by Shirl Henke
Lola's eyes turned from bright blue to whitened gray at the taunt about her advancing age. The nerve of this gawky carrot-topped child! “Yes, you are young, nearer his half-breed son's age than your husband's.”
“You would know more about Hawk than I would, from what I hear, Baroness,” Carrie shot back, remembering in disgust Frank's sordid tale about the immoral woman and recalling her hand on Hawk's arm earlier.
Surprised at Carrie's venom and ability to hold her own with Lola, Noah knew he must separate the two women before a disgraceful fight ensued. “If you will be so kind as to excuse us, Lola, Carrie and I must say hello to some old friends from Helena who just arrived.”
“I do wish the Baron congratulations—and good luck,” Carrie said as she glided off on Noah's arm.
“How did you know Baron von Krueger was so much older than Karl?” Noah was still uneasy with his wife's bursts of temper and assertiveness, as well as her continually surprising knowledge.
She smiled archly and said, “Just a lucky guess.” She knew only the younger sons of European nobility left home, while the oldest son inherited the title. How stupid they all must think her!
CHAPTER NINE
After the ball Carrie was plagued by dreams in which she saw Lola Jameson's malevolently leering face and watched her and Hawk in a torrid embrace that faded into one of herself with Hawk. Then the old childhood nightmare about the wolf and the bird of prey returned, more vividly than ever. Noah had slept the sleep of exhaustion, reinforced with too much whiskey, while she moaned and tossed in anguish.
The next day he had busied himself with various business contacts, telling her they would spend one more night in town. That night he resumed his attentions to her in bed. Since the fateful day when Hawk had caught her in the lake, Carrie had found herself shocked by her invidious comparisons between the body of her husband and his son. Noah's flaccid, sagging flesh repelled her more than ever. After the previous night and Hawk's compelling, gentle kiss, Noah's rough, unconcerned taking of her had been wrenchingly miserable. Woodenly she had endured it, beginning to perceive for the first time just how high a price she had paid when she signed over her body in marriage to Noah Sinclair.
Furious with her coldness in bed after all the spirit she had exhibited against Lola the night before, Noah again taunted her about her barrenness, even throwing her words to Lola back in her face. “Maybe I will need a fourth wife after all, Carrie,” he said.
As if to reinforce his threat, the following morning he informed her that he was going to have a physician examine her. He had proven he could have children, so obviously the fault must be hers. The implication was clear to Carrie as she sat shivering in their hotel room. If the doctor pronounced her unfit, Noah would divorce her and cast her aside, disgraced and penniless. Part of her was terrified, but another part of her rejoiced in the possibility of freedom from Noah's physical demands and unbending presence. Thus, she waited in fright and uncertainty in the hotel room.
When Dr. Phineas Lark arrived, his manner did nothing to reassure her. He was a short, pudgy man with small pig eyes recessed far into his head, giving him a perpetually myopic look. His squint took in a great deal and when he asked her to disrobe for the examination, Carrie felt unclean. He gave a curt order and left the room, giving her five minutes to comply.
Until now only Noah had seen her naked, she thought as she stripped. No, she realized with a sudden start of guilt, Hawk had seen and felt her unclothed body also. Oddly, that memory did not make her feel nearly as uncomfortable as the thought of Dr. Lark's pudgy fingers touching her. Noah waited outside the door, but his nearness did not reassure her at all. He was the originator of this new humiliation.
Lark was thorough. He prodded and poked at her, asking endless questions as she lay on the bed staring straight up at the cracked ceiling. She answered in monosyllables and he grunted in response, doing nothing to lessen her mortification or reassure her.
When he had finished the rather painful internal examination, he straightened up. “That is all, Mrs. Sinclair. You may dress.” He turned to leave.
Clutching the sheet, Carrie bolted up on the bed and said, “But—but what have you learned? Am I barren or not?” He was going to confer with Noah and not even do her the courtesy of telling her what he knew!
After her subdued and frightened reaction during the exam, Phineas Lark was surprised that she would suddenly show such spirit—such unseemly spirit. He would far rather discuss this with her husband, as was fitting. “Er, you seem to be in excellent health, Mrs. Sinclair. Your cycle is regular; you are strong and young. The birth passage might be somewhat narrow, but that should not impede conception at all.” He waited, irritated that he should have to deliver his report twice.
“Then I should conceive?” Carrie was not certain if she was happy or sad at the news. Pregnancy would keep Noah out of her bed, but in the end, it would be his child she would deliver. “How long might it take me to become... pregnant?” Using the word was embarrassing, but she wanted to know.
“That is difficult to say.” Lark certainly was not going to tell this bold chit of a girl that with an older man it often took longer because of the husband's problems! Lord, Noah Sinclair would have his hide! As it was, Lark would have a difficult enough time skirting the issue with him. If either of these two was unable to contribute to producing an heir for Circle S, it was far more likely the husband than the wife.
He whirled and fled the room, leaving Carrie feeling alone, confused, and defiled. When Noah came in, she was dressed, waiting for him to speak, hopeful the news from Lark would put him in a better humor. His brood mare was not defective after all.
Noah's face was a mask, grim and shuttered. “The doctor assures me you are in sound health, probably just not overly fertile. I might have known it would be some damnable inconclusive thing like that. If you showed a little enthusiasm in bed, if you wanted to conceive, it would probably help, but I know there's no use asking the impossible. I'll just work on it harder than before, my dear.” With that acid promise he turned on his heel and departed, slamming the door.
Carrie was stunned. That, wasn't what Lark had said to her. What else had he told Noah? Did her revulsion for his touch keep her from quickening? Furiously, she grabbed up a pillow from the bed and threw it across the room. “So now he threatens me with his attentions, does he!”
They did not speak on the long ride home. After her ordeal in Miles City, Carrie was actually glad to see the white frame walls of the Circle S ranch house gleaming in the warm September sun. She felt a strange sense of peace and welcome. Feliz and Frank were here. As Noah strode stiffly up the front steps, Carrie greeted Frank and walked with him toward the stables, where the buggy team would be rubbed down after the long drive from town.
Sensing the leashed anger in Noah, Frank did not press Carrie for details of their quarrel. He knew from long ago all the twisted ways Noah Sinclair could punish a woman, and his heart ached for the bright-haired girl who smiled bravely at him now.
Finally, she spoke. “Well, Frank, I met Lola Jameson the other night.” At his look of goggle-eyed amazement, she had to laugh in spite of herself. “Yes, she's back, now the Baroness von Krueger, married to that cattleman's titled elder brother. I suspect he must be doddering, at least seventy.”
Frank chuckled-with her. “I reckon if’n he's ole Karl's older brother, yew might be right. Wall, since th' Baroness's gettin' up there herself, they jist might suit.”
Carrie's eyes danced. “That's what I told her.”
His jaw dropped. “Whut'd she say?”
“Plenty before that, not much after.” Then Carrie's look darkened abruptly. “You were sure right about her fascination for Hawk. She couldn't keep her claws off him.”
Frank detected more than disdain in her manner, but if it was jealousy, he would never mention it. In the past weeks he had watched the tension between the two young people undergo a dramatic change, and he feared what might
eventually happen. Despite the danger, he did not want to see Hawk leave so soon after his return. Damn, there was no solution.
Unaware of his sympathetic gaze on her, Carrie continued, “You were right about the women in town, too—all the fine ladies who'll sneak off to the stables with him but not be seen in public with him! Hypocrites, the lot of them!”
Just then, Hawk and Kyle rode in, dismounting and leading their horses into the area where Carrie and Frank talked.
“So, it's all settled up. Krueger'll take keer o' them railroad fellers, and I loose thet varmint Squires.” Kyle's voice carried through the musty air of the stable.
Hawk started to reply, then caught sight of Frank. Carrie was hidden behind the wooden stall divider, a curry comb in her hand, grooming Jingles, one of the matched blacks of the carriage team. She looked at Hawk while he was unaware of her presence. Once more he was the tough frontiersman, clad in buckskins, wickedly armed with gun and knife. Even the barbered hair did not matter. He looked dangerous and cunning, savage. Still she recalled the gentleness of his hands on her, then shook herself in anger.
“Evenin', Hawk, Kyle,” Frank said, shrewdly putting together the pieces of their previous conversation. “Treed ya a skunk, huh? Jist see ta it thet it don't soak ya good afore ya loose it. I reckon yew 'n' Krueger made a deal. I ain't interested in th' details. Onliest thing I hope is thet ya don't get shot. Thet Kraut's pure mean.”
Kyle grinned. “So'm I, Frank, so'm I.” Whistling, he led his buckskin toward a stall at the end of the stable, spying Carrie as he passed her place of concealment. “Well, purty lady, how's town 'n' all them fancy folk?” Carrie stepped out and smiled uncertainly as she returned Kyle's greeting, feeling Hawk's scowl. Damn him, he still did not trust her motives with Hunnicut!
* * * *
That evening at supper the air was thick with tension. While Carrie was upstairs dressing, Noah and Hawk had begun an argument that would carry into the dining room. When she entered the parlor for their usual predinner drink, both men seemed to grow more agitated in her presence.
Hawk poured a glass of sherry and handed it to her, scowling wordlessly. He is still in a sulk over Kyle, she thought peevishly.
Noah watched the silently antagonistic exchange, wondering if it was Frank or Feliz who had told her about Lola and his son. It rankled like a raw sore that she should know of his humiliation by that whore. Perversely, he blamed the boy as much as the woman. In grim humor he thought that Carrie would never be attracted to any man, much less the sullen, dangerous-looking half-breed in the parlor.
Early the next morning, after another dream-tormented night, Carrie slipped out of the house, fortified with a cup of coffee and a hunk of Feliz's crusty bread. She needed to ride in solitude. Since there was no one about, she saddled Taffy Girl herself and took off. Let Noah rail about her riding skirt tonight. For today, she was free, and the autumn sun was shining.
For several hours Carrie rode, soaking up the beautiful day, thinking as little as possible. Then, her meandering, circular course took her into a small glade where a cabin stood in rural loveliness. With several rooms and a long porch across the front, it was really larger than a mere cabin. A large stone fireplace was evident on one wall and the flower beds, although overgrown and not tended, still yielded marigolds and mums in the warm autumn sun, peeping their gold and white heads bravely through the weeds and tall grass.
She thought the place could be enchanting with a bit of work. The setting certainly was magnificent. Tall oaks and ash trees stood in a semicircle around the cabin like guardians, and a small stream gurgled a welcome nearby, a tiny tributary of the Tongue, no doubt. It was actually not all that far from the big house, yet so artfully secluded it was like another world.
With a premonition of sorts, Carrie dismounted and walked slowly toward the front door. It was not locked, swinging open at her touch as if welcoming her. The main room was lighted by three big windows, and the last vestiges of morning sun still tinged the floorboards with gold as it continued its westbound ascent. At daybreak a woman making breakfast for her family would have excellent light.
Slowly she walked into the dusty but neat interior, carefully closing the door behind her. The room smelled of wood smoke and lye soap. A faint hint of lavender from an old pomander touched her nostrils. It was a homey, pleasant blend of aromas. The furniture was mostly handmade, rough and sturdy but not unattractive. In one corner a small dry sink with a delicate pitcher and bowl caught her eye. Next, to the washstand stood a brass towel tree. As she admired the pretty white china wash set, now cracked with the fine yellow lines of age, she saw the pictures, gilt-framed ovals lined up on the oak table next to the wall. A tattered lace cloth was spread in a diamond shape across the polished wood, and the frames sat on its uneven surface.
Hesitantly, for she suddenly felt like an intruder, Carrie picked up a photo and blew the dust off. As she suspected, it was Noah, much younger, his face not graven with the harsh lines it bore now. Posed beside him was a tall, dark-haired woman with austerely handsome features, dressed in a simple print gown. Her hair was plaited into braids twisted into elaborate coils on each side of her head. In front of the couple stood a small boy with lank, dark hair falling in his face and a much smaller girl, also bearing the stamp of her Cheyenne heritage, clutching a doll. Even in childhood, Hawk's face was arresting as he stared defiantly into the camera with those fierce black eyes.
Carrie wondered about the little girl. Both children looked like Laughing Woman, not just the obvious coloring of their Cheyenne ancestry, but the strong, straight noses, sensitive eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. Carefully she sat the picture back and looked at the others. One was a portrait of Marah. What wistful sadness filled those night eyes. Would life with Noah Sinclair leave her looking that way someday? Had it already?
Studying the portrait, she wandered toward the interior door and looked inside at what must have been Noah and Marah's bedroom. The bed was large, as if made for two tall people. What had once been a bright patchwork quilt lay neatly over it, now faded and crinkled with age. Sunlight spilled in from the window as she walked absently around, touching the bedpost and the high-backed chair beside it.
Suddenly a .voice interrupted her reverie. “What the hell are you doing in here?” It was more a furious statement than a question.
Carrie clutched the portrait to her breast and gasped, looking up to confront Hawk's blazing black eyes. He stood over her menacingly, his hand outstretched, roughly grabbing the picture from her numb fingers.
“I asked you a question, dammit! What are you doing in my mother's house? It's all there is left of her, all he's left alone these years. You don't have any right to sneak in here.”
“I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude—and I didn't sneak in. The door was unlocked. I never even knew this place existed, or that it was kept so intact. Like a shrine—” The minute she said it, she could have bitten her tongue.
His eyes flashed angrily as he whirled, clutching the picture and walking back into the main room. He carefully set it with the others. Hesitantly she retraced her steps, watching him and realizing all the wealth of memories, happy and painful, that this place must hold for him.
He looked at her resentfully. “Maybe it is a shrine. It was hers, and she loved it. Even if he'd let her, Laughing Woman would never have wanted to live in that pretentious mansion on the hill. This, this was her place.” He ran his hand softly across the smooth oak table, polished by years of such touching.
“You grew up here—”
He cut her off. “And she died here. She was educated, better than any of the white women who first settled here—better than most of them now. Iron Heart sent her to the missionary school to learn the veho ways and act as a bridge between them and the Cheyenne. He was actually glad to have her marry He Who Walks in Sun in a Christian ceremony. Well, the veho God didn't bless her, that's for sure!”
So that explained her clothing and the daintily
decorated cabin, Carrie thought. She had been educated as a white. But Noah was not satisfied. Noah was never satisfied, Carried concluded sadly, empathizing with his first wife.
“She lived here with you and he built another house—left her behind?” Carrie asked it softly, knowing the answer, yet wanting him to tell her in his own words. How much pain there must be locked inside him!
“More than left her behind—he hid her. He was ashamed of her! Ashamed of the daughter of Iron Heart, a great leader of the People. More white settlers came when I was growing up. They brought their white women. As Noah got richer, he got more dissatisfied. After all, the biggest cattle baron in the territory couldn't be known as a squaw man.”
“Frank said he turned sour on life,” she replied. “Maybe no woman could have pleased him.” Her eyes were full of pain and empathy; but she hid her face from him, sensing that he would scorn what he construed to be her pity.
He looked at her in surprise, then said, “I should’ve figured Frank would tell you, he's so fond of you.”
“He loved her, you know.” She looked up at him now, and he nodded.
“Yes, Frank's a good man. I often wished—oh, hell, what's the use? What's done is done. Anyway, she loved Noah, damn him! Even when he treated her like dirt, shunned her. He waited for her to die, and she obliged him.” He held the photo of his family in his hand while he spoke, his eyes staring with hate at the tall, light-haired man in the picture. “He was remarried inside the year,” he rasped out harshly.
Remembering Lola Jameson's cold blue eyes and possessive manner with Hawk, Carrie could well understand his anger. Not wanting to dredge up ugly memories of Lola, she said, “The little girl in the, picture. Who is she, a cousin?”
“That was my sister, Melanie. She died just after this was taken. Pneumonia.” He smiled sadly at the tiny dark figure.