Magnificent Passage (21 page)

Hawk strode quickly across the camp to kneel beside the weeping girl. Carefully he drew the weapon from her hands, then pulled her into his arms. She felt no more than a wisp as he carried her away from the bloody scene. He spoke soothing words of assurance and tightened his hold, wishing he had the power to erase the terrible memories. In the moonlight he could see tears glistening on her cheeks, and it tore at his heart.

“You're all right, little one. You don't have to be afraid. I'm with you,” he soothed. “Everything's all right. You're safe now.” He let her cry softly against his shoulder for a while, then lifted the hem of his buckskin shirt. “Here. Dry your tears. They can't hurt you anymore.” He clenched his teeth and added beneath his breath, “No one's ever going to hurt you again.”

Mandy clutched Hawk tighter, her arms circling his thick neck. She felt surrounded by his powerful presence—
safe at last. She ran her hand down the length of his tanned arm just to assure herself he was really there and felt his muscles ripple at her touch.

“I knew you would come for me,” she whispered, her trembling controlled by his nearness. “Somehow I just knew.”

Hawk pressed his lips to the girl's forehead, then lightly kissed her tear-stained cheek. She knew he would come, he scoffed. Nothing, no one, could have kept him from coming. The magnitude of her power came swift and hard, appalling in its enormity. He thought of the stories he'd read, the hearts she'd broken, her fiancé back at the fort.

“I promised your father I'd bring you home,” he said. “I couldn't disappoint him, could I?”

Mandy stiffened slightly. Of course he would come. She had never really doubted it—but not for her sake. For the money her uncle had promised. Fresh tears welled, this time for the loss she suddenly felt. Still, she clung to his muscular neck. She needed his comfort no matter how grudgingly he gave it.

Feeling a wet stickiness where her leg touched his body, she noticed the blood for the first time.

“You're hurt!” she cried, lightly touching the wound in his side with her fingers. “Please, put me down, Hawk. I can walk now. Why didn't you tell me? Let me take a look at it.”

“I'll be all right. But I think we'd better find a place to spend the night. I'm afraid I'm losing more blood than I thought.” Reluctantly, he released his hold. He noticed the worry distorting her lovely features as she put her own distress aside, slipped an arm under his shoulder, and helped
him onto his horse. Then she dashed back to retrieve a torn petticoat to use for bandages.

She climbed up behind him in chemise and pantalets, unrolled a blanket from behind the saddle, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I rather liked you the way you were,” he teased, reflecting on ivory calves and a rounded, creamy bosom. Chiding himself for his thoughts, he felt little better than the animals who'd tried to take her. A sudden swelling in his breeches as she wrapped her arms around his waist to steady herself made him groan. How could his body be reacting this way at a time like this?

“There's a little cabin about half an hour's ride up ahead,” he told her. I passed it on the way in. It's not much, but at least it's a place to spend the night. I'm afraid the bullet's still in there. You'll have to help me get it out.” He made the statement flatly, leaving no room for argument.

Mandy nodded, hoping the wound wasn't as bad as it appeared. She could feel the blood oozing through the makeshift bandages, dripping down onto her fingers where they pressed against his narrow waist. She prayed nothing would happen to the big man she cared so much about, even if he didn't feel the same way about her.

He swayed in the saddle, so she kept her arms wrapped protectively around him. He turned the roan and headed for the safety of the cabin.

Lying in the pool of blood beside the dying fire, Max Gutterman opened his one good eye. He could feel the blood
seeping into his navel, congealing around the wound in his chest. Somehow, some way, he'd survive. If it was the last thing he ever did, he'd find the white Indian—and the woman—and make them pay.

T
oward the end of the ride, Hawk rode slumped over the horn. Mandy struggled just to keep him in the saddle. She fought down her rising fears and kept her mind on guiding the roan in the direction Hawk had told her. When she came up on the cabin at last, she was relieved to see that, though abandoned, it appeared to have a sturdy roof and a chimney still intact. The evenings were becoming colder as autumn approached. Mandy could feel Hawk shiver from the chill and his loss of blood. Sliding to her feet, she helped him down, trying not to notice the feel of his muscular arms around her shoulders, or the heat of his body pressed so close.

Together they made their way into the cabin. The place looked as though it had been deserted for some time; dust and insects scattered as they opened the door. Mandy made a bed for Hawk on the earthen floor in front of the hearth and tried to see to his comfort. Then, searching the grounds nearby, she gathered some wood and made a fire. Soon the chill was gone from the room, though Hawk continued to shiver.

“It's time we took care of this bullet, little one. The sooner it's out, the better off we'll both be. Probe for it with
your fingers, but if you can't reach it . . . ” With an unsteady hand, he freed his knife from his belt.

“Stick the blade in the fire and get that pint of whiskey out of my saddlebag.”

Silently, Mandy obeyed. When she returned with the whiskey, she used the knife to open his soft buckskin shirt, then stuck the blade into the flames. At first her gaze remained fixed on the wound. She'd helped tend a few injuries at the fort when the doctor was away, but never by herself, and never one as serious as this might be. She gently washed away as much of the blood as possible with water from Hawk's canteen, hoping to get a better look. Her hand trembled slightly as she moved the wet rag across his bare skin. She tried not to notice the corded muscles, tensed in anticipation, and the soft, sandy mat of hair that covered his wide chest.

Grimly, she waited while Hawk downed the whiskey, hoping it would dull the pain.

“Well, little one, are you ready?”

“Maybe I should try to make it back to town and bring help,” she said, beginning to panic. “I've never done anything like this before. I might kill you.”

“Just calm down. I doubt you could find your way back even if we had the time to spare, which we don't. I'll guide you through this.” His eyes searched hers, trying to lend her some of the little strength he had left.

“Just trust me, okay?”

She knew he was right. She would have to do it or he would probably die. Setting her fears aside and getting herself back in control, she dug her fingers into the wound, trying her best to locate the slug. The opening was too small.
The bullet must have changed trajectory. Maybe it bounced off a rib after it entered Hawk's body. Unwillingly, she gripped the handle of the knife and pulled it from the cleansing heat of the fire.

“Open the wound enough to try again for the bullet,” Hawk instructed. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead.

“Hand me that stick of wood by your foot.”

Mandy obeyed. Hawk bit down hard on the soft piece of wood, and Mandy steadied herself. She touched the knife. It had cooled enough to begin. The sickening feel of the blade slicing through flesh made the bile rise in her throat.

Using two fingers this time, she probed deeper into the wound. Again and again she tried without success. Hawk bit harder on the wood and closed his eyes. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. Then, mercifully, he lost consciousness.

Mandy touched something solid at last. She reached into the wound and plucked the offending lead from its recess beneath a rib. She reheated the knife, cauterized the wound as best she could, then bandaged it with scraps from her torn petticoat.

She removed the stick, pulled the blanket up, then bathed the perspiration from Hawk's face with a little water from the canteen. Satisfied she'd done all she could, she lay down to rest, falling into an exhausted slumber by Hawk's side.

Several hours later, she woke to find him shaking with fever and mumbling incoherently.

“Wishana . . . Wishana,” he called. He said the word with such yearning it soon became apparent this was a woman, and from the sound of it, not a mother or sister.

She remembered that first night away from the fort. He'd been dreaming of his past that night too. He'd mentioned the name Strong Arrow and someone called Running Wolf.

“Wishana,” he whispered again, then began mumbling in Cheyenne.

Jealousy seared her like the white-hot knife she'd just used. How could she be jealous of a woman she'd never met, never even heard of before? But she was. It galled her that the name could affect her so and at the same time make her overwhelmingly curious.

“Wishana, my . . . lovely . . . one,” he mumbled.

The words twisted like a dagger in her heart. Feeling him shiver again, she forced herself to move closer, molding her body to his and pulling the covers higher, trying to give him the extra warmth he needed.

Sensing her presence, Hawk moved, still calling the lyrical name. One hand sought the swell of Mandy's breast, and she felt her pulse quicken. Then exhaustion took its toll, and the hand dropped harmlessly to his side. Mandy relaxed, unsure whether to be offended at the intimate touch meant for another woman, or sorry he hadn't the strength to continue. Drifting off to a fitful sleep, she wondered again who the lovely woman could be who had stolen Hawk's heart.

Morning found him much improved. His fever had broken sometime before dawn, though he continued to sleep. Mandy rose and found coffee in his saddlebags. She also found the pair of men's breeches Julia had persuaded her to bring. Hawk must have found the clothing in her satchel and brought them just in case. She climbed into the breeches and donned a loose shirt, which she tied into a knot at her waist.
Mandy felt the heat rise to her cheeks. The trousers were revealing in a manner she'd never experienced.

Dragging Hawk's heavy .44 caliber from its holster, Mandy headed for the door, determined to bring back fresh game to help speed his recovery. Once outside, some of her old confidence returned. It felt good to be outdoors again, free again. Her father had spent hours teaching her the fine art of shooting, though usually at targets. He'd been determined to see that she could defend herself.

After a few near-misses she bagged a small rabbit, skinned it, and found a few wild onions. The clothing heightened her sense of freedom, and she reveled in it. The breeze lifted her hair, left loose and falling to her waist, and, except for her worries about Hawk, Mandy had never felt better. She knew something was happening to her out here on her own. Her strength, her self-assurance, the wonderful sense of independence she used to have were all coming back to her. She felt like her old self again—only better. Now she felt like a woman. She thought of the big man lying on the floor of the cabin, the heat of his kisses, the touch of his hand on her breast. Well, maybe not fully a woman—yet.

Back at the cabin, she rummaged through the dusty cupboards until she discovered a kettle big enough to hold a stew. The smell of it simmering over the coals roused Hawk from his slumber.

“Ummm, that smells good,” he commented groggily, his voice barely audible. “What is it?”

Relief swept through her at the sound of his voice. “Rabbit stew,” she said, grinning proudly. She was inordinately pleased by her accomplishments—both the rabbit and
Hawk's recovery. “I know you must be starved. She moved toward him and knelt by his side. “It's good to have you back,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?” Her eyes searched for signs of pain.