Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One Read online

  Secrets of a Midnight Moon

  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 © 1991 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: 978-1-62681-186-7

  More from Jane Bonander

  Heat of a Savage Moon

  Forbidden Moon

  Fires of Innocence

  Dancing on Snowflakes

  Wild Heart

  Warrior Heart

  Winter Heart

  For my parents, Floyd and Mabel Olson, with love and thanks.

  Before you go over the snow-mountain to the north,

  Downhill toward the north,

  Oh me, do look back to me.

  You who dwell below the snow-mountain,

  Do look back to me.

  Wintu Love Song

  Prologue

  North Central California, 1838

  Sunshine sifted through the leaves of the great, green valley oaks. Fluttering nuances of light and shadow dappled the group of Indians who knelt in the shade. A uniformed Mexican ensign strode through the amassment, hastily dipping his fingers into a heavy leather pouch and flicking water onto each bowed head.

  The heady aroma of incense cedar permeated the air. It gave dubious justification to the churchlike setting as the soldier baptized each Indian, “In nomine Patris et filii et Spiritus Sancti, amen.”

  On the sunny slopes of the hills beyond the trees, bumblebees gorged themselves on the honey of the flowering wild poppies, and a vibrant, shimmering hummingbird darted among the wildflowers in search of nectar. Soldiers’ mounts grazed in the shade, occasionally sweeping their tails across their rumps to rid themselves of the fat horseflies that settled there to feed.

  Young Bear was on his knees next to his mother, Flicker Feather. He felt the warmth from her body against his bare arm, and even though the sun was hot and the temperature high, he was reluctant to move away.

  Bear, who had just passed his tenth summer, kept his hands clasped in front of him. He raised his blue-gray eyes to watch the stocky soldier wend his way through the bronzed ranks, but lowered them again as the man came closer.

  His heart pounded unnaturally fast. It wasn’t the ritual; Bear had been baptized before.

  He stole a glance sideways and noted the soldiers in the shade under the trees. Some of them lolled lazily about, their weapons resting against the thick, dark gray trunks of the oaks. Others held their guns casually by the barrels, eliciting an unthreatening air of confidence among most of the baptized horde. Almost all of them smoked tobacco-wrapped cigarillos, and the pungent, smoky odor hung in the still air under the trees.

  “Hurry it up, Rodrigo,” one of them ordered casually. “Who says the heathens have souls anyway, eh?”

  “Silencio. We have our orders,” barked the ensign, who was performing the priestly duties.

  Bear knew enough Spanish to find the verbal exchange frightening, As he watched the approaching soldier, who carelessly continued the Christian rite among the captives, he sidled closer to his mother and worried about the strange way the ritual was being performed. But again he looked at the other soldiers, who still held their weapons in a lazy, unthreatening way, and he relaxed. As the man approached him, Bear looked upward and stared at the soldier, but quickly lowered his eyes. He suddenly knew something awful was about to happen.

  When “holy” water had touched the last bowed head, the ensign marched to the periphery of the newly baptized Christians. The soldier said a quick prayer and made that strange crossing gesture over his head and chest. When the man took the shiny black beads he held in his fist and gave them a hasty kiss, Bear felt a shudder pass through his body.

  “Atención!”

  The soldiers snapped to attention and lifted their guns to their shoulders, hammers cocked.

  “Fire!”

  There was a volley of shots, and Bear saw blood blossoming on the chest of a child next to him. Another shot cracked in the air, and someone screamed behind him, knocking into him in their attempt to run away.

  “Run, Bear! Run like the wind!” Flicker Feather cried. Her voice barely carried over the noise of the bloodbath. Bear turned to look at his mother. Her expression was one of horror as she stiffened and fell, her face pinched with pain. “Run …” Blood oozed out the side of her mouth. “Run, my brave little Bear. …”

  Bear tried to help his mother up. Something glanced off his cheekbone, then whizzed by his ear. He was thrown to the ground. Before he could pull himself up, someone fell on top of him, pinning him. He tried to slide out from under the body, but more weight was heaped upon his back. He reached out and touched his mother.

  “Play like the turtle in the pond,” she ordered, her voice halting but strong. “Pretend to sleep.”

  Bear tried to still his rapid breathing. He felt like he was being buried alive. He thought of the calming words his grandfather, the great chief Bearheart, had taught him to quiet the excitement of his spirit on a hunt, and repeated them over and over again to himself.

  Something dribbled onto Bear’s head and rolled down his cheek to his lips. He stuck out his tongue and caught the sticky, cloying warmth, shivering as awareness rushed through him. Blood.

  Bear’s heart pounded in his ears, but he could still hear the ensign shouting orders to double the charge. The thundering explosions came more rapidly, and again Bear tried to control his erratic breathing. He closed his eyes and tried, with all his inner strength, to keep from scrambling out from under the pile that entombed him.

  He heard another volley of shots, tucked his arms under him and lay as quietly as he was able beneath the flesh that he hoped would save him.

  He swallowed his fear as a large, booted foot stepped so close to his face he could see the cuts and nicks in the leather, and the spattered blood that had soaked into the sole.

  “Mariano!” The voice of the soldier in charge rekindled Bear’s fear.

  “Si!”

  “Run them through.”

  For long, endless minutes Bear lay there, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he felt the boot kick at the heap of bodies covering him.

  I will not die! Again he called upon the prayer of bravery his grandfather had taught him years before, and repeated it to himself over and over again. Finally, the soldier’s foot moved slightly, as if he were turning to leave.

  Relief for Bear, if there was any, was brief. A shifting of the corpses above him sent a new wash of fear over his flesh. Gritting his teeth and closing his throat, he waited for the sting of the blade. The scraping of the metal bayonet as it grazed a bone made him cringe. When the blade entered his own flesh, he felt a sharp, biting pang in his side. He pressed his mouth against the grass to muffle his cry of pain. Then a numbness settled over his taut, young body, and he felt his fear subside.

  For an interminable length of time Bear didn’t move. Now and then, when the numbness at his side and his cheek wore off and the pain from his wounds flared angrily, he would squeeze his eyes
shut and press his lips together. Fear crept over his skull at every noise, and with each one, panic welled up in his throat at the thought of being discovered—and killed.

  The soldiers’ voices became less distinct. Bear could no longer hear what they were saying. Soon he heard them mount their horses and ride away.

  All was quiet. He didn’t move, in case one of the soldiers had stayed behind. Eventually he slept, for when he awakened, all he heard was the buzzing of a thousand flies that had already begun to feed on the dead. The thick, warm liquid that ran slowly down the insides of his thighs and pooled in the pockets behind his knees became sticky, and he knew it was blood. He also sensed that it wasn’t his own. With his cheek pressed against the grass, he tried to gasp for air. Fresh air. Air that wasn’t thick with the lavish stench of death.

  At nightfall the howl of the coyote sounded in the distance. Bear knew he must flee, for the smell of the butchery would draw many curious and hungry creatures. Pulling himself out from under the mass of dead, cooling flesh, he clutched his wounded side and pushed the bodies off his mother. As he squatted down next to her, he prayed she would still be breathing.

  “Mother?” he asked quietly, his voice thin and hopeful as he gently shook her lifeless shoulder. His young heart shattered when he realized she was no longer with him. He rocked back and forth on his haunches, peering into his mother’s beautiful face and feeling a ragged, painful sense of loss. He took her lifeless hand, brought it to his face and pressed it against his skin. Tears pearled in the corners of his eyes, wetting his long, thick lashes, but he pushed down the panic that mushroomed in his belly. He had to be strong.

  He looked into the moonwashed sky but saw only his mother’s kind face. Bear had always been pleased to be her son. She had taught him how to stand tall and be proud of his Indian heritage, even though his father was a white man. Yes, his mother had been brave and patient, and best of all, she had been the daughter of the chief.

  As Bear’s gaze scanned the field of bodies, it came to rest on something that glinted in the moonlight. Laying his mother’s arm down, he got up and, clutching his injured side, walked toward the winking metal. When he reached it, he picked it up and inspected it, turning it this way and that, catching the blade in the light. Suddenly his eyes darkened and hatred boiled through his veins. It was a soldier’s bayonet. Broken off and stained with blood, it seemed to glare back at him with savage impudence.

  Bear wiped the blade on the grass and slipped it inside his shirt, the coldness of the blade stinging his skin. This would remind him. This would always remind him.

  He touched the wound at his cheek and was relieved he could feel no fresh blood. But his side was still bleeding, and he knew he must bind it soon. Making his way back to his mother’s body, he bent down and removed a long white scarf from around her waist. Briefly, reverently, he brought it to his face and felt the richness of the fabric. The memory of it washed over him like a healing balm.

  What is this cloth, Mother?

  It is a special cloth, my little Bear. It is a gift to me from your father, Young Cloud.

  Will I ever know my father?

  Perhaps one day, my little Bear. Perhaps one day …

  Suddenly he remembered the shiny pocket watch that bore his father’s initials. Searching at his mother’s waist for the leather pouch, he found it, dug inside, and pulled out the timepiece. Although Bear did not understand what the letters meant, he ran his fingers over the bold initials as he had done so many times before. J.C.G.

  Bear, if something should happen to me, take this timepiece to your father.

  But nothing will happen to you, Mother. I will protect you.

  Bear swallowed the lump of tears in his throat and slipped the watch into the pocket that was sewn inside his short buckskin pants. Then he bound his wound with the soft, white cloth that had been a gift to his beautiful mother from a man Bear had never known.

  He had often wondered about his father, who lived up near the mountain of the Great Spirit. His mother had spoken kindly of the white trapper who had come from the land of the north wind, but Bear felt a secret anger for a man who would not live with the family he had created. Now, Bear had no choice but to go to him and ask for help. But he would not beg!

  As he turned from the death that lay behind him, Bear paused, allowing himself one more backward glance at his mother. No! He couldn’t leave her here for the coyotes. Although he was weak and exhausted, he dredged up strength he didn’t think he had and pulled his mother’s body past the other corpses to a small ravine he’d seen earlier in the day. “I am sorry, Mother,” he said, his young voice wavering bravely as he rolled her into the trench. “I will bring back my father, and beg that he give you and grandfather an honorable burial. I promise,” he vowed, his adolescent voice filled with fierce pride.

  After covering his mother’s body with pine boughs, he walked slowly over the field of the dead and retrieved a blanket of woven rabbit skins. He lay the soft quilt over the bough-covered body and searched the ground until he found three large stones, which he rolled over onto the blanket.

  Exhausted, but afraid to sleep, Bear got slowly to his feet and searched the night sky for the star that would lead him north. Then he began his journey to find the man his mother called Young Cloud.

  Chapter One

  North Central California, 1858

  One wheel of the California and Oregon Stage Company coach slid into another rut in the road. Anna Jenson bounced up off the horse hair cushion, then tumbled back against the seat. Grabbing the leather strap that hung by the window, she pulled herself upright. A fresh ache spread across her shoulders, and she massaged her neck with her free hand. She hated to even imagine how sore she was going to be tomorrow, after bouncing mercilessly over every bumpy road from Oregon to California these past few days.

  She shook herself. No sense thinking about that. A rush of excitement fluttered in her stomach. She was going to her first teaching position away from home. That made all the bumps and holes in the road worth the ride.

  She held onto her new, blue Irving hat and stuck her head out the window to catch a better view of the mountain peak in the distance. It was magnificent. The brilliant blue sky framed the rocky, snow-covered mass, giving it an air of celestial beauty and power. At the timber line clouds became tangled in the treetops, slowly moving and changing shape as they hung in the air like smoke.

  Breathing in the crisp mountain air, Anna turned away from the grove of deep green pines through which they were riding to look at her traveling companions. The young man across from her had finally decided to sleep, for he was sprawled against the seat, his hat over his eyes. A tiny wave of guilt pricked her conscience. The poor man had tried to start up a conversation with her by telling her the history of the mountain. She had been extremely interested until he began regaling her with stories about the savages and how they worshiped the craggy peak.

  Savages. A shudder crept up her spine and she unconsciously stroked the worn surface of the locket that hung on the gold chain around her neck. Before she’d left home, her mother had placed two tiny pellets of cyanide inside it, instructing her to take them should the stage be raided by Indians.

  Anna rested her head against the seat, sighed and closed her eyes. It had been ten years since she and her family had come across the prairie to the Oregon Territory, but her mother’s fear of Indians, fear that had been instilled in all of them even before they had left Iowa, was still intact. And her mother’s fears had only grown, despite the friendly Indians who lived near their farm today.

  She opened her eyes and watched the sleeping woman seated next to her. With her pointed chin nearly on her chest, the thin woman, considerably older than Anna, snored softly. She was grateful the woman could nap. She had told Anna she was on her way to care for her niece and nephew in Pine Valley, and since she herself had never married, she’d confided, she wasn’t anxious to take charge of two active children.

  The th
in, birdlike woman actually looked like a schoolmistress should, Anna decided. Looking wistfully at the woman’s straight brown hair, she imagined it was trained to roll into a bun each morning by itself.

  Sighing, Anna poked a wayward strand of honey-blond hair back under her jaunty blue hat and looked out the window again, peering this way and that at the lush green landscape. Excitement coursed through her. She was starting a new life, would put all of her past hurts and disappointments behind her. Being anxious to leave home, she’d begun to worry when she didn’t hear from Mr. Gaspard, fearing that he’d changed his mind about hiring her. Then the message had come from his son Nicolas, who said he would be at the stage to meet her. She’d been in high spirits ever since.

  Digging through her reticule, she found the letter, pulled it out and reread it.

  Miss Jenson:

  As my father’s messenger, I am hoping it will be of no inconvenience if I ask that you get off the stage at the Flat Rock station rather than Pine Valley.

  Sincerely, Nicolas Gaspard (son of Jean-Claude Gaspard)

  She folded the letter and stuffed it back into her purse. Flat Rock had to be the next home station. She settled back against the high, hard seat of the coach and closed her eyes, wishing she could nap, if only for a few minutes. But her senses were too keen and her eyes refused to stay shut.

  “Flat Rock ahead!” The whipster’s voice rang clearly as he shouted back at the passengers.

  When the coach stopped in front of the freshly painted building, Anna suddenly realized she was nervous. She peered outside. Good heavens, she didn’t even know whom to look for.

  The woman next to her had awakened moments before, and was staring at the nearly empty platform. “You be careful, now,” she cautioned Anna, nodding toward the landing.