Hawk's Promise

by Nola Cross

  His mind spun into a fantasy. It wouldn’t in fact be so wrong—would it?—for something to happen between us. They weren’t related by blood. Not even step-brother and sister. So why not? His slacks grew tighter across his groin.

  She sighed, and the little motion pushed her breasts against him. God. His hands itched to be filled with the weight of those soft mounds, to know the silk of her flesh with his fingertips, his lips.

  But what if he tried to kiss her and she turned away? What if she didn’t share his feelings and was disgusted by his vulgar impulse? He could lose her forever.

  But what if she does feel the same as I do? his cock argued back.

  The idea caught fire, raging through him. What if she was just waiting for him to make the first move?

  He drew his head back and looked down. She lifted her face. Their gazes met, searching, tangling, her breath quickening against him, and he was sure now that he saw in her golden eyes the response he had only dreamed of.

  “Desiree, I—”

  “Here you young ’uns are.” Cora bustled through the door, hands full of used paper plates. Hawk jerked away. “Saying your goodbyes, are you?”

  “Y-yes.” Desi backed toward the sink and shoved her hands in the pockets of the apron. “Hawk’s got to get back to his business in Tacoma.”

  The older woman bent to put the plates into a garbage bag, talking over her shoulder at them. “Well, Hawk, I remember your sweet mama very well. She’d be bustin’ her buttons about the way you stepped in to help out here. Our Dovie would be proud too. It’s a wonderful thing to have a lovin’, carin’ family at a time like this.”

  “It sure is,” Desi murmured, eyes downcast. He couldn’t read the expression there. Maybe he had imagined that she had seemed receptive a moment before.

  “A young girl can sure use a big brother sometimes,” Cora went on, swishing her hands in the sudsy dishwater for a moment before drying them on a nearby towel.

  He watched Desi’s face. Her gaze darted toward him and then away, hints of color staining her bronze cheekbones.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I’m very grateful.”

  God. He’d almost made a terrible mistake. What if he had told her how he felt and she’d been grossed out or offended? If she thought of him as her brother, the last thing she would want was his kiss, his touch. He’d narrowly dodged a bullet just now.

  “I gotta get on the road.” He backed toward the door. “You stay in touch now, Dez. Do good in school.”

  “I will.” Her voice trembled like a reed in the wind, and she turned away as he left the room.

  Chapter 5

  It was warmer than usual for the last week of March, and both Tracy and Desi had taken off their jackets as they sat soaking up the sunshine outside the science building.

  “So how do you think you did on the exam?” Tracy squinted at Desi.

  “Okay I guess. But my whole brain hurts.” She lay back on the warm concrete bench, cradling her head on one bent arm, and gave a deep yawn. “I sure am looking forward to this break.”

  “Me too. Two whole weeks off with no books, no classes, no getting up at six AM to get to biology lab. It’s gonna be great.”

  “Hmm. Wish I had nothing to do for two weeks. I still have to work four nights a week.”

  “Sorry.”

  Desi heard Tracy’s backpack come unzipped, then the sound of a pop top can being opened. Vegetable juice no doubt. Tracy was the original ‘I could’a had a V8’ girl.

  In a moment her friend smacked her lips and sighed. “Yummy. So what are you gonna do during the day? You wanna check out the Jantzen outlet store with me tomorrow? I need to find a cute bikini. Summer will be here before you know it, and I plan to get started on my tan early this year.”

  “Getting a tan has never been a problem for me.” Desi cracked one eye open and grinned at her fair-haired friend.

  Tracy punched her shoulder. “So not funny.”

  “I don’t know how much time I’ll have to lay around in a swimsuit this year, Trace. I’ll probably be in summer school.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. The sooner I get through my courses, the sooner I can start working. My funds are limited, you know?”

  “I thought your grandmother left you that inheritance.”

  Desi sat up and straightened her shirt. “She did, but it’s not like I’m rich or anything. I still need to be super careful.”

  The small trust fund Dovie had left her had come as a complete surprise. How had her grandmother managed to set aside money from her meager social security check each month? Desi still got teary just thinking about it. No way would she dishonor Dovie’s memory by being irresponsible. If she stuck to a strict budget and kept her part-time job at the hospital, she could pay for another year’s tuition. It was a good start.

  “What about your dad? Can he help you out?”

  Desi gave a short laugh. “He’s lucky to pay the electric bill. In fact, he asked me for a loan last week. Let’s just say he’s got new priorities. I think he’s currently juggling three lady friends. All those movie tickets and dinners at IHOP can sure add up.”

  “Ooh. Big spender.” Tracy took a sip of her juice. “Well, at least you’re not having to cook for him.”

  “Thank God. It’s bad enough doing his laundry.”

  Desi sensed her friend’s questioning gaze. After several long seconds Tracy cleared her throat. “What about Hawk?”

  “What about him?” Desi could hear the defensive edge in her own voice but she wasn’t about to soften her tone. Ever since the funeral, Tracy had found a way to bring up his name at least once a day. The two young women had been best friends since the sixth grade, and it was clear that Tracy had now developed a major crush on Hawk, which was pretty funny considering she had doubted his very existence just two months ago.

  “I mean...could you ask him for more financial assistance? He has plenty of money, right?”

  Desi’s breath caught the way it did every time she opened her email and found a message from Hawk. True to his word, he’d stayed in touch, writing to her once or twice a week. He shared with her the mundane facts of his life: business was good; he’d just hired another mechanic; his cat had been to the vet for worms but was fine; he had plans to replace the dishwasher in his kitchen. And she devoured every detail. In return, she told him about her classes and reported on her father’s romantic status. Safe, neutral topics. She didn’t dare write about the emotions he had stirred in her heart, or the torment he’d awakened in her body.

  She averted her face so Tracy wouldn’t notice she was blushing. “Whew. It’s hot out here today.”

  “Don’t change the subject like you always do when I ask about Hawk.”

  Desi crinkled her nose at her friend. “The truth is I’d rather not owe him more than I already do.”

  “Why not? He doesn’t seem to mind. I don’t think he expects you to pay him back, does he?”

  “Still, I—” The ringtone of her cellphone started playing. Desi reached in her small purse and pulled out her phone. An unfamiliar number with an out-of-state area code showed on the screen. “Hmm. Probably telemarketers.” She shoved the instrument back in her purse.

  “You were saying?” Tracy persisted.

  “About what?”

  “You know about what. Hawk. Hawk-the-Incredible and his willingness to help you out with your finances.” She waggled her brows. “Or maybe help you out in some other way.”

  “Trace!”

  “What?” Tracy’s blue eyes went round with offended innocence. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought about it. You two were practically joined at the hip for three days when he was here for Dovie’s funeral.”

  Desi rolled her eyes. And just then her cellphone rang again. Relieved this time at the interruption, she was quick to answer the call. “Hello.”

  “Hello. Yes. I am trying to reach Miss Desiree Taylor.” It was a man’s voice, thick with a Spanish accen
t.

  “This is Desiree. Who is this?”

  “This is Miguel Sanchez. I work for Hawk Ironcloud.”

  “For Hawk? In Tacoma?”

  “Si. For Hawk. Mr. Ironcloud.” The man spoke with urgency. “He’s asking for Miss Desiree.”

  “Asking for me?” Was this some kind of a joke? “What do you mean?”

  “Si. With the pain medication he is not all the way consciente. But he says your name over and over.”

  Now sheer panic strung a wire across her throat and drew it tight. “Pain medication? Is he okay? Is he hurt?” She was vaguely aware of Tracy scooting close and laying a hand on her knee.

  “Si. He was burned. He’s in the hospital. They are sending him home today. He will need care. I think you should come.”

  “Of course. I’ll come today.”

  The man on the other end of the line sighed with obvious relief. “Bueno. Bueno.”

  * * * *

  He drifted in a pain-crazed dream, reliving again and again that moment when he lost his footing and pitched forward with the Mustang’s battery in his hands. Was it a hose he tripped over? A tool someone had left laying there? An uneven spot in the concrete? Not knowing what had caused his fall was driving him crazy. He’d have to get tough and enforce the safety regs better in the future.

  He remembered trying to tuck and roll at the last second, but he’d lost his hold, and the battery hit the floor and cracked open, spattering his shirt. Even then, it wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t shoved his hands forward to break his fall. Everything had happened so fast, he hadn’t had time to notice the sulfuric acid already pooling on the concrete.

  Then had come that horrible instant of recognition and his instinctive reaction. He sprang to his feet and ran for the sinks up front, yelling at Miguel, tearing his shirt off as he went. There was the shock of cold water sluicing down his front and into his pants—the pants had to go then too—as Miguel filled a coffee mug again and again and splashed it against his chest while Hawk held his hands under the faucet’s full stream. Tony and Jim appeared, their faces pale with worry as he turned his hands palms up and showed them where the acid had already begun to eat at his skin.

  “Somebody call the paramedicos,” Miguel yelled, continuing to flush the water down Hawk’s body. He was freezing, wet, naked. A little light-headed. He fought for control.

  “I’ll be okay.” But even as he pushed the words past chattering teeth, Hawk knew better. “How long we been flushing, Miguel? Ten minutes? Okay. Another five and you can drive me to the ER. Tony, let Bonnie know. Jim, get that spill cleaned up. Be careful. Acid went everywhere. Follow the steps in the safety manual.”

  The ride to the hospital was a blur in his memory. By then the pain was excruciating, sending molten spikes through his palms and up both arms. Miguel had wrapped him in an old blanket and made him wait in the car while he ran into the ER entrance. He had wanted to walk in under his own power, but what if Miguel was right and he passed out and fell? Was it hours or just moments before a gurney appeared and they loaded him on it and rolled him inside?

  Then came the compassionate faces of the ER nurses and doctor, the prick of the IV drip being installed, and finally the blessed relief of pain medication flowing through his veins. Morphine no doubt. They’d flushed the wounds some more, then applied some kind of gel to his palms and chest, put inflated plastic bags on his hands, and administered antibiotics. All the while they’d monitored his vital signs, making sure he didn’t go into shock. They’d even assigned him a room, made him spend the night there.

  Miguel had picked him up at the hospital that morning, bringing along his slippers, sweatpants, and robe. His friend helped him dress, then dropped him off at home before going to the garage. He had stretched out on the couch, blinds drawn, the comforting murmur of a history documentary coming from the TV. A home health nurse would be coming by later that afternoon to check on him and change his dressings.

  Somehow Mrs. Atterman had heard about the accident and already brought over a pot of some kind of soup. After one look at his bandaged hands she promised to come back twice a day to look in on him and feed Norman. Can openers were going to be tricky.

  “I’m sure I’ll be back at work tomorrow,” he’d told her, struggling to prop himself straighter on the cushions without using his hands.

  Her brows lifted, deepening the network of wrinkles in her prominent forehead. “How do you propose to fix cars with your hands swaddled like paws?”

  Hawk had shot her his best boyish grin. “You know me, Mrs. A. I’ll manage. I always do. Thanks again for the soup.”

  But it didn’t take long on his own for his bravado to evaporate, and he crashed on the couch and fell into a restive sleep. In his dreams his mother appeared, young and beautiful once more, floating at the side of his bed. Her hands were cool and gentle on his forehead, and her dark eyes stared into his, drawing out his pain. He reached for her with his bandaged hands. Then a gust of wind—the South Wind—swirled through the room and carried her right out the window.

  He came awake as the pain pills lost their edge and the shrieking thrum of his pulse beating in his scalded palms jerked him out of the dream. It was then that he realized the leather cord was missing from around his neck.

  With a sickening sense of loss he patted down his chest and the pockets of his sweatpants. Nothing. Had it come off at the garage during all the commotion yesterday? Or worse, in the ER?

  Maybe it was the dream he’d just had that brought the clear memory of his mother taking the cord from around her own neck. He could still feel her warmth as she pressed the charm into his palm. That had happened at another hospital, many years ago, the day she died. He had put the necklace on and never taken it off until now.

  Maybe Miguel knew something about it. He’d call the garage as soon as he peed. It had just become evident that his bladder was full and could no longer be ignored.

  God, can I get these pants down and back up by myself?

  He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat straight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as best he could. Standing, he was just the slightest bit woozy, but after a few seconds the sensation passed and he made it down the hall to the half-bath on the main floor.

  He worked his bandaged hands under the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, careful to widen his stance to maintain tension on the elastic. The last thing he wanted was his pants falling all the way down around his ankles; it would be hell getting them back up. He used both paws to steady his aim as he relieved himself, then he reversed the whole process to get the pants back to his waist. It was tricky, but he managed. He was sure with practice it would all get easier. And what had the doc said? Two weeks, maybe less, and the dressings could come off.

  Try to stay positive. Be grateful the acid didn’t splash into your face. Into your eyes. Thank you, Jesus!

  But how would he hold a fork or spoon, or a piece of pizza for that matter? How would he shower or deal with shirt buttons and zippers? It struck him that a bidet might not be such a silly bathroom fixture after all.

  Thank God his insurance coverage provided for the home health nurse. A trained professional would be used to assisting patients with all facets of personal hygiene, wouldn’t she? Hey, with any luck, the nurse might be a guy. Still, the idea of a stranger of either gender giving him a sponge bath or cleaning his backside—no matter their credentials—made him squeamish. Maybe he should just plan to hunker down here at home, unwashed and alone, and wait the two weeks out. How ripe could a guy get in that amount of time? He just might be prepared to find out.

  Norman was waiting as he emerged from the bathroom, almost tripping Hawk as he wound in and out of his master’s ankles. “Watch it, cat.” The uncharacteristic growl made the little animal stare at him with wide eyes. “Sorry,” Hawk muttered and headed for the kitchen.

  On the counter lay his cellphone next to the small arsenal of first-aid supplies Miguel had carried
home from the hospital dispensary. Ointments, gauzes, several prescription bottles. He pushed them aside and reached for his phone. The little device caromed away across the tiles. It took him only an instant to realize the clunky bandages would prevent him from making a call. No way could he hold the thing still to swipe across the screen or poke any of the buttons. He let loose a string of loud curses. He’d always meant to learn how to use the damn audio commands. Maybe he’d try to figure it out later when his hands didn’t feel like flaming mincemeat.

  He focused on the medications next. Ah, yes. Oxycodone. That would do the trick. He reached for the little orange bottle, almost knocking it to the floor before it dawned on him that—like the phone—he couldn’t grasp it, much less get the child-proof top off. A wave of helpless frustration rose in him. Suddenly it was all too much. He threw his head back and let out a guttural yell, so loud he almost didn’t hear the rapping sound at his front door.

  He stood stock-still. Had those knocks been his imagination?

  Then the sound came again.

  The nurse! She’d be able to get the bottle of painkillers open. He sprinted into the living room and pawed the door open.

  Cordial words of welcome froze on his lips. It wasn’t a home health nurse standing on his front porch. It was Desiree.

  Chapter 6

  “Desi!” Hawk’s dark eyes went round. His mouth hung slack in surprise.

  “Hello, Hawk.” Her gaze dropped to his hands, where thick white bandages stood out in stark contrast to his navy sweatpants and the dark plaid of his bathrobe. Bands of gauze wrapped his chest too, where the robe gaped open. She suppressed a gasp. “Are—are you all right?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Sanchez called me this morning. I came as soon as I could.”

  He scowled. “Miguel called you? How did he get your number?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you gave it to him. Are you going to let me come in? It’s chilly out here.”