, killing it
instantly, soundlessly.

Jerking the blade free, Matt grabbed Lacey’s arm and ran
into the darkness beyond the camp, gritting his teeth against the pain in his
arm.

“This way,” Lacey whispered urgently, and led him to where
the horses were waiting.

In seconds they were riding away from the village, slowly at
first lest their hoofbeats be heard, and then at a gallop.

They rode all night, wanting to put as much distance as
possible between themselves and the Apache.

At first light, Matt reined his lathered gelding to a halt.
Lacey drew rein beside him, her eyes growing wide as she saw the dried blood
caked around his nose and mouth.

“Matt, what happened?”

“Apache hospitality,” he answered ruefully. “Don’t worry,
it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Maybe not, but that dog bite looks bad. Let me clean it for
you.”

“I’ll take care of it. You look beat.”

Lacey nodded, too tired to reply. He was alive, and that was
all that mattered. All the tenseness, all the worry of the last few hours
drained out of her like water through a sieve, and she suddenly went limp,
practically falling out of the saddle.

Jumping to the ground, Matt caught her before she collapsed.

“You little fool,” he scolded. “Didn’t I tell you to
hightail it outta there if I didn’t come back? You might have been killed.”

“Yell at me tomorrow, Matt,” Lacey mumbled. “I’m too tired
to argue with you right now.”

Matt stared at Lacey in disbelief as her eyelids fluttered
down. She was actually asleep! Muttering an oath, he held her in his arms,
unable to believe that she had risked her own life just to save his. Then, with
a sigh, he untied her bedroll from behind her saddle, spread it on the ground
as best he could with one hand, and placed Lacey on the blanket.

Feeling tender and protective, he covered her and then, too
tired to spread his own blankets, stretched out on the ground beside her and
fell asleep.

Lacey tried to turn over, then frowned. There was a heavy
weight across her chest, and another across her legs. Turning her head, she
gave a little gasp of alarm when she saw Matt lying beside her. One of his arms
was flung across her breasts, one of his legs was resting over hers. She
relaxed when she saw that he was sound asleep.

He looked very handsome, lying there peacefully beside her.
Even with one eye black and swollen, and his jaw covered with bristles, he was
beautiful. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken. She
had never noticed that before, she mused absently. His mouth was full and wide,
and she had a sudden impulse to run her fingers over his lower lip. The mere idea
made her warm all over. Would he awaken if she dared?

She was trying to summon the courage when she realized that
Matt was awake and watching her. Embarrassed, she pushed his arm off her breast
and sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest even though she was fully
clothed.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I was too tired to spread my bedroll,” Matt explained. And
then he grinned roguishly. “Besides, since you were willing to risk your life
to save mine, I didn’t think you’d mind if I shared your bed.”

“Well, you thought wrong!” Lacey exclaimed. “I…I only saved
your life because I…because I was afraid to be out here alone.”

“Another hope crushed,” Matt lamented.

“Did you see my father? Was he there?”

“I didn’t see him, Lacey. I think he must be with that other
bunch.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment showed in her eyes. She had been so
certain they would find her father. She had wanted it so bad. Now they had to
backtrack and hope that Matt could still pick up the trail of the Indians who
had gone toward New Mexico Territory.

“I’m sorry, Lacey,” Matt said tenderly.

She nodded, too close to tears to speak.

“How about something to eat,” Matt suggested, “and then
we’ll see if we can pick up that other trail.”

“All right,” Lacey said, “but first I’m going to take a look
at your arm.”

Matt didn’t object, and Lacey quickly heated some water and
gently washed Matt’s arm. The dog bite wasn’t deep and there was no sign of
infection, but she rinsed it thoroughly.

Matt washed the dried blood from his face with the leftover
water, grunting as the movement jarred his injured rib.

“What’s wrong?” Lacey asked.

“I think one of my ribs is cracked. You got anything I can
wrap it with?”

Lacey nodded. Going to her saddlebag, she pulled out her
petticoat and ripped several strips from the hem. At Matt’s direction, she
wrapped the material tightly around his middle.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling at her. “That feels better.”

Lacey was subdued as they rode back the way they had come.
The chances of picking up a cold trail were slim, even for a tracker as
experienced as Matt appeared to be. She wondered if her father was still alive
and if so, was he being treated well, or was he being abused and tormented? She
glanced at Matt. His face was swollen and discolored. Apache hospitality, he
had said. Was her father being treated the same way? He was too old, too sick,
to endure such cruelty for very long.