Fires of Innocence Read online

  Fires of Innocence

  Jane Bonander

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1994 by Jane Bonander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition December 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-188-1

  More from Jane Bonander

  Heat of a Savage Moon

  Forbidden Moon

  Secrets of a Midnight Moon

  Dancing on Snowflakes

  Wild Heart

  Warrior Heart

  Winter Heart

  For my sons, Jason and Ross, who are as witty as Sam Clemens and as aware of the natural order of things as John Muir.

  To Allan, Margy and Shana Hansell, Bahlshoyee spahseebah!

  Author's Note

  Dear Readers:

  I had special pleasure researching this book. The problems I created during the establishment of Yosemite as a national park were purely fictional, but each and every bird, flower, animal, snowstorm or wind direction I alluded to were not. Yosemite Valley is still a magical place; let’s hope, with the ever-increasing amount of tourists who enter it each year, we don’t change that. John Muir saw the valley at its finest. Thankfully, he had the ability to capture the heart of Yosemite and put it in writing for the rest of us to enjoy.

  As for capturing the essence of San Francisco in the 1860s, Samuel Clemens, perhaps better known as Mark Twain, had no rival. As a local reporter for the San Fran­cisco Daily Morning Call newspaper in 1864, he wrote hundreds of articles on subjects ranging from vagrant houses, the Chinese immigrant and the stage to earth­ quakes, larceny and bigamy. Every article is brimming with his rapier wit.

  I hope Fires of Innocence is a pleasurable step back in time.

  Jane Bonander

  Prologue

  Yosemite Valley, California—October 1867

  Two figures trudged through the powdery snow. The one behind, the one with the rifle, gained steadily on the one ahead. Gripping his side, the man in front glanced over his shoulder as if to gauge the distance between him and his tracker. Despite his wound, he pressed on over the crest of the hill, then down the other side, his lungs burning from exertion, his legs and feet numb from the cold.

  Suddenly, a rifle shot split the air. The bullet did not find its target, whizzing instead into the bleak, dead air beyond the trees.

  The sound awakened the snow laden boughs of the sedate yellow pines, and as the morning sun sifted through their branches, the sudden warming shifted the dense masses on the ends of the lacy limbs and they fell, striking the ones below.

  Little by little the sparkling snow crystals, alive with motion and bursting with sunbeams, gathered power and speed. In the distance, one could hear a dull rumbling. The man ahead, who was well down the hill, stopped briefly and listened. Recognizing the sound, he quickly looked back, then broke into a limping run, his hand pressed tightly against his side.

  The tracker glanced behind him, momentarily frozen by the broad cloud-shaped drift that bounded over the cliff brows, descending at avalanche speed. Then, like an advancing army, a tremendous wind howled upon him, pushing the air aside. The hissing of the snow as it thundered down the mountain drove the breath from his lungs. He struggled against the riverlike flow, sucking in great gulps of snow and choking as the icy crystals clogged his throat. His rifle, wrenched from his grip, flew into the air, then disappeared into the plunging slide. The mass whirled and eddied around him, tossing him about like a snowflake in a storm.

  The avalanche finally stopped on the valley floor, the tracker entombed beneath the weight of the slide. The air was suddenly clear again, and the snow-spray filtered softly through the sunbeams, finally coming to rest on the snowy meadows.

  The wounded man, still gripping his injured side, struggled on.

  One

  Beneath the earth’s naked skin sculpted muscles of granite flex against the erosive forces of nature’s fist. Above the land, the silent snow prepares for invasion, gathering momentum on convex slopes, stressing the massive powdery cover until it breaks free on its downward plunge.

  Ian MacDowell’s journal

  Yosemite Valley, California—October 1867

  Scotty MacDowell paused, listening to the thundering sounds of the avalanche in the distance. She’d heard them all morning. Surely now the passes were closed. Warm relief spread through her. She was alone and safe—until spring.

  She slogged through the fresh snow, her pet raccoon, Muggin, curled around her neck like a scarf. Tightening her grip on the burlap sack that carried the dead rabbit, she shuddered as she remembered having to release the tawny-colored hare from the trap. Her father had always been the one to set and spring the traps, but now, with him gone …

  Sucking in a ragged breath, she wondered how long it would take for the sharp edges of her grief to soften into something that didn’t hurt so much. Caring for her father and watching him die from the wasting disease had taken its toll on her, and now she counted on the long, quiet winter to rejuvenate her.

  She looked up as a gathering of jays settled onto the branches of a Jeffrey pine, their harsh shack-shack complaints echoing her own dismal mood. Beautiful as they were, they appeared cheerless and uneasy during the early winter months, always hunched over against the cold, like tramps huddled around a fire.

  A sudden breeze embraced the grove of lively silver pines, launching from each needle a carefully tempered note that created a serenade of sun sparkled wind song.

  Scotty briefly closed her eyes. Of all the sounds that wafted through the winter air, wind music was her favorite.

  She inhaled deeply, loving the fresh, cold fragrance of new snow. As she climbed up over a rise, she saw her cabin in the distance. A thick dollop of smoke chugged from the chimney, painting a gray smudge on the bright blue morning sky. Snuggled low against the tall granite, the small building appeared to butt up against the solid rock wall.

  Scotty smiled, her grief lifting slightly as she looked at the scene—one she loved so much. She had always marveled at her father’s ingenuity, for there was a door at the back of the cabin that opened into a cave where their precious animals stayed warm throughout the cold, bone-crushing winter.

  As they neared home, Muggin grew agitated, changing positions on Scotty’s shoulders and trilling out warnings. Scotty turned, noting with alarm that Muggin’s white tufts of facial vibrissae stood out stiffly, indicating danger.

  She instinctively slowed her steps and touched the knife she had strapped to her waist. Squinting against the sunlight, she scanned the snow near the cabin. She’d seen cougar tracks last week, and was always concerned that predators might find a way into the cave.

  She stopped and listened. The only sounds she heard were the pulsing cadence of her own heartbeat and the moaning of the wind as it ruffled the trees.

  Stroking Muggin’s back to quiet her, Scotty stalked toward the cabin, grateful she hadn’t worn her father’s heavy boots. Her high, fur-lined deerskin moccasins allowed her to move through the snow with the stealth of an Indian.

  As she approached the cabin door,
she noted a peculiar pattern in the snow. She crept closer to get a better look at it, then stopped. Pushing back her fear, she stared down at the large footprints that led to her door. Surrounding each print were splashes of blood, emblazoned against the pristine blanket of snow.

  Swallowing the terrified lump in her throat, she pulled out her knife. Muggin whined loudly, driving Scotty’s heart into her mouth. She stroked the animal again, then briefly put her hand around its muzzle to quiet it. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door a crack and peered into the room. Nothing appeared wrong, yet—

  Suddenly a hand snaked around the door and pulled her inside. Her knife clattered to the floor and Muggin tumbled from her shoulders, squealing as she retreated into the far shadows of the cabin. The hand, hard and calloused, clamped over Scotty’s mouth and cold steel pressed against her throat. Stark fear prickled her skin, and black spots danced before her eyes.

  “Who are you?” The voice was low and husky, rasping like chaff against her ear.

  She winced, the blade pressing harder as he took his hand away from her mouth. “I live here,” she whispered, her voice strained with fear.

  Her breath caught in her throat as his free hand dove beneath her jacket, moving shamelessly over her waist and hips, pausing briefly on her breasts. “Wha—” she gasped, stunned at his blatant familiarity.

  “Do you have another knife? Maybe tucked away inside your drawers?”

  She shook her head, clamping a lid on her fear. Her father had warned her about criminals and convicts who fled from the law to hide in the valley.

  The intruder pressed the knife closer. His broad, hard chest felt as solid as a door against her back, and she knew he could kill her instantly if he wanted to.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “N-no,” she lied. Her gaze flickered down to the hand that held the knife. Blood rimmed the sleeve of his jacket, and his thumb, which was pressed against her windpipe, was warm, wet and sticky. Scotty shuddered and swallowed against the urge to vomit.

  “Who else?” He shoved the flat of the blade harder against her windpipe.

  “My … my father.” She choked on the words as they squeezed past her throat.

  “His name?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. Beneath her heavy jacket and warm clothing she began to perspire. It dampened her armpits and snaked between her breasts. “Ian … Mac … Dowell.”

  “Liar,” he hissed, then drew in a ragged breath, dragging the knife closer still as he groaned in pain. “MacDowell … is dead.”

  His knife blade glided lightly across the side of her neck as he collapsed to his knees behind her.

  She gasped, sucking in great gulps of air as she sprang away from him. She brought her fingers to the stinging sensation at her throat and felt the warm, sticky substance that slid from the cut. Startled, she stared at her bloody fingers, then swung around and looked at the intruder, who was doubled over, gripping his side.

  He’d cut her! Terror seeped through her. As she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around her neck to stop the flow of blood, she wondered if he’d done it on purpose. Not daring to take her eyes off him, she backed away and removed her jacket, dropping it over a chair.

  “What do you want here?” The voice that came out of her mouth sounded too high-pitched and frightened to be her own.

  “I’ve been shot,” he answered, breathing heavily. “You’re going to help me.”

  Scotty stared down at him. Even kneeling he was huge. His hair, long and wild, was as black as her own and he wore a full untrimmed beard that covered the lower half of his face. His eyebrows, dark as the brows of Satan himself, arched over his slanting eyes.

  Her gaze drifted down his torso over his tan, blood-soaked jacket. He was bleeding badly; maybe if she wasted enough time, he’d pass out. She felt a sudden stab of shame at her thoughts. “Why should I help you?” she asked.

  “Because,” he answered, slowly pulling a revolver from his pocket, “I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

  Fear pooled in her stomach. Bravely, she looked at his face. His eyes weren’t the eyes of a madman. They were an icy, hard blue and showed no signs of the pain he had to be feeling from his wound.

  She gave him a brief nod. It did no good to deny him. The sooner she tended to him, the sooner he’d be gone. But where would be go? She shoved the thought away. That wasn’t her concern.

  “Come … come over by the fire,” she said softly.

  Making no sound, he slowly pulled himself to his feet. The skin under his eyes was gray.

  She took her father’s sleeping roll and laid it in front of the fire, then unfolded a large quilt on top of it. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the stranger rub his free hand across his face. He weaved slightly, then shook himself, once again appearing to gain control.

  “You’ll have to remove your coat.”

  His breath came in harsh gasps, and he leaned against her father’s big chair by the fire. “You’ll help me,” he ordered.

  Biting back a smart remark, she pulled his arm from the sleeve of the jacket, watching as he shifted the revolver to his other hand.

  She wasn’t prepared for the sight that met her gaze. Swallowing convulsively, she gaped at his shirt. It was so drenched with blood that it stuck to his skin.

  Feeling a sudden rush of concern, she pulled him to the bedroll and helped him lie down. As she leaned over him to examine the wound, she felt his gun against her ribs. She jerked away and stared down at him.

  “Off,” he commanded softly.

  She looked at him, hating the anxiety she knew was in her eyes. “What?”

  “Your shirt and trousers. Take them off.”

  She swallowed again, forcing down the panic. “Wh-why?”

  He waved the revolver under her nose. “I want to make sure you’re not hiding a weapon.”

  “But I’m not. I’m not,” she answered, shaking her head frantically.

  “Now.” His voice proved he was still in control.

  With shaky fingers, she slowly unbuttoned her flannel shirt, shrugging out of it and dropping it to the floor. Her nipples automatically tightened beneath her drab long underwear, and for the first time in her life, she felt foolish wearing her father’s clothes. She hesitated, tossing him a plaintive glance.

  He waved the revolver at her again. “The trousers.”

  With mounting apprehension she pulled off her moccasins and unbuttoned the fly of her britches: Thoughts, every one of them bloody and frightening, somersaulted through her brain.

  For a moment, she allowed her imagination to run away, then, from somewhere inside her, she dredged up courage. “This is the stupidest thing—”

  “Hurry up,” he interrupted. “I’m bleeding to death.”

  Then die and be quick about it! She slid her trousers down to her feet and stepped out of them, wishing she had the nerve to tell him what she thought, but grateful she had a sensible tongue in her head. Then she stood before him, refusing to acknowledge her humiliation.

  “Come here.”

  She obeyed, only because she feared him.

  “On your knees,” he ordered.

  She balked. “Why?”

  “On your knees.”

  Trying to keep from shivering, she got to her knees and glared at him defiantly. Suddenly his free hand came up between her legs, moving swiftly over her thighs.

  With the agility of a cat, Scotty rolled onto her buttocks and moved quickly to the side.

  “What in the devil was that for?” she demanded, the shame at having been touched so intimately feeding her anger.

  He gazed at her through narrowed lids. “You could have had a knife strapped to your thigh.”

  She stood, regaining her dignity. “Well, I didn’t now, did I?”

  “No,” he answered, a small indecent smile tugging at his lips. “You didn’t.”

  Scotty took a deep breath.
“Now what?” Master, she wanted to add.

  “Tend my wound.”

  She hesitated only a moment, crossed to the fireplace and put another log on the grate. Feeling naked in just her underwear, she self-consciously poked at the charred tinder, trying to keep her breasts from moving beneath her undershirt. After the fire was regenerated, she picked up a kettle of hot water, some wrapping flannel and a deep bowl, and returned to the intruder.

  She shivered. “Do you mind if I dress now that you’ve humiliated me?”

  His rude gaze raked over her. “Yes,” he answered with a smirk. “I mind.”

  Cursing the devil who brought him to her, she lowered herself to her knees beside him, nimbly unbuttoned his shirt and the top of his long underwear. She dragged his arms from the sleeves.

  The sight of the wound made her gasp. He’d been hit low on his torso, the bullet entering far to the right and just above his navel. Her gaze moved slowly to his face. His eyes were focused on her breasts, and she felt heat spread up her neck, into her cheeks. Bloody worthless convict. She was sorry whoever shot him had missed. No gentleman would stare so brazenly.

  She quickly washed off the blood and examined the wound, ignoring his sharp intake of breath. The injury was wicked looking, but clean. Glancing up briefly, she saw the mass of curly black hair that grew so thickly across his chest that it hid his nipples. A funny feeling tunneled into the pit of her stomach, and she looked away.

  She started to stand, but he seized her arm. His grip was like iron, and she knew it would be useless to fight him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You need a poultice,” she shot back.

  He let her go then, but she could feel his hot, suspicious gaze down the length of her back as she moved away from him.

  Crossing to her spice chest, she pulled open the drawer that held the creosote leaves. After grinding them into dust, she added a small amount of badger oil and mixed them together.