Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One

by Jane Bonander

  “You are to be congratulated,” Sky said, his smile softening.

  “I am?”

  “On keeping your head yesterday.”

  Anna glanced at Nicolas, who promptly looked away. “Oh. About the bear, you mean.”

  Sky nodded. “I may not have had the pleasure to meet you if you had tried to run away.”

  Anna brushed away the compliment. “Believe me, it wasn’t so much a matter of keeping my head as it was being unable to move my feet.”

  Anna felt Nicolas’s eyes on her even when Summer crawled into his lap and helped herself to a noisy sip of his drink.

  “Summer,” he chastised softly, taking the cup from her tiny hands. “You know you aren’t supposed to have pakami.” He looked up at Anna, his cold eyes belying the warmth in his voice. “June, bring Miss Jenson some pakami.”

  He motioned Anna to sit, and she slid onto a stool between the two men. June brought her a cup of the bright red cider, then made a hasty retreat.

  Anna tentatively took a sip. It was sweet. Very pleasant. She kept her eyes on her cup, nervously running her finger around the rim as silence hung over the table like a mantle of fog.

  Summer craned her neck and looked up at Nicolas. “Nick not happy?” She reached up and patted his purple scar.

  “I’m happy, Summer.” Nicolas took her tiny fingers and brought them to his lips.

  Anna looked away, unwilling to watch this gentle side of him.

  Summer frowned and looked at Anna. “Anya not happy. Anya cry when Summer swim.”

  Anna almost choked on her cider. She looked over and found Nicolas pinning her with a probing glare.

  “Oh,” Anna answered lightly, “I … it was nothing. I, ah … just had something in my eye,” she finished lamely.

  “Anya cry,” Summer insisted.

  “Oh, Summer, don’t be silly—”

  Sky cleared his throat, interrupting Anna, much to her relief. “I, ah …” he stammered, “I’ll be in the shed.” He finished his drink, left the table and headed toward a small wooden shed behind the children’s dormitory.

  The silence weighed heavily between Anna and Nicolas. Summer looked from one to the other. “Nick not happy?”

  He gave Summer a loud kiss on the cheek and lifted her off his lap. “I’m happy, sweetheart. Now run along and get something to eat.”

  Summer went over and hugged Anna around the waist. Anna smiled warmly and returned the gesture, kissing the top of Summer’s head. She watched the child run to Shy Fawn, who was busy sewing together pieces of fur for a blanket.

  Anna turned to say something to Nicolas, but her words froze in her throat and her smile slid off her face like water off a roof. Feeling his gaze burn her skin, she stifled the urge to squirm on the stool.

  With nervous fingers she lifted her cup to her lips, took another sip of cider and pretended interest in Summer as the child pulled on a busy Shy Fawn’s skirt. She took another sip. “This … this is very good.”

  Nicolas drained his cup and slammed it down on the tabletop.

  “What is it made of?”

  “Manzanita berries.” He drummed his fingers and looked toward the shed where Sky had disappeared.

  Anna couldn’t help but notice how anxious he was to get out of her company. “Don’t let me keep you,” she said, her voice holding a chilly edge.

  Nicolas’s left eyebrow quirked up. “I’ll leave when I’m damn good and ready.”

  Anna shook her head. If he insisted on being so bull-headed, she’d leave. She stood up.

  “Wait a minute.” His voice was hard.

  “Yes?” Her voice was frosty.

  “About last night …”

  Embarrassment showered over Anna, leaving her skin damp with perspiration. She turned toward him, her face carefully masked.

  “I just want you to know,” he said, his eyes sliding brazenly over her body, “that last night I could have screwed anyone. You were just available.”

  The hurtful words probed Anna’s flesh like thorns, but she schooled in her feelings and started to walk away.

  “Let’s call it what it was,” he said to her retreating back. “I needed a whore, and you were hot and handy.”

  The blood drained from her face and she felt shame surge through her body. With strength she had never tapped, she slipped behind a veil of disdain, turned and glared at him. “Oh, no need to explain. It was the same for me.”

  Without waiting for his response, Anna walked woodenly to the cabin and slammed the door behind her, leaning against it for support. Her knees were weak and she was numb with pain. She pressed her shaking fingers against her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could block out the vision of his handsome, arrogant face when he had looked at her. His eyes had been filled with loathing and his mouth had spewed words that were clearly dipped in poison and aimed at her heart.

  Angry tears forced their way through her senses. She’d vowed never to let him touch her again, and after this, she knew it wouldn’t be a problem at all. He was hateful. So very sure of his affect on her. Well, that was the last time he’d get a chance to cheapen her. She was worth a lot more than that, and now she knew she was strong enough to keep him away.

  An angry resolve settled around her heart, and she turned and went to the commode, forcing her head up and staring at herself in the mirror.

  Ignoring the anger in her eyes, she pulled her hair back from her face and looked at her high forehead. High forehead, honest person. Her mother’s words strummed in her brain, and she smiled. The smile softened her face, but her eyes still held a mixture of pain and fury.

  She bent closer to the mirror and frowned. Bringing her fingers to her cheek, she stroked them gently over the smattering of tiny tan freckles that spread over the top of her nose and across each cheekbone. Never had her face seen this much color.

  She unbuttoned her bodice and opened it, revealing the clear porcelain skin above her breasts. Such a contrast to her face and her neck. She quickly unbuttoned the buttons at her wrists and shoved her sleeves to her elbows. She looked at the back of her hands, then turned them over where the skin was shades lighter, but intensely callused.

  As she looked back at her reflection, she wondered who this new roughened, rustic Anna Jenson was. She touched the locket, then swiftly undid the clasp on the chain and removed it from around her neck. Glaring down at it, she wondered why she hadn’t gotten rid of it long before this. Sighing, she realized she was still a pitiful creature of habit.

  Using her fingernail to pry the locket open, she looked inside at the two pellets of cyanide. As she flipped it shut, she thought of her mother’s reasons for giving her the pills. She wondered what her mother would think if she ever discovered she had elected to stay among the “savages” rather than swallow the poison and die.

  She shuddered. Holding the locket in her fist, she crossed to her trunk and dropped the death medallion into a pocket inside.

  It seemed a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She knew what she had to do. As much as she was tempted to run and take her chances in a fruitless attempt to get away, she felt her obligation toward the children more strongly than she ever had before.

  Anna finished unbuttoning her dress and stepped out of it, laying it carefully over the back of the armchair. As she removed her crinolines, she noticed the hems were ragged and dirty from being dragged over the dirt and the grass. Surprisingly, she found it didn’t matter. She didn’t know why she was wearing them, anyway. They were cumbersome and served absolutely no purpose in the wilderness. She unhooked her corset and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Shoving all of her heavy, clumsy under things under her arm, she went to the fireplace and stoked up her fire. When it was hot and roaring, she unceremoniously tossed her corset and her crinolines into the heated flames and stood back, watching the fabric quickly disappear into black, sooty debris.

  Waste not, want not. She shook her head. The saying didn’t apply to her here, i
n the middle of nowhere. At least not when it came to something as useless as ornamental underwear.

  She took off the rest of her undergarments and slipped into her nightgown and robe. Taking a buoyant breath, she pulled her book of theory off the shelf and put it on the table. When she had all of her supplies in front of her, she sat down and started to work.

  Nicolas Gaspard wasn’t going to berate her into thinking she wasn’t worthy. He could go stick his swelled head inside a grizzly’s mouth, for all she cared. She had some flaws, she knew that. She trusted people too quickly. Well, no more! She’d learn to look at everyone with a jaundiced eye, and somehow learn to quell those trusting feelings, to tamp them down like so much tobacco in the bowl of a pipe.

  She quickly read through two pages of her book and wrote down a number of new ideas she could try on the children. She was a good teacher. No, she was an excellent teacher. And nothing else mattered. It was what she was here for.

  She worked industriously for nearly an hour, then pushed her chair back and crossed to the commode to pour herself a drink of water. As she picked up the delicate porcelain pitcher, she noticed the tiny, threadlike cracks that snaked over the surface.

  Setting the pitcher gently into the empty basin after she’d gotten her drink, she ran her fingers over the cracks. How easy it would be to shatter this beautiful useful object. Yet handled carefully, something unseen was holding it together and there was a oneness to all of its many pieces.

  A weary smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She and the children were like that. She was the thing that was holding them together, preparing them to be a part of the intruding white society. As a whole, they, like the pitcher, would contribute. If she left, they would be shattered, and eventually swept into the dustbin of life. She rolled her eyes at her dramatic, poetic thoughts and returned to the table, energized.

  She’d never done anything half measure, and she wouldn’t start now. As hard as she would work at educating the children, she knew she would have to work even harder at not allowing Nicolas Gaspard’s scorn to weaken her.

  “Tell it again!” Nicolas slurred as he weaved out of the shallow water and dropped down on the grass, laughing so hard his sides hurt. No one was feeling any pain, thanks to Joke and the bottle of whiskey he had produced after their labor earlier in the afternoon.

  Sky, whose arm was slung across Joke’s shoulders, stumbled out of the water. Both he and Joke flopped down beside Nicolas.

  “I have—” Sky smacked his lips together and frowned. “Aw, shit. I am numb,” he muttered, his English still proper although he was drunk. He pursed his lips at his companions, who pursed theirs back at him. “I have already tol’ you the story two times,” he said, holding up three fingers.

  Nicolas rubbed his hands across his naked chest, then up over his face. “C’mon, once more. Tell us again how Dolf shot the friggin’ cow!” The three of them had spent the afternoon in the slaughter shed, carving up the animal that Dolf Mueller, Marcus’s father-in-law, had shot by mistake.

  Sky emitted a healthy belch, stood up and planted his bare feet wide apart. Lifting his arms as if he were holding a gun, he bent his head and pretended to look down the barrel. “Mein Gott!” he spewed in less than perfect German. “Dare’s a fuckin’ savitch sneakin’ ’round my barn!”

  Nicolas and Joke laughed raucously, tears streaming down their cheeks as they rolled from a sitting position onto their backs.

  Sky stuck out his chest. “Veil, shee-it,” he mimicked, attempting to capture Mueller’s thick German accent. “I’m gonna blow da bastard’s brains out!”

  Nicolas sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand while Joke thumped the ground with his fist as he tried to catch his breath.

  Sky, “shotgun” in hand, walked apelike, his toes turned in, toward the water. Raising his arms and taking aim, he made the sound of exploding shot. “Dat’s vot you get for sneakin’ ’round my barn, you filthy, no good, stoopid Injun!”

  He lumbered over a few more feet and looked down at the grass. “Mein Gott!” He looked over his shoulder, a stupid expression on his face. “Veil, I’ll be a skunk’s ass. I shot my own goddam cow.”

  All three of them laughed again, and Nicolas and Joke slapped each other on the back companionably.

  As Joke pulled on his loose buckskins over his skinny legs, he topped Sky’s earlier belch with one that split the quiet air. “Holy smoke,” he said, rubbing his stomach as he started up the hill. “Tomorrow Joke gonna feel like he was et by a bear and shit over a cliff.”

  Nicolas groaned, unwilling to move off his back. “That’ll make two of us.” He turned his head and watched his friends start up the hill. “Gonna leave me here?”

  Sky plodded up slowly. “It’s not smart to sleep with your bare ass on the grass, my friend.” He turned and gave Nicolas a rakish grin. “Something might bite your pene. And the Great Spirit knows none of us can afford to lose a precious inch.”

  Sky’s reference to his manhood made Nicolas laugh. He stared up through the trees. Hell, he wasn’t really drunk. He pinched the skin of one elbow between his fingers. So he couldn’t feel his elbows. So what? He wasn’t drunk. That was usually the sign, although he hadn’t been drunk in years.

  He looked for Orion and Ursa Major in the night sky. Frowning, he craned his neck and found them behind him. What in the hell were they doing back there? “Don’t play tricks on me, ol’ buddies,” he threatened, unaware that his speech was still slightly slurred.

  “I don’t need anyone else playin’ tricks on me,” he grumbled, suddenly thinking about the soft, sweet woman who slept in the cabin under the trees.

  He sat up and hung his arms loosely over his flexed knees. He let out a guttural curse, a sound that brought Diablo from the river’s edge to his side. The animal nuzzled the top of Nicolas’s head.

  “You didn’t see it, fella.” Nicolas reached up and rubbed the horse’s muzzle. “You didn’t see how she dug her nails into my bare ass and pulled me against her so tight—”

  He stood up using Diablo for support. “Guess I should put on my pants.” He looked around him and at the dock. “Where in hell are my pants, boy?”

  He made a cursory search of the grass and scratched his head. “I’ll be damned. Someone took my pants.”

  Disgusted, he said, “She probably sneaked down here and took ’um. Sure,” he said to the empty air. “She took my clothes ’cause she wants to see me naked.” He laughed, the sharp sound cracking the air. “Hell, what do I care? I lived most of my first ten years without clothes. Hell, if she wants to see naked, I’ll show her ‘naked.’ ”

  With uncommon grace, considering his condition, he swung himself onto Diablo’s back and rode toward the cabin. By the time he had reached his destination, he still couldn’t feel his elbows, but he was pretty damn sure he was sober because he could feel his knees.

  Sitting atop his horse, buck naked, he stared at the cabin window, trying to recall why he was here. Then he remembered. Anna, the virginal whore, had stolen his pants. And hell, that must mean she wanted him again. Her little act hadn’t worked this afternoon. She was probably just embarrassed that he’d caught on to her so fast. He wondered if she’d had as many men as Sarabeth, who had been delighted to tell him about every one of them. He hadn’t met a white woman who hadn’t been willing to spread her legs for him, a half-blood savage. Anna “hot and handy” Jenson was no different. And that was why she’d stolen his pants.

  His manhood swelled and hardened in the cool night air, itching for action. She wanted action? Well, he’d sure as hell give it to her. And they’d both enjoy it, he thought with an angry twist of his mouth. He didn’t need his goddam pants.

  Dismounting, he marched to the cabin door and flung it open with such force that it slammed against the inside wall. He stepped brazenly inside. His eyes narrowed at the woman who sat up quickly in bed, her eyes wide as she modestly pulled the blankets up to her soft, dimpled chin.

 
Nicolas slammed the door behind him and walked to the bed. “What in hell did you do with my pants?”

  “Nicolas,” she said, her voice high-pitched and shaking as she pulled the bed covers closer around her neck. “What are you talking about?”

  Firelight glanced off her shiny, golden hair. “You took my pants,” he accused inanely.

  “Your pants?”

  He heaved a disgusted sigh. “While I was swimming, you took my pants. Obv’usly you wanted me to come looking for ’um.”

  “You’re drunk!” she said with disbelief.

  “Madam, I never get drunk. See?” he said, pulling at the skin of his numb elbow. “I can almost feel my elbow. I am not drunk.”

  “Go to bed, Nicolas,” Anna said, sliding down under her covers and turning away from him, as if expecting that he would leave if she ignored him.

  “I fully intend to, madam, but first,” he said in a logical tone, “I am going to share your blanket.”

  “Oh, get your own blanket,” she answered, her voice muffled.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “That, my prim little schoolmarm, is jus’ a figure of speech.” He put his knee on the bed. “In reality, madam,” he continued, “it means we’re going to dance the blanket hornpipe; do a little belly-warming; Adam and Eve it; get Jack in the orchard; grope for trout; make the beast with two backs; put the devil into hell.”

  Anna had turned over in bed and was staring at him, the bedding to her chin.

  “In short, my sweet,” he added, putting his hands on either side of her to keep the room from spinning, “we are going to play a little game of stallion and mare.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Anna gasped in surprise as Nicolas collapsed on top of her.

  “Nicolas?” When she received no answer, she pushed at his shoulders. Lord, he couldn’t be any heavier if he were dead, she thought as she pulled herself out from beneath him.