Lone Star Loving

by Martha Hix

  “Futile? I think not.” Refusing to ponder past failures, Ian sneered at the petite blonde who was seated in a wing chair near the cold fireplace. “Yes, Charity is estranged from the rich McLoughlins, and, yes, her father has no use for me, but–”

  “I imagine Senator McLoughlin would delight in seeing you muck out his stables. And I would rejoice to see you thus employed.”

  “Muck out barns? I think not. McLoughlin will change, once the marriage vows are exchanged. I couldn’t be that wrong about family loyalty.”

  And the father would share his wealth with an earnest son-in-law. Ian Blyer intended to act humble, hard-working, God-fearing for as long as it took to get control over land and cash. This didn’t mean he didn’t love Charity in his own way, even though she didn’t accept his feelings. When she had arrived in Laredo, he had been upset by his father and had said some regrettable things about money. But Charity wouldn’t listen to his apologies.

  “I shouldn’t have to chase after what was promised under an April moon: Charity’s hand in wedlock.”

  “I am pleased she got away.”

  Surely he hadn’t heard right. “I believe you wish me no good.”

  Maria Sara lifted a shaking hand to smooth wisps of dark blond hair from her nape. Running his hand through his own dark blond hair, he heard her pained voice. “Wish you no good? What about what you’ve done? Why do you say frank things in front of me? You should know they hurt–”

  “You know volumes about me–why shouldn’t I be candid?”

  “You know why.”

  Choosing not to contemplate what had been, Ian halted at the balcony’s doorway to concentrate on what might have been.

  Charity should have been Mrs. Blyer by now. After all, he came from a good family–financially strapped, but good. The Blyer name meant something in this part of the country, and his father served in the state senate. Granted, that wasn’t as august as being a U.S. senator from the great state of Texas, as Charity’s father was, but the Blyers didn’t want for respectability. Besides, what about the personal element?

  He, Ian Blyer, was the handsomest man in Texas. The Baylor College annual for 1885 had named him such, and no woman in her right mind wouldn’t agree. To reassure himself, Ian stopped in front of a large mirror that graced one wall of the sitting room. He saw thick, wavy hair in a tawny, fair shade, green eyes that were roofed by expressive eyebrows, a nose of patrician proportions, a clefted chin, a rogue’s mouth. He smiled, and was rewarded with a flash of perfect teeth.

  For years he had meant to cash in on his looks. But, blast it, so far he had been thwarted. He had even failed at his one attempt at larceny. Yet all wasn’t lost, not if he was careful. And diligent.

  Eyeing Maria Sara’s reflection in the looking glass, he asked, “Where in blue blazes has Charity gone?”

  The woman shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Images formed in Ian Blyer’s mind, horrifying thoughts of being stuck in Laredo forever. His patience grew taut as a bowstring. “I gave you money–before she left–to keep me informed. You haven’t.”

  “That is correct.”

  Maria Sara’s look of superiority, of defiance, ran a sword through his composure. Foiled again! Ian rushed the chair where she sat, and shook her shoulders. “You’re keeping something from me. And I won’t have that, you understand. I won’t!”

  “Remove your hands.”

  He slapped her, his palm hard and flat against her cheek. Her head snapped back; the mark of his hand burst on her face.

  “Tell the truth–where is Charity?”

  Maria Sara straightened her shoulders. “I love seeing you this way, Ianito. You’ve finally had your comeuppance. Charity is gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Desperate, he would have gladly killed the smirking little witch–baggage long grown weighty–but if he took her life, he still wouldn’t know what happened to his ticket to riches. “You took my money for information, yet you stall in the carry-through. What does that say about you, Maria Sara?”

  “That I have no integrity. At least when it comes to choosing between honoring my commitment to you and my friendship with Charity.”

  “Then you do know what happened to her!”

  “Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn’t share it with you.” Maria Sara rose from the chair. The tiny woman looked up at him with a satisfied expression. “And I won’t return your money.”

  Earlier that week, the day before Charity had disappeared, he had sold family heirlooms to get Maria Sara’s information. His mother’s ruby brooch, his father’s gold watch, the faded Aubusson that had graced the dining room tiles. Ian had sold them for a song, and turned the money over in good faith. Yet Charity had slipped through his fingers, Maria Sara was withholding information, and his debts were piling up.

  Desperation rising, he reached for the pistol hidden in his breast pocket, then forced the barrel against Maria Sara’s temple. “Tell me, or you won’t live long enough to trick me again.”

  Surprise marked her Latin features before her eyes went wide with fear; her insolence receded like the ebb of a storm tide. “Don’t kill me. Remember, I have a babe.”

  “I care nothing for your child.”

  “But Jaime is your son!”

  Ian asked the first question that rushed to his mind. “You haven’t said anything about that to Charity, I trust?”

  “I haven’t.” Swallowing, Maria Sara stared at the hand holding the pistol. “Will you leave your son without a mother’s love?”

  “You don’t love him any more than I do.” Ian pulled back the hammer. “I care nothing for a spawn of greaser trash.”

  Maria Sara’s body shivered beneath him. “Don’t shoot me,” she pleaded. “I’ll tell you. She . . . I saw Charity in her apartment, and she said a Texas Ranger was after her.”

  “That’s a lie. No Ranger was after her.”

  “She believed there was. And someone took her away. I saw a man herd her to a buckboard, then force her into it.” Her brows drawn together, Maria Sara chewed her bottom lip. “I did not go to her aid. I thought she had been apprehended for smuggling and that I had best stay out of it.”

  In the hands of a brute unknown to decent society, no telling what had happened to Charity, Ian fretted. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. It was night.”

  “You know, you despicable And you’ll tell me. Or I’ll scatter your brains all over this room.”

  “I . . . I-I’m not certain of the man’s description. He was tall, wide-shouldered, slim-hipped. A large man. I doubt he’s old. He didn’t move as one of advanced years.”

  “Him. The big one,” Ian surmised aloud. Word had reached him that a towering stranger had been asking questions around town and hadn’t been seen since Charity’s disappearance. Why hadn’t he made the connection? You fool! “Why did he take her?”

  “I know not,” Maria Sara replied; Ian knew Maria Sara well enough to know she spoke the truth. “She–she thought he was the law.”

  Cursed Jesus. He had paid good money for nothing, for Ian had no idea what the stranger’s motives might be.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered his lover of old, then replaced the pistol in his pocket to make a wide, slashing motion with his hand. “But I expect you to keep me informed.”

  “Yes, Ianito. I will. I promise.”

  And he took her for her word. Trouble was, it proved worthless. When Ian called on Maria Sara the next afternoon, he found her apartment cleared of personal items. She and her brat were gone. And it didn’t take much research to find out that the pair had departed on the morning train, headed east.

  To hell with Maria Sara. And the boy. He must rescue Charity.

  It took a couple of days to form a plan and summon his flunky. It took Ian Blyer and Señor Grande less than an hour to saddle their horses and get on her trail.

  Once she was in his hands, Charity would see the light and agree to become
Mrs. Blyer. It was only a question of time.

  Chapter Nine

  “We’re traveling in circles.”

  So, Charity had seen through his ruse. Admiring her perception, Hawk glanced at the clouded sky of late afternoon. Yes, he was taking a circuitous route to Uvalde. The powwow with the Old One was planned for the first of October; he had plenty of time to get Charity there, this being the twenty-first of September. And, addlepated though the route might be–and even though her crossness had once more surfaced after her sweet talk had failed to get him to unlock the manacles–he was enjoying his time with the hellcat.

  “Why, Hawk? Why are we going in circles?”

  “Do you realize most of your sentences start with ‘why’?”

  “Don’t criticize me. I’ve warned you.”

  “A thousand times.” Taking the reins in one hand, he eased five fingers atop her dress-covered thigh. “Sorry, angel.”

  “I am not your angel,” she protested and gave a manacled swat to his hand.

  He knew she’d push him away. She had done it a dozen times. But each time he made an attempt, he got a second or two to enjoy the feel of her, which had to last until his next bold move. Since their first night by the campfire, she hadn’t allowed him any more liberties.

  “Hawk ...” Her mane of dark hair fell forward as she laced her fingers. “Couldn’t you . . . ? It’s like this. You won’t get any money out of Papa, so why don’t you set me free?”

  “Right here in the middle of nowhere?”

  She licked her lips. “Well, uh, you could find a town.”

  “Charity, you disappoint me. You think I’d give up my booty?” He pulled in the reins. “Looks like a good stopping place. Let’s make camp for the night.”

  “Could I have a bath?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Hawk, we’ve been traveling for days in the same clothes. Frankly, you’re beginning to smell a bit rank. I must, too.”

  “We can’t spare the water. The barrel’s half empty.”

  “Half full,” she corrected. “There’s plenty enough for at least a sponge bath.”

  “I might consider it.” Baths had their appeal, especially when he took a sidelong look at womanly attributes he would enjoy giving a good laving. “You wash me and I’ll wash you. How about it?”

  “You don’t smell that bad.”

  On the heels of Charity’s evaluation of his aroma, Hawk made camp, took care of the team, and trapped a rabbit for dinner. After he had loosened one end of her handcuffs, Charity went about the business of nature. Afterward, she sulked on a knee-high rock.

  He squatted Indian-style by the fire. “Time to eat.”

  She huffed over to seat herself opposite him. Her spirits didn’t pick up as they ate, which got to him. He wondered if maybe he ought to tell her the truth.

  No.

  He knew she was distraught over her father disowning her because of that Blyer character, and if he said, “I’m taking you home,” he’d have more trouble on his hands than if a whole village of Kiowa braves were to attack.

  But he could do one thing to make her journey more comfortable. He had concluded something; she was scared of being in the wilds alone at night. This gave him a certain sense of security. Yet he knew he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes tonight if he liberated her from those cuffs.

  “Charity ...” One elbow braced on a spread knee, he stared at her petulant face. “I might take the handcuffs off you. If I have your assurance you won’t run away.”

  Lights reflected from the flames danced in her eyes. “Oh, Hawk, I won’t run. I promise!”

  Jubilant, she hopped to her feet and rushed around the campfire to bend down and throw her arms around his neck; the swinging end of her restraints caught his shoulder blade. She didn’t smell bad at all.

  He was tempted to take advantage of the situation, yet the honorable part of him got the better of Hawk’s libido.

  “Unless you want the heat, don’t touch the fire,” he said. Beneath his hands, she tensed, and he warned, “It wouldn’t take much for me to toss you to the ground and have your delectable legs spread before you know what’s happening.”

  She stood. “That’s all you think about, isn’t it?”

  “Just about.”

  Returning to her place at the far side of the fire, she picked up her coffee cup. “It’s a nice night, considering all these clouds. Balmy, if you ask me. Oh, how nice it would be if you were to change into a new set of clothes–you do have a change, don’t you? And I’d feel so much fresher if I could get out of this calico. I have clean things in my valise. Of course, I would demand privacy for my bath.”

  Here we go again. Getting to his moccasined feet, he approached her. “Charity, don’t you ever think about the two of us ... together?”

  Her head turned to the grazing horses, then she stared at her hands. “Of course I do. How could I not? What with you trying to touch me all the time, how could my thoughts be on, say, needlepoint?”

  “Do you like needlepoint?”

  “I like anything that uses my hands.”

  Staring at the lovely shape of her fingers and knowing they were as soft as they looked, he murmured, “You could use your hands on me.”

  “No!”

  “Why not? Because I’m a red devil?”

  “Red devil? No, that has nothing to do with it.” Amusement playing in her eyes, she admitted, “Actually, I lied that night at Sam’s house. I have nothing against black-haired warriors.”

  Surprised and delighted, Hawk grinned. “If that’s the case . . . Don’t you find me attractive, Charity?”

  It was as if he could see into her soul when she gazed up into his eyes. “I find you wildly attractive. My body is in a state of chaos at the very thought of you. And you may be my only chance at”—she blushed–“being with a man. I may pay with my life for getting mixed up with Adriano.” She swallowed; her fingers curled into her palms. “But don’t you see? You’ve taken me prisoner. Prisoner. That’s an awful feeling.”

  Now that he thought about it, he had to agree. When he was making his plans and collecting the accoutrements of a kidnapper, he hadn’t given much consideration to how Charity would feel about having her freedom of choice wrenched away.

  “Is being held captive the only thing you have against me? If you knew you could trust me, then would you take me into your . . . heart?”

  The loose part of her manacle slapped against her bosom as she covered her face with a hand. “This has nothing to do with heart. This has everything to do with lust. We have that between us. But if I ever lay with a man, it will be because he is special. Because we respect each other for each other. And–absolutely!–not because he’s after Papa’s money.”

  “Admirable values.”

  “All I have left is my sense of integrity.”

  The honesty in her expression was something to behold, and Hawk regarded her with respect. Wah’Kon-Tah be praised, they were halfway to bed already, with all the respect he had for her right now! And Hawk certainly had no need for Gil McLoughlin’s money.

  “Do you find anything to admire about me?” he asked, regretting his words immediately. He wasn’t looking for praise, yet somehow he coveted her approval.

  “As I said, I like your honesty.” Her unfettered hand swept her loose hair from her cheek to expose more of her forthright and compelling face. “Nothing said is a lot better than even the smallest of a lie between two people who trust each other.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Crazy though it may be, but I find an integrity to you.”

  Her beguiling honesty gave him pause. Jesus, Lord of the paleface. For the first time, Hawk considered what she would think, once she found out about the web of lies he had concocted to get her back to the Four Aces. You’d better stick to the truth, as much as you can.

  A gust of wind rearranged her hair. Blowing a dark tress out of her fa
ce again, she added, “I may like your honesty, Hawk, but don’t be getting ideas I’m not curious about you.”

  “Curiosity works two ways.” He leaned to take her hand in his. “I’d like to know what was so special about that Blyer character that you would give up your family for him.”

  “Who can explain why one person falls for another? At least, I can’t. All I know is I was mad for Ian.” Hawk watched her swallow as she said this, and the hurt she’d experienced was a visible thing. “He disappointed me so deeply.”

  “Do you still love him?” Hawk waited with bated breath for her answer. If she loved Blyer, then–it would change everything. Hawk didn’t want everything to change. He ached for Charity to yearn for him, and him alone. “Do you still love Blyer?”

  “I was attracted to his flash and dash, and to the adventure of doing something outlandish and forbidden. It was nothing more than a mere crush.”

  Relieved, Hawk said, “You paid a high price for It.”

  “And I regret it. Since it tore me away from . . .”

  “Do you want to make peace with your family?”

  She shook her head with vehemence. “Papa and the others are through with me, and I’ll never beg for forgiveness. Anyway, I don’t want to. I simply want to get on with my life, and make something of it.”

  He understood her feelings; he had them himself. His rift with the Osage, and especially with his father, Iron Eagle, cut to the quick. Would he ever see his mother and Amy again? If he did, it would be on his own terms.

  Satisfied with his decision, he glanced at Charity. Such a sad angel was she. “I’ve heard you have an elderly kinswoman. I can’t imagine such a woman not wanting you within reach.”

  “Maiz made her choice.”

  “She’s that cold?” Hawk knew otherwise.

  “Maiz? Oh, heavens no. She is anything but. Always, she was my chief ally. And I love her above anyone else on the face of this earth. Well, except for Margaret.”

  Hawk studied the glistening eyes, the dropped chin, the pain in Charity’s admission. “You feel as if no one loves you, yet you speak warmly of two in your family. Those odds aren’t bad.”