Hostage Heart (26 page)

She fed the last of the pulp to the mustang and wiped her hands on her trousers, then rose, holding Matt’s intense gaze. Pride in her ability would not allow her to cower at his demands and threats. “I can outride or outwalk any
pindah
,” she said. “Apaches are known for their stamina and endurance. I’ll keep up with you.”

Matt wasn’t ready to relent. “It will only take once, Lark. Just once.”

Relieved that he wasn’t going to send her back to the ranch, Lark nodded. The noonday heat was stifling; the clothes they wore stuck damply to their skin.

Lark took up another subject, hoping to deflect his anger into something more constructive. “I’m worried about Kentucky.”

“Why?”

She motioned for him to follow her to the hoofprints visible in the sand and crouched down next to them. “He’s tiring badly,” she said, showing how his hoofprints were distorted in the sand. “I don’t think he’s eating cactus to stay alive. Horses that aren’t raised on it usually won’t eat it. I found where Ga’n and Shanks spent the night and there were a number of uneaten pieces of cactus pulp lying around. I think Ga’n tried to get Kentucky to eat it for liquid, but he refused.”

Matt knelt opposite her. “If Kentucky doesn’t get water soon, he may die.”

“Either that or they’ll slow down and we can catch up with them.”

“They didn’t travel last night. That’s good.”

“Ga’n’s afraid of the darkness,” Lark said.

He held her gaze. “Are you?”

“My Apache side is.”

A crooked smile softened his set features. “Maybe it’s time to switch to your white side so we can travel at night and catch up with them.”

She knew he was correct and reluctantly nodded. “I’ll try.”

Matt rose, helping her to her feet. Squeezing her work-worn hand, he murmured, “I’ll keep you safe, Lark,” but inside, abject fear ate at him.
Could
he keep her safe? She was so unlike most women, unafraid to face danger. Mounting, he watched her leap with graceful ease into the simply made cottonwood saddle. With the quiver filled with arrows on her back, the cedar bow in her left hand, she looked like an Apache warrior.

They kept up a steady walk-trot during the rest of the afternoon. Near evening, Lark stood up in the stirrups and pointed excitedly at a gnarled mesquite tree.

“Water!” she cried, and pushed her mustang into a fast trot.

To Matt, it was impossible to believe that water existed anywhere on this arid land dotted with cactus, mesquite and yucca plants. He watched Lark slip from the saddle and move beneath the sparse shade provided by the forty-foot-high mesquite, kneeling down beneath it. Dismounting, he saw her digging rapidly, the darkened sand flying beneath her hands.

“Look,” she told him excitedly, recognizing Kentucky’s distinctive hoofprint nearby. “They’ve watered the horses here.” She pointed to the churned-up sand around where she was digging. “His prints are everywhere around this hole. Kentucky must have gotten a drink. He’ll be good for another day, at least.”

Matt looked around the immediate area. Lark was right. The animals had been eager to get to the small source of water. He scratched his head. “How did you spot water?”

Lark made a pleased sound as the hole she had dug at least two feet deep beneath the roots of the mesquite began to fill slowly with water. “This mesquite is larger than the rest, which means it has found a way to trap water and keep it longer than most of the others.”” Twisting a look up at Matt, she motioned for him to join her. “Come, drink your fill.”

The water was brackish and gritty, but it was water, just as Lark had promised. Matt drank only two cupped handfuls before motioning for her to drink as well. Their thirst slaked, they brought over their eager mounts, one at a time, and allowed them to sip noisily from the hole.

Matt noticed the salmon-colored dusk and gold-tinted clouds high above them. They weren’t rain clouds, but they signaled the possibility of wind. The prints would be hard to follow if the wind picked up and erased them.

Matt watched as Lark patted her favorite mare and checked the girth on the saddle. There was an economy to her motions, almost a delicacy. She was achingly feminine, and he found himself wanting her more powerfully than ever. Perhaps it was the constant danger that spurred his hunger to claim her as his own. Each minute was precious to him, because in the next he might lose her to a bullet or an arrow.

“Let’s rest here and eat,” he told her.

Surprised, Lark nodded and smiled. There was a pale pink wash to the bone-colored desert now; the land lay flushed and radiant. “It’s good to let the horses rest after that big drink of water. Are you hungry?”

Matt nodded and began to strip the saddle off his gelding. “Yes.” The word came out clipped and hard. He was still upset with her.

Lark shared her Apache food with Matt for dinner—ash cakes made of juniper ashes, cornmeal, salt, and in this case a bit of animal fat and pinyon nuts, to give it a nutty flavor.

“The Apache can live on one ash cake for many days,” she said, watching Matt slowly chew.

“They aren’t very appetizing,” he muttered.

His face was deeply shadowed, emphasizing the chiseled strength of his features. A wellspring of warmth made her heart swell with such fierce love that Lark thought she might die of the unexpected feelings rushing through her. Despite Matt’s anger over her appearance, she was glad to be with him.

He glanced over at her. He was still simmering with irritation, but there was no sense holding on to his anger, he decided. He loved her too damned much to do it.

He filled the canteens, set them near their saddles, and sat down close to where Lark was crouched. “Ga’n is moving in a southeasterly direction, away from the Hassayampa River,” he said. “I don’t think he wants to risk being seen by the Yavapai, who have many rancherias along that stretch of water.”

Lark agreed. The Yavapai were the enemy of the Apache. “He’ll avoid them at all costs.”

“So you think he’ll stick to open desert, avoiding all white and Yavapai trails?” Matt guessed.

Lark nodded. “Ga’n runs a greater risk of being discovered by the Yavapai than by the cavalry or a wagon train.”

Matt frowned, mulling over the possibilities in his head. “Where do you think he’s heading?”

“I would think he’d want the safety of Apache territory.”

“That means San Carlos or the White Mountain region?”

“Yes.”

It would be dark in about three hours. With a grimace Matt finished off the last ash cake; they tasted terrible. “I want to travel tonight,” he said, knowing Lark would balk.

Her heart pounded, but she knew Matt would send her back if she refused to ride with him. “All right. We’ll take an hour’s rest and then saddle up.”

The moon had risen near midnight. Lark tried to concentrate on using the silvery light to follow the hoofprints. Anxiety stalked the edges of her mind. Ny-Oden had filled her head full of stories about ghosts that walked the land at night. She feared seeing an owl, knowing it was a dire warning of danger.

Near two in the morning, Matt called a halt. Wearily Lark slid off Four Winds, giving the sturdy mustang mare a well-deserved pat. The animals were thirsty and hungry. She spent another half hour finding and cutting up barrel cactus pulp for them, her senses constantly on guard, an uneasy feeling hovering around her.

When she made her way back to their camp beneath the shelter of a small mesquite tree, she saw worry etched in Matt’s exhausted features. Sinking down beside him on a blanket, she sat tensely, listening to the night sounds. Not far away, she heard the ominous hoot of an owl.

“Lark? What’s wrong?”

“An owl. It’s a warning,” she said softly, trying to penetrate the deep gloom of the night.

Matt stared up at her, holding the Winchester rifle across her lap. “Did you hear a movement?” Maybe they were closer to Ga’n and Shanks than he’d originally thought.

“No.” Lark gnawed her lower lip. “Owls are a warning by the spirit people, Matt. They come to you only if there is danger nearby.”

He slid an arm around her tense shoulders. “What kind of warning?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, trembling. Her fingers tightened around the rifle. “One of us should keep watch while the other sleeps.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll take first watch. I’m too frightened to sleep.”

He kissed her cheek, inhaling her musky fragrance. “Okay. Wake me in two hours?”

“Yes.”

Matt jerked awake. Had it been a noise that had shaken him out of sleep? A nightmare? He sat up, searching for and finding Lark standing three hundred feet away where the first threads of a gray dawn were visible, silhouetting her tall, willowy figure. He was about to speak to her when she suddenly crouched. What the hell?

Automatically his hand went for the gun at his side. He heard a sound. Was it some kind of animal? Just as he got into a kneeling position, Lark turned in one graceful motion and sprinted toward him.

Her eyes were wide, her breath harsh. Relief washed through her when she saw that Matt was awake with his gun drawn. She knelt beside him.

“Yavapai!” she exclaimed, pumping a round into the chamber.

Matt gripped her arm. “How many?”

“Five. It’s a war party. They’re half a mile away, coming west on foot, toward us.”

“Take it easy,” he soothed. “Let’s saddle up and ride hard. I don’t want to confront them. If we fire these rifles, we’re liable to attract Shanks’s attention. We can’t risk it.”

Lark was more than willing to evade the war party. In no time, they had saddled the mustangs. As she leaped into the saddle, Lark could see them more clearly, gray ghosts coming out of the darkness. Sinking her booted heels into Four Winds, she leaned low on the mustang so as not to be a possible target.

Matt gestured for Lark to ride well ahead of him. He didn’t want her to be endangered by a stray bullet in case they were discovered. The mustangs wove in and around sagebrush, yucca and cactus, galloping and trotting for almost an hour before slowing down. To the east, the sky had turned a glorious shade of pink and red, flooding the surrounding land with vibrant color. Matt rode up alongside Lark.

“All right?”

She nodded. “I was so afraid. I kept hearing sounds out there in the night. I thought it was ghosts.”

He gripped her hand and squeezed it hard. “No, flesh-and-blood men, honey. You did a good job.”

Weariness tugged at Lark. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and another long, hot day stretched ahead of them. Riding in a large circle around the Yavapai warriors, they finally picked up Kentucky’s trail once again.

Holos was beating down, sapping Lark of what little strength she had left. For the last six hours, they had pushed on without rest.

“Look,” Matt said, pointing to the left. “If I don’t miss my guess, that’s the Agua Fria River.”

Lark shaded her eyes. There, in the shimmering waves of heat, she saw what looked like a small river. Her mouth was dry, and she longed to wash the grit and sweat from her skin. “I wonder if Shanks and Ga’n are there.”

“Could be,” Matt agreed. He studied her intently for a moment. “If they aren’t, let’s rest awhile there. We can get washed up and you can sleep.”

Praying that the river was free of Yavapai rancherias, Lark gave Matt a brave smile. She had endured the torturous ride just as she had promised him.

“Most women couldn’t have gone half the distance you have,” he admitted, riding close to her, their legs occasionally touching.

Lark rallied beneath his praise. Very soon, the shimmering heat waves disappeared and she gazed hungrily at the green mesquite that lined either shore. A number of birds, among them woodpeckers that made their homes in the saguaro cactus, flitted nearby. Matt rode ahead, his rifle resting across his thighs.

When Lark arrived at the sandy bank scattered with lamb’s quarter, curly dock, and sedge grasses, Matt lifted her from the saddle. “Go get a bath and then sleep,” he told her. “I’ll take care of the horses.”

Grateful, Lark turned and embraced him briefly. “Thank you.”

The river was little more than a shallow stream, barely knee-deep. Seeing no evidence of human beings, Lark quickly stripped off her clothes, knelt in the cooling water, and scrubbed her skin with a handful of grass she had retrieved from the bank. As the cooling liquid sluiced across her hot, sweaty body, she uttered a soft moan of relief. Next she rinsed her hair free of grit and sand.

Matt had spread out a blanket beneath a towering mesquite. He divided his attention between watching Lark bathe and staying alert for unwelcomed visitors. Lark was like a sleek golden cougar, the water gleaming off her tall, proud figure. Her hair, heavy with water, was plastered like a second skin against her young, uptilted breasts and long back. He smiled, thinking how beautiful she truly was. Her flesh was a dusky gold, and he vividly remembered touching her, kissing her. The look of utter enjoyment on her face made him ache; the soft smile at the corners of her lips enticed him.

Lark turned toward the bank, leaning over and squeezing the excess water from her hip-length hair. She smiled over at Matt. “I feel alive again!”

He handed her a fresh red cotton shirt. “You look beautiful.”

Looking up, Lark heard the tremor in Matt’s tone. Heat collected between her thighs as she stood before him. His eyes burned with desire, telling her of his need for her.

Lark barely grazed his stubbled cheek with her fingers. “Let me dress and then I’ll lie down and sleep.”

Matt knew she was right not to encourage his lust. It would be far too dangerous to make love now. Sunlight made her black hair dance with sapphire highlights as it outlined her glorious young form. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch this time.”

Lark awoke slowly in the late afternoon heat, sprawled across the blanket on her belly. The whirring of a katydid caught her groggy attention as she lifted her lashes to see Matt standing naked in the river washing himself. He was beautiful….

Matt left the river and pulled on a set of fresh clothes. His face, once lined with fatigue and tension, looked more relaxed. Lark’s gaze settled hotly on his mouth.

So, this is what love is, she thought. A wonderful, euphoric sensation, like an eagle soaring through the sky. No wonder her mother had been so happy with her father. No wonder she’d often had a soft, shy smile on her mouth. No wonder her father’s eyes had danced with undisguised warmth. Lark felt closer to her parents because of her new understanding. Simultaneously she understood her father’s raw grief when Mourning Dove had died.

The thought that Matt might be killed by either Shanks or Ga’n sent such an unexpected pang through her heart that she sat up. Her unbound hair slid across her shoulders as she drew her legs up to her chest.

“Feel any better?” Matt asked, sitting down on a log to pull on his boots.

Lark’s eyes were fraught with darkness. “No…yes.”

He knelt in front of her. “What’s this I see?” he teased, lightly smoothing her wrinkled brow with his thumb. “Did you have bad dreams?”

With a muffled sound, Lark threw herself into his arms, and clung to him, burying her head beneath his chin. The moment his strong arms closed around her, she took a deep, ragged breath.

Stroking her hair, Matt held her tightly, sensing her anguish. “What is it, my golden cougar?”

His deep, calm voice soothed her terror. “I—I now understand my father’s grief after my mother died,” she began haltingly. “Four seasons ago, Mourning Dove died of the white man’s sickness. I couldn’t understand then why my father never smiled or laughed afterward, why he became like a ghost.”

Matt gently eased her from him, forcing her to look up at him. “Your father loved your mother very much, Lark.”

She nodded, feeling the heat of tears pricking her eyes. “And I love you with that same fierce feeling. I never understood their love, Matt. Until now…”

•He leaned over, kissing her cheek. “We’ve got a love like that, yes. It’s so rare, Lark, that sometimes it scares me.

Nuzzling Matt’s cleanly shaven cheek, Lark stole her hands around his massive neck. “I’m afraid of losing you,” she quavered.

“I carry the same fear of losing you, Lark.”

“Now I understand why you didn’t want me along.” She rubbed the cleft between her breasts, trying to will away the fear in her heart.

With a faint smile, Matt tilted her stubborn chin upward. “We’re going to live to be very old and very happy together, my woman. That’s a promise.”

“How do you know? Only medicine men and women can see future events.”

“I feel it here, in my heart.”

Leaning her head against his chest, Lark closed her eyes. “My heart is too frightened to feel anything else, right now.”

“Then trust mine,” Matt teased huskily.

It would be so easy to bring Lark into his arms and love her. He wanted to take away the pain in her eyes and kiss away the hurt on her thinned lips. He wanted to hear her cry out in passion and satisfaction, not out of fear of their unknown future.

Breaking the warmth that bound them to each other, Matt murmured, “We’ve got to get going. While you were asleep, I did a little tracking, and it looks like Shanks is continuing to follow the river south.”

Reluctantly Lark sat up, forcing her thoughts back to the present situation. “Ga’n’s being forced to stay near rivers or creeks in order to provide Kentucky with water,” she observed.

“That will save us the problem of finding water for our own animals,” Matt said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand. Her grip was firm, her fingers slender.

“I’d like to know whether Ga’n’s going to take Kentucky to an Apache chief or sell him to the whites,” Lark said.

“With Shanks along, my guess is he’s taking the stud to a white man.”

“Is it possible Shanks is taking Kentucky to someone in the Tucson Indian Ring?”

Matt walked with her toward the hobbled horses. “That’s what I was thinking. It would make sense to assume Cameron’s behind all this, and that Shanks is acting on his behalf. If that’s true, they’re probably heading to either Phoenix or Tucson.”

Lark saddled Four Winds. “Why?”

“Frank said the members of the Ring are probably located in the major cities of Arizona, where they have access to a telegraph and can keep in touch with one another.” Matt threw the heavy leather saddle over his bay gelding. “A buyer for Kentucky may have already been found.”

Lark nodded. “Cameron knows how important Kentucky is to our ranch. If I lose the stallion, I’ve lost everything.”

Matt mounted up. “There are a lot of rich land barons around either city who would pay good money for your stallion.”

Lark leaped gracefully into the saddle and gave Matt a disgruntled look as they began to follow the river southward. “If Ga’n sells him to the Apaches, we’ll have a good chance of getting him back. Once a chief found out he was stolen from me, he’d give him to us. That’s the Apache way.”

Matt pulled his hat a little lower to shade his eyes from the glaring sun. “We’ll have an idea where they’re heading once the Agua Fria meets up with the Gila River,” he told her. “If they go east, they’ll be heading toward Phoenix. If they go southeast, Tucson.”

Near dusk, they spotted a wagon train consisting of five schooners camped near the river. Matt gave Lark a worried glance. “Better let me do the talking. These people are from back East and might panic when they see you.”

Lark understood and dropped behind Matt’s horse. Spotted oxen and a few horses were foraging near the river. A knot of white people were standing together outside the wagon train itself. Lark’s hand tightened around the Winchester balanced across her lap.

As Matt drew closer, he saw why the fifteen people were gathered in a tight circle: someone had recently died and a cross had just been erected over a freshly dug grave. Those faces were now trained on him and Lark.

He could feel their distrust. The children hid behind their mothers’ skirts. The men held their rifles in readiness. Matt’s heart started a slow, hard pound. They didn’t look at all friendly. How would they react to Lark? He didn’t want to lose her to a bullet from one of these bearded men dressed in somber black trousers and wrinkled cotton shirts. The apparent leader, a man with a flaming red beard, wearing a flat-brimmed black hat, stepped out of the group, his rifle pointed at Matt.

“Best stop there, mister,” he warned in a gravelly voice.

Matt glanced back at Lark. There wasn’t time to instruct her on what he wanted her to do. He sat easily in the saddle, purposely keeping his hand away from his own gun.

“We’re just passing through,” he called. “Was wondering if you might have seen a drover and an Apache with a big sorrel stud in tow.”

“We saw ’em all right.” The man’s round face grew scarlet and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That Apache savage just killed our wagon master.””