Her Sheriff Bodyguard (7 page)

“Now you,
señor
.”

He dropped his gun and holster on the floor where he stood and started to undo his belt, then paused. “I allowed you ladies some privacy—how about you doing the same for me?”

Caroline sent him a quick glance, but Fernanda grinned at him. “You do not mind if we are wander outside alone?”

“Forget it,” he amended. “You don't go anywhere unless I can see you.”

The Mexican woman blinked. “Even to the necessary? Is just down the hallway,
señor
.”

“I'll go with you. Either that or use the chamber pot.”

Caroline turned scarlet.

He unhooked his belt buckle. “Turn around, both of you.”

They about-faced so fast he'd swear they had military training. But not military discipline. The minute he splashed into the tub, Fernanda pounced on his clothes and tossed them into the other tub. Caroline kept her back to him.

He slid down to rest his neck on the metal edge and closed his eyes. A bathtub was one of the seven wonders of the world.

He massaged his wounded arm, assuring himself it was just a flesh wound and that it wasn't getting infected, then slapped a soapy cloth all over his body. Lilac scent bloomed under his nose. Ladies' scent. Caroline's scent. God. He hoped neither of them could see his privates through the bathwater.

He rinsed off and stood up to find Fernanda pinning his laundered shirt and drawers to the clothesline. He toweled himself dry, suddenly wondering what Caroline would think of his scarred body, the chest wound he'd taken two years ago, the parallel knife slashes across his midriff.

Her voice jarred him. “Are you decent?” she asked. “May I turn around now?”

“Not yet.” He walked to his saddlebag and pulled out his remaining clean shirt and a pair of drawers. He'd just finished buttoning his trousers when Fernanda gave a little yip.

“
Ay de mi, señor
. You are
muy
cut up!”

Before he could get his shirt closed, Caroline spun around, a hairbrush clutched in her hand. “Have you been wounded before? In the War?”

“One war,” he gritted. “And one private fight.” He wished she hadn't seen his bare chest. It was easier to pretend it had never happened when the scars were hidden under a layer of clothing.

But she had seen, and the look on her face stopped his breath. “Is—is that what a gunshot wound in the chest looks like?”

“Somewhat. This one's mostly healed over.”

“My God. Oh, my God.” She dropped the hairbrush and hid her face in her hands.

“What?” He reached her in two steps. “What is wrong?”

“Tell him,
mi corazón
. Tell him.”

“I can't,” she said, her voice muffled.

“Tell me what?” Hawk demanded. He grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Tell me what?”

Silence. He could hear her uneven breathing, feel her body tremble under his hands. And, goddamn, he could smell the lilac scent of her hair.

“
Señor
, do not ask her this thing. She is not yet ready to speak of it.”

Hawk felt like a coal shovel had been whacked over his skull. He wanted to pick her up and hold her in his arms and never let go.

She broke away and perched on the edge of the bed. Very slowly she lifted her face and looked at him. “I am speaking tomorrow. I am trying very hard to not be afraid.”

“The hell you are,” he snapped out.

“Speaking? Or afraid?” Her voice was calm, but her widened deep blue eyes were frightened.

“Don't do it,” he said. “Don't give your damn speech.”

“I must.” And then she sent him that little smile that made mincemeat of his insides. “And it is not a ‘damn speech.'”

He couldn't stand looking at her one more minute. Instead he went over to the window and peered down at the street below. Dressmaker. Sheriff's office. Mercantile. Red Rooster Saloon. Another saloon. He wondered where Overby was. Was Oakridge his final destination?

He didn't like the man. Didn't trust him. For all Hawk knew, Overby could have tipped off someone when they stopped for the meal at the Tumbleweed way station. The thought ate at him.

Finally he grabbed the quilt off the other bed, checked his revolver and laid the rifle down next to the far wall. Then he rolled himself up in the soft blanket, squashed his saddlebag under his head for a pillow and tried to sleep.

With his eyes closed, every sound in the room inflamed his imagination: Fernanda's humming, her shoes hitting the floor, the sound of the bedsprings when she settled down. But there wasn't a sound from Caroline.

Had she undressed? Slipped into the bed by the window? Or was she still sitting on the edge of the mattress, drying her hair? He cracked one lid open.

Her back was toward him, her arm lifting and dropping, slowly pulling the hairbrush through the thick, dark waves. At the end of each stroke she smoothed her other hand down the entire length, and then repeated the motion. Watching her was unsettling. Arousing. He ground his teeth and shut his eyes.

Fernanda's humming lapsed into light snores, and still Caroline made no sound—no petticoat rustles, no shoe dropping onto the carpet. What the hell was she doing, just sitting there staring out the window?

The glass lamp cover scraped and a breath puffed out the light. And then nothing.

“Caroline?” He spoke quietly so Fernanda wouldn't wake up.

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

There was a long, long pause before she answered. “I will be. It is always hard at night when I start to remember...things.”

Hawk sat up. “What things?”

She didn't answer. After a while he heard the swish of bedcovers.

It took a long time before her breathing evened out and deepened into sleep. Hawk lay back down, puzzling over the hollow feeling that bloomed deep in his gut.

Chapter Nine

I am worry for my lady. She is good soldier, but she is a woman, not a soldier. She think she must do this thing, and she is right maybe, but the risk, it is great.

This man,
Señor
Hawk, try to protect her. I pray to the Virgin every night he will do so, but my lady she is stubborn like bull, even though she look like delicate butterfly.

Each day I grow older by ten years. When we reach the end of this journey, my hair it will be white like albino goat.
Ay de mi
, what a hard thing this is to watch.

C
aroline inspected her face in the mirror mounted in the back room of the Oakridge Ladies Auxiliary hall. And scrunched her eyes shut. She looked ravaged. Dark circles spread like bruises under her eyes and her skin was so devoid of color she looked like a ghost.

Despite Hawk's advice, she had pinned her hair in the usual bun at her neck. Her concession to looking “softer,” as he had suggested, was the yellow calico skirt and ruffled shirtwaist she now wore. There shouldn't be many men at an auxiliary meeting, so it wouldn't really matter how she dressed.

She wiped her damp palms down the sides of her skirt, straightened her shoulders and stepped out into the hall. Fernanda planted her plump form at her side. Sheriff Will Paine stood in the back, collecting the weapons from the few men as they entered.

Hawk stepped in front of her and signaled that all was clear. He was carrying his rifle, she noticed. She knew she would be protected, but fear lay sour in the pit of her stomach and she had to keep swallowing to forestall the nausea that threatened.

Mama must have had nerves like iron railroad spikes.
She sucked in air, moved into the hall and faced her audience.

A sea of placards waved. WOMEN STAND UNITED. VOTING RIGHTS ARE SACRED. DOWN WITH MALE DOMINATION.

Oh, mercy. Men did not like to be accused of bullying.

She made her way toward the raised platform amid a spattering of applause, but when she saw there was no lectern to position herself behind, her step faltered. She would be dreadfully exposed. She glanced at Hawk, saw his gaze scan the area where she would stand, and after a moment he nodded at her.

She walked forward, ascended the single step and moved to the center of the platform. Then she turned and smiled at the crowd.

Hawk placed himself two steps behind her and slightly to the left, keeping his lifted rifle visible this time to get the message across: harm her and you won't live to tell about it.

He studied the men in the audience, caught Will Paine's eye and raised his eyebrows. Will gave him a lazy thumbs-up. Hawk prayed the sheriff had confiscated all the weapons without missing any.

Caroline began to speak, keeping her voice calm and even, without even a tremor to reveal how frightened she was. Hawk knew she was terrified because the hands she clasped behind her back were shaking like aspen leaves in a breeze.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to hear my views on why women should be allowed to vote.” She paused and swallowed.

“We're waitin', honey,” a man called from the back. “We ain't convinced, are we, gents?”

A chorus of No's rolled over her.

“Well, then, gentlemen, I shall try to convince you. Did you know that when a woman marries, all her property, money in her bank account, a house, farmland, even the clothes on her back no longer belong to her? What she once owned now belongs to her husband.”

“Huh! That why you ain't hitched, lady?”

Hawk winced. Some men sure liked hitting below the belt. But he hadn't realized that a man owned a woman's property no matter what.

“No, it is not,” she countered. “My marital preference is not at issue here. The issue here is fairness. The truth is, gentlemen, that women are not a race to be subjected, to be turned into slaves. A women is your equal.”

“Not hardly!” someone yelled.

“Why not?” a woman screamed in answer. “I'm just as smart as you!”

Another woman in a pink gingham dress shot to her feet. “I work just as hard as any man. Harder, if you count havin' babies.”

“And,” Caroline interjected, “that is exactly the point. Now, I must compliment the state of Oregon, which has had the foresight to allow a woman to homestead on her own. Six hundred forty acres can be claimed by a single woman. But let us say she falls in love with her neighbor, also a homesteader, and they want to get married. Did you know that the minute she says ‘I do' her homestead no longer belongs to her? It now belongs to her husband. If he wants to, he can sell it out from under her and he will not owe her one red cent.”

“That ain't true,” a man bellowed.

“Oh, yes it is true,” Caroline returned. “Ask any judge in any county in this state.”

Hawk blinked. If that was true, it was damned unfair. All at once he wondered if his mother would have wanted the vote.

A burly man stood up and stuffed his thumbs in his overall straps. “Iff'n you ladies get the vote, first thing you'll do is start outlawin' things like gambling and, well, fancy ladies.”

“And,” another farmer shouted, “just so's you all know, ma'am, men hafta have some kind of, um, release every so often.”

Caroline kept her voice level. “Sir, I do not think giving women the vote would prevent any man from, well, enjoying his, uh, release.”

“Sure it would, little lady. Ya see, some women don't much like sex.”

Caroline blushed to her hairline. “Yes, I—I do see.”

Hawk bit the inside of his cheek. He'd bet she didn't even have a glimmer. Didn't even think about it. Then he had to wonder why she
didn't
think about it. Men certainly gave her an appreciative once-over wherever she went. He'd seen it every time she appeared in public. So wasn't she interested in the male of the species?

Next time he got her alone, he'd ask her.

He chomped down on the other side of his cheek.
Like hell he would
.

He shoved her speech-making to the back of his mind and began to plan how to get her safely onto the train after her speech. The eastbound Union Pacific to Boise left at one o'clock, right after she finished up her talk. Anything could happen between here and the train station.

Already the crowd was getting raucous, and questions and insults began to fly. Hawk studied the body language of the men, trying to anticipate where trouble might start, when some infuriated rancher would do something he'd regret.

As Caroline's hour-long speech wound down, he couldn't help frowning. The men in her audience were vocal, quarrelsome, even accusing, but no gunplay had started, and no threatening notes had been delivered by some innocent-looking kid.

What was he
not
seeing?

He envisioned the three long blocks from here to the train station, blocks she'd have to negotiate on foot. Even though she'd be flanked by Fernanda and himself, she would be out in the open and so vulnerable it made his flesh crawl. Part of him wanted to wrap her up inside his skin and keep her safe. Another part of him wanted—what?

He wanted this whole damn exercise in free speech to be over. He wanted to barge into a saloon and gulp down more than a few slugs of whiskey instead of worrying that someone was going to shoot her or kidnap her or worse. He wouldn't relax until the train to Idaho started rolling down the tracks. Good thing he'd left his deputy, Sandy, back at Smoke River. Sandy could handle whatever might come up while he was away.

She finished her talk, and with a gracious smile accepted the applause, right along with loud boos from the men. Then she turned to him, a look of both relief and triumph on her face. His nerves felt strung up tight as new barbed wire, but he tried to smile at her anyway.

All the way to the train he kept her close, discreetly resting his arm around her slim waist while Fernanda walked on her other side, one hand in her skirt pocket where she carried her pistol. He wondered if Caroline was doing the same.

Nope. Her arms swung at her sides. If she still had the weapon he'd bought for her, it sure wasn't in her pocket.

They crossed the last street before the train station. One more block. “Where's your pistol?” he asked.

“In my trunk.”

He stopped short. “Dammit, you're supposed to keep it within reach.”

She looked up at him with that half smile. “
You
are within reach, Mr. Rivera. I do not need the pistol.”

He yanked her around to face him. “That kind of thinking could get you killed, you know that? I can't always be here, dogging your every goddamn move, Caroline. Makes me want to—”

He broke off. Made him want to tuck her into his pocket or haul her up and load her over his shoulder. God, she could make a man sweat nails.

Caroline recoiled at the anger in his voice. The steely look in those green eyes of his sent a shudder up her backbone, and all at once she became aware of something she had not wanted to think about. Hawk
was
with her; but he most certainly did not want to be.

“What happens in Boise?” he asked suddenly.

“I make another speech.”

“What happens
after
Boise?”

“From Boise, we plan to travel north, to Washington Territory. But I am sure—”

“I'm not,” he gritted. “I want you to skip Washington. Stop putting yourself in the line of fire and go home to Boston.” He jerked her forward and matched his long stride to her shorter steps.

“I cannot do that,” she said, her voice quiet.

“You mean you
won't
do that, not that you ‘can't.'”

“You could never understand. Never. All right then, I won't. That does not mean you have to...”

Beside her Fernanda hissed a warning. “
Mi corazón
, do not toss away a man's pride.”

“His pride?” she murmured so he would not hear. “What has his pride to do with it?”

“Ah, you are more pigheaded than even your
madre
. And more ignorant. Even I, Fernanda Elena Maria Sobrano, know that a man's pride is most important thing not to make little.”

“Damn straight,” Hawk intoned.

“
Señor
, you are not to listen!”

“
Señora
, just try and stop me.”

“Oh, for pity's sake,” Caroline blurted out. “Hush up, both of you.”

They reached the train station enveloped in an awkward silence. Hawk peeled some bills out of his vest pocket and sent Fernanda in to purchase the tickets. The minute she was out of earshot, he maneuvered Caroline over to a wall, turned her so her back pressed against the boards, and planted both elbows over her head.

“There's something we need to settle between us here and now,” he said near her temple. His breath warmed her ear, sending an odd tremor through her.

“I'm not leaving you, Caroline. You can travel all over hell and gone, but I'm not letting you out of my sight.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off. “I signed on to protect you and by God that's what I intend to do.”

Again she opened her lips, but he placed his hand over her mouth. “So you just shut the hell up about what you want and do what I say.”

She was so mad she could spit bullets. She hated being bossed around. She hated being frightened. She hated
him
. She clamped her lips together so he wouldn't see them tremble.

Fernanda returned, gave them both a raised eyebrow and stuffed the train tickets into Hawk's hand. “I hope you still want us,
señor
,” she murmured. “Because I think my lady is
muy furioso
.”

Hawk snorted. Oh, he wanted them all right. Fernanda was an admirable example of good sense and guts, and Caroline...

Caroline was strong and soft and beautiful and vulnerable and everything in between. Caroline MacFarlane was a whole helluva lot more than he'd bargained for. When they reached Boise, he'd lock them both into their hotel room and find the nearest saloon and get good and drunk.

The locomotive chuffed into the station and steamed to a stop. Hawk directed the porter to load the trunk, then manhandled both women into the passenger car and sat them down facing across from him. The engine started to roll forward.

Hawk let out a sigh of relief and watched the station glide past the window. Just as the train picked up speed, a tall figure in a derby hat sprinted out of the station house and launched himself onto the iron loading step.

Overby.