Lone Star Loving (34 page)

More than sick over what she had done—and more than devastated over what she had allowed Hawk to think she and Ian had done that very afternoon!—Charity allowed her tears to fall freely. She cared not that others in the swank restaurant saw her. She cared not what Ian Blyer thought, either.

She cried for Hawk . . . and the ashes of their starcrossed love.

“Is this any way to celebrate our good fortune and our upcoming years of connubial bliss?” Ian chided for about the tenth time and took another chug from a stemmed glass. “Drink your champagne, dearest.”

“Go to hell, Ian Blyer.”

Through the cloud of her tears, she spied a couple of men approach their table. Deputies, she thought dully, catching sight of silver stars pinned to their chests. Wait. Wasn't that Jay Rogers behind them?

Both deputies drew their revolvers, pointing them at the back of Ian's head. What was going on? Had they somehow been found out? Oh, Lord, they were going to be arrested for perjury.

The older lawman spoke. “Ian Blyer, put your hands up.”

Ian's eyes rounded like saucers; instinctively, he raised his arms. In a flurry of motions, the lawmen clamped handcuffs on his wrists and yanked him to his feet.

“I beg your pardon,” Ian blustered. “Do you know who you are accosting? I am Senator Campbell Blyer's son! I'll have your badges for this!”

They hustled him out of the restaurant. Charity sat puzzled. Why hadn't they arrested her, too?

Jay Rogers grabbed a chair and turned it around to straddle the seat. Parking an elbow on the table, he said, “Congratulations on your freedom.”

“I don't want to talk to you,” she said.

“Can't say I blame you, but . . . What do you think about Rafael Delgado of Chihuahua appearing in court this afternoon?”

The Eagle!

“My father—has he returned, too?” Rogers nodded, and Charity gave a large sigh of relief. “Wh-what happened with Senor Delgado?”

“Apparently he hadn't been of a mind to help, but something honorable in his nature prevailed. He followed Senator McLoughlin and Doctor Washburn to the train depot in El Paso. He—”

“Mr. Rogers, what happened in the courtroom?”

“He swore to your innocence in the Shafter silver-smuggling scandal.”

“Hawk. Hawk was right all along,” she whispered, mostly to herself.
My God! I hurt Hawk for nothing. Nothing!

“The big question is, what do you think about your husband's arrest?”

“Few things could please me more.”

Rogers picked up the champagne bottle, pouring himself a glass. “The paper's circulation will go through the roof tomorrow.” He winked, held up his glass in a toast, and took a congratulatory sip. “You've sold a lot of newspapers for us, ma'am. Shall we drink to it?”

She wasn't interested. She yearned to race to Hawk. But curiosity was a force to be reckoned with. One quick question, and she would be on her way. “Why was Ian Blyer arrested?”

“His Mexican cohort made a big mistake, riding Senator Blyer's mount to the courthouse. The sheriff recognized the stallion immediately. Didn't take much for Rufino Saldino to confess to being an accomplice to the murder of Campbell Blyer. A few more facts came out, too. He admitting lying about your wedding.

“It turns out, Blyer was the mastermind behind the smuggling. Got his father mixed up in it, too. Blyer the younger set you up from the beginning.”

She laughed in bitter irony.

“How
do
you feel about all this?” Rogers went for his notepad.

She jumped to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor in her haste. “I feel it's high time for me to find David Fierce Hawk.”

She had a lot of explaining to do. A lot of begging for his forgiveness. Undoubtedly he'd never understand her reasons. But he needed to know the truth.

 

 

Charity hurried through the streets, reaching the Menger as twilight fell. Her footfalls echoed through the lobby and up the staircase as she ran toward Hawk's suite. Ted, a portmanteau under one arm, was whistling “The Eyes of Texas” while unlocking the entrance.

“Where is Mr. Hawk?” she demanded, out of breath.

“Gone. He checked out about three this afternoon. Rode out on that fine stallion of his, Fire-storm.”

“Where did he go?”

“Said something about the Indian Territory.”

Charity sighed in frustration. She couldn't–just couldn't!—let Hawk go away without seeing him. But what could she do? A carriage would never catch him; he had a three-hour head start. She had to get the fastest horse the livery stable had available.

But it was dark outside.

I can't ride off into the night.
She damned sure could! For Hawk, she would do anything. Anything!

Taking a quick look at her feminine attire, and knowing no riding clothes were in her room, she studied young Ted.
Hmm.

“Ted, take off your clothes. ”

A smile of astonishment burst upon his freckled face. “Why, Miss Margaret, you've answered my dreams.”

“Dammit, I'm Charity! Now give me your clothes!”

Garbed in Ted's shirt and britches, Charity purchased a surefooted gelding from the livery stable and rode hell-bent out of San Antonio. The dark of night didn't frighten her–for once in her life. She was scared witless that she wouldn't be able to catch Hawk.

Despite her prowess as a horsewoman, her trail held no promise of her beloved. Not that night. Not as dawn approached. When the lathered gelding refused to go further, she rested the mount beside a gurgling creek, then took the saddle blanket and gave Firestorm II–as she had dubbed the gelding–a rubdown.

Herself exhausted, she sank to the ground, resting her back against a cottonwood's trunk. She gave way to tears. She couldn't catch Hawk. He was lost to her. Lost to her! Her past mistakes would haunt her all the rest of her days.

He might never know that it was her love that had spurred her to betrayal.

This was a price worse than hanging.

Firestorm II plodded over to nuzzle her shoulder. His tired eyes seemed to ask, “Where do we go from here, mistress?”

“I have no idea,” she answered.

Charity made the slow return to San Antonio. She learned that her mother and sister were consoling her Uncle Adolf, over the arrest of Antoinette. She also learned that Hawk hadn't turned back. No one had seen or heard from him.

“I'm sorry,” her papa said.

The Menger reunion of father and daughter was brimming with sweet sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered, hugging him. “Without you and Hawk, not to mention Sam, my name wouldn't have been cleared.”

Papa kissed her forehead. “I'd do anything for my baby.”

“Have I ruined your career, Papa?”

“Absolutely not. What the Blyers did to us was pure evil. Folks have been rallying around. They're on our side.”

“Thank God.” Charity leaned against her father. “Hawk doesn't know about all the developments. Papa—If you see him in Washington, will you tell him the truth?”

“No, ma'am. That's for you to impart. Personally.”

He was right, of course. “I tried to. I was too late.”

Now it was too late for everything. By not putting her fate in Hawk's hands, she was dying a thousand deaths. Each more painful than the one before.

“May we come in?” Eleanor asked as she wheeled Maisie into the suite's sitting room.

Somehow Charity managed to receive them with a light heart. “Maiz, Eleanor, it's good to see you.”

“Ye oughtn't t' be pleased to see me, ye whelp. I've a good mind t' take me cane t' ye!”

Eleanor skirted around the wheelchair and took Charity's cold hand. “Did your father tell you about the letter?”

“What letter?”

Reaching into her pocket, Eleanor extracted an envelope. “It's from Maria Sara. The landlord discovered it yesterday, when he was tidying up the place. Would you like for me to read it to you?”

“No. Just . . . just tell me what it says.”

“She swore that you had no knowledge of Gonzáles's operation. She thanked you for your loyalty and friendship. She apologized for hurting you.” Eleanor dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. “The poor thing said you were the only true friend she ever had.”

Sinking into a chair, Charity squeezed her eyes closed. “She really was my friend.”

“Yes.”

The lump in her throat grew to hellish proportions. When she was finally able to speak, Charity glanced at Eleanor, then Maisie, then her papa. “I wish
amiga mia
could have been able to love Jaime.”

“She didn't claim to be perfect.” Her papa handed Charity a snifter of cognac. “Drink,” he ordered. “You could use your mama's remedy right now.”

“No, I deserve to suffer without any sedative.” She shook her head. “Oh, Lord, I have made so many mistakes.”

“Not a soul on this earth is perfect, lass.” Maisie reached to tap her with the cane. “And I'm feeling awful sorry for ye. I know ye loved the lad.”

“Love, Maiz. Love, not loved.”

“How can I help you, Charity?” Eleanor asked.

“Actually, there is something.”

She took a deep breath, deciding she would get away, travel to Spain, to Olga. There, she would try to put her life in order.
It'll never be in order, not without Hawk. He is what you need. Wherever he goes, you should be following.

Wearily, she turned to Eleanor. “Do you know if the Narramore Line has a ship sailing for Europe anytime soon?”

“Ye won't be going nowhere without me!”

 

The steamship
Fallen Angel,
flagship of the Narramore Line, weighed anchor in Galveston on Christmas day. Its foghorn gave a mighty and forlorn bellow that rolled mournfully across the gray morning. Charity, alone on the swaying deck, watched land fade into the horizon. Clutching the lapels of her cloak to her chin, she shivered with despair.

She had, before leaving San Antonio, posted a letter to him, sending it in care of the Indian Agency on the Osage reservation. Naturally there hadn't been any reply, and she expected there would be none.

“Merry Christmas, Miss McLoughlin.”

She turned to the captain. Eleanor's son. She and Norman had two sons, Charity recalled. This one was Jeff Narramore, the younger one; Eleanor had called Jeff Davis Narramore the less handsome of the two. He had the look of the sea to him. He was tanned of face, lean of physique, confident of self. The breeze ruffled his dark brown hair, brought out the red of his mother's side of the family. Curiosity called out,
if this is the less handsome of the two, what does Beau Narramore look like?

Not that Charity really cared. No man but Hawk was for her.

Jeff Narramore, nonetheless, had done his best to cheer her since she'd come aboard the previous evening. “Miss McLoughlin, I wondered if you might join me and my executive officers for a holiday breakfast. Your great-grandmother is in the dining room already. She's having an eggnog.”

Maisie. She had been unusually tame this morning. Suspiciously so. And Maisie wasn't one to drink eggnog.

Not wishing to give Jeff Narramore any encouragement, Charity replied, “Thank you, but no thank you. I'd rather stay topside for a while.”

“Oh, no. I'll have none of that. What I say goes on the
Fallen Angel.”

He clasped her elbow and—there was no other way to describe it!—hustled her down the deck. Just before they reached the companionway leading to the executive dining hall, an arm reached out to grasp her from behind a bulkhead.

Fast as lightning, handcuffs were clamped around her wrists.
Handcuffs!
Her gaze traveled to the right. And she caught sight of Hawk.

Her heart soared!

Hawk!

Hawk . . . wearing the same sort of outfit that he'd worn on the night he abducted her in Laredo. Stetson and buckskins.

“Thank you, captain,” he said, not looking at her.

“Do all your kidnappings require an accomplice?” she asked, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Well, you're quite a handful, little hellcat.”

“Oh, Hawk, I have so much to explain to you. About Ian—”

“Don't spoil our reunion by bringing up that bastard.”

Her gaze fell upon the sensuous curve of Hawk's lips. “All right.”

“Good.” Hawk nodded at Jeff Narramore, then fixed a stern look on Charity. “Two questions. Are you going to follow me willingly? Or do I need to risk both our necks by hauling you down those stairs?”

She surveyed him boldly. “You aren't planning to keelhaul me, are you?”

“That does it.” As if she were a sack of flour, Hawk picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “I'll teach you to mess with me.”

Jeff Narramore chuckled.

Once more she had been set against. But this time she was all for the treachery.

Laughing as Hawk negotiated the rocking steps, her hair swinging this way and that, she placed kiss after kiss on his arm. Once they reached the lower deck, she nipped his shoulder playfully.

“Hellcat.”

“Savage.” He set her to her feet, and she gazed up into his warm brown eyes. Raising her wrists, she said, “Unlock me. I'll do whatever you want.”

“No way. Save your feminine wiles. Until later.” He winked. “For now, I'm not taking any chances.” Craning his neck toward Narramore, he said, “Lead the way, captain.”

They followed Jeff Narramore into the dining area. It was decorated in holly and Christmas bells. Maisie and her wheelchair were parked next to a makeshift altar. Altar? Charity's eyes widened. Across Maisie's lap was a
shotgun
.

“What is going on? How long have you two been in collusion—
this
time?”

“Don't ye be making no never-mind. Ye won't be getting away, lass.” Maisie patted the gun stock. “If ye don't behave, I'll be peppering your arse.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“She would, angel. What's a shotgun wedding without a shotgun?”

“Sh-shotgun wedding?”

Hawk marched his captive forward. Jeff Narramore cut around them, going for a Bible. Several Indians filed in, as did a couple of the Four Aces's cowboys. And Charity caught sight of Sam Washburn, too. What on earth were they doing here?

The captain pointed to the area immediately in front of him. “Step right up.”

Good gravy. This really was a wedding. Her wedding. Hawk's wedding. Their wedding! Once she wouldn't have been forced into anything. Once. Charity was now eager to comply.

As the captain read the solemn vows, she answered firmly in the affirmative.

“Will you, David Fierce Hawks take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“It depends.”

Oh, no! This was undoubtedly some sort of farce meant to pay her back for her misdeeds.

“It depends on whether she makes a few extra vows.” Hawk leaned to plant a kiss on her cheek. “She must promise that she'll never lie to me again. And if she does, I have the right to beat her senseless, tie her to a stake, and lift her scalp.”

“I will. And you'd better not!”

“Not good enough.”

“Okay. You may scalp me if I ever concoct anything again.”

“That's better.” He raised her bound wrists to brush his lips across her hand. “Because I don't want
ever again
to know the hell of the past few days.” The captain cleared his throat. “David Fierce Hawk, will you love, honor, and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?”

Instead of another kiss, he swatted her backside. “Provided she doesn't give me any trouble about forming a Wild West show.”

“Wild West show?” she repeated incredulously. “We can't do that. We've got to turn back. The Osage—Washington—”

“It's the Wild West show or nothing.”

Maisie waved her cane. “Fierce Hawk, don't ye be forgetting about me. Ye promised I could make change at the ticket window.”

Charity rolled her eyes. Stacking bills and making change—probably involving a bit of shortchanging—would make Maisie happy as a pig in a trough. Maisie, though, was not the issue here.

“Hawk wouldn't be happy,” Charity said. “His destiny is to help his people. It's not practical, the Wild West show. He'd be miserable in no time.”

“I cannot bring peace to others if I do not have peace myself. Charity is my peace. She is my people.” Hawk's strong, clear voice resonated within her. “Captain, she must also vow never to second-guess what I want out of life.”

Charity looked deeply into his eyes. Not long ago he'd asked her to have faith in herself, in him. In
them
.

If he said he wanted to form the show, then that's what he wanted!

“Will I be needin' ta lift this shotgun, lass?”

“Don't you dare aim that thing at me, Maiz.” Charity sighed. “Captain Narramore, there's no baby. There's no reason for a shotgun wedding.”

“She's absolutely certain there's no baby?” Hawk asked. “Captain, perhaps you should remind the bride of a certain recent night she spent in my arms . . .”

“I don't need any reminders.” She gazed up into Hawk's eyes. “And I'm not certain there isn't a baby. I hope there is.”

“Ah, I may be seeing my great-great-grandbairns yet.”

“Maiz, stay out of this. Hawk, we can't drag a baby around while we put on some Wild West show.”

“Don't start getting sensible on me, Charity.”

Once more Narramore cleared his throat and lifted the Bible. “Hawk, shall I repeat my question?”

“No need for that. By
Wah'Kon
-
Tah
and the Almighty, I will love, honor, and cherish Charity McLoughlin—forever and ever and ever.”

 

 

“Good morning, Husband.”

“Good morning, Wife.”

They awoke, their bodies still joined. Amidst the tangled sheets of their marriage bed—in quarters borrowed from the captain—Charity nestled against Hawk's shoulder. She wore his totem. In the end it had brought her good luck.

Her lips opened on her husband's warm flesh, sweeping upward to his throat. His ankle wrapped around the back of her knee, bringing her even closer to him, if that was possible, that they could get any closer in body and spirit.

“Thank you,” she murmured, repeating the words she had said the previous night, in the privacy of the luxurious cabin. “Thank you for believing in me. Tell me again how all this happened.”