by Sharon Ihle
Lulled by yet another long stretch of silence, the sound of Hawke's voice startled Lacey as the wagon rounded the final bend and started along the aspen-lined road leading to Winterhawke, her favorite part of the drive.
"I understand you've met Crowfoot," he said.
There was no question in Hawke's tone, and he didn't turn to her as if to gauge the veracity of her answer. It was a statement of fact. The lad specifically asked Lacey not to mention the fact that she'd come across him, and yet how could she just out and out lie to her new husband?
Hedging, she said, "Are you, by any chance, referring to the fairy I thought I saw in the barn?"
"I suppose so if you're talking about the Crow Indian boy who lives on my ranch. He says he gave you a pair of his old boots."
"Uh, aye... him." Nothing left to do but tell the truth. "Aye, and we did speak briefly. Will he be staying with us at the ranch house from now on?"
"He divides his time between Winterhawke and Three Elk, but as far as I know, he'll be at my place for a while. That's why I asked you about him, so I could be sure he wouldn't startle you if you should run into him in the barn again."
"Oh, aye, but what about in the house? Surely he stays in your office or somewhere when I'm not around. I do not wish to turn him out."
"You're not." Home at last, Hawke reined in the horses and set the brake. "Crowfoot lives in the barn."
Lacey's head whipped around. "But why? I do not mind if the lad—"
"He belongs in the barn," Hawke said abruptly as he climbed down from the wagon. Closing the subject, he added, "I just wanted to make sure you knew he was there, not argue about him. I'm going to check on the horses now. Why don't you get yourself settled in the house? I'll be along to help you in a little while."
Then, without waiting for her answer, he disappeared in the direction of the barn. Lacey thought of following her new husband to let him know in no uncertain terms what she thought of his cruel treatment of the boy. Then she realized she was ill-prepared to broach the subject without explaining a little of her earlier life and how well she understood Crowfoot's need for silence in order to nurse his inner wounds. But as the new mistress of Winterhawke, she decided it would most certainly be in her power to see to the boy's comfort. She would see to it, Lacey vowed, and soon—no matter what the master of all that surrounded her thought. No matter a'tall.
* * *
Much later that night, well after Hawke and his bride had nibbled on the basket full of leftovers from their wedding supper and he'd taken a large portion of those same foods to the barn for Crowfoot, he found himself fresh out of excuses for remaining downstairs while his wife waited upstairs in their "bridal chamber." He'd gone to his former bedroom ahead of her to light a nice fire and make sure the starkly furnished room was tidy and neat, then invited her in and left her to prepare for bed in private. By Hawke's calculations, he'd paced the length and width of his living room long enough for Lacey to have prepared for a month of wedding nights.
Thunder rolled in the distance, reminding him of the newly approaching storm and how quickly the temperature was dropping. Even though he still wasn't quite sure how best to approach this woman who was now his bride, he knew he couldn't just leave her shivering alone in his—their—room any longer. So with a deep breath and no small amount of trepidation, Hawke banked the smoldering embers in the downstairs grate, then made his way upstairs in hopes of lighting a fire of another kind.
When he reached the top of the stairs, it occurred to him that Lacey might have fallen asleep, so long was her wait. Considerate to the extreme on this most special of nights, he quietly turned the knob, then slowly pushed the door to his room open. She'd blown out the lamp on the bedside table, pitching the room into near darkness, but Hawke had no trouble spotting his bride. The glow from the low flames still crackling in the fireplace bathed her exquisite skin, making it seem pearly and almost translucent in the otherwise drab room. She'd freed her glorious hair, too, leaving the bounty of those coppery curls to spread across his pillow and down along the sheet. Lacey's eyes were closed as he'd hoped, but the sight of her lying there like a luscious angel, his for all eternity to boot, fed the sparks of his rapidly growing ardor, and turned it into a sudden inferno.
No longer remotely concerned about approaching her with stealth, Hawke strode purposefully to the edge of the bed and sat down. Behind him, Lacey stirred, her sweet voice reaching his ears in a mew-like sigh. Hastily removing his clothing and not caring where or how the articles landed, at last he raised the bedding and climbed in between the sheets beside her. Again she stirred, this time murmuring something he couldn't understand.
"What did you say?" he asked, rolling to his side and reaching for her.
"Hummm?" Lacey's eyes fluttered open. "Wha—oh."
Hawke leaned up on one elbow, hovering just above her, and smiled down into Lacey's startled eyes. He brushed one of several errant curls off of her forehead as he murmured, "I thought you said something to me, but I guess you were just talking in your sleep. Sorry if I... disturbed you."
Her gaze fixed to his naked chest, Lacey favored him with a shy smile. "Umm, 'tisn't a problem."
"Did you find everything you need up here?"
Again a shy smile, this one punctuated with a sharp nod. "Aye, and thank you kindly for seeing to everything." She tugged the covers up tight around her throat and inched toward the edge of the bed—away from him.
"Look at me, Lacey," Hawke whispered, his voice low, coming from the core of his being. She slowly lifted a troubled gaze, meeting his eyes, but looked cornered, trapped as surely as his snares had trapped countless rabbits. It was a look Hawke didn't care for in the slightest. Relaxing the intensity of his own gaze, he softly whispered, "Don't be afraid, Lacey. I won't hurt you. You know that I would never hurt you, don't you?"
Her expression less worried, but still guarded, she whispered back, "Aye, and I'm believing that of you, my husband."
"Good." He ran his fingers along the column of her neck, feeling the tense muscles beneath her silken skin. "Relax a little, Irish. There's nothing to fear."
Keeping his movements smooth and unhurried, Hawke slowly eased himself closer to his nervous bride, then carefully settled his lips against hers. Lacey did not encourage him, or even shift herself to better accommodate his mouth, but she did allow the kiss. Even as he gathered her into his arms, obliging her to bear more of his weight, and then deepened the kiss, Lacey complied. Finally, at long last, he could feel her body moving beneath him.
Taking her busy hands and gently twisting hips as encouragement, Hawke slid his fingers up to the tight collar of her nightgown and began to unfasten the row of buttons there, kissing her all the while. He breathed deeply of this wife of his as he manipulated the little pearl fasteners, smelling the usual hint of cherry blossoms, but something more, too—softness? If such a virtue could even have an aroma, softness was exactly what Lacey smelled like, the downy, velvety essence of her seeping through his tough hide to perfume even the most acrid corners of his hardened heart.
Buoyed by the new sensation and the warming it spread deep within him, Hawke slipped his hand inside Lacey's nightgown and began to caress the gentle rise of her breasts. With an abruptness that startled them both, she pushed away from him. Lacey's little show of uncertainty did nothing to discourage Hawke, in fact, it prompted an almost primal aggression, one that had been building up inside him on its own. His ardor renewed, he followed the still-warm path Lacey had taken to the edge of the bed, then reached out to take her into his arms again—and came up grasping nothing but air.
First a soft thump met his ears, then this was quickly followed by a sharp cry.
"Lacey?" he called, leaning over the edge of the mattress to peer at the darkness below. "Where are you? Are you hurt?"
"Oh, goodness, me... no, I do not think so." She sat up and stared at him in the semidarkness, her eyes wide with surprise. "Are you wanting me to sleep on the other sid
e of the bed? Would that be what you're hinting at?"
"On the—Oh, no, Lacey." He extended his hand to her. "Come back up here. I'm sorry if I was a little rough with you. I didn't mean to push you out of bed."
She slipped one of her hands in his, and with a gentle tug, Hawke had his wife beside him again. Exactly where he wanted her. "Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself when you fell?" he asked, caressing her hip through the thick layers of her cotton nightgown.
"No, no. I'm in splendid health, really I am." She swatted his hand away even as she leaned over and bestowed a chaste kiss to his cheek. Then, with one casual remark, she rolled over onto her side and offered her back to him. "The need to sleep has covered me up as surely as mist over a bog, so I'll just be bidding you goodnight now, my husband."
An incredulous Hawke watched as Lacey snuggled her head into the down pillow, carving out a niche the way a wildcat fashions a soft bed by clawing the ground. Then at once, she lay perfectly still. What the hell had he done wrong? Hawke wondered. He'd been gentle and affectionate, sensitive to her innocence and her needs, and with the exception of accidentally pushing her out of bed, very considerate. He thought back to the way she'd opened her mouth to him, encouraging, then mimicking his every movement. Damn it all, Lacey had responded to his touch, and wanted him at least a little bit—he was sure of it. Where had he gone wrong?
Hawke and Caleb had touched on the subject of his wedding night as they drank their morning coffee earlier in the day. Although frankly, his friend didn't know any more about polite society and innocent maidens than Hawke did, Caleb did make a point of telling him that Lacey was inexperienced, and that she'd never had a husband or lover before. In the course of that discussion, Hawke also learned that Kate and Lacey had discussed this part of the marriage, and that his bride had been prepared at least mentally, to submit to her husband. While he expected that she might be a little afraid of him, and even understood those fears, he never dreamed she'd be so flat-out skittish as to shut him out completely. How was he to proceed from here? Or was he to leave her be, allowing them both a little more time to get used to the nearness of the other?
Much too stimulated not to at least give it one more try, Hawke inched closer to his wife and fit his hips up tight against her bottom. Then, after pulling the bulk of her coppery hair aside, he began to nuzzle the nape of her neck.
"What's that you're doing back there?" asked Lacey, swinging her hand around to swat him away—again.
After a long dark moment, a dazed Hawke backed away from her muttering, "Nothing." Then he punched the hell out of his pillow, carving out a canyon, not a niche, and buried his head in it. As he slept, a long ledger appeared in his dreams, the heading above the usual twin columns reading; Marriage—For and Against.
* * *
The next morning, Lacey awoke to a peal of thunder so loud that as it rolled through the room, it rattled the log timbers of the roof above her. A lightning strike went off, flashing brilliant shards of jagged light across the bay window, and then came another, louder clap of thunder. She opened her eyes to find herself nose to nose with her husband, their arms and legs tangled around one another. Her first thought was to bolt when she realized those masculine limbs so entwined with hers were naked, but she convinced herself that she was safe in Hawke's arms, secure and protected from everything, even the world outside. Taking comfort in the thought, Lacey clung to her husband's neck, showering his smooth tanned face with kisses. He groaned in response, then lifted his sleepy lids.
His eyes were warm and languid-looking by the morning light, the same rich soft velvety green of Irish moss. Oh, if only the two of them could stay like this forever! she thought joyously. How wonderful it would be to lie about in each other's arms, kissing with lips fused as one, time and time again. Lacey loved the way her husband kissed her and the tingly way it made her feel inside, and even enjoyed sleeping in the same warm bed with him—an extra special luxury on a cold, dark morning like this, she thought with a little shiver.
As for the rest, for what she thought he'd tried to do last night—join his body with hers—well, he'd stopped trying to do that, hadn't he? And never once had he said a word to her about the begetting of children. Maybe, she dared to hope, Hawke was in silent agreement with her in that regard. Perhaps he was no more eager than she to produce offspring. With another, more exuberant kiss, this one landing directly on Hawke's lips, Lacey rolled to the edge of the mattress, then hopped out of bed.
"Oh," she cried, her teeth chattering. "'T-tis c-cold enough in here to f-freeze the heart of a n-nun."
Hawke, who by now was sitting at the edge of the bed dressing himself, muttered darkly, "I'll stoke the fire for you, then go on downstairs to light the stove and put on some coffee."
"I thank you kindly, husband. I'll be down soon as I'm warmed and dressed to make a nice hot breakfast for you."
Curiously silent, Hawke finished with the fireplace, then started for the door. Thinking of the recipes she brought with her from Three Elk Ranch, she stopped him just before he walked out of the room.
"Do think of what you want for breakfast. My wish is to please you."
She listened for his reply, but all Lacey heard was some incoherent grumbling before her new husband closed the door and left her to her own devices.
Downstairs, Hawke fired up the stove and waited for the coffee to boil. He was in a surly mood and definitely not interested in instructing his bride on the proper way to use the stove during her quest to try out the few recipes Kate sent along. There was only one thing on this morning that he wanted to teach Lacey, but rather than face the rejection she'd surely heap on him during daylight hours, he decided it would be best to wait until nightfall to begin that lesson again.
As for breakfast, there was still a fair amount of food left over from their wedding, remnants which included half of a cherry pie. Figuring if he couldn't sate the more urgent appetite gnawing at his core, he could at least, by God, gratify the hunger in his belly, Hawke devoured every last bit of pastry without ever coming up for air. Then he donned his hat and slicker, and went to care for his animals.
That night and the next proved to increase his surliness, not decrease it. The last filly to throw a foal by Phantom finally went into a difficult, protracted labor, but even after she dropped her colt, the foal's life, if not her own, was still in danger. Weak and underweight when born, the bay colt was listless and not interested in standing, much less nursing. Once Hawke finally got the youngster to its feet and directed its tiny head toward his mother's teats the mare, Cherry, balked, and kicked out at her son whenever he came near.
Hawke spent most of that night milking the big chestnut mare, the rest of it feeding her foal with this most important early milk by the teaspoonful. The following evening, by the time he was satisfied that the newborn could nurse on his own without risking his mother's wrath, a weary Hawke dragged himself upstairs only to find that his wife had fallen into a sleep so deep, not even his voice or touch could disturb her. Giving into his own exhaustion since he was sure he couldn't find the patience to go easy with Lacey should he manage to awaken her, he called it a night, his marriage still unconsummated.
Hawke awakened on the fourth day as frustrated mentally as he was physically. There were many reasons that he'd yet to claim his bride, most of them valid, he supposed, yet by morning's light, all he could dwell on was his own failure. How could it be that he, a man able to tame any wild beast he chose to, be it wolf, renegade stallion, or even someone like Crowfoot, who in many ways was more wild beast than boy when they first met, had been unable to find the key to taming his own wife? Why, with all his talents for gentling the savage beast, could he not bring this blue-eyed, flame-haired woman to heel? No matter what they said behind his back, there wasn't a man in any town he'd ever been in, including Laramie and his own uncle, William Braddock, who didn't back away from Hawke, giving him a wide berth and a healthy respect—at least physically. But this woman; this f
rustrating, completely adorable and unpredictable woman was driving him to complete and utter distraction.
Frustrated all over again, Hawke flung himself out of bed, dressed, and stoked the fire as he'd done the last few mornings. Then, muttering to himself as he went downstairs, he fired up the stove and put on the coffee. Giving in to a craving for the sausage he'd ground himself using equal parts of pork and venison, he went out to the icebox to get a package. When he returned to the kitchen, Lacey was waiting for him, dressed in her usual navy skirt and white blouse.
"Top o' the morning to you," she said, all smiles. "I did not hear you come in last night. More trouble with the wee one?"
"Just a little. He'll be all right now." Hawke set the package down. "The stove's good and hot. I'd like you to fry up some sausage patties, and then make me a little gravy to pour over some of those good biscuits. Do you think you can do all that and make gravy, too? If not, I'll stay a while to help you."
Her smile grew radiant. "Of course I can manage on my own. Kate explained about mixing a few spoons of flour in with the pan drippings, smoothing it all out with milk, then tossing in a wee bit of salt and pepper." The biscuits were already made, so she just had to warm them, cook the sausage patties, and whip up this simple-sounding batch of gravy. What could be easier? "Shall I come get you when breakfast is done, then?"
Hawke glanced out the window just above the stove and sink. "No, it's still raining. I'll stick my head out of the barn from time to time, and if I see you waving at me from this window, I'll know it's ready."
With that final instruction, he took his slicker off the chair, slipped it on, then reached for his hat. Surprising him before he could turn toward the door, Lacey rushed across the room, threw her arms around Hawke's neck, and planted a big kiss on his mouth.
"There," she said, releasing him and stepping back. "I could not let you start your day without a good morning kiss. 'Tis a lucky sign that all will go well in your work."