Hawk's Prize (25 page)

Tricia Lee
Shepherd.

Whit extended his hand toward the young woman and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am, but I admit to being confused at your family name.”

“She’s my adopted daughter, Whit, which is the reason she doesn’t carry my family name.” Chantalle paused, and then added, “She’s also the young woman who was with Drew when he was almost killed in an attempted robbery.”

“But that was at night in the Easton Hotel, if I remember correctly. How was she—?”

Whit halted when the answer became clear to him.

Filling in the silence, Tricia said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Whit.” She looked at him closely. “Strangely, if I had seen both you and Drew on the street, I would never have taken you two for brothers, despite your similarity of coloring and stature.”

“We never did look alike.” Whit added, “But we thought alike. I suppose we still do. You’re a very beautiful woman, ma’am.”

Tricia’s cheeks colored at his compliment. “Please call me Tricia . . . and please don’t tell me you think I look like an angel. Believe me, that’s far from the truth.”

When Whit smiled in reply, silently acknowledging his reaction to her appearance, Tricia was temporarily unable to speak and moisture filled her eyes.

Chantalle took up the conversation, saying, “Tricia asked me to send for you, Whit. She has some information she was anxious to give you.”

Turning toward Tricia, Whit frowned. “Anything you can tell me that will clear up what’s been happening would be a help.”

Tricia replied, “How about if I could tell you where to find your brother?”

Whit went still, and Tricia continued hesitantly, “As you’ve probably realized, Drew and I are . . . were . . . close, but he left without saying good-bye. He told Chantalle that the attempt on his life made him fear for my safety. If I’d had the chance, I would have told him that I feel the same way about him . . . that I fear for his safety, too, and that I won’t feel content until I know he’s all right.”

Whit replied softly, “I tried to find Drew most of the day without success, Tricia. I’m anxious to see him, too. As far as I know, he doesn’t realize I’m in Galveston.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.” Tricia paused, then added softly, “He’s staying in a small hotel in the seedy part of town. It’s called the Hotel Chalfonte.”

“The Chalfonte?” Whit shook his head. “You’re sure?”

“I got that information from the most reliable sources in town—the women downstairs.” Tricia gave a short laugh. “I learned early on that news travels fast in a bordello, and pillow talk is usually the most reliable. Both Mavis and Lily said they heard from their regulars that Drew’s been busy the past few days looking into Simon Gault’s activities on the waterfront.”

“Dammit, that’s dangerous! Gault is a vindictive bastard, and he won’t like it.”

“I don’t think Drew much cares about that. He said he’s going to find out why Willie was killed, and if he gets any proof that it’s related to the attempt on his own life—”

Whit interrupted tersely, “If he’s staying at the Chalfonte,
I’ll find him, and then we’re going to have a talk.”

Tricia smiled. “Good luck if you think you’re going to change his mind.”

Whit halted at the look in Tricia’s green eyes. He said, “Let me assure you, Tricia, if I find him, we’ll have that talk. So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be going now. I don’t want to take the chance of missing him.”

When there was no reply, Whit tipped his hat and said, “Many thanks. It means a lot to me to be able to find my brother again. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Tricia, he’s a fool if he doesn’t come back to you.”

With a farewell to Chantalle, Whit turned toward the door.

Simon seethed as he hid in the heavily forested area behind Chantalle’s bordello, looking at the bright lights that seemed to dance in the windows. If he were not so determined . . . if he did not feel compelled to satisfy at least a part of the fury burning inside him, he knew he would not be standing in the shadows as the nighttime dampness deepened, wearing the clothes of a common cowpoke as insects feasted on his tender skin.

He had prepared for this moment very carefully. He had left his office shortly after Drew Hawk’s visit, and had gone directly to see Dr. Bellow. The reserved, aristocratic physician who catered to the high-toned members of his social set had raised his eyebrows when Simon had presented his mangled hand for treatment, saying simply that he had caught it in a drawer.
Simon grimaced at the memory of Dr. Bellow’s painful examination. The unsmiling physician had straightened out each one of his fingers and had then announced that none of the digits appeared to be broken—only badly bruised.

Simon glanced at the bandage that covered his hand, aware that it stiffened his movement severely. He had gone straight from the doctor’s office to his home, where he had made his presence felt by demanding numerous attentions from his servants. He had then pretended to go to bed, had waited until his servants had retired for the night, had dressed with great difficulty in the common clothing he was presently wearing, and had left without being seen on a horse from his stable that he had saddled himself. He patted the gunbelt on his hips. Fortunately, he was almost as good a shot with his left hand as with his right. He had no worries there.

Neither had he feared that he would arrive too late to accomplish his purpose. He knew exactly what was going to happen. The routine at the bordello rarely varied.

As if confirming that thought, the light at Chantalle’s back door went dark. It would not be much longer now.

Simon smiled when the back door finally opened a crack and a familiar figure slid out onto the steps—and after a swift look around, moved down the stairs and into the shadows among the trees. Within a few moments Simon saw the flicker of a match being struck, then the glow of a cigarette in the darkness.

Simon snickered. Although cigarettes of
that type
were not allowed in Chantalle’s house, he knew several similar houses where they were tolerated. Those houses, of course, were not of the caliber of Chantalle’s, but the habit, once formed, was difficult to break. He relied on that fact, and on the smoker’s distracted state that would soon follow.

Simon moved silently through the darkness until he reached the spot where the cigarette glowed in the shadows. He saw the dark-haired slut who lounged against the tree there, and his jaw clenched tight. He was beside her in a moment, jamming his gun against her side, ignoring her gasp as he said softly, “Fancy meeting you here, Angie. Are you enjoying the night air?”

Angie turned toward him, her eyes wide with fear. He saw her gulp as she dropped her cigarette, doing her best to ignore the gun he kept tight against her ribs as she said, “Simon . . . I . . . I was wondering when I’d see you again now that Chantalle’s barred you from the house. I’ve been missing you.”

“Missing me?” Simon snickered again. Her face was lit with a shaft of moonlight, and her fear was obvious as he replied, “I find that hard to believe, since you’re the one who called Jake down on me to make sure I would leave the house the last time I was here.”

“No, I didn’t, Simon. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I saw you at the base of the staircase, watching as Jake came up to threaten me.”

“No . . . no! I tried to stop him. I tried to tell him that he shouldn’t interfere.”

“How did he know Chantalle was trying to make me
leave? He was behind the bar. He couldn’t hear anything from there.”

“Somebody must’ve told him.”

“Somebody? That somebody was you.”

“It wasn’t me.” Angie took a breath and said unconvincingly, “You know how I feel about the fun we have together. I don’t have any other regulars like you.”

“You don’t have me anymore, either, Angie.”

Angie’s smile wavered as she moved her hand toward the gun at her ribs and said, “If you put that thing away, I’ll show you how wrong you are, Simon—right here where nobody will bother us.”

“Really?” Simon paused. “That sounds good. Let me see . . . take down your bodice and we’ll get started.”

Angie nodded stiffly and raised a hand to her shoulder. In a flash of movement, he slapped her hard and she fell a few staggering steps backward. Her eyes were wide, and he smiled at the sight of the blood that streamed from the corner of her mouth. “You didn’t move fast enough, Angie. Hurry up.”

Angie slipped one shoulder free and Simon struck her again, knocking her back against the tree behind her. Sobbing, she looked up at him as blood began streaming from her nose and he said, “I’m waiting, Angie.”

Angie pushed her other shoulder free. Her bodice slid downward as Simon punched her in the stomach, sending her reeling onto her back. She was crying between gasps for air when he ordered, “Get up! Get up on your feet or you’ll be sorry.”

Watching as Angie stood up unsteadily, he hissed, “Bitch! You were the one who ran to get Jake. If not
for you, I would have backed Chantalle down as I’ve done countless times before, and I would have been spared the humiliation of slinking away like a whipped dog.”

Angie swayed weakly and Simon stared at her. Her formerly upswept hair was disheveled and littered with twigs and leaves. Her dress was similarly littered and stained with dirt. Her nose and mouth were swollen and bleeding profusely. The side of her face was bruised, and it looked to him like her front teeth were broken, adding to the gushing red streams that ran down her neck to streak her bared breasts.

“Who feels like a whipped dog now, Angie?” When she responded with only a whimper, Simon said, “Answer me!”

“I’m sorry, Simon.” Angie’s eyes rolled strangely as she said, “I didn’t mean anything. I was mad, that’s all. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

His grim smile fading, Simon whispered, “You’re right, Angie. You won’t do it again, because you won’t dare—because I’m going to teach you how it will be next time.”

Raising the gun in his bandaged hand, Simon whipped it hard across Angie’s jaw, sneering as the blow lifted her off her feet and sent her sprawling backward.

He heard the crack when her head hit a sharp object. He saw her go still. He waited for her to move, but she did not.

Simon leaned over her. Her eyes wide open, she lay motionless. She wasn’t breathing.

The witch was dead!

Simon took a backward step and straightened up with a look of contempt. Damn her, she had cheated him of total satisfaction, after all!

Simon took another step away, then turned around and walked toward his horse.

So she was dead.

Nobody would lament her passing.

Drew moved quietly around the shabby hotel room as he prepared for bed. He was tired and his leg ached. He’d had a long day confronting portions of his life that had been too painful to review.

The first thing he had accomplished was to come to terms with the painful memories that had swamped him as he climbed Gault Shipping and Receiving.

The second thing was that in doing so, he had confirmed in his mind that Simon Gault was everything Chantalle had claimed him to be—and more. He had only to look into Gault’s eyes to see the man’s guilt openly displayed.

The third was to have seen Jenna Leigh again.

The fourth . . . Drew’s strong shoulders momentarily sagged. He would have said he had confirmed his determination to keep Tricia safe by keeping his distance from her, but as night fell, the last thing in his mind was to stay away from her. He wanted to talk to her, to be near her, to hold her close.

Straightening at the sound of a knock on his door, Drew reached for his gun and said, “Who is it?”

“A friend.”

A friend?

Drew walked cautiously toward the door. He had
plenty of enemies but very few friends, especially any who would hesitate to give their names. Standing clear of the entrance, he jerked the door open, then stepped back wordlessly when he saw the tall man standing there.

Drew swallowed. His heartbeat thundered and a roaring began in his ears when the fellow spoke in a deep voice that registered familiarly in his mind.

“I’ve been looking for you, Drew. It’s been a long time with a lot of miles in between, but I’m damned glad that I finally found you.”

His breathing choked, Drew did not immediately respond.

“It’s really me, Drew. It’s Whit.”

Drew blinked. He took a breath. He was uncertain which of them made the first move as they hugged each other roughly, mumbling incoherently for a few moments before they stepped apart in an attempt to gain control of the powerful emotions of the moment.

Drew’s glance was touched with incredulity when he managed gruffly, “Truth is, I never expected to see you again, Whit. Even when Chantalle said you were alive, I couldn’t make myself believe her.”

“I know.” Suddenly grinning despite the glaze of moisture in his eyes, Whit slapped him heartily on the shoulder and said, “Damn, it’s good to see you—even if the circumstances that bring us together aren’t so fine.” He halted, then said cautiously, “About Jenna Leigh . . .”

Drew’s grin dimmed. “I saw her. She’s as beautiful as I always knew she’d be.”

“She hasn’t changed, either.”

“I don’t know about that. I didn’t talk to her.”

“What?”

Suddenly sober, Drew responded, “I’d like to say that things haven’t changed, but they have, Whit. I’m not the same boy you left at the orphanage all those years ago. Things happen to change a man when he matures.”

“You mean the war.”

“I fought for the Confederacy—proudly, I might add—but I saw too much to forget those soldiers who fought beside me and didn’t come home.”

“A lot of Yankees didn’t go home, either.”

Drew’s expression hardened. “That’s right. Some of them came here and married our women.”

“It wasn’t like that with Jenna Leigh, Drew. Clay—Colonel Madison—is a fine man even if he is part of the martial law in Galveston.” Whit’s expression grew pained as he said, “I didn’t fight in the war. I couldn’t seem to choose one side over the other like some fellas did. I figured I wouldn’t make it my war.”

Drew responded stiffly, “I had no trouble choosing the color of the uniform I wore.”