by Martha Hix
If there was anything in her appearance that she could pat herself on the back for, it was that she had pinned her hair atop her head and had half hidden it under a large Gainsborough hat. While dressing, she had chosen the hairstyle and its accompaniment to impress any prospective juror who might see her driving along the maze of San Antonio’s streets. But she knew for a fact that Hawk liked her hair brushed free and wild.
Serves you right, drat you, Hawk.
They had reached a less crowded part of the city. From the distance she glimpsed the outline of the Pioneer flour mill as well as the lovely section of new Victorian homes in the King William District; they were owned by well-heeled citizens, primarily of German extraction.
“I think we should call on Uncle Adolf,” she said, interrupting a spirited discussion on the demise of the Roman Empire.
“Bad idea. Your folks may have set him up in swank surroundings, but he does not have the best reputation in town. His drinking is legendary,” Hawk replied and Charity wished a bug would fly into his flapping mouth. He added apologetically, “I hope you’ll forgive me for passing judgments, Miss Margaret.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. He is to be avoid–” She leaned to the left as they approached the Keller home. “Look! That’s Antoinette coming out of Uncle’s house. And . . . And that’s Uncle Adolf right behind her. Triplet, when did they get back together?”
“Speed up, driver,” Hawk ordered.
“I didn’t know they were reconciled,” Charity replied to her sister. “Poor Uncle.”
“Duck. For heaven’s sake, duck, Triplet. Or they’ll see us.”
The sisters huddled low in the carriage as it raced by Adolf Keller and his former wife. After they turned the corner, the conveyance nearly tipping on two wheels, Hawk said, “You’re foiled. They saw you.”
Charity and Margaret, both red-faced, adjusted their chapeaux. “Undoubtedly Uncle will be paying us a call,” said the more conservatively dressed of the two. “As soon as he finds out where we’re staying.”
“Don’t you imagine he knows already, Miss Margaret? There was an article about your sister in the Express this morning.”
Still peeved at Hawk, Charity said, “Are we going to sit here and chat about trivialities? I seem to recall you had a purpose in mind. Discussing my case.”
“You are certainly testy today,” Margaret observed.
Hawk brushed his cravat. “Let’s do get down to business. Charity, I can’t get something out of my mind. That Eagle fellow. I have reason to believe he exists, and it’s a longshot, but I have a suspicion he might serve our case. Is there anything you can remember that might help us?”
The Eagle. El Aguila. An eagle was featured on the Mexican flag, Charity recalled, putting aside her aggravation to concentrate on priorities. “ ‘Eagle’ is a popular word and name in Mexico. It has to do with nationalistic pride. The former president Santa Anna was called after such a puissant bird.”
Heavens, I hope I didn’t use “puissant” wrong, or Margaret will correct me. What if she did? Charity realized that her sister would mean it in the spirit of help. Margaret always wanted to help her.
Margaret said nothing, and Charity continued. “At least a dozen men in every Mexican village call themselves the Eagle. Halcón,” she added, eyeing Hawk, “doesn’t enjoy the Eagle’s popularity, but a handful of Mexican men are known as the Hawk, too.”
“That’s very observant of you,” Margaret said. “I had no idea you mulled the nature of Latin mankind.”
“Your sister is quite perceptive.” In salute, Hawk touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat. “Her cleverness has always amazed and pleased me.”
“Indeed.” Margaret, who had never cottoned to anyone appearing more clever than she, tightened her full mouth.
Hawk’s compliment spreading through every vein in her body, Charity straightened; she smiled at him. He winked. “Go on.”
“There is an area in northern Mexico that teems with rattlesnakes. Once, I heard Senor Grande make mention of the place—he does have an unnatural fear of snakes, you’ll recall, Hawk. Anyway, Grande knows a man who captures those rattlers. For some God-knows-why reason. I believe his name is Rafael Delgado. Or maybe it’s Reuben Delgado, I can’t recall for certain.”
“Is there a point to all this?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, Sister, there is.” Maybe. “I’m wondering if the rattlesnakes might lead us to the eagle. The Mexican flag features an eagle with a serpent between its beak. Maybe Rafael—yes, his name is Rafael—likes to think of himself as an eagle with a serpent in its mouth!”
“For heaven’s sake.”
“I’m convinced it’s a fair guess,” Charity said, pleased with herself. “Hawk, Rafael Delgado lives in the state of Chihuahua. In the foothills below the mountain, near the town of the same name.”
“Chihuahua. I’d never get an investigator in to such a rural area and back by the start of your trial. And there are no guarantees that Delgado is our man.” Hawk bowed his head in concentration. He recalled Maria Sara’s admission. Glancing at Charity at last, he said, “The Eagle knows Grande. I have it on good authority that they are, um, acquainted.”
“Rafael Delgado is more than acquainted with Grande. One evening in Laredo Maria Sara told me she’d heard at Pappagallo’s that the two men coupled the same woman at the same time. I think she said Senor Delgado was drunk, and—”
Hawk’s eyes lit up. “Charity, angel mine, we’ve found our eagle!”
He lunged across the carriage, shoved his hands around her waist, and gave her a loud, smacking kiss. His hat as well as her Gainsborough went flying to the street. He was being totally improper.
And Charity loved it.
Maybe there was hope for them yet, she thought, and brushed her fingers through his now-tousled hair.
Chapter Thirty-eight
When the trio returned to the Menger, the bellboy dashed Charity’s hopes for a speedy powwow with Hawk on the nature of their personal relationship.
Ted sauntered over to Margaret. “ ‘Afternoon. There is a Mister Ian Blyer asking after you, Miss Charity.”
No one bothered to correct young Ted’s mistake in identity. Charity’s gaze flew to Hawk. He started to take her hand—she knew he wanted to from the look in his eyes—but he stopped for the sake of appearances
Charity shivered. All along she’d known Ian Blyer would arrive in San Antonio. Yet after Laredo, after she and Hawk had scared Ian and Senor Grande away, after Uvalde, she had held on to the hope that he’d had enough—an unrealistic hope, considering the Blyers had been the strongest proponents of her apprehension and arrest for smuggling.
Margaret asked, “Where is Mister Blyer? Is Senator Blyer with him?”
“In his room, Miss Charity. He’s alone.” Ted clipped a salute and started to turn. “Almost forgot. Your father’s in your suite.”
Hawk tipped the bellman, then led Charity and her sister upstairs.
“Papa, how is Maiz?”
“She’s on the mend. Complaining about everything.” A grin spread across McLoughlin’s face. “And demanding to come to San Antonio.”
“Thank God she’s all right.”
A smile as wide as the Lone Star State stretched across Charity’s expressive face, and for the first time Hawk noticed a strong family resemblance between father and daughter. He didn’t dwell on it.
Hawk had heard the concern in Charity’s voice, had seen the distress in her eyes, and witnessed the relief that flooded through her now; he loved her all the more for her anxieties being centered on the Old One’s welfare rather than on the malignant turn of events instigated by Ian Blyer’s arrival.
My crazy, sweet, beloved pussycat. The young woman who had once professed to be through with her family, yet obviously loved them extravagantly. You did right, Hawk, bringing her back to the fold.
This was no time for self-congratulations. Hawk said to the sisters as well as their father, “We’v
e got to send someone to Mexico. We must find the Eagle.”
“The Eagle?” McLoughlin questioned. “Who is he?”
Hawk took his place beside Charity. “We’re not certain he’ll be able to help our case. But I suspect he might shed light on the investigation.”
Margaret started to enlighten Gil McLoughlin about their speculations, but Charity interrupted her. When she had finished her tale, their father shook his head. The back of one hand bracing an elbow and the whitened knuckles of another propping up his chin, McLoughlin paced the sitting room. “You’re sure we’re not chasing down a dark alley?”
“I’m sure of nothing,” Hawk replied and squeezed Charity’s shoulder. You’d best speak with Maria Sara, see what else she’s got to say. “We must search all alleys.”
“Who do you suggest we send?” McLoughlin queried.
“Sam Washburn.” Hawk gave a thumbnail sketch of his trusted friend. “If anyone can get back in time for the trial, it’s Sam.”
“I’m going with him.”
“Papa, you can’t go charging off to Chihuahua,” Charity said.
“Young lady, I am not as old as I look!”
“But what if something happens to you?” Margaret asked. “We can’t take that chance.”
“You girls are as bad as your mama, clucking over me like a hen with her young.” Despite his words, McLoughlin beamed with fatherly pride. “I didn’t build an empire by being a coddled chick! I’m going to Mexico. And that’s that.”
Hawk chuckled warmly when Charity, love and respect dancing in her eyes, embraced her papa. “Thank you. And take care of yourself.”
Within an hour both Gil McLoughlin and Sam Washburn were aboard an El Paso-bound train, the first leg of their trip to Chihuahua. And Hawk had sent a telegram to Fredericksburg, requesting Maria Sara’s presence. Posthaste.
The evening her papa and Sam Washburn departed, Charity sat alone in her suite. Margaret was attending a harp recital at Judge Osgood Peterson’s home. Hawk–her dear, darling Hawk, who had stolen a few moments to tell her he loved her and that everything would work out for them!—kept a distance for propriety’s sake.
Charity worried about her father. Take care of him, she prayed. And she was concerned about Sam Washburn, too. She appreciated the lengths he was going to to help her. Maybe Hawk’s toady physician-friend wasn’t so bad after all.
She was fortunate, so fortunate to have so many people in her camp. Except for that smuggling business, she had everything on her side. I’ve been lucky since the night Hawk kidnapped me.
A series of knocks on her door announced a visitor. Hawk, she prayed. She was wrong. Her luck had run out.
Ian Blyer flashed his teeth.
She backed away in surprise when he brushed past her, prancing into the sitting room. Reeling around, he bowed to kiss the back of her hand, but she jerked it away.
“Charity, how well you are looking,” he said, tenacious as a bulldog, slimy as an eel. “I have missed you, dearest.”
“Get out of my suite.”
“Is that any way to speak to your husband?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He lifted a brow; his voice and visage reeking of histrionic indignation. “You don’t recall our marriage, dearest? Such a lovely August evening it was in Nuevo Laredo, reciting our vows and promising love everlasting.”
“What trick are you up to now?”
“Your freedom.” Ian sashayed over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a tumblerful of Scotch whisky. Sweeping a hand across his blond temple and taking a hearty swig, he smiled his oily smile. “I have the perfect plan to free you.”
Charity took sidesteps toward the bell chain. “Do tell,” she said and would have rather had an explanation from the henchman himself.
“A husband need not testify against his wife in a court of law. I am willing to recant my deposition... provided you are willing to make a few concessions.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? We aren’t married.”
“Aren’t we?” He flashed the sort of smile that would have charmed her last spring. “I have at my disposal not only our marriage license but also a witness to the nuptial rites.”
“Have you got that witness in your pocket, perchance?” she gibed.
“Figuratively, yes. Rufino Saldino is at my beck and call.”
Oh, yes, she thought with a shudder. Senor Grande again. “You should be careful of picking allies,” she said with disgust. “He rode with Adriano Gonzáles.”
“He did? Rufino? No.” Eyes that had enlarged in astonishment now bent in skepticism. “You must be making jest. And can you prove such a claim against my man?”
Rather than give Ian the enjoyment of a negative reply, she asked, “And what about the esteemed state senator from Laredo? I understand he isn’t registered here. Is he still in your hip pocket?”
Ian’s mouth twisted. “Father does whatever I tell him.”
“Doesn’t sound much like Campbell Blyer. Then again, he’d like to unseat my papa and take his place in Washington. So I imagine he rather enjoys rubbing McLoughlin noses in the dirt.”
“Excellent assessment.” Ian advanced one step. “Enough about him. I am waiting for your answer.”
She took another sidestep. “Ian, your offer is ever so kind,” she said snidely, “but if you recant anything, won’t that brand you a liar in the eyes of the law?”
“Surely Judge Peterson will understand, man to man. I’ll explain it away as a honeymoon squabble that tore us apart.” He studied the amber liquid in the bottom of the clear tumbler before settling his avaricious gaze on Charity. “Anyway, I do not give a fig how I am seen. As long as I have you.”
“You mean my papa’s money.”
“I do have a tendency to link the two.”
“You honestly think my father would accept you into the family? After you’ve slandered our name?”
“Why depend on His Nibs? Sources tell me your trust fund has been reinstated. I look forward to its benefit.”
Thankfully, she didn’t need to depend on this piece of backwater scum for her freedom. Hawk would free her! “Rest assured, I want no part of your scheme.”
Ian laughed sinisterly. “I shall grant you time to reconsider.”
“I’ve had all the time I need. Now get out!”
Setting the glass aside after sloshing its paltry contents, he stepped toward her. “I made a grievous mistake, playing the gentleman with you. Foolish of me, not fathoming you were ripe for a man. Now . . . I will not leave until I’ve tasted what you have served the red bastard.”
Frightened, she twisted to the right and lunged for the bell chain. Something heavy struck her, knocking her from her feet and the wind from her lungs as she fell to the floor. The heavy object–Ian!—landed atop her.
He covered her mouth with his hand to silence her scream. “Don’t make me get ugly with you.”
Ugly? When had he not been ugly in his dealings?
“You have your choice, Charity. You can allow me to announce our marriage. Or you can face a jury. Either way, I will know your supple body.” His hand receded. “Which do you choose?”
“The jury.”
“Foolish, foolish Charity. You never did possess good sense, did you?”
“She’s got a man in her room,” Maria Sara said to her husband when they approached Charity’s hotel door. “Her Indian lover, no doubt. Should we return later, querido?”
“No.” Karl stepped up to the entryway. “She must know that we are here to support her.”
They were. Back home Maria Sara Keller had been put off by Charity’s conduct over Jaime, and it still irked her. But to spite Ian and to pave the way for his fall from grace, Charity must be freed of the charges against her.
Karl pounded on the door. “Cousin, it is I and my wife.”
The door burst open. Disheveled, Charity held the knob. “Help me! Ian means to harm me!”
Slicking back his hair, I
an Blyer stepped forward.
“You!” Maria Sara hunched in anger.
“We meet again,” said Ian. “And is this your husband?”
Drawing back his fist, Karl Keller plowed it into Ian Blyer’s face; the smaller man crumpled onto the floor. “You are through hurting the women I cherish.”
After a thorough trouncing that drew the hotel management’s presence, as well as that of the several guests, Ian begged for Karl to stop the beating.
His chest heaving, Karl eyed the assembled crowd. “He has learned his lesson.”
Charity wasn’t so sure. While the night manager cautioned the two men on appropriate behavior in the Menger Hotel, she shook her head in dismay. She feared that nothing would stop Ian. Nothing short of her total capitulation.
She felt Maria Sara’s hand at her elbow and heard her friend address the onlookers. “Disburse. Everyone. Everything is under control.”
Karl echoed her words, and the crowd receded. Even the management departed after Maria Sara assured the night clerk that there would be no more trouble. Ian, meanwhile, was wiping his bloodied nose with what had been a pristine handkerchief.
“Amiga, we should go into your room.”
Charity nodded through her daze. In the interior, she heard Karl insist, “You are not coming in here, Herr Blyer!”
“On the contrary. I have something to say that you will want to hear.”
Figuring it had to do with his preposterous scheme, Charity collected herself. “You’ve said your piece. And you have my answer.”
“This has nothing to do with you, dearest. This has to do with Maria Sara.”
Warily, she saw him step toward Karl’s bride. As usual he was arranging his hair just so. “How is my son?”
“Silencio!” Maria Sara hissed.
“What is going on?” Charity asked slowly.
