The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (37 page)

Crowfoot sat across the alley from Braddock Savings and Loan, contentedly whittling a piece of mountain mahogany into another of his lupine creations. As he worked, he allowed himself to believe, and for the first time ever, that he might grow into a real person someday, a man with normal working parts and the ability to communicate with the world at large. Hawke and Caleb had been trying to convince him of that for years now, but until the lady came along, he'd refused to even entertain the notion. The lady got him thinking that way, and now that the doctor insisted that his foot could be straightened out well enough to wear a regular shoe or boot, Crowfoot not only entertained the notion, but relished the idea of becoming more "civilized."

Maybe, he thought, taking his dreams one step further, he might even find himself a girl like Hawke's someday, one that could understand the darkness inside him and the pain it brought the way Lacey seemed to. He wondered how the lady had come to understand his need for quiet moments and the periods of torment that came over him, forcing him to take himself off to the forest to release some of the rage inside. He wondered, too, if she'd experienced something like his own private misery. He'd felt that in her the day she'd set fire to the kitchen, then came to him to ease her suffering in silence.

But that was all Crowfoot had time to wonder about as a shot rang out in the building next door. Quickly sticking his knife into the smooth leather sheath Hawke had made for him, he hopped down from the edge of the boardwalk and scurried into the alley. Terrified of what might have happened, he sat there not knowing what else to do, and listened to the muffled screams and general confusion ringing off the walls inside the fancy building. Moments later, boots sounded on the boardwalk, and a blur of men ran past the alleyway where he was hiding.

Even though he was increasingly worried about Lacey's safety, Crowfoot remained huddled there in the alley until a couple of men, one wearing the badge of a lawman, shot past him on their way back to the savings and loan building. Too concerned about the lady by now to remain in hiding, he crept to the edge of the brick structure and peeked around the corner. A crowd had gathered outside the institution, all of them whispering amongst themselves in tones too low for him to overhear the words. Then at long last, the lawman stepped back outside again—and much to Crowfoot's horror, he had Lacey Winterhawke in tow, her hands manacled at her waist.

Impulsively jumping out from his hiding spot, Crowfoot called, "Lady, lady!"

But Lacey, her eyes downcast, didn't even glance up to acknowledge him. Like before, it was as if she couldn't see, hear, or speak. Crowfoot knew then that she was having one of her quiet times like the day in the barn, and that neither he nor the sheriff of Laramie would get her to talk until she was darn good and ready. As the trio passed by the spot where he stood watching, the sheriff reached out and cuffed Crowfoot alongside the head.

"Get on out of here, boy," the sheriff snapped as he ushered Lacey down the boardwalk toward the courthouse.

Afraid of most white men, but especially of those in authority, Crowfoot immediately ducked back into the alley. He stood there trembling near the corner of the building where the crowd was still milling around, and listened in on their conversations again. They were openly discussing a topic which sent a bolt of panic to his extremities—the murder of William Braddock, and the fact that Lacey Winterhawke had fired the bullet which killed him.

His lady, a
murderer
? Crowfoot couldn't imagine why she could have done such a thing, much less how, so he stayed there huddled in the alley a good long time as he tried to figure out what to do next. He hated the idea of leaving Lacey, not to mention the reprimand it would bring from Hawke, but there was nothing he could do for her now. The sheriff would never let a crippled Indian boy inside the jail to see her, and even if he did, Crowfoot was fairly certain nothing he could do or say would bring her around. Only one person he could think of had that ability. And he'd gone back to Winterhawke.

In spite of the fact that Hawke had instructed him not to let Lacey out of his sight, Crowfoot knew he had to go to the ranch to let Hawke know what had happened to his woman. The decision made, Crowfoot skulked through the streets of Laramie in the wolf-like manner he'd been taught, and made his way to the Front Street Stable and Carriage House where Hawke had left the wagon and one of the two horses who'd pulled the rig to town. He begged and pleaded with the liveryman to let him take the horse left behind, but the man turned a deaf ear to him. John Winterhawke had left the animal in his care, and John Winterhawke would have to come get the horse himself. Period. Crowfoot easily read the silent part of the statement in the stableman's eyes—he sure as hell wouldn't be giving up any animal to a filthy little Indian kid, no matter how much he begged.

After yet more indecision, Crowfoot waited until the night had reached its darkest peak and most of the town, save for the gambling establishments, had gone to bed. Then, knowing full well the authorities would hang him should he get caught in the act, he snuck back to the stables and stole the horse Hawke had given to him as his very own.

Undetected, Crowfoot rode out of town and straight through to Centennial, pausing here and there to rest his mount several times along the way. At dawn he reached Three Elk Ranch where he dashed into the house long enough to inform Caleb and Kate about Lacey's troubles with the law. After asking if they knew where Hawke had gone, then discovering that the Weatherspoons weren't even aware he'd returned from Laramie, Crowfoot resumed his journey. Just before noon, he finally arrived at the log home nestled in a forest of lodgepole pines, relieved to find it was still standing.

With the exception of the cowboy hired to watch over the place, Winterhawke Ranch was deserted.

* * *

Dressed in his full mountain man attire of buckskins including his eagle feather hat, Hawke stared out at the wide expanse of snow-splotched meadows near the glistening peak of Medicine Bow Mountain, and watched as his dreams raced out of his life. Phantom galloped through a thin patch of snow, kicking up flakes of ice with his heels, then wheeled around as if checking to make sure he'd truly escaped the man. He reared as if in victory, his nostrils blowing billows of fog, and pawed the air with his hooves. Then he took off again, a silvery shadow amongst the pines, until he could be seen no more.

Hawke was a mass of conflicting emotions late that afternoon as he watched his stallion disappear, for he above all understood and appreciated the exhilarating sense of freedom driving Phantom onward. But the terrible sense of loss, of finality, was too painful to contemplate, an indicator by his way of thinking, of his failure as a horse rancher. And that in turn, pointed out his failure as a husband.

He'd been so caught up in his own rage and pain, he hadn't even thought to ask Lacey what she wanted to do now that it looked like Winterhawke Ranch would stay in Braddock's hands. Worse, he hadn't even considered asking about her visit with the doctor. Were they going to have a baby? He didn't know because he'd gone off like a madman, not giving a moment's notice to anything or anyone but himself. Here he was with almost a full year of marriage under his belt, and he still behaved as if he were his own entity, a man who answered to no one.

He loved Lacey, there was no doubt in his mind about that, but he hadn't realized how selfish a thing love could be. He loved his wife on his terms and for the way she made him feel inside, but why hadn't he loved her enough to put his own needs aside and have a look at hers? Maybe it wasn't so much a question of love as anger, he thought, taking himself apart piece by piece. It didn't take an extraordinarily wise man to know that some of the anger he'd felt as he roared out of town had been directed at Lacey.

Right or wrong, it still rankled Hawke to think that his own wife didn't want to bear his children—assuming of course that it was because she did not want to raise a passel of half-breeds. But what if her fears had nothing to do with the color of his skin at all? He'd never thought of looking for another answer, but now that he had, Hawke recalled the trouble he had bedding Lacey that first time, and how terribly afraid she'd been of the whole process. What if she were even more afraid of childbirth? It made a good measure of sense, now that he finally considered it.

Angry all over again, this time with himself, Hawke leaned back against his saddle, his pillow for the night, and went on with his self-examination. Funny, he thought, how insignificant a piece of land could be when placed in the proper perspective. He could easily replace Winterhawke Ranch and his yard full of fine horseflesh, but none of it meant a damn thing without Lacey—and he knew without a doubt that he could never replace the little Irish miss with the golden blue eyes. Not if he lived to be one hundred. Why hadn't he been smart enough to realize that before now? He hadn't even thought to tell her how much she meant to him.

The rest of the night, all Hawke could think about was getting back to town and letting Lacey know how much he loved and needed her. Then
together
, they would work out a plan. If she wanted to fight for Winterhawke—and he assumed she did since she'd even gone to the trouble of learning how to sew well enough to fashion curtains for their bedroom window—they would find a way to save the ranch together. As for Braddock—hell, maybe gaining revenge against him wasn't worth the trouble.

Hawke stayed the night on the spot where he'd turned the stud loose, then returned to Winterhawke the next morning armed with a new plan. If Lacey agreed, he would take the cash from this year's crop of three-year-olds, and if need be, use it all to have her hire a good attorney. Maybe in that way, they could force his uncle to set a firm price for Winterhawke, a fair-market figure which couldn't be changed according to the banker's whims or gut-deep hatred of his only living blood relation.

Finding some hope in this decision, after tending to his mount, a tired but less despondent Hawke started for the house to change back into his clothes for going to town. Then he heard someone scrambling down the ladder leading to the loft.

"Is that you, Hazelbaker?" he called. Turning around, he was shocked to see a small figure approaching him. "Crowfoot? What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay with Lacey? I told you not to let her—"

"Lady has troubles," he said, interrupting, but staying out of Hawke's reach. "I could not think of what to do but come after you."

"Troubles?" The hair along Hawke's spine stood up like a row of spikes. His first thoughts were of Lacey's pregnancy, and the possibility that something had gone wrong. Advancing on the boy, he caught him by the shoulders. "What's wrong with her? Is it something to do with the baby?"

Crowfoot paused, confused over the reference to a baby, but went on with his tale. "After you left town, lady tried to help you at the bank. She went to talk to Braddock, but—"

Struck by both horror and sudden rage, Hawke shook the boy. "She
what
?"

His survival instincts kicking in, Crowfoot snarled at Hawke, then wriggled free of his grasp and backed away. "I tell lady, don't go there, but she does not listen to me. I keep her in my eyes," he pointed at them, "but she will not stay there. She will not listen!"

The boy looked as if he were about to bolt and run, and if he did that. Hawke was afraid he'd never know what had happened to his wife. Calming himself, he spoke tightly, but in a non-threatening tone as he asked, "So Lacey went to talk with Braddock. What did she say to him, and how... how did he treat her?"

Crowfoot shook his head. "I do not know any of these things. She kept me outside. I did not see what happened, but listened to people talking after the sheriff took her away."

"The
sheriff
? What..." Hawke couldn't fathom a scenario which would bring the law down on his wife, so he wisely shut his mouth and urged the boy to go on. "What happened, Crowfoot? Just say it plain and simple."

"The people say that the banker, Braddock, is dead." He averted his gaze, unable to look Hawke in the eye as he told him the rest. "They say that lady shot him."

Once he got past the mind-freezing shock of those words, other than disbelief, Hawke's first thoughts were of his own culpability—and not just over the fact that he'd run out on Lacey threatening to burn down not just
his
ranch, but her home. What had he gotten her into in his quest to hide the shame of a family who treated him as an inferior, a shame he now knew that he didn't even deserve? Hawke couldn't bear to think about what Lacey might have suffered at Braddock's hands, of what the vile animal must have done to drive her to shoot him. If he did, he knew he'd go crazy, and then he wouldn't be of any help to her at all.

His throat so tight he could barely speak, he asked, "You're sure that Braddock is dead?"

Lowering his gaze and his head, the boy nodded.

"Bloody hell." He drew in a painful breath, thinking not of his uncle, but of his wife. "How is Lacey doing? Did she ask for me?"

A tear rolled down Crowfoot's cheek, the first Hawke had ever seen on his sienna-colored skin. Then he raised his sad-eyed gaze and, voice cracking, said, "Lady not ask for Hawke. She not ask for anything." Then, as if he couldn't go on speaking, the boy placed his hands over his ears, then his mouth, and finally over his eyes.

His heart in the pit of his stomach, for he knew exactly the condition the boy was miming, Hawke found himself hoping that Crowfoot was right about the state of his uncle's health. If the son of a bitch wasn't already dead, he had an idea the man would be—and soon.