Heart of the Hawk (29 page)

He knelt beside him. Gently he turned the boy over. When he saw Luke was weeping, he let out a sigh of relief; if the boy could cry, he couldn’t be hurt that badly. He opened his mouth to reassure the boy.

The voice came from behind him, and Josh’s words to Luke never came. He froze. Every instinct that had become dulled in his peaceful time here leaped back to life. He’d been right to wonder about the gunfighter riding in alone.

He ticked them off in his head. A man on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. Another near the livery stable. A third behind him in the alley beside the mercantile. And the man in front of him. He was trapped.

He cursed himself; he’d let himself get lazy here, let himself ease up. Now it seemed he would pay for his foolishness with his life. It was going to happen exactly like the damned Hawk book had said.

Slowly, he rose to face Jackson Carter.

Chapter 20

“LET THE BOY GET out of the way, Carter,” Josh said.

Carter lifted a brow. He hadn’t changed much, Josh thought. Still tall and rail thin, still so blond his hair appeared almost white, and still with the most lifeless pair of eyes he’d ever seen that weren’t on a vulture.

Slowly, Josh reached down and pulled Luke to his feet.

“I’m sorry, Josh,” the boy said, tears still spilling from his eyes. “I didn’t want to call you, but he made me, he—”

“It’s all right, Luke. You run along now and—”

“No!”

“Go, Luke. Now.”

“But—”

“Now,” Josh repeated, and gave the boy a gentle shove. Luke gave him a distressed look, but started to back away. “Get,” Josh snapped, aware that Carter was known for his volatility, not his patience. Luke ran then, jumping up onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel.

“Very touching,” Carter said.

Josh ignored his words and his sarcastic tone. “I see you brought help. Still can’t face a man one to one?”

Carter shrugged. “And I’ll outlive you. Starting today.”

Josh had known it was useless; Carter cared little about the fairness of the fight, only that he was the one to walk away. He would shoot him down right here, armed or not. All he could do now was hope that Kate stayed inside. He didn’t relish the idea of her watching him die here in the street, and terror gripped him at the thought of her being possibly hit by a stray bullet. And with Carter’s cohorts surrounding him, the possibility seemed all too real.

He thought he could take Carter. He’d seen the man in action down in Colorado, and while he was fast, he was also hasty, and not always accurate. But he also knew few men got the chance to draw at all; Carter’s habit was to let one of his men wound his opponent first, then finish him off himself.

Carter glanced around, as if to assure himself everyone was in place. The other three men held their rifles at the ready, and Josh knew that this was it.

Odd, he thought. He’d faced death before, and had always felt almost neutral about it. Pike—and Kate—had been right: when he’d been awaiting the hangman, he’d almost welcomed it. But now . . . now he was thinking of all the things he would miss if he died now. More nights in Kate’s arms. More days watching her change, bloom, now that she was free of her husband’s shadow. Hell, he’d even miss Luke. He’d never thought much about kids, but now that he’d never have any of his own, unlike the book said when it said he’d met the woman who . . .

His mind jolted to a stop. He knew he was down to moments left alive, but time seemed to slow to a crawl.

The woman who was going to make sure the Hawks continued as promised.

The book had said nothing more than that. He’d thought it a contradiction at the time, this promise of the continuation of the Hawk bloodline and the prediction of his death. There was no way both things could be true. Unless . . .

Unless Kate was already pregnant.

What if last night . . . what if somehow, despite what she’d said, it had happened? What if even now she was carrying his child? What if the next Hawk was already growing inside her? Was that what the book had meant? That he would die, but the Hawks would go on?

His grandfather’s words about the book came back to him.
It follows the Hawk blood, legitimate or
not. . . .

Carter was staring at him. Fine time to start having regrets, Josh thought with a pang. He heard noises from behind him and across the street. The stable door slid open, and Art Rankin peered out. Josh gestured him back; he was too close to Carter’s man. Rankin backed up, but the stable door didn’t close.

He heard another sound, from inside the mercantile. Any sense of time moving slowly vanished at the thought of Kate stepping outside into this. Even if she hadn’t heard Luke’s yell, she’d be back in the store soon, and she couldn’t help but realize something was going on. And if she came out to look . . .

His mind began to race, to do what he should have been doing all along instead of mooning over senseless longings—looking for a way out. He could take Carter, and maybe the man in front of the saloon, before he went down from the shots from the man behind him in the alley. And should he get lucky and survive that, there was still the one by the stable to make sure he didn’t get up again.

“Let’s get it done, Carter,” he growled.

“In a hurry to die?”

“Maybe I’m just in a hurry to take you
with me.” Something flashed in Carter’s dead eyes. “Believe it. No matter what your backshooters do, you’re coming with me to hell.”

Carter backed up a step, shoving his coat back to free his six-shooter. His gun hand twitched, but he still didn’t make his move. Josh willed himself to ignore everything except the man before him. Ignore the man who would no doubt put a slug in his back the minute he went for his gun. Ignore the other men who would pump lead into him until he stopped moving.

“You can meet up with your thieving, cattle-rustling friends there,” Josh said, prodding, wanting this over before Kate wound up in the middle of it. “I hope for your sake these boys are less cowardly than your usual friends. But then, birds of a feather—”

“Son of a bitch,” Carter snapped.

The man moved then, clawing at his gun. Josh’s hand streaked downward. He heard a shout. He cleared leather. From another direction came a howl of pain. The distinctive report of a Henry rifle came from behind him, although he hadn’t seen one. He waited for the impact. For the pain in his back. It didn’t come. He heard a noise to one side, from the mercantile as Carter fired. A puff of dirt erupted at Josh’s feet; Carter had again shot too soon. Josh leveled his Colt and pulled the trigger. Flame spat. Smoke from the black powder curled. Carter doubled over, began to fall. In a crouch Josh whirled toward the livery stable, and the closest threat. He heard the boom of a shotgun, then another rifle shot. Then silence.

Silence.

No more shots. And he was still standing. And, as far as he knew, unhurt. It was impossible.

Slowly, he straightened up. The man beside the livery stable was already sprawled in the dirt, his hands clutching his bloody head. A heavy draft horseshoe lay beside him in the dirt, and standing over him was a grinning Art Rankin. The man who’d been on the boardwalk lay dead against the wall of the saloon as if tossed, giving Josh proof that he had indeed heard the big Henry buffalo gun.

Only one man left unaccounted for. Colt still in his hand, Josh spun toward the alley beside the mercantile. The fourth man lay there, staring sightlessly at the sky. The gaping wound in his chest told the tale: a shotgun left little doubt.

Then his gut finally delivered the message it had been trying to get to his brain since he’d heard that last noise—the door opening, he realized now—from the mercantile. Slowly, he turned to face the store. And saw Kate standing there in front, shotgun at her side. She looked back at him, chin up, as if daring him to say anything.

He’d gotten Carter, but expected to die doing it. Yet all three of Carter’s men were down. He was unhurt. And he’d had nothing to do with it. He tried to take a step toward her, but couldn’t seem to do it.

“Reckon we ought to send somebody out to the river to round up Marshal Pike,” Art Rankin said as he strolled over, having tied up the only one of Carter’s men left alive.

Josh stared at the blacksmith. The man had risked his own safety to help him. As had whoever had blasted the man at the saloon. And as Kate had, stepping out with her dead husband’s shotgun to once more save the life of the man who had killed him.

“Why?” was the only word he could manage.

“I hate stacked decks,” Rankin said with a shrug.

“I . . . thanks, Art.”

“My pleasure.” Rankin grinned. “Always knew all that horseshoe pitchin’d come in handy someday.”

“Josh! Josh!”

Luke’s yell was, Josh was sure, audible for miles. The boy raced toward them, skidding to a halt barely a yard from the downed Carter, seemingly undisturbed by the death surrounding him.

“Did you see that shot Mr. Meeker made?” the boy asked excitedly. “Knocked that man at the saloon right off his feet!”

Meeker. Again. To hell with the man’s desire for privacy; Josh wasn’t going to let this one pass. People were appearing now. Boardman’s gangly figure was visible in the doorway of the telegraph office, and Henry Meeker was peeking somewhat gingerly out of the hotel doorway.

“And that was some nice shootin’ by Miss Kate,” Rankin said, smiling at her.

Luke’s eyes widened. Only then did he seem to take in the rest of the grim tableau, the other dead man and the shotgun Kate still held. He turned to stare at her, awe and admiration clear in his face.

“You shot him, Miss Kate? Really?”

“It’s not something I’m happy about, Luke.” Her voice was flat, oddly emotionless.

“It’s nothing for anyone to be happy about,” Josh said, finally able to speak again. “Killing is ugly, even when . . . they ask for it.”

“But better them than you,” Luke said, unperturbed.

“Hard to argue with that, son,” Rankin said with a laugh. “I’ll round up some help and we’ll get this vermin out of the street.”

Josh blinked. Most towns, he’d be considered the vermin that needed removing. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it was different here. He looked back at Kate. She met his gaze for a long, silent moment, then turned and walked back into the store.

He caught up with her just inside.

“Kate—”

“Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But what you did—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Kate, you saved my life. Again.”

For some reason this seemed to heighten rather than ease her obvious distress.

“Please. Just . . . leave me alone. I need to . . . to think.”

Josh thought he understood. She’d just killed a man for the first time, and she was shaken. Anyone would be. A woman especially. Kate even more so. He wasn’t certain of the wisdom of leaving her alone right now, but he was less certain of the wisdom of pushing her. So, reluctantly, he let her go.

“Is she all right?” Luke asked anxiously.

“I think she will be. But she needs to be alone right now. Killing someone isn’t . . . a good thing to do, Luke.”

“But you do it.”

“And I hate it,” he said honestly. “And sometimes I hate myself because of it.”

Luke stared at him. Before the boy could ask the questions Josh saw building, questions he knew he couldn’t answer, Josh hastily changed the subject.

“Take me to this Mr. Meeker of yours, will you?”

“But he said—”

“I know. Take me anyway.”

They were halfway to the hotel before Luke looked up at Josh and said hesitantly, “Did I do wrong? I was worried, there were so many of them—”

“It’s all right, Luke.”

“He was already ready for them anyway. Had that big buffalo gun of his loaded and was sitting in the window. He doesn’t miss much in town.”

“I’ve noticed.”

This town, Josh thought, was a most confusing place. They’d let him stay instead of running him out, and now three of them had saved his life, when most would have let him and Carter kill each other and count it a gain all around.

Henry Meeker was conspicuously absent as they walked into the hotel. Josh supposed after the anxiety of the morning, the aptly named man had retreated to the saloon for fortification. It didn’t matter; it was Henry’s apparently ill-named father he wanted to see. Twice now the unseen man had helped him, and he wanted to know why.

Luke led the way up the stairs at a run, and turned to head toward the front of the hotel. He knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer to open the door. Josh followed the boy inside. He’d half expected Luke to trumpet his arrival, but the boy remained quiet, as if remembering the man’s request not to see Josh.

“I didn’t figure you’d stay away this time, Hawk.”

The man in the wheeled chair still sat by the window, his back to the room. All Josh could see was that he’d been tall, was still lean, and had dark hair flecked with gray.

“I owe you my thanks.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“You saved my life. I’d say that’s a sizable debt.”

“You want to pay me back? Don’t waste the rest of your life.”

He knew that voice. Knew that cultured voice with the slight Southern inflection. It was about the only thing Josh was certain of; where or when he’d ever encountered the man escaped him. Along with a lot else; he hadn’t even begun in his own mind to deal with the seeming second miracle of life he’d been handed in Gambler’s Notch.

“You’ve helped me twice,” he said instead. “I’d like to know why.”

“Old times’ sake,” the man said, confirming what Josh had already guessed. But Luke was startled, and after a hasty glance at Josh, ran over to Meeker’s chair.

“You know Josh, Mr. Meeker?”

“I did. Once.”

Slowly, with hands that were thin yet obviously still strong enough to wield the big Henry with deadly accuracy, Meeker wheeled his chair around. Josh stared at him, at the eyes he’d never forgotten, the thick brush of a mustache that hadn’t changed at all except for the flecks of gray.