Lone Star Loving (33 page)

“Something wrong, Miss McLoughlin?” asked Rogers.

Everything.
“Don't be absurd.”

The reporter tucked the notebook back into his suit coat. “Nice meeting you, Miss McLoughlin. I'll see you at the courthouse.” He loped off, his long legs halting at the top of the staircase. He turned to eye her. “By the way, what do you think about Senator Blyer being reported missing?”

“His whereabouts are the least of my concerns.”

With heavy heart Hawk climbed the steps leading to Bexar County's red granite courthouse. Over the previous days he'd had faith in Blyer being arrested for Maria Sara's murder. The
Express's
headlines dashed those hopes.

Ian Blyer hadn't killed her.

Hawk knew he must keep latching on to the belief that McLoughlin and Sam would show up, El Aguila in tow. If the Eagle proved worthless, though—Charity might be found guilty. If she went to the gallows, Hawk knew he'd spend the rest of his life—and his afterlife—tortured by what he had failed to do.

Topping the stairs to the second floor's wide hallway, he heard a familiar voice. “How doin', Hawk?” Tom Ellis, Sheriff of Uvalde County. “Ya're shore looking down at the mouth. Anything I can do to help?”

“Tell the truth. Tell the truth on the witness stand.”

It was then that Hawk caught sight of a pair of handcuffs dangling from Tom's gunbelt. Handcuffs—Laredo—Capturing Charity.

I could kidnap her again.
What if the two of them just made a run for it? The authorities would ambush them before they got past the city limits. No, somehow Hawk had to free her.
Legally.

He stomped into the courtroom. Taking his seat, he glanced at Charity, seeing the fear she tried to hide. Desperation was firmly entrenched in Hawk, too.

Marshaling his wits, he surveyed the courtroom. High ceilings. Musty. An American flag festooned the wall behind the judge's bench, and a pot-bellied stove, glowing red, sat in a corner to the right. Behind the chairs and tables for the defense and prosecution teams, a low wooden fence separated the principals from the onlookers. Today the courtroom had more than its fair share of spectators—the reporter Jay Rogers among them—all eager for the spectacle to begin.

It was then that Ian Blyer entered the courtroom. Brash as he pleased, he pranced up the aisle, halting mid-way as feminine ooh's and aah's lifted into the air.

“Emma, isn't Ian Blyer a fine-looking man?”

“Oh, yes, Abra. I hope he goes into politics, like his father.”

Blyer sashayed over to shake hands with the ladies. One was not so taken with the man. “I prefer Mr. Hawk's looks, myself,” she told her companions.

Hawk turned his gaze on Charity. He wondered what was going through her mind.

Blyer approached the rail and leaned to pat her shoulder. She jumped in her seat. “Dearest, don't be frightened of me.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, Blyer continued. “Remember, a few well-placed words from me and you could be free. I'll be at the hotel, should you wish to talk.”

It was a good thing Hawk didn't have hold of his knife, else that bastard would have found out what it was like to have his scalp lifted.

“Oyez! Oyez!” called the bailiff. “The Honorable District Court of the State of Texas for the County of Bexar, the Honorable Osgood Peterson presiding, is now in session. All rise.”

Peterson, attired in his robes of office, took the bench.

Hawk yearned to take Charity's hand one last time. He caught a glimpse of the prosecutor. Lean and mean and dressed the part, Albert Ellersby shot him a superior look. Ellersby received one in return.

After the preliminaries, both attorneys went through their list of prospective jurors. Seating a jury proved frustrating to Hawk. Ellersby and Peterson disallowed all of Hawk's candidates. The rest—man after man, Ellersby's choices, seemed destined to rule against an angel of broken wing. But Judge Peterson, overruled each of Hawk's objections.

There would be no fair trial in Bexar County.

At noon Osgood Peterson banged his gavel. “We will recess until two o'clock.”

Hawk led Charity, along with Margaret and Eleanor, outside. He hailed a hack. “Café Pámpana,” he told the driver, then handed Margaret and Eleanor into the interior. His fingers on Charity's elbow, he whispered, “We need to talk.”

Within ten minutes they had arrived at the café, the same one where he and Charity had shared Mexican hot chocolate. Where she had proposed marriage.

Margaret and Eleanor took a seat in the main eating area; it was filled with peasants. The manager showed Hawk and Charity to a private room off the kitchen. Chiles and chili powder permeated the air, and whitewashed walls were decorated in the Mexican motif—oversized painted flowers, posters depicting bullfights, tiles of Arabic influence.

Seated at a wrought-iron table, neither Hawk nor Charity was interested in food. Hawk addressed the diminutive waiter. “We'll have two bowls of
caldo.”

“Only soup, señor?”

“And coffee. Lots of black coffee.”

As soon as the waiter had ducked into the kitchen, Hawk demanded, “What did Blyer mean, a few well-placed words and you could be free?”

“I—I have no idea.”

“You've never been a good liar, Charity.” Spying the waiter and his tray, Hawk said no more, not until they were once more alone. “Don't sit there, your hand shaking, trying to drink that coffee, and not tell me what Blyer meant.”

“Did you know his father is missing?”

“Don't change the subject on me, I won't have it!”

Filling and lifting her spoon, Charity took a bite. “Delicious soup. Did you notice the tortillas they've floated in it? Much more tasty than rice or potatoes.”

“Charity . . . don't dally with my patience.”

She put down her spoon; coolness iced her eyes. “I paid good money for your services, so don't order me around.”

Aggravated, Hawk, nonetheless, let the matter drop. He drank a cupful of coffee. He poured another from the pot the waiter had left. He nearly choked on the third, when Charity said, “Hawk, we've done some talking about our future. We agreed not to make any sort of tangible plans until I'm free, but there's something I've been needing to tell you. I am not free to make plans.”

“You will be soon.”

“Yes, actually I will. You see, I've decided to reconcile with Ian.”

“You're lying through your teeth.”

Her lip curling, she said, “You've always had the nastiest habit, David Fierce Hawk, accusing me of falsehoods—when you want to believe otherwise. If you'll get the stars out of your eyes, you'll see I'm serious.”

His temper rising, Hawk slammed his fist on the table. Their dishes and cutlery rattled. “The stars are out of my eyes.”

“Good.” She rose to stand and glanced at the clock. “It's half past twelve. I'd like the time between now and two to be by myself. Please make my excuses to Margaret and Eleanor.”

She rushed through the café's back door.

With a furious shout Hawk swung his forearm across the table, sending plates and cups crashing to the floor. What a mess. Just like their lives.

He'd reacted like a savage. Charity wouldn't go back to Blyer. She'd been upset by the trial's opening, that's all. She was fighting for her life, why shouldn't she have the right to make a stupid and
forgivable
scene?

He smiled.

 

 

Nothing had ever hurt her so much. Nothing. Her hands swept upward, disturbing her hair. What had been a single tear the previous night became a torrent today. Lying to Hawk tore her heart to shreds. But it was better this way. Let him think her cruel and unfeeling and fickle. She couldn't make him hate her any other way.

Her eyes nearly blinded from the cascade of tears, she pressed his totem to her bosom and hailed a hack. “The Menger.”

Rushing to Ian's room, she pounded on the door. He answered her summons quickly. The mere sight of him revolted her.

“Dearest ...” Ian, shirtless, scratched through the tawny hair that carpeted his chest. “Shall I address you as wife?”

“Yes.”

She signed her death warrant, for what was living if she couldn't be with Hawk?

Where was Charity?

The clock read two-fifteen. Judge Osgood Peterson sat scowling down at Hawk. His glower moved to Margaret, then Eleanor Narramore before returning to Hawk. “Where is your client, Mr. Hawk?”

“Detained, sir.”

“If she's not here in ten minutes, I'm calling the sheriff. And her bond will be revoked.”

Ellersby leaned back to speak with Jerome Hunt of Shafter; both men chuckled. Titters from the spectators rode across the courtroom. The gavel banged furiously. “Order in the court.”

From behind, Hawk heard the heavy doors swing inward, and he exhaled in relief. Charity was here. Swiveling in his chair, he turned to eye her. But it wasn't Charity who entered the court. Pushing a wheelchair occupied by Maisie McLoughlin, Lisette walked down the aisle.

“If the court pleases,” said Hawk, “I'd like a five-minute recess.”

“Granted.”

What had been a smile from Lisette turned to a worried frown. “Where is my daughter?” she whispered.

“What's the matter with the lass?”

Hawk tried to appease them before the gavel banged again. “Time's up. Court is in order.”

Lisette took a chair by her daughter and the Narramore woman, Maisie's wheelchair dominating the passageway.

Not two seconds later, Hawk heard a boom to his rear. Turning, he saw Charity flying past her great-grandmother, who took the business end of a crook-neck cane and tried to stop her descendant. Tried to. Without a word to anyone, the defendant took her place next to Hawk.

“Where in the hell have you been?” he demanded lowly, wondering why her hair had a mussed look.

The door opened again.

Ian Blyer, a smirk on his face, strutted to the empty seat next to Jerome Hunt; naturally, Blyer's admirers hailed him. He leaned to whisper to the prosecutor. Ellersby took on a strange countenance, which didn't sit well at all with Hawk.

He leaned to do his own whispering. “Charity, what is going on?”

She refused to meet his eyes. “I should imagine the state will drop its charges.”

Even before Hawk could form a question, Albert Ellersby rose to his feet, asking, “Your honor, may I approach the bench?”

Peterson nodded. Hawk went forward as well.

Leaning an elbow on the top of the bench, the prosecutor said, “Your honor, Mr. Blyer has informed me that he refuses to testify against the defendant.”

“On what grounds?” Peterson asked sternly.

“He refuses to testify against his wife.”

What?
What!
It was as if that statement had come from far, far away, and it nearly knocked Hawk off his feet. What was this lie? His eyes traveled to Charity; she avoided his gaze.

“This cannot be true,” Hawk said to Peterson. “The defendant is
not
married to Mr. Blyer.”

The judge appeared skeptical to all he surveyed. “We'd better hear what Mr. Blyer and Miss—his supposed missus—have to say about this. To my chambers. At once.”

The woman who had lain in Hawk's arms last night, the woman who had said she loved him at least a dozen times before dawn, the woman who was breaking his heart came forward. Without meeting Hawk's eyes, she swept into the judge's chambers, Blyer holding her hand. Never before had Hawk had such an urge to plow his fist into Blyer's smug face, nor to grab Charity to him and shake the truth out of her.

Surely the marriage claim was some sort of a hoax.

Charity had been a virgin in Uvalde.

The judge sat at his desk, his stern visage unyielding. “Mr. Blyer, what is this? You're unwilling to testify against your lady?”

“You couldn't have said it more clearly, sir. I refuse to incriminate my wife. I am recanting my deposition.”

“Odd.” Osgood Peterson took a good gander at Blyer and Charity. “Odd that you would come forward with this at the last moment. It's my guess that you're not telling the truth.”

“On the contrary.” Blyer gestured to Charity. “Show him the marriage license, dearest.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Charity dug in her reticule. “We were married in Nuevo Laredo on August twenty-ninth.”

“As you know, she had returned from Shafter on the twenty-eighth,” Blyer put in. “At the time I knew nothing of her crime. We married. But the... the marriage wasn't consummated.” Blyer shot a woeful expression at the judge. “This is personal. It pains me. I don't wish to offend my wife's sensibilities, your honor.” He put an arm around Charity. “This will all be over soon, dearest.”

Hawk's fists were clenched. Charity leaned in to Blyer.

Jutting out his clefted chin, Blyer told the judge, “My wife was experiencing a delicate time of the month on our wedding night. To my shame, I tried to force my advances, and I, well, I frightened her. She left me, sir. Left me! And my pride was bruised. I do have a reputation as a ladies' man, as you may know. I became insane. In September, I found her burying the proceeds of the smuggling operation. I struck at her by filing a report.”

“Young woman, is this true?” Peterson's scowl etched wrinkles into his brow.

Hawk felt the blood drain from his face when she replied in a steady voice, “Yes.”

She was a bagful of surprises, all right. He had a lot of questions. But something stopped his protests of foul play. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that Ian Blyer could free Charity McLoughlin.

And wasn't that the most important thing here?

Yet . . . at the moment he would have gladly strung a noose around her neck—
if
he could have been assured she wouldn't die from it. He bit his tongue.

Peterson announced, “Mr. Blyer, your marriage is invalid. It wasn't consummated.”

“On the contrary,” the peacock declared. “We spent the lunch recess in my quarters at the Hotel Menger. The lady is now truly my wife.”

No! You didn't! You didn't let him touch you!
Hawk glared at her, silently demanding a denial that never surfaced. His blood surged through his ears; his gut twisted. No wonder she was late in returning to court. Little wonder her grooming was less than impeccable.

“One of the witnesses to our marriage ceremony is available.” Blyer flashed his teeth. “Señor Rufino Saldino waits to be called.”

“Bring in the witness.”

Hawk leaned toward Peterson. “If it pleases the court, I'd like a few minutes alone with my client.”

“Granted.” He motioned to the others. “We will wait in the courtroom while Mr. Hawk and Miss, uh,
Mrs.
Blyer are in conference.”

Hawk closed the door behind them. She stood, her back straight, meeting his furious eyes. Her hand moved slowly up to her hair to smooth the disarrayed chignon.

“What kind of game are you playing?” he growled.

“No game. I—I'm sorry it had to come to this, Hawk. But Ian was in my life before I met you. And you never asked if he and I were married. In the beginning I saw no need to inform you.”

Hawk raked his memory. He had never come right out and asked if she'd married Blyer, but she had gone to Laredo for that very purpose, hadn't she? Maisie McLoughlin had told Hawk that county clerks in
Texas
were watching for a marriage license, so he'd assumed no marriage had taken place. But if it had taken place across the border . . .

“I thought about seeking an annulment,” Charity said. “Then things started to change for me and you. I saw that we weren't right for each other. You were no longer the savage I fell in love with. You became much too practical for me.”

Hawk had known pain in the past, but Charity turning against him was the most brutal blow of his life. “So be it. Let's hope it turns out well for you. Because you may not have beaten the system, Mrs. Blyer.”

The judge, followed by Blyer and Prosecutor Ellersby, filed back into the chamber. Senor Grande was right behind them. The Mexican gave a plausible account of the marriage of Charity McLoughlin and Ian Blyer. When he had finished, Judge Peterson whipped off his spectacles and asked, “Mr. Ellersby, do you still have a case?”

“No, your honor.”

“I feel as if there is something, maybe several issues, that do not hold water in this instance, but I have no choice but to dismiss the case of the People of Texas against Charity McLoughlin. Uh, Mrs. Blyer.”

Damn her if she didn't curtsy and say, “Thank you, sir,” then take her husband's arm.

“Just a minute, young woman.” Peterson shook a finger. “We will do this by the book. You and your husband take your places in the court.”

“If we must,” said Blyer before planting a kiss on Charity's cheek.

Hawk could have killed them both.

He refused to look at Charity when Osgood Peterson announced the turn of events. The courtroom went wild. But Hawk kept his seat as Charity, ignoring her family beyond a “leave me alone,” left with her husband.

Hawk, as well, tried to bypass the McLoughlins. Margaret's whitened fingers clamped around the top of her great-grandmother's wheelchair. “We. . . we didn't know.”

“Neither did I.”

Lisette touched his sleeve. “I am so sorry.”

Shaking her head in dismay, Eleanor Narramore sat wringing her hands.

Her face white as marble, the Old One shook her head back and forth. “I woulda rather had you in the family, lad. I woulda rather.”

She seemed to age before his eyes. But Hawk was too heartsick to pay mind to a distraught old woman. Cold with shock, he stared with unseeing eyes out a window of the courtroom. Vaguely he heard a commotion from the entrance. The McLoughlin entourage rushed toward it. He didn't bother to turn and investigate the cause. Not until he heard Gil McLoughlin boom, “I'm here to free my daughter.”

Hawk whipped around. He saw two dusty men and the crowd that parted for them. McLoughlin and Sam Washburn. They marched forward, and then Hawk heard a gasp go up from the assembly. Was it of fright? Or admiration? Even Margaret was affected by his presence.

A stranger separated himself from the crowd. Hawk didn't doubt his identity.

The Latino ambled forward, stopping at the gate. He was garbed in a wide sombrero trimmed in silver above tight britches and a bolero, both as black as the straight hair that reached his shoulders. Six-guns rode at his hips; bandoliers were strapped to his shoulders. Like heat from a furnace, mystery and danger shot from him.

“Buenos . . . tardes, amigos.”
The mouth peeled back to show white teeth that emphasized the scar on his jaw. “I am El Aguila.”

The Eagle.