Hero For Hire

by Sheridon Smythe

  "Sparrow,” Hawk insisted, setting the boy on his feet. “Now do as your mother says."

  Newton Oliver, despite the defiant glint in his eye when he looked at Mac, did as he was told. “Sorry, mister.” Feet dragging, he disappeared through the doorway.

  Patricia watched him go, sighing. She managed a weary smile and stuck out her hand. “I'm Patricia.” She nodded toward her shuffling son as Mac shook her hand. “And that is Hawk's fault. He fills their heads with wild stories from the old days.” The look she cast her husband was loving, but stern.

  "Mackenzy Cord. My friends call me Mac.” She was younger than Mac imagined, with thick dark hair and brown eyes. Mac wondered briefly about the honey tint to her skin. If she was a half-breed, she had obviously been raised in a white man's world, and educated to boot.

  "No, Mr. Cord,” Patricia said, apparently reading his thoughts. “I'm not a half-breed. I just like the sun ... and Indians.” She sounded amused, which in turn relieved Mac.

  He smiled ruefully. “Am I that transparent?"

  "Not really. I'm just good at reading faces. Hawk taught me that.” She laced her arm through her husband's. “Shall we go inside? The bread should be cool enough to cut, and I need to check on Edmond. He's down for a nap."

  Just the mention of food made Mac's stomach rumble again. Hawk and Patricia laughed. Mac didn't think she'd be laughing if she knew the reason he was here.

  His gaze met Hawk's for a brief second. A silent message passed between them; nothing would be said about Barlow in her presence.

  "So, Mr. Cord, what brings you to these parts?"

  As Mac followed the couple into a spacious living room, he put his useful, living-saving talents to work.

  He lied through his teeth.

  "I'm an artist, ma'am. West Virginia's a beautiful state.” Colorful rugs were scattered on the hard plank floor. Blankets in vivid colors of the sunset hung on the walls, among portraits and paintings. It was a warm room, welcoming and homey. Mac found it hard to imagine a man like Barlow in this room, or kin to Patricia, for that matter.

  "An artist! Did you hear that, Hawk? Mr. Cord is an artist."

  "I heard,” Hawk mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the lie. “Come, Mac. We shall silence your stomach, and then take our smokes outside. The smell of my pipe makes Patricia ill."

  Patricia blushed and patted her slightly rounded belly. “I think it's a girl this time. With Edmond and Newton, I loved the smell of Hawk's tobacco. Where are you from, Mr. Cord?"

  "South Carolina. A little town called Angel Creek."

  "You're a long way from home."

  "I move around a lot,” Mac said, following the couple along a hallway and into the kitchen. Here the smell of baking bread was strong enough to make his mouth water. He and Hawk took a seat at the table while Patricia busied herself slicing bread and pouring tall glasses of lemonade.

  Ice tinkled in the glass when she set it before him. Mac's eyebrow rose in surprise. Patricia caught his expression and smiled.

  "Hawk built an ice house a couple of winters ago, and my brother brought the lemons clear from Florida. He was just here a few days ago. He travels a lot too."

  Mac kept his expression blank and didn't dare look at Hawk. “Really?” he asked politely. He took a long draw of the lemonade and smacked his lips. “This is delicious.” So was the bread, he discovered as he took a man-size bite. He supposed he should feel guilty knowing Savannah and Roy were back at camp, chewing on tough jerky and drinking creek—

  "Pa?"

  Standing in the doorway was Newton Oliver, breathing hard and looking as if he'd just discovered gold.

  "You're supposed to be in your room,” Patricia reminded him.

  "I was,” Newton said, his voice shrill with excitement. “And I was watching the ridge, just like Pa tells me too, and I saw something."

  Hawk went rigid. “What was it?"

  It was then that Mac noticed the rope in Newton's hand. The boy gave it a sharp yank. It went taut, but whatever was on the other end was obviously bigger, and more determined than Newton.

  Mac had a sudden, awful premonition.

  "This! I found this!” He hauled on the rope again, and the object of his excitement fell into view. Literally.

  It was Savannah. Her hair had come loose, and there was a good-sized tear in the seat of her trousers—bearing to Mac's stunned gaze an enticing glimpse of her smooth buttock—but she looked otherwise unharmed.

  "I caught her snooping around on the ridge, spying on us!” Newton let out an ear-splitting war whoop, danced in a circle, and tangled the rope around him. “So I caught her—I caught me a white prisoner, Pa! Now will you call me Eagle?"

  Patricia gave little warning; she let out a tiny gasp and crumpled. Hawk reached her in time, holding her limp form in his arms. He glared at his errant son, his voice like thunder. “You have gone too far, Little Sparrow! Who is this woman?"

  Stifling a sigh, Mac found himself saying the all-too-familiar words, “She's my wife."

  * * * *

  "But he's so young, Mac,” Savannah whispered as Newton Oliver lugged yet another bucket of steaming water into the room and dumped it into the tub. Each time he passed her, he stopped and mumbled an apology.

  The sight of his stricken face made her want to weep.

  "Don't interfere. He's old enough to rope you and drag you down the ridge."

  "Yes, I know, but he explained why—” She broke off as Patricia came into the room. The woman's lips were still pursed tight, but her eyes were warm and apologetic when they landed on Savannah.

  "I brought you fresh towels, and a cake of scented soap. Thank God Ned travels and visits often, or I'd never have these little luxuries."

  Savannah felt her stomach bottom out. “Ned?” she squeaked. Mac gave her arm a warning squeeze, but she ignored him. “Are you talking about Ned Barlow?"

  "Why, yes. He's my brother. Do you know him?"

  This time Mac pinched her—hard. It was a warning she couldn't ignore.

  "Um, yes, I do. I met him on the train on my way to Jamestown."

  Newton came in again with another bucket of steaming water. A younger boy, who looked to be about four years of age, followed on his heels, carefully balancing a tin cup between his chubby little hands. When Newton dumped the water and turned away from the tub, the younger one dumped the contents of his cup into the tub.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cord,” Newton paused to mumble.

  The younger boy stepped into the spot Newton vacated. Entranced, Savannah stared down into his big, solemn brown eyes. “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  "I'm Edmond, and my brother's sorry he did what he did."

  Before Savannah could respond, Edmond turned to follow his brother, mimicking his movements right down to the shuffling feet and bowed head. Although Patricia's expression remained resolute, Savannah saw the love shining in her eyes as she watched her boys march from the room.

  "I can't apologize enough,” Patricia said. “Hawk wants them to know and remember their Indian heritage, but after what happened today, I'm not so sure it's a good idea."

  Savannah felt compelled to defend her little captor. “I don't think he meant any harm."

  "No, I'm sure he didn't.” Patricia drew in a deep breath. “But you could have gotten hurt, and that makes his actions inexcusable. He'll make amends."

  "It's not necessary—"

  "Yes, it is. He'll sleep outside your door tonight, and if you need anything—anything at all—let him know."

  One look at Patricia's stubborn face and Savannah knew any further protests would be useless. While she might feel their actions were a little harsh, she had to remember she was a guest—an uninvited one at that—in their home.

  "I'll bring you something to wear so that I can repair your trousers.” A smile tugged at Patricia's mouth. “I'm sure Mr. Cord doesn't mind the—er—exposure, but you're probably feeling a little drafty."

  Mac chuckled. Savanna
h poked him sharply in the ribs, which in turn made Patricia chuckle. Then, to Savannah's mortification, she felt Mac's hand slip into the tear and cup her buttock. He squeezed.

  Her knees nearly buckled. Swearing vengeance beneath her breath, she tried to keep a smile on her face. Thank God Patricia couldn't see what Mac was doing!

  "I'll leave you two alone to rest up for supper,” Patricia said with a knowing smile.

  Or maybe she could! The moment Patricia shut the door, Savannah danced away from Mac and his naughty hand. Her abrupt movement caused the trousers to rip further. “Mackenzy Cord! You are the wickedest man I've ever met!"

  "And you're the stubbornest woman I've ever met,” Mac retorted, clearly unrepentant. He folded his arms and propped his back against the bed post, watching her through lazy, hooded eyes. “Aren't you going to take a bath?"

  Savannah drew in a sharp breath and backed against the door, determined to keep her bare behind out of sight. “With you watching?” As his gaze traveled slowly along her body, she felt her skin tingle with awareness. Not now, she thought, not here!

  "Why not? I've seen you in the altogether ... remember?"

  "But it was dark."

  "So?"

  "We have a little boy camped outside our door,” Savannah reminded him desperately. She wanted Mac, but not in broad daylight and with people listening!

  "We're talking about a bath, Sav,” Mac chided. “I thought you might need help washing your hair."

  "Oh.” She flushed at his mocking look. “In that case, turn around until I get undressed and in the tub."

  "Do I have to?"

  "Yes, you have to."

  "That's a shame."

  She waited until he'd turned his back before reaching for the buttons on her shirt. Her fingers shook, and she nearly shrieked when he spoke again.

  "Do you ... have your shirt off yet?"

  Damn him and his husky voice. “No—no, I don't."

  A full moment passed. Savannah managed to get the shirt off and hastily start on her trousers. She edged toward the tub as she fumbled with the drawstring.

  "Are you sure you don't need help?” he asked in a soft, yearning voice that turned her knees to jelly.

  Oh, he was good. Very good. If she didn't know Mac's game, she might just believe him. But then, maybe it wasn't a game. He'd made it clear that he wanted her, friend or not.

  She shivered as she stepped into the big tub and sank beneath the water, bringing her knees to her chin to hide the evidence of her reaction to his teasing. “Okay, you can turn around now."

  He did, moving slowly in her direction. He went to his knees beside the tub and reached for the cloth and the soap Patricia had provided.

  Savannah's mouth went dry at the look of languid desire in his eyes. “Mac, what are you doing?"

  "Asking for trouble,” he said softly.

  His hot gaze never wavered from her face as he soaped the cloth.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Where's Roy?” Mac asked, attempting the impossible, which was to ignore the satin feel of her skin as he soaped her outstretched leg.

  With a weary sigh, Savannah rested her head against the back of the tub. The movement brought her breasts to the surface, giving Mac a teasing, tantalizing glimpse of the creamy globes.

  "I left him at the camp."

  Her eyes were closed, leaving Mac blissfully free to look his fill. He tugged on her other leg and she absently obliged. “Tied to a tree?"

  She gave him a one-eyed dirty look. “No, I didn't tie him to anything. He just said he wasn't going to follow me and get chewed out again by you."

  "He didn't try to stop you?"

  "Oh, he cursed and begged and pleaded. Then he realized he was wasting his time and gave up."

  Mac was surprised; Roy had seemed so earnest in his promise to keep Savannah at the camp. He had expected more of a fight.

  "Are you going to tell me about Patricia's dear brother, or do I have to ask her myself?” Savannah asked tartly.

  "What's there to tell? Although it seems impossible, your Ned is Patricia's brother. We missed getting to meet the man by a few days.” Inch my slow inch, he worked his hand along her inner thigh with the soapy cloth. She didn't seem to notice. Mac didn't know whether to be insulted or glad. In the end he decided to be glad, because if she began to notice she might make him stop.

  And he definitely didn't want to stop.

  "He's not my Ned,” Savannah protested. “And how could he be kin to that sweet woman? Does she know what a monster he is? Does she know that he not only robbed the bank in Jamestown, he took my money as well?"

  Agitated, she sat up, dislodging his hand. Mac swallowed a curse; his fingers had been so close to slipping into her tight sheath. Would she have moaned and squirmed with pleasure? He wondered. Or would she have leaped from the tub and cursed him? Now he'd never know...

  "Mac, have you been listening to a word I've said? How could you not say something to them?"

  "Hawk knows. We're supposed to talk later."

  She slapped at the water. “So! While you and Hawk discuss the man who took my money and my dignity, I'm stuck in this room chewing my nails and wondering what you're talking about.” Her look scorched him. “Why am I not surprised? No wonder you're still a bachelor—you're a tyrant!"

  Her careless remark stung. Mac dropped the cloth on her flat belly and stood. Belatedly, Savannah noticed his rigid expression.

  She was instantly contrite. “Mac, I didn't mean—"

  "Didn't you?” he asked softly, staring down at her beautiful, anxious face. God, he loved her, but sometimes he just wanted to bend her over his knee and spank her until she begged for mercy!

  Or love her until she couldn't move.

  "Mac ... please don't go away mad."

  "I'm not mad.” And he wasn't. He was hurt, but she wouldn't understand, so there was no need to voice his feelings and possibly leave himself open for more ridicule.

  "Why, if we weren't such good friends, I'd marry you myself. You're kind and sweet and loyal and handsome."

  "Right.” Mac turned and headed for the door. Maybe Hawk had something a bit more powerful than lemonade. He heard water splashing, and had to bite his tongue to keep from glancing over his shoulder to see if she was standing.

  "Mac?” she called, in that lilting way that made his heart skip a beat.

  He paused with his hand on the door knob, struggling with the devil inside him that wanted to march back and carry her, dripping wet, to the bed.

  "You—you aren't going to stop being my friend, are you?"

  Mac slammed the door good and hard as he left.

  * * * *

  Mac found Hawk with the horses.

  He had his back to Mac as he stood at the fence. Without turning around, he said, “Folks in Cornwall, they turn their nose in the air because of my red skin, but they buy my horses."

  "Do you have eyes in the back of your head, Hawk?” Mac asked, coming to stand beside the Indian.

  Flashing him a grin, Hawk nodded. “Patricia thinks so.” His smile faded abruptly. “She also believes her brother is a good man, that he is just sowing his wild oats."

  "By robbing banks and kidnapping women?"

  "She doesn't know.” Hawk's mouth firmed into a thin, relentless line. “He boasts to me of his deeds, but he is a man of two faces. It would break her heart if she knew."

  Mac caught the subtle warning. “Don't worry, she won't hear it from me.” He couldn't, however, speak for Savannah. “Do you know where Barlow is headed?"

  Hawk turned to look at the ranch house behind him for a long contemplative moment, as if he were envisioning Patricia's reaction to what he was about to say. “He mentioned buying a spread in Virginia, near a town called Paradise."

  "How convenient. We're headed that way ourselves.” Paradise was a popular town that Mac had visited a time or two. He closed his hands over the top rail and looked at the
cavorting horses in the corral. Hawk's lack of loyalty aroused his curiosity. “By the way, what exactly did Barlow do to you to make you hate him so much?” Expecting Hawk to tell him to mind his own business, the Indian surprised him by answering without hesitation.

  "Not what he did, but what he does. He begs Patricia to give up her life here and go with him. He tells lies about the white man's world to entice my sons from me. He brings Patricia things I can not buy for her."

  "Well, I guess that's plenty of reasons not to like the man,” Mac agreed. But Hawk wasn't finished, it seemed.

  "And he calls me Chief. I'm not a Chief. My grandfather was a great Chief, but I'm just an Indian."

  "Since you haven't told me to mind my own business, I've got one more question. Do you know a man named Mason West?"

  Hawk nodded. “West believes my father is responsible for the deaths of his parents."

  "Sins of the father,” Mac murmured, then couldn't resist asking, “Was he?"

  "Maybe.” There was pain in Hawk's voice, making Mac regret his careless question. “My father and I were not close."

  "Still, you're not responsible for what your father does."

  "There are those that would disagree with you,” Hawk said dryly. “Such as West. He has tried to kill me twice. Patricia worries that he will succeed, and does not want me to go into town."

  Mac cursed low and long. “A man has a right to defend himself,” he began, only to have Hawk's laughter cut him off.

  "Mackenzy Cord, you are a good man, but you are blind. I am an Indian of wealth, and married to a white woman. If West dies, then I die with him, swinging from the end of a hangman's rope.” He spread a hand to indicate the horses and the cattle grazing in the distance. “All that I have, all that I have nurtured with these two hands would be taken from my sons. Stolen."

  Bad as Mac hated to admit it, he sensed that Hawk was right. But that didn't make it right.

  "Do not let my burdens become yours, my friend. I will protect what is mine. Now, since I have told you my secrets, it is only fair that you tell me yours."

  Mac tensed. Did Hawk know—as he seemed to know everything else—his true reason for wanting to find Barlow? Could he have guessed that he was a bounty hunter? He hated deceiving him, but neither did he want to disappoint his new friend.