Lone Star Loving

wing

Chapter One

Charity McLoughlin was, as usual, in a mess of her own making.

Unloved by her family, disowned by them, she had no choice but to turn to a female acquaintance for help. Not a penny lined her brocade clutch as she hurried through the crowded, torch-lit streets of Laredo, a town lying along the Rio Grande, a town more Mexican than Texan. Nothing–and certainly not lack of funds–would stop her from fleeing this place. Nothing.

Chances were, Maria Sara Montana could be of assistance in helping Charity escape from so much as a smell that would remind her of south Texas and its riotous neighbor across the border. More important, the mexicana might help her avoid having to face her crime of the previous month.

But where was her friend? On this, the evening of the sixteenth of September, 1889, Charity had looked everywhere, including the main plaza, from where speeches droned on lauding Mexican independence, mingling with mariachi music.

A voice from the past echoed in her mind: Stay put, and the world will find ye. Charity chose to disregard that bit of great-grandmotherly advice. If she stayed put, the world might indeed find her–the world being the long arms of the law!

Best to keep searching for Maria Sara.

Clothed in a simple calico dress, Charity sidestepped a pushcart piled high with tequila bottles, and made her way to the center of town again. All at once, firecrackers popped and a covey of pigeons flew from the belfry of St. Augustine Church. Roman candles went airborne to dazzle the night with red, white, and spring green.

This was no night for Charity to appreciate such a display; the fireworks jarred her already frayed nerves. She nearly stumbled at the spectacle.

Just then, a trio of brown-skinned drunks shoved into her path, and in his zeal the heftiest one shouted, Viva México! His elbow slammed into her ribs, shoving her into a table that collapsed with a thud, echoing her prospects for a bright future.

She landed on the broken table, its pile of round tortillas plopping atop her bosom and trailing down on to her skirts. Great, just great, she thought. As the trio continued on their merry way without so much as a backward glance, Charity muttered snidely, Stand back, ladies, and let the gentlemen pass by.

The tortilla vendor, a toothless woman dressed in rags, fired off a round of protests over her destroyed property. Charity, under her breath, spat a swear word of the caliber that would have sent her mother rushing for the nearest cake of lye soap, had she been on the premises of her parents’ ranch in central Texas.

What else could go wrong?

From behind a strand of waist-length dark hair that had fallen to block the view of one eye, Charity spied a tall man approach the vendor and hand over a small stack of bills.

This should take care of the damages, he said, the deep tone of his voice gripping Charity’s attention. Now, why don’t you go and enjoy the fiesta, ma’am?

Ah, yes. I will drink to good fortune, the peasant said, smacking her crinkled lips and stabbing the bills into her skirt pocket. She grabbed the walking stick that rested against the nearby adobe building and hobbled off in the direction of the plaza.

Thank you, Charity said to the stranger as she brushed the wayward hair from her face, trying to get a good look at her benefactor. Who was he? Why had he spent money on her behalf? Good Samaritans didn’t appear in the night. Had the world found her? Surely not! But she warned herself not to be too trusting.

He extended a large hand that Charity ignored. Are you hurt? he asked.

It was then that she noticed two things. The street was practically deserted, the revelers no doubt gathered to hear the garrulous speeches. And clouds had passed over the full moon, allowing Charity to make the following observation about her rescuer: the man was big.

Even taller than her kinsmen. Probably no more than thirty–though it was hard to tell since a Stetson shadowed his features. He wore a fringed jacket that accentuated expansive shoulders. She lowered her gaze to buckskin britches that hugged narrow hips and cupped a formidable region no decent woman–not even a godforsaken one, for that matter!–ought to notice.

And there was something about him, something that bespoke authority. Heavens, what if he’s a Texas Ranger out to arrest me? she worried. Don’t be ridiculous. Ian Blyer had threatened to go to the authorities, but he did grant a few days’ grace.

She must not assume this kind stranger posed any threat.

I asked if you’re hurt. The stranger thumbed the brim of his Stetson, raising it a fraction of an inch up his forehead. Are you?

She couldn’t help but chuckle nervously. It hurt to be sprawled on the ground so absurdly. Then again, she had mastered the art of presenting herself in a bad light.

After slapping a tortilla off her bodice and dislodging a piece of broken table from her behind, she raised up on an elbow. I find it amazing that people always ask if someone is hurt at a time like this, she said. If nothing else, we’re talking bruised pride here.

Excuse me for asking.

Why did you . . . ? she began, then stopped to rearrange her skirt, since what was probably a lecherous ogle seemed welded to an unladylike display of legs that, in the silvery moonlight, appeared even whiter than usual. Why did you give that woman money to leave me alone?

You were in trouble. I saw fit to help. He bent to crouch back on his booted heels, one forearm resting on his thigh. Anything wrong with that?

Suspicions spurred higher, she asked, Who are you?

Hawk.

Hawk. Are you as magnificent as your namesake? It was difficult to tell. Yet from the formidable proportions apparent even in the dark, she sensed the name fit the man.

Unlike how the name Charity fit her. How many times had Papa chided her for not living up to it? Not to mention her esteemed family name?

Trying to scan Hawk’s shadowed features, she said, I don’t know you.

You do now.

"But you didn’t know me."

Wrong. You’re Charity McLoughlin of Fredericksburg. Daughter of United States Senator Gil McLoughlin, who happens to be one of the most successful cattlemen in Texas. And you’re in–in one smooth move Hawk stood to tower above her—You’re in a lot of trouble, lady.

He had to be a Ranger! How could she escape–quickly? He looked as if he could run up Mount Olympus without losing his breath, and muscles she never knew existed were throbbing as a result of her fall. Somehow, she had to outwit him.

Recovering the empty clutch that had fallen amid the scattered tortillas, Charity began an ungraceful climb to her feet. The man still towered above her, for his height topped her five-eight by seven or eight inches.

Thank you, Mister Hawk, for helping me, she said, her eyes level with the lower part of his throat. But I cannot repay you, not at the moment. You see, my purse was stolen just this morning, and I find myself financially compromised.

What a lie. On the purse score, anyway. At the moment, though, she would have sold out the other two of her triplet sisters in order to keep her freedom. Desperation had a way of doing that to a person.

Stolen purse, you say? His tone of voice and stance expressed skepticism. What’s that in your hand?

I own more than one handbag. And believe me, this one is empty. Unless you want to count one shredded handkerchief. Don’t worry. I’ll make restitution as soon as possible.

Money isn’t what I’m after.

In her estimation, her hide and getting it behind bars figured prominently in his desires. Think again, Mister. Never would she prove a sitting duck for some bird-of-prey Texas Ranger.

Unwilling to go on conjecture alone, though, she inquired, You’re a lawman, aren’t you?

The law is my profession.

A good enough answer. He had to be a member of the state police force. Hearing a disturbance down the street, Charity got an idea. Taking a step around Hawk, she craned her neck toward the street corner. Three drunks passed by, waving bottles and singing off-key. They were the same louts who had knocked her to the ground.

There he is! She jabbed a finger in the air. That’s the one! That’s the one who stole my purse! The fat one! Hands waving frantically now, she implored the Ranger to act. Help me, Mister Hawk! That man must be arrested!

Thank God this one was gullible. The moment Hawk wheeled to rush the drunk, Charity disregarded the protest of her abused body. She whirled around, grabbed a broken leg from the table, swung it with all her might, and hit the Ranger on the side of his head.

Stetson flying and releasing straight long raven-black hair he fell with a thud, facedown on the cobbled street. Facedown and lifeless.

Charity’s conscience reared as her eyes widened on the inert form. Her heart jumped into her throat. Oh, Lord, I’ve killed you! I’m sorry, Mister Hawk! So sorry.

Now the authorities would add murder to her inadvertent crime of acting as go-between for the ring that had smuggled Texas silver into Mexico.

Now she’d murdered someone’s son. Perhaps someone’s husband. Couldn’t she do anything right? Why couldn’t she have just stunned him?

Emitting a groan, the Ranger moved his hand.

Charity breathed a sigh of relief at that sign of life, then took flight. In the interest of time, she had to abandon any thought of finding Maria Sara.

Moments later, Charity had returned to the squalid lodging she’d rented the previous May and was throwing a change of clothes into her valise. She had to get out of town, even if that meant walking. Which appeared to be her sole option.

To a master horsewoman, walking was an indignity. But when she had parted ways with her family, her papa hadn’t allowed her prized and adored Andalusian mare to accompany the mad exodus. Now isn’t the time for caterwauling about Papa or Thunder Cloud! she thought.

A soft knock brought her out of her dark reflections.

Charity? a female voice called through the open doorway. What’s going on? What is wrong?

She turned to face the exotically beautiful Maria Sara Montana. Everything. But I’ve no time to talk.

The blonde of twenty-two–petite, serene, ladylike, all the things Charity was not–stared at the open valise and rushed into the room. Where are you going?

Away. Far away. I don’t know where, but I’ve got to hurry. Charity fastened the valise. Ian caught me burying the smuggling loot. When asked what he’d done with the money, she replied, He handed it over to the Rangers. Said he’d found it.

Madre de Dios!

He says if I don’t marry him, he’ll change his story and turn me in to the law.

Maria Sara eyed the tiny room and its layers of expensive dresses, bustles, and finery, bought when Charity had been an accepted member of the wealthy McLoughlin clan. Clothing that Charity had been unable to sell, even at a fraction of their value, thanks to Blyer intervention.

Eyes as blue as Charity’s and filled with sympathy settled on the busy form. How will you leave? The train won’t depart until tomorrow. You cannot rush off into the dark of night.

Dark of night. The very words frightened her, but she had no choice. I must. I whacked a Texas Ranger with a table leg.

Then, the police have found out about–?

I’ve no time for explanations. Hawk knows who I am, and he’ll be here to arrest me. I know he will. As soon as he gets his wits about him.

Shaking her head of upswept hair, Maria Sara sat down on the bed. "Pobrecita, trouble does seem to find you. She lifted a finger to her throat thoughtfully. Don’t you think the best course would be to find yourself an attorney?"

I’ve thought of that a thousand times since I discovered what I’d done for the Gonzáles gang.

What a fool she’d been, getting duped into their scheme. Adriano Gonzáles led her to believe he offered employment, a decent way to earn a living. And she’d needed a job, since Ian Blyer and his influential father had warned respectable firms and citizens against hiring her. Even work as a washerwoman had been denied her.

Charity, what about my idea? What about a lawyer?

Yes, I need one. But how would I pay?

You could ask your mother. Or your great-grandmother.

Pain, icy and sharp, lodged in Charity’s veins. My mother stands by whatever my father says, and Maiz... She swallowed. Neither one has done so much as drop me a postcard.

What about your brother?

Angus? He’s but a child. Thirteen.

You have two sisters.

Charity glanced at the clock that sat on the battered bureau. Fifteen long minutes had passed since she had left the Ranger on the street. She set the valise on the floor. Maria Sara, I’ve got to go.

How can I help?

Charity hesitated. The young mexicana’s financial situation wasn’t much better than hers, given that she had a young son to support on a meager salary. As friends, though, each had always helped the other.

Charity’s problems–at least those associated with south Texas—had started the previous May, when she’d arrived in Laredo to marry the son of a local Anglo politician. After Ian Blyer proved to be a scoundrel interested only in getting his mitts on McLoughlin money, Maria Sara Montana had flown to her aid with an offer of friendship.

Leaning toward her, Maria Sara repeated her question.

If you have any money, would you loan me some? Charity asked.

Of course, the brothel singer replied. And, for once, I do have some cash. The patrons were generous with their tips last night.

There was an odd lilt to that dulcet voice. Charity reasoned it stemmed from wounded pride. A couple of years ago, the proud mexicana was turned off the family estate after admitting she carried a bastard. Finances had forced her to accept a job in a house of ill repute. Finances and some crumb of a father, who’d abandoned his child and his obligations.

The singer emptied her purse and extended a wad of bills. Take it.

As Charity placed a kiss of gratitude on her friend’s smooth cheek, she had a fleeting thought of how much she missed her sisters, even though as children the three had been at odds more than not. Sisters were like that, Charity supposed. At least my sisters love me. They’re the only ones in the family who feel that way.

It had been too long since she’d seen Olga and Margaret. Both were far away, each living respectable lives, neither aware of Charity’s break with their parents and great-grandmother, unless one of the elder McLoughlins had informed the better two of the triplets. A likely situation. Charity had been too ashamed to tell them anything herself.

But if Margaret or Olga knew–

"I will miss you, amiga," Maria Sara whispered, patting Charity’s arm. May God go with you.

Thank you. She turned to leave. I’ll miss you, too.

Charity . . . before you go. What about Ian?

Let him eat cake.

Don’t take him lightly. Ian will be furious when he finds you’ve left here. Two ticks of the clock. He’s ruthless when crossed.

Not replying, Charity rushed from the room and started down the stairs leading to a darkened back street of Laredo. Her foot had no more than touched the ground before a big hand grabbed her forearm. In the wink of an eye, she was forced to drop her valise, her arms were brought together in front of her, and a set of iron manacles–even more insistent than a predator’s talons–was clamped on her wrists.

Hawk had captured her.

Chapter Two

Damn you! Charity screamed as the Ranger slapped the handcuffs on her wrists. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she tried to plead with him. I didn’t mean to do wrong. Please leave me alone.

She might as well have saved her breath, yet she hoped against hope Maria Sara would hear her, would rush to her aid. But no one appeared on the dark, deserted street.

The Ranger–wearing his now-battered Stetson–gave no verbal response to her continued shouts, not until after he’d grabbed her valise and clutch bag, tucked them under his arm, and began dragging her by the elbow toward the corner, where a buckboard and team were waiting. Get in, he ordered.

No, Charity replied adamantly.

He tossed Charity’s valise in the wagon bed; without another word, he yanked her off her feet and deposited her onto the seat.

I don’t cotton to anyone resisting arrest, he growled, dusting his hands. Swinging up beside her, he turned his face her way. You’re going to answer to the law, lady.

Defeat. As a buzzard did carrion, defeat ate at Charity; she wilted on the spring seat. She wouldn’t cry, though, refusing to show her vulnerability. Never had Charity allowed anyone that much purchase into her soul. Never. Not even her favorite sister, Margaret.

She straightened her back stoically. All right. I’ll go along peacefully, she relented.

A funny, medicinal smell drifted to her nose; she disregarded it to eye her antagonist. The full moon afforded some light, but his face was hidden by the battered western hat, making it impossible to distinguish his features. It was easy to see he was big; it was just as easy to figure he could overpower her, especially with her hands tied.

Flying in the face of her usual luck, she said, My name will be cleared, you wait and see.

What you need is a good lawyer.

No, Mister Hawk, I don’t. Bravado was this, but bravado was all Charity McLoughlin had left. The truth will set me free.

Yeah. Right.

He picked up the reins, set the buckboard in motion, and the two rode in silence through the streets of Laredo, silence that was shattered when the wagon veered off in the opposite direction from the city jail.

Don’t you know left from right? You’ve turned the wrong way. Charity’s voice lowered. Where are we going?

He snapped the reins over the team.

Watching as they passed by the muted lights of huts lining the outskirts of town, she repeated her question.

Giddyup, was his only reply.

By now they had cleared the edge of Laredo, and Charity realized there was something very, very wrong. What was going on? Who was this man?

If only she could get a good look at his face, perhaps she might get a clue. If only she had something to go on, something beyond the active imagination that had gotten her into hot water time after time.

Take off your hat, she demanded.

You don’t give the orders.

Oooh! All right. I’ll teach him. Why don’t you take off your hat so that I might be allowed to see if you’re as ugly as I think you are.

All he did was chuckle.

Quite unamused, the shackles heavy, she said, You know me, and you said I must face the law. You let me believe you’re a lawman. Yet you didn’t take me to jail. Who are you?

I’m called Hawk.

I know that. But it’s just a name. A hawk is nothing to me but a mean-eyed bird with sharp, nasty talons. Well, hawks were regal. Under the moonlight she watched as he moved a leg slightly, the faint light outlining the strength of long, long limbs not at all birdlike.

Mister Hawk, where are you taking me?

To your deliverance.

I beg your pardon?

You heard me.

Why did you let me think you were taking me to jail?

I am Hawk. That’s all you need to know.

She begged to differ. But arguing became secondary to the fear that crawled up her spine. Fear as cold as the manacles stiffening her wrists. If this Hawk were a Ranger or a sheriff or whatever, he would admit it, wouldn’t he? His vague answer spoke for itself.

He was not the law.

Undoubtedly, he was outside of it.

Wasn’t this a fine kettle of fish?

She said, If you’re one of Adriano Gonzáles’s men, I–

I am not.

Small comfort. You’re not a lawman. You weren’t a partner of Adriano’s. What does that leave, Mister Hawk?

As she somehow expected, he didn’t reply.

The wooden seat hard against her backside, she tried to make some sense of his identity; the conclusion drawn did nothing to settle her nerves. Several times she’d read newspaper accounts of persons from prominent families being seized, then ransomed to their loved ones. Especially if the booty didn’t materialize, they were sometimes never seen again. Alive, anyway.

It wasn’t a publicized fact that the McLoughlins wouldn’t give a red cent for their wayward daughter’s return. But Charity knew they wouldn’t.

Her only chance was to escape.

She glanced at the man beside her. He seemed intent upon driving the team, nothing more. Think, Charity. Think. Since he’d been unconscious once tonight, surely he was in a weakened condition. What about trying to hit him again? Should she try to push him off the seat and beneath the rolling wagon wheels?

Neither option sounded as if success was written into it.

Continued inquiry seemed the best course. Mister Hawk–

Just call me Hawk.

Hawk. Ah, um, I’ve deduced something. You’ve kidnapped me. Am I right or wrong?

I’ve taken you away.

Just minutes ago, she’d wanted to be away from Laredo. And riding beat walking, but . . . Deliverance was how you put it–a peculiar choice of word. Doesn’t it imply that you’re taking me to my freedom?

Could happen, provided events fall in the right order.

His vague answer settled in the abacus of her brain–rarely a reliable tool, but all she had to work with. Kidnapping is a hanging offense. You’ll pay for your folly, Mister Hawk.

You talk too much.

Too many times she’d been told what a blabbermouth she was. Too many times it had been pointed out that she was less than worthy to open her mouth. Nonetheless, she’d never learned to keep that mouth shut.

Don’t you think I have a right to say whatever I please, especially if it might shake some sense into your noggin?

You’re much too argumentative. You’d never sway a jury with your words. Hawk tapped the reins. And a jury, lady, is just what you would’ve faced, if I hadn’t come to your rescue. Matter of fact, your pretty head would soon be resting on a jail cot, if not for–

Rescue? she repeated, ignoring the last part of his statement. She didn’t give a hoot how he knew about her law troubles. Ian knew; probably a lot of people hereabouts knew her for a smuggler. Since when have rescue and kidnap been synonymous?

Be quiet.

In no way, form, or fashion! When he shrugged, she made a huge demand of herself: patience. There’s something you need to know. If you think to extort money from my father, think again–I’m worthless to him.

Perhaps you underestimate your worth.

For a moment she didn’t say a word. If only what he said were true. If only. Wait a minute. Could it be possible . . . ? Had her father sent this man to collect her? She warned herself not to live in a dream world. Gil McLoughlin would never budge from his parting words: If you leave this house, Daughter, and go running after that Blyer man, I’ll consider you dead. Papa wasn’t one for idle threats.

Even a black sheep has its value, Hawk said.

Not in the McLoughlin flock.

Given her lack of alternatives, she knew she had to act quickly. That’s all there was to it. She leaned slowly to the side, bracing one foot on the floorboard. She raised her arms discreetly, and then quickly reared up, meaning to bring the manacles down on his temple. But she was no match for Hawk. In less than a heartbeat, he had dropped the reins, feinted her blow, and grabbed her arms. The wagon wobbled. The horses picked up speed. Charity fought him.

Dammit, woman, be still or you’ll get us both killed!

She kicked frantically at his muscled body, tried to elbow him off the seat. Not succeeding with either course of action, she leaned to bite his shoulder.

She tasted buckskin, and the warm scent of man filled her nostrils. Ouch! she heard him shout as he flinched. Hellcat, be still or I’ll–

His grip on her loosened, and such an advantage was put to good use–she slapped her iron-clad wrists against his throat. The next thing she realized, he had tossed her across his lap, and her head was swinging from the moving buckboard. Her hair nearly touched the ground, and her fright rose to a pitch–she’d be the one to get tangled in a wagon wheel!

It figured.

When good luck was passed out, it must have missed the dunce’s corner–where Charity had to have been banished.

Right then Hawk pulled her hair up, and reached over to grab something from the floorboard, something that turned out to be a white cloth. Before pressing the wet cloth over her nose, he said with a growl, I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

A sharp smell poleaxed her; she attempted to avert her head. What . . . ? What was . . . ? She felt the fight leave her, felt herself drifting off to sleep. Her last thought was, The louse has drugged me.

Chapter Three

Rendering Charity insensible had been Sam Washburn’s idea.

David Fierce Hawk hadn’t liked the suggestion the day before, when the doctor had concocted the evil brew, and Hawk didn’t like the idea one whit better tonight. Not when he shut the hellcat up, not as he drove to the prearranged hideout located a few miles east of Laredo. And the idea of drugging her didn’t sit any better now, now that he and Sam had leashed her in the two-room shack and left her to sleep off the chloroform’s effects.

Nevertheless, Hawk had taken the jar and rag with him that morning upon leaving the doctor’s hermitage. He had heard too many tales about the wildest, most undisciplined of the McLoughlin triplets not to play it safe. And it was a good thing he had, since as it turned out Charity McLoughlin hadn’t gone along peaceably.

At least she’d fallen for the lawman trick, which she, herself, had planted in Hawk’s mind; it was consistent with the handcuffs he’d thought of himself. Getting her aboard the wagon had proved easy enough.

Brute strength, Sam’s medicine, and the trappings bartered from a Uvalde lawman did have their advantages.

Right now, in the dark of midnight, as Hawk settled a boot heel on Sam Washburn’s rickety corral rail while watching the hideaway’s only door to the outside world, he rubbed the lump on his head and the bruise on his throat, then gave thought to the bite mark on his shoulder.

What a hellcat.

It was doubtful he’d have even gotten the opportunity to use the chloroform, had she known his true purposes in kidnapping her. As he’d been alerted, she would have fought to the death–clawing and spitting until the end–rather than go with him.

Better she should think he was out to ransom her, that he was a kidnapper interested only in dirty recompense.

She’d learn the truth soon enough.

Reckon she knows who you are? asked Sam.

I doubt it. I’ve been told she’d recognize my full name, but . . .

You gonna tell her?

No. I was warned she’d be set against returning to the fold, and from what I’ve gathered, that is the case. I can’t let her make that connection. He cast an eye at his old friend from Fort Smith, who was swilling from a flask of rye whiskey. Shouldn’t have been this way, Sam. Figured when I met Charity McLoughlin, it would be on her turf. At some fancy ball . . . with violins playing. Or somesuch.

A white man with a red man’s way of thinking, Sam chuckled. Your lawyering in Washington was a bad influence, my Osage friend. You went soft in the heart.

Hawk pushed away from the corral railing and straightened. Better check on the woman, he said, inhaling the clean, dry smell of south Texas. Lacking the beauty of the high plains, this was a flat, harsh land, swept by drought and dotted with chaparral and cactus; it would be a difficult place to hide in. But he would find a way to keep out of the paths of well-meaning strangers who might come to a kidnapped woman’s aid. She may be sick, once she wakes up.

Another sign of your soft heart. Never thought I’d see the day you’d turn sap. Sam tapped the flask into his back pocket, then ran long fingers through his crop of gray hair. Look at you, Fierce Hawk of the Osage. Worrying over a white woman, dressed as a paleface–

I draw less attention, wearing the raiment of their kind.

Sam chuckled dryly. You may not know it, but you’ve turned into a paleface. Your speech, your mannerisms. And in a dozen other ways that I doubt you’re aware of.

Hawk crossed his arms and tucked his fingers under his armpits. Was Sam’s assessment correct?

I suppose you aren’t alone in doing such, said the grizzled physician of fifty winters. Many of your people have taken the white man’s habits.

The times forced us into it. A sour note curdled Hawk’s tone. In Washington I behaved as a white man. As you know, that was the expected conduct for an advocate of Indian rights. If one wanted to be taken seriously.

Hawk knew the older man needed no reminders of acceptable behavior, that which was dictated by the white race; in siding with a renegade Kiowa in a dispute with the army, Sam Washburn–a mountain man whose brilliance with a scalpel had earned him a degree from a prestigious school–had lost his medical practice in Arkansas.

Under the full moon Sam scrutinized Hawk. It’s been difficult for us both, life. I’ve suffered for siding with the red man. And you’re out of place in both worlds.

Sam–

Had you been born in the previous century, or even earlier in this one, you could’ve gone with your instincts. You could have ridden the plains, free as the wind, your bow and arrow at the ready. You would have been a warrior with a war. And you would’ve been a good warrior.

But now, in 1889, Hawk had nothing to fight for.

Since you’re more white than Osage–

I don’t accept my mixed heritage.

"Accept it, Hawk. Accept it.