The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (36 page)

"Hawke!" she called after him, her voice drowning in tears. But he didn't even look her away again. In the next second, the man she loved so dearly rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Lacey's knees buckled, and for a minute, she thought she might even collapse. Shadows drifted behind her eyes, warning her of an impending spell.
Not now
, Lord, she prayed. Not now with Hawke so distraught and everything he'd worked for in such jeopardy. If ever he needed her, it was now. Surely there was something she could do to help, but what?

As Lacey struggled to regain her composure, an idea occurred to her, a rather impetuous plan, she admitted to herself, but the only one she could think of. Why couldn't she simply march back to this dishonest banker's office and explain the situation? After all, what more could she and Hawke lose? And if she were successful, and actually talked this Braddock fellow into doing what was right, there might even be time to stop her husband from turning the horses he loved into the wild. Surely there would at least be enough time to keep him from burning the house down.

Growing more confident of the plan, she turned to Crowfoot and said, "I want to go back to this savings and loan company to try and find out what this is all about. Maybe I can get this Braddock fellow to show a bit of fairness to us. What do you think?"

Crowfoot frowned. "Hawke told me to keep you in my eyes, lady. I think this is not good."

"But I'm sure he did not mean it that literally." She took the boy's hand and started back down the boardwalk. "You can go with me and wait outside, knowing where I am the whole time. 'Twill be as good as in your eyes that way. I promise to hurry as fast as I can so you will not have to worry too long."

Although she could see the boy was not happy with the idea, he gave her a reluctant nod. When they reached their destination, Crowfoot sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, pointed a small brown finger at her and said, "I wait right here. You hurry."

Lacey gave that finger a little squeeze. "As fast as I can."

Then, wishing now more than ever that she'd had faith enough in her silver spurs to bring them along with her, she hurried down the street. Tiptoeing around the glass outside the doors to the building, she stepped through the one which no longer featured a barrier inside the frame, and skirted the bustling employees who were cleaning up the glass which had fallen inside the lobby. Pausing a moment, she scanned the desks lined up checkerboard-style throughout the room, then brightened as the name she sought came into view on an immense pair of doors toward the back of the building.

Approaching the small desk situated in front of those impressive doors, she said, "If you'll be excusing me, please, ma'am?"

The secretary glanced up at her. "Yes? Is there something I can do for you?"

Lacey straightened the jacket of her new brown dress, belatedly wondering how well her hair had held up during the long ride to town. Resisting the urge to touch her curls and find out, she said, "I would like to speak to your Mr. Braddock, please."

"And who shall I tell him is here?"

"'Tis..." She gulped. "'Tis Lacey Winterhawke come to call."

"Winter—oh." The young woman narrowed her gaze and looked Lacey up and down as she got out of her chair. "Ah, excuse me a minute? I'll just go see if he's in." Then she slipped through the doors and ducked inside the office.

Lacey had just enough time for a few second thoughts before the secretary reappeared, a nervous smile pulling her painted lips taut. "Please come this way, Ma'am. Mr. Braddock said he will see you now."

Following the secretary's lead, Lacey stepped inside the large, airy office and directed her gaze to the bulky man lounging in a chair behind the desk. As he looked her over with narrow amber eyes, he smoothed the tails of his mustache with one hand and lightly stroked his own belly with the other.

"Come on in," Braddock invited, a broad grin showing a remarkably perfect set of teeth. "I don't bite. At least, not as a rule." He laughed at his own joke, then pointed to the chair directly in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

As she crossed the room, Lacey picked up the aroma of polished wood, stagnant cigar smoke, and something musty, an odor not unlike mildew.

Speaking to his secretary, who'd followed along behind Lacey, Braddock said, "That's all, Pauline. I won't be needing you any longer."

"But—"

"I said, that's all."

Pauline, who wore a pained and rather irritated expression, gave Lacey a quick, meaningful glance, then turned and walked out of the room, careful to close the door behind her.

"My secretary informs me your name is Winterhawke," said Braddock, studying her features carefully. "I don't see how it's possible with a good-looking gal like you, but are you related to my nephew's father in some way?"

"Your nephew, sir? I can not imagine that I am since I do not think I know the man. Is he from Laramie?"

"No," Braddock said thoughtfully. "He runs, or I should say, ran a horse ranch up near Centennial for me. I didn't think a gal like—"

"Would you be speaking of Winterhawke Ranch?"

"I am, but the fellow I'm talking about is a half-breed, and probably doesn't—"

"Excuse me, sir," Lacey said, puzzled and shocked. "I believe we must be speaking of the same man, although I can not imagine why you refer to him as your nephew."

"Because he is my sister's bastard son. What's he to you?"

Lacey cringed over the way the banker had referred to him, but proudly said, "Hawke is my husband."

Braddock strangled on his own spittle. When he'd finished choking, he gazed at Lacey bug-eyed, and said, "You can't expect me to believe that a gal like you is tied up with that half-breed. What'd he pay you to waltz in here with that cock-and-bull story?"

"'Tis the truth." Raising her chin a notch, she held her head high. "I married Hawke good and proper a year ago next month. But he did not e'er mention a word about you being his uncle."

Braddock laughed at the irony in that, for white men generally disavowed blood ties to Indians, not the other way around. "Assuming I'm idiot enough to believe that a fine piece of dry goods like you went and hitched yourself to my half-breed nephew, what possible good does he think it will do sending you to me? Did he figure I'd trade the deed to that ranch for a little fling with his woman? Is that it?"

Incensed, Lacey snapped, "My husband does not know that I've come to speak with you." And, if a little late occurring to her, she suddenly had a pretty good idea that he wouldn't have wanted her to talk with this man, either. But since she was already here, she went on with her mission. "I've come on my own to ask you to please find a way in your heart to make right by Hawke and the ranch. 'Tis the most important thing in his life."

"More important than you, you think?"

The man was leering at her, chuckling again and looking as if he enjoyed her discomfort tremendously. The effort beginning to weigh her down, Lacey kept her head high. "I would have to say, aye. 'Tis without question that Winterhawke Ranch is the thing my Hawke loves most. He loves the land and those horses as much as I love him: Utterly and completely."

"Is that a fact?"

Adjusting his trousers and the double V tails of his vest, Braddock pushed out of his chair and circled the desk. Stopping in front of Lacey's knees close enough to brush against them, he rested his backside against the edge of the mahogany top. "If you love that breed as much as all that, I expect you're willing to do just about anything you have to in order to get what he wants the most. Is that why you're here?"

Lacey recognized the trap in the man's question. "Aye," she admitted carefully. "So long as it was within reason, I would do almost anything for Hawke."

"Then why don't you stand up and let me have a better look at you. In fact, I'd like to see exactly what kind of a white woman would let herself be bedded by a no-good half-breed like that nephew of mine."

Lacey wasn't insulted for herself, but she could barely stand to hear such indignities spoken in her husband's name. Not bothering to conceal the loathing in her tone, she muttered, "If it be true that you are Hawke's blood uncle, I can not think why you would speak of him so dreadfully."

"I didn't ask you to think." With that, he reached down, grabbed Lacey's arm, and jerked her out of the chair. "And I didn't ask my sister to bring your miserable husband into this world, either." Painfully squeezing her arms, he demanded, "Tell me the truth—did he send you to me?"

Frightened by the man's tenacious grip and the evil she glimpsed in the pits of his eyes, Lacey's gaze darted from side to side as she sought an avenue of escape. "I—no, Hawke didn't send me here, but he probably knows that I came on my own by now, sir. He will not be very happy about it or what you are doing to me. Please let me go."

"Not yet, sugar." He released one of her arms long enough to drag a perfectly manicured finger across her lips. "That's an interesting little accent you've got there. Where are you from?"

She tried to twist out of his grasp then, but he quickly reclaimed her free arm. Still thinking of ways to escape, Lacey answered the question. "Ireland, sir."

"Is that so?" Braddock slid one of his hands down her arm to her waist, then dropped it even lower and cupped her bottom. He gave her a little squeeze as he asked, "Just what are you willing to do for that deed, you Irish beauty, you?"

Lacey brought her free fist to his chest, pounding against him as she said, "Nothing, sir. 'Twas a mistake me coming here, and I would like to go now."

"Not so fast, you little tease." With that, he spun around in a circle, taking Lacey with him, and then bent her over the top of his desk. "You're not near as friendly as you let on you'd be. How about a little kiss?"

He hovered over her, his thick lips open as they descended toward hers. At the last second before they could touch down, Lacey twisted her head to the side, avoiding him. There on the desk barely an inch from her nose, she saw a small gun. Was it loaded? she wondered.

Braddock slapped the side of her face, bringing her mouth back in line with his own, and then he tried to kiss her again. This time there was no escape as his lips clamped down on hers. Repulsed and terrified, Lacey bared her teeth against his probing tongue, then wriggled her hand free and groped for the gun.

Once the ivory handle was cradled in her palm, she swung the weapon up next to Braddock's temple, prayed that it contained a bullet, then twisted her mouth away from his, and demanded, "Get off of me now or I will shoot you."

His expression riddled with surprise, Braddock released Lacey and abruptly stood up. "Whoa, now—be careful with that thing. It's loaded."

Her gaze and the barrels of the revolver aimed directly at the man's flushed face, Lacey struggled to her feet and brandished the weapon at him. "I-I wish to leave your office now," she said, her voice shaky. "If you will just be standing aside, please?"

Braddock took a sideways step as she'd requested, but when Lacey moved forward, he lunged at her, grasping the wrist of the hand which held the gun.

"Give me that, you stupid bitch."

She screamed, fighting him for control of the gun, then spun in a circle as if dancing with the banker while they grappled for the revolver. Lacey could feel blunt fingernails digging into the back of her hand, tearing her fragile skin. She curled her fingers tighter around the grip, determined to keep the man from rendering her completely helpless, and then in the space of a heartbeat, a terrible explosion rent the air.

William Braddock stood there a moment, looking at her as if he were about to call her a stupid bitch again. Then he crumpled to the floor, his bloody fingers clutching the left side of his chest, and let out a gurgling gasp of surprise.

Stunned and horrified, Lacey stared down at the man through a little curlicue of smoke trailing off the end of the pistol. Had she
shot
him, or...

The door opened then, followed by the high-pitched scream of a woman.

"Oh, God! She's gone and shot Mr. Braddock." Pauline turned toward her co-workers. "Somebody help him. Help."

Shadows had filled the back of Lacey's mind by then, cold dark clouds of the same ilk as those which had kept her mute for so many years. If recognizing nothing else, she did know that she hadn't murdered just any man, but her husband's uncle. The enormity of the deed overwhelmed her so, Lacey didn't even bother to fight the tide of sensations rising up to sweep her away. Giving herself up to them instead, she lapsed into the friendly darkness of a deep, mind-numbing spell.

The Irish are a fair people;

they never speak well of one another.

—Samuel Johnson

Chapter 19