The Spirit Path

by Madeline Baker

  Hawk moved to stand in front of Maggie as the motorcycles came to a stop. The two men removed their helmets before stepping from their bikes and Hawk recognized one of the bikers as the man who thought all Indians should stay on the reservation where they belonged.

  “Well, Injun,” the blond man said as he swaggered toward the blanket, “we meet again.” He smiled at Maggie. “How you doing, little lady?”

  She nodded, unable to speak past the fear rising in her throat.

  “Ain’t this nice? A picnic! I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a little kid. You got any food left in there?”

  “A little,” Maggie said. She reached into the basket and handed the man a sandwich.

  He grunted as he unwrapped it. “You got a beer in there?”

  “No.” She slid a glance at Hawk, who was standing motionless beside the blanket, his gaze moving from the blond biker to the other man still standing beside his Harley.

  “Vince, come on over and get something to eat.”

  The man called Vince shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he said, his eyes sliding over Maggie’s figure. “Not for food, anyway.”

  The blond biker grinned before devouring his sandwich in three big bites. And then he looked at Hawk. “Why don’t you take a walk, redskin?”

  Hawk shook his head, his whole body tensing as he waited for what he knew was to come. For the second time that day, he wished he had a weapon of some kind.

  The biker stared at Hawk, one blond brow raised quizzically. “You wanna watch?”

  “I want you to go and leave us alone.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t always have what you want.” The biker reached into his jacket and withdrew a knife. It was a wicked-looking blade, six inches long with a serrated edge.

  Maggie swallowed hard as the other biker came to see what was going on. Hawk stood between the two men. He was taller, broader, stronger, but he was unarmed and outnumbered.

  “I always wanted to fight me an Injun,” the blond biker remarked, running his thumb over the edge of the blade. “Maybe take a scalp.”

  The man called Vince grinned as he pulled a switchblade from his pants pocket. “Get on with it, Rocco,” he drawled, glancing down at Maggie. “I never like to keep a lady waiting.”

  Maggie looked around, her gaze searching for something she could use as a weapon, but the deadliest thing she could find was a fork. Her hand curled around it and she slid it under her left leg.

  Rocco stepped toward Hawk, the knife clutched in his hand, the blade weaving back and forth like a snake in search of prey. And then, almost quicker than the eye could follow, the blade made contact with flesh, opening a narrow gash in Hawk’s left cheek.

  But Hawk was moving too and before Rocco could strike again, Hawk grabbed his right wrist, curling his leg around Rocco’s ankle at the same time and lunging forward with all his weight so that Rocco fell backward.

  Hawk was on him before he hit the dirt, wrenching the knife from his grasp. He was raising the knife to strike when he heard Maggie’s warning scream. He threw himself off Rocco, wincing as Vince’s knife sliced through his T-shirt and across his back.

  Rolling nimbly to his feet, Hawk whirled around to face Vince, the knife ready in his hand.

  Maggie cried, “Hawk, don’t!” as they began to circle, first left, then right. She saw Rocco scramble to his feet and she knew Hawk would never be able to fight them both.

  Vince and Hawk came together, knives flashing in the sunlight, and when they parted, there was a long bloody gash in Vince’s left arm.

  Hawk drew back, his nostrils filling with the scent of sweat and blood. He sent a quick glance in Rocco’s direction, then pivoted on his heel, his knife parrying Vince’s blade. The ring of metal against metal was very loud in the stillness of the meadow.

  Vince hurtled toward him, his knife slashing wildly. Hawk ducked under the man’s arm and brought his own knife up, the Lakota war cry rumbling in his chest as he felt the blade slice into flesh.

  Vince swore loudly, his free hand clutching his side in an effort to stem the blood that flowed in the wake of the blade.

  “Rocco, here!” he hollered, and tossed the knife to the other biker.

  Hawk whirled around to face Rocco. For a moment, they glared at each other and then they began to feint and parry, the blades moving with a kind of graceful beauty as they reflected the sun.

  Maggie had been watching Hawk, mesmerized by the change in him. He looked every inch a warrior, even in jeans and a T-shirt. There was a feral gleam in his dark eyes as he wielded the blade, an expression of such hatred on his face that it was frightening. She spared hardly a glance for Vince until she realized he was beside her. He had torn a strip of material from his T-shirt and bound the knife wound and now he was on his knees beside her, his light brown eyes hot as he stared at her. She recoiled as he touched her. His hands were big, the backs covered with hair.

  “Don’t!” She clawed at his hands to no avail, turned her head to the side when he bent forward to kiss her. He smelled of stale beer and sweat and she cried out as he imprisoned her chin in one big hand to hold her still while he kissed her. She shuddered with revulsion and when he drew back, she grabbed the fork and jabbed it into his right cheek. He howled with pain, and then he hit her hard across the face.

  Her scream broke Hawk’s concentration and he darted a glance in her direction, his fury building when he saw the white man’s hands touching her.

  In that moment, Rocco lunged forward. Hawk saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked sideways so that the blade meant for his belly skidded across his ribs instead.

  With a cry of rage, Hawk hurled himself at Rocco, driving the other man to the ground, slamming his head against the hard-packed earth until he lay still.

  Scrambling to his feet, Hawk hurled himself at Vince, catching the man off guard. His hands closed around Vince’s throat, squeezing tighter, tighter, until the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Hawk, stop! You’ll kill him! Please, please stop!” She grabbed his arm, shaking him, all the while begging him to stop.

  With an effort, Hawk released his hold on the white man. Sitting back on his heels, he took several deep breaths and gradually the rage that had burned through him receded. Only then did he turn to face Maggie.

  Her face was deathly pale save for the bruise on her left cheek. Her eyes were wide with fear as she looked at the blood dripping from his cheek, soaking into his shirt. “You’re hurt.”

  “I am all right.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He looked down at the blood oozing from his side, then lifted a hand to his back, wincing with the effort. “I am all right,” he said again. Gently, his fingertips brushed her cheek where Vince had struck her. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” She uttered a shaky laugh. “Just scared me a little. You scared me too. I was afraid you were going to kill him.”

  “He would be dead if you had not stopped me.”

  “Let’s get out of here before they come to.”

  Hawk nodded. Rising to his feet, he quickly threw everything into the picnic basket, folded the blanket, lifted Maggie onto the back of the stallion. Then, knife in hand, he knelt beside Rocco.

  Maggie held her breath as he grabbed a handful of the man’s long blond hair and began hacking it off until only a quarter inch of stubble remained. Then he walked purposefully toward the two motorcycles.

  Maggie watched as Hawk slashed the tires and the black leather seats. The civilized part of her knew it was wrong, but the other part, that primal part that longed for revenge, smiled with each stroke of the blade.

  Vince and Rocco were beginning to stir as Hawk vaulted up behind Maggie and urged the black into a lope.

  They rode out of the meadow without looking back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At home Maggie insisted on treating Hawk’s cuts, even though he said they weren’t serious. He finally agreed to let
her doctor him up, but only after he had taken care of the stallion and fed the stock.

  Now he sat on a chair in the kitchen, clad once again in his clout and moccasins, while she washed the blood from his face and ribs and back. Her touch was gentle, innocently seductive. The ache of his wounds faded as he watched her. He closed his eyes as she began to smear a cooling ointment over the shallow cuts. She was close, so close. He inhaled the warm womanly scent of her as she bandaged his wounds, loving the touch of her hands on his skin.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes, his hands reaching out to cup her face. “Mag-gie, what am I to do?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I feel as if I am being torn in half,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “All my life I have been raised to be a warrior, to hunt, to fight.”

  “And you fight very well,” Maggie said, smiling faintly.

  “Any warrior would have done the same.”

  “Would they?”

  “Any man worth the name would fight for his woman.”

  “But I’m not your woman.”

  The words pierced his heart like a knife. She was not his woman, and he had no right to touch her. Even with her consent, he could not make love to her, not when he knew he must soon leave her. He did not belong here. Even if he chose to stay, he would not belong here.

  “Mag-gie, why do you live here alone? You are so beautiful, so full of love. Why do you not find a man to share your life?”

  She gazed at him steadily, her clear blue eyes moist with unshed tears. “I have.”

  “Ah, Mag-gie,” he whispered. “Do you know what you do to me when you look at me like that?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “Tell me.”

  “I wish…” The words died in his throat as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Do you know what I wish?” Maggie said. “I wish you would make love to me, just once.”

  “Just once,” he repeated, and knew he was lost. He could not deny her, or himself, any longer. Right or wrong, he needed her, needed her as he needed food to eat and air to breathe. She was a part of his life, a part of every dream and vision he’d ever had. He was bound to her, as he was bound to the Black Hills, to the land of his birth. And she had called him here, perhaps for this very reason. But reasons no longer mattered. His blood was pounding in his veins. The desire that had plagued him since the day he first saw her face could no longer be ignored.

  He put his arms around her and stood up, carrying her with him. He kissed her once, hard and quick, and then he carried her down the hallway to her bedroom. Stepping inside, he laid her on the bed and sat down beside her, a little hesitant now that he had committed himself. He had never made love to a woman. What if he disappointed her?

  He took a deep breath, and then he kissed her and all his doubts faded away. Tenderly, he caressed her with his hands and lips, loving her gently, slowly. If he was to make love to her only once, he wanted it to last a long time.

  Stretching out beside her, he drew her into his arms, their mouths fused together, their hands beginning a shy exploration.

  Maggie let her hands slide over his arms, marveling anew at the muscles that rippled beneath his taut bronze skin. His body was as warm as the sun, as hard as the earth, strong and powerful. Just touching him made her ache to be touched in return.

  She pressed her hands to his chest, let them drift down, down, to the ridged expanse of his belly, felt the quick intake of his breath as she dared touch his thigh.

  Hawk slid his hands under her blouse, letting his fingertips caress her breasts, marveling as their silky fullness filled his hands. He whispered her name as he struggled with her bra, and then, somehow, the covers were down and she was lying naked beneath him, with only his brief clout between them. They clung together and he thought he had never felt anything more wonderful than the sweet softness of the woman beneath him, never known anything more intoxicating than the taste of her lips.

  Maggie could not stop touching him. Her hands moved over his shoulders, slid down his arms, admiring the expanse of his bronzed chest, loving the feel of his bare skin against her own. Boldly, she tugged at his clout and then, suddenly shy, she turned away as he quickly removed it.

  Hawk groaned softly as the last barrier between them fell away and then he was kissing her again, urgently now. She could feel the tension coiled within him, the same tension that made her writhe beneath him. His voice was low and ragged as he whispered her name and then he was a part of her, his heat joined with hers, forging them together. He moved instinctively, his body possessing hers, branding her with his touch and his kisses and she held him close, heat to heat and heart to heart, making her feel whole and complete at last.

  Later, she held him close while he slept. She was his woman now, bound to him by love. Perhaps she had called him here, perhaps the love they shared was meant to be. Perhaps she had been born in the wrong time, or perhaps he had, and this was Fate’s way of righting a wrong, of bringing them together. It was a fanciful idea, but it pleased her.

  Smiling, she stared out the window at the night. A full moon rode low in the night sky and she turned her back on it, refusing to think that the next full moon might take Hawk away from her.

  She woke to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. Frowning, she pulled herself up, tucking the sheet under her arms. Had Veronica come back? She looked for her wheelchair, then remembered it was in the kitchen.

  Her cheeks grew warm as she recalled the night past and she hugged herself, wanting to laugh out loud with the joy of it, the wonder, the magic.

  And then Hawk was standing in the doorway, a tray in his hands. On the tray were two cups of coffee and two plates piled high with bacon and eggs and buttered toast.

  “You cooked!” Maggie exclaimed.

  “I was hungry,” he replied solemnly, “and it looked like you were going to sleep all day.”

  “I was very tired,” she said.

  He bit back a grin. “I know.”

  “And now I’m very hungry.”

  Hawk grinned at her as he crossed the room. Placing the tray in the center of the bed, he sat down across from her, watching her face as she took a bite of scrambled eggs.

  “They’re good,” she said, then blushed hotly as she realized the sheet had fallen into her lap.

  Hawk sucked in a deep breath, his desire springing to life as he stared at her bare breasts and belly.

  “Hawk…”

  He understood her embarrassment. Rising, he found her nightgown and slipped it over her head, tugging it down over her breasts, kissing her as he did so. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze.

  Smothering a grin, he sat down on the bed again and picked up a piece of bacon.

  They finished the meal in silence, then Hawk took the tray and carried it into the kitchen. Maggie was frowning when he returned.

  “What is wrong?” he asked.

  “I need to…want to…take a bath.” She’d been taking sponge baths since Veronica left, but this morning she wanted to soak in a hot tub.

  “Ah.” He knew Veronica usually helped her with such things, but Veronica wasn’t here. “I will fill the tub for you.”

  “But…”

  “There is no need for you to be embarrassed, Mag-gie,” he said gently. “I will help you into the tub, and I will not look if you do not wish me to.”

  It seemed silly to be shy about such things after what they had shared the night before, but she couldn’t help it. After all, it had only been one night.

  “Thank you, Hawk.”

  He nodded, then went to fill the tub.

  When he returned, he was carrying the big bath sheet that Veronica always wrapped her in after her bath. He dropped the sheet in her lap, then left the room so she could take off her nightgown.

  When she was ready and the tub was full he carried her into the bathroom and deposited her, very gently, into the water.

  Wi
th a curt nod, he left the room and shut the door, his imagination running wild as he thought of her sitting in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles. What would it be like to join her there, to make love to her in the hot soapy water?

  He uttered a low curse and left the house, heading for the barn. He brushed the black for twenty minutes, and all the while his mind filled with images of Maggie lying beneath him in bed, sitting in the bathtub amid a swirl of fragrant bubbles, smiling at him from the back of the stallion.

  He should never have touched her, he thought. She had said she wanted to make love to him just once. Just once! How could he keep his hands off her now when he knew the taste of her, the touch of her, the scent of her? How could he keep away from her now when he knew what it was like to bury himself in her softness, to hear her soft cries of ecstasy? Now, when he knew what it was like to find fulfillment in her arms.

  He was tense from head to foot when he returned to the house. After knocking on the door, he stepped into the bathroom, handed her a towel without looking at her, waited for her to cover herself before he lifted her from the tub and carried her down the hall.

  When they reached her bedroom, he put her on the bed, got her wheelchair from the kitchen, and almost bolted from the room, afraid if he stayed one moment more he’d rip off his clout and take her, willing or not.

  He was pacing the living room floor, wondering how he was going to keep his hands off her for the next month, when he heard a car pull into the driveway.

  A moment later there was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Maggie said, and Hawk turned to find her smiling up at him. She was wearing black pants and a red silk blouse. Her hair, still damp, curled lovingly around her face.

  Hawk swallowed hard. She was so beautiful. Just looking at her made him ache with desire.

  Maggie frowned at the deputy sheriff standing on the porch. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Miss St. Claire?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for an Indian known as Shadow Hawk. Chief Hollister said I might find him here.”