Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (57 page)

      
A trail of lacy underwear and silk stockings led Carrie to the bedroom door, which she kicked open unceremoniously. The loud noise roused the dozing Lottie, who lay sprawled across the big bed in a seductive and indolent pose on her stomach. Head still down, she said petulantly, “
Querido,
you do not have to be so noisy,
por favor!”

      
“Ah,
quërida
, but I do!” With that Carrie ripped up the bed covers and tossed them to the floor, exposing an indecent length of bare legs and a black-silk-clad derriere.

      
“Aaah! Who are you? How dare you break into my house?” Lottie's accent thickened as she scrambled from the bed and grabbed her red satin robe from a welter of clothes on the floor.

      
“For your information, your house sits on my land and I'm evicting you.”

      
“Only Don Hawk can do that, and he is not here. I am his woman.” Her black eyes shot sparks and her chin lifted in obvious pride.

      
“Not anymore. I'm replacing you!” Carrie advanced on her menacingly.

      
Carlotta Hernandez had been raised on the St. Augustine waterfront. She had learned to roll drunks and fend off attackers with a knife before she was ten. Quickly she reached behind her to the bedside chest, opened a drawer, and grabbed a wicked blade. “Now we see, you skinny
gringa
with ugly red hair!” She snorted in triumph, her face twisted in scorn.
So this is the one he cries out for in his dreams, his Firehair! Why, she is too tall for a woman, flat-chested and washed-out!
Carlotta would make short work of her!

      
Without waiting for the malevolent woman to wield her knife, Carrie turned and strode quickly into the main room, her eyes darting about for a weapon. Immediately they took in a wealth of ammunition, since every heavy pot, pan, and utensil in the place was lying out, dirty. She seized a medium-sized iron skillet and whirled just as Lottie came up behind her, intent on prodding her into a hasty retreat with the knife.

      
The collision was blurringly fast and ended with Carrie's skillet coming out uncontested winner over Lottie's stiletto. She struck the shorter woman roundly on the skull and the knife clattered to the floor. Lottie crumpled in a sexy heap of dishabille. Putting down the skillet, Carrie walked briskly to the door and called to Kyle. “Bring in my things and, oh yes, get rid of this trash for me, please.”

      
Kyle's eyes lit up at the sight of the half-dressed female sprawled at Carrie's feet. “Yes, ma'am. My greatest pleasure.”

      
He scooped Carlotta up, all the while assessing her obvious charms. Carrie tossed a bag of coins onto her midsection, now securely in Kyle's grasp. “This should pay her for services rendered, which obviously didn't include housekeeping. Take her back to Clancey's Place.”

      
José brought in several boxes and a small trunk, which he placed uncertainly in the bedroom. His big brown eyes, so like his mother's, were round as saucers at the exotic display of women's unmentionables strewn across the place.

      
After they were gone, Carrie set to work. It was going to be a busy day. She gathered all Lottie's things and dumped them in a sack.
Tacky, sluttish taste.
She sniffed disdainfully. Then she attacked the bedroom, stripping the bed, gagging on the cheap, heavy perfume the
puta
had doused the bedcovers with. She made up the bed with clean sheets and a soft quilt that she found in a bottom drawer of the oak chest in the room. Probably Marah had sewn it herself.

      
She dusted the furniture and swept the floors, then scrubbed the planks until they were clean but lacking the luster of polish, which she had no time to apply today. Next she attacked the encrusted dishes and cooking utensils, soaking and scouring until every knife, pot, and pan gleamed and each piece of crockery was stacked neatly on the shelves. Finally, she was ready to begin supper. Opening the basket brought from the house, she took out a small venison roast, a sack of dried peaches, a canister of flour, some yeast, and an assortment of other seasonings and vegetables.

      
By early evening, she had the venison larded and roasting in a heavy Dutch oven over the fire, light rolls rising in a pan on the hearth, a flaky-crusted peach pie cooling in the back window, and a big pan of freshly snapped beans ready to cook with fragrant tarragon. Thank God she had spent so much time helping Feliz in the kitchen over the past two years! Judiciously, she decided to let Hawk make the coffee.

      
Carrie took a long, cooling soak, all the while smelling the fragrances wafting from the kitchen. While she cleaned and refreshed herself she had more water heating for Hawk's bath. Then she turned her attention to a simple toilette.

      
Because the evening was warm for October, she put on a cool muslin dress. It was a bright rich yellow, and as she smoothed the straight, simple skirt, she recalled how Hawk had admired redheads in yellow so long ago.
Please, let him still think so.

      
The neckline was rounded and scooped low and the sleeves were cut just below the elbow. All in all, it revealed a good deal of honey-gold skin. She brushed her hair until it crackled and glowed, then tied it back simply with a yellow ribbon. Flat-heeled soft-tan slippers completed the outfit. She wore no jewelry, but remembered to use her wildflower perfume.

      
Nervously, she went to check on the progress of his bath. The pot in the fireplace was bubbling. She began the arduous task of carrying several buckets of cool spring water to the tub, then added the boiling water from the fire to it until it was nicely warmed. After that she returned to the main room and set the table. A pretty cluster of yellow and white chrysanthemums were placed gracefully in a small earthen jar for a simple centerpiece.

      
Turning her back on the table, she went to lay out towels in the bedroom, next to the bath. Then she heard familiar footsteps falling lightly on the porch. Her heart began to hammer when the front door swung open, and that low, vibrant voice said, “What smells so great? Lottie, what the hell did you do to this place? You must have—” He froze in his tracks, staring at the lovely, yellow-clad woman in the bedroom door. He watched her through narrowed eyes as he struggled to gather his scattered wits.

      
I will be calm
. “Hello, Hawk. There's warm bathwater in the tub and clean clothes laid out on the bed. Supper will be ready by the time you're through.” Without giving him a chance to say more, Carrie whisked across the room and began stirring the coals beneath the fire. Then she placed the rolls in the back, over low coals on a grate where they would bake to crisp brownness.

      
Hawk stood for a moment staring at the fiery cascade of curls tumbling down her back as she worked. In wordless perplexity, he went to the bedroom to do as she had bid. Quickly he shed his dusty gear and dropped into the warm soothing water. Tired, dirty, and starved, he could not remember when a bath had felt so wonderful or food had smelled so good. Quite a welcome change from the tawdry mess he'd been coming home to with Lottie every night.

      
Then the thought struck him. “Where the hell's Lottie?” He had voiced it aloud without really realizing it until a sweetly musical voice on the other side of the door replied.

      
“Gone back to Clancey's Place.”

      
He mulled that over considering various scenarios, none of which convinced him the lazy little slut would have gone willingly. While listening to the sounds of Carrie bustling about the kitchen, he quickly washed and shaved, then donned the white shirt, dark pants, and moccasins that had been laid out for him.

      
When he came soundlessly through the door, she was placing a beautifully browned venison roast on the table, surrounded on the big platter by potatoes and carrots. She looked up and said briskly, “I know I don't make good coffee. Would you?” She motioned to the granite pot filled with water and the jar of freshly ground beans.

      
As he measured coffee into the pot and placed it over the fire, he said, “Did you have Kyle and a dozen hands hogtie Lottie and haul her back to town?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, aggravated at her high-handedness, but, in spite of himself, glad the troublesome tart was gone.

      
“It only took Kyle to carry her out.”

      
“Carry her?”

      
“After I flattened her with this.” She hefted the skillet sitting on the sink. As his eyes widened in amazement, she hurried on to explain, “She came at me with this,” Carrie pulled the long, wicked-looking blade out of a drawer, “so I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find. I didn't hit her too hard—I don't think. She was coming around when Kyle and José pulled away in the wagon.”

      
Standing there, she looked so matter-of-fact and beautiful that he was struck speechless. Carrie was afraid to go on, yet knew she must hold the initiative, so she sat down and said, “Dinner's getting cold. Let's eat; we can talk afterward.”

      
She was far too nervous to enjoy the food, but he was famished, not having had a decent meal in weeks. Lottie's cooking had been even worse than his own. If it hadn't been for an occasional breakfast in Feliz's kitchen, he would have starved to death.

      
“Could you always cook like this?” he asked as he bit into a juicy slab of venison and sopped up the rich gravy with a light, crunchy roll.

      
“Only since I came to Circle S and Feliz let me work in her kitchen. The Pattersons had a cook. All I got to do there was scrub pots and pans after her.”

      
“Something I've never been very attentive to, as you might have noticed,” he said ruefully.

      
“You're not much of a cook either. Every pan had food burned to the bottom of it.”

      
He shrugged. “But I do make good coffee,” he said, hefting his cup as she placed a generous slab of peach pie in front of him.

      
“As you once said to me, I didn't come here to make rotten coffee.” She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. For a while as they were eating, it almost felt as if they were a comfortable married couple, enjoying bantering conversation and the simple pleasure of one another's company. She hated to break the mood, but she had to speak her piece before her courage totally evaporated.

      
“Then what, Carrie? Why all this?” He gestured around the cheery, immaculate room to the remnants of the superb dinner. “Even a yellow dress.”

      
She felt the heat flood her cheeks as she replied, “I remembered that you liked women in yellow.”

      
“Redheads in yellow,” he corrected, then waited, his fathomless obsidian eyes giving away nothing of his feelings.

      
“It ought to be pretty obvious, Hawk. I'm showing off all my domestic skills. I wouldn't make a man a bad wife. I—”

      
“A man like Wolf Krueger?” He interrupted her angrily.
Why is she doing this
? “Surely he's asked you.”

      
She shook her head in mortification. “Yes, he's hinted at it. I know he would, if I let him, but I'll never marry a man I don't love.”

      
“You sure did once,” he shot back.

      
Her eyes blazed at his cruelty, goading her. “Yes, I did, much against my will, as a stupid terrified girl! That's what bothers you, isn't it? I was your father's wife—no matter that I bore your child!”

      
“It should never have happened between us, Carrie, and you know it,” he said defensively.

      
“You mean you're sorry Perry was born?” She stood, her anger making her forget all the reasonable, conciliatory speeches she had rehearsed.

      
“No! How the hell do I know what I mean with you! All we ever do is get under one another's skin, hurt one another.”

      
“Like that day at the pool last summer?” Her voice had softened now. “You're nothing like Noah. I never meant what I said, then or at Iron Heart's village. If I could call back those stupid words, I would give anything. I'm sorry. I was frightened and—”

      
“And you finally saw me as I am, or as a part of me is. I really am half Cheyenne, not just some exotic-looking white man, Carrie. I've lived their life, by their laws, and I honestly believe many of their ways are better.”

      
“And their women are better, too!” Tears burned her eyes now. So this was the truth of it, what she had always dreaded. “You wanted to stay with her—your Cheyenne wife. I was just an encumbrance. You only came back with me because of Perry—because she was dead. You loved her—”

      
He cut her off furiously, standing up and knocking over his chair. “I never loved her! I couldn't! God knows I wanted to, I tried!”

      
“I—I don't understand,” she said brokenly, feeling his anguish, fighting down the urge to reach out to him, sensing he would reject her overtures.

      
He looked at her with blazing, accusing anger. “Don't you? I'll never forgive myself because all I thought of, dreamed of, was you! I couldn't love Wind Song because of you. She loved me with her whole heart, and I could never return that love. She knew it when she died....” His voice trailed away as the long-suppressed memories surfaced once more to tear at him.

      
“Hawk, I didn't know.” It sounded so pitifully inadequate to her own ears. “Kyle told me about the banishment, what it meant—”