Lone Star Loving (32 page)

Charity laughed. She had no idea what a blind mole rat looked like, but if it looked like Henrietta Peterson, it was one ugly creature.

Turning solemn when she eyed the grave expressions of her loved ones, Charity realized how strongly her sister was pulling for her. A lot of people were pulling for her. Too many had involved themselves, had imperiled themselves. One had died. It caused her much pain, that death, for surely Maria Sara would be alive tonight, if not for her having become embroiled in this mess.

“Charity.” Tenderly, gently, Hawk whispered her name. “Let's all retire for the evening. You need your rest.”

Her eyes welded to his. She knew he was a man tormented; she heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes, felt it in his touch as he buried her head against the strong wall of his chest. He yearned to free her, yet his hands were tied by circumstance. She squeezed her eyes shut.
What if he can't free me? What will it do to him?

She knew her own fate. But her worries were for him. Once convicted, she would have mere days of torment–until her feet fell through the scaffold's trapdoor. Hawk would have all the rest of his years to suffer, knowing he hadn't been able to save her.

She said to Eleanor and Margaret, “If you don't mind, I'd like a private word with Hawk.”

In a dusty cantina in Chihuahua City the calendar read December 14. Night had fallen hours ago. A trio of sombrero-wearing hombres sat in one corner and played monte. Beneath their table, and all about the taproom, yapping little hairless dogs with large, pointed ears jumped around like oversized fleas; no one paid them much heed.

At another table an overripe
señorita
picked her teeth with the point of a knife while her tablemates argued for revolution.

Standing at the bar, half empty glasses of tequila in front of them, Gil conversed with Sam Washburn until he felt something grabbing the ankle of his boot. A quick glance downward and Gil spied one of the “fleas,” a Chihuahua pup, trying to look ferocious.

Both he and Sam chuckled amusedly at the sight, their first bit of levity in days. Their laughter increased after Sam barked back, which sent the small dog yelping in fear; it cuddled at the tooth-picker's feet, shaking and crying.

But neither man was here to enjoy the local color. Gil asked Sam, “Think you can handle riding out tonight?”

Both men, now friends, were tired and dirty. Cactus liquor and a diet of beans and chilis hadn't settled well with either of them. Neither young, each had admitted to aches and pains brought on by their arduous travels deep into the Mexican high desert.

They had found El Aguila near the village of Santa Alicia, but not without difficulty. The man was, Gil supposed, the sort that some women would find attractive. Young, sanguine. Dark and swarthy. His physique showed none of the droop and sag of middle age. He had an air of danger.

Appearing the benevolent
hacendado,
Delgado had held court at his ranch. A bevy of comely
señoritas
had hovered around, waiting for any indication of the Eagle's slightest whim, and his whims were numerous. At Delgado's Hacienda Aguilera Real, too, the funny little dogs native to this part of Mexico, had been much in evidence.

Once Gil and Sam had finally gotten to speak to Delgado—it had taken days of kowtowing–the Eagle claimed to know nothing of Rufino Saldino, alias Señor Grande, or of Adriano Gonzáles.

Already Gil and Sam knew several things about Delgado. Paupers and potentates courted him, for he had been the greatest matador in Mexico, once upon a time. And the Delgados were one of Mexico's richest and most powerful families.

Now he walked a thin line between respectable and disreputable. When would the line snap?

“I have trouble believing you know nothing of the Shafter silver-smuggling operation,” Gil had said.

Exhaling smoke from a long slim cigar, El Aguila pressed a scarred hand over his heart. “How do I know you are not a Texas Ranger?”

“You know who I am.”

“Ah,
sí.
You are a lawmaker from Texas. You say.”

“I am foremost a father. And my daughter needs your help. If—”

“Is she pretty, your daughter?” A leer and a flare of nostrils accompanied the question.

“She's spoken for.” The thought of any daughter of his dallying with this desperado—why, Gil McLoughlin would gut the son of a bitch before he could cry for mercy.
Calm down.
“If you should remember
anything,
I'll make it worth your while.” He swept his eyes across the Mexicans and their empty bandoliers. “Rebellion, Eagle, takes guns and ammunition. I can provide money for them.”

“I am not a revolutionary.” The cigar stuck between his teeth, he squinted past the curl of smoke. “I am a simple man of the land, happy here with my cattle and dogs and women.”

“If the simple man takes on a complex memory, you let me know. My friend and I will be at the cantina in town. But not for long.”

“You have my answer,
gringo.”

Apparently Gil did have the Eagle's answer. Gil and Sam had been hanging around the cantina for two days. And there was no way to get fast word to San Antonio. Some rebels had cut the telegraph lines.

Gil tossed down the last of his tequila. “If we're gonna make train connections for San Antonio in El Paso, we'd better get riding.”

 

 

In the aftermath of hearing that the judge wouldn't grant a delay, Charity cajoled Hawk into an interlude in her suite. “I just want to talk,” she pleaded. Margaret, understanding, took her nightclothes and sneaked down to Eleanor's quarters.

“Would you like a drink?” Charity asked Hawk when they were alone together, with only one lamp lighting the sitting room. “
I
would.”

“I'll fix them.”

He pushed a path to the liquor cabinet. She followed. After pouring two snifters of cognac, he handed her one, his gaze falling to the floor. Sipping, he leaned a shoulder against the wall. There was an air of tension between them, and Charity didn't have to ask herself why.

He said, “Now that the Old One is doing better, I hope your mother will be able to attend the trial.”

How could Charity tell him that she didn't want her mother in court when the final verdict was read? “Mutti won't be here. I sent a telegram, telling her to stay home. Karl and Jaime and Maisie need her more than I do. I have you and Margaret and Eleanor here, you know. Speaking of telegrams, I wonder why we haven't heard from Papa and Sam. They said they'd send word.”

“The lines could be down.”

Small comfort.

Charity placed her glass on a table. “I don't want a drink and I don't want to chat. I want you. I want what we had in Uvalde. And atop Firestorm. And in my room at home. And I don't want you to be careful, like you were at the stock pond.” It wasn't raging passion that spiraled through her; she needed the solace and comfort of their lovemaking. “I want all of you, Hawk. All of you.”

In his eyes she saw the war he fought, wanting her with the same intensity yet needing to protect her from all sorts of harms. She crossed to him and lifted her fingers to stroke his jaw. A tremor of desire quaked against her palm. Lamplight clarified the look in his dark eyes—she saw in them his own need for solace.

She arched against his solid form. “I'm no angel,” she whispered, reaching on tiptoes to feather her lips across his. “I have been weeks without being held in your arms. And I can stand it no longer.”

His hand settled at her waist. “We shouldn't.”

She laughed low in her throat. “Good gravy, Hawk, what's the difference now?”
Don't let him know your deepest fears.
“My troubles will be over soon.”
One way or another.
“Kiss me.” Her fingers clamped his slim buttocks, her ankle twining behind his leg. “Or I shall have to proceed with ravishing you.”

“You would, wouldn't you?”

Her passions igniting to a conflagration, she answered with a husky whisper. “I'll do anything—
anything
—to make you happy. I want to make us both happy.”

“How did I ever live without you?” He pulled her tightly against him, his mouth slanting over hers. “But this is probably the stupidest thing the two of us have ever done.”

“We haven't done it yet,” she teased. “But I think we should tarry not another minute.”

With a growl of primal need he lifted her into his arms, carried her into the sleeping chamber, and settled her on the bed. He helped with her clothes, her breasts spilling into his hands. Leaning to take one erect nipple into his mouth, he wound his fingers into the hair near her scalp. Desperation painted his actions as his loving caress stole downward to further ignite the fires of need and want.

Whispering words of love, he caressed her with deft fingers, until she begged him to give her all of himself.

He straightened; he tugged at his clothes. Soon he was standing naked—her naked savage. Her Indian, his bronzed form limned in the moonlight filtering through the windows. The glint of silver on his chest caught her eye.

“I haven't seen your neckchain in a long time.” Her gaze traveled to his. “I'm sorry I made you take it back. How cruel I was, tossing your gift in your face.”

He lifted the turquoise-studded chain over his head; he bent to place it around her neck, his touch stilling on her throat. “It hurt when you returned my gift. But I knew you'd someday wear my totem again. That made your anger easier to accept. Eventually.”

“You never lost faith in me?”

“Angel, sometimes I wavered. But I never lost faith.” She felt his smile. “Did you know the turquoise matches your eye color?”

“No.” She fingered the flesh-heated stones. “Do you really think so?”

“Have faith in your beauty, my Charity. Have faith in yourself. And in me.” He slid onto the sheets and pulled her to him. “Wear my totem. Know that you have my love. And that we'll have many years of love between us.”

A tear welled. She closed her eyes and it spilled down her face. Never could she remember shedding a tear. “I will wear your totem till the day I die.”

 

 

Morning.

Reality.

Hawk left before dawn, and Charity took breakfast in her suite on this, the fifteenth of December. She ate little, though Margaret insisted she needed her strength for observing the jury selection. She did, however, drink enough coffee to send her nerves ajitter. As if they weren't already.

When she and Hawk were making love, it had been easy enough to forget the outside world. Two in love—bodily and spiritually—could drown in the ecstacy of the moment.

One had to face facts in the light of day. She trusted Hawk with all her heart, but if they didn't get a break in her case and soon, no one—not even Hawk—could keep her from the gallows.

She wilted onto the edge of the bed, dropping her face into her hands. What would it do to Hawk; her execution?

Oh, this was no good. If he saw her like this, Hawk would be devastated. Furthermore, there was still hope. Papa and Sam could bring good news. And Ian just might be guilty of murder, and he might slip up, yet.

Margaret called into the room, “Eleanor dropped by. She's collected Karl's boxes. Said she'll meet us at the courthouse. Hawk did, too. Listen, you need to hurry. Or we'll be late.”

Charity hurried. She was sure to dress in conservative attire. As she slipped on kid gloves, Margaret popped her head in the open doorway. “Triplet, uh, well, I know you don't want to see him, but–”

“Of course I want to see Hawk.”

“I'm not talking about Hawk. It's—”

Charity gasped. “Ian?”

“Would you hush? There's a reporter in the corridor. He won't hear of not speaking with you.”

Charity, furrowing her brow, waved a hand dismissively The last thing she wanted was to face the fourth estate. “Tell him you're me. Tell him anything.”

“He knows I'm Margaret. I can't hold him at bay forever. He says you'll want to hear what he has to say.”

“Aren't reporters supposed to listen, not talk?”

“Maybe he has information that will help you, Triplet.”

“All right. I'll see him.”

Charity brushed the bodice of her simple brown frock, borrowed from Margaret, and lifted her chin. She marched to the door. Not inviting the reporter in, she stepped out into the hallway.

Tall and lanky, the well-dressed man who stood in the corridor was boyish looking, though Charity guessed his age at forty, owing to the gray fringe of hair that curled at his ears. He had flashing, intelligent blue eyes, not to mention dimples.

“Hi there, Miss McLoughlin. I'm Jay Rogers. San Antonio
Express.”
Quick as a blink, he pulled a tablet and pencil from his pocket. He licked the pencil tip. “What is your reaction to the news that Mrs. Antoinette Keller has been arrested for the murder of your primary witness, Mrs. Karl Keller?”

Good Lord.
“I—I didn't know that had occurred.”

“Earlier this morning. Antoinette Keller confessed.”

Ian didn't do it?
“Are you certain she confessed?”

“Yes, ma'am. Story goes the ladies got in a scuffle over Karl Keller's affections. His wife pulled a stiletto, but the French lady had a derringer on her person. Any comment?”

“I, uh, I—I'm pleased the case is solved.”

Jay Rogers fell to more questions; Charity gave cursory replies. Her head throbbed. So Ian wasn't guilty—now what?

Even if her father and Sam Washburn showed up with the Eagle in tow, there were no guarantees that the man had knowledge of Adriano Gonzáles's activities.

Her final hope had died with Maria Sara.

What about Ian's “marriage” scheme?
It seemed too foolish even to consider. Besides, any time she'd had any dealings with him, the results had been disastrous. Nevertheless, should she mention Ian's designs to Hawk?
Ha!
He would skin Ian alive, and then where would they be? No, it was better to say nothing about Ian's plan to free her.

But what could she do to help Hawk and herself?
I am trouble he doesn't need.
Hawk needed to return to his people and to his work in Washington. Should she somehow get her freedom, his credibility would suffer if he took a wife with a shadowy past.

Having a daughter of dubious repute had already tarnished her papa's reputation, she thought, reflecting on Campbell Blyer's malicious campaigning for her father's Senate seat. A man of the people—and certainly Hawk would be that again—needed a spotless reputation.

What choice did she have?

Whether she lived or died, Hawk deserved better than what she had to offer. Somehow, someway she must damage herself in his eyes so that he wouldn't mourn her loss. Then Hawk would be free. And he could go on with his life—with few regrets.