The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (14 page)

"Aye, and I suppose I might have learned that lesson by now if I had not been in a bit of a rush to make myself welcome here. I promise to listen better from now on."

"Do that," he said in a deep whisper. "And give yourself more time to get used to their ways. They're big—so big even they have no idea how big they are—and in the case of Phantom, still pretty wild."

"And would that be why you're callin' him names? Not to poke fun, but to warn a body that he's a wee bit 'crazy-wild'?"

"Yeah... something like that, I guess." Why would she have thought he was poking fun at his own horse? "Just remember this; even if Phantom seems to like and trust you, there's no way of knowing when you approach him whether he's going to nip at you, slash out at you with his hooves, or nuzzle your palm. He's
very
unpredictable. Do you understand what that means?"

"I would say that I do." Lacey flashed Hawke a meaningful grin. "The only thing I do not understand, is why you call the beast Phantom. He is mist-colored, true, but given his nature, I should think he might better be named... Hawke."

"Hawke?" Chuckling to himself as her meaning sunk in, he suddenly became very aware that he hadn't turned loose of Lacey's shoulders yet. Feeling curiously regretful, Hawke released his grip, but then, instead of putting some distance between them the way he should have, he impulsively brushed his fingertips across her porcelain cheek. "You're full of surprises, Miss Lacey O'Carroll. I always feel like I'm missing something with you, like there's a little secret or two you're keeping from me. What are you hiding, Irish miss? Anything I should know about?"

Lacey gulped, torn by a storm of conflicting emotions. Fright was one, to be sure, a fear that he'd somehow guessed exactly what she was hiding about herself. But at the same time, other, stranger sensations assailed her, overriding the concern that he might have realized by now that she was considered by those who ought to know, to be a wee bit fey. All she knew for sure was that when Hawke touched her cheek, she felt as though she'd awakened to her very first dawn. In fact, her entire body was alive with sensation, tingling with need and an undeniable desire to be held in his strong and, she suspected, capable arms. With no thought to consequence, Lacey swayed toward him, intent on experiencing that unnamed something.

The moment her breasts made contact with Hawke's rough buckskin shirt and the broad chest beneath it, so startling were the sensations, Lacey's head fell back of its own volition. Electrified by these new, surprising feelings, she instinctively moistened her lips, then raised her suddenly languid gaze to meet Hawke's. His eyes were darker now than before and less menacing, she noticed, almost the same black-green of the Irish yews. Even his expression had changed, his smooth cinnamon features looking more rigid and purposeful now. Most surprising of all, was the way he'd lowered his head and seemed to be moving ever closer to her opened mouth. Surely he didn't mean to...

It was wrong. It was beyond stupidity. And in just about any town he could think of, it was a hanging offense for an Indian to put his hands on a white woman. But in spite of all that and his better judgement, Hawke knew precisely what he meant to do. He was going to kiss Lacey, by God, kiss her until her teeth rattled, and to hell with the consequences—even if it meant the hangman was already measuring his neck for a hemp tie. He was going to taste that heartshaped mouth, or die trying.

Hawke's lips touched down on hers so lightly at first, he wasn't even sure he'd made contact. Increasing the pressure he slid his hands from her shoulders to her back, holding her tight enough now to feel the camisole beneath her blouse and its pattern of lace edging. Lacey's only reaction at first was to go rigid in his arms, as if frightened or outraged by the liberties he was taking. Then, as he deepened the kiss, she slowly melted against him, and her sweet lips softened and parted, making it easy for him to slide his tongue between them. She tasted better than fresh berry pie, more tender than the flakiest of crusts. As Hawke probed deeper in order to sample the sweet juice of her mouth, the rumble of approaching horses jerked him away from the luscious feast, and back to his senses.

Wondering irrationally if what he heard was indeed the hangman come to get him, Hawke released Lacey and turned his back to her. His legs heavy and sluggish, he stumbled in the direction of the hoofbeats. As he fought for control of his overheated body, he saw three riders coming around the last bend of the road which led to Winterhawke. Keeping one eye on them, he bent down to retrieve his hat which had somehow fallen or been knocked from his head. As the riders drew closer, he could see that two of them were wearing army uniforms, and that the third was dressed as a civilian in a dark blue suit and tan overcoat. A very uncivilized one, at that, thought Hawke as his uncle's features became clear enough for him to recognize the man. Why did his mother's brother have to show up now, of all times?

Quickly turning back to Lacey, Hawke slammed his hat on his head and barked an order at her. "Go into the house. Do whatever looks like it needs doing until I come get you. Go on now, and hurry."

She looked disoriented, confused, and something he couldn't quite pin his finger on—embarrassed?—but she wasn't moving fast enough to suit him. Again, he said, "Go to the house—
now
!"

Tears sprang into her eyes as Lacey's gaze darted from Hawke to the riders, and for a moment, he thought she was going to stand there no matter what he said. But then in the next instant, her fingers pressed tight against the lips he'd so recently kissed, she whirled around in cloud of petticoats and dust, and scurried off toward the house. The metallic accompaniment which seemed to follow her every move was louder than before and even more familiar than ever but before Hawke could pinpoint the source, the riders pulled up in front of him.

It was late morning, but as he touched the brim of his hat, Hawke said, "Afternoon. What can I do for you?"

William Braddock climbed down from his lathered mount and tied his' reins to the corral beside the stud pen before acknowledging that Hawke had even spoken. As he made his way between corrals, he wiped the grit from his brow, then broke into a broad, toothy grin.

"Afternoon yourself, breed." He rubbed his eyes, then twitched his thick tawny mustache. "I must be going blind. Thought I spotted a female out here with you."

Although he'd already begun to erupt inside, Hawke managed to keep his cool exterior as he said "It's nothing you need to trouble yourself about."

"I saw her run into the house, Johnny boy." Braddock speared him with a beady amber eye before he went on, his ample jowls jiggling as he spoke. "She looked an awful lot like a white woman. Now I have to ask myself what any decent white woman would be doing out here with the likes of a breed like you, and you know what I came up with for an answer?"

"It should be that she's with Caleb's mail-order bride; and only came by today to do some work inside the house for me." God how he hated answering to this man or any man who set himself above another solely on the basis of skin color. Gritting his teeth, Hawke set a new course for the conversation. "In fact I've got to get the lady back to Three Elk pretty quick. What's your business here?"

"Work, huh." Braddock wasn't going to let go of the former topic so quickly. "What part of the house she working in, breed?"

Still pinning Hawke with that one judgmental eye, Braddock began to laugh, his girth rippling in time with his jowls. Hawke clenched his teeth, fighting a tremendous urge to fit his hands around his uncle's throat and squeeze until he could squeeze no more. He could hardly stomach the fact that he shared blood with such a man, much less believe that his gentle mother had been raised in the same household, but if not for thoughts of her, Hawke might actually have throttled him just to make certain he'd never have to do business with him again.

Reasonably certain he had his temper in check, he tried once again to shut the man up. "You're lucky you brought an army escort with you, Braddock." Hawke's uncle took a backward step, alarm lighting his muddy yellow eyes. Pleased to see such a cowardly reaction to the vague threat, he went on. "I'm not in much of a mood to put up with any of your shit today, so why don't you tell me what brought you out here, and save the rest for someone who appreciates it."

Taking another backward step, Braddock scowled from beneath his bushy brows, then cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "You're the one ought to be grateful that I brought these fellahs with me. These two gentlemen have come up from Ft. Sanders to have a look at your stock. I told them you've got yourself a breed of horses out here that'll run circles around the Indian ponies they're having so much trouble catching. If they like what they see, they'll pay top dollar for your entire crop of three-year-olds."

Almost thirty head,
Hawke thought to himself, containing his excitement. Glancing beyond his uncle to where the officers still sat atop their horses, he allowed a tight smile as he said, "Those horses are scattered around the north pasture. We'll have to ride out to take a look at them. Mount up. I'll be right with you." Then he climbed through the fence and whistled for his favorite sorrel.

* * *

During the hours Hawke and his visitors were riding the fences and selecting stock, Lacey fluttered about the house trying to get it in order for his return. She'd watched him through the window after she'd run away, and observed his stance during his discussion with the man in the tan coat. He looked angry, certainly upset enough to give her the idea that he might not be in the best of moods when he came through the door later.

She decided to fix up the house for him, mainly in hopes that it would brighten his mood, but also because working kept Lacey's mind off the terrible indiscretion she'd allowed out by the corral. Cloistered as she had been for most of her life, she knew little enough about animals and their habits, and nothing of courtship, marriage, or men. She'd expected that Hawke might want to kiss her after they were wed—although for the life of her, she couldn't remember where she'd gotten such a notion—and even found herself daydreaming about what it would be like to experience such a kiss with her mercurial host. But
never
in all her wildest dreams had she imagined that he would do something so shocking as put his tongue in her mouth. Not that she hadn't liked it, or found it a wee bit... exciting. But what were the consequences of such a kiss?

As she worked, Lacey imagined all sorts of repercussions from the sinful kiss, up to and including the possibility that she might be with child. The thought filled her with a terrible dread, even though she was sure there must be more to the creation of life than that, and she could hardly function once the idea occurred to her. Somehow, she kept going, and by Hawke's return at mid-afternoon, his mood was as she'd suspected, even blacker than the rapidly darkening skies. Lacey's wasn't a whole lot brighter.

Still, the moment Hawke stepped into his house, she began to flutter all about him, pointing out all the little things she'd done in his absence to make the place look more comfortable without making it look too frilly or feminine. She'd washed all the windows, thereby letting more light into the drab interior, picked a basketful of wildflowers then arranged them in fruit jars to grace both kitchen and reading tables, and even freshened the air with a few sprigs of mint she'd found in his garden. All to no avail.

"Thanks for cleaning the place up," Hawke muttered when she finished showing him what she'd done. "If you'll excuse me..." He started for the small room below his second-story bedroom which served as an office. "I've got a lot of work to do now, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't disturb me."

"Would you like me to put the kettle on—" Interrupting herself as she remembered that America was a barbaric land where as far as she knew, tea could not he found, she amended her offer. "I could warm the pot of coffee, if you like."

Thoroughly consumed by his uncle's final words—
You got enough decent horseflesh here to pay your rent for the next year, but you've got a long ways to go before you'll see the deed to this place in your hand
—Hawke absently muttered, "Suit yourself, but don't bother me." Then he disappeared into his office and slammed the door behind him.

After that, Hawke pored over his books, adding and subtracting figures until he was bleary eyed but each time, the totals came out the same. By his calculations, Winterhawke was free and clear, but by Braddock's, the sum fell mysteriously short. Not that crying foul would do him any good. He couldn't even dispute his uncle's figures since their contract was verbal, not written, which was the only way, Braddock had insisted, that any banker could make a loan to a half-breed. Hawke knew he'd been a fool to agree to those terms, but he'd trusted this uncle of his to be fair with him. Hah! Fair. Now he had no choice but to wait until next spring to lay legal claim to the land he'd come to think of as his. Even though he'd been put off again, Hawke vowed that this was the last time—the
last time
, by God—that William Braddock and his bank were going to keep him from owning what was rightfully his.

Disgusted and angry, he slammed the ledger shut and marched out of his office. The first thing he saw when he walked into the living room, was Lacey sitting in his brown tweed chair. He'd forgotten all about her. "I'd better be getting you back to Caleb's now. You ready to go?"

As he waited for her get up and come to him, Hawke glanced out the window and noticed how dark it had gotten, even though his internal clock told him it couldn't be terribly late in the day. A bright spear of lightning shot across the sky then, and moments later, a tremendous clap of thunder rolled through the valley, shaking the timbers supporting the roof. Shortly after that, the first heavy splatters of rain began to pound the shingles.