incumbency.”
“Incumbency? You mean you are the son of a congressman?” Flaire asked. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It was my father’s accomplishment, not mine.”
“Still, one doesn’t meet the son of a congressman every day. Is he still in Congress?”
“No, my father was killed at Fredericksburg. He resigned from Congress and formed a regiment to fight in the war.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“A lot of good men, on both sides of the conflict, were killed in that war.”
“You said you and Culpepper served in the same regiment. Your father’s regiment?”
“Yes.”
“Then you really are friends of long standing.”
“There are some folks back home who might take exception at hearing someone call us old friends. Truth is, we fought a lot as kids. And we were always in competition with each other to see who could run the fastest, throw the farthest, catch the biggest fish, wrestle better, and shoot better, that sort of thing.”
“And who was the best?” Flaire asked, looking at him over the rim of her cup.
Hawke paused for a moment, then smiled. “I can say without fear of contradiction that I could play the piano better.”
“Yes. The whole town is talking about your concert yesterday. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Well, maybe I can play for you someday,” Hawke suggested. He finished his cup and set it down. “And, speaking of playing, I suppose I had better get back to work if I don’t want to get fired. Again, let me say that I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Delaney. And thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” Flaire said.
Chapter 5
FLAIRE MOVED TO THE FRONT WINDOW OF HER shop, and using the curtain as a shield, watched Hawke walk back toward the Golden Calf. Flaire had what her grandmother had called the “gift.” It wasn’t that she could actually look into a person’s soul, but she was sometimes disarmingly perceptive.
She was convinced that, at heart, Mason Hawke was a good man. But he had done some things, some terrible things, that scarred his soul. And she knew that he would carry those scars to his grave.
“I wish you could find peace, Mr. Hawke,” she said quietly. “But I know that you cannot. I know that you are doomed to wander for the rest of your life.”
Leaving the front window, Flaire went into the living quarters in the back of her shop and began changing clothes. Social custom dictated that she should continue to wear black for at least thirty days. But wearing black would be bad for her business. People did not want to buy gala dresses from someone who was dressed in black.
Flaire could not keep her thoughts of Hawke and his troubled past out of her mind. She could empathize with thescars on Hawke’s soul, because she had a few of her own.
Opening the door to the stove, she tossed some pieces of wood in, then watched as the little fingers of flame curled around them, licking at the kindling until the wood was totally invested.
She stared at the fire for a long moment, throwing her eyes out of focus, until she could see the three mounted men backlit by the burning barn. They were in silhouette, as if they were ghost riders from hell. Their faces could not be seen.
By now the animals in the barn were screaming in terror, the horses kicking at the sides of their stalls, underscoring the snapping and popping of the fire.
Shuddering, and pushing the unbidden, unwanted memories away, Flaire slammed the stove door shut, turned and walked away.
Because the Golden Calf was the only saloon in town, it was more than a drinking place. It was also a restaurant, meeting hall, and even a hotel of sorts, since there were rooms to rent upstairs.
The employees and habitués of the saloon were almost family, and over the next several days Hawke became acquainted with them.
Principal member of the Golden Calf family was Paddy O’Neil, the owner.
“I live here on the premises,” Paddy said. “Sure ’n’ there’s only one
“Incumbency? You mean you are the son of a congressman?” Flaire asked. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It was my father’s accomplishment, not mine.”
“Still, one doesn’t meet the son of a congressman every day. Is he still in Congress?”
“No, my father was killed at Fredericksburg. He resigned from Congress and formed a regiment to fight in the war.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“A lot of good men, on both sides of the conflict, were killed in that war.”
“You said you and Culpepper served in the same regiment. Your father’s regiment?”
“Yes.”
“Then you really are friends of long standing.”
“There are some folks back home who might take exception at hearing someone call us old friends. Truth is, we fought a lot as kids. And we were always in competition with each other to see who could run the fastest, throw the farthest, catch the biggest fish, wrestle better, and shoot better, that sort of thing.”
“And who was the best?” Flaire asked, looking at him over the rim of her cup.
Hawke paused for a moment, then smiled. “I can say without fear of contradiction that I could play the piano better.”
“Yes. The whole town is talking about your concert yesterday. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Well, maybe I can play for you someday,” Hawke suggested. He finished his cup and set it down. “And, speaking of playing, I suppose I had better get back to work if I don’t want to get fired. Again, let me say that I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Delaney. And thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” Flaire said.
Chapter 5
FLAIRE MOVED TO THE FRONT WINDOW OF HER shop, and using the curtain as a shield, watched Hawke walk back toward the Golden Calf. Flaire had what her grandmother had called the “gift.” It wasn’t that she could actually look into a person’s soul, but she was sometimes disarmingly perceptive.
She was convinced that, at heart, Mason Hawke was a good man. But he had done some things, some terrible things, that scarred his soul. And she knew that he would carry those scars to his grave.
“I wish you could find peace, Mr. Hawke,” she said quietly. “But I know that you cannot. I know that you are doomed to wander for the rest of your life.”
Leaving the front window, Flaire went into the living quarters in the back of her shop and began changing clothes. Social custom dictated that she should continue to wear black for at least thirty days. But wearing black would be bad for her business. People did not want to buy gala dresses from someone who was dressed in black.
Flaire could not keep her thoughts of Hawke and his troubled past out of her mind. She could empathize with thescars on Hawke’s soul, because she had a few of her own.
Opening the door to the stove, she tossed some pieces of wood in, then watched as the little fingers of flame curled around them, licking at the kindling until the wood was totally invested.
She stared at the fire for a long moment, throwing her eyes out of focus, until she could see the three mounted men backlit by the burning barn. They were in silhouette, as if they were ghost riders from hell. Their faces could not be seen.
By now the animals in the barn were screaming in terror, the horses kicking at the sides of their stalls, underscoring the snapping and popping of the fire.
Shuddering, and pushing the unbidden, unwanted memories away, Flaire slammed the stove door shut, turned and walked away.
Because the Golden Calf was the only saloon in town, it was more than a drinking place. It was also a restaurant, meeting hall, and even a hotel of sorts, since there were rooms to rent upstairs.
The employees and habitués of the saloon were almost family, and over the next several days Hawke became acquainted with them.
Principal member of the Golden Calf family was Paddy O’Neil, the owner.
“I live here on the premises,” Paddy said. “Sure ’n’ there’s only one
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