Hawk: (26 page)

After work, Tildy passed Carmen in the foyer. The older woman was finished working for the day. As Tildy stepped aside to let her pass, Carmen said, “Un paquete llegó para ti.”

“Aqui?” Tildy asked absent-mindedly, stowing her car keys in her purse.

Carmen nodded in the direction of the stairs.

“Gracias,” Tildy told her and headed that way. Once in her room, she shed her blazer and tossed it onto a chair. There was indeed a package, wrapped in silver with a large white bow. It was the size of a shoe box. Tildy hadn’t ordered any shoes though, and she frowned at it. It was a bit early for an engagement gift. There was no card on it, and it hadn’t been mailed. It must have been hand delivered. Tildy hadn’t thought to ask the housekeeper who had brought it.

She flopped onto her bed and pulled it closer. She took the lid off but then froze. There wasn’t a card; there were
dozens
of them, or so it appeared. Lying on top of them was her St. Christopher medal. She’d long stopped reaching for it in the night. Everything was in envelopes save one folded note. She took it out and opened it.

Mi Querida Tildy,

Cuando tu hombre me trajo la medalla de San Cristóbal, le di las gracias y luego le di gracias a Dios.

My Dearest Tildy,

When your man brought me the St. Christopher medal, I thanked him first and then I thanked God. The day I left you, I was not able to say goodbye. Your mother would not allow it. Your father drove me to the bus station and left me there. My heart wept for you, my little love, and I have not gone a single day without thinking of you.

At first, I sent you letters, but your mother sent them back. Eventually, I got a letter. I thought it was from you, but your mother wrote it. She told me to stop writing to you, or she would report me. I buy you two cards every year: one for your birthday and one for the Savior’s. I prayed that He would lead you back to me. It took many years, many prayers, but now He has.

Your man says you are well. He tells me you have grown into the beautiful, intelligent, courageous woman that I always knew you would be. Your man says he is not your man, that you are engaged to someone else, but I can see this hurts his heart. Your man told me the medal broke when he first laid his hand upon you. I told you the medal would guide your way, and it has. God has brought him to you, Tildy, and you must not ignore this.

She grabbed the box and plucked a card out of it. Her name was there in Isabel’s handwriting. It had been stamped “Return to Sender.” With trembling fingers she opened it. “Happy 11th Birthday!” It was only slightly faded. Inside in scrawling Spanish:
I love you and miss you, my darling girl. St. Christopher will keep you safe until we meet again.

She rifled through the box. There were cards, as well as letters, each postmark proving Isabel’s claim that she had never forgotten her. Tildy’s body rebelled against her. Her stomach roiled; her heart beat
a runaway tattoo in her chest; a sob caught in her throat. She felt a stabbing ache for all the years that had been lost.

Hours later, with shaking hands, Tildy replaced the last card in its envelope and carefully closed the lid. She sat perfectly still on the bed, as if in a daze. She supposed she was. Everything was different, or rather everything was as it should be. Tildy, for a brief moment, was terrified. Nothing in her life had ever been as it should have; nothing she wished for ever came true.

Tildy wiped a tear from her cheek and stood up. She surveyed her childhood room and realized there was nothing here she wanted to keep. She slid Tate’s ring off her finger and tossed it onto the bed. She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, then snatched up the silver box and held it in her arms. Turning, she fled from the room and down the stairs. Halfway down, she heard her mother’s voice calling to her.

Tildy didn’t respond and headed for the front door. She didn’t quite make it though, before her mother’s voice called out again. This time, she was right behind her. Tildy turned back to her.

“Where are you going?” Deirdre asked her. “Dinner is ready.”

“I’m leaving,” Tildy replied, though her voice was a little shaky. She clutched the silver package tightly.

“But where? Dinner is
ready
,” her mother insisted.

“
I’m leaving!
” Tildy shouted. Deirdre recoiled.

“What on Earth-?”

“
You lied to me!
” Tildy screamed again, barely able to catch her breath. Now that it was out, it just kept coming, like a tidal wave. “She’s alive! She’s been alive this whole time and she
wrote to me
! She
wanted
me! She
loved
me! But you don’t!”

“Tildy,” her mother said, partially shocked but also managing to sound simply irritated at her daughter’s tantrum. “She’s not your family. We are. And you-”

“You never loved me,” Tildy accused. “Never.”

Her father entered the room, looking first at Tildy then at his wife.

“Deirdre?”

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “It’s fine, Blake. Everything’s fine. Just sit down for dinner. I’ll handle this. Matilda is just having one of her outbur
sts.”

Tildy laughed, startling both her parents this time. ‘One of her outbursts,’ as though she had so many, or even one. “I’m
done
with this,” she told them. “I’m done with
you
.”

“Matilda!” Deirdre snapped. “You have nowhere to go. Like it or not, we
are
your family and-”

“You are not my family,” Tildy argued. “You never were. Isabel is my family; Hawk is my family.”

Deirdre’s eyes narrowed to slits and she advanced on Tildy. Any time previously, Tildy would have scurried away, but she held her ground this time, bolstered by fury. “Your father and I have had
enough
of your antics, young lady! You cannot choose your family; you simply deal with what you’ve been saddled with!”

“Deirdre!” Blake chastised.

“Enough!” Tildy’s mother cried. “This is enough! You throw that away!” she demanded, and, spying the medal Tildy had put on, reached out to her. “And take that off!”

Tildy stepped out of her mother’s reach and pushed her hand away.
Infuriated, Deirdre took another step forward and slapped Tildy hard across the face. Tildy gasped and collided with the table behind her. She held onto the box though, refusing to loosen her grip.

“Oh, this is too much,” Blake declared. God knew he hated any kind of drama.

Tildy righted herself and glared at her mother. “I’d hit you back,” she seethed, “but I’ve always been better than you.”

With that, she turned, opened the front door, and slammed it behind her. She had her purse, but the keys were useless. The Mercedes wasn’t hers. She took a few halting steps toward the driveway and then broke into a run. When she reached the sidewalk, a
familiar sight filled her vision and her breath caught in her throat.

Across the street, Hawk waited. She crossed the street and flung herself at him. He held her tightly in his arms, the way he had so many times before. Tildy wept into his chest. When she finally got herself under control, she stepped back and looked up at him. “How long have you been waiting?” she asked, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

He grinned down at her. “Forever.” Tildy half-laughed, half-cried again. Hawk put one arm around her and guided her toward his Harley. “You ready to come home, Angel?”

She found all she could do was nod. She climbed the bike after him and put one hand on his shoulder, the other gripped the treasured box between them. Hawk gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb. Tildy didn’t bother to look back.

Hawk laid in bed with Tildy sprawled on top of him. Her hair spread out over his chest and he breathed her in. “Wasn’t sure you’d choose me,” he told her.

“Liar.”

“I hoped, but I wasn’t sure. I made a lot of mistakes, Tildy. I treated you like shit. You deserve better.”

“So treat me better,” she replied.

He laughed at how easy everything came to her: Hope, faith, love.

He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “I’ve lost a lot of people,” he told her. “Some of them are gone because of me.” Tildy placed a comforting hand on his chest. “I was never scared on tour,” he admitted. “Not once. Not even during the ambush. It’s not heroic; it’s just the way it was. I’ve never been afraid to die. But coming home...”

“In the army, they teach you how to kill the enemy. They never teach you how to kill a friend. I went in pissed off, and I came out terrified. I couldn’t be around anyone for the first few weeks. I sent Raina money, but I never visited. I was scared I’d hurt her or the kids. It didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t help thinking it. My old man was no good to anyone that needed him, and I was worse than that. I’d killed a man that needed me, a man I’d bunked with and drank with. Jason would be
here
now if he’d lived. He would’ve stayed with us.”

Hawk ran his fingers through Tildy’s hair. “I gave Shooter my gun those first few weeks.” He had never told anyone about that, and, to his knowledge, Chris had never mentioned it to anyone. “I’m not proud of the dark hole I fell into.”

Tildy propped herself up on her arms and looked into his eyes. “But you’re better now. It’s not like that anymore. You came back.”

“Not all the way back. Not until I met you. Hell, not even
after
I’d met you. I kept pushing you away. I don’t think I was sure I could make it back.”

“Why would you think that? Of course you can. You did.”

Hawk regarded her for a long moment. “Tildy, I don’t know what kind of man I’d be for you. Not the kind you deserve--I know that’s certain.” She began to protest again, but he pressed his fingers to her lips. “I love you though,” he told her. “And I want to try.”

Tildy pursed her lips, and he took his hand away. She glared at him a moment, then pushed her hair out of her face. “You’re not getting a prize either.”

“Tildy-”

“No, it’s your turn to listen. I don’t have anything--just the clothes on my back and a box full of memories, memories that you got for me. I’ll never be able to give you anything like that. I don’t have a job now either. Or a car. Or a place to live.”

Hawk scowled at her. “You’re obviously living here.”

He watched her smile a bit. “Well, I didn’t want to assume.”

“The job is covered,” he told her. “I’ll take care of it.”

She looked troubled. “I don’t know if waiting tables at Maria’s bar is the right career for me.”

Hawk laughed. “No. You and Slick are both right. Maria’s is not the place for you.”

“Can I work at the garage?” He grinned at her. She glared at him. “I meant in the office. Obviously not fixing bikes.”

“No, you can’t work in the office. Because you’d never work.”

Tildy gasped. “I may be a lot of things, Hawk Red Cloud, but I’m not-”

“You’d never work, because I’d bend you over that desk ten times a day. Unless Slick and Shooter were using it. We’d have to time share that desk. And possibly the couch.”

Tildy’s face turned red up to her ears and Hawk held her while he laughed. It amazed him that he still wasn’t tired of it.

“Abby can use you,” he told her. “You’re bilingual. Half of her staff is Hispanic.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

“She wouldn’t mind hiring me?”

“We’re family, Tildy. We take care of each other.”

“Family,” she sighed and rolled off him. She lay, wonderfully naked, on his bed and smiled dreamily. That was another thing he knew he’d never get tired of. “So do I get a nickname?” she asked him.

He grinned. “You already have one.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Tildy,” he explained. “The rule for nicknames is that somebody else has to give it to you, and it has to say something about you. Isabel gave you that name. And it says everything I need to know about you.”

She looked unconvinced. “What does it say?”

“That you are one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. You’ve held onto who you are, even after all these years. Nothing they did to you could take that away from you. You kept hoping.”

“And then you saved me,” she replied.

Hawk touched the bruise on her cheek. “Angel, you saved yourself. I just gave you a ride.”

DECEMBER

Hawk stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself. Over the last few months, he’d gotten used to living with a female. He was constantly knocking her shampoo off the tiny shelf in the shower, and twice now he’d touched the curling iron when it was still hot. There were things he loved about it though, things he would never mention to her, lest he be required to hand in his Man-card.

He loved that the sheets smelled like sandalwood. He secretly liked the candles she burned in the bedroom, even as he rolled his eyes at them. He liked the smell of her cooking something in the kitchen--well, usually. She had a lot to learn in the culinary department, but Hawk could barely make spaghetti from a can, so he wasn’t about to complain. Mostly, he loved rubbing her feet while they watched TV on the couch.

He didn’t know exactly when he’d started thinking of his home as ‘their’ home, but it hadn’t taken long. His house had always been clean, but it had never been a home. He had to admit the yellow walls were nice.

He heard her key hit the lock, and he stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room. Tildy swept in with department store bags in her hand. She smirked at him in his towel. “Why are you always naked?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Time saver.”

She set the bags down on the kitchen table and shed her winter coat. Hawk wandered over and tugged at one of the sacks.

“Hey!” Tildy cried, sprinting over and smacking his hand.

“What? They’re for the kids!” he protested. Tildy had coordinated Christmas gifts with Raina this year and done all the shopping herself, which was fine by Hawk.

“Not all of it!”

He frowned at her. A tricky situation indeed, he’d already found a bag of Christmas gifts hidden in the back of the closet, not that he’d
looked
or anything. He didn’t want her buying him even more presents. Hawk himself had bought them both plane tickets to visit Isabel again in New Mexico in the spring. It had taken a while and no small amount of luck to track the woman down. They talked on the phone every week, but both women were anxious to get together.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he told her.

“It’s just one gift,” she insisted. “A little one.”

“How little?”

“Teeny tiny.”

He considered this and could accept it. Maybe she would let him have it. He wasn’t supposed to know about the gifts in the closet, but he knew about this one. “Can I open it?”

“It’s not Christmas.”

“Please.”

She sighed and picked up the bag. “Okay,” she relented. She dug through the bag and came up with a small white box. Intrigued, Hawk pried the lid off. Inside he found a gold medallion. He held it up to the light. “St. David of Wales,” he read.

Tildy nodded. “Patron saint of poets and vegetarians.”

“Poets,” he repeated dryly.

“And vegetarians.”

“I am neither of these things, Tildy,” he reminded her, offended that she was casting aspersions on his manhood. “I am neither of these things, and I’m going to prove it.”

She eyed him skeptically. “How?”

“Vegetarians don’t eat pussy.” He ripped off his towel and let it drop to the floor. Tildy shrieked as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He tossed her onto the bed and crawled up over her.

“Ah, you’re wet!” she protested.

“Pretty soon you will be too; then you won’t care,” he told her confidently.

He took off her boots and threw them on the floor. Her pants came down slowly, then he unbuttoned her shirt. Tildy, finally catching up to his raging libido, reached up to help him, but he pushed her hands away. All his playfulness
moments ago was now forgotten.

“Don’t ruin my other present,” he hissed as he resumed undressing her.

“What?”

Hawk opened her blouse and pulled down her bra, revealing her breasts to him. He licked one and then kissed her on the mouth as he carefully tugged at her panties. “You’re a gift, Angel,” he whispered. “You’re worth the time it takes to unwrap you.”

He peeled her clothes off achingly slowly, nibbling at the bare flesh revealed. When her panties were completely off, he pushed her thighs apart and fastened his mouth on her pussy. Tildy cried out and lifted her hips to his face. She was the perfect combination of sweet and salty. Hawk plunged his tongue inside her, savoring her.

He was patient, generously swiping at her clit as she writhed. He could never tell if she held off on purpose, but it didn’t matter. They both knew he wasn’t finished until she was. Tildy could orgasm two, sometimes three times a night, they’d discovered. He fingered her as he pulled her hardened nub into his mouth. Her hips rose again. This would be a quick one, he realized. She came loudly, coating his fingers.

Tildy, breathing heavily, pushed him onto his back. She couldn’t really manhandle him of course; she was too petite for that. But he’d come to learn that doing whatever she wanted had its own kind of reward.

Her slick, orgasm-tightened pussy slid down and enveloped his shaft, another thing Hawk would never tire of. Tildy riding him bare felt good enough to make angels weep. She took the length of him inside her, squeezing hard. She liked to tease him that way. Over the last few months, he’d gotten used to barebacking her, could hold out longer--usually. Sometimes though, Tildy was too much, and she’d learned so many ways to torment him.

She leaned down, dangling a nipple tantalizingly over his mouth. When he craned his neck to taste it, she pulled back, giggling. He growled and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her down hard. “Mine,” he snarled and bit her gently. Tildy moaned, and Hawk felt the walls of her pussy closing in on him. With both of them ripe for an orgasm, he thrust up his hips and slammed deep inside her. Seconds later, his seed jetted into her as she clamped down on him. He loved it when they finished together. Tildy collapsed on top of him with his cock still seated inside her.

After a few moments, she brushed her lips over his ear. “David,” she whispered. As intense as things sometimes got, she still needed this part, the cuddling,
and the intimacy. Over time, Hawk realized he needed it too.

Tildy trailed her fingertips up and down his chest. “Saint David’s father was a king and his mother was a saint herself,” she told him. “His father raped his mother, and she fled south to give birth.”

Hawk grunted. “Charming story.”

“When he grew up, David plowed fields with his own hands and ate nothing but bread and water. He believed physical labor brought him closer to God, but he’s best known for building a monastery on the edge of the woods and offering shelter to travelers who had lost their way.”

Hawk smiled and kissed her temple. He was no saint of course, but he was no longer afraid that he couldn’t be a better man.