Hawk's Prize (7 page)

Quattuor mundom do. . . .
To four I give the world.

Simon stared at the ring incredulously. It couldn’t be! Another Hawk sibling could not possibly have come back to haunt him!

Simon glanced again at the man in the bed. He was big and dark-haired, not unlike Whit Hawk, but Simon saw no family resemblance. He was certain of only one thing. Fate had provided him the opportunity to dispense with another possible Hawk both swiftly and quietly, and he did not intend to lose it. He’d worry about ascertaining the fellow’s identity later.

Knowing that the unconscious man would provide little resistance, Simon picked up the loose pillow lying on the bed. There would be no marks on the body when they discovered him dead. Everyone would think he had simply died in his sleep, and a potential problem would be eliminated.

Simon lowered the pillow over the helpless man’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Simon straightened abruptly at the sharply voiced question. With the pillow still in his hands, he turned to see Tricia Shepherd standing in the doorway. He remained silent as she walked toward him and demanded again, “What are you doing?”

Simon said with a smoothness that belied the pounding of his heart, “I knocked, but no one answered. Angie told me that a customer had collapsed from a fever downstairs earlier today, and that you were taking care of him. I came in to see if I could help. He seemed uncomfortable, and I was attempting to slide another pillow underneath his head.”

“He doesn’t need another pillow.” Her expression tight, Tricia added, “And he doesn’t need anyone but Dr. Wesley and me to take care of him.”

“My dear . . .” Simon’s smile was benevolent. “I was only trying to help.”

Tricia’s replied stiffly, “I should thank you, then . . . before I ask you to leave.”

“But—”

“Please leave.”

Simon took a backward step. “Of course, my dear. However, Angie mentioned that this fellow was formerly a Confederate soldier. My sympathies are with all the poor fellows who served the Confederacy so bravely. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need help in any way.”

“Yes, of course. Good-bye.”

Ignoring the tight pursing of Tricia lips, Simon drew the door closed behind him and strode swiftly down the hallway toward the rear exit of the house. He did not intend to allow the arrival of another possible Hawk to threaten his plans. He’d find out who this man was, and when he did . . .

Not bothering to finish that thought, Simon drew the door open and moved quickly down the outside stairs.

Drew awoke slowly. He looked around him, at the morning light shining through the elaborately draped window and at the gaudily decorated room. He ached all over, his leg was throbbing, and he was so disoriented he could not quite figure out where he was.

A sound at his bedside turned him toward the beautiful blond woman asleep in a chair beside his bed. Her perfect profile was angled toward him, a graceful outline against the gaudy upholstery. Her complexion, although pale, was creamy and flawless; her features were small, fine, and motionless in sleep, and her lips were parted, as if in silent invitation.

Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right. I won’t desert you.

The angel . . .

No, that was wrong.

His mind clearing, Drew remembered. She looked like an angel and she talked like an angel . . . but she wasn’t an angel.

The woman stirred, then came to full wakefulness with a start. Sea-green eyes that had been burned into his memory met his as she said, “Oh, you’re awake.” She blinked and pushed a strand of fair hair from her cheek, scrutinizing him more intently. She touched her palm to his forehead and said, “You’re definitely cooler. I’m glad . . . I mean, I think Dr. Wesley will be pleased.”

“Dr. Wesley?”

“You don’t remember him?” Appearing to think better of that question, she said, “He’s the man who cleaned out the infected wound in your leg, applied the poultice, and left the medicine you’ve been taking all night.”

“All night . . .”

He searched her expression confusedly, and she glanced away. Doing his best to ignore the renewed throbbing in his leg, Drew said with a trace of impatience, “I know where I am, and I know why I came here. What I don’t know is how I got into this room.”

“You collapsed downstairs yesterday. You had a fever, and Chantalle had you brought up here so the doctor could look at you.”

“Chantalle . . . the red-haired madam.”

The angel’s lips twitched. “Yes, Chantalle—the woman who probably saved your life.”

His teeth clenching tight against the raw ache in his leg, Drew said gruffly, “I’m harder than that to kill.”

He stared at the young woman in the flowing blue dressing gown. His gaze trailed slowly over her petite frame, assessing every inch, indulging himself and allowing the sight of her to dull his pain. An area of his body far distant from his brain stirred predictably, and he knew that if he didn’t feel like hell, she wouldn’t be standing beside the bed. She’d be in it . . . with him, and he’d be—

Drew took a sharp breath as pain stabbed sharply.

The young woman reacted by saying sympathetically, “Dr. Wesley will be here soon.”

Drew blinked when the pain stabbed again, and the young woman said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any more of the powder that the doctor left for you. I used it all up last night, but he’ll probably bring more. The powder will continue fighting the infection, and I can ask him for something to lessen your pain if you wish. I don’t know what he’ll prescribe, but a few drops of laudanum should do.”

“Laudanum . . .” He had been witness to the easy administration of laudanum to many of his fellow soldiers while he was hospitalized. Remembering clearly that he had also seen many of them become addicted to the drug, he said flatly, “I don’t need it.”

“The use of laudanum is entirely safe if carefully supervised.”

“Is it?” Drew’s annoyance increased along with his pain as he snapped, “I know better.”

“I beg your pardon . . . so do I.” The young woman’s voice lost its patronizing quality. “I saw laudanum used to great advantage when I volunteered my services in army hospitals in New York and I—”

“In New York.” Drew went cold. “You’re talking about
Yankee
army hospitals—”

“That’s right.”

“Where you nursed wounded
enemy
soldiers.”

Momentarily taken aback, Tricia replied, “They weren’t my enemies. Besides, the war is over.”

“Not for me, it isn’t.”

“That’s a fool’s response.”

“No, that’s a Confederate’s response.”

“There is no Confederacy.”

Drew’s jaw locked tight. He needed to leave.

He was about to throw the coverlet off when memory flashed, and he said, “I asked you to get me my pants.”

“I told you, they’re being laundered.”

“I said—”

A sound at the door interrupted his response, and Drew looked up to see a slight, middle-aged man carrying a black bag.

Tricia felt her heart sink. She had not intended her first conversation with the man in the bed to escalate into anger, but her reaction had been spontaneous. In hindsight, she realized that he must be bitter at the loss of a cause for which he had been wounded and had doubtless seen friends die. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She supposed she needed to be more patient.

Tricia looked at the big fellow, who glanced back at her contemptuously, and her anger flared anew.

Patience had never been one of her strengths.

Dr. Wesley walked to his patient’s bedside and said, “My name is Dr. Wesley, and if I don’t miss my guess, your temperature is just about normal this morning.” Turning back to glance at her, he continued, “It looks like you made a real difference last night, Tricia.”

The sick man’s eyes jerked briefly toward her as Dr. Wesley touched his forehead and nodded. He appeared to listen intently as the doctor worked at his bedside. “You know my name,” Dr. Wesley went on, “but I don’t know yours.”

“Drew.” There was a pause. “Drew . . . Collins.”

“Coming home from the war, are you, Drew?”

A nod was the response.

“Well, if I’m to judge by the change in your condition this morning, I’d say you can be on your way in a week or more.”

“A week!” Drew Collins shook his head. “I’m leaving here today.”

Dr. Wesley looked down at him sharply. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Dr. Wesley hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess you could try.”

The big man’s gaze darkened. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you wouldn’t get far. Whether you realize it or not, that leg is as weak as a kitten’s right now. It wouldn’t support you any farther than the stairs.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Another ‘whether you know it or not’ is that the infection
you’ve been ignoring has started to spread, which accounts for your fever. You’re just lucky this young lady decided to make you her patient last night, or you might not be in the shape you’re in this morning. The infection has the upper hand right now. I told Tricia last night that if it didn’t subside, you could lose your leg, and that situation hasn’t changed.”

Drew Collins’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly as he replied, “Yes, it has.”

“My dear fellow—”

Interrupting the doctor without hesitation, Drew said, “Look, Doc, I appreciate all you did for me, but I can take it from here. And like I said, I’m leaving today.”

“Fine.” The room was uncomfortably silent as Dr. Wesley worked over the wound. Abruptly smiling, the graying doctor said, “Well, I’ve removed the poultice and changed the bandage on your leg, and that’s about all I can do for you right now. I’ll leave some packets of medicine for you to take. Just don’t expect too much from me the next time you collapse, wherever that is.”

Tricia stared at Dr. Wesley openmouthed for long seconds before saying, “You can’t mean that, Doctor.” Ignoring the sick man’s glance, she continued, “You can’t be agreeing to allow this man to leave yet. You know how badly infected his leg is.”

“I don’t see as how I can stop him if that’s what he intends to do. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, Tricia. I learned the truth in that adage a long time ago. Some people have to learn the hard way. Like I said, the packets are on the
nightstand, and I’m on my way to another patient.” Hesitating at Tricia’s stunned expression, Dr. Wesley said more softly, “You know where to find me if you need me.”

The door had barely closed behind Dr. Wesley when a deep voice from the bed behind her ordered, “Bring me my pants.”

Her name was Tricia.

Drew watched as the beautiful blond woman walked back into his room with her jaw tight. As strange as it seemed, she hadn’t introduced herself to him or even asked his name. In fact, she had said very little to him after Dr. Wesley left. He knew she was angry, but he wasn’t sure of the reason.

Admittedly, his own reaction to her was somewhat confused. She had obviously spent a considerable part of the night tending to his wound, but she had done the same for Yankee soldiers during the war. The image of the consolation she had afforded men who might have taken the lives of his friends infuriated him. Yet the sight of her evoked a yearning inside him that gained strength with every moment.

Drew attempted to ignore the throbbing in his leg as Tricia placed his laundered pants on the bed beside him and stood there without saying a word. He realized that she didn’t intend to move in order to allow him privacy in dressing.

Drew was almost amused at his own foolishness. Of course . . . he should have realized. He was in a bordello, wasn’t he? No matter how angelic-looking this
Tricia was, she was not new to the sight of a man in the altogether or in short clothes.

Refusing to admit how much that thought disturbed him, Drew reached for his pants. Whatever the case, he needed to get out of there. Too many Yankees walked the streets of Galveston and perhaps frequented this establishment. Despite the fact that he’d had the presence of mind to lie about his name when asked, he was a wanted man, and he had learned the hard way that Yankees were not fools. They would discover who he was sooner or later.

Aware that Tricia was still staring at him, Drew threw back the coverlet and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. More light-headed than he had expected, he sat there for a few moments, his expression darkening with his mood. Then he stood up to reach for his shirt. He slid his arms into the sleeves with every bone in his body aching, and clumsily fastened the buttons. He stepped into his pants and was perspiring profusely when he finally managed to pull the garment up to his waist. Seeing that Tricia made no attempt to look away, he boldly buttoned his fly as he held her gaze. He noted the flush that colored her face, and he felt a familiar heat unrelated to fever.

Drew attempted to deny his stomach’s churning when he finished pulling on his boots. He ignored the flash of vertigo as he buckled on his gunbelt. He was hot and sweaty, his fingers refusing to cooperate as he tied his neckerchief and then reached for his hat.

Speaking for the first time when he turned toward the door, Tricia said, “You’re making a mistake.”

He wanted to tell her he knew that was true, but not
for the reason she thought. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to leave—not yet. He wanted to admit to her that despite her sympathy for the men who were his enemies, despite whatever reason she had for coming South and putting a price on her beauty, he would have spent his last penny to have her—because he wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.

But reality intruded.

Aware that his physical condition was growing more desperate by the moment, Drew limped toward the door.

He did not turn back as she repeated, “You’re making a mistake.”

Somehow he wished she had said more.

Her throat tight, Tricia watched while Drew attempted to minimize his limp as he walked out into the hallway. The moments just past had shaken her. She had not felt even a touch of embarrassment as she had watched him dress . . . as he had slid his powerful arms into his shirt and buttoned it across his chest with fumbling fingers . . . as he had thrust his long, muscular legs into the Confederate gray of his pants while concealing his pain. She remembered that he had looked intently into her eyes as he had boldly buttoned the closure on his trousers. She recalled the feelings that had sprung to life inside her, unnamed feelings that had raised a flush to her cheeks—feelings that had left her somehow empty and incomplete when he had turned to grasp his gunbelt and secure it around his hips.