No Other Man (9 page)

He sank
back into the chair, shaking his head. His father had known him, known how to
manipulate him. Known he didn't give a damn about Scottish estates or eastern
property. He would have gladly rid himself of an unwanted wife by giving up
those properties. But the Sioux lands ...

The hot
fire of pain spread throughout his chest. ' 'I loved him," he said simply,
lifting his hands, at a loss.

"He—he
loved you, too. I truly believe that he did what he did for your benefit. Of
course, he must also have been quite charmed by this young woman when he met
her to have stipulated that she must be in his will as well."

"Yes, he must have been charmed."

"Well, you've met your, er, wife, is that right?"

"Yes.
I met her stagecoach. Rather by accident. I'd gone to Riley's to see if my
father's body had arrived."

"Well, then, is she—satisfactory?"

"Satisfactory?"

Henry was becoming increasingly more nervous and ill at ease.
"I mean ... is she, er ... well, dammit all, Hawk, is she attractive? Is
she—oh, lord—is she unattractive? Is there something wrong with her?"

Hawk smiled without amusement. "She's just—charming.
Tell me—you're absolutely sure the marriage is legal. It's a proxy
marriage—"

"Half the marriages in half the mining towns throughout
the West are legal by proxy," Henry said wearily. "How do you think
these fellows get wives out here? What proper young woman is going to come this
distance without being a man's lawful wedded wife?"

"What proper young woman ..." Hawk murmured.

"You know that I'm willing to be of service to you in
any way," Henry said. "But your father was of sound mind when he made
his arrangements. My hands are tied."

Hawk leaned forward. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask,
"And what if she seduced, coerced, and killed the old man?" He didn't
say the words. He could probably never prove that she'd had anything to do with
his father's death. He might not even be able to convince Henry that Skylar
Connor had thought herself married to his father—and a widow now. A widow ready
to take possession of his property.

"Whatever you decide to do ..." Henry said.

"She won't be getting my land. You can damned well bet
on that!" Hawk said. Rising, he exited the office, so filled with fury
once again that he could have knocked the door from its hinges.

He went straight for his horse, but before he could mount, he
heard his name called. Black Feather, an old Hunkpapa friend who traded furs in
town despite all the government edicts, strode toward him. He was a tall, well-
built man with weather-leathered features and a slow, easy, thoughtful way
about him. Hawk cooled his temper, grasping arms with his old friend.

"How are you, Black Feather? Your hunting goes
well?"

"Hunting goes badly. The whites have shot the buffalo
herds, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands, from their train windows. They
slaughter game." He shrugged. "I'm a good hunt&r. Trading furs
for gunpowder." He lowered his voice. "Come to your grandfather's
village soon. Many Mends, who cannot or will not come this close to white
settlements, will be moving north and would like to bid you farewell."

"Joining Sitting Bull?" Hawk asked.

Black Feather nodded gravely. "We have but two choices.
Become fenced in like white cattle or fight for our ways. You cannot argue
this."

"I wouldn't attempt to argue it. I will come very
soon."

"Your grandfather will be glad." Black Feather hesitated.
"We have heard of your father's passing. My heart is heavy with yours. He
was a great man."

Hawk nodded. "Thank you."

"He will be missed by us all."

"Deeply."

Hawk mounted his horse, lifting a hand in farewell. As he
rode hard from the fledgling settlement, he felt as if he had been buffeted by
storms with wildly opposing winds. He was angry with his father, in pain for
his father, and he could never talk to him again to try to understand what he
had done. And he hurt for David, wondering what pain had wracked him in the end
that he should have become so dependent and enamored of Skylar Connor that she
could have manipulated him so. And now, in the midst of this personal tragedy
and confusion, the country was continuing to trundle down a road of cruelty and
injustice against his people.

The longer he rode toward the lodge on the far eastern border
of his property, the more heated his temper grew.

He was ready to do battle.

Dreams of the distant past had haunted her
most of her life. Not continually. Just upon occasion.

The dreams always began the same way. She saw the gray swirls
rising before her eyes once again.

Just as they had before. Long ago.

The night air had been thick with a low-hanging fog.
footsteps could be heard falling upon the streets, but no forms could be seen.
It was a perfect night for clandestine meetings. For secrets in the darkness.

Maryland had been full of secrets.

A border state, it had teemed with spies and conspiracy.
There were those who were openly Southern sympathizers and those who were
vociferously pro-Union. There were those who pretended to be Southern
sympathizers but spied for the Union. There were those who publicly supported
the Union who were really Southern spies.

And there were those who were just caught in between.

Robert Connor had lived down in Williamsburg. Before the war,
he'd taken a job as a young attorney there, and when the war had broken out,
he'd wound up in the army.

And after Gettysburg, he'd wound up in a Union prison in D.C.
Only he'd managed to escape. And he'd managed to get a message to his brother,
Richard, that he needed help.

Richard Connor lived with his wife, Jill, and their two
daughters, Skylar and Sabrina, in a fine house in Baltimore. He'd spent the war
years in torment himself, having been wounded early in '62 and sent home with a
limp that would never go away. He'd been glad to come home. He'd believed in
the sanctity of the Union, but he'd never believed in killing his Southern
brethren. And when his brother had called him for help, he'd immediately given
it.

So Robert had come. And he'd played with the girls while he
lay hidden in their attic, and Skylar had come to love him nearly as much as
her own father. But word finally came that he was to be met by plainclothes
Southern spies and spirited back to the Confederacy, where he would be safe.

And the fog and the mist had come....

Skylar had been sent to bed, but she'd known what was going
on that night. Her father and his best friend, Brad Dillman, were to take
Robert to meet the Southerners. They'd all act like drunks down by the docks,
then Robert would be spirited away and Richard and Brad would stumble back to
the house, apologizing profusely to Jill and the girls, and promising to mend
their ways.

Skylar never knew what possessed her to sneak out of bed that
night, dress up in shirt and trousers, and follow the men out. Maybe it was the
excitement.

Maybe it was some strange trace of fear within her.

She hastily raced behind them, a scarf pulled around her
throat and lower face, a cap pulled down low on her head. She twisted through
the streets by the water. She followed the men into an alley and down the docks
where a small ship waited.

She heard conversation.

The mist settled down more heavily.

Suddenly, she heard someone crying out. She realized that the
ship was slipping slowly from its berth in the harbor. She raced down the
dock, not seeing any of the men.

She tripped and nearly stumbled over a body lying on the
dock. She fell down beside it and realized who it was. "Father?" she
whispered. "Father!" She tried to wake him, turn him. She touched his
back and drew her hand away, shrieking when she discovered that it was covered
with blood.

"Father—"

"Skylar!" It was a broken whisper, hissed out
sibilantly. She didn't care. She tried to hold him, turn him, help him, stanch
the flow of blood. He looked at her, but she didn't think that he saw her. But
she felt the warmth of his bloody touch on her fingers, squeezing in turn. '
'Love you, careful, baby, careful, be a good soldier. I—betray—"

"I'll never betray you!"

"No, I was—"

"Father, she'll get help, I promise,
don't die, don't you leave me—"

His hand fell from hers. Richard was staring up at her, eyes
wide open but unseeing. And she realized that he was dead, and she started to
scream.

She was found by a Union soldier on patrol, who took her to
an army office, where men plied her with questions despite the fact that her
heart was broken and she felt as if she had shed her life's blood upon that
dock as well. They kept demanding to know what had happened.
Be a good soldier,
he had told her. She'd never
betray him, never... .

They kept her all night. In the morning, her mother arrived,
ashen gray with her grief, yet demanding her eleven- year-old daughter's
immediate return. There was no proof that Richard Connor had ever been a
Southern spy, and Jill Connor created such an uproar that the officers were
forced to let Skylar go without finding out what had really happened.

That night, when her father's body had been set out in the
parlor for the wake, Skylar listened dully to the conversations in the
kitchen. Brad Dillman trembling, his voice broken as he told her mother how the
filthy Rebs had repaid Richard's kindness with bloody murder. She had listened
to her mother sob.

A heavy mist lay close to the ground again. Deep, dense fog,
rising, flowing. She needed to be back outside again, away. So she ran through
it. Ran and ran. And finally, when she could run no more, she ran toward home
again. But she didn't want to see any more people; she still wanted to be
alone.

It was by pure accident that she ran from the mist and into
the stables to discover Brad Dillman, tall, handsome, with the well-built shoulders
her mother had so recently cried upon, secretively wiping blood from a
twelve-inch cavalry knife he had drawn from a sheath at his ankle.

Dunhill looked up from the bloody knife and saw her.
"Skylar. Sweet, sweet little Skylar..."

He reached for her...

# * *

When fingers touched her cheek, Skylar shrieked, bolting up
in the bed, fighting instinctively.

The
lodge was cast in shadow; the fire had burned down to embers. She could
scarcely see in the gloom of the cabin, but she was aware of the imposing
figure first standing over her, then straddling her as he captured her arms and
pinned them down, staring down at her.

"Is
it just me? Or do you scream and attempt to pummel everyone who comes near you,
Lady Douglas?'

It was
him.
The Indian was back. Atop her again. Mocking
her again.

Perhaps even more bitterly now ...

"You startled me," she said.

"Oh,
not quite as much as you've startled me!" he murmured.

"You're—crushing me."

"Am I?"

"Please..

He
released her and rose. He turned away from her, a large dark shadow moving in
the hazy light of the lodge. It was morning, Skylar thought. Or else it was
early evening once again. She had slept long and deeply, and still she was
tired.

He
stoked the fire with a poker and added a log. Sparks flew; the fire once again
began to blaze.

He
didn't bother with the leftover coffee. He took the whiskey bottle from the
shelf and leaned an arm upon the mantle, staring at her for a moment, then
gulping down large swallows of amber liquid from the bottle, then staring at
her again.

"You
are my
wife\"
he grated out,
emphasizing the last word as if it were a loathsome thing.

Skylar
sat up, trying to smooth down her hair, trying to hold her robe together with
dignity.

"I'm—sorry,"
she murmured coolly. She lowered her eyes, realizing the truth of her
predicament. Yet, surely, there was some way out of it.

Except, she realized suddenly,
if
there were, she couldn't take it! She didn 't dare accept any way out
—and
back east. No matter what, she had to stay here in the Dakota territory. She
had to remain Lady Douglas. For the time being, at least.

He sauntered toward her, the whiskey bottle still in his
hand. He paused before the bed, then hunkered down before her, his green eyes
riveted on hers.

Apparently, he was having different thoughts.

"Something could be done about this. If you were to ask
for an annulment, I could see to it that you were escorted back east as quickly
as possible with—"

"No!"

"What?" he demanded.

He was too close. Almost touching her knees. He was dressed
now, but she still wore only the robe. She leaped up, skirting around him,
around the table. He stood, turning, watching her, his hands on his hips. She
faced him from across the table. "I—can't ask for an annulment."

He arched a brow.

"Don't you understand?" he demanded angrily.
"You're not a widow. You haven't"—he hesitated—"you haven't just
inherited my father's estates. I have been to his attorney, who was astonished
I hadn't given greater interest to papers when I put my name upon them. My
father was actually out looking for a bride for me when he stumbled upon you.
So, yes, you are Lady Douglas, but you don't have to be. You can file for an
annulment. You can go home with money in your pocket—"

"No."

"Dammit, what do you mean, no?" he demanded
bitingly.

"No. I'm not going back," Skylar repeated.

He just stood, staring at her. "I don't want a
wife," he grated out.

The way that he had taunted her, half scaring her to death
earlier, suddenly seemed possible to avenge in some small way.