Heart of the Hawk (24 page)

She looked at that single, final line, the one that bore Josh’s name for a long time. The last Hawk.

Who was she, this woman he would find someday, a woman to love, as the others had? She knew he’d been wrong, that there was no way the book could have meant her, despite the fact that it claimed he’d met her the day he’d arrived in Gambler’s Notch, and Josh had said she was the only woman he’d even seen that day.

No, he would find a woman worthy of the Hawk name. A woman with whom he’d rebuild the dynasty that had been nearly destroyed by the savagery that had swept the country, dividing families as it had divided the Union. Who would she be, that woman, the woman strong enough, smart enough, beautiful enough to win the heart of The Hawk? Would their story someday grace the pages of the Hawk book?

Kate smothered the pang that thought brought her, just as she’d smothered the pain that had threatened to swamp her when Josh had told her, with every evidence of absolutely meaning it, to marry Alex. If only she could smother the memory of his kiss, the kiss that had made her understand why some women didn’t dread them. The kiss that had made her wonder if there could be another way in bed as well, a way that was kinder than Arly’s brutal habits. Josh had been aroused in that way; she’d felt the hard readiness of his body, had known what it had always meant before. But Josh hadn’t forced her, hadn’t taken what he obviously wanted.

Convulsively, she turned the page, thinking that even the consternation of finding the book changed yet again would be better than this longing ache. It was impossible that the thing still existed at all, so what did a few changes inside matter? She made herself look. She read the entry about the mysterious, unnamed woman again, laughing at the very idea that it could be her; she wasn’t meant for the kind of life that got recorded in books, especially one that appeared to have a magical life of its own.

She read on, and found herself barely reacting when she saw that the pages at the end of the story, Josh’s story, had indeed changed again. She saw that the book again showed a list of dates, as if promising parts of the story still to come. But none of it mattered, not after she’d read the final entry, dated barely three weeks away.

That final, ominous entry that left her cold with fear.

May 1878—Gunfighter Joshua Hawk buried in Gambler’s Notch, Wyoming Territory.

Chapter 16

KATE STARED AT the items on the counter: the jerky, the small sacks of sugar, and Arbuckle’s coffee beside the neatly tied bedroll. And at the saddlebags that sat beside them, packed with Josh’s belongings, just enough room left on one side for the foodstuff on the counter. A movement from in front of the store caught the edge of her vision and she looked that way. Buck stood at the hitching rail beside the water trough, saddled and waiting. The only conclusion to be drawn was obvious.

Moving slowly, Kate set the book down beside the sack of Arbuckle’s.

She raised her gaze to watch Josh, who had just graciously handed Mrs. Boardman, who looked by turns repelled and fascinated by the idea of a notorious gunfighter serving as a store clerk, her change. The woman cast a curious look at Kate, but merely nodded and scurried out.

Josh headed toward her. Kate said nothing, because she couldn’t force a single word out of her mouth. Josh came to a halt, glanced down at the supplies that sat beside his saddlebags, then back at her face. Still she couldn’t speak.

“I paid for all of it,” he said after a moment. “The money’s already in the drawer.”

Kate flushed, jarred out of her speechlessness. “I never suggested that you hadn’t.”

“Then what were you thinking?”

“I . . . you’re packing,” she said unnecessarily.

He looked at her steadily, his face a mask of indifference, an expression she hadn’t seen for a while; she wasn’t happy it had returned.

“Yes,” he agreed.

It took every ounce of what little nerve she had to ask evenly, “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

It was short, terse, and without emotion. He was looking at her as if he expected her to . . . to what? Plead with him? Beg him to stay? She drew herself up; Arly hadn’t left her much, but she still had some pride, even though she’d had to keep it deeply buried while her husband was alive. And she would not beg any man again. Not for anything. Ever.

But, oh, I’m going to miss him.

Kate paled, the words ringing so loudly in her mind that for a moment she feared she’d said them. But it was true, she would miss him. Miss his slow, lazy smiles, his quiet support, the warning look that came into his eyes whenever anyone didn’t treat her with what he considered proper respect. She’d never had anyone to stand up for her before, not really, and it had been a heady experience. But it was over now, and best forgotten.

As were kisses given by a man with a lot of experience in moving, but not much in staying put.

Not, Kate thought, that he had much choice, now. She drew in a deep breath. “Then you’ve already read it.”

“Read what?”

She indicated the book on the counter. “Is that why you wanted me to read it? So I’d know why you were leaving?”

Josh frowned. “I wanted you to read it so you’d know . . . some marriages can be good. Even happy.”

He’d wanted her to know that? Why? So she’d be willing to marry Alex, and he could go on his way, knowing the woman he’d widowed was safely taken care of?

And what would he do if he knew the truth about her widowhood? Kate quailed inside at the thought. What would he do if he knew what she’d done?

He would hate her. He wouldn’t just be indifferent to her, or be kissing her out of pity or worse; he would hate her. How could he not? He would hate her, and he’d leave Gambler’s Notch without a backward look. He’d be off to find the one who could win his heart, someone woman enough to hold him.

As, apparently, he was about to do anyway. If she’d fostered any silly hope that the book had been even a little bit right about the woman fated for The Hawk, she’d certainly learned her lesson now. But it was better that he leave now, like this, for his own sake . . . and, thankfully, without knowing what she’d done. And if it was cowardly for her to hope that he would never find out, then that’s what she was.

But still . . .

“Happy?” she said suddenly, the words coming despite her effort to hold them back. “If you marry for love, you mean? Not like it would be if I . . . did as you said and married Alex . . . but to marry as the Hawks do? Like”—she had to swallow to keep her voice from breaking before she went on—“you will, someday?”

The indifferent mask was back. “No. I won’t. I’ll be the last Hawk that breaks the chain, that ends the unending, that breaks the spell. Whatever you want to call it.”

The impassivity of his voice chilled her. “But it doesn’t have to be—”

“No man in my line of work marries, unless he enjoys the idea of leaving a widow behind.”

“So you
have
read it,” Kate said.

“I’ve read it.”

He opened the flap of the saddlebag that still had room, and then picked up the sack of sugar. Unable to stop herself, she reached out and touched his hand. As if startled, he froze, his gaze shooting up to her face.

“You will be careful, won’t you? Come May?”

“What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, and that you . . . we don’t really believe in this, but still, you will be careful?”

“I’m always careful. A careless gunfighter doesn’t live very long.”

She supposed that was one of the truest things ever spoken. And as he was leaving, he would no doubt be safe, but still, the entry in the book prodded her into persistence.

“I know it says Gambler’s Notch, but it could happen anywhere, so no matter where you are in May, you’ll be careful?”

He stopped in the process of adding the sack of coffee to his bags. “What says Gambler’s Notch? And what does May have to do with it?”

“That’s when it’s dated, next month. Didn’t you notice?”

He went very still. “That’s when what is dated?”

“The last entry,” Kate said, frowning. Why was he looking at her so strangely?

He looked from her to the book, which lay closed and perfectly normal looking on the counter. Then he looked back at her face.

“Are you saying that there is an entry in that book dated May of 1878?”

“The last one,” she repeated. “You must have—” She broke off, her eyes widening as she at last realized the reason for his intensity. “It . . . wasn’t there? When you read it last?”

He shook his head. Slowly, he reached out and slid the book across the counter toward him. His expression changed slightly the moment he touched it, the intensity in his eyes abating somewhat, as if simply touching the book eased his agitation about it. He lifted it to rest on its spine, and opened it.

Had it been any other book, Kate would have been surprised that it opened to exactly the right page. She wasn’t surprised at all now. She watched Josh’s face as he looked at the list of dates . . . and saw his eyes stop when he reached the last one. Other than that, there was no sign that what he read there had any effect on him at all. His expressionless mask never slipped.

“I looked at it after Luke tripped over it and took off running this morning,” he said without looking up, almost idly. “I looked at it carefully, because I knew it couldn’t be the same book. I’d watched it burn.” He looked up at her. “This wasn’t written there then.”

“But it is now,” Kate whispered.

His mouth twisted. “Yes.”

He looked back down at the page that foretold his death. He studied it for a long, silent moment, as if the secret of the book, its arrival, its apparent resurrection, and its constant changes were somehow revealed there.

Then she saw his dark brows lower. He looked up at her. “You thought I was leaving . . . because of this?”

Something in his tone made her tense. She nodded.

“You think I’m leaving because this book says they’ll bury me here?” He sounded astonished.

“You must,” Kate said, puzzled at his reaction. “If you go now, you’ll be far away by May, and then—”

He stared at her. “You sound like you believe this thing is true.”

“It’s been true up to now, hasn’t it?”

“What happened to ‘we don’t really believe in this’?”

“This is different. You can’t take a chance.”

“A chance?”

“That it might be right.”

“Why?” He sounded merely curious.

“Josh,” she exclaimed in exasperation, “it’s your
death
it’s reporting! You have to get out of Gambler’s Notch.”

“It also says the Hawks will go on. If I die, how does that happen? It’s contradicting itself.”

Kate frowned at that. “I don’t know. Maybe that can only happen if you heed this warning.”

“Or maybe the whole thing is nonsense.”

“But you can’t take that chance. What if it’s wrong about that, but right about this?”

For a full minute he stood there, just looking at her. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“But May is only three weeks away! You’d be crazy to stay here—”

“No, Kate.”

“Why?” She indicated his saddlebags with a sweeping gesture. “You were going to leave anyway,” she pointed out.

And why had he been leaving? she wondered, thinking of this for the first time. If he’d been packing before he’d ever known about the ill omen in the book, why? Had she been right in her guess, that he assumed she would marry Alex, thus removing from him any lingering sense of responsibility? Was he truly so very anxious to get away?

“I was leaving on my own terms. This”—he pointed at the book—“changes that.”

Her pondering forgotten, Kate stared at him incredulously. “You mean you were perfectly willing to go before for no real reason, but now that there is a real reason, you won’t?”

“I had my reasons for leaving.”

“Then you still do. Even more now. What could be more important than avoiding dying?” she exclaimed.

He looked at her steadily, in a way that made her remember that kiss upstairs last night, made her wonder what would have happened had Alex not come bursting in on them. She wasn’t naive enough to think that Josh’s condition, the hardening of that malest part of him, meant anything more than that he, as Arly, and she supposed all other men, had been seized with the urge to take the closest available woman. No matter that it was too-tall, too-plain, strange-eyed Kathleen.

Color flared in her cheeks, and she saw Josh’s sudden intake of breath, as if he’d known exactly what she was thinking. She lowered her gaze swiftly, wondering if this had happened to him before, if some plain, simple woman had looked at him that way. She wondered if that was why he’d kissed her, if that was why—

“You have to go,” she said quickly, desperate to tear her thoughts out of that painful rut. “You were going anyway. So do it. Get out of here, Josh.”

“No. I still have work to do.” His voice sounded a little rough, as if he were having to force out the words.

“Work you were perfectly willing to walk away from a moment ago,” she pointed out, his contrariness helping dispel the memories and restore her irritation, although it did little to ease the quaking of her knees; she couldn’t believe her own temerity in arguing with him.

He looked a bit sheepish, but he didn’t try to deny her words. He only shrugged. “I was wrong. I’m not finished here.”

“If what the book says is true, you’ll be finished, all right,” she snapped, regaining her anger now in the face of his senseless contrariness. “Finished and buried.”

“You really want me to run, from some words in a book? A book that’s a mirage that can’t really exist?”

She leaned over and slapped the book shut, picked it up, and shoved it into his belly so hard and fast he grunted in pain and surprise. Then she slammed it back down on the counter with a loud thud.

“It doesn’t exist?”

“You know what I meant,” he said, rubbing his stomach gingerly.

“You told me it’s all true, everything in here that’s been written about you. About your family being divided by the war, and how your grandfather kept both sides together under the same roof. About your father going to fight with the Union army, while his brother wore rebel gray. About what happened to your mother, and your aunt, and your sisters.”

She saw his jaw tighten, but she couldn’t seem to stop now. In some part of her mind, she was aware of the utter insanity of what she was doing, trying to face down Joshua Hawk. She never would have dared this with Arly; she had little doubt that she would have been dead by now had she even begun to talk to him like this.

But Josh wasn’t Arly. He wasn’t like Arly in any way, despite his reputation as a cold-blooded killer. Arly, much more than Josh, had deserved that cold-blooded label. The vague thought that she had her answer to why a killer could make her feel the way he did flitted through her mind. The thought that it was precisely because he
wasn’t
a killer. And that on some deep, instinctive level she knew that, or she would never have risked standing up to him like this.

“You said it was true,” she went on, feeling reckless now, “what it says about how you and your grandfather came west together after the war. About how he died of cholera. And how you won all those shooting contests, and first hired out your gun. You said all of that was true. Did you lie?”

“No! But that’s past. It happened. This”—he gestured at the book—“is the future. There’s no way that book can . . . know what hasn’t happened yet.”