Hostage Heart Page 2

  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 nud
ged 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….

  Chapter 2

  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 f
rom 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.