Nighthawk & The Return of Luke McGuire

by Rachel Lee

  Damn, maybe it was time he got off his own pity pot.

  Instinctively he reached out and covered one of her hands with his. Immediately she turned her hand over and clasped his.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t want to hear this.”

  “Cut it out. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to hear whatever you have to say. So just say it, Esther. Tell me how you really feel about the bastard.”

  She surprised him then with a forlorn little laugh. “You know, Craig, I don’t think there are words for how I feel about him. He’s been the bogeyman in my nightmares all my life. Other kids worried about the bear in the closet. I worried about the man who’d come through my bedroom door.”

  Craig had a sudden horrible thought. “He didn’t… I mean… Did he ever sexually assault you?”

  Esther gasped. “No! Oh, no! Oh, I think I would have killed myself if he had ever…. No. Absolutely not.”

  Craig felt an incredible sense of relief. At least there was one injury she hadn’t suffered.

  “No,” Esther said again. “That would have been…I don’t think I would have been strong enough to survive that. I’m basically a very weak person.”

  “Weak?” He was astonished that she could think any such thing. “If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s weak.”

  But Esther knew better, and as she watched Craig drive away a little while later with Mop sitting on the seat beside him, she thought about just how very weak she was.

  It wasn’t strength that caused her to keep trying to hide from her father. It wasn’t strength that had made her hide in closets and under beds, or that had made her testify against him. Hell, no! Terror had motivated her and was still motivating her. It had driven her to testify against him, for fear that he would kill her next. It had driven her all the way out into this underpopulated part of the country in the vain hope of evading him.

  Oh, she was weak, all right. If she had any gumption she wouldn’t be quailing in the dark at night, she would be making some kind of plan to deal with her father.

  Instead of leaving the front door open as she usually did when the weather was warm, she locked it. Guinevere eyed her hopefully from where she was leashed to the newel post.

  “Come on, girl, let’s get your breakfast. Then we’ll go out to paint.”

  Guin appeared to like that idea, thumping her tail eagerly. She always liked to go out to the studio. Evidently, from its days as a barn, the building contained a great many delightful odors. Guin never tired of nosing around.

  The phone rang while Guinevere was still eating. Esther answered it, for some reason expecting it to be Craig Nighthawk. The voice she heard chilled her to the bone.

  “Hello, Esther. It’s Dad.”

  Chapter 6

  Sweat was rolling down Craig Nighthawk’s brow, running into his eyes and burning, despite the bandanna he had knotted around his head. The August day had soared above ninety, and even though it was dry heat, it was damned uncomfortable for heavy work. The sun was beating mercilessly down, frying his neck. Finally he gave up and put his hat on again.

  There was a pile of sheep manure nearby, fresh enough to draw nasty, stinging flies. Cromwell, the only one of the sheep curious enough to pay him any mind, stood a few feet away, contentedly munching on greenery, and watching Craig work.

  Some days, Craig thought, that damn ewe would look a whole sight better roasting over a big fire. Or stewing in a pot. There were limits, and that damn ewe was pushing them.

  He hadn’t a doubt in his mind that Cromwell had something to do with the fence being down. In fact, he was getting paranoid enough to think she might have just leaned on it and rolled over, pulling it down with her. Theoretically her wool ought to be stuck all over the barbs, and she ought to have a cut or two to show for the encounter, but there was nothing. Okay, so she knew better than to press right where the barbs were….

  The sun was frying his brain. It was far more likely that something besides Cromwell had taken down the fence, though he damn well couldn’t figure what. This section wasn’t anywhere near a road and there was no sign a truck had come this way recently. So maybe it was a UFO.

  Or some kids. Yeah, it was probably kids. School didn’t start until next week, and by this point in the summer they were probably bored enough to do just about anything.

  Anything was likelier than Cromwell doing this herself. Although… He looked at her as she stood placidly chewing greenery, and thought that she looked a damn sight more intelligent than most people would credit a sheep.

  Craig snorted at himself and returned his attention to stretching the barbed wire from post to post. It was easier to concentrate on the difficult task of repairing the fencing than to think about what Cromwell might or might not be capable of.

  It was his damn upbringing rearing its head again. Fact was, he’d had a traditional upbringing, steeped in the magic and mysticism of his people. It wasn’t that he scorned it, but he had come to think it had very little bearing on the world in which he had chosen to live: the white man’s world.

  It was as if there were two entirely different realities coexisting side by side, and the rules were different in each one. In his childhood he had come to respect the world and all its denizens from the rocks beneath his feet to the birds winging through the sky. He never cut a tree without thanking it for its sacrifice, and when he looked at Cromwell he saw another intelligent resident of this planet, one worthy of respect.

  But this was the white man’s world, and here the rock was cold and without life, and the birds and sheep were merely dumb animals to be used. It was sometimes a struggle to keep that in mind. And sometimes he didn’t even try.

  But the fact was, he had to function in this world, and the ways of his people didn’t fit here. He’d figured that out a long time ago, and while on the road as a trucker he lived according to the white man’s rules and beliefs.

  So he ignored the feeling that Cromwell was playing a game with him, and tried to ignore a niggling feeling of worry about Esther Jackson.

  But finally he couldn’t ignore it anymore. It distracted him more and more until the wire he was stretching snapped back on him and ripped the sleeve of his shirt and the skin beneath. He swore and threw down his pliers. Mop, who had been dozing in the bed of the pickup, sat up and looked inquisitively at him.

  Yanking at the bandanna around his head, he pulled it off and scoured his hot, sweaty face with it. If his thoughts didn’t quit wandering over to Esther’s place, he was apt to cut his throat on this stuff. Barbed wire was nasty, and it couldn’t be strung loosely if it was to do its job, which was to keep the sheep inside the pasture without them getting all tangled up in the stuff. But he needed to pay attention, and paying attention was growing increasingly difficult.

  Swearing again, he wrung out the bandanna, twisted it and tied it around his head again. If he did nothing else today, he had to finish repairing this section of fence. It wouldn’t be safe to leave the sheep here otherwise, not only because they might stray but because predators would find it easier to get to them. His worry about Esther was just going to have to wait.

  But as his worry increased, so did his speed. Impelled by need, his hands grew swifter and stronger. He nicked himself a few extra times on the wire, but he got it strung in record time nonetheless.

  This break was a new one, and it worried him considerably. He still hadn’t found the break where Cromwell had initially escaped to eat Esther’s flowers, and that worried him even more. He’d been over the whole damn fence line since then. Was somebody playing some kind of game with his fence and his sheep?

  Well, it wouldn’t do any good to fuss about it until he could be sure something was being done deliberately. After all, fencing did manage to come down all on its own.

  He threw his tools into the back of the truck, along with the roll of wire, and took Mop into the cab with him. Before he did anything else, he was going over to see Esther and make su
re she was okay.

  Damn his mystical soul anyway.

  His truck bucked wildly over the open ground until he reached the fence-line road he and Enoch had been working steadily on extending. Some day they were going to have a graded road around every inch of the fence, but for now they could work on it only as time permitted—like so much in their lives. It would sure be a whole lot more efficient to keep up with the fence if they could do it in a truck, though.

  Maybe by the end of next summer.

  When he reached the front gate he didn’t even head up to the house to change, just hit the road and drove around to Esther’s house. Although their houses weren’t all that far apart, it wound up being about five miles by car. He lived off Willis road, and her driveway was off county road 93.

  Nothing appeared to be amiss when he pulled up to her house. Her car was parked in front of the garage, as if she had just come back from somewhere. The mail truck was pulled up outside the barn, and he figured that must be where Esther was.

  He left Mop sitting in the truck and went to find out. Just before he reached the barn, the side door opened and Verna Wilcox stepped out. When she saw him, she nodded. “Afternoon.”

  “Afternoon, Verna. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, not bad at all. Ain’t seen you much lately. Paula says you been out herding them sheep.”

  “And mending fences.”

  She grinned. “Always some of that to be done.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. Is Esther in?”

  “Busy painting.” She hesitated. “You know her real well?”

  “I’m getting to.” Which he didn’t think was stretching it a bit. Hell, he’d slept on the woman’s porch last night and was still aching this afternoon as a result. Someday maybe he would figure out how a plank floor could be harder than the lumpy ground.

  “Well, something has her upset if you ask me. She won’t tell me nothin’, and it’s none of my business, but she’s real upset.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Verna nodded, wagging a finger at him. “See that you do. She’s got a lot of painting to do before her show next month and she doesn’t have time for this.” She cocked a brow. “Maybe you did something?”

  “Couldn’t have.”

  Apparently satisfied, Verna drove away.

  Craig hesitated then knocked on the door and stepped into the studio.

  He was surprised by the amount of light that flooded the old barn. He hadn’t known that she had replaced so much of the roof with skylights turning this musty old place into a bright work space.

  But he was even more surprised by the picture Esther was painting. From the top down, in washes of blue, lavender and gold, mountains were appearing on a huge sheet of white paper. Colors at once vivid and translucent caught his eye and filled him with wonder.

  “That’s gorgeous,” he blurted.

  Startled, Esther whirled around. “Oh! I thought it was just Verna coming back because she’d forgotten to give me something.”

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. I’m beginning to lose the best light and I’d need to stop soon anyway.” She dropped her brush in a jar of water and set her palette aside on a sawhorse table. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve been worrying about you all day. Just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with you.” And now she would laugh at him and make him feel like an utter fool, he thought.

  She looked down and tugged at a paint-splattered towel she had tucked into the waistband of her jeans. It came free and she held it in one hand while she reached for the brush she had dumped in the jar of water. Gently she swished the brush in the water, rinsing it. Finally, apparently satisfied, she began to dry it gently with the towel, twirling it so the bristles came to a point.

  Just as Craig was about to apologize again for bothering her, she looked at him.

  “My father called this morning.”

  He felt his heart thud. “What did he want?”

  “To see me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I never, ever want to see him again. That I wanted him to just leave me alone. Then I hung up on him.” She grimaced. “It wasn’t a very adult conversation.”

  “What the hell difference does it make?”

  “None, I guess.” She shrugged one shoulder and set the brush down along with the stained towel.

  She looked so tired, he found himself thinking. Utterly exhausted as if life had completely worn her out. She took a step toward him and winced, betraying the fact that her leg hurt.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing, really.” She smiled wanly. “I’m just tired. I’ve been painting like a demon, trying to forget that damn phone call, and I guess I’ve been standing too long—”

  Before she finished, he swept her right off her feet into his arms. Instinctively she grabbed for his shoulders. “Craig…”

  “How about I carry you to the house, set you on one of your kitchen chairs, and make you something to drink? You look hot and tired.”

  “No!” In a rush, unreasoning fear rose inside her, causing her to pummel his shoulders with her hands and try to wriggle free.

  “Esther…” Stunned, afraid she would hurt herself, he tightened his grip. In her current position if she fell to the hard floor, she might get seriously injured. “Esther, stop….”

  “Let me go! Damn it, let me go now!”

  She was fighting wildly, hitting and scratching, and at any moment he was going to lose his grip on her. Having no other choice, he dropped to his knees, wincing a little as they cracked against the hard wood floor. At least he was able to set her down.

  She twisted away, sobbing, crying out as her injured leg protested, her brace scraping as she dragged herself across the floor away from him. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t ever…don’t….”

  He stayed where he was, kneeling, ignoring the stinging of his right cheek where she must have scratched him, ignoring the dull ache of one of his shoulders where she had punched him, ignoring the sharp pain in his kneecaps. He watched her, at once cautious and concerned as she continued to struggle across the floor to get away from him. God, what had he unleashed?

  Suddenly she collapsed facedown on the floor, burying her face in her hands and crying so hard that her shoulders shook.

  He hesitated, reluctant to approach her again in her present state, but genuinely worried about her. It would have taken a much duller man not to realize that lifting her into his arms had triggered this terror, and that it must have something to do with the horrors of her childhood.

  God, he felt so helpless! He was afraid that if he touched her again he would just scare her more, but she was so upset he felt an urgent desire to comfort her somehow. Finally, when her sobs seemed to be easing, he took a chance and stretched out beside her on the floor. Gently he laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Esther? Esther, I’m sorry. As God is my witness, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Another hiccuping sob escaped her. “I—I know. I know.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, wishing he dared to turn her over and pull her into his arms. In the last few minutes, however, he had learned that Esther Jackson wasn’t very different from a vial of nitroglycerin. A wrong shake could cause an explosion.

  So he waited patiently, with his hand on her shoulder, hoping she would eventually feel comfortable enough to turn to him. Although why should she? As far as he could tell, little in life had given her cause to trust anyone at all.

  God, something inside him curdled when he thought of her not even being able to turn to her mother for security. On top of that, society had turned a blind eye to the mistreatment she had received.

  It wasn’t that his own childhood had been sheltered. Living on an impoverished reservation as he had, he’d seen the evils of alcohol and child neglect and abuse, though he’d been spared himself. He’d also seen plenty
of other evils, having largely to do with poverty and racism. But none of that meant he couldn’t still hurt for a little girl who’d once been abused by the two people in the world she should have been able to trust absolutely.

  Nor did it mean he couldn’t hurt for this isolated woman with her deep scars and still-tender wounds. In his own life he’d managed to make peace with most things in his past, but that was just his nature. For him it was easier to shed hurtful things than to let them keep torturing him. For some people, though, shedding those things could be next to impossible.

  Finally, taking a huge chance, he gripped her other shoulder and drew her into his arms. He was tensed in expectation of another explosion, but instead she settled against him, even as she gave in to another burst of sobs.

  But her sobs quickly eased, and finally she lay exhausted against him. She was soft and warm, and he had to resist an urge to pull her closer. He’d forgotten how good it felt to hold a woman, and for some reason Esther felt especially good.

  Her head rested on his forearm and her face was pressed into his chest. Her small but strong hands clutched at his shirtfront as if it were a lifeline. He reached down and covered one of her hands with his, squeezing gently, trying to let her know that he gave a damn.

  Which was little enough to give when faced with this kind of grief. But she needed to cry, he thought. Maybe she’d been needing to cry for a long time.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said brokenly.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No…” Her voice broke, still full of tears. “No, I hit you. I shouldn’t have….”

  “It’s okay,” he said again, giving her a gentle squeeze. “You were scared.”

  “Hitting is wrong.” Her voice strengthened a little and began to rise. “Hitting is wrong. I know that! My God, I saw enough of it in my childhood. There’s never any excuse! Oh, God, I’m just like my parents….”