by Shirl Henke
The ride to town was quiet, with Frank and Carrie chatting a bit. Hawk added little to the conversation. When the sun was high, Frank scanned the horizon for the familiar landmark of a stand of willows by the meandering bank of the Tongue River. Finding it, he indicated it was a good spot to stop for lunch.
As Carrie unpacked the lavish picnic Feliz had prepared, Hawk watered the horses and Frank talked about his overnight outing in town, a rare treat for him.
“Yessiree, I plan ta belly up to th' bar in th' Gray Mule Saloon fer th' night. They got them some good card games 'n' whiskey so strong it'll peel th' top layer of’n yore toenails. Good stuff. Grr...” He shook his head and laughed as Carrie grimaced in mock horror.
Hawk observed the warm camaraderie between the old man and the girl. Frank Lowery, like Kyle Hunnicut, was a shrewd judge of character and did not give his friendship easily. What was it about her that won them all so handily? More than just her beauty obviously. He watched her tease and laugh with Frank and realized how readily she had adapted to what must have been an alien world. Lord knew Lola never had done so, never even tried.
As soon as they got to town, Frank stopped at Cummins's General Store, where he had to place a substantial order for supplies. Hawk mentioned he was going to the land office without explaining the nature of his business, but gallantly told Frank he would first see Carrie to Mrs. Grummond's across the street.
As soon as she was greeted by the plump, prim dressmaker, Carrie could see the woman looking over her shoulder at Hawk's retreating form, a stern frown of disapproval written across her broad, plain features. She dislikes him. Because he's part Cheyenne? Carrie let the question drop, deciding that even without the onus of being a half-breed, Hawk could be irritating enough in his own right to infuriate a saint.
The fittings took only an hour, and when she was done Carrie thanked Mrs. Grummond and left the shop, heading toward the general store. She needed to order another crystal candlestick. Thinking about the way Mrs. Thorndyke scurried to avoid her now, Carrie knew she had at least one thing to smile about.
When she entered the dim, overcrowded interior of Cummins's General Store, she was surprised to hear Hawk in conversation with Kitty Cummins, the owner's pretty daughter. The voluptuous brunette was flirting outrageously with him, standing alongside his tall frame and looking up at him with her huge china-blue eyes. They were back in an alcove away from the door and had not heard her enter.
“Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,” Carrie muttered low as she glanced around looking for Mr. Cummins, who was nowhere in sight. Assuming he was out back attending to Frank's order, she wandered over to the catalogues. Carrie was hidden from view by the tall bolts of cloth in the center of the room, but could clearly hear Hawk and Kitty. Obviously they were unaware of her presence.
“Meet me tonight, Hawk, out behind the supply shed after sunset. Papa and Mama are going to be over at the Jordans'. They won't be home until late.” Her voice was wheedling and suggestive, whispering, as if she were speaking while her mouth was muffled.
Carrie peeked unrepentantly between two bolts of calico and saw what Kitty was doing. She was in his arms, running her mouth and hands all over his face, chest, everywhere! They may have thought themselves hidden from the front door, but anyone coming in the side would see them at once.
He stopped her playful seduction abruptly, holding her busy little hands in his. “I thought you were engaged to Thad Wallace, Kitty. That off now?”
She made a pout. “Worse luck, no. His dad owns the bank, and my parents are making me marry him. Oh, Hawk, he's fat and nearsighted and has the most awful nervous laugh.”
“But for Miles City Savings, you'll bear him, huh?” He chuckled cynically.
“Oh, come on, you used to—”
Kitty's stage whisper was cut short by the ring of spurs and tromp of booted footsteps on the back stairs. Mr. Cummins and Frank came in before the assignation was arranged. Later, Carrie was to wonder if it ever took place. Kitty quickly stepped back, and Hawk lounged indolently against the counter.
Mr. Cummins's reaction to Hawk was no more friendly than Mrs. Grummond's had been. “Oh, it's you, Sinclair. What can I do for you?” He turned his stern glare on his daughter. “Kitty, your ma needs you over at the house to help with supper. I'll tend to the store now.” Sulking, the girl left.
“Give me a couple of boxes of .44 shells, Cy, if you please.” Tossing his money carelessly on the countertop, Hawk pulled out the gleaming Colt from its holster and fitted a couple of bullets into its empty chambers, then scooped up the remainder of the boxes. “Obliged.” With a casual tip of his hat, he nodded to Cummins and said to Frank, “Meet you tonight. I'll go over to Grummond's and see if Carrie's finished. Might not be safe for her to walk unescorted from there to the hotel. Never know when an Indian might happen along.”
If Hawk saw Cummins's livid red flush, he ignored it. Frank muffled a guffaw behind his hand and then said he had to go outside and recheck the supplies they had purchased.
Realizing she would be found out anyway, Carrie calmly stepped from behind the dry goods, catalogue in hand, and said sweetly, ''So thoughtful of you to be concerned with my safety, Hawk, but as you can see, I made my way across the street unaccosted.” She added darkly under her breath, “Which is more than I can say for you.”
Now it was his turn to smile. So, the little cat had been spying, had she? He hoped she got an earful and an eyeful!
As they walked out the door, after bidding a surly Cyrus Cummins good afternoon, Hawk leaned down and whispered, “You've developed a whole ration of unladylike habits since coming west—swimming naked, swearing, now even eavesdropping on private conversations.”
Frostily, she replied, “You and that brazen little tart ought to be grateful I held my peace in front of her father!”
He laughed bitterly. “Nothing you could say would make Cy Cummins think less of me than he already does. Now as to Kitty, well, you probably could get her in some pretty hot water if you want to. Are you jealous, Carrie? Want to meet me behind the supply shed after supper?”
She fairly gasped, “No!”
His teasing suddenly became serious. “You know, you really should try it with a man near your age. You just might find you like it.”
Without a word, she flounced ahead of him, furious that he had gotten the better of the exchange. Why did it seem he always did? Just like him to ruin that stupid infatuated girl's reputation and care not a fig for the consequences. He would certainly not marry her.
It never occurred to Carrie that Cy Cummins might not permit Kitty to marry a disinherited half-breed, regardless of circumstances. Nor would Carrie allow herself to consider the fact that she was indeed jealous. Well, she certainly would not meet him in a tryst that night or any other!
* * * *
Frank and Hawk both joined Carrie for dinner in the hotel dining room. Hawk had checked on homestead claims at the land office and found Noah had many of his hands buying up land to the south of Circle S. He and Frank surmised the railroad planned to go through the heart of the country to the south of the Yellowstone, heading westward to Helena, sending only a spur line north to Miles City.
“If they could only cut straight across from Bismarck to Miles City, then continue directly west and north, they'd leave at least a stretch of the Cheyenne hunting lands in peace,” Hawk said angrily.
“Yew figger ya kin convince 'em ta do thet?” Frank gave Hawk a shrewd look.
“I can't, but maybe Karl Krueger can. His land lies north. It would be in his interest.”
Carrie was only marginally listening to their conversation. She was watching the people in the crowded dining room, especially the women—the waitress and half a dozen lady customers. All female eyes were covertly riveted on Hawk. They were as fascinated as she must have been on that first encounter with him at the Circle S dining table. Several women made what Carrie felt were transparent excuses to stop at their table to chat, a
sking to be introduced to Noah Sinclair's wife when they scarcely took their eyes off his son. Hawk-seemed uninterested in any of them, despite the fact several were very pretty.
Probably already has a woman lined up for tonight, she thought pettishly, wondering if it were Kitty Cummins.
When the main course was finished, Hawk declined dessert and excused himself, making Carrie even more suspicious. As he left the dining room, a short, rather brassy-looking redhead greeted him in the hall and they departed together.
After watching the exchange, Carrie quirked one delicately sculpted brow at Frank and said in mock sorrow, “There goes only a tad, a poor boy, left to fend for himself. Why, after what I've seen today, I wonder he's not been eaten alive, Frank.”
Frank gave a hearty chuckle. “Wal, ya cud hardly 'spect 'em ta stay a tad ferever. I said he growed up, didn't I? Yeah, women er plumb took with him, how he looks 'n' all. Used ta be thet way with his pa, too, but as he got rich 'n' powerful, it sorta soured him.”
“It'll be the same way with his son, mark my words,” Carrie responded.
“Mebee. Hawk's got more reason ta be bitter, though. Noah had everthin' 'n' threw it away like a fool. Hawk ain't had all thet many choices. Yew see all them purty white females makin' eyes at him when their daddies ain't around, but he ain't th' one's gonna git Circle S, 'n' without it, he's jist a half-breed gunman. They might like ta look at him, mebee even more—some o' 'em—real secret like, but none o' them'd marry him.”
Recalling Kitty Cummins that afternoon, Carrie wondered if Frank was right. Perhaps that explained his cynical manner with all women, even her. Especially her.
* * * *
Hawk did not ride back to Circle S with them the next morning, but left word with Frank that he was meeting Kyle and heading north to check on a matter of stolen stock. Frank was decidedly hung over, but assured Carrie that his poker winnings more than compensated him for his pounding head. She was dubious. They arrived at Circle S late in the afternoon. Bidding Frank good day and urging him to spend the evening in his bunk, she headed toward the big white frame structure on the hill. Her sense of dread increased because she had seen Noah's gray horse in the stable. He was home.
Her premonition proved accurate, for no sooner had she set foot inside the door than he was on her, grabbing her by one arm and yanking her into the parlor in silent, tight-lipped rage.
“You actually rode into Miles City in that cheap costume! Not enough you cavort around the ranch in pants, astride a horse, but now you go to town, too. Maybe you can have Mrs. Grummond make you up a pair of satin pants for the ball next week!” His face was blotchy and livid, getting redder as be worked himself into a rage.
Carrie stood in the middle of the study, shaking but holding herself stubbornly erect, unwilling to plead or cajole him. “I've grown used to riding astride since it's safer on the open range. I never thought about doing otherwise when we went to town.”
He snorted in disgust. “I can see that!”
Taking a steadying breath, she said, “If you feel it to be such a terrible thing, I'll wear a habit and ride sidesaddle whenever I go to Miles City in the future.”
“So gracious of you, my dear,” he said witheringly. Then he seemed to consider and said in a silky voice, “Do be sure to dress nicely for dinner. It'll just be the two of us and we can retire early tonight.”
Carrie blanched in spite of herself. She had learned to stand up against his screaming tirades, but whenever he taunted her with veiled sexual threats, she turned to jelly. God, she cursed her cowardice, but loathed his touch so greatly she felt powerless to stop the trembling.
Like a leopard ready to pounce, he seized on her weakness, sneering. “You do so hate any mention of your wifely duties, don't you, Carrie? You're an unnatural woman, and worse yet, you're barren! Better start saying your prayers that you conceive soon. I'm not a patient man, and I've waited far too long already. I divorced one wife. I can do it again if I have to, but don't think I'll make a settlement on you like I did on Lola. She had an influential family. Yours already sold you to me!”
At his scathing, triumphant flush, she paled, turning to walk out the door and mount the stairs on wooden legs. Lord, she would be penniless with no one to take her in, just as Uncle Hiram had threatened back in St. Louis. She laughed at the irony of it all—she might end up the same as if she had refused to marry Noah Sinclair. How much better would it have been to face the streets without ever knowing his brutal touch?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hawk stood up and slapped the dirt from his hands. The campfire was barely warm and the tracks were clear. He turned to Kyle and grinned. “Looks like Krueger's been real busy.”
“Purely does seem too easy. Why do ya s'pose he's got so careless in his old age?” Kyle grinned in return. “Yew fixin' ta pay him a lil' visit?” He cocked one scraggly reddish brow and waited for an answer.
“I've got all the evidence I need to cut a deal, but one thing. First, let's tree us a polecat named Squires.”
Kyle whistled merrily in appreciation. “Do ya have ta take him alive, or kin I jist shoot th' varmint?”
* * * *
The main dining room of the Excelsior Hotel in Miles City had been converted into a ballroom. It was cleared of its small tables, the oak floor polished to a gleaming luster, and elaborate decorations hung. Red, white, and blue bunting was looped across the walls and around the pictures of past U.S. presidents. A long, linen-draped table stood at the head of the room, bedecked with masses of fresh summer flowers and set with crystal and silver.
The buffet was lavish with slabs of beef, pork roasts, fruit compotes, and, of course, those two favorites of westerners, fresh oysters and hard-boiled eggs. There was even freshly turned ice cream for dessert. A seven-piece band complete with violin players was tuning up across the floor. Orten Hobbs, the owner of the hotel and mayor of Miles City, had spared no expense in making this gala worthy of his impressive guest list.
By the time Carrie had finished her toilette and had Estrella help her into Mrs. Grummond's creation, she knew she would be late. Well, let Noah cool his heels, awhile in the adjacent room of their suite at the Excelsior. If he wanted her to look the part of a cattle king's queen, he could give her time to do so.
As she surveyed herself in the mirror, Carrie was startled by the face staring back at her. It seemed so much older than her scant nineteen years. It was almost hard, certainly sophisticated. Her hair was piled high in a fluffy pompadour, coiled with elaborate curls, and set with lustrous pearls. The deep midnight blue of the gown made her eyes appear almost black and her skin seem translucently pale despite months in the sun.
The dress was cut daringly low, flattering her rounded breasts and tiny waist while the slender skirt emphasized her height. The rich satin was so vibrant, it required little ornamentation and was cut simply. A long elegant train and pearls sewn across the narrow shoulder straps were the only adornments. She wore matching pearls in her ears and around her neck. The luminous quality of the fabric and the jewels made her appear ethereal, yet worldly. It was just perfect.
“Then why do I dread going downstairs?” Carrie mused forlornly. She hated the thought of confronting all those staring eyes, knowing they wondered why such a young woman had married a man past fifty. Had they all drawn the same conclusion as Hawk?
Noah escorted Carrie to the gala, swelling with pride. She looked superb in her new gown. His wife would be the most beautiful woman at the ball. Even more importantly, not a word of scandal had ever touched her. For all his grievances against her, at least he could say that. Tonight, it would suffice.
“Smile, my dear,” he said expansively, giving her hand a falsely loving pat. “Show them all how gracious as well as beautiful you are, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Gritting her teeth, Carrie complied with a broad but forced smile. She was introduced to women dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors and danced with men who were politicians, bankers, stockmen, and railroad
ers. After a couple of hours she had indigestion from the fresh oysters, sore feet from the clumsy dancers, and a pounding headache from the rudeness of Montana women who were incensed that Noah Sinclair had gone east for a wife. She asked the young governor's aide, who was her current partner, to get her a glass of punch, then slipped quickly outside for a gulp of fresh air, deserting the hapless swain.
The crowded ballroom was stifling, and the brisk September air felt immediately invigorating. She walked slowly and quietly around the back patio of the hotel, looking for a quiet bench so she could rest her aching feet when she heard the rustle of taffeta and then a low, familiar chuckle.
“If you stood half that close to me on the dance floor, Dorothea, your husband would horsewhip me.”
“You know he'd never have the nerve to call you out, Hawk, but you know how folks would talk if we danced together.”
He laughed sardonically. “I see, we can dance together, but we can't dance together.”
“Oooh, you are so naughty.” Her giggle was suddenly muffled.
Carrie was furious for being caught eavesdropping by that red-skinned Lothario twice in a scant week. She quickly beat a hasty retreat back into the crowded ballroom.
Just a few minutes later she saw a tiny, voluptuous woman with jet-black hair slip in the side door, nervously patting her elaborate coiffure. “She looks bee-stung on the lips,” Carrie muttered pettishly, wondering where else Hawk had trespassed on her overripe body. Then the subject of her ire came sauntering through the back entry.
I wonder what he's doing here. This sort of social thing would hardly interest him, she thought to herself, realizing with a shock that he was dressed for the formal occasion. Even though she was well used to his dramatic appearance, she was amazed. In severely tailored formal black evening clothes he looked startlingly elegant. The snowy-white starched shirtfront contrasted with his swarthy complexion and midnight-black eyes, but rather than emphasizing his savage ancestry, it merely added an aura of exotic intrigue.