Robin Lee Hatcher (13 page)

Nathaniel smiled. “Swearing isn’t necessary. I believe you.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Your proposal doesn’t come as a surprise. I believe your intended has been dropping hints all week long. And if she is willing, I will not withhold my blessing.”

“You do?” Rand hopped up from the sofa. “I can? I mean, you will?” He let out a whoop, unable to stop himself.

The reverend laughed aloud as the women of the house rushed into the parlor. He looked at Ingrid who watched, wide-eyed, from the doorway. “You’d better tell her, Mr. Howard. She looks a little frightened.”

Rand crossed the room in a few strides and took hold of his betrothed’s hands. “The reverend said yes. We’re gettin’ married, just as soon as I got us a house fit to live in. God willin’, that’ll be soon.”

FIFTEEN

Bethany paced from the parlor to the dining room, from the dining room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the parlor again. She stopped at the window and looked at the town. The sun hung low in the sky. Soon it would dip behind the mountains. Hawk’s mountains. The mountains where Rand was building a home for Ingrid. She sighed.

She was happy for Ingrid. Really and truly. She thought it wonderful that her friend had found love and would be married. But she also felt sorry for herself. Envy was not an attractive trait. God called it sin: A sound heart is the life of the flesh: but envy the rottenness of the bones.

Again she exhaled.

She hadn’t seen Hawk since she ran into him — almost literally — at the mercantile the previous week. He hadn’t come to services on Sunday nor had he been back to help with work on the church building.

Why are you staying away?

She flopped onto the settee and picked up the novel she’d been reading. The pages might as well have been blank. Her thoughts returned to Hawk.

What was she to do about him? She loved him, she was sure, but if he didn’t come to town more than once a week, how could she make him love her in return?

She remembered his embrace in the barn at the Circle Blue, and her face flushed. He wouldn’t have kissed her like that if he didn’t care for her.

She tossed the book aside and walked once more to the window. A few lights had begun to appear as evening settled over the town. The sky was darker now. Black clouds, heavy with rain, had arrived with the coming of night. Thunder rolled in the distance.

When would her parents and Ingrid return? They’d gone to pay a pastoral visit on the Mackeys, whose farm was a good distance to the south of Sweetwater. The elderly Mrs. Mackey — Martha Eberlie’s maternal grandmother — was ill and thought to be dying. Bethany’s father had said it might be very late before they returned home. It could be later still if a storm caught them.

Perhaps she should have gone with them. She’d claimed a headache, but the truth was she’d expected Martha and her widowed father to be at the Mackey farm as well. She wasn’t feeling charitable toward either one of them at present. They’d been hateful toward Hawk, and she couldn’t find it in herself to forgive them yet.

“Oh, Mr. Chandler.” She leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass. “Why do you make me feel this way?”

Her shoulders drooped as she turned from the window and lit a lamp. Then, holding it before her, she climbed the stairs.

Her bedroom window was open, and a breeze brought with it the smell of rain. She set the lamp on the table next to her bed and crossed to the window to close it. After drawing the drapes, she shed her dress and undergarments and put on her nightgown. Then she sat on the edge of her bed, loosened her hair, and began brushing it.

And all the while, the same thought repeated in her mind:
Come to see me. I miss you.

Hawk had waited too long before deciding to ride into town. He should have known it would be too late to pay a visit to the Silver-tons by the time he reached Sweetwater. And maybe that was for the best. He had no business trying to court Bethany, no matter the reason, whether it was for real or for revenge.

And it wasn’t for revenge. Not anymore. It had become increasingly difficult for him to believe the girl who’d invited him to church in order to win a wager was the same young lady who’d stood up for him in the mercantile last week. In his heart, he believed the real Bethany was the one in the mercantile, the one who’d touched his arm and, with tears in her eyes, said, “It doesn’t matter what anyone says.”

He slowed his horse as he drew near the Plains Saloon but didn’t stop. He continued down the street until he reached the livery stable. There he dismounted, his gaze on the Silverton home. There were lights burning both downstairs and up. The family must be awake. It wasn’t all that late. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if he called on them at this hour. He left his horse inside the livery and strode toward the preacher’s house. Raindrops began to fall, sparsely at first, then harder. If he didn’t get under cover quick, he would be drenched.

He was past the boardinghouse and nearing the church site when someone grabbed his arm and yanked. As he spun around, a fist crashed into his jaw, knocking him backward. He stumbled, then righted himself. But before he got his bearings, his assailant slammed into him a second time. This time Hawk took a hard hit in the solar plexus. The air whooshed out of him.

Rain fell in sheets now, getting in his eyes, making it hard to see. The earth beneath his feet turned slippery.

As he straightened, he saw the approach of a shadowy figure. He took a swing and connected, heard a grunt of pain, and snarled in satisfaction. Another shadow came at him from his left. A blow to his jaw knocked him backward a second time. His boot slipped in the mud and he fell. His head struck something hard, perhaps a stack of lumber for the church. He rolled to his side, struggling to rise.

“We got a message for you, Chandler. Stay away from the Silverton girl.”

One of the assailants kicked him in the ribs. Another kick and another and another. Fingers grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head up. A fist cracked against his cheek.

The men — he thought there were three of them — backed off. Were they leaving? He rolled onto his stomach, then rose up on all fours, coughing and gasping for air. Just one deep, long breath. That’s all he needed. Just one long —

The toe of a boot caught him in the gut, so hard it lifted him off the ground. Then he slammed to earth again, and everything went blessedly blank.

There was a moment as consciousness returned when Hawk felt nothing except the cold of the rain and the mud on his skin. Then he tried to get up, and pain exploded. In his head. In his chest. In his gut. It shot to the tips of his fingers and toes.

By sheer grit, he rose to his knees, dragged in more air, and got to his feet. Water and mud — or maybe it was blood — ran into his eyes. He couldn’t see anything clearly, but he made out some light that didn’t seem too far away. Instinct pulled him toward it. He held one arm tight against his belly as he dragged one foot, then the other forward.

He didn’t know how long it took to reach the porch of the preacher’s house. Minutes? Hours? Holding on to the railing, he wiped his shirtsleeve across his eyes, trying to clear his vision, before staggering forward and falling against the door. With his right hand, he knocked. Once, then again.

At that point what little strength he had left him, and he slid down the door. Unconsciousness loomed a second time. He lifted his hand as though to knock again, but his arm fell back to his side.

“God, help me,” he whispered before sliding again into the black abyss.

Bethany couldn’t say what drew her downstairs. She thought at first that it was her parents and Ingrid returning, but there was no sign of them. She went to Griselda’s room off the kitchen and listened at the door. The housekeeper snored in a steady, undisturbed rhythm. She smiled. Griselda was the soundest of sleepers, even moreso now that her hearing was getting bad.

She returned to the parlor where she lit a second lamp before pushing the drapes aside to look out at the rainy night. The street was empty. Only a few horses could be seen outside the Plains Saloon. Even the light that spilled through the swinging doors of the drinking establishment failed to reach very far. The blackness seemed complete.

She shivered and pulled her wrapper closer about her. Then she heard something. Not a knock. More of a thump. It seemed to come from the entry.

Her pulse quickened. Was someone in the house? Someone who didn’t belong?

No, of course not. She was allowing her imagination to run wild. No one was in the house except her and Griselda. And Griselda was sound asleep.

She went into the entry hall, lamp in hand. Empty, as she’d been sure it would be. But there could be someone on the porch. Although why they would not knock to announce themselves —

They could be up to no good. She had to know. She had to reassure herself. She held her breath and reached for the doorknob.
Open it and see. Then you can go back to bed.

There was a thud as the door creaked open. With a squeal of surprise, Bethany jumped back. Heart pounding, she held the lamp out in front of her.

And there he was, a man, soaked through to the skin, covered in mud, lying on his side where he’d fallen.

“Sir.” She stepped forward. “Sir, are you all right?”

First she saw the blood.

Next she saw his face.

“Hawk?” She dropped to her knees, set the lamp to one side, and pulled his head into her lap. “What happened?” She wiped mud and blood from his face with the hem of her wrapper. “Oh, Hawk. Please wake up.”

A gust of wind blew through the doorway, bringing rain with it. The water hit her face, tiny shards of glass against her skin. She must get him out of the weather.

She gently lowered his head to the floor. Then, standing, she grabbed him beneath his armpits and pulled. Nothing. He didn’t budge. She grunted as she threw her weight backward. To her surprise, his body followed a few inches. She lost her balance, tried to catch herself, tripped on the hem of her wrapper, and heard it rip as she sat down hard.

“I didn’t know you were so heavy,” she muttered as she got up.

She eyed the distance she needed to cover before she could close the door. About a foot more should do it. She positioned herself at his head but noticed the torn wrapper waited to trip her again. That wouldn’t do. She untied the belt and removed the ruined garment.

It took a few minutes, but at last she managed to drag him far enough inside that she could close the door.

“Hawk?”

Nothing.

She ran to the kitchen and pounded on the housekeeper’s door. “Griselda, wake up. I need you.”

She didn’t wait for the woman before going in search of bandages and ointment, water and soft cloths. It seemed forever before she was back to the entry hall and kneeling beside him. With one of the cloths, she washed the mud from his face and hair. He had cuts and scratches on his cheeks and forehead, and his lower lip was split. The wound that bled the most, however, was on the back of his head. It would need stitching.

She straightened. “Griselda!” Where was that woman?