Maria’s piercing cry jerked Matt awake. The blankets fell away from his bare chest as he forced himself into a sitting position. Kerosene lamps cast deep shadows across the bedroom as Matt twisted to see out the door. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Lark… More excited voices rose in the yard. Maria was sobbing. Someone else was shouting orders in an urgent tone. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care. Scowling, Matt wrapped his fist into the blankets and shoved himself up against the headboard, waiting. It was impossible to help in his present condition anyway. His eyes widened as Consuelo, a heavyset Mexican woman, and Maria half carried, half dragged Lark into the bedroom. Shock riveted Matt as he stared at Lark’s torn shirt and blood-encrusted face. She was barely conscious, her chin sunk against her chest. Maria cast a frightened glance at him as they maneuvered Lark to the bed. “Señor, Patrona Lark is hurt. Forgive us, but we must bring her in here.” Matt watched as they gently laid Lark down, nausea rising in his throat as Lark’s hair fell away, exposing her battered face and neck.
