The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1)

by Sharon Ihle

  "Oh, hell," he muttered under his breath, going to her. Leaning down, he lightly patted her back, and asked, "What's the matter, Irish, did you choke on something?"

  She shook her head, but continued to retch, bringing up nothing but air.

  His suspicions roused, he thought back to Big Jim and the symptoms the rancher grumbled about each time he suspected that his wife had caught—again. Hawke hadn't paid much attention to the man when he started talking about woman-matters, and he had pretty much put the possibility that Lacey might be pregnant out of his mind. Now as he put everything together, he did remember Big Jim mentioning something about his wife's tendency to throw up a lot in the early months.

  "Oh, hell," he muttered again, louder.

  After wiping her mouth, Lacey rolled away from the bucket and looked up at Hawke from her seat on the floor. Her normally bright complexion was pale and wan, showing her freckles off far more than usual.

  "My stomach," she said, holding her belly. "'Tisn't quite right this morning."

  Hawke didn't beat around the bush. "How many mornings has this been going on, Irish?"

  She shrugged, a slight hesitancy in her voice as she admitted, "For the better part of a week, I suppose. Why?"

  Hawke sighed heavily, uncertain how to proceed with the discussion from here.

  Noting his concern, Lacey climbed to her feet. She swooned, nearly falling, and would have, had her husband not been there to catch her. Had Big Jim mentioned anything about dizziness? Hawke thought that maybe he had.

  "Sit down, Irish," he said a little gruffly. "In fact, maybe you ought to go lie down a while."

  "B-but the sickness is gone again. I was just a wee bit weak there for a moment, is all."

  Despite her objections, Hawke firmly sat Lacey down in the nearest chair. Then, actually contemplating fatherhood for the first time since the night he'd lost all control, he traced the soft curves of Lacey's cheek with his fingertip. Surprisingly enough, the thought of her carrying his child really didn't disturb him at all anymore, if indeed it ever really had. In fact, he realized that he was actually looking forward to the prospect, teeming with a new kind of joy.

  Hardly able to keep a serious face, he forced a stern expression to hide the smile lurking just beneath it as he said, "You're not sick, Lacey. I think you're going to have a baby."

  He hadn't thought it possible for her delicate skin to go even whiter than it was before, but it did. "A babe—me?"

  Hawke nodded, just the corners of his mouth upturned.

  "B-but... but you promised that would not happen."

  At both her tone and the words, Hawke's joy deflated to an ominous kind of bewilderment. "I'm not a hundred percent sure that's what's wrong with you, Lacey. It's just a guess. When we get to town Saturday, have the doctor take a look at you after he examines Crowfoot."

  Tears sprang into Lacey's eyes as she read the truth in her husband's expression. Lowering her head, for she couldn't bear to look at him any longer, she prayed to God that Hawke was wrong. But she knew, somehow, that he wasn't.

  Ever since the night he'd found her near to freezing in the snow, then loved her with a passion she'd never felt in him before, Lacey had been afraid something like this might have happened. Things were different between them that night, physical differences to be sure, but the morning after, too. Hawke's silvery-green eyes by morning's light seemed to gleam with a hint of guilt, and she thought she could almost see an unspoken apology perched at the tip of his tongue. She'd known something was wrong, but had been so happy and content, it was far easier to go on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Well clearly, something had. Was she now supposed to present the man she loved above life itself with a mad baby? How would she ever accomplish such a thing? Lacey wondered with horror. She'd have to explain everything to him—her involvement in her own parents' deaths, the spells that came over her with less frequency as she grew older, and the periods she spent as a mad girl locked in with the others at St. Josephine's. She could never find the words to show Hawke this part of herself. Never!

  Both terror and grief pouring out of her in a muffled sob, Lacey lifted her head and lashed out at the only thing she could think of—Hawke, who'd put her in this position in the first place.

  "No, no, no!" she cried, pounding the table beside her. "This can not be true. You must tell me 'tisn't true!"

  Not so much as a hint of his former joy remained as Hawke snapped back at his wife. "I don't see why you're so damned upset." Or maybe, he did. "I've seen the way you look at Kate's daughter when we're over there. Maybe having a baby of your own won't be such a trial for you."

  How could bearing a mad child be anything but a trial? "Well, I don't agree with you, sir. I also don't think you're a man of your word."

  "Lacey," he said, the warning in his voice low and clear. "You're not being fair about this."

  "As fair as you. I told you I did not want a babe, and you, you p-promised it would not happen to me. How could you have done this dreadful thing anyway?"

  "Damn it, Lacey," he snarled. "I'm only human. I didn't figure on getting you in a family way. If you'll recall, I didn't exactly want children either. I just made a little mistake."

  "I think there'd be nothing small or wee about it. And a dreadful, dreadful mistake it 'tis." Overwrought and overwhelmed all at once, the tears began to fall harder as Lacey folded her arms on the table and dropped her head on them.

  "As I said before," Hawke muttered, his heart breaking, "go see the doctor in town. Maybe he can do something to help you with this dreadful mistake. God knows, I can't do anything for you now except say I'm sorry."

  A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter 18

  The next three days were rough on Hawke and Lacey. He spent most of his hours in the barn with the hired hand he'd borrowed from Caleb, making sure the man knew exactly what was expected of him and what to do in case of an emergency. Lacey pretty much hid out in their bedroom, crying and miserable. And alone.

  The long drive to town should have been a joyous one for everyone, what with money enough for Hawke to buy the ranch free and clear as well as to send Lacey on a shopping trip for herself, at long last. More importantly, there was hope for Crowfoot to lead a normal life. Lacey had worked hard with the boy over the winter, and finally convinced him to let both her and Kate have a look at his foot. It was crooked for sure, but Kate had assured all concerned that she'd seen worse at the hospital—and that even then the defect had been corrected well enough for the child to wear a proper shoe and walk with only a slight limp.

  It should have been a joyous day, indeed, but words barely passed among the sullen trio until Hawke pulled the wagon up next to the New York House Hotel. Although its location on rough and tumble Front Street was not the best, the inn had been freshly renovated and it was one of the few establishments in Laramie in which Hawke figured a half-breed and his wife would be welcomed.

  Dressed as John Winterhawke, Jr., businessman, in fresh jeans, subdued flannel shirt, and plain buckskin jacket, Hawke, who'd even taken the precaution of leaving his eagle feather hat at the ranch, climbed down from the wagon, gave Lacey a hand, then led her to the boardwalk in front of the hotel.

  "Get two rooms," Hawke said, handing her a wad of bills. "One for us and one for Crowfoot."

  The young man balked. "I will not—"

  Hawke cut the kid off with both his tongue and sharp gaze. "You will do what we ask of you in town, son, remember?"

  Crowfoot's bottom lip fell, but he nodded and said, "I remember. I will stay in the hotel."

  "That's right." His attention back on Lacey, Hawke finished his instructions. "You and Crowfoot may as well go on over to see the doctor once you've taken care of the rooms." He paused, looking at her intently, but then went on with his instructions. "After you've finished there, meet me in front of Braddock Savings and Loan. That's at the ot
her end of Second Street. By the time I've dropped the horses at the stables, ordered our supplies from Trabings Store, and taken care of business with Braddock, you two ought to be about done don't you think?"

  She nodded, her gaze averted, and quietly said, "We'll be waiting for you out front of the savings and loan." Then, Crowfoot in hand, Lacey stepped through the doors of the hotel and disappeared from view.

  Although he tried not to think about her or the impossible situation she was in because of his carelessness, Hawke went about his business, distracted at best. All he could feel was numb inside; that and a terrible sense of loss. It was in that frame of mind that he finally approached his uncle's place of business. Though just one of several savings and loan companies Braddock had helped organize in Laramie, the impressive three-story building of brick and glass was the only to bear the man's name.

  Striding across the lobby directly to the small desk placed squarely in front of Braddock's polished oak doors, Hawke announced himself to the secretary. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm John Winterhawke, Jr., and I'd like a minute with William Braddock. Is he here?"

  The young woman looked up at him, then gave a little start. "Oh, I, er, I'm not sure. Just a moment, please."

  She backed her chair away from the desk, then scurried over to Braddock's doors, knocked, and opened one of them a crack. Moving as silently as he could, Hawke was right on her heels.

  "There's a Mr. Winterhawke, Jr., out here to see you, Mr. Braddock. Are you in for him?" Better than a head taller than the attractive young woman, Hawke peered into the room.

  "It looks to me like he is," he said, frightening the secretary so, she jumped and flattened herself against the jamb. Hawke pushed the door open all the way, then stepped around the woman.

  Braddock, who hadn't said a thing yet, burst into boisterous laughter. "Even with all the schooling Ft. Laramie had to offer, it still didn't go far in civilizing a savage like you, did it, breed?"

  Hawke shrugged, in no mood to put up with his uncle's insults a moment longer than he had to. "I've come on business, and I don't have a lot of time. Get out your ledger for Winterhawke Ranch. I want to pay off the deed."

  The secretary started to back out of the doorway. "If you won't be needing me..."

  "No, wait a minute, Pauline." Braddock waved to the woman. "Get on in here and sit down. I might need you to, ah... jot down a note, or two."

  Hawke smiled wryly, pleased to think that his uncle was too afraid of what his nephew-the-savage might do to allow himself to be trapped alone in a room with him. As Braddock dug through his files, Hawke couldn't help but notice that the secretary had taken a seat to the left of her employer—and that she was staring at him again, this time with a far more appreciative eye. Hawke winked at her just to see what she would do. Pauline winked right back, then gave him a crooked little smile. Braddock-trained all right, he thought with a twinge of pity. Then he turned back to his uncle.

  Fiddling with his tawny mustache as he perused the papers before him, Braddock finally looked up from them and drew a beady-eyed gaze on his nephew. "Here are the new figures. How much of it do you think you can pay this year?"

  Hawke stared at the number, hardly able to believe his eyes. "What the hell are you trying to do to me? This isn't even close to the amount we agreed on last spring."

  "Take a seat, breed, and I'll explain." But Hawke remained standing, glaring at the uncle he hated as the man went on with his lies. "You've got to admit yourself that the house and barn are worth ten times what they were four years ago—maybe more."

  "Of course they are, you idiot, but I built them myself with my own two hands. You can't raise the price on what I've done."

  He narrowed one amber eye. "I can do just about anything I want to as president of this company, and don't you forget it. Besides, there's been a lot of talk around town about the quartz gold mines popping up all over around Centennial way. Hell, the mineral rights alone on that property are probably worth more than the final figure I just gave you."

  Hawke slapped his hands to the desk, leaning across the polished mahogany top to better look the man in his lying, cheating eyes. "You will not do this to me again," he said, his voice rough. "I have enough money on me to buy Winterhawke at a fair price, free and clear. I know it, and you know it. Now get me the deed, damn it, or..."

  "Or what?" Braddock had leaned so far back, his chair was pushed up against the wall. And his voice had lost its arrogant edge. "You gonna scalp me, or something?"

  "Maybe," Hawke ground out. Then he made a mistake with the man that he couldn't have foreseen. "Just maybe I will lift your miserable scalp. You willing to take that chance, or are you going to do the right thing by your sister's son?"

  Hostility replaced the fear in Braddock's expression the moment he heard the word sister. He spat into the spittoon at the foot of his desk, his amber eyes slits, and said, "Get out of my office, you no-good son of a bitch. You disgust me as much as your Indian-loving mother did."

  Hawke had never heard the man speak so of Mildred Braddock. And he didn't much care for it. "My Indian-loving mother? Don't you have that backwards, Uncle?" He pronounced the appellation as if it were the Arapaho word for shit.

  "No, nephew, I do not." Braddock's naturally ruddy complexion took on a deeper hue. "My whore of a sister ran away with your father after she found out he'd knocked her up, not before."

  Cold fury swept through Hawke at those words and his hands tightened into white-knuckled fists. Could this possibly be true? For years on end, he'd been led to believe he was a product of rape, that his father had forcibly dragged his mother off during the night.

  "You're lying," he said, almost certain for some reason that he was not.

  "I wish that I was—almost as much as I wish that Mildred had died of consumption before she had a chance to give birth to the likes of you."

  Sick inside as the vague image of his mother's sad eyes came to mind, Hawke had the fleeting thought that she'd probably died more of a broken heart than consumption. And he had a pretty good idea who was responsible for making her feel that way, too. As he thought of what he'd lost of his heritage, of how he himself had been taught to look on his paternal blood as somehow less than acceptable, he grew angry all over again.

  Seething with rage, he growled, "How could you let me think what I did of my father all this time, you lousy bastard?"

  "Your father, bah." Again Braddock spit into the brass container. Beside him, Pauline flinched. "If there's a bastard in all this besides you, it's the big dumb savage that sired you. But don't worry about looking him up, if that's what you've got in mind—I fixed his ass good after he and Mildred disappeared, or didn't you know that either?"

  Braddock's face was beet red now, his fat jowls jiggling continually. Although he was quite sure he didn't want to hear the rest of what the man had to say, Hawke morbidly asked, "No, sir, I didn't. Just what did you do to his ass?"

  For a moment, it looked as if Braddock realized that he'd gone too far. But then his sheer joy in taunting Hawke overruled his better judgement. "Mildred's and my father was the post commander at the time that Arapaho scout went and 'kidnapped' his daughter. He had every right to send a detachment of soldiers after them, and he did." A grin that was more sneer spreading his mustache wide, Braddock went on to say, "I rode with the detail that day, and when we caught up to Mildred and her 'savage,' I had the honor of putting the bullet through that red bastard's heart myself."

  This final bit of information proved too much for Hawke. Incapable of restraining himself any longer, he leapt on top of his uncle's desk and grabbed him by the throat, the sound of Pauline's screams ringing in his ears.

  * * *

  In the doctor's office, Lacey beamed after the man finished his evaluation. "And what you're saying then is that the boy has a good chance of walking with no limp a'tall after this operation?"

  "I'd almost guarantee it."

  "Did you hear that?" she asked Crowfoot, who was be
aming as well. "Soon as we talk to Hawke and make all the arrangements, you'll be as good as new."

  "Yes, lady. Good as new." Crowfoot hopped up from his chair. "Let's go tell Hawke now."

  "In a minute, Lad." Lacey softened her voice. "There's something else I wish to discuss with the doctor that has nothing to do with you. Will you wait out front for a minute or two?"

  Happy just thinking about his future, Crowfoot shrugged and limped out the door.

  When she and the doctor were alone again, Lacey turned to him, anxiety adding a little quiver to her voice and a rush to her pulse. "There'd be one other wee problem I'd like to have your opinion about," she said. "Do you have the time?"

  * * *

  If not for the double-barreled Derringer Braddock pulled from his vest pocket at the same moment Hawke's fingers found the hollow of his throat, he might very well have breathed his last breath. But as the man swung the small pistol toward his head, Hawke knocked the gun from his hand, and then released him.

  Picking up the weapon himself, Hawke slid off the desk and pointed the ivory handled pistol at the spot just above the bridge of Braddock's nose. He let the man sweat a moment before he finally slammed the gun down on the desktop and muttered, "You aren't worth going to prison over."

  Then he turned his back and started for the door.

  "You'll never get the deed to that ranch now, you bastard!" Braddock screamed after him. "You can get down on your knees and beg me, and it won't do you a damn bit of good."

  As his fingers touched down on the doorknob, Hawke looked over his shoulder at the quivering mass of flesh that made up his uncle. "I don't plan to set foot in this office again for any reason, much less beg you for a ranch I no longer want. Just know that if I can't have Winterhawke, no one can."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just believe it. Believe, too, that you'll pay for this, Braddock. Somehow, someday, I'll see you pay, and pay dearly." His gaze and voice deadly, he added, "There's more than one way to skin a polecat—and without getting your stink all over my hands." That said, he let himself out of the office and slammed the door.