Her Sheriff Bodyguard (13 page)

Chapter Twenty

I am worry for my lady. Here in this house of the sister of
Señor
Hawk she is safe, but I see in her face a true thing. She is worry too much.

All is kindness in this place, and my lady goes about freely.
Señor
Hawk has guards who are watch over her, but she is still fear something. Maybe she does not grow fond of this house because she knows to leave soon.

I have fear for this trap
Señor
Hawk is plan for sometime soon. If is a mistake, my lady will suffer.

S
unday morning after Jensen's barn dance, Caroline found herself alone in the kitchen with Ilsa. When Billy's mother had suggested he attend church with Eli, the old man's gray-speckled eyebrows had risen in surprise, but at a look from Ilsa, he had marched the grumbling boy out the front door just as the church bell began to toll.

Caroline stood at the stove stirring a kettle of strawberry jam. Ilsa's jam disappeared from the glass jelly dish faster than the fresh-churned three-pound blocks of butter purchased from the mercantile. Now the entire kitchen smelled heavenly, rich and fruity.

“Hawk has gone over to the sheriff's office,” Ilsa said in answer to Caroline's unspoken question. “Sandy, his deputy, is a staunch Methodist—never misses a Sunday service.”

Caroline nodded. Fernanda had just left for Mass at the Catholic Church. “Come, sit down,” Ilsa invited. “I will pour you some coffee.”

“I am not the least bit tired, Ilsa.” She gave the jam a double figure-eight pass with the wooden spatula.

“Sit down anyway, Caroline. I want to tell you something.”

“Oh? What about?”

“About Hawk.”

Her stirring arm halted. “What is it? Has something happened?”

Ilsa purposefully set her mug down on the bleached muslin tablecloth. “It's about something that
did
happen, years ago. I want to tell you about it.”

With an odd premonition, Caroline lifted the kettle off the heat and sank onto the straight-back chair opposite Hawk's older sister. “Tell me.”

“It was years ago, when Hawk was a young man. I had married and left home by that time, but when this occurred, I came back to Butte City.” Ilsa rose to fill Caroline's coffee mug.

“Hawk was married when he was just seventeen. Did you know that?”

Caroline tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. “No, I did not.”

“To a young half-Spanish, half-Cherokee girl. Her name was Whitefern. She was quite beautiful. Our mother did not approve, but Hawk married her anyway, and she came to live with them on the ranch.” Ilsa hesitated.

Caroline sipped her coffee and waited.

“My stepfather, that is Hawk's father, didn't like Whitefern. Maybe it was because she was part Indian and he was half-Indian himself, so he disliked that part of himself because now he was Don Luis with the big ranchera and the beautiful English wife.”

Caroline noticed that there was little coffee in Ilsa's mug. She started to rise. “Shall I fill your cup for you?”

“No. I need to finish this before Hawk returns.”

A feeling of foreboding settled over Caroline like a shroud of black fog. Whatever it was, she knew instinctively that Hawk would not like Ilsa's telling her about it.

“Whitefern became pregnant and had a child. A boy. Don Luis was furious. He didn't want a part-Indian grandson inheriting the ranch someday, even though his own son was one-quarter Cherokee.

“One night there was a terrible argument at the ranch house. Our mother sided with Hawk and Whitefern, but Don Luis would not listen. He sent Hawk into Butte City to bring a lawyer, and that night Whitefern took the baby and slipped off to return to her people in Mexico. Our mother went with her. Hawk knew nothing about it until...”

The hair on the back of Caroline's neck bristled. “Until?” She could scarcely voice the question because she didn't want to hear the answer.

Ilsa toyed with her mug of cold coffee, turning it around and around on the tablecloth until Caroline couldn't stand it one more minute. Gently she laid her hand over the older woman's work-worn one. “Tell me the rest.”

Ilsa brushed her fingers across her eyes, then laid her hand in her lap. “There was an ambush. Somewhere out on the desert, on the way to the border, three men kidnapped Whitefern and the baby. And Momma. The next day...” Her voice choked off.

“The next day a neighboring rancher rode in and told Don Luis what he had found. Two women, one white, one part Mexican, had been raped and mutilated so badly they were almost unrecognizable. The baby's skull had been smashed in.”

Caroline knew she was going to vomit. She dropped her head and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths until the bile in her throat receded. “Go on.”

“Don Luis sent a vaquero into town to find Hawk, and the two of them set out to bury the remains and track down the killers. Even then, Hawk could track better than anyone in the territory. But I wish he had never found what he found.”

Caroline nodded in silence.

“On the way back to the ranch, someone shot Don Luis. He died before Hawk could get him home.”

Ilsa paused and closed her eyes. “Hawk was never the same after that.”

“Dear God in heaven,” Caroline whispered.

“Hawk went to the Texas Rangers and told them he was going to hunt down the three men, and when he found them he was going to kill them. I remember he said they were going to die slowly. Hawk has enough Indian in him to know about such things. I never wanted to know what he meant.

“Anyway, he joined the Rangers so he wouldn't hang for murder because he was acting on his own. It took him almost a year, but he did find the men, and he did kill them. Because he wore a Texas Ranger star, he was held blameless. He was just nineteen years old.”

Caroline swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “Ilsa, how did you find out about all this?”

“Hawk told me. When I came home to help at the ranch, he told me everything. I hated the place, especially after that, and Hawk was terrible to live with in those days. Later, Billy and I moved to Oregon, to Smoke River.”

Ilsa's voice wavered, but it was Caroline who was sobbing. “Oh, Caroline, I should not have told you.” The older woman touched her arm.

“Why did you?” Caroline said through her tears.

Ilsa fished a plain handkerchief from her skirt pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Because I thought you should know why I am now going to say something to you that is really none of my business.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “What is it? Just say it.”

“Don't hurt him, Caroline. I think my brother is beginning to care for you. Please, please, don't hurt him.”

* * *

Fernanda watched Caroline scrubbing a pair of Billy's jeans over the metal washboard and shook her head. “
Mi corazón
, you are work too hard in this heat. Let me—”

“No.” Caroline's voice sounded as if she had been weeping, and that was very strange. She ducked her head and continued to rub at a stubborn grass stain. Tears splashed down into the soapy wash water. “I need to do this.”

“Ah,” Fernanda sighed. “Then I will see more inside what needs to do.” She pressed Caroline's shoulder, then moved through the back door into the kitchen.

Hawk sat at the table, hunched over a mug of coffee.

“
Señor
,” Fernanda said softly. “Do you know why my lady scrub at washboard and weep?”

Hawk's head jerked up. “No. Why is she?”

“Which, why she scrub? Or why she weep?”

“Weep, of course.” With one boot he kicked a chair out for the Mexican woman to sit down. When she did, he reached over and touched her hand. “I dunno why she's crying, Fernanda. We haven't had words, and I haven't done anything dumb. At least I don't think I have.”

“What does ‘have words' mean? We, now, are ‘have words,' no?”

Hawk grinned at her. “‘Have words' means to have
bad
words. Like an argument.”

Fernanda nodded. “Caroline is good girl. She has never like ‘bad words.' Maybe she is too, how you say, soft?”

“She's soft, all right. Sure as shootin', she's all woman.”

Fernanda sat up straight. “And you,
señor
? You are ‘all man' as I hear it is said?”

He stared at her. “That's a mighty odd question. What is it you really want to know?”

“
Señor
, I know something of men. Once in Mexico I was much courted, so I know of men.”

“Yeah? What do you know?” Hawk always liked talking with Fernanda; she usually had something worth saying. He was beginning to like this conversation even better because it was about Caroline.

“I know,
señor
, that men desire women.”

“Hell, that's not new. Ever since Adam and Eve—”

Fernanda looked straight into his eyes without the usual twinkle in her shiny black depths. “And I know that sometimes is only that a man has itch and he wants to scratch it.
Comprende
?”

Hawk said nothing. Did Fernanda think he—

Hell, yes, she did think that. And she thought that because he
did
have an itch, an overwhelming, aching itch, he damn well wanted to scratch it.

He met the Mexican woman's steady gaze. Fernanda was telling him something in addition: do not scratch his itch with Caroline.

Chapter Twenty-One

“F
ishing?” Caroline stopped stirring the bubbling kettle of applesauce and stared at Hawk's nephew. “Thank you, Billy, but I don't think—”

“Aw, c'mon, Miss Caroline. I bet you never been fishing back in Boston. Bet you don't know how to bait a hook or nothin'.”

She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and smiled at the boy. “No, I can't say that I do.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Billy insisted. He jiggled a metal bucket in front of her. “Worms,” he explained.

She risked a peek and wished she hadn't. A mass of pink crawly things writhed at the bottom of Billy's pail. The thought of touching the wriggly things turned her stomach.

“Please,” Billy begged. “Mama packed a picnic basket. Besides, you can't make applesauce all day.”

Ilsa turned away from the bowl of apples she was peeling. “Oh, go on, Caroline. This batch is almost done. Fernanda can help me fill the jars.”

“Oh, no, Ilsa, I—”

Fernanda made shooing motions with her hands. “Go,
hija.
You are, how you say, under the foot!”

Billy tugged at her gingham apron. “The river's only a couple of miles from town, an' it's real pretty. Uncle Hawk won't mind.”

That decided the matter. She needed some time away from the tall, blunt-spoken sheriff of Smoke River. Not only was he at her side almost every hour of every day, he was beginning to invade her dreams, as well.

She was seeing another side to Hawk Rivera, one she would never have suspected from the first eight days she had known him. Here in Smoke River, where he wasn't on constant alert every minute of the day and night, she was learning that Hawk could be lighthearted and jovial as at the dance, even playful. She hated to admit it, but she liked his teasing, even when it concerned her underclothes.

She liked dancing with him, too, being close to him and feeling his arms around her. No man had ever breached the defenses she had erected after her father had ruined her.

“Billy,” Ilsa said. “I put a jar of lemonade in your lunch basket. When it's empty, bring home some blackberries in it.”

“Miss Caroline, are ya comin' or not?” Billy demanded.

“Well, I suppose...yes, all right, Billy. You can teach me how to fish.”

Billy grabbed his pole and the bait bucket and bolted for the front door and Caroline reached behind her to untie her apron. At that moment the screen door wheezed open.

“Whoa,” Hawk said. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Miss Caroline and I are goin' fishing!”

Hawk shot a look at her and his dark eyebrows rose. “You are, are you?”

She caught her breath at his expression. “Yes, I thought—”

“No, you're not.” His voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his intent. “Not unless I come along.”

“Sure, Uncle Hawk. I got plenty of hooks.”

Over his shoulder Caroline saw Ilsa and Fernanda exchange a look. Ilsa's lips thinned. Fernanda just threw up her hands and shook her head, but Ilsa kept studying the paring knife in her hand. “Don't be late for supper.”

“Hurry up, Uncle Hawk. The fish'll be sleeping by the time we get to the river.”

Hawk snatched the picnic basket off the kitchen table. “All right, let's go wake 'em up.”

They tramped an hour and a half through the woods before they reached the river, clear and gently flowing except where the blue-green water rippled over half-submerged boulders. As usual, Hawk carried his rifle, and his Colt was strapped to his hip.

The sun was hot, but it was cool and pleasant under the canopy of willow and vine maple trees along the bank. Billy dumped half the worms and three hooks out onto the grass for Hawk and Caroline, then disappeared around a bend.

Caroline averted her eyes from the crawling mess, but Hawk stood his rifle against a tree trunk, slid his jackknife out of his jeans pocket, and cut two thin branches for fishing poles. He tied a length of string onto the ends and attached the other end to a hook, then speared a worm and handed the pole to Caroline.

“What d-do I do with it?” she sputtered.

“Fish,” he said drily. “Like this.” He baited his own hook and swung it out over the water, where it landed with a soft plop.

Caroline tossed her hook out and waited. After a few minutes she decided her line wasn't reaching far enough, so she yanked it in, took a step toward the river bank and flung it out again. Still not far enough. She pulled it in once more and tossed it out even farther. Then she leaned forward to watch it land and she lost her balance. With a cry she splashed into the water.

Hawk dropped his pole and strode into the chest-deep river, grabbed the waistband of her skirt and hauled her upright. Water streamed off her face, and her shirtwaist and skirt were plastered to her body.

He reached to steady her, but she grabbed onto his forearm and unbalanced him. The next thing he knew he tipped sideways and they both tumbled into the river. He managed to regain his footing and grasped Caroline's shoulders. They both struggled up the bank and onto dry ground.

“Hey,” Billy called. “You guys okay?”

“We're fine,” Hawk shouted. “Wet, but fine,” he added quietly. Water sluiced off his chest and his jeans, and his holster and revolver were soaked. To his surprise, Caroline was laughing.

He helped her over to a thick patch of camas grass. “Stretch out here in the sun and let your clothes dry out.” He unstrapped his gun belt, sat down beside her and began to wipe down the Colt using the gingham tablecloth Ilsa had packed in the picnic basket.

“I don't think I like fishing,” Caroline said. “It's dangerous. We could drown.”

Hawk had to laugh. “You ladies from Boston never fall in rivers, huh?”

“Never.” She spread out her skirt and folded her hands over her midriff. “How long will it take for me to dry out?”

“About half an hour. But...”

She gazed up at him. “But?” Her dark lashes were wet, he noted. Made her eyes look bigger and bluer. Her hair had come loose from the twist at her neck and it now fell to her shoulders in soft waves.

“But,” he continued with a chuckle, “if you want your underwear to dry, it'll take longer. Of course you could just leave them kinda wet and squishy if you'd rather.”

“How much longer?”

“Maybe an hour.” He checked the chambers on his revolver and shook out the water, reloaded it and laid it aside. Then he stretched out beside her in the hot sunshine and closed his eyes.

All it took was five minutes lying next to her, smelling the lemony-rose fragrance of her hair, before he decided this was going to be the longest hour in his life. He glanced sideways at her.

Her eyes were closed, so he felt free to watch her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. He liked that. Even better, her nipples showed where the wet fabric of her shirtwaist clung.

He forced his gaze away, studied the trees growing along the bank, the huckleberry bushes, the flat-topped boulder in the shallow part of the river—anything to keep from looking at her.

Yeah, you've got one hell of an itch, and an overwhelming urge to scratch it.
He ached with it. But Fernanda was right; he couldn't scratch it with Caroline.

Damnation. She was the only woman he'd felt anything for since the long-ago marriage of his youth. He'd thought his scars were so deep he'd never feel anything again, but here it was, plain as warts on a frog. Caroline MacFarlane made him feel alive again. Made him feel that maybe life might be worth living after all.

He glanced again at her face, her wet wavy hair, her small delicate hands folded primly on her stomach and felt an unfamiliar lurch inside his chest. He wanted to hold her. Continue to keep her safe.

The realization stopped his heartbeat. This was more than an itch. More than wanting her. Much more. What he wanted was more than he could ask of a woman who had her own scars and was determined to keep on traveling around the country and making speeches to avoid them. He had absolutely no place in her life.

“Hawk?” Her voice sounded drowsy. “What is it? I can hear you thinking.”

“Yeah? How can you tell?”

“Your breathing is getting jerky. Is it about the trap you plan to set?”

He snorted a laugh. “In a way, I guess.”

“Are you getting dry? Your clothes, I mean?”

Hell, no, he wasn't getting dry. He was getting wet and hard and desperate. He couldn't go on like this much longer.

“Sure, I'm getting dry.”

She sat up suddenly and leaned over him. “You're lying.” Her hair brushed his face and he opened his mouth to catch a strand. It tasted of rosewater, he guessed. Something sweet and a little spicy.

“I have an idea,” she announced.

“Oh, yeah? I'm listening.”

“First we tell the newspapers that I'm going to give a speech about women and the vote. Then we ask them to wire other newspapers in the state to spread the word. That sh-should attract whoever it is who hates me enough to want me dead, don't you think?”

He looked up at her. She was so animated by the plan it sent a pain into his gut. “No.”

“Why not? Don't you think it's a good idea?”

He groaned. He didn't want to think about a plan or a trap or anything else but her. “It's a good plan, Caroline. But right about now I don't want to think about it.”

He curved one hand around her neck and pulled her down so her mouth brushed his. At the first touch of her lips he reached his other hand to her head, laced his fingers in her still-damp hair, and made it a real kiss.

She didn't pull back, and that surprised him. Without breaking contact he half sat up and went on kissing her, deepening it until his blood thrummed in his ears and he felt like he was going to explode.

With his thumb he gently touched the hollow of her throat. Her pulse was racing and her breathing grew uneven as his kiss stretched on and on.

Damn, what was happening?

He lifted his mouth away from hers and relaxed his hand, but she didn't jerk away as he expected. Instead she brought her fingers to lightly graze his cheek.

“What are we doing?” she said, her voice shaky.

“Damned if I know.” He thought a minute. “Fernanda told me...”

“And Ilsa said things, also.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she breathed. “I do not.”

He reached for her again just as Billy's voice rang out. “I caught ten fish!” The boy trotted around the bend, his face flushed with success. “Uncle Hawk, can we eat 'em for supper?”

Hawk blew out a long breath, sat upright and drew apart from Caroline. “Sure, Billy. You clean 'em, and we'll eat 'em.”

“Uncle Hawk, I'm hungry! Let's eat lunch.”

“Yeah,” Hawk said quietly. “I'm hungry, too. Guess lunch will have to do,” he murmured.

Without a word Caroline unpacked the wicker basket and handed out four chicken sandwiches. “There is a bowl of potato salad but only two forks, so we will have to share.” Her voice shook slightly and her lips tingled from Hawk's kiss.

She wondered at herself, ignoring Ilsa's warning so blatantly. Ever since Ilsa told her about the tragic death of Hawk's family, she couldn't look at him without wondering how he had survived. Did he have nightmares, too? Did he relive the awful parts about what had happened over and over in his mind, as she did?

No wonder he could be brutally direct at times. It was a miracle he could even smile.

She would not hurt Hawk, she resolved. He was showing her something about herself, helping her heal, helping her conquer her fear of men. In exchange she would give him something that he needed, something she wanted to give him. He was healing her scars; maybe she could heal his.

The three of them devoured the contents of the picnic basket, right down to Eli's sugar cookies and the jar of lemonade, which they passed back and forth.

“You catch anything, Uncle Hawk?”

Hawk chuckled and ruffled his nephew's russet hair. “You ask too many questions.”

Billy paused, a cookie halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

Caroline smiled at the boy. “Your uncle means he will answer you when he has something to say.”

“You guys are sure weird today,” Billy observed. “You haven't caught any fish and you're both all wet, and... Oh, well, all grown-ups are a little strange, I guess.”

He grabbed the fishing pole he'd laid beside the picnic basket and marched off to the edge of the river. “I can see the trout even from here!” he yelled. “Guess you just didn't know how to catch 'em, huh, Uncle Hawk?”

“Guess so,” Hawk called. He caught Caroline's eyes and held them until she thought she would melt from the heat in his gaze.

He touched her arm. “I can't sit here close to you with Billy ten yards away.”

Caroline nodded. “Let's look for blackberries,” she suggested. “Ilsa told Billy to bring some back.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Maybe if I keep busy, I can keep my hands off you.”

Maybe.

* * *

Hours later, when they returned to the house, Ilsa marveled at the lemonade jar and the picnic basket overflowing with ripe blackberries. “And twelve big trout. My, you all have been busy.”

Caroline was afraid to look at Hawk, afraid Ilsa would see her kiss-swollen lips. Fernanda took one look at her and simply folded her into an embrace.

“You have sunburn,
mi corazón
. And your hair it flies away. I will fix.”