Nighthawk & The Return of Luke McGuire Read online

  Nate continued. “Assorted other crimes, all apparently linked to alcohol. Did your mother drink, too?”

  Esther wanted to crawl under a rock and stay forever in a dark place where no one would see her shame.

  “Never mind,” Nate said. “She probably did. Regardless, it doesn’t excuse your father’s conduct. I can see why you’re afraid of this guy.”

  She looked at him again, feeling as bleak as a day in the dead of winter. “Deputy Parish said I probably can’t get a restraining order.”

  “That would be my guess, too. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. The man never listened to them before. Of course, he’s a hell of a lot older now, and maybe a little wiser. It’d shock the bleeding hearts to know this, but sometimes prison does have a corrective effect. And sometimes, just getting older is enough to do the trick.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “I guess I’ll just have to hope.”

  He pursed his lips. “Well, we’ll sure keep an eye out. I’ll increase the patrols in your area, but until we have something more that’s all I can do. If he shows up here, let me know. If he contacts you in any way, let me know. Then we’ll talk about what more we can do.”

  He wasn’t being unreasonable, and she knew it. In fact, he was being far more helpful than most lawmen would be, she figured. After all, fifteen years had passed, and in all that time there was absolutely no indication that Richard Jackson intended any further harm to his daughter. He hadn’t even made a threat toward her. So maybe he had learned his lesson.

  “Thanks, Nate. I really appreciate it.”

  He spread his hands. “We’ll do more the instant there’s any indication we need to. Now how’s the rest of your life?”

  For some reason she found herself telling him about Cromwell and Craig Nighthawk. Maybe she wanted to get some idea of what Nate thought of Nighthawk. Maybe she needed reassurance on that score, too. Trusting men didn’t come easily to her, but she trusted Nate Tate. How could any woman not trust a man with a beautiful, loving wife and six obviously happy daughters…not to mention grandchildren.

  “He replaced the flowers, huh,” Nate said when she finished her tale. He was still smiling over her description of the sheep. “Nighthawk’s okay. I don’t think you need to worry about him. In fact, I think he might be a good neighbor to have. All his dealings that I know of have been honest and straight.”

  “What about…his arrest?”

  Nate shook his head. “That was a big mistake. Some folks won’t let go of it, but don’t you pay them any mind. They’d believe anything that makes another human being look bad. Hell, I’ll bet they read the supermarket tabloids and think they’re gospel!”

  When she stepped out onto the street a little while later, the sun momentarily blinded her. She paused, and for an instant the world seemed to freeze. Was that Richard Jackson standing on the corner over there?

  She blinked hard and looked again, but whoever it was had moved on. It couldn’t have been him. How could it be? She didn’t even remember what he looked like.

  But unease followed her through the supermarket, and all the way home.

  When she pulled up to her house, she was astonished to see Craig Nighthawk’s dog sitting on her front porch. Then she remembered that Guinevere was in heat. Great. How foolish of her to think that out here in the middle of nowhere this wasn’t going to be a problem.

  She climbed out of her Jimmy and surveyed the situation. If she tried to get into the house right now, chances were that Mop would slip right past her and get inside. Or maybe Guin would be totally disobedient and slip outside. Either way she was probably going to wind up with some pups she didn’t want—assuming Mop didn’t hurt her dog.

  Limping more than usual because of fatigue, she walked slowly up to the porch. The komondor turned to look at her, his brown eyes hardly visible beneath his thick cords of fur. His snout was dark brown and shorthaired, but the rest of him did indeed resemble a slightly dirty string mop. And he was every bit as big as Guinevere.

  “Hello, Mop.”

  His shaggy head cocked as he recognized his name. Well, that was promising. She didn’t have it in her heart to be angry with him. He was only being a dog, after all, and right now Guinevere was irresistible to him, a femme fatale in white-and-brown fur.

  “I’m sorry, guy, but the lady is unavailable.”

  Mop moved something which appeared to be a tail.

  “No, I’m afraid you can’t persuade me by wagging. I’m hard-hearted, you see. Utterly implacable. Immovable.”

  Mop appeared unimpressed.

  “The Wicked Witch of the West has nothing on me. Trust me. I shall be very angry if Guinevere has a litter. She has registered champion bloodlines, you see.”

  Mop offered a pleading groan.

  “Well, I understand perfectly that you may be a prime example of your breed,” Esther told him kindly. “In fact you may come from champion bloodlines as well. But they are different lines, you see. Mop, I hate to tell you this, but you aren’t a Saint Bernard. And while I wouldn’t ordinarily have a problem with you, I just don’t want to be saddled with four or more puppies that no one else wants! You’ll have to find somewhere else to sow your wild oats, I’m afraid.”

  Mop whimpered softly and wagged his entire body.

  “No, I can’t be persuaded. Good heavens, Mop, you wouldn’t even be around to raise and support them! I know you men! You just run off and leave all the responsibility to the woman. You’d be out there herding sheep as if you hadn’t a care in the world and poor Guinevere would be saddled with all these hungry pups. I won’t change my mind.”

  Mop settled down with his head on his paws watching both the door of the house and Esther at the same time.

  Cautiously, Esther squatted and scratched behind his ears—or at least where she presumed his ears to be. Ah, yes, there they were. “You’re an engaging rake,” she told him gently. “You even have nice manners, and I wasn’t expecting that from an outdoor dog. I thought you’d be far more aggressive and full of yourself. After all, those sheep certainly jump when you bark. All of them except Cromwell, that is.”

  “Can I have my dog back?”

  Straightening, Esther turned and saw that Craig Nighthawk had appeared on horseback at the fence line. “Certainly,” she called to him. “Be my guest.”

  Craig whistled. Mop lifted his shaggy head and looked toward his master. A whimper escaped him, but he didn’t budge.

  “Mop, come here.”

  Mop woofed but remained unmoved.

  Craig said something that sounded like an oath, though Esther really couldn’t be sure at this distance. He whistled yet again, and when the dog ignored him once again, he dismounted and eased himself through the barbed wire. The man who strode toward her this afternoon had none of the easy manner she’d seen the morning they met. In fact, he looked seriously annoyed.

  “What have you done to my dog?” he asked.

  “Not a thing, really. I just got home and found him here.”

  “You’ve bewitched him, right?” He settled his hands on his hips and looked from her to the dog and back.

  “Actually, it was a love potion.”

  He looked startled. “A what?”

  “A love potion.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

  “I kid you not, Mr. Nighthawk. Mop is smitten.”

  Realization dawned. “Your dog is in heat?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Why do they call it heat, do you suppose?”

  He looked at her, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “I can’t imagine,” he said finally. “Why the hell haven’t you had your dog spayed?”

  “Why the hell haven’t you had yours neutered?”

  He scowled. “Because I’m going to need more sheepdogs for the rest of my life, and I can’t afford to buy new ones every time I turn around! I have a breeding pair of komondors!”

  “You have a female? Really?”

  “Yes, I have a fe
male!”

  “So Mop isn’t deprived as I thought?”

  Now he looked thunderstruck. “Deprived? You were worried if the dog was deprived?”

  “Well, of course I was. Dogs are very social creatures, and sometimes they need the companionship of dogs as well as people. I’ve been worrying because Guinevere has no one but me. Unfortunately, I can’t let her play with Mop because I don’t want to have a litter of puppies just now.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Mop is a working dog. He can’t just run off and play any time he feels like it. That’s reserved for when work is done.”

  “That’s perfectly fair.”

  “But you need to have your dog spayed.”

  Esther was offended. “I’ll do no such thing! I’ll have you know Guinevere has champion bloodlines, and I fully intend to breed her one of these days.”

  “Good luck. If there’s another champion shorthaired Saint Bernard within five hundred miles, I’ll eat my hat.”

  He was very likely right, but that was begging the issue. “When the time comes, that will be the least of my difficulties. For now, she remains as she is!”

  “I can’t have my dog running off like this!”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about what your dog does. Surely other dogs in the vicinity come into heat from time to time. Mop will just have to learn to deal with it. Moreover, you seem to have an unusual amount of trouble keeping your animals on your side of the fence! Maybe you should check for gaping holes. Surely this dog can’t have climbed through the wire!”

  She had a valid point, and it was enough to make him pause before he said something terminally stupid. “He must have jumped.”

  “And Cromwell, too? If you’re having this much trouble with jumping, perhaps you should make your fence higher.”

  “Maybe,” he acknowledged grumpily. The last thing he wanted to do right now was check the fence line again. He’d just done that ten days ago. But the inescapable fact was that he must have wire down somewhere. He’d never known Mop to jump before.

  “By the way,” Esther said more pleasantly, now that she felt she was winning, “what do you call the other dog?”

  “Bucket.”

  “Mop and Bucket?” And suddenly she couldn’t hold it in anymore. The entire thing was too amusing, and laughter spilled out of her helplessly. “Mop and Bucket!”

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, a smile dawned on his harsh face. “It was Paula’s idea.”

  All of a sudden she felt deflated, but she couldn’t understand why. He must be married. That should have been reassuring, but somehow it wasn’t.

  He looked down at the dog. “Mop, come.”

  Mop thumped his tail as if to acknowledge the command, but he didn’t move.

  “Am I going to have to get a rope and drag you?”

  At that, Mop sighed heavily and rose to his feet.

  “Now come on!”

  Looking as if he were going to execution, the dog obeyed. Craig paused a moment, looking at Esther. “Are the flowers okay?”

  She looked down at the beds around the porch, thinking that they looked perfectly healthy to her. And then she understood. “They’re beautiful. Thank you so very much for planting them.”

  He nodded. “Next time just shoo Cromwell off. If you don’t want to get close, use a broom. She’s scared to death of brooms.”

  A chuckle escaped Esther. “Really. How did she learn that?”

  “From my sister. Paula caught Crom in the kitchen garden last spring and lit into her with a broom. Crom now has the greatest respect for Paula and brooms.”

  His sister! Relief washed through her in an exhilarating wave. “She sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

  Craig cocked his head. “Maybe so.” He touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger, then started to turn away. He paused, looking at all the sacks in her Jimmy. “Are those groceries? Let me help you get them inside.”

  “That might be difficult considering we have two lovelorn dogs.”

  His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I can tie Mop to the fence if you can leash Guinevere.”

  “Done.”

  Even in heat Guinevere was a well-behaved dog. She accepted being leashed to the newel post with nothing more than a reproachful look. Mop was less docile, barking a few times after being tied to a fence post. He settled down, though.

  Craig’s help made quick work of the groceries. It felt strange to have a man in her house, though. Outdoors his presence was commanding, but indoors it was…overwhelming. He seemed to fill rooms in a way that made it impossible to ignore his presence. Her house, which had seemed large to her, now felt full to the rafters. Esther told herself that was simply because she wasn’t used to having anyone else there.

  “Can I offer you some coffee?” she asked when he set the last bag on the counter.

  “Just a glass of ice water, please.”

  The kitchen was a large room in the style of ranch kitchens, and she hoped someday to put a big table in it. For now she had a small dinette that looked even smaller when Craig folded himself into one of the chairs.

  She poured a glass of tea for herself, but as she was debating whether to join Craig at the table or keep a safe distance at the counter, the doorbell rang. “Excuse me.”

  It was Verna with another letter. “You’re getting popular,” the letter carrier said with a grin. “Two letters in one week. Some kind of record, isn’t it?”

  “Can you come in for some tea?” She was surprised to feel herself hoping both that Verna would accept and that she would refuse.

  “Sorry, I can’t. You’re not my last stop today. Have a good one.”

  Esther watched her go, wondering why her life suddenly seemed to be a sea of conflicting emotions. And why had Verna been in such a hurry to leave? Usually she wanted to chat for a couple of minutes.

  As the woman drove away, Esther saw Nighthawk’s horse and dog, tethered to the fence post, and no Craig in evidence. There were a lot of scenarios that might be drawn, but she had a strong feeling which connection Verna had made. By tomorrow evening it was probably going to be all over Conard County that Craig Nighthawk and Esther Jackson were romancing.

  Inwardly Esther shrugged. Considering that she was a recluse, she hardly cared what anyone thought. Then she looked down at the envelope in her hand. It was addressed in a spidery scrawl that she didn’t recognize, without a return address.

  Suddenly her heart was hammering so loudly that it filled her ears. With shaking hands, she ripped the envelope open and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. Her eyes skipped over everything, down to the signature.

  Dad.

  “Esther? Esther, what’s wrong?”

  She heard Craig Nighthawk’s voice. It seemed to come from far away, from an entirely different planet than the one on which she stood holding a letter from the man who had shattered her body and her life.

  “Esther?” Tentatively he touched her shoulder.

  Jerkily she turned her head to look at him, and felt a shudder pass through her as shock released its grip. She couldn’t find her voice, but there was mute appeal in every cell of her body.

  He hesitated visibly, then reached out for her, wrapping her tightly in his arms and holding her close to his chest. “What happened?” he asked gently. “Did that woman say something to you?”

  Some corner of her mind registered that this was the way a man’s touch was supposed to feel—safe and caring. Part of her was stunned that she was even allowing herself to be held, but the rest of her reached out for the comfort she had never before known. No one had ever held her caringly. Never.

  “Is it the letter?” Craig asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She ought to straighten, ought to pull away. She couldn’t afford to depend on anyone, certainly not a man she hardly knew. But she needed what he was offering, and with every fiber of her being she wanted to cling to him.

  Holding her tightly with one
arm, he took the letter from her hand and read it.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “All he says is he wants a chance to apologize to you. Is that what upset you?”

  She tried to pull away, but his hold tightened. Her cheek was pressed to his chest and she could hear the steady thud of his heart. He felt so hard, so strong. What could he possibly understand about her terror?

  “Esther, please. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t want his apology!” Anger was beginning to come to her rescue, swift and hot. She’d cowered enough in her life and despised herself for it. Her entire psyche was a tangled web of scars, shame and guilt. It no longer mattered which scars were rational and which fears were unfounded. It no longer mattered that none of it had really been her fault. She was wounded, permanently warped, and none of those feelings would ever go away. And that made her angry.

  “Why not?”

  “He killed my mother! He hurt us both for years! And he wants to hurt me again!”

  Craig never slackened his hold on her shoulders, keeping her tucked to his chest even though she was trying to yank away. “That isn’t what he says.”

  “Well, I don’t believe him! I stopped believing him before I was five. He lies about everything.”

  “Okay. He lies about everything. Did he really kill your mother?”

  This time when she pushed away from him he let her go. With clenched fists she glared up at him. “Do you think I’m lying? The man went to prison for second degree murder! Now he’s out and wants to find me. He’s going to kill me. I know it!”

  “But maybe he’s learned something, Esther. Maybe he really is sorry now.”

  “No. No way.”

  “But why would he want to kill you? It’s been a long time.”

  She shook her head almost wildly, her hair flying. “Not long enough. It’ll never be long enough. It was my testimony that sent him to prison!”

  Chapter 4