Hostage Heart (30 page)

With a cry of terror, Lark tried to escape.

“No, ya don’t!” Shanks warned her. He grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her backward off her feet. Pain exploded in her head as she was hurled to the barn floor and Shanks’s fingers sank into her shoulders. Sobbing with anger, Lark struck out with her boots into his laughing face.

Dodging her first blow, Shanks laughed softly. “No, ya don’t, honey. I know yore a wildcat when ya get riled.” He stepped back, aiming the barrel of the gun at her heaving chest.

Lark went rigid, staring up into his wolflike eyes.

“That’s better,” he crooned. “Now, be a good girl and sit up. Cross yore hands together so I can tie ’em. You and I are leavin’
pronto
.”

She bit back a sob, trying to think. Where was Matt? Surely someone must have heard the gunshot! And, judging by Shank’s sudden nervousness, he wanted to leave town for just that reason.

“Sit up,” Shanks ordered. “Ya try kickin’, bitin’ or screamin’, and I’ll blow yore head off here and now. Understand?”

Lark believed him. She crossed her wrists and he quickly bound them with a piece of twine rope. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“Gonna go east, honey. Got a rancher who wants to buy that stud of yores.” He gave the triple knot a jerk, watching pain cross her face. Grinning, he said, “A little pain’s good for ya. I’m gonna give ya a hell of a lot more before we’re finished with each other.” He gestured to his scarred cheek. “Since ya was stupid enough to follow us here, I might as well make ya pay in full for everythin’ else while I’m at it.” He jerked her to her feet. “Now look,” he snarled, wrapping his hand in her hair, and twisting her against him, “settle down or you’ll be sorry. Who’d ya come with? Ya didn’t come alone.”

Sobbing for breath, trying to move away from Shank’s lean, hard body, Lark rasped, “I came alone.”

“Bullshit! Ain’t no woman alive can track that good.” He rubbed his hand across her dirt-stained cheek. “Now be sensible and tell me the truth.”

Clenching her teeth in an effort to withstand his revolting touch and clammy hand on her skin, Lark cried, “I came alone!”

Just then Shanks heard the faint sound of voices coming from down the street. He shoved Lark into a heap at his feet. “Stay there. Ya get up, I’ll shoot ya.”

Dazed, she watched as he led the stud out into the aisle way. He brought his saddled gelding over and jerked her to her feet. “Mount,” he growled, shoving her toward the bay.

She climbed shakily into the saddle, bracing herself as he mounted behind her. Tying Kentucky’s lead to the horn, he clamped one arm around her waist and picked up the reins. Spurring the gelding, they galloped out of the barn and into the darkness.

The road out of Tucson was hard and smooth. Lark clung to the horn all too aware of Shanks’s lean form pressing against her as he spurred on his mount like a madman. Why they didn’t stumble or fall, Lark didn’t know. She tried to swallow the bitter taste in her mouth as memories of Shanks last attack of her returned to haunt her. He’d nearly raped her on Denton Road. This time, he would.

Matt!
she screamed in her head.
I
love you! I’m sorry I disobeyed you…so sorry!
There was no hope. None. Shanks had got away clean. Matt would have no lead, no clue as to her whereabouts. Miserably, Lark knew what her ultimate fate would be—repeated rape, and then death.

Matt was the first to arrive at the Jenkins Livery after the gunshot. His Colt drawn, he eased inside the shadowy depths of the stable area, his hand tightening on the Peacemaker when he heard a distinct grunting. Cocking the gun, he moved forward.

“Hold it,” he ordered, aiming at the dark figure leaning against the door at the other end of the livery.

Ga’n had managed to drag himself upright and stagger the few steps to the rear of the barn, toward escape and freedom. He was holding a gun. Pain sharpened his already keen senses. With a snarl, he recognized Kincaid crouched tensely, his Colt aimed at him.

“You…” Ga’n growled.

The hair stood up on the back of Matt’s neck. Ga’n! Hatred roared through him.

“That’s right, it’s me,” Matt rasped. “And you’re going to die, you bastard. You killed my family, and now you’re going to pay.”

A harsh laugh broke from the Apache. “Before you pull the trigger,
pindah
, I will pull mine.” The gun wavered in his hand. “We will go to the Big Sleep together.”

Matt saw the gleam of blood across the Apache’s chest. “Looks like someone already tried to get you. Where’s the red stud?”

As he breathed laboriously, Ga’n’s mouth drew into a sneer. “There isn’t much time,
pindah
. Lark Who Sings has been captured by Shanks.” He paused, pain ripping through him. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a harsh rasp. “He will kill her. I swore…I swore an oath to always protect her but I cannot.” He waved the gun slightly. “Shanks rides east with her toward the Double Deuce Ranch. The stud is with them.”

Stunned, Matt stared at the Apache warrior. How had Lark been captured? Damn, he should have known she wouldn’t stay in the hotel room, the little fool. His mind spun with questions. Ga’n’s ragged breathing sounded loud in the tense silence. Matt saw the gun waver and fall slowly to the Apache’s side.

“What are you waiting for?” Ga’n snarled, his eyes mere slits. “Do you hate me enough to stand here, wasting what little time is left, and throw away your future? Or will you ride east to save Lark Who Sings? She said you loved her. She begged me to spare your life.” He shut his eyes, leaning weakly against the door. “If you cannot go after her, then you are no better than I am…”

The Peacemaker wavered in Matt’s hand. His mouth tasted bitter with hatred of the Apache. Violent emotions tore through him; grisly pictures of Katie and Susan lying dead in the ranch yard wavered in front of him. And then came images of Lark’s upturned face, of her eyes lustrous with love. An animal cry wedged in Matt’s throat. Somewhere in that murderous bastard Ga’n, there was still a shred of honor. The Apache’s words haunted him.

“All right,” Matt whispered unsteadily, lowering the gun. “I’ll ride east.”

Relief flowed through Ga’n. The gun slipped from his bloody fingers, falling to the floor. “Hurry. Shanks will have his way with her, and then he will kill her.”

Shoving the Peacemaker into his holster, Matt turned to see three people running toward the livery. They would discover Ga’n and get him the medical help he needed. Taking one last look at the Apache, Matt said harshly, “We’re even.”

Ga’n nodded, his eyes glittering with some unknown emotion. “Yes.”

Spinning on his heel, Matt hurried outside. As he headed back toward the Star Hotel livery, he told the group of approaching men that Ga’n was in the stable and needed the sheriff and a doctor. The image of Lark’s smiling features stayed before him, sending dread and terror washing through him. There was only one road out of Tucson heading east. He’d have to ride like hell to catch up.
God
, he prayed,
please don’t let me be too late
.

**

Hours passed. Every bone in Lark’s body felt tender and sore from the long, hard ride. A gray light ribboned the horizon, silhouetting the proud saguaro cactus that stretched their mighty arms skyward. Dawn would come in another hour. Shanks pulled his lathered horse to a halt in a wide, dry creek bed. The bank was only two feet high and mesquite lined the rim of the wash, providing adequate cover.

“Well, pretty filly, I’m going to take my pleasure with ya first before I drill ya.” Shanks eased his grip on Lark’s waist, splaying his fingers and running them up across her breasts. She gasped and jammed her left elbow into his gut with all her might. Unprepared for her savage reaction, Shanks let out a loud “oomph” and jerked both arms back to protect his belly from further assault.

Lark saw her chance. She threw her leg over the saddle and leaped to the sand. Many hours of riding had made her knees weak, and they gave way beneath her. Scrambling wildly, Lark forced her legs to work, gasping for breath.

Shanks hissed a curse and jumped from the saddle. “Why, ya little wildcat,” he cried, reeling after Lark. Damn her to hell! In six strides, he was within striking distance. He launched himself through the air and caught Lark’s legs, gripping them hard. Both of them fell, rolling to the ground.

“No!” Lark screamed, trying to jerk her legs free. Her wrists were tied together, but she clasped her fingers and showered Shanks with blow after blow. He released one foot. With a sob, she smashed the heel of her boot into his angry face. Boot met bone with an awful crunch. Shanks screamed and grabbed his nose. He released her. She was free!

Lurching to her feet, Lark sped on down the creek bed, never looking back. Her breath came in ragged sobs as she leaped to the bank, scrambling like a wild horse up and over the top. Shanks was still screaming at her, his voice muted as she escaped from the wash. Everywhere she looked, the world was ebony tinged with a hint of gray. She had to hide! If Shanks found her, he’d kill her outright. Had she broken his nose with that blow to his face? Was he coming after her yet?

Scrambling up a small, rocky hill, Lark slipped several times. She was shaking badly, her fingers torn and bleeding from falling over rocks and cactus. There would be no way to escape Shanks once he mounted his horse and followed her. There had to be someplace to hide! Sliding down the hill, Lark tripped. She fell and automatically rolled to prevent further injury. At the bottom, she landed with a thud and came to rest against a felled fifty-foot saguaro cactus. Sitting up, trying to control her fear, she looked around. She found a sharp, narrow rock, clamped it between her knees, and rapidly rubbed the twine that bound her wrists against it.

Anxiously Lark kept looking back toward the creek to see if Shanks was coming yet. It was quiet except for her harsh breathing.
I have to steady myself. I have to think!
The twine broke. With a soft cry of victory, Lark quickly tore the rest of the restrictive bonds off her wrists. In Shank’s hurry to leave, he hadn’t disarmed her. She still had her bowie knife. New courage infused her as she got to her feet, her knees shaky. She knew a knife against a gun was no match. Still, with a knife she could survive in the desert long enough to get rescued.

“Where are ya, bitch?”

Lark froze, whirling around, the black hair settling across her hunched shoulders. Shanks released a piercing, crazed cry. Terror worked its way up her spine. To the left, she saw him on horseback, heading in her general direction. What should she do? Stay and hide behind the saguaro or run? Either way, he would eventually spot her as soon as the sun rose.

Lark’s blood pounded urgently through her veins. She crouched and turned, beginning to run with long, even strides. Her lungs took in great draughts of air. There was enough light now to see where she was placing her feet. She remembered her mother telling her that an Apache on foot could out travel a horse. Well, she was going to put that claim to the test. She could expect no help. It was Shanks, his horse and his gun against herself and the bowie. Ny-Oden would say they were evenly matched, Lark thought in a flash of wry humor.

Each stride took her farther and farther away. She prayed that she blended into the gray landscape, her black hair and dark clothes acting as camouflage. The fear that had eaten at her was miraculously being transformed into a tenacious determination to outwit her enemy.

The
kabuns
were perfect for a test such as this. Already the flat plain of cactus and mesquite had begun to undulate into small hills. Breathing evenly, Lark turned her mind to other details. She would have to circle back to Tucson. Matt would be worried sick. And Kentucky? She slowed her pace, frowning.

Holos would bridge the horizon in another half hour at the most. Lark had a keen sense of direction, and she knew she had run perpendicular to the creek. What if Shanks had left the immediate vicinity of the creek trying to find her? Kentucky hadn’t been in tow when Shanks had crossed the creek bank to look for her. Chances were Shanks had tied the stud up to some mesquite and hobbled him. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Lark crouched and scanned the horizon. Squinting, she could barely make out a lone rider far to the west of her. It had to be Shanks.

Where was that breed bitch? Shanks jerked his horse to a halt and glared at the quiet desert landscape. The hundreds of stately saguaros made it difficult to distinguish between a person and the cactus. Anger that Lark could escape boiled up through him. His nose was busted and ached without reprieve. Then his eyes widened as he spotted her no more than a quarter of a mile away, crouched low and running in a shallow wash.

“Giddyap!” he said sharply to his horse, sinking his spurs into the animal’s flanks. Shanks’s nostrils flared as he thundered toward the dry streambed, whipping his horse mercilessly. Just as the horse leaped into the sandy bottom of the creek bed, Shanks saw Lark glance over her shoulder, her face etched with shock.

“Hey!” he yelled at her, his voice echoing sharply. He yanked the Colt .45 out of his holster, preparing to fire.

Lark saw Shanks careening down the wash like a madman, his gun drawn. He meant to kill her. Coming to a sudden halt, she spun around and moved to the center of the wash, her legs slightly spread for better balance.

The horse bore down on her, foam streaming from his opened, bleeding mouth, the thundering reverberation carrying through the earth to where she stood. Lark pulled the eighteen-inch bowie knife from the sheath at her side.

Shanks cocked the pistol, aiming at Lark. The gun roared. Damn! The first bullet strayed to the left, kicking up a geyser of sand. Taking better aim, he steadied himself, standing up in the stirrups. Again the gun fired.

Lark flinched as the second bullet dug angrily into the sand inches from her booted feet. There was only one way to get out of this alive, and that was to stand her ground. The horse bore down. She knew Shanks’s third shot would tear through her. He was too good a marksman to miss three times in a row—even from the back of a fast-moving horse.

Lark clenched her teeth and focused all her strength and awareness into the act of throwing the bowie.

The blade whipped through the chilled morning air. Shanks tried to swerve to miss the glittering blade. A scream jammed in Lark’s throat as it missed Shanks’s heart but struck his right shoulder. The Colt flew out of his hand. Shanks let out a cry and tumbled from the saddle. As he slammed into the ground, the bowie dislodged from his shoulder, flipping through the air behind him.

Now! Lark dodged the wild-eyed gelding and dug her toes into the sand. Shanks lay groaning in the middle of the wash, the gun behind him, no more than thirty feet from where her knife was dug into the ground. She had to get both weapons or he could still kill her.

The gunslinger writhed in the sand, gripping his wounded arm, cursing. Compressing her lips, Lark approached him and at the last possible second, leaped across him.

“You little bitch!” he screamed, lunging upward and catching Lark’s booted foot. She fell hard to the ground just ahead of him. Twisting onto his belly, he saw her stretching—stretching toward the bowie that lay inches away from her grasping fingertips. No! Cursing again, he jerked her backward, but she flipped over on her back and her second boot came slamming into his jaw. Blackness struck Shanks.

Sobbing for breath, Lark slithered on her belly toward the bowie. Her fingers closed over the hilt. Scrambling to her knees, Lark jerked around to face Shanks. The gunfighter was on his feet, lunging toward her.

“No!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. She held up the bowie, standing between him the gun. “Don’t try it, Shanks, or I’ll gut you.”

He stood weaving on his feet, blood and saliva running out of the comer of his mouth. “Ya would, wouldn’t ya?”

“Yes!”

He eyed his gun, a good ten feet behind Lark. “This ain’t over,” he rasped softly, and yanked his own hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, but like any good gunfighter, he’d taught himself to fight equally well with either hand. He waved the tip of his knife toward her in a lazy motion.

“Okay, breed, I’ll finish ya off this way. Makes no never mind to me.” He licked his lips and slowly approached her. Shanks knew that Lark couldn’t circle; to do so would leave a clear path to the gun. “After I pin ya, I’m gonna strip those clothes off ya. Then I’m gonna take ya like I said I would. After I get done pleasurin’ myself with ya, I’ll slit that breed throat of yours. How does that sound?”

Lark ached to turn and run for the gun, but Shanks would throw his knife into her back if she attempted such folly. No, she’d have to make her stand. The wash was barely five feet wide, not enough room to maneuver well. The sand sucked at her already tired and trembling legs. She lunged forward, throwing him off balance, her blade arcing outward.

With a shout of surprise, Shanks leaped back. The bowie sliced through his vest and shirt, leaving a livid red cut across his heaving chest. “Why, you little polecat!” he hissed, backing off another few feet. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat and kill her. “I’ve changed my mind. Once I corner ya and take that blade outa yore hand, I’m gonna skin you alive. Ya hear me? I’m gonna start by scalping ya, and then I’m gonna peel off yore goddamned Injun hide one strip at a time.”

He was rattled, Lark realized with soaring pleasure. She advanced cautiously, keeping her left hand in front of her, the knife close to her hip. “I want to know one thing before you die, Shanks. Tell me about the Tucson Indian Ring.”

Grinning, he moved his blade in lazy circles. “The Ring? It’s gonna wipe out all yore kind, breed, that’s what it is. Who do ya think killed yore pa?”

Jolted, Lark froze momentarily.

Shanks laughed his high, silly laugh, gripping his knife a little tighter. He’d diverted her attention by provoking her anger and outrage. “I killed him, breed. Shot him in the back, pure and simple.”

White-hot anger exploded through Lark. “You shot my father?” Her voice was low and wobbly.

“Sure.”

Rage and hurt blotted out the rest of her whirling thoughts. Lark fastened her glare on Shanks, who was grinning at her. His arm was bleeding heavily and he must be feeling faint from the loss of blood.

“I’m glad I’m half Apache, Shanks,” she whispered fiercely, advancing upon him. “Apache law gives me the right to avenge my father’s death. You killed him, you no-good yellow-belly.”

With a laugh, Shanks held his ground, his eyes feral. “Come on, breed, come an’ get me. If yore wantin’ to go by the law, ya gotta get me first and then a whole passel of others comes next. It was the others who ordered yore pa shot. All I did was pull the trigger for ’em.”

Blood roared through her head, destroying all Lark’s caution. With a scream of fury, she attacked Shanks.

He turned deftly aside. He hadn’t been a gunslinger all these years for nothing. With one well-aimed kick, Shanks struck her wrist with the toe of his boot. Lark screamed out in pain and the bowie went flying harmlessly into the air. With a grunt of satisfaction, Shanks leaned forward, catching her as she tried to escape.

They landed in the wash. Lark rolled over and over again, fighting Shanks. With her nails she raked his sweating face, provoking a scream of pure outrage. She saw his knife come up. Her hair swirled around, and between them, hampering her efforts to protect herself. Shanks got one leg across her, straddling her effectively.

“Now,” he declared, holding the blade near her scalp, “yore mine—”

Lark threw up her hands to protect herself. She heard the bark of gunfire. Shanks gurgled once and jerked involuntarily. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a scream he never released. The knife in his hand dropped to the ground beside them. Lark’s eyes widened as the gunslinger crumpled forward on top of her. With a cry, she scrambled out from beneath him.

Crawling away, she saw Matt pull his lathered horse to a halt in the wash and dismount. He held the Winchester rifle ready as he ran to where she knelt in the sand. He hauled her to her feet, pulling her away from Shanks.

“Lark?” he rasped.

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Matt!”

“Shh, it’s okay, honey. Everything’s going to be all right. Shh…”

“How did you know where I’d be?”

“Stay here,” he ordered her.

Lark’s knees buckled, and she sat down unceremoniously in the wash, shaking badly. Matt turned the gunslinger over. There was a bullet between his shoulder blades. He was dead, but Lark didn’t feel any satisfaction, only a terrible grief. The fact that she had come so close to death herself shook her deeply. When Matt returned and knelt at her side, she moved blindly into his arms.

The sun had risen, sending long, thin streamers of light across the cool desert. Matt held Lark for a long, long time. Awkwardly he brushed sand from her cheeks with his gloved hands. Her eyes were dark with pain, her lips soft and parted with grief. Leaning over, he molded her mouth to his, seeking to draw the agony from her eyes.

Lark drank of Matt’s strong, clean mouth, tasting his maleness, his gentleness, all that he gave so effortlessly to her. Her arms slipped across his shoulders, her fingers nestling in the dampness of the hair at the nape of his neck. His beard was rough against her skin. Each pressing motion, each caress took a little more of the hurt out of her heart, out of her soul. Finally Matt eased away, breathing raggedly.

“I almost lost you,” he said hoarsely, framing her face, looking deep into her wounded blue eyes.

Lark swallowed hard. “I—I’m sorry, Matt. I was afraid you’d investigate without me. And then I saw Shanks in the Glass Slipper Saloon where you had been earlier. I was so afraid that you wouldn’t see him and he’d kill you….”

“I didn’t see him, Lark. I’d gone out the rear of the saloon earlier to check out another livery down the street. You couldn’t have seen me leave.” He kissed her eyes, nose, and finally her trembling mouth. “My God, I was so scared I’d lost you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I and some other people heard the gunshot over at the Jenkins Livery. I got there first. I caught Ga’n trying to escape out the back door. He was hurt bad. He told me Shanks had taken you and was heading east toward McCray’s ranch with the red stud. He could have shot me, but he didn’t. In his own twisted way, he had honor.”

Lark sank against him, stunned. “Ga’n saved my life. Shanks fired first, not realizing it was him. He stepped in front of me and took the bullet meant for me.”

“It’s the only decent thing that renegade has ever done, then,” Matt muttered, holding her tight in his arms.

Lark squeezed her eyes shut. “He didn’t break his promise to protect me, then.”

Some of the terror was draining from Matt. Lark was alive. It was over. “I’m not sure Ga’n’s going to live,” he said.

Lark’s heart squeezed with pain. Ga’n’s pain. He hated himself, the world, and yet there was a shred of decency still alive within him. “Did he get medical help?” she asked.

Gently, Matt lifted her to her feet. She swayed against him. “I’m sure he did. I told the men heading for the livery to get the sheriff and the doc. Come on, let’s get you back to Tucson.”

Mr. Peekins met them at the desk when they walked into the Star Hotel. “I’ve got a telegram here for you, Mr. Butler. Sez urgent.”

Lark stumbled to a halt beside Matt. Mr. Peekins’s white eyebrows shot up at her disheveled appearance and men’s clothing. Despite her weariness, she felt Matt tense.

“Matt? What is it?”

Taking Lark’s arm, he guided her toward the stairs that led to their room. Once out of earshot of the hotel clerk, he said, “It’s from Frank Herter. He says trouble’s brewing with Cameron and that we’re to get back to the ranch as fast as we can.” He looked deeply into Lark’s shadowed eyes. “I can ride out within the hour and you can stay here and rest—”

“No!” Lark halted at the top of the landing, gripping the banister. She hadn’t meant to sound so angry, and lowered her voice. “That’s my father’s ranch, Matt. If Cameron thinks he can take it from us while we’re gone, let him try. He’ll have to face both of us, not just you.”

Sliding his arm around Lark, Matt brought her against him. “Come on, my fierce cougar. We’ll get a bath, put on a fresh set of clothes, and then ride like hell.”

Cameron swore softly while reading the telegram from Robert McCray one more time. According to the rancher, a loyal Ring member, Bo Shanks’s body had been brought into Tucson by a sheriff’s deputy. He slowly crumpled the paper.

“What’s goin’ on?” Bart Devlin asked from one of the wing chairs in his bank office.

Barely turning his head, Cameron snarled, “Shanks fouled up the transfer of that breed’s stud to McCray. He went and got himself killed.”

Devlin, a tall, well-muscled gunslinger of twenty-five, shrugged his shoulders. “You said that Injun Ga’n was with him. He dead, too?”

With a snort, Jud threw the paper into the wastebasket. “He’s been badly wounded and is in jail, pending a trial for horse stealing.”

“Can the sheriff spring him?” Devlin asked, thinking that the lawman, Porter Sanderson, was getting well paid to look the other way on certain occasions.

“I’m going to wire McCray and see what can be done. Ga’n’s the leader of the renegades. We can’t let him hang. That isn’t the worst of my problems, though. I’ve got to have water for my cattle. Now.”

He paced the length of the office. It was hot, murderously hot, and the frustration he felt was as high as the hundred-degree weather, which had been burning up Prescott for the last two weeks. Shanks was gone, but Cameron had had the foresight to replace him with an even more competent gunslinger. Bart Devlin had worked for McCray for the last two years and was very capable. One look into those blue eyes that glittered like those of a wolverine ready to attack, and Cameron felt a surge of power. Yes, Devlin was the right man for the job.

Devlin chewed on the toothpick, most of his upper lip hidden beneath a long, blond mustache. “Your cattle are starting to drop like gnats in a sandstorm, boss. If they don’t get water in the next couple of days, you’re gonna lose the entire herd.”

Stinging beneath Devlin’s slow Texan drawl, Cameron snapped, “I’ve run a ranch for the last fifteen years. Don’t you think I know the crisis I’ve got on my hands?” He paced some more.