Robin Lee Hatcher (6 page)

“No reason you should have.” Hawk looked down at his plate. “They passed away quite a few years ago now. Back in Chicago where I grew up. They died in the great fire.”

The woman murmured her sympathies.

“You grew up in Chicago?” Bethany said, surprise in her voice. “I thought you had always lived in Montana.”

He shook his head. “Not always.”

“Hawk and I met on a cattle drive from Texas,” Rand said. “He was fresh from the city and didn’t know a steer from a mule. Me, I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen. So I figured I’d try and make a cowboy out of the greenhorn. Didn’t do too bad of a job, if I say so myself. Been together ever since. Truth is, he couldn’t’ve done it without me.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Why do I have the feeling, Mr. Howard, that your story is somewhat exaggerated?”

“Guess I should know better than to try to pull the wool over a minister’s eyes.” Rand winked at Hawk.

But the reverend was wrong. Rand hadn’t exaggerated much. As Hawk acknowledged his friend’s words with a nod, he felt Bethany watching him, wondering about him and his past. Might as well tell it all. Get it over with.

He turned a purposeful gaze on her. “My father was a newspaperman. Traveled all over the West when he was young. He met my mother in the Dakotas. My grandmother was a full-blooded Sioux, and my grandfather was a French fur trapper. Crying Wind, my mother, was their only child.” He waited for some reaction. No one said anything. “When my father took a job with the newspaper in Chicago, they went there to live. That’s where I was born. My mother was never happy in the city. She felt closed in and longed for the plains. And people weren’t kind to her.”
Or to me
. “But she loved my father. Her home was with him to the end.”

“Have you met any of your mother’s family since you left Chicago?” Bethany asked, her voice soft.

The question brought back a long-ago memory. He was seven years old and had been in a fight with some of the boys at school — the ones who called him names and said even worse things about his mother. He’d come home with a black eye and bloody nose. Crying Wind had cleaned his wounds and put him to bed.

As she tucked the blankets around him, she leaned close and said, “Never be ashamed that you are of the Sioux, my son. Our people are a proud race. But you are also a white man. Be proud of that as well. There are cruel people like those boys in both worlds. It is up to you to be different. Do not learn to hate. Rise above it.” Her smile had been tender, her eyes misty. “If you grow up to be like your father, you will be the best kind of man.”

Hawk shook his head, both in answer to Bethany’s question and to shake away the memory that brought tightness to his chest. “I didn’t belong in the Sioux world.” He looked at each person around the table, ending with Bethany. “But I make no apologies for my heritage.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “Why should you, Mr. Chandler?”

It was not the response he expected, and he felt something soften in his heart. Something hard and unyielding that had been there since he was a boy of seven, fighting for his mother’s honor.

SEVEN

Bethany tossed another gown across the bed and eyed it with disgust. “It’s not right. Not a one of them is right.” Clad in chemise and drawers, she turned toward the wardrobe.

“But you have many pretty gowns.” Ingrid picked up the blue gingham from the floor where Bethany had dropped it earlier. “What is wrong with this one?”

“Half the women in town will be wearing one just like it.”
Hawk will never notice me if I look like every other female
.

“I think you want to please Mr. Chandler.”

“Certainly not!” It was a lie, and they both knew it.

Ingrid turned toward the bedroom door. “He may not even come to the dance,” she said as she left.

Bethany flounced down on the bed, pushing the pile of clothes onto the floor. “He’ll come. He’s got to come.”

When she’d first heard there was to be a barn dance, she had written to Mr. Chandler and Mr. Howard that she had enjoyed their company at supper and she hoped they would be at the dance. Her father would be appalled if he learned of her bold behavior. But how else would she win her wager with Ingrid if she didn’t have the opportunity to see Hawk Chandler?

Cupping her chin in her palms, elbows resting on her legs, she recalled once more the way she’d felt when he pulled her from the river. She wanted to feel that way again. She would if he were to dance with her. She knew she would.

A glance toward the window told her the hour was growing late. She had to decide on something to wear. She slid off the bed and returned to the wardrobe. There must be something that would catch his eye.

Phil Potter’s new barn smelled of fresh-cut lumber. The hard-packed dirt floor had been swept free of straw, and a long table, covered with a white tablecloth, had been set near the far wall. It was laden with cakes, cookies, and pies, as well as a large crystal bowl. Laura Potter, Phil’s wife, stood behind the table, filling cups with punch.

As soon as the Silvertons were inside the barn, Virginia said, “I’m going to give Mrs. Potter a hand.”

Bethany glanced around the large, airy structure, looking for Hawk, her eyes roaming from one person to the next. When someone smiled at her, she smiled in return, but didn’t allow her gaze to linger. The search proved futile. He wasn’t there. He hadn’t come. She’d been certain her personal invitation would bring him here tonight.

“Good evening, Miss Silverton.”

She turned, swallowing her disappointment and forcing her face to a pleasant expression. “Good evening, Mr. Richards.”

“I’m flattered you remember me.” He bowed, then turned toward her father. “Good evening, Reverend. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your ser vice on Sunday. Truly inspiring.”

“I’m glad you thought so.”

As the two men fell into conversation, Bethany’s attention wandered once again, this time to see who else she knew.

There was John Wilton, the pharmacist. No sign of his wife, Sarah, who was close to the end of her confinement. Next to John was Sweetwater’s doctor. Doc Wilton was taller than his brother and had a full head of brown hair, graying now at the temples. Like John, Doc wore spectacles, and it amused her to see them push their glasses up their noses in unison.

A fiddle began to play. Soon other instruments — more fiddles, a flute, a mouth organ — joined in. A young man in a too-large suit set aside his cup of punch and walked across the barn to speak to Martha Eberlie. The girl blushed lobster red. The color didn’t suit her.

An unkind thought, to be sure.

The music drew more people inside the barn, and soon it echoed with happy voices and shared laughter.

Ingrid tugged at Bethany’s elbow and whispered, “They are here.”

Bethany looked toward the entrance, her pulse quickening. There were five men — Hawk, Rand, and three others. But Bethany had eyes only for Hawk. How handsome he looked in his white shirt and dark trousers.

Rand said something to him, and he nodded as his gaze traveled the room, stopping upon Bethany. Her heart skipped a beat, then raced again as he turned away.

Rand walked toward Bethany and Ingrid, whisking his hat from his head as he drew near. He came to a halt in front of Ingrid. “Evenin’, Miss Johnson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Howard.”

“Evenin’, Miss Silverton.”

“Good evening.”

He repeated the greeting to her father, but when he looked at Vince, his good humor disappeared. “Richards.”

“Howard.”

It was obvious the two men felt a mutual dislike.

Rand looked at Ingrid again, and his smile returned. “Care to join me for a glass of punch, Miss Johnson?”

“Thank you. I would like that very much.”

He offered his arm and escorted her away.

Bethany looked toward the entrance, hoping Hawk might follow the example of his friend. Instead, she saw that he and the other cowboys had moved away from the door and now leaned against the wall of the barn, visiting among themselves. He didn’t even glance her way.

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and soon the center of the barn was filled with dancing couples, Ingrid and Rand among them.

Vince turned from her father and held a hand toward Bethany. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Silverton?”

She didn’t want to dance with him, but neither did she want to remain standing with her parents. Perhaps it would be good for Hawk to know others desired her company, even if he didn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. Richards. I’d be delighted.”

Hawk watched Bethany. He hadn’t stopped watching her since he arrived. There was no lovelier woman in the room, no one else to command his attention. Not that he was glad of it.

When Vince Richards walked her to the dance floor, he felt his jaw clench. He didn’t like seeing that man put his hand on the small of her back. He was a snake. A wealthy one in fine clothes, but a snake all the same.

It wasn’t his concern, of course. She could dance with anyone she chose. Still —

“Evening, Hawk.” Fred Eberlie, owner of Sweetwater’s mercantile, stepped up beside him. “I got in those supplies you were waiting on.”

He pulled his gaze away from the couple on the dance floor. “That’s good. I’ll bring the wagon for them tomorrow.”

“We don’t often see you at these shindigs.”

“Not often.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Bethany whirl past him, her skirt flaring out almost far enough for him to touch it. Against his will, his gaze followed her.

“Have you met the reverend and his family?” Fred asked. “I’d be glad to introduce you.”

“I’ve met them.”

“They’re nice folks. Guess you heard we’ll be building us a church now. Can’t keep meeting in a tent come winter.”

“Guess not.”

“Can we count on you and your men to give us a hand when it’s time?”

Hawk nodded as he watched Vince escort Bethany back to her father. “Sure, Fred. We’ll all help.”

Bethany danced twice with Vince Richards, three times with her father, and one dance each with four young men whose names she forgot as soon as they walked away. And still Hawk stood in that dim corner of the barn. What on earth was wrong with him? Was he afraid? Didn’t he know how to dance?

Squaring her shoulders, she slipped away from several women who were visiting near the refreshment table. She didn’t allow herself to consider what her parents would think of her actions. As she approached Hawk, he turned his head and their gazes met. In a fluid motion, he pushed off the wall, straightening to his full height. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or annoyed to see her. Blood pounded in her temples and her mouth went dry.

“Hello, Mr. Chandler.”

“Miss Silverton.”

“I’m glad you came tonight. Are you having a pleasant time?”

He gave her one of his looks.

“Don’t you like to dance?” She glanced toward the couples on the dance floor, then back at Hawk, hoping her expression wasn’t too eager.

“I like it well enough.”

Oh, he was an infuriating man. But at least she’d learned he could dance.

The strains of a waltz came from the loft.