Lone Star Loving (18 page)

“Mutti, you're shattering all my illusions,” she chided gently. “I'm going to think you want to be more of a friend than a mother.”

“I'd like to be both.”

“I'd like that, too.”

Mother and daughter embraced once more. Afterward, Charity excused herself to take the nap she had started for earlier. As she took a step to leave, Lisette captured her hand. “I can't help but wonder why you haven't asked about your father.”

A feeling of dread and apprehension flooded through her. “You're right, Mutti. I didn't.”

“I think you should know . . . He is–”

“Has something happened to him?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Suddenly Charity felt faint. “Wh-what? What happened?”

Lisette laced her fingers. She swallowed. She cleared her throat. Nervously, she fingered the diamond pendant that hung around her neck. At last she replied, “Your father is in jail.”

Crickets chirped over the slight breeze rattling the leaves; pastured cattle lowed on the hill. Ribbons of lantern light beckoned from the stable's tack room. As he walked into the long brick building, Hawk heard the comforting sound of horses neighing and snorting. Since he had not had the greatest of days, an after-supper ride on Firestorm might do him good.

What would be better? If Charity were to get up from the dinner table and follow him out here. He ached for a frank, unheated discussion with her. Earlier that day, when she'd asked about his childhood, he figured his way had been paved.

In the formal dining area he had decided she needed someone to talk with. Conversation had not been easy at the table. Tension between Charity and the Old One had loomed like thunderclouds and lightning on the horizon.

It wasn't Charity who joined him in the tack room.

“Left supper kinda abruptly, dinna ye?”

Aggravated that Charity's kinswoman had followed him out in place of his beloved, he frowned at Maisie McLoughlin. “I was looking for a bit of and peace and quiet.”

“The meal
was
kinda spirited.”

“Why wouldn't the family be upset? It's not often a United States senator finds himself in an Austin jail for defending his daughter's honor.”

“What is Fierce Hawk gonna do about her honor? Now that ye've had yer way with her.” A sly grin stole across Maisie's wrinkled lips. “Are ye forgetting yer promise to wed her?”

“Mind your own business.”

“She is my business, ye scalawag.”

“In the matter of whom Charity accepts as a husband, it's no one's concern but hers. And her intended.”

“Could be. Keep something in mind, though. Her reputation. It suffered for running off with Ian Blyer. People like t' be talking about such as that, but talk has a way of dying down, in time. Some things are forever. No decent man will be having her, now that ye've lanced her maidenhead.”

Hawk shuffled, uncomfortable. “Ma'am, Charity soon meets the sheriff to turn herself in for a hanging offense. And all you can think about is marrying her off?”

“Will ye be having her hang with yer bairn in her belly?”

Shoulders stiffening, Hawk queried, “What do you mean by that? She's not with child.”

“How do ye know for sure?”

He didn't. But he refused to discuss the matter further, unless it was with Charity herself. “She's not going to hang. I won't let her.”

“Are ye going to be marrying her before or after the trial?”

The meddling old tomahawk would give no mercy, would she? “If she'll have me, I'll marry her. But I'll do the asking at the proper time, do you understand?”

Maisie nodded. “Just don't be taking too long aboot it. I willna be having a big stomach poking at the waist of the wedding gown.”

The Old One turned and marched out of the tack room, out of the stable that was suddenly to quiet for his liking. Hawk strode toward the door, meaning to find and confront Charity in the great house, but he stopped short with a sigh and, lifting an arm above his head, rested his forehead against the door facing. Did Charity carry their child? Would she know already?

While the idea appealed to him, a child between them, Hawk knew that such was the last thing Charity needed right now.

“I've got to talk with her,” he muttered under his breath.

He hurried back to the house. A snippet of conversation over the dinner table had informed him that Charity's room was upstairs in the east wing. The children's wing, Lisette had called it. No one but Charity would be sleeping in that side of the house.

But was she abed yet? Hawk breathed in relief when he looked up at the second floor and saw a light shining from one window. Hiding his boots behind a rosebush, he shinnied up the vines that grew on the wall behind it, then levered over the windowsill.

Curled up in a chair, wearing a wrapper and bed slippers, Charity started when he said, “It's me.”

Wilting back in the cushions, she shivered and grasped the single braid that lay over one shoulder. “You scared me. Crazy as it seems, I thought it might be Sheriff Untermann here to arrest me.”

“I told you at supper–I talked with him this afternoon.” Deciding it would be best not to discuss all that had happened in Fredericksburg, Hawk crossed the Oriental rug, stopping at her feet. “He's agreed to let you come in of your own free will, once your father is back.”

“I guess I'm just jumpy.” A look of disappointment emptied the spirit from her eyes. “I noticed at dinner . . . You cut your hair.”

“Needed to be done. For professional purposes.” Goading her, he asked, “Like it?”

“Not particularly. You don't look very Indian anymore.”

“Then I have counted coup,” he teased. “I look white.”

“You always did. I just wanted to see the savage in you.”

“You saw me the way I wanted to be seen.”

His gaze caught on a show of ankle. Her eyes traveled up to him. The look they exchanged was one reserved for lovers who had experienced total rapture and wanted it again. He swallowed, feeling his blood simmering with desire. He had lived twenty-seven years without making love to Charity, but now that he knew the infinite satisfaction of her, he felt as if he couldn't live another moment without being inside that wet, hot place of hers.

She broke the visual contact. “You'd better leave, Hawk.”

“In time.”

“No.
Now.”

“Can we call a truce?” he asked. “Because, believe me, I won't want any more arguing between us.”

She sighed. “I'm not up to it, either.”

It was then that Hawk noticed a decanter of spirits on the table beside her chair. A near-empty snifter, plus a clean one, sat next to the crystal bottle. “You don't have to drink. I said I'll get you out of this mess. And I will.”

“I know.” Tentative trust shone in her eyes, yet it was overshadowed by worry. And a fist pressed against her belly. “It's just that . . . well, everything is so complicated.”

Tell me about it
. Hawk went for a Queen Anne chair, scooted it close to Charity, and sat down. He leaned forward and took her hand. Thankfully she didn't pull it back. “Angel, there's something I need to ask you.”

“Does it have something to do with the sheriff?” At his shake of head, she asked, “Does it have anything to do with the change of venue you were going to ask for? From Laredo to here?”

“No. I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “We, uh.” Again, he cleared his throat. His fingers tightened on hers. “Have you had any indications that you might be carrying our child?”

“No.” Her nails pressed into the heel of his palm. “Thank God, no.”

Hawk should have been pleased. But her expression of relief got to him. Did she despise him to the extent that bearing his child was abhorrent?
Get serious. She's being exceedingly wise.

“Don't look so worried,” she said. “I got my monthly this afternoon.”

“Oh.”

Hawk straightened. Instinctively, perhaps shamefully, he sniffed the air. It had a slight tinge to it, of woman and of taboo. In his village, the women exiled themselves to separate lodges during their unclean time. There were few things more forbidden than laying with such a woman. Yet . . . Hawk found himself oddly enticed by the thought of making love with Charity right now.

Attempting to master his wits, he spoke on more pressing matters. “How about pouring me a shot of that brandy?”

She nodded, then did as bade. He took a sip of the good stuff. French, he decided. Cognac. At least ten years old. The McLoughlins did have excellent taste in spirits. As an Osage, Hawk had never been much of a drinker; his people shunned firewater for the most part. In Washington, though, he had imbibed to a certain degree, and had found that his taste buds were finely tuned.

Leaning the chair on its two back legs, warmed by the liquor that swirled through his veins, he looked at Charity.
Wah'Kon-Tah
, she was beautiful. His eyes seized upon the thrust of her breasts, high and proud, that pushed at the silk wrapper. No babe would go hungry at her font. His baby-maker, curled into trousers grown suddenly tight, protested the confines.

Charity was looking him up and down. “Are you wanting to make love to me, Hawk?”

“Yes.”

She placed her slipper-shod feet on the rug; her fingers laced on her lap. “I thought we agreed . . . And you promised to . . .”

“Right.”

“Anyway, my stomach is in knots from the pain.”

Her bald admission felled his lascivious thoughts. No woman had ever spoken so frankly to Hawk, yet he was pleased that she felt so comfortable with him, even if their past few days together had been less than ideal.

He couldn't help but ask, “Does it hurt badly?”

“I feel as if a fist is yanking and twisting in my stomach. It's clawing the blood out of me.”

“What a pity.” Concerned, he placed his palm on her knee. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I think so. Let's have another drink. Liquor seems to help my malady.”

He was only too happy to oblige. They both took sips of the cognac, though it was plain to see that she didn't relish hers with the intensity that he did his. She screwed up her mouth and set the snifter aside. He took another swallow, savoring the rich taste. “I think we should get married,” he blurted, then mentally kicked himself. With no child between them, what was the purpose?

“Married?” Her eyes rounded. “Whatever for?”

Because we want to
. “It's the right thing to do.”

Wariness painted her oval features. “Has Maiz been talking to you?”

“She has.”

Those features fell. “I'm not interested in marriage.”

“Were you ever? Say, before the Old One showed up in Uvalde.”

“No.”

“What
were
you interested in?” he asked, disheartened.

“Europe. And our being together in that mad idea of mine, the Wild West show.” Charity surged from the overstuffed chair. The hem of her wrapper swaying, her back to Hawk, she glided over to the tester bed. One hand wrapping around a post, she glanced upward. “What are you interested in?”

“Your freedom.”
And the Wild West show. provided you–What about Austin?
“Once you're free of the charges against you, we can decide whether we are right for each other.”

She whirled around. The motion exposed the rise of one dusky-tipped breast. “We aren't right for each other. Never were, never will be.”

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” He abandoned the straight chair to stride over to her. “You were promised to me, you know.”

“I wasn't. My mother said she didn't promise anything. You asked. But she didn't promise.”

“Is it that you don't want to tie yourself to an Indian, Charity?”

“You should know better than that, Fierce Hawk of the Osage. Especially after Uvalde.”

“What if what happened in Uvalde hadn't happened?”

She frowned. “I thought we were going to keep our relationship strictly business, yet you've invaded my bedroom and you're asking leading questions.”

“Can't help myself.”

A dry laugh passed her throat. “I guess I can't keep my own word, either.”

“Then answer me. What about your feelings for me?”

“I told you I'd fantasized about you, almost all my life. I waited years for you to rescue me from myself.”

“I still could.”

“Get me free, then we'll talk about it.”

She was dismissing him, wasn't she? He had to make certain. “Tell me something. Would you be willing to live on a reservation?”

“You said you aren't going back to the territory.”

“I won't. I was speaking speculatively.” To his way of thinking she needed to understand who he was and where he'd come from. “Would you be willing to dirty your hands with the chores of an Indian woman? Would you, a white woman who knows the splendors of this place, be willing to live in a mud lodge?”

“I can't cook. I don't clean. And I certainly don't like sleeping on the ground.”

“You wouldn't have to do any of that. But I would expect children. Lots of them.”

She paled. “We . . . we're talking about the future, when the present isn't settled.”

“Keep talking like that,” he said, forcing lightness into his tone, “and I'll think you don't have faith in my abilities as a defense attorney.”

“You ask too much.” Forced coolness chilled her statements. “I keep seeing that hotel lobby in Uvalde. And how you and Maiz were in collusion. Now you're talking about a passel of children. You certainly have high regard for your powers of persuasion.”

“I do. Now–answer me. Do you or do you not want children?”

“If God grants me the time on this earth, I want many children. But not yours.”

Hawk would change her mind. Of this he had no doubt. But he figured a change of subject was in order. “This afternoon you wanted to know about my childhood.” He raised a brow. “Still interested?”

She squeezed her arms under her breasts, then sighed. “Yes.”

Good. Scooting around her, Hawk took a couple of steps to the side of her bed. He unbuttoned and shrugged out of his shirt, then eased onto the bedcovers. One hand going to brace his neck, he looked at her. She stood at his side, her long braid brought forward over one shoulder and falling to her waist.