Heart of the Hawk (7 page)

He stared at his own name, the single name left on the tree, the only one with a birth date not followed by the date of death. He stared at it for a long time, at that entry, at that “1853—” followed by the empty space that should have been filled in two days ago here in Gambler’s Notch.

A sort of nausea filled him, and he had to close the book. He couldn’t look at it anymore. It no longer mattered where it had come from, or who had put it here. The only thing that did matter was the truth it had laid out for him: He was the last Hawk. The last of a long line, a proud line.

A line he’d brought shame to, a line he didn’t deserve to belong to. Those ancestors no doubt would just as soon not claim him at all. And he couldn’t blame them for it.

If he was the only, and thus the best, thing the Hawks had left, then perhaps it was time to let it end.

Perhaps Joshua Hawk should indeed be the last Hawk.

Chapter 4

“YOU’RE GOING TO hurt yourself, trying to lift things like that.”

Kate let out a tiny, startled sound and nearly lost her grip on the keg of nails she’d been trying to lift from the floor to one of the shelves behind the counter. Strong, masculine hands shot out to steady the small barrel, then lifted its weight out of her hands.

“Here?”

She nodded, staring at the man as he easily lifted the heavy keg up to the shelf she’d indicated.

“I expected you’d be long gone by now, Mr. Hawk,” she said, thinking as she said it about Luke’s excitement at being allowed to call him by his given name. Josh, Luke had told her. Short for Joshua, she supposed. A biblical name for a hardly biblical man. Of course, Luke had also told her he was a kind, patient man a fellow could talk to, an unlikely description of The Hawk, which she credited to the blindness of the hero worship of an impressionable young boy.

“So did I,” he said. He pulled off his hat and shoved his hair back with his left hand, sharply, like a man not used to having his hair so long.

“So why aren’t you?”

His mouth twisted. “I’m not exactly sure.”

She saw his eyes linger for a moment on her cheek, where the bruise was at last beginning to fade. Every morning she looked in her piece of broken mirror and rejoiced that when this one was gone, there would be no more.

As if he’d read her thoughts, he said quietly, “Pick a kinder man next time.”

Kate laughed, a bleak, humorless sound. Next time? Not likely there would be one. “I didn’t
pick
this one,” she said pointedly.

“No?”

Her chin came up. “No, Mr. Hawk. When we first came to Gambler’s Notch, we’d only been here three days, and already heard that Arly Dixon was the most mean-spirited man in town. Do you think I would
want
to marry a man like that?”

“Then why did you?”

Life was so simple for men, Kate thought. If they didn’t want to do something, they didn’t do it. No one forced them, or if they tried to, a man could leave and make his own way. Even if the only thing he could do was kill, he could make a living at it, she thought sourly as she looked at The Hawk. While she, as a woman, was merely a possession to be passed from an indifferent father to a brutal husband without a second thought.

He was staring at her oddly, almost embarrassedly, as if he somehow realized he’d somehow said something wrong. Or very foolish.

“My father gave me to him,” she said abruptly, not sure why she’d said it, when she never talked about this to anyone.

He blinked. “What?”

“He wanted new boots. He couldn’t pay. So Arly took me in trade.”

He stared at her, so clearly astonished that she almost forgave him for being male. Almost.

“Was there something you wanted, Mr. Hawk?”

“No. I mean yes,” he said, and she nearly smiled at the thought of having flustered the mighty Hawk. “I need some .44 cartridges.”

I’m sure
you do,
she thought. But she merely walked over to the shelf where the boxes of ammunition were stacked, glad of the chance not to have to look at him. She paused with her hand on the top box of cartridges.

“How many?”

“Four.”

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Four boxes?”

He nodded. Lifting two of the boxes at a time—they were fairly heavy for their size—she moved four of them to the counter.

“Going . . . hunting?”

If he noticed her pause, or understood her tacit insinuation about the kind of hunting he did, he didn’t react. She supposed he’d heard it too many times before.

“Practicing,” was all he said.

“Practicing?”
You had to practice being a hired gun?

“You think it happens by . . . magic?”

As he said the last word, a very odd expression, half bemused, half cynical flitted across his face. She wondered what he’d thought of that had caused it. Then he shrugged and went on.

“You don’t practice, your aim gets rusty.”

“Aim? I thought who is fastest was the most important.”

“Been reading dime novels, have you?”

Kate colored; she had, on occasion, read a few of the little books. They were easier to read than some of the other books she tried, and made her feel less stupid. Then, reminding herself of her resolution to never again be ashamed, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But everyone says the quickest draw is the best.”

He smiled at her, as if he was sorry for embarrassing her. “Quick is fine, but accuracy’s final,” he said. “Second proverb of a fighting man.”

She knew he expected it, but couldn’t help asking anyway. “And the first?”

“ ‘God didn’t make men equal, Colonel Colt did.’ ”

He grinned, flashing even white teeth, and she felt that odd sensation inside again; how could a cold-blooded killer make her feel this way? How could he make her smile back at him before she even realized she was doing it, even when that shadow never left his eyes?

“You . . . practice a lot?” she asked hastily.

“Only if I want to stay alive.”

When men like Arly jump you in dark alleys, you mean?
she wondered. For the first time, she looked at what had happened that night from his viewpoint. What had it been like, walking through the darkness, unsuspecting, and having a beast like Arly loom up out of the darkness at you? Even as accustomed as he was to fighting, had there been a moment when The Hawk had been scared? Had he felt, even for a fraction of a second, the kind of fear she’d always felt when Arly’s brute force had been turned on her?

She sighed. Probably not. The Hawk was more than able to take care of himself, and his talent with a six-gun would more than make up for any difference in size between him and his opponent. And for any advantage surprise might have given his assailant.

It was true, she thought. Only a fool—like Arly—would try to take The Hawk. No matter what the reason, or what encouragement he got.

She shivered, and quashed the thoughts that had been threatening to engulf her of late. She couldn’t change anything now. She had to get on with her life.

“Anything else, Mr. Hawk?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Call me Josh.”

She drew back warily. “Why?”

He sighed. “Because of the way you say Mr. Hawk.”

“What do you mean . . . Mr. Hawk?”

He let out a breath. “You say it like you’re afraid of me.”

Her chin came up again. “I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Hawk,” she said firmly. She meant it; she would never be afraid of a man again.

“Then maybe you just mean to insult me, repeating it so often like that.” Then, to her surprise, he added quietly, “But I guess you have a right to that.”

“To insult you? Whyever would you say that?”

“I killed your husband, Mrs. Dixon,” he reminded her, his voice quiet.

“In a fair fight,” she reminded him in turn. “Marshal Pike says so.”

She said it in tones of determined finality; she wanted the subject of her husband’s death closed. Preferably permanently. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a great deal of work to do.”

He glanced around the store, his gaze pausing on the boxes she’d laboriously dragged out this morning from the small storage room in the back next to the office. Then he glanced at the keg he’d helped her lift before he spoke.

“Looks like you could use some help.”

“I’ll get by. Luke helps when he can.”

“Luke’s just a boy. He can’t move some of those heavy things.”

“He tries. And he needs what little I can pay him.”

“You still need more than just his help.”

Irritation sparked through her. She put her hands on her hips and glared across the counter at him. “Are you joining the line of people telling me I should give up the idea of keeping the store open?”

He drew back as if she’d startled him. “No. I just said it looked like you could use a strong back.”

“What do you suggest?” she asked, still irritated. “All the married men have their own work to tend to, and the few unmarried ones who would work for Arly’s widow at all have other things on their mind, even with me.”

His dark brows rose. “
Even
with you?”

Her mouth twisted. “I have a mirror,” she said, “and plain is the kindest of words for what it shows me.”

“Maybe you need a new mirror,” he said mildly.

Pain at his obvious teasing stabbed through her. And surprised her; she’d thought herself used to such things. She clung to her irritation as a shield.

“Maybe I should hire
you,
Mr. Hawk,” she snapped. “You seem to have an answer for everything.”

“All right.”

She blinked. “All right, what?”

“I’ll work for you.”

Now he was teasing her about this. Her irritation grew. “That’s a very poor joke, Mr. Hawk.”

“That’s because it wasn’t intended as one.”

Kate let out a laugh anyway, albeit a humorless one again. “I doubt I can afford your rates, Mr. Hawk. I hear you’re very expensive.”

“Right now, what I am is broke.” He nodded toward the office at the back of the store. “All I need is room to lay out my bedroll. In there will do. And maybe a meal or two, if you’re cooking anyway.”

She stared at him in disbelief. She glanced at the boxes of cartridges on the counter. “I need someone to do honest work around here, not . . . a killer.”

“In spite of what you may think, I’ve done my share of what you call honest work.”

“And you want to do more here?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

“Why not?”

“The Hawk working in a mercantile?”

“Why not?” he repeated.

“Why?”

It was a moment before he answered her. “Maybe because it’s my doing that you’re alone here.”

She caught her breath. The revelation that had struck her when he’d first come to her after his release, the revelation that she’d managed to ignore since, came back now with stunning force. Was it really possible? Could the notorious gunfighter really feel . . . guilty?

She nearly laughed at herself for even considering the idea. Why would a man who’d killed a dozen men feel guilty over one more? One who had attacked him first? Especially when the record showed he’d been armed?

Still she stared at him, with no idea of what to say. She didn’t believe he was serious, yet he was looking at her as if his only goal in life had been to take a job in this little store in this little town. Why was he doing this? If he was truly without funds, why wasn’t he looking for a job—his kind of job, however one went about that? Or why wasn’t he back at the saloon, playing poker as Luke had told her he’d been doing, getting his money the easy way?

Playing poker. It came to her then, a memory from one of Arly’s drunken nights of boasting.
“I bluffed ’em, bluffed ’em all, and nobody called me. Anybody can play poker, but it takes a real man to bluff ’em all like that.”

Bluffing. The Hawk was bluffing. Maybe he really felt some twinge of guilt over killing her husband. Maybe he was offering because of it. But he knew she’d never agree; he had to know that. He expected her to say no, she didn’t want The Hawk working here. And he would walk away, his conscience eased at very little cost to himself.

She wondered what he’d do if she said yes. What had Arly said it was? Calling the bluff?

“Fine,” she said, not quite believing she was saying it. “I need someone to stock the high shelves.” She saw him glance at the few cans of peaches and vegetables that were already there. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s a big shipment coming in soon. Big enough that those shelves that are splitting will need fixing. And the roof needs repairing. And I need someone to sweep the floor every day. Luke’s got too much pride to do that. Still interested?”

“I said I’d do it.”

The image of The Hawk sweeping her floor threatened to send Kate into gales of laughter. And suddenly she was enjoying this too much to stop. “I’ll provide supper, breakfast if you’re up in time. I won’t wait the meal on you. And I won’t pay you more than your keep. I can’t afford both, and I won’t take the money away from Luke.”

That ought to do it, she thought. But the infuriating man simply nodded.

“He needs it more than I do.”

What was it going to take to get him to stop this? “You’ll have to sleep on the floor. There’s no room for a cot in the storeroom, and I won’t have you sleeping in my kitchen.”

He shrugged. “It’s dry, level, and it’s clear of rocks. Better than a lot of places I’ve slept.” He glanced at the doorway at the back of the store. “Storeroom?” he asked. “No more office?”

“Arly wanted to have an office to hang his name over. I want a storeroom, so I can carry more stock.”

She looked at him steadily, daring him to comment on the unseemly speed of her changes with her dead husband’s store. She didn’t care if he did—the store was hers now. But he merely nodded.

“What do you want me to do first?”

“You can’t really be serious about doing this,” she exclaimed.

In a tone so solemn she suspected he was doing exactly what he was denying, he said, “I never joke about sweeping floors, Mrs. Dixon.”