Hawk's Prize (22 page)

The thought amusing him, Simon walked through
the outer office with a mumbled word to Billy as he headed for the exit.

Chantalle greeted Barry Potts effusively as he entered the house and closed the door behind him. Barry was thin and balding, an elderly gentleman who was one of her regular customers. She knew he had often experienced embarrassing difficulties during solitary times with her girls. Mavis had been particularly patient with him, and he had expressed his gratitude for her kindness in the most generous of ways. But Chantalle knew that even if he had not been in a financial position to express his appreciation, she would not have refused him entrance to her house. She liked him and understood his situation, and that was enough.

Chantalle summoned Mavis with a wave of her finger. She watched as the smiling prostitute took Barry’s arm and led him inside. Mavis was particularly gentle with him. She seemed to realize that conversation was almost as important a part of their relationship as sexual favors, and that the elderly man needed to believe that Mavis’s interest in him went beyond—

Loud, angry voices on the upstairs landing interrupted Chantalle’s thoughts. She didn’t abide that type of behavior in her establishment. Her thoughts stopped cold when she glimpsed Simon Gault. A moment later, he slipped out of sight, dragging Angie with him.

Her face flushing hot red, Chantalle ascended the staircase in a rush. She reached the upstairs corridor just as Simon attempted to open the door to his special room. His expression rabid, he turned toward her and
demanded, “Is this door locked? If it is, I demand a key.”

“Do you?” Sparing a short glance for Angie, Chantalle noted that the sultry brunette appeared terrified. She replied, “In answer to your question, yes, the door is locked. It will remain locked until I decide when and for whom to unlock it.”

“Is that so?” Maintaining his grip on Angie’s arm, Simon said with a poisonous glance, “May I remind you that your ability to do business in Galveston is dependent on the goodwill of the city, and that I am in a position to affect that goodwill any time I choose.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you don’t!” Simon released Angie’s arm. Chantalle noted that Angie took the opportunity to slip back down the staircase as Simon turned his full attention toward her, continuing, “You have a very short memory, Chantalle. If not for me, you would not have reached the station you have attained in this city.”

“That’s what you’ve always told me.”

“It’s the truth, and I suggest that you heed it. It is only my friendship with you that has allowed you to—”

Chantalle interrupted hotly, “Don’t waste your breath, Simon. You and I have never been friends, nor will we ever be. We have been business associates, and the time has come for me to sever that relationship. To put it plainly, you’re no longer welcome in this house. Please leave.”

Were she a lesser woman, Chantalle knew she would have been cowed by the fury that transformed Simon’s features before he said in a measured tone, “I will give you time to rescind that request, Chantalle. I understand
that you may have become upset at the attempt on the life of your daughter’s lover, but I—”

Rage flushed Chantalle’s senses at his hypocritical tone, and she interrupted, “That’s it. You’ve said enough! Get out of here and don’t come back—and you may rest assured that there is not a single person in this household who will lament your departure.”

Seeming to swell with wrath, Simon took a threatening step toward her. “Harlot! Take that back or I’ll make you take it back.”

“Is something wrong, Chantalle?”

Chantalle glanced at the stairs as Jake stepped up onto the landing. She saw Simon’s eyes narrow as the big man with the full white mustache approached them, his fists balled. She saw Angie duck out of sight at the base of the staircase as she responded, “Nothing is wrong now, Jake. Mr. Gault was just leaving.”

Simon glanced at Jake as the big barkeep neared. He took a backward step and said in a voice throbbing with promise, “You win this time, Chantalle. I’ll leave. I have no desire to make a scene, but you’ll regret this day. I promise you that.”

Inwardly quaking, Chantalle did not reply as Simon turned abruptly toward the rear staircase.

When Simon had disappeared from sight, Chantalle looked gratefully at Jake. His tone was gruff when he said, “You shouldn’t have talked him into leaving, Chantalle. I’ve been wanting to throw that fella out since the first time I saw him here.”

Chantalle’s smile belied the tremor in her voice as she said, “I’m sorry to have deprived you of that privilege, Jake. I doubt very much if Simon will return.” Slipping
her arm through his, she said more softly, “Come on. Let’s go downstairs so you can pour us both a drink. I don’t know if you need one, but I sure do.”

Her continuing smile masking her concern, Chantalle started down the stairs with the memory of Simon’s threat lingering in her mind.

Colonel Clay Madison looked up from the folder on his desk. His brows tight, he read the official notification again, more slowly. He glanced at the date on the top of the sheet and mumbled brusquely before standing up, snatching his hat, and turning toward the door.

In the outer office, he told Sergeant Walker, “I’m going out for a while. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Sir, Lieutenant McMasters has been located. He’ll be here soon.”

“Tell him to wait here for me.”

Closing his office door behind him with more emphasis than necessary, Clay untied his horse from the hitching post and spurred him into motion. Arriving at the small house where he and Jenna Leigh resided while their new home was being renovated, he dismounted and approached the door. He paused for a breath as he pushed it open.

Jenna Leigh emerged from the kitchen, obviously surprised to see him there, and he was momentarily silent. He supposed he would never become fully accustomed to his wife’s extravagant natural beauty; to the glorious blond hair that spilled free of her normally upswept coiffure, and the mesmerizing, ambereyed gaze that revealed her quick mind. He attempted
a smile when she said, “What are you doing home this time of day, Clay? I was just cleaning up and I—”

Her voice abruptly stilled. A shadow passed over her face as she said, “What happened?” She took a breath. “It’s not Whit. He hasn’t been hurt, has he?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Closing the distance between them, Clay slid his arms around Jenna Leigh and drew her close. Inwardly marveling at the multitude of emotions that simple intimacy stirred inside him, he whispered reassuringly, “As far as I know, Whit’s fine.” He went on, “I just read something in a file of military papers that crossed my desk, and I figured you’d want to know.”

“What is it?”

Knowing that Jenna Leigh’s keen mind would quickly sort fact from fiction, he said, “I received a memorandum this morning that was passed down through military channels months earlier but was somehow held up along the way. It stated that the Union Army is conducting a search for a former Confederate Army officer who led a raid on a Union Army payroll just days before the war ended. It said that although the Confederate commander responsible for the raid surrendered, the money was not found. The commander claimed that the officer who headed the raid never made a full report to him, that he has no record of the payroll ever reaching the hands of the Confederate Army, and that the payroll was probably stolen by the men conducting the raid.”

“Yes . . . so?”

“The name of the officer in charge of that raid is Drew Hawk.”

Jenna Leigh gasped. Clay felt the tremor that shook her as her eyes widened and she strove to catch her breath. He said in the hope of lessening her shock, “We can’t be sure he’s your brother. We don’t know if this fellow just happened to have the same name or—”

“What does he look like?”

“The report describes him as approximately six feet two inches tall; black hair; hazel eyes. His birth year is recorded as 1840.”

Jenna Leigh swallowed. Her eyes filled as she said in a breathlessly hopeful tone, “1840—the year our Drew was born. Can it be, Clay? Can I possibly be fortunate enough, after all these years of suffering their loss, to find
both
my brothers?”

“I don’t know.” His expression solemn, Clay continued softly, “I’m especially uncertain because this Drew Hawk appears to be on the run. He could be anywhere in the country, especially if he knows where that payroll went—or if he kept part of it.”

“My brother wouldn’t do that! My brother was honest and high-minded. He’d never steal anything that didn’t belong to him.”

“Jenna Leigh . . . this Drew Hawk did.”

“But that was during the war! Whether this Drew Hawk is my brother or not, he was merely following military orders.”

“That would be true if the payroll had ever been turned over to his superiors.”

“There could be a hundred reasons why it wasn’t!”

“And one of them could be that he stole the money.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Clay felt Jenna Leigh’s stiffening, and he said softly, “I’m just trying to tell you the way things presently look. Further investigation might prove otherwise.”

“Further investigation . . . meaning if you discover his whereabouts, you’ll arrest this Drew Hawk and question him—put him in the brig for as long as it takes to confirm the accusations of your superiors, who
assume
he is guilty.”

“Jenna Leigh—”

“Hasn’t he suffered enough? Whether he’s my brother or not, this man’s dreams were shattered when the Confederacy collapsed, and now you intend to bring him to
Yankee
justice?”

“I’m only telling you what the report states.”

“You already believe he’s guilty.”

“That’s not true.”

Regretting her attack when pain registered in her husband’s gaze, Jenna Leigh halted abruptly. After a few moments, she said more softly, “You know my feelings run high on these matters, Clay, and now that this debacle seems to concern the brother I believed lost to me . . .” She took a breath before continuing, “You know I’ll do everything I can to find out what happened . . . and to find him, don’t you, Clay?”

“Yes.”

She asked with a frown, “Have you sent word to Whit about this?”

“No.”

“I’ll handle it, then. I don’t want to raise his hopes while everything is still uncertain.”

“Jenna Leigh . . .”

Looking at her husband with both determination
and affection, Jenna Leigh whispered, “You do know I love you.”

“I know.”

“And no matter how all this turns out, I’ll always love you.”

Clay stilled. Deep emotion touched his expression the moment before he lowered his head to cover Jenna Leigh’s lips with his in a passionate kiss.

It was a response that came from his heart.

It was also the only response he could give.

Whit Hawk rode toward Galveston at a steady pace. Tall and erect, his broad, muscular shoulders bespeaking controlled power, he sat his mount easily. From all outward appearances, he was relaxed and comfortable as he entered the city and turned toward a familiar area of town—but appearances were deceiving. He had returned to his home at La Posada and to his wife, the lovely red-haired Jackie, only hours before securing a fresh mount and heading out on the road again. He had been exhausted, but the rest that he had been avidly anticipating became secondary to the urgent messages he received from Chantalle summoning him to Galveston.

Whit guided his mount steadily through Galveston’s traffic as the afternoon sun slipped from its zenith. He was fond of Chantalle. He had felt a connection to her that first day when they had spoken plainly about their lives without pretense of any kind. Despite her occupation,
he respected her in a way he respected few others.

Chantalle had proved her friendship in the weeks that followed, and Whit was keenly aware that although she was the consummate businesswoman, he owed his happy home with the woman he loved in part to Chantalle’s generosity and her instinctive trust in him. That trust was mutual, which was the reason he knew that Chantalle’s urgent summonses meant that whatever she wanted to discuss with him was urgent indeed.

Whit turned the corner and Chantalle’s red brick mansion came into sight. Gray moss clung to the branches of the live oaks arching over the walkway, and the brilliant pink of the oleander hedges lining the brief lawn was a colorful welcome that he remembered well, but they did not lighten his concern as he dismounted and tied up his horse. He was keenly aware that Simon Gault was his enemy—and that the help Chantalle had given him after his arrival in Galveston, thwarting Gault in the process, had made a sham of the friendship Gault pretended for her.

As for Chantalle, she merely tolerated Gault for financial purposes, which only added to Gault’s resentment.

Whit’s frown darkened as he strode toward the front entrance of the house. Both weary and worried, he gave only polite responses to the women who welcomed him as he entered. Then he headed directly for Chantalle’s office on the second floor, where he had been told he would find her.

He knocked on her office door and responded to the call to enter. He smiled with relief when he saw Chantalle seated at her desk with no visible changes in appearance or demeanor. But his relief was short-lived when she stood up and said with thickness in her voice. “Whit . . . I’m so glad you’re here.”

Whit slipped his arm around Chantalle’s shoulders and said comfortingly, “I came as soon as I got your messages. What’s wrong?”

Chantalle sagged momentarily against his side before she straightened up and looked into his eyes. “It’s not so much what’s wrong. It’s what’s right, in a way.”

“Chantalle . . .”

Chantalle took a breath. She dabbed briefly at her heavily kohled eyes and adjusted her expression, then took a backward step that released her from his comforting grip. “I suppose you should sit down, because what I’ve got to say can’t be said in a few minutes.”

Whit did not move, and Chantalle said hesitantly, “Whit . . . I think I’ve found your brother.”