by Martha Hix
“Bellman,” Hawk shouted. “Please be good enough to summon Miss Margaret McLoughlin!”
The amiable Ted shot up the staircase.
And Charity realized it was imperative that she make amends. “Sir, your honor. I was reared on a cattle ranch, and we aren’t as proper as you San Antonians.” No use pointing out that she was one of a kind on the Four Aces. “I fear that my reckless behavior brought me to the dilemma of the accusation against me in the first place. I—”
“Hers is no admission of guilt,” Hawk cut in. “Miss McLoughlin, I believe, is trying to point out that she is capable of erring in judgment. She became a pawn in the devious Adriano Gonzáles’s scheme—”
“Please save your opening remarks for the jury, Mr. Hawk.”
His eyes closing in momentary supplication, Hawk gave a nod, and Charity continued. “Anyway, as I was going to say, I hope you will excuse my bluntness and lack of polish. I will be more careful in the future.”
Hawk shot her a look that said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
From Judge Peterson’s expression she might as well have been addressing the potted palm that grew near the lobby’s grand piano, so she took another tack and smiled her most winning smile. “Are you by any chance related to Miss Henrietta Peterson of this fair city? I knew the beauty at–”
Charity started to mention the boarding school where she’d had the misfortune to be paired with the incredibly homely, overly pampered and adored, vicious-tongued Henrietta, but she her cut short her reminiscence. Boarding schools taught proper behavior. Or tried to.
Peterson scrutinized her anew. “Henrietta and I are most certainly related. She is my daughter.”
Charity feigned shock. “Your daughter? How is that possible? Why, you couldn’t be old enough. . .”
Hawk gestured to her to cease and desist.
The judge fairly preened under Charity’s praise. She embellished shamelessly, mentioning the “lovely” Mrs. Peterson, who played the harp as if “angels were singing.”
“My dear, could I interest you and Mr. Hawk in a cup of tea? The Menger serves an excellent cuppa.”
He extended his elbow and Charity placed her hand on the proffered arm. “I’d be delighted. And you, Mr. Hawk? Are you interested?”
Hawk’s countenance conveyed interest in strangling her. “Of course. Ah. Here is your sister now.”
Dressed as dowdily as a schoolmarm, yet looking lovely despite it, Margaret swept forward, and the quartet retired to the swank holds of the Menger dining room.
“You amaze me.”
Alone at last, seated at a table for two in an obscure café in west San Antonio, Charity peered at Hawk and at the open collar of his silk shirt. Gone was his cravat and suit coat. “Somehow I get the impression you damn me with faint praise.”
Hawk leaned his chair on its back legs. “Think again. All I’ve got to say is, you amaze me. You had Peterson wrapped around your little finger.”
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, worried. After all, there was that business in Fredericksburg.
The waiter, garbed in a loose white outfit, lit lanterns as she spoke; he then went to the kitchen. A mariachi band tuned their guitars. One other couple sat eating; they occupied the far corner. Letting out a lone howl to announce nighttime, a skinny tan dog guarded the entrance.
Charity waited for Hawk’s reply.
At last he righted the chair and leaned forward to chuck her chin with his forefinger. “Who could be angry with success?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to allude to the “who” as being David Fierce Hawk, in Sheriff Un-termann’s office. Why do you keep asking for trouble? “The afternoon was successful. Aren’t you pleased that I figured out a way to get shut of Margaret, as well as the judge? If you ask me, I think we’re lucky, their finding a common interest in the Catholic kings of Spain. Whoever the Catholic kings are . . . were. It got her an invitation to the Peterson home for a meeting of minds, didn’t it?”
“It was clever of you, turning the day’s conversation to history. A subject you guessed Peterson was interested in.”
“And knew my sister is a scholar of,” Charity added for Hawk. “I couldn’t help but notice that the judge wore a stickpin fashioned in a replica of the Alamo. Margaret has one. A beau gave it to her during the fiftieth anniversary celebration of Texas independence, in ’86. Anyway, I figured the judge had an interest in bygone days.”
“Astute observation, Miss McLoughlin.” Hawk, shaking his head in wonder, crossed his arms over his chest. “You might make a society hostess yet, since you can so ably assess the strengths and weaknesses of others, and you know how to use them in pairing up like minds.”
Yet his complimentary remark seemed to trouble him.
She wanted nothing to trouble him. She wanted to be held in his arms before midnight, and she would do all she could to make that possible.
Unfortunately, the mariachis strolled over to circle their table. The lead singer asked if they were interested in a tune.
Charity had no wish to share Hawk’s attention with musicians, but Hawk nevertheless handed over a silver coin.
It seemed as if they sang and strummed forever!
But the warbling crescendo finally came, and Charity passed a dollar to the lead singer while whispering, “Go next door. Or some place out of here.”
Since they were used to playing for pennies, the men were eager to depart.
Hawk rubbed his chin, then said, “I found out something while I was on the border. It doesn’t have anything to do with your case, but I thought you might want to know as a point of interest. You were dead wrong about Judge Noble Jones being a silent partner in that Nuevo Laredo whorehouse. There is an Anglo with power across the Rio Grande, but it isn’t Jones.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know. Not yet. I’ve got some investigators working on it, though.” Hawk took a sip from his cup.
“Well, I don’t want to think about my legal troubles tonight. Please, no more.”
With a constrained smile Hawk agreed. “We’ve got to talk, though. No later than tomorrow, say a carriage ride at noon. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Her eyes on Hawk, Charity sipped from a cup of creamy Mexican hot chocolate. “I hope our evening will be successful ... on a personal level,” she said. “Interested?”
“I’d have to be dead not to be interested. But I told you I wouldn’t tempt getting you pregnant.”
“You didn’t seem to be worried about it that evening in the pond.”
“Wrong. I took precaution.” His bronzed face paled. “Did it not work?”
“It worked. And it could work again . . .”
“Don’t tempt me. I am not without my weaknesses. Such as when you cajoled me into bringing you here. But as for continued intimacies between us, there won’t be another time.”
Ever? She couldn’t stand the thought of never. Or of even being away from him another day . . . “You said you’d get me free. Surely the trial won’t last long. I don’t see why we must deny ourselves.”
“I do.” He paused. “I’m going back to the territory, once you’re free.”
While she had urged him to do so, a heavy weight settled in her bosom. Soon he would be leaving her. Forever! But maybe not. Why not make a stab at seeing if there wasn’t a bit of the romantic in Hawk? In the past he’d liked her unconventional way.
“Not so long ago you asked me to go with you.” Was she insane, asking for trouble? What about Maisie? Would he agree for an elder’s sake? Or for nobility’s? Charity, don’t be a naysayer. “Is there a chance you might again extend the invitation?”
“None that I can think of.”
The weight in her heart increased.
“Why . . . why not?”
“You’d be miserable on the reservation.”
Was Hawk becoming too much a white man for his own good, worrying about how she’d react to life in the territory? A savage would
kidnap her away . . . and never look back or worry about a darned thing.
“How do you know I’d hate reservation life? Maybe I would love it. I’d love it anywhere you are.” Lacing her fingers in her lap, she studied them rather than look Hawk in the face and chance seeing his refusal. “Especially if I was your wife.”
She heard him groan. He pulled her arms from her lap and twined her fingers with his, atop the table. “I never thought I’d hear you say you want to be my wife.”
She felt the warmth of his fingers, yet . . . Was she imagining that he drew away in spirit?
“Well?” She swallowed, borrowing nerve from somewhere. “What about it? Or are you waiting for a more formal proposal?” She got to her feet, walked around the table, and dropped to one knee. “David Fierce Hawk, will you marry me?”
A myriad of emotions flashed in his eyes. “I... Don’t do this.”
“It is already done,” she replied, her fears rising anew.
Hawk shook his head. “I’m sorry, angel, but I don’t think making marriage plans is a good idea. Our worlds are too different.”
Pride cried out for her to stand and run. But how could she, when her heart was sending broken shards through every vein in her body? She wouldn’t reach he exit before falling apart.
Buck up! Don’t let him get the better of you!
Forcing a bright smile, she got to her feet. “Okay. Our worlds are different. You’re right. Absolutely right.” She coerced her lashes to bat, then laughed. She prayed her tone was light. “But don’t ever say, David Fierce Hawk, that I never asked for your hand.”
“I’m glad you see the jest in all this.”
Ignoring the sarcasm in Hawk’s words, Charity tossed a hand upward. “Just call me the court jester.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“She asked you to marry her? And you said no? Never in my fifty years have I heard anything like it.” A bulbous nose took on a redder hue. “Have you got rocks in your head, boy?”
Sam Washburn looked incredulously, expectantly at Hawk. On this, December the second, the two men sat on the balcony of Hawk’s second-floor suite of rooms located at the opposite end of the Menger from the McLoughlin quarters. The norther that had turned the air brisk over the past few days had been blown away by warm southern breezes. Making use of the balmy morning, Hawk and Sam shared a pot of coffee, a plate of sourdough biscuits, and Hawk’s confidences.
“Hawk, I thought you was plumb daft for the girl.”
“Drink your coffee.”
They had been speaking candidly, so why was Hawk now reticent about the subject of Charity? Before he could settle his mind on this score, Sam spoke again. “Did it hurt your pride, her sending that money to you a while ago?”
“It made a statement.”
A big statement. Not an hour earlier, not long after the banks opened, Ted had delivered a package containing fifteen thousand dollars. The message the young man relayed was, “The court jester says this is in payment for bond as well as services rendered. Wonder why she called herself the court jester?”
Hawk hadn’t wanted her money. In fact he’d forgotten about any monies due. And he didn’t want to talk about it.
“How’s your room, Sam?”
“Why, I’m dancing in high cotton. Never seen nothing so fancy since the last time I was in New Orleans, in ’80. My friend, thank you for helping me get past that sniveling desk clerk.”
Sam had had some trouble getting registered, since the Menger management had been less than enthusiastic about booking “riffraff,” until Hawk had intervened.
Sam dunked a biscuit in his coffee. “I always told you—playing up your white blood does have its privileges.”
“Blood had nothing to do with it. Money talks around here.”
“Money and a smile that could charm the step-ins off the most dried-up old maid in town, you mean.”
Hawk doubted the male desk clerk had been impressed by his smile; not as impressed as he’d been with a few influential names Hawk had tossed around–McLoughlin being the primary one.
“Tell me,” Sam implored, “why you said no to your gal.”
Hawk, dressed in trousers and a casual shirt, leaned back in the Morris chair, crossed his arms, and tucked his hands under his armpits. “I asked her once to go to the Territory. She said no.”
“The answer seems plain enough to me,” said the physician. “Don’t go to the Territory. And, like she told you, forget that Austin idea, too. Find out what would please your lady, then set your sights her way.”
“Once upon a time . . . she had a hankering for a Wild West show, for staging it in Europe.”
“How do you feel about it?” Sam chewed a biscuit, the effort raising his two-inches-long beard up and down. Several crumbs clung to the coarse salt-and-pepper hairs.
“The idea has its charms.”
“Remember ole Lick Salt outta the Cherokee nation? Back in ’81, he and his buddy Man-Who-Hears-Voices tied in with Healy and Bigelow in their medicine show. I understand Lick Salt is looking for a new set-up.”
“Interesting.” Faces flashed through Hawk’s mind. A dozen braves who would be perfect for a Wild West extravaganza. “Wonder how our friend Calm Waters of Fort Smith would feel about touring the continent?”
“That ole satyr?” Sam’s belly rolled as he laughed. “Why, he’d never quit running after the ladies long enough to swing a tomahawk for an audience.”
Hawk grinned and took a big sip of coffee. “While I was at the Four Aces, I met several cowboys looking for a change.”
“An operation like yours and your lady’s, why, it’d be needing a sawbones, wouldn’t it?”
“You, perhaps, Dr. Washburn?”
Sam blew a stream of air across the back of his curled knuckles, then dashed them across a lapel of the suit coat that had faded from black to shades of shiny dark green. “No one never had no complaints about my doctoring . . .”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sounds like your show’ll work.” Hitching a thumb to the French doors leading into the hotel, Sam added, “Get outta here, boy. Meet up with your lady Charity, and tell her, ‘Let’s round up our entertainers, sugar pie.’ ”
“It’s not that easy, Sam. The Osage need me. The new chief asked me to go back to Washington. He wants to make certain our interests are watched over.”
Sam shook his gray head and scratched his whiskered chin. “I thought you said you didn’t wanna take Charity to the reservation. Now you’re talking about Washington.”
“I’d be dividing my time between both places.”
“If the little woman dudn’t want the Indian life, leave her in Washington.” Sam clicked his tongue. “My friend, since you ain’t answering me, I take it you don’t cotton to that idea.”
“I don’t. What’s a marriage of separate lives?”
“Well, all I can say is, you need to talk with your lady about all this. Get ever’thing smack dab on top of the table, like a whole deck of cards.” Sam winked. “Seems to me you ain’t giving her the credit she’s due, seeing how she’s a gal daring enough to ask for a feller’s hand. I warrant Charity McLoughlin turns out to be a whole bagful of surprises.”
Hawk lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, and ground out the tip. Sam was right; “bag of surprises” fit Charity like a second skin. As he lifted a piece of tobacco off his bottom lip, Hawk’s face split into a grin.
“She is one fine woman,” he admitted. “And I’ve done what many have done. I haven’t given her enough credit.”
With a knowing look, Sam asked, “Remember that time I said you was a warrior without a war? Seems to me the little lady’s given you the battles you been needing, boy.”
“You’re absolutely right. She is perfect for me.” Laughing now, he cuffed the wise Dr. Washburn’s shoulder. But he turned solemn, thinking about how his interests weren’t the only ones to consider. “Whatever the case, I’m not doing any talking about the future.
Not until her trial is over.”
“You sure seem confident you can keep her head outta a noose.”
“Of that, I’ve never had any doubt.”
But could he? Hawk quit the chair. Time after time during his last visit to the border, he’d run into blank walls. Charity’s defense, beyond her own word, hinged on Maria Sara’s testimony.
Plus whatever Sheriff Tom Ellis could say to smite Ian Blyer’s character.
And the prosecutor, who had filled the courthouse’s rafters with his guffaws when Hawk had asked for the charges to be dropped, was lining up witnesses. Texas Rangers and federales, and the silver mine owner; all could attest to the crime, but they couldn’t necessarily testify to Charity’s part in it.
The one person who could send her to the gallows had a believable story. Ian Blyer had found her in possession of the cigar boxes filled with loot. It had been Blyer she had confessed to. He had taken the money from her and had turned it over to the authorities.
Hawk stomped into the suite, calling over his shoulder, “I’m meeting the McLoughlin sisters at noon for a carriage ride. Time to get dressed.”
Impasse.
That was the only word that Charity could think of to describe her love affair with Hawk. As the open-air carriage lurched, setting off from Alamo Plaza, she gazed at him. Dressed impeccably, he sat across from her and her sister; he wasn’t looking her in the eye. He chatted with Margaret.
So be it.
Charity turned her scrutiny to the busy streets the carriage took on its journey southward. She listened to the clip-clop of horse hooves. She noticed Christmas decorations that wound around lampposts and were prominently displayed in shop windows. But she couldn’t keep her mind off Hawk.
He had no intention of exchanging I-do’s with her, or even continuing their love affair, for that matter. So why had she bothered making herself as pretty as possible? What was the use of being laced into a corset that constricted her breathing? Her new shoes pinched her toes. Her new baby-blue silk foulard dress, trimmed with ribbon of midnight blue, might as well have been sewn from a flour sack, for all he seemed to care.