Lone Star Loving

by Martha Hix

  “San Antonio?” was the chorus of three.

  Jones said, “Why there? What is wrong with Laredo?”

  “Miss McLoughlin would not be able to get a fair trial in the hometown of her accusers, the Blyers. As for San Antonio, it is a city harboring no prejudices against the young lady.”

  With any luck Hawk could get the Bexar County district attorney to drop the charges due to insufficient evidence, though he wouldn’t bet on it.

  “What do you think, Judge?” Untermann asked.

  “I’ll take the matter under advisement.”

  It was the best Hawk could ask for. For the time being. He murmured, “Thank you, your honor,” and leaned to shake the man’s hand. “When might we expect to hear from you?”

  “Soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As Hawk nodded his head in thanks, Charity glared at Judge Jones. She appreciated Hawk’s decorum in her defense, but she was not going to sit like a bump on a log while some pompous judge gave wishy-washy answers about her fate.

  She started with Sheriff Untermann. Seemingly nonchalant, she leaned to the side to gaze out a filmy window. “Oh, my. Is that Hildegard Stahlberg I see going into Kreitz’s Store? Why, I haven’t seen Hildegard in the longest time.” Charity turned her innocent wide eyes on the sheriff. “How has she been doing? And do tell me how your good wife is getting along, while you’re at it.”

  Josef Untermann squirmed. “We aren’t here to discuss Fraülein Stahlberg.”

  “Right.” But Charity knew she had him on the run. Batting her lashes at Judge Jones, she smiled again. Laying the fingers of one hand across the back of her opposite one, she studied her nails and said, “Noble Jones. That name does ring a bell with me. Aren’t you an elder in the First Presbyterian Church of Laredo?”

  Jones puffed out his chest. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “I know a woman who used to work in an establishment called Pappagallo’s in Nuevo Laredo. Are you familiar with that broth—er, that establishment, Judge?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Miss McLoughlin.”

  “Charity, don’t,” warned Hawk.

  She ignored him, saying to the judge, “As I remember, the woman said there was a silent partner in the operation who hailed from these parts. Aren’t you—”

  The judge coughed nervously.

  She turned to Hawk. “Ask them again. Ask them again about your petitions.”

  He looked as if on the verge of strangling her, but he said, “With the court’s approval I move that Miss Charity McLoughlin remain free until a jury has been seated in the district court of San Antonio.”

  “Granted.”

  Freedom. Oh, it was lovely. Even if temporary in duration. Charity rejoiced at the judge’s decision, especially since her freedom hadn’t been tied in with anything to do with her papa or his money. A little old-fashioned blackmail had gone a long way.

  “Isn’t it marvelous?” she asked Hawk as they rode toward the Four Aces.

  “No.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “You embarrassed me, Charity.” Hawk snapped the reins over the horse’s rump. “And you left yourself wide open to charges of extortion.”

  “Oh, pooh. I didn’t extort anything.”

  “Let me tell you something, lady.” He glared at her. “I represent the accused in the case of the People of Texas versus Charity McLoughlin. And from now on the accused will keep her big mouth shut. Understand?”

  His aggravation and anger took her aback. Unwilling to surrender, she asked rather snidely, “Does this mean you’re not interested in a celebration?”

  “Right.”

  “I never thought your ego was so fragile.”

  “Why don’t you shut up? For once.”

  “Please don’t be upset with me, Hawk. I felt I had to do what I did.”

  “Charity McLoughlin, I have never hit a woman in my life, but if you say one more word, I am going to slap you.”

  You and whose army?

  They rode back to the Four Aces without so much as a sideways glance passing between them. They didn’t speak at supper that night. And he didn’t visit her room at bedtime. It was enough to make a girl cry.

  If she were capable of crying.

  “You hurt his pride,” Maria Sara told her at breakfast the next morning. “He is staying away to lick his wounds.”

  Of course her friend was right.

  Just before lunch Lisette came out to the stable, where Charity was grooming her Andalusian mare, Thunder Cloud. “Would you like to talk, my child?”

  But Charity was in no mood for conversation.

  At dinner that night Hawk’s place went unoccupied. Once the dessert was finished, Gil McLoughlin made his excuses and went outside for a smoke. Maisie joined him for a cigar of her own. Charity went looking for Hawk.

  He wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t at the stable, and he hadn’t taken Firestorm out. One of the stableboys informed her that Hawk had gone on a walk. Since the acreage of the Four Aces was immense, Charity decided not to set off on an odyssey across the ranch. Vast acreage? It really had nothing to do with her hesitation. She couldn’t bring herself to take off into the dark of night.

  When she trudged back into the house, Maisie pulled her aside and gave her a tongue-lashing for “not letting the lad do the job ye gave him.” This was not what Charity wanted to hear, especially from her meddling great-grandmother.

  “I know my own faults, thank you very much.”

  The next morning Johnny the stableboy told her that Hawk had collected Firestorm and without so much as a word had ridden out. Charity walked from the stable into the harsh light of day. Right into her Papa. “If you’re looking for Hawk, he’s gone to San Antonio. He’s meeting with people at the courthouse.”

  “Oh.”

  “In case you’re wondering why he didn’t tell you, I’ll wager he didn’t want to chance your demanding to go along.”

  Why argue her papa’s reasoning? Charity had come to the same conclusion.

  “He told you what happened with Sheriff Untermann and the Laredo judge?” she asked.

  “I don’t need some redskin to tell me what goes on in my own hometown, goddammit.”

  She took a long look at her father. The sun seemed to halo behind him. His Stetson shadowed his arrogance. Yet for the first time in her life, he didn’t intimidate her. Once, Mutti had said that Gil McLoughlin was more bark than bite, and Charity decided that that was so.

  “Why don’t you like Hawk?” she asked. “Just because he’s an Indian?”

  “Hell’s bells, missy, he’s hardly an Indian! He’s three-quarters white! What I don’t like is that he’s stolen my baby!”

  Charity blinked at him in surprise. Had a stranger thing ever happened? Tart as she pleased, Charity parked a fist on her hip, and teased, “Why, Papa, I didn’t know you had a baby. Is it a boy or a girl? Does it belong to my mother?”

  “Get outta here, Charity McLoughlin, before I dust your britches.”

  Charity’s heart skipped a beat. Her papa was laughing. And it was a sweet, sweet sound.

  Over the next week Charity tried not to think too much about Hawk. Or about his absence. Naturally her resolve was overridden from time to time; each time she conjured up his image she prayed Hawk would return quickly so that she could try to make amends.

  He stayed away.

  A cool front moved in, lowering the taxing Texas heat and ushering in the first blessed hints of autumn. Workers bailed hay and moved the Four Aces herd to the best pastureland; hogs were butchered and hung in the smokehouse; Manuel the head gardener and his helpers picked the last crop of tomatoes. Still, Hawk didn’t return.

  Charity conjured up all sorts of scenarios about what he was doing.

  On the fourth morning of his absence, Charity brought to mind advice Maisie had given her over and over. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop,” she told herself.

  She kept herse
lf busy with needlepoint, with long rides on Thunder Cloud. She honed her trick-riding skills on a favorite cutting horse. And she spent time with little Jaime.

  What a precious child. While in Laredo she’d never really gotten to know Maria Sara’s son. Furthermore, she hadn’t had much opportunity to observe him with his mother. But since both mother and child had been at the Four Acres, Charity came to a conclusion that troubled her. Maria Sara had something against Jaime.

  This worried Charity.

  It was wrong, she figured, the way Maria Sara chided the boy over the most minor infraction of behavior—he was only a toddler, for goodness’ sake! Too often the mother left the boy to the care of others. He simply wasn’t accepted for himself. Charity couldn’t help but identify with young Jaime.

  Yet she warned herself not to make judgments. Perhaps she was making too much of Maria Sara’s seeming neglect. Hawk’s absence left her cross, to say the least.

  But she was never cross with Jaime.

  On a bright Saturday morning—a cool and pleasant one—Charity went to the room he shared with his mother. The boy jumped up and down, shrieking with glee when he saw “Shartee.”

  He toddled across the floor and threw himself into her arms. She cuddled him to her, drinking in the child’s sweet scent. I want a baby. Good gravy.

  “I’m here to collect your son,” she said to Maria Sara, who was brushing her beautiful blond hair into curls atop her head. “Manuel says the pumpkins are lovely this year, and I’ll bet Jaime would love to see them. After that, we’ll take a nice walk through the hills and search for arrowheads.”

  Arrowheads. Indians. Hawk! Gads. Don’t start thinking about him again.

  “Jaime will like that,” said Maria Sara.

  “Would you care to tag along?”

  Maria Sara shook her head. “I promised to go with Oma. We’re calling at the Keller ranch.”

  “Maiz has taken quite an interest in my cousin.” Charity lifted a brow. “But I’d think you and Karl should be past the matchmaker stage by now.”

  Maria Sara smiled. “We are.” Her friend’s tone grew serious. “But there is much to iron out between us.”

  Charity tickled Jaime’s chin, setting the child to giggling. “You two will be fine. Then you’ll have more time for the boy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The two friends had never had words, and Charity warned herself against borrowing trouble. “I only meant that I will be happy to see you settled and content.” Setting Jaime to his feet, she took his hand in hers. “Have fun today, my friend.”

  “Charity . . . perhaps you and Jaime would care to accompany us?”

  Being in her great-grandmother’s presence wasn’t high on Charity’s list—she still hadn’t forgiven Maisie for abandoning her in the wilderness, not to mention that other business—but Maria Sara would be with her son, a rare occurrence. What could hurt in saying yes?

  Ten minutes later, the four of them climbed aboard Maisie’s carriage, setting off for Karl Keller’s ranch. Charity decided she would not let the Old One get to her.

  Old One.

  Good heavens. I’m even starting to think like Hawk.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Still in her dressing gown, Lisette McLoughlin looked from the bedroom window and watched Maisie’s carriage depart down the hill. “Where do you think they’re going?” she asked her husband as he walked into the room.

  “To Karl’s.” Gil paused. “I’m thinking that fancy Mexican gal is going to throw a shoe, once she finds out your nephew broke up his own father’s marriage.”

  Frowning, Lisette recalled the terrible happenings, once her brother Adolf had discovered his second wife had taken his surviving son to her bed. It had almost killed the already lame Adolf.

  Finally, Lisette replied to her husband, “I don’t care much for Maria Sara Montana. Don’t ask me why. Mother’s intuition when it comes to her children’s friends? I hope she isn’t taking advantage of Charity’s friendship.”

  “I hope not, too.”

  “Anyway, the situation between Karl and Maria Sara isn’t our problem. We have enough to worry about. With that smuggling business.” Lisette continued to watch the carriage. “On the positive side, it’s good to see Charity and Maisie in spitting distance of each other.”

  Gil chuckled and rattled a drawer knob. “My guess is that’s exactly what they’ll be doing. Spitting at each other. Those two are more alike than either would ever admit to.”

  “Ja. Willfulness did carry down through the generations to Charity.” Lisette added a chuckle of her own as she watched the carriage become smaller and smaller in the distance. “We misnamed our girls, I’m thinking. I named our sensible and studious triplet after Oma, when I should have demanded ‘Margaret’ for the most stubborn of them.”

  “Maybe I should have named Charity after you. You’ve been known to be pretty willful yourself, pretty wife.”

  Lisette turned to her husband. Fresh from a bath, he stood nude as he searched through his bureau for undergarments. Even after all their years of marriage, the sight of his naked, battle-scarred body still thrilled her.

  “We are alone, Liebster.”

  His blue-gray gaze flew to the blue of hers. The union suit dropped from his grip. She moistened her lips as a slow smile played across his mouth and his blue-gray eyes canvassed her form.

  “It has been weeks since we made the best use of a Saturday morning, my husband . . .”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Reaching behind him, never averting his gaze, he clasped a bottle of bay rum, then splashed a goodly portion on each side of his face.

  “You don’t need that to excite me,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Gil’s feet ate up the space between them. He kissed her passionately, his hands going to all the places he’d had so many years to relish. And it was past noon before they spoke about anything. . . except for what would pleasure each other.

  As he helped her into her corset, she said, “Gil, why do you think Fierce Hawk has been gone so long?”

  Her husband’s hands stilled on the laces. “What makes you think of that son of a bitch?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him names. He is Charity’s choice as, uh, as attorney.”

  “They’re lovers. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  Lisette nodded. “Our daughter told me. Did she tell you?”

  “No. But I guessed it, and she denied nothing.”

  “I think they’re in love.”

  “Charity never did have the sense God gave a gnat.”

  Whirling around, Lisette shook a finger at her husband. He bent to nip it. But she forced herself not to be deterred by the eroticism in his action.

  “Don’t talk about our daughter that way,” she said. “She is bright as can be.”

  “Bright, yes. But devoid of horse sense.”

  “She can’t help being the way she is. And, Gil, I’m happy to have her home.”

  Tucking the tail of his shirt into Levis, he stomped across the bedroom to retrieve his boots.

  “Aren’t you pleased to have her back?” Lisette asked.

  It was a half minute before he answered, “I am. Now that I’ve had some time to digest it. I just wish we could rejoice in her homecoming. But we can’t. Not with her crime muddying everything up.»

  “Her ‘crime’ has nothing to do with your attitude, does it? You’re angry because she brought a lover with her.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Would it make you feel better if they married?”

  “Lisette McLoughlin, have you lost your marbles? There is no way I’d welcome him into the family.”

  “If you don’t, we may end up losing a daughter over it. Because I think they are meant for each other. And I think they’ll be together forever.”

  His brow drawing inward, Gil studied Lisette. “Do you really think so?”

  “Ja.” She went over to
smooth silver-streaked black hair from his forehead. “I think they will be as happy as we have been.” If they are given the chance for happiness.

  “How could anyone else be as happy as we’ve been?” His hand closed over hers. “How could any man love a woman as much as I love you?”

  “What a seductive tongue you have, husband.” Lisette winked at him. “But we shouldn’t get off the subject of the younger set. Tell me something. If Charity were to say that she and Hawk are going to be married, what would you say?”

  “ ‘How much is it all going to cost?’ ”

  Thrilled that he had backed down, she swatted his firm buttocks. “Don’t play the penny-pinching Scotsman with me. I know better.”

  He moved her hand around to the front of him, and she said, “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

  “I have an idea . . .”

  “Don’t look at me that way, Gil McLoughlin. We’ve just done what you’re proposing to do. And you are not as young as you used to be.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  A knock on their bedroom door pulled them apart. Gil accepted a folded piece of paper from the servant Graciella. After thanking the girl, he read the note, then said, “Our Margaret will be home tomorrow.”

  “How wonderful!”

  The Keller ranch—situated in view of Fredericksburg’s most famous landmark, Cross Mountain—was nowhere near as sprawling or as wealthy as the Four Aces, but it showed prosperity. Barns and outbuilding sparkled with fresh paint, as did the modest main house. Polished and shining, a buggy and a buckboard were parked alongside the residence. In the distance horses, oxen, and cattle grew healthy and hale on the grasses painstakingly planted and tended by Karl Keller’s mexican hired hands.

  A lot of this prosperity, Charity knew, had come from her parents’ generosity in the early years of their marriage. The Kellers hadn’t been rich by any stretch of the imagination, so Papa and Mutti had helped Uncle Adolf and his first wife out. Then Aunt Monika died. After the three younger Keller boys succumbed to the cholera pandemic of 1883, the McLoughlins had given even more assistance.