by Shirl Henke
Carrie existed in the same hell as Hawk, living out each day around him, unable to exchange more than minimal courtesies and discuss the essentials of running Circle S. Frequently she had Kyle act as intermediary. Hawk cooked his own meals at the cabin as often as Feliz would permit, sparing them both the poignant torture of sitting at the big kitchen table with their son between them.
Carrie watched Hawk and Perry grow closer over the course of summer's end. As the affection between them grew, it tore at her. Was there no chance they could ever be a real family? She feared losing her son to his father. Hawk loved the boy so much. Might he take Perry and vanish south to the Nations or return to the Cheyenne? Her imagination ran wild at times, but she knew she could never forbid him to see his son. That, at least, was his right and Perry's right, too.
“A boy should have a father,” Feliz said one afternoon as she observed Carrie, who was gazing out the window at the approaching Redskin, who was carrying two riders, one tall and the other tiny.
Carrie sighed and said, “He has a father who spends lots of time with him. More time than I get with my own child here lately.”
“And whose fault is that?” The old cook continued paring vegetables at the table, keenly aware of how hungrily Carrie's gaze fixed itself on the scene unfolding in the side yard by the pump.
It was a dry September. The roundup crews gathering cattle to ship to market stirred up thick yellow dust everywhere they worked. Everyone who rode into the camps came away coated with it. Hawk and Perry were no exceptions. Not wanting to take the child into Feliz's immaculate kitchen in such a filthy state, he went to the big pump by the well and stripped the chubby little boy.
Perry liked this new game, giggling and wriggling as his father pulled off the last hot, sticky garments, all the while tickling his toes and belly. Then Hawk stripped off his own shirt and scooped the boy up, holding him under the pump while a gush of cool water sluiced over them. It felt wonderful! Perry splashed and squealed in delight, soaking Hawk, who was trying desperately to wash the slippery bundle. Agile for a child scarcely over a year old, Perry quickly succeeded in making a mud wallow around the pump and getting an astounding amount of the sticky stuff on them both.
Hesitantly, with considerable prodding from Feliz, Carrie finally approached them with a small washtub, soap, and towels. They did not see her or hear her approach until she was directly beside them and liberally splashed with muddy water herself. Kneeling alongside the pump, heedless of the bright blue skirt she wore, Carrie pushed the empty tub under the spigot. Just then Hawk looked up as he caught the patch of blue from the comer of his eye.
“Fill this with clean water and let's see if between us we can't get the little one clean at least.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth now and she forgot her earlier shyness as Perry tangled his gooey fingers in her hair. She laughed out loud and hefted the child into the tub as Hawk worked the pump.
Hawk thought he'd never heard a lovelier sound than her laughter. Had he ever heard her really laugh before? He watched as she squatted gracefully in the mire. She ignored the clots of slime with which Perry had decorated her hair, vigorously working a sudsy lather all over his small copper body.
“Stand by for a rinse,” he called out. She leaned back, holding Perry securely by one arm as the clean water cascaded over his head and shoulders. When his mother reached over with a fluffy towel and bundled him up in it, lifting him away from the pump, the child realized the game was over. He was clean and being dried! Well, this was no longer fun. He wailed in protest and thrashed two sturdy arms free of the towel to reach toward the waterfall, which had now mysteriously stopped running.
“Time for dinner, young man,” Carrie said, giving one teary cheek a nuzzle and carrying him around toward the kitchen door.
“You better let Feliz take him inside and dress him, or he'll just get filthy again.” Hawk's eyes were merry as his gaze traveled from her head to her feet. The outside of the towel was already liberally smeared with mud from her skirt, and one sticky lock of long, red hair was oozing droplets of yellow slime onto her arm as she held the wiggling boy.
Feliz hurried from the kitchen clucking at the sight the three of them made. She observed the merriment in both black and green eyes as she whisked her young charge away, leaving his parents standing in disarray in the yard.
Suddenly self-conscious, Carrie was aware she was staring at Hawk's bare, mud-spattered chest. Her own blouse clung like a semitransparent skin to her breasts and arms, revealing a great deal to his eyes. They looked one another in the face, and all the laughter of a moment ago fled.
Then he reached over, taking her by surprise, and grasped her hand gently, tugging her back toward the pump. “Lean over,” he commanded gruffly, and she obeyed. He guided her head beneath the pump and doused her with cool water, rinsing the worst of the mud from her hair, arms, and upper body. “Now your feet,” he directed when she stood up, squeezing the excess water from her hair. She obeyed, presenting first one foot, then the other to him as he pulled off the sodden slippers, tossing them into the nearby grass. She stood obediently with stocking feet beneath the pump, filthy skirt hiked up to her knees while he once more worked the pump handle vigorously.
When she was dripping and free of the worst of the dirt, he reached over and scooped her up, quickly swinging her across the muddy ground to dry grass near the kitchen door. With a disarming smile, he set her down and said, “Now ask Feliz for another towel so you don't drip all over her clean floors.” With that he turned back to the pump and kicked off his moccasins. She tried not to notice the way the water seemed to hug and caress the lean, corded muscles of his arms and torso as it ran down his back. Her thoughts were interrupted by Feliz, who offered her a towel with a worldly-wise smile and then vanished inside once more. Wanting to flee after the cook, Carrie called out with a suddenly dry throat, “Do you want a towel?”
He shook his head, letting an explosion of diamond-bright droplets fly from his thick black hair. Combing his fingers through it, he pushed the raven locks off his forehead. “Redskin's ridden through lots of rainstorms worse than this.” He grinned, turning to pick up the muddy moccasins. Quickly he rinsed them off under the pump and replaced them on his feet.
Carrie stood there, lamely running the towel over her dripping hair and clothes while he walked toward the big bay and swung into the saddle. “Will you be back for dinner tonight?”
He smiled once more, melting her into the warm September earth. “If I can get the rest of this mud off me by then, yes.”
An uncertain truce was called after that day. Hawk ate all his evening meals in the big kitchen with Carrie and their son, Kyle, and Feliz. They discussed the mundane affairs of ranch life, stock breeding, and plans for shipping various herds to market before the snows. Kyle reminisced about their wild days in the Nations, occasionally drawing out Hawk, who described an amusing or exciting tale for the small group. Feliz recalled memories of Hawk's childhood. At ease in the company of the Texan and the Mexicana, Hawk and Carrie laughed and joked, but when they were alone together, both seemed to withdraw into their protective shells, he aloof and shuttered, she stiff and formal. It was as if each was afraid to make the first move. Feliz fussed and Kyle swore while summer faded to autumn.
“Got me a real interestin' piece o' news, Longlegs.” Kyle spat a wad of tobacco and grinned at his tall companion as he dismounted in front of the corral. He had just come from Miles City, where he and Carrie had gone for supplies.
“You hear something in town?” Hawk strolled alongside the banty-legged Texan as he led his horse into the stable and began to unsaddle him.
“Seems our friend th' baron went 'n' got hisself shot.” His shrewd blue-gray eyes looked at Hawk thoughtfully. “Jist a graze, worse luck. He wuz ridin' in thet fancy rig o' his'n, comin' in from town, on a real deserted piece o' th' trail. Rifle shot tuk a piece outta his shoulder, but if his wheel hadn't a' hit a rock an’ throwed him ta th' sid
e o' th' rig, it'd a been plumb center.”
Hawk whistled. “Some fancy shooting. Like the kind that killed Frank.”
“Thet's whut I'm thinkin',” Kyle murmured. “Same kinda rifle, Remington 44.40. Caleb Rider carries one on his saddle.” He continued rubbing down his horse, waiting for his friend to reply.
Hawk shrugged. “So do half the cattlemen in the territory. So did Noah.”
“Yeah, but Noah's daid, 'n' th' rest o' 'em cain't shoot a gnat off’n a toad's ass neither.”
“Who stands to gain if Krueger's. dead? Looks to me like we're the best suspects. Rider's out of a job if the baron dies. Doesn't make sense unless—” Hawk stopped suddenly.
“Whut'r yew thinkin'?” Kyle threw the rubdown towel across the stall post and gave the horse an affectionate swat.
“Is my dear onetime stepmother still the baron's houseguest?”
Kyle snorted in disgust. “Yep, thet vain little bitch's still swishin' her fancy tail ‘round town. She gits so much pleasure lookin' at her own shadow, cloudy day'd sure sour her outlook on life.” He looked at Hawk expectantly.
“Krueger have any kin you ever heard of besides that brother who just died?”
The Texan scratched his matted red hair beneath the greasy rim of his Stetson. “Not that I heerd—say, yew don't mean her?”
Hawk nodded. “She's his sister-in-law. Might be possible. I sure believe she could twist Rider around her finger. Lola's damn clever, especially where money's involved.”
Hunnicut let out a whoop. “Whooee! All we got ta do is sit back 'n' let them varmints do fer each other!”
“I don't like it, Kyle. That's too neat and simple. Circle S will be dragged into it one way or the other, I'm afraid.” Recalling Lola's vindictiveness when he had scorned her the night of Krueger's party, Hawk felt distinctly uneasy. He knew what she was capable of.
“Pears ta me we'd better split up this here job o' work. I'll jist keep me a real close eye on ole Caleb. Yew kin tend ta thet devil woman.” Kyle nodded as if it were settled.
“Thanks,” Hawk said wryly.
* * * *
Karl Krueger was in no mood to waste time. His shoulder ached abominably and he was tired and rattled. If he hadn't been thrown to the side of the carriage... He swore again, thinking of how near a miss it had been. But who? Someone at Circle S would surely top the long list of his enemies. But bushwhacking simply wasn't Sinclair's style, non the Texan's, for that matter. Still, they were his enemies and he must get to the bottom of this quickly. Strike before they struck again.
He sat behind the big walnut desk in his study, propped uncomfortably in the overstuffed leather chair. With a painful grunt he pulled the bell and summoned the butler. “Get me Caleb Rider at once.”
At that precise moment Caleb was in his cabin—in the midst of an ugly confrontation. Lola stood in the doorway, glaring at him with the fires of hell in her icy blue eyes.
“I told you it's stupid to come here,” he rasped. “What if the baron sees you? Or one of them backstabbing foreigners who work for him?”
She dismissed that with one disdainful swish of her skirts. “Forget servants! Why, after all the delays while you engaged in petty thievery, did you botch the job?”
He bristled. “Petty thievery—you're a fool! We've taken over five thousand head from Circle S since spring! Anyway, I told you, I only do a job when the time is right. It was just a piece of rotten luck that I missed. I won't the next time.”
“When will that be, in the spring?” Her sarcasm was laced with barely leashed anger.
“You just leave it to me, lady,” he ground out.
She snorted and spat a startling Anglo-Saxon vulgarity at him. “If I do, we'll both die of old age and so will Karl!”
* * * *
As usual, Carrie came to town that Friday to pick up supplies. After her hands had loaded the wagon, she paid Cy Cummins while the crackling hostility between them mounted. Lord, she was sick of the priggish bigots in this place! Just as she emerged from the door of the emporium, she almost collided with Lola Jameson. Wonderful, she thought, what a perfect ending to a great morning.
Stiffly Lola nodded. “I don't make a habit of running other people's errands, but Mrs. Grummond is the only dressmaker in town, so I decided I had better humor her or she'll never finish my new fall gowns. Here!” With that brusque, peevish announcement, she thrust a note into Carrie's hand and stalked across the street.
Baffled and irritated at the surly attitude shared by visitors and locals alike, Carrie looked down at the flowery script. “What does that hateful old harridan want now, after telling me she didn't need my kind of money?” She ripped the envelope open and read:
My Dear Mrs. Sinclair:
In clearing my inventory, I found two rather expensive items that your late husband purchased for you before his death, a jade green satin ball gown and a chocolate-brown velvet evening cape. Since they were paid for in advance, I feel morally obliged to give them to you.
Please meet me at my shop when you finish at Mr. Cummins'.
Emma Grummond
“ ‘Morally obliged’ indeed! The old witch couldn't find anyone else tall enough to fit them or who could afford to pay for alterations!” Carrie debated the desirability of another wearying confrontation in town, but the gown and cape sounded luscious. Why let that old bat chop a foot off ‘them, let the seams out, and resell them to Mrs. Cummins?
She wondered why Noah had ordered such a lavish surprise, then recalled how he had solicitously showered her with gifts while he thought she was pregnant with his child. Doubtless it was part of her reward for being such a good brood mare! With a determined stride, she changed course, heading down the street to Mrs. Grummond's shop.
“I don't like this, Lola,” Caleb whispered as he paced back and forth in Mrs. Grummond's rear parlor.
“The old biddy's gone to Wyoming Territory to visit her sister. No one saw you force the lock on the door. Just relax and listen for your true love,” she scoffed.
“What makes you so sure she'll come? What if she's heard the dressmaker's out of town?” His hard face was creased with worry. Caleb Rider didn't like intrigue.
“No woman could resist those clothes made up in her best colors. Anyway, she's so ostracized in town no one would tell her the time of day unless she paid them. She doesn't know Emma's gone. She'll be here.” Lola sounded confident, but she was nervous. This had to work. And if it did—how beautifully simple a solution to everything. She fairly purred when she heard the front door open.
“Mrs. Grummond? I'm here for the gown and cape.” Carrie noticed the dust covers on the reception-room furniture, and a prickle of unease came over her. Just then a muffled female voice called her to the back room. As she stepped through the linen curtain into the hall, steel-hard fingers grasped her from the side, lifting her off her feet. When she began to scream, a thick cloth emitting a sickening sweet odor was jammed across her face, into her mouth.
After a minute's furious struggle, everything went black and she collapsed. Caleb scooped her up, marveling at her slim, long-legged loveliness. For all her height, she weighed surprisingly little. He could smell the faint essence of wildflowers over the ether.
“Quit mooning over that slut and let's get out of here,” Lola hissed. “Has she got the gun? Good! Town gossip says she never goes anywhere without it anymore. Sure you didn't have something to do with that, Caleb?”
She laughed as his face darkened in remembrance of the time she had pulled the Sharps pistol on him and ordered him off Circle S.
“All right, let's get her over to the hotel and into that room to wait for Krueger.” He cursed himself again for a fool, listening to Lola's wild schemes. Still, it just might work. He wanted revenge on Carrie, on Kyle, on her half-breed lover, too. Yessir, it just might work at that.
They wrapped Carrie's unconscious body in a thick piece of carpet. Then Caleb slung her over his shoulder and carefully followed Lola from t
he back of the dress shop to the waiting wagon. It took them nearly a quarter hour to get inside the Excelsior Hotel without being seen. With Lola in the lead, checking the corridor and stairs, they made their way undetected to the back room Rider had reserved in Krueger’ s name the previous evening. He deposited Carrie on the bed and began to strip her body with obvious relish.
“Leave her underwear on, Caleb,” Lola said sharply, half afraid he was becoming so carried away he would rape the unconscious woman right before her eyes and ruin the precisely timed scheme she had so meticulously worked out. “You can have your fill of her later.” She checked the delicate gold watch pinned to her bosom. “Karl should be finished with his meeting at the bank any time now, so get over there and grab him. You remember what you're supposed to say?”
He got up from the bed with evident reluctance, his eyes still fastened lasciviously on Carrie's bare flesh. “Hell, yes, we've rehearsed it a dozen times.” He swore testily.
Karl Krueger was in a good mood despite the recent attempt on his life. The new expansion he planned had been well received at the bank and the covert profits from Circle S cattle sales were on the rise again. When Hunnicut and Sinclair got too nosy, he would simply have Rider deal with them as they had tried to deal with him.
He was crossing the street from the bank, heading toward his rig, when the sinewy form of Rider materialized and hailed him. Krueger responded. “What is it, Caleb?”
Rider's normally guarded, humorless face was creased with a broad carnal grin. “You got a lady waiting to meet you, real private like, boss.”
Krueger looked blank. “What are you talking about?”
“My old boss lady is waiting for you in room sixteen at the Excelsior. She told me to ask you real nice.” His expression was leering and suggestive. “You never can figure women, Baron. I bet she and her Injun loverboy had a fight. Might be your chance to move in on Circle S.” He shrugged and waited for Krueger’s reaction, his palms sweating despite his calm outward demeanor. Damn, much simpler to face a man down in an open fight than this twisty stuff!