“She’d romp in the snow or climb a tree or wade in the river but she is one of the most innately feminine women I’ve ever known. She adores Bear but is more than a match for his temper. I’ve never seen her show any fear of him. And believe me, when he is angry a wise man would back away, but not Linsey. She knows that he would cut off his own right arm before he’d hurt her, even with words.”
“You love her,” Molly interrupted.
“With all my heart,” Hawk confirmed. “She had raised me from the moment of my birth and I must have been five or six before I understood that I wasn’t her son. Even though I had spent time with my father I didn’t really understand the difference until a traveling missionary stopped at the house and bluntly asked who the little Indian brat belonged to.” Hawk could smile now at the memory of the incident that had caused so much pain and confusion to the child he’d been.
“Linsey put her hands on her hips, drew herself up to her full five feet of height and claimed me as her oldest son. When she was done with that man he couldn’t leave fast enough.
“Later that evening we had a long talk. I’d always known that my mother had died when I was born and I’d even felt guilty that I’d caused her death. Linsey explained in a way that a six-year-old could understand, that the only difference between me and the Cub was that God had given me to her a few months before he’d given her the Cub.
“I was, and am, as much her son as the seven sons she gave birth to.”
“I think it’s a good thing I’ll never meet her,” Molly said. “I’d probably be intimidated by someone that capable, that perfect.”
Hawk’s warm laugh filled the room. “She wouldn’t let you feel anything even close to intimidation. And beiieve me, Linsey would be the first one to tell you she’s far from perfect.”
“You miss her.”
“I miss them all.” Hawk closed his eyes and thought of the brothers who had grown to manhood with him and the ones who had still been children when he’d left home. “It’s been four years since I’ve been home, and letters have been few and far between.”
“Do you have any Indian brothers,” Molly asked, then squirmed with embarrassment when she realized she could have phrased the question better. “I mean, did your father remarry, or whatever, and have more children.”
“Your question was all right the way you said it,” Hawk chuckled. “And yes, I have one older brother, who is now known as Quiet Otter, even though Linsey insists on calling him by his childhood name of Chattering Squirrel. My father has married twice more and the last I heard I have four brothers and three sisters.”
“How tragic that he’s lost two wives,” Molly stated.
“He’s only lost one wife, my mother. His other two wives are perfectly healthy.”
“Two wives!” Shock brought Molly away from Hawk’s chest and she turned to look at him. “Are you telling me he’s married to two women at the same time?”
A grin played across Hawk’s noble features. “Molly, it’s not uncommon for the warriors of my tribe to have more than one wife.”
“That’s … that’s …” she stuttered, trying to describe her shock.
“Life is hard. It takes a lot of time to provide just the basic necessities of living. Two wives, or even three or four, make life simpler.”
Leaning back against the security of his embrace, Molly tried to understand, but found it difficult. She had been raised in a society that practiced monogamy, anything else was incomprehensible. Suddenly a new thought had her sitting up and turning to look at him again.
“Do you plan to have more than one wife?” she asked in a voice filled with dismay.
Hawk looked at her shadowed eyes and knew they were a warm, honey color that could sparkle with mischief or anger. He studied her silky honeycolored hair and knew it shone golden in the sun and was as soft as anything he’d ever touched. His gaze moved to lips he had never tasted and he knew the answer to her question.
“Molly,” he replied quietly, his deep voice velvet soft. “I’ll never have even one wife. I can’t have the one woman I want. I won’t settle for anyone else.”
“Why?” Her heart nearly stopped beating when she thought of some woman somewhere who had refused the love of this man.
“Why, what?”
“Why can’t you have the woman you love? Doesn’t she love you?”
Hawk pulled her back into his arms and softly nuzzled her hair with his chin. He resisted the urge to lift her face to his and cover her mouth with his own. “Why?” she asked again, aware of his soft caress. “She is white,” he finally replied quietly. “And I am Indian.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know … I know.”
“What difference does that make? You are a fine man, any woman would be proud to call you husband.”
Hawk closed his eyes as heat pounded through his blood. When had he fallen in love with her? He couldn’t remember it happening. It seemed so natural, so right, as if it had always been.
He was tempted, so very tempted. Then, unexpectedly, the memory of that missionary so long ago vibrated through him and he found the strength to resist.
“A white woman would be condemned to ridicule, among other things, if she married an Indian. I won’t put the woman I love through that.”
“Have you given her a chance?” Molly wanted to find this unknown woman and make her suffer the agony she could hear in his voice. At the same time she was femininely pleased that he belonged to no one.
Hawk looked at the fire dancing in the fireplace and wondered if that flame could come close to matching the heat of his blood.
“She’ll never know, sweet Molly. The decision is mine.”
“But … “
Abruptly, Hawk slid her onto the mattress and stood. He pulled the quilt up to her chin and allowed the backs of his fingers to linger on her soft cheek.
“I won’t let her be hurt by something I can prevent.”
“Maybe you’re causing a bigger hurt by not telling her.”
“If I thought that were true, nothing could stop me.” He gazed with longing into honey-gold eyes that held a promise he knew he’d never find again. “God help me, I love her.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Molly opened her eyes and glanced around the cabin. The morning sun filtered through the cracks in the shutters dimly lighting the room. The fire was out, but it would come quickly to life once she dug through the ashes to the embers waiting beneath. The chilled air teased her nose and she pulled the quilt more tightly around her neck.
Somewhere outside a bird chirped cheerfully and she had an overwhelming desire to find it and wring its neck so that it could be as miserable as she was.
Sitting up, she wrapped the waiting cape around her shoulders, disgusted with her glum mood. This was the third morning since Hawk had left and she couldn’t help wondering, if she felt this unhappy after only three days, what would she be like in a week?
Glad that she had worn her stockings to bed, Molly slipped her feet into her shoes and walked to the fireplace. Bringing the fire back to life took mere minutes and soon a roaring blaze was offering warmth and light.
She tried not to think about the morning, three days earlier, when she’d awakened to a similar blazing warmth. She had lingered in bed, hoping to delay the inevitable only to discover that it had already happened.
It had quickly become apparent to her that Hawk’s things were gone. A simple note on a small sheet of paper had said it all.
“Aim carefully and you might hit your target. Plant after the last frost in spring. Watch for snakes and spiders in the woodpile.” Hawk’s unsigned note offered only one other thing. “It is better this way. Partings are never easy and I think this one would be harder than most.”
She had wadded it up, thrown it into the fire and watched with satisfaction as it was consumed by the flames. Tears had flowed as it turned to ash.
Molly put water on to boil for coffee and began prep
arations for a breakfast she wouldn’t eat. She dressed for a day that promised nothing but loneliness and she wondered when she would begin to accept what couldn’t be changed.
She had mourned Adam’s death, but each stage had offered its own healing. Hawk’s leaving was worse than death. She knew the stages of mourning; first sorrow, then anger and finally acceptance. They would never heal the open wound his departure had caused. Death was final, irreversible. This felt like desertion, and Molly fluctuated between pity for herself and towering rage at him.
By midmorning, the sun had finally begun to warm the air. Molly left the cabin door open as she mixed the dough for a batch of biscuits. She was distracted from her chores by the sound of footsteps. The hopeful, expectant expression left her eyes, to be replaced by one of fear when she recognized her visitors.
Junior Wilson grinned evilly as his offensive odor fouled the sweet smell of the cabin. But Molly’s fear was not caused by the bounty hunter. In fact, she was barely aware of him. Her eyes were glued to the thin, older man immediately behind him.
Hawk spent his first day on the trail determined to put as many miles between him and Molly as possible. He argued continuously with himself that leaving her was the only thing he could do. But somehow, no matter what defense he used, he never seemed to get close to winning the argument.
The morning of the second day, Hawk spent sitting by a fire. The argument continued. He was no longer confident that he was right. If Molly would indeed be safer and happier living without him, why was he starting to feel that he had abandoned her? By afternoon he was again in the saddle but this time his progress was minute.
Long before sunrise on the third morning, Hawk was heading back to her. He no longer knew or cared what was right; only that leaving her was wrong.
By midmorning he was less than a mile from the cabin. He stopped at the river and watched its neverending flow. He was so close to her that if he breathed deeply he could detect the smell of smoke. And still the argument continued.
His reasons for leaving were still as valid as they had always been and he felt self-disgust at his inability to accomplish his decision to leave. Nathan Morning Hawk had never before been controlled by his emotions. And he was far from ecstatic to discover that he was as susceptible as any man.
He raised his head to the sky, his hands knotted in fists at his side. With a barely controlled violence, Hawk tore the white man’s clothing from his body. He plunged into the cold water and scoured his skin and hair with sand from the bottom until every smell associated with civilization was washed away. His breath was coming in short gasps when he left the river and stood on its banks.
From his saddlebags, Hawk found the strip of cloth that formed a breech-clout. It rode low on his hips, exposing the raw power and strength of his masculine body. Hair blacker than a raven’s wing hung without wave or curl onto his shoulders. Tying a band of red cloth low on his forehead, Hawk carefully placed sacred feathers behind his left ear and felt their reassuring touch on the side of his neck.
A necklace of sacred beads hung on his chest. The meaning of their special form of protection was known only to their wearer.
He was Shawnee. A warrior.
A tension began to build in him that had nothing to do with the coming confrontation with Molly. A feeling of dread, so compelling it caused him to shake, filled every cell of his body. Something was wrong, very wrong. He knew, as well as he knew his own name, that Molly was in danger.
He could have sworn that he heard her voice pleading with him to hurry, to save her from whatever threatened.
As he sprang onto his horse, he could only pray that he wouldn’t be too late. He made a solemn vow that if he was, whoever had caused her pain would not live to see the sun set.
“Father,” Molly greeted the older man with a slight nod, her chin raised with determination not to falter in his presence.
“Where be yore man?” Junior Wilson asked belligerently.
“I beg your pardon?” Molly replied.
“I’ll handle this, Wilson,” Charles Gallagher said firmly, never doubting for a moment that the inferior man would step out of the way.
“Think I’ll take me a little looky-see around,” Wilson muttered as he stepped out of the cabin. He didn’t care for the way Charles Gallagher treated him, but the man’s money made it acceptable; for now.
“Have a seat, Father. I’ll fix you a cup of tea.” Molly put the biscuit dough to the side of the table and lifted the heavy pot of hot water from its hook over the fire.
“This is far from a social call,” Charles Gallagher replied harshly. “I am extremely disappointed in you, Mary Helen. You have cost me a severe inconvenience, not to mention a vast amount of money. It will be some time before I will find it easy to accept your apology.”
“I don’t remember offering an apology, Father,” Molly stated quietly. Her hand shook as she poured tea into the pot, giving the lie to her confident voice.
She jumped when his hand slammed down on the table, making her spill some of the boiling water onto the front of her dress. The heavy fabric protected her tender skin but she needed both hands to hold it away from her until it cooled.
“I have never allowed insolence from any of my daughters,” he yelled as he walked around the table and grabbed her by both shoulders. “And by God, I do not to intend to start now!”
“Then I suggest you either treat me in a manner that does not cause caustic replies, or leave. The choice is yours.”
His open-handed slap surprised her as much as did the savage snarl from the doorway. Before either of them knew that they were no longer alone, Molly felt herself being ripped out of her father’s grasp.
There could be no doubt that he was a fullblooded Shawnee warrior. He was stripped to the waist, and his copper skin gleamed as it stretched over rippling muscles. Shoulder-length blue-black hair was held back from his face by a red band across his broad forehead. Two feathers, that she knew instinctively were from a hawk, came from behind his ear to rest on his shoulder.
If his body was impressive, his expression was terrifying. Savagery tightened every carved line. Black eyes held pure hate for the man who had dared to inflict pain on Molly.
She had never felt so safe.
“Hawk, please don’t hurt him,” she requested softly. “He’s my father.”
Hawk’s snarl was not reassuring to the man who was being held by the compassionless warrior.
Looking at her reddening cheek, Hawk was tempted to teach the older man a lesson he’d never forget, but Molly’s gentle pleading stayed his hand. He turned his gaze back to his captive.
“Never, ever,” he stressed each word as he spoke it, “hurt her again.”
“Hawk, behind you!” The fear in Molly’s voice gave him all the warning he needed. Instinctively, he turned, using the older man as a shield. The bullet intended for his heart struck Charles Gallagher instead.
Seeing his error, Junior Wilson dropped his rifle and ran. Hawk lowered the older man to the floor, checked to see that he was still breathing, then headed after the assailant.
Molly knelt beside her father and attempted to stanch the flow of blood. The old man’s eyes glared hatred at his daughter and he moaned in pain as she applied pressure to the wound.
Hawk quickly returned and examined the wound. The ball had entered and exited, leaving a clean injury. It would be painful for some time, but it wasn’t life-threatening.
“Get your hands off me,” Charles moaned, trying to roll away from Hawk.
Ignoring the order, Hawk made a thorough examination and applied pressure to the holes on both sides of the older man’s shoulder. He used the salve Molly handed him, before he applied a bandage.
“You’ll live,” Hawk pronounced as he stood. “There’s a stage stop just outside of Rutherford Town. I suggest you recuperate there. Take as much time as you need before you start the trip back to Charleston.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s up to you.” Hawk folded his arms across his naked chest and looked down at the older man. “Just make sure you stay away from Molly and this cabin.”
“She is my daughter. I intend to take her home where she belongs.”
“She belongs here.”
Molly wanted to remind the two men that she was capable of making her own decisions, thank you very much, but Hawk’s next words stopped her breath, as well as all thought.
“She belongs with me!”
“He’s an Indian!” Charles Gallagher exclaimed, catching his daughter’s attention.
Molly raised her chin, her eyes sparkling with anger. “He is a man, Father. He is universityeducated and has traveled throughout Europe. He’s dined with kings and danced with their daughters.”
“That doesn’t change what he is!”
“Thank God for that. If more men were like him there might be less greed and hatred in the world.”
“If you stay with him you will cease to be my daughter. I’ll disinherit you!”
Molly’s eyes clouded with pain. “I will always be saddened by losing your love, Father, but that won’t change my decision.”
Rejecting help from either Molly or Hawk, Gallagher rose from the dirt floor. He stumbled as he made his way to the door.
“You’ll regret this, girl, and come running home to me. Just remember to use the back door. Maybe if you beg and plead long enough I’ll allow you to sleep in the stables.” He stood for a moment longer at the door and eyed his daughter. “Don’t bring any of his bastards home with you. I won’t have a half-breed in my house. I’ll take it to the market and sell it as a slave!”
Molly’s breath caught at the bitterness in his voice. Pain filled her chest as she watched him stumble from the cabin.
Snarling beneath his breath, Hawk followed him outside. He watched as the old man pulled himself onto his horse. Hawk threw Junior Wilson’s unconscious body onto his horse, tossed the reins at Gallagher and issued a final warning.
LeClerc 03 - Wild Savage Heart Page 15