Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (16 page)

      
Mrs. Thorndyke stiffened her back, trying in vain to become taller. Carrie had a good two inches on her. Glaring up into those glacial green eyes, she hissed, “You just try it, missey, you just try it! Mr. Noah'll never let you get away with it.”

      
Again Carrie smiled, easing over to the bar where several pieces of sterling flatware lay. She picked up a heavy, long-handled spoon and hefted it measuringly in her hand. “My husband has always been very generous to me. I have a beautiful home, furs, gowns, jewels, any pretty bauble I want. If some valuable items from the household turned up missing, he'd never blame me. I have no earthly reason to steal.” Now Carrie's facial expression changed from an insipid smile to a no-nonsense glare. “But you, my dear Mathilda, are not so well taken care of. What if you were trying to, er, put aside a bit for your retirement? And what if I went to Noah and told him I caught you filching the seldom-used pieces of the sterling set? I could even hide some of them in your room. You can't guard it every minute, can you?”

      
Mrs. Thorndyke's face was chalky-white now. In complete shock, she found all her rage fled, replaced by amazed fear. This little nobody might actually cause her to lose her job! Who would ever have dreamed she could be so clever or so ruthless?

      
Carrie could not believe her own actions. However, seeing the effect her desperate little ploy had on the old harridan, she felt a small surge of exhilaration. “I think we understand one another from here on. You do your job without browbeating the staff and I'll leave you alone. Agreed?”

      
When Mrs. Thorndyke nodded in waxen-faced resignation, Carrie turned and stalked from the room. Score: the witch zero, the redhead ten.

* * * *

      
Carrie had a dress fitting with the seamstress in Miles City, which called for an overnight trip into town. Noah had informed her several weeks previously of an elaborate dinner dance on the first of September. She had ordered a gown appropriate to her station as the wife of a cattle baron. This was no ordinary party, but a gala political affair, with the territorial governor, several railroad magnates from Chicago, and other dignitaries. Carrie had been instructed to spare no expense.

      
As she prepared for the trip to town, Carrie thought ruefully of how she derived so little pleasure from all her sumptuously elegant clothing. When she had been a young girl at the Patterson’s, she was constantly envious of her cousin Charity's endless array of lovely gowns.

      
What do clothes matter when your life's in shambles?
she mused, steeling herself for the ride to Miles City that morning. Frank was escorting her since Noah was away on a trip to Wyoming Territory. Her husband's absence sat well with her, but Hawk's offhand announcement yesterday did not. He would be joining them on their trip to town. He had some unspecified business to take care of. Probably at the local bordello, she sniffed testily to herself as she smoothed and checked her silk shirt and full riding pants for the hundredth time.

      
Her image in the mirror was continuously a surprise. The face staring back at her still had huge dark green eyes framed by flaming hair, but the once porcelain-pale skin was now a dark golden tan, generously dusted with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Her hair, lightened from her frequent rides in the hot Montana sun, was tied back with a brown ribbon and fell carelessly to her waist in a riot of curls. Her figure, too, seemed to have bloomed under the big Montana sky. Her muscles were firm and supple from hours a day spent riding, working in the gardens, and helping in the kitchen. The active outdoor life seemed to agree with her.

      
Yet appearances were deceiving. In her yellow silk blouse and brown linen skirts, she looked a competent western woman, confident and serene. Who could sense the inner turmoil and desperate unhappiness that plagued her life? Forcing such thoughts aside, she scooped up a flat-crowned brown hat and walked downstairs.

      
As soon as she led Taffy Girl outside the stable she saw Hawk. As if sensing her presence, he turned from conversation with Frank. The blinding white slash of his smile made his face even more startlingly handsome.

      
“Morning, Carrie. Sleep well last night?”

She nodded, angry that his comment subtly hinted at Noah's absence from the ranch. He seemed to sense how she shrank from her husband's touch and knew she had not reacted that way to him.

      
She ignored Hawk and began to mount. Before she could swing into the saddle, he was there, his hands on her waist, lifting her up, his breath warm on her neck as he murmured low, “All butter 'n' honey again, I see. Yellow looks even better on you now with your skin kissed by the sun.”

      
Without acknowledging his compliment, she kneed Taffy and took off, not waiting for him or Frank. They would quickly catch up to her.

      
His eyes never leaving the woman riding ahead of him, Hawk ambled over to Redskin and swung up. He could still see the open throat of her shirt, revealing the swell of golden breasts, the silk molding to her slim frame. He had fought down an insane urge to grab fistfuls of that flaming hair and press it to his face and lips, like capturing the sun. He snorted in self-derision. “Likely to get burned that way, half-breed.” He recalled her scathing epithets at the lake two weeks ago.

      
The ride to town was quiet, with Frank and Carrie chatting a bit. Hawk added little to the conversation. When the sun was high, Frank scanned the horizon for the familiar landmark of a stand of willows by the meandering bank of the Tongue River. Finding it, he indicated it was a good spot to stop for lunch.

      
As Carrie unpacked the lavish picnic Feliz had prepared, Hawk watered the horses and Frank talked about his overnight outing in town, a rare treat for him.

      
“Yessiree, I plan ta belly up to th' bar in th' Gray Mule Saloon fer th' night. They got them some good card games 'n' whiskey so strong it'll peel th' top layer of’n yore toenails. Good stuff. Grr...” He shook his head and laughed as Carrie grimaced in mock horror.

      
Hawk observed the warm camaraderie between the old man and the girl. Frank Lowery, like Kyle Hunnicut, was a shrewd judge of character and did not give his friendship easily. What was it about her that won them all so handily? More than just her beauty obviously. He watched her tease and laugh with Frank and realized how readily she had adapted to what must have been an alien world. Lord knew Lola never had done so, never even tried.

      
As soon as they got to town, Frank stopped at Cummins's General Store, where he had to place a substantial order for supplies. Hawk mentioned he was going to the land office without explaining the nature of his business, but gallantly told Frank he would first see Carrie to Mrs. Grummond's across the street.

      
As soon as she was greeted by the plump, prim dressmaker, Carrie could see the woman looking over her shoulder at Hawk's retreating form, a stern frown of disapproval written across her broad, plain features.
She dislikes him.
Because he's part Cheyenne?
Carrie let the question drop, deciding that even without the onus of being a half-breed, Hawk could be irritating enough in his own right to infuriate a saint.

      
The fittings took only an hour, and when she was done Carrie thanked Mrs. Grummond and left the shop, heading toward the general store. She needed to order another crystal candlestick. Thinking about the way Mrs. Thorndyke scurried to avoid her now, Carrie knew she had at least one thing to smile about.

      
When she entered the dim, overcrowded interior of Cummins's General Store, she was surprised to hear Hawk in conversation with Kitty Cummins, the owner's pretty daughter. The voluptuous brunette was flirting outrageously with him, standing alongside his tall frame and looking up at him with her huge china-blue eyes. They were back in an alcove away from the door and had not heard her enter.

      
“Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,” Carrie muttered low as she glanced around looking for Mr. Cummins, who was nowhere in sight. Assuming he was out back attending to Frank's order, she wandered over to the catalogues. Carrie was hidden from view by the tall bolts of cloth in the center of the room, but could clearly hear Hawk and Kitty. Obviously they were unaware of her presence.

      
“Meet me tonight, Hawk, out behind the supply shed after sunset. Papa and Mama are going to be over at the Jordans'. They won't be home until late.” Her voice was wheedling and suggestive, whispering, as if she were speaking while her mouth was muffled.

      
Carrie peeked unrepentantly between two bolts of calico and saw what Kitty was doing. She was in his arms, running her mouth and hands all over his face, chest, everywhere! They may have thought themselves hidden from the front door, but anyone coming in the side would see them at once.

      
He stopped her playful seduction abruptly, holding her busy little hands in his. “I thought you were engaged to Thad Wallace, Kitty. That off now?”

      
She made a pout. “Worse luck, no. His dad owns the bank, and my parents are making me marry him. Oh, Hawk, he's fat and nearsighted and has the most awful nervous laugh.”

      
“But for Miles City Savings, you'll bear him, huh?” He chuckled cynically.

      
“Oh, come on, you used to—”

      
Kitty's stage whisper was cut short by the ring of spurs and tromp of booted footsteps on the back stairs. Mr. Cummins and Frank came in before the assignation was arranged. Later, Carrie was to wonder if it ever took place. Kitty quickly stepped back, and Hawk lounged indolently against the counter.

      
Mr. Cummins's reaction to Hawk was no more friendly than Mrs. Grummond's had been. “Oh, it's you, Sinclair. What can I do for you?” He turned his stern glare on his daughter. “Kitty, your ma needs you over at the house to help with supper. I'll tend to the store now.” Sulking, the girl left.

      
“Give me a couple of boxes of .44 shells, Cy, if you please.” Tossing his money carelessly on the countertop, Hawk pulled out the gleaming Colt from its holster and fitted a couple of bullets into its empty chambers, then scooped up the remainder of the boxes. “Obliged.” With a casual tip of his hat, he nodded to Cummins and said to Frank, “Meet you tonight. I'll go over to Grummond's and see if Carrie's finished. Might not be safe for her to walk unescorted from there to the hotel. Never know when an Indian might happen along.”

      
If Hawk saw Cummins's livid red flush, he ignored it. Frank muffled a guffaw behind his hand and then said he had to go outside and recheck the supplies they had purchased.

      
Realizing she would be found out anyway, Carrie calmly stepped from behind the dry goods, catalogue in hand, and said sweetly, ''So thoughtful of you to be concerned with my safety, Hawk, but as you can see, I made my way across the street unaccosted.” She added darkly under her breath, “Which is more than I can say for you.”

      
Now it was his turn to smile. So, the little cat had been spying, had she? He hoped she got an earful and an eyeful!

      
As they walked out the door, after bidding a surly Cyrus Cummins good afternoon, Hawk leaned down and whispered, “You've developed a whole ration of unladylike habits since coming west—swimming naked, swearing, now even eavesdropping on private conversations.”

      
Frostily, she replied, “You and that brazen little tart ought to be grateful I held my peace in front of her father!”

      
He laughed bitterly. “Nothing you could say would make Cy Cummins think less of me than he already does. Now as to Kitty, well, you probably could get her in some pretty hot water if you want to. Are you jealous, Carrie? Want to meet me behind the supply shed after supper?”

      
She fairly gasped, “No!”

      
His teasing suddenly became serious. “You know, you really should try it with a man near your age. You just might find you like it.”

      
Without a word, she flounced ahead of him, furious that he had gotten the better of the exchange. Why did it seem he always did? Just like him to ruin that stupid infatuated girl's reputation and care not a fig for the consequences. He would certainly not marry her.

      
It never occurred to Carrie that Cy Cummins might not permit Kitty to marry a disinherited half-breed, regardless of circumstances. Nor would Carrie allow herself to consider the fact that she was indeed jealous. Well, she certainly would not meet him in a tryst that night or any other!

* * * *

      
Frank and Hawk both joined Carrie for dinner in the hotel dining room. Hawk had checked on homestead claims at the land office and found Noah had many of his hands buying up land to the south of Circle S. He and Frank surmised the railroad planned to go through the heart of the country to the south of the Yellowstone, heading westward to Helena, sending only a spur line north to Miles City.

      
“If they could only cut straight across from Bismarck to Miles City, then continue directly west and north, they'd leave at least a stretch of the Cheyenne hunting lands in peace,” Hawk said angrily.

      
“Yew figger ya kin convince 'em ta do thet?” Frank gave Hawk a shrewd look.

      
“I can't, but maybe Karl Krueger can. His land lies north. It would be in his interest.”

      
Carrie was only marginally listening to their conversation. She was watching the people in the crowded dining room, especially the women—the waitress and half a dozen lady customers. All female eyes were covertly riveted on Hawk. They were as fascinated as she must have been on that first encounter with him at the Circle S dining table. Several women made what Carrie felt were transparent excuses to stop at their table to chat, asking to be introduced to Noah Sinclair's wife when they scarcely took their eyes off his son. Hawk-seemed uninterested in any of them, despite the fact several were very pretty.