Lone Star Loving (26 page)

“He's not starving. I am. To continue this discussion.”

In the dark of the clouded night, with the after-rain freshness of the air filling his nostrils, Hawk stared down at Charity as she said these words. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted her love.

Yet she had said there was nothing to keep him here.

He walked to the pond and cast his gaze upon the argent waters. “Charity, have you ever stopped to think that we might have a future together, you and me?”

“Yes. How could I not?” Standing, she narrowed the distance between them. Her palms settled on his chest, and it was all he could do not to cover her hands with his own. Suddenly clouds moved away from the half moon and lit up her features. “I . . . I love you.”

Her words vanquished his grief over his father, vanquished his uncertainty about where the road of life would take him. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her sweet-smelling hair. The strength of their love flowed between them. Hawk moved his lips to her parted ones. Their kiss was tender, loving. “Thank you for telling me,” he murmured against her ear. “And I'm thankful you didn't say it in the heat of passion. Like you did before.”

“I do reserve the right to say it ... anytime.” She tightened her arms around his neck, her breasts thrusting against him. “That's only fair.”

“Right. That's fair enough.” He laughed. “You never do let me have the last word, do you?”

“Another right I reserve.” On her tiptoes, she rubbed her nose against his. “And I reserve the right to keep after you. Hawk, my darling, please think about what I said. About returning to your people.”

“If I go it will be because honor dictates it.”

He dropped his arms from Charity and, turning from her, walked along the bank. She didn't protest.

He thought about what she had said. He didn't like the idea of going home. He didn't belong there, though he felt a responsibility to the tribe. While on the reservation, he'd been uncomfortable with the old ways, had been eager to return to Charity and her world.
You've changed. Hawk. You weren't born in the wrong century. You want the white man's ways for your own.

Yet the new chief as well as the council of elders had begged . . . What did he owe them? He felt honor-bound to return.

If he did, Hawk wanted Charity at his side. And how could this be? His recent visit to the reservation had convinced him that she wasn't meant for an Indian woman's life.

While his mother had adapted, despite the circumstance of her maternal family's wealth, Hawk feared Charity would never be able to adjust to the dismal, harsh surroundings. Nor was she the type to accept the social strictures of a town like Austin. She was wild and impetuous, perfect for the excitement of the thing she dreamed of, a Wild West show.

But what if they had made a child from their mating in the pond? Sam Washburn had cautioned that pulling out was no guarantee there'd be no babe. Jesus, Lord of the paleface, even if she wasn't with child . . . The Old One was wise. By his taking Charity's virginity, he owed her the respectability of marriage.

He swung around and found her within a few feet of him. Hugging her arms, she watched him closely. He breathed in deeply. “Charity, would you go with me to the Territory?”

The night grew quiet, the slight breeze ruffling the leaves the only sound. Then a coyote howled in the distance; the plaintive cry echoed in Hawk's ears. His heartbeat thundered through his chest as he waited, waited, waited for Charity to reply.

He took two steps. He saw uncertainty in her eyes. Eventually, he was the one to speak. “You'll be free of the smuggling charges. Soon. And you've got to consider the future. You stained your reputation, running after Blyer. But I took your virginity. If you ever intend to marry anyone, it had better be me. Or you'll have a helluva lot of explaining to do on your wedding night.”

“Did you speak with Maiz before you came out here?”

“What does she have to do with it?”

“Possibly nothing. Possibly everything. Tell me, and tell me honestly. How much of this is my great-grandmother's doing?”

He wouldn't lie. “The Old One never backs down.”

Charity retreated, stopping a half-dozen feet away. “So, like your sense of honor to the Osage, your sense of responsibility binds you to me.”

Irritated, he replied stiffly, “I think that is uncalled for. Yes, the Old One is waging a campaign. And, yes, it is a factor in my asking for your hand, but I recall we have exchanged vows of love, so a simple yes or no will be sufficient.”

“No!”

Anger and disappointment knifed through Hawk.
Wah'
KonTah
! He had tried to be honorable and she'd tossed his honor back in his face. Never would he ask again. “Goodnight, then,” he said, and left her to her thoughts.

Charity rushed into the house. While her heart went out to Hawk over the loss of his father, and while she sympathized with the dilemma he faced about the Osage, she couldn't help but be furious with him now. Why did everything have to go wrong on the heels of her admissions of love?

Why couldn't Hawk have lied and said honor had nothing to do with it?

Margaret must have heard her footfalls in the hallway, for she was entering the bedroom even before Charity had thrown herself across her bed.

“I know your Hawk is back,” said Margaret. “Apparently parting was not such sweet sorrow. Or at least the reunion wasn't.”

Charity buried her head in the pillow, and mumbled into it, “Go away.”

She heard a familiar tinkling, and opened one eye to see her sister pouring cognac into a snifter. “Put that stuff away. It reminds me of Hawk.” And of the night he had made love to her in this very room. “Go away.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margaret tapped her shoulder. “Drink. I won't take no for an answer.”

Turning over, Charity punched up the pillows behind her head. “Give it here.” She took a sip. “Ugh. I've never liked cognac. I don't know why Mutti insists that it be left in everyone's bedroom.”

“To soothe tensions at the end of the day. Have another sip, Triplet.”

Doing as she was told, Charity realized there was method to her mother's madness. She did feel somewhat better. She glanced at Margaret. “I'm at my wit's end.”

“You and Hawk had a difference of opinion?”

“He asked me to marry him. I said no.” Charity took another sip. “He didn't ask in the name of love. He wanted to make an honest woman out of me!”

Margaret tossed back her head and laughed. “Your Hawk is to be pitied. He hasn't learned that no one makes my willful sister do anything.”

She tossed a pillow. “Margaret McLoughlin, don't you dare laugh at me!”

Her expression schooled, Margaret gave an apology. “What is wrong with making you an honest woman?” she asked.

“Because Maiz put him up to it. Because he's worried that people will think me a tart. Can you imagine him worrying about my purity when the whole world knows I'm going on trial for my life! I want him to ask for my hand in the name of love. I want him to love me so much that he can think of nothing else except dragging me by the hair of my head to the altar!”

“Well, Triplet, it could be some sort of cultural thing. I've heard the noble savage puts great stock in the approval of his elders—I really must study more about the native society. Dang, there's never enough time to learn everything.”

“Maggie!”

“All right, all right. Anyway, I don't see anything wrong with his wanting to impart to you respectability.” Margaret squinted in deliberation. “If you ask me, which you have, I think you're too much the romantic and Hawk's too much the practical sort when it comes to love.”

“Possibly.”

“No, definitely. Your romance has progressed too fast. You should ease back from it. Don't be so eager to yield to his charms. Then you'll find out who he is more interested in pleasing. Maisie or himself. Or
you.”

Charity decided to give this advice some thought.

 

 

Saturday night arrived.

On horseback, and far from prying eyes, Ian Blyer watched as wedding guests flocked to the ranch of Karl Keller. Tonight that betraying
puta
Maria Sara would finally get a ring on her finger. Ian didn't like the idea at all, though jealousy played no part in his disfavor.

“Damn the bitch,” he ranted under his breath. “I should have known she would take refuge with the McLoughlins.”

But Ian had never imagined that she would have been able to insinuate herself so deeply into the McLoughlin family that one of their own would take her to wife. Undoubtedly she'd be eager to ingratiate herself with her new kinfolk, and would hop on the witness stand to contradict everything Ian Blyer had to say.

The whore could ruin his plans. Ruin them!

His fingers clamped the reins tightly. “I must get rid of her.”

He had until the trial's beginning to come up with a clever strategy for murder.

Saturday night, with a gathering of family and friends in attendance for the torchlit outdoor nuptials, Maria Sara Montaña became Mrs. Karl Keller. From the back of the crowd, Hawk watched the ceremony with an ache in his heart, especially as he gazed at the blue-frocked maid of honor.

Did the vows get to her, as they had him? No! Not once did she look his way, before or during the ceremony. And she'd avoided him all day, even on the trip to the Keller ranch in her father's gilded coach.

Once the couple had kissed, sealing their exchange of vows, the guests rushed forward to congratulate the newlyweds. Hawk—in no frame of mind for a celebration, especially one of marriage —lagged back to watch Charity give hugs to the bride and groom, then glide over to the Old One, who wore a flowered hat and a dress decorated with a string of pearls; her bustle gave a suggestion of curves to the ancient bones.

Hawk moved closer and heard Charity compliment the Old One's attire. While he didn't care for seeing Charity's hair piled atop her head and hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, she had never looked more lovely to him, what with her light-blue, cameo-enhanced silk dress that nipped at her waist, emphasizing all that Mother Nature had bestowed upon her.

He wondered if Charity would become thin in her old age. What made him think he would ever know how she'd look in her dotage? He accepted a shot of whiskey from the Four Aces's top hand, the old-timer Ed Roland.

He watched Charity turn to a group of locals; Hawk noticed they were curt and eager to snub his outlaw angel. Momentarily her shoulders slumped, then she hoisted her chin and acted as if nothing had happened. But Hawk knew she was hurting. Despite his anger, he felt the urge to rush her from censure, rush her into the cocoon of his protection.

Don't do it,
he warned himself. She needed to get used to rebuke; it would toughen her hide for San Antonio.

He watched a cadre of women as they uncovered dish after dish of food. A quartet of cowboy musicians filled the air with music, mostly of the German and hoedown variety. From a fire-pit that belched the delicious scent of barbecued beef, a couple of men unearthed a cow's head that had been wrapped in wet burlap and buried earlier that day around a nest of coals.

“Eeeee-hah!” a male guest, brandishing a carving knife, shouted to announce the barbecue. Quite a number of people thrust plates at the carver. Hawk wasn't hungry in the least.

He grieved for his father. He grieved for his inability to choose between the white man's world and the Osage. He grieved for an uncertain future where he and Charity were concerned.

The musicians struck up a polka, and the newlyweds strolled through the crowd of well-wishers. Taking a long draft of mediocre bourbon, Hawk watched the bride. There was something about Maria Sara that needled him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but if he had to make a guess, he would say it had something to do with the slyness that flashed in her eyes from time to time.

He would be glad to get to Laredo, where he could search for other witnesses to testify on Charity's behalf.

Once more his eyes found her. Flanked by her parents and Margaret, she stood by the cake table and sipped a cup of punch. Her sister, who wore a brown frock and had her hair yanked into an unbecoming bun at the nape of her neck, chatted with her. Although a stranger might not be able to tell them apart, had they been clothed in matching clothes, Hawk would never mistake the two.

Margaret was all business.

Charity was all fire.

“ 'Tis a pithy one, our Margaret.” Maisie had found Hawk. “A lass of purpose and determination. In anything she sets out t' do.”

“I've met women like her,” Hawk replied. He'd
known
a few of them, too. He took another drink. Once a man cracked through that type, they were tornadoes in bed. Provided the man did as he was told, he thought with a chuckle.

“Aye, Margaret is dedicated t' the path of success, wherever it leads.”

Hawk took another swig of bourbon; the Old One continued.

“ 'Twasn't so long ago that ye might have gone t' Laredo t' abduct Margaret, had she been the triplet there.”

Where would the path have taken them? he wondered. Right to the Osage reservation. In no time Margaret would be orchestrating the activities of the tribe, finding new ways to grind corn. No doubt she'd turn the place on end, demanding a seat in the council of elders.

“Are ye thinking aboot what woulda happened, had ye met Margaret first?”

“Excuse me,” Hawk said in exasperation.

He did an about-face, finished off the glass, then accepted a refill, this one from a flask offered by a boisterous cowboy whose white shirt contrasted with the black of his string tie and suspenders. Hawk chose not to make conversation. He continued to study the two sisters.

Margaret had character all right, but she was no match for Charity in looks. His hellcat angel was the only choice for him, even though his spirit lay shattered at the bottom of the chasm separating their hearts. If only he could touch her. If only . . .

Feeling the effects of the liquor, he went to her, weaving a bit. Torchlight reflected in the blue of her eyes when she nodded at him. Nodded! Nothing else. While her sister and their parents tried to make pleasant conversation, Hawk had to restrain himself from picking Charity up and carrying her away to a place where no chasm existed.

The quartet struck up a waltz; Gil led Lisette onto the makeshift dance floor, and Margaret said to Hawk, “I noticed you haven't danced tonight.”

Though he wanted to grab Charity into his arms, he'd never mastered the waltz and wouldn't make a fool of himself by trying. He took another swallow. “I don't dance.”

“I'll teach you.” Margaret smiled. “If you're interested.”

“Some other time.”

He scowled at Charity, who did not offer lessons. She pirouetted to her father's foreman and tapped his shoulder. “Ed Roland, I believe this is your dance, sir.”

Hawk wheeled around, almost stumbling as he charged away.

“Not the romantic sort, are you?” he heard Margaret say as he blended into the crowd.

The Old One found him again. This time she touched on her favorite subject: “ye doing right by the lass.”

“I've asked for her hand. She said no. Now quit on it.”

Starting to make an about-face, Maisie said, “I will be seeing what Charity has t' say about that.”

He caught her skinny arm. “Don't. For God's sake, don't.”

“Ye call in the name of the Almighty? Are ye a Godfearing man, Fierce Hawk of the Osage?”

“Yes. I believe in God as well as
Wah'Kon-Tah.
A man needs all the help he can get in this life.”

“Well, ye could be worse.”

Again she set a course, and again Hawk stopped her. “Leave Charity alone about marrying me. We'll work out our problems on our own.”

“I have yer word on that?” At his nod of agreement, the Old One said, “I'll be trusting ye t' do son.”

Instead of marching toward Charity and her dancing partner, she filed over to her grandson and his wife, who had stopped waltzing to speak with the bride and groom.

Hawk had it to the gills with celebrating. Unfortunately, he had ridden over with the McLoughlins; he was trapped. The best he could do was find a somewhat deserted area, and wait out the party.

Hawk maneuvered himself to a dark corner near the ranch house. From there he watched a cowboy slap the bridegroom on the back. Karl Keller turned to listen to what the man had to say. The bride glanced at her new husband, then at Hawk. Picking up a bottle of champagne from one of the cloth-covered tables, and with a glass in her other hand, she started toward him.

Now probably wasn't the time to discuss her testimony, but what else was there to do? So Hawk didn't shy away when she came abreast of him.

Looking up at him with sultry eyes, she held the bottle aloft. “Your glass needs refilling.” Her lashes fell demurely. “May I do the honors?”

Hawk shrugged. Champagne tinkled into his glass. Maria Sara, her line of sight traveling upward once more to settle on Hawk's face, sipped from her own glass. There was something entirely improper about all this, Hawk suspected.

“Are you willing to travel to San Antonio and testify on Charity's behalf?” he asked quickly.

“But of course. She is my dearest friend and we are now cousins by law. I would do anything to help her.”

“I hope you mean that.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

He drank the sparkling wine. “You tell me.”

“I am concerned about one aspect of the proceedings.” Maria Sara's hand tightened on the neck of the bottle. “It will not do for my employment at Pappagallo's to come to light. Do I have your assurance that when I testify to introducing Rufino Saldino to my friend, you will not mention my connection to that house of ill-repute?”

“You have my assurance.” Hawk would have promised anything at this point. “Is there anything else you can think of to help the case?”

“Senor Hawk, must we discuss such dismal doings? This is my wedding, you know.”

Hawk took a backward step; she took a forward one. He took another step, and again she stepped closer. He detected a bitch in heat.

She smiled under the moonlight. “I have been wanting to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“You do not look like an Indian. I have seen many in my country. They have diluted Spanish blood. You do not resemble them at all.”

“Am I supposed to be complimented?”

“Actually, you and I share a common bond.” She refilled his glass anew, and it was obvious that her hand hadn't brushed his by accident. “It is rumored that native blood flows through my veins. Such has to do with an ancestress from the village of Coatlpoala in Mexico.”

“How interesting,” Hawk commented dryly.

“Coatpoalans–the pagan ones–have been known to be maneaters.”

Interest somewhat piqued, Hawk eyed the woman anew. No doubt she was a man-eater. Without regret, she would chew up a man's flesh and spit out the bones.
I wish Charity and I weren't depending on her.

“Charity looks as if she's lonesome,” he said and started to take his leave. He weaved. Definitely, he'd had too much to drink.

Karl Keller called to his wife, and she waved to Hawk before saying, “We must talk again.”

Not until absolutely necessary,
he wanted to call after Maria Sara Keller.