Nighthawk & The Return of Luke McGuire (12 page)

Although that ugliness had been relative, he supposed. His people were often hungry because they could no longer hunt as they once had. The land to which they had been confined was too small to support enough deer for hunting, and the buffalo were gone. They had been told to become farmers, but the land was poor and too dry. So they had often gone hungry.

There had been the curse of alcohol, too, and the curse of having no jobs, and the curse of being treated like scum when they left the res.

But the earth had still been beautiful, and the sky had still been blue, and when a man was blessed with the opportunity to sit a few moments beside a stream, however muddy and small, he knew that not everything was bad.

And tonight, sitting beneath the clouding sky with the wind whispering secrets to the night, he found himself remembering the stories his father and grandfather had told of the days when his people had been great warriors. The days when they had been blessed by the bounty of the earth.

They had been blessed, his father had said, because they had honored the earth. But too many of them had forgotten how to do that, had become distracted by the material things the white men brought.

Craig supposed he was one of them, living cut off from everyone and everything except his ranch and his sister’s family. But that had been a conscious choice, because on the res there were almost no choices left. You couldn’t put a people in a prison and rip away their religion and culture and expect them to be anything other than dependent.

But he hated dependency, and had moved out to escape it. And in moving far enough away, he had discovered that it was possible to live in this world that had seemed so forbidding when he had been a child.

But now, having succeeded in escaping, he wondered what he had escaped. Not only was he feeling lonely all the time, but he was beginning to feel rootless as well. Nothing on earth would induce him to return to the hopelessness of reservation life, but he somehow had to make a peace within himself if he was to continue in any kind of life.

That peace whispered around him now, hinting at ways that would keep him in touch with the earth while he lived apart. Encouraging him to reach out for the power that filled the air around him and claim it as his birthright.

And that was the surprising blessing he was beginning to discover in his life as a rancher. Perhaps in the end it would prove to be for the best that he had had to give up trucking. Sometimes he almost hurt when he thought about what he had given up, but then he would get on his horse and ride with the sheep for a while, or take the pickup and drive around the fence line, and he would discover this incredible sense of…rightness. As if when his feet touched the soil, his soul found its source.

So he continued to sit, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head tipped back to the heavens. Watching over Esther Jackson was going to be good for his soul.

At ten-thirty, he watched a deputy drive up to her place and step out. Esther came to the door to greet him and they chatted for several minutes before he drove away. It looked like Beau Beauregard, but he didn’t stay all that long so he was probably not making any better time with Esther than Craig was. Not that Craig cared.

The clouds overhead thickened, and lightning began to fork across the sky. The wind kicked up until the rustle it made in the grass was loud enough to sound like the chirping of a million crickets.

All of a sudden he found himself remembering a stormy afternoon as he’d driven across eastern Montana. The day had started brilliant and clear, but as he drove east, he watched a storm build behind him.

At first the puffs of cloud had been innocent enough, white and fluffy like cotton balls. But as he’d watched in his rearview mirrors, their number had grown and they had begun to come together, their undersides growing darker as their burden of water had grown.

Finally, from north to south as far as the eye could see had stretched the black wall of a squall line. It had still been behind him, though, and as he drove ahead of it, drenched in the sunlight, he played a game of tag with nature.

Eventually he lost. One moment he had been in sunlight, and the next he had been in the dark gray-green of a stormy world. He could still see the sunlight on the road ahead of him and on the open land to either side, but now he watched as the storm’s shadow gradually swallowed the rest of the world.

Before the easternmost ribbon of highway had fallen into shadow, the rain had caught up with him, a heavy, gusting downpour that had sometimes made the trailer behind him feel more like a sail than a loaded van.

He still remembered the exact instant when he had realized how small and powerless he was. Ordinarily, he had felt big and powerful, driving a loaded eighteen-wheeler and looking down on other cars and trucks as they passed by, taking great care because of his huge size and weight. But when that storm had blown across him and pulled at his trailer, he’d known just how puny he really was. How big the powers of nature were.

He got some of that same feeling now sitting beneath a stormy night sky with the wind whipping about him. Puny. Insignificant.

Maybe he was having a megalomaniacal delusion here, thinking he needed to watch over Esther Jackson, believing he might be of any help at all if her father showed up. Maybe he was just being a fool.

But power flowed through him, rising from the earth and arcing down from the clouds, meeting in the wind.

He stayed.

T
he storm was making Esther edgy. Ordinarily she loved the raw power of the elements, but tonight the flash of lightning and crack of thunder seemed threatening. Even pulling her pillow over her head didn’t help.

Guinevere was restless, too, moving from spot to spot around the bedroom and whining occasionally as if the floor were too hard and the night was too loud.

Finally, giving up, Esther switched on the light and climbed out of bed. Guinevere sat up and looked at her expectantly.

“Yes, I give up,” she told her dog. “Absolutely and completely. Although, perhaps I ought to see about getting some sleeping pills, because if I don’t start to get a decent night’s sleep I’m never going to finish all those paintings for the show.”

Guin chuffed.

“Terrible, isn’t it? I may ruin my career because I can’t get my nerves to settle down. I mean…really, Guin, why should this storm bother me?”

The Saint Bernard woofed.

“So, you don’t think it’s the storm that’s bothering me? You’re very likely correct. Craig Nighthawk is bothering me. Now how do you suppose he can do that when he’s miles away?” She refused to mention her father because she didn’t want to bring his image into this already disturbing night.

But Nighthawk… Sighing, she looked toward the window where lightning was flashing at an astonishingly rapid rate. The thunder never stopped rolling. Nighthawk could move to the opposite end of the country, but he still wouldn’t leave her alone.

Enough of this mooning around. What she needed was a nice cup of tea, or a glass of milk. The storm would probably lessen by the time she finished drinking one or the other, and she would be able to go to sleep.

She hesitated only a moment before deciding to put her brace on beneath her nightgown. She couldn’t exactly explain why, even to herself, just that somehow, tonight, she didn’t want to be at a disadvantage, and being utterly alone had nothing to do with it.

In the kitchen she refilled Guin’s bowl with fresh water and offered her a doggie biscuit. For herself she settled on a glass of milk.

The phone rang. For an endless minute, she almost didn’t answer it, sure it would be her father again. But why should he call when she’d already hung up on him once? On the other hand, who else would call at nearly midnight?

The phone hung on the wall within reach, and she stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. No. Yes. Finally, unable to stand her own dithering, she reached for the receiver. What could Richard Jackson do to her over the phone?

“Esther, it’s Jo. I know it’s late where you are, but I’m in Europe and it’s the only opportunity I’ve got to call you.”

Esther listened to the rush of words her agent spewed from thousands of miles away and let relief wash over her.

“First, did you get my letter about your father getting your address and number?”

“Yes, yes I did. He’s written me and called me, Jo.” She waited patiently, knowing there would be a detectable lag between her statement and Jo’s response thanks to the great distance over which they were speaking.

“He did? That son of a bitch! Oh, Esther! You must be terrified! Tell me you’re not alone. You’ve hired somebody, haven’t you?”

“Hired someone?”

“A bodyguard! Don’t tell me you haven’t considered it. Esther, this man is dangerous. He killed your mother, for God’s sake, and you helped put him behind bars. You need protection.”

Esther thought of Craig Nighthawk and how much safer she had felt with him sleeping on her porch. A bodyguard hadn’t occurred to her, though. Nor did she really like the idea of being watched over by a total stranger—even assuming she could afford such a thing. “I’ll be fine,” she heard herself say. “The sheriff is keeping an eye out.”

“Oh, well that really makes me feel good,” Jo said sarcastically. “You’re counting on some backwoods hick to keep you safe?”

“I wouldn’t describe the local sheriff that way, Jo. He’s really a very caring man.”

Jo apparently used the transatlantic delay to calm herself, because her next statement sounded more reasonable. “Well, you’d know better than I would, since you’re there. But really, Esther, no police force can provide the kind of protection you need. At least get someone to stay with you. That might be enough to keep that SOB away.”

“I’ll see what I can do about it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I feel better. Now we can talk about business. After your show closes in London, I think I’m going to be able to arrange for a showing in Paris. You’re on the way up, my girl! Oh, yes, you’re rocketing straight to the top, so keep painting your little fingers off. How is the big one coming, by the way? Everyone here is excited to see it.”

They talked for a few more minutes about the paintings Esther was hoping to complete in time for the London show, chatted a couple more minutes about mutual acquaintances, then said goodbye.

Guin had finished her biscuit long since, and had come to rest her head on her mistress’s knee. Esther scratched behind her ears and tried not to notice that the storm hadn’t abated one little bit. In fact, the violence outside seemed to have escalated, which oddly reassured her. It was doubtful that her father would come looking for her in the midst of a storm this severe.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, there was a heavy hammering at her front door. For an instant her heart stopped dead and the room seemed to spin before her eyes. Then common sense reared its head. Her father wouldn’t hammer on the door like that. He would take a softer approach, not wanting to scare her into flight. Maybe.

Guin barked and took off toward the door. Esther followed hesitantly, sure it wasn’t her father yet fearing that her instinct was wrong. He’d always come by night in the past, hadn’t he?

But Guin sat down at the door and began thumping her tail emphatically. Whoever was on the other side of that door, the dog was happy about it. Maybe it was Micah Parish—yes, it must be Micah, checking up on her again.

Guin barked again, looking back at her as if to say, “What’s the problem? Hurry and open the door.”

Esther looked down at herself in her ankle-length white cotton gown and robe set and decided she was decent enough for anything except church.

And somehow, when she threw the door open, she was not surprised to find Craig Nighthawk there. It was as if her thoughts had conjured him out of the night, and she was in no mood to question the magic or the powers of the universe.

But he was soaked to the bone.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

He looked almost embarrassed to tell her. “I’ve been sitting on that hill over there watching your house to make sure nothing happened to you.”

“You didn’t need to do that!”

He shrugged. “Whatever. Fact is I did it. Anyway, it’s pouring cats and dogs out there so when I saw your light come on I figured I’d beg to come in out of the cold.”

She looked down at the saddle he’d set on the porch beside him. “What happened to your horse?”

“She took off.” He shook his head. “Damn storm. The lightning scared her, I guess. She’ll turn up at the barn tomorrow. But in the meantime…” He looked down at himself.

“You shouldn’t have been out there,” Esther scolded him. “Whatever were you thinking? Did I ask you to do any such insane thing?”

“No.” He settled his hands on his hips and canted his pelvis to one side in a way that drew her gaze and caused her to lose her breath. This man was deadly in a pair of jeans, she thought stupidly. Especially in
wet
jeans.

“No,” he said again, sounding impatient. “You didn’t ask me to do any such damn fool thing, but I went and did it anyway like the damn fool I am. This hero business is for the birds!
Now
can I come in and get warm, or do you want me to die of hypothermia out here? The temperature must have fallen thirty degrees….”

Not thirty degrees, Esther thought automatically as she stepped back to let him in. Maybe fifteen. Or twenty. But of course it would feel much colder to him since he was soaked. She closed the door behind him, shutting out the fury of the storm.

“You could have been hit by lightning,” she scolded, needing to stay annoyed with him because if she started thinking about just what it meant to her to know he’d been sitting out there watching over her, particularly after the scene they’d had that afternoon…well, she would be lost. And she couldn’t afford to allow herself to be lost because he would only reject her eventually, and a rejection of that magnitude would probably kill her.

She realized abruptly that her thoughts were babbling in utter confusion. Drawing a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes closed and fought for equanimity.

“You okay?” Craig asked. His voice held a note of impatience, but when she didn’t answer he said more gently, “Esther? Are you all right?”

Her eyes snapped open in time to see Guin rise on her hind legs and plant her forepaws firmly on Craig’s shoulders. She was horrified. “Guin! Off! Now! Oh, you know better than that.” She looked up at Craig apologetically. “I think she’s glad to see you.”

“I kinda got that feeling.” Gently he took Guinevere’s paws and lowered her back to the floor. He gave her a pat and a scratch before he straightened to confront Esther again. “Would it be too much trouble to give me a towel?”

Painful color flooded her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry! Yes, of course. The bathroom’s down that hallway on the left. There should be plenty of fresh towels.”

He paused long enough to pull off his boots and socks and set them beside the door, then on bare feet he padded down her hallway and disappeared.

What now, idiot? she asked herself. She certainly couldn’t send him back out into the storm—nor did she want to—but she didn’t have anything to offer him to wear, and he certainly couldn’t sit around in those wet clothes all night.

A blanket, she decided. He could wrap up in a blanket while she threw his clothes in the dryer. Then she could go upstairs and leave him the freedom of the house. Not that she would sleep. How on earth could she sleep while he was under the same roof?

A loud crack and roll of thunder shook the house to its foundations. The lights flickered ominously, then steadied. Guin looked at Esther, then trotted down the hall after Craig. The dog probably felt safer with him, too, she thought.

In the study she had a quilt that she’d bought at the county fair earlier that summer. She went to get it and left it outside the bathroom door. “There’s a quilt on the floor out here,” she called in to him. “Bring your clothes to the kitchen and I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

There, she thought with satisfaction, she’d managed to sound cool about the whole thing. He would never guess that inside her were jittery longings she could hardly bear to admit to herself.

It was embarrassing, she thought as she went to the kitchen, to be having urges and fantasies that she had so firmly stifled many years ago. Embarrassing to feel herself reacting as if she were fifteen instead of thirty. She had a crush, pure and simple.

She’d had a crush on Lance Morcombe, too, and had thought she’d learned her lesson. Lance had been the editor-in-chief of her high school paper, and she had been feature editor. He’d called her nearly every evening to talk about the paper, and they’d invariably wound up laughing and talking about personal things. She could still remember the way his brilliant blue eyes had smiled at her. She could also recall exactly how she had felt when she had discovered that he was crazy about her best friend.

Which just went to prove that men were interested in bodies more than personality. Lance had spent hours on the phone with her every night, but she wasn’t good enough for him to date. Nor had Lance been an exception.

So what the hell was she doing going ga-ga over a guy who could have his pick of able-bodied beauties?

How many times did she have to be humiliated before she would read the writing on the wall? Damn, sometimes her own stupidity appalled her.

Sighing, she paused by the kitchen window and pulled back the curtain so she could look out into the stormy night. Lightning was flashing so rapidly it kept the world almost continuously illuminated. It seemed highly unlikely that even a thirst for revenge would bring Richard Jackson to her door tonight.

A sound behind her caused her to turn. Craig Nighthawk stood in the kitchen doorway wearing the colorful quilt like a toga. He carried an armload of sodden clothes. Beside him stood an adoring Guinevere.

“I think she smells Mop on me,” he said.

“Where
is
Mop?”

“I left him at home.”

She glanced toward the window. “The sheep must be miserable out there tonight.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t think they evaluate things the same way we do. Besides, they’ve got good wool coats to keep ’em warm, and plenty of lanolin to keep ’em dry.”

She felt herself smile. “That’s true. They couldn’t ask for better protection.”

He lifted the bundle of clothes. “Dryer?”

“Oh!” God, she felt like such a fool the way she kept overlooking the obvious. This man rattled her nerves entirely too much. She pointed. “Behind those folding doors.”

Then she looked swiftly away because her nerves couldn’t handle much more of the sight of him wrapped in nothing but that quilt. Oh, it was perfectly decent, but knowing he wore nothing under it was…seductive.

“Would you like a hot drink?” she asked, grasping desperately for her composure. Oh, this was terrible. Her life had been so devoid of men since she had grown up and had something to say in the matter, that she could be rattled by something as simple as this. How pathetic.

“Whatever you have would be great.”

“Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate, please.”

It gave her something to do with her hands and kept her back to the room as he closed the dryer door, switched it on, and sat at the table. Amazing how much you could tell just by listening, she thought.

She started a pan of water boiling, and spooned instant cocoa mix into two mugs. A low rumble of thunder shook the house again, causing the mugs to rattle on the counter.