Heart of the Hawk (19 page)

“I hope you don’t have to replace anything,” Josh glanced around. There were only a few men in the place at this midday hour, and only four that he recognized—Rankin, no doubt cooling down from a morning’s work at the forge with a beer; the reverend, who seemed to need no excuse to drink; the telegraph operator; and Henry Meeker. They were all watching Josh warily, and he half expected them to scramble out of the place at any second. Josh saw movement at the front door of the saloon, then at the window, and a glimpse of blond hair told him Luke was outside, watching. He only hoped the boy would stay outside, where it would be relatively safe.

Belatedly, although he’d always seemed to Josh a little slow in the head, Robards noticed Josh’s presence. The man’s fingers tightened around his now empty glass.

Josh nodded to him. “Been a while, Robards. Let me get that refilled for you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, although it was hard to tell between his scarred brow and his right cheek, left looking permanently swollen by the man who had rearranged the bone beneath it while administering his lesson about insults and family loyalty.

“Hawk,” the man growled, “I heard you was here.”

“And now you see. Hugh, how about that drink for this fellow. On me.”

Markum complied, but poured the whiskey gingerly, as if he were offering it to a coiled rattler. Close enough, Josh thought. At his nod, Markum poured a shot for him as well, although Josh made no move to pick up the glass.

Robards seemed puzzled by his hospitality. He glanced downward, as if to reassure himself Josh was indeed armed.

“Why you buyin’ me a drink?”

“Why not? We’re old . . . acquaintances.”

“You know I come here to kill you.”

Josh suppressed a sigh; the man just wasn’t going to make this easy. “You’re just going to have to wait. I promised the marshal here I wouldn’t go hunting trouble.”

Robards snorted. “You takin’ orders from some town marshal now, Hawk?”

Josh shrugged. “He’s a tough hombre. I wouldn’t want to have him after me.”

“You should be worryin’ about me being after you, Hawk. You shot my brother—”

“After he shot that driver. In the back.”

Robards stiffened. “Are you callin’ my brother a backshooter?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional,” Josh said mildly. “I’ll bet Martin was no more a backshooter than you are.”

And that, Josh thought, was God’s pure truth. Robards looked at him suspiciously, obviously struggling to understand if there had been something in that placating—on the surface—answer that he’d somehow missed.

“You still killed my brother, Hawk. And I owe you lead for that.”

Josh shook his head slowly. “Take the drink, man. It was bad luck, and poor shooting on your partner’s part.”

“My brother’s dead. You killed him.”

I tried,
Josh thought
. I really tried.

“Yes,” he said. He reached out and picked up the glass in front of him with his left hand. “And he had it coming.”

He saw Robards’s eyes track the movement of his hand with the glass, and saw the second when the man decided. He’d known it would happen; the man was the type to wait until he thought he had his opponent at a disadvantage.

Josh moved the instant he read decision in the other man’s eyes. His hand streaked for his Colt. A fraction of a second later, Robards drew. Josh had him dead to rights before he even cleared leather. But he didn’t shoot. He didn’t shoot, and he didn’t quite know why.

A low whistle echoed in the room as Robards backed off, hands held out from his sides. Josh heard an excited yelp that could only have come from Luke. He set the untouched glass back on the bar.

“You’ve got one chance to live, Robards,” Josh said, low enough so that only the man with the twisted face could hear him. “Take it and ride out.”

Without a word, the man began to back away toward the door. Josh watched him, gun still drawn. Even when Robards scampered through the door and disappeared, he was slow to slide the Colt back into the holster.

“You want that drink?” Markum asked, eyeing the shot of whiskey Josh had put down. Josh shook his head. “Good,” Markum said fervently, lifting the glass and draining it himself in a single gulp as there was the noisy clatter of youthful footsteps at the door.

“Did you see that, Mr. Rankin?” Luke crowed as he ran into the room and skidded to a halt at Josh’s side. “He didn’t even have to shoot. That man just turned yellow and ran.”

“I saw, boy,” Rankin said. The blacksmith stood up, giving Josh a considering look. “I also saw he went a long way to avoid that fight.”

“Don’t tell me,” Josh said grimly, “tell the marshal. He’s not going to be happy about this.”

“I might just do that.”

“Well”—Babcock also rose, looking a trifle discomfited—“I don’t care for the kind of people you’re bringing into town, Mr. Hawk. I don’t care for it at all.”

“I’m not particularly happy about it myself, Reverend,” Josh said.

“First you shoot one of our citizens—”

Josh turned on the little man. “I don’t notice anyone around here doing a lot of mourning for Arly Dixon.”

Babcock flushed. “Well, perhaps Mr. Dixon wasn’t one of our more popular residents—”

“He was one mean son of a bitch,” Rankin said bluntly.

“Well, yes, but—”

“And he beat his wife nearly to death,” Josh said, his voice infused now with deadly menace. “And the only person with guts enough to try and help her is this boy here.” He put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “That doesn’t say much for the men of this town.”

“Why, what do you—” Babcock began, red-faced.

“Where the hell were all you fine men when she needed help?”

“That’s fine for you to say,” the telegraph operator, a tall, skinny man appropriately named Boardman, put in. “You’re The Hawk. Any of us tried anything, we would have wound up like those four men who tried to help old Happy Jack Morco’s wife down Ellsworth way. Shakin’ hands with St. Peter.”

“So you let him get by with it? You couldn’t even find the guts between all of you?”

Boardman shut up, and even Babcock looked uncomfortable.

“He’s right,” Rankin said. He glanced around at the others. “We all knew what was going on, that Arly was hurting that girl, hurting her bad. And we did nothing, said it wasn’t our business what a man did with his wife. But we were wrong. We should have done something long ago.”

From the taciturn Art Rankin this was close to a speech, and the other men stayed silent. They looked at each other, then at Josh. Then they looked at Luke, somewhat ashamedly. The boy was looking up at Josh, pride at the implied praise glowing in his young face. Josh smiled back at him; whatever hurt he’d done to the boy’s feelings this morning, it was obviously well forgotten now. He reached out and tousled the boy’s hair, wondering where this sudden burst of affection for the wild kid had come from. Maybe he was just seeing himself—

The instant he heard the steps behind him, he knew he was in trouble; Robards had followed his lead and come in from the back. Josh pushed Luke down to the floor. That moment’s delay cost him. He heard the crack of gunfire in the same instant he felt the sting at the top of his left arm. He heard another shot as he stepped clear of the sprawled Luke. This one went wild.

He drew, concentrating on accuracy rather than speed. It gave Robards a chance for one more shot, but Josh wanted the man down before Luke or someone else got hurt. This was his fight, not theirs. The shot came. Missed. Josh fired for the first time. A look of shock came across Robards’s distorted face. He stared at Josh. He looked down as his six-shooter fell to the floor. He crumpled without a word.

Josh stood there, staring down at the body. Thirteen, he thought dully. The Hawk had another to his discredit.

“IT’S FINE,” JOSH protested. “I’ve cut myself shaving worse than—”

“Quiet,” Deborah said, and continued to clean the wound. Luke had come running for her, although she’d already been on her way when she’d heard the gunfire. One man was far beyond her help, and she’d had to track Josh down at the marshal’s office to treat him.

Marshal Pike was watching the proceedings with every evidence of interest as Deborah began to lay out bandages.

“Art tells me you gave him more than one chance to walk away. Even offered to buy him a drink. That true?”

Deborah paused as Josh looked at Pike. “I gave you my word, Marshal.”

“Henry Meeker told me the only reason you got hit at all was because you pushed the boy out of the way.”

Josh shrugged.

“Hold still!” Deborah ordered. “You’ll start this bleeding again, and I just got it stopped.”

“Don’t argue with her, son,” Pike drawled. “And don’t let that pretty face fool you. She’s a determined woman when it comes to doctorin’.”

Josh grimaced. “I can see that.”

Deborah fought against blushing. “Caleb Pike, you go spread your palaver somewhere else. Pretty face, indeed.”

“Indeed,” Josh said.

Deborah gave him a startled glance. Josh smiled at her in a way that made her lose the battle against the heat that threatened to rise in her cheeks.

“You’re a fine-looking woman, Miss Taylor,” Josh said, looking at her with a puzzlement that went a long way toward convincing her of his sincerity. “Surely you know that?”

Deborah thought she’d never felt so embarrassed—and so pleased—before in her life. Nor had she ever been at such a loss for words. So she said nothing, but went back to her bandaging of the ragged but shallow furrow Robards’s bullet had left in the flesh of Josh’s upper arm.

Pike looked at Josh for a moment longer before he said, “Guess I’ll go on over and see to the body.”

Deborah felt Josh go very still. “No charges?”

Pike shook his head. “Seems clear enough. Lots of witnesses, and they all say the man tried to backshoot you. He fired three times, you only once. And that you saved that boy’s life and got that”—he gestured at Josh’s bloody left arm—“for your trouble.” But then he added sternly, “But I’m warning you again, Hawk. That’s two men you’ve killed in my town. Now, I’ll give you that Arly brought it on himself, and this one probably had it coming to him, but I don’t like bodies scattered around. Makes folks nervous.”

“Makes
me
nervous,” Josh agreed.

Pike chuckled as he left the office. Deborah finished her bandaging, then stepped back to assess if it would hold. Josh thanked her, and asked what he owed her.

“A dollar, and to stay out of shooting scrapes.”

“I
tried
to stay out of this one,” he said as he pulled out a silver dollar and gave it to her.

“I know you did. If you hadn’t, it would have been two dollars.”

Josh grinned at her, then leaned over and reached for his bloodied shirt. For the first time, now that she was finished with her work, Deborah saw him as a man, not a patient. A man with a grin that could turn a woman’s mind foggy. A man with a nicely broad chest, solid shoulders, and a flat belly. He was taller than Arly had been, and leaner, more fit, and much more pleasing to the eye.

To the female eye, anyway, Deborah thought as she watched him pull on his shirt. It was no wonder Kate had been on edge for days now. Having this under your roof—and literally under your feet at night—would be enough to distract any female alive. Unlike most women, she’d seen her share of near-naked men while helping her father, so perhaps it took more to impress her. Joshua Hawk impressed her.

He wasn’t to her taste, of course. For the little it mattered, she much preferred the wiry quickness of, say, Alex Hall.

Alex.

Alex, who was no doubt at this moment with Kate.

“Does Kate know you’re all right?” Deborah asked.

Josh paused in the buttoning of his shirt with the bloodied sleeve. “For all that she’ll care right now, yes. She was waiting in front of the store when I was headed here.”

“Luke told me she knew you were going into a fight.”

“Yes.”

“He said she tried to talk you out of it.”

Josh gave her a sideways look. “Most women feel that way about bloodshed.”

“Yes, we do. Especially when people we care about are involved.”

Josh drew back, and Deborah saw the wariness in his eyes as he looked at her. She sensed he wanted to ask what she’d meant, and she sensed as well he wasn’t going to do it. She wondered if it was because he didn’t want to know, or if perhaps he already did.

“She’ll be fine,” Deborah said with planned casualness. “Alex is with her.”

Josh stiffened again. Then he turned away quickly, picking up his gunbelt and buckling it on. But Deborah hadn’t missed that flicker in his eyes, telling her that whatever attraction to this man Kate was fighting so hard, the feeling was mutual.

Deborah sighed inwardly; truly, the last thing Kate needed in her life was another difficult man. And this man, she thought, could be the worst of all. Kate’s father had ignored, then all but sold her; her husband had beaten her . . . but this one would break her heart. How very ironic, Deborah thought, that the man who was kindest to her could be the one to at last break that valiant spirit.

“I suggest you stay away from her for a while,” Deborah said. “She’s going to have enough to deal with.”

Josh turned back sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the reason Alex is with her.”

“I thought he was with her because he—” He broke off, and for a moment Deborah could have sworn she saw a faint hint of color tinge his cheekbones. “What do you mean?” he asked again.

“Just don’t give her any more grief to handle,” Deborah warned, meaning it.