by Martha Hix
Pushing the sewing chair back, Maria Sara got to her feet and stepped toward the blond giant. She had to look up at him, way up. Strangely, surprisingly, it felt good to look up to so much strength. Karl Keller abounded with it.
Yet . . .
She knew well the hurt that man could bring woman.
“I’m not interested in dancing, gracias. And, besides, I have a son to take care of.”
“Graciella watches over the boy.”
Her blush matched Karl’s, hers in shame. How easy it had become to accept the trappings of wealth such as she had known at her girlhood home in Vera Cruz. Yes, the servant Graciella had taken charge of Jaime, and Maria Sara felt perhaps too grateful for the respite. Too often she viewed the child in the light of his father, and this, she knew, was both monstrous and regrettable. A child shouldn’t pay for his father’s sins.
She bent her head. How could a mother at the same time both love and hate the child of her body?
“Fraülein Maria Sara, will you dance with me tonight?”
Her eyes traveled up to Karl’s open gaze. “Until your cousin Charity reaches here and I know she is all right, I cannot think of merrymaking. Another time, perchance.”
“Another time,” Karl echoed.
He exited the solarium, and Maria Sara suddenly felt bereft. Karl Keller was not only appealing, he seemed solid as a rock. He didn’t drink liquor, nor did he behave crudely. He didn’t dip snuff, like so many of the Four Aces cowboys did. Furthermore, he was no mere cowhand. Karl owned a nearby farm-turned-ranch, which he had bought from his lame father who lived in San Antonio in retirement. His toil with land and cattle could only be described as diligent. Yet it was obvious he had no fire in his loins.
Besides, she was living at the Four Aces primarily to sew frocks for Oma, not to have affairs with McLoughlin kin. While she’d been hunting for a lover or two, a voice from the past echoed in her mind. It was as if Sister Estrella of the convent school were saying, “Decent men are for decent women, like Charity!”
Oh, Charity, how are you?
Charity and Hawk could have been better.
Now, as the half moon hovered high in the sky and the campfire Senor Grande had made lit up the night, Charity stole a glance at Hawk. He, too, had his hands tied behind him. He, too, sat on the hard ground with one shoulder resting against a wagon wheel.
Ian’s shot had but grazed Hawk’s other shoulder, and the bleeding had stopped an hour ago. Charity knew he had to be in pain, though his stoic expression revealed nothing. She felt awful.
Her eyes turned to the carcasses of the horses. Her heart ached. Thankfully, the team’s suffering had been short-lived. And they were still alive, she and Hawk; Charity was glad for that.
Ian, a wine bottle stolen from the buckboard tucked under his arm, ranted at Grande, “I cannot believe that she wouldn’t be overjoyed that I’ve rescued her. She chose a dirty Indian over the handsomest man in Texas!”
“Maybe, señor, he have a long tongue and he know how to use it.”
Ian whirled around, pointing a finger first at Charity, then at Hawk. “Is that true? Has he soiled you?”
She shook her head. “No. Never.”
Yet Ian rushed forth to kick Hawk’s side. Not so much as a sigh passed the Indian’s throat, much less a yowl of pain. He imparted a withering look at his tormentor, nonetheless.
Ian hastened to Charity. Standing over her, he brushed the side of his hair with the heel of his hand. “You had better be telling the truth,” he sneered, “or I will kill you, dearest. As soon as your father’s fortune is in my control.”
“You’d really have a hard time keeping your mitts on Papa’s money if my blood stains them.”
His brows furrowed; he laughed in a way that made her wonder what she had ever seen in the man. “What’s come over me?” he said deliriously. “How could I even think . . . ? You would’ve scratched his eyes out, were he to try to touch you. You would never choose a red bastard over me.”
“I’d choose the devil over you, Ian Blyer.”
“How dare you say that!”
His hand arced through the air, finding its target, Charity’s cheek. Pain exploded in her face; she saw Hawk struggling to come to her rescue. Surprisingly quick of motion in spite of his cumbersome form, Grande charged Hawk and held him back with a booted foot pressing into his wound. Blood oozed over the toe of the mexicano ’s boot.
“Look at me, Charity,” Ian demanded.
Spittle seeped from the corners of his mouth. She saw her former fiance as nothing but absurd and ridiculous, a caricature of the man she’d given up everything to follow. Never had she seen him act so strangely–his behavior was positively lunatic! Gads, what did I ever see in him, above his handsome veneer and Papa’s disapproval?
Granted, he could be dashing and attractive in a sandy-haired, gay-blade sort of way; and, granted, he could be charming at times, but her most foolish mistake in judgment in all the years of her life had been falling for this cock of the walk now behaving as cuckoo as the wooden bird in Mutti’s hall clock.
Charity stole a glance at Hawk, who was eyeing Grande with a coolness of composure. If one were to disregard that business of kidnapping and ransom, there was nothing insane about her feelings for the Indian.
“Look at me, dear one!” Ian planted his hands on his knees and leaned toward her, his wine-scented breath no treat. “You are mine, Charity McLoughlin. And I will train your nasty tongue to serve rather than taunt.”
It was all she could do not to laugh.
Chapter Thirteen
For the next quarter hour or so, as Ian and Grande uncorked another bottle of wine and availed themselves of its contents, Charity wondered how in the world she and Hawk were going to get free. Or if they would.
Once again her wrists were strapped, this time with a rope that ate into her flesh. These bindings hurt more than Hawk’s manacles ever had, for her rope bonds had been tied by someone Charity was ever more inclined to consider a madman.
She might well die a virgin, for she’d never take Ian’s hand in matrimony. But she yearned for Hawk to take her hand and lead her away. Or was it astray?
“I would like another drink, señor.” Grande, his fingers slack on the six-gun butt strapped around his ample hips, swayed close to the campfire. “I am thirsty.”
“Me, too.” Ian chugged from the bottle before handing it over to his companion. “I drink to my bride!”
In your dreams. Not for the first time that night, Charity stole a glance at Hawk. He leaned toward her, his voice low. “What’s he scared of?”
“Growing old in Laredo,” she snickered.
“Besides that. You were his fiancée–you should know what frightens him.”
“Ghosts.”
“Good. What about the fat one?”
Charity watched the Mexican pass the wine bottle back to Ian. She recalled a night in the desert village of Shafter, just before Rangers had ambushed Adriano and the others. “Actually, I do know what Senor Grande is afraid of.” She whispered something to Hawk.
As he nodded in satisfaction, Charity’s line of sight settled on the two men gathered at the fire. Ian, his voice shrill, was ridiculously puffed up with bravado.
“The Indian will hang from the courthouse eaves in Laredo.” Ian again passed the bottle to Grande. “And Gil McLoughlin will praise me for saving his daughter from the red bastard.”
“Sí.” Tilting back his unwieldy head, Grande quaffed the bottle’s remainder and belched. “He will hang.”
“Gimme back that”–Ian hiccuped–“wine.”
Charity mimicked one of Hawk’s habits; she rolled her eyes. What would your father say, Ian, if he saw you now, uncouth and crazed? She knew what her own papa would say: “I told you so.” What did it matter, what either father thought? Both Campbell Blyer and Gil McLoughlin were far removed from the situation.
She whispered to Hawk, “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I am an ab
omination. If I hadn’t–”
“Forget it.”
She took one more look at Ian and Grande. Neither man was paying any attention to the prisoners, both caught up in their bacchanalian revelry. “We may never get away from them,” she bemoaned.
“Wrong. You wait and see.”
Shortly thereafter, both Ian and his sidekick were weaving drunkenly, their behavior causing Charity to wonder whether they were under the influence of something other than alcohol. “Those must’ve been awfully potent bottles of wine.”
“Thanks to Sam Washburn. He laced them with one of his concoctions. Learned how from the Kickapoo people over in Mexico,” he explained.
From the offhanded tone of his voice, Charity surmised that Hawk was not of the Kickapoo tribe.
“Sam said I should use the wine on you,” he was saying, “in case you continued to be contrary.”
“Thank God you didn’t.”
Her chest tightening anew, her shoulders tensing, she glanced at the fallen horses. “It’s my fault the team is dead. It’s my fault you’ve been shot. Everything is my fault.”
“Charity, don’t.” Hawk spoke tenderly. “You think little enough of yourself already. And now’s not the time for fretting over the horses or my shoulder.”
What he said was true–she didn’t hold herself in high esteem. But since she had sided with Hawk when Ian Blyer appeared, Charity’s faith in herself had strengthened. But what of her faith in Hawk? “I wish you didn’t hold me for ransom,” she said. “It hurts to know that both you and Ian want nothing more than my papa’s money.”
It seemed as if an eternity went by before a sound passed Hawk’s lips. “Maybe I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I had more than just ransom money in mind when I kidnapped you in Laredo... The truth is, from the moment I saw you in that cafe, I–”
“What café?”
“Where you were eating breakfast with another woman. It was a week before I took you away.” He exhaled. “My heart didn’t tell my head, but I knew then that I would have to have you for my own. Ransom or no ransom.”
Her head reeled; her heart soared. He was not the greedy foe who had stolen her from Laredo! This was the grandest moment of her life–Hawk wanted Charity for Charity!
He undercut her bliss. “Don’t get the wrong impression. I haven’t given up on the ransom. And even if I had, you’re still going home to mend fences.”
“That’s not for you to decide.” Her solemn words were spoken with firmness. “I’ve been called feckless and willful and unworthy to carry the McLoughlin name. And if the day comes to pass that I want a reconciliation, it will be my decision and on my own terms. But I can’t foresee that ever happening.”
“Don’t you think the Old One might be worried about you?”
“Stay out of my business, Hawk.”
“Fair enough.” His hawkish gaze turned to their captors. “Charity, I have a plan. Scaring the hell out of those two. They’re ripe for it.” He explained his strategy, ending with, “Got it?”
“I do.”
“Good. Think you can crawl away from this wagon?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good girl.” He paused. “Charity . . . before we start this, there’s something I want to tell you. You’ll have to stay with me when we get away. Trust me. I mean you no harm. But you’re still my captive. If you don’t want to face your father, I promise not to make you.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him. “Hawk . . . I want you to know something. I wasn’t planning another escape. I need you. You’ve got to help me get aboard a ship bound for Europe. Maybe you–”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to join her, but his recent admission didn’t carry with it a commitment for the future. Plus, she was still uncertain of her own feelings.
“I’ll make certain that someday you’re compensated for your time,” she said.
“Where are you going to get passage money?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” He spoke not a word, and she pleaded, “Say yes, Hawk. Say we make a partnership.”
“That I cannot promise.”
“Wouldn’t you agree we’re partners of a sort already?” She took quick notice of the bizarre duo dancing around the campfire, then gave Hawk her full attention. “We’re in this together.”
“Enough talk. We’ve got work to do.”
Charity nodded, bid him good luck, and got moving. Rolling onto her stomach, her hands laced behind her, she slithered from the wagon wheel. Hawk did the same–she hoped he wouldn’t do any further damage to his wounded shoulder. As she ate south Texas dust, she made the wagon’s opposite side. Hawk was there already. As planned, they positioned themselves back to back. His fingers worked at her rope bonds and within seconds, freed her. She almost whooped with joy.
She flipped over and took care of Hawk’s tethers. Both jumped to their feet, then made for diverse sides of the campfire, Hawk grabbing articles from the buckboard before he crouched out of sight. Never had she heard an authentic Indian war cry–her experience being limited to girlhood games of cowboys and Indians with her siblings and cousins–but improvisation was the order of the night.
Her fingers held tightly together, she patted them rhythmically against her lips. Her cry of “waa, waa, waa, waa ... waa, waa, waa, waa,” rose into the air. She stopped abruptly when she saw she had gotten the two men’s attention, then ducked for cover. She heard a rattle of something that sounded like bones clapping together, then a drawn out hiss.
“Mae-no-mae-cay,” echoed across the prairie.
Another rattle filled the night air.
Disoriented, Ian and the fat man looked at each other.
“Indians, Grande?”
“No. Culebras!” As if a blue norther had ripped into him, Grande shivered, his gigantic body quaking like a bowl of jelly.
“Snakes?” Ian took an unsteady step over the licking flames and recoiled. “Ow!” He swerved backward, unsteady. “Izz beautiful.” He stared transfixed at the orange and blue fire. “Izz the call of maidens in the night. They all favor my Sharity. Come to me, Sharity.”
“Loco in la cabeza. No muchachas. Culebras!”
Hawk tossed a whip, which landed very close to the campfire. Eyes on the twisted rope not ten paces from his feet, Grande trembled anew. His shaking hand reached for his six-gun, but he dropped it to the ground. Open-mouthed, Ian stared at the coiled object for a moment, then tried to focus on his accomplice. Apparently reality, as they saw it at the moment, dawned. The Anglo and the Mexican stepped back.
“Culebra!”
“Ye God.” Ian’s eyes bulged. “A python!”
Just then, Hawk, a light-colored blanket over his head, surged from the brush, his arms spreading wide and his fingers gyrating like a specter’s. “Whooooo!”
“A ghost!”
“La fantasma!”
Their eyes as wide as saucers, their hair standing on end, Ian Blyer and his Mexican retainer took off on foot for parts unknown.
“What fortune,” Charity declared gleefully.
“I think the big one peed his britches!”
As they had been doing for the past ten minutes, Hawk and Charity leaned against the buckboard and laughed at the frenzied flight of Ian and Grande. “Ian–did you see how wide his eyes got?” Charity said, her voice shaking with mirth.
“Nothing like seeing a ghost.” Hawk, using his uninjured arm, grabbed her to him. “Angel, you were wonderful.” He gave her a loud smacking kiss. “You’re a fine partner.”
Partner? Hope swelled within her as she leaned into his embrace.
Hawk just might go for the Europe idea. All sorts of possibilities were awakened inside her.
But first things first.
She studied his injured shoulder. “Did Sam send medicine that we can doctor you with?”
“Quit worrying. I’ll be just fine.”
“If you insist. But if that wound starts to look nasty, don
’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“All right.” He raised a hand in surrender. “I’ll get the salve.”
While Hawk slathered the thick unguent on his flesh wound, Charity stared in the direction Ian and Grande had taken. “Do you think they’ll be back?”
“They might.”
“How will we keep away from them?”
“Change course. Stick to the road. With travelers around, Blyer and his lackey won’t be as eager to cause trouble.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone might see us? Might think to rescue me?”
“Somehow that doesn’t strike me as a problem. You had your chance to be free of me.” Hawk screwed the lid closed, wiped his fingers on a rag, then cupped her jaw with his hand. “Tell me something. You could’ve gotten away. Why didn’t you?”
She stepped aside, turning to hug her arms. How could she answer him? Once she had been open and forthright about her dreams, but where had her relationship with Ian led?
The midnight dampness sent a shiver through her. A merry life abroad had its appeal, yet she yearned to be held in Hawk’s embrace and learn the secrets of loving as well.
Be that as it may, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him–a silly, cowardly reaction, she knew. But how could she confess that she had changed, beginning with his anger over the horses? Or that she knew exactly what she wanted, once she saw him and Ian together and could compare the two? How could she admit that his confession of liking her for herself was what she had waited a lifetime to hear?
She needed a man like Hawk.
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he watched her. “Charity, must I remind you . . . ? You’re still my captive.”
Was she? Oh, he had her under his control, but she felt a change in their relationship, as if they were bound together by a different sort of tie.
She was with him, but she was there of her own free will.
“Why didn’t you run?” he asked.