Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (17 page)

      
Probably already has a woman lined up for tonight,
she thought pettishly, wondering if it were Kitty Cummins.

      
When the main course was finished, Hawk declined dessert and excused himself, making Carrie even more suspicious. As he left the dining room, a short, rather brassy-looking redhead greeted him in the hall and they departed together.

      
After watching the exchange, Carrie quirked one delicately sculpted brow at Frank and said in mock sorrow, “There goes only a tad, a poor boy, left to fend for himself. Why, after what I've seen today, I wonder he's not been eaten alive, Frank.”

      
Frank gave a hearty chuckle. “Wal, ya cud hardly 'spect 'em ta stay a tad ferever. I said he growed up, didn't I? Yeah, women er plumb took with him, how he looks 'n' all. Used ta be thet way with his pa, too, but as he got rich 'n' powerful, it sorta soured him.”

      
“It'll be the same way with his son, mark my words,” Carrie responded.

      
“Mebee. Hawk's got more reason ta be bitter, though. Noah had everthin' 'n' threw it away like a fool. Hawk ain't had all thet many choices. Yew see all them purty white females makin' eyes at him when their daddies ain't around, but he ain't th' one's gonna git Circle S, 'n' without it, he's jist a half-breed gunman. They might like ta look at him, mebee even more—some o' 'em—real secret like, but none o' them'd marry him.”

      
Recalling Kitty Cummins that afternoon, Carrie wondered if Frank was right. Perhaps that explained his cynical manner with all women, even her. Especially her.

* * * *

      
Hawk did not ride back to Circle S with them the next morning, but left word with Frank that he was meeting Kyle and heading north to check on a matter of stolen stock. Frank was decidedly hung over, but assured Carrie that his poker winnings more than compensated him for his pounding head. She was dubious. They arrived at Circle S late in the afternoon. Bidding Frank good day and urging him to spend the evening in his bunk, she headed toward the big white frame structure on the hill. Her sense of dread increased because she had seen Noah's gray horse in the stable. He was home.

      
Her premonition proved accurate, for no sooner had she set foot inside the door than he was on her, grabbing her by one arm and yanking her into the parlor in silent, tight-lipped rage.

      
“You actually rode into Miles City in that cheap costume! Not enough you cavort around the ranch in pants, astride a horse, but now you go to town, too. Maybe you can have Mrs. Grummond make you up a pair of satin pants for the ball next week!” His face was blotchy and livid, getting redder as be worked himself into a rage.

      
Carrie stood in the middle of the study, shaking but holding herself stubbornly erect, unwilling to plead or cajole him. “I've grown used to riding astride since it's safer on the open range. I never thought about doing otherwise when we went to town.”

      
He snorted in disgust. “I can see that!”

      
Taking a steadying breath, she said, “If you feel it to be such a terrible thing, I'll wear a habit and ride sidesaddle whenever I go to Miles City in the future.”

      
“So gracious of you, my dear,” he said witheringly. Then he seemed to consider and said in a silky voice, “Do be sure to dress nicely for dinner. It'll just be the two of us and we can retire early tonight.”

      
Carrie blanched in spite of herself. She had learned to stand up against his screaming tirades, but whenever he taunted her with veiled sexual threats, she turned to jelly. God, she cursed her cowardice, but loathed his touch so greatly she felt powerless to stop the trembling.

      
Like a leopard ready to pounce, he seized on her weakness, sneering. “You do so hate any mention of your wifely duties, don't you, Carrie? You're an unnatural woman, and worse yet, you're barren! Better start saying your prayers that you conceive soon. I'm not a patient man, and I've waited far too long already. I divorced one wife. I can do it again if I have to, but don't think I'll make a settlement on you like I did on Lola. She had an influential family. Yours already sold you to me!”

      
At his scathing, triumphant flush, she paled, turning to walk out the door and mount the stairs on wooden legs. Lord, she would be penniless with no one to take her in, just as Uncle Hiram had threatened back in St. Louis. She laughed at the irony of it all—she might end up the same as if she had refused to marry Noah Sinclair. How much better would it have been to face the streets without ever knowing his brutal touch?

CHAPTER EIGHT

      
Hawk stood up and slapped the dirt from his hands. The campfire was barely warm and the tracks were clear. He turned to Kyle and grinned. “Looks like Krueger's been real busy.”

      
“Purely does seem too easy. Why do ya s'pose he's got so careless in his old age?” Kyle grinned in return. “Yew fixin' ta pay him a lil' visit?” He cocked one scraggly reddish brow and waited for an answer.

      
“I've got all the evidence I need to cut a deal, but one thing. First, let's tree us a polecat named Squires.”

      
Kyle whistled merrily in appreciation. “Do ya have ta take him alive, or kin I jist shoot th' varmint?”

* * * *

      
The main dining room of the Excelsior Hotel in Miles City had been converted into a ballroom. It was cleared of its small tables, the oak floor polished to a gleaming luster, and elaborate decorations hung. Red, white, and blue bunting was looped across the walls and around the pictures of past U.S. presidents. A long, linen-draped table stood at the head of the room, bedecked with masses of fresh summer flowers and set with crystal and silver.
 

      
The buffet was lavish with slabs of beef, pork roasts, fruit compotes, and, of course, those two favorites of westerners, fresh oysters and hard-boiled eggs. There was even freshly turned ice cream for dessert. A seven-piece band complete with violin players was tuning up across the floor. Orten Hobbs, the owner of the hotel and mayor of Miles City, had spared no expense in making this gala worthy of his impressive guest list.

      
By the time Carrie had finished her toilette and had Estrella help her into Mrs. Grummond's creation, she knew she would be late. Well, let Noah cool his heels, awhile in the adjacent room of their suite at the Excelsior. If he wanted her to look the part of a cattle king's queen, he could give her time to do so.

      
As she surveyed herself in the mirror, Carrie was startled by the face staring back at her. It seemed so much older than her scant nineteen years. It was almost hard, certainly sophisticated. Her hair was piled high in a fluffy pompadour, coiled with elaborate curls, and set with lustrous pearls. The deep midnight blue of the gown made her eyes appear almost black and her skin seem translucently pale despite months in the sun.
 

      
The dress was cut daringly low, flattering her rounded breasts and tiny waist while the slender skirt emphasized her height. The rich satin was so vibrant, it required little ornamentation and was cut simply. A long elegant train and pearls sewn across the narrow shoulder straps were the only adornments. She wore matching pearls in her ears and around her neck. The luminous quality of the fabric and the jewels made her appear ethereal, yet worldly. It was just perfect.

      
“Then why do I dread going downstairs?” Carrie mused forlornly. She hated the thought of confronting all those staring eyes, knowing they wondered why such a young woman had married a man past fifty. Had they all drawn the same conclusion as Hawk?

      
Noah escorted Carrie to the gala, swelling with pride. She looked superb in her new gown. His wife would be the most beautiful woman at the ball. Even more importantly, not a word of scandal had ever touched her. For all his grievances against her, at least he could say that. Tonight, it would suffice.

      
“Smile, my dear,” he said expansively, giving her hand a falsely loving pat. “Show them all how gracious as well as beautiful you are, Mrs. Sinclair.”

      
Gritting her teeth, Carrie complied with a broad but forced smile. She was introduced to women dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors and danced with men who were politicians, bankers, stockmen, and railroaders. After a couple of hours she had indigestion from the fresh oysters, sore feet from the clumsy dancers, and a pounding headache from the rudeness of Montana women who were incensed that Noah Sinclair had gone east for a wife. She asked the young governor's aide, who was her current partner, to get her a glass of punch, then slipped quickly outside for a gulp of fresh air, deserting the hapless swain.

      
The crowded ballroom was stifling, and the brisk September air felt immediately invigorating. She walked slowly and quietly around the back patio of the hotel, looking for a quiet bench so she could rest her aching feet when she heard the rustle of taffeta and then a low, familiar chuckle.

      
“If you stood half that close to me on the dance floor, Dorothea, your husband would horsewhip me.”

      
“You know he'd never have the nerve to call you out, Hawk, but you know how folks would talk if we danced together.”

      
He laughed sardonically. “I see, we can
dance
together, but we can't dance together.”

      
“Oooh, you are so naughty.” Her giggle was suddenly muffled.

      
Carrie was furious for being caught eavesdropping by that red-skinned Lothario twice in a scant week. She quickly beat a hasty retreat back into the crowded ballroom.

      
Just a few minutes later she saw a tiny, voluptuous woman with jet-black hair slip in the side door, nervously patting her elaborate coiffure. “She looks bee-stung on the lips,” Carrie muttered pettishly, wondering where else Hawk had trespassed on her overripe body. Then the subject of her ire came sauntering through the back entry.
 

      
I wonder what he's doing here. This sort of social thing would hardly interest him,
she thought to herself, realizing with a shock that he was dressed for the formal occasion. Even though she was well used to his dramatic appearance, she was amazed. In severely tailored formal black evening clothes he looked startlingly elegant. The snowy-white starched shirtfront contrasted with his swarthy complexion and midnight-black eyes, but rather than emphasizing his savage ancestry, it merely added an aura of exotic intrigue.

      
Something else about him was different, though, not just the surprising clothes.
His hair
, Carrie thought with a start. It had been freshly barbered; no longer shoulder-length and unruly, it was significantly shorter, emphasizing the long, carefully trimmed sideburns, giving even more dramatic definition to the harsh planes and angles of that arresting face.

      
As if daring any man in the assembly to question his right to be there, he moved with arrogant grace. None did. Although some eyed him with veiled hostility, most spoke to him in perfunctory politeness, a few in what seemed to be genuine friendliness. The noise level in the room had not changed with his entry, but it was obvious to Carrie that the topic of many conversations had done so. Hawk walked casually to the buffet table and took a glass of whiskey from Sam Waters.

      
The women, too, were all aware of his unexpected arrival. A few older matrons sniffed in disgust, but most looked at him in fascination, a few in brazen invitation, most in concealed hunger. Kitty Cummins danced with a plump young man with reddish hair, never casting so much as a glance toward the buffet table, although Carrie was certain she knew Hawk stood there, watching her with amused black eyes. Dorothea Eldridge slipped her hand coyly onto a gray-haired man's arm and engaged him in intense conversation.
Probably the cuckolded husband,
Carrie surmised, feeling the tension thicken despite the sprightly music and false joviality filling the air.

      
Watching the assembly's reactions to Hawk Sinclair, Carrie suddenly recalled Frank's words:
Yew see all them purty white females makin' eyes at him when their daddies ain't around, but he ain't th' one's gonna git Circle S, 'n' without it he's jist a half-breed gunman. They might look at him, but none o' them’d marry him.
She realized how closely Lowery had hit the mark. The men were afraid of him and the women were attracted to him, but they all resented his Cheyenne blood.
A half-breed gunman, indeed
, she thought ironically, staring at the barbarically handsome man across the room.

      
As if sensing her thoughts, Hawk swiveled his gaze from the dance floor and Kitty Cummins over to her. Black and green eyes locked and it seemed as if some spark of empathy was transmitted between them.

      
She knows
, he thought bitterly, anger consuming him that she would understand his precarious position in white society. He did not choose to analyze why it should bother him so much. Kyle and Frank—even Noah—knew. With no one else did it rankle so.

      
Noah strode over to Carrie and proprietarily took her arm, leading her to the dance floor. “Have you been enjoying yourself? I noticed you certainly don't seem to lack for escorts,” he said by way of offhandedly excusing his own lengthy absence.

      
“My dance card is full,” Carrie responded dryly, thinking to herself how glad she was that he had chosen to closet himself with railroad men for the past hour. She positively hated the knowing smirk of the predatory females in town whenever he squired her about.