by Martha Hix
Peterson nodded. Hawk went forward as well.
Leaning an elbow on the top of the bench, the prosecutor said, “Your honor, Mr. Blyer has informed me that he refuses to testify against the defendant.”
“On what grounds?” Peterson asked sternly.
“He refuses to testify against his wife.”
What? What! It was as if that statement had come from far, far away, and it nearly knocked Hawk off his feet. What was this lie? His eyes traveled to Charity; she avoided his gaze.
“This cannot be true,” Hawk said to Peterson. “The defendant is not married to Mr. Blyer.”
The judge appeared skeptical to all he surveyed. “We’d better hear what Mr. Blyer and Miss—his supposed missus—have to say about this. To my chambers. At once.”
The woman who had lain in Hawk’s arms last night, the woman who had said she loved him at least a dozen times before dawn, the woman who was breaking his heart came forward. Without meeting Hawk’s eyes, she swept into the judge’s chambers, Blyer holding her hand. Never before had Hawk had such an urge to plow his fist into Blyer’s smug face, nor to grab Charity to him and shake the truth out of her.
Surely the marriage claim was some sort of a hoax.
Charity had been a virgin in Uvalde.
The judge sat at his desk, his stern visage unyielding. “Mr. Blyer, what is this? You’re unwilling to testify against your lady?”
“You couldn’t have said it more clearly, sir. I refuse to incriminate my wife. I am recanting my deposition.”
“Odd.” Osgood Peterson took a good gander at Blyer and Charity. “Odd that you would come forward with this at the last moment. It’s my guess that you’re not telling the truth.”
“On the contrary.” Blyer gestured to Charity. “Show him the marriage license, dearest.”
“Y-yes, of course.” Charity dug in her reticule. “We were married in Nuevo Laredo on August twenty-ninth.”
“As you know, she had returned from Shafter on the twenty-eighth,” Blyer put in. “At the time I knew nothing of her crime. We married. But the... the marriage wasn’t consummated.” Blyer shot a woeful expression at the judge. “This is personal. It pains me. I don’t wish to offend my wife’s sensibilities, your honor.” He put an arm around Charity. “This will all be over soon, dearest.”
Hawk’s fists were clenched. Charity leaned in to Blyer.
Jutting out his clefted chin, Blyer told the judge, “My wife was experiencing a delicate time of the month on our wedding night. To my shame, I tried to force my advances, and I, well, I frightened her. She left me, sir. Left me! And my pride was bruised. I do have a reputation as a ladies’ man, as you may know. I became insane. In September, I found her burying the proceeds of the smuggling operation. I struck at her by filing a report.”
“Young woman, is this true?” Peterson’s scowl etched wrinkles into his brow.
Hawk felt the blood drain from his face when she replied in a steady voice, “Yes.”
She was a bagful of surprises, all right. He had a lot of questions. But something stopped his protests of foul play. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that Ian Blyer could free Charity McLoughlin.
And wasn’t that the most important thing here?
Yet . . . at the moment he would have gladly strung a noose around her neck—if he could have been assured she wouldn’t die from it. He bit his tongue.
Peterson announced, “Mr. Blyer, your marriage is invalid. It wasn’t consummated.”
“On the contrary,” the peacock declared. “We spent the lunch recess in my quarters at the Hotel Menger. The lady is now truly my wife.”
No! You didn’t! You didn’t let him touch you! Hawk glared at her, silently demanding a denial that never surfaced. His blood surged through his ears; his gut twisted. No wonder she was late in returning to court. Little wonder her grooming was less than impeccable.
“One of the witnesses to our marriage ceremony is available.” Blyer flashed his teeth. “Señor Rufino Saldino waits to be called.”
“Bring in the witness.”
Hawk leaned toward Peterson. “If it pleases the court, I’d like a few minutes alone with my client.”
“Granted.” He motioned to the others. “We will wait in the courtroom while Mr. Hawk and Miss, uh, Mrs. Blyer are in conference.”
Hawk closed the door behind them. She stood, her back straight, meeting his furious eyes. Her hand moved slowly up to her hair to smooth the disarrayed chignon.
“What kind of game are you playing?” he growled.
“No game. I—I’m sorry it had to come to this, Hawk. But Ian was in my life before I met you. And you never asked if he and I were married. In the beginning I saw no need to inform you.”
Hawk raked his memory. He had never come right out and asked if she’d married Blyer, but she had gone to Laredo for that very purpose, hadn’t she? Maisie McLoughlin had told Hawk that county clerks in Texas were watching for a marriage license, so he’d assumed no marriage had taken place. But if it had taken place across the border . . .
“I thought about seeking an annulment,” Charity said. “Then things started to change for me and you. I saw that we weren’t right for each other. You were no longer the savage I fell in love with. You became much too practical for me.”
Hawk had known pain in the past, but Charity turning against him was the most brutal blow of his life. “So be it. Let’s hope it turns out well for you. Because you may not have beaten the system, Mrs. Blyer.”
The judge, followed by Blyer and Prosecutor Ellersby, filed back into the chamber. Senor Grande was right behind them. The Mexican gave a plausible account of the marriage of Charity McLoughlin and Ian Blyer. When he had finished, Judge Peterson whipped off his spectacles and asked, “Mr. Ellersby, do you still have a case?”
“No, your honor.”
“I feel as if there is something, maybe several issues, that do not hold water in this instance, but I have no choice but to dismiss the case of the People of Texas against Charity McLoughlin. Uh, Mrs. Blyer.”
Damn her if she didn’t curtsy and say, “Thank you, sir,” then take her husband’s arm.
“Just a minute, young woman.” Peterson shook a finger. “We will do this by the book. You and your husband take your places in the court.”
“If we must,” said Blyer before planting a kiss on Charity’s cheek.
Hawk could have killed them both.
He refused to look at Charity when Osgood Peterson announced the turn of events. The courtroom went wild. But Hawk kept his seat as Charity, ignoring her family beyond a “leave me alone,” left with her husband.
Hawk, as well, tried to bypass the McLoughlins. Margaret’s whitened fingers clamped around the top of her great-grandmother’s wheelchair. “We. . . we didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.”
Lisette touched his sleeve. “I am so sorry.”
Shaking her head in dismay, Eleanor Narramore sat wringing her hands.
Her face white as marble, the Old One shook her head back and forth. “I woulda rather had you in the family, lad. I woulda rather.”
She seemed to age before his eyes. But Hawk was too heartsick to pay mind to a distraught old woman. Cold with shock, he stared with unseeing eyes out a window of the courtroom. Vaguely he heard a commotion from the entrance. The McLoughlin entourage rushed toward it. He didn’t bother to turn and investigate the cause. Not until he heard Gil McLoughlin boom, “I’m here to free my daughter.”
Hawk whipped around. He saw two dusty men and the crowd that parted for them. McLoughlin and Sam Washburn. They marched forward, and then Hawk heard a gasp go up from the assembly. Was it of fright? Or admiration? Even Margaret was affected by his presence.
A stranger separated himself from the crowd. Hawk didn’t doubt his identity.
The Latino ambled forward, stopping at the gate. He was garbed in a wide sombrero trimmed in silver above tight britches and a bolero, both as black as
the straight hair that reached his shoulders. Six-guns rode at his hips; bandoliers were strapped to his shoulders. Like heat from a furnace, mystery and danger shot from him.
“Buenos . . . tardes, amigos.” The mouth peeled back to show white teeth that emphasized the scar on his jaw. “I am El Aguila.”
The Eagle.
Chapter Forty-four
More than sick over what she had done—and more than devastated over what she had allowed Hawk to think she and Ian had done that very afternoon!—Charity allowed her tears to fall freely. She cared not that others in the swank restaurant saw her. She cared not what Ian Blyer thought, either.
She cried for Hawk . . . and the ashes of their starcrossed love.
“Is this any way to celebrate our good fortune and our upcoming years of connubial bliss?” Ian chided for about the tenth time and took another chug from a stemmed glass. “Drink your champagne, dearest.”
“Go to hell, Ian Blyer.”
Through the cloud of her tears, she spied a couple of men approach their table. Deputies, she thought dully, catching sight of silver stars pinned to their chests. Wait. Wasn’t that Jay Rogers behind them?
Great. Another scandalous headline to shame my family.
Both deputies drew their revolvers, pointing them at the back of Ian’s head. What was going on? Had they somehow been found out? Oh, Lord, they were going to be arrested for perjury.
The older lawman spoke. “Ian Blyer, put your hands up.”
Ian’s eyes rounded like saucers; instinctively, he raised his arms. In a flurry of motions, the lawmen clamped handcuffs on his wrists and yanked him to his feet.
“I beg your pardon,” Ian blustered. “Do you know who you are accosting? I am Senator Campbell Blyer’s son! I’ll have your badges for this!”
They hustled him out of the restaurant. Charity sat puzzled. Why hadn’t they arrested her, too?
Jay Rogers grabbed a chair and turned it around to straddle the seat. Parking an elbow on the table, he said, “Congratulations on your freedom.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.
“Can’t say I blame you, but . . . What do you think about Rafael Delgado of Chihuahua appearing in court this afternoon?”
The Eagle!
“My father—has he returned, too?” Rogers nodded, and Charity gave a large sigh of relief. “Wh-what happened with Senor Delgado?”
“Apparently he hadn’t been of a mind to help, but something honorable in his nature prevailed. He followed Senator McLoughlin and Doctor Washburn to the train depot in El Paso. He—”
“Mr. Rogers, what happened in the courtroom?”
“He swore to your innocence in the Shafter silver-smuggling scandal.”
“Hawk. Hawk was right all along,” she whispered, mostly to herself. My God! I hurt Hawk for nothing. Nothing!
“The big question is, what do you think about your husband’s arrest?”
“Few things could please me more.”
Rogers picked up the champagne bottle, pouring himself a glass. “The paper’s circulation will go through the roof tomorrow.” He winked, held up his glass in a toast, and took a congratulatory sip. “You’ve sold a lot of newspapers for us, ma’am. Shall we drink to it?”
She wasn’t interested. She yearned to race to Hawk. But curiosity was a force to be reckoned with. One quick question, and she would be on her way. “Why was Ian Blyer arrested?”
“His Mexican cohort made a big mistake, riding Senator Blyer’s mount to the courthouse. The sheriff recognized the stallion immediately. Didn’t take much for Rufino Saldino to confess to being an accomplice to the murder of Campbell Blyer. A few more facts came out, too. He admitting lying about your wedding.
“It turns out, Blyer was the mastermind behind the smuggling. Got his father mixed up in it, too. Blyer the younger set you up from the beginning.”
She laughed in bitter irony.
“How do you feel about all this?” Rogers went for his notepad.
She jumped to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor in her haste. “I feel it’s high time for me to find David Fierce Hawk.”
She had a lot of explaining to do. A lot of begging for his forgiveness. Undoubtedly he’d never understand her reasons. But he needed to know the truth.
Charity hurried through the streets, reaching the Menger as twilight fell. Her footfalls echoed through the lobby and up the staircase as she ran toward Hawk’s suite. Ted, a portmanteau under one arm, was whistling “The Eyes of Texas” while unlocking the entrance.
“Where is Mr. Hawk?” she demanded, out of breath.
“Gone. He checked out about three this afternoon. Rode out on that fine stallion of his, Fire-storm.”
“Where did he go?”
“Said something about the Indian Territory.”
Charity sighed in frustration. She couldn’t–just couldn’t!—let Hawk go away without seeing him. But what could she do? A carriage would never catch him; he had a three-hour head start. She had to get the fastest horse the livery stable had available.
But it was dark outside.
I can’t ride off into the night. She damned sure could! For Hawk, she would do anything. Anything!
Taking a quick look at her feminine attire, and knowing no riding clothes were in her room, she studied young Ted. Hmm.
“Ted, take off your clothes. ”
A smile of astonishment burst upon his freckled face. “Why, Miss Margaret, you’ve answered my dreams.”
“Dammit, I’m Charity! Now give me your clothes!”
Chapter Forty-five
Garbed in Ted’s shirt and britches, Charity purchased a surefooted gelding from the livery stable and rode hell-bent out of San Antonio. The dark of night didn’t frighten her–for once in her life. She was scared witless that she wouldn’t be able to catch Hawk.
Despite her prowess as a horsewoman, her trail held no promise of her beloved. Not that night. Not as dawn approached. When the lathered gelding refused to go further, she rested the mount beside a gurgling creek, then took the saddle blanket and gave Firestorm II–as she had dubbed the gelding–a rubdown.
Herself exhausted, she sank to the ground, resting her back against a cottonwood’s trunk. She gave way to tears. She couldn’t catch Hawk. He was lost to her. Lost to her! Her past mistakes would haunt her all the rest of her days.
He might never know that it was her love that had spurred her to betrayal.
This was a price worse than hanging.
Firestorm II plodded over to nuzzle her shoulder. His tired eyes seemed to ask, “Where do we go from here, mistress?”
“I have no idea,” she answered.
Maybe Hawk turned back.
Charity made the slow return to San Antonio. She learned that her mother and sister were consoling her Uncle Adolf, over the arrest of Antoinette. She also learned that Hawk hadn’t turned back. No one had seen or heard from him.
“I’m sorry,” her papa said.
The Menger reunion of father and daughter was brimming with sweet sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered, hugging him. “Without you and Hawk, not to mention Sam, my name wouldn’t have been cleared.”
Papa kissed her forehead. “I’d do anything for my baby.”
“Have I ruined your career, Papa?”
“Absolutely not. What the Blyers did to us was pure evil. Folks have been rallying around. They’re on our side.”
“Thank God.” Charity leaned against her father. “Hawk doesn’t know about all the developments. Papa—If you see him in Washington, will you tell him the truth?”
“No, ma’am. That’s for you to impart. Personally.”
He was right, of course. “I tried to. I was too late.”
Now it was too late for everything. By not putting her fate in Hawk’s hands, she was dying a thousand deaths. Each more painful than the one before.
“May we come in?” Eleanor asked as she wheeled Maisie into the suite’s sitting room.
Somehow Charity managed to receive them with a light heart. “Maiz, Eleanor, it’s good to see you.”
“Ye oughtn’t t’ be pleased to see me, ye whelp. I’ve a good mind t’ take me cane t’ ye!”
Eleanor skirted around the wheelchair and took Charity’s cold hand. “Did your father tell you about the letter?”
“What letter?”
Reaching into her pocket, Eleanor extracted an envelope. “It’s from Maria Sara. The landlord discovered it yesterday, when he was tidying up the place. Would you like for me to read it to you?”
“No. Just . . . just tell me what it says.”
“She swore that you had no knowledge of Gonzáles’s operation. She thanked you for your loyalty and friendship. She apologized for hurting you.” Eleanor dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. “The poor thing said you were the only true friend she ever had.”
Sinking into a chair, Charity squeezed her eyes closed. “She really was my friend.”
“Yes.”
The lump in her throat grew to hellish proportions. When she was finally able to speak, Charity glanced at Eleanor, then Maisie, then her papa. “I wish amiga mia could have been able to love Jaime.”
“She didn’t claim to be perfect.” Her papa handed Charity a snifter of cognac. “Drink,” he ordered. “You could use your mama’s remedy right now.”
“No, I deserve to suffer without any sedative.” She shook her head. “Oh, Lord, I have made so many mistakes.”
“Not a soul on this earth is perfect, lass.” Maisie reached to tap her with the cane. “And I’m feeling awful sorry for ye. I know ye loved the lad.”
“Love, Maiz. Love, not loved.”
“How can I help you, Charity?” Eleanor asked.
“Actually, there is something.”
She took a deep breath, deciding she would get away, travel to Spain, to Olga. There, she would try to put her life in order. It’ll never be in order, not without Hawk. He is what you need. Wherever he goes, you should be following.
Wearily, she turned to Eleanor. “Do you know if the Narramore Line has a ship sailing for Europe anytime soon?”
