by Martha Hix
“You buffoon. You mindless buffoon.”
“Will you have me exposed to my voters as an outlaw?” Campbell pleaded. “I realize you find this all hard to believe, your father tying in with miscreants, but I was desperate. Your losses at the gaming tables were expensive.”
Ian cut over to where his father hid the whiskey. Pouring an overly healthy shot, he quaffed it. “I’ve known you were involved from the beginning. Who do you think ordered Adriano Gonzáles to hire you in the first place?”
“Oh, my God.” Traumatized, Campbell grasped the back of a chair for support. “Not you. Not my only son. Not my hopes for the future.”
“If you harbor hopes for the future, at least where your own hide is concerned, you will do exactly as I say. Or your constituents will see your feet waving beneath a scaffold.” Ian took a look at the embroidered slippers shodding his own feet. “And perhaps your handsome son’s, too.”
Shaking his head, his eyes closing in dismay, Campbell Blyer replied, “What do you want me to do?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
A general air of celebration—advanced by Gil McLoughlin, Lisette, and Maisie—ruled in the Four Aces dining room that night. On the journey between the Keller ranch and home, Maisie and Charity had patched up their differences, thanks to an out and out apology on the matriarch’s part.
And Margaret would be home tomorrow.
No one made mention that Maria Sara hadn’t returned from visiting her suitor. Nor did anyone say anything about Hawk’s prolonged absence, though both subjects kept surfacing in Charity’s mind.
Had a proposal of marriage been extended by her cousin to her friend?
And what kept Hawk in San Antonio?
“Wouldn’t you care for a glass of champagne to go along with your sponge cake?” Lisette asked.
The footman Diego stepped forward, presenting her with a chilled bottle of French champagne. Charity glanced at the untouched dessert in front of her before shaking her head in reply.
Her father asked, “What’s the matter with you?”
“A bit of a headache,” she replied truthfully.
“Too much showering her old granny with forgiveness, if ye ask me.” A satisfied smirk settled on the old woman’s face. Maisie leaned to pat her great-granddaughter’s hand. “Thank ye, darlin’, for doing it. I love ye, ye know.”
“I love you, too,” Charity whispered, suddenly wondering why she had held back her feelings for so long. This was her family, after all. Her family! “I love all of you.”
Papa put down his fork. “Does that include me?”
“Why, of course. I love you most dearly, Papa.”
Her mother and great-grandmother murmured in joy.
Quietly, her father addressed her. “I love you, too, Charity, my daughter.”
“Oh, Papa.”
She looked into his eyes. Tenderness and honesty and fatherly concern were there. She knew her papa would stand beside her through thick and thin. Everyone had rallied around her, as she had once been certain they would not.
Charity McLoughlin had waited her entire lifetime for this moment.
A lump in her throat, her eyes glistening, she whispered, “I am sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and Mutti. And the rest of the family. You have my word that I’ll do my best to settle my past wrongs. I yearn to make you proud of me. And I shall always—always!—work to earn your trust in the future.”
“Diego! Pour more champagne.” Papa beamed. “I’ve been waiting a long time to hear my baby say these things!”
Her head cleared as Charity reveled in her father’s approval. Had it been such a long time since she had expressed her feelings? Good gracious! She couldn’t remember the last time she had said anything of a loving nature to her papa.
You expected love, when you never gave it!
Rising from the table, she walked to where her father sat at the head of it. With no hesitation she hugged his wide shoulders. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered as his familiar scent filled her nostrils, “I always think of you like this, smelling of bay rum and the sun. I’d forgotten how good it feels to hug you.”
“Then give your papa a kiss.” His forefinger tapped his lips. “Right here. Don’t miss your mark—or I’ll dust your bottom!”
To a round of laughter from her mother and great-grandmother, Charity hit the bull’s-eye.
“Sit right here beside me,” said Gil as he motioned for a chair to be pulled up. “And let’s make like the McLoughlins.”
“Wonderful idea, Papa.”
Never had Charity felt so close to her kin. Never.
The family fell to reminiscing about days gone by, with recollections of friends far and wide, old family lore, and silly tales of Gil’s boyhood in Inverness and Maisie’s unsuccessful attempts to keep him from searching for the monster in the Loch Ness.
When the last dish was cleared away, Lisette asked, “Is anyone interested in a game of bridge?”
Papa groaned. Bridge-playing wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes. Since they couldn’t play a threesome, Lisette made another suggestion that met with almost unanimous approval. “Let’s turn in early, so we’ll all be rested up and ready for Margaret’s arrival.”
The McLoughlins gradually removed themselves from the dining room, but Charity wasn’t ready for bed. She was too exhilarated over the events of the evening, her real reunion with Papa and Mutti and Maisie.
And Margaret would be home tomorrow!
Charity changed into a simple blouse and trousers, and walked to the stable. Thunder Cloud would enjoy a good grooming, and Charity would welcome the opportunity to get her mind off her thoughts. Opening the stall door, she gave the gray mare a loving stroke on its forelock.
Charity had chosen the horse while in Spain, visiting Olga and Leonardo—the Court and Countess of Granda—at their holiday cottage in the coastal village of Marbella. Oh, what a delight the adventure had been, riding the gray beauty—Thunder Cloud’s mane and Charity’s hair whipping in the salty wind—and dodging the quicksand that hid in the shores of the Mediterranean!
Spain.
Europe.
The Wild West show.
Hawk. Hawk!
Darn.
Could nothing keep Charity’s mind off him?
She took up a currycomb and gently attacked the snorting Thunder Cloud’s coat. “Where is he? Doesn’t he know I am frantic to see him?”
Lifting her majestic head, Thunder Cloud looked at her mistress and stamped its front foot.
“Don’t be so haughty, missy.” Charity gave a love-pat to the mare’s rump. “If you had a man like Hawk, you’d miss him, too.”
It was then that the subject of her declarations stepped out of the shadows.
Charity dropped the currycomb.
To hide her embarrassment at being caught talking to a horse, as well as her joy at Hawk’s return, Charity flipped her head nonchalantly. After all, the rat had been listening to her, for heaven’s sake, and he had been gone way too long.
Don’t even look at him, she ordered herself.
But immediately, her eyes were filled with Hawk.
A Stetson pulled low on his bronzed brow, he held a cigarette in his mouth. When he doffed the hat and tossed it atop a nearby hook, her casual stance abandoned her. Lantern light played over his closely cropped Indian-black hair, shooting highlights of blue through it, and her fingers itched to smooth those satin strands. For beginners.
Squinting past a curl of smoke, he asked in a low voice, “Do much talking with horses?”
“Do much lurking in stables?” she queried, and opened the gate to the corridor, stepping out of it to face him fully.
“Just rode in.” He ground the glowing end of the cigarette beneath his foot. “Took a catnap. You woke me, yammering to that mare of yours.”
Moving as nimbly as any feline, he stepped closer. A stalk of straw clung to the shoulder of his chambray shirt, which Charity brushed away. She got a whiff of man and
horse and leather, and it was a combination wholly appealing. So near to him, she noticed a certain weariness to his dark eyes, a certain tenseness to his mouth, and she lifted her fingers to massage away his cares away.
“I apologize for disturbing you.” Her palm cupping the smooth blade of his jaw, she gloried in the warmth of his skin. Or was it the heat of her own? “It’s good to see you, Hawk,” she whispered.
She fully expected his lips to lower to hers, but those expectations were not met. He simply patted the back of her hand before taking two steps in retreat. What was wrong? Your memory’s grown short, ninny.
“Hawk . . . I know you’re put out about that business in Sheriff Untermann’s office. I want you to know, I realize I overstepped my bounds. It was your place to speak with Judge Jones, and you were handling the situation just fine.”
Planting his elbow on the gate leading to Thunder Cloud’s stall, he crossed one booted ankle over the other in an attempt to appear collected. “Charity, I don’t deny you caught me off-guard, but I’ve had a couple of weeks to think about it, and I know you’re no scurrying church mouse.”
She straightened, pleased. But he hadn’t finished. “However. I will not stand for your interference where this case is concerned. Got it? You will do whatever I tell you.”
She squeaked like a scurrying church mouse, then twitched her nose and made as if she had a couple of long front teeth. “Yes, sir.”
Throwing back his head, Hawk laughed. “Now, honey, don’t work too hard on it. I like you just the way you are. In matters that don’t pertain to the courts, anyway.”
Oh, this was a grand evening!
Boldly, seductively, Charity took a gander at his riding attire, drawing mental pictures of what lay beneath. “My bed is so big and empty. It’s been lonesome, having you away.”
“I’ve been lonesome, too.”
“Then let’s do something about it.”
“Bad idea.”
She stared up at the frown further emphasizing the weariness in his face. “Why not?” Before giving him a chance to answer, she came to a conclusion. “Something went wrong in San Antonio, didn’t it?”
“No problems from that end. Your court date is set for December 15.”
“I must write the Narramores and tell them,” she said, thinking aloud. She cocked her head. “There was no mention of putting me in jail there, in the meantime?”
“There was. Judge Peterson demanded bail.”
“Bail? Oh, goodness. Whatever did you do?”
“Stood good for it.”
Good gravy. Not only did she owe him for professional services, she would have to come up with bond money as well. “How much was it?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Dollars?”
“They weren’t interested in beads and feathers.”
“Good Lord. Where am I ever going to get that sort of money? Wherever did you get it?”
He shrugged. “By use of my letter of credit from Robber Baron’s Bank, Baltimore.”
“There’s no Robber Baron’s Bank in Baltimore.”
“That’s what I call the reputable establishment of Planters & Merchants.”
She had heard of that financial institution; it catered to the wealthiest of the wealthy. She recalled Maisie saying something about Hawk inheriting money from a Maryland relative, and he’d mentioned something about having security of purse, but she’d had no idea that he was that well-off. “You got the money from Papa.”
“You’re accusing me of lying?”
“Hawk, darn it, let’s don’t get in a sparring match. Please explain yourself.”
With no more passion than if he were speaking about the weather, he replied, “My mother’s grandfather owned a railroad on the eastern seaboard and a half-dozen coal mines in West Virginia. I fell heir to them after Laurann’s mother died.”
“Dear me.”
“I’m surprised your parents never told you.”
“Hawk, it’s in exceptionally bad taste to gossip about the wealth of others.” Maisie, of course, would have no compunction about such a thing, but Maisie was a special case. “Goodness, I’m amazed. My Indian warrior turns out not only to be an attorney but also a railroad tycoon and a mining magnate.”
“Wrong. I sold out. Railroads have been one of the white man’s tools to overpower the great tribes of this country. As for coal mines, they exploit the poor working man. I wanted no part of either.”
“Your thinking seems quite liberal.”
“I have my opinions as to right and wrong. And I fight for right as I see it. Such as the cause of Charity McLoughlin.” He brushed a loose strand of her hair over her shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I think we should go with propriety on this issue. I’d rather we didn’t discuss my bank accounts.”
That was fine with Charity. She was greatly concerned with how she would ever come up with ten thousand dollars to repay him. And an even greater concern . . . Why was he being so standoffish?
“Hawk, we have been apart for two whole weeks. Don’t I even get a kiss hello?”
Chapter Thirty
Eyes liquid with desire and anticipation met his gaze. But Hawk had his misgivings, big misgivings, not to mention the three little words that he had yet to hear from Charity. She hadn’t so much as whispered them since that night in Uvalde.
And taking his physical needs into consideration, he knew that if he kissed her, there would be no stopping there. She continued to close the distance between them. He swallowed hard, hoping to marshal his wits, and gazed at the whole of his beloved angel.
Her waist-length hair, wavy as the waters of the Atlantic, thick and dark as richest sable, billowed past her shoulders. She wore britches and a shirt, yet the manly attire did nothing to diminish her femininity. Her breasts, large and proud, strained at the soft cotton’s buttons. The flare of her hips. . . ah, but they were enticing.
No one, not even from a distance, would mistake her for a man. Or even a boy. She was all woman. Rounded, feminine, tall. Jesus, Lord of the paleface, Hawk wanted her kisses.
How would he be able to turn her lips swollen and cherry-red with desire from the insistence of his lips? His groin throbbed. His heart ached for her touch, for her surrender. For his Charity, his ivory angel. The past weeks had been all too lonely.
“What about a kiss?” she asked, her voice sultry.
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?” Disbelief and uncertainty flashed in her blue gaze. “You said you aren’t still mad at me. You said nothing went wrong in San Antonio. And you can be certain I’m not interested in your wealth.”
In answer to her question, Hawk said, “None of that is what’s troubling me.”
“Don’t you . . . Don’t you want me?”
“I want you more than I want the air that I breathe or the sun at dawn or the stars at night. I love you, Charity McLoughlin. And that’s why I’m going to keep my hands off you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re alone in this stable. And a kiss would lead to lovemaking.”
“I should hope so!”
“And what will we do if you get in the family way?” Squinting at the ceiling, he raked his fingers across his scalp. “Sam Washburn met me in San Antonio. I asked if you could’ve gotten with child while you were unclean, and he said it was doubtful. Women aren’t fertile then.”
“You talked with that toad about our intimacies? And what do you mean, calling me unclean? Of all the nerve. Is nothing sacred between us? I’ve never been unclean in all my life—save for when I was out there in the wilderness thanks to you! I ought to take a crop to you.”
“Cut the indignant act,” he demanded. “You and I have business to discuss.”
For a moment he thought she might actually go for the riding crop, so furious was she, so clenched were her fists. At last, in a self-consciously controlled voice, she responded, “By all means, let’s get to it.”
He strode to a bench that
ran along the stable’s interior, motioned for her to follow and to sit, and he settled on the hard seat. The last time the two of us occupied a bench . . . Refusing to reflect on Uvalde, refusing to meet the eyes that rained blue-hot fire, he reached into his pocket for a smoke.
“It’s dangerous, smoking in here,” she said. “There’s enough fire between us to set this place ablaze. Or is there?”
“Charity, don’t. Not now.” Hawk poked the cigarette back into his breast pocket. “Let’s go over your case one more time.” On the horseback ride to the Four Aces, they had discussed it, over and again, but Hawk had to be certain he hadn’t missed anything. “You thought you were bringing Cuban cigars into Texas from Mexico. A crate of them. And you’re certain that no one was still alive, besides Rufino Saldino, also known as Senor Grande, knew you were in the dark about the money?”
“He was the only one I had contact with, until I reached Shafter. And Ian knew, of course, after he caught me burying the cash.”
“Did you tell anyone else that Grande had offered you employment?”
“Only Maria Sara. She’s the one who introduced me to him. He ran Pappagallo’s for Adriano, you see.”
“Did you wonder why he didn’t bring the ‘cigars’ across the border himself? Or why he didn’t get one of his girls to do it?”
“Hawk, I was hungry. And my rent was due. He offered me work. I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Understandable.” He doubted her reasoning would hold up in a court of law. Hawk planted his palm on one thigh.
“We’ll subpoena Maria Sara to testify on your behalf.”
“But what about Ian? You know he’s ruthless. And the Blyer name means a heck of a lot in south Texas.”
Actually, Hawk would have liked to have finished what Gil McLoughlin had started in Texas’s capitol building. “I’ll drill him about his motives for wanting to see you hang. Paint him as a man thwarted in romance, out for blood in the aftermath of rejection. And Sheriff Tom Ellis has agreed to testify about Blyer’s confusing statements in Uvalde.”
Hawk went on. “Besides, the McLoughlin name carries more weight than Blyer’s. We must play it to the hilt. Don’t fight me on this, Charity.”