Hawk's heart thudded loudly in his chest as he caught her in his arms, their bodies straining together as they kissed.
"Oh, Hawk," Victoria murmured breathlessly. "You make my heart soar with happiness."
"With me it is the same."
Victoria gazed up at the handsome young man holding her tight in his arms. "I love you." She blurted the words, speaking them aloud for the first time.
"Do you?" Hawk asked, astonished. His hand caressed the soft curve of her cheek. She was so beautiful, so sweet and kind. Every unmarried man in the valley looked at her with longing. Many had courted her. Many professed undying love and devotion, promising to make her happy all the days of her life. And yet she loved him. It was a miracle.
"I love you very much," she whispered, unable to keep her feelings bottled up inside any longer. "Love you, love you, love you!"
Hawk's blood seemed to be on fire, his throat suddenly constricted as he rasped, "I love you, too, Vickie."
Victoria smiled up at Hawk, the wonder of it glowing in her eyes. Of all the young men who had courted her, only Hawk made her insides swell with joy; only Hawk fired her imagination, making her yearn for the unknown, making her long to be held closer, tighter, more intimately.
"You are ever in my thoughts," Hawk confessed. "Sometimes, I want you so much I can't sleep, and I get up and run to your house, just to be near you."
"Really?"
"Yes. One night I slept outside, near your bedroom window."
Victoria's smile was radiant. "I think about you all the time, too," she admitted.
She studied the face of the man she loved, and found no fault in it. Every feature was perfect, from his fathomless black eyes to his strong proud chin. His nose was long and straight, his mouth full, his forehead high. Her fingers stroked the nape of his neck, toyed with a lock of his hair. She loved his hair. It was long and thick and straight, black as pitch, just like his father's. Hawk was, in fact, very like Shadow and that pleased Victoria, for Shadow was a man she admired and respected.
Hawk gazed lovingly into Victoria's beautiful blue eyes. She was soft and warm and so very feminine. Her skin was the color of a ripe peach, her hair reddishbrown, like the leaves of autumn, her lips were softer than velvet, sweeter than honey. And her breasts, ah, they were high and firm, large enough to fill his hand. His groin grew tight as he thought of holding her close. His dreams were tormented witn visions of Victoria lying beside him, her sapphire eyes alight with desire, her golden flesh pressed against his. More than anything else in the world, he longed to possess her, to make her his woman in every sense of the word. But a warrior did not defile the woman he loved, and so Hawk kept a tight rein on his desires. It was the most difficult manhood test of all, one he was in great fear of losing. Each time he held her, it was harder to let her go. Each day saw his longing for her grow deeper, more intense.
"I wish we could be married," Victoria murmured, and Hawk nodded as she expressed the desire of his own heart.
"Is it true that Cheyenne men used to buy their brides with horses?" Victoria asked. She laid her hand on his chest. The warmth of her palm seemed to burn through his thin cotton shirt, branding the skin beneath.
"Yes, but I don't think there are enough horses in all of Bear Valley to buy you from your father."
"I know," Victoria agreed grimly. "My parents like you well enough as a friend, but . . ."
"But they do not want their only daughter to marry a half-breed," Hawk finished bitterly.
"We could run away," Victoria suggested hopefully. "I'd go anywhere with you."
Hawk shook his head. "No. We will not run away as though there were something shameful about our love."
Victoria nodded, secretly glad that he felt that way. "I'll be eighteen next year," she said brightly. "They can't stop me from marrying you then, but it seems Eke such a long time to wait. Such a long time, when I want you now."
The last few words emerged from her lips in the softest of whispers, but they rang in Hawk's ears like thunder.
"And I want you," he said huskily. "But we must wait."
"Hawk." His name was a low moan on her lips as she pressed her body against his.
Her breasts were soft, warm, as they flattened against his chest, her lips moist as she kissed him, pulling his head down to meet hers. His response was immediate, his manhood swelling with desire, pushing against her belly.
The willpower he had exercised so valiantly in the past fled and somehow they were lying side by side on the grass, their bodies close, their mouths fused together. Eager hands touched, explored, caressed. Clothing was removed, cast carelessly aside in their haste to be one. Curious hands fondled bare flesh, stroking, tasting. Sensations blossomed and burst into being as the novelty of discovery urged them to kiss a little more intimately, probe a little deeper, until they had passed the point of no return.
Hawk's hands slid down Victoria's rib cage, caressed her slim waist, a waist so tiny he was sure he could easily span it with his hands. His breathing grew erratic as he went on to stroke the gentle swell of her hips, her buttocks, the satin smoothness of her thighs, and he was lost, gloriously lost as his mouth roamed over her breasts and belly.
Victoria's fevered response to his touch of her hands upon his skin drove him touch of herhands upon his skin drove him wild with wanting. And then Victoria cried his name, begging him to quench the fire he had ignited. She lifted her hips, her slim white thighs parting to receive him, her arms holding him close, and he was lost, gloriously lost . . .
They met at the river crossing the next day where Hawk's parents had met so many years before. Hand in hand, they walked through the pine tree forest, penetrating deeper and deeper into the woods until they came to Rabbit's Head Rock.
''Let's rest awhile," Victoria suggested, and they sat down on the grass beside the huge gray boulder. Hawk put his arm around Victoria's slight shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. She was his now, truly his, and he felt a tenderness and protectiveness toward her that he had never experienced before.
"I wish my parents cared for you as much as I do," Victoria lamented. Plucking a bright yellow wildflower, she twirled it back and forth between her fingers. "Maybe, if they got to know you better, they wouldn't object to my seeing you more often," Victoria suggested. ''Why don't you come for dinner next week?"
Hawk grimaced with distaste. He did not like Lydia Bannerman, or her rotund husband, Horace. He did not like the way they looked at him, distrusting him, contemptuous of him because he was a half-breed. Their attitude was doubly hard to accept because Horace and Lydia both liked his mother and father, and even Mary and Blackie. It was only Hawk they disliked, and he wondered if it was because he cared for Victoria.
Hawk stared into the distance. All his life he had lived with the prejudice of the whites. He remembered going to school at the fort on the reservation and how the white boys had beat him up because he had an Indian name. Here, in Bear Valley, there were those who disliked him simply because of the color of his skin, but he had learned to live with it. He did not tell his parents of the many slights and derogatory remarks he received when he went into town, knowing it would cause them pain, nor did he mention the half-dozen street fights and saloon brawls he had been involved in because he wouldn't back down when he was provoked. Once, he had almost killed a passing stranger with his bare hands because the man had called his mother an Injun-loving whore.
Things were not so bad for his sister, Mary. She did not look so decidedly Cheyenne, nor did she yearn for the Indian way of life. The girls Mary's age liked her because she was outgoing and friendly, the boys idolized her because she was pretty and vivacious. His brother, Blackie, lived in a world all his own. People were not important to Blackie, though he made friends as easily as Mary. Animals filled Blackie's world.
Hawk sighed heavily. He did not fit in the white man's world, and the Indian world was gone.
Heavy-hearted, he drew Victoria into his arms and ki
ssed her, needing to hold her close, to know there was one person who loved him unconditionally for who and what he was.
A burst of amused laughter drew Hawk's attention and he sat up, a guilty look on his face as he released his hold on Victoria. He scowled at the girl peering around Rabbit's Head Rock.
"What are you doing here?" Hawk demanded angrily.
"I live here."
Hawk glared at Mercy Tillman. She was a short blond girl with generous breasts and wide hips. Her father, Morgus, ran a whiskey still in a remote part of the woods.
Mercy sneered as she glanced at Victoria. "Lordy, lordy," she said with a smirk. "Wouldn't your daddy have a conniption fit if he knew you was diddling a buck in the woods!"
Victoria looked stricken. Hawk sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing. He lifted his hand, wanting to lash out at the girl who had insulted Victoria, but, mad as he was, he couldn't strike a female.
"Shut up, Mercy," Hawk warned.
"Don't worry," Mercy said, puffing out her chest. "I won't tell anyone." She smiled a knowing smile. "When you get tired of sweet Victoria there, you come see me, and I'll pleasure you for free."
"Get out of here, Mercy," Hawk growled, "or I'll slap that silly grin off your face."
Mercy Tillman laughed impudently. "I'm not afraid of you," she retorted saucily. "You're just like all the other Valley boys. Sooner or later, you'll come knocking at my door." She threw Victoria a malicious grin, and smiled beguilingly at Hawk. Then, with a swish of her hips, she was gone.
Victoria looked at Hawk, a question in her eyes. "You wouldn't go to visit a girl like that, would you?"
"Of course not."
Victoria's cheeks grew hot and she looked away as she recalled how she had let Hawk make love to her in a secluded glade near the river crossing.
"Do you think I'm like Mercy Tillman?" she asked, her head down so he couldn't see her eyes.
"Victoria!"
"Do you?"
"Dammit, Vickie, what are you trying to say?"
"I let you make love to me. Maybe I'm no different than Mercy. Maybe I'm just as bad as she is."
"Vickie, stop it. You're nothing like Mercy Tillman." Hawk groaned low in his throat, hating himself for making Victoria feel cheap because she had given him her love without benefit of marriage. "Vickie, Mercy Tillman has lifted her skirts for just about every man in the valley. You're not like that. You could never be like that. I'm sorry what we did has made you feel dirty." He swore softly as tears welled in Victoria's eyes. "I'll never touch you again, never see you again, if that's what you want. But don't hate yourself for what we did."
"I'm not sorry for what we did," Victoria murmured, blinking the tears from her eyes. "I love you. I was only afraid you'd think I was no good, that you didn't respect me any more."
"Vickie." He took her in his arms and held her tight, knowing he'd rather cut off his arm than hurt her. "We'll never do it again," he said, stroking her hair. "Not until we're married. Please don't cry."
"I love you, Hawk." She sniffled a little, wiping her eyes dry with the hem of her skirt. "You never answered my question," she reminded him with a captivating smile. "Will you come for dinner next week?"
"Yes," Hawk answered with a sigh of resignation. "I'll come next week and every week after that if it will make you happy."
As promised, Hawk arrived for dinner at the Bannermans a week later. It was an ordeal he dreaded, and one that proved to be every bit as bad as he had expected.
Lydia Bannerman welcomed him at the door, a superficial smile on her face. "Good evening, Hawk," she said, trying to inject a note of warmth into her voice, and failing miserably. "Won't you come in?"
Horace and Victoria were waiting in the parlor. Vickie smiled at Hawk fondly, her eyes aglow with the depth of her feelings. Horace Bannerman shook his hand as if he were shaking hands with a leper.
The first meal was the worst and would have been the last if not for Victoria's constant pleading that he return again and again. To please her, he endured several evenings at the Bannerman home, subjecting himself to Horace Bannerman's suspicious glances and Lydia Bannerman's barely concealed disapproval. The Bannermans had welcomed Hawk's parents into the community, insisting there was room in the valley for all, red and white alike. But that had been before Hawk became a man, before Victoria began to talk and think of Hawk and no one else.
The Bannermans never left them alone, a fact that both angered and amused Hawk. Always, Lydia or Horace remained in the parlor with them, stifling conversation, forestalling any show of affection. And because the Bannermans watched them so closely, Hawk and Victoria met more and more often at the river crossing.
It was inevitable that what had happened before would happen again. Their love was young, impatient and demanding as only young love can be.
Hawk was torn with guilt. He was a warrior. He had seen a vision. He had endured the agony of the Sun Dance. It was wrong for him to make love to Victoria out of wedlock, but he loved her with all his heart, and his blood ran hot with desire. Perhaps, if she had refused him, he could have kept a tight rein on his emotions, but she was as eager for his touch as he was for hers. He vowed each time he took her that it would be the last, that he would wait until she was his wife, but Victoria had only to touch him, her clear blue eyes alight with desire, and he was lost . . .
They made plans to go to the next social together, but Lydia Bannerman had other ideas. Ethan Smythe had recently returned from the East where he had gone to school to study law. He was back now, ready to begin his practice, ready to settle down, and Lydia Bannerman considered Ethan a much better match for her only daughter than a half-breed boy who would never amount to anything.
"What shall I do?" Victoria wailed to Hawk. "I don't want to go to the dance with Ethan Smythe. I want to go with you!"
"Go with him," Hawk advised, not wanting to cause trouble between Victoria and her mother. "Just because you go with him doesn't mean you have to stay with him."
The monthly socials were held at the grange. Most of the families in the valley attended. After a month of hard work, everyone looked forward to an evening of music and dancing. It gave the women a chance to get together to discuss recipes and quilting, to learn who was in a family way, and who had given birth, to laugh and talk and think about something besides chores and housework. The men discussed crops and cattle, pondered world events, or bragged about who had the best bull or the fastest horse.
Hawk dressed with care for the dance that night. He wore a blue shirt, black pants, a black vest, and black boots. His shoulder-length hair was squeaky clean.
Several girls took notice of him when he walked into the Grange Hall, wishing they had the nerve to defy their parents and flirt with him. He was so handsome, and his Indian blood made him exciting, different. And the fact that he was forbidden made him even more intriguing.
On a dare, Kitty Mason broke away from her circle of friends and walked boldly to where Hawk was standing.
"Dance with me, Hawk?" she asked, fluttering her lashes at him.
With a nod, Hawk followed Kitty onto the dance floor, only half listening as she chatted animatedly about her sister's upcoming wedding. He clenched his teeth when he saw Victoria and Ethan Smythe waltz by. It was galling, to see the girl he loved in another man's arms.
Hawk glared at Ethan Smythe. Ethan was of average height with broad shoulders, brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a dark blue city suit, a string tie, and black boots. He smiled as he twirled Victoria around the room, obviously enchanted by the girl in his arms.
And no wonder, Hawk thought sourly. Vitoria looked lovely in a dress of pale green muslin. A dark green sash circled her tiny waist, a ribbon of the same color was twined through her reddish-brown hair.
When the music ended, Hawk returned Kitty to her friends, politely thanked her for the dance.
The musicians struck up a lively polka and Hawk scowled blackly as he saw Ethan lead Victoria onto the dance floor again. Tak
ing a deep breath, Hawk strode across the floor to cut in on Ethan Smythe.
Ethan surrendered Victoria with a tight smile and the next half hour saw the two young men vying for her attention. Lydia Bannerman's mouth thinned with disapproval every time she saw her daughter dancing with Hawk.
About nine o'clock, the musicians took a break and Hawk and Victoria slipped outside for a few moments alone.
Horace and Lydia Bannerman peered anxiously around the room, searching for Victoria, and when they couldn't find her, Horace left the building. He gasped aloud as he rounded a corner of the Grange and saw Victoria and Hawk standing in the shadows, their bodies pressed close together. Rage exploded in Horace Bannerman's heart as he saw Hawk's head descend toward Victoria, saw Hawk kiss his daughter deeply, passionately.
Growling an oath, Horace rushed forward. Grabbing Hawk by the shirt collar, he pulled him away from Victoria. Spinning Hawk around, Horace drove his fist into Hawk's face.
"Daddy, stop!"
"Keep out of this, Victoria!" Horace Bannerman said sharply, and drove his fist into Hawk's face a second time.
Twisting out of Bannerman's grasp, Hawk backed away, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing with anger. Blood oozed from his lower lip and trickled from his nose.
Horace Bannerman raised his fists. "Come on, you dirty half-breed," he challenged. "I'll teach you to lay hands on a decent white woman."
Hawk glared at Victoria's father, the urge to fight back strong within him. The words "half-breed" rang in his ears like thunder.
Horace Bannerman laughed derisively. ''I didn't think you had the guts to fight like a man," he sneered.
Hawk took a step forward, his face dark with fury. It would be so easy to beat Horace Bannerman to a bloody pulp. So easy, and so satisfying.
"Hawk, don't!"
Victoria's voice reached through the red haze of anger, and Hawk knew he could not fight her father, no matter how tempting it would be to smash his fist into Horace Bannerman's flaccid face.
Reckless Love Page 24
