by Sharon Ihle
"Oh, of course," she said, hiding her disappointment. "Then I'll just be wishing you the luck of God and the prosperity of Patrick that all goes well with your fences." With that, Lacey helped herself off the rig, careful not to jingle her spurs, then collected her basket and headed for the house.
Females, Hawke grumbled to himself as he drove away, delicate ladies like Miss Irish in particular, had no place on a working ranch like Winterhawke. She was nothing but trouble.
Nothing but a distraction with hair that smelled of cherry blossoms, eyes that sparkled both blue and gold, and a sweet lilting voice that went on and on with talk of marriage. The more he thought about it, the more Hawke was convinced there could be only one reason a woman like that might be willing to wed a half-breed like him; she had to be on the run. From the law, or even from a husband.
It didn't matter to Hawke in the least which it might be, because he had no intention of keeping her around long enough to find out. He sure as hell didn't have a need for a wife. He could cook better than this female, tend to the cows and chickens in less than half the time it took her to even find the eggs, and although he hadn't tested the little Irish beauty with a needle and thread yet, it wouldn't have surprised him to learn that he could out mend her as well—and John Winterhawke, Jr. was the worst seamstress in all of Wyoming Territory!
If he had one brain in his head, Hawke decided, he wouldn't even go back to Three Elk Ranch after her again. Sure he'd promised his best friend that he'd give her a full two-week try, but if Caleb knew how badly she'd turned his life upside down in just the few days she'd been at the ranch, the old man would have to release him from that promise—wouldn't he?
Hawke had assumed it would be a simple thing when he made the agreement, even a nice little convenience to have someone around to do the cooking and the chores while he went about his business with the horses. He hadn't figured on the smell of Lacey's hair or the sound of her voice, and he sure never thought she'd worm her way into his horse business the way she had. If all that wasn't shock enough for any man, because of her, he frequently found himself questioning the life he'd built for himself, and even wondering if he shouldn't reevaluate his goals! .
Hawke had always known what he was about before. He was meant to be alone, and never expected to have much by way of company except for himself. He was an outsider, an undesirable, a position in white society he'd understood practically since birth. Even during those long winters trapping with Caleb, he'd known he'd eventually wind up alone; and he was fully prepared for that eventuality. What Hawke wasn't prepared for, was life with a woman underfoot.
Now that he'd tested Lacey these few days, he didn't know what to think. For reasons he still hadn't figured out, this O'Carroll woman was busy working her way into his blood, making him feel things he didn't want to feel, and it the damnedest moments—like in the stall over the birth of Taffy's foal, Or worse yet, while she was milking Hazel. The spark of desire she'd ignited in him then was startling and something he'd thought he'd never feel for any white woman; a lust best left unfelt. If he were to suffer another day of such yearnings, it could prove disastrous. Ten more could be... Hawke didn't dare think beyond another day.
He knew, of course, that he was rationalizing his next move, and running scared from this woman, he who never ran from anything, man nor beast. But this was different, and now at last, he knew what he had to do. He would drive back to Three Elk Ranch a couple of days from now and tell Caleb that this trial with the Irish miss simply was not working out. If his friend tried to argue him out of it, he would point out that keeping Lacey around wouldn't be fair to Crowfoot—not after all he and Caleb had been through just to get the boy as civilized as he was. Hell, they'd already scared the kid out of Three Elk Ranch and into Winterhawke because of one mail-order bride. Crowfoot wouldn't have any place to run and hide if Hawke moved a second mail-order bride onto his own ranch. Miss Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll would simply have to find herself a husband elsewhere. Period.
Hawke told himself all that and more, convinced himself that he really had no choice in the matter, but over the next few days, he found himself listening for the sound of Lacey's Irish lilt and the little songs she hummed while working; hoping for a glimpse of those coppery curls and the fact that they could never seem to stay confined in a tidy little bun; but most of all, missing those sparkling blue eyes and the way they gazed at him—looking, always looking, yet never seeing the blood of a savage within. But he still didn't quite believe it.
* * *
Three mornings later, Hawke arrived at Caleb's ranch prepared to go through with his plan. It was best this way. He would soon forget this fascinating female had ever darkened his door, and she... she would have no trouble finding a husband for herself elsewhere. Anywhere, but here.
Shrugging off the last thought, he knocked on the door and let himself inside the house in the same motion. "Caleb? Is everyone up and about?"
"We're up!" Caleb called from the couch in front of the fireplace. "But Lacey ain't quite dressed and ready to go yet. Come sit a spell, catch me up."
Grateful for the relative privacy he'd have with his friend, Hawke settled down on the hearth across from the couch and got right down to business. "Miss O'Carroll doesn't need to hurry on my account. I'm not planning to take her with me this morning."
"Oh?" Caleb perked up. "You got troubles with the foaling, son? I can probably spare one of the extra men I hired on after my leg got busted up, but only for about a week or so."
"Foaling's going fine." Hawke took off his hat and busied himself by adjusting the crease in the crown as he went on. "In fact, Phantom's first filly hit the ground a few days ago, and from the look of her, I'd say in three years or so, she's going to be the best little brood mare I've ever had."
Caleb chuckled. "I heard all about the arrival of your little 'Irish Mist.' Lacey practically busted her buttons telling us the story of how you saved the foal and her ma. A tough one, eh?"
Hawke shrugged, oddly embarrassed. "More trouble than I care for, but they're both fine. What's not going so fine, is having that Irish female at the ranch with me."
"It ain't?" Pushing his backside against the arm of the couch, Caleb straightened himself. "I cain't hardly believe that after hearing that girl go on about you for the past two days. Why all she talks about is you and that ranch. I ain't heard nothing but Hawke this and Hawke that till—hell, listening to her I'd a thought that the two of you were getting on thicker than calf slobber. What's the problem?
Now fiddling with the brim of his hat as he turned it around in an endless circle, Hawke went on with his prepared speech. "It's not me I'm worried about when she's there. It's Crowfoot. I'm afraid having her around is upsetting him something awful."
"Oh, I plum forgot about him. Did they have a run-in of some kind?"
"I don't think so, but I'm sure the kid was watching her help me deliver Taffy's foal. I doubt he liked it much." And that much was probably true. Crowfoot loved working with the horses, and most likely viewed Lacey as a threat to his job. Thinking of a few other "facts" he didn't have to fabricate, Hawke added, "If that's not enough, Crowfoot hasn't spoken a word to me for the past two days. When I leave his supper in the barn, he waits until I'm good and gone before he comes down from the loft to get it. He's avoiding me, and I'm pretty sure I know why." He cocked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. "Her."
"So what?" Caleb shrugged. "This ain't the first time he's gone and hid hisself from us, and I doubt it'll be the last. He'll be all right once he gets used to the idea of having a female underfoot." Caleb lifted his cane off the floor and tapped Hawke's knee with it. "Sounds to me like you don't got a problem a'tall."
Feeling as if he were losing ground, Hawke roughed up his voice. "Having that woman around has undone a lot of the progress we made with Crowfoot over the past four years. Besides that she can't even cook up a slice of smoked ham! Frankly, Caleb, I don't think keeping her around is
worth the trouble."
Kate drew the curtain aside she'd fashioned to separate the living room from the kitchen, and picked up the conversation where Hawke left off. "I hope ye weren't referring to Lacey just now, Mr. Winterhawke—look at what the dear sweet lass has made up special for ye." Never slowing her stride as she crossed between the couch and fireplace, she passed the berry pie she was carrying beneath Hawke's nostrils and continued on her way.
"Was that a pie?" Hawke said, following his nose. "A pie?"
Feigning innocence, Kate paused dramatically. She, Lacey, and Caleb had discussed Lacey's culinary deficiencies at length over the past couple of days, that and the disasters she'd caused at Winterhawke Ranch. During the course of the conversation, Caleb revealed the only weakness he'd ever spotted in his friend, Hawke—the man absolutely, positively could not resist a slice of pie, no matter what the flavor.
Exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Caleb, Kate finally answered Hawke. "Why, yessir. Lacey got the urge to bake a nice fat blackberry pie, but if yer not wantin' it or her around, I'll just be handing it off to Caleb's men in the bunkhouse." She turned then, and headed for the door.
"No, wait!" Hawke was on his feet in a flash. Hell, he couldn't just let her walk out the door with a fresh berry pie—not without at least a taste of it! He actually dreamed about pies from time to time, but since he rarely had the chance to go to town, hardly ever got the chance to indulge this one obsession.
His mouth watering, Hawke swallowed hard. "Nothing's been settled about Lacey just yet. Caleb and I were only talking about some of the problems I've been having with her out at the ranch."
Taking her cue, the woman in question strolled into the room, her stride bold and purposeful—an almost impossible gait considering that she was walking on tiptoes. It really wasn't difficult for her today, however, for between the lucky spurs and the recipes Kate had written down for her, Lacey truly did feel as if she were invincible. Between her newly formed confidence and the English adage—the way to a man's heart is through his stomach—she had no doubt that after Hawke tasted the pie she'd "helped" Kate bake, the man would be as good as hers.
Her head held high, Lacey met Kate halfway across the room. "Did I hear my name spoken in the same breath with trouble?"
"Mr. Winterhawke seems to be concerned about bringing ye back to his ranch."
Lacey turned her bright blue eyes on him. "Are you now? If this has something to do with the dreadful mess I made of your kitchen, I apologize again. I should have told you that I'd ne'er made pancakes before. 'Twas wrong of me to keep that from you, I know that now, but I only meant to please."
There was something different about her. Hawke noticed that immediately even though most of his attention was still on the pie. What had she done to herself? he wondered, Lacey was dressed in a plain navy blue skirt and white blouse as usual, and her coppery hair was bound in a bun at the top of her head the way it started out every day. But somehow between the last time he saw her and this morning, a good deal of that "little girl lost look" had faded from her expression. In place of the formerly edgy, uncertain female who'd begun to haunt his dreams, stood a woman to be reckoned with. One, it suddenly occurred to him, who fascinated him even more than before.
Hawke glanced from Lacey to the pie Kate still held in her hands. They were waiting for an answer. Clearly, the pie would be his only if he made what they considered to be the correct decision. As he pondered his situation, Lacey broke an edge off the golden crust, brushing away a few flakes which drifted down to her skirt. Then she popped the tender piece of pastry into her mouth. The pie was baked to perfection, Hawke could tell that just by the way it fell apart when touched. And, if the highly mounded crust and glazed purple streaks along the vents were any indication, it would be overflowing with sweet, succulent berries. He swallowed hard.
"Well, Mr. Winterhawke?" said Kate impatiently. "Am I to make the trip to the bunkhouse, or no?"
"Ah... no." His mouth watering so he could hardly speak, Hawke smiled at Lacey and made his decision. Hell, he'd once been strong enough to live through the worst winter blizzard he'd ever encountered, alone and unsheltered for nearly three weeks. Surely he could put up with this confounded woman and the unwanted feelings she brought out in him for another measly week or so. All he had to do, he assured himself, was stay on his toes around her—and make sure she kept on baking those pies.
"Are you ready to go?" Hawke said to Lacey as he sauntered over to the women and snatched the pie out of Kate's hands. "The place just hasn't been the same without you."
A lifetime of happiness: No man alive could bear it:
It would be hell on earth.
—George Bernard Shaw
Chapter 7
Hawke ate the entire pie for breakfast; didn't even bother to use a plate. If he'd been alone, he probably wouldn't have troubled himself with a fork, either.
Not that he was a complete pig about it. More than once he'd offered to cut a slice for Lacey and share his bounty, but she'd insisted that she wasn't terribly fond of pie. Imagine that he'd thought in amazement—a living, breathing person who didn't like pie. As he scraped the last bits of crust and berry syrup off the bottom of the pan, he belatedly remembered Crowfoot. How could he have forgotten about the kid? He imagined the look on the boy's face if he knew he'd been slighted this way, then guiltily wondered if it would be asking too much of Lacey if he were to suggest that she bake another.
Hawke glanced her way as she tidied up the kitchen. She was humming, filling his ears with sunshine, and methodically going about each task with slow precision—looking a lot like a woman who'd never so much as washed out a coffee cup before. This wasn't the first time he'd noticed her novice-like approach to anything he asked her to do, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last. Hawke had been watching Lacey closely since he'd brought her back to the ranch this morning, scrutinizing her like the winter hawk both his father and he were named after, looking for faults, he supposed, but finding riddles instead.
Something in Lacey's manner had definitely changed since the last time she'd visited; she carried herself more confidently, as if she suddenly had all the answers, and the faint tinkle of bells or something like them, accompanied her every movement. Jewelry of some kind, he supposed, although he'd yet to glimpse an adornment anywhere on her person.
"More coffee?" Lacey asked, her voice harmonizing with that metallic melody.
"No, thanks." Hawke patted his belly. "I'm about to bust as it is. That was, without exception, the best pie I ever bit into."
Lacey blushed a little, then turned back to the stove. "Thank you kindly, sir. 'Twas nothing."
"I'm glad you feel that way about it. I was hoping you'd see your way to baking me another."
"Oh... of course. I'll see to it first thing tomorrow."
He noticed the hesitation in her voice, but didn't press her. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Crowfoot to taste perfection, he supposed. Today he had to get some work done, and it was about time both he and the boy tended to the horses. Before he left, Hawke took a moment to lift the ledger from his pocket, flipped it open to the Lacey O'Carroll page, and perused his notes. So far, the only notation on the Advantage side read:
1. Good with horses.
Feeling generous now that he was full of pastry, he jotted another entry below the first:
2. Makes great pies!
Lacey swept over to the table and whisked the empty pie tin away, catching Hawke's eye again in the process. Never before had he even allowed himself to dream of finding anything like her in his kitchen, but here she was fussing over him like she'd been doing it all her life. Next thing he knew, Hawke was imagining Lacey as his wife and wondering what would it be like to find her at the stove each and every morning when he awoke. It might be nice, he thought, to hear that softly lilting voice murmur, 'Top o' the morning to you,' and to watch her lithe body swish across the room as she served his meals each day. And he sure wouldn't mind i
nhaling the sweet scent of cherry blossoms every time she brushed a few errant curlicues from her unmanageable coif across his cheeks. No, sir, he wouldn't mind that a bit.
Something warm stirred in Hawke at those thoughts, and his mind just naturally drifted toward the more pleasant side of marriage—to the fact that should he wed Lacey, he would be entitled to bed her, half-breed or not. Just thinking about this woman in his bed every night to do with as he pleased, drove him to add:
3. Bed partner, to the advantage side of the list. But it wasn't a moment later that Hawke began to think of the disadvantages to such an arrangement as well.
As much as the idea of bedding the copper-haired beauty tempted him, Hawke had a few reservations on that count—not that he was anything close to an expert in such matters. He could narrow the sum total of his experience with females down to one encounter on a long, memorable night around a dozen years ago when he was on the cusp of manhood. Caleb and a few of the Crow Indians they traded with at the time had unceremoniously tossed him into the tepee of a widowed squaw for an instant lesson on sex. There by the light of a dim fire, he learned several startling things about women and their bodies, even a few things about himself, but absolutely nothing of love. Wouldn't a woman like Miss Lacey O'Carroll expect that of him—love or declarations of love—if she gave herself over as his wife?
He sure didn't feel that for her now, and Hawke had a pretty good idea that he never would. Still just thinking of lying with Lacey spread hot fingers of desire throughout him, tickling his nerve endings with a deep, hot lust he hadn't felt in years. When those fingers clenched into a fiery pulsing fist as they reached the base of his groin he forced himself to think of another disadvantage should he marry, then lie with this woman: children. Surely the Irish miss would want them. Hawke thought back to another lesson the Crow squaw taught him on that memorable night so long ago; rigid control, for coupling led to children. Hawke wasn't at all certain he wanted to bring anymore mixed-breed children into the world to be shunned by both white and red alike. And he had no idea how well he could control himself now, especially around the fiery-haired Lacey O'Carroll.