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  Keeping her thoughts to herself, she looked up and saw a gleam in Ny-Oden’s eyes. The shaman was reading her mind! Lark turned crimson, the heat prickling her cheeks as never before. No Apache maid should be thinking such thoughts.

  “It is done,” she said some time later, her voice scratchy with strain. Matt Kincaid was sleeping soundly, wrapped warmly from head to toe in several blankets. Lark had always thought that the brass bed had been built for a giant and not for her, but Kincaid’s feet touched the bottom of the footboard. Again, she was in awe of his height. Truly he was like a bear.

  “You’ve done well, daughter,” said Ny-Oden. “I will sit with him and chant to my di-yin. His fever is high and needs to be broken. Prepare lobelia tea for when he awakes. We must chase the fever from his body or it may claim his life.”

  Terror wrenched at her heart and Lark stood very still. He is too beautiful to die! she wanted to cry out. Hadn’t Us’an taken enough from her? Wasn’t he satisfied with the lives he’d already claimed? Moistening her lips, Lark stared down at the man. Some of the tension had drained from his gaunt, whiskered face. His mouth was slightly parted, and she liked the shape of it. Lark saw so much in his now-peaceful features. She saw kindness there and, yes, even sensitivity. What drew her so powerfully to this stranger? Confused and exhausted, Lark turned away.

  “Daughter?”

  She halted in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Us’an may leave the decision as to whether or not he goes to the Big Sleep in your hands.”

  “How can that be? No one’s life lies in another’s. Us’an gives and takes. That’s what you’ve always said.”

  “Sometimes,” Ny-Oden said softly, “Us’an bids us to give more than what we think we have to give, daughter. But he also provides us with the courage to carry that extra load.”

  “I’m so tired of death, Grandfather.” She choked on a sob, fighting the tears that wanted to come. “I would never let any person or animal die that came to me. I would do whatever I could to save that life.”

  “You have the wisdom and generosity of the People, daughter. Right now, you carry many responsibilities on your shoulders. Why not awaken Maria and have her help you this morning? You are tired and need to rest here where I now sit.”

  Later, Holos, the Sun, rose brilliant and powerful, the rays flooding the east bedroom where Lark sat dozing off and on. Maria moved quietly about the house. For the last fifteen years she had kept house for the Gallagher family. Paco, her husband, was the ranch foreman. Wrinkling her dark brow, Maria pushed aside a stray gray hair that had escaped from the carefully fashioned knot at the back of her head. She had made Lark hot porridge, but the girl had refused it, too exhausted by the chain of events of the last twenty-four hours to eat it. Maria had given her a sad nod of understanding, leaving the bedroom door ajar after she had left.

  Once an hour, Lark would leave her rocking chair and sponge down Matt Kincaid, trying to cool his hot, feverish body. She mixed lobelia into cool spring water in an effort to moderate the fever that ate away at his beautiful male form. At first, Lark avoided the massive chest with all that hair on it. And then, out of feminine curiosity, she hesitantly touched the dark, curling strands. To her surprise and delight, his chest hair was soft and springy. After that, she bathed his chest without further consternation, secretly delighting in her newfound discovery.

  Twice that first day, Lark had to change the blankets beneath his male symbol after he urinated. Ny-Oden had taught her to examine the color of urine for evidence of internal bleeding. To her relief, as she studied the damp blanket each time, there was no sign of further injury to Matt Kincaid.

  Despite her promise to Ny-Oden to tend to Matt, the ranch demands pulled at her, too. Lark found herself giving orders that usually her father would have given to some of the older Mexican boys in their teens, whose job it was to care for the broodmares. It was a strange feeling to be taking her father’s place, one that made her uncomfortable. But if anyone noticed her uneasiness, they said nothing and willingly carried out their duties. Lark took it upon herself to check on the broodmares. The medicine-hat-marked mare paced endlessly and Lark felt sorry for the young, nervous horse. As she scratched the mare’s ears, Lark wondered if she would feel similarly nervous about the arrival of her first baby.

  That thought rooted her to the spot. She had never before contemplated marriage or babies. Had the handling of Matt’s male symbol turned her mind in a completely new direction? Disturbed and yet sensing a sweet anticipation she’d never felt before, Lark continued to check on each one of the mares. An hour later, exhausted, she closed the last stall door.

  Standing at the opening to the barn, Lark wiped the sweat from her brow. Dizziness made her shut her eyes for a moment, and she leaned tiredly against the door. Her father’s image wavered in her mind’s eye. “Colleen, you can never give up. You must always go on. There’s nothing in this life you can’t overcome with a good heart and courage.” Lark remembered those words, remembered that day when her father had crouched at her side as her favorite pony, Storm, lay dying from old age. Roarke had gathered her into his arms and carried her inside the barn.

  Storm’s breathing had been labored and raspy. Roarke had placed his arm around his daughter’s thin shoulder, watching as tears squeezed from her eyes. “Death isn’t to be feared, colleen,” he told her gently. “Your mother’s people have the right idea about it. Death is a bridge to a new and better life on the other side.”

  Lark looked up into her father’s kind blue eyes. “W-will Storm go to a new life, too?” Her heart ached with so much pain.

  Though his hands were huge, the fingers thick and callused, Roarke delicately picked a stray strand of hair off Lark’s damp cheek. He placed it behind her ear and then cupped her small face. “Storm will go over the Rainbow Bridge,” he told her gruffly.

  The Apache believed that a rainbow led to an open door into a different, invisible world. Those who were going to the Big Sleep walked across that multicolored bridge on their way to a happy new life. With a sob, Lark threw her arms around her father’s neck, relieved to know that Storm would live on in a new, unseen form. She remembered holding the horse until he died some hours later, his head resting on her lap. And all that time, her father had been there at her side.

  Sighing, Lark opened her eyes and stared blindly at the blue sky, bright with sunshine. “I miss you so much, Father, so much….”

  Chapter 3

  “Patrona, it is Señor Kincaid. He cries out and fights the blankets. I’m afraid he will cause more injury to his wound,” Maria called urgently from the porch where she was standing.

  Lark’s heart was pounding from the four-mile run she’d taken down the valley on the stud. As she noiselessly rounded the corner of the house in her kabuns, her heart began a different, more apprehensive beat.

  Matt Kincaid lay sprawled in a tangle of blankets, a sheen of perspiration covering his body. His lips moved in an unintelligible garble. Maria hesitated at the door, awaiting Lark’s orders.

  It was natural for Lark to lay her hand on his bare shoulder, as if to banish the nightmares that plagued his sleep. She placed her other hand on his wrinkled brow. Almost immediately, he quieted.

  “Maria,” Lark called softly, “bring me another bowl of cool spring water and the lobelia.”

  “Sí, Patrona.”

  Lark had no explanation for the thrill that raced through her as she used her palm to wipe the sweat away from Matt Kincaid’s brow and temple. And then, in a gesture that wrenched her completely, he pressed his cheek into her open hand. Lips parting, Lark sat at his side, stunned. She had seen children bury their tiny heads in their mothers’ bosoms, seeking protection in moments of trauma. She searched his pained expression, seeing only his vulnerability, and not the frightening, bearlike power she had glimpsed before. He was weak, sick, and needed the solace she offered.

  Maria placed the bowl on the stand near Lark. The instant she removed her h
and from Matt Kincaid’s stubbled cheek, he called out names that were unfamiliar to her.

  Maria nodded, watching the cowboy worriedly. “Aiyee, Patrona, the fever stalks him.”

  After quickly bathing Matt’s upper body, Lark placed the cloth aside. “Yes, the fever is rising. After I get him in position, I want you to hand me a spoon filled with the lobelia, Maria.”

  Lark wasn’t sure she had the necessary strength to bring Matt upright enough to spoon the fever herb into the slack line of his mouth. Slipping her arm beneath his shoulders, she positioned herself against the headboard to give her leverage. A strange, fluttering feeling fled from her heart down to her lower body as his head sagged against her jaw, his cheek coming to rest near her breast. Struggling to tip his head back, Lark finally got him into a favorable position. Maria handed her the wooden spoon filled with the dark green herb that had been ground up and mixed with a few drops of whiskey.

  “Drink this, Matt Kincaid,” she crooned in his own language. “It will bring your fever down and fight for you.” She slid the thin spoon between his lips and watched the liquid disappear.

  Afterward, Lark tucked Matt back under the blankets. Six spoons of lobelia would be enough to combat the raging fever he was fighting. Maria left, and Lark took her place in the rocking chair near his side of the bed. A pleasant exhaustion overcame her.

  She studied Matt Kincaid’s square face through half-closed eyes. What was it about this man that possessed almost a magical hold over her? She longed to ask Ny-Oden. As she slowly began to rock the chair, Lark’s lashes drooped closed, the strain of the last twenty-four hours catching up with her. In that in-between state that lies at the border between sleep and wakefulness, she remembered her mother’s wise words of counsel.

  “Mother?” she had asked one time as a fourteen-year-old. “How does a warrior know when he loves a maiden?”

  Mourning Dove smiled at her tall, gangly daughter. She had been busy making the favorite food of her people, ash cakes. She set aside the bowl of ground mesquite flour and beef tallow. “Both will feel a certain undeniable pull toward one another, Lark.”

  Lark sat down at her mother’s feet. “A pull? Like the cord attached from the foal to its mother after birth?”

  Mourning Dove laughed softly. “You will feel it here,” she said, touching the place over her heart. “And, yes, it is like the cord that binds the foal to its mother. But it’s invisible and the feelings are much more than I can explain.”

  “Did you and Father feel it?”

  Mourning Dove’s face melted into a fond look. “Oh, yes. We felt it very strongly from the moment he rescued me from the Comancheros.”

  “But he was a pindah, Mother. I didn’t know heartstrings could be tugged by white men.”

  “Daughter, love recognizes no color, no country and no tribe. Love between two people is theirs alone, no matter how many others may want them to deny it.”

  “Because you feel this invisible string binding the two of you to one another’s hearts?”

  “Yes, for exactly that reason, my daughter.”

  Lark sat there for long minutes, contemplating the perplexing answer. “Will it happen to me, Mother?”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  “Soon? For Juanita is only fifteen and she is getting married in another month to Esteban.”

  With a chuckle, Mourning Dove added a pinch of salt to the ash cake mixture. “Only Us’an knows when your heart will be touched, my curious daughter. He chooses the warrior and the time it will happen.”

  “But what if I don’t know that my heartstring is being pulled? Is it possible that I will miss the man I’m to marry?”

  A gentle smile curved Mourning Dove’s full mouth. “You are of my blood, Lark. And you have the same strength and intensity of feeling that I carry. If anything, you will be smitten so completely when the right warrior walks into your life that you will not be able to think about anything else. That was the way it was for your father and me. No matter what I did or how I tried to ignore the magic that throbbed between us, I could not. This feeling,” she said, lightly touching Lark’s breastbone, “will become so powerful that you will feel helpless beneath it. Only the warrior who has chosen you will be able to quell those wild, restless feelings deep within you. His touch will be branding and you will react without reason. Once this happens, daughter, do not become afraid of the power he unleashes within you. Trust the warrior to whom you are drawn, for only he will give you the inner peace and fulfillment that you as a woman blindly seek. He will be like a flower heavy with the promise of nectar, and you the starved bee in search of it. Once you have met, you will know a bliss like no other. The bee and the flower become one…”

  Lark’s chin sagged toward her chest, her mother’s softly murmured words, rich with emotion, whispering across time. Unconsciously Lark pressed a hand to her breast. The strange, sweet, unfulfilled ache continued. It ceased only when Matt Kincaid was in her arms.

  With a start, Lark jerked out of her cramped position in the rocker. Blinking, she realized Maria had lit a kerosene lamp to chase away the darkness. Rubbing her neck ruefully, Lark rose and went over to Matt. The covers were still in place and he was sleeping deeply. Pleasure suffused her as she pushed several strands of hair off his brow. The fever was down, but not gone. Saying a prayer of thanks to her di-yin of healing, Lark knew the lobelia was responsible for his improvement.

  Matt was aware that a cool hand had left his brow.

  “Katie? Katie, is that you?” He saw his dark-haired wife walking out of their ranch house as he rode up, a tired but welcoming smile on her mouth. She was so fragile, so like their daughter, Susan. He dismounted, allowing the reins to drop to the ground. He saw his pigtailed daughter laughing, her gray eyes dancing with delight as she ran from behind her mother’s skirts and threw her arms around his neck. She smelled of the spring wildflowers her mother held. Matt laughed as Susan covered his unshaven, dusty face with kisses. Holding her in his right arm, he walked over to Katie. She was petite against his side, still holding that small bouquet of flowers in her red, work-worn hands. Her clean, unmarred features were radiant in silent welcome. He’d just spent five days in Tucson, selling their first herd of cattle, and had missed them terribly. Katie whispered his name, her voice tremulous as she slid an arm around his waist. When she laid her head on his chest, an overwhelming joy shot through him. He stood there in the dusty yard, holding the two women he loved most in the world. Life couldn’t get any better. “Katie,” he murmured.

  Lark hesitated. Who was Katie? His wife? She noted that he wore a wedding ring on his left hand.

  Matt moved restlessly, a frown puckering his forehead. “Katie? No!”

  The strained cry tore at Lark. She reached out, gently massaging his temples and bearded cheek. Her breath caught as his hand came up, capturing hers. Strong, warm fingers swallowed up her hand and he buried his sandpapery cheek against her palm, a sob tearing from deep within his powerful chest.

  “Katie! God, please…no. It can’t be. No…”

  Lark’s eyes widened as she saw tears flow from beneath Matt’s tightly shut eyes. He was crying! She sat stunned, her heart tearing as he sobbed out Katie’s name over and over again, pressing Lark’s hand hard to his cheek. The walls Lark had erected to protect herself from white men lowered. She had no defense against him, she discovered in that poignant moment. She watched the tears wind down his pale cheeks and tangle in the bristly growth until they slid along the strong line of his rock-hard jaw.

  Scalding tears rushed to her own eyes and Lark automatically leaned forward. “Hush. You are safe. Safe. Do not cry, for I’ll be here with you throughout the night. I’ll not let the evil spirits plague your dreams, my bear. Hush, you are safe in my arms…”

  Her husky voice seemed to have a miraculous effect on him. The tears ceased and the anguished line of his mouth eased. Slowly, as she ran her other hand in a caressing motion, through his thick, rich, walnut-color
ed hair, he calmed.

  Wearily, Lark rested her head where his heart lay. A rush of peace spiraled through her and she closed her eyes. The frantic, drumlike beat of his heart slowed. And Lark, whose own heart had been stricken with grief, felt the first tentative healing begin to bind her wounds.

  Somehow, she thought drowsily, he is good for me. I quiet his tortured dreams, but he also gives me peace from my tortured days. Her lips moved slightly. Thank you, Us’an. Perhaps we can heal one another….

  The raucous crow of a rooster brought Lark awake. The first rays of Holos moved like silent fingers through the lace curtains at the window, stealing across the oak floor and the brass bed where she lay. A wonderful sense of fulfillment infused her. It was only as full awareness gradually came to her that she became aware of the slow, drumlike beat of Matt’s heart beneath her ear. Shock shot through her and Lark sat up, gasping. Her hands flew to her opened mouth as realization struck. She had fallen asleep on Matt Kincaid’s chest and slept there the entire night!

  “Us’an,” she murmured, “forgive me! I know it is not right for a maid to lie with a man to whom she’s not married.” Dread filled her as the shock of what she had done brought her completely awake. And yet, as she looked down at Matt, she saw the peace in his serene features. Her back ached, as did her neck, from the contorted position in which she had lain all night. Her right leg, which had been tucked beneath her, was asleep. Grumbling at her stupidity, Lark carefully placed her booted feet on the floor.

  Stealing a look at Matt, she felt heat rush up her neck and into her cheeks. Thank Us’an he hadn’t awakened to find her sleeping like a kitten on his chest! What would he think? What would anyone who had seen them think of her? She had broken a strict Apache law. Rubbing her face, Lark slowly stood up. She covered Matt with a wool blanket and checked his brow for fever, satisfied to find that it was lower. Gathering a bar of soap, a towel, and a robe, she left the room.