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  “And,” Caroline interjected, “that is exactly the point. Now, I must compliment the state of Oregon, which has had the foresight to allow a woman to homestead on her own. Six hundred forty acres can be claimed by a single woman. But let us say she falls in love with her neighbor, also a homesteader, and they want to get married. Did you know that the minute she says ‘I do’ her homestead no longer belongs to her? It now belongs to her husband. If he wants to, he can sell it out from under her and he will not owe her one red cent.”

  “That ain’t true,” a man bellowed.

  “Oh, yes it is true,” Caroline returned. “Ask any judge in any county in this state.”

  Hawk blinked. If that was true, it was damned unfair. All at once he wondered if his mother would have wanted the vote.

  A burly man stood up and stuffed his thumbs in his overall straps. “Iff’n you ladies get the vote, first thing you’ll do is start outlawin’ things like gambling and, well, fancy ladies.”

  “And,” another farmer shouted, “just so’s you all know, ma’am, men hafta have some kind of, um, release every so often.”

  Caroline kept her voice level. “Sir, I do not think giving women the vote would prevent any man from, well, enjoying his, uh, release.”

  “Sure it would, little lady. Ya see, some women don’t much like sex.”

  Caroline blushed to her hairline. “Yes, I—I do see.”

  Hawk bit the inside of his cheek. He’d bet she didn’t even have a glimmer. Didn’t even think about it. Then he had to wonder why she didn’t think about it. Men certainly gave her an appreciative once-over wherever she went. He’d seen it every time she appeared in public. So wasn’t she interested in the male of the species?

  Next time he got her alone, he’d ask her.

  He chomped down on the other side of his cheek. Like hell he would.

  He shoved her speech-making to the back of his mind and began to plan how to get her safely onto the train after her speech. The eastbound Union Pacific to Boise left at one o’clock, right after she finished up her talk. Anything could happen between here and the train station.

  Already the crowd was getting raucous, and questions and insults began to fly. Hawk studied the body language of the men, trying to anticipate where trouble might start, when some infuriated rancher would do something he’d regret.

  As Caroline’s hour-long speech wound down, he couldn’t help frowning. The men in her audience were vocal, quarrelsome, even accusing, but no gunplay had started, and no threatening notes had been delivered by some innocent-looking kid.

  What was he not seeing?

  He envisioned the three long blocks from here to the train station, blocks she’d have to negotiate on foot. Even though she’d be flanked by Fernanda and himself, she would be out in the open and so vulnerable it made his flesh crawl. Part of him wanted to wrap her up inside his skin and keep her safe. Another part of him wanted—what?

  He wanted this whole damn exercise in free speech to be over. He wanted to barge into a saloon and gulp down more than a few slugs of whiskey instead of worrying that someone was going to shoot her or kidnap her or worse. He wouldn’t relax until the train to Idaho started rolling down the tracks. Good thing he’d left his deputy, Sandy, back at Smoke River. Sandy could handle whatever might come up while he was away.

  She finished her talk, and with a gracious smile accepted the applause, right along with loud boos from the men. Then she turned to him, a look of both relief and triumph on her face. His nerves felt strung up tight as new barbed wire, but he tried to smile at her anyway.

  All the way to the train he kept her close, discreetly resting his arm around her slim waist while Fernanda walked on her other side, one hand in her skirt pocket where she carried her pistol. He wondered if Caroline was doing the same.

  Nope. Her arms swung at her sides. If she still had the weapon he’d bought for her, it sure wasn’t in her pocket.

  They crossed the last street before the train station. One more block. “Where’s your pistol?” he asked.

  “In my trunk.”

  He stopped short. “Dammit, you’re supposed to keep it within reach.”

  She looked up at him with that half smile. “You are within reach, Mr. Rivera. I do not need the pistol.”

  He yanked her around to face him. “That kind of thinking could get you killed, you know that? I can’t always be here, dogging your every goddamn move, Caroline. Makes me want to—”

  He broke off. Made him want to tuck her into his pocket or haul her up and load her over his shoulder. God, she could make a man sweat nails.

  Caroline recoiled at the anger in his voice. The steely look in those green eyes of his sent a shudder up her backbone, and all at once she became aware of something she had not wanted to think about. Hawk was with her; but he most certainly did not want to be.

  “What happens in Boise?” he asked suddenly.

  “I make another speech.”

  “What happens after Boise?”

  “From Boise, we plan to travel north, to Washington Territory. But I am sure—”

  “I’m not,” he gritted. “I want you to skip Washington. Stop putting yourself in the line of fire and go home to Boston.” He jerked her forward and matched his long stride to her shorter steps.

  “I cannot do that,” she said, her voice quiet.

  “You mean you won’t do that, not that you ‘can’t.’”

  “You could never understand. Never. All right then, I won’t. That does not mean you have to…”

  Beside her Fernanda hissed a warning. “Mi corazón, do not toss away a man’s pride.”

  “His pride?” she murmured so he would not hear. “What has his pride to do with it?”

  “Ah, you are more pigheaded than even your madre. And more ignorant. Even I, Fernanda Elena Maria Sobrano, know that a man’s pride is most important thing not to make little.”

  “Damn straight,” Hawk intoned.

  “Señor, you are not to listen!”

  “Señora, just try and stop me.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Caroline blurted out. “Hush up, both of you.”

  They reached the train station enveloped in an awkward silence. Hawk peeled some bills out of his vest pocket and sent Fernanda in to purchase the tickets. The minute she was out of earshot, he maneuvered Caroline over to a wall, turned her so her back pressed against the boards, and planted both elbows over her head.

  “There’s something we need to settle between us here and now,” he said near her temple. His breath warmed her ear, sending an odd tremor through her.

  “I’m not leaving you, Caroline. You can travel all over hell and gone, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off. “I signed on to protect you and by God that’s what I intend to do.”

  Again she opened her lips, but he placed his hand over her mouth. “So you just shut the hell up about what you want and do what I say.”

  She was so mad she could spit bullets. She hated being bossed around. She hated being frightened. She hated him. She clamped her lips together so he wouldn’t see them tremble.

  Fernanda returned, gave them both a raised eyebrow and stuffed the train tickets into Hawk’s hand. “I hope you still want us, señor,” she murmured. “Because I think my lady is muy furioso.”

  Hawk snorted. Oh, he wanted them all right. Fernanda was an admirable example of good sense and guts, and Caroline…

  Caroline was strong and soft and beautiful and vulnerable and everything in between. Caroline MacFarlane was a whole helluva lot more than he’d bargained for. When they reached Boise, he’d lock them both into their hotel room and find the nearest saloon and get good and drunk.

  The locomotive chuffed into the station and steamed to a stop. Hawk directed the porter to load the trunk, then manhandled both women into the passenger car and sat them down facing across from him. The engine started to roll forward.

&n
bsp; Hawk let out a sigh of relief and watched the station glide past the window. Just as the train picked up speed, a tall figure in a derby hat sprinted out of the station house and launched himself onto the iron loading step.

  Overby.

  Chapter Ten

  Hawk didn’t sleep during the entire eight-hour trip across the dry, flat high Oregon desert into Idaho. He couldn’t nod off and leave Caroline unprotected, and he couldn’t go looking for Overby for the same reason. He couldn’t shuck the feeling that something was about to happen. It reminded him of his Ranger days back in Texas, where he spent long days and hundreds of miles with his rifle primed and his nerves feeling like spiny cactus.

  Next to Caroline, Fernanda dozed in the seat across from him. The younger woman kept tipping toward Fernanda but she righted herself at the last minute and jolted awake. Her skin looked gray with fatigue and her eyelids were shadowed. Finally he couldn’t stand it one more minute, and when she slumped to the left, he stood, slid his arm under her knees and lifted her over to his side. She didn’t even wake up, just gave a soft sigh and snuggled up against him.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder until his arm went to sleep, then gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers to get the feeling back. The scent of her hair drove him half-crazy. He tried not to inhale, but it was a losing battle; her head fit just under his jaw and tendrils of dark curls were escaping the bun at her neck. The soft, sweet-smelling strands tickled his chin, teasing his body into arousal. She could sure do things to a man.

  It was full dark when the train pulled into Boise. Hawk directed the porter to send the trunk to the nearest hotel, then lifted his hand from Caroline’s shoulder and jiggled his boot against Fernanda’s leather shoe.

  “We are here, si?” the Mexican woman asked.

  “We are here.” He rose and offered his hand to Caroline. “Come on.”

  After a slight hesitation, her fingers twined into his; he pulled her upright and steadied her on her feet. Fernanda followed him to the iron debarking step, but before he stepped off the train he released his grip on Caroline’s arm and scanned the platform for any sign of Overby.

  He also made sure he could reach his revolver in a hurry.

  Behind him Fernanda said something in Spanish, but all he caught was the word padre. That made no sense until he spied the Catholic Church across the street.

  “I wish to go and light candle, señor.” She tipped her head at the carved statue of Jesus over the wooden doorway. “I find you at hotel, later.” She headed for the church entrance and Hawk turned to Caroline.

  “You hungry?”

  “You ask me that a lot,” she said, her voice still drowsy.

  “Must be because I get that way a lot.”

  She laughed softly. “Oh. Yes, I am hungry, now that I think of it.”

  He guided her into the hotel, stopped at the desk to register and give instructions about the trunk, then veered into the adjoining dining room. The dimly lit place was almost empty except for one table, occupied by a young, schoolteacherish man with spectacles. Not Overby.

  When they were seated, Hawk made sure he could see the restaurant entrance from his chair and that the schoolteacher wasn’t in his line of fire.

  Caroline watched Rivera capture the attention of the lone waitress and order coffee and some tea for her. He looked a little ill at ease, and then she realized why. This was the first time they had been alone together, without Fernanda. Though why a man like Hawk would find that awkward she could not imagine. Hawk Rivera would certainly be used to the company of women; those eyes of his, the angular, tanned features, his dark mustache curving over his lips all told her in no uncertain terms that women would find him attractive. No doubt he was attracted to them, as well.

  But perhaps not to her. She studied her cup of tea when it came, ordered a light supper of potato soup and some bread and found herself inexplicably tongue-tied. Evidently he, too, could think of nothing to say because the silence between them stretched until she thought she would scream.

  “You’re not a churchgoer, I guess,” he said at last.

  “What? Oh, you mean Fernanda and her candles. No, I am not. I stopped attending church after I…after I grew up.”

  His green eyes questioned, but she closed her lips decisively. The waitress brought her soup, along with his steak and fried potatoes, and then dawdled over the plates admiring Rivera’s good looks. Then with a quick, envious glance at Caroline, the young woman disappeared into the kitchen and they were alone again.

  More silence. She noticed Hawk wasn’t cutting into his steak. In fact he wasn’t doing anything except staring at her.

  “What is it? Is my hair straggling out of my bun?”

  “Yeah, some. Don’t worry about it, looks kinda… Don’t worry about it.”

  She touched the nape of her neck. “Kind of what?”

  “Kinda pretty.”

  “Pretty?” She felt the word all the way down to her toes. “As in…woman-pretty?” Oh, she could have cut off her tongue when she heard what she’d said.

  He didn’t answer, just dropped his gaze and picked up his knife and fork. “Tell me something,” he said, slicing into the meat. “I know you want women to get the vote and be treated as equals.”

  “Yes. Do you not think men and woman are equals?”

  “Never thought about it much.”

  She lifted her teacup. “Well, think about it now, why don’t you?”

  He looked straight into her eyes. “Guess I’ve always felt women were plenty equal, seein’ as they have us men over a barrel.”

  “Oh? How is that, exactly? Over a barrel, I mean.”

  He drew in a long breath, looked away, and then looked back at her. “A man…men need women.”

  “You mean they need women to do for them, cook and wash and clean and bear his children?”

  “Not so much, no. A man can do all those things for himself. He can cook and wash and all the rest, except for having babies. I mean that a man, uh, men like women. Like having them around. Like looking at them. Touching them.”

  She swallowed. “I see.”

  “Don’t think you do, really,” he said. “See, a man doesn’t feel exactly equal to a woman because he never knows what she’s thinking. Or feeling.”

  “And you think a woman always knows what a man is thinking, is that it? Let me tell you something, Mr. Rivera, I haven’t had the foggiest inkling about what you’re thinking or feeling since we met. So I don’t feel ‘equal’—I feel…off balance.” She was going to say overwhelmed but thought better of it.

  He surprised her by grinning so broadly his whole countenance lit up. The man had simply beautiful teeth—straight and white against his tanned skin. Her heart gave a little skip.

  And then suddenly his face sobered and he leaned toward her. “There’s more to it, though, isn’t there? Tell me the real reason you’re traveling around making all these speeches.”

  Caroline jerked and thick soup slopped out of her spoon.

  “Tell me why,” he pursued.

  She tried to breathe normally, but her pulse began to race. “My mother and I…” She had to stop and start over. “My mother met Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the suffragette, when I was twelve. Mama and I had moved to Philadelphia because… Anyway, Mrs. Stanton took us in. Later Mama began to travel and speak out for women. For their rights.”

  She found herself tearing a slice of bread into tiny pieces.

  “How old were you then?”

  “I was just seventeen.”

  His dark eyebrows rose. “How old are you now?”

  She hesitated. Oh, what did it matter? He didn’t care if she was a hundred and two. “I am twenty-five.”

  He regarded her in silence for a long minute. “You look much younger. At least you do when you’re not exhausted.”

  She bit back an unladylike snort of laughter. “I hold no illusions about my age, Mr. Rivera. I am a spinster. ‘On the shelf’ we would say back in Bos
ton.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “Might say that in Boston, but a man sure wouldn’t say that out here in the West.” He forked a bite of steak past his lips and chewed while she stared at him.

  He swallowed, still holding her gaze. “What happened to your mother?”

  “Mama got sick. By the time we reached Texas, she was coughing up blood and…” Her throat closed.

  “And?” he prompted. Instead of looking at her, he deliberately addressed the potatoes on his plate.

  “That is when I hired Fernanda. The priest at the mission brought her to me.”

  “Padre Ralph,” he murmured.

  “Why, yes. Fernanda helped me nurse Mama until she died.”

  “And then you…?” He left the question hanging.

  “Mama made me p-promise to carry on traveling and speaking out for women. Fernanda left Texas to accompany me.”

  He said nothing for so long she wondered if he regretted his probing.

  “I know Father Ralph. Or rather I knew him. I come from Texas, from Butte City, where Father Ralph’s mission is. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Fernanda told me. She confessed how she found you. How she threatened you, most likely.”

  “She didn’t have to threaten very hard. Fernanda knew my mother.”

  Caroline blinked. “That she did not tell me. Your mother was…at the mission, perhaps?”

  He laid down his fork. “No. My mother was Marguerite Anderson. She and my father owned most of Butte City.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was English. My father was Luis de Avalos-Rivera. Don Luis. Big ranches. Money.”

  “You are educated, are you not?”

  “Some. My mother hired tutors. My father hired vaqueros. Ranch hands.”

  “Is that why you ride so well? And shoot a gun with accuracy? Why you were a Texas Ranger?”

  “Partly. I didn’t join the Rangers until after my mother died. She was killed, along with my wife.”

  Caroline’s hand flew to her mouth and a spoonful of soup splashed onto the tablecloth. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.