Shadow of the Hawk [Wayback Texas Series]

by Judith Rochelle

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  The Wild Rose Press

  www.thewildrosepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Judith Rochelle

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Shadow of the Hawk

  by

  Judith Rochelle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Shadow of the Hawk

  COPYRIGHT ©

  2007 by Judith Rochelle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Yellow Rose Edition, 2007

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Rhonda and RJ, who keep the garden blooming and growing and growing, and could write a manual on the care and feeding of authors. You ladies rock!

  Chapter One

  Hawk Riley stood at the side of the road cursing steadily. His banged and dented pickup listed on the shoulder, resting on the smooth tread of a flat tire. In the horse trailer hitched to the back of the truck, Jocko, his cutting horse, nickered softly.

  "Yeah, boy, we stepped in it again,” he said in a dry voice to the animal.

  Life dealt him a short hand a lot these days. Well, he had no one but himself to blame. He'd cut a bad deck of cards too many years ago.

  He'd passed through a little town called Wayback a couple miles back. Entering the town he couldn't miss the big sign that said Welcome to Wayback, Home of the World Famous Wayback Rodeo. At the Dixie Pig grocery store he'd asked directions to Mercy Creek Ranch. He knew they trained cutting horses for the rodeo as well as ranch work and Hawk desperately needed this job. His personal reputation was far from spotless these days, but he had a lot of knowledge to contribute. If he could just convince the owner.

  Trouble had grabbed him almost at the entrance to his destination, the big Mercy Creek cutting horse ranch sprawling over thousands of acres. A very expensive rail fence ran along the edge of the property for as far as he could see. About a hundred yards down the road was a closed gate with a security keypad. But wherever the ranch house or other buildings were, they were a long way from the road. And traffic was nonexistent.

  Well, hell.

  The late afternoon air was thick with the biting scent of mountain cedar, and a red-tailed hawk wheeled overhead, catching the updrafts of a quickening breeze. Obviously Hawk had wandered into his territory. They were very much alike, the man and the raptor for which he'd been named. Both were loners. Both were considered predators by ranchers—by most men, as a matter of fact. And both had developed the ability to avoid the hunter.

  At least most of the time.

  It was warm even for a West Texas October, but the summer had been a bitch so he expected it. And it was wet, for a change. So damn much rain that wet didn't even begin to describe it. Pray for rain and God answers with a bang.

  He could smell the weather in the air now and grimaced. With a freshening wind, rain was sure to follow before long. He'd hoped to arrive at Mercy Creek in an appropriate manner. The way things were with him, applying for a job was tough enough without showing up past business hours soaking wet.

  He sighed heavily, bent to unhitch the trailer and with brute strength muscled the pickup forward enough to get a jack under it. The dirt at the shoulder was gritty and not quite as solid as he'd have liked but he didn't have any options. Oh, well, nothing for it but to get the thing done.

  He hauled the jack out of the truck bed, got down beneath the undercarriage and clamped it into place. As he began levering the handle the first fat drops of rain splattered on his battered Resistol hat and dripped onto his hands.

  Great. Just damn great. Could anything else possibly go wrong?

  He pumped the lever harder, anxious to get the job done. He could feel the eyes of the hawk, still in its circle of surveillance.

  A jagged streak of lightning flashed across the graying sky and the heavy boom of thunder rumbled through the air, sounding a lot closer than he'd like. When he cast a look at the darkening sky he saw the hawk circle once then head off into the distance. He knew that with any kind of darkness they immediately sought shelter. To bad he wasn't as smart as the hawk.

  Jocko whinnied and shuffled his hooves restlessly.

  "Easy, boy. We'll be on our way in a minute."

  I hope.

  With the jack finally in place, he began the task of removing the lug nuts. He had them about half done when a streak that Hawk swore looked like Thor's own thunderbolt zapped the air. With the companion roar of thunder even closer, the rain began in earnest, pouring down over him like a waterfall. The water soaked into the ground beneath him, causing the jack to shift slightly.

  Just one more damn minute. That's all. Just one more damn minute.

  He worked furiously, the aged equipment balky in his hands. One more lug nut, then another. The dirt beneath him began to shift perilously and he tried to brace against the truck with his legs.

  Then the next cloud burst washed away the dirt holding the jack in place, and it slipped, the truck dropping onto Hawk like a granite boulder. Blackness rushed toward him. His last thought, strangely, was of the hawk fiercely guarding his territory. From the distance came the sound of thundering hoof beats.

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  The first thing Hawk noticed when awareness pricked at him was the heaviness of his eyelids and for a panicked moment he thought someone had taped them shut. When he lifted a hand to see what the problem was, something soft and cool gripped him.

  "Do it real slow. They'll come open in a minute."

  I've died and gone to heaven and the angels are taking care of me.

  Though he wouldn't have expected angels where he figured he'd be going.

  He took a deep, painful breath, let it out, and tried again to force open his lids. This time he opened them enough to focus on the shadowy form standing next to his bed. Hospital then. No wonder the place smelled like a pharmacy. An instant later he noticed the incredible amount of pain that swamped his body and an involuntary groan thrust from his mouth.

  "I'll tell them you're awake and need more pain meds. Hang on. I'll be right back."

  The same angelic voice, followed by the tap tap tap of heels on an uncarpeted floor. Boot heels, by the sound of them.

  Hawk turned his elevated head slightly. Nausea hit him with even that miniscule movement and he swallowed against it as hard as he could. The room was cool, almost cold, and the air filled with the beep and whir of unidentifiable machines. He wanted to shiver but he was sure the movement would cause him even more pain.

  "Mr. Riley?"

  A man's voice. Was he asking him or telling him?

  "If you sa
y so,” he croaked.

  Thick but gentle fingers at his wrist taking his pulse. The swish of cloth denoting movement around him. Damn it, if he could just see what was happening. With a supreme effort he forced the images around him into some kind of clarity.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph...

  It really was an angel. With thick wavy brown hair clipped back at the nape of a shapely neck. Eyes the color of Texas bluebonnets stared out of a face tanned by sun and wind. Oh, God, a dimple twinkled at one corner of a soft pink mouth.

  And the body—compact but lush, clad in jeans and a shirt the color of her eyes. Gold studs winked at ears exposed by the neat ponytail. No mistaking this was a female, and a damned beautiful one. Right now the smoothness of her forehead was creased by tiny frown lines even as a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  "Have you decided to rejoin the living?” she asked in a voice with a musical lilt.

  "I'm not sure,” he croaked. “Where am I and what happened?” He tried to shift position and the pain rocketed through him again, dragging the nausea with it. He tried to swallow the moan.

  "I'll bet that does hurt,” the angel said. “The nurse just pumped more pain meds into your IV so you should be floating on clouds in another minute."

  He slid his eyes gingerly toward the other figure in the room, solid and square in navy blue hospital scrubs. The face that leaned toward him, checking the IV shunt in his hand was plain but warm, with a smile that he'd bet soothed the most intractable patients.

  "The doctor left standing orders for a heavy dose of painkillers, Mr. Riley. You were a mess when the ambulance brought you in and you've got a lot of healing to do.” She smoothed his covers. “I'll be back to check on you again in a while."

  He looked for his angel and there she was, still beside his bed.

  "Would you like some ice water, Mr. Riley?” the musical voice asked. “That's about all you're allowed right now."

  "Please.” How did he get so lucky as to have his own personal angel taking care of him so willingly? Who the hell was she?

  She held a plastic cup to his head, slipping a straw between his cracked lips. The icy liquid felt good as he swallowed.

  "Just a little,” she warned.

  "Answers,” he reminded her. His throat was still raw and scratchy and talking irritated it, but he needed information.

  "Ah, yes. Where are you? Wayback Trauma Center. We needed some place close for the cowboys who keep breaking themselves into pieces."

  She shifted in her chair and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Even in his highly painful, overmedicated state, Hawk felt heat travel through him at the though of running his own tongue over those delicious-looking lips.

  Cut it out, asshole. This one's not for you.

  "What are you doing here?” she queried. “It appears you tried to lift your truck with your body."

  "Excuse me?” Whatever the nurse had given him was finally kicking in and the sharp edge of the pain softened. Maybe they were turning his brain to mush, too.

  She laughed softly. “I'm sorry. That was unkind. You were changing a tire on your truck and the jack gave way. The truck fell on you. You have three cracked ribs, a cracked collarbone, a fracture in your lower leg and one in your forearm."

  "And that's just the good news, right?"

  Holy hell.

  He took a slow and careful inventory of his bruised body. His right leg was in a cast to his knee and resting on a nest of pillows. Another cast encased his left arm from wrist to elbow. And something bulky and tight was wrapped around ribs that felt as if they'd been kicked by a wild stallion. Or thrown by an ornery bull.

  Not his first experience with that kind of injury. He'd finally had to give up rodeoing after the last time. No wonder taking a breath was so difficult.

  "Well, actually it is. If they were complete breaks you'd be laid up for longer than you want to contemplate. Cracks heal a lot faster."

  "Don't tell anyone, but they hurt just as much."

  "A joker even in crisis, Mr. Riley?"

  "Sometimes humor is all that gets you through the day.” He tried to focus his gaze on the woman. “Who are you? And how do you know my name?"

  And where was he going to get the money to pay for all this? He sure couldn't work if his body was shattered. He'd be better off if he just closed his eyes and died.

  His angel sat gracefully in the chair pulled up next to the bed, crossing one slim blue-jeaned leg over the other and folding her hands in her lap. Ripe breasts pushed at the fabric of her shirt, rising and falling with each breath.

  Cool it, Hawk.

  "Getting your name was easy. We simply looked in your wallet. And my name is Maggie Devereaux. I own Mercy Creek."

  Dread knotted his stomach as he saw his future slide down the tubes. “Oh, shit."

  "I've had a lot of reactions when I introduce myself,” she said with an easy chuckle. “But I have to admit that's a new one."

  Hawk closed his eyes and wished he would dissolve into the floor, bed and all. When he opened them, Maggie Devereaux was looking at him expectantly. He fought to stay awake against the narcotic spreading through his system. “This is probably the wrong time to tell you that I'd heard you were looking to hire. I'm damned good with cutting horses. I was on my way to apply. Had a flat tire at exactly the wrong time."

  "Well.” She leaned back in the chair. “From the looks of your rig you could certainly use a job. Although I don't think you'll be hiring on any time soon."

  "You don't understand.” God, how much more could he humiliate himself? “I have to get out of here. Right now."

  "I hate to tell you but it'll be a while before you go anyplace."

  "Maggie. Miss Devereaux.” He swallowed hard. His tongue felt thick and he had the feeling he was slurring his words. Shit. What a mess. “I can't really afford the bill here. I'm not..."

  She waved a casual hand in the air. “Technically you were hurt on Mercy Creek property. One of my hands found you. The ranch insurance will pay for it."

  "But..."

  "You're pretty seriously hurt, you know. Why don't you concentrate on getting better? Then we'll talk about your bills and a job."

  "My horse..."

  "Is in our barn being well cared for."

  "His name's Jocko."

  "Fine. Don't worry about Jocko. I also had that sorry rig of yours towed to the machine shed. The boys will work on it in their spare time. Looks like you won't need it for a while, anyway."

  Irritation, embarrassment and unwilling gratitude battled for control. “I can't ... This isn't..."

  What am I getting into here? Jesus, what a mess.

  Maggie rose gracefully from the chair. “Go to sleep, Mr. Riley. I'll be back."

  And with that she was gone.

  Hawk leaned back against the pillows gingerly. Well, there went any chance for a job with Mercy Creek. He'd bet on that. And he couldn't let Maggie Devereaux pay his hospital bill when he didn't know how or if he'd ever be able to pay her back. This little trip to medical city would probably put him in the poor house.

  He closed his eyes. Why hadn't the damn truck just fallen on him a little harder and put him all the way out of his misery?

  As he let the medication take over, he thought he heard those damn hoof beats again.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie tossed her keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and pulled open the refrigerator door, taking out the ever-present pitcher of sweet tea. She had a blazing headache and she knew exactly why.

  What the hell had ever made her do this anyway? Of course, as she kept pointing out to herself and anyone else who would listen, they couldn't have left the poor man lying in the road. And from the pitiful state of his gear and the emptiness of his wallet she was sure he didn't have a rich patron waiting to take care of him.

  But God. Even in his battered and bruised state, the man was unbelievably sexy. Something she never thought she'd think about a heavy growth of be
ard slightly darker than his hair. Eyes the color of raw emeralds, bracketed by squint lines carved into that tanned face that showed more hard living than she could imagine. A face compelling in its rough masculinity.

  What the hell was she thinking? Men were out of her life except for work. For good. Along with her bank account, Alex had stolen her interest in men and desire for sex.

  Wherever you are, Alex, I hope the fires of hell are roasting your feet.

  And the last thing she needed was a real involvement with Hawk Riley.

  She poured herself a tall glass of the ice cold liquid and drank half of it leaning against the counter. The light on the answering machine was blinking vigorously. Her mother, she was sure. And not once, but many times. She pushed the playback button and Liz Devereaux's chilly voice sliced through the air.

  "Did you go to the hospital and see that man? Maggie, I don't understand why you do certain things.” Beep!

  "Not home yet from your angel of mercy work? You have a ranch to run, remember? And one that needs some strong guidance right now.” Beep!

  "If you would just be sensible and sell to Owen Grainger, you could get on with your life and do something besides being a cowhand all the time.” Beep!

  Gee, thanks, Mom.

  Maggie gritted her teeth. She'd set the ranch on fire before she'd sell to Owen Grainger.

  Her parents had divorced when Maggie was three. In exchange for a big settlement and a fat monthly income, Liz had given custody of Maggie to her father. Now she was worried that if the ranch failed her continuing income would disappear.

  Too bad. You should have managed your money better.

  If Liz had not been so hot for her to marry Alex Rowland, Mercy Creek would still be on solid footing. The ranch would still have money in the bank and Owen Grainger wouldn't be a factor in her life. Too bad they hadn't known the truth about Alex before the wedding.

  Alex had cleaned out the bank accounts before she could get the court orders in place. She'd struggled to put the ranch back on solid ground ever since and was finally getting herself in better shape with the bank. If she could just get Owen Grainger off her back, she might be able to draw a full breath. Hawk Riley was going to be her ticket to do just that. She hoped.