No Other Man (19 page)

Eleven

Skylar
returned to the porch and circulated among the guests. Hawk watched her all the
while.

The
evening wore on. People ate, drank. Talked over old times, politics—and Indian
policy. Hawk didn't participate in the conversation. Even among the soldiers,
there could be disagreement. Add the agency Indians and such conversation
could be explosive—if not deadly. At several points during the evening his
guests very nearly quarreled. Skylar had a knack for stepping in at the right
time.

Finally,
everyone had gone except for the household, Willow, and Sloan Trelawny. Hawk
and his two old friends retired to the downstairs library together, closing the
doors on the rest of the world, drinking brandy. It was natural that such close
friends should stay with him late that night.

But he
was more temperate in his consumption of brandy than he might otherwise have
been on such an occasion.

"It's
dying," Sloan was saying, swirling his brandy in its snifter. "The
way of the plains. When I try to explain that to friends, they don't
understand. But I know that you do, Hawk. And it doesn't matter that you grew
up among your mother's people or that you rode with Crazy Horse years ago. You
see it as clearly as I do."

"Maybe the army will eventually give
up," Hawk suggested. "Leave the Sioux their last hunting grounds.
There's enough land—"

"There's never enough land; you know that," Sloan
said. "But don't think that the whites aren't aware that the Indians are
cheated," he added. "There are many who know this is true." He
looked at Hawk. "Scandal is about to erupt like wildfire in Washington.
Your friend Custer—"

"My friend?" Hawk queried.

Sloan shrugged with a wry grin. Hawk and Custer had been
known to clash upon numerous occasions. They'd been at West Point together.
They'd ridden into the Civil War together, and from that point on, had often
taken decidedly different sides on numerous issues.

"Custer is a popular man," Sloan reminded him.

"Even if those in the military know that he is an incredible
braggart."

"He's a war hero—there's talk he could run for president.
But my point here is that the man has been vociferous in attacks on Indian agents
and all the corruption and graft that has occurred out here. I don't think that
he wants to take on the entire Grant administration, but being Custer, he may
well do so. And still, being a man who says what's on his mind, he's let it be
known that he thinks the Indians have been cheated as well."

"He's champing at the bit to lead an expedition against
the Sioux," Hawk said heatedly.

"He's a soldier—he needs a war victory. Just as Crazy
Horse is a warrior—who needs to make war," Sloan said.

"Custer is too eager to campaign. He doesn't want
peace," Hawk argued.

"If you think that you can blame the national sentiment
on Custer, Hawk, you are wrong."

"I don't blame the national sentiment on him, just the
way he works. He—" He paused, shaking his head. George Armstong Custer,
"Autie" to friends and family, had enjoyed playing pranks at West
Point. He'd scalped squirrels on occasion to leave upon Hawk's pillow. Hawk had
swallowed down the jest against his Indian pride, but he had seethed, and
retaliated by taking Custer where it hurt him in return—making the best shot on
a hunting expedition, outriding Custer in a show of military horsemanship. That
his marks were better meant little to Custer; he just got by in school, though
Hawk had to admit he did so brilliantly. No cadet could receive more than a
hundred demerits a term. Custer could receive ninety-nine demerits almost immediately,
but then manage never to get the final citation. He had his good points. To
Custer's credit, despite the fact that war—and death—definitely helped men rise
in the military, Custer was never prowar; he was sorry to fight his Southern
brothers.

Yet it was during the war that they first
clashed. They were both young, daring cavalry commanders. They crossed paths
upon occasion. Once, Custer had been so aggravated with Southern Colonel
Mosby's raiders in the Shenandoah Valley that he had ordered a number of the
captured raiders hanged. As Custer had ordered, the deed was done. Sent to the
same stage of fighting, Hawk had been appalled. It was war, Custer said. The
Southerners would gladly hang him. It had been wrong, Hawk was convinced. Such
brave men, fighting for their states and what they believed to be right,
shouldn't have died so. He realized that he and Custer were fundamentally
opposed, even though Custer remained fond of reminding him that he was
Sioux—and suggesting he refrain from scalping his Confederate enemies.

Over the years, they'd often had occasion to meet again. With
time, Hawk began to feel that Custer had remained an overgrown boy. He was
ambitious to a fault. He was also honest. His courage could never be
questioned, even if his wisdom could. Again to his credit, he never asked a man
in his command to do anything he would not do himself. But then, most men found
it difficult to ride as hard as Custer did, or drive themselves so diligently.
Though he fought the Indians with perseverance—and adored his wife,

Libby—it
was either common knowledge or accepted rumor on the plains that he'd had a
Cheyenne child. The baby, however, had supposedly perished from disease as a
toddler.

But then, Custer was a man of many contrasts. Again, though
he doted on his wife, it was also common knowledge or accepted rumor that she
often vied with his beloved hunting dogs for space upon their bed.

None of these things mattered on the battlefield.

"Custer disturbs me," Hawk said at last,
"because he is far too eager for glory."

"But he may wind up in political trouble," Sloan
told him. "You know, he had President Grant's son arrested on his
expedition through the Black Hills. Arrested him for being drunk. Custer might
well have been in the right. He's at odds with the administration on other
matters. He may well find himself without a command when the campaigns against
the Indians begin in earnest. If someone reasonable spearheads these movements,
there will be war and blood, but someone may live to tell about it."

"Autie Custer is a hero," Hawk argued. "People
love the boy, whatever his failings. I fear him—and fear for him."

"But can there be peace?" Willow said, his very
tone suggesting it was not possible. "It will do no good for you to speak
with either Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull," Willow told Hawk.

"I know."

"But you plan on speaking with them anyway?"

Hawk nodded gravely. "I'm riding with Sloan."

"You're sure you're willing to take the time now?"
Sloan asked him.

Hawk nodded. "I'm sure. I know that I can speak with
them if anyone can." He smiled. "It was my vision quest, remember?
I'll bring the word of the eagles to the buffalo. It wouldn't be right if I did
not, because they must hear one another, then weigh their choices. Sloan, what
made you think that I might not go?"

Sloan lifted his snifter, indicating the floor above.
"We'll have to leave quite soon. Within a week, if at all possible. Were
she my new wife, I'm not certain I'd be undertaking any journeys."

"Ah, yes. My wife," Hawk murmured. He lifted his
snifter toward Sloan. "To my new wife!"

"Here, here," Willow and Sloan agreed.

Hawk set down his snifter. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse
me ... Sloan, if you've leave from the army for the night, both guest bedrooms
remain empty. Take your pick. Willow, good evening. Thank your wife for the
time she has given me and for her generosity in lending her husband to a friend
in his time of need."

"Lily is glad to help. Goodnight, Hawk," Willow
said.

Sloan echoed him. "If I stay, I'll be gone early. I've
still supplies to gather. And you've still time to change your mind."

"I won't," Hawk said. "I can't."

Hawk left the library behind and quickly climbed the stairs
to the master bedroom.

Skylar was asleep. The lights were out, the fire was low. He
was quite certain she wasn't feigning her rest, because the hour was so very
late. She was in soft blue flannel tonight. Another nightgown that encompassed
her from neck to toe. He shook his head. She didn't seem to realize yet that no
matter how concealing her gown, it would mean nothing against him if his
determination was set. But for the moment, he let her rest.

He silently looked through the wardrobe until he found the
black silk skirt she had worn for the funeral. He found the pocket, slipped his
fingers inside. He found paper. The wire envelope. And in it...

The wire.

Not burned.

But here. In his fingers now. He carefully opened the paper,
wondering if it could give him some clue to his wife.

But the words were cryptic.

"Trouble. Have you legal title? Can
manage no more than a few weeks. Help fast. Pray you're well."

The wire wasn't signed. There was no indication of who had
sent it.

If the sender had been male or female.

He folded the telegram thoughtfully, sliding it back into the
pocket of her skirt. He closed the wardrobe doors and came to stand over his
wife once again. She still slept, the picture of angelic chastity in her modest
flannel. In silence he stripped down, mechanically folding his clothing, leaving
it lying on the trunk.

He slid in beside her, keeping to his side of the bed. For
tonight, he'd leave her in peace. He stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes.
Heard his heartbeat. It was slow, soft.

She shifted beside him. He felt just the movement of the bed.
Then the soft brush of her golden hair against the flesh of his arm. He
smoothed it away.

He felt his heartbeat once again, its pace growing faster.
Louder. Pounding throughout him.

If he'd meant to leave her alone, he should have retired to
his own room.

He could smell her. The scent of her flesh, clean, carrying
the subtle, evocative scent of Mayfair's rosewood soap. She'd washed her hair
recently as well. It, too, carried a soft, titillating scent. He moved a hand,
running it over the golden tendrils curled over the sheets by his side. They
were unbelievably soft, silky ... he buried his face in them. Closed his eyes
again. Leaned back.

His heartbeat shuddered, skipped. Pulsed into his limbs, his
loins, his blood, body, sex...

He rolled next to her, lifted her hair, nuzzled his lips
against the lobe of her ear, her throat. She didn't awaken, but twisted, her
body coming flush against his. He pulled down the sheets, slipped his hand
beneath the hem of the chaste flannel gown, drawing it up. He stroked her
thigh, drawing incredibly soft, lazy circles against it. She moved against him,
a long expulsion of breath escaping through her lips, some slight, sensual
sound mingling with it. He brought the movement upward, caressing her hips,
belly, ribs. Lower, higher. A feathery touch against her breasts. Between her
thighs. She roused but didn't waken. Undulated, pressed against him. Her neck
arched. He placed his hps against it, felt her pulse, then...

Fierce impatience seized him. He caught her hips and drew her
buttocks hard against his loin. One swift movement and he was within her,
satiation of the pulsing hunger within him his one driving goal.

At the invasion of his first thrust, she woke fully. Had she
wished to protest, it would have been far too late. But she wouldn't protest.
Nor would she allow herself in a fully conscious state the subtle but sensuous
movements that had served to so fully rouse him. She buried her face against
the bedding. Her fingers fell upon his hands where they steadied her hips,
holding her to his will. She didn't try to stop him, she simply dug in, as if
she braced herself, and waited.

Not even her stubborn determination to remain unmoved could
dampen his fire. Within minutes he rose to a swift, violent climax, ejaculating
into her with a shudder that ripped through the length of him. First, the sweet
simple warmth of basic satiation filled him. Then the ragged edge of
disappointment. He rolled to his back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.
But then, I guess I actually didn't."

She spoke without turning to him. "I told you—"

"I know. You'll give me nothing. Whatever I get I must
take. Perhaps you should be careful. When I set my mind to it, I can take a
lot."

"You can't take everything."

He turned on his side, away from her. He felt her shifting in
the bed, pulling her nightgown back down.

He wondered then what it was about her that could make him
behave so irrationally, because her simple movement suddenly sent his temper
soaring. He spun on her, drawing a startled gasp. "What in God's name
..."

With the same fluid movement he caught hold of the flannel
garment he found so offensive and ripped it with the strength of a madman, not
ceasing then, but tearing and pulling despite her ground-out curses and
flailing protest. At last the remnants of the gown lay on the floor beside the
bed.

"Damn
you!" she gasped. "Just what is it that you seem to have against my
clothing?''

"It doesn't belong in bed," he told her blandly.

"It was a nightgown!"

"For a schoolmarm. It doesn't belong in bed."

"Lots of women, lots of
wives,
wear nightgowns!"

"Not my wife."

He fell
away from her, turning his back on her, feeling the shame creep over him again.
In some things, perhaps, he was justified. Because she was full of secrets. And
lies. And because she had made her own choices.

But still...

Why get
so worked up about a nightgown? Because it came between them.

Along with what else?

Trouble. Have you legal title? Can manage no more than a few
weeks. Help fast. Pray you're well.