Hawk's Prize (5 page)

Releasing her abruptly, he ordered, “Until then, stay out of my things.”

Tricia struggled to ignore the rapid beating of her heart as she responded, “You have the wrong idea about me. I can’t blame you for that, I suppose, but I—”

Tricia stopped speaking when the big man’s eyes flickered closed and he began mumbling incoherently again. She touched his forehead and panicked at the heat she felt there.

Where was that damned doctor?

Activity in the bordello below was brisk and the upstairs rooms were busy as the twilight darkened, but Dr. Wesley appeared oblivious to it all as he worked at
his patient’s bedside. Turning toward Tricia at last, he said, “I can’t be absolutely certain, considering his condition, but the bruise on this fellow’s head seems to be a superficial wound. It is a complication, of course, but I don’t think it’s a dangerous one. The infection in his leg doesn’t seem to be responding to the medication, however, but without any history on him, I can’t do much more than I already have. His fever is obviously still high. Fevers always seem to soar at night for some reason, but I can’t blame his on the time of day.” He frowned. “If we only knew who he was and where he came from. We need to talk to someone about him.” The graying physician stared at her over his rimless glasses as he inquired flatly, “You have been seeing to it that he takes his medicine on time, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have!”

“I’m sorry, but I had to ask.” Dr. Wesley attempted a smile. “I’m very concerned about this young man. The infection in his leg appears to be worsening rapidly. If his condition doesn’t start improving soon, I may be forced to amputate in order to stop it.”

“No!” Tricia struggled to draw her emotions under control as she continued, “I mean . . . I don’t know this fellow well. Actually, I don’t know him at all, but I do know one thing about him. He’s fiercely independent. He doesn’t want to rely on anyone, and he won’t want to be put in a dependent position.”

“I don’t know that I’ll have any choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“And what would that choice be, my dear?” His expression softening, Dr. Wesley said, “He may die otherwise.”

“He should be given a choice—however limited it is.”

“He’s in no condition to make a sensible decision right now.”

“Then someone who is.”

“Who might that be? Chantalle had someone check the saddlebags on his horse—to no avail. If we knew where he was staying, we might discover something in his room so we could find out what treatment he’s already had or who his kin are, but . . .”

Dr. Wesley shrugged without bothering to finish his statement, and tears choked Tricia’s throat. Forcing them back, she responded hoarsely, “I know what we can’t do, Doctor, but what
can
we do?”

“Meaning?”

“When I worked in the Federal hospital, some doctors asked volunteers to bathe patients with cold water through the night in order to reduce their fever. I know that might be considered unusual treatment, but—”

“And it isn’t a cure, my dear. If it worked at all in this case, it would simply mean a temporary reduction in the patient’s body temperature. His fever will return unless the infection is broken.”

“But reducing his fever will give his body a better chance to fight the infection, won’t it?”

“Hypothetically . . .” Dr. Wesley hesitated before continuing, “But actually, I think it would be a waste of time and effort.”

“It worked in some cases at the hospital.”

“And in others?”

Tricia did not respond.

“What was the ratio of success?”

Tricia remained silent.

“I think that’s your answer.”

Tricia said softly, “There’s a slight possibility that reducing his fever will help him. You’ve already admitted that. What I want to know is if cold water baths could harm him.”

“My dear, it’s a waste of time.”

“Could it hurt him, Doctor?”

Dr. Wesley smiled. “No, not if you’re careful not to let him get a chill . . .
and
if you continue giving him his medicine on time.”

Tricia nodded.

Dr. Wesley’s reluctant smile broadened. “Chantalle has spoken to me about you over the years—with much pride, I might add—but she never told me what a stubborn young woman you are. Do whatever else you want to do about this fellow’s treatment, Tricia. I repeat that I think what you have in mind is a waste of time, but I must also say that this young man is lucky you’ve taken up his cause.”

Packing his bag minutes later, Dr. Wesley turned back to Tricia, put paper packets into her hand, and said, “I have several patients waiting for my attention right now, so the only other thing I can tell you to do is to dissolve this medicine in water every two hours and make sure this young man drinks it all. Good luck, my dear. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Tricia released a pent-up breath as the door closed behind Dr. Wesley. She turned back to the big man thrashing in the bed beside her. Her gaze flitted from his bandaged leg to his bruised forehead.

Cold water baths . . . medicine every two hours through the night . . .

What had she gotten herself into?

“I’m afraid, Drew.”

Drew looked down at his sister, Laura Anne. She was so little—only two years old. He was nine and she looked up to him. It was evening, the family had come to the Galveston beach for a few hours of play before going to bed, and Laura Anne—otherwise so brave—was afraid of the nighttime shadows. But Papa was there and he knew what to do.

Smiling, Papa turned and signaled to Whit to gather some cattails. In a few minutes Whit and he had propped the cattails in the sand and lit them. Tall, bright sentinels that warded away the darkness and turned the beach to shifting gold, they banished Laura Anne’s fears in an instant.

Standing beside Laura Anne as she looked at the cattails and clapped with glee, Drew watched Whit approach them. His older brother kneeled down beside Laura Anne and whispered solemnly to her, “Fear is the enemy, Laura Anne. Don’t let it win.”

Fear is the enemy . . .

Fear . . . disappointment . . . loss . . .

But there she was again—the angel standing beside his bed. Her hair was a luminous gold, and her gaze glowed like a calm, green sea in sympathy with his pain.

She touched him. She laid her hands on him and the fire that burned his skin lessened. She hushed his protests and ministered to his pain.

“Here, drink this. Drink it all.”

She held the cup to his lips so he could drain it, and then whispered,
“You’re going to be all right.”

He reached out to touch her . . . to draw her close . . . but she flitted away
.

Was she really an angel?

He wasn’t sure.

He only knew . . . that he wanted her.

He shouldn’t have had that last drink.

Simon Gault attempted to sit more erect as his carriage moved through Galveston’s cobbled streets. He glanced at the gas streetlights that flickered in the nighttime shadows. Some of them had been damaged during the shelling of the city, but the Yankees had made restoring them a first priority. He supposed that was a positive step, yet he wasn’t sure how well it was appreciated in a city where anti-Yankee sentiment ran high.

Simon raised an unsteady hand to his well-groomed head. He had stopped one drink short of becoming inebriated—which was one drink too many. He disliked not being in complete control of his faculties, especially when he was entering territory that was not completely friendly.

He had taken great pains with his appearance so that his condition would not be obvious. It was a point of pride that he was physically trim, that his hair was still
predominantly dark, his skin relatively unwrinkled, and that he looked far younger than his forty-odd years. His vanity was unruffled despite the challenges of late, although he was certain Angie would not complain as long as the price was right.

He also knew he had taken to depending upon brandy to soothe his frustrations over the past few months, but he consoled himself that it was the best brandy available in Galveston—indeed, that everything he owned was the best.

Simon snickered softly. The best . . . he had seen to that. When he was penniless, he had taken
what
he needed to succeed
when
he needed it. When the war threatened his fortune, he had simply played both sides. He’d had no qualms about the deaths of those who got in his way. He did not believe morality was more important than victory.

That premise was stupid.

Morals were excuses that common individuals used for failure—those who chose guilt over success. He was not among that number.

Not that he was incapable of a sentiment akin to guilt.
Regret,
with characteristics too similar to that common emotion for comfort, had unfortunately become his constant companion of late. Yes, he
regretted
his hesitation in dispensing with Whit Hawk when that arrogant fellow entered Galveston and startled him with the realization that an old vengeance had not been completely served. He
regretted
Jason Dodd’s part in thwarting his seduction of the beautiful Elizabeth Huntington—the young woman who still did not know her true name was Laura Anne Hawk. He
regretted
losing Grace Marsh and the son she could have provided him to a simple tradesman like David Taylor—a loss engineered by the participation of yet another Hawk: Jenna Leigh.

He
regretted
the return of the whole Hawk clan. He had thought the family as dead as the father whose life he had ended with no regrets at all. He had believed when consigning the elder Hawk to an unmarked grave in California that it was a fitting burial for the man who had thought to usurp his gold strike. He’d had no regrets at all when he sold the claim and used the money to finance his success in Galveston.

He had learned belatedly that the elder Hawk had left his young children with his sister, promising to return to set their lives right again. Yet he had believed any possible threat to his triumph was gone when the orphanage to which their uncle had consigned them had burned to the ground, supposedly taking their lives.

But the damned Hawk bastards had escaped to grow up and come back to haunt him!

It somehow amused him, however, that even though he had failed to eliminate the grown Hawk siblings when they unexpectedly appeared in Galveston, every last one of them still believed their father had simply
deserted
them.

He was also amused that although the Hawk siblings instinctively despised him as much as he despised them, not one of them knew he had ever come into contact with their father.

Nor had his respectability suffered, despite their efforts. Few people in the city, including the gullible men
of the renowned consortium, could make themselves believe a great
humanitarian
such as he was capable of crime. Their gullibility would soon allow him to become the richest man in the state.

Simon consoled himself that his pact with wealthy businessmen in the city of Houston would see to that. He had made great progress in using his influence to convince Galveston’s consortium that Houston posed no threat to Galveston’s commerce—that Galveston’s natural harbor guaranteed its future as the most valuable port in Texas.

Rot!

That untruth would enable Houston to easily supplant Galveston’s commercial position in the state with plans that were already under way. Once Houston’s future was secured, he would receive his financial reward. He would then move his ships and his business there. With that move, he would gain more prestige than his sadistic father had ever imagined was possible. He would also become wealthier than that vicious man or the duplicitous Harold Hawk had ever dreamed.

Then—when he stood at the pinnacle of his power—he would crush every one of the Hawk progeny who remained.

Simon looked up as Chantalle’s house of ill repute came into view. Chantalle, for all her professed disapproval and dislike of him, reserved a room especially for him. Despite his animosity toward Chantalle, he continued to make good use of that room. The reason was simple. He recognized his prevailing weakness: the fact that only with Angie, the perverted whore
whom he loathed, was he able to sate his dissolute desires.

When his carriage turned into a dark spot free of pedestrian traffic, Simon ordered, “Let me out here, William. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” He added, “Conceal yourself in the usual place and wait for me. I’ll expect you to be there no matter how long I’m delayed.”

Simon did not wait for a response as he stepped down unsteadily onto the street and started walking. He had entered Chantalle’s house in obvious anger once before, but he could not afford to make that mistake again or his reputation could suffer at a time when respectability mattered most.

Awaiting his opportunity, Simon slipped into a heavily foliated area and made his way with wavering steps toward the rear entrance of the red brick house where his special room awaited him. Within a few minutes, he was walking up the rear staircase.

Startled when he entered the upstairs hallway to see a beautiful blond woman attired in a blue dressing gown, Simon stood abruptly still. Her attire was all the explanation he needed.

Chantalle had hired a new whore.

His reaction to the young woman was immediate, and Simon started toward her. The beauteous witch would need someone to break her in, and he was just the man to do it.

Not allowing him a chance to speak when he reached her side, the young woman shifted the heavy bucket she carried into her other hand and said, “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about me, sir. I don’t work here. I only live here.”

“You
live
here, but you don’t
work
here.” Simon drew himself up to his full height in an effort to impress as he continued, “You must admit that’s a strange circumstance.”

“Strange . . . possibly . . . but that’s the way it is.”

“May I ask your name?”