Lone Star Loving (4 page)

“I doona like eggnog.” Maisie stopped rocking and set her cup aside. “How aboot a cup of cocoa?”

“I'll fix it.” When Charity jumped to stand, a loud crash and splintering of glass accompanied her.

Margaret gasped. “Look, triplet, you broke the popcorn bowl!”

The crystal dish had belonged to Mutti's mother, and had been hand-carried all the way from the old country, from the hamlet of Dillenburg in the province of Nassau-Hesse. From the look on Mutti's face, Charity knew she had committed a grievous wrong. Why couldn't she do anything right?

“Sit down, Charity. Cook will get the cocoa.” Lisette bent to gather the shards; her voice held exasperation. “Why can you never be still?”

“Such a prize oughta be kept outta a bairn's reach. And ye should be recalling she is a sweet lass. Headstrong, I'll be granting, but . . .”

“You've made Mutti cry,” Olga informed her sister.

Defeated at last, the hapless triplet tucked her chin on her chest and uttered in a small voice, “I'm sorry.”

Charity rushed toward the staircase leading to the sleeping wing. Halfway up the stairs she heard Maisie say something in her defense.
Maiz is never mean, at least to me.

In fact, she was usually a partner in warming milk for Dutch chocolate. It was even better when the Keller boys were staying over, since the cousins liked cocoa almost as much as Charity did. Cousin Karl, though, had a way of scaring her. He teased her about Easter fires that kept Comanches away from the area. Charity wished Karl wouldn't scare her like that.

She also wished that Fierce Hawk would make a grand entrance some night, with all the glory of Saint Nicholas. Fierce Hawk would stroll past the better of the McLoughlin girls, and he would stop in front of Charity. “You're the one I choose,” he would say.

Olga and Margaret would beg for his attention. He wouldn't be swayed. He'd laugh at the others. Fierce Hawk wouldn't shout at Charity. He'd think she was as pretty as Margaret and Olga. “You're smart and clever,” he'd say as they made mud pies together. And, most of all, he would like Charity for Charity.

Maybe it wouldn't be so awful to go live on a reservation north of the Red River.

Gee, she wished she knew what Fierce Hawk looked like.

It was on that Christmas Eve that Charity decided to wed the Osage boy. And she waited years for him, though she never told a soul about her decision. She didn't dare. She knew her papa wouldn't allow one of his daughters to marry a redskin, which only added to Fierce Hawk's allure.

But Fierce Hawk never materialized.

As the years passed and the family divided its time between Texas and Washington, the arguments between Charity and Margaret grew less and less. Margaret became more patient with age, and more compassionate as she saw how Charity was shuffled to the rear because of her impetuous behavior; they formed a sisterly alliance.

Margaret stayed closer to Olga, nevertheless. At seventeen, the demure Olga had married the highborn son of the Spanish ambassador to the United States, had gone away with her husband to live in his homeland. The Countess of Granada's letters divulged a wellspring of details to the naive sisters, giving advice on married love and proper behavior both in and out of the marital bed.

By that time, though, college was in the offing for the unmarried triplets. Charity demanded to be sent to the same university as Margaret, and Papa and Mutti had agreed. But the dean of the college had expelled Charity upon catching her puffing on the one and only cigarette of her life. Then Ian Blyer had come along, and his silver-tongued lies had made her cast aside her girlish dreams of tom-toms and wigwams and a black-haired savage.

This pragmatic thought thrust Charity into the present. Hers was a despicable situation. This wasn't some Indian village turned Valhalla. Nor was it Paris or Madrid, Charity's favorite cities. This was some hovel in south Texas that Hawk had—

A crazy notion filled her head. Could Hawk and Fierce Hawk be one and the same? she wondered as she huddled–as much as her shackled hands would allow–into the bed. Of course, her abductor held no resemblance to the Indian of her many dreams.

Fierce Hawk was a hero.

Hawk was surely an outlaw.

Fierce Hawk had reached for respectability in white society and had gotten it. In a letter penned last spring, Mutti had said he was now an attorney and lobbyist in Washington, dedicated to serving his people. In her mind–she still wasn't good in sums–Charity couldn't quite equate the Fierce Hawk of her dreams with the gentleman he had turned out to be.

But she knew one thing for certain. David Fierce Hawk wouldn't lower himself to abduction. That was a savage's game.

 

 

Sunlight was streaming through a crack in the single, oiled-paper window when the redskin entered the room again. Immediately, Charity noticed the blotch of fiery scarlet that covered his left cheekbone, evidence of their struggle. Good gravy, she'd hurt him! She gawked at the purple bruise at his throat, plus the red outline of her teeth on his wide, wide shoulder. She immediately squelched any feelings of remorse.

Instead, she glared at Hawk. “Have you forgotten something? Where are your feathers and war paint?”

Today he'd dressed as one of his kind. Gone was the Stetson; a leather strap banded his head of straight hair that trailed to his shoulders. Hair black as a raven's wing. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but a silver pendant studded with turquoise dangled on his smooth, hairless chest. She swallowed, perusing the prominent veins exposed on his strong arms. Once more he wore buckskin britches, but these were Indian style; a breechclout covered his private parts. Again, a long knife was strapped to his thigh.

Charity hadn't realized that an Indian, not even Fierce Hawk, could be so attractive and virile and–
Wait.
No doubt his mode of attire sent a silent warning: behave or be scalped.

Had Fierce Hawk ever scalped a woman? This was, Charity decided, one of her more ridiculous thoughts. David Fierce Hawk, Esquire, wore cravat and spats and walked the halls of Congress.

And why start with the comparisons again? Yet. . . Hawk's shoulders were as wide as she'd imagined Fierce Hawk's to be. Okay, she admired his height, for she was too tall for most men. Hawk was even more dashing and ruggedly handsome than the Indian of her dreams–look at that set to his mouth, look at those piercing dark eyes, take a gander at the way he moved–surely the similarity between Hawk and Fierce Hawk was purely semantic.

“It's daylight,” he said. “We leave.”

“No thank you. I'm not going anywhere with you,” she replied brashly. “As soon as you unlock me from this bed, I
will
fight you to the death–yours or mine–for my freedom.”

His brown eyes dissolved to the hue of dark chocolate. His stance grew immediately predatory. He reached for his knife and twisted it in the air. “If anyone dies, it will be you.”

A tad uneasy, she lifted her chin. “You don't scare me, dressing in that get-up and waving that knife.” He remained unimpressed; she aimed to pacify him. “As kind as you were last night, feeding me and all, I'm thinking you're nicer than you'd have me believe. You're no typical Indian.”

“What do you know about my kind?” he asked irritably.

“Nothing. I've seen a few renegades, but I wouldn't know a typical Indian from a buffalo. Anyway”–she swallowed as he brandished the knife anew–“y-you seem nice enough. And good men don't carve up ladies.”

“I am not a good man.” He took a threatening step in her direction. “The savage in me is capable of anything.”

Hawk took another menacing step toward her, his shins butting the mattress edge. Swift as the blink of an eye, he brought the knife's tip within a hair of the skin at her jugular. “If you die in the fight, be warned. You asked for it.”

Charity's shoulder blades pressed to the bed; a shiver ran through her limbs; her teeth chattered in the heat of the September morning. She hadn't expected Hawk to ignore her taunt about fighting to the death, spoken only moments earlier, so she knew she shouldn't be surprised at his comeback. But she was shocked to realize how much she wanted to live.

She, who had no future, who had nothing to live for.

Was there no justice in the world? This Indian held her destiny, like Atlas gripped the earthly globe. And her hands were tied, while Hawk's gripped a knife.

She shut her eyes tightly.

Here she was, kidnapped.

Probably to be raped.

Possibly to be scalped.

Most likely her carcass would provide a feast for buzzards.

If there was any consolation, it was that no McLoughlin money would ever line Hawk's breechclout, whether she lived or died.

Pull yourself together.
Daring not so much as a swallow, not with the tip of his knife at her throat, Charity felt certain that
if
her life was spared, Hawk wouldn't be foolish enough to give her another advantage. She must back down from her incensed remarks, or he might see fit to do no telling what.

She managed the sweetest smile possible.

“Uh, um, Hawk . . . maybe I was a bit hasty.” Each syllable brought her throat in contact with the knife. “I, uh, g-goodness. Would you put that knife away, please? Maybe an apology is in order.”

As she groveled, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Damned fool disagreeable woman.”

She stopped herself from telling him how disagreeable she found him. Now wasn't the time to trade insults.

“I-I've never been malleable. I can't help that. P-please don't kill me.”

The knife eased away from her throat. Thank her lucky stars! Maybe, after all, she did have at least
one
shining in the heavens.

She didn't say another word as Hawk sheathed the knife and unshackled her hands from the bedstead. He was quick to replace the manacles on her wrists again. On her feet, she wobbled, both from a night of sleeping in an uncomfortable position and from her aches and pains suffered from falling on that table. Hawk offered no assistance.

Neither did the ugly toad of perhaps fifty who called himself Sam, who looked as if he embraced the liquor bottle as a babe did its mother's breast. She didn't wish to be helped along. She stood outside, her wrists tied, and shuffled her feet in boredom while the dastardly duo went about the business of ransom-seeking.

Hawk rolled a water barrel to the wagon's side, hoisting the oaken cask with ease up and onto the conveyance, as if it weighed no more than a feather pillow. His accomplice grabbed and loaded the stacks of provisions already assembled–a pile of blankets, a wooden box, a knapsack, her belongings. Charity's attention moved to the horses.

You'd think any kidnapper worth his salt would buy a proper team! These two didn't look as if they could make it to the water trough much less all the way to Gillespie County. The poor things–a piebald and a gray–ought to be pastured, so elderly were they.

“I've never had much use for anyone who doesn't respect horseflesh,” she commented, cringing.
Keep your mouth shut
. Neither man imparted any sort of acknowledgement, and Charity sighed in relief. She took another gander at the mares.
Hmm.
If they couldn't make it to Fredericksburg... Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible if they
were
to keel over.

“Fixed you some more food,” Sam said to Hawk, handing him a basket. “Best wishes to you, boy.”

Hawk smiled. “Thanks, my friend.” Deigning no more than a sidelong glance in her direction, he ordered Charity to get in the wagon.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how the heck he expected her to climb into that buckboard, trussed as she was. She clamped her lips. She did have her pride. She managed to get herself seated in the wagon, even if her climb lacked grace.

As they traveled north and then east from the hovel of her captivity on the sweltering day–the team demonstrating more fitness than her earlier assessment–she kept quiet.

Three times, Hawk stopped and offered to escort her into the bushes for a nature call. Each time she demurred; she'd rather pop her bladder than allow him to help her with her pantaloons. And she was too proud to let Hawk hand-feed her again. So she went hungry. All day.

She spent those hours in silent suffering, the wagon pitching as its wheels hit ruts in the ungiving, parched land known as brush country. Her thoughts focused on all that was behind her, her family, Maria Sara. Dear Maria Sara, she had sacrificed her pay for what turned out to be a useless cause: Charity's freedom.
I'll repay her, somehow,
she thought.

But how was that going to come about? Charity decided not to fret over the future. Not yet. Her first priority had to be winning her freedom from Hawk.

Just before sundown, he stopped the wagon to make camp alongside a dry creekbed. Charity, uncomfortable in a dozen ways, sat fidgeting while he tended to the two nags, made a fire, and put together a pot of coffee. The heaven-scented liquid brewing, she watched as he stretched his arms high above his head, the fading sun catching the blue in his black hair, catching the play of powerful arm and chest muscles.

Something warm and intoxicating, not altogether foreign to her after the previous night, wound through her at the sight of him. A man so robustly fine-looking shouldn't have to lower himself to extortion. The world ought to be falling at his feet.

Yet the world didn't cater to Indians. Society scoffed at him and his kind, and a feeling of sympathy suddenly flooded through Charity for all the prejudice Hawk had endured. What was she thinking of? He had kidnapped her, for goodness' sake! Besides, it wasn't her fault Indians hadn't received a decent shake in society.

On moccasined feet, as the sun's final rays reflected on his silver, turquoise-studded pendant, Hawk walked toward her. Unaccustomed to seeing a necklace adorning a man's neck, she nonetheless found it–and him!–wildly intriguing. There had never been any accounting for her judgment.

Whether it was wise or not, she wondered about him. Who was he, really? Where did he come from? She didn't know Indians; in fact, she'd never been on speaking terms with one in her life, and Hawk seemed so different from the stories she'd heard of his kind.

“Hungry?” he asked and motioned to the box of provisions.

“No, I'm not. Thank you.”

“Thinking to starve yourself?” Quizzically, he examined her features. “You haven't done much talking today.”

She spoke the words her papa had longed to hear: “I've nothing to say.”

He chuckled. “I rather miss your sharp tongue.”

When she didn't reply he shrugged, then went over to the fire pit. He skewered a piece of beef, brought from Sam's smokehouse, and staked it over the cookfire. The meat sizzled over dancing flames, and the aroma made her mouth water. Yet it was something other than an empty belly that finally felled her pride.

As he poured a cup of coffee, she looked at the ground and admitted, “Hawk, I ... I've got to r-relieve myself.”

“All right.” He set the cup aside and walked over to her. Taking her elbow, he helped her to her feet. “There's a mesquite tree on the other side of the wagon.”

“I don't want you pulling down my underclothes.” If she ever got her dratted pantaloons off, she'd leave them off. She had enough fetters already not to let one more constraint impede future trips to the bushes–on her own! “Furthermore, I don't want you watching me.”

“You have no choice. I won't unlock the manacles.”

She stopped in her tracks. “Then forget I asked for a decent turn from you.”

“I'll think of something.” Staring downward, he frowned. The motion drew brackets around his mouth. His fingertip fiddled with the turquoise charm swinging from its silver chain. Within a couple of seconds he was unlocking one of Charity's iron handcuffs. His grip firm so she wouldn't get any ideas about escaping, he clamped the one loose cuff around the thin tree trunk.

“Now,” he said, “you may do as you please.”

He turned and strode toward the wagon.

It took quite a one-handed effort to get her skirts up and her pantaloons down, but Charity did it. And when she had finished with her nature call, she flung the dratted pantaloons to the slight wind and waited for Hawk to retrieve her.

Twilight darkened to night. She heard the chirping of a thousand crickets and the hoot of an owl. Something howled in the distance. Hawk, she couldn't see. No doubt he was tending his supper fire, the scent of which wafted to her nose. She waited several minutes for his return, waiting in vain.

She began to get uneasy. The aroma of burning wood and sizzling beef waned. What if Hawk had left? Well, he hadn't taken the wagon, yet he seemed capable of walking from here to California. Since she'd been hideous to him–and he liked his captives docile!–why should she wonder why he might desert her?

Dark fear arose, blacker than what she felt to be an uncertain fate at the hands of an enigmatic kidnapper. Abandonment. Once, when she was nine, she'd gotten separated from her family on a trip to San Antonio. It was the next morning before Papa and Mutti found her. After she had spent the most terrifying night of her life.

And tonight–tonight she was chained to a tree.

She might never see Paris again.