Hostage Heart (2 page)

“It might not be enough, Paco.”

“Que?
”

“Father handled the finances, I didn’t.” Frustration curdled deep within her. “I left school before I learned them. I don’t know if I can handle the account books my father kept.”

“Patrona
, you will do it.”

Despair and doubt filled Lark. She forced a feeble smile. The hired hands trusted her, believed in her. She couldn’t let them down. “Yes.”

“The
patron
wanted us to round up the twenty-five mares in the western pasture in order to breed them to Huelga and Kentucky. We’ll have to gather them from the nearby hills into a herd and then bring them here, to the corrals. This is the time of year that the mares come into season and are easy to breed. Do you want us to bring them in?”

Absently Lark nodded, already thinking ahead. She touched the yellow-and-red calico shirt where her heart lay. The pain of loss was almost tangible.
Oh, Father, I love you so much. Why did Ihidnan, Supreme Being, have to take you? You said your god was a kind and loving god. I don’t understand why he had you murdered
.

Lark forced herself back to the present. “Yes, take the hands, Paco, and bring in the mares.”

“It may take up to a week to chase them out of the hills and bring them to the ranch,
Patrona
. You will be left here alone with our families and the Old Ones, the elderly Apaches.” It was more of a question than a statement.

Lark would run the ranch while the wranglers went to find the mares. “The only thing I must defend us against is Cameron’s greed in wanting the mortgage money every month.” Cameron was
hako
in Lark’s opinion, a man who always took and never gave in return.

Paco’s laughter was like the yip of a coyote. “Aiyee,
Patrona
, I think you are right. Still I could leave Rufus behind to protect you and the families.”

Rufus was their Negro grub cook. He and his chuck wagon would be needed to feed the hardworking wranglers out on the trail.

“No, take Rufus along. We’ll be fine.” Lark realized that Paco needed to be persuaded that she was in charge. Squaring her shoulders and walking briskly down the hill, she gave the appearance of a leader, not a follower.

The rest of the day she spent in the office with the account books, trying to understand the pages of numbers that stared back at her.

In her seventh year Lark had been told not to return to school. The prim teacher, Miss Somerset, had said she was incapable of learning, so she had been educated at home, along with the children of the hired hands, by her father until she was old enough to seek formal education in Prescott. There, Lark had stayed with Abe and Millie Harris, owners of the dry goods store, while she attended school. It was there in Prescott, during those painful four weeks, that Lark had realized all the whites except the Harrises hated her. And it was there that Lark had learned to hate Jud Cameron and his hired gun, Bo Shanks. She quickly pushed aside that painful period in her life when Shanks had embarrassed her in public. Unable to stand the ostracism, the prejudice, and Shanks shadowing her like a salivating wolf cornering a helpless victim, Lark had left Prescott, vowing never to return.

Lark buried her face in her hands, feeling the warmth of tears flooding her eyes again. The ranch house was so quiet, almost eerie. Where was her father’s booming voice or the deep laugh that rolled like thunder from his chest? Raising her head, Lark turned to other pressing matters. The mortgage had just been paid. That meant that she had another month in which to gather the necessary monies for the next payment. She might not know much about math, but uppermost in her father’s mind had always been payment of the mortgage—even if they starved, it would always be paid.

Roarke Gallagher had watched his parents’ home stolen out from under them in Ireland. His parents had been poor potato farmers. And because they were Catholic, the English didn’t renew the twelve-year lease on the soil they tilled. His parents had died early, broken in spirit and penniless. When he left to make America his new home, he swore he’d never allow that to happen to him.

Lark’s mother, Mourning Dove, had been a fearless Chiricahua chief, a blood relative to Cochise. She had fought valiantly against a band of marauding Comancheros and would have been taken captive if not for the unexpected help of Roarke Gallagher, who was seriously wounded during the melee. Mourning Dove had nursed Roarke back to health, and they had fallen in love. Roarke had convinced Mourning Dove to come with him to the Prescott area, marry him, and help build a horse ranch. Her parents had been brave people with generous hearts. Lark missed them terribly.

Darkness fell, almost to Lark’s relief. She stood at the office window and looked up at the stars in the sky. The ranch was still, all the wranglers having left earlier. She was alone.

The urge to go for a walk won out over the need to work on the account books, and she blew out the flame in the hurricane lamp. Her footfalls were noiseless. She wore the Apache
kabuns
, or moccasins, which had tough leather soles that turned up in a distinctive tip. The rest of the comfortable boot was made of soft calf leather that was rolled up and cuffed just below her knees. As she shut the door, the cool May air stirred her sluggish senses. Lark lifted her chin and stared at the hill where both her parents were buried. Quickly she turned away, wanting to find solace against the pain in her heart, but not knowing how.

Just as Lark stepped off the porch, she heard horses’ hooves. Frowning, she went back inside for the loaded Winchester rifle. By the light of the full moon rising over the mountains that circled the ranch, she could see the silhouettes of two riders. Both were Apache.

Lark set the lantern on the porch swing, keeping the rifle in a state of readiness. It wasn’t uncommon for the Tonto clan of the Apache to come for a trading visit. Or, sometimes, one of Mourning Dove’s relatives from the Chiricahua band farther south would visit.

The lead rider was tall and lean, like a starving mountain lion. As they slowed their ponies to a walk, a hiss escaped Lark. In one motion, she tripped the lever action of the Winchester repeating rifle and held it against her shoulder, aiming it at the leader.

“E-chi-ca-say!
”

Lark tensed as the lead rider came to a halt fewer than five feet from where she stood. “Ga’n! There is no greeting here for you!” she shouted. Ga’n, which meant Devil in Apache, was a renegade wanted by both the
pindah
and his own Apache people, who were also her people, the Chiricahua. Many years ago, Roarke Gallagher had come upon Ga’n alone and starving in the desert. Ga’n was fourteen at the time and had become conscious long enough to tell Roarke that his sister, Small Deer, had been raped and carried off by the band of whites who had attacked them. The rest of Ga’n’s family had been brutally murdered. Lark’s father had tended Ga’n’s wounds and brought him back to the ranch to recover.

Since that time, Ga’n had sworn allegiance to Roarke and his family. That included Lark, whether she wanted Ga’n’s protection or not.

Ga’n had spent years since then trying to find his sister. Small Deer had been sexually enslaved by a cattle baron near Phoenix named Jason Colburn. When Small Deer saw her chance to escape, she took it. She sought safety in Geronimo’s rancheria, which was composed of over two hundred families, thinking she would be welcomed. But Small Deer had been stoned to death by the women who had accused her of willingly sleeping with a
pindah
. Ga’n had already declared war upon the whites and Mexicans for murdering his family. Once he learned of Small Deer’s death, he attacked and killed his own people with the same reckless abandon.

Ga’n’s face was broad, his black hair worn long and loose over his red cotton shirt and leather vest. “Is that any way for my sister to greet me?” he teased. He placed his rifle across his trousered thighs, studying her with amusement. He knew Lark felt uncomfortable in his presence, but that didn’t bother him. Lark reminded him greatly of his lost sister. She had Small Deer’s beauty, kindness and generosity. And because Lark had played a key role in his recovery at the ranch, he would remain forever loyal to her.

Her heart beating like a sledgehammer, Lark stood her ground. She knew only too well of Ga’n’s infamous exploits: he was a rebel who had left the peace talks that Cochise was trying to hold with representatives of the government. Ga’n had then set about terrorizing people on both sides of the border, angering whites, Apaches and Mexicans alike. Wherever he went, he left a trail of rape, kidnapping and brutal murder in his wake.

She sharply recalled Ga’n stealing her father’s small supply of Irish whiskey while he convalesced at the ranch. The fire spirit of the
pindahs
held Ga’n in its ugly clutches to this day. Ga’n had once told her that whiskey was the only thing that dulled the pain of his family’s death. Lark always feared Ga’n when he was drunk because he was
heyoke
, crazy. Her father had explained that the Apache warrior was filled with a hate that was eating him up. Later, after Ga’n had started his reign of terror, Roarke had commented sadly that he was sorry he’d saved the Apache’s life. Now Lark quaked inwardly, watching Ga’n’s large brown eyes.

“I am no sister to you,
hako!
” She deliberately hurled the insult at him; Ga’n was, indeed, a selfish person.

“Hako
or not, I want to talk with Voice of Thunder.”

Lark flinched. That was the name the Apache had given her father. “He’s gone to the Big Sleep,” she forced out.

Ga’n’s brows slanted up. “Ho! Tell me no lies!”

Lark lowered the rifle, pointing toward the hill. “Then go to the pines. He sleeps beside my mother.”

Rubbing his square jaw, Ga’n eyed her uneasily. “Who has done this? No doubt
pindah!
I will avenge his death.”

“I don’t know who killed him,” Lark said wearily. “Now, what do you want?”

“Information.”

“What kind?”

“There is a
pindah-lickoyee
hunting me.”

“Geronimo has sent out a squad to hunt you down also, Ga’n. Why do you seem so surprised? Don’t tell me the yellow legs are closing in on you.”

Anger darkened Ga’n’s features. “This is one
pindah!
He has followed us for one moon and we’ve not lost him. Three days ago, I wounded him. We lost his track after a storm. I know he is nearby, and I want his death!”

“We’ve seen no
pindah-lickoyee
through here for the past three weeks, Ga’n.”

With a growl, Ga’n nudged his mustang closer, glaring down at her.
“Itna-iltc-’he!
”

Lark cocked the trigger and took a step back. “I tell you no lies, Ga’n! The day I stoop to a dog’s underbelly as you have, then I will lie. There is no
pindah
here! You know they shun us as if we were ghosts.”

Mirthlessly, Ga’n sawed on the mouth of his mustang. The horse backed up. “This
pindah
is dangerous to you, too, Lark Who Sings. He hates the People. He’s wounded, and like a bear, he is angry and will strike out at anyone. Even you! If you are wise, you will tell me where he hides.”

“He’s not here! No one has seen him, Ga’n.”

“Very well. We leave now. I will go toward Prescott to hunt him. If you do see him, send a rider.”

Lark shook her head. “On this ranch, anyone can seek protection, Ga’n. You know that. If he comes here, he will remain in our protection.”

“He’s dangerous!”

“Probably because you’ve done something to him to make him hunt you down. You’re like the Evil Owl, Ga’n. You stir up trouble in your flight.
Ugashi!
Go!”

Ga’n shrugged, curtly issuing orders to his partner, whom Lark recognized as Alchise. He stared down at her hard. “Did Voice of Thunder give you to a warrior before he died?” he taunted.

Lark blushed furiously. “No. I will choose my own warrior, Ga’n.”

“Who would have a sharp-tongued shrew such as you?” And then amusement momentarily erased the darkness in his eyes. “I would have you, little sister.”

“Ugashi
, Ga’n! Waste no more of my time. You are not welcome here.”

His smile was slight, reminding her of a weasel grinning. “I will be back.”

Lark slowly lowered the rifle as the two Apache riders trotted away, heading up and over the hill, disappearing into the tree line. Shakily she touched her perspiring brow. Picking up the lantern, Lark went inside and barred the door. As she went through the motions of washing up for the night and donning her floor-length white cotton nightgown, exhaustion played havoc with her senses. Slipping into the brass bed, Lark was asleep in minutes. In her dreams, she saw a huge, wounded bear making his way down to her ranch….

Matt watched as Ga’n and his war partner rode out of sight. His vision was deteriorating, sweat running down into his eyes, making them smart. He had brought his weary horse to a halt just inside the timberline that overlooked a large, sprawling ranch. Shivering from loss of blood and a three-day fever, he waited another hour before leaving the protection of the forest and moving down toward the ranch.

Had his vision deceived him? Had Ga’n stopped and actually
talked
to someone holding a rifle? Ga’n talk?
Impossible
. He must be delirious. No rancher would give the renegade safe passage. Clutching the horse’s thick black mane, Matt was too weak to fight off another wave of dizziness. With a muffled groan he leaned forward, his brow pressed against the animal’s neck in an effort not to fall off again.

Matt clung to the horse, knowing this was the beginning of another siege of delirium from the high fever. His left thigh was so swollen that the material around it had stretched to its limits. The heavy, throbbing ache was continual, and he knew somehow in his feverish state that lead poisoning had set in. He could die. At Matt thought, he called on his almost nonexistent reserve of strength. He would not die before Katie’s and Susan’s lives were avenged. Clenching his teeth, he felt another tidal wave of pain move through him. He felt light-headed.
No…can’t fall off again…can’t
….

The gelding stumbled to a halt next to the larger of two barns located side by side. At the nicker of horses nearby, Matt slowly raised his head, reorienting himself. Everything was dark, and there was no light or movement from the main ranch house or the two bunkhouses. No guards were posted, and he wondered why. At this time of night, it would be safer not to approach the house and possibly scare the owners, getting himself killed before he could explain who he was or that he needed help. No, it would be wiser to seek shelter in the barn and wait it out until daylight. Then he could ask for help without being shot first and asked questions later. Dismounting with difficulty, Matt pushed the horizontal bar off the two main doors.

The haymow was barely illuminated by the partly open door. Matt made his way toward it. If he could just lie down and sleep and know that he was safe from Ga’n. If only.

The sudden cry of a stallion jerked Matt momentarily out of his stupor. He leaned heavily against a roughly hewn oak timber.
Damn
. The ranch owners would be awakened by that squealing stud who was apparently stalled in the other barn and was busy kicking down the walls. Matt could hear the thunk of wood being struck by the angry animal.
Dammit
. Too weak to move, he rested against the beam.

The stallion’s screams made Lark sit bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding hard in her breast. Her black hair, brushed until it shone like ebony, fell around her shoulders and breasts.

Had Ga’n returned? It would be typical of the renegade to lie and sneak back! He was probably in need of better mounts, having driven his own horses to exhaustion. Again she heard the Kentucky’s shrill scream, muted through the log-and-mortar wall of the bedroom.

Kicking the sheet and quilt aside, Lark leaped out of bed. She groped for the Winchester rifle in the gun rack near the dresser. Hands shaking, she quickly lit a lantern to show her the way to the barn. Her black hair flew behind her as she quietly opened the front door and sped lightly across the dry earth toward the stud barn, the loaded rifle at her side.

Above her, the stars hung close, cold and silent. The nearly freezing air seeped through her light cotton gown, making her shiver.

Before she came to a halt, Lark saw the barn doors were partially opened. Tension tightened her throat, and her eyes grew wide. Was Ga’n back to “borrow” two new horses and leave his own animals here instead? Fighting down her anger, Lark wished mightily that she had listened to Paco and kept at least one wrangler at the ranch. It was a lesson hard learned. She would never again leave the women, children and herself open to attack without a man around to lend his protection.

The high, trembling whinny of a broodmare greeted Lark as she stood tensely in the doorway. The inside of the barn was dim, and Lark couldn’t see or hear anything. Pindah made noise; Apaches did not. Ga’n must be playing a trick on her, to humiliate her because she’d spoken so sharply to him earlier. Yet in the back of her mind, Lark knew that if Ga’n had wanted to wreak havoc, he would have already raided the ranch. She knew she was safe from his murdering ways. Instead, he was playing a game with her. He wanted to teach her a lesson for the way she, a woman, had spoken to him, an Apache warrior. She didn’t appreciate either his timing or his joke.

In Apache, she called into the barn. “Come out of there, Ga’n. I know you’re in there. The time for games is over! Come out. Now!”

Several of the twelve mares that were near foaling whickered urgently in response, recognizing her voice. Lark sensed their trepidation. Whoever was in there was making them nervous. Her Irish temper overcame her normally patient Apache blood. “Ga’n! How dare you scare my mares. They’re almost ready to foal! Come out of there right now, or I swear I’ll shoot you! If you cause one mare to abort, I’ll cut off your right ear. I swear it!”

No answer came, except for the movement of the mares in their stalls. Then an unfamiliar whinny greeted her ears. Lark knew each of her mare’s neighs; each was as distinctive as a human voice. Raising the lantern, Lark began to enter the barn. Ga’n’s childish game had gone far enough! She wished mightily for her trusted bowie knife, which she always wore. Her mother and old Ny-Oden had taught her how to use it for hunting as well as for defense. Right now, she would have preferred a knife instead of an unwieldy rifle.

“I’m coming in, Ga’n! You had best show yourself. I have a loaded rifle, and I’ll shoot if you don’t give up your game!” Taking a deep breath, Lark rounded the barn door and walked determinedly into the haymow.

Matt froze when he heard the guttural Apache come from outside the door. Ga’n had found him! He broke into a heavy sweat, shaking badly in the grip of the fever. Leaning behind the solid oak beam, he turned sideways so he couldn’t be spotted by the Apache. Drawing his Colt, he found he could barely hold the heavy pistol. Hate mixed with anger. All right, if Ga’n wanted him, he’d have to come after him. He had the advantage of being hidden deep in the barn. Apaches might be the world’s best hunters and trackers, but they didn’t have eyes in the backs of their heads. He squinted, forcing what little attention was left in his fevered mind on the opened doors. The Apache commands were becoming higher and more strident. Attack was imminent. Matt raised the pistol and positioned it against his other arm to steady it. He’d only have one chance. Savage satisfaction soared through him. One way or another, Katie and Susan would be avenged.

In the next instant, he saw a tall woman in a white nightgown move cautiously around the opened door. He froze. A myriad of impressions assailed him. Her midnight hair swirled like a glorious cape around her shoulders and high breasts. Her slender body was silhouetted against the thin cotton of the simple gown. The glitter in her narrowed eyes as she slipped silently between the doors reminded him of a cornered cougar. He shook his head. What was going on? He could swear he had heard Apache. Was he delirious again? Was she a figment of his imagination?

As the woman drew closer, Matt could see the fear and determination on her face. He wasn’t dreaming. She was real—a beautiful, wild animal. She placed the lantern on the peg of another beam, still holding the rifle with both hands. Confused and disoriented by the chain of events, Matt felt his left leg giving out. He lowered the pistol and slid it into the holster. The woman meant business with that Winchester. The trigger was cocked, and he knew that if he spoke, she’d shoot first and ask questions later. Luck turned in his favor. She had halted no more than five feet away, backing slowly toward him, looking toward the stalls.

Suppressing a momentary twinge of guilt, Matt lunged out from behind the beam. He threw one arm around her slender waist and grabbed the rifle with the other.

Lark gasped as an arm like steel jerked her backward off her feet. The rifle was torn out of her grasp and sailed harmlessly away from her. A scream clawed up her throat, her hair flying wildly as she struggled to free herself. A rough, callused hand clamped hard against her mouth, crushing her lips against her teeth. Her nostrils flared, and she drank in the sweet stench of blood and the smell of a white man. Fear ate away her previous anger. It wasn’t Ga’n! Lark twisted, biting his fingers. He groaned and jerked away his hand.

She made a half turn, twisting to catch a glimpse of her captor. He towered over her. Though tall, she felt like a mere child against his powerful chest and broad shoulders. The harsh planes of his face were frozen with—what? A small cry escaped her and Lark tried to push away from him. They both tilted off balance. She saw the man tense and he gave a cry, his left leg suddenly collapsing out from beneath him. They toppled to the straw.

The air was knocked out of Lark as the man landed heavily on top of her. She lay for several seconds, stunned and gasping for breath, unable to move. The sensation of a man’s body touching hers was shocking. No Apache man ever touched an Apache maiden. It was forbidden before marriage. His hips ground into hers and another electric sensation uncurled through her. Panicked by the sudden turn of events, Lark, began to struggle, trying to pull her hands free.

Matt cursed, clamping one hand across her mouth and capturing her wrists above her head. He lay on top of her, both of them breathing heavily. Despite his fever and weakness, he was wildly aware of her firm, young breasts pressing into his chest. The soft yielding of her hips beneath his sparked a primal animal urge in him. He looked down, able to study her closely for the first time. His voice came harsh and rasping.

“Quit struggling, I won’t hurt you. I need your help.” Her huge blue-violet eyes widened. Slowly he removed his hand. That mouth He stared down at it: a full, expressive mouth with corners that turned softly upward; lips that were wildly sensual and begged to be tamed.

Lark ceased struggling. Terror mixed with confusion as she heard the pain lacing his words. “What?”

He liked her slightly breathless voice, which reminded him of mellow whiskey. “I need help. My name is Matt Kincaid. I’ve been shot and I need a doctor.” He saw the fear dissolve in her luminous eyes; eyes in which a man could lose his soul forever. She must be someone’s wife. The lucky bastard. Matt slowly loosened his hold on her slender wrists. “If I let you go, will you stay? I’ve got to have help.”

Gulping unsteadily, Lark nodded once. Fire licked through her straining body as she felt each point of contact with him. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, and she was shamefully aware that her nipples were hardening beneath his chest. “Y-yes. I won’t leave,” she managed to say.

Matt rolled off her, releasing her completely. Too weak to move, he gave in momentarily to the pain and fever, rolling over on his back. Another wave of light-headedness assaulted him. He didn’t fight it this time. Through half-closed eyes he watched the woman get slowly to her knees. He knew she would help him. Maybe it was her heart-shaped face, those eyes now fraught with concern and kindness, that told him so. Or was it the soothing touch of her cool hand upon his sweaty brow after she gently removed his hat? Matt didn’t know. Closing his eyes, he gave in to his weakness.

“Wake up!” Lark begged, shaking his broad, powerful shoulders. In the dim light, she could see blood covering his left leg. The putrid smell of torn flesh stung her sensitive nostrils. The stench of blood and sweat mingled with the sour odor of his unwashed body and almost made her retch. Lark gripped his dirty cotton shirt and gave him another sharp shake. “Wake up! I can’t help you unless I can get you to the house. You’ve got to get up!”

Lark struggled to her feet. He was a
pindah-lickoyee
, a white eyes…someone who hated her kind. But there was something about his broad, generous face, the curve of his month, and the look in his pain-filled gray eyes that pushed her defensiveness aside. She tried to analyze why this man had touched her heart as effortlessly as Holos, the Sun, caressed the meadow flowers with his warming rays. He tried a taut, one-cornered smile to reward her, and Lark’s heart beat once in response to his unspoken thanks.

Lark gasped for breath as she tugged and pulled Matt Kincaid to his unsteady feet. She sagged beneath his weight. His arm went around her shoulders, and he leaned heavily on her, his head against her hair. She felt him shudder with each step they took.

“You can make it,” she insisted, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist. “It’s just a little way to the ranch house. Please, try….” She groaned as he leaned more heavily against her. If only one of the wranglers was present to help. None of the other women was as tall or as strong as she was, so there was no sense in waking them to get their help.

Matt bit back a groan, his head swimming, making it impossible for him to limp in a straight line. Despite his semiconscious state, he was aware of the woman’s surprising strength. She reminded him of a lithe cougar. His six-foot, three-inch frame weighed two hundred pounds yet she was supporting him. As he rested his face against her head, he inhaled the natural feminine sweetness of her hair. Beautiful hair, he thought disjointedly. Not coarse like a horse’s mane, but just as thick. He buried his face in the strands.

Lark staggered up the three steps of the porch with the cowboy in tow. How she managed to push open the front door and get him inside she didn’t know. She remembered her father describing how his god would perform miracles for his people every now and then. Did this cowboy believe in the same god?

Lark got the stranger to the brass bed and let him fall backward onto it. She watched as he sank into the feather mattress, already unconscious.

Rubbing her aching shoulder, she looked down to see rust-colored blood smeared across the pristine whiteness of her gown. It struck Lark that, despite the racial gulf between them, they both shared red blood. Was her father right? Was there truly little difference between the races, as he had always preached? She cast a backward glance at Matt Kincaid, who lay half on the bed and half off it. Ga’n’s words haunted her as she quickly pulled off the gown and donned her usual workday clothes. Was this the bear he had spoken of? Was this the man who had been hunting Ga’n?