Matt looked weary but determined as he parried the thrust of the warrior’s blade, and Lacey wondered how long he would be able to withstand the Apache’s assault. She knew that Matt had had little sleep in the last two days, and that he was in no fit condition for a fight. She uttered a little cry of dismay as the two men came together, knives seeking flesh, and when they parted, both were bleeding from shallow cuts on their bodies. Again and again they came together, the harsh rasp of their breathing and the ring of steel striking steel rising above the cheers of the crowd.
Matt and High Yellow Cloud came together in a rush, bodies straining, muscles taut, bronzed skin sheened with sweat. Tears filled Lacey’s eyes as she saw the blood oozing from Matt’s side, and she glanced away, sickened by the sight of his blood and by the thought that he might be killed. Her breath caught in her throat as her wandering gaze came to rest on a handful of mounted men riding into the village. The man in front was dressed in buckskins and moccasins. His face was tanned a dark brown. An eagle feather was tied in his long gray hair. But there was no mistaking the fact that he was a white man.
“Daddy!” Darting from between the two warriors who were guarding her, she ran to her father.
Royce Montana’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he saw Lacey running toward him. Dismounting, he caught her in his arms, tears blurring his vision as he held her tight.
“Lacey,” he murmured. “My God, Lacey, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Daddy, stop the fight, please.”
Royce Montana glanced over his daughter’s head to see the two men locked in mortal combat. He recognized High Yellow Cloud immediately and assumed that Lacey’s fears were for the white man who was obviously fighting for his life.
“I can’t stop it, Lacey,” Royce Montana said sadly. “They’ll have to fight it out.”
Lacey’s shoulders sagged in discouragement. The fight seemed to have lasted forever, though in reality perhaps only five or six minutes had gone by. Both men had sustained a number of superficial cuts and there was blood everywhere, and still they fought, snarling like angry wolves. It was brutal and savage and ugly, and yet strangely compelling at the same time.
Lacey looked away as High Yellow Cloud’s knife opened a long, shallow gash in Matt’s right side. For a moment she watched the faces of the Indians, baffled that they could find pleasure in the sight of two men fighting for their lives. Were the Indians so primitive, so savage, that they had no regard for human life? They cheered loudly when High Yellow Cloud drew blood, readily voiced their approval for Matt’s agility when he managed to elude a brutal thrust that would have cost him his life. Dimly she realized that the warriors were not cruel or cold-blooded. They valued a man’s bravery and his skill with a knife, and she realized that, even though Matt was the enemy, they still cheered for his courage and cunning.
The hard clang of metal scraping metal drew Lacey’s attention once again, and as she turned back toward the fight, she saw that Matt was tiring. His movements were becoming slow, his reflexes sluggish, and even as she watched, he seemed to be falling. Her hand went to her throat as High Yellow Cloud instantly moved in for the kill. And then, miraculously, Matt regained his balance. Pivoting on his heel, he drove his knotted fist into the Indian’s jaw. High Yellow Cloud went down heavily and Matt was on him. Sides heaving, body bathed in sweat and blood, Matt pressed the edge of his blade against the warrior’s throat.
“Live or die,” Matt hissed. “It’s up to you.”
High Yellow Cloud glared at Matt, his dark eyes glinting with anger and humiliation. “I will live,” he said hoarsely. “But know this, white man. It is not over between us. Not until one of us is dead.”
“Whatever you say,” Matt replied, grinning. “But if I can whip your ass after two days without food or water, just think what I might do when I’m feeling good.”
High Yellow Cloud made a sound of disgust low in his throat. “You do not frighten me,” he said disdainfully. “The woman will yet be mine.”
“Give it up,” Matt said wearily, and rising to his feet, he walked away from the defeated warrior, and away from the crowd.
“Matt! Matt, come here.”
He turned at the sound of Lacey’s voice and saw her standing beside a man that Matt recognized as Royce Montana. So, he mused, she was right not to give up her search after all.
Royce Montana watched his daughter’s face light up as the man called Matt walked toward them. So, he thought, it’s happened. My little girl’s fallen in love.
“Matt, this is my father. Daddy, this is Matt Drago. My husband.”
“Husband!” Royce Montana could not keep the surprise out of his voice. “When did that happen?”
“Several months ago,” Lacey said. “We can talk about all that later, Daddy. Matt’s hurt.”
“Of course,” Royce Montana agreed quickly. “Come on, we’ll go to my lodge and my woman can look after him.”
“Your woman?” Lacey echoed, stunned. “What woman?”
“I got married, too, honey,” Royce Montana said, leading the way to a lodge near the end of the village.
Lacey stared at her father’s back. Dimly she remembered that High Yellow Cloud had mentioned that the white man in their camp had married one of their women. Good Lord, Lacey thought, aghast, he’s married an Apache!
Things happened in a blur after that. They followed Royce Montana into a large wickiup and were met by an Apache woman who quickly made them feel at home. Lacey watched, speechless, as the woman efficiently treated Matt’s wounds, which were not as serious as Lacey had feared, then whipped up dinner for all of them.
“This is Blue Willow,” Royce Montana said when they were all seated around the fire.
“Pleased to meet you,” Lacey said politely, though she could not quite comprehend the fact that her father had married an Indian.
“She doesn’t speak much English,” Royce remarked, smiling at his wife, “and I don’t speak a whole lot of Apache, but we manage to communicate pretty well.”
“Yes,” Lacey said dryly. “I can see that.” Indeed, it was easy to see that Royce Montana and Blue Willow were much in love. The Indian woman was about thirty, Lacey guessed. Her hair was long and straight and black, her eyes were almond-shaped and beautiful, her face unlined and lovely.
During the next hour Royce Montana told how he had been captured by the Apaches and forced to become a slave. He had endured considerable abuse and humiliation until the day he saved an Apache child from drowning in the river. His act of heroism had earned him a place in the tribe, and he had planned to leave the Indians in the spring and return to his own people. But during the long, cold winter he had fallen in love with Blue Willow and they had been married.
“I can’t leave her,” Royce said, giving his wife an affectionate squeeze. “She wouldn’t be happy living among the whites, and I wouldn’t be happy without her, so…” He shrugged. “I’ve decided to stay here.” He glanced from Lacey to Matt and frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?”
“Yeah. We were traveling companions.”
Royce nodded slowly. “I remember now. You were on your way to Yuma. I thought the Indians got you.”
“They did, but Lacey stepped in and saved my life.”
“I see.”
“I can’t blame you for not being overjoyed to learn your daughter’s married to a man convicted of murder,” Matt said evenly, “but I didn’t kill that kid. I swear it.”
“You’ll excuse me if I appear a little skeptical,” Royce Montana replied wryly, “but every man in that wagon swore he was innocent.”
“Including you?”
“No. I was guilty as hell.”
“Daddy!”
“It’s true, Lacey. I killed Lemuel Webster. The fact that I was drunk at the time doesn’t mean a thing.” Royce Montana stroked his wife’s arm, his eyes haunted and sad. “It’s something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life.�
�� He smiled wistfully. “No more sad tales tonight,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “I’m glad you’re here, Lacey. You and Matt can bed down in our lodge for now. Tomorrow I’ll go and have a talk with Lame Bear. He’s Blue Willow’s father and just happens to be one of the chiefs. I’m sure he’ll agree to let you stay for a while, if that’s what you want to do.”
Lacey glanced at Matt hopefully. “Can we stay, Matt? At least for a few days.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“It’s settled then,” Royce Montana said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Matt agreed. “I’m going outside for a few minutes.”
“Me, too,” Lacey said, and taking Matt’s hand, she followed him out of the wickiup and into the trees.
“Are you happy now?” Matt asked.
“Yes. He looks well, doesn’t he? I think living with the Indians must agree with him.”
“I reckon,” Matt allowed, “but it hasn’t done me any good. I’m sore as hell.”
Lacey came to stand beside her husband, her eyes filled with concern. “Does it hurt very much?” she asked, laying a gentle hand on his arm.
“Does what hurt?” Matt asked ruefully. “The burns across my belly, or the knife wound in my side?”
“Matt, I’m serious. Are you in much pain?”
“No.” He pulled Lacey into his arms and kissed her fiercely. “Lacey…”
“I know. I want you, too.”
His mouth closed over hers again, evoking a quick response. Lacey’s arms twined around Matt’s neck as she pressed her body to his, loving the hard muscular length of him, reveling in the way her whole being seemed to come alive at his touch. She did not protest when he began to unlace the ties that held the tunic together, nor did she offer any resistance as he lowered her to the ground. The grass was cool beneath her naked flesh, but the gentle caress of Matt’s hands and mouth quickly warmed her. Uttering a little cry of contentment, she began to undress Matt, her fingers delighting in the touch of his flesh, in his sudden intake of breath as her hands lightly stroked his thighs and belly and then boldly caressed him.
She felt gloriously alive as Matt lowered his long body over hers, and shuddered with pleasure as his skin touched her own. For a moment, time seemed to stand still and she was aware of everything around her, the smell of roasting meat and sage, the damp grass beneath her back, the twinkling stars dancing across the darkened sky, the sound of a distant drum. Her heart was beating rapidly, and she felt wild and primitive and free.
She sighed as Matt’s hands roamed restlessly over her flesh. His lips claimed hers in a kiss that was long and possessive and demanding. At first, Lacey held back, fearful of causing Matt pain, but he seemed oblivious to his wounds, to everything but his desire for her, and for the urgent need to join their bodies into one flesh. She cried Matt’s name as his life poured into her, moaned softly as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, filling her with sweet ecstasy.
Feeling weary and utterly content, Matt rolled off Lacey but did not let her go. Loving her was like a balm to his body and soul, healing his wounds, easing his pain. Holding her close, he fell asleep.
“Matt?” Lacey whispered his name, unable to believe he had fallen asleep so quickly. But then, she mused, he had not had a good night’s sleep for two days. Add to that the fact that he had been in a fight and wounded several times, and she supposed it was little wonder that he was exhausted. Smiling faintly, she wondered where he had found the stamina to make love to her.
She was still smiling when she, too, drifted to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Lacey hummed softly as she gathered an armful of twigs and branches and began walking back toward her father’s wickiup. Three weeks had passed since they had arrived at the Apache camp. The Chiricahua chief, Lame Bear, had agreed that Matt and Lacey could stay in the village as guests of the white man called Pale Buffalo. Matt surmised that they were not so much guests as prisoners, but they were allowed to come and go within the village as they pleased, although Matt was not allowed to carry a weapon and they had been warned not to try to leave the village.
Lacey learned a lot about the Indians in the days that followed. She had once viewed the Apache as less than human, but now, living with them, watching them, she discovered they were a complex and fascinating people. They ate their dogs and their horses when meat was scarce, yet they would not eat the fish that were plentiful in the river because they believed that the fish was related to the snake and therefore cursed and unfit for consumption. The warriors could be cruel, savage, but they were caring fathers, capable of great tenderness and love as they played with their children. The women could be as ferocious as the men, and they often fought at their husbands’ sides, yet they were loving mothers and devoted wives.
The Chiricahua were a religious people who prayed often to their god, Usen, the Giver of Life. There were prayers and songs for the sick and the dying, and for the dead. There were chants for planting and harvesting, songs for war and for love. Despite their warlike ways, the Indians had a great respect for life, all life. People, plants, animals, the earth itself, all were respected and revered. Each rock, each tree, each blade of grass was believed to have a spirit of its own. Blood ties were strong, virtually unbreakable. Friends were treated the same as family and were supported and protected. Tribal laws and taboos were strictly enforced; punishment was swift.
Life among the Chiricahua was different than life with the Mescalero. Lacey was not a slave now, and though the Apache way of life was rigorous, she was happier than she had ever been in her life, and that surprised her. After her last few encounters with Indians, she had never expected to feel at ease among them, yet she was learning to appreciate them as a people. She found herself singing as she worked, smiling with the Indian women, laughing with the children. Life was hard, but it was good. Her father was alive and in good health, Matt’s wounds were healing beautifully, and Blue Willow had become a dear friend.
The only fly in the ointment was High Yellow Cloud. He had not yet recovered from his defeat at Matt’s hands, and Lacey was sorely afraid that, sooner or later, the Apache warrior would seek his revenge for the humiliation he had suffered at Matt’s hands. Often she caught the warrior staring at her, his dark eyes filled with anger and desire. He still wanted her for his woman, and the knowledge bothered Lacey greatly.
When Lacey reached her father’s lodge, she stacked the wood she had collected near the door, then began to help Blue Willow prepare the morning meal. She smiled fondly at Matt, who was shaving under the amused eye of several young Apache children. Indian men did not have much facial hair, and what little they had, they plucked out.
Lacey laughed softly when Matt nicked himself and the Apache children howled with delight. Oh, but it was good to be alive and in love on such a glorious morning, she thought happily, and when Matt came to kiss her, a wave of well-being washed over her.
In the days that followed, Matt began to wear buckskins and moccasins. His skin, already brown, grew even darker. His hair, as black and straight as any Indian’s, hung almost to his shoulders. Indeed, Lacey mused, he looked almost like an Apache himself.
Others in the village thought the same, and when High Yellow Cloud remarked that the white man had claimed to be the son of Hummingbird, the news spread quickly through the village. One warrior, Red Knife, was particularly interested in Matt’s claim. Hummingbird had been his cousin. Her father had sold her to a white man for a new rifle and a jug of corn liquor, to the everlasting shame of his family.
Matt and Lacey were sitting outside late one afternoon when Red Knife and his entire family approached the lodge. Lacey looked at Matt, her heart in her throat. Something was wrong. Why else would so many Indians be coming toward them, their faces grave?
Matt stood up as Red Knife approached him. “Welcome to our lodge,” M
att said formally. “Will you eat?”
Red Knife nodded. He sat down on Matt’s right, and the rest of his family sat down behind him.
Rising, Lacey quickly prepared a plate of food and offered it to the Indians. They each took a helping, nodding their thanks.
They would have accepted whatever she offered, Lacey knew. To refuse would be impolite. She had quickly learned that the rules of behavior in an Apache camp were just as strictly adhered to as were those in the East. When the Indians had finished eating, Red Knife and Matt discussed the possibilities of hunting together, and then Red Knife brought up the real reason for his visit.
“High Yellow Cloud tells me your mother was of the Dineh,” the warrior said, his eyes locked on Matt’s.
“Yes. Her name was Hummingbird.” Red Knife nodded. Turning to those gathered behind him, he repeated what Matt had said in his own language. There was a brief flurry of excited chatter, and then all eyes focused on Matt. Their expressions were no longer sober, but warm with welcome. “We are your family,” Red Knife said, his voice thick with emotion. “Your mother was my cousin.”
Matt nodded, his heart swelling with emotion as he gazed at the men, women, and children clustered in the lodge. These people were his kin, blood of his blood.
Lacey stared up at Matt, trying to comprehend what Red Knife had said. Matt was an Indian. These people were all related to him. She was married to a man who was half Apache.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The next day, Matt’s female relatives erected a lodge for Matt and Lacey to live in. Other members of the tribe brought gifts, blankets and robes, eating utensils, cooking pots, a drying rack, a pair of willow backrests.
Matt was touched by the generosity of his new-found family, and with the help of Blue Willow and Royce Montana, he put on a feast for the whole tribe. The Apache were pleased with his gesture of friendship, and Matt and Lacey became members of the tribe instead of unwelcome guests.
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