Lone Star Loving

by Martha Hix

  Warming to the subject, Maria Sara smiled. “I saw one in an advertisement when I was expecting Jaime. Since then, I’ve imagined my hands on one–a thousand times.”

  The vieja winked again. “I am betting our Charity will be happy as a clam when she gets an eyeful of ye.”

  “I hope that happens soon,” Maria Sara replied frankly. “And I hope her happiness is as you imagine it’ll be. Over Fierce Hawk.”

  “Doona be worrying. Nature will take care of those two. Fierce Hawk will be scaring sense int’ her.”

  The old Scotswoman’s suggestion of scare tactics?

  Bah!

  When he got his hands on Charity, he was going to wring her neck. Hawk would find her. He’d been on her trail since daybreak. The sun was now high. His eyes swept the ground. She had left a trail that even the dumbest Indian could have followed, even a gullible fool who’d made this trip but once, on his way to collect a conniving little hellcat misnamed Charity.

  It wasn’t that she had made a getaway–such was to be expected, or should have been–nor was it that she’d taken anything with her that had Hawk in an uproar. It was what she had left, and how she had left them, that made him stop to grit his teeth and shake his fists at the sky, and not for the first time that day.

  Oh, how satisfying it would be, tightening his talons around that swanlike neck!

  Going north and then east, he followed a narrow creek, the San Lorenzo. It took him less than a half day to catch sight of her. She was bathing in the stream, humming, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Hawk slunk up behind her. He was too angry to take his fill of her wet-petticoat-clad form, though he wasn’t completely unaware of her alabaster skin and the perfection of her form. The last thing he wanted was to get between her legs. No, that was the second last thing. The last thing he would ever want? Marital chains binding him to this spoiled, devious brat.

  “Afternoon,” he said with a restrained growl, which made her jump.

  She whirled around and covered her pert, thinly veiled breasts with the wet calico dress. “You.”

  “Yes, me,” he said through clenched teeth. Dropping his arms from his chest, he tightened his fingers. “You were expecting a knight in shining armor?”

  “Actually, one did come along.” Brazen as she pleased, Charity motioned to the left. “A nice man. He’s a sheriff, and he’ll be back any moment now–he gave me privacy for my bath, you see.” She took a sidestep toward the creek bank. “Better run along before he arrests you.”

  “You’ll have to come up with a better one than that. Stay right where you are,” he ordered as she took another step. “You and I have unfinished business.”

  “We do not.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about the horses? Nice of you to show horseflesh so much respect.” He watched her face turn red, which gave him some satisfaction at least. “Where is the key?”

  “Key? What key?”

  “Don’t act the innocent, it doesn’t fit you.”

  To his amazement, she merely smiled at him. Advancing on her, he molded his fingers around an imaginary form. “Charity McLoughlin, I’m going to wring your neck for handcuffing those poor dumb horses together.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He looked like he’d eaten bullets for breakfast.

  “You might as well have cut those horses’ throats. They’ll die like that.” Hawk stood, wrists raised to do battle, while his dark eyes fired at her from the creek bank. “Damn you to whatever hell you fear.”

  His words hurt her more than his fists ever could.

  Charity plopped down in the water. A jagged rock caught her in the posterior. She wanted to scream. And not from the sharp pain, either. Dismayed over yet another harebrained scheme gone awry and chagrined at being recaptured, she muttered her own “Damn.”

  Before dawn, it had seemed a good idea, shackling the team together to keep Hawk from driving the buckboard after her. In the dark, and fearing what might befall her before dawn, she’d been in a dither to get away. But now, in the light of midday and the harsh glare of her captor’s eyes, she realized the stupidity of her actions.

  She might have known an Indian wouldn’t track someone by wagon. And she should have realized that leaving horseflesh stranded on the prairie was just as murderous as Hawk had charged. She would never have done such a thing had she been thinking straight.

  Was there any silver lining to this cloud? None she could see. Well, maybe one.

  Despite his being a kidnapper, and in spite of his claim to be capable of any savagery, and belying the look of fury in his aquiline face, Hawk, she felt, was a decent sort of fellow. The previous night he had instilled trust in her, to the point that she’d had second thoughts about escaping. His greedy bid for Papa’s money just hadn’t seemed that important under the stars, and she’d gotten the impression that his mind could be changed. Shortly thereafter, when he had roused her from sleep with his delving fingers . . .

  Well, last night was last night.

  “Get out of that water,” he demanded.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Get out and get dressed.” The glint in his eyes became even more feral as Hawk marched toward her. “Now!”

  Charity gulped and huddled. “Don’t touch me,” she squeaked when he swooped down and plucked her, like a wren of broken wing, from the stream. “Vulture, get your claws off me!”

  “Be informed–vultures feast on hellcats.”

  She fell to her back as he thrust her upon the bank. “You . . . you promised not to kill me.”

  “All promises are off.”

  Towering above her, Hawk planted a long, buckskin-clad leg at each side of her waist. Her eyes made the lengthy journey from his spread calves past the knife strapped to his thigh. The breechclout billowed from his waist, giving her a very shadowed view of the arch difference between a man and a woman. She supposed he’d be considered well-endowed, even if she had nothing to gauge her opinion, never having seen a man’s equipment before. She trembled, and it wasn’t from the threat of bodily harm.

  “Gotten an eyeful, you wanton hussy?” he taunted, leaning to cut off the paltry view.

  Her line of sight traveled upward, seizing on bronzed skin and silver before settling on his unforgiving face. My, Hawk was a handsome predator.

  “Is this where you scalp me?” she asked quietly.

  “I ought to.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “But I don’t want any reminder of you cluttering up my lodge.”

  Gads, she couldn’t even get a man to scalp her. I guess I really, really ought to think about reforming. On that thought, she laughed.

  “You think it’s funny, leaving dumb animals–”

  “I’m not laughing about what I did. I’m laughing at myself.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand. “I’m thinking I should be left at the nearest lunatic asylum.”

  Palms on his knees, Hawk angled downward. The silver pendant as well as his black hair swung in the air. “What makes you think you’ll live long enough to see so much as a proper building?”

  “You said you wouldn’t scalp me.”

  “I said nothing about not wringing your neck.”

  She lifted a brow at Hawk’s enraged expression and stole another look at the perfection of his brawny chest and muscled, veined arms. “I know you’re a bit angry, but must you hover so?”

  “Shut up.” The order hissed past his clamped teeth.

  Her eyes flitted along the sculpted lines of his taut lips. Something hot blazed through her. Her thoughts surprised her. I want him to kiss me; I want all his fury to abandon itself to passion. She wanted to be ravaged, right here at creekside.

  Good gravy!

  When she had bathed, she must have scrubbed away whatever was left of her brain.

  There was but one thing to do. Get a grip on reason. Back in Sam’s hovel, Hawk had warned her of his savagery. While she doubted he’d make good on his threat, she decided she’
d best play it safe.

  Her voice softer than usual, she asked, “Would you still want to wring my neck . . . if I were to say I was sorry?”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He straightened, then hoisted himself away from her. From a distance of a yard or so, he faced the stream and said, “You’re an abomination of a woman.”

  “I ... I never claimed to be otherwise.” She gulped, then rolled to her bare feet. “Last night, though, you said nice things about me.”

  “Lies to get between your legs.”

  You’re fibbing. “I am sorry about the horses. I would not have hurt horseflesh deliberately.” She coerced a smile as he faced her anew, and saw some of his anger vanishing. “I bet my virginity you’ve done something to make it easier on the team.”

  His lips the thinnest she had ever seen them, he reached for her valise and tossed it at her feet. “Get dressed. And give me the key. We’ve got to rescue the horses.”

  She hurried. Abandoning the wet calico dress, she pulled a gingham one over her head, then pushed her feet into last year’s velvet slippers. Finger-combing her hair, she chewed her lip. “Uh, Hawk, there’s a problem. You see, I, uh, um, well, I’ve l-lost the key. Actually, I threw it away.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he fumed.

  By late afternoon there was still no trace of the missing item. A dozen times, as they combed the trail she had taken that morning, Hawk impressed upon her the importance of remembering where she had tossed the key over her shoulder. A dozen times Charity had hefted her shoulders in uncertainty.

  His eyes to the ground, and within a quarter mile of the beleaguered team, Hawk still searched the dried grasses. He sidestepped prickly pears and scrub brush; he disturbed jackrabbits, armadillos, and a nest of rattlesnakes. The key, he didn’t find.

  “We’ve missed it, Hawk. It was hours after dawn that I threw it away. And I was certainly well past this area.”

  He muttered some kind of something, probably another Indian curse word. Dusting his hands, he said in English, “I give up. We’d better get back, before dark falls.”

  He stomped onward; she followed, trying to match his long strides. When they reached the campsite Charity ground to a halt and brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  Hawk wheeled around once more. “What’s–You’re laughing? You featherbrain, don’t you have an ounce of shame?”

  “I ... I guess not.”

  Not able to contain herself any longer, Charity laughed long and hard. The horses sure were a sight. No better than nags, the two were shackled together, one’s foreleg to the other’s hind leg. They leaned in to each other. The piebald’s tail whisked across its partner’s forelocks. The gray’s mouth twisted comically, then curled back to display a pink tongue and overlong yellow teeth receded from black gums; it had a woebegone expression in its eyes, a look that beat any puppy’s for pitiful—and, why, adorable.

  Her line of sight shifted. Indeed, as she had suspected, a pile of dried grass and buckets of water were set below each horse’s muzzle. “I guess I’m not in danger of losing my virginity.”

  “You got that right. Very right.”

  “Well, I know you’re a bit peeved,” she said, ignoring his harsh tone. She hadn’t expected him to be courtly about the day’s events, for heaven’s sake. But . . . “You know, Hawk, you really are something. I’d say . . . gallant.”

  He looked at her as if she had gone daft. “Gallant?”

  “Yes.” As she stepped closer, an armadillo rushed across her toes, and she jumped nervously. “I’m glad you found me. I was scared alone.”

  “You didn’t look all that scared in your bath.”

  “I had to do something to keep myself occupied until you showed up.”

  Doing another about-face, he said, “Now is not a good time to butter up to me, Charity McLoughlin.”

  All right, her timing was poor. They could talk later. And shame beset Charity again. How were they going to get the handcuffs off the horses?

  “You got a hairpin in that valise of yours?” Hawk asked.

  She did not, so he tried to come up with another method of picking the lock. A quill from the headdress he had stored in the buckboard snapped in the cylinder, as did a stick. A fork proved no use. Neither did the ax, since each time Hawk meant to swing it between the chains, the gray bucked and chaos erupted.

  “Shoot the chains apart.”

  “And tempt true chaos? Think again, Charity McLoughlin. I’m not a sharpshooter, I’m a law–I’m a law-abiding man.” He talked as fast as a snake-oil salesman. “A somewhat law-abiding man, except for the ransom deal.”

  She got the impression he’d stumbled over the word “law.” It almost sounded as if he were starting to say lawyer. Of all the crazy things! Hawk was no officer of the courts. In her scattered brain, she must have been looking to mix him up with the heroic Fierce Hawk, whose aim could probably sharpen a knife’s edge from a distance of thirty feet.

  Hawk, a forefinger roofing his upper lip, stomped back and forth in front of the gray; she observed, “I’m surprised you can’t shoot. Guess you make up for it with tomahawks and”–she eyed the weapon strapped to his thigh–“knives.”

  “Exactly.”

  Suddenly a shot rang out, startling them both.

  It came from the rise to their left.

  The gray horse reared and screamed, catching pistol fire in the side, then fell against the piebald. Hawk, his knife raised, rushed in the sniper’s direction. Charity ran for cover. Another shot rang out. Crimson exploded into the air as the piebald horse took fire in its head.

  A man, pistol leveled, stepped into sight.

  Ian Blyer.

  “My God,” Blyer said after Hawk’s knife caught his hat and set it flying to the ground, “you’ve been abducted by an Indian!” He aimed his pistol. “I will avenge your honor, dear one!”

  Charity screamed, “No! Don’t shoot.”

  Another shot rang out, striking Hawk in the shoulder and stopping his direct charge. Hawk clutched his wound.

  Charity was grabbed from behind. The stench of chilies and body odor surrounded her; she was hauled back against a bulky form. “Hola.”

  She recognized the voice and the smell. Rufino Saldino. Senor Grande of Nuevo Laredo. Manager of the Pappagallo whorehouse. Now obviously in cahoots with Ian Blyer.

  Disgust coursing through her, Charity shivered. She hadn’t thought of either cur in days. How naive she’d been to think she’d seen the last of them.

  Grande’s meaty hand clenched her upper arm as he shoved her in Ian’s direction.

  “Let her go,” Hawk shouted, marching toward them.

  “You don’t give the orders, Injun.” Ian brandished the revolver. “Take one more step, and I will shoot again!”

  Hawk stopped in his tracks.

  Ian’s mouth formed itself into a tight smile as he held out an arm to Charity. “Dear one, thank God, I’ve rescued you. Do come to me.”

  Charity sized up the situation. Here was her chance to get free of Hawk. Yet it was all she could do not to laugh at the farce her life had become. The Indian would rend her pride by ransoming her to Papa; Ian betrayed both God and the devil.

  She glanced at Hawk. From the look in his eyes, she knew he didn’t trust her not to fly to Ian. Charity stood right where she was.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Fräulein.”

  Stooped over her sewing, Maria Sara quit treadling the Singer to eye Charity’s cousin. Karl Keller, a sturdy cattleman of twenty-seven, filled the solarium’s doorway. The last rays of afternoon sun filtered through the room’s many windows to highlight the man’s gold hair, combed neatly behind his ears.

  And they were nice ears, she noticed, neither too large nor too small against a face square in dimensions. Sunshine also emphasized the flush on Karl’s cheekbones. Maria Sara got the disturbing feeling, as she had the first time she’d met him at the McLoughlin es
tate, that she’d seen him somewhere before.

  Ridiculous.

  Turning his tan Stetson around in his hands, Karl shuffled his booted feet. “Oma said I should take you to town.”

  Oma. Maria Sara had learned the word meant “grandmother” in the predominate language of this part of Texas. It seemed everyone save for Angus called Maisie McLoughlin the German equivalent of grandmother. Maria Sara had also taken to calling the vieja that particular term of endearment.

  But what was the take-you-to-town contract? Apparently Oma was up to her matchmaking tricks again. Even from a distance. Yesterday, the old woman had departed the Four Aces in a carriage fit for an empress, her destination a rendezvous in Uvalde with Charity and the Indian called Fierce Hawk.

  “Are you ready?” asked the alemán rancher.

  Maria Sara snipped a thread from a taffeta skirt. “It’s too late in the day for such a journey, Senor Keller.”

  The room fell silent, the only sound being that of a mockingbird outside the solarium. Until Maria Sara heard a swallowing. A very human swallowing.

  “Oma said I must take you to town. Tonight.” While he’d been born in Texas, Karl Keller’s accent paid homage to the Kellers’s German fatherland. “We must honor Oma’s wishes.”

  Maria Sara eyed his face, which reddened to a deeper shade of scarlet. His Adam’s apple bobbed. She knew him to be shy. It must have taken a huge effort on his part to go this far with Oma’s schemes. Touching. But how could she put a stop to his efforts without hurting the man? She needed the fire of such men as Ianito and his brief successor, El Aguila. Don’t think about either one.

  “Senor Keller–”

  “Most folks call me Karl.”

  “Karl, I am quite busy.” She pressed her palm on her handiwork. “Oma expects her new wardrobe to be completed before she returns from Uvalde, and I must not drag my feet.”

  “Ja. I understand.” On the toe of his boot, he turned toward the door. Yet he didn’t quit. One hand moving to the top of the door facing him, he stood firm. Stammering, he said, “There is a dance this evening at the Vereinskirche. Oma said you must dance.”