Hawk's Prize

by Elaine Barbieri

  His mumbled endearments echoed in her ears. Memory of his soft groan of fulfillment raised a flush to her cheek, and recollection of the rosy afterglow that had held the two of them in its grasp brought tears to her eyes.

  She loved him . . . but he seemed to have forgotten her.

  Could it be that everything between them had been a lie? Could it be that she had merely fallen prey to seduction?

  No. Tricia shook her head. She had seen a depth of emotion in Drew’s eyes that could not have been feigned. She had heard a tremor in his voice that had bespoken feelings that for some reason he had chosen not to voice. She had sensed the wonder he experienced in the throes of their lovemaking—because she had experienced it as well.

  They were meant to be together.

  So . . . why had he left her?

  Tricia approached the door of Chantalle’s office as evening shadows deepened. She was about to knock when it opened as Chantalle instructed firmly, “Remember, Will, get an early start. Leave at dawn, and make sure you stress that it’s imperative for Whit to come see me as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Smiling belatedly when she realized Tricia was standing there, Chantalle said, “It looks like you’ve already finished your work for today, Tricia. Will and I are done talking, too, and Polly must have supper ready by now. We’d better hurry because the traffic downstairs will start getting heavy soon.”

  Tricia forced a smile in return. It occurred to her that some things changed while others never did. She fell into step beside Chantalle as the older woman started down the staircase. Tricia glanced back at Will as he hurried toward the rear entrance and asked, “What was that all about, Chantalle? It seemed pretty urgent.”

  “Oh . . . it’s nothing.”

  “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

  Chantalle shrugged. “I need to talk to a friend of mine, the owner of La Posada. A mutual acquaintance is in trouble and I need him to help out.”

  Involved in her own problems, Tricia asked almost in afterthought, “Is it anyone I know?”

  “Not really.”

  Chantalle forced a broader smile and continued on down the stairs.

  Drew frowned with frustration as another day drew to a close. He glanced out the window of his hotel room at the shadows darkening the rail yards beyond, but he saw only Tricia’s image. He wondered what Tricia was presently thinking. He wished he could tell her exactly why he’d chosen to separate himself from her—that to have her sharing his danger was more than he could bear—but he knew that if he did, Tricia would insist on remaining with him.

  Drew’s stomach knotted tight as he recalled the moment he’d walked into Chantalle’s office to find Colonel Clay Madison of the Adjutant General’s Office talking to her. He knew enough about the Union Army to be certain that paperwork with his name and description on it had been forwarded to Galveston, with details of the charges against him. He was also certain that sooner or later Colonel Madison would go to Chantalle’s house to find him. The last thing he wanted was for Tricia or Chantalle to become involved in whatever the Yankees might have in store for him. He knew the Yankees wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know what had happened to the money—that he had been badly injured in the raid and had barely made it back to safety with his men.

  A sense of danger crept up his spine each time he left the hotel. He had often stopped to see if he was being followed. But when he had seen no one, he blamed the feeling on jumpiness resulting from the war—but he knew better. There was more to Willie’s killing than met the eye, even though he had been unsuccessful in unearthing the motive or killer.

  Drew reviewed in his mind his activity of the past two days since he had returned to Galveston. It had been surprisingly easy to discover the names of Chantalle’s best customers, and he had made a point of visiting every one of them to see if they could shed any light on what had happened to Willie. Without exception, they said they had no idea who had killed him and voiced surprise that anyone would lie in wait to rob someone in Chantalle’s backyard, where so few of her customers ventured.

  Drew unconsciously shook his head. Their comments had confirmed in his mind that the manner of Willie’s death didn’t make sense. His conviction that the murder was related to him in some way was the second reason why he had separated himself from Tricia. If anything happened to her because of him . . .

  Drew began pacing in frustration. He stopped abruptly when pain stabbed sharply in his leg. Wincing, he sat on the side of the bed, removed his boots, and rolled up his pants leg so he could check the bandage there. He raised the bandage cautiously and saw that the wound was healing well. He merely needed to get off his feet for a while. He couldn’t afford a physical complication at this point.

  Drew lay back and elevated his leg. The image of his green-eyed angel returned, and he silently indulged it.

  Tricia frowned as the driver of her carriage maneuvered his way through a part of town where she rarely ventured. She wondered why Drew had taken a room at a hotel there, aware that although Chantalle’s house was not respectable, at least it was clean, relatively private, and well kept—all things that she doubted she would discover when she found Drew’s temporary quarters.

  The Easton Hotel . . .

  That establishment had at one time enjoyed a well-deserved reputation as one of the best hotels Galveston had to offer, but that time was long past. She had been surprised when Georgia mentioned the previous day that one of her “visitors” had seen Drew unlocking the door of his room there.

  Tricia’s mouth twitched at the memory. She had almost forgotten that information sifted through a bordello as easily as sand through an hourglass, and that the women working there seemed pleased to be the informants.

  She had been grateful to learn Drew’s location, but she worried about him. What if his wound wasn’t healing properly? What if neglect had caused his leg to become infected again, and he was lying in his cheerless room in terrible pain? What if he was too proud to call anyone because the shock of Willie’s death had finally become too much for him and he needed someone to intervene? What if he needed . . . her?

  Tricia took a breath as the carriage turned another corner and slowed down. Her heart pounded when she saw the derelict facade of the Easton Hotel. All her what ifs faded from her mind as the truth became abundantly clear.

  The truth was that she needed him.

  Stepping down from the carriage when it drew to a halt, Tricia turned back to pay the driver. She shook out the folds of her simple blue gown, ran her hand over the upward sweep of her hair, and started resolutely forward.

  As she stepped into the lobby, all eyes turned in her direction, and Tricia realized the riskiness of her situation for the first time. Almost without exception, the occupants of the lobby were male, poorly dressed, and unkempt. Almost without exception, they were either leaning unsteadily against the bar visible through an open doorway or staring at her.

  Not to be deterred, Tricia raised her chin and walked toward the registration desk, where the clerk eyed her with a raised brow. She inquired politely, “I’m here to see Mr. Drew Collins, who is registered here. Is he in?”

  She was unprepared when the clerk asked, “What do you want to see him for?”

  Stunned, she replied, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, what do you want to see him for?” The clerk leered. “We’ve got plenty of fellas right here in the lobby who would be willing to help you with anything you’ve got in mind.”

  “Really?” Tricia replied with a forced smile. “Because what I have in mind is to see Mr. Collins. Is he in or not?”

  The clerk’s leer widened as he replied, “He’s in, all right, and I’d say he’s a lucky man.”

  “If you’ll tell me his room number—”

  “It’s room number ten, right up them stairs.”

  Aware that she had
gained the attention of the entire establishment as she ascended the staircase, Tricia inwardly shivered. She reached the second floor feeling apprehensive. What if Drew didn’t want to see her? What if he was angry because she had come? What if their brief time together had not meant as much to him as it had meant to her? What if . . . ?

  Tears filled Tricia’s eyes as she asked herself the question she had tried to avoid for two long days.

  What if Drew didn’t love her as much as she loved him?

  Tricia started abruptly forward. There was only one way to find out.

  She walked down a hallway stained by years of wear and abuse, and stopped in front of a nicked and battered door marked with the lopsided numeral 10.

  Her throat suddenly tight, she paused a moment before she raised her fist and knocked firmly.

  Breathlessly, she waited.

  Drew stirred at the sound of a knock on his door, unaware that he had been dozing. He stood up and reached automatically for the revolver he had placed on the nightstand. He approached the door, cautious and uncertain. At another knock, he unlocked the door, jerked it open, and then went still.

  A thousand thoughts flashed across his mind in the silent moment before he took Tricia’s arm and pulled her into the room. His heart drumming, he looked down at her as he pushed the door closed behind them and asked tightly, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you, of course.”

  Breathing heavily under the assault of conflicting emotions, Drew replied, “You know you shouldn’t be in this part of town . . . much less be seen coming to my room alone. You know what people will say about that.”

  “I told you before, what people say or think about my actions doesn’t bother me.”

  “It bothers me.”

  “You sound like Chantalle.”

  Drew responded gruffly, “Believe me, my feelings for you are nothing like Chantalle’s.”

  Tricia took a step closer. The sweet female scent that was hers alone inundated his senses as she looked up at him. The heat of her green-eyed gaze gnawed at his control as she searched his face for a few silent moments, and then said more softly, “How do you feel about me, Drew? That thought’s been plaguing me for the past two days. I need to know.”

  “Tricia—”

  “Tell me . . . please.”

  In tenuous control of his restraint, Drew replied, “Do you need to hear the words, Tricia? Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t think that was necessary. I thought I had proved to you, the best way I know, that I care about you.”

  “You care about me?”

  “Yes . . . you know I do.”

  Drew saw the effect his words had on Tricia, and his inner hunger increased. He wanted her. He needed her in a way he had never needed another woman. Those words hung on his lips, begging to be spoken, but he had no right to say them with his future stretching out before him as darkly as his past.

  “You care about me . . . in the same way you’ve cared about other women before me?”

  “No.”

  “You care for me more?”

  Drew did not immediately respond.

  “Drew . . .”

  “I’ve already answered that question.”

  Tears suddenly bright in her eyes, Tricia said, “Have you? Why are you holding back, Drew? Why won’t you say what you mean?”

  “I am saying what I mean.”

  “Talk to me . . . please, Drew.”

  “Tricia—”

  “I need you to tell me one way or another whether the emotion between us was special to you, Drew, or if it was just . . . ordinary lust.”

  “Don’t even say that!”

  “Then tell me!”

  Struggling to resist her appeal, Drew whispered, “Don’t do this to me, Tricia.”

  “Do what, Drew?”

  Suddenly gripping her tight against him in the only response he could give, Drew covered her mouth with his. He was aware only of the sensations ripping through him as Tricia melted in his arms and returned his kiss. Her body melded to his, responding instinctively, giving kiss for kiss, caress for caress.

  Lifting her up into his arms abruptly, Drew carried Tricia to the rumpled bed and dropped his revolver back on the nightstand as he laid her down. Her softness underneath him sent new tremors of need pounding through his veins. He could not suffer the impediment of clothing between them, and he undressed them with fumbling hands.

  He tasted her flesh at last, and his emotions soared.

  Mumbling loving words that he could not suppress, Drew traveled the length of Tricia’s nakedness with his kisses. Finding the warm delta between her thighs, he indulged himself deeply. Undeterred by Tricia’s whimper of uncertainty at the intimacy of his ministrations, he savored her sweetness with an ever driving urgency for more. His attentions increased as her impassioned whispers grew more urgent. With a growing elation, he felt the first tremors that shook her slender frame, and he anticipated the glory soon to follow.

  As her body erupted with sudden rapturous spasms, Drew accepted Tricia’s honeyed response to his lovemaking, and his heart sang. He continued his ardor until her quaking ceased and she was breathlessly silent and still in his arms.

  Raising himself above her at last, he murmured in a throbbing voice, “This is how I feel about you, Tricia. This is how much I want you . . . as much as I’ve always wanted you.”

  Drew thrust himself inside her. He then paused momentarily to enjoy the moment of complete possession as brilliant sparks of silent jubilation filled his mind. He began moving with rapidly increasing vigor until emotions formerly held in check exploded into a fiery ecstasy that carried them both to shuddering release.

  They were still joined with the moist heat of mutual passion when Drew looked down at her again. Waiting until her heavy eyelids rose with sated languor, he whispered, “I couldn’t show you any more clearly how I feel about you, Tricia. It’s the way I’ll always feel.”

  Drew watched as the power of the moment choked off Tricia’s response. He saw her lips tremble with words she could not seem to voice. Sharing those feelings more deeply than Tricia could know, Drew surrendered to the sensation still holding them captive in its thrall.

  Slowly, gently, he covered her mouth with a kiss that said all they had been unable to say . . . and the dance of love began again.

  Bruce moved silently through the hallway of the Easton Hotel. The streets outside had darkened, and the pedestrian traffic of working men and women who favored that time of day for the pursuit of their amusements had grown more disorderly with the passing hours. Again dressed in the clothing of a common wrangler, totally unlike the more formal apparel he usually wore in his position at Gault Shipping, he had been all but invisible. He had tied up his horse in the deserted alleyway beside the hotel and had made his way to the rear of the building. He had been smart enough to wait for a later hour, making sure that the boss had time to firmly establish his presence at the high-class party he was attending.

  Bruce had checked the stable to make sure that Collins’s mount was there, and had returned to the deserted alleyway in order to use the rear entrance of the hotel. He had not found it difficult to ascertain Drew Collins’s room number on a previous visit, and he knew exactly where to go.

  The hallway was deserted as he had expected, and Bruce smiled. The boss had made it easy for him this time. He hadn’t placed any restrictions on the job other than to get it done as quickly and efficiently as possible. He would, of course, go through Collins’s things in an attempt to make it appear that Collins had been robbed, but he doubted he would find anything of value. He would probably have to be satisfied with taking a souvenir of the outing, as he had done many times before.

  Bruce paused in front of room number 10. He saw no light shining underneath the door. Collins must be asleep. Bruce had already decided that if Collins happened not to be in his room when he arrived, he would simply wait for him to return and t
ake care of business then.

  Taking a slender tool out of his pocket, Bruce worked silently at the lock. He was good at picking locks. It was one of the many unheralded talents that he had used liberally before coming to work for Gault years earlier, and it had served him well.

  Listening acutely for the soft click that indicated the mechanism had turned, Bruce pushed the door open a crack and then paused again to listen. He smiled when he heard the sound of slow, even breathing.

  Collins was asleep.

  Perfect.

  He withdrew his gun from his holster and pushed the door open far enough to allow him entrance.

  The subtle click of the lock had awakened Drew abruptly. Immediately alert, he saw the shadow of a man standing motionless in the hallway outside his door. He reached for the revolver on the nightstand and stood up, shielding with his broad frame the bed where Tricia slept. He held his breath as the door was pushed open a crack.

  Aware that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room—an advantage the intruder did not have—he waited until the figure slipped inside before he said, “Put your hands up right now or I’ll shoot!”

  The sequence of events that followed was too rapid for his mind to immediately digest. But Drew acted on instinct and pulled the trigger as a gunshot flashed in the darkness. He stood motionless at the thud of a heavy body hitting the floor.

  “Drew . . . what happened?”

  He felt Tricia’s seminaked warmth at his side and thrust her behind him as he reached toward the lamp and lit it. He went still at the sight of the man lying on the rug just inside the door, his gun only inches from his hand.