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

by Jane Bonander

  “Oh, Earl,” Ivy quipped, “you’re about as sensitive as a sack of hog turds.” She scurried to the bed, sat down and pulled Rachel into her arms. “I hope you feel right good about makin’ her cry.” She hugged Rachel, rocking her back and forth. Rachel sagged against the older woman’s shoulder.

  Tully ignored the comment, crossed to the bed and hunkered down in front of them. He reached out and touched Rachel’s arm. “I’m sorry, Rachel. Thanks for tellin’ me about the stabbing. It might help.” He chucked her under the chin. “I hope we still have a date for church tomorrow night.”

  Rachel gave him a watery smile. “Yes, thank you. And I’m sorry I’m blubbering so. I just can’t seem to stop.”

  He gave her a wicked grin, one intended to cheer her up. “Don’t you give it another thought, sweetheart. Wouldn’t miss a chance to walk you home.” He nodded in Ivy’s direction. “Lucky fer us she has to work, ain’t it?”

  “You behave yourself, Earl Tully,” Ivy chimed in, giving his hair a tug. “You’re old enough to be her pa, and then some.”

  Tully picked up Rachel’s trunk. “I’ll toss this in the back of the wagon,” he said as he left the room, his husky laughter floating in his wake.

  After he’d gone, Rachel quickly packed up the rest of her things, anxious to leave the cottage behind her. But foremost in her thoughts was the look on Marshal Tully’s face when she’d mentioned the savage with the knife wound. Because she was a quiet, introspective person, she’d made it a point to study the faces of those around her. And Earl Tully’s face told her he knew something he wasn’t willing to share.

  Rachel nodded to the minister as she left the church to catch up with the marshal, who had gone out earlier for a smoke. “That was a very nice service, Reverend Toland.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Weber.” His voice was fine, generous and sincere. Rachel liked him.

  “Do you have someone to walk you back to the cafe?”

  “Yes,” she answered, pointing toward the big, bushy oleanders. “The marshal. He’s right over there.”

  The reverend smiled and nodded, then went back inside the small white frame building, leaving her alone on the steps. She heard him lock the door, and moments later, saw the lights extinguished inside. She knew he would go out the back door and make his way to the parsonage, a short block away.

  Turning from the church, she could see the round red fire from the marshal’s cigarette as he inhaled. He was standing by the fence. Carefully making her way down the steps, she crossed the grass and was almost in front of him when he suddenly pushed her to the ground. Simultaneously she heard a small explosion and a deep, low groan from Tully.

  She lay there, confused, unable to understand what had happened. Tully groaned again.

  “Marshal?” Part of his upper body was still on top of her, although she could tell he was trying to move away. Scooting out from beneath him, she grabbed his arm as he tumbled to the grass. “What is it? What happened?”

  “Shot,” he said, his voice gritty and hoarse.

  Her hand flew to her chest. “What!” She knelt down beside him, looking around wildly for some light in the black sky.

  Tully sucked in a deep breath. “Holy hell,” he swore, struggling to sit up. “I’ve been shot.”

  Rachel couldn’t see anything. It was too dark. “Where?”

  “Leg…” he croaked.

  Automatically she ran her hand along his leg. Her fingers touched the warm, sticky liquid that oozed from his wound and her first response was to recoil. It was always worse to touch something you couldn’t. see.

  She frantically looked around her. They were alone. “I have to get some help,” she finally said. “I’ll… I’ll get the reverend.”

  Tully grabbed her arm. “No, don’t bother him.”

  “But why not? He’s not that far—”

  “No,” he interrupted, his voice raspy. “His wife’s pretty sick. He’s gotta get home to her and his kids.”

  Rachel felt panic push at the heavy weight in her chest. “The doctor. I’ll get the doctor.”

  “Ain’t no use. He’s out at the reservation,” Tully answered, his breathing labored.

  “Then… then I’ll get Ivy—”

  “Dadburnit, not Ivy. I don’t want her to—”

  “Earl Tully,” Rachel interrupted impatiently, “just stay put. I’m going to get Ivy whether you want me to or not. Have you a handkerchief or something to hold over the wound?”

  “Here,” he answered, untying the one around his neck and handing it to her.

  She folded it into a small square and pressed it over the wound. “Hold it there until I get back. Press hard.”

  “Now, Rachel—”

  “Sit still and be quiet.” Lifting her skirts, she turned and ran down the darkened street toward the cafe.

  She raced up the steps, the hood on her woolen cape flapping out behind her. Her lungs burned and her heart drummed painfully.

  “Ivy! Please, help!” She gasped for breath, panting as she leaned against the door frame.

  Ivy hurried out from behind the counter. “What in the devil is wrong? You hurt, honey? What is it?”

  Rachel waved away her concern. “No,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “It’s the marshal. He’s been shot.”

  Ivy’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, Lord. Earl? What happened? Where is he?” she asked, grabbing her cape off the peg as she followed Rachel out the door.

  They raced down the street. “We were just outside the church. Everyone else had gone. Then… then suddenly,” Rachel said, her voice bouncing as she ran, “he pushed me down. He must have seen something. I didn’t know what had happened until he told me.”

  They turned on El Suyo Street and raced on, the grinding of the gravel under their shoes and their labored breathing the only sounds in the cold night air. Reaching the corner, they found the marshal sitting up, his back against the fence in front of the church and his hand still pressed against his calf.

  “Earl! Earl!” Ivy cried, rushing to his side.

  “Oh, now hang on to your bustle, Ivy girl. It ain’t as bad as all that.”

  Rachel hovered over them. “We’d better get him to the doctor’s office,” she suggested briskly. “Even if he isn’t there, we can clean up the wound.”

  Ivy agreed, and with the marshal draped between them, they stumbled down the dark street.

  Jason was bone-tired. Two full days at the vineyard and another at the reservation weren’t usually enough to tire him out, but two cases of croup, three deliveries, and a false labor had kept him up two nights in a row. Grinning wryly, he wondered what had happened nine months ago that had led to the rash of births this past week.

  Leaving the smithy, he dragged himself across the quiet street to his office. The sun was just staining the eastern sky, throwing soft shadows against the sides of the buildings. Opening his office door, he stepped silently into the room. What the hell—

  His practiced gaze took in the transformation in seconds. No clutter. No mess. The windows sparkled and the floor had been scrubbed. He should have been pleased; instead he was annoyed. The place looked as though the Ladies’ Aid Society from the Methodist church had come in and raised holy hell.

  Breathing deeply so he wouldn’t lose his temper, he moved slowly about the room. His medical books, always open and strewn around so he could use them when he needed them, were where they “belonged.” They stood stiff and closed in a neat row on the top shelf of the battered, pockmarked bookcase he’d dragged home from college years before. He peered closer—and swore. They were alphabetized. Diseases of the Chest, by William Stokes, stood sentry at the end of the shelf, shoved tightly against the heavy book-end. On the other two shelves, the rest of his books were arranged according to height and color. His annoyance grew.

  His gaze went to the wall beside the washstand where his stethoscopes hung neatly from hooks instead of from the backs o
f the chairs—where he’d purposely put them so he could grab them faster. He grunted again.

  Glowering, he shoved his hands into his pockets and scrutinized the rest of the room. The sun glinted off the glass covered doors of his cupboard. No dust, no fingerprints. Hell, the glass was so clean, it looked as if it weren’t there. He felt a bubble of anger churn in his stomach. Not wanting to lose his temper, he dragged in another slow, deep breath.

  He stood, glaring at the bottles inside the cupboard, their labels facing out. Winslow’s Baby Syrup and Kopp’s Baby Friend beamed at him like damned shiny smiles. He didn’t need to see the labels to know what things were; hell, he knew every bottle by heart.

  If he’d wanted his office to look like his mother’s parlor, he’d have done it himself. He wondered who’d had the nerve to do this to him. The only people he could think of were Ivy, or maybe Nell—and they’d already nearly come to blows over the state of his office. He hated fighting with women, but it seemed he’d been doing it most of his life.

  Heaving a sigh, he walked slowly to his desk, hardly recognizing the clean surface. It had been years since he’d actually seen it. He flipped through the charts and papers that were stacked on top, noting that they too were alphabetized. Scanning the far side of the desk, his gaze caught a flash of color. Pinning it with a glare that could melt rock, he scowled at the vase of yellow and white daisies that sat perched at the corner on top of a frilly white doily.

  He spun around and stormed into the back room where he kept his extra cot and stopped short, his heart meeting his throat. Earl Tully was asleep on the bed, his left leg outside the bedding, resting on a pillow. Stepping closer, he saw the bandage around the marshal’s calf. Spots of blood colored the surface, seeping into wide reddish-pink circles against the white cloth.

  Jason’s heart all but stopped when he glanced at the big easy chair by the stove. Curled up, sound asleep with her feet tucked under her and her head resting on the arm of the chair, was Rachel Weber.

  He stepped closer and stared down at her. The familiar memory, old yet still painful, finally lunged to the surface of his mind.

  Regina.

  The kerosene lamp flickered on the table beside Rachel, flinging its quivering light over her as she slept. Her hair, the rich, thick color of cognac, shimmered with red, brown, and gold streams of light. Regina.

  He couldn’t believe the emotions that battered his insides. Years ago he’d purged himself of all feelings for the pretty, shallow woman for whom he’d almost changed his life. Now, suddenly, all of those feelings came back to him.

  He studied Rachel. She still looked young. Too young to be involved with an unprincipled man like Weber. And damn, she was a pretty creature, in a delicate, porcelain kind of way—if you liked the type. He’d decided long ago, after Regina broke their engagement, that he didn’t.

  Rachel’s long, dusky lashes lay on her cheeks, the curved ends feathering lightly along the rims of her eyelids, so thick, they bunched up in the outer corners of her eyes. Her face had a child’s roundness to it, and suddenly she swallowed, pulling her mouth tight, causing dimples to delve deeply into the sweet pinkness of her cheeks.

  His gaze roamed over the rest of her. Full, round breasts pressed against a white batiste blouse that had some sort of frilly design and a high, hand-embroidered neck.

  Bringing his gaze back to her face, he was momentarily startled to discover she’d awakened and was looking at him. Big, blue-gray eyes held his.

  “What happened to Tully?”

  She cringed visibly at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so harsh.

  “Oh, I’m… so… so sorry,” she stuttered, struggling to sit up in the chair. “He… he was shot, and I’m afraid it’s my—”

  “Shot?” He couldn’t ignore the husky, sleepy tone of her voice. “How did it happen?”

  She slipped her feet out from under her blue skirt, pushed back her hair and rose from the chair. She was taller than he remembered. Her chest was high and full against her blouse, and her waist was tiny, her skirt flaring gently out over her hips. And her hair… the brandied mass smoldered like kindling in the light. He shook his head, emptying it of poetry.

  “We were standing outside the church,” she began, nervously smoothing down her skirt. “Everyone else had… had gone, and he was going to walk me back to Ivy’s.” She brought her small hand to her chest, unconsciously displaying the finger that held her thin gold wedding band. “He… he shoved me to the ground and we heard a gunshot. He was hit in the leg.”

  Her no-nonsense recitation surprised him. The flat, Yankee twang annoyed him. Even though he’d spoken to her before, he’d somehow expected to hear the sweet confection of a Georgia drawl—like Regina’s. He’d also expected her to start to cry, as she had the first time he’d seen her. He had a ridiculous urge to jump at her and shout “Boo!”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  She looked at him and frowned, then averted her eyes when she found him watching her. “No, I’m sorry, no.”

  “Was there much bleeding?”

  “Um… no. Not too much. I’m afraid the bullet is still in there.” She blinked nervously, then swallowed, unconsciously revealing dimples.

  He glanced at the marshal, then turned to leave. “How long has he been asleep?”

  “Not long,” she answered, looking at the pendulum clock that hung on the wall. “Maybe a few hours. I’m sorry, but it took a little time to make him comfortable,” she added, timidly following Jason into the larger room.

  He crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of salve. “The dressing was wrapped quite capably. Where did you learn to do that?”

  “My uncle. He was a physician in North Dakota. I… I used to help him.”

  The clipped, clean cadence of her speech was becoming more familiar. He still preferred a softer, more vulnerable sound.

  “Why did you feel the need to clean up my office?” He tried to keep the irritation from his voice.

  She cleared her throat, an anxious sound that seemed forced. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I… I thought I was doing you a favor.”

  “I happen to like it the way it was,” he snapped.

  Nervously twisting a long, loopy curl through her fingers, she said timorously, “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help—”

  “Dammit, can’t you say anything without apologizing for it?”

  “Excuse me?” Her voice quavered.

  “You’re always apologizing for something. Why?” He slammed the glass door on the cabinet so hard, he was surprised it didn’t crack.

  She jumped, then stared at him, her big light eyes filled with confusion. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Just what part of the sentence didn’t you understand?” he grilled, immediately regretting the words. Dammit, now she looked as though she were going to cry.

  “Never mind,” he muttered, picking up a wad of bandages. God, but she really was a mousy thing. He still couldn’t imagine how she and Weber had ever gotten together. She had all the earmarks of a frightened virgin. He couldn’t figure her out.

  “May… may I go now?”

  He turned and stared at her. She looked as if she didn’t have a friend in the world. Her small shoulders sagged and her head was tilted to the side as she looked up at him, those big, light eyes seeming to beg for—something. He softened ever so slightly. “Are you leaving Pine Valley soon?”

  She looked at her toes. “I… I can’t leave just yet. I’m still waiting for… for the voucher.”

  Oh, yes. He remembered. That possibly nonexistent pay voucher from the government. He hadn’t known Weber any better than he’d had to, but he knew the man had probably died without a cent to his name. He wondered what the widow was living on in the meantime.

  “Do you still need a job?” He could have bitten his tongue. He wanted her tiptoeing around his office about a
s much as he wanted a broken nose.

  Her head jerked up, her glance taking in the room she’d just cleaned. Then she stared at him, innocently batting those big, vulnerable eyes. “Here?”

  He nodded, swallowing his exasperation. “Here.” He could see a mixture of excitement and fear flutter over her features.

  “I… yes, I could use the job.”

  “Fine. But I’ll warn you right now,” he added, watching her carefully, “I treat whores, drunks, and Indians.”

  Her eyes closed, and she swayed to one side. He frankly thought he was going to have to catch her.

  She shuddered, pressing her fingers against her mouth and turning away.

  “Forget it,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “I need someone I can depend on. Not someone who’s going to run crying into the street when she comes face to face with someone who doesn’t meet her standards.”

  “Oh, please. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Good-bye,” he said, turning away from her and going into the back room to remove the bullet from Tully’s leg. In a funny way, he was disappointed, and that was the rub. She brought out a dog-in-the-manger attitude in him that confounded him. He sure as hell didn’t want her around, but if she was going to be around, he wanted to watch her. He was curious, that’s all.

  After a long silence, he decided she’d gone. So much for trying to help her. He wasn’t sure which—whore, drunk, or Indian—had offended her the most. No doubt all three. Yet Regina’s final words came back to haunt him. Lawd, Jason. Ya don’t expect me to live with savages, now, do ya?

  Turning back to the sleeping Tully, he heaved a deep, resigned sigh. He’d have to give the Weber woman a job if she showed up on his doorstep tomorrow. He needed the help, and she had the experience, or so she said. And, he reminded himself, he could keep his eye on her. Never before had he met a married woman who acted so innocent and uncomfortable around him. She had an inherent shyness that didn’t fit with her status.

  He hadn’t wanted to elaborate on that thought, but a brief picture of her naked body sprang into his head. At the apex of her thighs, instead of the regular female equipment, he imagined there was a sprig of daisies. He snorted a laugh. No doubt the daisies on his desk had come from there.