Hannah's Half-Breed

by Heidi Betts

  Hannah's sky blue eyes glittered like diamonds in the sun, snapping with disapproval that he'd so much as think she would ever wear such atrocious apparel.

  The problem was, Walker thought she'd look damn good in the thing. Although he was careful not to let on that the sight had any effect on him whatsoever, watching her stand there with that dress held against her shapely form had him wishing he were wearing something a little less constricting than doeskin breeches.

  "It's pretty,” Little Bear offered from over Walker's shoulder, startling him out of his sensual reverie.

  "It sure is,” he agreed, wondering if the low noise he thought he heard could actually be Hannah's teeth grinding together in fury.

  The gown that had her so worked up was purple like the startling hue of a Texas sunset, and made out of a shiny material that begged a man to stroke its folds. The bright panels of the form-fitting bodice were interspersed with rows of black lace. The arm straps were nothing more than thin braids of the same black lace that could either loop over her shoulders or fall loosely around her upper arms. And the skirt . . . well, the skirt was nothing a true lady would wear. Full and rustling, with black lace bordering the hem, it rose a good two feet off the ground, which would leave Hannah's calves, knees, and a small portion of her thighs visible.

  What Walker wouldn't give for a healthy glimpse of Hannah's legs. . .. And this dress would certainly fulfill that particular fantasy.

  "Why don't you try it on?” he suggested, knowing that was the last thing she wanted to hear. “Little Bear and I can step out for a minute. We have to dump this sheet, anyway."

  "I'm not trying this on. It's disgraceful. I'd look like a . . . a. . .” She sputtered, searching for the right word. “Like one of the women over there.” Her head hitched toward the door, where the Devil's Den sat across the street.

  No. Hannah could never be mistaken for a soiled dove. She was too lovely, too soft, too innocent. But that didn't mean she wouldn't look amazing in that dress.

  Rising to his feet, he took the sheet from Little Bear and brought the corners together to keep from spilling the dirt cocooned inside.

  "Maybe you can put it on later,” he offered, heading for the door. As he passed, he paused and whispered in her ear, “Just for me."

  What was he thinking?

  The dress. Those eyes. That suggestive remark.

  Maybe you can put it on later. . .. Just for me.

  What was the man thinking?

  It wasn't like David to say such . . . salacious things.

  Not that she really knew what David was like nowadays. She hadn't seen him in over ten years. Maybe it was exactly like him to whisper insinuating comments in young women's ears. Maybe he hadn't gone out only to find her a change of clothes, but with the sole intention of buying her that dress. If such a scandalous garment could indeed be called a dress.

  Maybe when he'd gone across the street, it hadn't only been in search of trousers, either. Maybe while he was over there, he'd spent time with one of those women who had been hanging over the balcony—whistling, hooting, calling out—as they'd passed by earlier.

  And maybe she was overreacting just a trifle. What David did privately, and with whom, was none of her business. Even if that last thought did rankle more than a little.

  The idea of him being with one of those women. Of removing from a stranger's body a gown similar to the one he'd brought for her.

  Oh, lovely. Now she didn't know which transgression to be more upset about—the dress or the harlot.

  With a frown puckering her brow, Hannah let out a frustrated sigh and fell backward onto the rickety bed. The iron frame creaked loudly in protest and the straw of the mattress poked uncomfortably through the cotton of her pink traveling dress to scratch at her bottom.

  At least she knew David wasn't with one of those loose-moraled girls now. Not with Little Bear tagging along.

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  Hannah rose from the scratchy mattress and crossed to the crooked table, where her new canvas trousers and masculine shirt were resting in a neatly folded pile. She might as well change into them, if David expected her to dress like a man while she was here.

  Unfortunately, there was nowhere private in which to change. No separate room, or even a screen or curtain to slip behind.

  Crossing to the door, she pushed it open a crack, using her foot to help move the sagging bottom across the ground where it stuck. Popping her head out, she looked in both directions down the street. When it appeared that no one was around or headed toward the small shack, she closed the door and darted to the far side of the room, stripping out of her dirt-streaked dress as quickly as she could.

  She shed her petticoats first, leaving the camisole to act as a minimal cover while she struggled to drag the stiff pants over her shoes and up the length of her legs. They were a little loose around the hips and calves, but the thick material still hung more closely to her skin than a dress and would take some getting used to.

  Instead of shedding her old clothes completely, she left her camisole on and put the plaid shirt over it, tucking the tails into the waistband of the trousers.

  All in all, she thought she looked pretty darn manly. At least from what she could see by staring down at herself.

  "Very nice."

  Hannah's head jerked up at the low-spoken words. She hadn't heard the door, but there he stood, just inside the cabin, raking his gaze up and down her body.

  "How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

  "Not long enough.” One corner of David's soft mouth curved upward. “You look good, though. And you'll look even better after you put these on."

  He held a pair of boots in one hand, his other thumb hitched into the belt of his double sidearms.

  "Where's Little Bear?” she asked.

  "Out taking care of Thunder,” David answered as he stalked toward her. “He'll be in in a minute. He's got our dinner with him."

  Hannah opened her mouth, but hardly more than a squeak came out.

  David set the boots down on the tabletop, sending the rickety piece of furniture wobbling. Reaching out a hand, he wrapped it into her hair and lifted the mass atop her head. He tugged the hat down over it, covering her to her ears.

  "I'm not sure this is going to work,” he said quietly, standing so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. His woodsy, masculine scent enveloped her.

  "You're too pretty. Your features are too soft, your skin too smooth. Even from a mile away, a man would know you were a woman."

  "What are we going to do?” she asked past the lump in her throat.

  "I guess we'll just have to keep you inside and out of sight."

  His gaze went to her lips and she felt her heart hammer against her rib cage.

  "That way I can have you all to myself."

  When his face tipped forward and her vision blurred, Hannah knew he was going to kiss her.

  And all she could think was, Finally.

  Chapter Eight

  Finally. Thank God.

  She'd been wanting this forever, even if she had never before admitted any such desire—not to herself and certainly not to David.

  But now that his mouth was brushing against hers, his tall, hard frame pressed so snugly against her own, his hands ever so gently spanning her back . . . now she realized that this was all she'd ever wanted.

  From the time she'd been nothing more than a young girl, clinging to an older boy for comfort from the terrible nightmares that plagued her, she'd known there was something special about David. Her feelings had been innocent then, but they weren't innocent now.

  They hadn't been for some time, she admitted.

  Without conscious thought, her arms swept up to hook around his neck, her fingers tangling in the long, luxurious fall of his straight black hair. She parted her lips and his tongue immediately took refuge in her mouth, twining with her own and drawing a low moan of pleasure from deep in her solar plex
us.

  The sound seemed to startle David, and he lifted his head, wrapping his hands around her waist to push her away.

  She touched the shaking fingers of one hand to her lips in awe, staring at him, dazed and confused. “David,” she choked out, her voice raspy. “What—"

  Lines formed between his eyes as he scowled. “My name is Walker. Spirit Walker. You'd be wise to remember that, Hannah. I'm not a man you should be messing with. I'm not even a man you should have patched up and let sleep in your bed."

  His frown deepened. Running a hand over his face, he turned his back to her. “I'm an Indian, in case you've forgotten. Worse, a half-breed. If anyone in Purgatory knew I'd touched you, they'd string me up from the nearest tree and cheer my demise."

  "David—"

  "My name isn't David, dammit. I'm not that boy anymore. That boy who held you when you cried and kept the other children at the orphanage from teasing you for it. I'm not sure I ever was. The nuns gave me that name. They tried to make me white. But look at me, Hannah."

  He swung around, his eyes flaring with anger, his hand tugging at the long strands of his dark, shoulder-length hair. “I'm not white, I'm Comanche. And no one is ever going to mistake me for being white."

  His chin dropped to his chest as he blew out a tired breath. “I'm sorry I touched you. I know better. I know what the penalty is for an Indian touching a white woman, and I never should have done it."

  "Then why did you?” The words came out whipcord sharp. She was angry. Furious. Brimming with rage. But not because David had kissed her—because he was apologizing for it. And if he didn't stop demeaning himself with all this Indian versus white rubbish, she thought she would scream. She definitely wanted to throw something at him for being so thick-skulled.

  And yet, when she finally spoke, it wasn't to voice any of the responses, the arguments, the chastisements roiling about in her brain. It was to ask him why. If he was so aware of his heritage and all the problems he claimed it created, why had he kissed her? Why had he even brought Little Bear to her in the first place?

  "Tell me, David,” she demanded when he didn't immediately respond, purposely using his white name. “If you're so ashamed of kissing me, then why did you do it?"

  His lips twisted into the mockery of a smile. “I never said I was ashamed of kissing you, notsa?ka?. And I guess I did it because I've been wanting to since I was sixteen years old. I shouldn't have. I never intended to. But a decade is a hell of a long time to pine for something. I promise you, it won't happen again."

  With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the tiny, confining building.

  Hannah crossed her arms beneath her breasts and leaned back against the feeble table.

  "Well just see about that,” she breathed. “Well just see about that."

  Well, now I've done it, Walker thought with derision. He'd gone and kissed Hannah, and he was going straight to hell . . . if a posse didn't draw and quarter him first.

  And worse—so, so much worse—was that he now knew how she tasted.

  Before walking into that shack and touching Hannah, he'd only had to deal with his imagination creating the scents and tastes and textures that made up the delectable Hannah Blake. Now he knew the reality, and he didn't think he'd ever recover.

  His buckskin breeches cramped uncomfortably at the crotch, forcing him to walk more slowly than usual and stop upon occasion to discreetly adjust himself. This wasn't good. And it couldn't continue.

  There was only one thing to do: Stay away from Hannah. The sooner he did that, the better, so it was a good thing he'd be taking off after Bright Eyes soon, anyway.

  He rounded the corner of the cabin and saw Little Bear stroking Thunder's black and white mane while the piebald stallion buried his nose in a bucket of oats.

  "You're doing a fine job with him, ara?,” he said.

  His nephew lifted his head and met Walker's eyes under the horse's neck. He smiled cautiously and then moved a bucket of water closer to the pail of oats so both were within easy reach for Thunder.

  Knowing that bastard Ambrose Lynch's disposition, Little Bear had been encouraged seldom enough in his short life. The boy had the disposition of a scared rabbit, always hunch-shouldered and jumping at the littlest thing.

  Surprisingly, Walker hadn't noticed that kind of behavior as much lately, which gave him hope. Bit by bit, ever since he'd tracked down his sister and nephew and stuck around the Bar L to keep an eye on them, Little Bear had begun to open up. To talk more, to be more animated, to tell stories and climb trees the way normal children did.

  Perhaps Lynch's treatment of the boy wouldn't leave scars after all. At least not deep ones, or as many as Walker had first feared. Thank Ta? ahpu.

  His sister, however, was a different story. Her condition was questionable and, he feared, possibly deteriorating by the day. He needed to get her out of there.

  "Little Bear,” he said slowly, running his palm along Thunder's broad back, “I'll be leaving before first light to go after your pia. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Hannah. Can you do that?"

  The boy studied him for a minute in the fading shades of dusk. “I'd rather go with you,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze to the ground.

  Lynch, Walker knew, would backhand the child for such a remark. Walker simply considered himself lucky that Little Bear trusted him enough to state his honest opinion without fear of being punished.

  "I know you would. And I wish I could take you along."

  He let his hand fall from Thunder's rump and moved around to the horse's other side so he could better address his young nephew. Perching carefully on the edge of a discarded wooden crate, he continued.

  "You would be a good warrior to go into battle with. But Hannah isn't like us, Little Bear. She's a woman, and she's white. She isn't strong and self-reliant the way our people are."

  That might be only partly true, but he needed Little Bear to stay behind, and he needed his nephew to understand how important it was to protect Hannah. Of course, if she heard so much as a word of what he was saying through the hide-thin walls of the shack at his back, she'd come outside and flatten him with one—or both—of the boots he'd just given her.

  "I don't anticipate a problem getting your mother away from the Bar L, and Hannah is very important to me.” Too important, but he tried not to notice the slide of his stomach as that thought raced through his brain.

  "Since I can't be in two places at the same time, I need you to stay here with Hannah until I return.” He reached out to squeeze Little Bear's shoulder. “Can you do that for me?"

  The child continued to stroke Thunder's neck for a moment, then glanced back at Walker and nodded.

  "Thank you.” Walker braced his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet.

  "Ara?.” Little Bear's soft voice stopped him before he could move away.

  "Haa?"

  The child didn't look at him as he continued petting Thunder and asked, “Are you going to kill my father?"

  Oh, boy.

  Walker barely repressed a sigh. The truth was, he'd like to strangle the bastard with his bare hands. But a child didn't need to hear such things about his father, and no matter how much Walker might despise the man, no matter how badly he might have treated his “wife” and son, he knew Little Bear didn't want anything bad to happen to Ambrose Lynch.

  "Not if I can help it,” he answered honestly. “I only want to get you and your mother away from him. If I can do that without ever setting eyes on the man, all the better."

  He curled his fingers over one of Little Bear's tiny, buckskin-clad shoulders and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I'll only fight him if he comes after us, ara?. And even then, I'll only do what I must to get us all away safely. You have my word on that."

  Relinquishing his hold on the horse, Little Bear turned and raised his eyes to meet Walker's, studying him for several long seconds. Then, with a solemn, entirely too grown-up expression on his face, he inclined his head
.

  Walker smiled with a reassurance he wasn't sure he felt, and bent to retrieve the burlap sack lying on the ground. “Hannah and I will set up for supper. Come in when you're ready."

  With that, Walker moved around behind Thunder, patting the stallion's flank as he went, and headed inside.

  He'd dealt with Little Bear and cooled his ardor at least by a few degrees. Now all he had to do was step back into the cabin and tell Hannah he was leaving in the morning, without giving in to the temptation to kiss her again.

  He'd rather face a pack of rabid wolves.

  Chapter Nine

  Although she didn't like his going at all, Hannah didn't worry about David when he left before sunup and was gone all the next day. And she wasn't terribly concerned when he remained away through the following night, even if the raucous noises from the saloon across the street kept her tossing and turning into the wee hours.

  She started worrying when a second day dawned bright and warm, and David still hadn't returned.

  By noon, she'd begun pacing the small floor space of the dilapidated shack and peeking her nose out the door every few minutes in hopes of spotting David.

  Little Bear didn't seem the least concerned about his uncle or mother and calmly sat on the floor playing a string game she'd long ago given up trying to learn.

  He'd wanted to go out for fresh meals at both breakfast and lunchtime, but she wouldn't allow him. He was only a boy, and she didn't want him wandering around this outlaw hideout of a town by himself. Not when they still had plenty to eat from the supplies David had left them.

  Hannah didn't know why she was so worked up. It wasn't that she was afraid to be left alone in Hell with Little Bear. The town was rowdy, yes, but no one had bothered them so far. And she'd remained dressed in the trousers and hat David had bought to cut down on the chances of anyone taking special notice of their presence.