by Tanya Hanson
Hawk smiled back and her breath hitched. “But crowded and noisy,” he said. “As a second son, I was quite unimportant. Not only does my father believe in birth order, but he doesn’t like me much.”
“What? Why?” The words hung a sharp warning in the air, and her flesh goosed. Papa hadn’t much liked Clancy, but he’d deserved it. Making a mockery of learning. Claiming the alphabet danced the wrong way on the page so books made no sense. Truancy, trouble.
What had Hawk done?
She wiggled with suspicion while he sighed, long and deep. “Father was disappointed I wasn’t a girl. A valuable daughter he could marry into some other rich family for a fine dowry.”
“That seems harsh.” Her unease trickled away.
“In addition, my birth killed my mother, and he’d been quite fond.” Hawk’s voice caught a little. “So my brother is the entitled one. I, being the second son, must earn my keep. I had no interest in soldiering or the clergy, so Father sent me to Cornwall. His tin mines. But instead of management, I was to hike down below in the shadows and dust and foul air.”
She crossed her feet at the ankles and tossed a sly smile. “Well, you just said you want to act like and be treated like everybody else.”
Hawk flushed and chuckled. “Right. But I soon persuaded Father to let me return to America and try my hand at ranching. Burton is quite my supporter.”
Clancy flashed through her mind. “Much better than lurking in the bowels of the earth,” she managed, aching with memories both bad and good.
“Indeed! I confess the tight darkness got to me.” He smiled at her. Her mind emptied of the past, and she tingled despite her own advice in the present. “I will get to ride the range as a cowboy. Outdoors and free. Father thinks it is punishment, a set down, but I do not consider the West a savage place at all. Cordy, ever since my youth, that’s been my dream!” His long, strong fingers clenched with enthusiasm against the tabletop. She could barely restrain reaching for them.
A cowboy! His dream, and hers, too. Cordy stilled her quaking heart and kept her eyes wide open. Yet a dream she couldn’t share. Reality smacked her hard. She had done the same as Burton, and tended a younger brother, encouraged his dreams and overlooked his mishaps. Nothing had worked. And then it was too late.
Her heart rang warning bells. “Well, provided our experiment brings good results.” Now was her voice not quaking like leaves falling from an autumn tree?
“You are having second thoughts.” Hawk stated like a true fact.
“No. No I’m not.” Not about their scheme, that is. About him. Yet she read clear disappointment in his eyes and longed to comfort him. “Hawk, it’s been a long day filled with much emotion. I’d best say good-night.”
“Let me help you with the wash-up.” His fingers clattered across his empty cup.
Heat spun a web around her. Oh, yes, standing near him once again in an everyday task, his scent and presence warming her like water never could. Yet impossibly unwise.
Her heart clanked. “Oh, no. I like to warm my hands,” she rushed to explain, ignoring the flash of hurt beneath his handsome fringe of dark lashes. “Now, I’ve got my best room for you. Number six. Let me get the key.”
Hawk rose again, like the gentleman he was. “I’ll find it.”
“No, Hawk, I…”
His gentle laugh wafted over her like summer air. “Cordy, I can count. Now you sleep well. And happy dreams.”
“And you as well.” She turned away. Dreams? What if she dreamed about him and all her warnings turned to mush?
She’d have to control the lovely feelings that had burgeoned in her heart since Hawk had rescued her from her tumble. For he was a nobleman. No matter his disclaimer at being like everybody else. She wanted a simple cowboy with an honest wage.
And that was that.
As for now, Keaton “Hawk” Shockley, who had a rich fancy brother to pick up the pieces, was her lodger and business partner. Nothing more.
She tried to still her eager heart while she readied for bed. Not since Papa’s fatal apoplexy had she felt so bereft, and it had nothing to do with a foreclosed inn.
Chapter Four
Hawk normally slept from dark to dawn without a wake-up, but his first night in Paradise had brought him unusual strife. Even with a soft pillow, his neck had tied into a thousand knots. He woke with his legs running against the feather quilt.
Oh, certainly some of the friction derived from the pending exhibition and everything he had to do. His fists clenched. Did the mercantile have enough cloth for the screen? Would neighboring photographers pitch in? But mostly, it was the reality of Cordy Meeker, soft and warm in a tumble of blankets down the hall turning his running veins into a racecourse.
Upon her nearness, Hawk’s heart had throbbed along with his fool muscles all night long. Oh, she was lovely. The memory of her lavender scent swam around the bed in an invisible mist. His heart tweaked. He’d never been one to play fast and loose with a lady, and he wasn’t set in Paradise long enough for a proper courtship. Disappointment rustled over him, for she had felt perfect in his arms. In truth, the well-spoken, civilized Cordelia Meeker had no place on a defunct ranch, and disappointment swamped his shoulders. If she headed to The Rockies, she’d discover how much the bustling burg of Denver needed her business. Silver had made the city rich and popular, and the railroad hub was fraught with travelers and businessmen. People needed places to eat and sleep.
He’d miss her, though. Hawk stretched, and his heart panged. Enough daylight crept between the curtains to allow his perusal of his room while he lay abed. The unpretentious yet dignified domicile boasted a vase full of silk flowers and a washstand of fine-enough china. Gunnar Schlaap and his crowd of rapscallions definitely didn’t belong up here. Indeed, Cordy’s good taste was best suited for a refined establishment in Colorado’s promising capital. Not the rough and unruly wilderness.
The reality saddened him one more time. He jumped from the bed, shivering, and climbed quickly into his clothes. Due to his sleeplessness, his eyes had already accustomed themselves to the dusky daybreak. With quiet tiptoes, he headed downstairs to warm up the place, add coal to the Pennsylvania fireplace in the parlor, and get the cookstove up and running to boil water. He’d wash, make tea. Perhaps start breakfast. And in truth, he knew perfectly well how to cook, thanks to the chuck wagon and its Cookie. Why not permit Cordy to sleep in? After all, he’d brought her much extra work last night.
And, he smiled, much money. Which reminded him, and heat brushed him. He owed her, too. Well, he was practically barefooted; the half eagle was in his boot upstairs.
The metal teakettle was nearly full from the pump when a door clicked and her fragrance filled the room. Surprise raked him, and fortunately, he didn’t drop a thing. With one hand he held the kettle and combed his hair with the other. And turned to face her in a doorway next to the stove.
“Hawk?” Cordy’s breathlessness unnerved him. Long golden hair hugged her shoulders, and her disarray stirred every pore of his skin. And then some.
Breath pounded in his lungs. “Cordy? I thought you upstairs. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I decided to get the heat going, and tea.”
She smiled, and he melted. “The stove has a little reservoir with hot water.” She showed him. His knees weakened. “I bank the stove so it keeps the night warm. I generally slee—stay down here.” She stumbled, ladylike over the intimate word. “It’s warmer by the stove, and I can get an early start on breakfast when I have guests. It’s a hired girl’s room, but I’ve never been able to afford help.”
Somehow, Hawk’s spirits fell. All night, the tension, those dreams. And she hadn’t been close at all. But now she was, wrapped tight and embarrassed in pink flannel. And he, well, his shirt wasn’t buttoned, and his stockinged feet burned with cold.
Yet he felt no discomfort at all. It was almost like they woke up together every morning. He grew hot in all the places a healthy man could.
No.
She belonged in Denver. He was bound for the ranch.
They were business partners. Nothing more.
Yet the moment, the gaze between them lasted forever.
And ever.
Finally, she moved, turned from him, and filled a pitcher. “You can take some hot water upstairs with you and get ready for the day.” Her voice shook, her eyelashes lay like soft feathers upon her cheek. “A day when we have so much to do!”
She thrust the pitcher in his hands, and the warmth streamed to his toes. The heat from her fingertips as well as the ceramic. Something, somehow, tied them together.
The exhibition is all. Hawk forced the thought into his head. Even though her wrapper had opened a bit when the tie-belt loosened, and he saw a flash of her nightgown. His bones boiled anew.
“Now…” Her eyes opened, like silver stars. “I’ll get some breakfast going—”
“No. Just coffee. I can’t take time to eat.”
“Arbuckle’s, then. And as soon as the mercantile opens, I’ll get the cloth. Won’t the screen need to be quite large? I’m sure the Hacketts will extend my credit.” Her words trickled fast, like a rushing stream over stones.
Like her tumult might match his. Satisfaction poured over him.
“Hacketts?” The name was slightly familiar. The air around the tidy kitchen had heated significantly, and he needed cooling normality. For something to do, he set the pitcher of water on a counter full of plates the size of full moons.
“Yes. Delmar and Geraldine Hackett.” Cordy cleared her throat and peered out the dark window. “Um, dear people. They own and run the general store. Their son is the local horse doctor.”
Oh, yes. Hawk groaned without a sound. His next expense, medical care and boarding fees for his hired horse. The beast was a fine one and deserved the best.
“Hawk, how much cloth do we need for the screen?” Cordy persisted, stiff fingers grasping her garment. “What color? Or does that matter? And what size? You must have some idea. Did you look around town? Where do you plan us to set-up?”
Questions tumbled as fast as the curls bounced on her shaking head. Oh, Hawk’s fingers itched to comb through them. Cordy tied the fabric belt tight to close up any sight of her sleepwear and the propriety helped Hawk relax a little. No matter his keen disappointment.
“I perused the town yesterday. The east wall of the livery stable should work.” He wondered why his voice shook. She was close, but hadn’t he instructed his body to behave? “First Street runs alongside, and behind it is a big warehouse for parked wagons and coaches.” He gave his throat a faked clearing, but the shakes returned with her smile. “Uh, with some temporary framework inbetween, we should have um, fifty, sixty feet or so to stretch our screen.”
Cordy’s lips swished to one side of her mouth. “That’s a lot of yards. Of cloth, I mean. Not gardens. What if the Hacketts don’t stock enough?” Her beautiful fingers smoothed the already wrinkle-few robe, and his unruly thoughts imagined her hands running down his flesh.
“Well, I suppose we could augment necessary yardage with bed sheets.” Bed sheets? His throat grumbled again. “You could stitch all of it together into one long thing.”
“Bed sheets?” Her lovely eyebrows knitted together. He warmed down to his cold toes. “Stitch? I suppose. Uh, are you certain this will work?”
“Of course.” Hawk reached for the pitcher’s handle. His free hand, well, plain and simple, he wanted to touch Cordy, but instead, he pretended a cough and covered it. “We have no choice but to try. The men from last night plan to disperse the handbills around the county at first light. Miss Daisy promised her assistant would stay up all night if needed to get them done. There will be entry fees coming in today. We must give it our best efforts, Cordy.”
“Yes. It should work.” Like melting butter, her golden hair streamed over her shoulders and begged for his mouth. “If the weather holds, and the mud continues to dry, and there is no more snow, First Street will be clear and flat for the riders and the photographers to set up.” Her words rushed together. “What kind of string do I need to get? Cotton? Or woolen yarn? Silk thread?”
In truth, Hawk had no idea what exactly he required as a tripwire. And even less idea on how much. But he swallowed a whiff of apprehension and grabbed at authority, not much liking the twang of panic in her tone. “As many spools as they have, of course. Of everything. And thank you.”
“All right then. I’ll brew up coffee in a moment. Or would you prefer tea?” She seemed calm enough now.
Hawk considered the delight of her lips lapping at the edge of a china cup but inertia surged through him, and he realized he couldn’t take the time. “You know, thank you all the same, but I’ll ready myself and check on the The Trumpet’s morning edition.”
She moved a little and the hem of her nightwear puddled on the floor. His heartbeat halted. “Well, since you can’t wait, the saloon will have coffee. For sobering up.” She tsked, loud. “Skinny Hank’s never closes. There’ll be a busy poker table at work, certainly Faro and likely Chuck-a-luck.”
For a moment, Hawk bristled. How could this lovely lady know of such things? Then he realized. Clancy. She blushed red and nodded.
“Of course,” he soothed, wanting to touch her face. “Men who can’t yet work their fields must stave off boredom. And I should put myself out there as soon as I can. To garner registration for our exhibition.”
“Well, watch yourself. I hear Skinny Hank dilutes decent whiskey with ammonia and hides the taste of his noxious concoction with chili pepper.” Cordy gave an elaborate fake shudder, then a firm nod. “Not that I’ve tasted it, of course.”
Hawk shouted out brief laughter. “I’m merely after coffee.”
“Things may change.” Cordy’s lips pursed, so adorably they called for a kiss. He held back, hated that the conversation had so brought Clancy into the room. “My dear…”
The endearment slid out, and Cordy giggled.
“Oh, goodness me.” Her face turned a glorious pink. “You make me sound like your granny. Get along with you, and drum up some business. Both for your exhibition and my boardinghouse. No, go see how our Help Wanted looks in The Trumpet.”
“Quite a clever name for the Paradise newspaper.” Oh yes, almost as if they read the paper together every day. His heart sang at the impossible possibility.
Cordy laughed out loud. “Yes, considering it was called the Gazette for years.” A shaft of dawn sun shot through the window and lit up her hair. “Daisy changed the name when she took over as editor, although she’s never explained why. Now, I’ll get my errands done at the mercantile after a cup of tea. I’d—” Her voice turned shy. “I really would love you to join me.”
Oh, he was tempted again by her lips, but the lure of the exhibition held out. Even though his heart sang her name silently but louder than he wished, he headed upstairs to dress. Disappointment rocked him the minutes later, though. Spiffed up and polished as fine as the crown jewels, he didn’t see her downstairs anywhere. He saluted the empty air anyway.
And missed her like he hadn’t imagined possible. His heart heavied with disappointment.
But he swallowed his regret and moved along. Outside, he noticed the muddy thoroughfare had dried out considerably since his slog through it yesterday. The grubby snow banks had shrunk to nothing, and the morning bore a hint of warmth. He took all of it as a good sign. No responsible horseman would allow his mount to slip and trip through sludge. Ice. Snow. He shivered, and then settled himself.
Indeed, Paradise was a pretty place bordered on the west by the Loup River. In the distance, cottonwood trees shadowed the banks with branches just beginning to green. Fine strong buildings bore the patina of hard work and prairie ideals.
While Hawk cursed Farmland Bank and its ilk, he was forced to admire the fine red-brick building with its white pillars. Hackett Mercantile’s false-fronted shop invited customers, and although the boardinghouse might need a fresh coat of whitewash after the sc
ars of winter, the place exuded the comfort he’d known firsthand. Although… His heart thumped a little. Cordy Meeker might have had no small part in his assessment.
Down at the west end of the main street, the church wore her white steeple like a bridal veil hung from the sky. A big tree protected the Satterburg parsonage with arms of bony branches, and off in the distance a bit, a schoolhouse’s red clapboards glowed with sunrise. All in all, just what one expected in America’s heartland.
Strolling through Paradise, Hawk discovered himself already famous, which as a stranger in a small town long in winter’s thrall was possibly not that surprising. But his confidence lurched anyway. Folks he’d never seen before called to him by name from doorways and upstairs windows. Sheriff Pelton, with his pretty redheaded wife Lisa on his arm, hallooed like a long-lost friend. By the time Hawk reached Skinny Hank’s, indeed crammed with men despite the hour, he had signed up the tinsmith, Charlie Tuttle from the livery and his boss Nathan Moulton, a chap from Norfolk visiting his sister, and had firmly turned away two disappointed ladies.
Members of his posse had been busy as well. Handbills decorated every window and lamppost and were already catching people’s eye. He would need to give Miss Daisy an extra thank you for her fine design and hard, quick work.
Oh, Paradise was enthralled, enamored. Hawk had arrived at the right time. Although the obvious didn’t escape him. Had he remained on the train, he’d be in Colorado by now, his pocketbook safe in, well, his pocket.
But then his blood heated, possibly to a hotter degree than before. He’d never have met Cordelia Meeker.
Gunnar Schlaap and a gruff cohort shouted at him as he entered the stuffy saloon. Through smoke as thick as London fog, Hawk called out to his new chums.
“Over here, Lord Keaton.” A shadow drawled in a friendly way. Hawk found his new best friend and sank next to him. “Hello and how are you, Hawk, my pal.” Gunnar grinned, teeth somewhat tarnished with snuff. “Still deludes me how one gets Hawk out of Keaton.”
