turned back.
He collapsed. He had lost more blood than he had imagined.
When he awoke, he was in his father's house. David had sat by his bed, nursing
him, demanding to know, "My son, you have experienced the grief of a
father for his child. How could you wish that pain upon me?"
David had been right. Hawk had healed, a wiser, graver man.
He spent long hours with his father, learning to deal with the grief for his
own wife and son. Time passed, never erasing Hawk's loss but easing his pain.
Gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and one of David Douglas's expeditions
claimed one of the most productive veins.
More settlers—miners, sutlers, shopkeepers, wives, dance-hall
girls, and the assorted children of one and all— began to move into what had
been Sioux country.
When the seriousness of the situation escalated, Hawk found
himself in an extremely troubling position. Boyhood friends were among the most
violent of the hostiles, men he knew well. As a boy, he had ridden with Crazy
Horse, who was near his own age. He had listened to the wisdom of Sitting Bull,
who was considered not just a great war chief but a very great holy man as
well.
He knew them; he understood them.
Such had been the situation when his father had gone east.
David had not yet come home. His body was due soon. In fact,
Hawk had gone to Riley's Trading Station early that afternoon with three of his
Lakota cousins to find out when his father's body would be arriving for burial.
And that was when he had first seen her. The stagecoach
should have been long gone with the first of morning's light, but a broken wheel
had waylaid it.
He'd seen a vision of golden beauty and radiant youth
bedecked in black and heard her claiming his inheritance.
She'd spent the night at the station, and she'd come
downstairs into the kitchen when he'd been sitting at a back table with his
cousins, talking with Riley about the army movements and the danger to hostiles
that was forthcoming. He'd seen the coachman, Sam Haggerty, come in; heard him
addressing her as Lady Douglas. Then she'd asked him how long it was going to
take to reach Mayfair—the Douglas home in a valley off the Black Hills. And
she'd very sweetly told him that she meant to keep the mine working, to live in
the estate, to make it a home. And no, she wasn't afraid of Indians. Lord
Douglas had told her that she wouldn't need to be afraid.
When old Riley himself would have stood and told her that
she'd best be looking out for Lord Douglas, Hawk had dragged him down and
hushed him.
One look at her, and he'd been determined to find out for
himself just what trick she thought she played to call herself Lady Douglas.
And just what games she might have played upon his father. By
God, she was young: a third his father's age if that! He tried to tell himself
that David Douglas had been no man's fool. Yet it plagued and goaded him that
the elegantly beautiful young blond woman might have seduced David into
marriage and then ...
Killed him.
Not with a gun or a knife but with those heavily lashed
silver eyes. That perfect oval face, ruby lips, breathy laugh. Flashing smile.
Perfectly rounded breasts. Supple, graceful, seductive movements.
She might well have caused him to have a heart attack. God
knew, the mere sight of her could cause a heart to beat way too hard, cause a
man's breath to catch, the whole of him to harden like quickening steel off a
blacksmith's fire.
If she'd been about to claim to be his stepmother, he was
damned determined she'd have other thoughts. And if she had somehow hastened
David to his death, then ...
God help her. She had to be either an impostor—or a murderess!
It had been easy enough for him and his cousins to slip away,
bribe old Sam, change to breechclouts and leggings, paint their bodies and
their ponies—and go after her.
What better way to challenge a white woman on the frontier
than stage an Indian attack?
He'd even bribed old Sam Haggerty, the stagecoach driver,
He collapsed. He had lost more blood than he had imagined.
When he awoke, he was in his father's house. David had sat by his bed, nursing
him, demanding to know, "My son, you have experienced the grief of a
father for his child. How could you wish that pain upon me?"
David had been right. Hawk had healed, a wiser, graver man.
He spent long hours with his father, learning to deal with the grief for his
own wife and son. Time passed, never erasing Hawk's loss but easing his pain.
Gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and one of David Douglas's expeditions
claimed one of the most productive veins.
More settlers—miners, sutlers, shopkeepers, wives, dance-hall
girls, and the assorted children of one and all— began to move into what had
been Sioux country.
When the seriousness of the situation escalated, Hawk found
himself in an extremely troubling position. Boyhood friends were among the most
violent of the hostiles, men he knew well. As a boy, he had ridden with Crazy
Horse, who was near his own age. He had listened to the wisdom of Sitting Bull,
who was considered not just a great war chief but a very great holy man as
well.
He knew them; he understood them.
Such had been the situation when his father had gone east.
David had not yet come home. His body was due soon. In fact,
Hawk had gone to Riley's Trading Station early that afternoon with three of his
Lakota cousins to find out when his father's body would be arriving for burial.
And that was when he had first seen her. The stagecoach
should have been long gone with the first of morning's light, but a broken wheel
had waylaid it.
He'd seen a vision of golden beauty and radiant youth
bedecked in black and heard her claiming his inheritance.
She'd spent the night at the station, and she'd come
downstairs into the kitchen when he'd been sitting at a back table with his
cousins, talking with Riley about the army movements and the danger to hostiles
that was forthcoming. He'd seen the coachman, Sam Haggerty, come in; heard him
addressing her as Lady Douglas. Then she'd asked him how long it was going to
take to reach Mayfair—the Douglas home in a valley off the Black Hills. And
she'd very sweetly told him that she meant to keep the mine working, to live in
the estate, to make it a home. And no, she wasn't afraid of Indians. Lord
Douglas had told her that she wouldn't need to be afraid.
When old Riley himself would have stood and told her that
she'd best be looking out for Lord Douglas, Hawk had dragged him down and
hushed him.
One look at her, and he'd been determined to find out for
himself just what trick she thought she played to call herself Lady Douglas.
And just what games she might have played upon his father. By
God, she was young: a third his father's age if that! He tried to tell himself
that David Douglas had been no man's fool. Yet it plagued and goaded him that
the elegantly beautiful young blond woman might have seduced David into
marriage and then ...
Killed him.
Not with a gun or a knife but with those heavily lashed
silver eyes. That perfect oval face, ruby lips, breathy laugh. Flashing smile.
Perfectly rounded breasts. Supple, graceful, seductive movements.
She might well have caused him to have a heart attack. God
knew, the mere sight of her could cause a heart to beat way too hard, cause a
man's breath to catch, the whole of him to harden like quickening steel off a
blacksmith's fire.
If she'd been about to claim to be his stepmother, he was
damned determined she'd have other thoughts. And if she had somehow hastened
David to his death, then ...
God help her. She had to be either an impostor—or a murderess!
It had been easy enough for him and his cousins to slip away,
bribe old Sam, change to breechclouts and leggings, paint their bodies and
their ponies—and go after her.
What better way to challenge a white woman on the frontier
than stage an Indian attack?
He'd even bribed old Sam Haggerty, the stagecoach driver,
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