Free Heart of the Hawk by Justine Dare Justine Davis Page A

begun to save again as soon as she was well enough, certain only that she could not live like that for the rest of her life. But now she had a chance she’d never expected. All she had to do was what she’d been doing for a long time: run the store.
    She would be free. Free of Arly’s brutality, free to come and go, free to have her own thoughts, make up her own mind.
    And the one thing she was most certain of now was that she was through with being bullied.
    “I am twenty years old,” she told the reverend with firm courtesy, “and I have been married since I was sixteen. If I feel I need your guidance, Reverend, be assured I will ask for it.”
    “But, my dear, trying to run this store by yourself, having that man here, letting that wild, troublemaking boy spend so much time here—”
    Anger kicked to life within her. “Luke is not wild. And he’s not a troublemaker.”
    “Mrs. Dixon, everyone knows he’s behind all the mischief in this town—”
    “I know he gets blamed for it,” Kate corrected. “He’s just a boy, and he’s alone in this world. But he had the courage to try and do what the fine men in this town were too scared to do, go against my husband. He did it to help me, and I’ll not hear a word against him under this roof!”
    Reverend Babcock backed up a step, as if her fervor were a physical thing pushing at him.
    “It’s . . . good of you, to t-take an interest in the poor orphan, of course,” Babcock stammered. Then, recovering his pulpit poise, he added sternly, “But that man is another matter. You must see that having Arly’s killer working here is hardly the thing. The whole town’s buzzing.”
    The Hawk hadn’t even been here one day yet, and already the word had spread like wildfire, Kate thought wearily.
    “Would you like to order him out, Reverend?” she asked, her tone deceptively mild.
    “Yes, Reverend, would you?”
    The little man gasped and whirled, paling when he saw The Hawk in the doorway, his left shoulder—calculatedly keeping his gun arm free, Kate supposed—propped against the doorjamb as if he had been there listening for some time.
    She had to admit he was an intimidating sight. Tall, lean, and clad in solid black, the only break in the darkness of his clothing the smooth brown leather of the gunbelt strapped around his slim hips. The dark sleekness of his hair only added to the overall effect; it brushed over his shoulders, blending with the black of his shirt, and making the vivid color of his eyes even more of a shock.
    “Was there something you wanted to take up with me?” Josh asked pleasantly.
    Babcock went even paler, for once seemingly incapable of speech.
    “That’s all right,” Josh said in an exaggeratedly soothing tone. “I’m sure you didn’t mean for me to leave before I . . . paid my debt.”
    “Your . . . debt?” Babcock said, squeaking.
    “I knew you’d understand, you being a preacher. Why, I’m sure you preach this very thing in your sermons, don’t you, Reverend? That a man should own up to his responsibilities? Pay his debts, especially those of honor?”
    “Of . . . course,” Babcock said, sounding only slightly less squeaky as he eyed Josh warily.
    “Then I’m sure you’ll pass the word that I’m merely doing my duty. Through an unfortunate set of circumstances, I made Mrs. Dixon a widow. I’m sure you, and your congregation, will understand that I feel it’s my responsibility to help her until she’s on her feet again.”
    He said it so smoothly, so convincingly, that Kate almost believed him herself. Just as his actions all day long almost had her believing him. He’d been prompt, polite, and productive, doing everything she asked, and a few things she hadn’t realized needed doing. He’d not complained at all about the cramped quarters of the storeroom, and when she’d brought him some leftover corn bread at noon, he ate it with manners better than she’d ever seen from Arly, and thanked her