by Martha Hix
His hand settled at her waist. “We shouldn’t.”
She laughed low in her throat. “Good gravy, Hawk, what’s the difference now?” Don’t let him know your deepest fears. “My troubles will be over soon.” One way or another. “Kiss me.” Her fingers clamped his slim buttocks, her ankle twining behind his leg. “Or I shall have to proceed with ravishing you.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
Her passions igniting to a conflagration, she answered with a husky whisper. “I’ll do anything—anything—to make you happy. I want to make us both happy.”
“How did I ever live without you?” He pulled her tightly against him, his mouth slanting over hers. “But this is probably the stupidest thing the two of us have ever done.”
“We haven’t done it yet,” she teased. “But I think we should tarry not another minute.”
With a growl of primal need he lifted her into his arms, carried her into the sleeping chamber, and settled her on the bed. He helped with her clothes, her breasts spilling into his hands. Leaning to take one erect nipple into his mouth, he wound his fingers into the hair near her scalp. Desperation painted his actions as his loving caress stole downward to further ignite the fires of need and want.
Whispering words of love, he caressed her with deft fingers, until she begged him to give her all of himself.
He straightened; he tugged at his clothes. Soon he was standing naked—her naked savage. Her Indian, his bronzed form limned in the moonlight filtering through the windows. The glint of silver on his chest caught her eye.
“I haven’t seen your neckchain in a long time.” Her gaze traveled to his. “I’m sorry I made you take it back. How cruel I was, tossing your gift in your face.”
He lifted the turquoise-studded chain over his head; he bent to place it around her neck, his touch stilling on her throat. “It hurt when you returned my gift. But I knew you’d someday wear my totem again. That made your anger easier to accept. Eventually.”
“You never lost faith in me?”
“Angel, sometimes I wavered. But I never lost faith.” She felt his smile. “Did you know the turquoise matches your eye color?”
“No.” She fingered the flesh-heated stones. “Do you really think so?”
“Have faith in your beauty, my Charity. Have faith in yourself. And in me.” He slid onto the sheets and pulled her to him. “Wear my totem. Know that you have my love. And that we’ll have many years of love between us.”
A tear welled. She closed her eyes and it spilled down her face. Never could she remember shedding a tear. “I will wear your totem till the day I die.”
Morning.
Reality.
Hawk left before dawn, and Charity took breakfast in her suite on this, the fifteenth of December. She ate little, though Margaret insisted she needed her strength for observing the jury selection. She did, however, drink enough coffee to send her nerves ajitter. As if they weren’t already.
When she and Hawk were making love, it had been easy enough to forget the outside world. Two in love—bodily and spiritually—could drown in the ecstacy of the moment.
One had to face facts in the light of day. She trusted Hawk with all her heart, but if they didn’t get a break in her case and soon, no one—not even Hawk—could keep her from the gallows.
She wilted onto the edge of the bed, dropping her face into her hands. What would it do to Hawk; her execution?
Oh, this was no good. If he saw her like this, Hawk would be devastated. Furthermore, there was still hope. Papa and Sam could bring good news. And Ian just might be guilty of murder, and he might slip up, yet.
Margaret called into the room, “Eleanor dropped by. She’s collected Karl’s boxes. Said she’ll meet us at the courthouse. Hawk did, too. Listen, you need to hurry. Or we’ll be late.”
Charity hurried. She was sure to dress in conservative attire. As she slipped on kid gloves, Margaret popped her head in the open doorway. “Triplet, uh, well, I know you don’t want to see him, but–”
“Of course I want to see Hawk.”
“I’m not talking about Hawk. It’s—”
Charity gasped. “Ian?”
“Would you hush? There’s a reporter in the corridor. He won’t hear of not speaking with you.”
Charity, furrowing her brow, waved a hand dismissively The last thing she wanted was to face the fourth estate. “Tell him you’re me. Tell him anything.”
“He knows I’m Margaret. I can’t hold him at bay forever. He says you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”
“Aren’t reporters supposed to listen, not talk?”
“Maybe he has information that will help you, Triplet.”
“All right. I’ll see him.”
Charity brushed the bodice of her simple brown frock, borrowed from Margaret, and lifted her chin. She marched to the door. Not inviting the reporter in, she stepped out into the hallway.
Tall and lanky, the well-dressed man who stood in the corridor was boyish looking, though Charity guessed his age at forty, owing to the gray fringe of hair that curled at his ears. He had flashing, intelligent blue eyes, not to mention dimples.
“Hi there, Miss McLoughlin. I’m Jay Rogers. San Antonio Express.” Quick as a blink, he pulled a tablet and pencil from his pocket. He licked the pencil tip. “What is your reaction to the news that Mrs. Antoinette Keller has been arrested for the murder of your primary witness, Mrs. Karl Keller?”
Good Lord. “I—I didn’t know that had occurred.”
“Earlier this morning. Antoinette Keller confessed.”
Ian didn’t do it? “Are you certain she confessed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Story goes the ladies got in a scuffle over Karl Keller’s affections. His wife pulled a stiletto, but the French lady had a derringer on her person. Any comment?”
“I, uh, I—I’m pleased the case is solved.”
Jay Rogers fell to more questions; Charity gave cursory replies. Her head throbbed. So Ian wasn’t guilty—now what?
Even if her father and Sam Washburn showed up with the Eagle in tow, there were no guarantees that the man had knowledge of Adriano Gonzáles’s activities.
Her final hope had died with Maria Sara.
What about Ian’s “marriage” scheme? It seemed too foolish even to consider. Besides, any time she’d had any dealings with him, the results had been disastrous. Nevertheless, should she mention Ian’s designs to Hawk? Ha! He would skin Ian alive, and then where would they be? No, it was better to say nothing about Ian’s plan to free her.
But what could she do to help Hawk and herself? I am trouble he doesn’t need. Hawk needed to return to his people and to his work in Washington. Should she somehow get her freedom, his credibility would suffer if he took a wife with a shadowy past.
Having a daughter of dubious repute had already tarnished her papa’s reputation, she thought, reflecting on Campbell Blyer’s malicious campaigning for her father’s Senate seat. A man of the people—and certainly Hawk would be that again—needed a spotless reputation.
What choice did she have?
Whether she lived or died, Hawk deserved better than what she had to offer. Somehow, someway she must damage herself in his eyes so that he wouldn’t mourn her loss. Then Hawk would be free. And he could go on with his life—with few regrets.
“Something wrong, Miss McLoughlin?” asked Rogers.
Everything. “Don’t be absurd.”
The reporter tucked the notebook back into his suit coat. “Nice meeting you, Miss McLoughlin. I’ll see you at the courthouse.” He loped off, his long legs halting at the top of the staircase. He turned to eye her. “By the way, what do you think about Senator Blyer being reported missing?”
“His whereabouts are the least of my concerns.”
Chapter Forty-two
With heavy heart Hawk climbed the steps leading to Bexar County’s red granite courthouse. Over the previous days he’d had faith in Blyer being arrested for Maria Sara’
s murder. The Express’s headlines dashed those hopes.
Ian Blyer hadn’t killed her.
Hawk knew he must keep latching on to the belief that McLoughlin and Sam would show up, El Aguila in tow. If the Eagle proved worthless, though—Charity might be found guilty. If she went to the gallows, Hawk knew he’d spend the rest of his life—and his afterlife—tortured by what he had failed to do.
Topping the stairs to the second floor’s wide hallway, he heard a familiar voice. “How doin’, Hawk?” Tom Ellis, Sheriff of Uvalde County. “Ya’re shore looking down at the mouth. Anything I can do to help?”
“Tell the truth. Tell the truth on the witness stand.”
It was then that Hawk caught sight of a pair of handcuffs dangling from Tom’s gunbelt. Handcuffs—Laredo—Capturing Charity.
I could kidnap her again. What if the two of them just made a run for it? The authorities would ambush them before they got past the city limits. No, somehow Hawk had to free her. Legally.
He stomped into the courtroom. Taking his seat, he glanced at Charity, seeing the fear she tried to hide. Desperation was firmly entrenched in Hawk, too.
Marshaling his wits, he surveyed the courtroom. High ceilings. Musty. An American flag festooned the wall behind the judge’s bench, and a pot-bellied stove, glowing red, sat in a corner to the right. Behind the chairs and tables for the defense and prosecution teams, a low wooden fence separated the principals from the onlookers. Today the courtroom had more than its fair share of spectators—the reporter Jay Rogers among them—all eager for the spectacle to begin.
It was then that Ian Blyer entered the courtroom. Brash as he pleased, he pranced up the aisle, halting mid-way as feminine ooh’s and aah’s lifted into the air.
“Emma, isn’t Ian Blyer a fine-looking man?”
“Oh, yes, Abra. I hope he goes into politics, like his father.”
Blyer sashayed over to shake hands with the ladies. One was not so taken with the man. “I prefer Mr. Hawk’s looks, myself,” she told her companions.
Hawk turned his gaze on Charity. He wondered what was going through her mind.
Blyer approached the rail and leaned to pat her shoulder. She jumped in her seat. “Dearest, don’t be frightened of me.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, Blyer continued. “Remember, a few well-placed words from me and you could be free. I’ll be at the hotel, should you wish to talk.”
It was a good thing Hawk didn’t have hold of his knife, else that bastard would have found out what it was like to have his scalp lifted.
“Oyez! Oyez!” called the bailiff. “The Honorable District Court of the State of Texas for the County of Bexar, the Honorable Osgood Peterson presiding, is now in session. All rise.”
Peterson, attired in his robes of office, took the bench.
Hawk yearned to take Charity’s hand one last time. He caught a glimpse of the prosecutor. Lean and mean and dressed the part, Albert Ellersby shot him a superior look. Ellersby received one in return.
After the preliminaries, both attorneys went through their list of prospective jurors. Seating a jury proved frustrating to Hawk. Ellersby and Peterson disallowed all of Hawk’s candidates. The rest—man after man, Ellersby’s choices, seemed destined to rule against an angel of broken wing. But Judge Peterson, overruled each of Hawk’s objections.
There would be no fair trial in Bexar County.
At noon Osgood Peterson banged his gavel. “We will recess until two o’clock.”
Hawk led Charity, along with Margaret and Eleanor, outside. He hailed a hack. “Café Pámpana,” he told the driver, then handed Margaret and Eleanor into the interior. His fingers on Charity’s elbow, he whispered, “We need to talk.”
Within ten minutes they had arrived at the café, the same one where he and Charity had shared Mexican hot chocolate. Where she had proposed marriage.
Margaret and Eleanor took a seat in the main eating area; it was filled with peasants. The manager showed Hawk and Charity to a private room off the kitchen. Chiles and chili powder permeated the air, and whitewashed walls were decorated in the Mexican motif—oversized painted flowers, posters depicting bullfights, tiles of Arabic influence.
Seated at a wrought-iron table, neither Hawk nor Charity was interested in food. Hawk addressed the diminutive waiter. “We’ll have two bowls of caldo.”
“Only soup, señor?”
“And coffee. Lots of black coffee.”
As soon as the waiter had ducked into the kitchen, Hawk demanded, “What did Blyer mean, a few well-placed words and you could be free?”
“I—I have no idea.”
“You’ve never been a good liar, Charity.” Spying the waiter and his tray, Hawk said no more, not until they were once more alone. “Don’t sit there, your hand shaking, trying to drink that coffee, and not tell me what Blyer meant.”
“Did you know his father is missing?”
“Don’t change the subject on me, I won’t have it!”
Filling and lifting her spoon, Charity took a bite. “Delicious soup. Did you notice the tortillas they’ve floated in it? Much more tasty than rice or potatoes.”
“Charity . . . don’t dally with my patience.”
She put down her spoon; coolness iced her eyes. “I paid good money for your services, so don’t order me around.”
Aggravated, Hawk, nonetheless, let the matter drop. He drank a cupful of coffee. He poured another from the pot the waiter had left. He nearly choked on the third, when Charity said, “Hawk, we’ve done some talking about our future. We agreed not to make any sort of tangible plans until I’m free, but there’s something I’ve been needing to tell you. I am not free to make plans.”
“You will be soon.”
“Yes, actually I will. You see, I’ve decided to reconcile with Ian.”
“You’re lying through your teeth.”
Her lip curling, she said, “You’ve always had the nastiest habit, David Fierce Hawk, accusing me of falsehoods—when you want to believe otherwise. If you’ll get the stars out of your eyes, you’ll see I’m serious.”
His temper rising, Hawk slammed his fist on the table. Their dishes and cutlery rattled. “The stars are out of my eyes.”
“Good.” She rose to stand and glanced at the clock. “It’s half past twelve. I’d like the time between now and two to be by myself. Please make my excuses to Margaret and Eleanor.”
She rushed through the café’s back door.
With a furious shout Hawk swung his forearm across the table, sending plates and cups crashing to the floor. What a mess. Just like their lives.
What’s the matter with you?
He’d reacted like a savage. Charity wouldn’t go back to Blyer. She’d been upset by the trial’s opening, that’s all. She was fighting for her life, why shouldn’t she have the right to make a stupid and forgivable scene?
He smiled.
Nothing had ever hurt her so much. Nothing. Her hands swept upward, disturbing her hair. What had been a single tear the previous night became a torrent today. Lying to Hawk tore her heart to shreds. But it was better this way. Let him think her cruel and unfeeling and fickle. She couldn’t make him hate her any other way.
Her eyes nearly blinded from the cascade of tears, she pressed his totem to her bosom and hailed a hack. “The Menger.”
Rushing to Ian’s room, she pounded on the door. He answered her summons quickly. The mere sight of him revolted her.
“Dearest ...” Ian, shirtless, scratched through the tawny hair that carpeted his chest. “Shall I address you as wife?”
“Yes.”
She signed her death warrant, for what was living if she couldn’t be with Hawk?
Chapter Forty-three
Where was Charity?
The clock read two-fifteen. Judge Osgood Peterson sat scowling down at Hawk. His glower moved to Margaret, then Eleanor Narramore before returning to Hawk. “Where is your client, Mr. Hawk?”
“Detained, sir.”
“If she’s not here in ten minutes, I’m calling the sheriff. And her bond will be revoked.”
Ellersby leaned back to speak with Jerome Hunt of Shafter; both men chuckled. Titters from the spectators rode across the courtroom. The gavel banged furiously. “Order in the court.”
From behind, Hawk heard the heavy doors swing inward, and he exhaled in relief. Charity was here. Swiveling in his chair, he turned to eye her. But it wasn’t Charity who entered the court. Pushing a wheelchair occupied by Maisie McLoughlin, Lisette walked down the aisle.
“If the court pleases,” said Hawk, “I’d like a five-minute recess.”
“Granted.”
What had been a smile from Lisette turned to a worried frown. “Where is my daughter?” she whispered.
“What’s the matter with the lass?”
Hawk tried to appease them before the gavel banged again. “Time’s up. Court is in order.”
Lisette took a chair by her daughter and the Narramore woman, Maisie’s wheelchair dominating the passageway.
Not two seconds later, Hawk heard a boom to his rear. Turning, he saw Charity flying past her great-grandmother, who took the business end of a crook-neck cane and tried to stop her descendant. Tried to. Without a word to anyone, the defendant took her place next to Hawk.
“Where in the hell have you been?” he demanded lowly, wondering why her hair had a mussed look.
The door opened again.
Ian Blyer, a smirk on his face, strutted to the empty seat next to Jerome Hunt; naturally, Blyer’s admirers hailed him. He leaned to whisper to the prosecutor. Ellersby took on a strange countenance, which didn’t sit well at all with Hawk.
He leaned to do his own whispering. “Charity, what is going on?”
She refused to meet his eyes. “I should imagine the state will drop its charges.”
Even before Hawk could form a question, Albert Ellersby rose to his feet, asking, “Your honor, may I approach the bench?”