by Janet Dailey
“I have to go back.” Her soft red mouth made a moue of regret, and his gaze centered on it. “I only rode out to give you Momma’s message.”
A smile played with his mouth, faint and knowing. “And that’s the only reason you came out here?” The tantalizing fragrance of wildflowers drifted from her skin, the same unique fragrance that Katheryn always wore and Carol had adopted as her own.
“Of course,” she insisted.
He let the smile go ahead and curve the line of his mouth as he bent his head toward hers. Instinctively, she offered him her lips, swaying closer to him. Anticipation trembled through her when he brushed them in a teasing fashion. Reaching behind her, Hawk lifted the flap of one saddlebag.
As she seemed to become unconscious that his hand was occupied with a task other than her, he murmured into her mouth, “If the only reason you came out here was to deliver that message, why did you stop to take off your bra?”
Her head jerked away from his, temper flashing green in her eyes when she saw the lacy white brassiere dangling from his fingers. Hawk knew her anger was not caused by his discovery. Rather, it came because he had revealed his knowledge, showing her that he knew how very deliberately she sought to invite him to take her in his arms. Carol liked to pretend their embraces were spontaneous, completely unplanned. Hawk baited her with the fact that she desired him as much as he desired her.
“Why did you have to do that?” Her expression was properly irate.
“You like to be chased, don’t you?” He made the circle of his arms smaller. She struggled, but Hawk saw the way her lips parted in an unconscious invitation. “Do you resist because you think it’s the proper thing to do, or because it heightens your pleasure?”
“Hawk, stop it! Let me go!” she protested angrily.
Motionless for a second, he relaxed his hold, then let his arms fall from around her and stepped away. “Okay.” He saw the look of consternation flash across her expression. Being free wasn’t what she wanted at all. His blue eyes glittered with the knowledge as he held out the brassiere to return it to her. “You’ll want to put this back on before you ride back. ‘Momma’ might ask a lot of questions.”
“Damn you, Hawk!” She swore at him to mask her disappointment and snatched the bra from the hook of his finger. He laughed, a throaty sound rich with amusement. She struck at him, but he caught her hand before it reached his face and pulled her against him. “Brute!” she hissed.
“And you are a tease,” he accused softly and silenced any reply with his mouth. Instantly, there was a wild, hungry response to the domination of his kiss. The stiffness fled from her body; every curve welded itself to him.
Passion flamed hot and unchecked in both of them. Hawk let it burn, the heat flowing through his sensitized flesh. Yet there was no haste, no urgency in him. He would take her in his own good time and not be hurried by Carol, as she was prone to do if he let her set the pace.
His mind knew no guilt in taking her. In this, there was no confusion. For once, the practices of the Navaho and the white were in accord. Sex and the desire for it were natural things, as inevitable as life and death.
Hence, there was no need to deny himself the enjoyment of her body. Her hands were caressing his face and curling into the thickness of his hair while she pressed eager, urgent kisses on his mouth, chin, and jaw. Hawk wedged a space between them with his arm so his adept fingers could unfasten the buttons of her blouse in swift, sure action.
“It’s so open here,” she whispered in protest even as his hands pushed the blouse from her shoulders. “What if someone sees us?”
It was a question without a satisfactory answer, so Hawk didn’t attempt to find one. Sliding the blouse sleeves off her arms, he moved away to spread it on the ground. He removed his hat and hooked it on the horn of his saddle. Then he took off his shirt and laid it lengthwise next to hers to protect their naked flesh from the spiky, sun-scorched grass. When he turned, Carol was standing there half-naked, waiting, wavering uncertainly at his deliberateness.
Hawk held out his hand to her. She hesitated only an instant before she placed her small white hand in the large brownness of his and allowed herself to be drawn to the makeshift bed. Hawk was slow to follow her to the ground, letting his eyes run over her.
“Do you think I have a beautiful body, Hawk?” she asked in a voice that was breathless and needing.
He stretched his long frame alongside the smaller length of hers, raising himself on an elbow. “Yes.” His hand glided across the flatness of her trembling stomach to curve itself to the underside of a breast. “I can see your breasts becoming fat and heavy with milk someday and a baby suckling greedily from a nipple.”
His thumb moved to the brownish crest and circled it several times to arouse it to a stiff peak. When she moaned in uncontrollable passion, Hawk smiled and moved his hand upward to let his rough fingers slide into her hair. Its length fanned above her head in a headdress of gold.
“Your hair is as bright and shiny as the sunlight.” He gave her the compliments he had refused to offer in competition with Chad’s at the party. “It feels as soft as cornsilk. Your eyes are the color of the she-stone.”
He lowered his head to let his mouth explore the satiny texture of her cheek. As she curved her hands around his middle, an arm brushed the sweat-dampened hair under his arm—the contact brief and tickling.
“What is a she-stone?” she whispered, his compliment arousing a reluctant curiousity to distract her.
“A Navaho believes there are two of everything—male and female.” He kissed the side of her neck, evoking another moan from her throat, while his hand began another downward exploration, stopping at the waistband of her jeans. “The Colorado is a male river because of its churning, turbulent waters, and the placid Rio Grande, with its quiet waters, is female. A tall, sturdy plant is male, while the smaller, weaker plant of the same species is female. There are two predominant colors in turquoise stones. The one with the deep blue color is the he-stone, and the one with the greenish cast to it, like your eyes, is the she-stone.”
Deftly, his fingers unfastened the snap of her jeans and slid the zipper down. Her hands were there to help him push the denim material off her hips. Leaving her to finish taking off her jeans, Hawk stood up to remove his own faded Levi’s. He saw the fevered brightness in her eyes when he shed them.
“God, you look so primitive in that breechcloth,” she breathed in excitement. “Why do you wear it?”
“It’s more comfortable,” he answered with a smooth shrug and loosened the cloth that covered his genitals.
“Seeing you like that makes me feel like a white captive.” She tried to laugh at the thought, as if she wasn’t serious. “Did the Navaho ever steal white women?” she asked, her voice lifting in curiosity.
Hawk was used to such questions. Each time a woman learned he was a half-breed, she asked similar questions before, during, or after he had bedded her.
His nod was affirmative. “White women, Mexican, Apache—any woman. It didn’t matter what the race or tribe was. Because marrying within the clan was forbidden, sometimes the Navaho had to raid in order to capture wives.” He sank down beside her in a fluid move that was unhurried, yet one continuous, supple motion.
“What if she resists?”
Hawk read the expression written on her face, the pulsing excitement danger breeds, and his mouth formed a lazy curve. He moved to pin her to the ground with his torso, his weight settling partially onto her.
“You are like the others, aren’t you?” he observed. “You are turned on by the idea of a ‘noble savage’ taking you.” His mockery held no condemnation, only a curling amusement. His hands staked her arms to the ground above her head, and she quivered beneath him, her eyes bright and gleaming. “It adds spice, hmm? Acts out a sexual fantasy?”
In her reticence, Carol wouldn’t admit such a thing, and Hawk didn’t wait for her false denial. Her moist and parted lips told him all he needed
to know as he moved to drink from them and spread her legs apart with his knee. Her body arched to accept him, avid, whimpering sounds coming from her throat to be swallowed by his mouth. With his hands, he eased her into a position where he could fit more deeply in the saddle of her hips.
Hawk was absently conscious of the contrast between the whiteness of her satiny skin and the bronze sheen of his strong flesh. It soon escaped his notice under the rhythmic urgency of her hips that invited savage thrusts. Deliberately, Hawk held off her moment of satisfaction, waiting until her nails were digging into the rippling muscles of his back in wild demand. Even as he heard her cry out, he was rocked by the raw explosion of desire that flamed through him. A series of aftershocks shuddered through him, leaving him momentarily spent.
He rested on top of her; then gathering strength, he withdrew to stretch out beside her to let his heart stop its hammering and his lungs end their labored breathing. Carol rolled onto her side to curl against him, her hand gliding over his chest in silent ownership.
“Say you love me, Hawk,” she commanded in a husky tremor.
Her lips were still swollen from his kisses. Her flesh was still warm from his body heat. Now the sun’s rays continued to make it burn. Satisfaction had been mutual as it invariably was. Yet her question prompted a glint of amusement to enter his eyes.
“What is love?” Hawk chided. “A Navaho does not believe in ‘romantic’ love, as the whites know it.”
From all that Hawk had observed, the word was so loosely and freely used that it applied to a half a hundred things. Sexual desire was regarded as love. Liking someone was considered love. Caring for the well-being of another was love. Several times he had asked someone to define the word. Always it sounded like another emotion hidden under the guise of love.
Whenever he had expressed his skepticism, the response was that something inside would tell a person when they had found the one they loved. Hawk thought it was wiser to look at a prospective mate with your eyes instead of waiting for some mysterious signal.
This romantic love seemed forever elusive—intangible and indefinable. Hawk had concluded that it didn’t exist. The way of The People was much more sensible, he had decided after evaluating both.
“How does a Navaho go about choosing a wife, then?” Carol laughed, not certain that he was serious.
“By judging if she has the qualities he is seeking. Naturally, a wife should be able to cook and keep house. A man would want to enjoy having sex with her. She should be strong and healthy, capable of having his children and working at his side.”
These were all qualities he saw in Carol. And there was the advantage that she knew who he was and what he was. They had known each other practically all their lives, which made a very stable foundation for the future. But this was not the time to make her his wife. Next year, after he had graduated from college, he would marry her.
“How chauvinistic!” she declared on a thread of anger. “Cooking, cleaning, and having babies is certainly not my idea of married life. I want more out of it than that.”
He read the look in her eyes and knew she was visualizing Katheryn Faulkner, slim and sophisticated, the matron of Phoenix society. It troubled him, but only briefly.
“Chauvinistic? The Navaho is a very matriarchal society. A man owns nothing but his clothes and his saddle. Everything else—land, house, livestock—belong to his wife. He merely works for her,” Hawk explained with a lazy smile.
“That sounds better.” She snuggled closer to him, but he became aware of the lengthening shadows cast by the sun, and he rolled to his feet, reaching for his breechcloth and pants.
“I thought that might appeal to you.” He glanced over his shoulder. She was greedy and spoiled, always scheming to have her way. It didn’t worry him. He knew how to handle her. Carol was still lying on the blouse and shirt, stretching out like a smug white cat. “You’d better get dressed,” Hawk advised.
“In a minute.” She slid him a provocative look.
Chapter VI
“Now. I want my shirt.” He snapped the opening of his Levi’s shut and reached down to pull the plaid shirt from beneath her hips.
But she deliberately flattened herself more fully onto his shirt, daring him to take it. A wicked light danced in devilish blue eyes as Hawk knelt to engage in a last, playful wrestling match with her.
The instant his knee touched the ground, he felt the vibrations … caused by galloping hooves. A second later, he was standing tall, scanning the landscape for the source. The aftermath of passion had drugged his senses, lessening their normal keenness, or he would have been warned of the approaching horses and riders before they were this close.
“Get dressed.” This time it was a flat order. “Someone’s coming.”
“Oh, my God!” Carol whispered in panic and scrambled to her feet, snatching up her jeans and hastily pulling them on.
Even before the four riders came close enough for Hawk to see their faces clearly, he recognized them. The two riders lagging behind were ranch hands, Bill Short and Luther Wilcox. The man sitting so stiffly in his saddle was Chad Faulkner. He was riding beside Tom Rawlins.
“Oh, no! It’s Daddy!” Carol sobbed behind him and Hawk turned to find her fumbling with the snap on her jeans.
Making a lightning-quick assessment, Hawk realized there was no hope of fooling Rawlins. His view of the scene might have been limited by distance, but Rawlins would have seen enough to know what had preceded his arrival. Reaching down, he scooped his shirt off the ground and slipped his arms into the sleeves, but he made no attempt to button it or tuck it into his denims. Carol’s hands were still all thumbs, unable to fasten the hook of her bra when he turned away to step between her and the quartet of riders, led by her father.
Fifteen feet away, the horses were reined to a sliding halt as the riders piled out of their saddles. Hawk’s attention focused on Rawlins, paying scant heed to the riders who flanked the man who was now striding forward. Rawlins was small-built but wire-tough. The man’s quietness was deceptive, but Hawk had never underestimated the man’s strength or will. Running a ranch this size, as Rawlins did, meant keeping thirty and more rough and rowdy cowhands in line, something the man had been doing for more than half of Hawk’s life.
A fair man. If Rawlins had a blind spot, it was his daughter. She could do no wrong in his eyes. Hawk knew this situation was going to rearrange his timetable, moving forward his marriage plans to this summer instead of the next. Hawk respected this man who had taken him in, raised him, and taught him everything he knew about cattle and ranching. No matter how severely tested his temper was, Rawlins had always been a man who listened to reason.
But at the moment, the savagely hard and cold expression on the man’s face didn’t appear to belong to someone willing to listen to explanations. Hawk stood his ground, meeting the raging look of the man facing him without flinching. Behind him, he could hear Carol breathing in gasping sobs.
“What the hell is this?” Rawlins thundered. “What have you done to my little girl?”
Prepared for such an outburst, Hawk didn’t let the anger touch him. “Tom, I—” He never had a chance to finish the sentence.
“Daddy, I didn’t want to,” Carol sobbed in shrill hysteria. “He made me, Daddy. He held me down.”
Stunned by this false accusation, Hawk jerked his head around to stare at her. Tears were washing down her face, stained red with shame. The white straps of her bra were falling loosely off her shoulders as she huddled behind the blouse she held in front of her. The watery green of her eyes was focused on her father, pleading with him. Hawk felt the sickening shock of betrayal.
“I treated you like a son, you goddamned son-of-a-bitchin’ bastard!” Rawlins snarled in hate. “And you repay me by raping my baby!”
Hawk turned back to forcefully deny the charge, but he never had a chance to speak. What felt like a steel rod was rammed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs and doubling him in
half. A fist exploded against his jaw, the force of it straightening him and sending him flying backward to the ground. Pain roared through his head.
A woman’s scream echoed through his brain as he shook his head, trying to clear its fuzziness. As he pushed his swaying body to his knees, his blurred vision saw Carol running to Chad. He never made it to his feet as another blow sent him sprawling into the dirt.
Again, Hawk wedged an arm between his body and the ground to lever himself upright. Before he could carry out the attempt, the toe of a boot was driving into his ribs, lifting the middle of his body, and rolling him over. Sheer instinct took over, rolling his body another revolution away from his attacker and letting the momentum bring him woodenly to his knees.
As Rawlins advanced toward him, Hawk dove for him. A fist clipped his temple, but Hawk got his arms around the man’s waist and hung on to drive Rawlins backward. Hawk’s superior size and weight should have forced Rawlins to the ground and give Hawk the few seconds he needed to clear his reeling senses so he could defend himself.
But Rawlins didn’t go down. Something supported him. In the next second, a different pair of hands was dragging Hawk away from his attacker. His first thought was that someone was trying to stop the fight until he realized no one was holding Rawlins. With his arms pinned in a vise-like grip, he couldn’t ward off the swinging fist that slammed into his stomach.
Struggling wildly, Hawk nearly freed an arm, but his captor was joined by a second man. Some distant part of his brain realized the two men holding him for the beating were the cowhands, Bill Short and Luther Wilcox, men he’d ridden with and worked beside. But Rawlins’ fists were hammering him to pieces, blotting out the sun and his memory.
Blinded, stunned, and helpless, he felt the strength going out of his legs. He sagged, kept upright only by the two men who held him. A bone popped, enveloping him in a red mist of pure agony. More blows fell, but Hawk had begun to sink into a black oblivion that offered numbness. His weight grew heavier and heavier, pulling at the hands that held him. His head was on a swivel that allowed it to roll with the slamming fists.
