Hawk reached out and tugged her hand back to her soupspoon. “Eat. The dead are dead.”
She gazed at him with stricken eyes, the blue so dark it shaded into purple. He’d thought it wouldn’t affect him to tell her, but it did. In a funny way he felt lighter, as if the hard knot he’d carried inside his gut all these years had loosened just a bit.
“Eat,” he repeated. “Your next speech is tomorrow, isn’t it?”
She nodded and began tearing apart another slice of bread. He rescued it before the crumbs covered the tablecloth.
“What time?”
“Noon.”
“Where?”
“In the town square.”
His knife clattered onto his plate. “What? You mean outside?”
“Yes.”
He sent her a look that would curdle milk. “What idiot arranged that?”
“Mama had arranged it. I promised—”
“I don’t care what you promised,” he grated. “Change it.”
“I cannot. The women’s league in Boise made all the arrangements. It is too late to change them now.”
“Caroline, it’s dangerous.”
“I— But you will be there.”
“Dammit, I’m not God.”
Fernanda appeared at his elbow. “Who is not God, señor?”
Hawk groaned. He hadn’t even seen her enter the room.
“Fernanda,” Caroline explained, “Hawk is concerned about my speech tomorrow.”
The Mexican woman plopped her bulk into the empty seat and snatched up a slice of Caroline’s bread. “So he should be.”
Hawk summoned the waitress with a gesture. “Order some supper, señora. All that praying must have given you an appetite.”
Before Fernanda finished speaking to the waitress, Hawk pushed back his chair. “Come on. We’re going upstairs.”
Caroline’s gaze darted to Fernanda. “I cannot leave her alone.”
“Si, mi corozón, you can. Go. You look tired, like…” She purposely slumped her shoulders to demonstrate. “Like warm-over tamale. And I am hungry.”
Hawk gripped her elbow so hard she gave a little whimper. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Fernanda’s right. You do look like a warmed-over tamale.”
Chapter Eleven
Hawk unlocked the door to their hotel room and pushed Caroline inside. Neither had spoken a word since leaving Fernanda in the dining room, devouring a plate of chili and beans, but he was way past being conversational.
Moonlight slanted through the single window. He lit the lamp, hauled the trunk over to her side of the room and stood, wondering why he was so uneasy. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d been alone in a hotel room with a woman.
But he’d never been alone with Caroline. He hated it.
Correction, he liked it.
Too much.
He stepped to the window and stood looking out on the busy street below. His heartbeat wasn’t the least bit normal and his chest felt tight. He shouldn’t have said so much about himself at supper. He felt like he’d opened a crack into a dark part of himself.
Worst of all, his jeans were suddenly too tight and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. He’d been hard since he’d spent the last hour watching Caroline’s lips open and close around that damned soupspoon.
He’d be all right as soon as Fernanda returned and he could focus on something other than the tense, hungry feeling eating him up from the inside. Better get his mind off it.
He swung around and stopped short. Caroline was facing away from him, her hands raised, unpinning the twisted bun gathered at the back of her neck. Something zinged up his spine and his control snapped.
He moved behind her, lifted away the remaining pins and dropped them one by one onto the carpeted floor. Then very slowly he threaded his fingers through her thick hair.
Her breath hissed in, and then her head tipped back against his hands.
“Caroline.” He scarcely recognized his own voice. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he deliberately turned her to face him, bent his head and caught her mouth under his.
He didn’t know how long he moved over her lips, but he did know he never wanted to stop. She was sweet beyond belief, and soft. And female. So damn female he ached all over.
And then her open hand cracked across his cheek so hard the skin burned.
“Don’t you ever, ever do that again!” she shouted.
He could see her body shaking; the ruffles down the front of her shirtwaist trembled. He stared at her. Her eyes blazed into his and without thinking he reached for her arm.
“Stay away,” she warned. “Just stay away from me.”
What the—? He stepped back but he couldn’t stop looking at her. He’d never misjudged a woman this badly since he was a green boy of fourteen.
At that moment, the unlocked door opened with a bang and Fernanda bustled in. Instantly she halted and peered from Caroline to him and back again, one eyebrow quirked. She said nothing, but Hawk knew the Mexican woman was no fool. She’d sensed the tension in the air and had wisely decided not to ask questions.
God bless her.
Caroline turned away from Fernanda’s assessing gaze and Hawk strode out the door she had left open. “I’ll be in the bar,” he announced.
*
Caroline stared after him. Oh, how she wished she liked the taste of spirits. She could surely use a big, big glass of something to settle her jangled nerves. Or maybe deaden her mind.
She paced around and around the small room while Fernanda flitted from the trunk to the tall wardrobe on the far wall to the ceramic washbasin on the bureau, saying nothing. She could send her Mexican companion down to the bar for a flask of whiskey, but she knew Fernanda would never leave her alone, especially since Hawk was not here.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes hard enough to hurt. Heaven help her, she was so tired of this. Tired of being afraid. Tired of the worry about everything, about herself, about what the rest of her life was beginning to look like. She was even tired of her speaking circuit, the one she had promised Mama she would continue.
Mostly, she realized, she was tired of not feeling natural, like other women felt when a man approached them. Perhaps she never would. The instant Hawk’s mouth had touched hers she felt the old panic start. God in heaven, would she never be free?
Her right hand still tingled where she had struck him. Using her left, she unbuttoned the shirtwaist and skirt and let them drop to the floor along with her petticoats. Then she stumbled over to the bed nearest the window and crawled between the sheets, still wearing her camisole and underdrawers.
Fernanda picked up the garments, shook out the wrinkles, hung them up and clicked the wardrobe door shut. Shaking her head, she surveyed the unmoving lump under Caroline’s blanket-covered bed and worked to suppress the smile spreading across her face.
Hours later, Señor Hawk returned. Fernanda lay very still in her narrow bed, listening as he shucked his shirt and jeans and boots and rolled himself up in the quilt she had left for him. And then she smiled again. He was a good man.
God is good.
Chapter Twelve
Is not good what is happen now. Nobody happy. Nobody laugh. The priest, he was right, the world full of things we do not understand.
But this I do understand. My lady she is troubled in her heart. She is not a happy woman. She not thinking clear, as God intends. She is like her madre, all the time watching and with the frown. All the time waiting.
I hear her at night. She not know that I listen, but I hear her dream bad things. I hear her cry out, and then I hear her weep.
I think this will not end good, like I had hope.
Hawk stretched his long frame out on the floor, positioning himself across the doorway as he had for the past four nights. Or was it five? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to end anytime soon.
He’d be damned if he’d give up now. He’d given his word to protect Caroline and he’d
never yet gone back on a promise. And if he was honest with himself, it was more than just a promise; he couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to her.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. At the bar, he’d downed enough whiskey to drown a barrelful of pain, but it hadn’t helped. It wasn’t Caroline’s slap across his face that hurt, it was knowing that she didn’t want him. That she’d never want him, even if he was the last man in Idaho or Washington or wherever she was going.
But the worst part was something he hadn’t counted on; she didn’t want him, but by God, he wanted her.
He swallowed back a whiskey-laced bit of moisture and stifled a groan. What sane man would want a prickly, set-in-her-ways, stubborn suffragette lady in his bed?
He groaned again, this time out loud. He did. Hell’s bells, he guessed he wasn’t as sane as he’d thought.
For a long time he listened to Fernanda’s and Caroline’s steady breathing in the dark and tried not to follow where his thoughts wanted to take him. He had just closed his own eyes when he heard an odd sound. Not a thump, exactly, more like something heavy, like a glass, dropping onto the floor.
His neck hair prickled. It was a footstep, outside in the hall. Then another. The steps faded, then returned, then faded again.
His heart jumped into triple time. Someone was walking up and down in the hallway. Maybe a man some woman had locked out of her room?
Maybe. The footsteps thudded past once more, and this time they stopped right outside their door. Son of a blue-tailed fly. Very slowly, Hawk sat up and reached for his revolver.
Overby?
He thumbed back the hammer, then rolled onto his knees and peered through the keyhole. Nothing, just a patch of patterned wallpaper on the opposite wall.
The footsteps returned, again stopping outside the door. Hawk squinted and now something dark appeared through the keyhole.
He was on his feet, yanking the door open, his revolver trained chest-high. A shadowed figure jerked away and bolted down the hall; then he heard footsteps pound down the stairs.
Hawk raced to the landing, but the staircase was empty. Far below he heard a door slam.
Damn. He padded quietly back into the room, shut the door and bolted it.
“Who was it?” Caroline’s voice. She was sitting up in bed.
“You heard him? The footsteps?”
“Yes. I thought about getting my pistol from the trunk, but I was afraid I would wake Fernanda.”
Hawk snorted. “Forget Fernanda. Whoever it is doesn’t want Fernanda.” He released the hammer on his revolver and stowed it under his pillow.
The bedclothes rustled. “Tomorrow…” She hesitated.
“Yeah? What about tomorrow? You change your mind?”
“N-no. But tomorrow I will keep my pistol in my skirt pocket, I promise.”
Hawk lay down on top of the quilt, slipped the revolver under his hand and tried to stop his bad thoughts. “Go back to sleep, Caroline.”
“I was not asleep.”
“Don’t tell me that, dammit. You need to sleep.”
She said nothing for so long Hawk was certain she slept. Or he would have been certain except that he didn’t hear any slow, rhythmic inhalations, and that meant she wasn’t.
He lay in the quiet for a long time, listening.
*
When Caroline awoke, Hawk was gone. Gone. Oh, dear God, what have I done? She wished, oh, how she wished, she had not slapped him last night. She had wanted him to kiss her. If she were honest with herself she would have to admit she had been thinking about it for days. When she felt his hands in her hair her whole being had come alive, her blood thrumming through her veins like molten quicksilver.
But when his mouth had covered hers, she had panicked.
She squeezed her hands together so hard they hurt. She would never be normal, never be able to be close to a man, even one as trustworthy, as honorable, as Hawk Rivera. Now she had driven him away.
Fernanda eyed her as she climbed out of bed and stood at the chest of drawers, splashing cool water on her face. “Hija, you look like the devil has drag you around his boneyard.”
“I am quite all right, Fernanda. Just tired. And I am a little worried about today.”
Her companion planted her fists at her ample waist. “Is foolish thing you do today. Señor Hawk is right. You have the head of a pig.”
Caroline gasped. “He said that? That I am pigheaded?”
“Si, pighead. Hawk leave before you wake to make sure—”
“He did?” Her spirits lifted. “You mean he is still here in town?”
Fernanda looked at her oddly. “Sí, in town. Of course here in town. What did you think?”
“I thought…well, I thought he might have left. Gone back to Oregon.”
“Why he would do that?”
“Because I… Because he…”
Fernanda clucked her tongue. “Too many becauses. That man, he would not leave because you have bad words together.”
“But I also—” She bit her tongue.
“Now hurry. You get ready for speaking. Hawk say to be ready when the church bell ring.”
Caroline’s hands shook as she donned the dark blue bombazine skirt and the matching high-necked top, not because of nerves, but because of the relief that washed through her. Hawk had not left.
The bell at the church across the street began to clang, and she quickly wound her hair into a twist at her neck and settled her hat on her head. She was just arranging the feather over one eye when someone tapped twice on the door.
Fernanda flew over to it, knocked smartly three times and undid the bolt.
Hawk strode in, his hat pulled low over his tanned features. When he looked up she saw the scowl. He looked furious, but she couldn’t blame him. His eyes were hard as jade, and from the set of his mouth she doubted he would ever smile again.
“Ready?” His eyes raked over her. “I hate that hat,” he muttered. “Makes you look sassy.”
Fernanda’s spurt of laughter caught him off guard. He cut his gaze to her. “Sassy isn’t going to win women the vote. Sassy is going to make every woman in the audience jealous and every man wonder—” He bit off the rest of the thought.
“And good morning to you, too,” Caroline said.
Fernanda threw up her hands. “Children, do not fight now! Do so later, when nerves have settle.” Murmuring under her breath, she gathered up her black wool shawl and stomped out the door.
Caroline darted after her, but Hawk reached out and snagged her arm. “Stay behind me,” he ordered.
She followed him down the staircase, and at the bottom he dropped back to walk next to her, holding his rifle in his free hand. Enticing food smells wafted from the dining room, and her stomach rumbled. Her steps slowed.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growled.
“But—”
“Later.”
They walked in stony silence out the front entrance of the hotel and across the street to the grass-covered town park next to the church. It seemed like a thousand miles to the small wooden stage constructed in the shade of maple and ash trees dotting the area. With every step, Caroline tried to recall the opening words of her speech.
A good-sized crowd was gathered, some standing, some sitting on the grass. Around the perimeter stood five deputy sheriffs, badges winking in the dappled sunlight. A pile of gun belts and weapons mounded off to one side.
“How did those men know to—?”
“You think I went out before dawn to order bacon and eggs?”
“You went to the sheriff’s office,” she murmured.
“Damn straight.”
“Hawk, thank you. Seeing them makes me feel much safer.”
He didn’t reply, just took her elbow as she ascended the single step. But instead of positioning herself behind the waiting lectern, she stepped to the front of the stage. Then, while Hawk watched in disbelief, she unpinned her hat and dropped it onto the wooden f
loor at her feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began.
Hawk settled into position two steps behind her and nodded at the balding sheriff standing at the back of the wooden platform. He counted at least five rifles and more holstered revolvers than he’d seen on the entire trip. The deputies all looked uneasy but sharp-eyed, and he began to breathe easier.
Caroline’s voice carried well. “It is not only voting rights that women are denied. Women cannot serve on juries. Or run for office. Or…”
Hawk hadn’t known about all those things a woman couldn’t do. All his life he’d been concerned only with what a woman could do—cook, keep house, bear children. And make a man happy.
He thought again about his mother. Had those things been enough for her, living as Luis Rivera’s wife? Raising his son?
An ache lodged under his breastbone. What about Whitefern? Had his wife been unhappy living with him in town instead of with her tribe in Black Oak Canyon? She couldn’t have voted anyway, being Cherokee. But what about all those other things?
His mind snapped back to Marguerite Rivera. His father had idolized his mother, but then why had she run away? Why? And Whitefern had gone with her. Why?
Questions from the crowd were starting. Hawk strained his ears to hear those voiced from the back of the gathering.
“Why would a happy married woman wanna vote, anyway? Ain’t as if she’s gonna care about who runs for sheriff, or even president.”
Caroline fielded the queries with more polite good humor than he would have, given how simpleminded some of the comments were. After she had spoken for over an hour, she spied the pitcher of water left for her on the podium behind her. Still talking, she backed up toward it, then turned to reach for the glass.
The next thing Hawk knew she gave a cry and the pitcher crashed onto the floor. In an instant Hawk was beside her, his Winchester aimed into the crowd.
Unable to speak, she pointed under the water glass. Hawk caught her shoulder and pulled her hard against him, then glanced down at the podium.
A square of white paper lay where the pitcher had rested. Printed across it in black crayoned letters were five words: “YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.”
Her Sheriff Bodyguard Page 8
