"A little worse?"
Henry's Adam's apple moved up and down beneath the collar of his formal white shirt. He cleared his throat again. "If she chooses to force the issue of attempting to negate the marriage, she will be disinherited except for a small stipend she is to receive, even if she returns home. If she remains here as your wife, naturally, the house becomes half hers." Henry loosened his collar.
"Go on."
"If you choose to attempt to negate it—"
Hawk stood, incredulous. "My father disinherited me?"
"No, not completely. Only the Mayfair estate lands."
Thousands of Black Hills acres. Land David owned through land grants and claims, but Sioux land. Land he never developed because it had belonged to his wife's people, his son's people. Land he had to keep.
He'd been raised Sioux. Raised to believe that a man of honor shared everything, did not need riches. But he needed those lands. Especially with the confrontations that promised to come.
He sank back into the chair, shaking his head. His father had known him, known how to manipulate him. Known he didn't give a damn about Scottish estates or eastern property. He would have gladly rid himself of an unwanted wife by giving up those properties. But the Sioux lands ...
The hot fire of pain spread throughout his chest. ' 'I loved him," he said simply, lifting his hands, at a loss.
"He—he loved you, too. I truly believe that he did what he did for your benefit. Of course, he must also have been quite charmed by this young woman when he met her to have stipulated that she must be in his will as well."
"Yes, he must have been charmed."
"Well, you've met your, er, wife, is that right?"
"Yes. I met her stagecoach. Rather by accident. I'd gone to Riley's to see if my father's body had arrived."
"Well, then, is she—satisfactory?"
"Satisfactory?"
Henry was becoming increasingly more nervous and ill at ease. "I mean ... is she, er ... well, dammit all, Hawk, is she attractive? Is she—oh, lord—is she unattractive? Is there something wrong with her?"
Hawk smiled without amusement. "She's just—charming. Tell me—you're absolutely sure the marriage is legal. It's a proxy marriage—"
"Half the marriages in half the mining towns throughout the West are legal by proxy," Henry said wearily. "How do you think these fellows get wives out here? What proper young woman is going to come this distance without being a man's lawful wedded wife?"
"What proper young woman ..." Hawk murmured.
"You know that I'm willing to be of service to you in any way," Henry said. "But your father was of sound mind when he made his arrangements. My hands are tied."
Hawk leaned forward. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, "And what if she seduced, coerced, and killed the old man?" He didn't say the words. He could probably never prove that she'd had anything to do with his father's death. He might not even be able to convince Henry that Skylar Connor had thought herself married to his father—and a widow now. A widow ready to take possession of his property.
"Whatever you decide to do ..." Henry said.
"She won't be getting my land. You can damned well bet on that!" Hawk said. Rising, he exited the office, so filled with fury once again that he could have knocked the door from its hinges.
He went straight for his horse, but before he could mount, he heard his name called. Black Feather, an old Hunkpapa friend who traded furs in town despite all the government edicts, strode toward him. He was a tall, well- built man with weather-leathered features and a slow, easy, thoughtful way about him. Hawk cooled his temper, grasping arms with his old friend.
"How are you, Black Feather? Your hunting goes well?"
"Hunting goes badly. The whites have shot the buffalo herds, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands, from their train windows. They slaughter game." He shrugged. "I'm a good hunt&r. Trading furs for gunpowder." He lowered his voice. "Come to your grandfather's village soon. Many Mends, who cannot or will not come this close to white settlements, will be moving north and would like to bid you farewell."
"Joining Sitting Bull?" Hawk asked.
Black Feather nodded gravely. "We have but two choices. Become fenced in like white cattle or fight for our ways. You cannot argue this."
"I wouldn't attempt to argue it. I will come very soon."
"Your grandfather will be glad." Black Feather hesitated. "We have heard of your father's passing. My heart is heavy with yours. He was a great man."
Hawk nodded. "Thank you."
"He will be missed by us all."
"Deeply."
Hawk mounted his horse, lifting a hand in farewell. As he rode hard from the fledgling settlement, he felt as if he had been buffeted by storms with wildly opposing winds. He was angry with his father, in pain for his father, and he could never talk to him again to try to understand what he had done. And he hurt for David, wondering what pain had wracked him in the end that he should have become so dependent and enamored of Skylar Connor that she could have manipulated him so. And now, in the midst of this personal tragedy and confusion, the country was continuing to trundle down a road of cruelty and injustice against his people.
The longer he rode toward the lodge on the far eastern border of his property, the more heated his temper grew.
He was ready to do battle.
Dreams of the distant past had haunted her most of her life. Not continually. Just upon occasion.
The dreams always began the same way. She saw the gray swirls rising before her eyes once again.
Just as they had before. Long ago.
The night air had been thick with a low-hanging fog. footsteps could be heard falling upon the streets, but no forms could be seen. It was a perfect night for clandestine meetings. For secrets in the darkness.
Maryland had been full of secrets.
A border state, it had teemed with spies and conspiracy. There were those who were openly Southern sympathizers and those who were vociferously pro-Union. There were those who pretended to be Southern sympathizers but spied for the Union. There were those who publicly supported the Union who were really Southern spies.
And there were those who were just caught in between.
Robert Connor had lived down in Williamsburg. Before the war, he'd taken a job as a young attorney there, and when the war had broken out, he'd wound up in the army.
And after Gettysburg, he'd wound up in a Union prison in D.C. Only he'd managed to escape. And he'd managed to get a message to his brother, Richard, that he needed help.
Richard Connor lived with his wife, Jill, and their two daughters, Skylar and Sabrina, in a fine house in Baltimore. He'd spent the war years in torment himself, having been wounded early in '62 and sent home with a limp that would never go away. He'd been glad to come home. He'd believed in the sanctity of the Union, but he'd never believed in killing his Southern brethren. And when his brother had called him for help, he'd immediately given it.
So Robert had come. And he'd played with the girls while he lay hidden in their attic, and Skylar had come to love him nearly as much as her own father. But word finally came that he was to be met by plainclothes Southern spies and spirited back to the Confederacy, where he would be safe.
And the fog and the mist had come....
Skylar had been sent to bed, but she'd known what was going on that night. Her father and his best friend, Brad Dillman, were to take Robert to meet the Southerners. They'd all act like drunks down by the docks, then Robert would be spirited away and Richard and Brad would stumble back to the house, apologizing profusely to Jill and the girls, and promising to mend their ways.
Skylar never knew what possessed her to sneak out of bed that night, dress up in shirt and trousers, and follow the men out. Maybe it was the excitement.
Maybe it was some strange trace of fear within her.
She hastily raced behind them, a scarf pulled around her throat and lower face, a cap pulled down low on her head. She t
wisted through the streets by the water. She followed the men into an alley and down the docks where a small ship waited.
She heard conversation.
The mist settled down more heavily.
Suddenly, she heard someone crying out. She realized that the ship was slipping slowly from its berth in the harbor. She raced down the dock, not seeing any of the men.
She tripped and nearly stumbled over a body lying on the dock. She fell down beside it and realized who it was. "Father?" she whispered. "Father!" She tried to wake him, turn him. She touched his back and drew her hand away, shrieking when she discovered that it was covered with blood.
"Father—"
"Skylar!" It was a broken whisper, hissed out sibilantly. She didn't care. She tried to hold him, turn him, help him, stanch the flow of blood. He looked at her, but she didn't think that he saw her. But she felt the warmth of his bloody touch on her fingers, squeezing in turn. ' 'Love you, careful, baby, careful, be a good soldier. I—betray—"
"I'll never betray you!"
"No, I was—"
"Father, she'll get help, I promise, don't die, don't you leave me—"
His hand fell from hers. Richard was staring up at her, eyes wide open but unseeing. And she realized that he was dead, and she started to scream.
She was found by a Union soldier on patrol, who took her to an army office, where men plied her with questions despite the fact that her heart was broken and she felt as if she had shed her life's blood upon that dock as well. They kept demanding to know what had happened. Be a good soldier, he had told her. She'd never betray him, never... .
They kept her all night. In the morning, her mother arrived, ashen gray with her grief, yet demanding her eleven- year-old daughter's immediate return. There was no proof that Richard Connor had ever been a Southern spy, and Jill Connor created such an uproar that the officers were forced to let Skylar go without finding out what had really happened.
That night, when her father's body had been set out in the parlor for the wake, Skylar listened dully to the conversations in the kitchen. Brad Dillman trembling, his voice broken as he told her mother how the filthy Rebs had repaid Richard's kindness with bloody murder. She had listened to her mother sob.
A heavy mist lay close to the ground again. Deep, dense fog, rising, flowing. She needed to be back outside again, away. So she ran through it. Ran and ran. And finally, when she could run no more, she ran toward home again. But she didn't want to see any more people; she still wanted to be alone.
It was by pure accident that she ran from the mist and into the stables to discover Brad Dillman, tall, handsome, with the well-built shoulders her mother had so recently cried upon, secretively wiping blood from a twelve-inch cavalry knife he had drawn from a sheath at his ankle.
Dunhill looked up from the bloody knife and saw her. "Skylar. Sweet, sweet little Skylar..."
He reached for her...
# * *
When fingers touched her cheek, Skylar shrieked, bolting up in the bed, fighting instinctively.
The lodge was cast in shadow; the fire had burned down to embers. She could scarcely see in the gloom of the cabin, but she was aware of the imposing figure first standing over her, then straddling her as he captured her arms and pinned them down, staring down at her.
"Is it just me? Or do you scream and attempt to pummel everyone who comes near you, Lady Douglas?'
It was him. The Indian was back. Atop her again. Mocking her again.
Perhaps even more bitterly now ...
"You startled me," she said.
"Oh, not quite as much as you've startled me!" he murmured.
"You're—crushing me."
"Am I?"
"Please..
He released her and rose. He turned away from her, a large dark shadow moving in the hazy light of the lodge. It was morning, Skylar thought. Or else it was early evening once again. She had slept long and deeply, and still she was tired.
He stoked the fire with a poker and added a log. Sparks flew; the fire once again began to blaze.
He didn't bother with the leftover coffee. He took the whiskey bottle from the shelf and leaned an arm upon the mantle, staring at her for a moment, then gulping down large swallows of amber liquid from the bottle, then staring at her again.
"You are my wife" he grated out, emphasizing the last word as if it were a loathsome thing.
Skylar sat up, trying to smooth down her hair, trying to hold her robe together with dignity.
"I'm—sorry," she murmured coolly. She lowered her eyes, realizing the truth of her predicament. Yet, surely, there was some way out of it.
Except, she realized suddenly, if there were, she couldn't take it! She didn 't dare accept any way out—and back east. No matter what, she had to stay here in the Dakota territory. She had to remain Lady Douglas. For the time being, at least.
He sauntered toward her, the whiskey bottle still in his hand. He paused before the bed, then hunkered down before her, his green eyes riveted on hers.
Apparently, he was having different thoughts.
"Something could be done about this. If you were to ask for an annulment, I could see to it that you were escorted back east as quickly as possible with—"
"No!"
"What?" he demanded.
He was too close. Almost touching her knees. He was dressed now, but she still wore only the robe. She leaped up, skirting around him, around the table. He stood, turning, watching her, his hands on his hips. She faced him from across the table. "I—can't ask for an annulment."
He arched a brow.
"Don't you understand?" he demanded angrily. "You're not a widow. You haven't"—he hesitated—"you haven't just inherited my father's estates. I have been to his attorney, who was astonished I hadn't given greater interest to papers when I put my name upon them. My father was actually out looking for a bride for me when he stumbled upon you. So, yes, you are Lady Douglas, but you don't have to be. You can file for an annulment. You can go home with money in your pocket—"
"No."
"Dammit, what do you mean, no?" he demanded bitingly.
"No. I'm not going back," Skylar repeated.
He just stood, staring at her. "I don't want a wife," he grated out.
The way that he had taunted her, half scaring her to death earlier, suddenly seemed possible to avenge in some small way.
"That's your misfortune," she said sweetly. Then she almost backed into the fireplace, she was so certain that he was going to come and do her bodily harm.
He did not, turning instead to slam a fist against the wall with such fervor that it seemed the entire place shook. "You intend to stay?" he roared.
"I have to stay!" she told him determinedly. He continued to stare at her with such leashed fury that she found herself hurriedly going on. "I will stay. I've come out here; I must stay. I won't get in your way, I promise. I—"
"How do you know?"
"How do I know what?"
"That you won't get in my way?"
"Because I won't. I—"
He strode toward the table, slamming the whiskey bottle upon it as he leaned toward her. ' 'What if there are women I choose to have in my life?"
"Then—" She faltered, her eyes falling. She raised them, meeting his cleanly. "Then you must keep them in your life."
He crossed his arms over his chest, looking as if he liked her all the less the more she spoke.
"If you'd been about to take a wife, surely your father wouldn't have married you to me," she said hastily. "And as to anyone else ... I'll stay out of your way."
"Really?"
"Completely."
He took a long swig from the whiskey bottle and leaned against the table again. This time his eyes looked as if they were on fire. "What if I wanted you in my way."
"What?" she whispered.
"What if I wanted you to be a wife to me?" "I—I..."
"I believe I could get either an annulment or a divorce on the grounds th
at you were denying me conjugal rights."
The fire was hot behind her, but she knew that she flushed a crimson that was hotter than the blaze. He started to smile. He was trying to unnerve her. A strange trembling
did seize her. Not because she was afraid. But because of something that was compelling about him. The way he moved, perhaps. The subtle scent of him, the hot gaze of his green eyes. Don't give an inch! she thought. For he would not. She lifted her chin. Then she allowed her eyes to sweep over him in cold assessment. She shrugged.
"If you want a wife, you've got one," she said evenly.
He was silent for a moment, watching her. He drew the whiskey bottle to his lips once again, his eyes never leaving hers. He lowered the bottle, placing it on the table, his hands on his hips.
"Lady," he said very quietly, "you really are one gold- digging little whore!"
The words seemed to lash out at her with greater violence than any of the actions he had taken against her. No matter how the force of them hit her, she willed herself to remain perfectly still, returning his stare. She weighed her reply carefully, speaking in an equally soft tone, "And you are a selfish, self-righteous, judgmental ass with all the manners of a sniveling piglet. You've no right—"
"You're giving me every right in the world, aren't you, Lady Douglas?"
She narrowed her eyes on the whiskey bottle. "You're drunk and insulting."
"I'm trying very hard to get drunk, and I'm calling a spade a spade. Besides, I would think 'drunk and insulting' an improvement over what you considered my previous potential for being murderous and scalp-raising."
Skylar knew she tread upon very thin ice. His temper was explosive—and he was convinced she had hastened his father's death.
She wondered if anything she could ever say would change his conviction.
There had to be a way to fight him. A place to strike.
"If I'm not mistaken," she murmured, meeting his eyes once again, "hasn't whiskey led to the downfall of a number of Indian tribes?"
He stared at her, smiled slowly, and came forward.
"Yes, it has. But I'm not a tribe. Just one Indian. Who also happens to be the son of a misguided English lord who discovered himself in love with a landscape and a people. Who also happens not to want a wife! Ah, but it seems that I have one, right? Drink with me then, my dear. Let's celebrate making each other's acquaintance!"
No Other Man Page 7
