Lone Star Loving (27 page)

As the bride returned to her husband's side, Hawk thought about Charity. Despite his frustration with her, he couldn't help but wonder what it would hurt to take a stab at making amends.

But he saw that she was dancing with her father, and she looked happy–not at all like she was missing him. Well, if he couldn't assuage what ailed them, he could at least relieve himself. He had had too much alcohol. He retreated to the privacy of a dark wooded area a few hundred feet from the wedding festivities. Legs braced, he unbuttoned his fly. Finished with his nature call, he made to put his appendage back in his trousers.

“You are as I imagined.”

He started at the sound of Maria Sara's voice. Suddenly a small hand clamped around his rod. It was a sobering experience.

“Ah,
hermoso, muy magnifico,”
she whispered, her champagne-scented breath hot against his skin. “How big does it get, Senor Hawk?”

Sickened, yet somehow not surprised at her advance, he lied, “Not any bigger.”

“Ah, but you are wrong. I feel it growing.”

“Maria Sara”—forced patience—“we've all been drinking. Don't do something you'll regret in the morning.”

“There will be no regrets.”

Under his breath Hawk muttered a base oath. He tried to yank away from her clutch, yet winced in pain from his effort. “Get away,” he demanded. “Stops!”

Insistent, she did not let go. Her fingers fondled him, and his emotionless sex continued to grow from the external stimulus. Hawk had the urge to push her away—to swell for anyone save for Charity was both unthinkable and repulsive. But if he pushed, he knew the man-eater would tear him from the root.

“My, my, look how much bigger you have gotten.” She licked her lips while her fingers clung to him. “I should like the feel of you pounding me into the grass.”

“Get away,” he ordered, agonized. He gritted teeth. “Now!”

“Do you not wish to give me a wedding present?” She squeezed him where it hurt the most.

“I—I b-bought you a silver b-bowl.”

“We will use it to wash with. After. Do you not find me beautiful, Senor Hawk?”

“Not particularly.” He pried at her fingers to no avail. “Will you have Charity knowing her friend is untrue?”

An evil laugh, which made Hawk's skin crawl, filled the air. “I am not worried,” she said. “What Charity does not know will not hurt her. She is busy with her parents. And are you not man enough for the both of us?”

Hawk had had one romp of the sort favored by Romans of the empire days. Never again. “What exactly are you after, Maria Sara? A quick roll in the grass before you consummate your marriage?”

“I am interested in three together. I am quite skilled at it. You will enjoy my arts, as did Grande and El Aguila.”

“Suppose your husband were to find out about this?” Hawk asked in desperation.

“Ah, but he is here already.”

She released her hold, and Hawk stuffed himself back into the safety of his britches. Quickly. At that moment Karl Keller stepped from behind a tree.

“My wife wants you to join us in a celebration of our marriage.”

Maria Sara looped her arm around her bridegroom's crooked elbow. “Won't you stay behind when the guests leave, Senor Hawk?”

Hawk gaped at the newlyweds. They were mad, deranged! “Not interested.”

Keller scrunched his shoulders, obviously angry. “You do not think my Maria Sara is comely?”

“The two of you make me sick.”

Keller tightened his fist, and no doubt he meant to plow it into Hawk's face, but a male shout from the distance stopped him. “Line up, boys! We're fixing to have a dollar dance. Where's the bride? We'd better be finding the new Mrs. Keller!”

“You're being summoned,” said Hawk.

“Ah. I am.” Crooking her fingers, each in turn, she motioned to Keller. “Come,
mi novio.
We do not need him. Senor Hawk is much too conventional for our tastes.”

Hawk shook his head in disgust. Get to Laredo, promptly, he told himself.
Promptly.
And find someone close to the smuggling who could testify on Charity's behalf. But whom?

Latching onto any clue, he recalled the names Maria Sara had dropped in her talk of a threesome. Grande. Was she referring to Señor Grande, also known as Rufino Saldino? What about El Aguila? “The Eagle,” Hawk translated under his breath. Who was the Eagle?

 

 

Hawk packed the next morning. Before taking his leave, he cornered Charity in the library. “Watch your back with Maria Sara. She is not your friend.”

“What makes you say that?”

Hawk hesitated before answering. “She made more than a pass at me last night.”

“Oh, Hawk, you were drunk. And upset over your father. Not to mention being upset with me.” Charity waved a hand in dismissal. “It was her wedding reception, for goodness' sake! I'm sure you're making a mountain out of a mole hill.”

He thought to ask if she'd like to take a look at the bruises on his private parts, but decided against it. Besides, if she truly loved him, she would have at least had the courtesy to be jealous.

“You're right. I'm making too much of it.” He grabbed his hat. “I'll see you in San Antonio, Charity.”

“You're leaving without kissing me goodbye?”

“Yes.” Halting short of the doorway, he asked over his shoulder, “Ever hear of someone called the Eagle?”

“No.”

 

 

Mid-afternoon of December first—a chilly day—Charity and Margaret checked into a suite of rooms at San Antonio's most elegant hotel, the Menger.

From their balcony, Charity caught sight of the historic Alamo grounds, where Colonel Travis and the Mexican general Santa Anna had faced off in the fight for Texas independence, in 1836. The San Antonio River, really no more than a wide creek with a grassy bank, meandered to the south. A cobbled and busy street separated the river from the hotel.

But Charity didn't ponder the surroundings too long. She kept thinking about Hawk. And his warning that Maria Sara wasn't her friend. She shivered despite the cashmere cape that draped her shoulders.

There was truth to his words.

Ever since the wedding, Maria Sara had been anything but friendly, and hadn't bothered to collect young Jaime after the honeymoon. Two days previous, Gil McLoughlin and Charity had taken the youngster to his mother. In a curt manner Maria Sara had shoved the weeping boy into the house and had slammed the door in Gil and Charity's faces.

That evening, in an effort to make peace with her friend, Charity had returned to Karl and Maria Sara's home. Blocking the entrance, Karl's bride wore a flimsy night frock that she clutched at her throat. “Charity, we are not receiving guests.”

Embarrassed, Charity had replied, “My apologies for interrupting you. I'll visit another time.”

“Wait until I call on you.”

Jaime, now crying from the interior, tried to scramble around his mother. “Shartee! Want Shartee! Mean Mamacita—”

“Munchkin . . .” Charity bent and widened her arms.

Maria Sara hustled him back into the house. “Go to Karlito.
Rapido!”

Charity stood her ground. “Why are you so cruel to your baby?”

“He is an awful child! As is the father, as is the child. I don't expect you to understand, but I do demand you to stop meddling!”

Once more the door got slammed in Charity's face with such force that the sound echoed in her head.

Such hostility toward Jaime as well as herself tore her heart, then and now.

The bitter gust of wind that slapped at her face was nothing compared to the fears that plagued her.
Please don't let little Jaime suffer.

What had happened to the woman who had been her friend in Laredo? More importantly, how was Karl being treated? Well, her cousin was a grown man more than capable of standing up for his own rights. Furthermore, he loved children and would be protective of his stepson.

Feeling a bit assuaged, she wondered if Maria Sara would make good on her promise to testify.

And had Hawk discovered the mysterious Eagle's identity?

Hawk.

Hawk ... Obviously he cared not for her standoffish tactics. Which, she decided, had been Margaret's worst piece of advice in all their twenty years. If he were to want marriage for love's sake, she must not give him call for grievance.

What could she do to undo the damage already done? It seemed as if years rather than weeks had passed since he left. Thankfully, he was expected soon in San Antonio.

“Charity? Charity! You'll catch your death out on that balcony, and we don't need any more invalids in the family. Come inside and put your things away.”

Heeding her sister, Charity entered Margaret's sleeping room.“I wonder how Maiz is doing,” she said.

Margaret shook out a dress, ran a coat hanger beneath its shoulders, and turned to hang the garment in an armoire of French design. “Let's pray she's doing better.”

Charity unfastened her cape and folded it across a chair back. “If my prayers can heal her broken leg, then she'll be on her feet in no time.”

Striding across the room, Margaret jerked open the velvet draperies that hung at the tall windows. Light spilled into the room that was decorated in dark, flocked wallpaper, and it reflected the impatience in her big blue eyes. “Maisie took a needless risk, if you ask me, getting on a horse after she hurt herself last New Year's. She ought to realize that she is old as the Seven Wonders.”

Indignant, Charity propped the backs of her hands on her hips. She had the urge to say that Maisie McLoughlin was the eighth wonder of the world, but held her tongue. “That's not very nice.”

“It wasn't
nice,
her being selfish enough to jeopardize her health to prove how invincible she is. Her accident is keeping our parents from being here with you. When you need them the most.”

Charity stared at her sister. Margaret had always been testy, but since her return from university, she had been positively difficult.

“I'm surprised Father was able to make it in to town to reinstate your trust fund, what with Maisie acting as if—”

“Sister, what's the matter with you?”

“Nothing!”

Drawing near her, Charity put her hand on her triplet's arm. “It's me, isn't it? You're angry because you had to leave school in mid-semester. I'm sorry, Sis. Really I am. But I want you to know how much I appreciate your sacrifice.”

Irritably, Margaret shook off her touch and stomped over to her steamer trunk to pluck at the contents. “For Pete's sake, must you turn everything to yourself? Believe it or not, you are not the only person in the world with troubles.”

When they were children, such remarks would have gotten Margaret a sock in the eye. But Charity as a woman read much into her sister's tone. “You've had trouble with a man.”

Holding a pair of pantaloons, Margaret's hand froze in midair. In slow motion, she set them aside. “Yes.”

Charity went to her now hunched-over sister, and put her arms around the shaking shoulders. Tears spilled, wetting thick black lashes. Poor Maggie.

“Sis, go back to him. As soon as you can catch a train out of here. Make everything right.”
As I intend to do with Hawk, once he gets here.
“Please.”

Reddened eyes and nose turned up to her. “No. If I never see Frederick again, it would be too soon.”

Frederick? Margaret, gorgeous Margaret, brilliant Margaret was pining for someone named
Frederick?
Well, on second thought, the name did conjure up images of tweeds and pipes and fireside chats. No doubt he was exactly Margaret's cup of tea.

“Um, Sis, what did Frederick do to you?”

“Everything!”

“Oh, dear.” Drawing all sorts of conclusions, Charity said, “It's awful what we women do in the name of love.” She dug for something, anything. She recalled how she'd felt in Uvalde, and drew her mouth into a frown. “They know our vulnerabilities and play on them, until we are mush in their hands. And we give our purity as if it were no more than a colored ribbon.”

Good gravy.
Charity had sounded positively Victorian. Well, it was for Margaret's good.

“Are you out of your mind? Frederick is a man of refinement and culture. He did
not
molest me.” Hot indignation squared Margaret's shoulders. “He stole my research papers on the Spanish Inquisition and its causes and effects on the voyages of Christopher Columbus, for Pete's sake!”

It was all Charity could do not to laugh. She might have known that any grand passion of Margaret's would be somehow connected to her work.

Margaret wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “Excuse me for being a watering pot. I got upset over
that.”
She pointed to a telegram. “Frederick is going to dedicate his book to me.”

“Isn't a book dedication a special thing?”

“Not in this instance!”

Margaret made no sense at all. For once.

A knock on the outer door demanded Charity's attention. “I'll see who it is,” she murmured.

A uniformed bellman—blond, hazel-eyed, youthful, freckle-faced-stood in the corridor. “ 'Afternoon, ma'am.” Barely disguising his approval, he took a gander at Charity. “There's a gentleman in the lobby, and he bids the Misses Charity and Margaret McLoughlin come down. A Mister Hawk.”