LaceysWay (3 page)

Royce Montana held his ground, the hair prickling on the
back of his neck as the Indian came to stand in front of him. With a curt nod,
the young brave dropped a rope around Royce Montana’s neck, vaulted onto the
back of his pony, and rode away. Royce Montana followed in the wake of the
calico pony, his leg irons clanking with each hurried step.

The remaining Indians did not bother with the dead white
men. They quickly rounded up the four-horse team that had pulled the wagon, as
well as the two saddle horses the deputies had ridden, collected all the guns,
rifles, and ammunition, and left the scene of the slaughter with the dead
warrior tied facedown across the back of his horse.

Fearful of discovery, Lacey held her breath until the war
party was out of sight. Only then did she feel it was safe to breathe again.
Absently, she stroked Cinder’s neck. What was she going to do now? Her father
was alive, but for how long? Did she dare follow him? How could she not?
Perhaps she could find a way to help him escape. The odds were against it, she
thought bleakly, but she had to try. She quickly formed and rejected a
half-dozen ideas, and then she laughed bitterly. What could she possibly do
against a dozen armed warriors? And yet, she had to try to free her father. She
couldn’t stay out here alone, and she couldn’t just ride away and leave her
father in the hands of those savages, never to know what happened to him.

With her mind made up, Lacey stepped into the saddle and
rode toward the wagon. Perhaps she could find some food and water to add to her
dwindling supplies.

She swallowed hard as she urged Cinder toward the wagon. She
had never been so close to death before, never seen anyone who had died
violently, or seen so much blood. Already vultures were gathering in the
distance, drawn by the scent of blood and death. Cinder pranced beneath her,
nostrils flaring and eyes rolling as they neared the wagon.

How quickly a life could be snuffed out, Lacey thought
sadly. One moment these men had been alive, filled with hopes and dreams and
fears, and now they were dead.

Lacey shivered, the food she had hoped to find suddenly
unimportant in the face of such carnage. Better to go hungry, she thought, than
linger here a moment longer.

She was about to leave when a low moan reached her ears.
Lacey cocked her head. Was she hearing things? She glanced at the bodies lying
on the ground, and quickly looked away. They were all dead, and she felt her
heart begin to pound. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she was suddenly
afraid. And then she heard it again, a muffled cry of pain. Dear God, someone
was
alive. She urged Cinder closer to the wagon, her eyes darting from one body to
the next. Was it one of the guards, she thought hopefully. Or one of the
prisoners?

Dismounting, she walked cautiously among the bodies, her
heart in her throat. What if it was one of the convicts? He might be a
murderer, a molester of women and children, anything.

The man was lying on his back. Drawing closer, Lacey
recognized him as the man who had charged the Indians. His eyes, dark as a
midnight sky, were open and clouded with pain. He gazed up at her, opened his
mouth to speak, and fainted dead away.

Lacey stared at him for a long moment. What was she going to
do? If she stayed to help him, she would probably lose any chance she had of
following her father. On the other hand, she couldn’t just ride off and leave
the man to die in the desert alone.

With a resentful sigh, Lacey knelt beside the injured
prisoner. Unbuttoning his shirt, she contemplated his wounds. The first, high
in his left shoulder, was bleeding profusely. Lifting him was an effort, but
she was relieved to see that there was an exit wound in his back. The bullet
had passed cleanly through his shoulder. The second wound was in his left arm
also, just above the elbow. The bullet was lodged in the meaty part of his arm.

Lowering the man carefully to the ground, Lacey searched
through the camp gear until she found a sharp knife, a bottle of rye whiskey,
and a clean undershirt that she ripped into long strips for bandages. Then,
kneeling beside the unconscious man once more, she soaked a strip of the cloth
with whiskey and began to clean his wounds.

The man moaned and began to thrash about as the fiery liquid
seared his flesh. One of his elbows caught Lacey full in the stomach, knocking
the wind out of her. Mouth set in a determined line, she placed her hands on
the man’s shoulders and held him down until he lay quiet once more. Then, teeth
clenched, she quickly bound the wound in his shoulder with a strip of
whiskey-soaked cloth, wrapping the bandage just tight enough to stop the flow
of blood.

For a moment, she sat back on her heels and stared at the
wound above his elbow; then, with a grimace, she began to probe for the slug.
Thankfully, it was not embedded too deep in his arm and she had it out in a
matter of moments. She let the wound bleed for a moment, and then doused the
shallow wound with whiskey. Deep lines of pain etched the man’s face as the
liquor penetrated his torn flesh.

Lacey let out a sigh of relief as she bound the wound with a
strip of cloth. Thank God, that was done. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

To pass the time, she rummaged through the supplies loaded
on top of the wagon. Her efforts were rewarded with a sack of coffee, a side of
bacon, some hard biscuits, a couple of red apples, several cans of peaches, a
good supply of red beans, a loaf of dark brown bread, and a dozen eggs.

Lacey’s stomach rumbled hungrily, reminding her that she had
not eaten since the night before, and she quickly scrambled down from the
wagon, built a fire, and fried up some bacon and eggs, washing it down with two
cups of hot coffee heavily laced with canned milk and sugar.

Feeling much better, she gathered up some blankets and
covered the dead men. Then, head bowed, she murmured the Lord’s Prayer and the
Twenty-Third Psalm over the bodies, giving thanks all the while that her father
was still alive.

A low groan interrupted Lacey’s prayers, and she glanced
over her shoulder to find the wounded man staring at her. Lacey hesitated a
moment before going to him, a little fearful of getting too close. He was a
convicted felon, after all, and while she was fairly certain he was in no
condition to do her any harm, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. There was no
telling what horrible crime he had been accused of, what foul deeds he had
committed.

Matt Drago blinked several times, not daring to believe his
eyes. Surely the young woman standing beside him was a figment of his fevered
imagination. Even decked out in boy’s clothing, there was no disguising the
trim feminine shape of her, the soft curves. Her hair, swept away from her
face, was a deep reddish-brown. Her eyes, wide-set and heavily lashed, were the
color of warm chocolate. There was a smattering of freckles across her cheeks
and over the bridge of her tip-tilted nose, a beguiling dimple in her chin.

“How are you feeling?” Lacey asked.

“Rotten.” Matt Drago glanced at the makeshift bandages on
his arm and shoulder. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“You’re welcome,” Lacey mumbled, disturbed by his steady
gaze. Earlier, she had been too busy tending his wounds to give any thought to
his appearance, but now she noticed he was quite handsome.

She realized with some embarrassment that she was staring at
him. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked, drawing her gaze from his
face.

“No.”

“You really should eat something,” Lacey urged. “You’ve lost
a lot of blood.”

Matt nodded. He wasn’t hungry, but the girl was right. He
needed nourishment. He felt as weak and helpless as a day-old pup. Not only
that, but his left arm ached as if all the fires of hell blazed inside.

In an effort to ignore the pain, he watched the girl as she
began to fry up a batch of bacon and eggs. She was a pretty little thing, and
his eyes lingered on the provocative swell of her breasts and her shapely
bottom as she knelt beside the fire. He wondered absently how old she was. Not
more than seventeen or eighteen, he decided. Young. Much too young.

He dutifully ate the meal the girl prepared, drank several
cups of strong black coffee, and then fell asleep.

When he woke again, it was night and the girl was sitting
beside him.

Lacey smiled tentatively when she saw the prisoner was
awake, but frowned when she noticed he was shaking.

“Cold,” he husked.

With a nod, Lacey spread her blanket over him, then added
another as chills continued to rack his body. She thought of the blankets she
had used to cover the dead men, but she could not make herself go to them in
the dark, could not leave them lying dead and uncovered. Her eyes filled with
concern as violent tremors shook the prisoner. Matt tried to smile
reassuringly, but a low moan escaped his lips instead. His left arm and
shoulder throbbed mercilessly, and he was cold, so cold. Lacey sat there for a
few minutes and then, with a shrug, she crawled under the blankets and lay
beside him, warming him with the heat of her body.

Later, the fever came, and he tossed fretfully, throwing the
blankets aside. Lacey replaced the covers time after time, becoming more and
more frightened as he began to mutter incoherently. Once he stared, unseeing,
into the distance, his face a dark mask of rage as he cried, “I didn’t kill him!
Dammit, why won’t anyone believe me?”

Another time he called for someone named Claire. Over and
over again he murmured the woman’s name, his voice sometimes soft and tender,
sometimes filled with anger and bitter regret.

Not knowing what else to do, Lacey kept him covered as best
she could. In his quiet moments, she forced him to drink as much water as he
could hold, afraid he might dehydrate from the fever and from the amount of
blood he had lost.

It was the longest night of her life. Thoughts of Indians
and wild animals preyed on her mind, and she dozed sporadically, only to wake
with a start each time the man cried out. She prayed fervently that he would be
better in the morning. Her nursing skills were minimal at best. She had always
been squeamish in the face of pain, and blood made her queasy. If his fever got
worse, or his wound became infected, what would she do? Ride for help and leave
him out here alone, prey to scavengers? Or sit by and watch him writhe in pain
until he died?

With the coming of dawn, he fell into a deep sleep.
Exhausted mentally and physically, Lacey stretched out beside him, and in
moments she, too, was sleeping soundly.

Chapter Two

Matt Drago opened his eyes to find the girl pressed close
beside him, her head pillowed on his right shoulder, her reddish-brown hair
feeling like silk against his beard-roughened cheek. For a moment he did not
move, hardly daring to breathe as he lay there studying her face for fear she
would wake up. She wasn’t as breathtakingly beautiful as Claire had been, he
mused dispassionately, but she was a decidedly pretty girl. Her mouth was wide
and generous, her nose finely chiseled with a slight upward tilt, her eyebrows
a delicate arch over wide-set eyes, her lashes long and thick.

He felt a faint stirring of desire as she snuggled closer to
him, her breasts pressing against his side, one slim leg slipping between his.

Matt swore softly. He had not had a woman in a long time.
Claire had been a lady of quality, and he had never touched her other than to
give her a lingering kiss in the moonlight. Since Claire, he had occasionally
found relief for his masculine urges in the arms of women whose morals would
not bear close scrutiny.

Cautiously he raised his shackled hands and stroked the
girl’s cheek. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his fingertips, soft and
undeniably feminine.

His touch jolted Lacey awake. For a moment, they gazed into
each other’s eyes. Lacey felt a peculiar shiver deep in the core of her being
as his midnight blue eyes held her own. They seemed to be asking questions she
was afraid to answer, yet she could not draw her gaze away from his. She noted
that his lashes were short and thick and sooty black, that his eyes were the
darkest blue she had ever seen. They seemed to be probing the depths of her
heart, stealing her soul…

With a wordless cry, Lacey scrambled to her feet, her face
flushing bright crimson as she realized she had been practically lying in his
arms.

Matt grinned up at her, his eyes glinting with mirth until
he saw she was genuinely upset. “Sorry,” he said soberly. “I didn’t mean to
alarm you.”

“You didn’t,” Lacey lied, not quite meeting his steady gaze.
“I…it was time to get up anyway. I…how are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks to you.”

“It was nothing.”

“You probably saved my life. That’s something. To me,
anyway. I’m in your debt.”

Lacey shrugged. She did not want this man indebted to her.
He was a convict, and the less she had to do with him, the better. Besides, she
did not like the way he was looking at her, or the way her insides turned to
soft mush whenever his eyes met hers.

“How about finding the key to these cuffs?” Matt asked,
holding up his shackled hands.

Lacey took a wary step backward. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I…because.”

Matt sat up, his head cocked to one side. “You’re not afraid
of me, are you?” he challenged.

“Of course not,” Lacey replied quickly. Too quickly.

Before he could argue further, she went to start breakfast.
She
was
afraid of him, she admitted to herself, but not in the way he
thought. She didn’t think he would harm her physically, but there was something
about him that disturbed her deeply. He aroused feelings within her that she
was not certain she cared for, feelings she could not put a name to. Feelings
she was afraid to examine too closely. She felt her cheeks redden as she
recalled the way he had gazed into her eyes, his own eyes dark and turbulent
with some emotion Lacey could not identify.

Breakfast was a silent meal. Lacey’s thoughts were centered
on her father. Was he still alive? How could she ever find him now? What would
she do without him? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. For the first
time, it occurred to her that she was all alone in the world. It was a scary
thought, knowing there was no one to care if she lived or died, no one who
would mourn her, no one to cherish her memory.

She stole a furtive glance at the man sitting across the
fire from her. How much longer would she have to stay with him before he was
well enough to make it on his own? Did she dare just ride off and leave him out
here, alone and on foot? He was in no fit condition to make the long trek back
to Salt Creek. Of course, when the prison wagon didn’t arrive at the
penitentiary at the scheduled time, someone would likely come looking for it.
Would he be able to survive out here alone until then? Probably not.

Darn her soft heart! She could not bring herself to leave
him out here alone. But then, she had always had a tender spot in her heart for
orphans and wounded things. Stray dogs and cats, birds with broken wings,
injured rabbits and squirrels—she had always taken them home to nurse until
they were well enough to return to the wild. Maybe her father had been right.
Maybe she should have been a nurse after all.

“Who’s Claire?” Lacey asked abruptly.

Matt Drago frowned. “How do you know about her?”

“You called for her when you were unconscious.”

“Oh.”

Lacey waited for him to go on, but he didn’t seem inclined
to elaborate.

“Is she your wife?” Lacey asked, knowing it was none of her
business, yet unable to curb her curiosity.

“I’m not married.”

“Your sweetheart?”

“She’s nothing to me,” Matt answered curtly. “Just a girl I
used to know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Lacey said, unable to
explain why she was so pleased to learn he wasn’t married or engaged.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lacey,” she answered somewhat shyly. “Lacey Montana.”

“Matt Drago.” He looked at her curiously. “Why were you
following the wagon?”

“My father was on it. The Indians took him away. As soon as
you’re…as soon as someone comes for you, I’m going after him.”

“After your father?” Matt exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes.”

“You can’t go traipsing off after those Apaches by
yourself,” he scoffed. “They’d grab you so fast, it would make your head spin.”

“I don’t care!” Lacey replied hotly. “They have my father,
and I intend to help him in any way I can.”

“It’s your life,” Matt muttered. “I guess you can throw it
away if you want. It’s up to you. But you won’t be able to save your old man,
and you’ll just end up getting yourself killed, or worse, if you try.”

“It’s no concern of yours,” Lacey retorted. But Matt’s words
were so near to her own thoughts, she felt a sense of hopelessness. And then
she brightened as a new thought occurred to her. “When the men from Yuma come
looking for the wagon, perhaps they’ll help me find my father.”

Matt Drago frowned. The girl was right. When the prison
wagon didn’t show up at Yuma, someone would come looking for it. And for him,
as well. He scowled at his shackled hands. Well, he for damn sure didn’t intend
to be sitting around waiting for them. No, sir! He was heading back to Salt
Creek to find out who set him up for the murder of young Billy Henderson just
as soon as he could travel.

Matt sipped the last of his coffee thoughtfully. The Indians
had taken the wagon team and the lawmen’s horses, but the girl had a horse, a
good-looking quarter-horse mare. He stared into his empty cup. Of course, he
couldn’t very well take the horse and leave the girl out here alone. She had
saved his life, after all. Well, there was no help for it, she would just have
to go back to Salt Creek with him whether she liked it or not. Maybe Sheriff
Henderson would help her track her old man.

He would rest up another day or so, Matt decided, and then
be on his way long before anyone from Yuma arrived on the scene. And woe to the
men who had falsely accused him of killing Billy Henderson.

He slept most of the day. Once, upon waking, he saw Lacey
brushing out her long, russet-colored hair. He watched, mesmerized, as she
pulled the brush through the heavy, silken mass. It was a decidedly feminine
gesture, graceful and innocently provocative. He remembered how soft her hair
had felt against his cheek earlier that day, and he had a sudden urge to run
his fingers through her hair, to massage the back of her slender neck, to taste
those pouting pink lips.

Feeling his gaze, Lacey turned to find Matt staring at her,
his dark blue eyes alight with a mysterious inner fire. What was he thinking,
she wondered. Unaccountably, her insides began to tremble under the force of
his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” His voice sounded strange in his ears.

Self-conscious now, Lacey put her hairbrush away. Rising,
she walked away from the wagon until she was out of sight behind some scrub
oak. Why had he looked at her like that? And why had she reacted in such a
peculiar way?

Abruptly, she recalled the way some of the men back at the
ranch had looked at her, their eyes bright, intent, as they watched her. She
recalled the way they had smiled at her. And she remembered her father warning
her to stay away from the men, saying they only wanted one thing from a girl.
She knew what he meant by that. Her mother had told her all about men and women
and the intimate side of life.

“Hang onto your virginity, Lacey,” her mother had
admonished. “It’s a rare prize, and one that should be saved for your husband.
No other man deserves it. And no decent, God-fearing man will try to take it
from you.”

Was that what Matt Drago wanted from her? The thought
repelled and excited her even as she vowed to stay out of his reach.
Perversely, it warmed her to think he found her desirable.

Troubled, she sat down on a log, her elbows resting on her
knees, her chin cradled in the palms of her hands. He was quite a handsome man,
she mused idly. His hair was as black as ten feet down, his eyes as dark as the
sky at midnight. His mouth was full-lipped, sensuous, his jaw, strong and
square, was covered with thick black bristles, giving him the look of a Barbary
Coast pirate. She recalled, with a blush, that his skin was smooth and
unblemished, and that his arms were corded with muscle. His belly was as flat
as a tabletop, his chest was covered with curly black hair…

Lacey quickly pulled her thoughts away from such unladylike
musings. The man was a convicted felon, and the sooner she got away from him,
the better.

She was about to slide off the log and return to camp when
she saw the snake. It was coiled in the sun only a few feet from where she sat,
its triangular-shaped head facing in her direction, its eyes black and
menacing. A warning buzz of its tail held her frozen in place.

Swallowing hard, Lacey glanced over her shoulder, thinking
she could climb over the log and escape, but a thick tangle of thorny brush
blocked her path. Fighting a growing sense of panic, she looked at the snake
again, let out a small scream as its forked tongue darted toward her.

Matt Drago was searching through the pockets of one of the
slain deputies, looking for the key to the handcuffs, when he heard Lacey’s cry
of alarm. Cursing under his breath, he delved into the lawman’s shirt pocket,
his stomach churning as the smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils. He
uttered an exclamation of relief as his fingers closed around a ring of keys,
and he quickly removed the irons from his hands and feet. Each movement sent a
stab of pain jolting through his wounded arm, but he ignored it as he quickly
followed Lacey’s tracks, cussing mightily because he didn’t have a gun. A hell
of a lot of help he’d be if she was in real trouble, he mused sourly. No gun
and a bum arm. Damn! Leave it to a woman to get into trouble a hundred miles in
the middle of nowhere.

He found her sitting on a log, her legs drawn up under her,
her face as pale as death as she stared at the rattlesnake poised within
striking distance.

“Don’t move,” Matt said quietly. “When he realizes you’re
not food and you’re not a threat, he’ll leave. Just be patient.”

Easy for you to say
, Lacey thought wryly. She
continued to stare at the snake in fascinated awe. It looked so menacing, its
black eyes staring at her, unblinking, its forked tongue darting out to test
the air. She recalled the time when one of the men on the Double L had been
bitten. He had been found hours later when it was too late for anyone to help
him. His leg had swollen to twice its normal size and turned black. He had died
a horrible death.

Frozen with fear, Lacey could not take her eyes from the
snake. Terror older than time itself held her in its grasp, and then she heard
Matt’s voice again, deep and soothing, tinged with a slight Southern accent.

“Don’t panic, Lacey. Just sit tight and you’ll be fine, I
promise.”

Lacey nodded, not really believing him.

“Look at the flowers, Lacey. Over there, behind the snake.”

Lacey shook her head, certain the snake would attack her
when she wasn’t looking.

Matt frowned thoughtfully, wondering what he could say to
take Lacey’s mind off the rattler, and then he grinned.

“The Apache are an interesting people,” he mused. “For
instance, they believe that any Apache who marries a Ute will turn into an owl
when he dies.”

“An owl?” Lacey said, still watching the snake.

“Yeah. And if an Apache marries a Navajo, he’ll turn into a
mountain lion. Worst of all would be marrying a Mexican. Any Apache who married
a Mexican would be reborn as a burro, and if he married a paleface, he’d come
back as a mule.”

Lacey looked at Matt, a tremulous smile on her face. “You’re
making that up.”

Matt shook his head. “No, it’s true.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Maybe, but it makes the young Apache bucks and maidens
think twice about marrying out of the tribe.”

Lacey chuckled, the snake momentarily forgotten.

“It’s okay now,” Matt said as the snake slithered into the
underbrush.

Timidly, Lacey placed one foot on the ground, her eyes
focused on the spot where the snake had disappeared, her whole body tense.
Perhaps the snake was only hiding, waiting for her to move so it could strike.