Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (27 page)

      
“I took Carrie to meet Iron Heart and to give over Bright Leaf to him, Noah. You know damn well my grandfather wouldn't let any harm come to Carrie. He is a man of honor.” Hawk's words were measured, with a veiled threat beneath them.

      
“I'm concerned with my wife's reputation! I do trust, Carrie, that you can speak for yourself?” He-turned with wrath from his insolent son to her pale, beautiful face.

      
She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “What's the use, Noah? You've already judged me. I'm guilty as charged. I always am, whatever the crime. I wanted to assure Bright Leaf that she'd be well cared for until her family can be found. None of your splendid friends in Miles City need ever know.”

      
Her calm speech made him angrier than Hawk's menacing pose. “Unless one of my hands tells one of Krueger's! I have a reputation to uphold in this territory. You go nowhere unchaperoned, ever again!”

      
“I guess Carrie and I aren't considered family, are we, Noah? I wonder, would I be a proper chaperone if I were white? Or she were twenty years older?” He left the taunting threat hanging in the air.

      
Carrie thought frantically,
What in heaven's name is he doing! Trying to provoke a fight right here in the parlor?

      
“If Lola couldn't remember her relationship to you when you were seventeen, I doubt you'll seriously consider Carrie your stepmother now!” There, it was out in the open, the festering jealousy of an old man. The minute he saw Hawk's eyes leap with predatory joy, Noah hated himself for revealing so much in front of them both.

      
Trying to soothe the situation, Carrie walked over to Noah and put her hand on his arm. “This is solving nothing. Hawk is your son and I am your wife. What happened with Lola Jameson is in the past. Nothing's to be served by dredging up ugly memories. I promise never to return to Iron Heart's village. Will that satisfy you, Noah?”

      
He fixed her with a baleful glare. “Considering you'll never be genuinely sorry for any of your hoydenish actions I'm sure it's no use to demand an apology. See that you keep your word, however.” Catching sight of Mrs. Thorndyke in the doorway, he announced, “It's time for dinner. Shall we?”

      
Hawk followed them toward the dining room, but this time instead of ignoring Mrs. Thorndyke’s venomous presence as he usually did, he smiled coldly at her, affixing her with his hypnotic black eyes. Catching her shrinking shudder as he glided past her, he was gratified.
Bitch. Let her fear me.

      
Hawk had debated about coming to dinner tonight. He could have easily eaten with Kyle and Frank or have gone into town for some diversion, but he knew he could not leave Carrie to face his father alone. Too late he realized that his taunt to Noah about his and Carrie's relationship was stupid. But Noah's possession of Carrie—his rights as a husband—were increasingly galling to Hawk and he let his temper best him. Baiting the old man would only bring more pain to her. The meager satisfaction he gained from exposing Noah's jealously and weakness was not worth it. He swore to curb his tongue through dinner.

      
It was not easy. Somehow, the three of them managed to complete the meal without coming to blows, although none could have said what they ate. By the time Feliz's famous chocolate cake came to the table, no one wanted it, despite its luscious richness and delectable taste. Carrie asked to be excused and went upstairs, to steel herself for another night with her husband.

      
Hawk and Noah adjourned to the parlor and both drank stiff brandies, with little conversation in the interim. It had all been said now. When Noah went upstairs, Hawk poured a generous whiskey, took one swallow, and then flung it out the open parlor window in disgust. Getting obliviously drunk would solve nothing. He slammed the empty glass on the sideboard and stalked out the door to take a walk. The night was warm for autumn and all the stars were out, creating a brilliant canopy of icy-white fire in the dark velvet sky.

      
Carrie lay quietly in her bed, arms at her sides, attempting to steady her breathing. She must remain calm. Frank had told her Noah used to be a wolfer. Her husband sensed fear in other people and preyed upon it. All her early encounters with him, beginning in St. Louis, were colored by her fear and his manipulation of it. Well, she was not that quaking green girl any longer.

      
She was a woman now. Of course, that was part of the problem. In the months—had it only been five?—that she had lived here, she had left the remnants of girlhood behind. But in becoming a woman, she began to feel a woman's needs, needs Noah could never fulfill, longings deep within her soul he could never touch. She knew Hawk could. Lying in her lonely, dread-filled bed, she confronted that which she had denied for so long.

      
She loved Hawk Sinclair.

      
When had it all begun? When Iron Heart spoke the actual words? That night at the ball when Hawk kissed her? The day at the lake when she could not tear her eyes from his splendid nakedness? Or did it go all the way back to their first meeting as antagonists in the parlor when she arrived at Circle S?

      
“Oh, Hawk, why did it have to be this way?” With a guilty start, she realized she had whispered the words aloud. As they echoed in the still, empty room, tears streamed down her cheeks in acid rivulets. She loved a man she could never again be near, never touch. Lord, she dare not allow another encounter like the one in the water, with their naked flesh melded together, or another devastating kiss like the first one they shared. But, oh, how her whole being, soul and body, cried out for him! She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, muffling her sobs.

      
By the time Noah prepared himself for retiring and opened the door to Carrie's room, she had fallen into a restless, exhausted sleep. The covers were kicked off her slim frame and the delicate curves of her body were revealed in the bright moonlight streaming in the French doors. She wore a pale-white silk night rail trimmed with delicate dark-orange ribbons. The matching robe lay tossed across the bedside chair. Impatiently he threw his own brown robe over it and knelt naked on the side of the bed. Without even bothering to awaken her first, he rolled her over roughly and pulled at the fastenings of her gown, tearing the stitches of the orange silk ribbons in the process…

* * * *

      
She couldn't lie still another minute. Praying Noah was asleep in the next room, she bolted from her hateful bed and grabbed blindly for her robe. Donning it carelessly, she padded to the French doors and stepped outside. The fresh air was slightly cool and incredibly welcome after the stuffy confines of her room and the vile activity that had just taken place inside it.

      
Carrie traversed the length of the veranda, her hand trailing absently along the rough whitewashed banister as she looked out over the side yard where the flower gardens lay, reposing coolly in the moonlight. The tall chrysanthemums waved in invitation and she began to descend the stairs at the rear of the house. The yard was deserted but for the flowers, the lovely, placid flowers.

      
She walked across the damp grass to the edge of the chrysanthemum bed and bent down to pluck a big yellow blossom. Pressing its spicy fragrance to her face, she moved to the small iron bench in the center of the yard and sat beneath a stately pine tree. The moon reached ivory fingers through the lacy branches of the tree and bathed her with its light. For several minutes she sat, inhaling the balm of the flowers, thinking of nothing at all.

      
Then the dam burst and low, suppressed sobs wracked her slim shoulders. Once begun, they were unstoppable. Yellow petals scattered like eiderdown across her silk robe and the ground underneath her as she shredded the chrysanthemum in a frenzy of weeping.

      
‘What's the matter with me! I have not cried this much since my parents died. All I do lately is wallow in self-pity.” Her whispering voice cut through the still silent night air while she fought unsuccessfully to regain control of her broken emotions. “Hawk, oh Hawk, help me. Please, help me.”

      
Hawk had walked briefly after dinner and then returned to the lonely solitude of his room. After an hour of feverish tossing, he had slipped on a pair of buckskin pants and padded outside for another attempt to cool off in the night air. Lord knew there would be no sleep. However, the quiet starry night offered him no peace, and he once more retraced his steps toward his room with leaden feet. Strange, he could have sworn he heard his name, softly called on the night air.

      
As he rounded the corner of the house near the back stairs, he saw Carrie silhouetted beside the pine tree. Her white silk robe and dark fiery hair gleamed in the moonlight. She looked so rapturously lovely, so delicate and vulnerable, sitting alone on the cold iron bench. Then he saw the convulsive shuddering of her whole body, and knew why she had called his name.

      
Carrie did not know he was beside her until he touched her softly, caressing the cascade of shining hair that tumbled from her shoulders down her back. Wordlessly, she raised her head and reached out for the comfort of his embrace as he sat next to her on the narrow bench.

      
As he held her securely in his arms, her sobbing stilled and she nestled against him, her hand clutching at the silver medallion nestled in the thick black mat of hair on his chest. Suddenly she realized he was clad only in soft leather pants. His scanty attire served to remind her of the thinness of her silk peignoir.

      
Nervously she looked up into his face, her hands still lightly clasped around the hard contours of his biceps. She composed herself. “I—I had to get out of that stifling room.” She could see by the look in his eyes that he knew why, and it had nothing to do with a need for fresh air. Unable to meet his piercing black gaze, she looked over his shoulder at the night sky, spread with dazzling stars, like a spilled bucket of diamonds. “It's so beautiful, as if you could reach out and touch it, walk into its solitude and find peace.”

      
“That's what the Cheyenne believe,” he said, turning to look up at the brilliance of the Milky Way, pulling her along in his embrace as he shifted positions on the bench. “They say after death each soul goes to find its rest up there by climbing the hanging road to the sky.”

      
‘‘If it takes death, maybe—”

      
“Shh. Never say it!” He interrupted her fiercely. “You're alive, lovely, aflame like the sun, not cold like the dead.”

      
“My soul is dead, Hawk, or it soon will be.”

      
“No. Don't let him win, Carrie. Don't—” He could not finish his admonition once he fastened his gaze on her face. When she looked up into his eyes, her own were jewel-bright in wonder and entreaty. His mouth touched hers. He could not stop himself from taking the kiss. Slowly, forcing himself to be gentle, he prolonged the tender joining, tasting the silky insides of her mouth, twining their tongues together, fusing their lips.

      
With ever-growing ardor, she returned his kiss, so fierce yet so sweet. Her soft little fingertips crept across his shoulders, then up his neck, to stroke the bristling whiskers on his jawline. Delicate and featherlight, her hands caressed the harsh angular planes of his face.

      
He growled softly and buried his face in her hair, clasping her against his pounding heart while his hands burned through the thin silk on her back and thigh.

      
Carrie arched against him, pressing her breasts to his bare chest, lacing her fingers together behind his neck and pulling his lips to hers once more. Some mindless well of primitive instinct seemed to guide her. And she wanted never to stop, or be stopped.

      
Finally, Hawk broke the magic of the kiss and pressed her face to his chest, holding her still in his arms. His breathing was as labored and wild as his heartbeat. He could feel the rise and fall of her firm young breasts and hear her gasp for air. Never in his sundered life had he been this torn, never had he wanted a woman this much, or known so certainly that he should not take her.

      
Carrie pressed her hands against him and raised her head so that she could look into his eyes. Her palms trembled on his chest and she swallowed hard, working up her courage to speak. He knew what she was going to say.

      
Her dilated bright-green eyes locked with his liquid black ones as she ran one trembling hand across his cheek and down his jaw. “Please, Hawk. Just once in my life, I want to be. loved, not used.” Timidly then, for the plea had taken all her courage, she lay her head back against his chest and was still.

      
If his conscience warred within him, it did not do so for long. Silently he rose, never letting go of her but taking her up into his arms and carrying her through the calm, silver beauty of the moonlight toward the back stairs and his isolated room. Noiselessly his bare feet trod the wooden risers and glided across the veranda to his door.

      
The room was large and cluttered, but Carrie did not notice as he carried her inside. He stopped to push the door shut with one foot, then padded silently to the big brass bed and gently placed her beside it. As her feet touched the floor, she held on to his shoulders and leaned against him, nervous and uncertain of what to do. His hands showed her as they roamed sensuously up and down her sides, gliding slowly up to cup her breasts, then downward to stroke her hips and back up, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. All the while, he rained soft, brushing kisses over her face, neck, and hair.