LaceysWay (7 page)

“Go back to bed, Lacey.”

“Not until you tell me what’s troubling you,” she argued,
and then, out of the blue, she knew what was bothering him. “It was that man
you killed, wasn’t it? That’s what your nightmare was about.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have bad dreams often?”

“No.”

“Just when you…when you kill someone?”

“Lacey—”

“Have you killed a lot of men?”

“I don’t know,” Matt replied sarcastically. “How many men
makes a lot? Two? Four? Ten?”

“Have you killed ten men?” Lacey asked, awed by the thought.

“No. Just four, counting the one tonight.”

Numbers were a relative thing, Lacey mused. Four cents
didn’t seem like much, but four dead men seemed a high number.

“Why did you kill them?” She had not meant to ask, but her
curiosity got the best of her.

Matt shrugged. Sitting up, he stirred the ashes and placed
the coffee pot over the glowing coals. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get
any sleep until he told Lacey what she wanted to know.

“I used to be a gambler,” Matt said, gazing into the
distance. “I’ve got a way with cards, I guess. Always been lucky. Too lucky.
When you win too often, most men can’t believe you’re not cheating. There’s
always a few who want to shoot it out. So far, I’ve been lucky there, too.”

“Oh.” Lacey watched Matt’s hands as he lifted the blue
enamel coffee pot and poured himself a cup of coffee. His hands were large,
capable. The fingers were long, the nails short and square. It was easy to
imagine him in a dark suit and flashy brocade vest, sitting at a green baize
table in a noisy saloon. She remembered how at home he had looked back in the
saloon, how nimble his fingers had been when he shuffled the cards. So, he had been
a gambler. “Why did you quit?”

“The last man I killed was just a kid. He lost every cent he
had in an all-night poker game. He accused me of cheating and demanded I return
his money. When I refused, he pulled a gun on me, and I killed him.” Matt shook
his head. “I didn’t find out until later that he was only seventeen, and that
he had stolen the money he’d lost from his mother.”

“How awful for you.”

“Yeah, awful. I haven’t picked up a deck of cards since,
until tonight.”

Lacey felt a rush of sympathy for the man sitting beside
her. He had turned his back on gambling, determined never to play cards again.
But he had done it for her, because they needed food and supplies to go after
her father and gambling was the quickest way to get it.

“Matt…” Her voice trailed off as she realized she didn’t
quite know how to put her feelings into words, nor was she sure just what those
feelings were. She knew only that Matthew Drago no longer seemed like a
stranger. She felt remorse because she had caused him to do something he had
turned his back on, and affection because he had done it for her.

“Go to bed, Lacey,” Matt said wearily.

Lacey placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze,
wanting him to know how grateful she was. “Thank you, Matt.”

He nodded, his eyes moving over her face, his skin growing
warm where her hand rested on his arm. She was so lovely in the moonlight, so
damn lovely.

With a low groan, he pulled her into his arms and kissed
her, his mouth drinking in the sweetness of her lips, one arm holding her tight
while his hand caressed her back. Lord, she was sweet.

For a moment Lacey was too stunned to move, too startled to
think. She was only aware of Matt’s lips on hers, of a sudden warmth rushing
through her, as if her blood had turned to fire. She knew she should be
outraged by Matt’s ungentlemanly conduct, and she fully intended to let him
know how she felt, but first she wanted him to kiss her just a little longer.
It was such a gloriously intoxicating feeling. Shivers of excitement shook her
body, making her feel weak and a little lightheaded. No one had ever kissed her
with such passion, such fierce intensity. Breathless, she kissed him back, her
arms stealing around his waist, her body pressing against his.

It was only when she felt his hand begin to stroke her thigh
that reality came crashing down. With a cry, Lacey pulled out of Matt’s embrace
and jumped to her feet.

“How dare you!” she said with what she hoped was the proper
amount of righteous indignation.

“Lacey, I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she replied haughtily, although she knew
she was just as guilty as he.

“I said I was,” Matt snapped, feeling his own anger rise.
What the hell was she so mad about, he thought irritably. She had kissed him
back, after all. If she hadn’t liked it, why hadn’t she said so sooner?

Without another word, Lacey turned on her heel and flounced
back to her own blankets. Crawling under the covers, she pulled them up to her
chin, then gazed into the darkness, too keyed up to sleep. Lifting her hand,
she ran a finger over her lips, remembering how Matt’s kiss had felt. The
memory had warmed her clear down to her toes. Smiling into the darkness, she
fell asleep.

Chapter Four

They picked up the trail early the following morning. There
were times when Lacey could see nothing at all to indicate that anyone had
passed by, but Matt seemed confident they were heading in the right direction
and she took comfort in that.

When they stopped at noon to eat and rest the horses, she
asked him where he had learned to read trail sign.

“During the war,” Matt replied. He bit off a piece of jerky
and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment. “Old Smoke Johnson was in my outfit.
He’d been an Army scout out West before the war, but when he heard the Yankees
were marching through Georgia, he came home and joined up. Old Smoke was a
talkative cuss, and he must have told me everything he knew about tracking and
Indians and the fur trade. When he wasn’t yapping at me, he was teaching me to
read sign, and how to navigate by the stars. Between battles, he used to go off
into the woods and I’d see if I could pick up his trail. He ran into a
half-dozen bluebelly scouts one night when I was following his tracks.” Matt
laughed with the memory. “That was a hell of a fight. I don’t know who was more
surprised, those six Yankees or me and Smoke. Anyway, we recovered first and
killed four of them. The other two ran like scalded cats. Smoke took a bullet
in the leg, but he said it was no more than he deserved, since he’d walked
right into their hidey hole.”

“Where is Mr. Johnson now?”

“Dead. He was killed at Chickamauga.”

“I’m sorry,” Lacey said softly. “Were you born in the
South?”

“Yeah. Virginia.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Too many bad memories. My brothers were killed at
Vicksburg. My stepmother died during the war, and my sister entered a convent.
There was no reason to stay, so I decided to see the country and I lit out for
Texas when the war was over.”

“I’ve never been there. Was it nice?”

A picture of Claire Duprey flashed through Matt’s mind: soft
white skin, hair as black as sin, eyes as green as emeralds. “It was all
right,” he said with a shrug.

“Why did you leave Texas?”

“It’s time to go,” Matt said brusquely, and rising to his
feet, he stepped into the saddle and gigged his horse into a trot.

There was nothing for Lacey to do but climb onto her horse
and follow him. In his present mood, she feared he just might leave her behind.

Matt was withdrawn and quiet the rest of the day. Lacey slid
several sidelong glances in his direction, but he seemed oblivious to her
presence. His face was set in hard lines, his eyes were dark and sullen, as
though he were remembering something unpleasant. Apparently talking about Texas
had reminded him of something he wanted to forget, but what?

She puzzled over the matter all that day, her imagination
running wild.

That night they bedded down in the shadow of a tall
sandstone bluff. Lacey held her peace until after dinner, and then, while they
were sipping a last cup of coffee before bedtime, she said quietly, “I’m sorry
if I made you angry this afternoon. I didn’t mean to pry into something that’s
none of my business.”

“It’s all right, Lacey,” Matt said. “I shouldn’t have
snapped at you like that.”

“Then you’re not mad?” Somehow she could not stand to have
him angry with her.

“No.”

Lacey smiled at him, and Matt felt as though he had stepped
into a pool of sunlight. The warmth of her smile seemed to engulf him, and he
was conscious of a sudden heat flooding through his veins. He was reminded of
the kiss they had shared the night before, the way her body had molded to his,
the way she had trembled at his touch.

“Good night, Lacey,” Matt said abruptly, and crawled into
his blankets, knowing if he didn’t get away from her, he would grab her and
ease the awful longing that was tying him in knots.

“Good night, Matt,” Lacey murmured. Tossing the last drops
of coffee into the fire, she slipped under her blankets, baffled by Matt’s
behavior. If he wasn’t mad, why did his voice sound so gruff, and why had he
gone to bed so abruptly, as though he couldn’t stand to be near her? It was
most peculiar, but she was too saddle-weary to fret for long and she was soon
asleep.

Matt Drago remained awake for some time, acutely aware that
he had a real problem on his hands. And that problem was Lacey, or, more
specifically, his growing desire for her. Certainly he had known women who were
more beautiful, better educated, more ladylike than Lacey, but he had never met
a woman who had tempted him so deeply, or one he could not resist if he put his
mind to it. He wasn’t sure what was so special about Lacey Montana, but she had
certainly captured his attention. Riding beside her every day, hour after hour,
was hell. He tried not to look at her, tried not to notice the way her brown
eyes glowed when she saw a deer grazing on a hillside or a bear playing with
its cubs. He tried to ignore the sweet curve of her thigh, and the swell of her
breasts beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. He tried not to notice how the
sun danced in her hair, and the merry laughter bubbled in her throat when they
raced up a hill.

Turning on his side, he gazed at Lacey, sleeping across the
fire from him. Her eyelashes made dark crescents against her cheeks, her hair
framed her face like a thick red-gold cloud. Her chest rose and fell with each
soft breath and he tried not to think of the sweet feminine shape nestled
beneath the rough blanket, but all he could dwell on was the way she had kissed
him the day before, her lips sweetly yielding, her lush body molding to his,
warm and soft and desirable.

Damn, but she was lovely! So lovely, and so young, surely
not more than eighteen. Far too young for a man pushing thirty. But it wasn’t
just the difference in their ages. She was innocent in the ways of the world,
and the ways of men. Innocent and vulnerable. She still believed in miracles,
still believed that wanting something badly enough would make it happen. Had he
ever been
that
young, he mused sardonically, that trusting?

Muttering an oath, he rolled onto his back and stared out
into the inky night until, at long last, he fell asleep.

Lacey smothered a yawn as she urged Cinder across a shallow
stream. Sometimes she thought she was becoming permanently attached to her
saddle. Matt did not seem to mind the long hours they spent on the trail. Indeed,
he never seemed to get tired at all.

It was late in the afternoon almost a week later when Matt
drew his horse to a halt and gestured for Lacey to dismount and stay quiet.
Lacey quickly did as bidden, her eyes watching Matt as he ground-reined his bay
and dropped to his belly, snaking his way to the top of a brush-covered slope.
He stayed there for a long time, and Lacey’s heart began to pound with
excitement. Had they found her father at last?

Some twenty minutes later, Matt made his way back to Lacey.
“Well, we’ve found some Indians,” he said in a low voice. “There’s about twenty
lodges just over that rise.”

“Did you see my father?” Lacey asked, her eyes wide with
excitement and hope.

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Come on, we’ve got to
get out of here before someone spots us.”

With a nod, Lacey followed Matt away from the slope toward a
thick copse of trees.

“We’ll lay low until nightfall,” Matt explained, “and then
I’ll go scout around and see if I can locate your old man. No fires,” he added.

Lacey nodded again. They were finally here. For the first
time, she realized the danger they were in. There was no telling what might
happen if the Indians became aware of their presence.

It seemed as if the sun would never go down. Lacey gnawed on
a piece of beef jerky to ease her hunger. Matt rolled a cigarette, but didn’t
light it.

As darkness dropped over the land, Matt took Lacey’s hand in
his. “Listen to me. You stay here, no matter what. Understand? If I’m not back
by the time the moon is over that tall pine, you jump on your horse and
hightail it outta here.”

“But Matt—”

“Don’t argue with me. If I’m not back by then, it means I’m
not coming back. You get on that horse and ride like hell. If you head due
south, you’ll come to a little mining town in a day or two. You can’t miss it.”

Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of
greenbacks. It was what was left of the money he had won in the card game.
“This should be enough to take care of you for quite a while.”

“Matt, I…” Her voice seemed weak, her throat tight. He
talked as if he doubted he would return to her. She had been so eager to find
her father, so anxious to have everything her own way, that she had never given
any real thought to the danger involved. Until now.

“Take it.” Matt pushed the money into her hand, then, with a
sigh, he put his arms around Lacey and kissed her gently. Her mouth was soft
and warm, sweeter than life itself, and what began as a chaste token of
affection quickly turned into a burning kiss filled with passion and desire.

For a moment, Lacey stood rigid in Matt’s arms, stunned by
the force of his kiss, and her reaction to it. His kiss, at first no more than
the mere pressing of his lips against hers, suddenly became urgent, and Lacey
clung to him as the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control. Her
legs began to tremble and her heart began to pound a quick staccato in her
breast. Heat from his lips coursed through her, filling her with a raw hunger
that was new and wildly exciting. If only he would kiss her thus forever.

Abruptly, Matt released her, and Lacey swayed on her feet,
her lips bereft, her legs weak.

“Wish me luck,” he said laconically, and then he was gone.

Lacey stared after him, shaken to the core of her being by
the force of his kiss, and by the stark realization that he might well be
killed and it would be all her fault.

She shoved the wad of greenbacks into her pocket, hardly
aware that she had done so, then sat down, her fingers drumming nervously on
the ground, her heart sending urgent prayers to Heaven, beseeching an
all-knowing God to protect Matt from harm.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Where was he? What was
taking so long? She peered into the darkness, hoping to see him striding toward
her, but she saw only shadows and the outline of a lonely tree silhouetted in
the distance. Ears straining, she listened to the night, hoping to hear Matt’s
footsteps, but she heard only the soft sigh of the wind and the occasional
screech of an owl searching for prey.

The minutes dragged by, and her stomach knotted with
tension. Where was he?

Matt Drago hunkered down on his heels in the shadow of a
large boulder, his eyes sweeping back and forth as he scanned the Apache camp
for some sign of Lacey’s father. There were about eighty Indians in the camp,
mostly women and children. But there were more than enough warriors to make a
good fight.

He sat there for over an hour, but there was no sign of
Royce Montana, no way of knowing if Lacey’s father had ever been there at all.
Of course, it was possible that Royce Montana had been killed long ago, or that
they were trailing the wrong bunch of Indians. It was just as possible, though
doubtful, that Lacey’s father was inside one of the lodges. Apaches weren’t
known for their hospitality to those considered the enemy.

Matt grimaced as he changed positions. Below, the Indians
were getting ready to turn in for the night. The women hustled their young ones
off to bed, the men put their pipes away and left the community campfire for
the warmth of their lodges.

Watching the scene below, Matt found himself thinking of
Lacey, of how she felt in his arms, the way she had kissed him back. Kissing
her had been a grave mistake. He had not meant to touch her again after that
first time. She was a nice girl, too good for him by half, and too damn young.
Yet he kept remembering the pressure of her breasts against his chest, the
little sigh of pleasure that had escaped her lips when he held her close, the
fragrance of her hair and skin that was hers and hers alone.

He was telling himself all the reasons why loving her would
never work when he felt the sharp prick of a knife below his right ear.

Matt froze, his gun in his hand, as two other warriors
materialized out of the darkness.

The warrior holding the knife against Matt’s neck reached
around and plucked the gun from his hand.

“Stand up, white man,” he said in a deep bass voice. The
Indian spoke stilted English. He was short and stocky; a long scar ran from his
left temple to his jawline.

Matt stood up slowly, his fists clenched at his sides as one
of the other warriors searched him for weapons. The warrior uttered a little
cry of satisfaction when he withdrew the derringer from Matt’s hip pocket.

“Go.” The Indian with the scar gave Matt a shove in the
direction of the Indian camp, and Matt obligingly made his way down the hill.
It was all over now, he thought bleakly.

When they reached the Apache camp, one of the warriors tied
Matt’s hands behind his back, lashed his feet together at the ankles, then
dropped a rope around his neck and tethered him to a stout sapling on the
outskirts of the village.

The warrior with the scarred face grinned at Matt as he drew
a finger across his throat. “Tomorrow, white man,” he said menacingly.
“Tomorrow you will die.”

“Go to hell,” Matt retorted with more bravado than he felt,
and was rewarded by a swift kick in the stomach. He doubled over, fighting the
urge to vomit, as the other warriors lashed out at him with their hands and
feet, driving Matt to the ground as they rained blow after blow to his face,
chest, rib cage, and back.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Matt curled into a
tight ball in an effort to protect his face and stomach. Blood oozed from his
nose and mouth and pounded in his ears as he fought to stay conscious.