Hostage Heart (7 page)

“All Apaches revere the wisdom and courage of their women, and it isn’t uncommon for a woman to be a warrior beside her man or to be chosen as a leader. My mother was a woman chief for her tribe, Frank. I’ll pray for her courage.”

With a slight frown he asked, “Would you like a small Army escort? I’d be happy to provide it.”

Warmth flowed through Lark and she rose. “Your kindness won’t be forgotten, but no, I’ll ride in alone. You won’t be able to bring in a detachment from the fort each time I come to Prescott. That would cause problems with your Colonel Morgan.” She strove to smile for Frank’s benefit, seeing that he wasn’t convinced she would be safe without his help. “I don’t want to give him another reason to court-martial you.”

Frank sighed. “I suppose you’re right, purty Apache maiden.” He picked up his hat from the desk. “Walk me to the door?”

“Yes,” she responded shyly.

He grinned, setting the hat at a rakish angle on his head and placing his hand on her elbow. “Are you about ready for that marriage proposal I keep threatening you with? I’m not such a bad
hombre
, Lark. With my pension, I’ll be a rich man. I’m a hard worker and I like half-Apache maidens with big blue-violet eyes. How about it?”

Lark avoided his half-teasing, half-serious gaze. For years Frank had claimed he would someday make her his wife—she had only to choose the time and place. The only problem was, he didn’t pull her heartstrings. Frank liked her just the way she was, but she couldn’t return the feeling, while the man who hated her because she had Apache blood running through her veins was the one who filled her with yearning.

The next time Matt awoke his mind was clear. Although still weak, he no longer felt feverish. Barely opening his eyes, he saw the woman who had been dressed as an Apache sleeping in a high-backed rocker beside his bed. Matt’s eyes widened at her breathtaking beauty as apricot-colored dawn light spilled over her from the east window.

She sat with a lavender shawl draped over her shoulders, hands on the lap of her familiar long white cotton gown. He couldn’t ignore an inner hunger as his gaze moved from her slender, work-worn hands. The thin gown lovingly silhouetted her high breasts, the neckline opened to reveal her delicate collarbones and graceful neck. But it was her face that held Matt captive. Thick, ebony lashes lay against her golden skin. Her ripe, red lips and their soft, parted vulnerability created that began to uncoil in his loins. She had the face of a madonna, he thought raggedly. How could she be so beautiful and yet be half Apache?

The sequence of events after he’d been shot by Ga’n flooded back to Matt. He flexed his fists tentatively, and found he was appallingly weak. His brows furrowed as he vaguely recalled speaking to the woman. Speaking? He’d practically ripped her head off with his anger and hatred. He squinted, looking at the woman hard and long as she slept deeply. That black waterfall of hair across her shoulders and arms was the only indication that she was Apache.

Strenuously, Matt fought against the idea that she was one of
them
, the murderers of his family. And then he remembered her low, husky voice telling him her father was Irish. She was a half-breed. She had the coloring of a woman who spent much time in the sun without the protection of a bonnet. Her features were clean and delicate. And her eyes—sweet God in heaven, her blue eyes were wide and childlike with trust every time she looked at him. Guilt shot through Matt as he recalled the shock and then the hurt that had registered in those eyes when he had reviled her.

Matt squeezed his own eyes shut, as if to deny what he had done. His hatred for all Apaches warred with his respect for common courtesy. She had Indian blood in her, and that made her different. She could be, just like that cutthroat, Ga’n.
But
, his heart said,
if that’s so, why didn’t she just slit your white throat and get it over with?

There was a bitter taste in his mouth as Matt lay there, torn between his anguish over the loss of his wife and child and the fact that this woman had saved his life. How could he be grateful and yet hate her at the same time? He released a long sigh. There was no room in his battered heart for anything but grief, hate and revenge right now.

Matt heard her stir, watching through barely open eyes. Was he a prisoner here? Would she turn him over to Ga’n once he had healed sufficiently? Maybe, if he pretended to be asleep, he would find out more.

A Mexican woman tiptoed into the room. She went over to Lark and gently shook her shoulder.
“Patrona? Patrona?
”

Lark jerked awake. “Maria?” Disoriented, she looked toward Matt. “What’s wrong? Is he worse?”

Maria shook her head. “No, no,
Patrona
. Remember? You wanted me to awaken you in case you overslept this morning. I have breakfast waiting for you.”

With a relieved sigh, Lark got up. “Will you start a fire, Maria? As soon as I make sure Matt is all right, I’ll go eat.”

Heartened by her mistress’s words, Maria bobbed her head.
“Sí, Patrona
, I’ll get the wood and make a fire that will warm the room quickly.” She hurried out of the room.

Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Lark moved over to Matt and sat down on the bed, facing him. This morning some of the dark shadows beneath his eyes had disappeared. A soft smile touched her mouth as she pressed the palm of her hand against his brow. His skin was cool and dry.

“Thank you, Us’an,” she murmured in Apache, relief washing through her. And to her healing
di-yin
, she prayed, “Speed his recovery so that he may once again feel his bearlike strength.”

Lark no longer questioned her need of Matt Kincaid; she simply accepted the strings that tugged at her heart each time she touched him.

She pushed several strands of his brown hair, which now gleamed with gold highlights, off his brow. A tremor of yearning fluttered through her as she moved her hand through those wonderfully thick locks.

Maria returned with a rustle of skirts.
“Patrona
, I have heard the Old Ones talking,” she said. “They do not think you should risk this trip to Prescott today. Can you not wait until my husband, Paco, returns? They think it is dangerous for you to go into the white people’s town alone.”

Lark slipped into her newest pair of Levi’s and pulled a red long-sleeved shirt over her head, smoothing it out across her tall, slender form. “I know the wranglers will be back soon, but I’ve waited too long as it is, Maria. I can’t let it go one more day. I have that Army voucher, which means I can buy food and deposit money for the mortgage. If there was a fire or I lost the voucher, then we would lose the ranch.” She shook her head, her hair a silken curtain around her shoulders. Standing in front of the mirror, she wrapped a red headband securely around her hair to keep it in place.

“But,
Patrona
, it is dangerous! I heard Captain Herter tell Lieutenant Wilson as they rode out that you were doing a foolish thing by going alone.” Maria wrung her hands. “Please,
Patrona
, we all love you. We have already lost your mother and now your father. We cannot lose you, too.”

Impulsively, Lark hugged the small, plump woman. “Thank you for your concern, Maria, but I have to go. Danger or no danger.” Silently Lark added, I
am doing this for my father. He wouldn’t want me to act like a weakling at this time
. Besides, the Apache respected courage and a show of strength, not cowardice in the face of danger. Today Lark must be an Apache. In some small part of her heart, she knew she was frightened. But pride in her Indian heritage would get her through this day. She buckled on a hand-tooled leather belt inlaid with silver and turquoise, a gift from one of the Tonto Apache chiefs. It would hold her eighteen-inch bowie knife.

Poignantly Lark recalled her father taking her aside when she was twelve years old, just before she went to live weekdays in Prescott with the Harrises. “Remember, colleen, people only respect someone who shows strength and courage. Go there with your head held high and be proud of who and what you are.” She allowed the grief to move through her, missing her father even more.

Still unconvinced of Lark’s safety, Maria pleaded once more. “One day,
Patrona!
Perhaps two. Surely you can wait that long?”

“My father was supposed to bring back a month’s worth of supplies a week ago, Maria,” she said tightly, moving to the bed. “We have no more flour for your tortillas and we’re low on salt. Not only that, but Opata is in need of nails with which to shoe our horses. And you know how rough the country is on their hooves without proper protection.” She wrung out a cloth, scrubbing the soap until it lathered against it. “More importantly, that voucher must be safely placed in the bank.” She looked up at Maria, who stood by the fireplace. Her voice grew strained. “Father always went to Prescott the day after receiving such a paper from the Army. He knew the urgency in getting it to safety.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I’ll hear no more of your worry, Maria. We have enough problems. Please don’t make me feel any worse than I do already.”

Contrite, Maria moved to the other side of the bed, her round features solemn. “Aren’t you afraid to go into Prescott alone?”

Lark gently washed Matt’s face, neck and shoulders. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid.” Her nostrils flared as she scrubbed his long, well-muscled limbs. “My mother was a woman chief. She had courage that they still sing about at each gathering of the Chiricahua tribe. How can I shame her by putting my tail between my legs like a beaten dog? No, I’ll pray to my
di-yin
to protect me. I will have my knife and my rifle. I need nothing more.”

“Then take me with you! I will drive the buckboard and you can ride Kentucky.”

With a sigh, Lark looked over at the Mexican woman.
“A-co-d
. Thank you.” She used the word rarely because it meant so much to the Apache people. Maria bowed her head, her lower lip trembling.

“Will you watch over Señor Kincaid while I am gone?” Lark asked. “Change his dressing tonight? I won’t arrive back in time to do it.”

With a sniff, Maria nodded.
“Sí, Patrona
, I will care for him.”

“If anything happens and you need help, bring Ny-Oden to the room. He will instruct you.”

Maria moved dejectedly to the door.
“Sí
, I will ask him,
Patrona
. I won’t be able to care for Señor Kincaid as well as you do, but I promise I’ll do my best.”

A slight smile came to Lark’s lips as she settled her gaze on Maria. It moved her deeply that Maria was worried for her safety. She had no idea how much the people who had worked for her father also cared for her. “I see,” she said lightly. “You will make me worry that he’ll be a snarling bear in pain so that I will return more quickly. Is that it?”

A hesitant smile fled across Maria’s bowlike mouth. “You see too easily through my plan,
Patrona
.” She giggled, her hands pressed to her lips, her eyes dancing. “I see you care deeply for this
hombre
.”

Heat prickled Lark’s cheeks as she washed Matt’s broad chest and hard, flat belly. “I would care the same for any injured human or animal,” she told Maria defensively. By Us’an, were her feelings for Matt
that
transparent? Lark nearly choked on the discovery.

Another giggle escaped Maria as she stood poised in the doorway. “Aiyee,
Patrona
, do not blush so! You look like a red poppy in a green field. Indeed, if I did not love my Paco and our four
niños
, I would gladly make it known that I liked Señor Kincaid.”

With a soft snort, Lark rinsed out the cloth before wiping Matt’s chest and belly free of soap. “Bring me the freshly ground poultice. I’ll change his dressing. And have Rafael hitch up the two mules to the buckboard and bring them up to the house.”

“Right away,
Patrona
.” Maria turned on her bare feet and disappeared down the hall. As soon as she returned with the new poultice, she went about her morning household duties.

Lark pulled the blanket away from Matt’s wound. She set to work slitting the bandage and then gently sponging the dressing free from the leg. As she tried to carefully lift the yellowish-pink dressing, she heard him draw in a swift breath. Hands frozen over his leg, her head snapped up. Her widened blue eyes met his dark gray ones.

Lark went hot as his eyes probed her like a hawk preparing to devour his prey. But she saw something else in the dark, pain-filled depths of his gaze, an emotion that she couldn’t readily identify. Automatically she felt her breasts tighten, her nipples growing hard against the rough cotton of her shirt. He was so blatantly male.

Shakily, as if in a daze, Lark lifted away the dressing. “I do not mean to hurt you,” she said, “but the packing must be changed.”

Matt stared at her, unable to stop the hardening of his male member. Sweet God in heaven, her touch on his body was like wildfire consuming dry prairie grass. He had tried valiantly to ignore it. The conversation between the two women was too important to give away the fact that he had been awake. Later, he would think about what they had said. Right now, he couldn’t think, could only feel the licking flames in the wake of her cool, gentle touch upon his flesh.

Struggling to control his powerful desire, Matt tried to use his hatred and anger to consume those flames burning deep within him. He tried to resurrect his hatred of Ga’n and direct it against Lark instead. But it was impossible. The red shirt she wore only emphasized the dusky gold of her young, glowing skin and heightened the blush over her high, smooth cheekbones. When she nervously licked her lower lip, he almost groaned. The thought of feeling that full mouth blossom beneath his own almost unstrung him and his heart hammered away in his chest.

Her face was young and innocent. It was not a perfect face, but somehow it was maddeningly arresting, to the point that he couldn’t tear away his fascinated gaze. Guilt consumed him. Katie had just died, yet he was responding to Lark like a ram in rutting season. What the hell was happening to him?

Matt had seen the same confusion in Lark’s clear, widening eyes. Whatever it was, they both felt it equally. He tried to concentrate on the imperfection of her face. Her cheekbones were too high, giving her eyes almost a catlike tilt. But they only made her look like the golden cougar he had imagined her in his fevered dreams. There was a bump on her nose, indicating she had broken it once. Her eyebrows were slender and winged, framing her flawless eyes. Grudgingly, Matt had to admit he could find no further imperfections.

Lark blinked, as if in a dream. “I…I must change the poultice.” Did her voice sound breathy, like a wisp of fog stealing through a pine?

“Do it,” he growled.

The coldness in his voice snapped her out of her daze. Lark frowned, feeling his icy eyes slash straight through and scar her wildly beating heart. But, despite his anger, her nipples continued to pucker against her shirt. The strange, aching feeling in her breasts and womb continued.

What could she do? The peaks of her nipples were clearly outlined by the fabric. It was taboo for her to react this way. As she got up to retrieve the poultice, she inadvertently bumped the water bowl, sending it smashing to the floor. Stumbling back, a hand across her mouth to stifle her cry, she felt the tenuous, throbbing cord that bound them to one another break.

Maria came rushing into the room, her skirts flying around her ankles. She halted upon seeing the broken crockery. “I’ll clean it up,
Patrona
,” she reassured Lark, and left for towels to sop up the water spreading quickly across the oak floor.