by Shirl Henke
“But you're losing your birthright because of me—if I have...” she choked over “children,” unable to say the word.
“You don't want his children, do you, Carrie?”
She shuddered, then took a deep breath and answered in a small voice. “No...I don't know. It's all mixed up. I loathe the thought of giving him another heir, but—but if I'm with child, he'll leave me alone.” Then she reddened. Of all things to discuss with a man, any man, especially this one!
He felt a tightening in his chest, recalling all the crude sexual taunts he had hurled at her, the lewd accusations. “What he does to you, Carrie, it isn't the way it should be. If you'd married a man who cared for you, he'd make it good for you, too, not just for him.”
She was so forlorn that it seemed impossible to stop unburdening herself. “It isn't just me—that I don't—like it. He doesn't either anymore. He said it was my fault. That I'm cold and clumsy. He only wants me to be pregnant. Then he can go to those women in Miles City. They know what to do....” Her voice trailed off in humiliated misery.
He swore. First in Cheyenne, then English. “That filthy, depraved old bastard!” Looking at her beautiful, guilt-stricken face, he could have shot Noah Sinclair point-blank at that moment. “Carrie, don't believe him. It's not you—not your fault. If a man has to resort to whores and blames his wife for not responding to him, he's no kind of a man.”
“Maybe if I could love him it would be better,” she said brokenly.
“Love's a two-way street, Carrie. Did he ever try to love you?”
Recalling their “honeymoon” on the riverboat, she cringed, remembering Noah's sarcastic words on that subject. She shook her head mutely.
“My mother loved Noah Sinclair with her whole heart. He trampled on it!” His voice was laden with hate. “Don't—don't ever try to love him, Carrie! Even if you could, he'd only destroy you.” He watched her lovely, expressive face, as a whole spectrum of emotions played across it.
“Thank you, Hawk. For understanding, for believing me.” Her eyes were full of unshed tears. “For being my friend.”
Friend! God, they both knew that was not the right word. He struggled against the urge to lead her beneath the canopy of cottonwoods by the riverbank and make love to her. He could teach her lush, unawakened body such fierce, sweet passion. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and swore again to himself. No, in that lay madness. He was a penniless, half-breed gunman. She was a married woman.
“He's an old man, Carrie. You're young and strong. Outlast him, don't let him beat you. Someday, some man will love you the way you deserve.”
She looked straight ahead, and he could see her nod and swallow hard, fighting down the urge to weep.
They both knew Noah Sinclair was fifty-five years old and strong as an oak. He could easily live another twenty years.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Noah swore as the coach hit another rut and jounced his aching backside for the thousandth time since leaving Helena three days ago. Tonight he would be home to a decent meal, a soft bed, and to Carrie. If the first two things appealed to him, the third one did not. Where had he gone wrong, he asked again in impotent anger. He had chosen a beautiful, docile young girl from a good family.
She was supposed to be his to mold. But her dutiful quiescence in bed at night infuriated him as much as her willful behavior during the day. Thank God an enthusiastic whore in Helena had assuaged his fears about failing virility. He was as good as ever. Once he got his young wife with child, he would leave her bed for good, provided the child was a boy, of course. That miserable Indian brat would be gone, too. In spite of the choking dust, autumn heat, and bone-splintering ride, Noah's humor improved.
If all went according to plan, by this time next year when the railroad was through Miles City, he would own the K Bar land it ran across. Two could play Krueger's game. If Squires had been run off by Hawk and Kyle, no reason someone just like him couldn't be hired by Circle S. Yessiree, no reason at all. In fact, Noah had met such a . man at the association meeting in Helena. Caleb Rider would sign on at Circle S in about a month.
Noah considered how Hawk and Hunnicut would react to his plans. Kyle had always been for hire, and Noah was sure he wouldn't give a damn if Circle S stole from Krueger. Hawk was another matter. If it came to an all-out range war for control of the eastern territory, the Cheyenne would suffer and that would bring Hawk down on him. Noah pondered how he could handle the situation. He would have to make it appear Krueger had begun the fight. He turned the situation over in his mind, considering various ideas. He had a month to work on it.
If Hawk was too clever for his own good and started to interfere, maybe it would be time to deal with him permanently. Ever since Hawk had come home from preparatory school as a callow seventeen-year-old and Lola first cast her lascivious eyes on him, Noah had truly hated his son.
He had always been uneasy around the dark, silent child who seemed so much more red than white. When all attempts to civilize him had failed and he had repeatedly run off to those murdering savages, Noah had washed his hands of the boy, hoping to sire another white son on Lola. To have her betray him as she did had been more than his monumental ego could withstand. If Lola had not been from a prominent Chicago family, he would have killed her instead of divorcing her. If Hawk had not fled to the Nations, Noah might have shot him as well. But the cunning, lighting-fast gunman who returned a year later was far too dangerous for that. Noah had been relieved when Frank convinced the youth to attend a prestigious eastern university for a couple of years.
Noah Sinclair, who had faced down wild Sioux, fought snarling wolves and ridden through blue northers, was afraid of his own son. Not that he had ever admitted it to himself, but the vile taste of fear lingered in the innermost recesses of his soul, eating at it like corrosive acid. Had the time finally come for a showdown? To kill Hawk would mean admitting his fear, because he would have to hire another gunman to do the deed in secret. Noah's musings skittered around the issue, unwilling to confront it just yet.
It was dusk when he made the last leg of his journey by horseback, arriving at the big house in time for the evening meal. He had sent word ahead of his arrival. Mrs. Thorndyke would have everything in order, that savage child would be gone, and Carrie had damn well better be dressed for dinner. Fleetingly he hoped Hawk was off somewhere with Hunnicut or Lowery. Noah did not want to face him across the table tonight.
Carrie sat at her vanity and fidgeted with her hair. She had heard Noah arrive over two hours ago, order a bath, and then dress for dinner, all without coming to her room to greet her. She did not go down to welcome him home either. Insidious, how subtly and quickly their hostility had set patterns. She was certain Mrs. Thorndyke had found a way to let him know his wife had ridden to Iron Heart's encampment with Hawk. Dinner would be another nightmare. Small wonder she had been losing weight for weeks. Every meal with Noah was an ordeal.
Carrie did not know if Hawk would be present or not. He had spent the past three days working with Frank. They rode out at sunup and often did not return until dark, so she had seen little of him. It was just as well, considering Mathilda Thorndyke's silent, feral-eyed curiosity since they had returned from the Cheyenne village. It was as if the hateful woman was just waiting to pounce. Carrie rubbed her pounding temples and forced herself to calm down. She had done nothing wrong. Neither had Hawk. Still, she could imagine the warped way the housekeeper had presented her story to Noah. Carrie's own painful confusion about her awakening feelings for his son added to her case of nerves.
You are not lovers—yet. Iron Heart's words returned to lash her with guilt. “No, never! It cannot be!” Almost in tears, she swore at her schoolgirl vapors. She was past the age for such weakness. Once again she turned her attentions to her toilette. Looking good might not appease Noah's wrath, but it would help her own self-confidence.
As she closed the door to her room and took a steadying breath before descending the stairs, Haw
k called to her encouragingly, “Ready to face the wolf in his den?” As he walked down the hall from his room, he took in her carefully groomed appearance. She wore a deep emerald-green silk dress with a high jewel neckline and long sleeves. A magnificent rope of pearls was her only jewelry, reflecting the luster of the silk and the glow of her eyes. Her hair was piled high and pinned in a soft bouffant style that framed her face. The overall picture was one of poise and maturity as well as startling beauty.
She returned his appreciative stare, almost against her will. Dressed in dark blue homespun with a white shirt open at the collar, he looked both arrogantly handsome and irritatingly casual. Just what he intended, she thought wryly. Noah insisted on formal attire for dinner and would hate the open shirt and boldly winking silver medallion he always wore. No help for it, they would go to the parlor together, like two conspirators facing an execution. If only she could be as calm as Hawk.
The minute they entered the oak doorway to the parlor, Carrie flinched under Noah's intense, scowling stare. “Courage, Firehair,” Hawk whispered as he walked just behind her into the room.
For the first time Noah considered Carrie and Hawk as a couple. His son's tall, darkly sculpted form contrasted with her slim, fiery elegance. Could Mathilda Thorndyke's veiled obscenity be possible? Could they be lovers? Would Hawk seduce the chit just to spite him? At once he dismissed the idea impatiently. Carrie hated sex and was not interested in any man that way. She was as different from Lola as day from night. His son's aversion to white women made the question more absurd. No, they just shared a ridiculous fondness for that brat of an Indian girl. Mathilda hated them both and was reading more into the situation than it warranted.
Nevertheless, he was still furious with Carrie. The impropriety of going alone with any man to an Indian village was horrifying—even more horrifying if that man was a half-breed. He vowed to make her sorry. Without even a hello after his long absence, he launched into his attack. “While I was away, I have been given to understand you rode—astride—to an encampment of hostile Cheyenne. Not only was it dangerous, it was appallingly improper. If word of it got out to my friends, they and their wives would ostracize you, Carrie.” He was proud of the cold, deliberate tone of his voice.
“I took Carrie to meet Iron Heart and to give over Bright Leaf to him, Noah. You know damn well my grandfather wouldn't let any harm come to Carrie. He is a man of honor.” Hawk's words were measured, with a veiled threat beneath them.
“I'm concerned with my wife's reputation! I do trust, Carrie, that you can speak for yourself?” He-turned with wrath from his insolent son to her pale, beautiful face.
She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “What's the use, Noah? You've already judged me. I'm guilty as charged. I always am, whatever the crime. I wanted to assure Bright Leaf that she'd be well cared for until her family can be found. None of your splendid friends in Miles City need ever know.”
Her calm speech made him angrier than Hawk's menacing pose. “Unless one of my hands tells one of Krueger's! I have a reputation to uphold in this territory. You go nowhere unchaperoned, ever again!”
“I guess Carrie and I aren't considered family, are we, Noah? I wonder, would I be a proper chaperone if I were white? Or she were twenty years older?” He left the taunting threat hanging in the air.
Carrie thought frantically, What in heaven's name is he doing! Trying to provoke a fight right here in the parlor?
“If Lola couldn't remember her relationship to you when you were seventeen, I doubt you'll seriously consider Carrie your stepmother now!” There, it was out in the open, the festering jealousy of an old man. The minute he saw Hawk's eyes leap with predatory joy, Noah hated himself for revealing so much in front of them both.
Trying to soothe the situation, Carrie walked over to Noah and put her hand on his arm. “This is solving nothing. Hawk is your son and I am your wife. What happened with Lola Jameson is in the past. Nothing's to be served by dredging up ugly memories. I promise never to return to Iron Heart's village. Will that satisfy you, Noah?”
He fixed her with a baleful glare. “Considering you'll never be genuinely sorry for any of your hoydenish actions I'm sure it's no use to demand an apology. See that you keep your word, however.” Catching sight of Mrs. Thorndyke in the doorway, he announced, “It's time for dinner. Shall we?”
Hawk followed them toward the dining room, but this time instead of ignoring Mrs. Thorndyke’s venomous presence as he usually did, he smiled coldly at her, affixing her with his hypnotic black eyes. Catching her shrinking shudder as he glided past her, he was gratified. Bitch. Let her fear me.
Hawk had debated about coming to dinner tonight. He could have easily eaten with Kyle and Frank or have gone into town for some diversion, but he knew he could not leave Carrie to face his father alone. Too late he realized that his taunt to Noah about his and Carrie's relationship was stupid. But Noah's possession of Carrie—his rights as a husband—were increasingly galling to Hawk and he let his temper best him. Baiting the old man would only bring more pain to her. The meager satisfaction he gained from exposing Noah's jealously and weakness was not worth it. He swore to curb his tongue through dinner.
It was not easy. Somehow, the three of them managed to complete the meal without coming to blows, although none could have said what they ate. By the time Feliz's famous chocolate cake came to the table, no one wanted it, despite its luscious richness and delectable taste. Carrie asked to be excused and went upstairs, to steel herself for another night with her husband.
Hawk and Noah adjourned to the parlor and both drank stiff brandies, with little conversation in the interim. It had all been said now. When Noah went upstairs, Hawk poured a generous whiskey, took one swallow, and then flung it out the open parlor window in disgust. Getting obliviously drunk would solve nothing. He slammed the empty glass on the sideboard and stalked out the door to take a walk. The night was warm for autumn and all the stars were out, creating a brilliant canopy of icy-white fire in the dark velvet sky.
Carrie lay quietly in her bed, arms at her sides, attempting to steady her breathing. She must remain calm. Frank had told her Noah used to be a wolfer. Her husband sensed fear in other people and preyed upon it. All her early encounters with him, beginning in St. Louis, were colored by her fear and his manipulation of it. Well, she was not that quaking green girl any longer.
She was a woman now. Of course, that was part of the problem. In the months—had it only been five?—that she had lived here, she had left the remnants of girlhood behind. But in becoming a woman, she began to feel a woman's needs, needs Noah could never fulfill, longings deep within her soul he could never touch. She knew Hawk could. Lying in her lonely, dread-filled bed, she confronted that which she had denied for so long.
She loved Hawk Sinclair.
When had it all begun? When Iron Heart spoke the actual words? That night at the ball when Hawk kissed her? The day at the lake when she could not tear her eyes from his splendid nakedness? Or did it go all the way back to their first meeting as antagonists in the parlor when she arrived at Circle S?
“Oh, Hawk, why did it have to be this way?” With a guilty start, she realized she had whispered the words aloud. As they echoed in the still, empty room, tears streamed down her cheeks in acid rivulets. She loved a man she could never again be near, never touch. Lord, she dare not allow another encounter like the one in the water, with their naked flesh melded together, or another devastating kiss like the first one they shared. But, oh, how her whole being, soul and body, cried out for him! She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, muffling her sobs.
By the time Noah prepared himself for retiring and opened the door to Carrie's room, she had fallen into a restless, exhausted sleep. The covers were kicked off her slim frame and the delicate curves of her body were revealed in the bright moonlight streaming in the French doors. She wore a pale-white silk night rail trimmed with delicate dark-orange ribbons. The matching robe lay to
ssed across the bedside chair. Impatiently he threw his own brown robe over it and knelt naked on the side of the bed. Without even bothering to awaken her first, he rolled her over roughly and pulled at the fastenings of her gown, tearing the stitches of the orange silk ribbons in the process…
* * * *
She couldn't lie still another minute. Praying Noah was asleep in the next room, she bolted from her hateful bed and grabbed blindly for her robe. Donning it carelessly, she padded to the French doors and stepped outside. The fresh air was slightly cool and incredibly welcome after the stuffy confines of her room and the vile activity that had just taken place inside it.
Carrie traversed the length of the veranda, her hand trailing absently along the rough whitewashed banister as she looked out over the side yard where the flower gardens lay, reposing coolly in the moonlight. The tall chrysanthemums waved in invitation and she began to descend the stairs at the rear of the house. The yard was deserted but for the flowers, the lovely, placid flowers.
She walked across the damp grass to the edge of the chrysanthemum bed and bent down to pluck a big yellow blossom. Pressing its spicy fragrance to her face, she moved to the small iron bench in the center of the yard and sat beneath a stately pine tree. The moon reached ivory fingers through the lacy branches of the tree and bathed her with its light. For several minutes she sat, inhaling the balm of the flowers, thinking of nothing at all.
Then the dam burst and low, suppressed sobs wracked her slim shoulders. Once begun, they were unstoppable. Yellow petals scattered like eiderdown across her silk robe and the ground underneath her as she shredded the chrysanthemum in a frenzy of weeping.
‘What's the matter with me! I have not cried this much since my parents died. All I do lately is wallow in self-pity.” Her whispering voice cut through the still silent night air while she fought unsuccessfully to regain control of her broken emotions. “Hawk, oh Hawk, help me. Please, help me.”