Warrior's Embrace (22 page)

“I love your hands.” Black Hawk was looking
at her with the dark knowledge of a sorcerer. He caught her wrist
and pressed her palm flat across his heart.

“Please,” she whispered.

“You have learned hands, Elizabeth.”

She jerked herself free.

“I think you can finish this job. Clean
linens and medical supplies are in the bathroom closet. Use this
peroxide on your wounds before you bind them.”

She stood up and headed for the door. He
didn’t speak until she was almost there.

“Elizabeth.” He was sitting up with the sheet
draped over his hips and the hilt of his knife showing underneath
his pillow. She hadn’t even heard him move.

“You’ll have to clean the wounds on my
back.”

“There’s a small shower in the bathroom,” she
said, holding on to the doorknob. “That should be sufficient.”

“No. I need you.”

His voice was as quiet as storm clouds
gathering over the desert, and just as deadly. Swept away in a
flood tide of emotions, she moved back toward his bed.

When she was standing over him, their gazes
clashed, dark eyes warring with dark eyes.

“Lie on your stomach,” she said.

He reached out and traced the contours of her
cheek, then turned onto his stomach. She drew her breath at the
sight of his back. It was bruised and lacerated.

“It looks bad. Does it hurt?”

“Pain is a matter of perspective. All the
wounds on my back don’t pain me nearly as much as the thought of
the destruction of my ancestral lands. I have to recover quickly in
order to fight.”

“I’ll help you.” She worked silently and
swiftly. “I’ll bring you some soup... and aspirin. You’re burning
with fever.”

Her voice faded away. Black Hawk fought for
consciousness, struggled to stay awake.

Elizabeth bandaged his wounds and
straightened up. “I’m finished.” He didn’t stir. She touched his
shoulder. “Black Hawk?” He was sound asleep.

“Rest well.” She tiptoed from the room and
sat down at her kitchen table. He needed sleep. Food and aspirin
could wait a while. In the meantime, she was going to prepare
herself for battle... against his enemy and against her own private
demons.

The first thing she did was go back into the
basement to retrieve her gun. It lay on the concrete floor beside
Black Hawk’s rifle.

“Quite an arsenal you have here, Elizabeth
McCade.” Smiling grimly, she collected the weapons and marched up
the stairs. Standing against his enemy was going to be no problem,
but it was going to take more than an arsenal to hold firm against
her own.

o0o

Throughout the early part of the night. Black
Hawk was haunted by visions. He saw flames that leaped into the
sky, crackling with fury, consuming his house. Then the flames
became a glimpse of red satin, whispering erotic promises, brushing
against his skin. Dreams blended with reality so that he struggled
to know the difference.

“Elizabeth?” he whispered through dry,
parched lips.

“Shhh... shhh.”

Cool winds blew over him, and then the winds
became birds’ wings, caressing him gently, tenderly. He moaned.

Something touched his lips—a hand, a cup,
both. Warmth spread through him... and a kind of peace, a peace he
hadn’t known in a long time. He drifted, letting it come.

Around midnight his fever broke. He opened
his eyes, fully alert. Without sound, he turned his head slightly
so he could see the room. His eyes, trained to see enemies at a
great distance and under all conditions, adjusted quickly to the
darkness. Elizabeth was in silhouette beside the window. A pale
shaft of moonlight slipping between the folds of the closed curtain
illuminated her hair.

Black Hawk studied her in silence. She was a
strong woman, a brave woman. A flash of metal caught his attention.
In her hands was the .44 Magnum. She was watching over him with a
gun in her hands.

“Don’t shoot, Elizabeth. I’m not armed.”

“You’re awake.” She whirled toward him. He
chuckled.

“That’s not funny, Black Hawk.”

“My friends call me Blackie; my lovers call
me Hawk.”

“I am neither. I’m the hostess; you’re the
guest.” She stood up, and he saw a bit of red satin peeping from
the hem of her sturdy chenille robe. So... Elizabeth McCade hid
herself from him.

“That will soon change, Elizabeth.”

“I know. As fast as you seem to bounce back,
you’ll be leaving in no time. Then you will be nothing to me except
a bad memory.”

“Do you always fight so hard against your
feelings?”

“I’m not fighting; I’ve already conquered.”
She stood up and hurried toward the door. Black Hawk’s voice
stopped her.

“You watched over me.”

She turned toward him with a certain
resignation. Some crazy twist of fate had set in her path the one
man who could unlock the doors to her past and unleash her
passions.

Holding the neck of her robe close around her
throat so not one inch of flesh would be exposed to his searching
eyes, she faced him.

“You needed food and medicine. I gave you
both.”

“You caressed my face.”

“I checked your temperature. I didn’t think
it wise to leave you alone with such a high fever.”

“I still burn, Elizabeth.”

She crossed the room and leaned over his bed,
pressing one hand against his brow. Her dark eyes widened as she
looked at him.

“The fever has gone.”

“No. I burn....” He reached out and circled
her throat with one hand, bracing her chin and tipping her head
backward. Her breathing became harsh, and the gun slipped from her
hand. It landed with a soft thump on the bed.

Black Hawk slid his other hand into the neck
of her robe.

“We both burn with the same fever,
Elizabeth.”

The wisp of satin was no barrier to him. His
hands were hot on her, taking liberties she allowed no man.

“You want me, Elizabeth... as I want
you.”

His hands seduced her, bewitched her, almost
drove her over the edge. She jerked herself upright and pulled her
robe around her. Tearing her gaze away from him, she searched for
her gun. It gleamed up from the white sheets.

“I brought my gun to use against your
enemies, Black Hawk. Be warned. I won’t hesitate to use it against
you.”

She swept from his room, clutching her robe
and her big gun to her chest. The door shut with a sharp click.

Upstairs Elizabeth threw off her ugly robe
and flung it across the back of a rocking chair. She flung open her
desk drawer and pulled out her diary. She needed a way to vent her
feelings, and with Aunt Kathleen on the other side of the world,
spilling her thoughts on paper was the next best thing.

She wrote in bold strokes, the letters
marching like soldiers across a barren landscape.

“A stranger in my house has resurrected the
passion I had thought was dead. Black Hawk—he’s as fierce as his
name—faced me with a knife, and I faced him with a gun. And both of
us knew that we were one and the same. Heaven help us.”

She closed her diary and went to bed,
sleeping fitfully, her dreams haunted by visions of bronze hands
searching her body.

o0o

The next morning she pinned her hair into a
French twist and donned her most severe business suit. If it
weren’t for her puffy lips and glazed eyes, she would look normal.
She hoped she looked normal enough to fool her coworkers. Not that
any of them would dare question her. She didn’t encourage that kind
of familiarity.

Downstairs she followed her usual routine.
She ate breakfast, then read the morning paper with her coffee.
Briefly she considered leaving without checking on Black Hawk, but
she decided that was the cowardly thing to do.

After checking her watch to be certain she
could spare no more than five minutes in his bedroom, she carried a
tray to Black Hawk. He was coming out of the bathroom, wearing his
jeans.

“They say you’re dead,” she said, setting the
tray with the morning paper on the bedside table.

“How did I die?” He lifted the coffee cup to
his lips and watched her over the rim.

“You were killed with a Winchester rifle.
Sheriff Wayne Blodgett found your bloodstained shirt in the woods
near your ranch. The bullet was lodged in a tree, and the spent
shell was in the bushes.”

“Do they know who killed me?”

“No. There’re several different accounts. The
most interesting comes from Walter Martin and Bobby Clayburn. They
say that they were out snake hunting and witnessed you being
murdered by a long-haired gang who stuffed your body into a sack
and carried it off. Naturally they were too scared to do anything
except watch.”

“Walter Martin and Bobby Clayburn are on the
payroll of the mall developers. They hope to demoralize my people
and weaken the defense.”

“Will they succeed? After all, you
are
the leader.”

“There’ll be other leaders to take my place
while I’m gone. They won’t succeed.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Chickasaws haven’t lost a battle since
DeSoto tried to make us slaves. Our unofficial motto is
We are
unconquered and unconquerable
.” He smiled. “We won’t lose,
Elizabeth.”

“Should I get word to someone that you’re
alive?”

“No. It would be too dangerous. My people
won’t give up the fight, and they won’t give me up for dead without
convincing evidence. I’ll be leaving in a few days anyhow.”

Elizabeth busied herself with the tray,
straightening the silverware, smoothing the napkin, rearranging the
juice—anything to keep her hands and her mind occupied and off
Black Hawk.

“I don’t know what you like for breakfast, so
I just made a little bit of everything.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“Don’t get used to this kind of treatment,
though. As soon as you’re able, you can fend for yourself.”

Never had a man’s silence been so commanding.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and yet she felt as if he’d lassoed
her.

“I want you to know that my sympathies are
with you and your people. Black Hawk. I’ve always abhorred the
practice of so-called progress without regard to the environment
and to history. Progress should preserve our past as well as ensure
our future. I hope you win.”

“You
must
not give me away,
Elizabeth. I’m fighting a dangerous enemy. They wouldn’t hesitate
to hurt you, as they’ve tried to destroy me.”

“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. And
besides, no one would dare suspect me of harboring any man, let
alone a notorious man such as you. I have a reputation—”

Suddenly she realized she had said too much.
“I have to go to work,” she said, whirling around to leave the
room.

Black Hawk moved swiftly, catching her by the
shoulders and turning her to face him. Then he tipped her face up
with one hand, studying her.

“Black linen by day and red satin by night.”
His gaze swept over her face, searching, burning. “They’re wrong,
Elizabeth. You are a woman of immense fire and passion.” He leaned
closer to her, so close she could feel his warm breath fanning
against her cheek. “You’re a woman who needs to be kissed.”

He looked as if he would start with her lips
and work his way down to her toes.

His hand tightened on her face, then
suddenly, inexplicably, he let her go.

She left quickly, knowing he was watching
her, knowing he was staying behind in her spare bedroom, and most
of all, knowing he would be there when she got back.

o0o

By hurrying she arrived at work on time.
Gladys, who worked the reception desk as well as the switchboard on
the first floor of Tombigbee Bluff Bank, looked at her a little
funny, but she didn’t comment. When Elizabeth had first come back
to Tombigbee Bluff, reeling from humiliation at having disappointed
herself and her aunt, Gladys had been full of questions and good
intentions.

“We thought you had gone off to Yale to study
to be a teacher,” she’d said. “What changed your mind?”

“Nothing,” Elizabeth had told her, hoping to
discourage questions.

“I’ll bet it was beautiful up there. Where is
Yale, anyhow?”

“Connecticut.”

“Oh yeah, Connecticut. I’ll bet it snows up
there every Christmas.... My friend Mavis—you remember Mavis
Jarvis, don’t you?—well, Mavis told me that she heard some fellow
jilted you up there.”

There had been no malice in her voice, only
curiosity. Elizabeth had said nothing.

“That’s just too bad, but it’s not the end of
the world. There are always more fish in the pond, as the old
saying goes. Why, my boyfriend—you remember Charles Estes, don’t
you?—well, anyhow, he’s got this friend, Jerry Morgan. Used to live
up around Chicago. A real hunk... I could fix you up with him.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Gladys had made two or three more attempts to
find out about her checkered past and to pull her into the
mainstream of Tombigbee Bluff society, but Elizabeth had kept her
secrets and had refused all except the most innocent of social
invitations. Aunt Kathleen urged her to forget about Mark Laton and
go on with her life, but the closest thing Elizabeth had done to
anything resembling normal was go to an occasional bridal tea and
bank party and church social—always places where the crowds would
be large and the chances for intimacy small. There was no way she
could become a total recluse. After all, she lived in a small
Southern town where one of the two major pastimes was gossip. The
other was backyard barbecues. Usually they went hand in hand.
Reputations had been built and destroyed over a good-sized portion
of pig, done to a turn.

So, when Elizabeth walked into the bank that
morning, she smiled and called a cheerful greeting to Gladys and
all her coworkers, then passed to her office in the loan department
as if it were just another day in Tombigbee Bluff—and not the day
she was thinking about a certain Chickasaw warrior hiding in her
spare bedroom.