by Sharon Ihle
"May I ask what you might be doing there?" Lacey's voice surprised him so Hawke nearly pitched backwards out of his chair. "What?"
She moved closer to the table and pointed to the ledger. "I was wondering what you're writing there, and if I might be of help."
"Oh, ah, it's just my ledger, accounting I keep whenever I go horse trading." He glanced up at Lacey, oddly embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming about her, and felt compelled to explain even further. "I always make a list of the animal's good points and its bad. Whichever side is the longest when I've finished my examination, makes the decision for me."
"Ah, that sounds like a very good idea. Will you be buying another horse soon then?"
"Something like that." Suddenly wanting out of the conversation, Hawke hunched over the ledger to discourage her interest, then moistened the tip of his pencil and jotted two more notations under disadvantages:
7. Bed Partner
8. Too damn nosy.
The rough edge to Hawke's tone and his obvious dismissal of her didn't put Lacey off. How could she be angry with anyone who looked so adorable? Since he'd eaten the pie, the corners of Hawke's mouth, his tongue, and even his teeth, were all stained a nice periwinkle blue, making him look like a naughty little boy, even when he frowned. The only thing which disturbed her was the catch in his voice, a little warble which suggested he hadn't been entirely truthful with her.
Sure he was deliberately hiding something from her, Lacey made up her mind to have a look at this ledger of his. Making certain to stay on her tiptoes in order to keep her spurs quiet, she took up a feather duster and casually began to clean the shelving which held dishes and crockery just behind the dining table. Hawke paid her no heed. So she moved a little closer to him.
She worked this way for several moments, flitting behind him occasionally as she did her "chores." When she opened the back door which was located directly behind the chair in which Hawke sat, Lacey walked through to the porch and took a couple of steps in the direction of the icebox. Then quietly retracing her steps, she peered around the jamb, leaned forward as far as she dared, and glanced over his shoulder until she could catch a glimpse of this mysterious ledger.
The heading on the page clearly read: Lacey O'Carroll. Beneath that were two columns, one called Advantages, the other, Disadvantages. She swallowed a gasp of surprise, and ducked back around the corner. Apparently Hawke was rating her in the same way he judged his animals! If that wasn't bad enough, it appeared that the list of entries on the Disadvantages side of the ledger was much longer than the other. So the man judged her and found her lacking, did he?
Incensed, Lacey hiked up her skirts and, forgetting to tiptoe, marched out to the far end of the porch. "The curse of the crows upon you and your miserable book of lies, Mr. Winterhawke," she muttered under her breath as she flung open the icebox. Staring at the contents of the cold storage, she put the finishing touches on her curse in a much louder voice. "May you and your book of judgements rot in the hills for the crows to feed upon."
Back in the house, Hawke cocked his head, alerted not just by Lacey's voice, but by that distinctive metallic sound which accompanied it. A sound, it suddenly occurred to him, which was beginning to strike him as vaguely familiar. What the hell was she wearing—chains?
"Lacey?" he called over his shoulder. "Did you just ask me something about crows in these hills?"
After a moment to calm herself, she tiptoed back to the door and poked her head around the corner again. Hawke had turned around in his chair, leaving her with no choice but to meet his gaze with a broad smile. "I was just wondering if your fine mountains are home to any crows. I thought I heard the cawing of one the other day."
"That's probably what you heard all right. Those pesky birds are pretty much everywhere up here." Hawke closed the ledger and slid it inside his jacket pocket. Then he stood, stared at her for a long moment as if weighting his options, and finally said, "I'm on my way out to the corrals now to get busy with the horses. Seems to me I promised you an introduction to Phantom the day his filly was born. Would you like to come along and meet him?"
Lacey beamed with pleasure at the suggestion, but she had not forgotten her earlier anger. She had every intention of getting hold of that ledger one day soon and finding out exactly what it was that displeased Hawke so about her. For now, she just smiled and said, "Aye, and I would be most happy to make his acquaintance at long last. Thank you kindly for askin'."
Though early morning yet, the day outside was bright and clear, nothing short of gorgeous. As they walked to the stud's corral, Lacey dropped her gaze to Centennial Valley, a gently sloping saucer of pastureland, rocks, and sagebrush lying directly below the mountaintop where Hawke had built his home. In daylight, she could easily see the sparkling creek winding through the aspens which bordered the mare's enclosure, and also that the ribbon of water cut across a meadow carpeted with bluebells and buttercups, a sight unlike anything she'd seen in Ireland.
Suddenly filled with a heady sense of freedom, the panorama before her drove away the last of Lacey's anger as she followed along behind Hawke breathing deeply of the pine-scented coolness all around her. Then at once, she picked up the distinct aroma of horses. They'd arrived at the smallest corral, a fenced arena whose walls were much higher than the other enclosures on the ranch. In that pen stood a sleek gray stallion with a thick silvery mane and matching tail which swept the ground.
As they approached him, the high-strung animal began to strut around the perimeters of his pen, tossing his head and snorting. By the time Lacey and Hawke were within two feet of the fence, the stud was charging toward them, skidding to a stop, then rearing and pawing the air in defiance.
"Don't get any closer," Hawke said, warning Lacey away from the fence: "As you can see, it doesn't take much to get Phantom excited."
The stallion reared again, this time emitting a shrill whinny, then spun on his hind legs and roared off across the pen in a dead run. After skidding to an abrupt halt just before crashing into the fence, the animal wheeled around and raced to the center of the ring where he began to paw the ground.
Instead of being frightened by the beast, a fascinated Lacey moved a couple of steps closer to the enclosure. "There now," she said, calling to the stallion as she stuck her left hand between two slats and into the corral. "'Tis Lacey O'Carroll come to meet up with you. Come smell the palm of my hand and you'll see that I'll not be hurting you or giving you any—"
Phantom suddenly charged the fence faster than she would have believed such a large animal could move. If Hawke hadn't grabbed hold of her shoulders and dragged her away from the corral in that same instant, the stud might have smashed against Lacey's outstretched arm, breaking her wrist, or worse.
His hands still firmly clenched to her shoulders, Hawke shook her a little. "Didn't I tell you not to get too close to him?" he shouted. "That animal's not only dangerous, but crazy."
Although Lacey knew he couldn't possibly guess how that word stung her, making her feel defensive, and more sympathetic than ever toward the agitated stallion, she ignored his outburst. Instead, and even though he still held her shoulders bracketed between his hands, she defiantly turned her head away from him and stared at the beast. Phantom's nostrils were flaring and snorting at regular intervals, and he kept one big brown eye pinned to her as he loped around the perimeters of his enclosure. Was he committing her face to memory should she be fool enough to approach him again? Or was he simply as curious about her as she was about him?
Hawke shook her again, demanding her attention. "Lacey? Are you listening to me?"
"Aye," she finally said, too accustomed to doing what she was told to hold out any longer. "I'm listening and hearing what you have to say, but I can not tell you that I'm liking the words much. 'Tis mean of you to be callin' anything, man or beast, crazy."
"Well, excuse the hell out of me, ma'am." His expression and his tone were anything but apologetic. "Crazy pretty much covers the
way that horse behaves on occasion, so crazy is what I call him. He deserves it."
With a toss of her head, Lacey turned her gaze back to the stallion. "Maybe that horse would not deserve it or behave so badly if you did not act as if you expect him to be so... so overwrought. Did you ever consider that? Seems to me that your prized stallion might be a wee bit saner if you did not treat him as if he were different from the other horses." At least that's the way she'd felt under similar circumstances. Feeling indignant on her own behalf as well as the animal's, she tossed in, "He probably wishes to run with them, instead of being penned up alone the way he is."
"One afternoon in a foaling stall, and suddenly you're an expert on horses, is that it?" Hawke's voice was deceptively quiet, for in the next moment, he hauled Lacey up close to his hips, almost, but not quite making full contact with her. As he'd planned, she snapped her head back around to face him, her big blue eyes wide with surprise.
"Running," he went on to say, "is not exactly what he wishes to do with the other horses. Phantom is my stud, understand? The rooster among my mares. If I were to turn him loose with them and their yearlings, he'd—"
"Arrah; and I-I think I understand what you mean." Blushing violently, she lowered her lashes. "I suppose I am sounding a bit the expert, but 'tis only because I do feel a kinship with the horses—really I do, and thought I might understand this gentleman's frustrations a wee bit."
At that moment, Hawke found himself wondering if she had any inkling of the kind of frustrations she'd set to growing in him—or if she understood how much this gentleman would like them eased. She was right about the one thing, however—Lacey did seem to have a natural feel for horses, an innate gift he hadn't recognized in anyone so quickly since the day he first introduced Crowfoot to his herd. In fact, it suddenly occurred to him, in many ways, the Irish miss and the young Crow Indian were a lot alike.
Puzzling over that realization, Hawke gentled his voice. "You are getting along with the horses just fine, but with that ability, you've got to learn a healthy respect for the animals. Without that respect, working with them could cost you at least a few broken bones, if not your life."
"Aye, and I suppose I might have learned that lesson by now if I had not been in a bit of a rush to make myself welcome here. I promise to listen better from now on."
"Do that," he said in a deep whisper. "And give yourself more time to get used to their ways. They're big—so big even they have no idea how big they are—and in the case of Phantom, still pretty wild."
"And would that be why you're callin' him names? Not to poke fun, but to warn a body that he's a wee bit 'crazy-wild'?"
"Yeah... something like that, I guess." Why would she have thought he was poking fun at his own horse? "Just remember this; even if Phantom seems to like and trust you, there's no way of knowing when you approach him whether he's going to nip at you, slash out at you with his hooves, or nuzzle your palm. He's very unpredictable. Do you understand what that means?"
"I would say that I do." Lacey flashed Hawke a meaningful grin. "The only thing I do not understand, is why you call the beast Phantom. He is mist-colored, true, but given his nature, I should think he might better be named... Hawke."
"Hawke?" Chuckling to himself as her meaning sunk in, he suddenly became very aware that he hadn't turned loose of Lacey's shoulders yet. Feeling curiously regretful, Hawke released his grip, but then, instead of putting some distance between them the way he should have, he impulsively brushed his fingertips across her porcelain cheek. "You're full of surprises, Miss Lacey O'Carroll. I always feel like I'm missing something with you, like there's a little secret or two you're keeping from me. What are you hiding, Irish miss? Anything I should know about?"
Lacey gulped, torn by a storm of conflicting emotions. Fright was one, to be sure, a fear that he'd somehow guessed exactly what she was hiding about herself. But at the same time, other, stranger sensations assailed her, overriding the concern that he might have realized by now that she was considered by those who ought to know, to be a wee bit fey. All she knew for sure was that when Hawke touched her cheek, she felt as though she'd awakened to her very first dawn. In fact, her entire body was alive with sensation, tingling with need and an undeniable desire to be held in his strong and, she suspected, capable arms. With no thought to consequence, Lacey swayed toward him, intent on experiencing that unnamed something.
The moment her breasts made contact with Hawke's rough buckskin shirt and the broad chest beneath it, so startling were the sensations, Lacey's head fell back of its own volition. Electrified by these new, surprising feelings, she instinctively moistened her lips, then raised her suddenly languid gaze to meet Hawke's. His eyes were darker now than before and less menacing, she noticed, almost the same black-green of the Irish yews. Even his expression had changed, his smooth cinnamon features looking more rigid and purposeful now. Most surprising of all, was the way he'd lowered his head and seemed to be moving ever closer to her opened mouth. Surely he didn't mean to...
It was wrong. It was beyond stupidity. And in just about any town he could think of, it was a hanging offense for an Indian to put his hands on a white woman. But in spite of all that and his better judgement, Hawke knew precisely what he meant to do. He was going to kiss Lacey, by God, kiss her until her teeth rattled, and to hell with the consequences—even if it meant the hangman was already measuring his neck for a hemp tie. He was going to taste that heartshaped mouth, or die trying.
Hawke's lips touched down on hers so lightly at first, he wasn't even sure he'd made contact. Increasing the pressure he slid his hands from her shoulders to her back, holding her tight enough now to feel the camisole beneath her blouse and its pattern of lace edging. Lacey's only reaction at first was to go rigid in his arms, as if frightened or outraged by the liberties he was taking. Then, as he deepened the kiss, she slowly melted against him, and her sweet lips softened and parted, making it easy for him to slide his tongue between them. She tasted better than fresh berry pie, more tender than the flakiest of crusts. As Hawke probed deeper in order to sample the sweet juice of her mouth, the rumble of approaching horses jerked him away from the luscious feast, and back to his senses.
Wondering irrationally if what he heard was indeed the hangman come to get him, Hawke released Lacey and turned his back to her. His legs heavy and sluggish, he stumbled in the direction of the hoofbeats. As he fought for control of his overheated body, he saw three riders coming around the last bend of the road which led to Winterhawke. Keeping one eye on them, he bent down to retrieve his hat which had somehow fallen or been knocked from his head. As the riders drew closer, he could see that two of them were wearing army uniforms, and that the third was dressed as a civilian in a dark blue suit and tan overcoat. A very uncivilized one, at that, thought Hawke as his uncle's features became clear enough for him to recognize the man. Why did his mother's brother have to show up now, of all times?
Quickly turning back to Lacey, Hawke slammed his hat on his head and barked an order at her. "Go into the house. Do whatever looks like it needs doing until I come get you. Go on now, and hurry."
She looked disoriented, confused, and something he couldn't quite pin his finger on—embarrassed?—but she wasn't moving fast enough to suit him. Again, he said, "Go to the house—now!"
Tears sprang into her eyes as Lacey's gaze darted from Hawke to the riders, and for a moment, he thought she was going to stand there no matter what he said. But then in the next instant, her fingers pressed tight against the lips he'd so recently kissed, she whirled around in cloud of petticoats and dust, and scurried off toward the house. The metallic accompaniment which seemed to follow her every move was louder than before and even more familiar than ever but before Hawke could pinpoint the source, the riders pulled up in front of him.
It was late morning, but as he touched the brim of his hat, Hawke said, "Afternoon. What can I do for you?"
William Braddock climbed down from his lathered mount and tie
d his' reins to the corral beside the stud pen before acknowledging that Hawke had even spoken. As he made his way between corrals, he wiped the grit from his brow, then broke into a broad, toothy grin.
"Afternoon yourself, breed." He rubbed his eyes, then twitched his thick tawny mustache. "I must be going blind. Thought I spotted a female out here with you."
Although he'd already begun to erupt inside, Hawke managed to keep his cool exterior as he said "It's nothing you need to trouble yourself about."
"I saw her run into the house, Johnny boy." Braddock speared him with a beady amber eye before he went on, his ample jowls jiggling as he spoke. "She looked an awful lot like a white woman. Now I have to ask myself what any decent white woman would be doing out here with the likes of a breed like you, and you know what I came up with for an answer?"
"It should be that she's with Caleb's mail-order bride; and only came by today to do some work inside the house for me." God how he hated answering to this man or any man who set himself above another solely on the basis of skin color. Gritting his teeth, Hawke set a new course for the conversation. "In fact I've got to get the lady back to Three Elk pretty quick. What's your business here?"
"Work, huh." Braddock wasn't going to let go of the former topic so quickly. "What part of the house she working in, breed?"
Still pinning Hawke with that one judgmental eye, Braddock began to laugh, his girth rippling in time with his jowls. Hawke clenched his teeth, fighting a tremendous urge to fit his hands around his uncle's throat and squeeze until he could squeeze no more. He could hardly stomach the fact that he shared blood with such a man, much less believe that his gentle mother had been raised in the same household, but if not for thoughts of her, Hawke might actually have throttled him just to make certain he'd never have to do business with him again.