Heart of the Hawk (14 page)

Before she realized what she was doing, she had reached out and grabbed his hands.

“Josh, stop it,” she said, suddenly understanding what had driven him to the same action yesterday.

He stared down at her, so intensely that whatever she’d been about to say to him died unspoken. The bitterness in his expression faded, to be replaced by something hot and fierce she didn’t recognize.

“Kate,” he whispered. His voice had changed as well, had taken on an undertone of vibrancy that sent a shiver of that crazy hot and cold racing down her spine.

He lifted a hand and touched her, a gentle finger beneath her chin tilting her head back much as he had before, when he’d tried to tell her some foolishness about her eyes being the same color as that lovely gold ribbon.

But there was something different about this time, something that made her breath stop and her heart seem to miss a beat, then hurry to catch up. She wanted to pull away; she couldn’t bear the way he was staring at her, the way his eyes seemed to bore right through her, as if he were searching her soul.

“Josh,” she begged, not sure what she was begging for. She told herself it was for him to release her from whatever this hold was he had on her, but when she thought of the loss of the heat of his touch, she was no longer sure.

And then he moved, his hands slipping down to her shoulders. He lowered his head slowly, as if reluctantly, his expression one of a man fighting himself. He drew closer to her, and Kate thought she should move away, but didn’t quite know why. She didn’t realize until his lips brushed hers that he meant to kiss her.

Her astonishment vanished, overpowered as a jolt rattled through her, a burst of fire and ice that made those shivers she’d felt before seem weak, faint precursors of the sensations that flooded her now. His lips were warm and gentle, and he tasted vaguely of coffee and the peppermint candy she’d seen him sneak more than once. But there was another taste there, something hot and distinctly male, something that made it impossible for her to do what she knew she should do—pull away from him.

She felt herself tremble, felt her muscles go oddly slack, but then all she knew was the feel of his mouth on hers, and the incredible size and heat of him, and the thudding of her pulse in her ears.

She heard a tiny, mewling sound, and realized with some shock that it had come from her. As if in answer, she heard Josh growl, from low and deep in his chest, wild cougar to her helpless kitten.

The sound stopped abruptly, and just as abruptly, Josh broke the kiss and pulled his head away. His movement was short and sharp, and for a moment he just stood there, looking down at her, his lips parted as if he were finding it as hard to breathe as she was. Then he released her, looking at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding her. He didn’t look like a man who was happy about what he’d just done.

She stared up at him, stunned. One hand crept up to her mouth. Shaking fingers touching her lips, lips still tingling from the feel of his.

Josh looked back at her face, and seemed to take in her dazed expression and the trembling of her fingers. His brows lowered.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he said, as if irritated. “You’ve been kissed before.”

Slowly, unable to speak, Kate shook her head.

Josh frowned. “You were married,” he said, the irritation more discernible now.

She shook her head again. She tried to speak, but her words came out in broken, choppy little spurts. “I . . . Arly never . . . he didn’t . . .”

Josh stared at her in patent disbelief. “He never what? Kissed you? You were married for four years, and he never kissed you?”

“I . . . never . . . like that. Never gentle, and sweet, like that.”

Josh’s forehead creased. “But he did kiss you.”

“In the beginning he did. But when he kissed, it . . . hurt.”

He drew back a little. “Hurt?”

She nodded once, or tried to. “He . . . liked it, if I cried out. He said it made him . . . ready.”

She saw a shiver ripple through him, saw the look of distaste on his face. She’d disgusted him. She should have realized it would disgust any man, to know what she’d been to Arly, little more than a whore, despite the short, lonely marriage ceremony she’d gone through in front of a drunken Reverend Babcock. Josh was probably sickened that he’d kissed her.

“May he roast in hell.”

Kate went very still, despite the little quiver his words sent through her. Was it possible he hadn’t been disgusted by her, but by what Arly had done to her? It seemed impossible, but then, so did the idea of Joshua Hawk kissing her, and she couldn’t deny that had happened, not when her lips were still tingling and her fingers still trembling.

Josh turned away from her, and she heard him let out a compressed breath. After a moment of strained silence, he shoved a piece of paper that lay on the counter toward her.

“The telegraph man was in, bought some lamp oil. And Markum came in for some stovepipe. Three feet of it. I wrote it down there. The money’s in the drawer.”

She stared down at the paper, at the neat printing and tidy figures, trying to compose herself. If there was anything powerful enough to distract her from what had just happened, it should be this. The Hawk working in a mercantile, selling goods like any shopkeeper. For her.

And it wasn’t until much later that she realized what else that paper, and the way Josh had written those items and the figures, had told her.

The writing, tidy and precise though it was, bore no resemblance at all to the writing in the Hawk book.

Chapter 10

“I THINK IT WAS sweet of Alex.”

Kate sipped at her tea, looking at her friend over the rim of the cup. Her Sunday mornings with Deborah had been the one bright spot in her dreary life since she’d come to Gambler’s Notch. Even Arly couldn’t go against the expected tradition of closing the mercantile Sunday mornings for Reverend Babcock’s sermons, although he had always opened in the afternoons. And even Arly hadn’t dared to order her not to see Deborah, although he tried to control everyone else she saw; the woman was far too consequential in town for him to set himself up against her. Not only was she the closest thing to medical help the town had, and the daughter of the town’s well-respected doctor, Deborah’s liking for the expensive tea shipped in from the States had put a lot of coin in the mercantile’s till over the years.

Deborah also, Kate thought, had the only chickens in town, and was therefore the sole source of fresh eggs for the store. Arly might have been mulish, but he hadn’t been a fool when it came to supplies.

“I suppose it was,” Kate said in answer to Deborah’s observation about Alex Hall’s rush to her rescue.

She didn’t add that Alex had also looked a trifle foolish; she knew Deborah liked the young lawyer. In fact, she’d often wondered if Deborah perhaps didn’t feel a little more than liking for the man.

“Alex . . . cares for you, you know.”

Kate stared at Deborah. That was two people who had hinted at that now. “I barely know him.”

“That’s because Arly kept you from getting to know anyone,” Deborah said, her tone angry.

Kate shifted in her chair uncomfortably. All this bitter talk about Arly, now that he was dead, was growing increasingly bothersome to her. Deborah sensed her unease, and waved a hand in understanding.

“All right, we won’t talk about that.” A teasing glint came into her eyes. “So, what is it like, having the famous Hawk sweeping your floors and fixing your roof?”

If this change of subject was supposed to restore her serenity, it failed miserably. Kate’s hand shook, rattling her cup in its saucer. She steadied it and sipped at her tea again, wondering how she was supposed to answer that.

What was it like? Disconcerting, upsetting, nerve-wracking, unsettling . . . which word should she use? How could she explain what happened when she looked at him? That she seemed to lose track of her thoughts, and often caught herself just watching the way he moved, the way his powerful muscles flexed, the way he had of shoving his hair back with one hand, the way he did everything with an economy of motion that spoke volumes about his strength? Arly had been a big man, and exceptionally strong, but the only thing she had ever watched was which way he was going so she could stay out of his way.

How could she explain the funny feeling she got in her stomach when Josh looked at her, that odd combination of hot and cold that seemed to radiate out and make her tremble in a way she’d never known before? Arly had made her shake, but it had been very, very different, a reaction born from fear, not . . . whatever this was.

And dear Lord, how could she ever explain what had happened when he’d kissed her?

She ducked her head, terrified that the fact that she had let a man kiss her like that, right there in the store, must be plain on her face.

“Kate?”

She had to get hold of herself. It was bad enough that she wasted so much time drifting off, lost in some foolish reverie about a man she by all rights should despise, or at least be terrified of, but to let him kiss her? A killer. A cold-blooded killer who took money for his killing.

And if she was having trouble fitting that knowledge to the man who’d been under her roof for days now, it was her own silly fault. Pretty soon she’d be thinking of him only as Josh, and forgetting he was The Hawk, a man paid for his skill with a Colt. Thinking of him as the man with the quick grin that didn’t quite reach his haunted eyes, the man who spent time with a boy no one else but Mr. Rankin would bother with, the man who worked harder around the store than Arly ever had. And not the cold, heartless killer she knew he was. The cold, heartless killer he simply
had
to be, or she would be faced with a guilt she didn’t think she could bear.

“It’s . . . strange,” she said at last, a little surprised she could speak at all. “He’s not what I expected him to be.”

“What did you expect him to be?”

Kate fiddled with the handle of her cup, a delicate piece of bone china painted with a lovely rose pattern. She’d once asked Deborah where the cups had come from. “Another life,” the woman had answered, such pain shadowing her eyes that Kate had never asked again.

“Cold,” Kate answered at last. “Heartless. Mean, like Arly, I suppose.”

“But he’s not.”

It wasn’t a question, so Kate knew Deborah had already decided about Joshua Hawk. She herself wasn’t at all certain what her own conclusions were. She only knew that if she’d been wrong about The Hawk, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

“No, he’s not.” A cynicism cruelly taught to her by her husband twisted her lips. “Or he hides it well.”

“Why should he bother to do that? Everyone knows who he is, what he is. He has nothing to hide.”

She liked that about Deborah—she was always so logical, so reasonable; she was always seeing different sides of things. And she understood people, understood them in a way Kate despaired of ever learning.

“But how can it be? How does a man who seems so . . . reasonable, so right-minded, who can act so . . . kindly, become a killer? And for money?”

“Is that what he is?”

Kate looked startled. “What do you mean?”

“Is he a paid killer? Or is he paid to do a job which sometimes comes to involve killing?”

Kate’s startled look faded into thoughtfulness. “I . . . never thought of it in that way.”

“This is . . . violent country, Kate. It isn’t like back in the States where there are laws, and plenty of men to enforce them. We can hope it’s coming, but it’s not here, not yet. So men resort to violence to resolve their disputes. And to men like The Hawk.” Deborah shrugged. “Perhaps he kills when the situation demands it, and he’s in the situation because no one else would do it.”

“I . . . perhaps. I don’t know. It seems so awful, but when you put it that way . . .”

Deborah smiled. “Life would be easier if everything were plain and clear, wouldn’t it?”

“It would certainly be simpler,” Kate said with a heartfelt sigh.

“For myself,” Deborah said, stirring her tea, “I believe I prefer The Hawk’s methods to Arly’s. At least you know what you’re dealing with, and he doesn’t try to disguise himself as a pillar of the community while he drinks, gambles, and mistreats anyone weaker or smaller than he. There’s a certain honesty in that.”

Kate couldn’t deny that, so she didn’t even try. “I expected Reverend Babcock to rain fire and brimstone down on me in his sermon today.” As he would have, she added silently, had he known what she’d done. “But he didn’t say a word.”

Deborah laughed. “Honey, he wouldn’t dare. After what you told me happened when he came into the mercantile Friday, ready to sermonize all over you? He’s been busy telling the whole town The Hawk is only doing the gentlemanly thing, unlikely as that might be.”

“I think he was a gentleman, once,” Kate said. “At the least, very well brought up.”

Deborah shrugged. “No one is born a gunfighter.”

“Josh certainly wasn’t. He has good manners, and he’s very well spoken; he’s been educated, and he’s polite—”

“Josh?” Deborah asked softly.

Kate flushed. “Well, that’s his name. Joshua. And he asked me to call him Josh.”

“I see.”

Something in her friend’s tone made Kate’s color deepen. “He’s working for me. I could hardly call him The Hawk or Mr. Hawk all the time, could I?”

“Kate,” Deborah said quietly, “I’m your friend. You can call him anything you like, as far as I’m concerned.”

Chagrined, Kate set down her cup and reached to clasp her friend’s hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just so . . . disturbing to have him around.”

Deborah smiled widely. “I imagine it is. He’s quite a handsome man.”

Joshua Hawk’s good looks were something she didn’t care to dwell on. And if she didn’t stop thinking about that kiss, she’d go utterly mad. As a diversion, she returned to something Deborah had said before.

“You were right, you know. He wasn’t born a gunfighter. In fact, his family was quite wealthy. They had a very large farm in Missouri.”

“Really? Well, I suppose the best of families have their black sheep.”

“I don’t think it was like that. His family . . . they all died during the war, except for his grandfather.”

Deborah went very still. “All?”

Kate nodded. “Even the women.” She hesitated, thinking she shouldn’t do this; it was almost like betraying a confidence she hadn’t been meant to have in the first place. But she would stake her life—and already had, on occasion—on Deborah’s ability to keep her own counsel, and she desperately needed someone to help her make sense of the enigma that was Joshua Hawk.

So she overcame her hesitation and related the horribly grim story she’d read in the Hawk book, feeling herself shiver as if she’d been there when she spoke of the raiders who had raped and murdered their way through the Hawk family.

“I will never understand war,” Deborah said quietly when Kate had finished, “but I understand even less the kind of man who uses war as an excuse for his own evil ways.”

Kate knew Deborah had seen much of the war, too much, as she’d aided her doctor father in the Northern hospitals. It was why they’d come west, because her father had seen far too much of death, had far too much of being unable to save young lives. But even her grim experience had been once removed; Deborah had dealt with the aftermath, but she’d been safely spared the actual terror. Josh had had to deal with it face-to-face, at an age when he should have been dealing with nothing more than simply growing up.

“He blamed himself,” Kate said, “for not saving them.”

“But he was just a boy!” Deborah exclaimed.

“Yes.”

Deborah looked at her for a long, silent moment. “He . . . told you all this?”

Guiltily, Kate shook her head. “No.” She explained about the book, the Hawk history. “That’s why you can’t ever tell a soul. I should never have looked at it.”

“Sounds fascinating. I’ve seen family trees before, but never one like that, with stories.”

“It is unusual. Luke said every time the family tree got down to just one name, there was a story.”

“A story about what?”

“That last Hawk, I think. Luke wasn’t clear. And Josh . . . didn’t like him talking about it.”

“I imagine that shut the boy up in a hurry. He’s developed quite a case of hero worship for your Hawk.”

“He’s not ‘my Hawk,’ ” Kate said emphatically.

Deborah lifted a brow at her. “It was merely a figure of speech, Kate, dear.”

Embarrassed, Kate sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m a little edgy today. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

She got to her feet before Deborah could ask why; she was in no mood to explain that she’d spent half the night listening for sounds from downstairs, and the other half trying not to think about the man who was making them.

“I have to get back to the mercantile and start supper.” Then, not wanting Deborah to think her haste had anything to do with Josh, she added, “And I have to take advantage of being closed today to count some stock.”

Deborah also rose, smiling, and if she was thinking there was anything untoward about Kate’s answer, she didn’t say a word. “Don’t you let Reverend Babcock catch you working on the Sabbath.”

Kate’s mouth quirked in amusement. “He’d have to stay sober to do that.”

Deborah laughed; the reverend’s claim that preaching a Sunday sermon dried up a man’s throat was chuckled at by everyone in town. “You’re right. I think you’re safe enough.”

DEBORAH WATCHED her friend go, gave her a final wave, shut the door to her parlor, and slowly turned around. She leaned against the door, still smiling; it was wonderful to see Kate able to laugh, with things to look forward to. She’d watched Arly Dixon try to crush the girl’s spirit for four years, and had every day feared that he would kill her in the effort. But Kate had never given in. She’d learned to survive, although she’d often worn bruises from Arly’s batterings that made Deborah cringe. And then there were the other attacks, the brutal, ruthless assaults that would have been rape had Kate not been married to him.

Deborah winced at the memories; her father had told her that the physical act of union between a man and woman could be a beautiful thing, but she doubted Kate would believe that. More than once, despite her own terror, she’d sheltered the girl, denying to Arly’s face that Kate was there, knowing that if he got hold of her on those particularly vicious nights, Kate would be dead by morning.

Deborah knew most men were not like Arly Dixon, that some were gentle, good men; she’d nursed many of them, men who begged her to get word to their beloved wives. She’d been fifteen when she’d begun helping her widowed father in his overloaded Union hospital, and before her sixteenth birthday she’d lost track of how many men had died in her arms, calling her by the names of the women and children they would never see again, never hold again. Women and children who would be left with only memories and the pitifully small collection of possessions Deborah always sent home to them.