Hawk's Prize (20 page)

Taking a slender tool out of his pocket, Bruce worked silently at the lock. He was good at picking locks. It was one of the many unheralded talents that he had used liberally before coming to work for Gault years earlier, and it had served him well.

Listening acutely for the soft click that indicated the mechanism had turned, Bruce pushed the door open a crack and then paused again to listen. He smiled when he heard the sound of slow, even breathing.

Collins was asleep.

Perfect.

He withdrew his gun from his holster and pushed the door open far enough to allow him entrance.

The subtle click of the lock had awakened Drew abruptly. Immediately alert, he saw the shadow of a man standing motionless in the hallway outside his door. He reached for the revolver on the nightstand and stood up, shielding with his broad frame the bed where Tricia slept. He held his breath as the door was pushed open a crack.

Aware that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room—an advantage the intruder did not have—he waited until the figure slipped inside before he said, “Put your hands up right now or I’ll shoot!”

The sequence of events that followed was too rapid for his mind to immediately digest. But Drew acted on instinct and pulled the trigger as a gunshot flashed in the darkness. He stood motionless at the thud of a heavy body hitting the floor.

“Drew . . . what happened?”

He felt Tricia’s seminaked warmth at his side and thrust her behind him as he reached toward the lamp and lit it. He went still at the sight of the man lying on the rug just inside the door, his gun only inches from his hand.

Drew knelt down beside the fellow as Tricia asked, “Is he dead? Who is he?”

One glance, and Drew responded, “He’s dead, all right . . . and I have no idea who he is.”

“But what did he want from you . . . from us?”

“Again, I have no idea.”

“Get dressed, Tricia,” Drew instructed cautiously as he stood up and reached for his pants. “We’re going to have to report what happened. But first . . .”

Kneeling down again beside the dead man, Drew searched his pockets. He frowned at the absence of identification of any kind, then went still when he reached into the fellow’s shirt pocket and withdrew an ancient gold coin.

“What is it? What did you find, Drew?”

Drew was momentarily unable to respond.

“Drew?”

Drew stood up, then looked down at the lifeless man. He felt Tricia’s hand on his arm as he squeezed the coin tightly in his fist.

Tricia looked up at him expectantly, and he opened his fist as he replied, “Willie said this was his good luck charm. His father gave it to him. He carried it with him during the war; he never let it out of his sight.”

Incredulous, Tricia managed hoarsely, “What you’re saying is—”

“What I’m saying is that this has to be the same man who killed Willie.”

“So that means—”

“That means that for some reason, this fellow wanted both Willie and me dead.”

“But . . . why?”

“I don’t know.” Drew’s light eyes went dark with determination as he said, “But I’m going to find out.”

Simon fought to suppress his agitation as he closed his office door. The uniformed Yankee officer presently leaving the luxurious building that housed Gault Shipping and Exchange had come to make official inquiries about Bruce Carlton, his office manager and clerk, who had been killed in a foiled attempt to commit a robbery in the early morning hours of that day.

A foiled attempt to commit a robbery.

His jaw locking tight, Simon slammed his fist down on his immense mahogany desk. He had barely been able to sustain the incredulous expression he had feigned at the news. His pretended sorrow at Bruce’s death, as well as the shock he had expressed at the “dark side of Bruce that he had never suspected,” would have been deserving of an ovation if he had been on the stage. Instead, it had merely sufficed to satisfy the Yankee investigation.

The incompetent fool! The only thing Bruce had
done right was to follow the order to wait until he was involved in the evening’s festivities at the Spunk soiree before making his attempt to kill Drew Hawk, thereby assuring that he was free of suspicion.

Simon strained to bring his anger under control. He had known as soon as he arrived at his office and found Bruce absent that something was wrong. Had Bruce succeeded in what he had set out to do the previous evening, he would have been waiting there, beaming with pride.

The ignorant toady!

Instead, Bruce’s stupidity had forced Simon to tell the warehouse manager to send Billy Jerome out to take Bruce’s place at the desk in the outer office. It had been Billy Jerome who had ushered in the uniformed officer who had announced Bruce’s fate. Despite Billy’s obvious eagerness to assume Bruce’s position, however, Simon did not fool himself that Billy was dependable enough to assume Bruce’s more secretive duties as well.

Simon frowned at that thought. He supposed he should be glad that it had not been Colonel Clay Madison of the Adjutant General’s Office who had come with the news. That simple fact indicated the Adjutant General’s Office had not yet made the connection between Willie Childers’s death and the attempted robbery of Drew “Collins”—the only fortunate aspect of the whole disastrous episode.

His expression rigid, Simon walked to the window of his office and stared out at the open sea. The morning sunlight glittered on the placid expanse—diamonds on a sea of undulating silver—but he was blind to all but
his rapidly expanding rage. Hawk had escaped him, but not for long. Simon had been forced to learn the hard way that the only person he could count on was himself.

He was resolved: Drew Hawk’s time was limited.

Chantalle’s house was unusually silent in the early morning hours when Drew awoke with a start in his former room at the end of the hallway. He squinted against the newly risen sun shining through the windows, then threw back the coverlet and reached for his boots. The unexpected intrusion into his room at the Easton Hotel had left him restless and on edge after he had brought Tricia home. Yet his mind was acutely clear as he stood up, ran his hand through his tousled hair, and turned toward the door.

Drew glanced at the upholstered chair beside the bed in passing, and was struck by a rush of memories. He had awakened from his delirium shortly after arriving in Galveston to see Tricia—his beautiful angel—dozing exhaustedly there after nights of caring for him. He had learned belatedly, however, that Tricia was not the beauteous seraph that he had thought her to be. Beautiful, appealing, irresistibly feminine—she had proved to be all those things—but she was also a flesh-and-blood woman with a mind of her own, one with a dedication of purpose and strong opinions that often conflicted with his. She had tested his patience, inspired his respect, and taught him to feel a depth of love he had not believed himself capable of giving.

He recalled that Willie had returned to Galveston and had taken Tricia’s place on that upholstered chair,
determined not to leave him again until he had recovered. The attempt on his own life the previous night had confirmed his suspicion that Willie’s concern for him was the cause of his death rather than robbery.

But the question remained. Why?

A chill ran down Drew’s spine at the thought of the danger Tricia had been exposed to the previous evening because of him. Had he not awakened at the sound of the lock turning, had the intruder’s first shot not gone wild—

That unfinished thought knotted Drew’s stomach tight as he pulled open the door and started down the hallway toward Chantalle’s office. He slowed his step as a uniformed Yankee officer whom he did not recognize emerged and started back down the steps toward the front door. Drew waited only until the lock had clicked closed behind him before approaching Chantalle’s office. Tricia had been badly shaken when they’d returned the previous night after the scene at the Easton Hotel. The look on Chantalle’s face when he told her what had happened and when he described the intruder to her, had been revealing, but he had not wanted to press her in Tricia’s presence. He had been somehow certain that Chantalle knew their attacker, but she had not commented. Then she had followed Tricia to her room, giving him no opportunity to question her further.

To her credit, Chantalle had not asked why Tricia was in his room at the Easton Hotel at that late hour, and neither he nor Tricia had attempted to explain the obvious. He wished he could tell Chantalle the truth
depth of his feelings for her daughter—but he could not. He wished he could tell her that what he wanted most in the world was to have the right to hold Tricia close in his arms for the rest of his life—but he would not. Tricia deserved neither the uncertainties nor the danger his love would bring her.

Drew knocked on Chantalle’s door and entered when she responded, but he was not prepared for what he saw. Her face, devoid of the makeup of her trade, revealed the difficulties of past years clearly; her unbound hair showed streaks of gray usually hidden by her elaborate coiffure; her generous proportions, unbound by a corset in the simple flowered robe she wore, were thick with middle age. For the first time, she looked the part of Tricia’s mother, but she also had the appearance of a woman supporting the heavy weight of concern for her child, and Drew was strangely affected.

He said instinctively, “What’s the matter, Chantalle? What did that soldier say?”

Chantalle stood up and responded softly, “He came here to make some inquiries and to leave a message for you that the fellow who tried to kill you last night was identified by one of the men at the Easton Hotel. His name was Bruce Carlton. Bruce was one of my customers . . . and he worked for Simon Gault.”

“Simon Gault . . .”

“Simon is one of my customers here, too.” She scrutinized his expression. Appearing to make a decision, she said abruptly, “Close the door and sit down, Drew. There are some things I need to tell you.”

Drew went still. He somehow knew this was the moment he had been waiting for.

He pushed the door closed behind him.

Chantalle stared at Drew tensely as he sat down stiffly on the chair facing her. She could no longer bide her time and wait for Whit. Things had gone too far and the situation was getting too dangerous. She had to tell Drew.

She started slowly. “You have a ring in your money pouch, Drew.” At Drew’s surprised expression, she said, “You know Angie. You can’t miss her around here. She’s the brunette who met you at the door that first night, the woman you turned down when you went to the bar instead. To Angie, that was the ultimate insult. She’ll never forgive you for it.”

Chantalle paused briefly before continuing, “Angie is Simon Gault’s favorite in this house. She’s the one who told me about the ring. She said she heard Tricia telling somebody about it—which I don’t believe for a moment, but that’s beside the point. She was searching for information that I couldn’t give her, but I went to your room afterwards to confirm what she said. You were still ill, and while you were sleeping, I looked in your money pouch. I saw the damaged ring.”

“That happened during the war.” Drew shrugged. “I couldn’t wear it anymore in that condition, and I didn’t want to throw it away. My money pouch seemed like the logical place to keep it.”

“It has a sailing ship on it and a banner with the Latin words
Quattuor mundum do.”

His expression suddenly dark, Drew asked, “How
do you know the full inscription? The Latin words were partially lost when the ring was broken.”

“I know because I’ve seen it before.” Chantalle ignored the increasing rigidity of Drew’s posture as she continued, “But the man who showed me his matching ring didn’t have the family name Collins. His family name was Hawk—Whit Hawk.”

“Whit . . .”

Drew’s face paled revealingly as Chantalle continued, “Whit showed up in Galveston a few months ago. Just about the first thing he did was to ask me if I’d ever seen a ring like his before. He told me his brother had one, too, that they’d lost touch with each other years earlier, but he was still hoping to find him. I studied the crest, and when I saw your ring . . .” Chantalle paused before continuing in a rush, “But you said your name was Collins and you didn’t even bother to mention that you had a ring or a missing brother. I wasn’t sure who you really were or what I should do.”

Chantalle noted Drew’s difficulty in swallowing before he said hoarsely, “Where is he? Did he leave Galveston?”

“He has a ranch not far from here called La Posada, where he lives with his wife.”

“His wife . . .”

“Whit and Jackie were recently married.” Allowing Drew a moment to absorb that information, Chantalle then stated softly, “Like you, Whit is a handsome man, Drew, but with the exception of your physical stature, you don’t resemble each other at all. I was confused. Because I’m fond of Whit, I sent a man to La Posada to tell him to come here as soon as he could. I
knew how Whit felt about finding his brother and I didn’t want to stir up any false hopes, so I wanted to tell him about you calmly, and in person. He’s a good man. I knew he’d do the right thing.”

“When is he coming here?”

“I don’t know. Whit was on a trail drive when Will reached La Posada the first time. When he didn’t come, I wanted to make sure Jackie had stressed how urgently I wanted to see him, so I sent Will back again.”

“And Whit’s still not here.”

“I can only assume he hasn’t returned to the ranch yet. I know Whit. He’ll come as soon as he gets my message.”

Agitated, Drew stood up as he said, “But that has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

“Let me finish, Drew.” Chantalle watched as Drew sat back down. She noted that his hand trembled as he pulled the chair closer and she continued, “Simon Gault—Bruce Carlton’s employer—is a very dangerous man. He hates Whit, Drew. I don’t know why, but he hated him from the first moment he saw him. After they had a few run-ins, things got worse. Simon pays Angie to keep him informed about what’s going on around here—we all know it, although Angie denies it. Angie serves her purpose in this house, and her connection to Simon never seemed important to me before this. The point is that I think Angie and Simon were in cahoots about your ring somehow, and since Whit didn’t make a secret of his search for his brother, I think Simon drew his own conclusions.”