He loved watching her come. When ecstasy peaked within her, she clamped her thighs together, trapping his hand between them.
Slowly she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “I’m afraid you’ve made me very sleepy.”
He pulled the covers over them. “Then sleep,” he ordered, dragging her against him spoon fashion. He didn’t intend to stay with her—only until she was asleep. Then he’d go to the cot where he’d slept all week. Now that he was sated, his common sense had returned.
“What about you?”
“We’ll worry about me in the morning—after you’ve gotten some rest.”
“All right.” She snuggled against him, pressing her bottom against his genitals. He ordered his root to stand at ease, but it didn’t listen. Thankfully, Rachel was already asleep when it came to attention and twitched against her backside.
He moved silently through the night, staying in the shadows. With a furtive glance in both directions, he slunk around to the back of the building, pulled out his key and let himself into the dark, vacant room. He could trace the black outline of the boxes against the wall.
Stepping carefully, he maneuvered behind them, to the cold, unused fireplace. Grateful for the practiced sensitivity of his fingers, he moved them along the brickwork until he came to the spot he wanted. He loosened the brick, plunged his hand inside, and smiled. The pouch was still there. After replacing the brick, he went to the window and studied the night, his mind going back to his latest unsuccessful ploy to rid himself of the burdensome woman.
What rotten luck that she’d found the entrance to the root cellar. Had she not, it would have been finished. No one left to tie him to the murders. Except those he’d paid to do it, and they were on borrowed time as well.
Absently, he watched the trees create macabre shadows in the moonlight. Now he’d have to devise another plan to kill Rachel Weber.
Rachel hummed a little song as she flicked the feather duster over the windowsill. She’d been humming all morning—couldn’t help it. Way back when she lived in that other life she’d happily left behind, the army wives used to sit around, making fun of their husbands’ urges. They pinch your breast and tickle your bottom, and they’re ready to perform. Or—I, for one, get good and tired of sex. Why should I work so hard at something I don’t enjoy? Or—I get so pooped I drag myself around all day.
Rachel was bursting with energy. Even after this morning, when Jason had nudged her awake with his… his thing. She blushed, remembering that he’d told her to call it what it was. Just thinking about their conversation excited her all over again.
The bell over the door tinkled, prompting her to shelve her newly discovered daydreams. She turned, feather duster in hand, and looked down at Dusty, the little boy she knew to be Dixie’s nephew. Directly behind him was a tall, lean man she realized must be the boy’s father.
This was the man whose wife had died because of Harry Ritter. Swallowing hard, she rephrased the thought in her head. Harry Ritter raped this man’s wife, causing her death.
She tried to smile at Dusty while shoving the rest of the thoughts to the back of her mind.
“You’re Dusty, aren’t you?” She avoided the father’s gaze. “Did you find homes for all of your kittens?”
Recollection flared in the boy’s dark eyes, and he nodded.
“Where’s Jason?”
The father’s voice was raspy, deep and resonant. It also frightened her. “He… he’s at the reverend’s. His wife is—”
“When do you expect him back?” he interrupted, pacing to the window and peering out like a caged animal.
She glanced at the chime clock on the wall. It was almost noon. Now, more than ever, she was anxious for Jason to come back to the office. Dixie’s brother-in-law made her very uncomfortable. “He… he’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Can I do something for you?”
“No,” he answered sharply. “I’ll wait.”
Dusty rubbed his eyes. He turned and clung to his father’s leg, tugging on his jeans. The father hunkered down beside him and listened as the boy whispered something into his ear. He gave Rachel a piercing look. “Can the boy sit on the bed?”
“Oh,” Rachel murmured, nodding her head. “Certainly. Is he sick? Doesn’t he feel well?” She hurried over and plumped the pillow before Dusty tumbled onto the bed, still rubbing his eyes.
“He’ll be all right.” The father sat beside him, smoothing his hair away from his face. “You’re tough stuff, aren’t you?” He gave his son a private grin, one the boy answered with a very weak imitation.
Rachel thought the boy looked feverish. If he was, she could at least start bringing it down—if the father would let her touch his son. As she moved closer, a strong whiff of whiskey rose to her nostrils. She glanced at the man with the angry eyes, noting that his hair, although darker than Jason’s, was also lightly waved. But, she thought, wrinkling her nose, Jason smelled so much better.
She touched the boy’s forehead, jerking her hand away when she realized he was burning up with fever. Her eyes met those of the boy’s father. “He has a terrible fever,” she scolded.
He gave her a hard look. His black eyes seemed dead, yet there was an intensity in them that frightened her—and gnawed at her memory.
“I’m aware of that. Jason will take care of it. We don’t need your help.”
He almost hissed at her. Suddenly she realized that he knew who she was. It shouldn’t have surprised her; she’d been around long enough for everyone to know. She straightened and went to dampen a cloth with cool water. Returning to the bed, she thrust the wet fabric toward him. Hesitating only briefly, he took it and laid it across his son’s forehead.
He grinned down at the boy, speaking to him in a language Rachel didn’t understand. The boy threw her an occasional glance, as if what his father was saying somehow related to her.
Suddenly the boy coughed, deep and croupy, and gripped the front of his father’s shirt. It gaped open, not only exposing a wide expanse of his chest, but also revealing a deep, ragged scar in the soft flesh of the area of his upper right shoulder.
Rachel’s heart stopped, then began pounding painfully. She broke out into a cold sweat, and her face went slack as she stared, memorizing the wound that she’d seen endlessly in her nightmares. That was why his eyes had frightened her. They were the same eyes she’d seen on the face of the savage who’d murdered Jeremy! And the wound Jeremy had inflicted would have formed a scar similar to this…
Swiftly turning away from him, she stumbled to the desk and sank into the chair, fumbling with the files while she collected her thoughts. She had to think. Think! She didn’t know what to do. She was too frightened to confront him. After all, if he’d killed once, he’d have no compunction about killing again. She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When she thought her legs would hold her, she stood and moved woodenly to the window, hoping, praying, she’d see Jason.
Relief flooded her when she saw him striding toward the office. Needing to gather her thoughts, she left the window and hurried into the other room, leaving Dusty and his father alone in the office when Jason entered.
She sank heavily onto the sofa and waited, silently preparing her speech for Jason. Pressing her fists over her mouth, she thought about what his reaction would be when she told him. How hard it would be for him to believe his best friend had killed Jeremy and Harry! But she was certain he had. Every bone in her body ached with the realization. Every nerve vibrated. In spite of her fear, she had to tell him. She had to…
Chapter Sixteen
Jason was writing something in Dusty’s chart when Rachel went back into the office. He looked up, gave her a heart-stopping smile, then went back to his task.
She let his smile linger in her memory, holding it tight, fervently wishing she didn’t have to tell him what she knew. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly and waited until he’d finished.
“Jason?” Her
voice sounded weak, anemic.
He flipped the cover on the chart and looked at her with concern, obviously catching the panic in her voice. “What is it? Aren’t you feeling well?”
Closing her eyes briefly, she steeled herself against what was to come. “No, I mean, yes. I’m fine.” She wanted his arms around her, but he made no move toward her. This would hurt him so much, so very much…
“Is Dusty all right?” She nervously picked up Dusty’s chart off the desk.
“Just a low-grade fever. He’ll be fine. Why did you leave them?”
“He… Dusty’s father didn’t want me to help. He knows who I am.” The angry eyes haunted her.
“Buck’s still pretty angry with the world, Rachel.”
She gazed up at him. “I could tell. But… but I guess any man in his place would be. I mean, to lose your wife like that…” She shuddered. Although she knew in her heart that Buck was guilty, she didn’t hate him for what he’d done. Under the circumstances, she could almost understand it, except that the motive wasn’t clear in her mind. Oh, it was for killing Harry, but not Jeremy…
“Buck will make it. I can see changes in him already.” Jason touched her chin and looked into her eyes. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Reluctantly, she pulled away. “I have to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
She left him and stood by the window. Buck was riding by on his mount with Dusty in front of him. The boy was nestled snugly against his father’s chest. Rachel glanced away, not wanting to see the tenderness.
“Well?” he urged.
“I think your friend Buck is the Indian who killed Jeremy.” She’d blurted it out quickly, then closed her eyes and held her breath.
“What?” His voice was deadly.
Expelling the air, she sagged against the window. “Oh, darling, I know this has to be a shock to you, but—”
“What in the hell makes you think he did it?”
Finally she turned. Jason’s black look made her recoil, but she brought her hand to her shoulder, flapping it nervously. “I… um… the scar.” She saw the disbelief on his face. “I’m so sorry, Jason. I know it’s hard for you to believe. Oh, love,” she soothed, reaching out to touch him. “I know he’s your friend. I’d give anything if—”
“Stop it.” With a look of disgust, Jason shrugged off her touch. “There isn’t an Indian alive who doesn’t carry the white man’s scars. Look at me. Look at my father, at June. Pick an Indian at random off the street.”
Swearing, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I could show you fifteen men who have scars exactly like Buck’s. Fifteen. Just because Buck’s scar is on the same side as the one you saw your husband inflict doesn’t mean a thing. Hell, I’ve seen his scar. I’ve treated the damned scar.”
His admission shocked her, sending her stomach plummeting. “Wh-What?”
“Buck got the wound in a barroom fight,” he snarled.
She frowned and looked away, fighting the urge to run from his anger and disbelief. “But… but he must have lied to you.”
“No, dammit, he wouldn’t lie to me.” He scowled, his expression menacing and fierce.
She closed her eyes briefly. He was blind to Buck’s faults, that’s what it was. She couldn’t back down; she was too certain she was right. “It was him. I saw it in his eyes today. I’ll never forget those eyes, Jason. Never.”
“You were hysterical that morning. Or don’t you even remember that? I saw you, Rachel. You were incoherent, and ever since then, you’ve claimed you couldn’t remember the face of the man who killed Jeremy. Now, suddenly, everything’s clear to you.” The sarcasm in his voice was heavy.
“Now I know what I saw, Jason.”
“Ah, hell, you think the thought of Buck’s guilt hasn’t crossed my mind?” He swore again, then walked away from her, to the opposite side of the room.
“He’s the first person I went to see that morning. I had my suspicions, only because I knew Ritter was responsible for Honey’s death. I’ve known Buck too long. He may be a lot of things, and he may have had a motive, but he didn’t do it. He’s not a killer.”
She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I… you’re too close. Don’t you see? Why, even your father said you were too close to Buck to be a good judge. I know what you’re feeling.” She turned, giving him a pleading look.
“Jason, I couldn’t believe Jeremy did those horrible things to your people. Not at first. So, believe me, I know what you’re going through.” She took a step toward him. “And I was married to Jeremy. A person can’t get much closer to another than that.”
“Don’t talk to me about your marriage.” He stepped away from her, giving her a cold, hard look. “You didn’t even have a marriage. You didn’t know him much better than a stranger you’d meet on a train. Hell, I knew the bastard better than you did. Everyone in Pine Valley knew him better than you did.”
She didn’t know what to say. She hated it when someone else always had a better answer for something than she did. And his answer was far better—and made painful sense.
“Jason, I understand your pain. I really do. But… isn’t it possible he’s lying to you? That he was there in spite of what he told you?”
“No.” He crossed his arms and presented her with his back.
She stared painfully at his stubborn stance. It didn’t do any good to argue with him. He’d made up his mind, but he was wrong. So very wrong. She felt it deep inside. Despite the awful mistakes she’d made in the past, she wasn’t making one now.
“I’m sorry you can’t see him for what he is, Jason. He’s a murderer. Maybe he was driven to do what he did, but he still did it, and somehow he’s going to have to pay for it.”
He wheeled around and pinned her with a heated scowl. “You’d turn him in?”
Frustration pummeled her. She didn’t know what to tell him. Oh, God, she didn’t know what to do. “I… I don’t know.”
“Human beings are innocent until proven guilty, Rachel. Just remember that around here, Indians aren’t considered human.”
Suddenly cold, she pulled her shawl off the back of a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. It hurt that he didn’t believe her, that he would automatically think she’d been hysterical and unable to make a rational decision. But she was beginning to see things clearly now, and what she saw made her hurt even more. Jason had known about Buck from the beginning but hadn’t come forward with the incriminating evidence. It made perfect sense; he was protecting his friend. And why wouldn’t he? He might look and act like a White, but first and foremost, he was an Indian. He’d stop at nothing to protect his people.
“I’ll think about what you’ve said, but in my heart I know you’re fooling yourself. Your friend Buck is the one I saw.” Knowing there was nothing more to say, she turned to leave.
“Rachel.”
She stopped at the deadly sound of his voice.
“I want you to think long and hard before you make your decision.”
She tucked the ominous statement away, and moved toward the door.
“Before you decide, consider this. Inside all of us is a person we’d rather not expose to the world, for whatever reason.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sometimes the most savage exterior hides a tender, sensitive soul. And sometimes the most pious, upstanding facade hides a savage, waiting to spring free.”
She frowned. “You’re talking in riddles, Jason.”
“I’ll make it simple. You’d better be damned sure of your facts. You think you know your father-in-law pretty well, don’t you?”
“I… I know he isn’t perfect, if that’s what you mean.”
“The man—the one who beat me senseless?”
Nodding, she felt a chill chase over her.
“It was August Weber.”
The following morning tule fog, thick, damp, and
cold, clung to everything. It resembled the feeling in Jason’s chest. He hadn’t meant to unmask Weber as the man who’d beat him, at least not until he could tell Rachel about it without making it sound as if it were her fault. But her stubborn reluctance to admit she might be wrong about Buck had forced him into it.
Now, he waited. Waited and wondered if she’d follow through and expose Buck to her father-in-law as Jeremy’s killer. He hoped she wouldn’t. Not because she didn’t still believe Buck was guilty, but because he didn’t want her to. He’d wanted her to take his word for it.
Before all of this happened, she’d admitted her love for him. Maybe now she’d come to her senses and realize that it had merely been an infatuation. Something deep inside him rebelled at the thought, even though it made incredible sense.
He swore softly. She was a moral person, but she was also compassionate. He hoped that if she thought about it as he’d asked her to, she’d realize that turning Buck in meant certain death.
Unable to convince himself further, he busied himself with his backlog of paperwork and went over the list of reservation supplies he had to pick up at the Port of Sacramento. They would be there by now. He’d leave for Sacramento tomorrow.
Shortly before eight, the office door opened and Dusty tumbled in, his face streaked with tears.
Jason felt a burst of anger. Buck had been ordered to keep Dusty quiet for a few days. “Dusty? What is it?”
The boy rubbed his face with his fist, spreading his tears and the mucus from his runny nose over his cheeks. “I… it’s my daddy,” he whimpered.
Jason went cold inside. “What about your daddy?”
“Th-they came and took him away.”
He rushed around the desk, hunkered in front of the boy, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Who took him away?”
Dusty threw himself at Jason, clinging to him for all he was worth. “The bad man.”
Frowning, Jason rubbed Dusty’s back, attempting to soothe him. “What bad man, Dusty? Can you describe him to me?”
Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two Page 25