“It’s an idea. I’ll talk it over with Max and see what he thinks.”
“Good. I…” The words died in Maggie’s throat as she heard Hawk’s footsteps in the hall. She’d been hoping he would stay out of sight until Sheila left. How could she explain the way Hawk dressed? What if he said something about the cave?
Maggie stared at Hawk, her mouth agape, as he entered the room. He was wearing the clothes Veronica had bought him. The denim hugged his long legs like a second skin, the black T-shirt was the perfect foil for his swarthy skin and dark hair. She thought he looked sexier than Mel Gibson, Patrick Swayze and Sean Connery all rolled into one.
A glance at Sheila told Maggie that her editor was not immune to Hawk’s good looks either. Indeed, the older woman was on the verge of drooling.
“You must be Hawk,” Sheila purred, extending her hand. “I’m Sheila Goodman, Maggie’s editor.” She slid an arch glance at Maggie. “Now I know why you’ve been too busy to call me.”
Because it seemed expected, Hawk took Sheila’s hand in his. She was a pretty woman with dark brown eyes and flaming red hair the likes of which Hawk had never seen.
“Hawk, would you like some coffee?” Maggie asked. A sharp twinge of jealousy darted through her as she wondered if Sheila was ever going to release Hawk’s hand.
“Yes.” Gently but firmly, he drew his hand from Sheila’s and sat down in the chair across from Maggie.
Sheila stared at Hawk intently for a moment, and then snapped her fingers. “Now I know why you look so familiar,” she exclaimed. “You’re the Indian in the painting over the fireplace.” Sheila looked at Maggie. “I thought you said the man in the painting was someone you saw in a dream.”
“He is,” Maggie said. She laughed nervously. “Isn’t it remarkable how much they look alike?”
“Too remarkable to be a coincidence,” Sheila replied dryly. “Tell me, Mr. Hawk, have you known Maggie long?”
Over a hundred years, Hawk mused. Aloud he said, “Yes, I am an old friend.”
Maggie bit back a grin. Old indeed.
“I see,” Sheila said. “Will you be staying here long?”
“I do not know.”
Sheila glanced from Shadow Hawk to Maggie. She sensed an undercurrent between them, almost as if they shared a secret. What weren’t they telling her?
For the next half hour, Maggie watched Hawk charm the socks off her editor. He answered Sheila’s questions politely, offered her more coffee, lit her cigarette and walked her to her car.
“Well,” Maggie said when he returned to the kitchen. “That was the best performance I’ve ever seen. Where’d you learn to be so charming?”
Hawk shrugged, his expression sheepish. “Sometimes I stay up late and watch television,” he said.
“What have you been watching?”
“’Old movies’, you call them.”
Laughter bubbled in Maggie’s throat as she imagined Hawk sitting in front of the TV watching old Gary Grant flicks. No wonder he knew how to light a cigarette and what words to say to flatter a woman.
“Why did you change your clothes?”
“You told me Indians today dress like the white man. I did not want your editor to wonder why I dressed so strangely. And I did not want you to be embarrassed.”
“Oh, Hawk, you wouldn’t have embarrassed me,” Maggie said, touched by his thoughtfulness. And then she laughed. “But it’s probably a good thing you changed. I think Sheila might have swooned if she’d seen you in just your clout. She could hardly keep her eyes off of you as it was.”
Hawk looked at Maggie curiously. Was that jealousy he heard in her voice?
“She is very pretty,” Hawk said, watching Maggie.
“I suppose, if you like the type,” Maggie retorted, and then hated herself for being so catty. Sheila wasn’t just her editor, she was a friend.
Hawk turned away to hide his grin. She was jealous. The idea pleased him very much.
The phone rang early the next morning. Groaning, Maggie picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Maggie? Sheila. Listen, on my way back to Sioux Falls, I had a marvelous idea. I called Max and told him about your Indian and then I sort of suggested it might be fun to have Raoul get some pictures of you and your Indian, you know, with the Black Hills in the background.”
“Raoul, here? To paint us?”
“Yes! He’s here in Sioux Falls with me. The writers all love him.”
Wide awake now, Maggie sat up. “No, Sheila, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I don’t want to be on the cover.”
“But Maggie, my girl, think of the publicity! Your fans will love it! And they’ll adore Hawk. Besides, if he’s a working man, he can probably use the money.”
Maggie grinned, thinking that money was the last thing Hawk needed.
“We’ll pay you too, of course. One hundred twenty-five dollars an hour. It’s nothing to sneeze at.”
It was the standard rate, Maggie thought, but she didn’t need the money and neither did Hawk.
“We’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“We?”
“Well darling, I’m coming too. See you tomorrow,” Sheila said brightly and hung up before Maggie could protest further.
Maggie stared at the receiver in her hand. Sheila and Raoul were coming here to photograph her and Hawk. Raoul was one of the best romance artists in the business, and made upwards of seven thousand dollars a cover. His paintings were always in demand, some of them selling for as much as ten grand.
As she’d expected, Hawk was even less enthusiastic about the idea than she was.
“Take pictures?” he queried, frowning. “What does that mean?”
It was too hard to explain. Instead, she showed him her camera and then dragged out an old photo album and let him look through it.
Hawk studied the photographs carefully, especially the ones of Maggie. There were photos of Maggie standing between an older man and woman, photos of Maggie in various poses and places with a girl he knew must be her sister, Susie. It was strange to see Maggie standing up, walking, riding. In one picture she was wearing very short pants and he couldn’t help staring at her legs. They were long and slim and golden-brown. He slid a glance in her direction thinking he’d like very much to see her in those short pants.
Several times he looked at the pictures and then at Maggie, wondering how her spirit could be in two places at once.
“How?” he asked as he neared the end of the book. “How can you be beside me and in this picture?”
Maggie smiled indulgently, remembering that many Indians had feared to have their photographs taken, believing that the camera captured a part of their spirit.
“There’s no life in the picture, Hawk. It’s like a drawing of a winter count, or the pictures that warriors draw on the dew cloth of their lodges. Only these pictures are made with a camera instead of charcoal or paint.”
Hawk grunted softly. Surely it could not be dangerous, or Maggie would not have so many pictures of herself in the book.
Maggie looked over Hawk’s shoulder. The photos brought back so many memories. There were pictures of her mother and father, of their old two-story house in Los Angeles, of Susie, of her grandparents. There were pictures of her swimming in Bass Lake, horseback riding in Griffith Park, roller skating, riding the merry-go-round at Disneyland, playing tennis with Frank…
“Your editor wishes to take pictures of us. Why?”
“To use on the cover of my next book. We’ve used your likeness before, from drawings I made, but Sheila thinks this will be better.”
Hawk glanced at the bookrack that displayed Maggie’s books, one black brow arching upward in amusement as he pointed to the cover of Forbidden Flame. “Will you dress like that?”
Maggie flushed as she glanced at the cover. The heroine was wearing a bright red dress that showed an ample amount of cleavage and a good deal of one thigh. “I don’t think so.”
Hawk grunted
, obviously disappointed.
“We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Maggie said, though once Sheila had her mind made up there was almost no way to make her reconsider.
“Is it something you want?”
Maggie started to say no, then realized it was something she did want. Not that she wanted to be on the cover of her book, but she would like to have some photos of herself with Hawk, and she knew Raoul would give her as many copies as she wanted.
Maggie nodded. “Yes, if it’s all right with you.”
Sheila and Raoul arrived early the following morning. After preparing a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and pancakes, Sheila handed Maggie a vivid blue dress edged with white lace.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to wear anything too revealing,” Sheila remarked. “I think this is provocative without being immodest.” Sheila looked at Hawk. “I don’t suppose you have anything Indian you could wear?”
“Indian?” Hawk repeated with a frown.
“You know, one of those loincloth things.”
“Yes, I have one of those,” Hawk said.
“Good. Well then, we’re all set.”
The blue dress was flattering, the neckline low and square but not indecent, the skirt long and flowing.
Sheila assured Maggie she looked terrific, but it was Hawk who held the older woman’s gaze.
“You look…fine,” Sheila said, and Maggie almost laughed out loud. Sheila had been around male models for years, had been to Chippendale’s on numerous occasions, had been married three times, but it was obvious she’d never seen anything like Hawk.
“Shall we go?” Maggie asked.
“Go?” Sheila said.
“The pictures, remember?”
“C’mon, Sheila,” Raoul said, taking her by the arm. “We’re going to lose the light.”
They drove around Maggie’s property until Raoul found just the right place—a grassy meadow blooming with flowers. The Hills rose in the background, majestic and beautiful.
A small grassy rise provided just the setting he was looking for. It took twenty minutes before Raoul was satisfied with the pose. Hawk was on one knee with his back to the Hills, his hands resting on Maggie’s shoulders, while Maggie sat at his feet gazing up at him, one hand spread over his thigh.
“That’s good,” Raoul said. “Hawk, I want you to look down at Maggie. Pretend you’re a wild Indian and she’s your woman. I want you to look savage, arrogant, possessive. Maggie, I want you to look up at him adoringly. You’re his willing captive, his slave.”
Hawk looked down at Maggie, one black brow arching in amusement at the photographer’s words. Pretend you’re a wild Indian. A muscle worked in Hawk’s jaw as he heard the underlying disdain in the words, and then he grinned wryly. If they only knew how little pretending he had to do!
But then his gaze met Maggie’s and the humor faded from his eyes. And she’s your woman. Unconsciously, his hands tightened on her shoulders.
His woman. Maggie gazed up at Hawk, wishing it were true, wishing that she could be his woman until the end of time. How many books had she read about white women abducted by Indians, women who fell hopelessly in love with their captors? She’d even written a couple.
As from far away, she heard Raoul call, “Perfect! Hold it!” But she was only aware of Hawk, of his dark eyes burning into her own, of the strength of his hands as he clutched her shoulders, of the muscular heat of his thigh beneath her fingertips. His woman…
“Okay, you can take a break now.” Raoul looked at Sheila and shook his head. “I think they’ve forgotten we’re here.”
Sheila nodded, a faint look of envy in her eyes. She’d had three husbands and none of them had ever looked at her the way Hawk was looking at Maggie.
“Hey you two,” Raoul called. “That’s it.”
“What?” Maggie turned to face Raoul, felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she realized she’d forgotten that Raoul and Sheila were there.
“Well,” Sheila said, “if the look in Hawk’s eyes doesn’t melt the film, we’ve got ourselves a great cover.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Maggie said, not meeting her editor’s probing gaze.
“I’m sure you do,” Sheila retorted. “I’m also sure that it’s time for me to go back to New York.” She glanced at Hawk, then back at Maggie. “You behave yourself now, you hear?”
“It was a great shoot,” Raoul said. He shook Hawk’s hand, then Maggie’s. “I’ll send you the proofs.”
“Thanks, Raoul.”
The drive back to the ranch was uneventful. Sheila talked of a writers’ conference she’d been asked to speak at later in the year, and of the American Booksellers Convention she’d attended in June, and then they were back at the house.
Maggie sat in her wheelchair on the porch waving goodbye, more conscious than ever of the man standing beside her, of the way he had looked at her.
His woman. It could never be, but the mere idea sent a warm shiver of delight down her spine nonetheless.
Chapter Nineteen
Maggie stared into the refrigerator. It was empty save for a half-gallon of milk and a withered red apple.
They would have to go to town.
She frowned at the idea. She’d lived in the Black Hills for two years and never ventured beyond the boundaries of her own property. Veronica had done the shopping and Bobby had run whatever errands needed doing and she had stayed home, as secluded as a monk. But that was about to change.
Taking a piece of paper from a kitchen drawer, she began to write a list: bread, eggs, bacon, potatoes, coffee, fruit, soap, toothpaste, canned goods, milk, orange juice…
The list seemed to go on and on. And then, abruptly, she stopped writing. How was she going to get into town?
“What is it, Mag-gie?”
The sound of his voice thrilled her as it always did. Was there any other man in the world who had a voice like his? Strong and deep and silky, like steel sheathed in layers of soft black velvet. “We’re about out of food.” Hawk nodded. Veronica always brought the food. It was something he could not quite comprehend, where it all came from, or how it was made. “Where must you go to get more?”
“Sturgis is the closest place.”
“Then let us go.”
“I don’t have any way to get there.”
“I will take you on the black.”
“No, it’s too far to go by horseback. And where would we put the groceries?” Maggie frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think you could drive the truck?”
“I do not know how.”
“I could teach you.”
Shadow Hawk looked doubtful, and then he shrugged. “We can try.”
They practiced driving around the yard for forty-five minutes. At first she was certain he would never learn. The truck lurched and jerked and bounced like a tumbleweed tossed by the wind as Hawk tried to coordinate steering, braking on turns, and working the gas pedal. Once she thought he was going to run into the front porch, another time he barely avoided crashing into a tree, but finally Hawk got the hang of the gas and the brake and Maggie decided he’d be able to make the short drive to town and back.
Maggie glanced over at Hawk, attired in only a clout and moccasins, and frowned, wondering how she could tactfully suggest that he wasn’t dressed quite right for a trip to town.
A slow grin spread over Hawk’s face. “I will change,” he said, obviously reading her thoughts.
“It might be best.”
She waited for him in the truck while he went into the house to change. He reappeared moments later clad in the black T-shirt and jeans that Veronica had bought him.
Seeing him in regular clothes reminded Maggie of the photo shoot. On their last trip to town, she had picked up copies of the proofs Raoul had sent, along with two checks from Sheila and a hastily scrawled note that read, “Standard pay for modeling. Sorry it couldn’t be more. P.S. Give my love to Hawk. Sheila.”
Hawk had b
een amused when Maggie explained what the checks were for. Jokingly she’d kidded him, saying that maybe if he stayed in her time he could go into the modeling business and pose for romance covers. He had considered her suggestion gravely for a moment and then nodded, saying he wouldn’t mind so long as she would always be the woman in his arms, and what had started as a joke quickly backfired because that was just what she wanted, to always be the woman in his arms.
Now Maggie watched Hawk as he crossed the yard toward the truck, her pulse growing more rapid as she boldly admired him, unable to decide if he looked better in his clout or Levi’s. Either way, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
He looked at her for a moment when he reached the truck, a rueful grin on his handsome face, and then he climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and they started off down the dirt road that led to the highway.
For a moment, he concentrated on steering the truck and then he asked the question that had been bothering him for days. “Mag-gie, tell me what happened to my people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are they? Bob-by said they live on reservations. That they are soul sick and look for answers in the white man’s whiskey.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true.” Life on the reservation was bleak, Maggie thought. Jobs were scarce. A single man received a measly fifty-six dollars from General Assistance every two weeks. She’d heard that teenage girls were getting pregnant just to get money from welfare. The homeless picked up aluminum cans to sell. What the reservation needed was industrial development, but the tribal council didn’t want outsiders there, perhaps afraid they’d lose control of the reservation. Maggie couldn’t fault them for that, considering past history.
“Why do my people live on reservations? Why does the white man control my people?”
“There were many wars in your day, Hawk. Do you know of Custer?”
Hawk grunted.
“Your people defeated him in a great battle at the Little Big Horn. It was the last great Indian victory. After that, the soldiers pursued the Indians until they were all hunted down and put on reservations. Crazy Horse was the last to surrender. He was killed at Fort Robinson, and after that, there were no more Indians living free on the plains.”
The Spirit Path Page 12