Hawk's Prize (11 page)

The morning sun steamed the weathered wood of the wharf as Simon dismounted, hardly bothering to throw the horse’s reins over the hitching post before climbing the steep stairs to the elegant white stone building that housed the office of Gault Shipping. He crossed the cool interior, the boots he despised clicking on the black-and-white mosaic tile floor that had once been the pride and joy of Harold Hawk. He opened the door of the inner office and strode toward the desk, ignoring the surprise his attire caused on the face of the slight, bespectacled, gray-haired clerk seated there.

If he were of a mind to smile, Simon would have been amused at the innocuous appearance of Bruce Carlton. The man’s benign exterior was more misleading than anyone dreamed, and it served him well.

Not bothering with any explanation, Simon snapped, “Come into the office, Bruce.”

Simon waited until Bruce followed him inside before closing the door behind him. He eyed Bruce coldly as
he said, “I have a job for you that you shouldn’t find difficult to accomplish. You still visit Madame Chantalle’s for an occasional poker game in addition to the usual convenience she offers, don’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good. Then you won’t find it difficult to get access to the upper hallway while you’re visiting one of the women there.”

“Probably not.”

“A man by the name of Drew Collins is recuperating from a leg wound in the bedroom at the end of the upper hallway. He’s presently incapacitated and as vulnerable as he’ll ever be. Dr. Wesley says he’ll be fit to travel in a few days, but I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Bruce squinted over the rims of his wire-rimmed glasses as he said, “Just to be clear, boss, you mean—”

Simon’s face reddened. “I mean I want you to make sure Drew Collins takes his last breath in that bed. I don’t care how you do it . . . just do it!”

“Right. I understand.”

“I want you to report back to me as soon as it’s done, do you understand?”

“Right.”

Bruce hesitated, and Simon inquired stiffly, “Do you have any questions?”

“No.” Bruce shook his head.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Bruce shrugged. “Well, a fella can’t go to Madame Chantalle’s without money.”

Simon took an impatient breath and turned toward his desk drawer. He opened the strongbox there,
counted out a sum, and slapped the bills into Bruce’s hand as he asked, “Will that be enough to cover your expenses?”

“That’s fine, boss.”

“You only have a few days.”

Bruce smiled. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

Drew fidgeted in bed and looked around at the room that had become all too familiar to him. The gaudy decoration had become increasingly abhorrent as the time he spent there stretched longer. If he were not still unsteady on his feet, if he did not know he would be repeating a mistake he had made before, he would get dressed and leave Madame Chantalle’s and Galveston right then.

Or . . . was he just telling himself that?

He was not oblivious to the debt he owed Chantalle for all but saving his life, even though she obviously preferred to keep her distance from him. Nor could he minimize the part Tricia had played. His debt to them both grew with every passing day. He intended to pay that debt when the time was right and Yankee justice no longer threatened him. Dr. Wesley had assured him that the infection in his leg had been routed, that he no longer suffered the threat of amputation, and that he was the only one who would truly know when his leg was strong enough to support him again.

The ultimate decision was his.

Drew frowned over that thought as he looked at the upholstered chair where Willie dozed fitfully. Willie had been a great help since arriving several days previously. His friend had assisted him as he walked a few
steps further each day. Drew was well aware that he would soon be able to bid Galveston good-bye.

Galveston . . . and Tricia.

Actually, he’d seen less and less of Tricia since Willie’s arrival. Because of Willie’s almost constant presence in his room, all opportunity for private conversation with Tricia had ceased—but he needed to speak to her. He needed to explain that their brief moments together had not been the result of the workings of a fevered mind. He needed to tell her that if circumstances were different, if he . . . if she . . .

Drew’s thoughts came to a halt when Tricia entered the room carrying a tray of food. Immediately awake, Willie was on his feet to help her as she settled the tray on the bedstand beside Drew and said, “I thought Willie and you might like some of Polly’s chicken soup. It’s very good.”

The sea green of her eyes met his, and Drew went still. He definitely wanted her.

“You’re right, ma’am. This soup looks real good. And me and Drew appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Willie responded in Drew’s stead, smiling his little-boy smile as he added, “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, and we’re going to pay you back. It just might take some time, is all.”

“Payment was never a consideration, Willie.” Tricia’s reply was spontaneous. “Chantalle is only too happy to show appreciation in her own way for everything our soldiers did for us.”

Speaking for the first time, Drew said with a touch of old resentment, “But the Confederacy lost the war, as you once reminded me.”

Tricia’s face colored as she turned to him and said, “Confederate soldiers fought for their country just as bravely as Yankee soldiers did for theirs. Their viewpoints were the only difference between them . . . and that difference was settled by the war, once and for all.”

Drew retorted, “It was, huh?”

“Yes, it was.”

“You won’t convince Drew of that so easily, ma’am.” Willie shrugged and added, “Or me, either, for that matter . . . but this soup sure looks good.”

Tricia watched as Willie cleared a space for the plates. She jumped when Drew touched her hand unexpectedly, turning her back toward him. His gaze spoke of a myriad emotions before Willie unintentionally severed the silent communication between them by looking up from the tray to say, “Thank you again, ma’am.”

Tricia left the room with a brief nod and a stiff smile.

Drew picked up his spoon.

Tricia’s smile faltered as she pulled Drew’s door closed behind her. Sadness brought tears to his eyes. There was no denying that he’d be well enough to get back on his horse and ride out in a few days; she’d probably never see him again. He had as much as told her that, even though his touch had said so much more.

Tricia closed her eyes as she sought to bring her emotions under control. Her feelings for Drew were intense, yet she hardly knew him. All she knew was that her heart jumped a beat each time she saw him, that it hammered in her breast every time his gaze met hers,
and that his touch stirred her in ways she had never been stirred before.

But they were hardly more than strangers whose acquaintanceship was coming to an end.

Damn, what was she supposed to do now?

The evening was deepening, activity in Chantalle’s upstairs hallway was brisk, and the closet where Bruce was hiding grew hotter with every passing minute.

He took a breath and unbuttoned his shirt as he strained to see the portion of hallway visible through the crack in the doorway. He had come upstairs with Georgia a short time earlier and had enjoyed every minute of the time he’d spent with her in her room. He had made an excuse to leave before she was fully dressed so he could slip into the closet unseen and wait for the perfect opportunity to follow through on the boss’s orders—but the memory of his time with Georgia lingered. He had enjoyed himself so much that he had made the decision to stop back to see her again when Simon calmed down. He’d be able to relax a little more then.

A familiar chill moved down Bruce’s spine when he recalled the look in Simon’s eyes and the flush on his face when he’d said,
Make sure Drew Collins takes his last breath in that bed.

He took consolation in the thought that he had handled similar situations successfully, without casting any suspicion on either the boss or himself. It amused him to think that he would run out of digits if he counted on his fingers the number of times he had “handled things.” Actually, if he were to write them all
down and describe the various ways he had accomplished those jobs, he could write a book—a dime novel that would chill readers even more than Simon chilled him.

Bruce raised his chin with a perverse pride in his accomplishments. He did what Simon wanted because he knew the depth of his boss’s determination, because he knew the danger of trying to thwart it, and because in doing the boss’s bidding, he had found a place in life. He had become the right hand of an important man like Simon Gault, an exalted spot that a common, uneducated fellow such as he seldom achieved. He knew, however, that his position was precarious, and all his achievements could be nullified by a single failure.

But he wouldn’t fail. The boss had left the details up to him, just like he always did. Bruce had had some fun with that state of affairs in the past. He remembered the cowboy clothing he’d worn when he rode out into open country and shot old Hiram Charters right off his horse so he wouldn’t be able to take Chantalle’s message to Whit Hawk. He had made that killing look like a robbery, and nobody had ever suspected otherwise.

He had been indistinguishable from every other sailor on the Galveston dock when he had boarded Captain Randolph Winters’s ship and plunged a knife into the captain’s back while he worked at his ledger. The authorities had never even looked in his direction, and that killing was never solved either.

Bruce’s pride briefly dimmed. He had failed to carry out Simon’s orders only once—the situation with Jason Dodd—and the memory of Simon’s fury still set
him to shaking. The boss had allowed him that one misstep because he intended to give him a second chance when Jason Dodd returned to Galveston. Yes, he was Simon Gault’s right-hand man, and that was the way things were going to remain.

Bruce unconsciously wiped the perspiration from his brow. That Willie Childers fella was bound to leave Drew Collins’s room sooner or later. When he did, Bruce would simply walk inside and take care of Drew Collins before Childers returned. He’d be careful to leave no obvious marks on Collins’s body, so it would look like a natural death, and he’d simply use the rear staircase of the building to disappear into the night afterwards. He was good at that—disappearing into the night. He’d had great practice.

Drew Collins—dead.

That order was as good as accomplished. Bruce’s only problem was Willie Childers. It was getting late. He wouldn’t have much longer before the evening ended and his chance was gone.

Damn that Childers! He was spoiling everything.

Chantalle moved through the noisy crowd on the first floor of her establishment with a practiced smile. Her clientele was in particularly high spirits this evening, unlike herself. Will had returned only a few hours earlier from delivering the message to La Posada. Will had apologized, saying that he’d only been able to deliver that message to Whit’s wife, the beautiful Jackie. Whit, himself, was away on a trail drive and she wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

Chantalle smiled absently at a client. If she didn’t
miss her guess, Drew Collins would leave Galveston as soon as he was back on his feet. She had read that urgency in his eyes. If that happened, both Whit and Drew would possibly have lost the chance of a lifetime to be reunited.

Chantalle’s smile dimmed under the weight of her troubling thoughts.

“What’s the matter, Chantalle?”

Angie.

Chantalle looked at the nosy whore, her patience short. Angie was already a little too curious about things that weren’t her business. Chantalle didn’t want to stir her interest any further.

She forced a smile as she replied, “What makes you think something is wrong?”

“Oh . . . I don’t know. You look like you’ve got something on your mind. It sure can’t be that you’re worried about business. There’re more fellas here tonight than some of these
ladies
of yours can handle.” Angie raised her shoulder in a casual shrug. “Of course, that’s never a problem for me.”

“I know. I can always depend on you, Angie.”

“That’s right, and I was thinking that maybe you should be—”

Angie’s statement was interrupted when Jack Watton, a cattleman who knew his way around the ladies, walked up and said, “Have you got some time for me, Angie?”

Dismissing her conversation with Chantalle at the sound of Jack’s voice, Angie fluttered her lashes and looked at him coyly. Taking his hand, she drew his arm around her waist and leaned against him. She curled
his hand around her breast, encouraging him to knead it hard as she said, “I sure do, Jack, honey. I haven’t forgotten the last time you came upstairs with me. I get hot just thinking about it. You’re something special, and I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I’ve got something real special I’ve been saving just for you.”

The erotic effect of Angie’s statement was obvious in the bulge below Jack’s belt, and Angie laughed aloud. She rubbed up against it and eased him toward the stairs as she whispered, “That’s fine for starters, Jack, honey, but just remember . . . I can take all you’ve got to give . . . and I mean
all
of it.”

Chantalle watched as Angie and Jack ascended the staircase. Jack was practically salivating, and Angie . . . Angie was Angie—hot for any man who walked through the doorway.

Shaking her head, Chantalle turned toward the bar as the pair slipped out of sight. There might have been a point in her past when that situation would have pleased her, but now . . .

Chantalle forced another smile when a familiar cowpoke squeezed past her ample figure as she walked through the doorway into the next room. That smile disappeared from her lips when she reached the bar and met Jake’s knowing glance with the order, “Pour me a drink.”

Tricia sat back in Chantalle’s office chair and rubbed her eyes. She had been working over Chantalle’s books for more than an hour in an attempt to straighten out her accounting. It had only taken her a few minutes to
see why Chantalle spent so much time poring over the pages.