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

by Jane Bonander

  “I’m sorry. I made a promise; I must keep my word.”

  Rachel rose quickly and turned away, fighting the tears that stung her eyes. “I… I see. Well, th-thank you anyway, Mr. Bailey.”

  Feeling helpless and puzzled, Rachel left the bank. As she trudged down the sidewalk, she realized there was another person who knew of her debts: August Weber. She’d told him herself. But she had no reason to believe he would bail her out. It wouldn’t benefit him at all. Unless…

  Her stomachache returned. Unless he thought that by paying her bills, he could force her into accusing Buck as Jeremy’s killer. And he would. He’d dangle the paid in full receipt and her precious brooch in front of her like a carrot on a string.

  She found herself at the door to the saloon. With a shaky sigh, she realized it didn’t matter which debt she paid, just as long as she paid. But if she found that Jeremy’s debt to Mr. Justice had been paid as well, she didn’t know what she’d do.

  The saloon was relatively quiet. Harvey, the muscle-bound pest, was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. He tossed Rachel a lascivious grin, which she ignored. Tess was laughing and flirting with a local rancher—a man who Rachel knew had a wife and children. Ignoring them, she stepped quickly to the office door and knocked.

  Bram Justice’s cultured drawl bade her enter. She went into the office, closing the door behind her.

  Justice straightened a stack of papers and gave her a courteous smile. “Miz Weber. What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you today?”

  Rachel dug into her purse and pulled out the wad of damp bills, still rolled as she’d discovered them in the pouch. “I want to pay you something, Mr. Justice.”

  “Ah,” he answered, sounding enlightened. “I see you’ve been paid again.”

  Rachel cleared her throat. “Er… yes. I… I have,” was all she could utter as she handed him the bills. Guilt assaulted her again.

  He took the money, slowly unrolled the bundle, then looked at her. “Drop them in a puddle?”

  Panic froze her. “I… I’m sorry?”

  His fingers moved over the bills. “They’re damp.”

  “Oh,” she answered, swallowing nervously. “I… I don’t know why they would be wet.”

  He gave her a strange smile. “I see. I’ll get you a receipt this time. Do you mind waiting a moment?”

  She was tempted to tell him not to bother, then bolt from the saloon. “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “Not at all.”

  He slipped into another room off his office and closed the door. Rachel paced nervously in front of the desk, tossing furtive glances at the closed door. She felt guilty as sin. She’d read something into everything Bram Justice had said or done. She was afraid that if she didn’t leave soon, she’d break down and admit to anyone and everyone how she’d come by the money.

  Scolding herself, she tried to calm down. But when Mr. Justice came back into the room, she jumped guiltily. He handed her the receipt.

  “There you are, Miz Weber. You must be careful when you carry so much cash around,” he reminded her. “It isn’t safe, you know.”

  She tried to smile. “I… I suppose not, but I was anxious to pay you, so I didn’t dillydally.”

  He gave her a hooded look. “Of course you didn’t.”

  He was making her nervous. She knew it was her own guilt that worked against her, nevertheless, she was anxious to get outside.

  “Well,” she said lamely, “thank you, Mr. Justice.”

  He nodded. “Miz Weber.”

  She pulled open the office door, her feelings of guilt compounded when she saw Harvey loitering nearby. Had he been listening? Burdened with shame, she hurried from the saloon, eager to get away. She knew it was probably her overactive imagination and her guilt, but she thought Bram Justice had acted quite strangely toward her. Of course, no stranger than Mr. Bailey had.

  She almost laughed. What a terrible criminal she’d make! Guilty could just as well have been stamped across her forehead. And this wasn’t even a crime, for heaven’s sake. She’d found money that had been stolen from her husband, and had spent some of it on his debts.

  But the rest of it, what was safely tucked away in the back of her wardrobe, she wouldn’t touch. Not until—well, not yet, anyway. There wasn’t enough to pay off Jeremy’s gambling debt. She’d been thinking about his final pay voucher, too. With a now familiar surge of anger, she realized that he probably owed the army money, rather than the army owing him. And since she was pretty sure that Jason would fire her when he returned from Sacramento, the stolen money was all that she had left in the world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The mountains rose up around the valley, tall, pine-studded peaks laden with snow so white it blinded him.

  He stopped his mount behind the manzanita brush and settled down to wait. How tempting it would have been to grab the Weber widow by the throat and demand to know where she’d gotten the money! Unfortunately, it hadn’t been necessary. He’d recognized the curled bills immediately. He’d counted them often enough. Pushing good sense aside, he’d made his way to the empty building, dreading what he would find. His instincts had been correct. The money was gone.

  He cursed himself for not moving it sooner. It had been foolish to think it was safer there than within his own strongbox. But it had given him perverse pleasure to skulk into the building unseen, and count and recount the ill-gotten money.

  However, since the Weber woman had found his cache, she could inadvertently stumble on other clues. He’d been certain she knew what was going on, anyway. After all, not only was she the last survivor of his little massacre, but she’d discovered the stolen money. It seemed a shame to kill such a sweet, naïve woman, but he couldn’t risk the possibility that she’d heard something that morning. Of course, the savages he’d hired professed to have kept their mouths shut, but with savages, one never knew whether they told the truth or just what one wanted to hear.

  He’d decided months ago that the Weber widow was like a cat with nine lives. Twice he’d tried to get rid of her, and twice he’d failed. The first time he’d hit Tully—a rather unfortunate accident, but the old coot hadn’t been hurt too badly. The second time she’d been clever enough to find the opening to the root cellar. That was a damned shame. And having the building refuse to catch fire was another thing he hadn’t counted on. He’d been a fool to leave any clues at all, but so far, no one had traced back to him the one clue he had left. Fortunately, Tully was getting old and tired.

  He squinted in the direction of the reservation. She should be coming along any minute, now. The third time was supposed to be the charm. Too bad Mrs. Rachel Weber wasn’t as easy to kill as that drunken renegade, Holliday, and his ragged cronies.

  A sly smile split his mouth. Damned fool Indians, thinking he would actually pay them for doing his dirty work. Not that they hadn’t done a good job. Mutilation had been an ingenious idea, and so appropriate. Of course, had it been his idea, he’d have—

  He stopped musing and listened. Yes, someone was coming. Excitement pumped through him. It was hard to always appear cool and collected when so often his blood ran hot with the thrill of the hunt. He sometimes wondered if perhaps he had purposely failed to kill the little widow the first time because he enjoyed stalking her so much.

  Hiding behind the thick manzanita greenery, he rested his rifle on his shoulder and took aim.

  Rachel struggled with the reins. It was hard enough for her to handle a team under normal circumstances, but today it was almost impossible. Since June still hadn’t returned her cape, she’d been forced to wear one of Ivy’s big, fleece-lined jackets. Although it was warm, it was bulky and difficult to maneuver in, for the sleeves kept slipping down over her hands. And the team was easy enough to control on the flat road, but here, on the stretch between the reservation foothills and the valley, the horses seemed spooked by the imprisoning mountains.

  She smiled sadly as
she rattled along. If the horses were spooked, she’d probably passed her own fears on to them. It wasn’t fair to curse the poor animals with her own apprehensions.

  The mountains seemed to pull in around her, causing her to fight for breath. She really thought she’d come to terms with them. She’d begun to love their beauty, slowly learning the variety of pines and firs, and even able to recognize certain birds by their song.

  Everyone in California took the mountains for granted; to most, they were merely part of the landscape. But the first time she’d seen them, she’d felt they blocked her view. Always accustomed to seeing far onto the distant horizon, she felt the mountains were like great walls of granite that offered neither door nor window to what lay beyond. And she was accustomed to knowing what lay beyond. She’d much preferred the flat, treeless expanse of the Dakota plains. Even in the valley she felt safer, seeing the mountains at a distance.

  Maybe her yearning for the flatlands was enough to help her make the decision to leave. But she still wanted to stay. A sad longing for what she and Jason might have had washed over her.

  Suddenly, a rifle shot split the cold, quiet air. It crackled, echoing off the granite that surrounded her. Panic rose in her throat as the horses bolted, running headlong down the partially frozen, rutted path. She grabbed the reins with both hands and pulled back, bracing her feet on the board in front of her.

  “Whoa!” she screeched. “Whoa, girls!”

  She didn’t have enough strength to stop them. The reins slipped slowly from her grasp and she steeled herself against the imminent crash. Forcing her gaze straight ahead, she held on and prayed. Her eyes stung from the blustery onslaught and she could hardly breathe. The cold, wet wind whistled around her ears and tunneled up the gaping sleeves of Ivy’s jacket, sending a chill clear through to her bones.

  The horses raced toward the sharp curve in the road, the wagon rattling and bouncing over the hard, deep ruts. Suddenly she heard a loud snap, and the horses galloped away, their gear flapping and dragging along behind them.

  Rachel held on and slid to the floor of the buckboard, pressing herself under the seat and cushioning her face with the pillow she’d used to sit on. The wagon lurched sideways, into the thick, prickly brush that grew on the slope beside the road. She felt herself turning, moving, jolting hard against the underside of the seat. Abruptly, the wagon slid to a stop on top of her. She didn’t move. She hardly dared breathe. She waited, just thankful she was alive.

  Someone had scared the horses. It was unlikely that it had been just a random shot by a hunter, although it was possible. But she had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach that it hadn’t been something as innocent as a hunter—unless, she thought, fresh fear chilling her, she was the hunted.

  Stay calm. Don’t move. She almost laughed. As if she could move. Pressing her mouth against the thick sleeve of her jacket, she tried to calm her ragged breathing and her racing heart.

  She held her breath and listened. Her heart jumped into her throat once more when she heard dry brush snap and a horse snort very near the wagon. Instinct cautioned her to stay quiet. Minutes passed, and seemed like hours. Her ankle began to throb, and she realized that she’d somehow twisted it, probably when the wagon rolled over on top of her.

  Suddenly she heard another shot, and the horse and rider near her bolted and galloped off, into the brush. She waited again, hardly daring to breathe.

  “Mrs. Weber?”

  Her insides quivered, then relaxed. It was Ben’s voice. He’d just helped her unload the wagon at the reservation. She felt a twinge of relief.

  “Mrs. Weber, are you all right?”

  “Ben? Is… is that you?” Her voice sounded muffled even to her.

  He lifted the wagon until he could see her. “Can you move at all?” he asked.

  “I… I think so,” she answered, pulling herself out from under it. When she’d crawled free, he let the wagon fall backward, down the hill.

  He hunkered down in front of her. “Are you hurt?”

  “I think I hurt my ankle.”

  “Can you move it?”

  She gingerly rotated her ankle. “I can move it,” she said around a gasp as pain shot up her leg.

  Ben put his fists on his hips and shook his head. “Something spook the horses?”

  “Yes. A shot.” She sat up slowly and looked around. “I heard a shot.”

  Ben nodded, but said nothing. “I guess you’ll have to ride into town with me. Think you can get up?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” She clenched her teeth and tried to get up without his help. She couldn’t do it. Suddenly she wondered just how wise it was to trust Ben. After all, she hardly knew him at all.

  He gripped her under the arms and helped her to her feet, then onto the back of his horse. He must have caught the apprehension in her eyes, because he said, “I didn’t spook your horses, Mrs. Weber.”

  Feeling foolish and remorseful, she replied with a small smile, “I didn’t really think you did.”

  He nodded. “It could have been a hunter.”

  “Yes,” she answered a little too quickly. “I’m certain that’s what it was.” She wasn’t convinced, and she didn’t think he was, either. But she didn’t want to dwell further on the possibilities.

  “No doubt the horses are already in town,” he remarked. “Everyone will wonder what’s happened to you.”

  “Yes, I imagine they will.” Anxious to get her mind off her present troubles and her painful ankle, Rachel changed the subject. “How is your son? Is he still with the Wilsons?”

  Ben gently nudged his mount forward. “He’s home with me now, but I still want him to learn to read and write English. Mrs. Gaspard, Jason’s mother, has a school at the ranch. She’s been kind enough to take my boy in with the other children.”

  “That… that’s good, Ben.” The pain in Rachel’s ankle prevented her from blocking out her fears. Tossing anxious glances at the shadowy trees and shrubs alongside the road, she wondered if whoever wanted to kill her would try again. Finding the money had made her a prime target. If the idea hadn’t frightened her so, she’d have thought it might be a good way to flush the killer out into the open.

  She and Ben rode together in silence, down through the sloping hills, past the cold river and onto the lush green valley floor.

  When Ben pulled up in front of Ivy’s, he dismounted and helped Rachel hobble into the cafe.

  “Rachel, honey!” Ivy hurried up to her, grabbed her shoulders and gave her a stern look. “What’s happened? What is it?”

  Rachel allowed herself to slump into Ivy’s waiting arms. “Oh, Ivy, please, I can’t stand up,” she said shakily.

  Ben and Ivy helped her sit down, and Ben carefully propped her leg up onto the chair across from her. Her ankle throbbed mercilessly.

  “Something spooked the horses,” Rachel said, reluctant to blurt out the words that someone was trying to kill her. “If Ben hadn’t come along, I don’t think I’d be here to tell you about it.”

  “Them horses roared into town just a few minutes ago. Jason took them over to the livery. Lan’ sakes, he’ll be just sick when—”

  “Now, don’t go exaggerating, Ivy. I’m fine. It’s all very innocent, I’m sure. Something spooked the horses, and the wagon tipped over, but I’m fine. Honest, Ivy, please don’t make a big issue of this.” Her pulse fluttered. So, Jason was back.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sprint into the cafe, then slow down when he saw her sitting there. She’d never gone so many days without seeing him. All sorts of magical things happened inside her. She flushed, her pulse raced, her breathing became ragged… She loved him so fiercely.

  He crossed to where she sat, his long, fluid stride filled with purpose and his lean hips unconsciously sending her erotic messages.

  “Are you all right?” The question had all the warmth of a winter rain. The familiar hollowness in her stomach re
turned.

  Their eyes met briefly, but he pulled his away. With the same professional detachment, he concentrated on her leg.

  She didn’t want to cry, but she felt tears anyway. They didn’t come from her painful ankle, but from her pain-filled heart. “I… it’s my ankle,” she said carefully, unwilling to let him see her feelings. “It’s nothing, really. I’ll be fine.”

  “Dang it, she won’t be fine, Jason. Lord a’mighty, she could have been killed out there.” Ivy hovered over her like a lioness.

  Jason took off her shoe. His hands moved over her foot and ankle, sending fluttering messages into Rachel’s stomach in spite of the pain. She gazed down at the top of his head, aching to run her fingers through his thick, coarse hair, desperately wanting to pull him close and lose herself in his embrace.

  “It isn’t broken,” he said without feeling.

  “I know that,” she snapped, angry at herself for allowing her dreams to interfere with reality. She wanted him so much, but knew she was a fool. All she could hope for was that he’d just go away, for having him near was more painful than any sprained ankle.

  “Ivy? Get some cold compresses, would you, please? Does anything else hurt?” he grilled her, his voice terse.

  Yes, you fool, my heart. With a weary shake of her head, she shrugged out of Ivy’s enormous jacket and held it in her lap. She had no strength to put on an act. Had she not gotten hurt, she might have been able to convince even herself that she’d become strong and self-sufficient. It had been important that she appear independent. She didn’t need him feeling sorry for her. And she’d wanted him to know that she could be stubborn and mule-headed, too… but it just wasn’t her nature. She was too forgiving. She’d always been that way. That was a part of her she couldn’t change.

  As she’d watched him work on her ankle, she realized that he didn’t appear worried about what she was feeling. She knew she looked horrible. Her skirt was filthy and had a long tear in it, her stockings were snagged, the eyelet hem of her petticoat was ripped clean off, and her hair had pulled free from its pins and was now a snagged, tangled mass that fell in disarray over her shoulders. It wasn’t quite the way she’d hoped Jason would find her on his return from Sacramento.