Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two

by Jane Bonander

  Rachel’s gaze was drawn to a glimmer of white on his chest as the morning sun glanced off his solid frame. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the scars that zigzagged across his torso from his nipples to his navel. They looked old, for they blazed white against his brown skin, but the age of the scars made them no less menacing.

  Suddenly aware that he hadn’t moved, she pinched her eyes shut and slumped back, her heart thundering as she awaited discovery.

  Minutes passed. Rachel cried—silent, inward sobs that choked her throat and strained her lungs. Oh, God, let it be over. She wasn’t sure why she feared him. He was not dressed like a savage, nor did he further desecrate the bodies by rifling through the clothing and robbing them of their coins or their watches. Yet fear was the only emotion she felt. She expected him to rip away at the wall to get to her, and finding her, ravage or murder her. Some small part of her told her she wasn’t being reasonable. A louder, stronger voice urged self-preservation.

  She hugged her knees again, clutching them so tightly her arms ached. She gasped, sucking in great gulps of air to fill her starving lungs. The noise of her breathing shattered the silence and she was suddenly drenched in an icy sweat. Surely he’d find her now. She leaned her head back against the wall, tears coursing down her face and neck as she waited. But nothing happened. Holding her breath again, she listened. There was no sound but the rumbling of her own heartbeat.

  She looked out and saw that he’d gone. But still she waited—uncomfortable, cold, and afraid to move. She endured the taut stinging of her cramped muscles.

  The sun rose, hovering over the oak trees and spilling in through the window across from the fireplace. It seemed like hours since she’d looked out and seen the man with the scars. She’d begun to feel the walls of the small space crowding in around her, and knew she had to get out. Pushing on the door, she suddenly remembered that Jeremy had thrown the latch when he’d shoved her into the crawl space.

  Swallowing her panic, she groped along the floor around her, searching for something long and narrow to use to flip the lock. Her fingers touched a long, thin shard of wood, and she expelled a sigh of relief. Before shoving it between the door and the wall, she sat quietly and listened for footfalls. Hearing none, she slid the wood up and flipped the latch, then slowly forced open the small door. Grimacing as she moved muscles that had been frozen with fear, she inched her way out into the cold, sunny room.

  She stood, her hands gripping the rough stone fireplace as she leaned against it for support. Glancing at the floor beside her, she spotted Jeremy’s long, trouser-covered legs. Slowly she allowed her gaze to move up his body until she saw the blood pooled in the folds of his shirt. His right arm was flung across his chest, and it took Rachel a moment to realize that his hand was gone, cut off at the wrist. Choking back a sob, she quickly looked away. Why? Why would they do that to him?

  Finding it difficult to breathe, she slowly moved her gaze to Jeremy’s face, carefully avoiding his mangled arms. Death had interrupted a scream, for her husband’s features were frozen into an ugly sneer.

  She stumbled to the sofa and retched into the spittoon that sat on the floor nearby, although there was nothing in her stomach to throw up. Running her shaky fingers through her tangled hair, she slumped to the floor. She tried to swallow, but spasms clutched her throat, causing strangled gasping sounds to echo in the quiet room.

  The bodies lay lifeless and cold on the floor in front of her. Jeremy, her handsome, muscular husband, was dead. And poor Harry Ritter, the shy, young reservation schoolmaster… She attempted to drag air into her lungs, and the sound was punctuated with grating sobs.

  What was she going to do? They were both dead. Dead. Ritter’s shock of blond hair was dark, matted with his own blood, and the side of his handsome young face was gone. A splotch of red drew her gaze to his groin and she sucked in another ragged, wrenching breath. Oh, God…

  His trousers were ripped open and his genitals were gone—hacked off, the blood still oozing brightly in the morning sun. She swallowed convulsively, pushing back the bile that slithered up her throat. Screaming voices in her head silently questioned why someone would do such a thing. She had no answers. She just knew that savages didn’t need a reason to kill.

  Fearing she might vomit again, she turned away, shivering as she attempted to focus on something else. She nervously wiped her hands on her dressing gown, suddenly noticing the streaks of blood that smeared over the sooty dirt covering the light blue fabric. Opening her fists, she looked down at her hands. Her nails had dug into her palms with such force, she was bleeding.

  She wished she felt some pain. She needed to feel something, for she’d done nothing to prevent what had happened. She’d been useless, eager to hide and avoid the confrontation and conflict; just as she always had. Common sense told her there was nothing she could have done. Guilt whispered that she should have tried.

  She wondered why she’d been spared again. Painfully, hating the haunting memories, she thought back to the day twelve years before when she’d lost her parents, her brother, Lucas, Aunt Billie and George. The sounds and smells of that dark morning invaded her senses, and she closed her eyes, pressing her hands over her ears. What had she done to earn such wrath from a gentle God?

  The smell of blood reached her nostrils. She sucked in great gulps of air to clear her head. Scanning the outer perimeter of the room, she pulled herself up, trying to avoid the bloody scene before her. The thick, cloying scent of death permeated the stuffy room, and she knew she had to get out. Later she would do something, but not now. Not now…

  She staggered outside, gulping in the fresh air as though it were an opiate that could numb her soul. With her hand shielding her eyes from the morning sun, she lurched forward.

  Mindless of the frosty air that scraped her lungs, she tottered down the pebble-strewn road toward town. A chill wind had picked up with sunrise, flattening her nightgown and her robe against her body. Stones gouged the delicate soles of her slippers, digging into the fleshy pads of her heels. She tripped over a half-buried root in the road and fell, scoring her already bloody hands with dirt when she put them out to break her fall.

  She pulled herself up and stumbled on, leaving thick tracks of mud on her tear-streaked face as she pushed her long, heavy hair out of her eyes. Suddenly, she stopped. Someone was coming up behind her. She could hear the creaking of the wagon and the clip-clopping of the horses. She turned and stumbled toward the noise, trying to run, until her head became light and black spots danced before her eyes.

  “Please,” she choked out, waving her arms weakly over her head. “Please… help me…”

  Jason Gaspard’s Karok blood steamed through his veins, blinding him to the familiar surroundings. He forced himself to dig his heels gently into his stallion’s ribs, mindful that the animal should not have to suffer the effects of his anger. They flew across the vineyard acreage, eating up the ground beneath them. Row upon row of dormant grapevines slid by, blurring together as horse and rider rushed on.

  Seldom did Jason allow his anger to fester as it did now. Years of education and self-discipline had honed him into a civilized, law-abiding citizen. He had little use for anyone who couldn’t control his emotions. But what he’d just seen was inexcusable. Unjustified. Totally outside any realm of reasonable human behavior. And he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew who might be responsible.

  Spying the large, newly painted cabin that sat in the field on the boundary of the vineyard, he nudged his mount toward it. The cold winter sun glimmered off the clean porch windows, slowly melting the frosty film that edged the steps beneath them. Jason leaped from his horse and stormed to the cabin door. It opened before he had a chance to beat on it with his angry fists.

  Sky, the overseer for the Gaspards’ vineyard, stood in the doorway holding a cup of coffee. His square face was still strong and handsome, although he was over fifty and had lived a spart
an, though not entirely unhappy, life. “Good morning, Two Leaf.”

  Jason nodded, responding as easily to his Indian name as he did to his white one. He immediately checked his anger, giving his father’s friend an appropriate greeting. “I hope you and your family are well.”

  “We are, despite the cold sting of the Wolf Moon.” Sky’s eyes were warm with fond remembrance.

  Jason was forced to smile. “You haven’t forgotten.” He stepped into the house, the aroma of fresh, hot fry bread washing over him.

  “How could I? You had such enthusiasm when you learned there were others like ourselves living in the east.” He studied Jason a minute. “What tribe spoke of the Wolf Moon?”

  “The Algonquin,” Jason answered.

  “Ah, yes. The tribes that live on the shores of the other ocean.”

  “And elsewhere,” he added, clapping Sky on the shoulder.

  Sky pressed Jason’s hand. “Your mount tore up the ground as you rode up. You come in haste, or you are angry.”

  “Both,” he answered, his anger returning. “I’ve come to see Buck. Is he here?”

  At the mention of his stepson’s name, Sky nodded. “In there,” he answered.

  Glancing into the kitchen, Jason saw his young friend Buck Randall, tough, rangy, and lean, sitting at the table, his gaunt face more haggard than usual. Though seven years Jason’s junior, Buck had not grown into adulthood easily, and appeared almost as old as Jason’s thirty years. The chubby little “Cub” who had followed him around like a shadow hadn’t existed for almost two decades.

  “Weber and Ritter have been murdered,” Jason said without preamble. He watched Buck’s face for some sort of response. There was none.

  Buck pushed his chair back, wincing as he stood, and crossed slowly to the window. “Well, there is a divine spirit. You know I hated that bastard’s soul.”

  Jason’s eyes narrowed; he knew which man Buck referred to. “Enough to kill him yourself?”

  Buck’s weak, mirthless laughter became a cough, and he hunched over, presenting Jason his back. “Seems someone beat me to it. How do I know it wasn’t you?”

  “I don’t kill my enemies.”

  Buck snorted, his shoulders still hunched forward. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

  “I didn’t come here to open old wounds.” Frowning, he stared at Buck’s unusual stance. “What’s wrong with your?”

  Buck tossed him a quick glance over his shoulder. “Not a damned thing. Thanks for bringing me such pleasant news. Now, get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

  Jason and Buck had butted horns constantly over the past few years, their long friendship tested time after time as they took different sides on every issue facing their people. But that wasn’t what bothered Jason now. Buck held his torso stiff and straight, altogether different from his usual “don’t-screw-with-me” posture.

  He joined Buck at the window and touched his shoulder. Buck reeled away, staggering into the wall.

  Surprised, Jason stepped back, too. “What happened?”

  Glaring at him, Buck pressed his palm against the upper right-hand corner of his chest. “I was in a fight last night, outside a bar in Redland.” He slumped back into the chair. “I got knifed. That’s all.”

  Jason pushed Buck’s hands away and unbuttoned the younger man’s shirt. He peeled off the blood-soaked bandage. “Why were you trying to hide it from me?”

  Buck scowled. “Because I hate like hell to listen to your priggish preaching, that’s why.”

  Buck’s mother, Shy Fawn, limped into the room with fresh bandages. The years had been kinder to her than they had been to her eldest son. Her skin was still smooth and her hair barely held a hint of gray. Her limp, the result of a beating she’d received when she was pregnant with Buck, had fortunately not gotten worse over the years, for Sky, with the aid of Jason’s father, Nicolas, had found a bright, young doctor to help her. That doctor had been Jason’s own reason for going into medicine.

  “I wanted him to see you right away, Two Leaf, but he refused,” Shy Fawn said. “You know I can’t do anything with him.”

  After scrubbing his hands at the sink, Jason examined the wound. It was jagged and deep, and appeared to have been made with a knife with hooked teeth—definitely a wicked weapon. “It could have killed you. You’re lucky it didn’t pierce your stubborn, mutinous heart.”

  Buck continued to glower. “Free medical advice, or just your personal opinion?”

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Buck carefully shrugged out of his shirt, exposing a smooth, tightly muscled chest and firm, well-defined arms. “What were you doing at the reservation?”

  “Mary Deerflower went into labor. After I delivered the baby, I passed Weber’s cottage. The front door was wide open.”

  Buck didn’t flinch as Jason probed the wound. “How did the bastards die?”

  Jason glanced up, nodding a thank-you toward Shy Fawn, who brought him a basin of warm water and some homemade salve. He waited for her to leave the room.

  “Weber was stabbed in the chest, probably through the heart. And his hands were cut off.” The significance of that made the list of suspects endless. It was also puzzling. It was often easier simply to use poison. The method of mutilation was used frequently by the plains Indians. To Jason’s knowledge, though he knew his people could mutilate as well as any others, leaving a message by specifically removing body parts wasn’t a common occurrence. But it was clear that by cutting off Weber’s hands, everyone would know that he’d been considered a thief.

  “They used a club on Ritter. The side of his head was bashed in.” Jason waited a second, then added, “And they cut off his balls.”

  A lopsided smirk cut into Buck’s angular face. “Ah, the punishment of choice for the bastard’s crimes.”

  Jason eyed him closely, looking for some sign of guilt. There was nothing in Buck’s flat black eyes that gave him away. But then Jason hadn’t really expected to find any remorse. There had been too much hatred.

  “They were dead when I arrived.”

  “You don’t know who did it then, do you?”

  Jason merely shook his head, ignoring the smug tone in Buck’s voice. He remembered that not a single person from the reservation claimed to have heard any noise. Hell, he hadn’t heard anything either, and from the warmth of the bodies, the murders had to have happened while he was delivering Mary’s baby. Unfortunately, the Deerflower cabin was built deeper into the woods than the others, and trees muffled most of the day-to-day clamor.

  “This isn’t the way to handle things,” he reminded Buck.

  Buck’s head jerked up, and he glared at Jason. “Dammit, I told you I was in Redland last night, and I’ve been here since midnight. Don’t try to hang this one on me.”

  Jason tied the flapping ends of the bandage together beneath Buck’s wound. “It’s a very tidy convenience that Ritter was mutilated that way.”

  Buck shoved Jason’s hand away. “Do you think my wife is the only squaw he coaxed into a barn with his sweet talk, then raped? Was she the only woman on the reservation, or anywhere else for that matter, who died because of that little weasel? Hell, Jason, I can name a dozen men who wanted that son of a bitch dead as much as I did.”

  This was true. Relief nudged Jason’s suspicions aside. “I had to be sure.”

  Pinning Jason with an angry gaze, Buck grabbed his shirt off the table and carefully slipped into it. “You sound like you’re sorry they’re dead.”

  A flash of hot rage seared Jason’s chest. “Of course I’m sorry they’re dead. Do you realize how much this sets our cause back? You can’t get rid of the weed by hacking away at the plant. You have to dig out the root.”

  Buck snorted. “That means killing every politician and army officer from here to Washington, D.C.”

  “It doesn’t mean killing anyone,” Jason answered. “You know damned well wh
at I mean.” Jason’s frustration with the Bureau of Indian Affairs had begun when his uncle, Jake Gaspard, had retired from the post some years before. Weber, an army lieutenant, had taken over the post two years ago. He’d done nothing but line his pockets with Bureau money ever since.

  Buck stood up, sighing dramatically. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And I think you’re wrong. We can’t fight the Whites on their level. We have no rights, dammit!”

  “And we’ll never have any rights or anything else if we keep killing their leaders,” Jason reasoned strongly.

  Swearing again, Buck went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. His hands shook visibly. “We’ll never have any if we don’t, either. Hell, we don’t have anything anyway. You know as well as I do that if shit were worth something, Indians wouldn’t have assholes.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

  Jason grimaced, both at Buck’s comment and at the picture of him spilling the liquor into his coffee. “You’ve already got the shakes. That stuff will kill you.”

  “So what?” Buck turned and glared at him. “Maybe it’s what I want. What do you care if I drink so much that I have to open my shirt collar to piss?” He took a long drink, then sucked air in through his teeth. “Tell me what in the hell I have to live for?”

  “You have your son,” Jason reminded him, curbing his anger at Buck’s flagrant carelessness with his life in spite of his responsibilities.

  Buck glanced at the closed bedroom door. “Dusty’s better off here with Ma and Sky.”

  Jason clenched his fist, wanting to smash it into Buck’s face. “It sounds like you’ve already decided to abandon Dusty and drink yourself to death.” Frustration whipped up his anger. “You’re not that stupid, are you?”