Lone Star Loving

by Martha Hix

  “Repayment is the last thing I want. And I’m doing fine, now that Oma has hired me.”

  “And where does the morning find my meddlesome great-grandmother?” Charity asked.

  “Oma is in your father’s study.”

  Then Papa was home. Charity felt as if the whole contents of the sink had surged up to douse her face with icy reality. She began to shake. “I... I’d better hurry getting dressed.”

  “Would you like for me to help you?”

  “No. But please send in one of the servants.”

  Maria Sara nodded.

  “I’m glad you’re home, my friend,” Charity said gratefully.

  “Me too, amiga,” Maria Sara replied as she turned and exited the bathroom, leaving Charity to her thoughts.

  Within a minute or so, Graciella was hovering over Charity. “Which dress would you choose, señorita?”

  “The gray muslin.” It ought to be austere enough.

  Corseted, bustled, brushed, and made fit, she trudged toward her father’s study. The walk reminded her of what it must feel like, taking the last steps to the gallows. What would Papa do, once they were face to face?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Thankfully, Maisie was no longer in her Gil McLoughlin’s study.

  The large room was just as Charity remembered it. A hardwood floor; massive, dark furniture upholstered in deep wine leather; walnut paneling. Between the pair of casement windows, looking out over the many acres of the Four Aces, hung a painting of longhorn cattle. Their fierce faces, decked with expansive horns, were painted in the foreground of massive dust clouds that billowed up to the cerulean sky.

  Behind the huge desk a rack of horns dominated one wall. They spread a good eight or nine feet, commemorating a bull that her papa had admired and loved—Tecumseh Billy, who had led the way to Kansas on each of Gil McLoughlin’s cattle drives and had paved the way to McLoughlin riches.

  Cattle drives were now a thing of the past. Barbed wire laced the Chisholm Trail. Railroads ferried cattle to northern markets. After a peaceful retirement, Tecumseh Billy had died of old age, with a campfire and singing cowboys surrounding him. He rested in a proper grave not far from the main house. An era had died with him.

  “You’re back.”

  Charity jumped at her father’s voice. No welcome imbued his tone. Barely looking at her, he cut across the room to settle into the chair behind his desk. Papa was just as she remembered him. Ungiving. Scowling. Disapproving.

  “You’re back, too.” She refused to cower. “How was jail?”

  “About like seeing my wayward daughter. Like hell.”

  “How very kind of you.”

  “Sit down, Charity. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  Her father reached for a coffeepot and poured a mud-thick cup of the brew. He waited for her to reach for it. She did—why be any more ornery than necessary? But she didn’t sit down. She wanted to have the advantage of looking down at him.

  He gave her a hard once-over. “Pleased with yourself?” he asked.

  “Must you make this so difficult?”

  “You’ve made it difficult, Charity McLoughlin. Sit down, dammit, and I mean now.”

  She sat, though with some difficulty, thanks to her bustle. “Thank you, Papa, for defending my honor with Ian and his father.”

  “You have shamed us all, Charity.”

  Her shaking hand reached for the coffee cup. She scalded her tongue on its thick contents. “I suppose I have.”

  “Suppose? No supposing about it, girl. You have.”

  Though she had spent her life trying to get her papa’s attention, she could have done without it now. “I—I’ll be leaving now.”

  “You, by God, won’t.”

  The force of his words assaulted her. “Must you shout?”

  “What am I—what is everyone—to think, daughter? You ran off to meet one man, returned with another, and you’ve got a bounty on your head.”

  “I didn’t mean to carry money for Adriano Gonzáles.

  “You didn’t mean to? What in bloody hell does that mean?”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing, until it was too late.”

  “That seems to be the story of your life.” Gil McLoughlin leaned forward to plant an elbow on his desk. “Just what have you been up to with that Indian?”

  “Hawk is my attorney, and—”

  “Not anymore he’s not. I brought a team of lawyers from Austin to clear the family name. I fired Hawk, not ten minutes ago. And if he knows what’s good for him, he’s headed off my property.”

  “You fired him?” Pushed past her limits, Charity rose from the chair. “How dare you do that?”

  “Same way I’ve done everything in my life. Quickly. Forcefully. Unhesitatingly.”

  “You can’t fire him. I hired him. You have no say over me.”

  “That so?” Papa parked his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers in front of his sun-dried, fifty-year-old face. “I seem to recall you haven’t reached your majority. Seems to me I still have legal control over you.”

  “And you love having that control, don’t you?” She glared at him. “But I won’t be controlled. I will find Hawk and stop him from leaving. No. I’ll make certain he takes me with him.”

  She whirled around, making for the door, but her father’s words stopped her. “For another roll in the hay?”

  “What?” Again, she faced her father. “What makes you think? Mutti—she told you didn’t she?”

  . “She told me nothing. I was going on a hunch. And on the boots that Manuel found beneath your window.” Gil McLoughlin closed his eyes, and his mouth pulled into a grimace. “Damn.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Papa. What is between me and Hawk is between me and Hawk—and no one else.” She grabbed the doorknob, giving it a twist. But the door opened too quickly—Charity stepped back as David Fierce Hawk marched forward to the study. “I—I thought you had left,” she murmured.

  “Never.” Hawk’s fingers brushed her jawline. “I’d never desert you, my darling.”

  She was glad her father had heard his declaration, and she was even more glad, seeing him. “I knew you wouldn’t desert me,” she bluffed, “my darling.”

  “Tell me, Hawk,” said her father. “Am I going to need to oil my shotgun over this affair?”

  Oh, no. Not Papa, too! “Leave it where it is,” she said. “I have no intention of marrying. Ever.”

  “Charity,” Hawk whispered. “Let me handle this.”

  For once, she was relieved to hand over control.

  She followed Hawk into the depths of the study. He helped her into a chair at the side of her father’s desk. Without being asked by Gil McLoughlin, Hawk sat down in the chair she had quit. “In case you’ve wondered what I’ve been up to since you ordered me off your property, McLoughlin, I’ve been firing those Austin lawyers you brought home. They’re past your gates as we speak.”

  “Why, you son of a bitch,” Papa shouted, rising up from his chair and nearly toppling it behind him. His eyes hard, he ground out, “You looking for my bullet between those Injun eyes of yours?”

  Charity shivered; she knew her father was capable of making good on the threat.

  Hawk lifted his palms. “Hey, the lady hired me. What can I say? I wouldn’t be much of a defender if I didn’t look out for her best interests. And if you don’t approve . . . too bad.”

  The room went silent as Papa eyed Hawk. Charity’s heart thumped. Papa never let anyone thwart him. What would he do next?

  Amazingly, the meanest bull in the Lone Star State sat down in his chair and sighed. “You truly think you can free my girl from the charges against her?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  Papa stared at Hawk, then at Charity. She could tell that indecision was roiling within him. She held her breath.

  “I won’t fight you,” he said at last, to his daughter’s surprise and amazement.

  “Good,” said Hawk.
“But we need your help. Charity needs her family at her side.”

  “I would never desert my daughter.”

  Never had she been so proud of her papa! She fought the urge to surge to her feet, fly around his desk, and throw her arms around him.

  Her papa rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll hand this to you, Hawk. You’ve got balls.”

  Oh, dear. It wasn’t over yet.

  “Watch what you say.” Hawk shifted uncomfortably. “There’ s a lady present.”

  “Don’t tell me how to talk in front of my own daughter!” he barked. Yet Charity saw a grudging respect for Hawk in her papa’s countenance.

  “Since the lady in question happens to be the woman I love, I will remind you to watch your tongue.”

  Hawk loved her? Charity shook her head to clear it. Had she heard right? She stared at Hawk. From the forthright look on his face, she knew she had. He loved her!

  Right then, all her problems seemed insignificant.

  A couple of hours after the showdown in Gil McLoughlin’s study, Hawk, driving the McLoughlin buggy with Charity on the seat beside him, caught sight of Fredericksburg.

  Charity was in a delightfully good mood, considering their destination. She hadn’t mentioned what might happen at the sheriffs office, and neither had he. Like a pup welcoming the sun on a warm day, Hawk basked in her high spirits. He said nothing of his avowal of love, but he noticed she didn’t bring it up either. Well, a buggy ride culminating in her surrender to the authorities probably wasn’t a good place for talk like that.

  Reaching the eastern edge of town, Hawk stopped the buggy to allow a funeral procession to pass by. Situated to their right was a hotel, a widow’s walk dominating its facade. Just as the last of the cortege rolled down the street, a boy, appearing to be aged four or five, darted out of the hotel. He held a toy boat in his sturdy grip.

  Charity lifted her hand, waving to him. “Chester! Chester Nimitz! How are you?”

  The light-haired youngster—handsome and hardy, the type, any father would be proud of—ran forward to stop below Charity. “Hello, Miss Charity. Where have you been? Why don’t you teach Sunday school anymore?”

  Charity a Sunday school teacher? Hawk had a hard time picturing that. Nonetheless, he realized there was no end to the many facets of his archangel.

  “I’ve been away, Chester,” she said to the youngster. “It’s good to see you. Is that a new boat?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He held up the miniature frigate, displaying it proudly. “Isn’t it nice?” He tapped the bow against his solid chest. “I’m going to go down to the sea in a tall ship someday. Did you know that?”

  “Oh, yes, Chester William Nimitz, I know. You’ve told me many times. I’ll bet someday you make these United States proud.”

  At that moment a uniformed woman with an obviously grim disposition charged from the hotel. Catching sight of Charity, she imparted a look of vast disapproval. “What are you doing out of jail?”

  “Can I go riding with Miss Charity, Miss Agatha?”

  “No! Get inside.” She cuffed his ear. “It’s time you washed up for the meal, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Waving the frigate at Charity, the boy was pulled by one hand into the hotel.

  “His nursemaid never did care much for me,” Charity said as Hawk made a right turn onto a broad avenue, headed west. “Apparently her opinion of me has been strengthened by the wanted posters.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with her.” Not liking the dip Charity’s mood had taken, Hawk decided to change the subject. “Tell me about this town.”

  “Need I say it’s sleepy?” Charity took a handkerchief from her reticule and blew her nose before continuing. “This is the Hauptstrasse. That means ‘main street’ in German.”

  “Go on.”

  “Fredericksburg was settled in the mid-1840s by immigrants from the northern regions of the German states, the duchy of Nassau-Hesse for the most part. The Kellers didn’t arrive till the 1850s.”

  “I know your blood is a veritable ketchup of heritages, like mine, but you don’t seem very German to me.”

  “I must take after Papa’s side of the family, the wild and woolly Scots.”

  Hawk laughed. “You aren’t woolly, but I won’t argue the wild. I like wild.”

  Just as she turned to smile at him, a trio of matrons pointed and covered their mouths with their hands. Hawk was glad Charity didn’t see them, and to make sure she wouldn’t, he motioned to the opposite side of the street. “What are those funny little houses?”

  The dwellings were stone, compact, and looked too small to rear families in.

  “Sunday houses. Farming families live in them on weekends. They drive in Saturday mornings for market, then stay on for church. They usually eat their Sunday meal here in their little homes away from home.”

  Now that he thought about it, he did smell sauerkraut and boiled sausage. The citizenry of Fredericksburg must be gearing up for a meal that would be graced by their prayers, he thought. All was God, home, and apple pie. Or in this case—God, home, and pickled cabbage.

  He said, “Good, honest citizens. Respectful of the law. And of propriety.”

  “You forgot—they also fight for their country. Fredericksburgers have fought for America since the Great Scott went to Mexico.”

  “Did they fight Indians, too?” Hawk asked, knowing what her answer would be.

  “Yes.”

  By now they had driven through the main part of the business section and were nearing the sheriff’s office, which was located close to the courthouse and the all-purpose Vereinskirche building. More people stopped to gawk at Charity and to gossip behind their hands. From an attorney’s standpoint, Hawk didn’t like the looks of the place.

  He had considered asking for a change of venue from Laredo to here. Not a good idea, he decided. These people would never understand her.

  Yesterday he’d ridden into town to make some purchases designed to outfit himself like a proper attorney, and he had spoken with the sheriff as well as the district judge recently arrived from Laredo. By taking the train as far as San Antonio, Judge Pierce had beaten Hawk and Charity to Fredericksburg.

  Yesterday Hawk had been pleased that the ambivalent Pierce was in town; it would make the job of petitioning for a change of venue less cumbersome. His opinion had changed, thanks to the hostility on display today.

  That, and his visiting a local beer garden the previous day. He’d done some talking with a few of the English-speaking locals about the McLoughlins in general. He’d found out that while they revered the family, they were inclined to look unfavorably on the angel of broken wing known as Charity McLoughlin.

  While each had commented on how she had been a spirited and mischievous girl who loved children to a fault, only one or two had mentioned that the other McLoughlin girls had overshadowed her. “The girl has been nothing but trouble to her father and mother for the past few years, and a child should honor her father and mother,” was the general consensus. At the time Hawk had hoped it was their beers talking.

  Bringing the horse and buggy to a halt in front of the sheriff’s office, Hawk once again went over in his mind what he would say inside.

  “I’m scared,” Charity said brokenly.

  That made two of them. Hawk had made a lot of promises. Thus, not taking any chances on a particular deity, he prayed to God as well as to Wah’Kon-Tah that he could stand and deliver. “Everything will be all right, angel mine.”

  A rotund man, wearing suspenders and a ten-gallon hat, ambled out of the building. Sheriff Josef Untermann. “It is about time you two got here,” he said in a thick accent. “I was beginning to think I would have to come after you, Fraülein McLoughlin.”

  Hawk expected Charity to quail at the sheriff’s harsh words and condescending airs, but she didn’t. With enormous courage she stood up tall in the buggy. “I have never given you any call to say such a thing, Josef Untermann. And I am
here. Let’s get this over with.”

  Her head high, and refusing the help Hawk offered, she descended the conveyance. Unruffled, she marched into the sheriffs office. Already Judge Noble Jones was there.

  Jones, a portly man in his sixties, reigned from a wing chair out of place in the spartan, dusty office. The chair had probably been brought in special for the occasion, no doubt meant to intimidate. He wore an expensively tailored suit sporting a gold watch chain, a starched shirt, silk cravat, and polished boots. A monocle fitted against his left eye and magnified the censure in his gaze.

  What had happened to his laissez-faire attitude of the previous day? Hawk wondered.

  “Sit down. Both of you.” Judge Jones gestured to a couple of straight chairs while Sheriff Untermann settled behind his desk.

  “Young lady, I am aggrieved that it’s come to this,” said the judge. “Your family deserves better than the scandal you have brought upon them.”

  Uh oh. Townspeople must have been talking with him. Hawk cast a furtive eye at Charity, telegraphing a message, Let me do the talking.

  “You don’t know my family,” Charity blurted out anyway. “So don’t concern yourself with their feelings.”

  An agitated flush crept up Jones’s throat. “Campbell Blyer warned me that you’re a piece of work, young lady. I should have listened to him.”

  “While you do,” said Charity, “I’ll be considering the source.”

  That’s right. Antagonize the man before they even got started. Hawk could have wrung her neck, especially when she made a face at His Honor!

  Jones looked as if he were red enough to pop a vein in his neck.

  The sheriff announced, “You’re going to jail, Fraülein.”

  “Please. Just listen.” Hawk instructed his client, then turned his attention to the judge who might well sit for her fate. “Sir, we have two requests. First of all, we don’t see how it would serve the People of Texas if Miss McLoughlin is incarcerated before the trial.”

  “I will not have a criminal walking free in my streets,” the sheriff declared.

  “Judge Jones, Sheriff Untermann, Miss McLoughlin is not a criminal. She was an innocent victim in a plot devised by the late Adriano Gonzáles of Nuevo Laredo.” Hawk stood to face the two men. “I beg you both to have mercy on this lady of upstanding character and refined sensibilities. And on all the McLoughlins.” He smiled at Charity, who chewed at her bottom lip. “Leave her free until her case comes to trial. And let that trial be in ... San Antonio.”