Lone Star Loving (13 page)

At that moment a young couple stepped in front of the window. Charity! And the Indian.

When they entered the double doors, Maisie got a good look at them. They didn't see her—she knew they didn't. Charity and the red man had eyes only for each other.

He wore a Stetson, britches, boots, and a leather vest. No shirt. His bare chest glistened with sweat. Charity's hair was a mess, grass particles sticking to it. Her dress looked as if an iron had never run across it. An Indian gewgaw hung from her neck. And she had the satisfied look of a woman thoroughly debauched.

With a sigh of resignation, Maisie decided she'd have to make Fierce Hawk do right by the lass.

Bones aching, she stretched to stand. “Thought ye two would never be getting here. I'm early, lad, I know, but ye're looking fit, the both of ye.”

Two dark heads snapped around to stare open-mouthed at the old woman. Charity's eyes rounded with horror. Fierce Hawk grabbed her upper arm, pulling her to him.

“It's going to be all right,” he murmured. “I will make it all right.”

Charity looked from him to Maisie McLoughlin and back again. “You know each other.”

Lord, she dinna know
. . . Well, she did now. And there was no going back. “Thank ye for getting her here in one piece, Fierce Hawk.”

Her body stilling in shock, Charity recoiled.

For the second time in Maisie McLoughlin's life—the first being when she'd made an awful blunder with Gilliegorm and Lisette that had almost cost them their marriage, near the beginning of it–she feared she had done the wrong thing. But it was too late now to do anything about it.

“You
are Fierce Hawk?” Charity's voice was barely above a whisper. “Fierce Hawk of the Osage?”

“I can explain.”

“You lied to me. Lied!”

Tears glistened in Charity's eyes. Maisie had never seen her cry, save for when she'd been a bairn.
Lord, what have I done?

Shoulders hunched in betrayal, Charity took a stumbling step backward to point a finger at her great-grandmother. “You put him up to this.”

“Charity, honey, let's talk.” Fierce Hawk reached for her hand.

“Talk? You are way too late for that.” Five feet eight inches of furious woman whirled on him. “I will never,
ever
forgive you!”

Double crossed.

Lied to.

Heartbroken.

As daylight approached, Charity was all these things. In the darkened hotel room she had rented when life seemed rosy, she lay desolate on the bed. Alone. And that was how she wanted it.

Her body still sore from the night's grassy interlude, she cursed her betrayer. The name Fierce Hawk fit him well. No bird of prey was more adroit at picking clean the bones of its victim.

Tears flowed freely in her heart, yet not a drop had fallen from her eyes. She demanded they fall, but they didn't. She supposed that for too long–all her life–they had been stoppered. Yet nothing in her past hurt as much as she hurt right now.

Why hadn't she made the connection between him and the Indian of her childhood dreams? Hadn't he, on the night that he grabbed her from that street in Laredo, said something on the order of, “You'd never convince a jury . . .”? That was a lawyer's verbiage. There had been other incidences. And, my God! Had she really gone on and on about the Fierce Hawk of her fantasies?

Her head tossed from side to side on the pillow. How foolish she must have seemed in his eyes, an obtuse female ripe for his deceiving. He had said he wanted her for herself, a lie that had slipped past his forked tongue with ease.

“And, God, why didn't I keep my mouth shut? Why did I tell him I love him?”

Every time she had allowed herself to be vulnerable, the situation had exploded in her face. Never again would she tell anyone that she loved them, no matter how much she felt she could trust them.

Never.

Ever.

Not as long as she lived.

Suddenly, it seemed as if she could neither swallow nor breathe. She burrowed her face into the pillow and wished that she were a million miles away from herself.

A knock sounded on the door to the hotel room. Not the first one of the night. There had been a dozen or more since she had locked herself away there. And she responded the same to this one. “Go away.”

“It's me. Eleanor Narramore. May I speak with you?”

Eleanor. The kindest person she knew, save for Maria Sara. She needed someone to talk to. Charity opened the door. And the dear woman opened her arms. Obviously, Eleanor knew something of her troubles.

As kindly as any storybook mother, Eleanor smoothed Charity's wild hair and patted her back. “I've brought a decanter of brandy. Can I interest you in a snifterful?”

“You can interest me in the whole damned bottle.”

“Let me light a lamp. It's ever so dark in here.”

Within moments, the golden glow of a hurricane lamp flooded the room. Charity's eyes protested the invasion. She spied her friend pulling the hotel room's lone chair to her bedside.

“Would you like to talk?”

“Yes.” Charity covered her mouth with a palm before forcing her fingers to her lap. Eleanor handed her a snifter of spirits, which Charity quaffed rather than sipped. The brandy burned a path to her stomach. At least it gave some semblance of life to her broken heart. “I have been wronged. I fell in love with an agent of the McLoughlin family.”

“Hawk seems an honorable man. And he is quite distraught. You should see him. He is beside himself with concern for you.”

“Ever the noble savage, isn't he?”

“Mrs. McLoughlin is concerned, too.”

“Eleanor, if you've come up here to play the devil's advocate, you can take your leave right now.”

“I am not the devil's advocate. My concern is for you, young lady. And my heart goes out to your pain. It is a terrible thing, being lied to.”

“How much do you know?”

“Everything. Your granny and your Indian are in the lobby waiting for you to come down. She was eager to talk.”

“And I wonder where I get my big mouth?” A dry chuckle passed her lips. “Oh, Eleanor, I never imagined it would turn out this way.” She reached for the brandy, refilled her snifter, and swallowed its contents in one burning gulp. “I thought Hawk was my soul mate! I imagined we'd take Europe by storm, and . . .” Her words trailed off. She felt as if her entire body were an empty cavern. “I–I thought he was on my side.”

“I understand.” Eleanor sighed. “Feeling the way you do, I hope you didn't go through with your seduction plans.”

“I did.”

“Lord have mercy.”

Squeezing her eyes closed at the memory, Charity added, “I did as you said. I touched him in many places. And I went on instincts. Oh, Eleanor, it was so beautiful! Yet now it is tarnished and tattered.”

“And he never uttered so much as a whisper about himself?”

“Not enough for a simpleton like me to put together.” Beating her fists against the top of her thighs, she raged against Hawk. Damn him! Damn the traitor! “Eleanor, I've got to get away. I must get out of Uvalde at first light. Perhaps before. I don't
ever
want to see Hawk's–excuse me, Fierce Hawk's face again.”

“Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, of course, Norman and I will help.” Eleanor tapped a forefinger against a lower tooth thoughtfully. Looking up, she said, “We must get out of the hotel, and you must avoid the lobby. Do you think you can climb down a rope?”

“Yes.”

“What am I thinking? We don't have a rope. I know! Let's use the bed linens.”

Already Charity was gathering the sheets together and knotting them. The makeshift ladder finished, she tossed it out the window to the ground, then climbed out onto the catwalk girding the second floor. Daybreak lit the sky. Using all her strength, she lowered herself over the ledge and began to slide slowly down. But just as she reached the apex of an oleander shrub, insistent fingers closed around her hips.

“Dearest, I've been waiting for you.”

Didn't she have enough problems? And after their last confrontation, what could his intentions possibly be?

Yet she allowed him to guide her to the boardwalk before taking a long look at her former fiance. Once again he appeared the gallant dandy. He breathed out a breath of fresh and unsullied air as he spoke her name. His hair was combed and shining with pomade, and he wore a cravat and other fine attire–a Prince Albert coat and a derby of fine beaver skin.

I wonder what Hawk looks like in cravat and spats?
She cursed her thoughts.

Moving back several paces, Charity addressed her former fiance. “Ian, I want you to leave me alone,” she said firmly.

“I cannot do that, dear one. I love you.”

“Even if what you say is true, you must know that I don't return your feelings. After the other night, you would
have
to know that.”

“Oh, I don't hold that nasty business against you. You were under a strong negative influence, as was I.”

Yes, the influence of her savage betrayer.

“Will you forgive me?”

She sized him up skeptically. “You're certainly agreeable, considering you ran like a scared rabbit when Hawk and I spooked you.”

“No greater love hath a man than I for you.”

“Than for what you think I'm worth, don't you mean?”

“I admit the money is important. We cannot live by bread alone.” Morning light flickered in his eyes. Ian put a hand over his heart as if to punctuate his sincerity. “But if I were forced to choose between you and gold, you would most assuredly win.”

“That wasn't what you said when I arrived in Laredo. And you were off your rocker for the want of Papa's money not so long ago.”

“When you arrived in Laredo, my father had been bullying me about finding a job. I have told you this before. And how would you feel if your adored one were caught with an affections-stealing savage? Isn't that call for insanity?”

She related to his feelings of betrayal.

With a flourish, Ian offered her his elbow. “I've rented a carriage, and have provisioned it well. Will you accept my guard? We will go anywhere or do anything that pleases you.”

How she had longed for Hawk to say those words. But his utterings had issued from a deceiver's tongue. Her eyes lifted to Ian Blyer. She knew that his affections, too, were false.

“Charity?” Eleanor called downward. “Are you all right?”

Charity looked up at the window, where Eleanor was bent over the sill. Charity had two choices. Europe or Ian. But the continent had lost its appeal, for her dreams had been tied to the wretch waiting in the lobby to laugh in her face. No, there would be no Paris or Madrid or Wild West shows for Charity McLoughlin. Those things had been the silly dreams of a girl.

If there was anything she wanted, it was to hurt David Fierce Hawk.

But how could such a ninny as she hurt him? She glanced up and down the street, catching sight of Senor Grande and a half dozen other people in the distance. Wagging tongues would enjoy relating the story, should she leave with Ian. It would damage the Osage, discovering that she had gone from his arms to another's.

This thought swayed her as Ian's cajoling never could.

Vengeful she might be toward her true lover, but . . .

“Ian, have you collected Syllabub?”

“Yes. Grande will ride her.”

“I must have your assurance on something. Promise me you won't press charges against the Indian for horse theft.”

Ian nodded. “I've told Sheriff Ellis that I left Syllabub stranded and that you saved her for me.”

“Thank you.”

“Charity?” Eleanor's voice was more insistent. “I ask you, are you all right?”

Placing her palm atop Ian Blyer's proffered forearm, she stared straight ahead and shouted upward, “I am quite fine. My fiance has rescued me.”

 

 

Eleanor Narramore hadn't finished telling Hawk that Charity had left on the arm of another man before he was out the hotel's front door and flying after her.
Wah'Kon-Tah,
it hurt, her turning to Blyer at the first opportunity.

He caught her and her foppish companion just before she put her foot on the step of a carriage.

“If you take one more step, I'll shoot those horses and blow Blyer's head off,” Hawk warned as he came abreast of the duo.

“Number one, you're unarmed. Secondly, you can't shoot.” Charity hoisted herself into the carriage's interior.

Indignant, Blyer huffed, “Be gone, red menace.”

Hawk reared back and plowed his fist into the man's pompous face. Blyer's body went airborne, careening against the coach's open door and landing in a thud on the ground. Blood seeped from his thin nostrils. His lights were out.

Senor Grande lumbered toward them. Hawk decked him too.

In one giant step Hawk hauled himself to the carriage's portal, reached in, and grabbed Charity. “Get away!” she yelled. The toe of her shoe caught him in the chin; he reeled but didn't waver, neither from his intent nor from his feelings for her.

“You're going with me.”

“I am not.”

Somehow, he got her wiggling, fighting form out of Blyer's carriage. Depositing her facedown on the ground, Hawk towered above his seething Charity. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and, propping herself up on her elbows, imparted a look that could fry eggs on a winter's morn.

From the corner of his eye, he spied the tall, thin personage of Maisie McLoughlin, her bonnet askew, rushing to them. “Charity,” she called out, “I must speak with ye.”

“Stay back, ma'am. This is between me and her.” He bent to haul Charity up and to his chest. “Are you ready to talk?”

 

 

Charity wasn't in any mood for conversation, but Hawk didn't let that stand in his way. Past a crowd of curious onlookers, he herded her through the hotel lobby, up the stairs, and into the room she had escaped from. He pushed her inside before turning to lock the door and pitch the key out the window.

She eyed her improvised ladder of linens.

“Don't even think about it,” he warned hurrying to untie the knot of sheets from its bedpost mooring. When he had finished, he dusted his hands and advanced on her. “You're going to tell me why–
why
–you would've even considered taking up with Blyer again.”

Her bosom heaving, she lifted a palm to ward him off and backed away. “Because I want to. And because I want
nothing
to do with you.”

“Don't say that. It'll make you as big a liar as I've been.”

“You'd like to think so.”

Hawk reached out to her fingers, only to have her pull back from him. Had she given no thought to what they might have begun already? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how she would view all this, were she to discover that his seed grew within her. Instead, he asked, “Would it help if I say I'm sorry?”

“No.”

“Would it help if I say I wanted to be truthful?”

“No.”

“Would it make a difference to you if I tell you that I lo–”

“Nothing would make a difference. Nothing!” She turned to the window and hugged her arms. “How you allowed me to blabber on and on. Letting me suggest the blacksmith trade to you. Letting me believe you can't read and write. And–oh, Lord!–all my jabber about the Wild West show.” She shivered. “Imagine, David Fierce Hawk in a Wild West show.”