Hawk's Prize (23 page)

The wind knocked out of him, Whit could not immediately reply. Having prepared himself for anything but that, he scrutinized Chantalle’s expression for long moments before he managed, “Explain what you just said, please.”

“I saw his ring. He doesn’t wear it, so I didn’t see it at first when he came and collapsed downstairs.”

“Collapsed?” Whit swallowed, hardly able to breathe.

“From a war wound that became infected. My daughter nursed him back to health.”

“Your daughter?”

Whit’s incredulity continued as Chantalle’s gaze begged his tolerance. “You didn’t know I had a daughter. That’s a long story, too—too long to explain right now, but he was delirious at first. We didn’t know who he was, and when I looked in his money pouch, I saw the ring. It was damaged. The ship and the Latin inscription were hardly visible.”

“Then you couldn’t be sure it was Drew.”

“It’s Drew, all right, even if he wouldn’t come right out and say it.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you what his name is?”

Chantalle’s voice dropped. “He’s a wanted man, Whit. He fought for the Confederacy, and the Union Army wants him for questioning about something he did during the war. He didn’t elaborate, but evidently, whatever it was, the Yankees aren’t about to forget it.”

Confused, Whit shook his head. “How do you know all this?”

“I know because Drew told me.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He left after we talked—after I told him about you and Jenna Leigh—and I haven’t seen him since.” Chantalle added apologetically, “I wanted to wait for you to decide where and when to tell him about yourself and Jenna Leigh. He’s your brother, after all, but things got complicated and I was afraid for his life.”

“Afraid for his life!”

Whit’s face whitened, prompting Chantalle to say, “Let me start from the beginning so I can bring you up to date.”

Nodding, knowing he had no choice, Whit sat down abruptly as Chantalle started to speak.

Drew walked reluctantly along the Galveston docks. He had previously avoided that particular area with a sense of dread that was overwhelming. He knew the reason was because he had no desire to look into the face of the past when he saw the building that had once borne the Hawk family name.

But it was time.

He had spent the past few days talking to everyone who knew or did business with Simon Gault. The people he spoke to had hesitated to respond to his questions. Once they began talking, however, they expounded with great negative heat about him. Those persons included the captains who commanded Gault’s ships, the sailors who labored on them, the merchants who handled his shipments and sold his wares, and the women who had no defense against his unwelcome attentions—more women than he had at first considered believable. Without exception, he had learned that Simon Gault was feared rather than respected; that the patriotism he had displayed in supporting the Confederate cause during the war was suspect; that it was generally felt his concern for the city was actually concern for his personal wealth rather than for the welfare of the city, and that his exalted position in society was undeserved.

Through all the conversations, however, not one person had a shred of proof to back up any of the negative things they said about him.

Drew limped along the wharf, his steps slowing as he approached the two-storied warehouse and office building at the end of the dock. Its steepled roof was high and imposing, just as he remembered it; the white stone that his father had imported from England had weathered the years well; the wide, steep staircase leading up to the first floor where his father’s office had been located was still daunting.

The building was now boldly marked with the sign,
GAULT SHIPPING AND RECEIVING
, and he was unable to advance further as painful memories inundated his mind. His family had been complete and happy during those years when the sign had read
HAWK SHIPPING COMPANY
. He remembered vividly that his father had brought their happiness to an end with gambling that drove the family business into bankruptcy. Their mother deserted them after that, and their father left them with their aunt and uncle, promising to restore everything they had lost when he returned—which he never did.

His brother Whit was nine years old—just a year older than he—when their aunt died and their Uncle Nolan delivered them to the orphanage where they spent the next nine years. He recalled that Whit had automatically taken charge of Laura Anne, who was three years old, and that Jenna Leigh, then only two, had clung to him, Drew, desperately. Strangely, that day when they realized they had no one left but themselves had been a turning point; and although neither he nor Whit ever discussed it, the sense of responsibility they felt for their sisters grew with each passing year. It also made them stronger.

Until . . .

He had left the orphanage at eighteen in the hope of finding either his father or Whit. He had been barely twenty when he returned to the orphanage for his sisters. He recalled his shock when he discovered only the charred remains of the proud old manor house where they had lived. That shock had been multiplied a thousand times over when he was informed that his sisters had not survived the fire.

Did he now dare believe after all the years that had passed that his brother lived on a ranch only a few miles distant from Galveston, and that Whit was expected to come to the city as soon as he received Chantalle’s summons? Could Drew allow himself to accept Chantalle’s statement that his sisters had survived the fire at the orphanage, and that Jenna Leigh was actually residing in Galveston—
married to a Yankee?

Drew stared at the sign on the impressive building that had once borne the Hawk family name.

Simon Gault, the man who Chantalle believed hated Whit enough to order the killing of his brother, was the same man who was despised by all who worked for him—the same man who was respected by the highest level of Galveston society. He was also the man who had assumed Drew’s father’s business.

His mind made up, Drew turned and started back toward the seedy hotel where he’d taken a room. The past and its many betrayals were behind him. He was helpless to change what had happened, but he was determined that he would not add to that list of betrayals. He had a promise to keep. He knew what he must do.

Whit approached the house where Jenna Leigh was presently living with her husband. It was a small cottage on the estate that Clay had bought for Jenna Leigh as a wedding present. Pleasant and comfortable, it had a thatched roof reminiscent of an English country cottage and a secluded location that the newlyweds doubtless valued. Jenna Leigh had planted flowers along the walk leading to the front door in an obvious effort to add her own touch to the place.

Because responsibilities for his ranch took up most of his time, Whit had not seen as much of either Jenna Leigh or Clay as he would have liked in the time since their reunion; yet the bond between Jenna Leigh and him was strong. He was proud of the stalwart, intelligent woman she had grown up to be, and of the fact that she had become a good wife without sacrificing any part of herself. He genuinely liked the man she had chosen for a husband, too—even if Clay was a Yankee.

Whit’s lips curled in a brief smile at the thought. Clay was one of the Yankees primarily responsible for maintaining martial law in the former Confederate seaport of Galveston. Yet Clay was also all the proof Whit would ever need that despite the wide divisions that still remained between North and South, their country and its way of life would survive.

Dismounting, he tied up his mount and approached the front door of the cottage. He was about to knock when it opened and Jenna Leigh greeted him with a startled smile that warmed his heart. She hugged him tight and then drew back. He noted that her smile
slipped a little when she said, “I was just thinking about you, Whit.”

He cocked his head as he studied her riding outfit and replied, “Funny, it looks to me like you’re dressed to go out riding.”

Jenna Leigh quipped in return, “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you.” She asked, “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be on a trail drive.”

“I was, but when I got back home, I found a message for me from Chantalle.” He paused, his expression sobering as he said, “I need to talk to you, Jenna Leigh. I need to tell you something I just found out.”

Jenna Leigh paled. Taking her arm, he attempted to draw her back inside as he said, “Maybe you should sit down. What I have to say may surprise you.”

Refusing to budge, Jenna Leigh responded, “It’s about Drew, isn’t it?”

Stunned, Whit replied, “How did you know?”

“Clay told me about it not more than an hour ago . . . but how did you find out so fast?”

“Chantalle told me. That’s why she sent a message asking me to come to Galveston. As soon as I found out, I came here.”

“How did
she
know?”

Whit took an unconscious step back as he said, “Wait a minute. How did Chantalle know what?”

“That Drew is wanted by the Union Army for questioning about a Union payroll that he and his squad commandeered a few days before the war ended. Clay received the bulletin to be on the lookout for him just this morning.”

Whit went still. “I didn’t know the details, but Chantalle found out Drew was wanted because
he
told her. He was recuperating in her house from an infected war wound. When he left, he told her he was using the name Drew Collins because he was wanted by the Union Army.”

“You’re telling me that Drew has been in Chantalle’s house . . . that he was so close, and I never knew?”

“He didn’t know about you, either, Jenna Leigh. He thought you were dead.”

“So how—?”

“Chantalle saw his ring—a duplicate of mine.”

Jenna Leigh’s hand flew to her chest, where her pendant lay under the bodice of her dress.

“Chantalle said no one else knows what his real name is,” Whit explained. “Drew doesn’t wear his ring because it’s been damaged.”

Tears filling her eyes, Jenna Leigh said, “It’s all true, then . . . this Drew Collins really is
our
Drew, and he’s here in Galveston?” She took a breath. “Clay doesn’t know Drew’s here in the city. He said he wasn’t even certain that the Drew Hawk who was wanted by the Army was actually our brother. He said it could be a coincidence—that it could be another fella with the same name—but I knew it was
our
Drew. I had a feeling.”

“You and Drew always were especially close.”

“We were all close, Whit. And the years in between haven’t changed that. Not for me.”

The truth of Jenna Leigh’s statement registered deep inside Whit. Distance and years had separated them,
but nothing could change their commitment to each other. “You’re saying Clay doesn’t know about Drew’s assumed name, or even that he’s in Galveston?” he asked.

“He doesn’t know
yet.”
She asked abruptly, “Does Drew know about me?”

“He knows you’re in the city.”

“What did he say?”

His expression growing pained, Whit said, “Drew’s had a hard time of it. Chantalle said he was still recuperating from his wound and he was just passing through Galveston with his friend when the infection acted up again. Chantalle and her daughter took care of him while he was sick, but his best friend, a Willie Childers, was murdered when he came back to see Drew. A little later, an attempt was made on Drew’s life, too.”

“W-why?”

Whit frowned. “I don’t know.”

“He’s all right now, isn’t he? I mean, he’s safe.”

“He’s safe enough, I guess. Chantalle doesn’t know exactly where he is except that he said he’s not going to leave Galveston until he finds his friend’s killer. He’s bitter, Jenna Leigh. He blames most of what’s happened on the Yankees.”

Jenna Leigh’s expression stiffened. “Clay is a Yankee officer. He’s also duty bound to find Drew and bring him to justice. Does that mean Drew blames me, too, because I married Clay?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s in Galveston.”

“I can’t be sure.”

“I wouldn’t be able to bear it if we lost him again, Whit, especially if I were the cause.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t if I have anything to say about it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out what’s going on, why Drew’s friend was killed and why an attempt was made on Drew’s life.” His brow furrowing, Whit said, “But I don’t want you to get involved, Jenna Leigh. There’ll be too many complications with Clay and all—and I don’t want to have to worry about your safety.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Whit.”

“I don’t have to . . . but I do.”

Jenna Leigh studied Whit’s sober expression for long moments before she nodded. “All right. I won’t take any chances.”

Whit’s eyes narrowed. “I meant what I said, Jenna Leigh.”

“I told you, I won’t take any chances.”

“You’ll stay right here and let me take care of it.”

“If that’s what you want.”

His gaze narrowing further at her quick acquiescence, Whit cautioned, “Jenna Leigh—”

“The same goes for you, too, Whit. I don’t want you to take any unnecessary chances.”

“I never take unnecessary chances.” Turning toward the door, Whit continued, “I’ll keep you informed. That’s a promise.”

“All right.”

His hand on the doorknob, Whit turned back to say, “Behave yourself, Jenna Leigh.”

“Yes, sir.”

Doing his best to ignore the worry that Jenna Leigh’s obedient manner inspired, Whit mounted up and turned his horse toward town.

He did not see Jenna Leigh watching him to make certain he was gone before she walked out the rear exit of the house to the spot where she had a horse saddled and waiting. Nor did he see her mount up and ride off as fast as she could.

Jenna Leigh drew her horse up in front of the
Daily Galveston
office and dismounted. Her expression sober, she could not stop herself from breathing deeply of the familiar smell of printer’s ink as she walked inside. It reminded her of the years she had spent with Irene Prescott after the fire, while Irene had functioned as her surrogate mother and as one of the most well-respected women in the newspaper business. She could not help smiling at the clanging of the presses. It was music to her ears and indicated that although the afternoon edition had been printed and distributed for the day, owner and editor Noah Dickerson had obviously gotten enough advertising to warrant the printing of an individual sheet to be inserted in the next day’s edition—a financial windfall for a newspaper whose financial status had known its ups and downs.