Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (26 page)

      
The old man told him that several handsome offers had been made for Wind Song, among them one from Angry Wolf. The girl favored none of them. Still, she was seventeen summers old and ready for marriage. Hawk sighed, knowing the direction of the wily old matchmaker's thoughts. If he married Wind Song, he would have made his choice irrevocable, and he could not see his way clear to do that yet…if ever.

      
Almost unconsciously, Hawk's eyes strayed to Carrie, riding beside him, her lovely profile etched in sharp relief against the azure sky. She seemed as silently troubled as he was. He swore to himself, suddenly realizing what Iron Heart had discussed with her. Damn all meddling relatives!

      
As if in answer to his thoughts, Carrie looked across at him and said, “Now that you beat Noah and the railroad's not coming here, what are you going to do? It's a waste for you to be a drifter and hired gun. You could do so much with your life, Hawk.”

      
He gazed at her hair trailing down her back like a river of sun. What was she asking him? Telling him? He smiled sadly at her. “What do you think I should do, Firehair?”

      
The day was warm, made warmer by his eyes and the endearment he made of the nickname Firehair. “It's not for me to say. I just want...for you to be happy.” Carrie realized this was not coming out at all the way it should. She struggled to go on. “I mean, if you stay at Circle S, you and Noah will just fight more. You have an education. You could go east, maybe get a job with the government, help the Cheyenne, all Indians.”

      
He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “The Indian Bureau is full of corrupt politicians and idealistic bunglers. Not a single red man. No, that's not for me. I've had a bellyfull of the east, enough of
veho
cities.”

      
Her heart constricted. “You can't go back to the Nations. It's certain death.”

      
“Maybe that's the answer,” he said softly. “Maybe it's what Iron Heart told you I'd do, too.” His shrewd glance spoke volumes, and she blushed in mortification.

      
“You don't deny it. Is he right?” She was getting in deeper and yet couldn't accept his fatalism. He must not throw his life away, but she could not bring herself to mention the beautiful Cheyenne woman, either.

      
He shrugged carelessly. “I don't know. Hell, I never think a week ahead, much less a year. I don't plan on going south now. Let it alone, Carrie. Neither you nor my grandfather can run my life.” At her wounded, embarrassed look, he relented. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend to hurt you. You've grief enough of your own. All Noah can do is disinherit me. He's done a lot worse to you.”

      
“But you're losing your birthright because of me—if I have...” she choked over “children,” unable to say the word.

      
“You don't want his children, do you, Carrie?”

      
She shuddered, then took a deep breath and answered in a small voice. “No...I don't know. It's all mixed up. I loathe the thought of giving him another heir, but—but if I'm with child, he'll leave me alone.” Then she reddened. Of all things to discuss with a man, any man, especially this one!

      
He felt a tightening in his chest, recalling all the crude sexual taunts he had hurled at her, the lewd accusations. “What he does to you, Carrie, it isn't the way it should be. If you'd married a man who cared for you, he'd make it good for you, too, not just for him.”

      
She was so forlorn that it seemed impossible to stop unburdening herself. “It isn't just me—that I don't—like it. He doesn't either anymore. He said it was my fault. That I'm cold and clumsy. He only wants me to be pregnant. Then he can go to those women in Miles City. They know what to do....” Her voice trailed off in humiliated misery.

      
He swore. First in Cheyenne, then English. “That filthy, depraved old bastard!” Looking at her beautiful, guilt-stricken face, he could have shot Noah Sinclair point-blank at that moment. “Carrie, don't believe him. It's not you—not your fault. If a man has to resort to whores and blames his wife for not responding to him, he's no kind of a man.”

      
“Maybe if I could love him it would be better,” she said brokenly.

      
“Love's a two-way street, Carrie. Did he ever try to love you?”

      
Recalling their “honeymoon” on the riverboat, she cringed, remembering Noah's sarcastic words on that subject. She shook her head mutely.
 

      
“My mother loved Noah Sinclair with her whole heart. He trampled on it!” His voice was laden with hate. “Don't—don't ever try to love him, Carrie! Even if you could, he'd only destroy you.” He watched her lovely, expressive face, as a whole spectrum of emotions played across it.

      
“Thank you, Hawk. For understanding, for believing me.” Her eyes were full of unshed tears. “For being my friend.”

      
Friend! God, they both knew that was not the right word. He struggled against the urge to lead her beneath the canopy of cottonwoods by the riverbank and make love to her. He could teach her lush, unawakened body such fierce, sweet passion. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and swore again to himself. No, in that lay madness. He was a penniless, half-breed gunman. She was a married woman.

      
“He's an old man, Carrie. You're young and strong. Outlast him, don't let him beat you. Someday, some man will love you the way you deserve.”

      
She looked straight ahead, and he could see her nod and swallow hard, fighting down the urge to weep.

      
They both knew Noah Sinclair was fifty-five years old and strong as an oak. He could easily live another twenty years.

CHAPTER TWELVE

      
Noah swore as the coach hit another rut and jounced his aching backside for the thousandth time since leaving Helena three days ago. Tonight he would be home to a decent meal, a soft bed, and to Carrie. If the first two things appealed to him, the third one did not. Where had he gone wrong, he asked again in impotent anger. He had chosen a beautiful, docile young girl from a good family.
 

      
She was supposed to be his to mold. But her dutiful quiescence in bed at night infuriated him as much as her willful behavior during the day. Thank God an enthusiastic whore in Helena had assuaged his fears about failing virility. He was as good as ever. Once he got his young wife with child, he would leave her bed for good, provided the child was a boy, of course. That miserable Indian brat would be gone, too. In spite of the choking dust, autumn heat, and bone-splintering ride, Noah's humor improved.

      
If all went according to plan, by this time next year when the railroad was through Miles City, he would own the K Bar land it ran across. Two could play Krueger's game. If Squires had been run off by Hawk and Kyle, no reason someone just like him couldn't be hired by Circle S. Yessiree, no reason at all. In fact, Noah had met such a . man at the association meeting in Helena. Caleb Rider would sign on at Circle S in about a month.

      
Noah considered how Hawk and Hunnicut would react to his plans. Kyle had always been for hire, and Noah was sure he wouldn't give a damn if Circle S stole from Krueger. Hawk was another matter. If it came to an all-out range war for control of the eastern territory, the Cheyenne would suffer and that would bring Hawk down on him. Noah pondered how he could handle the situation. He would have to make it appear Krueger had begun the fight. He turned the situation over in his mind, considering various ideas. He had a month to work on it.

      
If Hawk was too clever for his own good and started to interfere, maybe it would be time to deal with him permanently. Ever since Hawk had come home from preparatory school as a callow seventeen-year-old and Lola first cast her lascivious eyes on him, Noah had truly hated his son.

      
He had always been uneasy around the dark, silent child who seemed so much more red than white. When all attempts to civilize him had failed and he had repeatedly run off to those murdering savages, Noah had washed his hands of the boy, hoping to sire another white son on Lola. To have her betray him as she did had been more than his monumental ego could withstand. If Lola had not been from a prominent Chicago family, he would have killed her instead of divorcing her. If Hawk had not fled to the Nations, Noah might have shot him as well. But the cunning, lighting-fast gunman who returned a year later was far too dangerous for that. Noah had been relieved when Frank convinced the youth to attend a prestigious eastern university for a couple of years.

      
Noah Sinclair, who had faced down wild Sioux, fought snarling wolves and ridden through blue northers, was afraid of his own son. Not that he had ever admitted it to himself, but the vile taste of fear lingered in the innermost recesses of his soul, eating at it like corrosive acid. Had the time finally come for a showdown? To kill Hawk would mean admitting his fear, because he would have to hire another gunman to do the deed in secret. Noah's musings skittered around the issue, unwilling to confront it just yet.

      
It was dusk when he made the last leg of his journey by horseback, arriving at the big house in time for the evening meal. He had sent word ahead of his arrival. Mrs. Thorndyke would have everything in order, that savage child would be gone, and Carrie had damn well better be dressed for dinner. Fleetingly he hoped Hawk was off somewhere with Hunnicut or Lowery. Noah did not want to face him across the table tonight.

      
Carrie sat at her vanity and fidgeted with her hair. She had heard Noah arrive over two hours ago, order a bath, and then dress for dinner, all without coming to her room to greet her. She did not go down to welcome him home either. Insidious, how subtly and quickly their hostility had set patterns. She was certain Mrs. Thorndyke had found a way to let him know his wife had ridden to Iron Heart's encampment with Hawk. Dinner would be another nightmare. Small wonder she had been losing weight for weeks. Every meal with Noah was an ordeal.

      
Carrie did not know if Hawk would be present or not. He had spent the past three days working with Frank. They rode out at sunup and often did not return until dark, so she had seen little of him. It was just as well, considering Mathilda Thorndyke's silent, feral-eyed curiosity since they had returned from the Cheyenne village. It was as if the hateful woman was just waiting to pounce. Carrie rubbed her pounding temples and forced herself to calm down. She had done nothing wrong. Neither had Hawk. Still, she could imagine the warped way the housekeeper had presented her story to Noah. Carrie's own painful confusion about her awakening feelings for his son added to her case of nerves.

      
You are not lovers—yet
. Iron Heart's words returned to lash her with guilt. “No, never! It cannot be!” Almost in tears, she swore at her schoolgirl vapors. She was past the age for such weakness. Once again she turned her attentions to her toilette. Looking good might not appease Noah's wrath, but it would help her own self-confidence.

      
As she closed the door to her room and took a steadying breath before descending the stairs, Hawk called to her encouragingly, “Ready to face the wolf in his den?” As he walked down the hall from his room, he took in her carefully groomed appearance. She wore a deep emerald-green silk dress with a high jewel neckline and long sleeves. A magnificent rope of pearls was her only jewelry, reflecting the luster of the silk and the glow of her eyes. Her hair was piled high and pinned in a soft bouffant style that framed her face. The overall picture was one of poise and maturity as well as startling beauty.

      
She returned his appreciative stare, almost against her will. Dressed in dark blue homespun with a white shirt open at the collar, he looked both arrogantly handsome and irritatingly casual.
Just what he intended,
she thought wryly. Noah insisted on formal attire for dinner and would hate the open shirt and boldly winking silver medallion he always wore. No help for it, they would go to the parlor together, like two conspirators facing an execution. If only she could be as calm as Hawk.

      
The minute they entered the oak doorway to the parlor, Carrie flinched under Noah's intense, scowling stare. “Courage, Firehair,” Hawk whispered as he walked just behind her into the room.

      
For the first time Noah considered Carrie and Hawk as a couple. His son's tall, darkly sculpted form contrasted with her slim, fiery elegance. Could Mathilda Thorndyke's veiled obscenity be possible? Could they be lovers? Would Hawk seduce the chit just to spite him? At once he dismissed the idea impatiently. Carrie hated sex and was not interested in any man that way. She was as different from Lola as day from night. His son's aversion to white women made the question more absurd. No, they just shared a ridiculous fondness for that brat of an Indian girl. Mathilda hated them both and was reading more into the situation than it warranted.

      
Nevertheless, he was still furious with Carrie. The impropriety of going alone with any man to an Indian village was horrifying—even more horrifying if that man was a half-breed. He vowed to make her sorry. Without even a hello after his long absence, he launched into his attack. “While I was away, I have been given to understand you rode—astride—to an encampment of hostile Cheyenne. Not only was it dangerous, it was appallingly improper. If word of it got out to my friends, they and their wives would ostracize you, Carrie.” He was proud of the cold, deliberate tone of his voice.