by Martha Hix
If Blyer had been any other man, Tom Ellis would have picked him up by his ear, tossed him out the door, and advised him to work on his courtliness. But, doggone it, Campbell Blyer wasn’t a man to cross–the son rode the father’s coattails.
’Course, the lady was riding some pretty powerful coattails, too.
But all Tom wanted to do just now was get ole Prissy Britches here out of his office. “Don’t worry ‘bout nothing, son. Ole Tom’ll take care of ever’thing. You just go on about your business. Ride that fancy carriage on outta here. Or maybe ya might wanna take the train on into Austin, so’s ya can meet up with your pa and that mining feller real quick-like.”
“I can trust you to send the telegrams and form a posse?”
“Shucks, yes,” Tom assured him. “I’m on my way to the telegraph office right now.”
Dad-burn-it, that stew was going to be ruined before Tom Ellis could wrap his mouth round a spoonful of it.
Chapter Twenty
Charity attempted to block out her great-grandmother’s voice so she could concentrate on nothing. She rather warmed to the void, though the carriage ride repeatedly brought her back to her senses. How could it not? They were traveling through passes in the rocky, rough section of Texas known as hill country. Even on level ground, horseback riding had always beaten this bumpy, bone-jarring mode of transportation for comfort.
Riding close to Hawk had been thoroughly enjoyable. Don’t think about that knave!
She cooled her sweltering face with one of the fans Maisie kept handy in the carriage. “Why can’t we open the curtains? We’re not getting a bit of breeze.”
“We’ve been traveling since day before yesterday, and all ye’ve done is complain about yer comfort. But when ye had a chance to stretch yer legs and get a better attitude aboot yerself, what did ye do? Ye dinna even get outta the carriage in that bonny town, Leakey.” Maisie flattened her wrinkled lips and shook her head. “Ye’re an abomination of a whelp, Charity McLoughlin.”
Hawk, too, had called her an abomination. All the while he had been lying to her, deceiving her, he had called her all sorts of names. Hellcat. Spoiled. Angel. His own.
Swallowing proved difficult.
Maisie raised a silvered brow before screwing her mouth into yet another demonstration of disapproval. “ ’Tis no wonder Fierce Hawk hasna ridden after us. Probably, all ye did was gripe and complain to the lad. Till he was fed up to the gills. Men doona like that, I can tell ye.”
“Thank you, Maiz. I needed that. And I really appreciate your making me feel worse than I already do.”
“ ’Tis time ye started thinking, period. Ye’re in a heap of trouble, lass, what with that smuggling malarkey. But did ye appreciate me going to the bother of getting ye an attorney? No. Did ye accept the lad’s apologies? No. Did ye say ‘aye’ to his marriage bid? No.”
“Marriage bid?” Pray, I didn’t hear right. “There was no ‘marriage bid.’ ”
“He dinna say nothing about marrying ye?” Surprise burst on Maisie’s face, surprise supplanted by aggravation. “Why, that jackanapes. Why, I demanded the lad do right by ye, and he—”
“You did what?”
“I told Fierce Hawk he had t’ marry ye, now that ye are ruined.”
Charity could have died right then and there of mortification. She burrowed her face into the seat’s leather squabs, squeezing her eyes closed. “How could you?” she asked, her voice pained. “You’ve taken away whatever pride I had left. Don’t you understand me at all? I don’t want a husband my great-grandmother has to coerce to the altar.”
“It dinna take much coercing.”
Oh? Then why hadn’t he mentioned it at the Wayfarer? “Even if he were to show up and get down on his knees to beg, I wouldn’t marry that red devil,” she said, hoping and praying she meant it.
“Ye will once yer faither finds out aboot yer spreading yer legs for Fierce Hawk. Gilliegorm will load that shotgun of his, and–”
“I thought you said Papa wasn’t at the Four Aces.”
“I lied.”
Charity might have forgiven her great-grandmother for interfering in her life, eventually. At some point, she might have overlooked a lot of things, since she did love Maisie, but the old woman’s last admission was too much to take.
Charity picked up the brocade clutch devoid of money once more, thanks to the purchases she had made in Uvalde. Purchases meant to impress a sly Indian who had taken her virginity as well as her pride. Her mouth set in a rigid line, she stared at Maisie. A sanctimonious expression met her resolve. Charity said, “Once we reach Kerrville, you can go on by yourself. It’s not that far from there to Fredericksburg, and Heinrich will make sure nothing happens to you.”
“Ye mean to desert me?”
“Parting ways isn’t desertion.”
“Well, doona be waiting for any Kerrville. Here is as good a place as any. Doona let the door hit ye as ye’re leaving.”
Unable to believe her ears, Charity gaped at Maisie. Until last May they had been thick as thieves; a more staunch champion Charity could never have hoped to find. That was last May. This was now.
Perhaps she had misunderstood the old woman. “You want me to leave? Right in the middle of God knows what?”
“Aye.”
Not believing that Maisie could be capable of such hard-heartedness, Charity said raggedly, “Maiz, you know it frightens–” She stopped herself from groveling, though her fear of the wilds urged her to grovel, plead, beg–do anything to keep from being put out alone. But her pride had already taken too severe a beating.
“And ye’ll be taking nothing but yerself when ye go.”
“Fine,” Charity said, opening the carriage door and ordering the driver to stop at once.
The carriage jerked to a halt, unsettling the occupants.
Charity pushed the door outward, jumped to the ground, and landed on her feet with a thud. Hill country beauty met her regard; Heinrich’s concern drifted to her ears. “Fraülein Charity, what are you doing?”
“Leave the lass alone. She is thinking she has all the answers. Let her find out that isna so. Drive on.”
“But, meine gnädige Frau, we cannot leave her here.”
“I said drive on!”
It just about killed Maisie, driving off and leaving her precious lass on the roadside. Time and again, the temptation to tell Heinrich to turn back got to her, but she forced her lips together and sat on her hands, lest they reach for the carriage door. Charity needed to learn a lesson.
“She’s got t’ be learning how lucky she is,” Maisie said aloud. Yet once more the urge to call Heinrich came over her. “Don’t do it. Fierce Hawk will be finding her. Or I’m not Maisie McLoughlin.”
It took a couple of days after receiving Sheriff Tom Ellis’s telegram for Gil McLoughlin to reach the capital in Austin, the roads being sorry at best. He wore out a Four Aces’s stallion as well as a hired one, and the trip about broke Gil’s tailbone.
But he was not a man to take slander lying down. The Blyers were doing their best to sully the McLoughlin name, had even involved Jerome Hunt of Shafter and the Mexican and United States governments in their scheme. Trouble was, Gil feared it might not all be slander. Charity, he was sure, had been up to her usual tricks.
By an exchange of a dozen telegrams, Tom Ellis had tried to soften the situation, had said he couldn’t imagine Miss Charity being mixed up with that Mexican bunch. Her father knew better.
She’s my child–mine and Lisette’s–goddammit. So why can’t she accept our love. and toe the line? All Gil had ever asked of her was to behave herself. It seemed beyond her abilities, if not beyond her ken. But dammit, he loved that girl.
“I’m getting too old for these kinds of shenanigans,” he griped to himself, glancing south down Congress Avenue. “Damn that girl.”
Wiping sweat from his brow, he stomped into the new granite capitol building housing both branches of the state legislature.
&nb
sp; “Why, Senator, how nice to see you,” a page called, nearly stumbling to bow when Gil’s legs ate up the space between the front door and Campbell Blyer’s first-floor office.
Gil didn’t reply; he was a man with a mission. With the heel of his hand, he thrust open the door marked CAMPLELL BLYER. The heavy door rattled on its hinges. Two men turned. One had a bandage wrapping his head; the other one, older, wore spectacles.
Ian Blyer tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. “What are you doing here?”
“McLoughlin,” muttered his father.
Gil was across the room in two fiercely determined strides. He drew back his fist and plowed it into Ian Blyer’s astonished, already battered face. The coxcomb went flying backward into a file cabinet. “That’s for my girl, you son of a bitch.”
“See here, McLoughlin, you can’t burst in here and–”
“Shut up.” Gil spun around, his fist raised anew. “You’re next.”
For two days Hawk had been following the McLoughlin carriage. At a respectable distance, of course. This afternoon, as he and the stallion he’d dubbed Firestorm weaved through a pass in the conical hills, Hawk caught sight of something out of place amongst the limestone mounds, the cedars, the live oaks. A person. A living being with long, dark hair.
Could it be?
He kicked Firestorm’s flanks.
What the hell? he wondered. What was some woman doing out in the middle of nowhere? Unless of course that woman was Charity McLoughlin. Who was capable of just about anything. He got closer and closer to the lone form.
He inhaled sharply. It was indeed Charity. Now what? When last they had faced each other, she had sent him off with her fist. He didn’t suppose Charity would open loving arms to him now.
Loving arms? Did he even want her to? He couldn’t stop thinking about her jeers. But he had made a promise to the Old One. Legal aid. Maisie McLoughlin had tried to extract from him a promise that he would marry her great-granddaughter as well, but after that last time in the Wayfarer Hotel, Hawk hadn’t been eager to commit.
Right then Charity turned her head, and when she caught sight of him, she propelled herself forward in a run.
He was tempted to let her flee.
She had wounded his pride with her scathing remarks. Yet seeing her gave him pause. She’d been angry, and she’d had every right to be.
He kept Firestorm on a forward path. There were a few facets of Charity McLoughlin that he needed to accept.
Again, Hawk dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks. His fingers yanked at Firestorm’s mane as horse and rider cut in front of her. The stallion pranced beneath him. Hawk took a full look into cold, cold eyes.
She was backing away from him.
“Where is the Old One?”
“Kerrville is my best guess.” As she said those words, Charity continued to backtrack. “Do keep to your path. I’m sure you’ll find her at the Narramore ranch. I imagine she’ll be staying the night with them.”
“She’s not what I want. You are what I want.”
By now Charity had set a wide arc as her course, and her hair streamed in the wind. Pulling up the hem of her blue dress–the same one she’d worn the night they had made love–she became fleet of foot.
David Fierce Hawk, late of Indian Territory and the District of Columbia, might not have been handy with a six-shooter, but he was a master horseman. Within moments he caught up with the fleeing woman and leaned down to grab her into his arms; turning her facedown, he settled her across Firestorm’s back.
“Let me go, damn you!”
One elbow drove into Hawk’s upper thigh. Her knees attacked the stallion’s shoulder. Thankfully, Hawk had bought a mount of strong back, else poor Firestorm would have collapsed under the weight of her indignation. Hawk affixed his grip to Charity’s waist and gave Firestorm a couple of meaningful kicks before setting off toward the nearest foothill.
“Damn you, put me down!”
“No. I’m not done with you.”
Raising herself up by a thrust of elbows into the mount’s side, she turned a seething face to Hawk. “Well, I am finished with you!”
He remained unaffected. At least on the outside. Each move that Firestorm made toward the foothills, Hawk became more and more mindful of the feel of his uncharitable Charity. His shaft grew harder and harder as his palm skimmed along her spine, curved around her waist, then migrated across her delectable behind. His fingers inched up the material of her skirts.
“You’re not wearing pantaloons.”
“Right. I’ve decided I like my freedom.”
“I approve,” he said while his palm caressed, stroked, and unsettled her. It took him a couple of seconds to realize she wasn’t fighting his touch. “You said I would never have you again,” he said, slowing the horse’s pace, “but I shall prove you wrong.”
Questing, his fingers moved up and between her legs. It was all he could do to hang on to Firestorm’s mane as Hawk thrust his middle finger into the place his shaft had deflowered in Uvalde. Wah’Kon-Tah, she was wet. And she moaned.
Firestorm reared back his majestic head, imparting a look that asked what-is-this-about? Truth. This is about the truth. Hawk was determined that she would declare herself anew. Before this day was over, Charity would admit her love and desire and hunger for David Fierce Hawk. Or he would die trying to make her.
“Show me a bareback trick, Charity.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you want it as much as I.”
“I hate you, Fierce Hawk of the Osage.”
“You think so. I shall prove you wrong. But for now, forget all that has happened to tear us apart. Rise up and show me your skills.”
His hands reached under her arms, bringing her to face him, her legs straddling the mount. Her mouth cleaved open. Hawk’s lips swooped to hers. Jesus, Lord of the paleface, he thrilled at her response.
“Say it, Charity. Admit you lied about our time in the park.”
“I will not.”
“Say it.” The fingers of one hand captured the tip of her cloth-covered breast. “Now!”
“I–I lied.”
“Tell the truth. You went to Blyer just to punish me.”
“I–I did.”
Satisfaction–ah, it was wonderful. All of a sudden, they were ravenous, craving nothing but each other. Hawk ripped open her bodice, his fingers conquering the heavy mound of one breast. She leaned in to his touch. It became more insistent; he increased the pressure on her nipple. “Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop,” she whimpered. He did not.
“Play with me, sweet Charity..”
She did. He bade her to touch him; her fingers swept aside his breechclout. Overly ready for her eager fingers, he felt the release of his first drop of seed as her fingers slid back his foreskin. Hawk couldn’t breathe, much less think.
Suddenly her fingers pulled back from him, and she wailed, “I can’t forget your deceit! And now–! What are you doing to me?”
He tucked the hem of her skirt into what was left of the dress’s bodice and guided her upward, her hair cascading around him. Her womanly place sank and tightened around his shaft. At last he replied, “I am ravishing you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Thoroughly sated yet still hard of heart, Charity eyed her exacting lover. In the aftermath of their bareback coupling, they stood on the ground. Hawk, having ravished her body, now attempted the same with her heart. His voice a seductive growl, his eyes insistent, he demanded, “Admit you love me.”
Her inner thighs warm and sticky from their lovemaking, she backed away. The heel of her slipper caught on a rock and prevented her escape. Thankfully Hawk didn’t close the distance between them; he stood, arms at his side, his bare chest heaving.
“You’ve proved yourself a master of my passions,” she finally replied. “I grant you that.”
“Your passion is tied to your love.”
Was it? Her lov
e had been tied to trust and friendship–and lies, as it turned out. “Hawk, just leave me be. Please.”
“What if my papoose grows within you?”
She had given thought to this possibility many times since leaving Uvalde. Each time she reacted the same way. Uncertainty battled with delight. Her future was clouded . . . She was alone in the world . . . But she would love any child of her body. His child. too. What they had shared before she discovered his perfidy was wonderful, perfect. But this wasn’t a perfect world.
“The babe would want for nothing,” she replied, vowing that she would make life easy for the little one, even if it took bowing and scraping to Papa. “And mind your own business.”
“Any child of ours is my business. I’d do right by you both. If that doesn’t sway you, think of this. If you do carry my seed, and if the courts deal with you favorably and both you and the babe are allowed to live, Gil McLoughlin would make it his business to see that his grandchild is born with a proper name.”
She blanched at his grim declaration. Backing into Firestorm, she grabbed the horse’s saddle to steady herself. “I won’t be pushed into anything,” she asserted wanly.
“Would it take my pushing you to let me become your attorney?”
Incredulous, she stared at him. Her lawyer? After all that had happened between them, he thought to insinuate himself into her life by acting as her counsel–as the defender she would have to trust with her life? And possibly their child’s?
She laughed dryly. “That’s an insane idea.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Even if I did agree, which I won’t, wouldn’t it pose a conflict of interests? An attorney shouldn’t be bedding his client.”
“I haven’t had you in a bed.” His eyes, now smoky with desire, penetrated her. “Not yet.”
In spite of everything, a wicked and wanton part of her yearned to be abed with Hawk, a soft mattress at her back, sun-kissed linens musky with their mating surrounding them. And, Lord have mercy, she ached for another journey to that wondrous place where there was no beginning nor end, where a moment’s breathlessness erased all thoughts of right or wrong or in between.