Wild Hawk

Other Books by Justine Davis

The Hawk Series

Wild Hawk

Heart of the Hawk

Fire Hawk

The Coalition Rebellion Novels

Book 1: Lord of the Storm

Book 2: Skypirate

Book 3: Rebel Prince

The Kingbird

(A Coalition Rebellion Short Story)

Wild Hawk

Book 1: The Hawk Series

by

Justine Davis

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-612-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-595-9

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 1996 by Janice Davis Smith writing as Justine Davis

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc. in 1996

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites
BelleBooks.com
BellBridgeBooks.com
ImaJinnBooks.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man (manipulated) © Captblack76 |
Dreamstime.com
Landscape (manipulated) © Leeloomultipass |
Dreamstime.com
Mountains (manipulated) © Celso Diniz |
Dreamstime.com
Book (manipulated) © Andrey Frolov |
Dreamstime.com

:Mhws:01:

Dedication

For the people whose encouragement kept this idea alive.

But most of all for Hal Ketchum,

whose words and music gave me the key. Again.

Thanks, Heck.

Chapter One

IT SNOWED IN Sunridge for the first time in twenty years the day they put the old man in the ground, and Jason West knew damned well the bastard had summoned it up himself.

He wondered what they would do, these people in their somber dark dresses and respectable suits and ties and coats, if he gave in to the urge to spit on the old man’s grave. They were already staring at his jeans and boots, noses up, as if only good manners prevented them from sniffing disdainfully.

Or maybe it was just him they were staring at; he knew from a youthful photograph he’d seen of Aaron Hawk in a business magazine— accompanying one of those stories in which the old man had boasted of the Hawks’ extraordinary history—that he bore a strong resemblance to the man who had fathered him. He’d resented it then, but he was enjoying it now. He liked knowing that everyone was wondering who he was, and that those who knew or guessed were wondering why he was here.

He lifted his head to look at them all, barely stifling a smile as he thought of their expressions if he were to follow through on the impulse to spit.

Or maybe not; there wasn’t a single one of them who looked like they were here because they wanted to be. They might have come, but it wasn’t to say a sorrowful good-bye. Good riddance, maybe. The smile threatened again. Then he wondered why he was bothering to restrain it, and let the smile loose. And savored the shocked looks he got.

Icy water from the rare snow, caught and melting in his hair, trickled down his neck. Yes, the old man had probably made a deal with the devil already, he thought as he tugged the collar of his dark, heavy coat up around his neck. But then, that shouldn’t surprise him; Hawks had been making deals with the devil for centuries. By all accounts the old man had been proud of it. If the stories were to be believed, they’d even sometimes beaten the devil at his own game. Jason had often suspected there were things in the Hawk history that were better left unexamined.

But no more. That history would come to an end. His plans were being buried along with that old man today, but he could still see to the end of it all. He’d made his own deal, not with the devil but with life—if there was any difference, Jason thought sourly—long ago. On the day he’d buried his far-too-young mother and sworn that someday his father would regret what he’d done.

But he’d left it too late. He’d been planning for that day of atonement for twenty years, and now it would never happen. He’d barely made it to the cemetery in time for the end of the funeral service. And the unexpected snowstorm that had hit the little town in the western foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. He wasn’t sure which was colder.

He watched as the old woman standing closest to the edge of the grave stepped forward. She wasn’t weeping. Her face was stiff beneath the wide brim of the black hat that accented the somber elegance of her dress. A dress that probably had cost enough money to feed a family for a month, he thought, recognizing a public declaration of wealth when he saw it.

And the lack of grief when he saw it. It didn’t surprise him; he doubted that Alice Hawk had a tear in her. She wore the expression of a woman who’d lost the capacity for any soft feeling long ago. The only thing that showed in her face was hatred. And she looked as if she’d be very, very good at it. Better, perhaps, than anyone, except maybe the man in that hole.

And, he thought with grim satisfaction, his son.

The thin, straight woman lifted a hand clad in a black glove. Jason’s eyes narrowed when he saw what she held: a single yellow rose. She tossed it into the open grave. He heard the faint sound as it hit the polished cherry-wood surface of the coffin. He looked at her face, in time to see the flash of rage that, for a brief moment, distorted her features.

And then he did the unforgivable.

Jason West laughed out loud.

Alice Hawk’s head whipped around. She stared at him. The hand that had tossed the rose came up in a sweeping movement, tearing off the hat as if the wide brim blocked her vision, or she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He saw heads turning, felt the puzzled looks, but he never took his eyes off the old woman’s face as she came toward him in a rigid-backed walk.

“You bastard,” she hissed.

“Exactly,” he agreed mildly. The epithet had lost its power over him years ago, when he’d come to terms with who—and what—he was.

“How dare you come here!”

He laughed again, finding her fury very satisfying. Her face reddened even more, and the hand that had held the rose came up as if to slap him.

“I wouldn’t,” he whispered, just loudly enough for her to hear and doing nothing to leash the menace in his low tone. “You just might wind up in that hole with him.”

She cursed, a low, graphic obscenity that seemed out of place with her elegant appearance, yet fit utterly with her obvious rage.

“Yellow roses were my mother’s favorite,” he said softly, again just loud enough for her to hear. “How many do you suppose he bought her in all those years?”

“You bastard,” she spat out again.

“I thought we’d covered that already. Surely you can come up with something better to call me. Son, perhaps?” he suggested in a tone that did little to conceal his laughter.

For an instant he wondered if he’d pushed too far, if his threatening words might come true. The woman’s face grew redder as he stared levelly back at her, and the not-too-upsetting thought of an impending heart attack or stroke crossed his mind. What irony, he thought, should Alice Hawk actually topple over into the yawning hole that held her bastard—in the finest figurative sense—of a husband.

“Alice, please. Calm down.”

The woman whirled on the source of the soft, quiet voice, none of her fury abated. The other woman—girl? Jason wondered, eyeing the slight figure he hadn’t noticed before—didn’t even flinch as Alice snarled at her.

“Calm down? Look at him! It’s obvious who he is. He dares to show up here, now, and you have the nerve to tell me to calm down?”

The shorter woman never moved, nor did she raise her low, pleasant voice. Impressed with anyone who could face down Alice Hawk so coolly, Jason looked at her with a bit more interest than before, trying to see past the shadowy black veil that hid her face. He really hadn’t seen her amid the small gathering, and wondered where she’d been; it wasn’t like him to overlook any details. Even small ones like this petite woman.

“It’s not worth making yourself ill,” she said.

“As if you care. You probably had something to do with this outrage.”

“Of course I care,” the woman said, ignoring the accusation. And it was a woman, Jason decided; that voice was too low and rich. And no mere girl would have the nerve to stand up to the old battle-ax like this.

“Then go get Carver to throw him out. I will not have him here!”

“Why don’t I just handle it?” the younger woman suggested coaxingly.

“I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work.” Jason wasn’t sure who the ominous words were directed at, himself or the woman who was handling the older woman’s venom so calmly. “Just get him out of here.”

Jason stood motionless as his father’s widow stalked away. Then, as the smaller woman turned and began to come toward him, he crossed his arms over his chest, tilted his head, and watched her approach with interest. She was even smaller than he’d thought; of course, at six-two, many women seemed small to him. And as he saw the way she moved, he wondered how he’d thought for even a moment that she was just a girl. No, this was definitely a woman. Definitely.

And you’ll find me a bit harder to face down than Alice Hawk, he promised her silently as she came to a halt before him. She pulled back the veil that had hidden her face, looked up at him with a pair of huge, sad gray eyes beneath a fringe of dark bangs. There was no mistaking the grief there. Here, then, was at least one person who genuinely mourned the passing of Aaron Hawk. That it would be this somewhat fragile-looking woman surprised him.

And then this woman he’d never seen before spoke, and proceeded to startle him into a moment of unconcealed surprised reaction.

“I’m sorry, Jason. She’s very upset. But I’m glad you’re here. I’m Kendall Chase. We’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

KENDALL WATCHED his eyes, in the way Aaron had taught her. Eyes that were so much like the old photos she’d seen of Aaron; eyes that gave the lie to anyone who would challenge this man’s parentage. Eyes that were like his father’s in another way as well; they held as much cold harshness as those of the man who had bequeathed them. Perhaps more.

But for a moment they had held surprise. At least she thought so; the impression had been so fleeting, she couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t think he wouldn’t be recognized, not when, except for the nose, which in Aaron’s face had been much more prominent than his son’s nicely chiseled feature, he was the living image of a young Aaron Hawk. So it must have been something else she’d said. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to know his name? Perhaps he hadn’t expected to be approached at all, not here, not now. Or perhaps, she thought, she was wrong and he hadn’t really been surprised at all.

“It is Jason, isn’t it?”

“And just how,” he said, his voice ominously tight, “do you know that?”

Kendall smothered a sigh. She’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but now, as she stood looking up at eyes that were also as brightly, piercingly blue as his father’s, as she stood looking up into a face that was set in lines of cold hatred, she began to see just how big a task Aaron had left her.

“I told you, we’ve been looking for you for a long time. Will you walk with me, please?” She gestured toward a narrow path that wound between the headstones and markers.

“So you can keep me from causing a scene on the old bastard’s final day?”

“Partly,” she admitted. “It won’t accomplish anything.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what I want to accomplish.” His voice was calm now, whatever other emotion she’d stirred vanished now behind that cool expression.

Kendall sighed aloud this time. “You’re very angry, aren’t you?”

“No.”

The denial was abrupt, and too sharp for Kendall to believe it was true. She studied his face for a moment. She’d developed a knack for interpreting expressions, but this man’s face was unreadable, as if he’d had as much practice as Aaron at hiding himself from others, despite the fact that he was so much younger.

She wondered what had happened to Jason in the almost thirty years since Aaron had lost track of his son. Whatever the course of his life had been, there had been some hard stretches, to put that kind of harshness in his eyes, Kendall thought. That kind of coldness wasn’t inherited; it was learned. In unpleasant ways.

After a moment she began to move away, in the direction she had indicated. Jason waited, watching, and when she looked back at him he stayed motionless, long enough for her to understand he was telling her she couldn’t assume he would do anything she asked.

“This isn’t some power play, Mr. Hawk,” she said, retreating into formality, hoping it would convince him even as she acknowledged the oddity of addressing anyone other than Aaron by that name. His reaction was immediate.

“My name isn’t Hawk. It’s West.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but there was no mistaking the biting undertone. West. So he had been using his mother’s name, Kendall thought. Aaron had said his son had carried the Hawk name, at least until they left Sunridge, and had even sadly admitted it had probably been an attempt to force him to acknowledge the boy. She wondered if changing it to West had been his own choice, or his mother’s. Knowing it for sure would have sped up the search, but they hadn’t known which name he’d be using now, and so had had to check both. But she didn’t comment, sensing he was in no mood to discuss his name. Or his father’s. She went on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“It’s a simple request. I’d rather not talk to you with an audience.”

He glanced at the several people who, although the service was over, had lingered, watching him. Some curiously, some with open shock on their faces. After a moment he followed her.

As if the interruption had never occurred, Kendall went on speaking in a speculative tone. “I think I understand. Admitting that you’re angry would give him far too much power over you, wouldn’t it?”

Aaron had always called the accuracy of her intuitive guesses uncanny; she’d always laughingly said she just put together clues that were there for anyone to see. But clearly she had startled Jason Hawk; this time he couldn’t hide his surprise before she was certain of it. Jason West, she corrected herself; she didn’t want to offend him before she had a chance to complete her task.

“That old man,” he said, his voice flat, “never had any power over me. None. Not when he was alive, and sure as hell not now.”

Kendall shook her head, but said merely, “Then why did you come?”

He gave her a level look that warned her she was about to hear a truth he thought she wouldn’t like.

“To spit on his grave.”

Yet again he looked surprised when she
wasn’t shocked. She simply nodded. “Aaron expected that. He’d be pleased to know he was right.”

This man who looked so much like the man they’d just buried stopped in his tracks. His dark brows had furrowed at her use of his father’s first name, but he only asked, “He’d be pleased that I came to spit on his grave?”

Kendall nodded, her mouth curving into a slight smile. “It means he mattered to you. One way or another.”

“He mattered, all right. I’ve hated him all my life.”

She was surprised he had admitted that, and he didn’t look very happy about having done it either, so Kendall was careful not to let her expression change. Nor did she point out that his words gave the lie to his claim that his father had held no power over him.