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

by Jane Bonander

  Nicolas’s sneering remarks earlier in the morning had stayed with her all day. Each time his voice had sounded in her head, she’d wanted to throw and break something. I didn’t get what I came for last night … Do you like what you see? She shuddered and clamped a lid on her raw feelings.

  She kicked off her worn slippers, sending them flying across the room. Sighing loudly, she tried to think of something else, but it wasn’t possible. Somehow she couldn’t help feeling what had happened was partly her fault. Yes, he’d been vicious and cruel, calling her names as he forced himself on her. But she’d hurled hurtful words at him, too, calling him “bastard half-breed” and “savage.”

  She rubbed her hand over her arm and winced when she touched a tender spot just above her elbow. She rolled up her sleeve and twisted her arm around to look at the skin. There was a large, round bruise from where Nicolas had gripped her arm. She dropped her hand to her lap and noticed how easily her unbuttoned sleeve slid down over her wrist.

  She stood up and walked to the mirror. Taking a few steps back, she tried to see herself full-length in the glass. She posed this way and that, then turned to the side. She was all but disappearing.

  She knew she’d lost some weight, but she hadn’t felt weak or frail. Actually, she thought, standing on her toes and flexing her calves, she felt quite strong.

  But not strong enough to fight off Nicolas. She sighed, No, and she had tried. She really had. But she was no match for him.

  She swung angrily from the mirror and went over to stoke up the fire. With each thrust of the poker, she envisioned his smug, arrogant face.

  How dare he speak to her of his heroic efforts to save his people from the “cruel, hateful,” white man. How dare he. How dare he expect any sympathy from her, when he forced himself on her the very way a white man had forced himself on his darling, precious Shy Fawn!

  But it wasn’t the same. She stood back and watched the fire catch on the dry tinder. No matter how angry she was with him, she was far angrier with herself for succumbing to the very urges she’d vowed to bury.

  As she crossed to the commode again, she pulled out her hair pins and dropped them into the dish next to the basin. Nicolas was such an angry man. It was as if he couldn’t stand white women but couldn’t stay away from them, either. And she was the only game in town.

  Game. She paused, remembering what he’d said after he’d kissed her the first time. He’d accused her of playing a game then. Now, there was no doubt that he was playing a game with her. A game of force, seduction, passion. A game that ended by leaving her wondering what she’d done to make him angry. She didn’t understand him. She never would. But it didn’t matter. If he was smart, he’d make himself as scarce as a sober Swede in a roomful of drunken Norwegians.

  She closed her eyes, shook out her hair and massaged her scalp. All this thinking about Nicolas was giving her a headache. A knock at the door made her look up.

  “Who is it?” She prayed it wasn’t Nicolas.

  “Joke.”

  Relief flooded her. “Come in.”

  Joke opened the door and grinned at her. “Joke have surprise for Missy Anna.”

  “For me?” She peered around him.

  “Missy Anna come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “Joke can’t tell. It’s a surprise.”

  Anna slid slowly into her slippers. She guessed it wouldn’t hurt to follow him—at a safe distance. Her feelings for Nicolas left her skeptical of everyone else’s motives.

  “Come on,” he urged, when she hung back.

  Anna followed him into the dank, dark smithy and realized she’d never been all the way inside before. A raging fire was burning in the forge, and there were horseshoes stacked neatly on a table in front of it. Leather bridles hung from pegs on the wall, and saddles were thrown over wooden sawhorses.

  “What are you going to give me. A horse?” she teased.

  “Nope. Something better. Something Missy Anna want.”

  Anna hurried along behind him, out the back door of the shop. He stopped in front of a low, earth-covered structure, turned and gave her his toothless grin.

  “What’s this?” she asked suspiciously. It looked like a giant anthill.

  He nodded toward the hole cut in the sod roof. “Go in. Look.”

  She looked at him with a leery eye. “Is this another of your jokes?”

  “No, no.” He laughed as he took her hand and led her to the opening. “Go in through smoke hole.” He disappeared into the earth, calling for her to follow him.

  Anna stared at the opening. What in the world did she want that could be in a hole in the ground? Shrugging helplessly, she picked up her skirt, climbed to the hole and discovered a wooden ladder leading down into a dark, cool room. Carefully stepping down the rungs, she reached the bottom and blinked until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Joke stepped to her side. “Sweathouse,” he said proudly.

  She slowly turned and looked at the earthen room. A fire burned in the middle, the smoke wafting out through a smaller hole in the ceiling. “Joke, I’m honored.” She knew this was a place reserved for the men. Only special women were allowed inside the sweathouse.

  Joke took her hand. “Come. Over here.”

  She followed him to the fire, and as her eyes adjusted further to the dark, she saw a large copper tub. Her heart leaped expectantly. “Joke?”

  Joke went and stood by the tub, grinning like a boy. “For Missy Anna.”

  She saw the steam rising from the vessel, hurried over and looked at the hot, sudsy water. “Oh, Joke! A bath! Oh, thank you!” She turned and threw her arms around his neck and gave him a fierce hug.

  When she let go, he backed away from her, clearly embarrassed by such a show of affection.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice soft. “This is wonderful. How did you know?”

  He ducked his head, played with his hair and mumbled something she couldn’t understand.

  “What?”

  He gave her a sheepish grin. “Nick ask Joke to do it.”

  “Nicolas?” All the warmth that had spread through her body at his thoughtfulness left. She stood stiffly by the tub, suddenly feeling cold as a winter morning.

  “I see.” The urge to push the tub over and watch the water seep into the packed earth floor was very, very strong.

  He shifted nervously. “Joke leave now.” He climbed the ladder and disappeared above ground.

  Anna crossed her arms over her chest, took a deep breath and turned back to the tub. Lord knows, I want a bath. Her body cried for her to shed her clothes and sink into the soapy, beckoning water. As much as she wanted to leave it untouched, she knew she couldn’t. She’d dreamed of this for too long.

  Well, she’d take a bath, but she wouldn’t enjoy it, she rationalized, sticking her stubborn nose into the air. She’d be in and out of the water so fast, no one would know she’d even used it.

  As she unbuttoned her dress and kicked off her slippers, she eyed the steamy water. It was tempting to pour it out unused, then make sure Nicolas heard about it, but it was also very childish. She took off the last of her undergarments and stuck her toe into the water. Swallowing an ecstatic sigh of anticipation, she climbed in and sat down, slipping deeper until water lapped at her breasts.

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the back of the tub. Oh, how glorious! It had been months since she’d even seen a bathtub, much less used one. An apparition of Nicolas’s face rose from the steamy water, sternly reminding her to wash quickly, then get out. But as the water relaxed her and her arms floated limply at her sides, she found herself fighting to stay awake.

  The next thing she knew, the water was cool. She opened her eyes and scolded herself for falling asleep. Spying soap and a cloth on the shelf next to the tub, she reached for both and started to wash. When she’d finished shampooing her hair, she left the tub, dried off, and pulled on her dress. With her underwear wrapped into a ball under her arm, she
left the subterranean room.

  Anna stepped into the cabin and closed the door.

  “Enjoy your bath?”

  She whirled around. Nicolas lounged in the chair by the fireplace, one long leg thrown arrogantly over the arm, the other stretched out in front of him.

  Her bath had done nothing to cool her anger. She glared at him, marched to her bed and spread the damp towel over the brass headboard.

  “Get out of my cabin.” Get out of my life! She fussed with her bedding, pretending to straighten some nonexistent wrinkles in the quilt.

  “I asked if you enjoyed your bath,” he repeated, sounding maddeningly smug.

  She swung around and jammed her fists on her hips. “I had more pleasure bathing in the river and running away from the grizzly,” she lied. She turned away, realizing that if she looked at him a minute longer she’d either bawl like a baby or throw something at him, and it infuriated her that he had so much control over her emotions.

  “No need to carry on so,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “A simple thank you will do.”

  She took a deep breath and turned around again. “You conceited bastard,” she hissed. “And I do mean bastard.” She waited for some kind of response. All she got was a lazy lift of one black eyebrow. The rest of him, the haughty, savage rest of him, sat there, as if expecting her to pay homage to his lofty presence. Lord, but he was a pompous ass.

  “You are,” she began, barely able to control her anger, “the most despicable kind of man on earth. And I use the word ‘man’ lightly.” She glared at him. Still no response.

  She took a few well-paced steps toward him, her chin set at a defiant angle. “You think all you have to do to wipe out the hurt you cause others is give them something. Well,” she said, getting up a full head of steam, “it won’t work with me. Nothing you do or say can erase what you did to me this morning.”

  There was a slight flicker in his eyes, but his face remained austere, almost derisive, and he said nothing.

  She threw her hands up and walked to the window. “I can see it all now. Coward that you are, you got poor, simple Joke to do your dirty work, hoping I’d be so grateful for the bath I’d forgive you and fall at your feet.” She turned and looked at him again. “Is that what usually happens with your … women?”

  He stared back at her, his face as blank as a tree stump. He merely shifted in the chair, crossing his booted feet at the ankles.

  Anna shook her head. “That’s it, isn’t it? You treat them like garbage, then buy them something pretty, or … or do them a little favor, and they’re all over you like maggots on a dead skunk.”

  She looked away again, and when her eyes came back to meet his, she saw a self-assured smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

  “Not a very attractive comparison, but close enough.”

  She stormed to the door and pulled it open. “Out. Get out!”

  Nicolas slowly got out of the chair, and, taking his time, swaggered toward her. Once in front of her, he stood so close she could feel his heat. Blazing heat. Lusty heat. Familiar, tempting heat. Her first instinct was to step back, but she stood her ground and glared up at him.

  Suddenly he reached out and touched her chin. She swallowed, cursing the shudder of pleasure that rippled across her skin.

  “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ ” he quoted, his face mere inches from her own.

  Anna forced her eyes up to meet his. ‘Take your hand off me.”

  He gave her a lazy smile, but his eyes were gray and cold. “Drop the act, schoolmistress. I know what you really are.”

  She glared at him, refusing to take his earthy bait.

  “I know,” he whispered, his mouth hovering above hers, “that by day you’re starchy, straight-laced, and frustrated. But at night, or,” he added, his mouth quirking into an evil smile, “early in the morning, you’re passionate, exciting, and very, very hot. ”

  Anna’s knees would have given way if she hadn’t been clinging to the door. “I told you,” she said, looking at his firm, warm mouth, “to get … out.”

  His hand left her face, slid down her neck and over her breasts. When her nipples hardened beneath his touch, he laughed, the sound intimate and seductive. He ran his thumb back and forth across the front of her dress, molding and shaping her nipple to suit him.

  “Your body doesn’t lie, schoolmistress.”

  Wet heat burst low in Anna’s belly, and she hated it. She hated him. “My body responds the same way to ice water, half-breed.”

  His hands slid to her waist and he pulled her against him, forcing her to feel his full, hard groin. “Like hell.”

  She pushed against his chest, frantic to get away from him. “I said,” she rasped, “get out!”

  Abruptly, he released her. Anna stumbled back from the door, her hand pressed against the pulse at her throat.

  “Remember,” he said, his hand on the door handle. “I know what you really are.”

  She rushed to the door, pushing it shut and throwing the latch. She leaned against the roughened wood and took in great gulps of air. How she hated him. How she hated him for seeing right through her to the wicked, wanton woman she became whenever he touched her.

  She looked down at the front of her dress. Her loose breasts still stood out proudly, the nipples hard and pointed against the fabric.

  She shoved herself away from the door and glanced at her trunk. Slowly, wearily, she crossed to it, opened it and rummaged through it, searching for her lighter nightgown. She couldn’t find it.

  She stood up and looked around the room. She didn’t remember unpacking any of her underthings. Her gaze fell on the small, two-drawer dresser tucked away in the corner by the fireplace. She’d never even looked in those drawers, much less put anything of hers in them.

  It wouldn’t hurt to look. She’d been so frightened and confused that first week, she could have unpacked and not even remembered it.

  Stepping to the dresser, she pulled out the top drawer. Empty. As she pulled out the second drawer, something folded at the bottom caught her eye. She lifted out a butter-soft buckskin dress with fringes at the sleeves and hem.

  Filled with awe, she sat down, the dress in her lap. She ran her hands over the smooth, plain surface, then up across the bodice where rows of winking black beads and delicate shells had been sewn.

  It was beautiful. Crossing to the mirror, she held the dress up in front of her. Even clamped hastily against her body, the dress hung in soft, gentle folds. The fringes at the hem of the skirt fluttered near her ankles, and the beads at the neck glinted in the light. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

  She examined the workmanship carefully, realizing that the dress wasn’t new, for where it had been folded, the leather was dark, as if dust, and time, had rested there.

  She draped the dress carefully over the back of the chair, looked into the drawer again and pulled out a delicate nightgown of thin white lawn, trimmed at the neck and arm holes with blue grosgrain ribbon.

  She brought the soft fabric to her nose. It smelled new. She frowned, wondering who the garments had belonged to. It didn’t really matter. She obviously had left her own lighter gown at home, and she was going to have to use this one. At least until her own was dry. She rubbed the gown against her cheek. Surely no one would care if she borrowed it. She’d be very careful with it, and launder it before she left.

  An odd sense of sadness spread through her. Before she left. Was she sad because she didn’t know if she would ever be allowed to leave, or was she sad because one day she would have to leave?

  In spite of her most recent confrontation with Nicolas, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. After all, she had so much to teach the children. And that was the only reason she was here. That was the only reason that counted.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hot August sun beat down on the roof of the large, two-story adobe house that sat nestled against the dry, brown hills. The wooden shutters hug
ging both sides of the eight-over-eight-pane double-hung windows that faced the afternoon sun had begun to show the weathering of age. But beneath them, under the balcony, the solid mahogany front door with its shiny brass fixtures still looked new.

  Inside the structure, in a bookcase-lined room with rich, highly polished oak floor planking and austere window-length concertina shutters, Nicolas watched his half-brother Marcus toss the letter he’d just read onto the desk and leave the room.

  Nicolas rose from the camel-back settee and crossed to the window. The letter from Anna’s mother indicated that Anna had, indeed, left Oregon in May on the California and Oregon Stage bound for Pine Valley. Guilt-ridden, Nicolas had sat down at least a dozen times to write an anonymous note to Anna’s family, telling them she was safe.

  He carefully reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and touched the letter Anna had written and asked Sky to mail for her. He was torn between mailing it as it was and opening it to make sure she hadn’t said anything damning. One way or the other, he knew the Jensons would have to be told their daughter was alive and well.

  He turned from the window, went to the desk and picked up the letter from Anna’s mother. He read it again, still puzzled at the coldness of it. Certainly Marcus had frightened them with his harsh, bare-bones note, asking them why she’d never arrived. Why, then, was there no more warmth or concern in the answering letter then there was in a mercantile supply list?

  He folded the paper and brought one of the ends to his chin, scraping it back and forth, listening to the sandy sound it made against his whisker-rough skin. A day hadn’t gone by that he hadn’t thought about Anna. He thought about how sweet and gentle she was with the children. He saw her in his mind, water-logged, as she’d struggled up the hill with Summer after their dunking at the river. He saw her meticulously dabbing skunk oil on Joke’s filthy scalp, holding in her repugnance so she wouldn’t hurt his feelings. He thought of how complete he’d felt buried in her warmth, and how much he wanted to go back to her and bury himself there again. Then he thought of their last meeting and shame surged through him.