Dark Warrior: To Tame a Wild Hawk (Dark Cloth) by Lenore Wolfe Page A

of the earth with the steady thrum of his own heart. He concentrated on the rhythm with all his might. If that it were to stop, then so too would his life in this world be at an end.
    Black beasts rose in liquid fire. They sniffed the air as though catching a scent. He could only watch as they turned from him, heading for someone. He saw her in the same moment as the beast, her hair lifting, floating around her as though caught by a breeze. Her gray-green eyes locked with his. He sensed the beast, sensed the primal hunger. The claws of pain sank deep into his arm as he fought to tear free—fought to reach her. She stood fearless, watching the beast. In an instant, it was upon her. The beast headed down the dark hole of nothingness. Looking at Hawk, it pulled her down after him. Her gaze remained steady, locked with his—as she sank from his sight.
    “You should have got out,” he raged. “It’s too late. I can’t save you. And it’s too late for me. The white man’s hell will claim me for all I have done.”
    He thrashed at the prison that anchored him. The claws of pain entered his arm and threaded their way through him, layering him like the bark on a tree, until it consumed him. This was not the way. This smelled of the danger he’d sensed for too long. This oozed of the evil he’d fought. He had taken his vengeance too far—and lost his soul.
     
    Mandy woke in the still of the night with a jerk. Blinking hard, she peered through the fuzz of deep sleep, trying to orient herself. When she realized where she was, her gaze shot to Hawk, breathing a sigh of relief when he groaned. His groaning must have been what woke her.
    He licked his lips and she brought him a glass of water. She touched his forehead. He had developed a fever. With a sigh of disappointment, Mandy realized he was more than just a little hot to the touch. She sat for a moment chewing on her lip. Finally, it occurred to her that she was feeling sorry for herself. Disgusted, she busied herself, straightening his sheets. She picked up the glass for a refill. When he spoke, she nearly dropped it on him.
    “Woman, what was the danger you sensed?” His voice sounded surprisingly strong.
    “I, uh . . .” Mandy searched for an answer. “What is the danger you dreamed of?” she countered.
    His eyebrow cocked. He tried to rise, failed, and fell back. “I believe they are intertwined.” Almost as an afterthought, he peered at her. “I cannot work like this. Knowing you are in danger and me—trapped in this bed.”
    “Go to sleep, Hawk,” Mandy told him. “You’re hot and in a lot of pain. We’ll talk when you’re better.”
    “I have to get out of here.” He tried again to sit up.
    Mandy pushed him back against the pillows. She felt the heat of him, the granite-hard muscles beneath her hands. She pulled away as if burned—trying to determine if the heat she felt had been his fever—or hers.
    Mandy stood and mixed some herbs into his glass of water and pressed it to his lips. “Drink, Hawk,” she softly commanded. He drank. He leaned back, sinking deep into the pillows. Mandy walked to the highboy dresser. Setting down the glass, she reached for a fresh blanket.
    “When I’m healed, I’m going to blister your backside for not telling me what I want to know.”
    Mandy gasped in shock at his crude remark. That had not come from the Hawk she knew him to be. Even if the Hawk she knew existed solely in her dreams. When she finally gathered up the courage to turn around, she found him asleep.
    “Of all the nerve,” she muttered. “Toss out a challenge like that and fall asleep before I can yell at you.” She covered him with the blanket. Picking up the pitcher, she blew out the lamp and went out for fresh water.
    She did not see the grin on the face of the so-called sleeping man she’d left behind in the dark.
    ***
    Three days later, an exhausted Mandy poured herself a cup of hot, steaming coffee in the little kitchen off the corner