Lone Star Loving (11 page)

“I'm capable of being.”

“I yearn for such. Like the night you caressed between my legs–you didn't know I knew what you were doing, did you? I want you to touch me that way again. Will tonight be the night?”

“No!”

A jackrabbit darted across Syllabub's path, and the mare reared her head and pitched her riders to the side. Charity momentarily lost her grip on Hawk's waist; when she regained her balance, her grip had fallen a couple of inches. His man-thing pushed at the placket of his britches, and her breath caught in her throat at the swollen feel of him. She jerked her hand upward.
Why did you do that?
Being brash of voice somehow hadn't extended to her actions.

Her face went hot.

She yanked herself as far back on the saddle as possible, away from his stock-still body.

You silly ninny of a virgin. He probably would've liked for you to play with him
. Gads, where did she get that idea? Weren't women supposed to do nothing more than lie back and let the men do all the work? That was what Olga, last winter in Spain, had confided. Charity had a lot to learn about men. Men? The only man she wanted to please was Hawk.

Right then he leaned forward in the saddle. Obviously his attention was captured elsewhere, and she damned the intrusion.

“Trouble,” Hawk said. “Someone's in trouble ahead.”

Charity craned her neck around Hawk, catching sight of a splendid carriage stopped along the roadway. Its front wheel had come loose, and the vehicle tilted toward a ditch. A statuesque lady, plumed and dressed in low-cut finery, stood with her arms crossed while she impatiently tapped a toe. Pacing up and down, a portly man gestured from the carriage toward Uvalde and back again.

By now Charity and Hawk were within earshot. “How dare that yeoman abandon us! If I ever lay eyes on Smithers again, he'll swing from a yardarm!”

The lady motioned in the riders' direction. “Look, Norman. Someone approaches.”

“By Neptune, I hope they stop.” Norman cupped his hand at the side of his mouth. “Ahoy, there, mate–mates! Would you be of a mind to lend a hand?”

Hawk slid from the saddle, helping Charity to her feet. The couple hurried to them.

“What a sight for sore eyes.” The man extended a hand. “I am Norman Narramore of Galveston and this is my wife, Eleanor. And who might you be?”

“I'm Charity McLoughlin,” Charity piped up. “And this is Hawk.”

The lady offered a greeting to Charity before turning to her companion. “How nice to meet you, Mr. McLoughlin.”

“I'm not Mr. McLoughlin.”

“He's just plain Hawk,” Charity explained. “He's an Indian, you see, and his people don't name . . .”

Her words trailed off when she saw that the couple wasn't listening to her explanation. The middle-aged gentleman was staring open-mouthed, eyeing Hawk as if in a whole new light. Eleanor Narramore–she must have been in her late for-ties–uttered, “My word, Mr. Hawk, you could have fooled me. You don't look at all savage. Are you a half-breed by chance?”

Hawk swung toward the carriage. “We'd better get that wheel fixed,” he said irritably.

“Let's do find some shade, dearie.” Eleanor Narramore dabbed her forehead with a lace handkerchief. “Let the men take care of the dirty work.”

The two women retired to a prickly pear-dotted mesquite grove.

 

 

With Norman Narramore barking orders, Hawk set about repairing the carriage wheel.
Wah'Kon-Tah
, he was peeved that the couple–or at least the wife—had instantly pinned him as white. He had taken to basking in Charity's assessment of him as Indian. He had played the part of savage to the hilt.

What was he going to do about Charity? She wanted him, probably not as much as he wanted her, but . . . how long could he hold her off? “You won't at the rate you were talking.”

“What did you say, mate?”

“Nothing,” he replied to Narramore, then got back to his thoughts. Her confessions about Fierce Hawk had nearly knocked him off the back of that mare. All along he had known Charity would recognize his full name, but he'd never thought she'd been carrying a torch for Fierce Hawk.

Therein lay the problem.

One of the problems.

One of many problems.

What was he going to do now? He must not wait for the Old One's appearance in Uvalde. Once they reached town, Charity must know everything. Tonight would indeed be the night.

For truth.

Aggravated with himself and with the world in general, he turned to the blustering carriage owner. “By totem, don't just stand there, man. If you've got a jack in this contraption, get it.”

 

 

From a distance of fifty or more feet, Charity heard Hawk shout for a jack. He was certainly being testy. Probably because of their interrupted love-talk. If not for the carriage mishap, they would be ...
Don't be a ninny
. Hawk might have warmed up a bit, but she realized he would have gone no further than bold talk–which dismayed her.

If only she knew the art of seduction . . .

“Sure you won't have some lemonade?” asked the titian-haired Eleanor–she had told Charity to call her by her first name. She gestured to a wicker hamper. “It's quite tasty.”

“Maybe I will have a glass.”

After Eleanor had handed one over, Charity murmured an “mmm” as the tart-sweet beverage slid down her throat. “I haven't had anything this cool and savory since leaving home.”

A perfect brow arched, as Eleanor's assessing gaze swept over Charity's travel-worn gingham. The woman carefully posed a question. “Where are you and your husband headed?”

“He's not my husband.” Charity saw no reason for subterfuge. And, she felt comfortable being in the company of a female; she hadn't realized just how much she'd missed Maria Sara. “We make for the port of Galveston.”

“Aren't you off route? You seem to be headed for Uvalde.”

“A mere detour along the way.”

Eleanor set her glass atop the closed hamper. “You're a lovely young woman, and Hawk is a most handsome young man. Much more handsome than any Indian I have ever seen. But I find it peculiar, your alliance with one of his kind.”

“Not so peculiar,” Charity assured her. “Hawk is as good as anyone in this whole wide world. As good, if not better.”

“I meant no offense.”

Charity studied Eleanor's candid face. She supposed there'd be no harm in being truthful with the woman. “Actually, he holds me for ransom,” she confided.

Shocked, Eleanor widened her eyes, her voice falling to a whisper. “Norman and I will help. But we must be clandestine in our efforts, else the Indian might . . . Redskins are capable of all sorts of depredations. Never fear, poor girl, we'll get you to your loved ones.”

“There is no need for that. I've chosen to go along with him. If I never see my family again, it would be too soon.”

What did she really feel in her heart? To prove that she wasn't a worthless McLoughlin, she had to make something of herself. First things first. She must do something about that smuggling business. Once she was safely in Europe, she intended to make enough money to hire a brilliant lawyer who would clear her name. The source of these funds? The Wild West show, of course. Papa wouldn't be too impressed with her accomplishment. But Mutti would love the idea.
Darn it, don't be thinking about them!

She glanced at Eleanor, who asked, “Are you sure Hawk is what you want?”

“Yes. We're going to be partners.” And a whole lot more, once she learned the secrets of lovemaking.

“You're a peculiar young woman.”

Not getting an argument from Charity, Eleanor turned wary eyes toward Hawk, who was hammering at the wagon wheel. Ping, ping, ping. The sounds of his labors matched the beat of Charity's heart as she took her own good look at him, seeing well-defined muscles working beneath glistening bronze skin.

What was taking so long with that blasted wheel?

Oh well, she reasoned, maybe he was just holding back out of respect.

Again she took a gander at Hawk. But this time she saw more than just his physical appeal. In her life she hadn't had a lot of friends, not close ones. And she had never had a man friend. What was he to her, besides the object of her feminine desires? She and Hawk had worked together toward a common goal–getting free of Ian and Grande. They had talked; rather, he'd let Charity do most of the talking, but he had begun to loosen up. What was he to her? A friend.

From the distance she heard the faint sounds of Mr. Narramore giving orders to Hawk, who barked his replies. His back turned to the carriage owner, Hawk continued to hammer the wheel back into place.

A gloved finger went to Eleanor's upper lip. “Your Hawk doesn't appear to be a man easily molded.”

“He is quite stubborn. But I'm working on it.”

“You must be quite in love.”

Love? Hardly. Yet what about her fluttering heart and the weakness in her knees? That wasn't love, was it? There was no denying, at least to herself, that Charity ached for his lovemaking. Apparently he, on the other hand, wasn't aching for her.

Charity chewed one side of her lower lip, then hoisted a brow at the lovely Eleanor. “How does a woman seduce a man?”

The redhead nearly swallowed her tongue. “My, you are brash.”

“Yes. And I'm in a hurry. I want to seduce Hawk. Tonight.” Charity finger-combed a pesky strand of long hair from her cheek. Once they reached town, her first stop would be a general store and its toiletry and dress sections. “I want to be his woman.”

“Tell me, do you still have your virtue?” When Charity nodded in the affirmative, Eleanor said sadly, “Oh, my dear, do think twice before you give away such a precious prize.”

“You sound much like my mother. Always, she drilled it into my head, as well as my sisters', that we must keep ourselves pure for marriage.”

“A wise woman, your mother.”

“Is it wise, turning one's back on one's child?” Charity asked bitterly.

“A mother's love never dies. A woman can forget a man, she may shun all she has held dear, but she never forgets her child.”

“I'd like to think that true.”

“I speak the truth, believe me. I am a mother. I have two sons. Beau and Jeff. No matter what they do to worry Norman and me, we never stop loving them.”

“Your sons are lucky boys.”

“Men. Beau is twenty and eight. Jeff is two years his junior. But enough about them.” Eleanor smoothed the skirt of her silk dress. “A moment ago you spoke of home. Where is it?”

“The back of that mare for now. Where do you live? Pardon me; your husband said Galveston.” Turning her regard to the sleek coach and its even sleeker repairman, she smiled and softened her tone. “Where are you traveling to?”

“Kerrville. Norman has purchased a ranch there.”

Charity assessed the portly gentleman who appeared the sort never to have touched a rope, much less a branding iron. “New to ranching?”

“We are. Norman has spent his life as owner of a steamship line, and isn't too keen on the idea, but I prevailed upon his good nature. Frankly, I'm tired of salty air and hurricanes,” Eleanor explained with a moue of distaste. “It's the open range for us from here on out.”

“Good luck with it.” Charity hesitated. “You say your husband owns a steamship company?”

“Yes. The Narramore Line. We sail passengers back and forth to France.”

Charity knew the firm provided luxurious accommodations; she had sailed on their liners thrice. “And he still owns it?” When Eleanor nodded, Charity asked, “Do you think he would hire me and Hawk in exchange for passage to France?”

“No, no, no, no, no. We're indebted to you. We stood under the broiling sun for hours”–to emphasize this last point, Eleanor mopped her brow–“and at least four parties traveled by without even acknowledging our dilemma.”

“People can be callous.”

“Can't they, though? But you and your Indian brave didn't leave us coughing in a dusty wake. Thus, Norman and I will be honored to compensate you for your kindness. How would two tickets from Galveston to Le Havre suit you? Complimentary, of course.”

How did heaven suit her? Charity clapped her hands. If only Maria Sara knew how everything was turning out! Turning out? There was still the matter of provoking Hawk into her arms.

Stopping to study her benefactress, Charity squared her shoulders. “Eleanor . . . will you or will you not impart to me the secrets of seduction?”

For days Hawk had been anxious to reach Uvalde, but now that he and Charity had arrived, he wasn't so sure. It remained his task to explain things to her. What he had to say demanded the right time, the right moment. Tonight. There was still several hours of sunlight remaining.

The Narramore carriage pulled into the Wayfarer Hotel's porte cochere, and Hawk, pulling up the rear, reined in the mare before handing Charity to the street. Somehow unable to meet her eyes, he took a second look at the town that he had first passed through earlier in the month. With its peaceful, gracious airs and its mammoth oaks whose wide branches bowed heavily to the ground, Uvalde was atypical of this part of the state.

“Well, we're here,” Charity announced. “What next?”

Hawk rested his palm on her shoulder. “I've got a few things to take care of. Meet me at the hotel?”

“Of course,” she agreed.

Hawk gauged her expression. From the look on her captivating oval face, from the unfulfilled passion in her blue, blue eyes, he knew he need not fear she would try to escape from him. If for no other reason than to appease her curiosity. Curiosity, hell. Her eyes had made a grand sweep over him, leaving little doubt in Hawk's mind–she wanted to continue with what they had started atop that mare. As it had earlier that afternoon, Charity's boldness and brazen passion worked against his steadfastness.

That and . . .
She's been fantasizing about me for years
. Damn, that made Hawk feel good. He felt a stirring in his groin, the second time that day. He felt even taller than his six-four. Probably, though, he should have put a stop to her confessions about Fierce Hawk. But her talk had so thrilled him, he had been unwilling, even unable. . .

Wah'Kon-Tah
, he was in a fix. Wanting her. Her wanting him. Lies and disguises. A powwow with Maisie McLoughlin. He had a feeling bad medicine was on the verge of raining down.

Charity tilted her head to the side. “Tell me, Hawk, what sort of business are you about?”

“Getting that mare taken care of, for one. I'll take her to the livery stable, then send a telegram to Laredo. Let Blyer know where he can collect his mount. After that, I'm going straight to the sheriff's office. Best let it be known Syllabub was abandoned. I won't tempt a horse-thievery charge.”

“Good idea.”

She set off in the hotel's direction, and Hawk went about his errands, renewing his acquaintance with the lawman who had traded him manacles for a set of dominoes.

Next he made a stop at the local bathhouse. He wanted to be presentable when he confessed everything. He garbed himself in a checked shirt, leather vest, and denim trousers, then stopped at the general store to buy a pair of boots and an oyster-colored Stetson. He then made his way to the Wayfarer.

He saw her through the hotel's picture window. His exquisite angel. Charity, who'd fantasized about him for years.

Waiting in the deserted lobby, she wore a new dress low in cut, blue in color. The shade brought out the turquoise hue of her big, black-lashed eyes. And her long sable hair was combed atop her head with fetching curls brushing her shoulders. His fingers tingled to loosen that mass and let it fall to her waist.

Hawk found it difficult to breathe, so in thrall was he with her beauty, yet he forced his feet forward. . . toward his evening of reckoning.

She rushed to meet him. “My, you look nice. But I must admit, I've grown rather fond of seeing you in your breechclout.” Her nose twitched. “You smell nice too. That's herbal toilet water, isn't it?”

“I, uh”–he swallowed the peppermint that Sheriff Tom Ellis had offered him–“I'd better see about renting some rooms.”

“Not to worry. I've taken care of everything.” Lifting her fingers, she dangled a sole key. “They had but two rooms vacant and the Narramores have taken the other.”

His eyes took in the lobby. “Place looks pretty empty to me.” Even the desk clerk was nowhere to be seen. “I'm sure an extra dollar or two would cause an extra room to turn up.”

“No, no. I've already tried that. No luck.” She made a poor liar.

“Then I'll sleep outside.”

“You will not.”

From the determined lift of her chin to the adamant glint of her eyes, Charity McLoughlin was a woman of purpose.
Looks like you're in trouble, Hawk
.

He glanced through the window to the street outside. “Sun's going down.” Damn, what was he going to do? His stomach growled. What he had to say might be made more palatable by a couple of full stomachs, his and hers. “Possibly Mr. and Mrs. Narramore would like to join us for dinner.”

“Oh, no. They're taking it in their room. Actually, I've ordered supper up as well.”

“It's going to waste.”

“Now, Hawk. Maiz taught me it's a sin to waste.”

He grabbed Charity's hand and led her out to the street, none too gently. Of course, she griped and complained, but Hawk remained determined; he got her to the nearest café–an establishment with little to recommend itself–sat her down, then smiled tightly. “What would you like for dinner?”

Pouting, she sniffed. “Nothing.”

“Don't be like that. We need to talk, and a hotel room is no place for it.”

The waiter approached.
“Willkommen.”

Bald and pot-bellied, he displayed a set of large teeth that showed signs of decay plus the leavings of food. Using a grayed towel, he wiped a couple of dead flies from the table into his hand. Though David Fierce Hawk's upbringing didn't lend itself to fastidiousness, he found the café positively unappetizing.

The waiter said something that was unintelligible to Hawk; Charity answered as unintelligibly; apparently in her mother's native tongue.

“What did you say to him?” Hawk asked as the man disappeared behind a swinging door,

“I said we aren't interested in eating here.”

“You got that right.”

They left. But instead of returning to the hotel, they walked past the town square and continued on a westerly course through the streets of Uvalde.

“Why, that looks like a park,” Charity said, pointing to an area that in no way resembled the lush beauty of Washington's public grounds, in Hawk's estimation.

It did, however, sport an area cleared for ball games, though no players were in sight. A mother launched her chortling child on a rope swing. Large and scruffy and barking to high heaven, a black dog chased a white cat. A young boy, pushing a hoop by a stick, ran amid the oleanders and ancient oaks. From the trees a chorus of birds got in their last squawks before sundown.

“Let's have a seat, shall we?” Hawk motioned to a bench. “There looks good.”

Charity sat down in the middle. Hawk squeezed one hip against an armrest. He fidgeted.
Wah'Kon-Tah! Why am I not brave enough to speak?

A vendor pushing a cart plodded down the path in Hawk and Charity's direction. “Raspas.
Muy delicioso. Raspas!”

“Mmm.” Charity waved a hand and called to the man in Spanish. “I'll have one.” She jumped to stand, then turned to ask, “Would you care for an iced treat, Hawk?”

“No, thanks.”

The vendor, a diminutive Mexican with a thin mustache that curled at the edges, made a show of packing the concoction of shaved ice and purple syrup into a makeshift cup of brown sack paper. Charity, clapping her hands, squealed in excitement with each of his movements. Hawk smiled at her childlike enthusiasm.

Singing a Spanish song of love, the vendor pushed the cart down the path. Between bites of the
raspa
, Charity joined him in song; she danced as she ate. Did she realize how lovely she was? Hawk doubted it. She had no idea of the power she had over him.

He noticed that the park was beginning to clear out, that the sun was turning to ribbons of orange and blue against the western horizon. Twilight fell.

Hawk concentrated on Charity. A woman wrapped in the giddiness of a girl, with the wildness of the untamed and probably untamable thrown in for good measure–that was Charity McLoughlin. As a boy he'd had no use for giggling girls. How strange, life. At the age of seven, he had chosen a wife. And the boy hadn't wanted one who giggled. Twenty years later, the man yearned for Charity's girlishness and high jinks.

She wouldn't be so merry, once he explained himself. For the first time, Hawk wondered at the wisdom of his plans as well as Maisie McLoughlin's. It might not be a good idea, forcing Charity to face her family. She didn't need the McLoughlins.
You have me.
Together, they could face anything the world threw at them.

And that was how he intended to approach the truth: with an alternative.

“Charity . . . why don't you sit down?”

“Mmm, soon as I'm finished with this.” Dancing before him in the muted light, she leaned forward to give an ample view of two charming attributes. “Would you like a lick, my darling?”

Yes. “No.”

“It really is tasty.” She smiled.

He loved her smile. He loved her nice teeth. He loved the way she looked . . . and felt. And what about her crazy, undisciplined ways? Realization hit him. Hit Hawk hard. He loved this crazy woman.

The luckiest day of his life had been the afternoon in '69, when Lisette had visited his village. No, that was the second luckiest. The most fortunate day of Hawk's life was when he had said yes to Maisie McLoughlin's strident appeal to rescue her great-granddaughter.

Charity's tongue flicked over the ice. Her free arm moved upward, as if reaching for the sky. “It's a wonderful evening, isn't it, Hawk?”

“Did you want to talk about something?”

“Later,” a craven voice replied. His voice.

Finished with the shaved ice, she crumpled the paper cone in her hand, then reached to place it on the park bench. He got a whiff of rose water.

Don't do this to me, Charity. I ought to be telling you
–“Let's see if we can't find a decent cup of coffee somewhere,” he said.

“Rather warm, isn't it?” She patted her bosom. “That
raspa
did nothing to cool me down. How about you? Are you hot?”

What a question. Again he fidgeted on the bench.

She stepped toward him. “Look at you, all dressed in leather. You must be burning up.” Her fingers worked his vest away from his shoulders. “Take this old thing off.”

“Don't.”

“Hush.” She knelt between his legs. One hand flattened on his shirt, her fingers inching between the buttons. “You have such a nice chest. So hard, so manly.”

“Please don't.”

By now, the buttons were unfastened to his waist, and she pressed forward. Her parted lips settled against his breastbone; her forefinger fiddled with his neckchain. He felt the tip of her tongue on his heated flesh. As if infused with a pint or more blood, his rod stiffened.

A quick glance across the park assured Hawk of their privacy. Yet wouldn't it be better, he wondered, if someone were to interrupt them? To hell with
better
. He needed to do the interrupting.

He grabbed her up and to him, pressing them both against the back of the bench. “Have mercy, Charity. Don't do this.”

“Me? Those are your fingers on my breast. And you're me holding me so close . . . Not that I'm complaining, you understand. Besides, what difference does it make, who is the aggressor? We're partners.”

“We
shouldn't do this.”

“Balderdash.” She squirmed onto his lap, and her fingers maneuvered to the hard evidence of his arousal. Stroking and cupping him, she whispered, her voice husky with emotion, “I've heard men enjoy being played with. I find it exceedingly enjoyable. Do you like it, Hawk?”

“Yes.” The word hissed past his constricted throat. “Yes.”

And then he was kissing her. Or was it, she was kissing him? What did it matter? Before he knew it, he had her on the ground, darkness covered them. Somehow her clothes were gone. Somehow he had gotten out of his. The grass soft beneath them, Charity soft beneath him. And fiery hot as an oven beneath his fingers. All his longings erupted into a frenzy of want and need, passion and desire. He adored her—his glorious mixture of innocence and minx.

“My hellcat angel,” he murmured raggedly and swept his fingers to her jawline.

“My darling savage.”

He touched her bottom lip with the side of his thumb. “I have wanted this for so long.”

He knew what they were doing was wrong. There was nothing settled between them. It shouldn't be this way. Charity was a white woman of means, a woman to be revered. The woman he loved. She deserved her first mating to be in a soft bed, with legal bindings.

But no matter what his head said, his body was done with listening.