LeClerc 03 - Wild Savage Heart (19 page)

“That wasn’t a compliment!” Molly walked to the door and stared through the darkness at the falling rain. Men! Their arrogance knew no bounds!

“I liked that bit of lace,” Hawk said casually as he added wood to the fire.

“What lace?” Molly tried to ask in a casual voice, glad for the darkness that hid her once-more flaming face.

“An Indian woman would never hide something so delicately pretty. She’d wear it someplace so that everyone could see.” He banked the coals for the night then stood. “Of course, an Indian woman doesn’t wear underdrawers and wouldn’t understand why you’d wear anything beneath your dress.”

Molly’s cheeks flamed with color even though she realized it was exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. “What, exactly, do Indian women wear beneath their dresses?” she asked without thinking.

“Why nothing, Mrs. Royse. Absolutely nothing at all.” He thought of the feminine bit of lace that had teased his hands as he’d tightened the knife sheath. “But is is a shame that a warrior will never know the delight of discovering the bits and pieces of lace and ribbon so seductively sewn on a delicate bit of fabric.

“There’s a lot to be said for an unexpected peek at a slender ankle or a lacy petticoat. Or knowing that a slight tug on a piece of ribbon will free it from its anchor. An Indian warrior will never know the heightened anticipation brought on as each piece of feminine clothing finds its way to the floor.”

“Mr. Hawk, I believe this conversation should be terminated.” Molly stared into the darkness, hoping that he wasn’t aware of the need he was arousing in her, a need that she couldn’t satisfy.

Hawk picked up his rifle and walked to the door. A smile crossed his dark face as Molly moved quickly out of his way. He could almost smell her feminine awareness of him.

Stepping into the darkness, he turned once more to her. “I’ve always been fond of pink ribbon, Molly.” His velvet voice was a shadowy well of soft seduction, a promise of paradise beyond the simple words he spoke. “I particularly like the way it slides free from its knot.”

His eyes burned with a fiery intensity, barely distinguishable in the glow from the fireplace. Every feminine cell in Molly’s body urged her to take the few steps necessary to put herself into his arms. Common sense told her to step back, to deny the attraction.

“I can’t,” she whispered so softly she doubted he could hear her.

“You will,” he replied firmly. “Never doubt that for a moment, Molly Royse. You will.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In spite of the blistering late-afternoon heat, summer was nearly at an end. The breeze was cool and the air had lost its sweet, flowery fragrance of summer and was instead filled with the spicy, woodsy scent identifiable with autumn. Even the shadows had a different appearance, not quite as defined or as deep as the shadows cast by a summer sun, as if they, too, were preparing for the short, bitter days of winter.

Nightly, the temperatures dropped to near freezing, and every morning Molly expected to find the first frost of autumn. She knew that at any time the temperatures could turn cold. Already the trees were beginning to show some early signs of color change.

Molly pushed her damp hair back from her forehead as she stretched her aching back. One leg was braced at an awkward angle to prevent her from sliding off the uneven stump she sat on. She looked at the dismally small pile of ground corn in the bowl at her feet and tried not to feel discouraged when she compared it to the huge pile of the dried kernels still waiting.

Hawk had carved a concave slab of wood for her to grind the corn in — using the manner employed by the women of his tribe. A flat, fist-sized rock completed the mortar and pestle and a lot of elbow grease supplied by Molly eventually produced the meal. It had appeared easy when Hawk had showed her how to do it. Somehow, it wasn’t quite as simple when she did it herself.

Her corn crop was too small to warrant the daylong journey to the grist mill. In fact, she would have to be diligent in her usage in order to make the corn meal last all winter.

The small amount of edible produce from Molly’s garden had been dried, canned or ground. She hoped, with only herself to feed, that it would be enough until spring planting.

Hawk had dried or smoked some meat that would provide a welcome change for her when winter cold, and her own lack of skill, made it impossible for her to kill fresh meat.

Molly tipped the meal into the waiting bowl and added fresh corn. Sighing, she picked up the rock to begin the process all over again, but her attention was diverted from her task by the rhythmical sound of the ax biting into wood.

Utterly fascinated by a scene that should have become commonplace after this length of time, Molly watched spellbound as Hawk chopped a huge log into fireplace-length pieces. Later he would split each length into several smaller pieces that would burn better and be easier for her to handle.

His movements were a study of masculine grace as he chopped smoothly at the huge log. Legs spread for balance, Hawk lifted the ax above his head. Muscles bunched, rested suspended in a moment of time, then hardened like the finest steel as he brought the ax slamming down. Barely breaking pace when he finished with one piece, he kicked it out of his way as he moved down the log and began again.

Neatly stacked and split logs were piled just outside the door, nearly to the rooftop. Hawk was determined to double the size of the pile before he left.

Molly’s breath caught at the back of her throat when she acknowledged what had yet to be spoken by either of them.

He was leaving.

He hadn’t mentioned it in so many words, but for the last couple of weeks he had worked methodically at one project after another.

Explaining that she would have no need for the wagon and that the oxen would be an added burden to feed during the winter, he’d taken them into town and sold them. The money from their sale could be saved until spring when she could use it to buy a mule to help plow the garden or even pay one of her neighbors to turn the soil.

At his insistence, all of her supplies had been stored in several different containers. The corn she had already ground filled two bags and by evening she hoped to have the final one filled. Her precious supplies of salt, sugar and tea were divided into at least three boxes each.

Once again Hawk’s reasoning could not be faulted. It was possible for something to happen to one box or even two, but she was almost assured of staving off starvation with her foodstuffs well divided.

Early that morning he’d looked at the woodpile and decided it wouldn’t be enough if the coming winter should be severe. He’d been at it most of the day and the woodpile was nearly double its original size.

His thoughtfulness and hard work could mean the difference between life and death during the harsh winter months.

So, Molly thought to herself, she’d be warm and well fed, but what would keep loneliness at bay during the long winter nights? It deeply saddened her that she only thought of Adam at rare times now. When she pictured the long, endless nights, her thoughts were of Hawk and his comforting presence.

She clenched her teeth and lowered her suddenly watery gaze to the mortar. With fierce determination, she ground the corn.

He was leaving. She would stay here and make a home for herself. She’d be lonely, she reasoned, but hadn’t she always been lonely? Her sisters had husbands and children to keep them busy while she’d had only a selfish, self-centered father to occupy her time.

Hawk had shown her the contentment two people could find sharing the necessary but tiring everyday chores. He’d given her satisfaction from a job welldone and laughter at her own human foibles. He’d given her a peace that she had never before known existed. And he was leaving soon to return to the life she’d briefly interrupted.

She’d always known he’d leave, but somehow she had managed to pretend that it wouldn’t happen. It wasn’t as if he was just abandoning her. Several times he’d offered to take her back to Charleston. He’d even suggested that she consider moving into Rutherford Town and making her home where she’d have close neighbors. When she’d refused all of his offers, insisting stubbornly that she’d stay in her cabin, he’d gone out of his way to visit with the Prices and inform them both of Adam’s death and his own leaving.

Molly’s thoughts were bleak as she finished grinding the corn and placing it securely in the canvas sack. Climbing wearily to her feet, she entered the cabin and hung the sack from a hook in the ceiling where it would be safe. A berry pie sat temptingly in the middle of the table but her bleak thoughts prevented her from eyeing it in anticipation.

The rhythmical sound of the ax provided a warming comfort as she prepared their evening meal. The chopping stopped just as she finished placing the food on the table, and Hawk entered the room at precisely the time she would have called him to come in.

The food was eaten in near silence. The one-room cabin now boasted a sturdy table, with two bench seats at one end of the room, and a rope bed at the other. Several hooks and shelves provided storage space for foodstuffs and clothing. It was as snug as a mud-chinked log cabin could be, with stout shutters for the window and a heavy plank for barring the door.

Molly was inordinately proud of the dirt-floored structure but as she sat at the table trying to force food past her constricted throat, she knew she’d scream if she didn’t leave its confining walls.

Nausea threatened to overwhelm her best intentions. Without a word of explanation she slid off the bench and grabbed her cape as she opened the door and stepped outside. A nearly full moon provided ample light to guide her away from the cabin. She wrapped the wool cape tightly around her shoulders as a cool breeze drifted past.

She listened as the cabin door opened and closed. Her gaze turned toward the moon as she counted footsteps. She didn’t turn when he stopped at her side, seeing him was not necessary. Knowing that her time was limited and memories would be all she’d have to keep of him, she’d already memorized every nuance of his face.

“You’re leaving.” It was a statement, and Molly was proud of the quiet, serene tone of her voice.

“Yes.” Hawk could only admire the strength he read in her poised manner. He knew her well enough to know that what she was attempting to hide would bring a lesser woman to her knees in feminine tears.

“When?”

Since he hadn’t decided on a definite day for his departure, Hawk hesitated briefly before he answered. He wondered if it would be easier for him to stay a few days longer or if he should make a clean, swift break and leave immediately. Either way wasn’t going to be easy — for either of them.

“Tomorrow,” he finally answered.

Molly’s swift breath was audible in the silence that suddenly seemed almost overwhelming.

“So soon,” she whispered. “I thought it might be longer.”

“I can still take you back to Charleston, Molly,” Hawk said quietly. “Or at least help you get settled in town.”

“No, Hawk,” M oily replied, quickly getting a firm grip on her wayward emotions. “This is my home. I may be making a grave error in judgement, but I intend to stay here.”

Hawk forced himself to bite back his invitation to go with him. He could offer her nothing but the ridicule and contempt that many would feel it necessary to display if she were to link herself to an Indian. He had been raised white, was universityeducated and well traveled but he could never change the fact that he was a full-blooded Shawnee Indian and many people looked at him with disgust and hatred because of it.

But she was the only woman he’d ever known that could make him regret, if only for a brief moment, that he was an Indian.

The moonlight brought a softness to the usually angular planes of her face, accenting her button nose and a chin he knew could be exceptionally stubborn. He studied her face as an artist might study a subject, forgetting that he’d ever considered her too plain, too thin, too tall.

Molly shivered in the breeze that whispered of winter. Feeling as deep-down cold as winter, she pulled the cape tightly around her shoulders and buried her face in its warm folds.

“You’re cold, Molly,” Hawk said quietly. “It’s been a long day for both of us. Let’s go in and I’ll help you clean up from supper.”

Molly wanted to hold back time, to force it to stop its relentless march onward. Maybe if she didn’t move, if she didn’t clean up the dishes or comply with his suggestion, maybe time would stop. Snorting at her own imagination, Molly turned and headed for the cabin. Maybe pigs could fly, she thought sarcastically.