Page 24 of Native Hawk
She couldn’t stop the color flooding her cheeks. She hoped he’d think it was from the whiskey. To be honest, she wasn’t sure itwasn’tthe whiskey. It was starting to warm her in the most curious way.
She took another sip. This time she let the liquor swirl over her tongue. Beneath the fire of the whiskey was a sweet taste, almost like caramel.
“If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll just call you Cat.”
“Cat?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“Like the little animal?”
“Yeah.”
A giggle escaped her. She clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to catch it, but it slipped through her fingers.
“Is that funny?” he asked.
She nodded. It was—a little. She peered at him over the top of her glass. “You are Drew Hawk, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And the cat, she hunts the hawk.”
He chuckled. “I suppose so.” Then his eyes twinkled, like a spark at the heart of a coal, contained yet dangerous. “Unless it’s a little cat like you. Then the hawk swoops down and carries her off.”
She gasped. But to her surprise, the gasp turned into laughter. This whiskey was having a strange effect on her. She took another drink and arched a challenging brow at him, declaring, “I may be small, but I am fierce.”
He sank back onto his elbows and gave her a lazy grin.
Something melted inside her. Maybe it was the magic of the whiskey. Maybe it was a trick of the lantern light. But Drew Hawk suddenly looked very attractive. She didn’t think it would be so bad to sleep next to him.
“Maybe you’d better take it easy with that whiskey,” he suggested.
She didn’t think so. It made her feel more brave and sure of herself.
“Maybe you should drinkmore,”she decided, filling his glass and handing it to him.
He didn’t drink it. Instead, he set it down on the bedside nightstand. Then he rose, towering over her, and took off his duster.
Her fingers tightened on her glass. He’d told her she could keep her clothes on. He hadn’t said anything abouthis.She’d seen men in all stages of undress since she started working at The Parlor. But she hadn’t been this close to one. And she’d never been alone in her room with a man—dressed or undressed.
“Think I can make it this time?” he asked her, bunching his duster in one hand and nodding toward the coat rack.
She frowned and shook her head. The oilcloth was too heavy.
But he gave her another wink and tossed his duster, collar first. It caught perfectly on the hook of the coat rack, which tipped for a precarious instant and then righted itself.
“Bravo,”she said, drinking to his success.
But when she turned back to him, she saw what he wore under his duster. A heavy leather gun belt hung low on his hips. The holster was knotted with rawhide around his thigh. In the holster was a large pistol.
The whiskey glass clacked against her teeth as she stumbled back a step. He didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer. But she didn’t know him. And the fact that he had a gun within reach…
Miss Hattie usually didn’t allow strangers to take their guns into the rooms with the girls. She must have overlooked his weapon in her excitement over the twenty dollars.
“Don’t you worry, Cat. It’s just for protection,” he volunteered. “Here, I’ll take it off, all right?”
He untied the rawhide thong and unbuckled his gun belt. Then he wrapped the belt around the holster and set it on the nightstand next to his whiskey.
