Lone Star Loving

by Martha Hix

  Dead. Maria Sara was dead. Shot dead. On the morning of the thirteenth of December, two schoolboys found her body floating in the San Antonio River, several miles from the city. A garland of Christmas cedars wrapped her neck. It had been twelve days since Karl reported her missing.

  Charity felt certain Ian’s hands were tainted with Maria Sara’s blood. He had been unusually quiet of late. Which spoke for itself. She prayed he would make some false move and implicate himself in the murder.

  Maria Sara’s funeral was held the afternoon of the fourteenth. There weren’t many mourners. The widower, Charity, Hawk, Margaret. And Eleanor Narramore, who had arrived the previous night to give moral support to Charity during the trial, which was scheduled to start the next day.

  Although Charity had been heartsick over Maria Sara’s perfidy, she grieved at the loss. Not because Maria Sara had been the only hard-and-sure witness to her innocence. She mourned for the friend she thought she once knew.

  “I’m sorry,” Hawk whispered at the grave site in San Fernando Cemetery.

  “Me, too.”

  She watched Karl take the white rose from his lapel and place it on his wife’s grave, his mouth moving in a silent goodbye. He loved her. He’ll miss her. And so would her son.

  “Oh, Hawk, what will happen to Jaime?”

  The widower must have overheard the question; he plodded past Margaret and Eleanor, stopping in front of Charity. “I will take care of him. He is my son by law. And by love. He is ... was . . . Maria Sara’s.”

  Charity’s heart went out to Karl; she forgave him for keeping the truth from her. Touching his haggard cheek, she said, “My mother has offered to raise Jaime. Let her. She will do well by him.”

  Karl shook his head. “Nein. The boy is mine now.”

  Karl Keller trudged toward his mount, but his favorite cousin reached him before he climbed into the saddle. “Are you certain you want the responsibility of Jaime?”

  “Ja, Charity. The boy will be loved and cared for,” Karl Keller replied honestly.

  His gaze turned back to the flat plain of the cemetery, where grave diggers were at work. Who had killed his wife? he agonized. But what did it matter? Maria Sara had passed on, and nothing or no one would bring her back. Never more would he hear her call his name with a Spanish inflection. Never more would she caress him with fingers hot and insistent. Never more would he know the joys and the hell of loving his Mexican lady-whore. His wife.

  Tears fell, unashamedly.

  Charity tried to comfort him, as did Margaret; but there was no comfort for Karl Keller. He had buried his mother. He had buried his brothers. He had lost his father over a mistake in judgment.

  “It will be all right,” Margaret murmured.

  But these were platitudes. “Leave me alone,” he said hoarsely. “I want to go back to the ranch. And to Jaime.”

  “What shall we do about your rented house?” Hawk asked, coming up beside them.

  “There are but a few personal items there. Do whatever you please with them.” Already he had filled a couple of boxes. But the chore had been too much for the widower. Maria Sara’s lingering scent. Touching her filmy nightclothes. Maychance someday he could touch them without this pain in his heart. “I will take what I need only.”

  “Good God,” Margaret groaned.

  From the corner of his eye, Karl spotted Antoinette walking toward him; he turned his back. Despite Maria Sara’s claims, he had not so much as breathed in the scent of Antoinette, though she had found him in a saloon on the night of his wife’s disappearance—when he’d been tormented over how to make peace with Maria Sara. Antoinette had curled herself around him. As he told her then, he repeated today, “I want nothing of you.”

  “But, cheri–”

  He pushed away her hand as it clasped his forearm; Karl stumbled toward the carriage. As if from far away, he heard her ask in her lilting accent, “If you do not want me, mon chére. should I return to your father?”

  Ja.

  After leaving the grave site, Charity demanded, “Hawk, I think Ian killed Maria Sara. We should tell the sheriff.”

  “I agree.”

  So did Margaret and Eleanor, but they stayed in the carriage when Charity and Hawk entered the sheriffs office. The sheriff was unimpressed with their conjectures. More than twenty witnesses placed Ian and his father at Beethoven Hall on the evening Maria Sara had disappeared. “And Mister Blyer has an airtight alibi for later that night.” Sheriff Schultz spat a stream of tobacco juice into the battered spittoon to the left of his desk. “He played cards till the wee hours of dawn with some Meskin buddies.”

  “Might we know their names?” Hawk asked.

  “Jorge Gomez, Federico Juarez, Rufino Saldino.” Schultz put another wad of tobacco into his mouth, waving a hand in dismissal. “Get on outta here. I got work to do.”

  During their hack ride back to the Menger, Charity said to Hawk, “Senor Grande would lie for Ian.”

  “Twenty ordinary citizens wouldn’t. And what about those other two card players? We’ve no reason to believe they would lie.”

  “If not Ian, then who killed Maria Sara?” she asked.

  “Who knows?”

  “Well, I still think Ian did it.”

  That night at dinnertime Charity, Margaret, Eleanor, and Hawk sat at a round table in the Menger dining room. No one showed much interest in the delectable meal of quail and rice, especially not Charity. Margaret and Eleanor kept up most of the conversation.

  Other diners in the Menger, buffeted by gossip and lurid newspaper stories about “that McLoughlin girl,” kept close watch on them. Three matrons at the nearest table made certain their conversation was overheard.

  “Look at the shameless hussy, sitting there as calm as you please, as if she should even be showing her face in public.”

  “Which one is it? I can’t tell the difference in those girls.”

  “There’s a difference all right. One’s a lady. The other’s not. I certainly feel sorry for the family, having such a cross to bear as Charity McLoughlin.”

  Margaret and Eleanor glowered. Hawk, his face and mouth severe, leaned over to Charity. “Let’s leave.”

  “No,” she whispered in return. “I won’t give those old biddies the satisfaction.”

  The skinniest one said to the fattest, “Mildred, I can’t wait for the hanging. Did you know invitations are already being printed?”

  “My word!” Mildred chomped on a dinner roll. “Pass me that eclair you aren’t eating, Gladys.”

  Margaret shot murderous looks at the women.

  “Is that her attorney sitting there?” The third biddy, who wore a bird’s-wing bonnet, nodded at Hawk. “He’s mighty handsome, if you ask me.”

  “Not if you compare him to Senator Blyer’s son,” Mildred commented after devouring Gladys’s dessert. “I hear she’s secretly married to Mr. Blyer. He’s going to testify against her because she refused to share the marriage bed.”

  “She refused Ian Blyer husbandly rights?” Gladys put a scrawny hand on her scrawny chest. “Mildred Beeson, how could that be? Why, Mr. Blyer is the handsomest man in Texas!”

  “Then you can have him,” Charity answered, making certain no one overheard but her tablemates.

  Margaret and Eleanor chuckled. Hawk did not.

  Thankfully the women paid their bill and departed, snubbing their noses in the process.

  The red-haired Eleanor dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then placed it beside her plate. “Thank God they’re gone.”

  “I’ve gotten used to such talk,” Charity said. “And I don’t think we should let it bother us.”

  Hawk lifted his wineglass. “Certainly not.”

  Margaret introduced a new topic. “Mr. Hawk, I think it’s terrible Karl’s landlord wouldn’t hand over our cousin’s possessions.”

  “That is the least of our problems right now, though I will send someone back over there tomorrow.”

  “I’ll talk to
him.” Eleanor took a sip of wine. “Women do have the upper hand when it comes to speaking with men.”

  “Good idea,” said Margaret.

  “I may be late for the opening proceedings.”

  “Oh, Eleanor, no.” With her father gone to Mexico and Mutti taking care of Jaime and Maisie, Charity needed all the moral support she could get. “I need you here.”

  “She does.” Hawk patted her hand, then turned to Eleanor. “Do you think you can get over there and back by nine o’clock in the morning?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Margaret ran her thumb across the bottom of her wine glass. “Charity, I hate to say anything, being you’re upset over Maria Sara, but I’ve got to. Your best witness is gone.”

  Hawk frowned at Margaret; Charity asked him, “What about Sheriff Ellis?”

  “He’s not a material witness. All he can attest to is Blyer’s show of imbalance over Syllabub. And even that could be discounted, since Blyer had suffered a head wound.”

  Propping up her spirits, Charity said, “Don’t be such a naysayer. Papa and Sam will be back. And they’ll have the Eagle with them. You wait and see.”

  “Charity, jury selection starts in the morning. We’ve heard nothing from Papa or Sam. We’re desperate.” Margaret lowered her voice. “Unless we get lucky and Ian is exposed as a no-good.”

  “I’m afraid she’s right.”

  Charity gaped at Hawk’s concurrence. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “I’m trying to be practical. And realistic. We’re in trouble.” He rubbed his brow. “I’ll ask for a delay. I’m going to Peterson’s house. Tonight.”

  Hawk excused himself, returning in an hour to the impatient women who still waited at the table. All gossip-minded diners had exited, leaving the room deserted except for a waiter. Hawk pulled a chair close to Charity and put a sympathetic arm around her.

  “No use. The judge won’t grant the delay. Peterson wants it over and done with by Christmas. So it won’t interfere with his holidays.”

  Margaret wasn’t the only one to grimace at Peterson’s self-indulgence, but she was the one to speak. “He’s got a nerve. Questioning me until my head spun on Spanish history, making me listen to Mrs. Peterson’s moronic prattle. Then he uses the excuse of Christmas to sabotage my sister. Goddamn him.”

  Margaret never swore, much less used Papa’s verbiage.

  “Oh, dear.” Her face paling, Margaret lowered her chin. “I know why Judge Peterson is vexed. Henrietta and I, well, we had words a couple of days ago. She made a cutting remark about Charity, and I, well, I told Henrietta she resembled the East African blind mole rat.”

  Charity laughed. She had no idea what a blind mole rat looked like, but if it looked like Henrietta Peterson, it was one ugly creature.

  Turning solemn when she eyed the grave expressions of her loved ones, Charity realized how strongly her sister was pulling for her. A lot of people were pulling for her. Too many had involved themselves, had imperiled themselves. One had died. It caused her much pain, that death, for surely Maria Sara would be alive tonight, if not for her having become embroiled in this mess.

  “Charity.” Tenderly, gently, Hawk whispered her name. “Let’s all retire for the evening. You need your rest.”

  Her eyes welded to his. She knew he was a man tormented; she heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes, felt it in his touch as he buried her head against the strong wall of his chest. He yearned to free her, yet his hands were tied by circumstance. She squeezed her eyes shut. What if he can’t free me? What will it do to him?

  She knew her own fate. But her worries were for him. Once convicted, she would have mere days of torment–until her feet fell through the scaffold’s trapdoor. Hawk would have all the rest of his years to suffer, knowing he hadn’t been able to save her.

  We may not have our tomorrows. But we do have tonight.

  She said to Eleanor and Margaret, “If you don’t mind, I’d like a private word with Hawk.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  In a dusty cantina in Chihuahua City the calendar read December 14. Night had fallen hours ago. A trio of sombrero-wearing hombres sat in one corner and played monte. Beneath their table, and all about the taproom, yapping little hairless dogs with large, pointed ears jumped around like oversized fleas; no one paid them much heed.

  At another table an overripe señorita picked her teeth with the point of a knife while her tablemates argued for revolution.

  Standing at the bar, half empty glasses of tequila in front of them, Gil conversed with Sam Washburn until he felt something grabbing the ankle of his boot. A quick glance downward and Gil spied one of the “fleas,” a Chihuahua pup, trying to look ferocious.

  Both he and Sam chuckled amusedly at the sight, their first bit of levity in days. Their laughter increased after Sam barked back, which sent the small dog yelping in fear; it cuddled at the tooth-picker’s feet, shaking and crying.

  But neither man was here to enjoy the local color. Gil asked Sam, “Think you can handle riding out tonight?”

  Both men, now friends, were tired and dirty. Cactus liquor and a diet of beans and chilis hadn’t settled well with either of them. Neither young, each had admitted to aches and pains brought on by their arduous travels deep into the Mexican high desert.

  They had found El Aguila near the village of Santa Alicia, but not without difficulty. The man was, Gil supposed, the sort that some women would find attractive. Young, sanguine. Dark and swarthy. His physique showed none of the droop and sag of middle age. He had an air of danger.

  Appearing the benevolent hacendado, Delgado had held court at his ranch. A bevy of comely señoritas had hovered around, waiting for any indication of the Eagle’s slightest whim, and his whims were numerous. At Delgado’s Hacienda Aguilera Real, too, the funny little dogs native to this part of Mexico, had been much in evidence.

  Once Gil and Sam had finally gotten to speak to Delgado—it had taken days of kowtowing–the Eagle claimed to know nothing of Rufino Saldino, alias Señor Grande, or of Adriano Gonzáles.

  Already Gil and Sam knew several things about Delgado. Paupers and potentates courted him, for he had been the greatest matador in Mexico, once upon a time. And the Delgados were one of Mexico’s richest and most powerful families.

  Now he walked a thin line between respectable and disreputable. When would the line snap?

  “I have trouble believing you know nothing of the Shafter silver-smuggling operation,” Gil had said.

  Exhaling smoke from a long slim cigar, El Aguila pressed a scarred hand over his heart. “How do I know you are not a Texas Ranger?”

  “You know who I am.”

  “Ah, sí. You are a lawmaker from Texas. You say.”

  “I am foremost a father. And my daughter needs your help. If—”

  “Is she pretty, your daughter?” A leer and a flare of nostrils accompanied the question.

  “She’s spoken for.” The thought of any daughter of his dallying with this desperado—why, Gil McLoughlin would gut the son of a bitch before he could cry for mercy. Calm down. “If you should remember anything, I’ll make it worth your while.” He swept his eyes across the Mexicans and their empty bandoliers. “Rebellion, Eagle, takes guns and ammunition. I can provide money for them.”

  “I am not a revolutionary.” The cigar stuck between his teeth, he squinted past the curl of smoke. “I am a simple man of the land, happy here with my cattle and dogs and women.”

  “If the simple man takes on a complex memory, you let me know. My friend and I will be at the cantina in town. But not for long.”

  “You have my answer, gringo.”

  Apparently Gil did have the Eagle’s answer. Gil and Sam had been hanging around the cantina for two days. And there was no way to get fast word to San Antonio. Some rebels had cut the telegraph lines.

  Gil tossed down the last of his tequila. “If we’re gonna make train connections for San Antonio in El Paso, we’d better get ri
ding.”

  In the aftermath of hearing that the judge wouldn’t grant a delay, Charity cajoled Hawk into an interlude in her suite. “I just want to talk,” she pleaded. Margaret, understanding, took her nightclothes and sneaked down to Eleanor’s quarters.

  “Would you like a drink?” Charity asked Hawk when they were alone together, with only one lamp lighting the sitting room. “I would.”

  “I’ll fix them.”

  He pushed a path to the liquor cabinet. She followed. After pouring two snifters of cognac, he handed her one, his gaze falling to the floor. Sipping, he leaned a shoulder against the wall. There was an air of tension between them, and Charity didn’t have to ask herself why.

  He said, “Now that the Old One is doing better, I hope your mother will be able to attend the trial.”

  How could Charity tell him that she didn’t want her mother in court when the final verdict was read? “Mutti won’t be here. I sent a telegram, telling her to stay home. Karl and Jaime and Maisie need her more than I do. I have you and Margaret and Eleanor here, you know. Speaking of telegrams, I wonder why we haven’t heard from Papa and Sam. They said they’d send word.”

  “The lines could be down.”

  Small comfort.

  Charity placed her glass on a table. “I don’t want a drink and I don’t want to chat. I want you. I want what we had in Uvalde. And atop Firestorm. And in my room at home. And I don’t want you to be careful, like you were at the stock pond.” It wasn’t raging passion that spiraled through her; she needed the solace and comfort of their lovemaking. “I want all of you, Hawk. All of you.”

  In his eyes she saw the war he fought, wanting her with the same intensity yet needing to protect her from all sorts of harms. She crossed to him and lifted her fingers to stroke his jaw. A tremor of desire quaked against her palm. Lamplight clarified the look in his dark eyes—she saw in them his own need for solace.

  She arched against his solid form. “I’m no angel,” she whispered, reaching on tiptoes to feather her lips across his. “I have been weeks without being held in your arms. And I can stand it no longer.”