“His-sik would tell his people to skin the elk and hang the meat out to dry, always promising to share. But when his people had done all the work, His-sik refused to give them any of the meat. If they complained, he turned as if he were going to spray them, and everyone was afraid, so said nothing more.
“Each time he and Gray Fox went out hunting, the same thing happened. Each time he promised to share meat with his people, who did all the work, and each time he went back on his word. The people were getting very angry, but they were afraid of him, for they knew his scent could kill them.
“But one day, Too-wik, the badger, said he had a plan. While His-sik watched his meat so no one would take it, Too-wik dug a big hole and built a fire in it. When someone asked why he had done this, he said, ‘Skunk is a great dancer and loves to dance. We will have fire in the hole and cover the top with sticks and leaves and earth so he can’t see what’s beneath. Then we will send for him and ask him to dance for us. When he dances, he will break through, fall into the hole, then we shall kill him.’
“The people were still afraid, but they wanted to get rid of the lazy, good-for-nothing His-sik, so they agreed. When it was dark, they sent for the skunk and asked him to dance for them. Because he was a vain, pompous skunk, he could not refuse. He danced, harder and harder, for he was proud of his dancing skills. Soon, the sticks broke and he fell into the hole. The people were ready. They got a big rock and pushed it into the hole on top of His-sik, holding it down on him so he could not get out.
“The hot coals burned his feet and made him dance. But now he was angry, and shot his scent so hard against the sides of the hole, he pushed mountains up all around him. After his scent was gone, the coals burned him and killed him. Then, all the people were happy, and the next day they had a great feast and ate all the dried meat they wanted.”
Estella had squatted down beside her mother. “That’s a sad story,” she said quietly.
“Oh, my people don’t think so,” Molly answered.
“Your people? Who are your people, Senorita Lindquist?”
Nicolas had told her that story so many years before, Molly was amazed that she remembered it at all. But it had felt good to tell it out loud. It had made her proud to be a part of such old customs and myths. “Some of my people lived for hundreds of years in a great valley called An-wah-nee in a place called California.”
Estella snickered. “But you are a white.”
“I am also an Indian, Estella. My mother is a half-breed. Her people came from this valley.”
“And your papa? You know your papa?”
Molly shifted Tomas in her arms. “No,” she answered, waiting for the foolish, painful memories to return. Surprisingly, she felt nothing. “No, I didn’t know him at all.”
“But you do not look like an Indian, senorita. He was a white man?”
Molly sighed and glanced down at the sleeping Tomas. “Yes. A white soldier. And I wanted to be white once, Estella. I tried very hard to be a White. But believe me,” she added, remembering her miserable experience with Charles, “that got me into more trouble than you can imagine.”
One of the other children awakened, coughing. It was still deep, but what was in her chest had begun to loosen.
Molly opened the blanket Tomas had been wrapped in. Her heart leaped with joy, for he was soaked with sweat, and his skin was cool.
“Quickly, Estella. Don’t let the heat die. Bring more stones and make more steam. I think we’ve performed a miracle!”
Seventeen
A bright, yellow sun heralded sunrise. Molly stepped outside, stretching the kinks from her back and squinting against the morning light.
Angelita had come during the night, but had gone back to the ranch to prepare breakfast for the hands. Molly had wanted to help her, but Angelita had insisted she stay with the children, claiming she had other women who would help in Campion’s kitchen.
As Molly stood outside, listening to the rapid-fire Spanish exchange between Carmen and her daughter in the cabin, she felt a wonderful sense of peace. The children had pulled through. Fevers were down, coughs loose. All had been fed a soupy porridge earlier, and most were already asleep again.
She closed her eyes briefly, bringing forth the face of little Tomas. He’d been completely comfortable sleeping in her arms all night. She wanted to think it was because he felt a special kind of bond because of his father, but she knew that wasn’t the case. She could have put him down once he was asleep, but she’d wanted to hold him, feel his sweet baby breath against her cheek, savor this part of Buck before she left both of them behind for good.
And, she thought, with a heavy heart, it was time to leave. In spite of all the reasons she could think of to stay—Buck, Tomas and Nicolette—she had to leave because of Charles. Whatever Buck and Sage had planned, she hoped it would be over soon. She had the strongest urge to go home. She was actually homesick. It hurt, this urgency to see her mother and tell her how much she loved her. It was time to make up for all the lost years.
She went inside, picked up her shawl and said good-bye to Carmen and the children. Feeling sentimental tears in her throat, she crossed to the tiny cot where Tomas slept. His plump fist was curled loosely beneath his chin, and his mouth was open slightly. She allowed herself a tearful smile when she heard his tiny snoring sounds. Bending over the cot, she placed a long, loving kiss on his cool forehead.
After embracing Carmen and Estella one more time, she left and rode slowly toward the ranch astride Nicolette’s mare. There was another ache deep inside her, one she’d tried not to dwell on. Leaving Buck would be like leaving her soul to fry in the Texas sun. It didn’t seem quite fair that she should love him as she did. Until they’d been alone together on the harsh plains, she’d firmly believed he had only a very few redeeming qualities. Even then, she’d loved him. Then, as they spent those days and nights together, she’d discovered he was a thoughtful and gentle man. And he could tease, making her laugh and smile. She knew he had depths that had never been touched. But had he changed? A secret part of her wanted to believe that he had, that he was no longer the angry renegade who would never settle down and accept his responsibilities. After all, now there was Tomas, and there would always be Dusty.
But what of it? She wasn’t a part of Buck’s life. He would tell her nothing. It was only in her hidden heart that she wanted to believe he was taking on the responsibility of caring for the boy, and therefore, that he’d changed. For all she knew, it was a temporary thing. Or, she thought, her heart sinking like a rock in her chest, he might finally do the right thing and marry the boy’s mother.
She pulled in a shaky sigh. That was another reason she wanted to leave. It would just be her luck that he’d finally settle down and marry again, in spite of his harsh vow not to. The irony would be that it wouldn’t be her. He’d done his very best to let her know that her questions about Tomas and the boy’s mother were intrusive and none of her business.
But, he made love to me. And their lovemaking had been wonderful. Beautiful. She would never know that beauty with another man, and she refused to believe he hadn’t felt the same thing. But he was stubborn and proud. And maybe, she thought, her heart aching again, just maybe he would never love her. After all, if he hadn’t learned to love her after all these years, he surely never would.
She shook herself from her maudlin reverie as she approached the ranch. Except for the dogs, it was exceptionally quiet. Frowning, she dismounted and led the mare into the barn.
“Jorge?” The stable boy didn’t appear to be around. She felt a chill creep up her back. All this silence was eerie.
After feeding and watering the mare, she hurried to the house, choosing to enter through the kitchen. “Angelita?”
Quiet. The house was so quiet. The creepy chill stayed with her, spreading into her chest. Bread was rising on the table, and the smell of freshly baked berry pie filled the air. Angelita had been back to do her c
hores, but where was she now?
She crossed to the door that led into the hall, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. As she moved closer to Charles’s study, she could hear the chung of the chime clock that sat on the mantel over the fireplace. The study door stood open. She stopped and peered inside, breathing a sigh of relief when she found the room empty.
She moved toward the stairs.
“Good morning, Margaret.”
A clammy wash of fear expanded in her chest. With her hand clutching the rounded curve of the wooden railing, she turned. “Charles,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t shake. “I … I didn’t hear you. You frightened me.” Which was exactly what he’d meant to do, she decided.
“You must be exhausted. Here, let me help you to your room.” He was solicitous, taking her arm and moving with her up the stairs.
She gave him a covert, sidelong glance. She didn’t trust him any further than she could throw him. “I’m not helpless, Charles, but thank you for your concern.”
“Angelita told me how you helped with the children.” He looked at her and chuckled. “I’m not up to anything, Margaret. You can wipe that suspicious look from your face.”
She felt a scornful smile lift her mouth. “You read me only too well.”
“Yes, I know I’ve given you reason to distrust me.” She stopped at the top of the stairs and gave him a hard look. “You’ve given me many reasons to distrust you, Charles.”
He nodded impatiently. “I know, I know. But for now, Margaret, just go into your room and rest.” He brought both hands up, in a gesture of defeat. “Truce?”
She studied him further. “And … and later?”
“Later, there will be plenty of time to talk.” He gazed at her, laughing softly, his blue eyes deep and warm. “I have many things to ask you to forgive me for, Margaret. I’ve been a cad and a worm. I don’t deserve you, but I hope you’ll hear me out, anyway.”
She still didn’t trust him. She glanced into her room before stepping inside. Everything appeared to be just as she’d left it. Suddenly she ached with fatigue, and her wrist, her constant barometer for pain, throbbed. Her bed looked so inviting….
“I’d like to sleep for a while, Charles. I guess we can talk later.” All the talk in the world wouldn’t change how she’d come to feel about him, but if he wanted to talk to her, there was no way she could stop him.
“Sleep well, Margaret.” He stood in the hallway until she closed the door. She listened, waiting until she heard him walk away. When he was gone, she undressed and crawled into bed. She immediately slipped into sleep.
Wind rattling against the windowpane awakened her. Through eyes that still felt grainy from lack of sleep, she glanced at the curtains. She felt groggy, and her head had that dull ache that she often got when the room was stuffy.
Yawning, she slid from the bed and crossed to the window. She reached down to slide it up, but it didn’t move. Odd, she thought, as she tried it again. It had never stuck before.
Shrugging, she went into the bathroom to wash her face. She cleaned up as best she could, put on fresh underwear and a dark blue cotton gown, and squared her shoulders, ready to meet Charles. There was no point in putting it off.
She moved to the door and turned the knob. Nothing. A wiggly shard of panic stabbed her. Grabbing the knob with both hands, she shook it and pulled it, but to no avail. The door was locked from the other side.
She moved back toward the bed, then turned and rushed to the window, pulling on it futilely. Sucking in great gulps of air, she studied the window, suddenly spying the nails that had been driven into the frame to prevent it from opening.
She whirled around, breathing deeply. “Charles,” she said on a hiss of breath. She hurled herself across the room and pounded on the door. “Charles! Damn you, unlock this door!”
“Ah, Margaret.” His voice was annoyingly pleasant on the other side of the door. “You’re finally awake. Good. But that language. Tsk, tsk. And here I thought you were a lady.”
Resting her. forehead against the door, she clenched both hands into fists, trying to ignore the pain in her injured wrist as she pressed against the wooden barrier. “Charles, what is this all about? What do you want from me?”
“Well, darling,” he said, “it isn’t so much what I want from you. It’s what I want from your rescuer, Randall.” He was quiet for a moment then added, “Did you fuck him, too? Along with every other disgusting outlaw from here to the Mexican border, my sweet?”
Her heart pounded hard in her chest. “Charles, you’re talking crazy. Please. Just tell me what you want.”
He chuckled. “You’re avoiding my question. Well,” he said on an exaggerated sigh, “never mind. You probably did. I wonder if he thinks enough of you to make a little exchange.”
“What …” She swallowed hard, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “What do you want from him?”
“It isn’t necessary for you to know, my darling. Just make yourself comfortable in there. By the way.” His voice was so soft she had to strain to hear it. “What did you take from my study, Margaret?”
Cool fear spread through her. She didn’t answer him.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said conversationally. “But I know you were in there, snooping around. For whom, Margaret? For the breed?”
Mr. Poteet had done his job well, she decided.
“No answer for me? Well,” he said, “never mind. You just rest now. I’ll see you again … very soon.”
She pressed her fist against her lips to keep them from shaking and briefly closed her eyes. There was nothing to prevent him from finally accomplishing what he’d tried to do twice before. For that reason, and for that reason alone, she didn’t want to rile him. “Am I a prisoner, Charles?”
“Oh, I hate to think of it in such harsh terms.” He was quiet again, then added, “But we do have some unfinished business.”
Her stomach pitched downward. She didn’t doubt for a minute that they were alone in the house. If he tried to rape her again, he’d probably succeed. Invisible crawly things scurried over her skin, and she shuddered.
“Not to worry, my sweet,” he said in response to her silence. “At least for now.”
Clasping her hands prayerlike to her chest, she paced the room. She marched into the bathroom, foolishly hoping he’d forgotten to lock the adjoining door to Nicolette’s room. She tried it; he hadn’t.
She went back into her room, glancing nervously at the window. It was nearly dusk. He would come to her sometime during the night, of that she was certain. He had to know by now that she wasn’t going to stay with him under any circumstances. In his sick little mind, he will have convinced himself that he deserves to take her just once before he lets her go—or, she thought, her heart pounding, kills her.
Shuddering again, she tried to imagine fighting him off. She didn’t have the strength. Interruptions had kept him from completing the act before. There would be no interruptions tonight.
Thank heavens she’d slept earlier. She would stay awake and hopefully alert throughout the night—or however long it took….
As she stood in the middle of her room, she studied everything in it. Perhaps she’d have a snowball’s chance if she had a weapon. A weapon and the element of surprise. Her gaze went from the desk to the chair, the chair to the wardrobe to the bed to the bedside cabinet, and slowly back to the bed.
With her fingers crossed, she stepped to the bed and lifted the end of the mattress. One of the slats that held the bedding was visible, and she pulled on it, unable to move it with the mattress in place. She pushed the mattress aside, lifted the long, flat slat out and shoved the mattress back where it had been.
She studied the piece of wood. It was too long to be of any use to her. It would make noise if she broke it off, so she had to make sure Charles wasn’t camped outside in the hall.
Crossing to the door, she called out sweetly, “Charles? Are you
there?” Nothing. No sound, no movement. Frowning, she stood back and considered that he might just be there, hoping she’d do something foolish.
She moved back into the room and went to the window. She felt a sigh of relief when she saw him coming toward the house from the stable. Moving quickly, she stood the slat upright, slanted it to one side, and stepped on it, cringing as the wood snapped loudly into two pieces. The piece on the floor was shorter, easier for her to handle. After kicking the longer piece under the bed, she practiced swinging the other, finding the best way to get the most out of her thrust.
Then she went to the bed, hiding her weapon in the folds of her skirt. She pushed her pillows up behind her, leaned back and studied the darkening room. It was only the element of surprise that would save her.
In spite of her good intentions, she dozed off and on all night. It was when the shadowy fingers of dawn snaked in through the curtains that she heard the first sound. A board creaked on the stairs, followed by faint footfalls in the hallway.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the sound echoing loudly in her ears. She scooted down slightly, pushing the pillows onto the bed. The fingers of her good hand gripped the smooth end of the broken slat at her side. She wished she could still her thumping heart, for she feared it was draining her of much needed energy.
A key scraped the lock. Molly turned her face toward the window and pretended to sleep. She knew when the door had opened, for a breeze stole over her, forcing her to swallow a shudder.
She lay there, barely daring to breathe, as she tried to sense his nearness. He’d stopped at the side of the bed; she could almost feel his body heat. She sensed that he was leaning over her, for she swore she could feel his breath on her face.
Opening her eyes, she lunged quickly, swinging the wooden slat at him, catching him on the side of the head.
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 25