by Peggy Webb
One
There was blood on her kitchen floor.
Elizabeth McCade knelt in her business suit and high-heel shoes to investigate. In the light from the fluorescent bulbs, the spot glowed darkly against the tiles.
“It can’t possibly be blood,” she told herself. “I’m so tired from working such late hours, my mind is playing tricks.”
Nevertheless she dipped one finger into the spot and inspected it carefully. A shiver ran through her. The red substance was definitely blood.
Elizabeth stood up quietly and carefully, drawing her suit jacket around her as if the ancient air conditioner in her kitchen window was suddenly blasting arctic air. She pulled off her shoes and walked in stocking feet to the pantry where she kept a flashlight. The most logical place for an intruder to hide was the cellar, and the lights had long since burned out down there. Arming herself, she started toward the cellar, then changed her mind and searched the rest of her house first.
Outside her windows the wind picked up, moaning around the gables and whistling through the lattices. Elizabeth wasn’t easily spooked, but then she wasn’t accustomed to coming home at two o’clock in the morning and finding blood on her kitchen floor.
After a search of her first and second floors, she pushed open the door that led into the wine cellar, training her flashlight into the darkness.
o0o
Deep in the shadows, Black Hawk heard the door open, heard the footsteps on the stairs. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for hiding places. There were none... except the wine racks. Fortunately they were the massive kind favored by the wealthy in the early nineteenth century, built solidly of red oak. Swiftly and silently he climbed a wine rack and flattened himself along the top. One bottle threatened to topple. He caught it with his right hand and eased it back into place, gritting his teeth against the pain.
The searcher, with steps as quiet as cat feet, traversed the basement, and played the light along the floor and the walls. Black Hawk held his breath, praying whoever it was didn’t point the beam upward.
“Is anybody here?”
The searcher was a woman.
“Come out with your hands raised. I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”
In spite of his situation, Black Hawk was amused. The woman had spunk. He eased his head over the side of the wine rack and looked down. In the glow of the flashlight he saw her. She had gleaming black hair, and her face radiated intelligence and passion—and she was holding a nickel-plated .44 Magnum pistol with an eight-inch barrel.
Black Hawk added tough to his list of her assets.
The woman stood for a while, holding the gun steady, searching the cellar once more with her beam of light. “It must have been that stray cat,” she said, then turned and went back up the stairs.
Black Hawk waited atop the wine rack until he considered it safe to come down. His body was bloody and battered, and he ached with every movement.
What had tipped the woman off? He’d been careful on his foraging expedition upstairs. He’d found bandages and antiseptic salve and had taken them without guilt, guessing they would never be missed. He had drunk his fill of water, then washed the glass and put it back in its place. Food was not a problem yet. He intended to wait until the next day to decide how much he could take without arousing her suspicions.
Moving slowly because of his injuries, Black Hawk made himself as comfortable as possible on a couple of burlap bags he’d found, and took stock of his situation. He still had his gun and his knife. He’d sacrificed his shirt to throw the enemy off his trail, but he had his pants and his moccasins. The gunshot wound in his right arm was painful but not serious. The bullet had passed through, grazing the skin. Most of the cuts and bruises he’d suffered during the plunge into the passageway were on his chest and arms.
Black Hawk would be recovered enough to leave in a few days. In the meantime, he needed to check out his unsuspecting hostess. If she was as lethal as her gun, then he had stumbled onto a dangerous hiding place. Were the gods watching over him when he had plunged into the hole and discovered a decaying passageway that led to this wine cellar, or were they mocking him?
With a patience as ancient as time itself, Black Hawk waited until the house was still. The gurgling water pipes and creaking floorboards had long since grown quiet.
Armed with his knife, Black Hawk stole up the stairs and into the kitchen. He stood long enough to let his eyes adjust, then he followed the trail of the woman. She was not hard to follow; her scent lingered in the air, a faint, musky fragrance that made him think of exotic dancers wearing nothing but veils.
He found her upstairs. She lay stretched across her bed, asleep on her stomach. The black hair he had glimpsed in the cellar was unpinned and hung down her back like a bolt of silk. A red satin gown outlined shapely legs, trim hips, and a slim waist. Black Hawk approached the bed, standing so close, he could have touched her silk-clad thighs.
He stood over the bed, watching her, assessing her, then turned away and quietly began to search her belongings. On his first trip upstairs he had been after the bare necessities: medicine and water. Now he wanted answers.
He found them in her closet and in her desk. She was a paradox: a woman with the soul of a wanton, posing as an archconservative. Her business suits were plain, even severe; but her lingerie ran the gamut from seductive to outrageously naughty.
She was Elizabeth McCade, a loan officer at the local bank, daughter of Lonnie and Regina McCade, killed in a car accident shortly after her birth, born in Tombigbee Bluff, raised by her maiden aunt Kathleen McCade, and educated at Yale. She had a degree in English, a teaching certificate, and a locked diary.
Black Hawk put her personal papers back into her desk and returned to the bed. Elizabeth McCade had not stirred.
He bent over and traced the curve of her hip with one finger. “Who are you, Elizabeth McCade?” he whispered. “Woman of ice or woman of fire?”
Her fragrance wafted over him, and he inhaled deeply. Another time, another place he would have enjoyed getting to know her. But now his passion was for destroying his enemies.
He left her bedroom and went back to his hiding place in the wine cellar.
o0o
Elizabeth was missing a piece of cheese and a small amount of milk. She knew the food was gone because only that morning before she had left for the bank, she had taken stock in order to prepare her grocery list.
The day before, the blood, and now the food. She could no longer blame the stray cat. Cats couldn’t open refrigerators.
The first thing she did was go to her pantry and get her .44 Magnum. Then she sat at her kitchen table and decided what to do. It was already dark outside. Sheriff Wayne Blodgett wouldn’t be in his office, and she was reluctant to call him at home on such flimsy evidence. After all, she could be mistaken about the food. But not the blood. There was still a small stain in the grout around the tile. She was going to have to buy a special cleaning product to remove it.
She could rule out Aunt Kathleen, drop-in friends and nosey neighbors. Her feisty, ageless aunt was in Paris, her nearest neighbor was two miles away, and her friends were not the drop-in kind. Since coming home to Mississippi, Elizabeth had discouraged anyone who’d tried to get too close. The people who came into her home were invited—or had been until the day before. Apparently there was an uninvited guest in her home, and she intended to route him out.
Picking up her pistol, she made another careful inspection of her house, starting with the second floor. She had her head in the bedroom closet when her phone rang. Elizabeth kept up her search. She was not expecting a business call, and she was in no mood for a social call.
Her answering machine kicked in. “Elizabeth, this is Kenneth... Kenneth Spain... the guy who has been calling you for the last three weeks.” Elizabeth felt her temper rising. Didn’t that man ever give up?
He continued his pitch, his voice amplified by the receiver. “Listen, I know all the stories abo
ut you, but I don’t believe any of them. I think you’re just waiting for the right guy... and I’m the perfect one. Call me.”
Elizabeth would not return his call, just as she hadn’t returned the call of the half dozen other men who had pursued her the last few months. Summer seemed to bring out the beast in men. But it wouldn’t bring out the beast in her. Of that she was absolutely certain.
The search for an intruder proved futile in the main part of the house. That left the wine cellar. Gripping her gun and her flashlight, Elizabeth started down the staircase, taking the bold approach.
“I know you’re down here, and I intend to find you.” Standing on the second step from the bottom, she trained the light around the cellar. She saw nothing except dust, cobwebs, a mouse, and the wine racks holding bottles dating from the time her parents had occupied the house.
“I’m holding a gun and I’m a deadly shot.” She waited, listening. There was no sound, but she had the eerie feeling that she was not alone.
Prickles of awareness danced along the back of her neck.
“I’m going to give you to the count of ten to come out. After that, I start shooting.” She was bluffing. The bullets would ricochet on the concrete walls, but she hoped the intruder wouldn’t know that. She laid the flashlight on the bottom steps, pointing the beam into the darkness, then got into a shooting stance, holding onto her gun with both hands.
“One... two... three...”
The arm hooked around her from behind. A hot hand clamped over her mouth, and the cold steel of a knife blade rested against her throat.
“Don’t shoot, Elizabeth McCade, or you might get both of us killed.”
Even though she was holding a gun, she knew her throat would be slit before the bullet had found its mark. She forced herself to breathe normally and to stand perfectly still. She didn’t want to give the stranger any excuse to use his knife.
“I’m not going to hurt you unless you create a commotion.”
That qualified as good news. The bad news was that he knew her name. She had read that most violent acts occurred between people who knew each other. Fear rose up in her. She knew she would be helpless if she didn’t bring it under control.
“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth now and take your gun. Don’t try to turn around and don’t make a sound, or you’ll be dead.”
The knife blade inched away from her throat, and she nodded her head slightly to show she understood. His hot hand left her mouth and took her gun.
“That’s good, Elizabeth McCade. You’re a smart woman.”
Her captor had one of the richest, most melodic voices she’d ever heard. Her fear began to abate, and anger took its place. A criminal had no business with a voice like that. It could be a powerful weapon against the unsuspecting.
“What do you want?” she asked, surprised that her own voice was strong and controlled.
“I have to stay here for a few days, and you must tell no one.”
“Why?”
She started to turn around, but he pressed the knife blade against her throat again.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I studied your personal belongings last night while you slept.”
“You came into my bedroom?”
“Yes. Your hair was spread across the pillow, and you were wearing red. I was tempted to take more than your personal belongings.”
A shiver ran through Elizabeth. She was suddenly aware of the man’s body, of his muscular arms around her shoulders, of his broad chest bracing her back, of his hard legs pressing against hers. He was tall and solidly built. If it came to a test between his strength and hers, she would be the loser. Nevertheless, she couldn’t contain her fury.
“You had no right to invade my privacy. This is my home. This is my sanctuary.” Anger made her struggle against him.
“Don’t move, Elizabeth.” Suddenly the knife was withdrawn from her throat. There was small movement behind her back, then the stranger’s hands were in her hair. Her hairpins fell to the concrete floor, and her heavy hair unfolded.
She felt his hands caressing, lifting, smoothing her hair. Stop that, she wanted to scream. But she dared not push him too far. He had said he was not a criminal, but he hadn’t identified himself, and she had no reason to believe him.
“Who are you?” she asked once more.
He didn’t answer. Instead his hands played through her hair for a small eternity.
“Your hair smells like the rest of you, exotic and mysterious.” His hot breath seared the back of her neck. “Are you exotic and mysterious, Elizabeth?”
“Not nearly as mysterious as you.” There was a strange, mesmerizing power about this invader. She felt almost as if she knew him, as if they knew each other. “Who are you?”
There was a long, dark silence. The sounds of their harsh breathing mingled, giving the cellar a sense of hushed expectancy. Elizabeth called on all her resources to be strong against the man who had invaded her home. Sweat dampened her palms and popped out on her brow.
“I am Black Hawk, and I seek refuge with you for a few days.”
Slowly she turned around. Black Hawk. He was the leader of the Chickasaw resistance to progress without conscience, owner of one of the largest cattle ranches in Mississippi, both a hero and a target of the press, a man of mystery and danger and intrigue, and he was standing in her cellar injured and bleeding. His strong, fierce face had graced many a front page of the newspaper, and his voice had thundered from the late-night television news shows in defense of his Chickasaw nation.
She knew him—not as a person, but as a symbol of all that was brave and fearless. He was a crusader, a man out to preserve the dignity of the world he lived in.
In the feeble glow of her flashlight she saw a crude bandage on his upper right arm, and angry scratches and bruises on his chest and arms. No longer afraid or angry, she reached out and put her hand on his forehead. He stared silently at her with eyes as black as night.
“You have a fever,” she said. She supposed the fever accounted for his hot hands, although seeing him now, even dimly, she knew he was the kind of man whose hands would be that hot with passion.
Not since Laton had a man caused such a tumultuous physical response in her. And Mark Laton had nearly destroyed her.
Black Hawk watched her with searching dark eyes. She had the crazy sensation that he was reaching out and touching her. This man had danger written all over him. If Mark had been a henchman from hell, Black Hawk was the very devil himself.
She turned her back on him in order to release herself from his spell.
“Come with me,” she said.
“Where?”
“I have a small spare bedroom on the first floor. I’ll take care of you.”
“Both of us will be in danger if I’m seen.”
“Don’t worry. I live apart.” When he made no comment, she added, “I’m not antisocial, but no one comes here without an invitation. We’ll be alone.”
He smiled then. “Captivity has its rewards.”
“Who’s the captive? You or me?”
“Both of us.”
He took her hand and led her to the bedroom.
Two
Black Hawk didn’t release her hand at the top of the cellar stairs, and Elizabeth didn’t try to pull away. Although he shouldn’t have known where her spare bedroom was located, he led her right to it.
She supposed he had either explored her entire house, or she was communicating with him by ESP and body language. For a moment she thought she was back at Yale, holding onto the hand of Dr. Mark Laton, heading to the small cot in his office in the musty old building where he taught Chaucer.
She slid her glance sideways at her captor. He was nothing like Mark. Mark had been a small man, blond and compactly built. Black Hawk was lean and angular with looks that bordered on handsome but
could have been called rugged and untamed.
“Draw the curtains,” he said suddenly, stopping outside the bedroom door.
Elizabeth walked swiftly across the bedroom and drew the heavy curtains. Then she snapped on a small lamp on the bedside table. Its feeble glow illuminated an iron bedstead, spread with a simple white comforter.
Black Hawk came into the circle of light and then turned to stare at her. Not even Mark Laton, with his silver tongue and his skilled hands, had made her feel the way this strange warrior did. She had spent years running not only from Mark but from her own passions. Suddenly, she was face-to-face with her past.
“Have you slept here, Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He turned his back to her and began to strip off his jeans.
She watched him with unabashed pleasure. His body was a work of art. When he had rid himself of every stitch of clothing, he turned to face her.
“Take care of me, Elizabeth.”
She stood still, her gaze roaming over him. He was neither embarrassed nor self-conscious nor arrogant in his nakedness.
Steeling herself, she strode to the bed and ripped back the covers. When the sheet was exposed, she turned to Black Hawk.
“Lie down.”
He stretched upon the sheets, a tall man who made the bed look small.
“The first thing you need is to have your wounds cleaned,” she said, then hurried toward the small adjoining bathroom.
Inside the bathroom, she shut the door and leaned over the lavatory. Her stomach was churning, and her chest felt as if a huge weight were pressing against it.
She brought herself under sharp control, then set about doing what she must. Her sympathies had long been with Black Hawk as she had followed the news stories about him. He was right about progress. It was not raping the land with no thought for the past or the future; it was a harmonious blending of the past with the present, of man with nature.
She would give him refuge. She would bind his wounds and give him food, drink, and shelter. And when he was ready to face the enemy, she would let him go and forget about him. It would only be a few days, no more. Surely she could control the dark side of her nature for a few days.
