Warrior's Embrace

by Peggy Webb

  Armed with towels, washcloths, a bottle of peroxide, and a basin of warm water, she went back into the bedroom. Black Hawk hadn’t moved a muscle. He was as still as a bronze carving... and just as beautiful.

  She hesitated in the doorway, admiring him. Slowly he turned his head and looked at her. Passion crackled in the stillness.

  “Do you have what you need?” he finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then come.” He held out his hand. “Take care of me.”

  She came to his bed and bent quickly over him, leaning so that her hair made a curtain that shielded his lower body. She wasn’t about to draw the sheet over him. Not by word or sign would she betray her feelings.

  “You need not make this sound so erotic. It’s strictly clinical.” He didn’t flinch as she started rubbing at the angry gash across his chest.

  “Do my words sound erotic to you, Elizabeth?”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t look at his face. He lay perfectly still as she worked. Every time her breathing threatened to become shallow, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Tomorrow it would be bruised, maybe even swollen. She couldn’t help that. It was a small price to pay for sanity.

  As she cleaned his chest and arms, she tried to keep the washcloth as a shield. It was impossible. Occasionally her fingers glided along his skin. It was remarkably satiny, with hard muscles just beneath the surface.

  “I love your hands.” Black Hawk was looking at her with the dark knowledge of a sorcerer. He caught her wrist and pressed her palm flat across his heart.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “You have learned hands, Elizabeth.”

  She jerked herself free.

  “I think you can finish this job. Clean linens and medical supplies are in the bathroom closet. Use this peroxide on your wounds before you bind them.”

  She stood up and headed for the door. He didn’t speak until she was almost there.

  “Elizabeth.” He was sitting up with the sheet draped over his hips and the hilt of his knife showing underneath his pillow. She hadn’t even heard him move.

  “You’ll have to clean the wounds on my back.”

  “There’s a small shower in the bathroom,” she said, holding on to the doorknob. “That should be sufficient.”

  “No. I need you.”

  His voice was as quiet as storm clouds gathering over the desert, and just as deadly. Swept away in a flood tide of emotions, she moved back toward his bed.

  When she was standing over him, their gazes clashed, dark eyes warring with dark eyes.

  “Lie on your stomach,” she said.

  He reached out and traced the contours of her cheek, then turned onto his stomach. She drew her breath at the sight of his back. It was bruised and lacerated.

  “It looks bad. Does it hurt?”

  “Pain is a matter of perspective. All the wounds on my back don’t pain me nearly as much as the thought of the destruction of my ancestral lands. I have to recover quickly in order to fight.”

  “I’ll help you.” She worked silently and swiftly. “I’ll bring you some soup... and aspirin. You’re burning with fever.”

  Her voice faded away. Black Hawk fought for consciousness, struggled to stay awake.

  Elizabeth bandaged his wounds and straightened up. “I’m finished.” He didn’t stir. She touched his shoulder. “Black Hawk?” He was sound asleep.

  “Rest well.” She tiptoed from the room and sat down at her kitchen table. He needed sleep. Food and aspirin could wait a while. In the meantime, she was going to prepare herself for battle... against his enemy and against her own private demons.

  The first thing she did was go back into the basement to retrieve her gun. It lay on the concrete floor beside Black Hawk’s rifle.

  “Quite an arsenal you have here, Elizabeth McCade.” Smiling grimly, she collected the weapons and marched up the stairs. Standing against his enemy was going to be no problem, but it was going to take more than an arsenal to hold firm against her own.

  o0o

  Throughout the early part of the night. Black Hawk was haunted by visions. He saw flames that leaped into the sky, crackling with fury, consuming his house. Then the flames became a glimpse of red satin, whispering erotic promises, brushing against his skin. Dreams blended with reality so that he struggled to know the difference.

  “Elizabeth?” he whispered through dry, parched lips.

  “Shhh... shhh.”

  Cool winds blew over him, and then the winds became birds’ wings, caressing him gently, tenderly. He moaned.

  Something touched his lips—a hand, a cup, both. Warmth spread through him... and a kind of peace, a peace he hadn’t known in a long time. He drifted, letting it come.

  Around midnight his fever broke. He opened his eyes, fully alert. Without sound, he turned his head slightly so he could see the room. His eyes, trained to see enemies at a great distance and under all conditions, adjusted quickly to the darkness. Elizabeth was in silhouette beside the window. A pale shaft of moonlight slipping between the folds of the closed curtain illuminated her hair.

  Black Hawk studied her in silence. She was a strong woman, a brave woman. A flash of metal caught his attention. In her hands was the .44 Magnum. She was watching over him with a gun in her hands.

  “Don’t shoot, Elizabeth. I’m not armed.”

  “You’re awake.” She whirled toward him. He chuckled.

  “That’s not funny, Black Hawk.”

  “My friends call me Blackie; my lovers call me Hawk.”

  “I am neither. I’m the hostess; you’re the guest.” She stood up, and he saw a bit of red satin peeping from the hem of her sturdy chenille robe. So... Elizabeth McCade hid herself from him.

  “That will soon change, Elizabeth.”

  “I know. As fast as you seem to bounce back, you’ll be leaving in no time. Then you will be nothing to me except a bad memory.”

  “Do you always fight so hard against your feelings?”

  “I’m not fighting; I’ve already conquered.” She stood up and hurried toward the door. Black Hawk’s voice stopped her.

  “You watched over me.”

  She turned toward him with a certain resignation. Some crazy twist of fate had set in her path the one man who could unlock the doors to her past and unleash her passions.

  Holding the neck of her robe close around her throat so not one inch of flesh would be exposed to his searching eyes, she faced him.

  “You needed food and medicine. I gave you both.”

  “You caressed my face.”

  “I checked your temperature. I didn’t think it wise to leave you alone with such a high fever.”

  “I still burn, Elizabeth.”

  She crossed the room and leaned over his bed, pressing one hand against his brow. Her dark eyes widened as she looked at him.

  “The fever has gone.”

  “No. I burn....” He reached out and circled her throat with one hand, bracing her chin and tipping her head backward. Her breathing became harsh, and the gun slipped from her hand. It landed with a soft thump on the bed.

  Black Hawk slid his other hand into the neck of her robe.

  “We both burn with the same fever, Elizabeth.”

  The wisp of satin was no barrier to him. His hands were hot on her, taking liberties she allowed no man.

  “You want me, Elizabeth... as I want you.”

  His hands seduced her, bewitched her, almost drove her over the edge. She jerked herself upright and pulled her robe around her. Tearing her gaze away from him, she searched for her gun. It gleamed up from the white sheets.

  “I brought my gun to use against your enemies, Black Hawk. Be warned. I won’t hesitate to use it against you.”

  She swept from his room, clutching her robe and her big gun to her chest. The door shut with a sharp click.

  Upstairs Elizabeth threw off her ugly robe and flung it across the back of a rocking chair. She flung open her desk drawer and pulle
d out her diary. She needed a way to vent her feelings, and with Aunt Kathleen on the other side of the world, spilling her thoughts on paper was the next best thing.

  She wrote in bold strokes, the letters marching like soldiers across a barren landscape.

  “A stranger in my house has resurrected the passion I had thought was dead. Black Hawk—he’s as fierce as his name—faced me with a knife, and I faced him with a gun. And both of us knew that we were one and the same. Heaven help us.”

  She closed her diary and went to bed, sleeping fitfully, her dreams haunted by visions of bronze hands searching her body.

  o0o

  The next morning she pinned her hair into a French twist and donned her most severe business suit. If it weren’t for her puffy lips and glazed eyes, she would look normal. She hoped she looked normal enough to fool her coworkers. Not that any of them would dare question her. She didn’t encourage that kind of familiarity.

  Downstairs she followed her usual routine. She ate breakfast, then read the morning paper with her coffee. Briefly she considered leaving without checking on Black Hawk, but she decided that was the cowardly thing to do.

  After checking her watch to be certain she could spare no more than five minutes in his bedroom, she carried a tray to Black Hawk. He was coming out of the bathroom, wearing his jeans.

  “They say you’re dead,” she said, setting the tray with the morning paper on the bedside table.

  “How did I die?” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips and watched her over the rim.

  “You were killed with a Winchester rifle. Sheriff Wayne Blodgett found your bloodstained shirt in the woods near your ranch. The bullet was lodged in a tree, and the spent shell was in the bushes.”

  “Do they know who killed me?”

  “No. There’re several different accounts. The most interesting comes from Walter Martin and Bobby Clayburn. They say that they were out snake hunting and witnessed you being murdered by a long-haired gang who stuffed your body into a sack and carried it off. Naturally they were too scared to do anything except watch.”

  “Walter Martin and Bobby Clayburn are on the payroll of the mall developers. They hope to demoralize my people and weaken the defense.”

  “Will they succeed? After all, you are the leader.”

  “There’ll be other leaders to take my place while I’m gone. They won’t succeed.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The Chickasaws haven’t lost a battle since DeSoto tried to make us slaves. Our unofficial motto is We are unconquered and unconquerable.” He smiled. “We won’t lose, Elizabeth.”

  “Should I get word to someone that you’re alive?”

  “No. It would be too dangerous. My people won’t give up the fight, and they won’t give me up for dead without convincing evidence. I’ll be leaving in a few days anyhow.”

  Elizabeth busied herself with the tray, straightening the silverware, smoothing the napkin, rearranging the juice—anything to keep her hands and her mind occupied and off Black Hawk.

  “I don’t know what you like for breakfast, so I just made a little bit of everything.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t get used to this kind of treatment, though. As soon as you’re able, you can fend for yourself.”

  Never had a man’s silence been so commanding. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and yet she felt as if he’d lassoed her.

  “I want you to know that my sympathies are with you and your people. Black Hawk. I’ve always abhorred the practice of so-called progress without regard to the environment and to history. Progress should preserve our past as well as ensure our future. I hope you win.”

  “You must not give me away, Elizabeth. I’m fighting a dangerous enemy. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you, as they’ve tried to destroy me.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. And besides, no one would dare suspect me of harboring any man, let alone a notorious man such as you. I have a reputation—”

  Suddenly she realized she had said too much. “I have to go to work,” she said, whirling around to leave the room.

  Black Hawk moved swiftly, catching her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. Then he tipped her face up with one hand, studying her.

  “Black linen by day and red satin by night.” His gaze swept over her face, searching, burning. “They’re wrong, Elizabeth. You are a woman of immense fire and passion.” He leaned closer to her, so close she could feel his warm breath fanning against her cheek. “You’re a woman who needs to be kissed.”

  He looked as if he would start with her lips and work his way down to her toes.

  His hand tightened on her face, then suddenly, inexplicably, he let her go.

  She left quickly, knowing he was watching her, knowing he was staying behind in her spare bedroom, and most of all, knowing he would be there when she got back.

  o0o

  By hurrying she arrived at work on time. Gladys, who worked the reception desk as well as the switchboard on the first floor of Tombigbee Bluff Bank, looked at her a little funny, but she didn’t comment. When Elizabeth had first come back to Tombigbee Bluff, reeling from humiliation at having disappointed herself and her aunt, Gladys had been full of questions and good intentions.

  “We thought you had gone off to Yale to study to be a teacher,” she’d said. “What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing,” Elizabeth had told her, hoping to discourage questions.

  “I’ll bet it was beautiful up there. Where is Yale, anyhow?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “Oh yeah, Connecticut. I’ll bet it snows up there every Christmas.... My friend Mavis—you remember Mavis Jarvis, don’t you?—well, Mavis told me that she heard some fellow jilted you up there.”

  There had been no malice in her voice, only curiosity. Elizabeth had said nothing.

  “That’s just too bad, but it’s not the end of the world. There are always more fish in the pond, as the old saying goes. Why, my boyfriend—you remember Charles Estes, don’t you?—well, anyhow, he’s got this friend, Jerry Morgan. Used to live up around Chicago. A real hunk... I could fix you up with him.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Gladys had made two or three more attempts to find out about her checkered past and to pull her into the mainstream of Tombigbee Bluff society, but Elizabeth had kept her secrets and had refused all except the most innocent of social invitations. Aunt Kathleen urged her to forget about Mark Laton and go on with her life, but the closest thing Elizabeth had done to anything resembling normal was go to an occasional bridal tea and bank party and church social—always places where the crowds would be large and the chances for intimacy small. There was no way she could become a total recluse. After all, she lived in a small Southern town where one of the two major pastimes was gossip. The other was backyard barbecues. Usually they went hand in hand. Reputations had been built and destroyed over a good-sized portion of pig, done to a turn.

  So, when Elizabeth walked into the bank that morning, she smiled and called a cheerful greeting to Gladys and all her coworkers, then passed to her office in the loan department as if it were just another day in Tombigbee Bluff—and not the day she was thinking about a certain Chickasaw warrior hiding in her spare bedroom.

  o0o

  Elizabeth left work earlier than usual. Her exit raised a few eyebrows, especially Gladys’s.

  “I can’t believe it,” Gladys said. “The woman who spends most of her waking moments at the bank is leaving at a reasonable hour. Is the world coming to a end?”

  “If it does, Gladys, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

  Gladys laughed as she grabbed her own purse and started for the door. “Look, Elizabeth, there’s no need to be embarrassed about leaving work on time. After all, you’re too young to be tied down here when you should be out partying with some handsome stud.”

  A vision of Black Hawk came into Elizabeth’s mind. With her hand on the d
oor, she hesitated. It was all the encouragement Gladys needed.

  “Aha. You’ve got a boyfriend. I knew it all along. A beautiful woman like you. Who is it? Anybody we know?”

  Elizabeth pulled herself together. “You’re wrong, Gladys. My social life is still boring.”

  “Oh, shoot.” Gladys looked so disappointed, Elizabeth decided to be generous and gracious, characteristics she was afraid she had neglected for years.

  “Cheer up, Gladys. Perhaps I’ll take you up on your invitation to meet one of the many men in your life.”

  “When?”

  Once more she thought of Black Hawk lying in her bed with his knife slid under his pillow. “Perhaps in a couple of weeks... when I get up enough courage.” She wasn’t being honest, of course. She had never been lacking in courage. She was afraid of no man. The only thing she had lacked was the willpower to resist.

  o0o

  Elizabeth didn’t see Black Hawk when she got home. Her house was as quiet as it had always been, and seemed just as empty. For a moment she panicked.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”

  “Your beauty makes this house come alive, Elizabeth.”

  She whirled toward the sound of his voice. He was leaning against her refrigerator, his knife tucked into his jeans, his naked chest lacerated with wounds.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t sneak. I walked quietly.”

  “Well, then, don’t walk quietly.”

  “It’s the Chickasaw way.”

  She had felt edgy all day. Seeing him, she felt testy as well. Her life had been safe and sensible until he drifted into her cellar, and now nothing made any sense.

  Her high heels tapped out an angry rhythm as she marched toward the refrigerator door and flung it open. His expression never changed: He looked as aloof as the finest bronze statue on a museum shelf.

  “While you’re in my house, you’ll do things my way,” she said.

  Black Hawk said nothing. Don’t do this to me, she wanted to yell, though he was doing nothing except standing there.

  Slowly she turned her head to look at him. That was her first mistake.