Nightway (6 page)

“Why is he so quiet, Daddy?” The little girl twisted around on Rawlins’ lap to look up into his face.

“Why do you talk so much?” was his teasing response.

She giggled. “Maybe the cat’s got his tongue.”

“I doubt it. Unlike you, he probably doesn’t talk unless he has something important to say.” Rawlins tapped a finger on the button nose of the girl.

“Where’s your mommy and daddy?” An unblinking pair of green eyes was fixed on Hawk.

“He’s an orphan, Carol.” Hawk’s gaze darted swiftly to the man holding the girl and answering the question for him. “He doesn’t have a mommy and daddy anymore. They went away.” The explanation confirmed what Hawk had suspected. His father was still his father, but not in the same way anymore.

“Doesn’t he have
anybody?”
The little girl’s eyes rounded into limpid green pools.

“I am alone,” Hawk answered truthfully. It wasn’t said in an attempt to solicit sympathy. It was a statement of fact—nothing more.

“Where do you live?” His answer prompted another question from her.

“He’s going to be living with us,” her father explained.

“Yes, but first, Tom Rawlins,” the woman inserted, “you are going to see that the boy is cleaned up. I
wouldn’t be surprised if he is infested with lice. Where are the clothes he brought? I’ll need to wash them, too—and the ones he’s wearing.”

“You’re right, Vera,” the man sighed, as if he were reluctant to agree. “His things are wrapped in that blanket on the porch. He’ll need something to wear in the meantime.”

“Katheryn left a box of old clothes that Chad has outgrown. She brought them over last week so I could take them to the Women’s Club at church. We’re sending them to a missionary in South America to distribute to the needy. There should be something in the box of clothes to fit the boy.”

Setting the little girl down from his lap, the man rose. “Come on, Hawk. We’ll get your head shampooed first; then you can take a bath.”

There was a grim resignation in the man’s face when he motioned Hawk toward the porch. Hawk found it strange because he understood all about the crawling lice. Once they were so bad in Crooked Leg’s hogan that he and his family had to abandon it and build another.

“She soaped my hair again and again and took the blankets outside every day for the sun to kill them.” Hawk explained the ritual that had been part of his life—and that of many other hogans, as well. “It was the only way to keep them away. Sometimes they came, anyway.”

Rawlins looked disgusted as he turned on the water. “You won’t find any lice in this house.”

Hawk thought they were very fortunate, indeed, but he wasn’t able to say so as his head was pushed under the running water. After his hair was shampooed, he was taken to a small room beyond the kitchen where there was a long white tub standing on four feet that looked like a cougar’s claws. It was what his father had
once described as a bathtub. Rawlins let water run into it. With instructions to put on the clean clothes folded in a stack on a table hooked to the wall after Hawk had finished his bath, Rawlins left him alone.

Because of the scarcity of water, baths had always been a luxury for Hawk. Perhaps here there was a limitless supply of the precious liquid. Hawk washed very slowly, enjoying this rare opportunity to the fullest. After his bath, he put on the clothes. They were loose on him, but they were clean and smelled good.

When he came out, he helped Rawlins carry boxes from a small storage room and install a narrow bed and a chest of drawers in the vacated space. He was told this was the room where he would sleep.

There was much to observe, much that was new to him, and strange. He was instructed in how to clean his teeth and shown how to use oil to tame the springy thickness of his hair, combing it to one side the way it wanted to go. That night, he was given a different set of clothes to sleep in, called pajamas, confirming what the teachers at school had taught, yet contrary to the habits of his father.

Hawk didn’t sleep well. There were too many sounds that weren’t natural to him. The minute the sun peeked in his window the next morning, he was up and dressed. Once he left his room, there was very little light to show him the way, but he didn’t turn on any of the electric switches.

Making his way onto the porch, Hawk searched through the coats hanging on the wall hooks looking for his own. Behind him, the kitchen was suddenly flooded with light. Startled, Hawk turned sharply to face the door and accidentally knocked over a boot.

“Who’s out there?” There was a thread of fear in the imperious demand made by the woman. Before Hawk could answer and identify himself, she was in the
doorway glaring at him. “What are you doing sneaking around at this hour?”

“What is it, Vera? Who are you talking to?” The man, Rawlins, walked up behind the woman and saw Hawk on the porch, unconsciously looking guilty. “Where were you going, Hawk?” the man demanded.

“Hunger and thirst will be killing my horse. I must feed it and bring it water before the school bus comes.” However, he wasn’t at all certain that the school bus would know where to pick him up since he had left his home.

“Don’t worry about your horse. Luther will feed and water it when he grains the others,” Rawlins told him. “As for school, it’s closed for the holidays. Besides, you won’t be going to the Reservation school anymore. You’ll be transferring to another school that’s closer to us. You might as well come in the kitchen. Vera will be starting breakfast.”

The woman turned away from the opening and disappeared into the room, yet Hawk hesitated. “Are there not things I should do?” he asked uncertainly.

“Things?” Rawlins frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It was my work to cut wood for the fire, carry water, and help my mother in the cornfield.” None of which needed to be done here, since water ran from pipes in the house, heat came from a stove that burned oil, and there was no sign of any garden.

“I see.” Rawlins paused to take a deep breath, then smiled. “You’ll have chores here, too. I’ll be checking the cattle after breakfast. You can come with me.”

The ranch and its way of life was alien to Hawk. There was so little that was familiar to him that he often felt lost and forsaken. Yet his father wanted him to learn of these things, so he accepted the strangeness of it all.

Tom Rawlins gave Hawk his first glimpse of what being a cowboy entailed. The first day he merely observed what was going on around him. The second day he began asking questions.

“Who owns all these cattle?” He gestured to the herd with the Flying F brand on their hips. Their heads were down, feeding on the hay the cowboys had thrown to them from the wagon. Its color was gold against the dirty snow.

Rawlins hesitated an instant. “Mr. Faulkner owns them.”

The confirmation that they did belong to his father merely raised another question. “Everyone comes to you to find out what should be done. You give the orders. Why doesn’t he if these animals are his?”

“Because he hired me to take care of them. I am what is known as a foreman, which means I’m in charge.”

A cowboy called to Rawlins, ending the question
period. But Hawk realized that Rawlins was an important man, much respected by the others.

On the morning of the third day, Rawlins sent Hawk to the house with a message. “Tell Vera I have to be in town early this afternoon and ask her to have lunch ready by eleven-thirty.”

When Hawk got to the back porch, he heard voices coming from the room they called the living room. One voice he recognized as belonging to the woman, Vera, although its shrill pitch was muted by a respectful tone. It was the sound of the second voice, soft and pure like the night cry of the owl, that lured Hawk toward the room.

Their talking had evidently covered the sound of the porch door opening and closing, because his presence went unnoticed when he paused in the opening to the room. He stared at the strange woman seated on the long sofa, slim and supple, her hands moving with the flowing grace of a willow in the breeze. Her hair was the color of a newborn fawn, blown away from her face to fall in long waves around her shoulders. Smooth and shiny, her face held the golden hint of the sun, and her lips were as red as the Vermillion Cliffs. She wore a white, bulky sweater that encircled her neck; but, most astonishing of all, she had on a pair of men’s trousers. Hawk was so fascinated by this white woman that he barely noticed the tall boy seated next to her.

“J. B. is convinced there is going to be another land boom in Phoenix,” the woman was saying. “Can you imagine? The place is an inferno in the summer, although I admit, in the winter it’s practically heaven there. Anyway, he’s talking about buying up land there—maybe even building a home and spending the winters in Phoenix. He’s talking about going there this week to look over the prospects.” Her teeth were so
white against the red of her lips that Hawk watched the movement of her mouth with increasing interest.

“Is he actually serious?” Vera Rawlins questioned.

“He seems to be. The ranch has always been our home, but you know how bleak and lonely it is in the winter—snowbound sometimes for days, with no outside entertainment. In Phoenix, we could go out for dinner and dancing. Why, it would almost be like it was when J. B. and I were dating.” A smile started to spread across her face, then stopped as she finally noticed Hawk in the doorway. Her lips came together, something hardening their curved line.

The sudden change in her expression turned Vera Rawlins in her chair. Her lips thinned and disappeared when she saw Hawk. “How many times have I told you not to go sneaking around?”

As always, the question confused Hawk. She was constantly accusing him of sneaking up on her whenever she failed to hear him approach, which was most of the time. Yet he walked normally, making no attempt to stalk her.

“Is this the
orphaned
half-breed you and Tom have taken in?” The woman stressed the word.

“Yes … yes, it is.” Vera appeared embarrassed by the admission.

“Come closer so I can see what you look like.” The woman motioned for Hawk to approach her.

Even as he obeyed the order, he sensed a change in the air, as if invisible tongues of lightning were dancing all around him. He stopped in front of her, looking down to gaze into her brown eyes, flecked with gold. Across the room, he had thought they held the warm glint of the sun, but up close they held the anger of lightning. Their inspection burned him.

When Hawk breathed in, he caught her scent. “You
smell like a hillside of wildflowers,” he murmured in awe.

“What is your name?” she questioned, ignoring his compliment.

“Hawk.” When her gaze narrowed with displeasure, he gave her the rest of his name so she wouldn’t look at him that way. “Jim Blue Hawk.”

“Who gave you that name?” she demanded.

“I took it myself.” He would have explained how it had happened, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Do you have another name?”

“Yes.” Hawk nodded.

“What is it?”

He hesitated. Perhaps by telling her his secret name, the stiffness would leave her mouth and the sunlight would come back to her eyes if he gave her that power over him. He took the chance.

“The-One-Who-Must-Walk-Two-Paths.”

“But you are called Hawk.” She didn’t seem to understand the knowledge he had given her. “My name is Katheryn Faulkner. My husband owns this ranch. Did you know that?” Hawk shook his head. He hadn’t known this woman was his father’s first wife. “Do you know what the name Faulkner means?”

Again he shook his head. “No.”

“It means ‘a trainer of hawks or falcons.’ I find that quite a coincidence, don’t you?” The tightness in her voice made it sound angry. It was a question that Hawk wasn’t expected to answer as she turned to the boy sitting beside her. “This is my son, Chad Faulkner.”

He saw the way her face grew soft with pride and warmth when she looked at the other boy. He wished she would look at him that way.

Hawk turned his head to look at his half-brother. He was older than Hawk by four years or so, and several
inches taller. His hair was a darker brown than his mother’s, but his eyes were the same brown color as hers. Little Carol was sitting on the other side of him, using his knee as a table to rest her coloring book on. Chad Faulkner studied Hawk with a mild curiosity, appearing distantly amused by the situation.

“Hello,” he said with feigned disinterest. “What are you doing here?”

The question reminded Hawk of the reason he had been sent to the house. Turning to Vera Rawlins, he related the message he was supposed to deliver.

“He said he had to go into town this afternoon and asked to have lunch at eleven-thirty.”

“Who said?” she demanded. And she murmured in an aside to the woman, “I have the hardest time making him refer to people by name.” Her attention was returned to Hawk. “Do you mean Mr. Rawlins?”

“Yes. Mr. Rawlins said it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hawk saw his father’s wife push back the knitted cuff of her sweater, revealing a slim, gold watch.

“If you have to fix an early lunch, Vera, we should be leaving.” She stood up and moved past Hawk, taking care not to touch him.

“Don’t go,” Carol protested when the knee supporting her coloring book was withdrawn. “I haven’t finished coloring this picture for Chad.”

“Bring it over to the house this afternoon.” Chad stroked a hand over the girl’s golden curls with an indulgent affection. “Maybe we’ll build a snowman.”

“Can we?” The little girl’s face lit up with adoration and excitement, as if she had just been promised the most wondrous thing.

“Chad, you spoil her so,” Vera Rawlins sighed, but Hawk had never seen her look so happy and contented.

Standing apart from them, Hawk watched his father’s
wife put on a heavy parka with a fur collar, listened to the warmth of her voice when she thanked Vera for the coffee and said good-bye, and heard the front door close. Vera hurried to the kitchen to begin preparing the noon meal, leaving Hawk alone and forgotten in the living room. The fresh, sweet smell of the woman lingered in the room. Hawk felt an ache of loneliness.