by Shirl Henke
“Maybe that's why we've hung together for so many years.” Then, in offhand deference to Carrie, Hawk added, “Kyle Hunnicut's an old friend. Saved my life down in the Nations four years ago.”
“You keep mentioning the ‘Nations.’ ” Carrie felt so ignorant of even the most basic facts in this strange new world.
“The Indian Nations, Oklahoma Territory, south below Kansas, Carrie,” Noah answered.
Hawk cut in. “You mean the dumping ground where the government has imprisoned over a hundred different tribal groups from every part of North America.” His voice was tinged with bitterness and anger. Then abruptly he stood up. “If you newlyweds will excuse me, I've had a long ride today and I'm short on sleep.” Moving as silently as a cat, he went up the stairs.
Carrie turned to Noah. “Will he be staying now?” She didn't feel at all comfortable sleeping under the same roof with this educated, embittered barbarian. Enough to deal with the father, much less the son.
Noah considered before replying, lost in thought. He was upset by this unexpected resurrection, more than he wanted to let on to his bride. “God only knows,” he finally said in disgust. “He's come and gone like the wind since he was a small boy. I've never been able to understand him. Smart as hell, but all he ever wanted to do was run off to his mother's people again and again. I should’ve let them have him!”
Feeling the anger and frustration in his voice, Carrie asked hesitantly, “Why didn't you?”
Noah affixed her with a haughty stare; once more the mask of pedantic superiority slipped in place. “He is my only son. Mine. No one ever takes anything away from me. There's a lesson in that for you, Carrie. Heed it.”
While Noah and Carrie shared uneasy postdinner conversation, Hawk went up to his old room, situated at the far end of the long hallway on the second floor. Hawk preferred the privacy. The big, dented old brass bed with its sagging mattress stood by the far wall. An elk head with a magnificent spread of antlers hung on the other wall. Noah had shot the animal when Marah was still alive and prized the trophy back then. When Lola redecorated, it was far too western and crude to remain downstairs. His room, a junk repository of sorts, inherited it. Likewise the scarred oak washstand and chest. Dust stood thick on everything. Mrs. Thorndyke never wasted her energy here, he mused, wryly. Not that she'd have dared to enter his domain anyway. They had hated one another ever since Noah hired her sixteen years ago. So far she'd outlasted two Sinclair wives. Unlikely she'd outlast this young one.
Hawk pulled back the musty covers and stretched his long-legged frame across the familiar contours of the bed. He considered his father's new wife. His first impression in the parlor earlier that afternoon had been that Carrie was a bigoted, money-grubbing tart who had latched onto a rich old man. After watching her at dinner, however, he was not so sure. Of course, a beautiful woman that young married a man of fifty-five only for his wealth, but she wasn't nearly as hard or clever as he'd first given her credit for being. The way she stared at him with a mixture of fascination and revulsion angered him, but also indicated that she was not very skilled at concealing her emotions. The blushes and quick anger also betrayed her youthful inexperience. He got her to rise to his baiting with ease.
Hawk also observed how cowed she seemed around Noah. It isn't the coy act of a scheming woman trying to butter up an old fool, he mused to himself. No. She's got herself in deep water with Noah Sinclair. It'll be interesting to see how well she can swim. He chuckled.
That thought led him to picture her drenched in the creek with that yellow silk dress clinging to every curve of her body, that tall, willowy body with its high, pointed breasts and slender, flared hips. He swore and pounded the pillow in self-disgust, only to be greeted with a huge puff of two-year-old house dust.
Give that randy old stud six months and she'll be fat as a buffalo, ready to drop a calf. However, the image of Carrie pregnant with Noah's child did not appeal to him for a variety of reasons, only one of which he wanted to acknowledge. He finally drifted into a fitful sleep, promising himself a visit to the best cathouse in Miles City tomorrow night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carrie awoke suddenly from a disquieting dream. It was the nightmare that had first occurred when she was only seven years old. It had recurred at infrequent intervals over the years, but since her marriage, it was fast becoming a regular thing, one she dreaded. Dazed, she sat up in bed and looked through the big French doors of her room to see a breathtaking sunrise. How eerie! The last scene of the nightmare was always dominated by a blazing sky, either sunrise or sunset, she could never tell which.
“Well, I can't just lie abed and be morbid,” she whispered to herself in grim resolution as she flung off the covers and rose. At least Noah had left her alone last night to sleep in peace. Today she vowed she would get acquainted with all the domestic staff. If she was going to be mistress of this vast household, she had a great deal to learn.
After meeting with Mrs. Thorndyke, Carrie began to realize just how formidable her task might be. The older woman stopped marginally short of being rude. Carrie collided with her in the front hall when she descended the stairs to go to breakfast.
“Good morning, Mrs. Thorndyke.” She offered her most winning smile, wanting to thaw the cold reserve that inexplicably seemed to be a part of the woman's attitude toward her.
“It's scarcely morning anymore, Mrs. Sinclair. On a working ranch, people are up before the sun. The bunk-
house cook rousts the hands at four-thirty. In the big house we have breakfast at six, midday meal at noon, and dinner at seven.” With that terse and inflexible bit of information imparted to the dumbstruck young woman, Mathilda Thorndyke turned on her heel and swished away, pausing only long enough to call over her shoulder, “If you need breakfast, go ask Feliz to get you something. She's in the kitchen.”
The hallway from the front to the back of the house seemed endless to Carrie. As she slowly traversed it, she felt more like an unwelcome outsider with every step. In St. Louis, arising at seven was considered unfashionably early. How was she to know the beggarly hours of this wilderness? Quelling her insecurities, she decided she must be far more forceful with Mrs. Thorndyke if she was ever going to take her proper place as employer and put the housekeeper in hers as employee.
The smells emanating from the kitchen were heavenly. Everything seemed to run like clockwork here. Even the food was superb. For a panic-stricken moment Carrie envisioned herself as a useless ornament, flitting through the beautiful house with nowhere to go and nothing to do, ignored by everyone including Noah. He had already made it clear to her that her primary function was to breed for him. What would she do?
“Get hold of yourself, Carrie.” She ground out the words through clenched teeth, forcing her imaginings and her trembling to abate. With a steady hand she opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. A short, rotund woman in a bright red dress and full white apron was busy at the oven in the far corner of the large, well-equipped kitchen. Her black hair was liberally streaked with gray and pinned in a frazzled bun. She was pulling large, fragrant loaves of bread from the oven, one after another. Suddenly she caught sight of the bright hair and blue dress from the corner of her eye and turned. She held a wooden paddle with a steaming golden loaf still securely on it.
Her round face creased into a big welcoming smile, and her chocolate-brown eyes glowed warmly. “You are the new Señora Sinclair! I am so pleased to meet you.”
Carrie smiled in return, overjoyed to have someone welcome her to this hostile household. “I'm Carrie Sinclair, and you must be our wonderful cook. Your dinner last night was excellent. Ah.” She sniffed in pure delight. “The bread smells divine. I'm sorry to have missed breakfast. I overslept, I guess. We don't get up so early in St. Louis.”
As she deftly slid the loaf from the paddle onto a cooling rack, the older woman made a gesture of dismissal. “No es importante. I am Feliz Mendoza, Doña Carrie. I will fix you whatever you want to e
at.”
Smelling the coffee and eyeing the hot bread, Carrie replied, “Just a slice of that with some butter and a cup of hot coffee would be lovely, thank you.”
As Feliz poured a steaming mug of rich black coffee, she laughed. “I hope you like it, señora. I try not to make it so strong as the bunkhouse cook, Turnips, does, but Don Noah likes it the way most western men drink it, thick enough to float a horseshoe in.”
Carrie tasted the aromatic brew. It was hearty but not at all bitter as so much of the coffee on her western journey had been. “It's delicious, and I don't think we ever need to try the horseshoe test, do you?”
Her youthful grin was infectious to the older woman, who had been uncertain about yet another Mrs. Sinclair. The previous one was terrible. This one she liked.
As Carrie devoured the hot crusty bread with thick creamy butter melted across it, they became acquainted. “Mendoza is a Spanish name, isn't it? How did you get so far from home, Feliz?”
The cook's wide face split in a smile, revealing beautiful small white teeth. “I am Mexicana, but you are right, it is still a long way from home. My husband, God rest his soul,” she crossed herself perfunctorily and went on, “he came north with Frank Lowery from Texas. We grew up in a little town near the border, and my Carlos was a vaquero for a big rancho. He wanted a better life for us. When his amigo Frank asked him to make the long drive with cattle to Montana, he went, then sent for me. It has been a good life, even if the winters are cold. I have two sons who are vaqueros for Don Noah, and a daughter who works here in the house.”
“The girl who served our dinner last night? She's very pretty, Feliz. Your husband, has he passed away?” Carrie asked gently.
Reassuringly Feliz replied, “Si, he was killed five years ago in a stampede on a trail drive. I miss him, but I am grateful for all our blessings while we were together, thirty-two years.”
Carrie started at that, imagining herself and Noah married that long. Why, she'd be fifty and Noah would be—
As if reading her mind, Feliz inquired, “Did you know Don Noah long before you married?” The difference in age was startling to Feliz, and it was hard for her to imagine them as a couple.
Carrie hesitated for an instant and then decided to speak openly to this guileless woman. “No. It was an arranged match, I'm afraid. Noah's cousin Patience and my uncle Hiram are married. They were my guardians, and decided I should accept his kind offer.” She hesitated again, then plunged on when she saw a leap of sympathy, even pity, in Feliz eyes. “I am sure we will be happy, but everything out west is so new and strange to me. I just need some time to learn all the customs. Then perhaps Noah and I can grow closer. Right now, you're my first friend, Feliz.”
“Gracias, señora. I am proud to be your friend.”
“Please call me Carrie, Feliz.” Carrie reached out her pale, slim hand and grasped the plump, brown one. Instantaneously, a bond was forged between the two women.
Feliz chatted about the help at the ranch, explaining to Carrie what the names and duties of all the domestic workers were.
Carrie said, “It certainly is a big place, even larger than I could imagine when we arrived yesterday. I'm overwhelmed by all the new faces.”
Feliz smiled and then added knowingly, “Si, so many people to know. And having Hawk home, that was a surprise, too.” She was certain neither was aware of the other's existence before yesterday afternoon.
Carrie's guilty flush gave her away once again. “More than that, I fear. I never knew Noah had a grown son, and I certainly didn't expect to meet him the way I did. Is he always so...”` Carrie searched for words, “so caustic and menacing?”
Ah, so they had tangled already, had they? Feliz was not surprised. “You cannot blame Hawk for being bitter, Carrie. He came home after being away over a year. He left to escape that woman Don Noah had married. She was evil. Each time he returns, he never knows what kind of welcome to expect.”
“Certainly not a replacement for the old stepmother, I bet,” Carrie burst out in stung pride, recalling his rudeness.
“No, he did not. But then, you know what you represent to him, don't you? If your husband has a white son by you, he will disinherit Hawk, Carrie.”
Carrie was taken aback. She had not thought of it that way. Of course Noah wanted her to give him children, but he already had one son. “That can't be true, Feliz! Hawk is his firstborn. Even if they don't get along, he is still Noah's son. Surely he wouldn't...”
Her words trailed off as she realized the obvious. How stupid of her! Hawk was a half-breed, a drifter and gunman, for all his education in the white world. If Noah could get pure-blooded children from her, he would discard Hawk ruthlessly. She did not doubt it for a minute. Then another thought occurred to her.
“Feliz, were...were Marah and Noah married—I mean legally, by white custom, not Cheyenne?”
Feliz smiled serenely, going back to a long ago time. “Si, they were married by a missionary minister. It was not a tribal ritual, Carrie. Marah was a beautiful young woman of sixteen when she met Don Noah. Hawk has her fine features and coloring, and her free spirit and love of the land. He has much to be bitter about, Carrie, but he is a good boy.”
Carrie arched her brows. Somehow she could not think of that menacing gunman as a boy. “Frankly, I find it hard to imagine his ever being a child, Feliz.”
Feliz laughed as she recalled one of Hawk's boyhood pranks. “One day when he was seven I baked his favorite ginger cookies. He sneaked up to that window and pulled himself on the sill where he could reach in and grab them. Since I had just taken them from the oven, he burned his fingers, but he told me it was little enough pain for the honor of counting coup on my kitchen.”
Carrie smiled as she saw the obviously fond memories Feliz had of Hawk's boyhood.
“Frank told me about a time when Hawk was out on the range with him looking for stray steers. Hawk was maybe nine years old by then. They came across a Sioux chief’s burial lodge. These are like big woven beds, set high in the air on four long poles. One of the vaqueros decided to climb up and see if the old warrior had anything valuable to steal. Well, Hawk slipped off from the men and came around from behind. He got a long stick and sneaked under the lodge with it. When the vaquero was rooting through the dead chief's medicine bag, Hawk pushed the stick through the woven mat and propped the dead body up. Frank said the men back at the bunkhouse could hear that grave robber yell. He fell backward off the ladder and hurt his leg. All the other men laughed so hard no one could give him help. He just lay there, flopping around on the ground while they hung on their horses and laughed.”
* * * *
While Feliz reminisced with Carrie about Hawk's childhood, Hawk was busily at work. He had arisen in time to join the bunkhouse breakfast at four-thirty and renew old acquaintances with a few of the men who were his friends.
Kyle was sleeping with the hands. He had always hated Noah's elegant house and preferred rough camaraderie to the formal manners required to eat at Noah's table. Kyle had been born in a Texas whorehouse and never knew his father. Hawk often told him he was lucky. But because Kyle knew he lacked education and refinement, whenever they returned to the Circle S, he chose to keep his distance from the big house.
Later that morning they rode out, ostensibly for Hawk to reacquaint himself with the stock and see what improvements had been made in the operation of the place. In fact, it enabled the two men, both of whom had been range detectives, to take a look at the rustling situation firsthand.
“Yore pa offered me a job o' work, Hawk,” Kyle said as they rode, then lapsed into silence.
“You take it?”
“I reckon I like the view up north fer a change. Yore fixin' on stayin' awhile. Thought I'd lope along here fer a spell. If'n I'm gonna git shot at, Montana's as good as anywheres else.”
“It is a good day to die,” Hawk said softly, a quirk of a smile lingering around his mouth.
“Don't yew go hexin' me with
thet Cheyenne death song, Longlegs. I figger on dyin' in bed, with a woman on each side o' me, ta kinda get me ready fer all thet heat down there below. Nah, these here bastards ‘er plumb dumb as sheep. Cuttin' out a few head o' stock an’ runnin' it off whilst yore pa's away. All's he has ta do is hire a few trackers with guns an’ them varmints'll skedaddle.”
“It appears to me he just did that,” Hawk said dryly.
“Since when's the old man hirin' his own son? Yer still sleepin' at the big house, ain't ya?”
“Yeah, Kyle, I still have a room. They even let me eat in the dining room with them,” Hawk said. The sarcasm couldn't mask the bitterness lying beneath it.
“Reckon I know whut burr's under yore blanket, Longlegs, an’ she's got red hair, I hear tell. Ain't seen 'er yet, but Frank says she's a real looker.”
“White women are poison, beautiful or not.”
“All women er pizen, my friend, but whut a way ta die, huh?’' He laughed a bit, then sobered and looked over at the tall, silent rider beside him. ”Ya figger he'll cut yew out if'n she foals him a nice white boy?”
“Always did. I never really thought I'd inherit Circle S, Kyle. One way or another, Noah'd keep me from it. He knows I'd open the land for the People to hunt on. Buffalo are gone, but there are antelope, elk, deer. Better than they've got on that so-called government land where the White Father promises food and starves them into submission. “Only question was how he'd acquire another heir. As long as he was married to Lola, there wasn't a chance.
“This time he's picked very carefully. She's out of her depth. He'll make her heel to his every command, or I miss my guess. But she's young and healthy, a good breeder.” He laughed grimly. “Yeah she'll earn her money with that old bastard.”
“Whut ya figger ta do, Hawk? I'm game fer leavin'. We cud head up ta yore ma's people an’ visit fer a spell.”
“I'll visit Grandfather and the others soon, but for now I just want to stay here and devil the old man. As long as he can use my gun, he'll keep, me on. Besides, I'm anxious to see just how he'll go about telling me when the time comes.”