Her Sheriff Bodyguard (8 page)

Chapter Ten

H
awk didn't sleep during the entire eight-hour trip across the dry, flat high Oregon desert into Idaho. He couldn't nod off and leave Caroline unprotected, and he couldn't go looking for Overby for the same reason. He couldn't shuck the feeling that something was about to happen. It reminded him of his Ranger days back in Texas, where he spent long days and hundreds of miles with his rifle primed and his nerves feeling like spiny cactus.

Next to Caroline, Fernanda dozed in the seat across from him. The younger woman kept tipping toward Fernanda but she righted herself at the last minute and jolted awake. Her skin looked gray with fatigue and her eyelids were shadowed. Finally he couldn't stand it one more minute, and when she slumped to the left, he stood, slid his arm under her knees and lifted her over to his side. She didn't even wake up, just gave a soft sigh and snuggled up against him.

He rested his hand on her shoulder until his arm went to sleep, then gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers to get the feeling back. The scent of her hair drove him half-crazy. He tried not to inhale, but it was a losing battle; her head fit just under his jaw and tendrils of dark curls were escaping the bun at her neck. The soft, sweet-smelling strands tickled his chin, teasing his body into arousal. She could sure do things to a man.

It was full dark when the train pulled into Boise. Hawk directed the porter to send the trunk to the nearest hotel, then lifted his hand from Caroline's shoulder and jiggled his boot against Fernanda's leather shoe.

“We are here,
si
?” the Mexican woman asked.

“We are here.” He rose and offered his hand to Caroline. “Come on.”

After a slight hesitation, her fingers twined into his; he pulled her upright and steadied her on her feet. Fernanda followed him to the iron debarking step, but before he stepped off the train he released his grip on Caroline's arm and scanned the platform for any sign of Overby.

He also made sure he could reach his revolver in a hurry.

Behind him Fernanda said something in Spanish, but all he caught was the word
padre
. That made no sense until he spied the Catholic Church across the street.

“I wish to go and light candle,
señor
.” She tipped her head at the carved statue of Jesus over the wooden doorway. “I find you at hotel, later.” She headed for the church entrance and Hawk turned to Caroline.

“You hungry?”

“You ask me that a lot,” she said, her voice still drowsy.

“Must be because I get that way a lot.”

She laughed softly. “Oh. Yes, I am hungry, now that I think of it.”

He guided her into the hotel, stopped at the desk to register and give instructions about the trunk, then veered into the adjoining dining room. The dimly lit place was almost empty except for one table, occupied by a young, schoolteacherish man with spectacles. Not Overby.

When they were seated, Hawk made sure he could see the restaurant entrance from his chair and that the schoolteacher wasn't in his line of fire.

Caroline watched Rivera capture the attention of the lone waitress and order coffee and some tea for her. He looked a little ill at ease, and then she realized why. This was the first time they had been alone together, without Fernanda. Though why a man like Hawk would find that awkward she could not imagine. Hawk Rivera would certainly be used to the company of women; those eyes of his, the angular, tanned features, his dark mustache curving over his lips all told her in no uncertain terms that women would find him attractive. No doubt he was attracted to them, as well.

But perhaps not to her. She studied her cup of tea when it came, ordered a light supper of potato soup and some bread and found herself inexplicably tongue-tied. Evidently he, too, could think of nothing to say because the silence between them stretched until she thought she would scream.

“You're not a churchgoer, I guess,” he said at last.

“What? Oh, you mean Fernanda and her candles. No, I am not. I stopped attending church after I...after I grew up.”

His green eyes questioned, but she closed her lips decisively. The waitress brought her soup, along with his steak and fried potatoes, and then dawdled over the plates admiring Rivera's good looks. Then with a quick, envious glance at Caroline, the young woman disappeared into the kitchen and they were alone again.

More silence. She noticed Hawk wasn't cutting into his steak. In fact he wasn't doing anything except staring at her.

“What is it? Is my hair straggling out of my bun?”

“Yeah, some. Don't worry about it, looks kinda... Don't worry about it.”

She touched the nape of her neck. “Kind of what?”

“Kinda pretty.”

“Pretty?” She felt the word all the way down to her toes. “As in...woman-pretty?” Oh, she could have cut off her tongue when she heard what she'd said.

He didn't answer, just dropped his gaze and picked up his knife and fork. “Tell me something,” he said, slicing into the meat. “I know you want women to get the vote and be treated as equals.”

“Yes. Do you not think men and woman are equals?”

“Never thought about it much.”

She lifted her teacup. “Well, think about it now, why don't you?”

He looked straight into her eyes. “Guess I've always felt women were plenty equal, seein' as they have us men over a barrel.”

“Oh? How is that, exactly? Over a barrel, I mean.”

He drew in a long breath, looked away, and then looked back at her. “A man...men need women.”

“You mean they need women to
do
for them, cook and wash and clean and bear his children?”

“Not so much, no. A man can do all those things for himself. He can cook and wash and all the rest, except for having babies. I mean that a man, uh, men
like
women. Like having them around. Like looking at them. Touching them.”

She swallowed. “I see.”

“Don't think you do, really,” he said. “See, a man doesn't feel exactly equal to a woman because he never knows what she's thinking. Or feeling.”

“And you think a woman always knows what a man is thinking, is that it? Let me tell you something, Mr. Rivera, I haven't had the foggiest inkling about what
you're
thinking or feeling since we met. So I don't feel ‘equal'—I feel...off balance.” She was going to say
overwhelmed
but thought better of it.

He surprised her by grinning so broadly his whole countenance lit up. The man had simply beautiful teeth—straight and white against his tanned skin. Her heart gave a little skip.

And then suddenly his face sobered and he leaned toward her. “There's more to it, though, isn't there? Tell me the real reason you're traveling around making all these speeches.”

Caroline jerked and thick soup slopped out of her spoon.

“Tell me why,” he pursued.

She tried to breathe normally, but her pulse began to race. “My mother and I...” She had to stop and start over. “My mother met Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the suffragette, when I was twelve. Mama and I had moved to Philadelphia because... Anyway, Mrs. Stanton took us in. Later Mama began to travel and speak out for women. For their rights.”

She found herself tearing a slice of bread into tiny pieces.

“How old were you then?”

“I was just seventeen.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “How old are you now?”

She hesitated. Oh, what did it matter? He didn't care if she was a hundred and two. “I am twenty-five.”

He regarded her in silence for a long minute. “You look much younger. At least you do when you're not exhausted.”

She bit back an unladylike snort of laughter. “I hold no illusions about my age, Mr. Rivera. I am a spinster. ‘On the shelf' we would say back in Boston.”

To her surprise, he chuckled. “Might say that in Boston, but a man sure wouldn't say that out here in the West.” He forked a bite of steak past his lips and chewed while she stared at him.

He swallowed, still holding her gaze. “What happened to your mother?”

“Mama got sick. By the time we reached Texas, she was coughing up blood and...” Her throat closed.

“And?” he prompted. Instead of looking at her, he deliberately addressed the potatoes on his plate.

“That is when I hired Fernanda. The priest at the mission brought her to me.”

“Padre Ralph,” he murmured.

“Why, yes. Fernanda helped me nurse Mama until she died.”

“And then you...?” He left the question hanging.

“Mama made me p-promise to carry on traveling and speaking out for women. Fernanda left Texas to accompany me.”

He said nothing for so long she wondered if he regretted his probing.

“I know Father Ralph. Or rather I knew him. I come from Texas, from Butte City, where Father Ralph's mission is. You knew that, didn't you?”

“Yes. Fernanda told me. She confessed how she found you. How she threatened you, most likely.”

“She didn't have to threaten very hard. Fernanda knew my mother.”

Caroline blinked. “
That
she did
not
tell me. Your mother was...at the mission, perhaps?”

He laid down his fork. “No. My mother was Marguerite Anderson. She and my father owned most of Butte City.”

“Oh?”

“She was English. My father was Luis de Avalos-Rivera. Don Luis. Big ranches. Money.”

“You are educated, are you not?”

“Some. My mother hired tutors. My father hired vaqueros. Ranch hands.”

“Is that why you ride so well? And shoot a gun with accuracy? Why you were a Texas Ranger?”

“Partly. I didn't join the Rangers until after my mother died. She was killed, along with my wife.”

Caroline's hand flew to her mouth and a spoonful of soup splashed onto the tablecloth. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

Hawk reached out and tugged her hand back to her soupspoon. “Eat. The dead are dead.”

She gazed at him with stricken eyes, the blue so dark it shaded into purple. He'd thought it wouldn't affect him to tell her, but it did. In a funny way he felt lighter, as if the hard knot he'd carried inside his gut all these years had loosened just a bit.

“Eat,” he repeated. “Your next speech is tomorrow, isn't it?”

She nodded and began tearing apart another slice of bread. He rescued it before the crumbs covered the tablecloth.

“What time?”

“Noon.”

“Where?”

“In the town square.”

His knife clattered onto his plate. “What? You mean outside?”

“Yes.”

He sent her a look that would curdle milk. “What idiot arranged that?”

“Mama had arranged it. I promised—”

“I don't care what you promised,” he grated. “Change it.”

“I cannot. The women's league in Boise made all the arrangements. It is too late to change them now.”

“Caroline, it's dangerous.”

“I— But you will be there.”

“Dammit, I'm not God.”

Fernanda appeared at his elbow. “Who is not God,
señor
?”

Hawk groaned. He hadn't even seen her enter the room.

“Fernanda,” Caroline explained, “Hawk is concerned about my speech tomorrow.”

The Mexican woman plopped her bulk into the empty seat and snatched up a slice of Caroline's bread. “So he should be.”

Hawk summoned the waitress with a gesture. “Order some supper,
señora
. All that praying must have given you an appetite.”

Before Fernanda finished speaking to the waitress, Hawk pushed back his chair. “Come on. We're going upstairs.”

Caroline's gaze darted to Fernanda. “I cannot leave her alone.”

“
Si, mi corozón
, you can. Go. You look tired, like...” She purposely slumped her shoulders to demonstrate. “Like warm-over tamale. And I am hungry.”

Hawk gripped her elbow so hard she gave a little whimper. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Fernanda's right. You do look like a warmed-over tamale.”

Chapter Eleven

H
awk unlocked the door to their hotel room and pushed Caroline inside. Neither had spoken a word since leaving Fernanda in the dining room, devouring a plate of chili and beans, but he was way past being conversational.

Moonlight slanted through the single window. He lit the lamp, hauled the trunk over to her side of the room and stood, wondering why he was so uneasy. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd been alone in a hotel room with a woman.

But he'd never been alone with Caroline. He hated it.

Correction, he liked it.

Too much.

He stepped to the window and stood looking out on the busy street below. His heartbeat wasn't the least bit normal and his chest felt tight. He shouldn't have said so much about himself at supper. He felt like he'd opened a crack into a dark part of himself.

Worst of all, his jeans were suddenly too tight and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. He'd been hard since he'd spent the last hour watching Caroline's lips open and close around that damned soupspoon.

He'd be all right as soon as Fernanda returned and he could focus on something other than the tense, hungry feeling eating him up from the inside. Better get his mind off it.

He swung around and stopped short. Caroline was facing away from him, her hands raised, unpinning the twisted bun gathered at the back of her neck. Something zinged up his spine and his control snapped.

He moved behind her, lifted away the remaining pins and dropped them one by one onto the carpeted floor. Then very slowly he threaded his fingers through her thick hair.

Her breath hissed in, and then her head tipped back against his hands.

“Caroline.” He scarcely recognized his own voice. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he deliberately turned her to face him, bent his head and caught her mouth under his.

He didn't know how long he moved over her lips, but he did know he never wanted to stop. She was sweet beyond belief, and soft. And female. So damn female he ached all over.

And then her open hand cracked across his cheek so hard the skin burned.

“Don't you ever, ever do that again!” she shouted.

He could see her body shaking; the ruffles down the front of her shirtwaist trembled. He stared at her. Her eyes blazed into his and without thinking he reached for her arm.

“Stay away,” she warned. “Just stay away from me.”

What the—? He stepped back but he couldn't stop looking at her. He'd never misjudged a woman this badly since he was a green boy of fourteen.

At that moment, the unlocked door opened with a bang and Fernanda bustled in. Instantly she halted and peered from Caroline to him and back again, one eyebrow quirked. She said nothing, but Hawk knew the Mexican woman was no fool. She'd sensed the tension in the air and had wisely decided not to ask questions.

God bless her.

Caroline turned away from Fernanda's assessing gaze and Hawk strode out the door she had left open. “I'll be in the bar,” he announced.

* * *

Caroline stared after him. Oh, how she wished she liked the taste of spirits. She could surely use a big, big glass of something to settle her jangled nerves. Or maybe deaden her mind.

She paced around and around the small room while Fernanda flitted from the trunk to the tall wardrobe on the far wall to the ceramic washbasin on the bureau, saying nothing. She could send her Mexican companion down to the bar for a flask of whiskey, but she knew Fernanda would never leave her alone, especially since Hawk was not here.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes hard enough to hurt.
Heaven help her, she was so tired of this.
Tired of being afraid. Tired of the worry about everything, about herself, about what the rest of her life was beginning to look like. She was even tired of her speaking circuit, the one she had promised Mama she would continue.

Mostly, she realized, she was tired of not feeling natural, like other women felt when a man approached them. Perhaps she never would. The instant Hawk's mouth had touched hers she felt the old panic start. God in heaven, would she never be free?

Her right hand still tingled where she had struck him. Using her left, she unbuttoned the shirtwaist and skirt and let them drop to the floor along with her petticoats. Then she stumbled over to the bed nearest the window and crawled between the sheets, still wearing her camisole and underdrawers.

Fernanda picked up the garments, shook out the wrinkles, hung them up and clicked the wardrobe door shut. Shaking her head, she surveyed the unmoving lump under Caroline's blanket-covered bed and worked to suppress the smile spreading across her face.

Hours later,
Señor
Hawk returned. Fernanda lay very still in her narrow bed, listening as he shucked his shirt and jeans and boots and rolled himself up in the quilt she had left for him. And then she smiled again. He was a good man.

God is good
.