“You’ve got till the count of three, Mrs. Royse,” Hawk stated quietly as he knelt by the fire and poured a cup of coffee, “then I’m coming back.”
“Go to hell!”
“You’re repeating yourself. Remind me to teach you how to cuss, that part of your education has been sadly neglected,” Hawk replied.
“One … “
Molly sat up, threw a defiant look in his direction, grabbed the quilt and lay back down. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and closed her eyes. She would return to that dream! He couldn’t stop her. She wouldn’t give in to his demands!
“Two … “
His deep rich voice vibrated through her, promising that his threat wasn’t a bluff. The smell of the freshly brewed coffee didn’t help, either. It drifted invitingly past her nose, and her stomach growled in reminder that she hadn’t eaten in several days.
Hawk set his cup on a convenient rock, stood and slowly approached Molly. Her eyes were tightly closed, her hands knotted into protective fists on the edge of the quilt.
“Three.”
At the sound of his voice directly overhead, Molly’s eyes flew open, her startled gaze connecting with his determined one. She had concentrated so hard on returning to the dream that she had been unaware of his approach.
“Up, Mrs. Royse!” Hawk grabbed the quilt and easily jerked it from her grasp. With the same sure movement, he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet.
“Go to —”
“You might try saying ‘you bastard!’ — it would be much more effective than continuously repeating the same tired phrase.”
“You … you …”
“Bastard?”
“Bastard!” Molly hissed.
“Very good,” Hawk nodded. “Now that you’re awake and out of bed you can get dressed. Or do you need my help?”
Molly’s eyes spit defiance as she stood toe-to-toe with her antagonist, his black gaze never wavering from hers. She stubbornly held her ground until he reached for the buttons on her nightdress.
“I can dress myself!” she snarled through clenched teeth.
“Be quick, breakfast is ready.” Hawk turned and walked back toward the fire while M oily cursed him, his family, past and future generations and the very ground he walked on … as she quickly dressed herself.
When she finally stumbled to the fire, Hawk forced a plate into her hands. A snake curled to strike could not have brought a more repulsed look to her face.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes you are.”
“You’re telling me that I’m hungry?” she asked with astonishment.
“You haven’t eaten in three days. You’re hungry.”
“And I suppose you’re going to force me to eat?”
“You learn quickly.” Hawk sat down and began eating his own breakfast, his gaze never leaving her.
“I hate you,” she said quietly.
“Good, hate is a healthy, honest emotion. Now eat.”
After the first couple of bites Molly discovered to her surprise that she was starving. She tried to eat slowly, to foster the impression that she was simply yielding to his demand, but when she cleaned her plate and requested another helping she gave the lie to that notion.
“Did you ever play in the mud when you were a child, Mrs. Royse?” Hawk asked, satisfied when she cleaned the plate a second time.
“No, Mr. Hawk, my father would have been appalled.”
“Well, then, today will be a first for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Molly lifted her nose slightly. “Why would I wish to play in the mud?”
Hawk nodded with satisfaction at her expression of disdain. She’d make it, he decided. Her sorrow was far from soothed but her spirit had not deserted her.
“After you wash the dishes come down to the creek. I’ll have the mud ready when you get there.”
In spite of herself, Molly was curious. She lingered over the dishes, trying to find ways to occupy herself other than joining Hawk at the river. Finally, knowing he would respect her grief, she slowly climbed the hill and stood beside Adam’s grave.
Hawk watched Molly as she sat down beside the grave. He waited for her to leave and come to him, knowing it might be necessary to force her to do so and dreading the idea. When he knew he could wait no longer, she surprised him by rising and walking toward the creek.
“You are about to learn the fine art of playing in the mud, Mrs. Royse,” Hawk said as he finished filling a bucket with the dark red mud that lined the riverbank. “Fill that bucket with water and follow me,” he instructed as he grabbed two buckets and walked away.
Molly filled the bucket as instructed and started to follow, but her steps slowed when she realized he was heading for the cabin. Hawk emptied the mud into a trench he had dug earlier, added some gravel and grass, then turned to reach for the water. His eyes narrowed when he saw the look of dread that covered her face.
“I need the water, Mrs. Royse,” he said.
“I … I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“The cabin … “
Hawk stood with his hands on his hips, his dark gaze enigmatic. “Have you decided to return to Charleston?”
“No!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I won’t go back to Charleston!”
“Then you need somewhere to live, we have to finish the cabin.”
“Can’t we build another one somewhere else?” she asked hesitantly.
“Bring the water, Mrs. Royse.”
Molly moved slowly toward him, her eyes glued to the cabin. “You can’t bend an inch, can you?”
He took the bucket from her hands and poured most of the water onto the mud in the trench. With a heavy branch, Hawk slowly began to stir the mixture of mud, small stones and grass.
“Building a new cabin wouldn’t involve bending, Mrs. Royse,” he said quietly as he worked. “It would mean starting over, doing work that has already been done once. Why waste everything we’ve already accomplished?”
“This cabin will always remind me of … Adam.”
“There will be a lot of things that remind you of him. I could tell you that someday your memories will be sweet but that would be a waste of breath because you’d never believe me,” Hawk replied as he handed her the limb. “Stir, Mrs. Royse.”
Sweat soon beaded Molly’s brow as she fought the weight of the heavy mixture. When Hawk decided it was mixed enough he filled two of the buckets then covered the trench with a piece of canvas to prevent it from drying out.
“This mud will be the chinking between the logs.” He took a handful of the mixture and packed it firmly between two logs. He worked quickly, tightly stuffing the mud into the holes, smoothing as he worked.
“I’ve already finished the upper logs.” Hawk turned and pointed to the bucket, “Get busy, Mrs. Royse, you’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Molly looked at the rows of logs forming the walls and knew his comment was a vast understatement. It would take weeks for her to finish her assigned task. She opened her mouth to object, but a look in his eyes had her biting back her words. He was waiting for her to protest, to refuse to work. Without a doubt, Molly knew he would use it as the reason to return her to Charleston.
She bent, grabbed a handful of mud and began chinking the logs. Somehow Hawk had made it appear easy. His rows were neatly smoothed, one continuous progression, while it quickly became evident that hers was not.
“You’re not using enough mud.” Hawk demonstrated the procedure again. “Pack it in tightly. It’ll shrink as it dries and if it’s not tight enough you’ll discover all kinds of holes this winter when the wind comes in.”
Molly worked diligently throughout the day, stopping only to mix more mud. She was aware of Hawk’s presence but she ignored him except when he spoke directly to her. The physical labor was exhausting but it left her mind free and she fought to control the unwanted memories that flooded her. More than once she had to wipe away uncontro
llable tears as memories of Adam threatened to destroy her brittle composure. Even her increasing hate for Hawk was no deterrent to the everthreatening heartache.
“Go get cleaned up,” Hawk said. “I’ll see to supper.”
“Get up, get dressed, eat, work, take a bath,” Molly hissed. “I’m getting sick and tired of your orders!”
“Fine,” Hawk replied mildly. “It doesn’t matter to me if you take a bath or not, I’m not the one covered from head to toe in red mud.”
Molly looked down at her mud-splattered dress and at her arms, covered to her elbows in the rapidly hardening muck. A trickle of sweat rolled down her brow and she used her forearm to wipe it away, realizing that she had to have left some of the clay on her face as well. Protest be damned, she knew that she would be the only one to suffer by refusing to bathe. Muttering beneath her breath, Molly walked back to camp, grabbed clean clothes and headed for the creek.
The cool water felt good on her heated skin and in spite of herself, Molly enjoyed the bath. Her oncesmooth hands stung in hundreds of places from the abrasive effects of the mud, and calluses had already begun to form from her unaccustomed labors.
She unwillingly remembered the kisses Adam had placed in the palm of her hand and the feel of his skin beneath her fingers.
“Supper is waiting, Mrs. Royse!”
Pulled abruptly from her memories, Molly walked out of the river and began to dry herself. A cool evening breeze trailed across her skin and she rushed to dress.
Deep shadows darkened the stream and Molly shivered as she noticed the position of the lowering sun. Night, and the pitiless loneliness it brought, was rapidly descending.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Finish your supper.”
“I am finished.”
“Eat!”
“Then will you leave me alone?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“You mean you won’t badger me to go to bed?”
“You can sit up all night, if you wish.”
“You’re kidding! You won’t insist that it’s time to go to bed?”
“If common sense doesn’t tell you to go to bed then I think your tired body will. You’ve worked hard all day and before long it’s going to insist on rest.”
Stubbornly, Molly raised her chin. “I think I’m the best judge of whether or not I’m tired.” Defiantly she dropped her full plate on the ground. “Or hungry!”
“Then, by all means, stay up.” Hawk grabbed her plate, scraped off the food, and quickly dispatched the evening dishes. Without another word he turned and walked away from camp.
Molly keenly felt his absence, as the night sounds grew threateningly closer. Only the crackle of the fire sounded familiar, but it seemed sinister rather than soothing. She pulled her shawl more firmly around her shoulders, sighing silently with relief when Hawk returned to camp.
Tiny drops of water sparkled with a silver sheen on his midnight black hair, revealing the reason for his disappearance. She watched with faint disbelief as he unrolled his blankets, added more wood to the fire and then stretched out on his bed.
“Remember that morning comes early and you still have logs to chink.” With those final words he rolled to his side, pulled the blanket over his shoulder and closed his eyes.
Molly watched as the new logs caught fire and she waited for Hawk to demand that she go to bed. The night noises, no longer threatening with him in camp, drifted slowly past her ears. In the distance an owl called its eternal question and katydids chirped in a rhythmic cadence. A cool breeze played with tendrils of hair lying on Molly’s neck as a whippoorwill’s plaintive song echoed poignantly through the darkness, needlessly reminding her that she was alone.
Wrapping her arms around her bent legs, Molly rested her chin on her knees. The fire burned low until only glowing embers lit the darkness. Night, once so welcome, was now an enemy to be held at bay. It brought sleep and the promise of dreams, but dreams that were granted only after suffering the nightmare agony of reality.
“Adam,” Molly whispered as her eyes brimmed with tears. She wrapped her arms around her waist as sobs tore through her body. Her shoulders shook with the force of her anguish and she was unaware of making soft whimpering sounds.
Molly went willingly into the powerful arms that tenderly enfolded her. She welcomed the strong beat of his heart beneath her ear as her head leaned against his chest. Hawk neither encouraged nor discouraged her tears, only holding her tightly and offering her whatever comfort she could find from his embrace.
He gently stroked her back, and his breath fell softly against her brow. As her sobs lessened she thought she detected a quiet chant that she more felt than heard. His voice seemed to vibrate through his chest and she became quiet, trying to hear any words that accompanied the tuneless song. Never increasing in volume, it slowly drifted away until it merged with the sounds of the night.
“Once, when I was about five or six, I fell and cut my knee,” he said softly, inviting Molly to share in his memory. “I was living with Luc and Linsey at the time and ran crying to Linsey. She picked me up and held me and dried my tears. Then she bandaged my knee and offered me a cookie to help me forget the pain.” With her head nestled beneath his chin Molly didn’t see Hawk’s gentle smile at the memory.
“Several months later my father had come to get me and I lived for a time at the Shawnee camp. I again fell, this time breaking my arm. I remember crying from pain and fear as I walked back to my father’s lodge. When I got there he ignored the tears and spoke harshly when I cried out in pain as they set my arm.
“When the process was finished and my tears had dried on their own, he informed me that tears were for women. Warriors learned to hide the pain and fear.
“1 never cried again,” he added softly.
“But you were just a baby!” Molly gasped indignantly. “How could he have been so cruel and heartless?”
“Ah, Molly, the Indian way is sometimes so different from the white man’s. When a boy reaches the age of six or seven he is taken away from his mother. He still lives in the same lodge with her but she suddenly treats him differently. He is no longer considered a baby, he is on his way to manhood.”
“But a boy of six is still so little,” she interrupted.
“Maybe a white child, but not an Indian. By that time he is expected to bring in food of some kind. At that age most boys are pretty proficient with a small bow and can kill birds and rabbits. It’s not unheardof for a boy of eight to kill a deer.”
“When did you kill your first deer?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“Seven,” he replied with a shrug, then continued his story. “The time I broke my arm, the Cub and I stayed with the tribe for nearly a year before Luc came and got us.”
“The Cub?”
Again Hawk smiled. “Luc and Linsey’s oldest son. Luc is known as Bear Who Walks Alone. His first son was called the Cub until he outgrew the name,” he answered with a chuckle. “He’s only a few months younger than me and when we were growing up we were inseparable. When my father came to get us we’d spend several months at the village. Finally, usually when Linsey couldn’t stand the separation any longer, Luc would come and get us and we’d stay with them until my father returned for us. We spent our entire childhood first with one and then the other, but always together.”
“It must have been difficult living in both worlds.”
“At times it was confusing, but looking back, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“You miss them.”
“I miss them,” he agreed quietly. Moving carefully, Hawk stood with Molly in his arms and carried her to her bed. He gently lowered her onto the quilts but she grabbed his hand when he started to move away.
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded softly, the glimmer of tears still painting her cheeks.
“Not yet, Molly, just let me sit down.” He made himself comfortable beside her, holding her hand in both of his.
“Tell me
more.”
“A bedtime story?” he questioned, then proceeded to do just that. “An Indian changes his name several times through his life. At birth he is usually given a name by his grandmother or an aunt. As he grows, his name often reflects his maturity, or lack of… sometimes a boy will do something stupid and the other boys will start calling him a derogatory name that will, unfortunately, stick with him for years.
“He selects his true name after the ceremony of manhood. That is most often the name he carries with him throughout his life.”
“I can’t imagine being called anything but Molly!” Interest in a way of life so different from her own was obvious in her voice. “What were your names?”
Hawk was quiet for so long she began to wonder if she had inadvertently asked a question that was disrespectful to him or to his culture.
“That’s a story for another time,” he finally replied.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t,” he offered with a smile. “But this bedtime story is about a bear and his cub, not a hawk.
“Luc is one of the largest men I’ve ever seen, well suited to his name of Bear. The Cub’s name never changed because it suited him, too, though sometimes it was not used as a compliment. Then one summer he grew taller than the Bear. I thought I’d never meet anyone bigger than the Bear but it seems like the Cub just plain forgot to stop growing.”
“Big, huh?”
“No, he’s more than just big,” he replied with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “When we went to the tailor in Philadelphia the poor man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He’d never made clothing for someone of the Cub’s size.
“Dressed in the clothing of the frontier, the buckskins and moccasins, the Cub was intimidating to strangers. But in city clothing he attracted attention like a runaway buggy. People tripped over their own feet staring at him and the women … ah, the women made complete fools of themselves vying for a chance to arouse his interest.”
“He sounds awful,” she murmured, intimidated by just the thought of the unknown man.
“No, Molly, if you met him you’d quickly realize that the Cub is a man who honors you when he calls you friend.”
LeClerc 03 - Wild Savage Heart Page 10
