Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) Read online

  Carrie also grinned. ‘‘You have a deal!'' Just then she caught sight of Hawk and Kyle as they rode away, heading to the north. Her face darkened.

  Frank watched her reaction. It was not the first time that he had noticed her flush of anger and something else indefinable when she looked at Hawk Sinclair. He was afraid to speculate about what her feelings were, but felt she needed guidance.

  While he saddled up, they talked. She questioned him about the railroad. “Why is Hawk against the railroad? Surely it means more schools and business, a better life for everyone here. More food and medicine can be shipped to the reservations for his own people if the rails are nearby.”

  Frank shook his head sadly. “Wish thet was th' case, honey, but it purely ain't. Ya see, them crooked Injun agents mostly skim off th' supplies an’ sell 'em ta who-ever's got th' cash ta buy ‘em. That is,` whut little th' bigger crooks in Washington don't already pocket afore th' railroad even ships it west. Naw, rails only mean th' Injuns real source o' food gits drove off. More rails means more cattle, more sodbusters, jist more white folks. All thet means less buffalo, deer, elk. All biles down ta starvin' Cheyenne, Sioux, Araps, all th' rest. Damn shame!”

  Gravely Carrie considered his words. “I see. You really sympathize with the plight of the Indian, don't you, Frank?”

  “Anyone with a lick o' human feelin's ought ta. ‘Course, they's two sides ta ever’ story. Sioux's still warrin' on ranchers, 'n' Crow'll steal ya blind 'n' run back ta their reservation. Reds's like whites, I reckon. Some's good, some's bad,” he concluded.

  “Noah seems to hate all Indians now. I never understood. After all, he married a Cheyenne woman. Now he hates his own son.” As she spoke, Carrie watched Frank's face darken.

  “Noah's a fool! He had him a good, lovin' wife and th' finest son any man could want. Trouble goes back ta Able, I reckon.”

  “Able,” Carrie echoed in bafflement. “Noah's dead brother?”

  “Kilt by Crow when Hawk wuz jist a tyke,” Frank put in. “After thet, wal, it seemed like everythin' went sour fer Noah. He blamed all Injuns, not jist th' Crow, but even Laughin' Woman's people—his own wife and son! ‘Course, by then, more white folk's movin' in, too. All respectable like, with their uppity white wives an’ daughters. Seems like ole Noah reconsidered. Even though she loved him more'n life, he was ashamed o' her, damn him!” The fierce blaze of anger in his eyes masked a more tender emotion.

  Carrie said gently, “You loved her, didn't you, Frank? That's why you stayed with Noah all these years. To watch over her son and his birthright.”

  Frank's eyes were suspiciously shiny as he looked at Carrie. “Reckon I did and reckon I do kinda care fer thet young hellion o' hers. But Noah never figgered ta leave Circle S ta her son. Hawk knowed it 'n' so do.I.”

  Hesitantly Carrie spoke up. “Frank, I hope you don't blame me. If I—if Noah and I...” She stammered to a blushing halt.

  Frank looked at her with a kindly, sad smile, soothing her embarrassment. ”If’n ya have another Sinclair son fer Noah, he'll get Circle S, yep. But I don't fïgger ya wanted it thet way an’ even if'n ya wasn't here, someone else would o' been. After he got shut o' thet tramp Lola he might o' done a heap worse'n yew, ma'am.”

  Carrie was touched by his perception and consideration. She also wanted to understand about Lola Jameson Sinclair. “Everyone seems to have disliked the second Mrs. Sinclair. Why, Frank?”

  He considered how to explain it delicately to this young girl who, unlike her predecessor, was so obviously a lady. “Ma'am, Lola was everthin' Noah thought he wanted after Laughin' Woman died. She wuz from a high-society family back east in Chicago. Dressed real fancy an’ talked even fancier. Looks that'd knock a man off'n his horse—yeller har 'n' blue eyes. Yep, I reckon he took one look at Lola Jameson an’ thought he had jist th' ticket.”

  He paused grimly. “Wal, he wuz purely wrong. She wuz as wicked on th' inside as she wuz purty on th' outside. First thing she wanted wuz fer thet dirty Injun kid ta be sent away—back ta his ma's folks 'er east ta school. Didn't make no niver mind ta her—jist so's he wuz gone. Noah obliged her. Sent Hawk off when he wuz only a tad, nine er ten's all. But she never had any youngun's o' her own. Feliz said she had ways not ta, if'n ya take my meanin, ma'am.” Frank colored at this and coughed. When Carrie nodded in vague understanding, he continued. “She wanted Noah's money right 'nough, but she didn't want ta live in ‘this godforsaken wilderness’—whut she called Circle S country. Even Miles City wuz jist a dirty ole cow town ta her. She spent money liké water runnin' over th' Tongue River Falls in a spring thaw.”

  “I knew she decorated the house. It's exquisitely beautiful but very costly, too.” Carrie recalled Hawk's mention of Lola's taste.

  Frank made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Hell, he built th' house fer her! Like one o' them fancy places back east. Afore thet, Noah and Laughin' Woman lived in a purty lil' place, over west aways. Her things'er still there....”

  “I thought the big house was built in 1862. That was before Marah died,” Carrie said in puzzlement.

  Frank nodded. “Yep, he built it, but it wuz ta be fer a white wife, even if’n he hadn't picked her out yet. Laughin' Woman never lived in it. Thet ain't even th' worst o' it. I figger if n yore gonna hear this, ya might's well hear it all. Sooner 'er later, things kinda got them a way o' comin' up anyhow.”

  “Go on, Frank,” Carrie said, almost afraid to hear the rest.

  “Seems like after a bunch o’ years back 'n' forth, in an’ outta a passel o' eastern schools, Hawk growed up. At seventeen he wuz as tall as he is now; fine-lookin' young feller. Lola thought so, too. Oh, she'd eyed up all th' good-lookin' young studs ‘round hereabouts, an’ more then jist looked at ‘em, yew kin betcha. Noah niver caught` on, cuz he wuz always busy gettin' richer, leavin' her alone.

  “One night Hawk come ta me all shook up—Injun mad, I always called it. She'd tried ta lure 'em ta her bed whilst Noah wuz in Miles City overnight. Th' dirty Injun kid wuz real appealin' ta her all o' a sudden. Now, Hawk wuz young, but he warn't dumb. He wanted nothin' ta do with thet schemin' female, her near old 'nough ta be his ma. He lit out fer th' Nations thet night.”

  “Why didn't he tell his father what she'd done?” Carrie was revolted by the whole sordid mess, for more reasons than she cared to think about.

  Frank looked at her levelly. “Do ya think Noah'd a believed him?”

  She shook her head. “No, I guess not.”

  “A couple o' years went by. By then, Noah'd took Lola's measure 'n' wanted shut o' her. Then Hawk turned up agin. Kyle brung him, more dead 'n' alive. First Lola wuz madder'na biled owl fer him being laid up, clutterin' up her fancy house—till he got well enough fer her ta git interested. Thet time Noah seen whut wuz happenin'. Hawk wuz all fer light'n' out soon's he cud sit a horse, but I talked some sense inta thet stubborn Injun skull. Got him ta go east fer a spell ta one o' them fancy colleges. After thet, wal, ya know th' rest.”

  “Finally last year Noah got the territorial legislature to give him his divorce and free him from Lola.” Carrie finished the sorry tale, adding to herself, Just in time to come to St. Louis and entrap me.

  “I jist wanted ya ta understand ‘bout Hawk 'n' Lola. It warn't his fault, ma'am. He wuz only a boy.”

  Carrie thought grimly to herself, He was a boy then, but he's a man now. She did not want to consider what that made her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carrie came in early from her daily outing. Since Noah did not usually return from the range until evenings, the midday meal for the household was informal. Sometimes Carrie had a tray sent to her room, but often, like today, she dropped in Feliz's kitchen to share a light luncheon with her friend.

  “Buenas tardes, Carrie.” Feliz's round face split into a broad smile. “I have some cold fried chicken and bread fresh from the oven for you. Did you have a good ride?”

  Carrie returned the smile. ‘‘Yes. The day is so lovely, not so hot as it has
been. Here, I'll get the chicken. You slice the bread. Have you taken time to eat yet?” Knowing full well the tireless cook seldom took a break since she spent the day feeding each passerby in the kitchen, Carrie admonished her, “You've done enough for two days in one morning. Sit.”

  The mock fierce command worked. Sighing resignedly at her young friend's concern, Feliz pulled a rough wood bench up to the table and they both sat down to devour the golden chicken, fresh fruit, and crisp hot bread smothered in butter.

  As they laughed and chatted, a sudden crash sounded from the dining room. Then the shrill voice of Mathilda Thorndyke echoed through the long halls of the ranch house, followed by a girl's muffled sobs.

  Feliz's face turned from laughing to somber at once. She knew it must be her daughter Estrella, who was the present victim of Mrs. Thorndyke's venom. The chief housekeeper was exacting in her demands on the domestic staff to the point of being a petty tyrant. All the maids and even the men who did heavy chores around the house lived in terror of her lashing tongue.

  Mrs. Thorndyke and Carrie had coexisted for the past months with a hostile truce of sorts. Carrie consoled herself for her lack of assertiveness; since even the formidable Lola Jameson had left Mrs. Thorndyke alone! However, when Estrella burst into the kitchen, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, and flung herself into her mother's arms, Carrie's temper rose. Feliz crooned consolations to the girl, who Carrie knew was bright and industrious.

  When the younger woman had calmed down, Carrie asked her, “Estrella, what happened? It's all right to tell me.”

  Carrie's warm smile and Feliz's urging brought a hiccuped response. “Oh, Mrs. Sinclair, I was dusting one of the big crystal candlesticks when she came up behind me. I—I didn't see her enter the room. She frightened me, suddenly scolding me for not working faster. As I turned around, it slipped from my hands and broke. I'm so sorry....” She hung her head in misery. It would take months of wages to replace it, she knew. Mrs. Thorndyke had already told her so.

  A slow, simmering anger began to build in Carrie, directed partly at Mrs. Thorndyke, partly at Noah Sinclair, partly at her whole imprisoned, frustrated life. “So she told you you'd have to pay for it, did she?” At the girl's abjectly humiliated nod, Carrie swished from the room, saying, “We'll see about that!”

  This had been coming to a head for weeks, perhaps ever since she arrived at Circle S and found herself not mistress of the household, but merely an ornament and brood mare. Every time Carrie asked for his help, Noah took Mrs. Thorndyke's part. The hateful woman treated not only the owner's wife but all the staff like so much dirt beneath her feet. Knowing Noah would not back her, Carrie made some quick calculations as she marched down the hall to confront the old dragon. She must strike now while her furious anger gave her the courage.

  Rounding the corner to the parlor, she found her quarry running her long bony fingers across the back of the bar to check for dust. “I must have a word with you, Mathilda.” There. She had almost said “Mrs. Thorndyke,” but decided to put the old hag in her place at the onset.

  The woman's gray eyes narrowed in recognition of the upcoming fray. “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair?” She stressed the “Mrs.” contemptuously.

  “I understand you told Estrella that she must pay for that broken crystal candleholder. Considering it was your fault that it was broken, I see no reason for the girl to have to do so. I shall not ask you to pay for it either. However, in the future, if you would not spy on the servants and would treat them with a bit more kindness, they might respond better.” Carrie had no illusions about Mrs. Thomdyke ever being kind to anyone, but she might be less abusive.

  The older woman's whole face at first whitened in shock, then froze into harsh lines of livid rage as she listened to the chit of a girl address her·in such a presumptuous fashion. “I have handled the menials in this household for sixteen years without help from you. Mr. Noah has always found my work more than satisfactory. You'd do very well to leave me be and go back to riding in your mannish pants.” Knowing how Noah and Carrie had argued over her riding astride, Mrs. Thorndyke could not resist jibing at her. That would show the little baggage that she knew how poorly her husband regarded her.

  Carrie took a deep breath and smiled blindingly, covering her fury with icy-sweet politeness. “How astute of someone with your parochial background to realize that Noah and I are in disagreement over so many issues. However, you have to remember when everything is said and done, Mathilda, I am still his wife and you are still his servant. I'm ordering you not to dock Estrella for that candlestick. I'm also warning you that you'd better watch your step. I won't have you abusing the people who work here anymore. If one more complaint about your vicious tongue or your spying comes to me, I'll fire you.”

  Mrs. Thorndyke stiffened her back, trying in vain to become taller. Carrie had a good two inches on her. Glaring up into those glacial green eyes, she hissed, “You just try it, missey, you just try it! Mr. Noah'll never let you get away with it.”

  Again Carrie smiled, easing over to the bar where several pieces of sterling flatware lay. She picked up a heavy, long-handled spoon and hefted it measuringly in her hand. “My husband has always been very generous to me. I have a beautiful home, furs, gowns, jewels, any pretty bauble I want. If some valuable items from the household turned up missing, he'd never blame me. I have no earthly reason to steal.” Now Carrie's facial expression changed from an insipid smile to a no-nonsense glare. “But you, my dear Mathilda, are not so well taken care of. What if you were trying to, er, put aside a bit for your retirement? And what if I went to Noah and told him I caught you filching the seldom-used pieces of the sterling set? I could even hide some of them in your room. You can't guard it every minute, can you?”

  Mrs. Thorndyke's face was chalky-white now. In complete shock, she found all her rage fled, replaced by amazed fear. This little nobody might actually cause her to lose her job! Who would ever have dreamed she could be so clever or so ruthless?

  Carrie could not believe her own actions. However, seeing the effect her desperate little ploy had on the old harridan, she felt a small surge of exhilaration. “I think we understand one another from here on. You do your job without browbeating the staff and I'll leave you alone. Agreed?”

  When Mrs. Thorndyke nodded in waxen-faced resignation, Carrie turned and stalked from the room. Score: the witch zero, the redhead ten.

  * * * *

  Carrie had a dress fitting with the seamstress in Miles City, which called for an overnight trip into town. Noah had informed her several weeks previously of an elaborate dinner dance on the first of September. She had ordered a gown appropriate to her station as the wife of a cattle baron. This was no ordinary party, but a gala political affair, with the territorial governor, several railroad magnates from Chicago, and other dignitaries. Carrie had been instructed to spare no expense.

  As she prepared for the trip to town, Carrie thought ruefully of how she derived so little pleasure from all her sumptuously elegant clothing. When she had been a young girl at the Patterson’s, she was constantly envious of her cousin Charity's endless array of lovely gowns.

  What do clothes matter when your life's in shambles? she mused, steeling herself for the ride to Miles City that morning. Frank was escorting her since Noah was away on a trip to Wyoming Territory. Her husband's absence sat well with her, but Hawk's offhand announcement yesterday did not. He would be joining them on their trip to town. He had some unspecified business to take care of. Probably at the local bordello, she sniffed testily to herself as she smoothed and checked her silk shirt and full riding pants for the hundredth time.

  Her image in the mirror was continuously a surprise. The face staring back at her still had huge dark green eyes framed by flaming hair, but the once porcelain-pale skin was now a dark golden tan, generously dusted with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones. Her hair, lightened from her frequent rides in the hot Montana sun, was tied back with a brown ribbon an
d fell carelessly to her waist in a riot of curls. Her figure, too, seemed to have bloomed under the big Montana sky. Her muscles were firm and supple from hours a day spent riding, working in the gardens, and helping in the kitchen. The active outdoor life seemed to agree with her.

  Yet appearances were deceiving. In her yellow silk blouse and brown linen skirts, she looked a competent western woman, confident and serene. Who could sense the inner turmoil and desperate unhappiness that plagued her life? Forcing such thoughts aside, she scooped up a flat-crowned brown hat and walked downstairs.

  As soon as she led Taffy Girl outside the stable she saw Hawk. As if sensing her presence, he turned from conversation with Frank. The blinding white slash of his smile made his face even more startlingly handsome.

  “Morning, Carrie. Sleep well last night?”

  She nodded, angry that his comment subtly hinted at Noah's absence from the ranch. He seemed to sense how she shrank from her husband's touch and knew she had not reacted that way to him.

  She ignored Hawk and began to mount. Before she could swing into the saddle, he was there, his hands on her waist, lifting her up, his breath warm on her neck as he murmured low, “All butter 'n' honey again, I see. Yellow looks even better on you now with your skin kissed by the sun.”

  Without acknowledging his compliment, she kneed Taffy and took off, not waiting for him or Frank. They would quickly catch up to her.

  His eyes never leaving the woman riding ahead of him, Hawk ambled over to Redskin and swung up. He could still see the open throat of her shirt, revealing the swell of golden breasts, the silk molding to her slim frame. He had fought down an insane urge to grab fistfuls of that flaming hair and press it to his face and lips, like capturing the sun. He snorted in self-derision. “Likely to get burned that way, half-breed.” He recalled her scathing epithets at the lake two weeks ago.