Summer Hawk

by Peggy Webb

  She drew a long, trembling breath. “And you,” she whispered. “Show me what you want.”

  His muscles so tight he could barely move, he touched himself. Her eyes riveted on his, Callie closed her hand around him, and then…magic. Joseph groaned like a giant redwood axed in its prime.

  Without urging, she bent to take him in her mouth. Then, as if she’d read his mind, she whispered, “No more mirror dance. Just you and me, Hawk.”

  When he lowered her to the cedar boughs he was Hawk, strong and tender, and when he entered her he was Hawk, big and bold. And when he took up a slow, sweet rhythm, he was Hawk, soaring so high above Mother Earth that his wings touched the sun.

  Soaring, dipping, diving, he carried her with him. The sun overhead warmed their skin, and the sun inside seared their hearts, melding them so tightly together that Joseph knew nothing could separate them. Not time, not distance, not even death.

  There were no acrobatics, no calisthenics, no tricks, just Hawk and Callie riding the sweet wild currents until they exploded and plunged back to the ground, back to the soft bough of cedars on the hard rocks.

  He pressed her close, murmuring into her hair, “Sweet, so sweet, my love,” while she wrapped her arms around him and held on as if she would never let go. Never. Neither in this lifetime nor the next.

  And for a moment Joseph believed it might be so. For a moment he glimpsed a future for them and saw that it could be good.

  Then Thunderbolt snorted and Callie sat up and the spell was broken.

  “We’re going to get a sunburn if we stay here like this,” she said.

  Sunburn was the least of his worries.

  “We’re doctors,” he said. “We can cure ourselves.”

  The lights went out of her, and she looked deep into his eyes.

  “Can we?” she whispered. “Can we cure ourselves, Joseph?”

  If she had called him Hawk, he might have said, yes, anything is possible. But she had called him Joseph and so he told her the stark truth.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She turned her back to him and walked down to the lake to gather her clothes. If the truth weren’t so heavy in him, he might have walked down after her so that they could cavort in the water.

  Instead he lifted a bough and pressed it to his face, inhaling the sharp scent of cedar and the pungent scent of sex.

  Callie, Callie, his heart cried. But he was stone, cold and silent.

  “Joseph.” She was already dressed when she called him from the edge of the lake. “Thunderbolt will come if you whistle.”

  She swung onto her mount and waited for him, distant and unattainable.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back at camp she dismounted then tossed him a fishing pole.

  “Around here you work for your dinner,” she said.

  How long will you stay? she wanted to say.

  “My mother always taught me that work is good for the soul,” he said.

  I don’t ever want to leave you, he wanted to say.

  “Is she still living?” she asked.

  Can you ever truly love again? she wanted to ask.

  “Yes, in the Black Hills of South Dakota.”

  I love you, he wanted to say.

  Sometimes when skirting around the real issues, one runs out of things to say. That’s what happened to Callie and Joseph. He retreated into that waiting stillness she knew so well, and she busied herself getting their fishing gear together.

  Her body was still heavy with him. His scent was on her skin. And yet she felt as if they had suddenly become strangers.

  If they were in a hospital she would know what to say. If they were fighting a hot virus, she would know what to do.

  But they were in a camp in the mountains, and she had no experience in dealing with a love that was destined to end. She had no experience with love. Period.

  Her relationships had been few and far between, and then only the kind where two people merged for a short while, like rivers whose paths crossed, then went their separate ways without leaving behind a single ripple to show they had ever met.

  She was not prepared for the kind of soul-searing pain that could squeeze a heart in two. She was not prepared for the kind of loneliness that would swallow you up. She was not prepared to talk about things that would lead to goodbye.

  And so she picked up her fishing pole and went to the stream. Actually, she stalked. She’d always done that when she got mad. She used to stomp around so hard Eric told her she sounded like a whole posse. That was in the days when he glued himself to the television set every afternoon to watch an old Western starring Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, or Callie’s favorite, the Lone Ranger.

  That’s who she felt like right now. The Lone Ranger. All of a sudden she was boiling mad. She knew where the anger came from, of course. It was a protective shield against pain.

  What right did Joseph have to come riding into her life? What right did he have to waltz into her camp and seduce her? Who did he think he was?

  Furious now, she drew back her pole and cast with such force the line snagged a tree branch across the stream.

  “Shoot, look at that.”

  She gave a small tug, and when that didn’t work she pulled with all her might. She was so mad she didn’t even hear Joseph come up behind her.

  “Here.” He circled her with his arms, and covered her hands with his. “Let me help with that.”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbows. Hard.

  “Haven’t you done enough already?”

  A great silence came over him. For a moment, he held on to her hands, and then he stepped back.

  Good, she thought. She didn’t need him. Not for fishing, not for sex, not for anything.

  She could feel him, standing a few feet behind her, and darned if she didn’t want to turn around, put her hands on his face and say, I’m sorry.

  Callie resisted the impulse. What did she have to be sorry about? He was the one who had come here and messed up everything. She’d been perfectly content until he showed up. Hadn’t she? And now, look at her. She couldn’t even cast a fishing line.

  She could feel his body heat. She could hear him breathing back there.

  “Go away and leave me alone,” she said.

  She gave the pole a vicious jerk. The branch bent far out over the water, then sprang back, taking her pole with it.

  Hands on her hips, she whirled on Joseph. “Now, see what you’ve done.”

  He was so still, and his eyes… The look in them shook her very soul.

  Without a word he waded into the stream, clothes, boots and all. Let him get wet. What did she care? The water became knee deep, then thigh deep, then waist deep. When it got up to his chest, Callie could no longer stand to be quiet.

  “Come back here. What are you doing?”

  Solemn as a judge, he turned around to face her. “I’m fixing the mess I made.”

  Any other man would have looked ridiculous standing in the middle of a stream fully clothed, but Joseph was one of those men who wore dignity like a second skin. Callie couldn’t stay mad at him. To make matters worse, she wanted him.

  That was all it took, one look, and passion rode her so hard she nearly swooned. She clamped down hard on her emotions, and tried for anger once more.

  “You just stop right there. I’ll get it.”

  He called her bluff. “By all means, be my guest.”

  Callie didn’t hesitate an instant. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d ever gone swimming with clothes on. She kicked off her shoes and waded in.

  She marched straight toward Joseph. The water rose quickly to her waist, but she plowed ahead, straight toward him. His silence goaded her.

  “It’s my pole,” she said.

  Something flickered in his eyes. Something dangerous.

  “It certainly is,” he said.

  Callie shivered but not from the chill. Joseph Swift Hawk was not talking about fishing.

  The loo
k in his eyes might have caused the faint of heart to retreat, but Callie had never been faint of heart. Boldly, she advanced. The water lapped at her breasts, and watching, Joseph didn’t try to disguise his feelings.

  Callie meant to swim straight past him. She meant to turn her focus to the tangled fishing line. She meant to show him that she didn’t need anybody. But in the end she couldn’t. She could no more swim past him than she could fly.

  “Callie.” His voice was soft, seductive, and when he reached for her hand she didn’t fight him.

  He pulled her swiftly toward him and crushed her against his chest. Pressed fully against him, wet and slick and hungry, she could feel every muscle in his body, every sinew, every hard ridge.

  “Callie…”

  Desire stormed them, and they went wild. Shirts drifted downstream, pants floated on the water, but they didn’t notice. Legs and arms tangled, they came together like two thunderclouds. Heaving and panting, they devoured each other.

  And when it was over, when their passion was finally spent, she bowed her head on his chest and cried.

  He wove his hands through her thick wet hair, stroking, soothing.

  “Cry it out, Callie.”

  She didn’t need his permission to cry, but she was glad he gave it. Most men hated a woman’s tears. She was glad he wasn’t that kind of man.

  She cried for Ricky, she cried for Joseph, she cried for herself. She cried for missed chances and lost opportunities and closed doors. She cried over sickness and loneliness and crippling old age. Clinging to him, she cried over war, famine, death. She cried for everything she could think of.

  And he held her the entire time, comforting with soft murmuring and tender touches. How could she bear to lose this man?

  When her sobs subsided, he carried her to the bank and lay down facing her on the soft earth.

  “It’s time to talk, Callie.”

  “Yes.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I know.”

  “I should have talked when I first came here instead of…”

  “Shhh.” She put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it. Don’t ever be sorry.”

  “Are you sorry, Callie?”

  “No. Not one bit. I have no regrets. If you rode into my camp again just the way you did last night I would do the same thing.”

  “Has it been only one night? It seems like years.”

  He didn’t have to explain, for she felt exactly the same way, as if they had always been lovers, as if they had always known each other, not merely in this life but through the centuries. His face was as familiar to her as her own. His body was so much a part of her, that she couldn’t tell where hers left off and his began.

  “Callie, I came to you because I had no choice. We started something in Houston that had to be finished.”

  “Is it finished, then?”

  “No.” He touched her cheek, tenderly, briefly. “I’m not sure it will ever be finished.”

  “Nor am I.”

  His eyes were dark and deep. A woman could get lost in them, and Callie did. They lay facing each other, not touching, not moving, not speaking while the wind and sun moved over them.

  He was the first to move. Reaching out, he traced her lips with the tip of his forefinger.

  “If I thought it would work…if I thought I could live with the terror of watching you around the hot viruses…if I thought you wouldn’t grow to hate me because I’ve renounced my Sioux name…”

  If he hadn’t hesitated, Callie might have let him continue talking. And if he had, he might have said, I love you no matter what, we’ll work it out.

  That hesitation, that small doubt moved her to action. She put her hand over his mouth again.

  “Shhh, don’t say anything else. You’re right. It would never work.”

  Would it? Now she would never know.

  “Sometimes, being right is the most painful thing in the world.”

  “You get over pain. What you don’t get over is the tragic mistakes. They have a way of haunting you forever.”

  She ought to know. Already she could see the tragedy in their saying goodbye. Were they doing the right thing? Would she ever love again? And even if she did, would she ever love as deeply, as surely, as strongly? The questions would haunt her forever.

  He knew, too. She could see it in his eyes.

  “I can only stay a little while longer, Callie. Perhaps a few more days.”

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” She wove her hands through his hair and pulled him close for a long and tender kiss. “When the time comes, leave the way you came, Joseph, without warning.”

  “You want me to leave without saying goodbye.” It was not a question; it was a statement.

  “Every time we make love, we’re saying goodbye,” she said.

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t make love.”

  A smile played around his lips, and she was glad to lighten the mood.

  “Don’t you dare stop.”

  “Not even long enough for food? I’m starved.”

  “So am I. Let’s eat.”

  He got a wicked gleam in his eye. Callie put her hand on his chest and gave a slight push.

  “I’m talking about eating fish,” she said.

  “So am I…eventually.”

  They ended up eating pork and beans straight from the can…eventually.

  His first kiss was so tender it broke her heart. His second was so gentle it moved her to tears. His third was so soft it rearranged her world.

  They lay together on the cushion of grass kissing, and that was all. No sharp stabs of desire. No burning passion. No explosive mating. Just Callie and Hawk kissing as if their lives depended on it.

  And perhaps they did. Perhaps both of them needed this sweet interlude to sustain them in the empty days ahead.

  Holding each other close, they kissed until their hearts glowed and their skin felt warm to the touch. And then they left the stream and went into camp where they put on robes then sat cross-legged on an Indian blanket, eating pork and beans from the same can.

  “This may be the best meal I’ve had in a while,” he said.

  Callie laughed. “It’s the only meal you’ve had in a while.”

  “I had other things on my mind,” he said. “I suppose we’d starve to death if we lived with each other.”

  Folding his hands behind his head, Joseph leaned back against a tree trunk and Callie imagined what it would be like to sit beside him every evening after supper.

  “What do you do in the evenings?” she said.

  “Read, play the guitar, take long walks through the hills, listen to great blues, watch old movies on TV.” He smiled. “Most people find me boring.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “What do you do, Callie?”

  “Read, take long walks through the mountains, listen to great blues, watch old movies on TV.” They both laughed. “Everything except play the guitar. Or sometimes I ride.” His eyes gleamed with devilment. “Horses,” she added.

  An owl called from deep in the woods, and overhead the first star of the evening lit the sky. Joseph unfolded his long legs, stood up and reached for her hand.

  “This evening I have another mount in mind for you.”

  Underlying his soft-spoken invitation was a note of urgency that made Callie lose her breath. She took his hand and let him lead her into the tent.

  “In Sheridan, Wyoming, there is an ancient stone structure rising ten thousand feet above the earth with spokes running outward and the skull of a buffalo lying in the center, facing the sun. It’s called the medicine wheel.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, for she’d been there to see this sacred symbol of the Native Americans. And she knew its significance, but she kept quiet, for it thrilled her to see Joseph caught up in the heritage he insisted he had denied.

  “Everything goes in a circle,” he continued, “and that circle is sacred, filled with mystery and power.”

 
He spread her most colorful blanket upon the tent floor and drew her down with him. Then he untied her robe and peeled it from her shoulders. It slid to the floor, and his tongue traced its path, across her throat, along her shoulder, down the length of her arm all the way to her fingertips.

  Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the glory of his touch.

  “Nature completes the circle every day, starting with the rising of the sun and ending with the rising of the new moon,” he said.

  He cast off his robe, then gently pressed her back against the blanket. Kneeling over her, he trailed his tongue in a white-hot line from her breasts to her navel.

  “From birth to death to rebirth man goes in the sacred circle, and if he’s very lucky he can occasionally capture some of the mystery and the power.”

  He moved his tongue lower, ever lower, until at last he found what he sought. Overcome by sensation, Callie could do nothing more than moan. Joseph interrupted her moans with a kiss that seared her soul.

  “The mystery and power are here, Callie,” he whispered. “On the medicine wheel.”

  He lay beside her, and she took him in her mouth while his tongue searched for sweet mysteries.

  “We never did fish,” she said when they woke up the next morning.

  “I had better things to do.” His smile was teasing. “What about you?”

  “Yes, but I think we’ll both get tired of eating pork and beans.”

  “All right, then. Let’s untangle your line and go fishing.”

  Instead of wading the water, they hiked upstream to a bridge, then hiked back down to the point where Callie’s fishing line was tangled high in a giant oak tree. Joseph didn’t relish the idea of climbing the tree, not at his age. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he could still climb a tree, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Callie. He had his pride.

  “Boost me up,” she said, “and I’ll get it.”

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  He didn’t fool her for a minute. Her amusement started as a smile and ended in full-fledged laughter.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” he said.

  “You should have seen your face when you said you’d climb that tree.”