by Martha Hix
“Ye won’t be going nowhere without me!”
The steamship Fallen Angel, flagship of the Narramore Line, weighed anchor in Galveston on Christmas day. Its foghorn gave a mighty and forlorn bellow that rolled mournfully across the gray morning. Charity, alone on the swaying deck, watched land fade into the horizon. Clutching the lapels of her cloak to her chin, she shivered with despair.
Hawk. I’m so, so sorry about everything.
She had, before leaving San Antonio, posted a letter to him, sending it in care of the Indian Agency on the Osage reservation. Naturally there hadn’t been any reply, and she expected there would be none.
“Merry Christmas, Miss McLoughlin.”
She turned to the captain. Eleanor’s son. She and Norman had two sons, Charity recalled. This one was Jeff Narramore, the younger one; Eleanor had called Jeff Davis Narramore the less handsome of the two. He had the look of the sea to him. He was tanned of face, lean of physique, confident of self. The breeze ruffled his dark brown hair, brought out the red of his mother’s side of the family. Curiosity called out, if this is the less handsome of the two, what does Beau Narramore look like?
Not that Charity really cared. No man but Hawk was for her.
Jeff Narramore, nonetheless, had done his best to cheer her since she’d come aboard the previous evening. “Miss McLoughlin, I wondered if you might join me and my executive officers for a holiday breakfast. Your great-grandmother is in the dining room already. She’s having an eggnog.”
Maisie. She had been unusually tame this morning. Suspiciously so. And Maisie wasn’t one to drink eggnog.
Not wishing to give Jeff Narramore any encouragement, Charity replied, “Thank you, but no thank you. I’d rather stay topside for a while.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have none of that. What I say goes on the Fallen Angel.”
He clasped her elbow and—there was no other way to describe it!—hustled her down the deck. Just before they reached the companionway leading to the executive dining hall, an arm reached out to grasp her from behind a bulkhead.
Fast as lightning, handcuffs were clamped around her wrists. Handcuffs! Her gaze traveled to the right. And she caught sight of Hawk.
Her heart soared!
Hawk!
Hawk . . . wearing the same sort of outfit that he’d worn on the night he abducted her in Laredo. Stetson and buckskins.
“Thank you, captain,” he said, not looking at her.
“Do all your kidnappings require an accomplice?” she asked, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Well, you’re quite a handful, little hellcat.”
“Oh, Hawk, I have so much to explain to you. About Ian—”
“Don’t spoil our reunion by bringing up that bastard.”
Her gaze fell upon the sensuous curve of Hawk’s lips. “All right.”
“Good.” Hawk nodded at Jeff Narramore, then fixed a stern look on Charity. “Two questions. Are you going to follow me willingly? Or do I need to risk both our necks by hauling you down those stairs?”
She surveyed him boldly. “You aren’t planning to keelhaul me, are you?”
“That does it.” As if she were a sack of flour, Hawk picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “I’ll teach you to mess with me.”
Jeff Narramore chuckled.
Once more she had been set against. But this time she was all for the treachery.
Laughing as Hawk negotiated the rocking steps, her hair swinging this way and that, she placed kiss after kiss on his arm. Once they reached the lower deck, she nipped his shoulder playfully.
“Hellcat.”
“Savage.” He set her to her feet, and she gazed up into his warm brown eyes. Raising her wrists, she said, “Unlock me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No way. Save your feminine wiles. Until later.” He winked. “For now, I’m not taking any chances.” Craning his neck toward Narramore, he said, “Lead the way, captain.”
They followed Jeff Narramore into the dining area. It was decorated in holly and Christmas bells. Maisie and her wheelchair were parked next to a makeshift altar. Altar? Charity’s eyes widened. Across Maisie’s lap was a shotgun.
“What is going on? How long have you two been in collusion—this time?”
“Don’t ye be making no never-mind. Ye won’t be getting away, lass.” Maisie patted the gun stock. “If ye don’t behave, I’ll be peppering your arse.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“She would, angel. What’s a shotgun wedding without a shotgun?”
“Sh-shotgun wedding?”
Hawk marched his captive forward. Jeff Narramore cut around them, going for a Bible. Several Indians filed in, as did a couple of the Four Aces’s cowboys. And Charity caught sight of Sam Washburn, too. What on earth were they doing here?
The captain pointed to the area immediately in front of him. “Step right up.”
Good gravy. This really was a wedding. Her wedding. Hawk’s wedding. Their wedding! Once she wouldn’t have been forced into anything. Once. Charity was now eager to comply.
As the captain read the solemn vows, she answered firmly in the affirmative.
“Will you, David Fierce Hawks take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“It depends.”
Oh, no! This was undoubtedly some sort of farce meant to pay her back for her misdeeds.
“It depends on whether she makes a few extra vows.” Hawk leaned to plant a kiss on her cheek. “She must promise that she’ll never lie to me again. And if she does, I have the right to beat her senseless, tie her to a stake, and lift her scalp.”
“I will. And you’d better not!”
“Not good enough.”
“Okay. You may scalp me if I ever concoct anything again.”
“That’s better.” He raised her bound wrists to brush his lips across her hand. “Because I don’t want ever again to know the hell of the past few days.” The captain cleared his throat. “David Fierce Hawk, will you love, honor, and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?”
Instead of another kiss, he swatted her backside. “Provided she doesn’t give me any trouble about forming a Wild West show.”
“Wild West show?” she repeated incredulously. “We can’t do that. We’ve got to turn back. The Osage—Washington—”
“It’s the Wild West show or nothing.”
Maisie waved her cane. “Fierce Hawk, don’t ye be forgetting about me. Ye promised I could make change at the ticket window.”
Charity rolled her eyes. Stacking bills and making change—probably involving a bit of shortchanging—would make Maisie happy as a pig in a trough. Maisie, though, was not the issue here.
“Hawk wouldn’t be happy,” Charity said. “His destiny is to help his people. It’s not practical, the Wild West show. He’d be miserable in no time.”
“I cannot bring peace to others if I do not have peace myself. Charity is my peace. She is my people.” Hawk’s strong, clear voice resonated within her. “Captain, she must also vow never to second-guess what I want out of life.”
Charity looked deeply into his eyes. Not long ago he’d asked her to have faith in herself, in him. In them.
If he said he wanted to form the show, then that’s what he wanted!
“Will I be needin’ ta lift this shotgun, lass?”
“Don’t you dare aim that thing at me, Maiz.” Charity sighed. “Captain Narramore, there’s no baby. There’s no reason for a shotgun wedding.”
“She’s absolutely certain there’s no baby?” Hawk asked. “Captain, perhaps you should remind the bride of a certain recent night she spent in my arms . . .”
“I don’t need any reminders.” She gazed up into Hawk’s eyes. “And I’m not certain there isn’t a baby. I hope there is.”
“Ah, I may be seeing my great-great-grandbairns yet.”
“Maiz, stay out of this. Hawk, we can’t drag a baby around while we put on some Wild West show.”
“Don’t start getting sensible on me, Charity.”
Once more Narramore cleared his throat and lifted the Bible. “Hawk, shall I repeat my question?”
“No need for that. By Wah’Kon-Tah and the Almighty, I will love, honor, and cherish Charity McLoughlin—forever and ever and ever.”
“Good morning, Husband.”
“Good morning, Wife.”
They awoke, their bodies still joined. Amidst the tangled sheets of their marriage bed—in quarters borrowed from the captain—Charity nestled against Hawk’s shoulder. She wore his totem. In the end it had brought her good luck.
Her lips opened on her husband’s warm flesh, sweeping upward to his throat. His ankle wrapped around the back of her knee, bringing her even closer to him, if that was possible, that they could get any closer in body and spirit.
“Thank you,” she murmured, repeating the words she had said the previous night, in the privacy of the luxurious cabin. “Thank you for believing in me. Tell me again how all this happened.”
“I got to Waco before I had second thoughts about what you and Blyer were trying to accomplish. I realized I couldn’t have been that wrong about you. I knew my angel wouldn’t betray me, unless she had some higher motive than freeing herself.”
A tear fell. Gads! She was becoming a veritable watering pot! “All I wanted was to make it easy for you. All I want—all I’ve wanted for a long time—is your happiness.”
“Sweet angel . . .” Hawk’s fingers combed through the hair at her temple. “I should have known there was no tarnish on your halo.”
“I don’t have a halo.”
“Yes, you do.”
Hawk got the last word. At last.
Author’s Note
Writing about the McLoughlin family—first in Caress of Fire, and now in the love story of Charity and Hawk—has been a pleasure to me as a writer. I haven’t had to put characters aside for ever and always! As I finish this novel, I look forward to the next McLoughlin daughter.
Charity needed a hero to understand her; triplet Margaret needs a hero who’ll take the starch out of her britches. I have the perfect fellow in mind. . . and you’ve met him already. Margaret, being the brain she is, will much enjoy trying to take the starch out of his britches.
Brother Angus and triplet Olga make appearances in the next book, Wild Sierra Rogue. And I can’t help but wonder if Maisie will get caught shortchanging one of those Europeans . . .
Martha Hix
San Antonio, Texas
March, 1992
ZEBRA BOOKS
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Copyright @ 1993 by Martha Hix
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ISBN: 978-0-8217-4029-3
