Jude Deveraux, Linda Howard et al - Anthology - Upon A Midnight Clear

by Upon A Midnight Clear (lit)

  Violet eyes glowered at him; dusty lashes blinked in rapid succession. She was spitting mad. He couldn't release her yet.

  "Now listen." He brought his nose smack up to hers. "If I let you go, you'd better not be screaming because these canyons carry noise—if Newt didn't hear us already. I've known him for a while, but I can't vouch for a man's character when money's at stake. No telling what he might do if he finds us up here. He travels with a Colt, and I don't want to be on the barrel end of it."

  John gripped her arm tighter. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. If you open your lips to do more than whisper, you're going to be sorry."

  Slowly, he pulled his hand away.

  Isabel's nostrils flared. In a low voice, she ground out, "I was never one of the girls in the true sense."

  Her words sluiced over him like warm rain after a drought, bringing solace and… relief. Why, he didn't Want to confront. It shouldn't have mattered to him.

  With brows furrowed, she asked, "What's this Newt look like?"

  "Lanky. Sandy hair. Small gap between his front teeth. Chews tobacco."

  To his surprise, she laughed. She rolled onto her back and softly laughed.

  He kept his hand on her arm, only now he stretched across her waist… just below the swells of her breasts.

  "Oh, him. I know who he is."

  That niggling feeling rose in John again, green and ugly. She knew who Newt was.

  She quieted her laughter and turned to him. "I locked Newt in the closet."

  "What for?"

  The mirth in her eyes faded. "Because I couldn't go through with it, that's why. I thought I could."

  John eased onto his side, but kept his arm draped over Isabel. She made no move to fling him off her. "Why'd you go there in the first place?"

  "I was down on my luck and the Blossom seemed a sure way to improve it. All I was thinking about was the money." Her lashes swept down. "And that I wasn't giving anything up, so I had nothing to lose."

  The implication came across clear. She wasn't a virgin.

  "I wasn't cut out to be a floozie. I had to wear this scrap of silk Fern told me to put on. The skirt was lemon yellow and the bodice had white lace all over the top and straps—like blossoms. And it had lemon-scented sachets sewn into the hem____"

  John listened, but didn't really hear her. He was picturing Isabel in a yellow dress and smelling like lemon blossoms. Maybe with her inky black hair all curled and piled high on her head. If he'd been in the Blossom that night, he would have paid Fern whatever she wanted for a chance to be with Isabel…

  "… Fern gave all the girls names the night I started. Said it was a costume party in honor of my… well—" A blush brought a stain of color to her cheeks. "My first time. She called me Miss Lemon Blossom. It was downright humiliating."

  Watching her lips as she spoke, John grew mesmerized.

  "I had to sit in the parlor and socialize. Then that friend of yours—Newt—he and Fern started talking, and the next thing I'm being told to go up to my room and he's following. Once inside, he starts getting all hands with me right away. I told him I kept a pretty wrapper in the closet and asked him to get it for me. Once he was in the door's opening, I shoved him inside and locked him in the closet."

  In spite of the serious set of Isabel's brow, John couldn't help smiling. Newt must have blown a gasket.

  "I can't imagine why he'd go around telling people that he and I were… well, you know. That no-good bluffer. I ought to shoot him with my derringer."

  "What did you expect him to say? Can't have a man go upstairs with a wh—" He cleared his throat. "A floozie, and then tell the local bartender he got locked in a closet. Wounds a man's pride. He had to say you were a real mer—" John cut his words short.

  Isabel looked into his face. "I suppose he said a lot of indecent things about me."

  John lied, "Not much," then slowly added, "No more than the deputy and foreman from Sun-Blessed."

  Fire lit her eyes to amethysts. "They couldn't have boasted about getting any different treatment than Newt did. I handcuffed the deputy to the bed and left the foreman on the balcony. I let them all go after their hour was up."

  Shrugging, she went on, "I thought they'd want their money back, but when Fern didn't stir up a fuss… I assumed they were too embarrassed to ask for a refund."

  Her line of rationalization sounded convincing—convincing from a woman's point of view. But from a man's, that was another story. A man would never let on he'd been gypped out of his frolicking by a woman smarter than him. And John had to admit, Isabel was a smart woman.

  "Then Duster came in," she said, brushing the talc off her white blouse now soiled with reddish dirt. "He didn't want a thing from me other than conversation. We stayed in the kitchen the rest of the night and drank coffee until sunup. After Fern closed the doors, I told her I quit and I walked out." Musing replaced the soft curve on her mouth. "It was the first time I wasn't fired from a job. No, wait… I take that back. I quit the Ramona Hotel. I guess it was the first time I wasn't fired from a job in Limonero."

  She stated the fact without any grudge in her tone. Compassion overcame John's usual live-and-let-live manner. He wanted to console her.

  John reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture felt natural, and he marveled in the glossy softness of the wisp. When she didn't swat at his hand, he let the sense of pleasure he'd been holding at bay work through him.

  For a wavering few heartbeats, they shared an intense physical interest in the other. They were focused only on each other's face, and John wanted to bring his mouth over hers but didn't want to move and lose the moment.

  Then Isabel half-smiled and sat up. "I don't know why I told you all this."

  As if a hot Santa Ana wind had come down on him, John's thoughts of kissing Isabel Burche evaporated. He pushed himself to sitting, knocking the twigs and sand from his pants legs.

  John couldn't rid the tightness in his voice when he said, "I expect you'd have told somebody sometime."

  "But I told you."

  "Yep."

  She heaved a great sigh. "I never have enough to do what I want. I thought working at the Blossom could give it to me."

  "Money, you mean."

  "Yes… money."

  "I never have any extra either."

  "That's why we have to win this contest."

  For a haphazard couple of seconds, John had allowed himself to think Isabel was glad they were partners. But he wasn't so sure. Hell, she would probably have been better off if they weren't—because his mind wasn't clear at the moment. He was thinking of her more as a desirable woman and less of a fifty-fifty partner.

  "Well, we aren't going to win it sitting on our duffs."

  John got to his feet and held a hand down for Isabel. She grasped it, and he berated himself for reveling in her touch. Gruffly, he knocked the stems of flannel bush from her shoulder and hair, forcing himself not to feel.

  "Best we make sure Newt's gone. Then well ride up farther and finish out the day."

  She nodded.

  A little later, they were on their horses. She rode in front of him. John got to watch the gentle motion of Isabel's shoulders; see the way the sun shone on her black braid; appreciate the outline of her backside in the split skirt she wore.

  The view was worth all the stalls he'd be mucking out for the next couple of months in order to work off the loan of her piebald mare.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  John bellied up to the polished bar at the California Republic Saloon and spilled twenty-five berries on the counter.

  "Pour me a tequila, Saul."

  As Saul went for the liquor, John avoided his reflection in the back bar's long mirror. It wasn't as if he couldn't face himself. He had every right to these berries. He'd gone on a late-night scout and had only picked the twenty-five needed for a midnight drink. He shouldn't be feeling guilty. There was no reason to share with Isabel. He'd throw
n in everything else he picked. His intentions were still on the up and up.

  But for right now, he needed the tequila to smooth over his rocky emotions.

  He'd never been so… heroic… around a woman—first, getting her a horse by promising to shovel its apples, then making a half-dozen trips for water at dawn when he could have been catching a few extra winks in bed.

  What had gotten into him?

  No liquor is what. His brain had dried up. As soon as he had a drink, he'd be back to his old self. John licked his lips in anticipation.

  Saul turned around, set the drink down, and slid it toward John.

  "You can take your hands off the glass, Saul," John said confidently. "It's all there. Twenty-five berries. Count 'em if you don't trust me."

  The barkeep's fingers remained on the shot glass's circumference. "I trust you, John. But tequila's gone up to fifty berries. Berry inflation."

  John's spirits plummeted. "What was that?"

  Motioning to the sign, Saul read, "All drinks are to be paid for with berries, at a predetermined price set by the barkeep."

  "Well, hell!" John erupted, removing his hat and then smashing it back on. "Pour me a damn beer then."

  With quiet emphasis, Saul explained, "Beer's thirty berries."

  "But I only have twenty-five berries!" Taking off his Stetson once more, he was vaguely aware of creasing the crown and resettling the brim over his forehead again. "Pour me a damn half a beer!"

  "Sorry, John. No discounts."

  Muttering a string of oaths, John stood.

  Newt Slocum had the misfortune of entering the Republic with a grin on his mug. "Hey, John. Haven't seen you around."

  Without a word, John coiled his arm back and hit Newt square on the jaw with a punch that sent him reeling backward into a limp heap. "That's for lying about Isabel."

  Then John stormed out of the saloon and left thoughts of Newt behind.

  Somebody was out to get him. He didn't know exactly who, but somewhere, somebody, was thinking this was a hell of a funny one to pull over on John Wolcott—shut off the tap to his liquor by decreasing the value of berries.

  He shoved the swinging doors and stood on the darkened boardwalk. A thin moon spilled down on Main Street. In its pale milky cast, a golf ball flew past like a shooting star, diving into the horse trough in front of John. The force of its impact splashed him with murky water.

  John took a sharp look to the right where the ball had come from.

  Nothing stirred. He couldn't see anybody.

  To the night shadows, he shouted, "I've got news for you, whoever you are! I'm not laughing!"

  The speculative buzz in the growing crowd escalated the closer the hour got to noon. Isabel had heard Bellamy Nicklaus would be stepping onto his porch to announce the arrival of his Christmas tree—the very one the berries were going to decorate. Supposedly a big Douglas fir had been cut near Santa Barbara and was being shipped down on the Pacific Coastal Railroad.

  Gazing at the freshly painted house with its old gold half-timbered gables, Indian red trim, straw body color, and medium brownstone roof, Isabel couldn't believe it was the same decrepit place it had been less than a week ago.

  Box elder that had been overgrown and gangly was neatly clipped. Monkey flowers thick with sticky foliage and trumpet-shaped flowers in a colorful profusion bookended the house's sides leading to the front path. How had Bellamy managed to do so much overnight? It was as if he were… magic.

  Through the gathering, a gray felt Stetson stood out above the rest catching Isabel's attention. John. Although a short distance separated them, she could see he hadn't slept well. His long hair had been combed behind his ears and he hadn't shaved. Their eyes briefly held, then she looked away, feeling inexplicably self-conscious. Yesterday, she'd known he'd wanted to kiss her. But she'd pretended not to notice, too afraid to let herself melt beneath his sensual gaze. Doing so would be easy. Effortless. But she'd have to live with the repercussions.

  A hush fell over the group as soon as the pop-pop and ca-pow of a rarely-ever-seen-in-Limonero motor car sounded, putting in from Main Street. Isabel hadn't even heard the noon train's whistle announcing its arrival And here came a dusty black Olds with a festive wreath mounted on the center headlamp.

  Sticking up at least ten feet from the tonneau poked the tallest Christmas tree Isabel had ever seen, a fir with dense and fluffy foliage. The bluish-green needles spread all around the branches.

  "Olds Motor Vehicle Company—Curved Dash model," the man next to Isabel said.

  The fellow beside him added, "Nicklaus must have a bankroll. Only twelve of these have been made so far."

  "You don't say."

  "Four-point-five horsepower with a single cylinder engine of ninety-five-point-five cubic inches mounted horizontally under the seat."

  "Bet it can really open up on the road with all that power."

  "Yep. One of these beauties goes for six hundred and fifty simoleons."

  In the driver's seat and commandeering the automobile sat an extremely tall and broad-shouldered man in a white touring duster. He was burly enough to be a prizefighter. The chap next to him was just as husky.

  Everyone cleared an opening for the Olds to pull up at the house's picket gate. The two men hopped down and swaggered toward the front door. Isabel stood on tiptoe so she wouldn't miss anything.

  "What do you make of all this?" John's deep voice tickled the shell of her ear, bringing a cascade of shivers out on her arms.

  Turning her head toward him, she said, "I don't know what to make of it. I've never seen anything like this. Have you?"

  "Reminds me of a Jig Top tent menagerie I went to with my brother. A lot of strange exhibitions."

  "The front door's opening!" somebody shouted.

  Isabel craned her neck to watch the door swing inward and a portly man fill its opening. A scotch plaid cap covered the snow white hair on his head. His bushy brows, full mustache, and long beard were the same aged hue. His plump cheeks had a ruddiness to them.

  He wore argyle knickers and ribbed socks that sagged in spite of the elastic button-clasp garters holding them up to his pudgy knees. On his feet—felt house slippers. He smoked a pipe and dangled a metal, canelike stick in his hand

  My… but this Bellamy Nicklaus was an eccentric-looking man.

  "Well, hell," John muttered at her side. "He's the guy who's been slicing chip shots at me."

  "What?"

  John didn't get the opportunity to answer. Bellamy began talking.

  "Glad to see you folks came out to watch the arrival of my tree," he said with a chuckle. Then, to the gargantuan men, he announced, as the corners of his eyes creased with glee, "You've done a fine job, Yule and Tide. This one's even better than last year's when we were on Pago Pago. Sure do miss those prickly fruits—what were they! "

  "Pineapples," Yule replied.

  "Ja, pineapples," Tide seconded.

  To the crowd, Bellamy enthusiastically smiled. "I hope you've all been busy gathering berries." He stared directly at John and Isabel. Mostly Isabel.

  The bottom dropped from her stomach, as if she'd been on a swing and had gone too high, then plummeted backward. Nordic blue eyes reached inside her and touched her heart. She couldn't explain it. But immediately she felt a kindred spirit, a fondness… and even the overwhelming desire to tell him everything about herself.

  But the way Bellamy looked at her, he already knew every detail of her life: that she had never really favored the pink hair ribbons she'd gotten for Christmas when she was seven—she'd wanted cardinal-colored ones like Kate; and that she'd fibbed to her mother about losing one of the bisque china dogs from her pug-dog family… when she'd really broken the puppy and hadn't wanted to get into trouble for taking the set outside when she'd been told not to; or the time she'd "borrowed"—but she'd given it back!—Mabel Ellen Littlefield's dolly with long curly real hair and moving glass eyes because the one she'd gotten Christmas morning had been musl
in with yarn hair and button eyes.

  A wave of guilt knocked at Isabel. Suddenly, she felt as if she needed to say she was sorry… to Bellamy Nicklaus.

  Then Bellamy's gaze turned on John and she felt him tense. The two stared eye-to-eye a long moment, then John swore beneath his breath. He shifted his weight onto the other foot… stuck a hand in his pocket… removed the hand… took off his hat and fiddled with the crown, then fit it back on his head.

  Bellamy returned his attention to the audience. "We're going to put up the tree today, and Mother has some trimmings she'll be using for decorations to spruce it up. All that will be left to hang on Christmas Eve will be the berry strings." A surge of nods and smiles swam through the crowd.

  "The lucky winner of the contest will be chosen that night. Mother has a keen head for numbers and can count them up quickly."

  Again, Bellamy's eyes briefly met Isabel's and she didn't think it was an accident. It was as if he was sending her a message… a private one. He said he didn't need her to apologize… He understood.

  Yule and Tide took up shovels and began digging in the middle of the yard. Behind them were buckets of sand that would be used to fill in the hole and keep the tree from toppling.

  As they worked, they spoke a foreign language that Bellamy chattered just as fluently. Then they came for the tree and hoisted it into their arms. It would have taken at least a half-dozen normal-sized men to lift it, but the two managed fine on their own.

  Once the tree was secure, Bellamy clapped. This in turn, excited all the others in attendance to do so, too.

  Isabel did.

  John didn't. His glare lay hard on Bellamy.

  "What's the matter with you?" she asked in a whisper.

  Through a frown, he grated, "I don't like this guy."

  "Why not? He seems so kindly."

  "Kindly my butt. This is a circus. All we need is the fat lady."

  At that moment, an ample-waisted woman with ash gray hair wearing spectacles and an apron over her dress appeared behind Bellamy. "Papa, are you ready for the trimmings?"

  John raised his hands in resignation. "There you go. This is a farce. It's a damn joke."