Lone Star Loving (23 page)

Karl nodded. “You are right, Cousin.”

Madre de Dios,
what was on this man's mind? For hours—it was now approaching sundown—Karl had sat beside Maria Sara on the creaking porch swing; he had said absolutely nothing to her, had simply gazed across his land, as if he were in a trance. Occasionally a blush colored his thick neck, as if his own thoughts embarrassed him.

His shyness gave her pause. While Maria Sara was desperate for the security that a good marriage would assure her, it worried her that Karl might not have enough passion to quench her carnal thirsts.

Perhaps she should give the gentle giant an avenue of escape. “Karl . . . I should be going home.”

“Not just yet. Please.” Yearning eyes turned to her. “Would you like another glass of lemonade?”

She glanced at the empty pitcher. “No, thank you. If I drink any more, I shall swim home.”

“I . . . I want your home”—he swallowed—“to be with me.”

“Oh, Karlito,
mi querido
. . .”

She almost laughed at her words, thinking what people in Vera Cruz would say if they heard her call such a big man “Karlito.”

He grasped her small hand in his big one. “I have money in the bank. Property. Cattle. And I am lonely. I want you to be my wife.”

What more could she ask for—besides a voracious lover? “You don't know me.”

“Yes, I do. I know you are as lonely as I am. I know your smile makes the sun shine in my heart. I know you would like to have a home of your own.” He brought her fingers to his lips. Once more the flush crawled up his neck. “I know that I have a grand passion for you.”

Grand passion?
Indeed his eyes held the promise of it. She took a covert look at his masculine bulge; it showed promise.

“You are a lady. And I am a man of vulgar needs. I hope I haven't shocked you.”

“You have not.” The sun began to shine in her heart as well, but Maria Sara cautioned herself against getting her hopes up. “There's something I must tell you. This awful page from my past—”

“If it's about the boy, I have guessed that you weren't married to his father. It matters not to me.”

She angled toward him. “Karlito, are you certain?”

He nodded. “I want to raise Jaime as my own.”

But what about the brothel?
“Your words please me. My heart pounds as I think of the life we could have together.”

She left the swing and moved to one of the porch's wooden support posts. She couldn't face Karl, though she heard him stand and approach her.

“Stay back,” she pleaded. “There are things that you must know.”

A chicken ran across the yard, cackling as it headed for its roost.

“What are these things?” Karl asked.

“When I met the man who gave me Jaime, I was a respectable girl in Vera Cruz. My family has a sugar plantation there, understand, and the Montanas are held in high esteem, thanks to my father and his wealthy adoptive parents.

“It was unthinkable for a young lady of my station even to be seen without a
duenna,
yet I fell victim to the advances of an adventurous young man from Laredo. He promised his love and all his wealth, though his fortune paled in comparison to that of my family. He said we would marry. But my father refused to grant permission.”

“Go on.”

But she couldn't. Anger raged through her. She hated Ian Blyer! He'd offered Charity everything; he had made a fool of himself over her, more than once; he had even followed her to Uvalde. He had never followed Maria Sara Montana as far as
el baño!
But she would avenge her honor. Someway. Somehow.

At last she spoke. “The
sinvergüenza
seduced me under a poinciana tree. I thought he was in love with me. But that was not his motive. He meant to impregnate me, then demand my hand as well as a portion of the Montana wealth. My father was unimpressed.”

“He sounds as evil as the blackguard who pulled the wool over Charity's eyes.”

Maria Sara went still. “He is Ian Blyer.”

“Gott in Himmel.
I will snap Herr Blyer's neck between my hands!”

“No, no. You mustn't.”
Vengeance
must be mine.

“But your honor is at stake. And Charity's.”

“Karl, promise me you'll say nothing to her.” Maria Sara had no wish to hurt Charity. By hurting Ianito, both women would triumph. “It would wound her, knowing the truth. It need never come out.”

“You are right. And there is no reason for you to feel shame, Maria Sara.” He folded the small woman into his bearlike embrace. “I understand.”

“But I haven't finished my story.” Once more she pulled away from him, then hugged her arms as if a blue norther had suddenly swooped down. “I followed Ianito to Laredo. I pleaded with him to help me and our child. He refused. I had no money—my parents had disowned me. I made a pact with the devil. If
el
diablo would see me through the birth and give me a healthy child, I would do anything to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.”

“What did your predicament force you into?” Karl asked slowly.

“I accepted employment in a brothel.”

Karl slammed his eyes closed.

“But I never sold my body,” she lied.

“Explain how you worked in a whorehouse and didn't sell your body.”

“I sang. To entertain, I sang.”

Doubt marked Karl's square face. “I have never heard you sing.”

“I will never sing again. It reminds me too much of that time. That place. Pappagallo's.”

Karl gasped. “Pappagallo's?”

“Yes. It is in the boys-town section of Nuevo Laredo. A wretched place filled with girls as desperate as I was. For a year and a half, I was the singer there. Until last month.”

“That was
you?”

They stared at each other, both disbelieving. Both incredulous. Maria Sara blanched. Then she remembered where she'd seen him before!

His lip quivered. “That was
you
at Pappagallo's.”

He tried to liken the whore from across the border with the regal lady before him. How ironic. That she—That he—Suddenly Karl threw back his head and roared with laughter. Once more he looked at Maria Sara, seeing her in a whole new light. Why she was as wicked as Antoinette!

“I remember you. All painted up, wearing that see-through nightgown, sprawled against that battered old piano.”

“I trust you enjoyed what you saw.”

Karl gave another bellow of laughter. “What a
Dummkopf
I have been, not recognizing you. Of course, you aren't wearing all that paint, and you're buttoned to the chin. A year ago, I saw you. I offered the host—he was known as Senor Grande, I recall—fifty dollars for your favors. He demanded a hundred. And I only had fifty in my pocket.”

“No one ever came up with the money Grande asked for me.”

The memory of that night in Nuevo Laredo made him catch his breath. Feeling his lids half shutter his eyes, he relaxed against the porch wall. “Want to know the truth? I was demented for the want of you that night. I thought about going outside to knock some poor soul in the head to get another fifty dollars. But I could not bring myself to do it. So I settled for one of the fifty-cent girls. I don't even recall her face, much less her name. When I had sex with her, I imagined she was you. All painted up and wearing that see-through gown.”

Karl bent toward her, lifting her chin with the crook of his finger. “If you'll have me, I still want you for my wife.”

“Are you insane?” she asked, disbelieving.

“That night in Mexico is all the more reason to want you.”

“You cannot be serious. You . . . you are a decent, upstanding man, a pillar of society.”

“My private life has nothing to do with that.” His hot lips covered her cold ones, his imagination running to what she could do between his legs. “At Pappagallo's, after I finished with the whore, the host gave me the opportunity, for two dollars, to watch you with him and another man. You were chained to the better looking of the two to a contraption.”

Maria Sara's eyes rounded.

Karl clasped her head, squeezing. “So don't lie to me about not selling your body, not if you want to be my wife.”

A corrupt laugh dispelling her gloom, Maria Sara arched against him. “I want to be your wife. And your whore. Like I was to El Aguila and that bastard Grande. If ...”

“If?”

“If you can prove to me that this”—she unbuttoned his fly and grabbed him—“will keep me pleasured.”

Randy as a rutting boar at her lasciviousness, he ran his hand along Maria Sara's hip. “Then we will be married.” He pulled her onto his lap. “Provided you'll paint your face and wear nightgowns that I can see through.”

“I would be willing to do that.”

He fumbled with the buttons of her dress, then delved into her, biting an already erect nipple. Maria Sara's mouth parted while a gasp of approval slipped past her lips. “But tonight . . . tonight we won't be needing any clothes at all.”

“You are right,
querido
Karlito.” She covered his hand, pressing him to her. “We don't need them tonight.”

Getting to his feet, he carried her into the house.

 

 

Ian Blyer stomped into the modest house that his father had rented in Austin. He pushed past the open-mouthed housekeeper. Charging into his father's study, he demanded, “Father, why did you advise Jerome Hunt to drop the charges against Charity McLoughlin?”

Campbell Blyer, seated at his desk, took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Because matters have gone far enough, and I am embarrassed at your behavior.”

Ian balled his fists. There had been a time when he would have backed down when faced with his father's displeasure. But too much was at stake, for Ian Blyer had not given up on exacting his punishment against the chit who had humiliated him. Charity McLoughlin had two choices. Become his wife. Or swing from a rope. In either case she would regret crossing him.

And Campbell Blyer
would
help his son, or Ian would make him suffer too. “Do you think it matters to me that you're embarrassed?”

“It would be sensible if you'd give up this vendetta you have against the McLoughlin girl. I offered Jerome title to my property in Laredo, in exchange for his agreement to drop the charges.”

“Next you'll be hectoring me about finding a job.” Ian took a furious look at his father, and for the first time saw him for what he was. A shriveled old weasel. “You aren't on my side.”

“Ian, you're making a fool of yourself, prancing around the capital, demanding retribution.”

“The McLoughlins got to you, didn't they?”

“As I understand it, Senator McLoughlin has hired attorneys. The best in the business.”

“Thank God Jerome Hunt didn't listen to you.”

“Be careful what you thank the Lord for, Ian. The truth may win out.” Campbell Blyer rose and approached his son. His eyes were moist. “Do you really want it known that your own father was a part of Gonzáles's organization?”

“You buffoon. You mindless buffoon.”

“Will you have me exposed to my voters as an outlaw?” Campbell pleaded. “I realize you find this all hard to believe, your father tying in with miscreants, but I was desperate. Your losses at the gaming tables were expensive.”

Ian cut over to where his father hid the whiskey. Pouring an overly healthy shot, he quaffed it. “I've known you were involved from the beginning. Who do you think ordered Adriano Gonzáles to hire you in the first place?”

“Oh, my God.” Traumatized, Campbell grasped the back of a chair for support. “Not you. Not my only son. Not my hopes for the future.”

“If you harbor hopes for the future, at least where your own hide is concerned, you will do exactly as I say. Or your constituents will see your feet waving beneath a scaffold.” Ian took a look at the embroidered slippers shodding his own feet. “And perhaps your handsome son's, too.”

Shaking his head, his eyes closing in dismay, Campbell Blyer replied, “What do you want me to do?”

A general air of celebration—advanced by Gil McLoughlin, Lisette, and Maisie—ruled in the Four Aces dining room that night. On the journey between the Keller ranch and home, Maisie and Charity had patched up their differences, thanks to an out and out apology on the matriarch's part.

And Margaret would be home tomorrow.

No one made mention that Maria Sara hadn't returned from visiting her suitor. Nor did anyone say anything about Hawk's prolonged absence, though both subjects kept surfacing in Charity's mind.

Had a proposal of marriage been extended by her cousin to her friend?

And what kept Hawk in San Antonio?

“Wouldn't you care for a glass of champagne to go along with your sponge cake?” Lisette asked.

The footman Diego stepped forward, presenting her with a chilled bottle of French champagne. Charity glanced at the untouched dessert in front of her before shaking her head in reply.

Her father asked, “What's the matter with you?”

“A bit of a headache,” she replied truthfully.

“Too much showering her old granny with forgiveness, if ye ask me.” A satisfied smirk settled on the old woman's face. Maisie leaned to pat her great-granddaughter's hand. “Thank ye, darlin', for doing it. I love ye, ye know.”

“I love you, too,” Charity whispered, suddenly wondering why she had held back her feelings for so long. This was her family, after all. Her family! “I love all of you.”

Papa put down his fork. “Does that include me?”

“Why, of course. I love you most dearly, Papa.”

Her mother and great-grandmother murmured in joy.

Quietly, her father addressed her. “I love you, too, Charity, my daughter.”

“Oh, Papa.”

She looked into his eyes. Tenderness and honesty and fatherly concern were there. She knew her papa would stand beside her through thick and thin. Everyone had rallied around her, as she had once been certain they would not.

Charity McLoughlin had waited her entire lifetime for this moment.

A lump in her throat, her eyes glistening, she whispered, “I am sorry for the pain I've caused you and Mutti. And the rest of the family. You have my word that I'll do my best to settle my past wrongs. I yearn to make you proud of me. And I shall always—always!—work to earn your trust in the future.”

“Diego! Pour more champagne.” Papa beamed. “I've been waiting a long time to hear my baby say these things!”

Her head cleared as Charity reveled in her father's approval. Had it been such a long time since she had expressed her feelings? Good gracious! She couldn't remember the last time she had said anything of a loving nature to her papa.

Rising from the table, she walked to where her father sat at the head of it. With no hesitation she hugged his wide shoulders. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered as his familiar scent filled her nostrils, “I always think of you like this, smelling of bay rum and the sun. I'd forgotten how good it feels to hug you.”

“Then give your papa a kiss.” His forefinger tapped his lips. “Right here. Don't miss your mark—or I'll dust your bottom!”

To a round of laughter from her mother and great-grandmother, Charity hit the bull's-eye.

“Sit right here beside me,” said Gil as he motioned for a chair to be pulled up. “And let's make like the McLoughlins.”

“Wonderful idea, Papa.”

Never had Charity felt so close to her kin. Never.

The family fell to reminiscing about days gone by, with recollections of friends far and wide, old family lore, and silly tales of Gil's boyhood in Inverness and Maisie's unsuccessful attempts to keep him from searching for the monster in the Loch Ness.

When the last dish was cleared away, Lisette asked, “Is anyone interested in a game of bridge?”

Papa groaned. Bridge-playing wasn't one of his favorite pastimes. Since they couldn't play a threesome, Lisette made another suggestion that met with almost unanimous approval. “Let's turn in early, so we'll all be rested up and ready for Margaret's arrival.”

The McLoughlins gradually removed themselves from the dining room, but Charity wasn't ready for bed. She was too exhilarated over the events of the evening, her
real
reunion with Papa and Mutti and Maisie.

And Margaret would be home tomorrow!

Charity changed into a simple blouse and trousers, and walked to the stable. Thunder Cloud would enjoy a good grooming, and Charity would welcome the opportunity to get her mind off her thoughts. Opening the stall door, she gave the gray mare a loving stroke on its forelock.

Charity had chosen the horse while in Spain, visiting Olga and Leonardo—the Court and Countess of Granda—at their holiday cottage in the coastal village of Marbella. Oh, what a delight the adventure had been, riding the gray beauty—Thunder Cloud's mane and Charity's hair whipping in the salty wind—and dodging the quicksand that hid in the shores of the Mediterranean!

Spain.

Europe.

The Wild West show.

Hawk.
Hawk!

Darn.

Could nothing keep Charity's mind off him?

She took up a currycomb and gently attacked the snorting Thunder Cloud's coat. “Where is he? Doesn't he know I am frantic to see him?”

Lifting her majestic head, Thunder Cloud looked at her mistress and stamped its front foot.

“Don't be so haughty, missy.” Charity gave a love-pat to the mare's rump. “If you had a man like Hawk, you'd miss him, too.”

It was then that the subject of her declarations stepped out of the shadows.

Charity dropped the currycomb.

To hide her embarrassment at being caught talking to a horse, as well as her joy at Hawk's return, Charity flipped her head nonchalantly. After all, the rat had been listening to her, for heaven's sake, and he had been gone way too long.

Don't even look at him, she ordered herself.

But immediately, her eyes were filled with Hawk.

A Stetson pulled low on his bronzed brow, he held a cigarette in his mouth. When he doffed the hat and tossed it atop a nearby hook, her casual stance abandoned her. Lantern light played over his closely cropped Indian-black hair, shooting highlights of blue through it, and her fingers itched to smooth those satin strands. For beginners.

Squinting past a curl of smoke, he asked in a low voice, “Do much talking with horses?”

“Do much lurking in stables?” she queried, and opened the gate to the corridor, stepping out of it to face him fully.

“Just rode in.” He ground the glowing end of the cigarette beneath his foot. “Took a catnap. You woke me, yammering to that mare of yours.”

Moving as nimbly as any feline, he stepped closer. A stalk of straw clung to the shoulder of his chambray shirt, which Charity brushed away. She got a whiff of man and horse and leather, and it was a combination wholly appealing. So near to him, she noticed a certain weariness to his dark eyes, a certain tenseness to his mouth, and she lifted her fingers to massage away his cares away.

“I apologize for disturbing you.” Her palm cupping the smooth blade of his jaw, she gloried in the warmth of his skin. Or was it the heat of her own? “It's good to see you, Hawk,” she whispered.

She fully expected his lips to lower to hers, but those expectations were not met. He simply patted the back of her hand before taking two steps in retreat. What was wrong?
Your memory's grown short, ninny.

“Hawk . . . I know you're put out about that business in Sheriff Untermann's office. I want you to know, I realize I overstepped my bounds. It was your place to speak with Judge Jones, and you were handling the situation just fine.”

Planting his elbow on the gate leading to Thunder Cloud's stall, he crossed one booted ankle over the other in an attempt to appear collected. “Charity, I don't deny you caught me off-guard, but I've had a couple of weeks to think about it, and I know you're no scurrying church mouse.”

She straightened, pleased. But he hadn't finished.
“However.
I will
not
stand for your interference where this case is concerned. Got it? You
will
do whatever I tell you.”

She squeaked like a scurrying church mouse, then twitched her nose and made as if she had a couple of long front teeth. “Yes, sir.”

Throwing back his head, Hawk laughed. “Now, honey, don't work too hard on it. I like you just the way you are. In matters that
don't
pertain to the courts, anyway.”

Oh, this was a grand evening!

Boldly, seductively, Charity took a gander at his riding attire, drawing mental pictures of what lay beneath. “My bed is so big and empty. It's been lonesome, having you away.”

“I've been lonesome, too.”

“Then let's do something about it.”

“Bad idea.”

She stared up at the frown further emphasizing the weariness in his face. “Why not?” Before giving him a chance to answer, she came to a conclusion. “Something went wrong in San Antonio, didn't it?”

“No problems from that end. Your court date is set for December 15.”

“I must write the Narramores and tell them,” she said, thinking aloud. She cocked her head. “There was no mention of putting me in jail there, in the meantime?”

“There was. Judge Peterson demanded bail.”

“Bail? Oh, goodness. Whatever did you do?”

“Stood good for it.”

Good gravy. Not only did she owe him for professional services, she would have to come up with bond money as well. “How much was it?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Dollars?”

“They weren't interested in beads and feathers.”

“Good Lord. Where am I ever going to get that sort of money? Wherever did you get it?”

He shrugged. “By use of my letter of credit from Robber Baron's Bank, Baltimore.”

“There's no Robber Baron's Bank in Baltimore.”

“That's what I call the reputable establishment of Planters & Merchants.”

She had heard of that financial institution; it catered to the wealthiest of the wealthy. She recalled Maisie saying something about Hawk inheriting money from a Maryland relative, and he'd mentioned something about having security of purse, but she'd had no idea that he was
that
well-off. “You got the money from Papa.”

“You're accusing me of lying?”

“Hawk, darn it, let's don't get in a sparring match. Please explain yourself.”

With no more passion than if he were speaking about the weather, he replied, “My mother's grandfather owned a railroad on the eastern seaboard and a half-dozen coal mines in West Virginia. I fell heir to them after Laurann's mother died.”

“Dear me.”

“I'm surprised your parents never told you.”

“Hawk, it's in exceptionally bad taste to gossip about the wealth of others.” Maisie, of course, would have no compunction about such a thing, but Maisie was a special case. “Goodness, I'm amazed. My Indian warrior turns out not only to be an attorney but also a railroad tycoon and a mining magnate.”

“Wrong. I sold out. Railroads have been one of the white man's tools to overpower the great tribes of this country. As for coal mines, they exploit the poor working man. I wanted no part of either.”

“Your thinking seems quite liberal.”

“I have my opinions as to right and wrong. And I fight for right as I see it. Such as the cause of Charity McLoughlin.” He brushed a loose strand of her hair over her shoulder. “If you don't mind, I think we should go with propriety on this issue. I'd rather we didn't discuss my bank accounts.”

That was fine with Charity. She was greatly concerned with how she would ever come up with
ten thousand dollars
to repay him. And an even greater concern . . . Why was he being so standoffish?

“Hawk, we have been apart for two whole weeks. Don't I even get a kiss hello?”