Hawk's Prize (2 page)

Determined to find his brother, Drew left the orphanage a year later, but his search proved futile. He returned to El Paso for his sisters shortly afterwards, only to discover that they had been killed in a fire that had destroyed the manor house and everything in it.

He still cursed the day he had left them behind.

Drew’s expression grew taut. He had felt strongly about the Confederate cause when the war began and had joined the boys in gray. His fellow soldiers had been like family; but that had finished badly, too, with Yankee bullets ending many of their lives before the war and their cause was lost.

He supposed it was for that reason that he had accepted Willie’s invitation to go home with him to meet his kin; but he was only too aware that he must maintain his anonymity in a city where Yankees kept a prominent force. Having led a secret Confederate raid on a Federal gold shipment forwarded by rail during
the war, he had accomplished his mission, only to be wounded for the second time. He had delivered the gold to his superiors but was immediately hospitalized. He learned when the war ended shortly afterward that the Yankees never recovered the gold. He also learned that the Yankees were searching for him because of his role in the theft.

One of thousands of defeated Confederates ostensibly heading home, he had become a wanted man.

Drew’s leg began throbbing painfully, and he tensed. He had not expected that the wound in his leg—which had never fully healed—would start acting up again. Nor had he expected that Willie would be determined to stop off in Galveston on the way so he might “visit a woman of quality,” unlike the camp followers he had become accustomed to during the war.

Willie was still gawking, and Drew unconsciously shook his head. Willie was of medium height, slight, snub-nosed, blond, and freckled. He looked younger than his twenty-four years, an appearance that contrasted vividly with Drew’s dark hair, strong features, penetrating hazel-eyed gaze, and the broad, muscular physique he had earned the hard way after leaving the orphanage eight years earlier. Drew knew the differences in their personalities were even greater than the physical contrasts. Willie was instinctively trusting and optimistic, almost naive despite his war experiences and the sober, intensely loyal part of his personality that most people did not have occasion to see. Drew was cautious and deliberate, a man who was realistic almost to a fault, impatient with deceit, and dangerous to cross. Yet despite the differences between
them, the friendship struck between Willie and him had been spontaneous and true. Drew valued it.

Valuing their friendship, however, did not make Drew patient with the time Willie wasted gaping at the flamboyance of the mansion’s interior. To his mind, the gilded mirrors and red velvet draperies and furniture bespoke the house’s function clearly, as did the magnificent, prominently displayed stained-glass image of Aphrodite resplendent in a transparent toga. The great oak bar and unpretentious gaming parlor that he glimpsed through a doorway were unexpected, but the curved staircase rising from the parquet floor to the second story—where he assumed the true business of the establishment was conducted—was not.

He glanced at the relaxed, laughing patrons of the establishment, unconsciously noting that business appeared to be in full sway—a surprise since it was barely past noon. That thought coincided with another twinge in his leg, and Drew caught his breath. He and Willie had taken time after breakfast to stop off at the baths, to get their hair trimmed, and to change into clean shirts, but their attire still made them a little too obvious for his comfort in this setting.

Drew steeled himself as a middle-aged woman with outlandishly bright hair turned the corner into view and started toward the staircase. Her red hair was upswept in complicated swirls; her red velvet gown was obviously expensive and cut deeply enough in the bodice to reveal the curves of an ample, matronly figure; her makeup was artfully but heavily applied. She was a handsome woman who Drew reasoned had probably been a beauty in her earlier years. She stopped
short when she saw them at the door. The look in her eyes made Drew suspect that their stay might be limited.

Smiling unexpectedly, the woman walked toward them and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Chantalle Beauchamp, and this is my establishment. You appear to have recently arrived in Galveston . . . perhaps from the war.” Her smile faltered as she added more softly, “If so, I’m glad you have returned safely. It pains me that so many young men did not. You are welcome in my house.”

Her distraction obvious, Chantalle turned gratefully toward two young women approaching them. Without allowing Drew or Willie to respond, she said, “Let me introduce you to Angie and Mavis. I’m sure they will do their best to entertain you.”

Chantalle started up the staircase without another word, and Willie winked in Drew’s direction when the young blond woman named Mavis took his arm with a flirting glance and drew him toward the inner room. Drew did not smile when the dark-haired woman moved to his side and purred, “Like Chantalle said, my name’s Angie.” She swept him with a heated glance before pressing herself closer. “You sure are a handsome fella. It’s going to be fun getting acquainted with you. But even before you tell me your name, I want you to know that I’m up to anything you have in mind, because just looking at you puts me in a real playful mood.”

Drew stared down at the voluptuous whore. His leg was throbbing painfully, sobering memories were returning, and despite the young woman’s obvious assets,
he had not a speck of desire for her. He was beginning to regret coming to Galveston, and his visit to the brothel even more.

His primary concern at the moment was his increasing inability to stand steadily on his feet, and he responded flatly, “You’re wasting your time, honey. I’m heading for the bar.”

“What are you doing here?”

Tricia glanced up from the suitcase she was emptying onto the bed as the door of the room bounced open. At a loss for words, she stared at the woman who stood framed in the opening. Her red hair blazed in the sunlight, her red dress was provocatively cut, and her painted, mature face was tightly composed.

It was Chantalle, and she was angry.

Yes, what
was
she doing there?

Tricia shook her head.

“I asked you what you’re doing here.”

Aware that she could avoid a response no longer, Tricia replied, “I wanted to surprise you. I went to great trouble to make sure no one saw me approaching so you would be the first one to know I was here.”

“But Polly saw you and recognized you from your photograph on my desk. And if she saw you, others did, too.”

“I don’t think so—but right now I don’t really care. I had hoped you’d welcome me.”

“You know you’re not welcome here.”

“This is my
home,
Chantalle.”

“No, it isn’t! You don’t belong here and you know it. I made sure of that when you were still a child.”

“Did you?” Tricia pushed a blond wisp back from her forehead with a shaky hand. “You may have tried, but despite all those years of private schools up North, when I kept hoping you would take me back home with you each time you came to visit, I knew where I belonged—and that’s here, with you.”

“I promised your mother—”

“I know what you promised my mother.” Tricia took a stabilizing breath before continuing softly, “You’ve told me that story often enough. You promised my mother on her deathbed that you’d take care of me and raise me to be a woman she’d be proud of.”

“That’s a truth I’ve lived by.”

“I know, but—”

“Your mother wouldn’t want to see you in a bordello, much less have you
living
here.”

“Living in a bordello . . . you mean, like she did?”

Chantalle shook her head stiffly. “Your mother and I didn’t live in a bordello when you were little, although I almost wish we had. We shared a miserable little room where we hid you from the ‘friends’ we brought home when we were driven to desperation because there was nothing for us to eat.”

“But no matter how bad things were, you kept your promise after she died. You took care of me.”

Her ample breasts heaving with suppressed emotion, Chantalle whispered shakily, “And it was hard, Tricia. I had made so many mistakes in my life. I had failed too many times to allow myself to fail again with such an important trust. In the end, I took the only way out. I was lucky enough to find a ‘house’ that allowed me to keep you with me. I was lucky enough to find a special
‘patron,’ too, an old man who I truly believe loved me in his way. When he died unexpectedly, he left me a sum that enabled me to leave the house where I was working and bring you here with me when I set up a house of my own. The day that I was able to send you up North to school—as far away from this place as I possibly could—was a triumph for me.”

Chantalle brushed away a tear as she continued, “That day was a triumph for you, too, whether you want to believe it or not, and I will not allow you to sacrifice it all now.”

“It’s no sacrifice for me to come home, Chantalle. It’s the realization of a dream.”

“No! You’re beautiful and educated. You’re a
lady
. . . a woman who will make a wonderful wife for a man of substance.”

“I can find a man of substance here in Galveston.”

“Not if you’re considered Chantalle Beauchamp’s daughter. Not if you’re living in a bordello!”

“I wanted to come home, Chantalle.”

“That was a mistake. There’s no place for you in this house.”

“I didn’t mean I expected to work as one of your girls.”

“Whether you did or not doesn’t matter, don’t you understand? You’ll be considered no better than one of the women here simply by association with me.”

“I
am
no better than the women here. If not for you, I might be one of them.”

“But you’re not.”

“I know what I am . . . and I don’t care what people think of me.”

“I do!”

“Chantalle . . .” Tricia’s throat tightened as she continued, “My mother wanted me to be happy, didn’t she?”

“Of course, but—”

“I can’t find happiness by forcing the past out of my life—a life I owe to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. All I did was keep a promise that was worth keeping.”

“You did so much more, Chantalle. You made me believe I was worthwhile. You gave me a sense of who I am, and who I can be . . . and you gave me love.”

Chantalle’s shoulders stiffened as she pressed, “If you want to repay me for what I did, you can do it by leaving here and by becoming the woman your mother and I both dreamed you would be some day.”

“I can become that woman here.”

“No, you can’t.”

“You said it yourself, I’m educated. I can read, cipher, embroider, sing, play the piano. I can also do
useful
things, like I did when I volunteered in Union hospitals during the war.”

“Useful things? You don’t consider having a rich, full life useful?”

“I can’t be happy without doing what I know is right . . . without doing what my heart tells me to do.”

“Tricia—”

“And my heart told me to come home.”

“Tricia—”

Her throat thickening, her slender frame trembling, Tricia said softly, “I just need to hear you say you’re
glad to see me, Chantalle . . . that you’re glad I’m here.”

“I can’t say that to you.”

“You’re . . . my mother, Chantalle.”

“No, I’m not!”

“But you’re the only mother I’ve ever known.”

“Tricia—”

“Please.”

Tricia’s soft plea reverberated in the quiet room. She saw the impact of that single word on the woman she loved as a mother. She saw Chantalle’s eyes fill as her bared shoulders began shaking.

Chantalle’s trembling was echoed in Tricia. Truly uncertain which of them took the first step to close the distance between them, Tricia sobbed with happiness when Chantalle’s arms finally closed around her.

“Look at him. He’s so drunk he can hardly stand up!”

Jake looked at the big fellow standing at the far end of Chantalle’s bar, then back at Angie’s livid expression as he responded, “I’ve been bartending for more years than you’ve lived, Angie, and I’ve got to say I’ve never seen a man his size get so drunk so fast.”

“What difference does that make?” Angie shrugged. “You should throw him out before he makes trouble.”

“He’s not bothering anybody.”

“He’s bothering me!”

Jake’s white handlebar mustache quivered with suppressed amusement as he said, “That wouldn’t be because he told you to find somebody else to entertain, would it?”

Angie responded haughtily, “Mavis has been upstairs
for over an hour with that skinny blond fella who came in with him, while this big fella hasn’t done anything but hang on the bar. It isn’t normal.”

“He looks pretty normal to me. Maybe you just don’t appeal to him.”

“I appeal to every man who deserves the name.”

“Oh—insulted that he turned you down, are you?”

Ignoring Jake’s amusement as well as his question, Angie pressed, “Look at him. Look at the way he’s dressed, wearing those pants and those worn-out boots. The other fella is dressed the same way. They’re saddle tramps. We don’t cater to their kind. Chantalle never should have let them in here.”

Stiffening, Jake said, “Those pants are part of a Confederate uniform, and if I don’t miss my guess, those are military boots, too.”

“So?”

“So if a man served his country—”

“He didn’t serve
our
country. The Confederacy lost the war, remember? The soldiers wearing Union blue are the ones we should be catering to now.”

“Not behind this bar they ain’t.”

Scoffing at Jake’s irate reply, Angie turned toward the slight, blond fellow approaching. She smiled stiffly as she asked, “Where’s Mavis? Are you done with her for the day . . . finally?”

“Ma’am?” Uncertain how to respond, Willie said, “If you’re asking whether Mavis did a good enough job to satisfy me, I can truly answer that I’ll remember my hour with her for some time to come.”

“Too bad your friend can’t say the same.”