Hawk's Prize Page 9

  Galveston . . . and Tricia.

  Actually, he’d seen less and less of Tricia since Willie’s arrival. Because of Willie’s almost constant presence in his room, all opportunity for private conversation with Tricia had ceased—but he needed to speak to her. He needed to explain that their brief moments together had not been the result of the workings of a fevered mind. He needed to tell her that if circumstances were different, if he . . . if she . . .

  Drew’s thoughts came to a halt when Tricia entered the room carrying a tray of food. Immediately awake, Willie was on his feet to help her as she settled the tray on the bedstand beside Drew and said, “I thought Willie and you might like some of Polly’s chicken soup. It’s very good.”

  The sea green of her eyes met his, and Drew went still. He definitely wanted her.

  “You’re right, ma’am. This soup looks real good. And me and Drew appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Willie responded in Drew’s stead, smiling his little-boy smile as he added, “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, and we’re going to pay you back. It just might take some time, is all.”

  “Payment was never a consideration, Willie.” Tricia’s reply was spontaneous. “Chantalle is only too happy to show appreciation in her own way for everything our soldiers did for us.”

  Speaking for the first time, Drew said with a touch of old resentment, “But the Confederacy lost the war, as you once reminded me.”

  Tricia’s face colored as she turned to him and said, “Confederate soldiers fought for their country just as bravely as Yankee soldiers did for theirs. Their viewpoints were the only difference between them . . . and that difference was settled by the war, once and for all.”

  Drew retorted, “It was, huh?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “You won’t convince Drew of that so easily, ma’am.” Willie shrugged and added, “Or me, either, for that matter . . . but this soup sure looks good.”

  Tricia watched as Willie cleared a space for the plates. She jumped when Drew touched her hand unexpectedly, turning her back toward him. His gaze spoke of a myriad emotions before Willie unintentionally severed the silent communication between them by looking up from the tray to say, “Thank you again, ma’am.”

  Tricia left the room with a brief nod and a stiff smile.

  Drew picked up his spoon.

  Tricia’s smile faltered as she pulled Drew’s door closed behind her. Sadness brought tears to his eyes. There was no denying that he’d be well enough to get back on his horse and ride out in a few days; she’d probably never see him again. He had as much as told her that, even though his touch had said so much more.

  Tricia closed her eyes as she sought to bring her emotions under control. Her feelings for Drew were intense, yet she hardly knew him. All she knew was that her heart jumped a beat each time she saw him, that it hammered in her breast every time his gaze met hers, and that his touch stirred her in ways she had never been stirred before.

  But they were hardly more than strangers whose acquaintanceship was coming to an end.

  Damn, what was she supposed to do now?

  The evening was deepening, activity in Chantalle’s upstairs hallway was brisk, and the closet where Bruce was hiding grew hotter with every passing minute.

  He took a breath and unbuttoned his shirt as he strained to see the portion of hallway visible through the crack in the doorway. He had come upstairs with Georgia a short time earlier and had enjoyed every minute of the time he’d spent with her in her room. He had made an excuse to leave before she was fully dressed so he could slip into the closet unseen and wait for the perfect opportunity to follow through on the boss’s orders—but the memory of his time with Georgia lingered. He had enjoyed himself so much that he had made the decision to stop back to see her again when Simon calmed down. He’d be able to relax a little more then.

  A familiar chill moved down Bruce’s spine when he recalled the look in Simon’s eyes and the flush on his face when he’d said, Make sure Drew Collins takes his last breath in that bed.

  He took consolation in the thought that he had handled similar situations successfully, without casting any suspicion on either the boss or himself. It amused him to think that he would run out of digits if he counted on his fingers the number of times he had “handled things.” Actually, if he were to write them all down and describe the various ways he had accomplished those jobs, he could write a book—a dime novel that would chill readers even more than Simon chilled him.

  Bruce raised his chin with a perverse pride in his accomplishments. He did what Simon wanted because he knew the depth of his boss’s determination, because he knew the danger of trying to thwart it, and because in doing the boss’s bidding, he had found a place in life. He had become the right hand of an important man like Simon Gault, an exalted spot that a common, uneducated fellow such as he seldom achieved. He knew, however, that his position was precarious, and all his achievements could be nullified by a single failure.

  But he wouldn’t fail. The boss had left the details up to him, just like he always did. Bruce had had some fun with that state of affairs in the past. He remembered the cowboy clothing he’d worn when he rode out into open country and shot old Hiram Charters right off his horse so he wouldn’t be able to take Chantalle’s message to Whit Hawk. He had made that killing look like a robbery, and nobody had ever suspected otherwise.

  He had been indistinguishable from every other sailor on the Galveston dock when he had boarded Captain Randolph Winters’s ship and plunged a knife into the captain’s back while he worked at his ledger. The authorities had never even looked in his direction, and that killing was never solved either.

  Bruce’s pride briefly dimmed. He had failed to carry out Simon’s orders only once—the situation with Jason Dodd—and the memory of Simon’s fury still set him to shaking. The boss had allowed him that one misstep because he intended to give him a second chance when Jason Dodd returned to Galveston. Yes, he was Simon Gault’s right-hand man, and that was the way things were going to remain.

  Bruce unconsciously wiped the perspiration from his brow. That Willie Childers fella was bound to leave Drew Collins’s room sooner or later. When he did, Bruce would simply walk inside and take care of Drew Collins before Childers returned. He’d be careful to leave no obvious marks on Collins’s body, so it would look like a natural death, and he’d simply use the rear staircase of the building to disappear into the night afterwards. He was good at that—disappearing into the night. He’d had great practice.

  Drew Collins—dead.

  That order was as good as accomplished. Bruce’s only problem was Willie Childers. It was getting late. He wouldn’t have much longer before the evening ended and his chance was gone.

  Damn that Childers! He was spoiling everything.

  Chantalle moved through the noisy crowd on the first floor of her establishment with a practiced smile. Her clientele was in particularly high spirits this evening, unlike herself. Will had returned only a few hours earlier from delivering the message to La Posada. Will had apologized, saying that he’d only been able to deliver that message to Whit’s wife, the beautiful Jackie. Whit, himself, was away on a trail drive and she wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

  Chantalle smiled absently at a client. If she didn’t miss her guess, Drew Collins would leave Galveston as soon as he was back on his feet. She had read that urgency in his eyes. If that happened, both Whit and Drew would possibly have lost the chance of a lifetime to be reunited.

  Chantalle’s smile dimmed under the weight of her troubling thoughts.

  “What’s the matter, Chantalle?”

  Angie.

  Chantalle looked at the nosy whore, her patience short. Angie was already a little too curious about things that weren’t her business. Chantalle didn’t want to stir her interest any further.

  She forced a smile as she replied, “What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know. You look
like you’ve got something on your mind. It sure can’t be that you’re worried about business. There’re more fellas here tonight than some of these ladies of yours can handle.” Angie raised her shoulder in a casual shrug. “Of course, that’s never a problem for me.”

  “I know. I can always depend on you, Angie.”

  “That’s right, and I was thinking that maybe you should be—”

  Angie’s statement was interrupted when Jack Watton, a cattleman who knew his way around the ladies, walked up and said, “Have you got some time for me, Angie?”

  Dismissing her conversation with Chantalle at the sound of Jack’s voice, Angie fluttered her lashes and looked at him coyly. Taking his hand, she drew his arm around her waist and leaned against him. She curled his hand around her breast, encouraging him to knead it hard as she said, “I sure do, Jack, honey. I haven’t forgotten the last time you came upstairs with me. I get hot just thinking about it. You’re something special, and I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I’ve got something real special I’ve been saving just for you.”

  The erotic effect of Angie’s statement was obvious in the bulge below Jack’s belt, and Angie laughed aloud. She rubbed up against it and eased him toward the stairs as she whispered, “That’s fine for starters, Jack, honey, but just remember . . . I can take all you’ve got to give . . . and I mean all of it.”

  Chantalle watched as Angie and Jack ascended the staircase. Jack was practically salivating, and Angie . . . Angie was Angie—hot for any man who walked through the doorway.

  Shaking her head, Chantalle turned toward the bar as the pair slipped out of sight. There might have been a point in her past when that situation would have pleased her, but now . . .

  Chantalle forced another smile when a familiar cowpoke squeezed past her ample figure as she walked through the doorway into the next room. That smile disappeared from her lips when she reached the bar and met Jake’s knowing glance with the order, “Pour me a drink.”

  Tricia sat back in Chantalle’s office chair and rubbed her eyes. She had been working over Chantalle’s books for more than an hour in an attempt to straighten out her accounting. It had only taken her a few minutes to see why Chantalle spent so much time poring over the pages.

  The problem was organization. Chantalle didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word.

  Despite Chantalle’s reputation as a businesswoman, bills were listed helter-skelter; monetary advances were issued, noted haphazardly, and apparently forgotten; generous salaries were paid under circumstances that were not warranted; and monumental contributions were made to local charities that had obviously been kept secret from the general populace of the city—contributions that had drained the profit from the house as well as Chantalle’s surprisingly modest bank account.

  Tricia shook her head. Chantalle not only needed an accountant. She needed a keeper.

  Despite those thoughts, Tricia felt the stirring of a new pride in the dear woman. She had always been aware that Chantalle was a far more generous person than anyone realized. Chantalle had taken on responsibility for her as a child when Chantalle had had so little that she needed to sell herself to survive. Chantalle had worked her way up in an atmosphere that was generally sordid, but she had committed many selfless acts along the way.

  Tricia sighed as her mind slipped back to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. There was another example of Chantalle’s charity. Chantalle had generously ignored the cost of caring for a former Confederate soldier, although at the time she hadn’t even known his name. But Chantalle had limited her kindness to impersonal aid, keeping herself a friendly distance from the fellow.

  Tricia sighed. She wished belatedly that she had done the same.

  Confused by the ache deep inside her, Tricia closed the ledger and sat motionless for long moments. Strangely, the conversation with Chantalle that she had dreaded—the discussion of her future—had been brought up again since she had returned. She supposed the reason was simple. She had spent day and night at Drew’s bedside. In the time since Willie Childers’s return, he had taken over many of her tasks, but she had spent her spare time helping Polly cook and tending to Chantalle’s books. Yet she knew that with Drew’s departure, the inevitable would come.

  That would be soon—too soon to suit her.

  Tricia covered her eyes with her hand.

  Damn!

  She looked up at the clock on Chantalle’s wall. It was getting late. The business of the house would continue for a few more hours, but she would soon retire for the night. First, however, she’d check in on Drew and make sure he and Willie had everything they needed. Seeing to their comfort was her duty, after all.

  Bruce dozed fitfully. He was frustrated and hot in the airless closet. The hours had stretched incredibly long. His last look at his pocket watch had confirmed that the bordello would soon finish up business for the night. The doors would then be locked and his chances of escaping unnoticed would lessen. He had crept out of the closet a short time earlier to check whether Collins’s friend had possibly slipped out of the room without his knowledge. A quick peek had revealed that both Collins and his friend were asleep—Collins in the satin-covered bed, and his friend a dozing watchdog in the upholstered chair close by.

  Irritated, Bruce had then slipped back into the closet, hoping that Childers would leave the room soon, if only for a few minutes. A few minutes would be all he needed.

  The sound of approaching footsteps outside the closet door snapped Bruce fully alert. Drawing back more deeply into the closet, he held his breath, and then released it softly when the light footsteps passed by and came to an unexpected halt. He peeked out into the hallway and saw a beautiful young woman pause with her hand poised to knock on Collins’s door. Apparently thinking better of it, she pushed the door open slowly and looked inside. He saw her back up as Willie Childers slipped out into the hallway beside her. Bruce listened as they started to speak.

  “I’m glad you’re here, ma’am.”

  Willie had been instantly alert at the sound of Tricia opening the door. He hastened out into the hallway and drew the door closed behind him. Looking at her directly, he said, “Drew told me everything you did for him while he was sick, and I never did get the chance to thank you, ma’am. Drew is like a brother to me. We promised each other that we’d come through the war together. I suppose that was a crazy promise to make, but Providence helped us to keep it. It would’ve been hard if a single, foolish argument had separated us when we came through everything else so fine.”

  “I really didn’t do that much.”

  “Yes, you did, ma’am. Drew told me you didn’t give up when the doc almost did.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Well . . . Drew said some things are kind of mixed up in his head, but one thing he knew for sure. You were there every time he opened his eyes.”

  “Oh . . . well, he doesn’t owe me anything, if that’s what he thinks. You’ve both already done so much by risking your lives in battle.”

  “Thank you for saying that, ma’am.” Willie smiled. “That means a lot, especially since you spent the duration of the war mostly up North with the Yankees.”

  Tricia hastened to say, “Willie, I hope you can understand. I had no enemies during that terrible war, and the wounded soldiers I tended didn’t wear any particular uniform. I just did my best to help out wherever I could.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Really I do. My Uncle Fred and Aunt Chloe told me I was a fool to fight for the Confederacy, but that didn’t stop them from welcoming me home with a smile a few days ago.”

  Tricia stared into Willie’s clear, blue eyes, feeling tears well up in her own. He was a dear young man. There was a catch in her voice when she replied, “I know your words are sincere, Willie. I only wish I could make Drew understand as well.”

  “Drew’s different from me, ma’am.” Willie shrugged his shoulders. “He doesn’t trust easily and he takes things hard. It won’t be easy for hi
m to forget that a lot of the fellas we knew and liked won’t ever be going home because they fought for something they believed in.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I guess the difference is that I had a family to go home to . . . folks that I could trust to make it all seem right again somehow. That’s why I wanted Drew to come home with me, so’s some of that might rub off on him.” Willie’s youthful face momentarily fell. “I almost ruined it when I let my temper get the best of me and went off and left Drew here, but now that I’ve got a second chance, I’m going to make sure I follow through.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Drew’s a fine man, ma’am. I know he seems hard sometimes, but there ain’t a better friend than he is.”

  “I believe you.” Tricia made an effort to conclude a conversation that was becoming painful as she said, “I just stopped by to make sure you had everything you need tonight.”

  “We do, but . . .” Willie frowned. “I wanted to go downstairs to check on my horse. He was limping when I got here and I need to make sure his hoof is being taken care of. It might take me a while to check him over, though, and Drew’s sleeping so I can’t tell him where I’m going. I was wondering if you’d mind staying here just in case he wakes up. I don’t want him to think I ran off on him again.”

  “I’m sure he’d never think that.”

  “Ma’am . . . could you?”

  “Of course. I’ll stay until you get back. It’s no problem at all.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Tricia watched as Willie walked rapidly down the hallway. She pushed open the bedroom door when he disappeared from sight. She walked softly to the bed and looked down at Drew as he slept. He looked good, better than he’d ever looked before. His color had returned—a healthy color that emphasized the chiseled planes of his face and contrasted vividly with his dark hair and brows.