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“D-don’t,” she whispered. “I need to be strong.”
He could feel her whole body shaking. “Don’t be a fool. You need to stop trying to be brave.”
She jerked her head up. “Don’t tell me what to do! If I p-pretend, it gives me courage. I grew up pretending.”
Hawk snorted. “Someone just threatened your life, Caroline. You should be damn scared, not playacting.”
Fernanda nodded emphatically. “Always she pretend.”
Suddenly Hawk wanted to fold her into his arms, but he figured that would frighten her even more. He settled for tightening his arm about her shoulders and gently tugging her toward the doorway behind the pulpit.
“Come on. You need to go back to the hotel and lie down. Maybe have some coffee brought up.”
“I n-need something stronger than coffee.” Her voice was less shaky, but she was still trembling like she’d taken a bad chill. He guided her to the back entrance, but before stepping through the door he pulled her to a stop.
“Wait.” He withdrew his revolver and inched out the doorway far enough to see both sides of the street. Not a sign of a living soul. A faint light shone in the window of the sheriff’s office, but no horses were tied at the hitching rail in front of Polly’s Cage. Tinny piano music drifted from the saloon. He moved to the corner and studied the buildings on both sides of the main street—still nothing.
He stepped back inside. “Looks clear.”
Caroline drew a deep breath and started forward, but Hawk reached out and yanked her close to his side, then motioned to the Mexican woman hovering behind him. “Fernanda, stay on the other side of her.”
“Si, señor.” She grasped Caroline’s arm.
Once inside the hotel Hawk lifted his arm from Caroline’s slim shoulders, grabbed the room key and went up the stairs ahead of her, his revolver drawn. He unlocked the door, checked inside the wardrobe and under both beds. Fernanda hurried to close the curtains and then confronted him. “What we do now, señor?”
Damned if he knew. He couldn’t leave Caroline alone with just Fernanda; even if the Mexican woman did carry a pistol, he’d bet she wasn’t experienced, and Caroline...
Caroline needed a shot of Dutch courage. Hell, he needed one, too. He also needed to think. He made sure the women were safe and had locked the door. Then he walked over to the sheriff’s office for some reconnaissance and on to Polly’s Cage for some comfort.
By the time Rivera returned, Caroline had talked her fear down to a manageable level and explained again to Fernanda that, no matter what, she would not stop making speeches. She would never stop.
She was afraid, yes. Whoever it was had managed to track her down, and sending a child with such an awful note, in front of everyone, had chilled her to the bone. But she could never let it show. And yes, she used her stiff, proper manners to disguise the terror, the fear that she actually would be killed. Her life, speaking out about what had happened to her mother, and to her, compelled her to go on, even when her heart hammered under her buttons and her throat was so dry she could not spit.
Oh, Mama, if you are looking down on me, give me courage, for I know I must go on.
She had just donned her silk night robe when she heard Rivera’s voice on the other side of the door. Fernanda stopped brushing her hair, turned the key in the lock and let him in.
In his hand he carried three glasses and a pint of whiskey.
Fernanda reached for the bottle. “Ah, señor, you are an angel from God.”
“Not quite,” he growled. “I talked with the deputy sheriff. That kid was the barber’s son. He’d never seen the man who gave him the note. No horse that he could see, but the fellow was tall. Spare build. Walked hunched over a bit. Dark clothing and a hat pulled too low to see his face.”
Fernanda poured three glasses of whiskey. “What we do now, señor?”
Hawk slapped his hat down on the bed nearest the door and downed a big swallow of the liquor. “You’re not gonna like this any more than I do, but—” he took another gulp “—I’m sticking to you like cockleburs on a horse’s tail.”
Caroline sank onto the other bed and eyed him. “I beg your pardon? What exactly does that mean?”
She was dressed for bed, Hawk noted. Bare feet, her hair a loose tangle of curls. For an instant he lost his train of thought.
“It means I’m sleeping in your room tonight. It means you do exactly as I say until I can get you to wherever you’re going next.”
“Boise. In Idaho. We plan to catch the train from Oakridge.”
“That’s fifty miles from here.”
“There’s a stagecoach tomorrow morning.”
He thought that over. Maybe the stage would be safer than traveling on horseback, especially since whoever was trailing them, if anybody really was trailing them, apparently hadn’t been fooled.
A suffocating sense of duty descended on him, the kind of obligation he swore he’d never undertake again. But hell’s bells, here he was, up to his neck in it again. He prayed to God it would turn out better this time.
He polished off his whiskey and poured another for himself and for Fernanda. Caroline had wrinkled her nose at her first sip and the glass she now rotated in her two hands was still full.
“Okay, tomorrow we take the stagecoach to Oakridge.” And he’d pray every mile that the sheriff in Boise was not holed up in a saloon or out with a posse chasing some outlaw. He wouldn’t relax until both women were safe inside the hotel.
* * *
Before first light, Hawk arranged with the livery owner to board Red and the two mares, then walked over to the sheriff’s office, where he caught the deputy asleep at his desk. The man was damn incompetent, but at least he listened and agreed to keep his mouth shut. By eight, Hawk had taken the stage driver aside and explained some things while the women climbed on board.
“Ya wanna ride shotgun, Hawk?”
He thought it over. Jingo could probably use an extra rifle, so he nodded and stepped around to explain to Fernanda and Caroline. “Going to be a long trip, ladies, but we’ll be stopping in Tumbleweed for fresh horses and some dinner.”
The two women nodded, but neither was in a smiling frame of mind. Couldn’t blame them one bit. He climbed up beside the driver and laid his Winchester across his lap. “All set, Jingo. Let’s go.”
Jingo released the brake and lifted his whip, but before he could snap it over the team, a tall man barreled down the hotel steps and yanked open the passenger door. “Aw, hell.” Jingo spit a mouthful of tobacco juice beside the coach.
Hawk grabbed his rifle but Jingo laid a gnarled hand on the barrel.
“You know that guy?” Hawk asked.
“Sorta. Gambler sometimes. Horse trader other times.” The whip cracked and the stage lurched forward.
“Is he on any Wanted posters?”
“Naw. Too slippery if ya ask me. S’ides, gambling ain’t illegal. Yet.”
“Yet? What does that mean?”
Jingo spat again. “Women get the vote, first thing them straitlaced old biddies’ll do is outlaw card playing.”
Hawk kept his mouth shut about the passengers and the straitlaced part. Sure was thought-stopping, though. He’d once won a woman in a card game.
He couldn’t help worrying about what was going on inside the coach. Couldn’t hear anything over the thunder of horses’ hooves and creaking wheels. He knew Fernanda would fire off a shot if something was wrong, but...
“Hold up, Jingo.”
“Huh? What for?”
“You heard me, pull up.”
He was off the driver’s bench before the stage rattled to a stop. He strode around to the passenger door and yanked it open.
Fernanda let out a screech. “What happen, señor?”
“Nothing, yet. Any trouble back here?”
Caroline sat straight-backed in her severe dark blue dress, her hands primly folded in her lap. Hawk noted her knuckles were white. Gambler man tipped his black derby back off his face and blinked small round eyes at him. “You expecting some trouble, Sheriff?”
Hawk swore under his breath. The man was sprawled beside Fernanda, his long legs resting on the seat next to Caroline. Hawk used the rifle barrel to knock them to the floor.
“Hey, what the—?”
“You only paid for one seat, mister. The one next to the lady doesn’t belong to you.”
“Oh, very well. Excuse me, ma’am.” The watery eyes closed and he tipped the derby back over his face. Caroline sent Hawk a grateful look.
“You all right?” he mouthed.
The ghost of a smile curved her lips and she nodded. Hawk tipped his head toward the stranger and lifted his eyebrows in a question. Again she smiled, and this time it touched her eyes.
He sucked in air as his stomach rolled over, then latched the door and rejoined Jingo on the driver’s bench.
“Them ladies all right?”
He grunted.
“Relax, Hawk. We got some hard hours on the road ahead of us.”
“You just drive this contraption, Jingo.” He wouldn’t relax until they reached Oakridge. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Gambling Man inside the coach, whether he was really on the up-and-up or whether he flimflammed when he saw a badge.
Sweat began at the back of his neck. Another few hours of this and he’d draw his weapon on every male that came within twenty feet of her.
“Ya want me to sing somethin’?” Jingo quipped. “The horses like it when I sing.”
Hawk rolled his eyes.
Jingo warbled in an off-tune tenor voice all the way to the stage station. By the time they pulled up at the small two-room shack, Hawk’s patience was wearing thinner than the film on a stagnant frog pond.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_e0f1071c-7f41-5fe9-86bc-51ae72591454)
Caroline stepped down onto the ground and grabbed for Fernanda’s steadying hand. Her legs were stiff, a headache pounded in her temples and her bottom was numb from hours and hours perched on the hard leather bench. Behind them, the man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Overby jerked awake and snuffled. “Ah, dinner,” he exclaimed.
She doubted she could eat anything after jouncing along in the stifling heat but she could surely drink something; her throat was dry and scratchy as sandpaper. And her nerves were jumpy.
Fernanda conducted her into the tiny station, asked for water and walked on through straight to the necessary. When they returned, their host, a grizzled old man with a greasy apron looped around his waist, showed them to a rough wood table and dished up bowls of what looked like stew. Caroline picked up her spoon and immediately set it down and pushed the bowl away.
“You must eat, mi corazón. We have many miles ahead.”
She couldn’t. Caroline drank glass after glass of water, but her stomach was too unsettled for food. She watched Mr. Overby shovel in huge mouthfuls of his meal until he looked up.
“What are you staring at, miss?”
Caroline jerked. “Nothing.” She turned her gaze away and Hawk Rivera slid in beside her, bringing with him the scent of leather and sweat. She much preferred it over the cologne-heavy smell of Mr. Overby. In fact she was beginning to like the way the sheriff smelled, like a man instead of a candy shop. She wished he would sit inside the coach with them.
“Stew any good?” he queried.
“I wouldn’t know. I cannot eat it.”
He snaked out his hand and pulled her bowl back to her. “Try,” he ordered. “Making speeches takes strength.”
“Do not tell me you like my speeches?” She worked to keep the surprise out of her voice.
He set his tall glass of water onto the table. “No, I don’t.”
Fernanda looked at him from across the table. “Que? You do not like?”
Their driver tramped in through the door. “Aha, supper! Thought I was gonna starve to death afore we got here. Food any good, Hawk?”
“Yeah.” He slanted a look at Fernanda. “And no, I do not like the speeches.”
Caroline leaned toward him. “Why not?” she intoned.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“But it does matter,” she protested.
“Not to me.”
She sat back and sucked in her breath. “Then why are you...? Oh, of course. You are a lawman. An ex-Texas Ranger, Fernanda said. You feel...responsible.”
Somehow that made her angry. So angry that without thinking she jammed her spoon into the bowl of stew and swallowed down a bite. Beside her, Rivera dipped his head and chuckled.
Well! At least she had cracked that imperturbable demeanor of his.
“It’s true I don’t like your speeches,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t let it bother you.”
“What? Of course it bothers me.”
He laid down his spoon and looked directly at her. “Why?”
She opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut. “Why” was a very good question. She should not care what this man thought of her speeches. Or her ideas. Or her.
“Shouldn’t bother you,” he reiterated.
“No,” she murmured, “it shouldn’t. I will address that issue on the remainder of our trip to Oakridge.”
