Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One Page 2

  Anna’s eyes followed the woman’s gaze. A tall, broad-shouldered Indian whose black hair hung to his shoulders lounged against one of the pillars on the porch. Although he was dressed in civilized, nicely-cut buckskins, there was an untamed quality about him. Anna quickly glanced at the platform. He was the only person there.

  The driver hopped down, opened the stage door, and Anna stepped out. Perhaps Mr. Gaspard was inside. She glanced again at the Indian, but pursed her lips in disapproval when she found the man openly watching her. A shiver danced over her skin.

  A young boy ran from the building to help unload her baggage, piling it all on the wooden platform. Lifting her dark blue poplin skirt, she walked carefully up the steps to the landing and, after giving the Indian a wide berth, took a seat on a bench near the door, under the eaves.

  The man pushed himself away from the tall, round column. With a natural grace Anna couldn’t help but admire, he walked to the stage, where the other passengers were still milling about before reentering the coach.

  He bent down to talk with the woman who was going to Pine Valley to care for her relatives. Suddenly he pulled himself up straight. “What?!” His voice exploded into the quiet air, and he turned slowly, pinning Anna with a long, pernicious look.

  Her pulse raced when their eyes met. Whatever was he looking at her for? He continued to stare, his fists on his narrow hips and his feet wide apart. Shaking his head, he started toward her. Her fingers went directly to the cold, smooth surface of her locket.

  As he approached she noticed that his black, satanic eyebrows were slammed down over his eyes, and his mouth was crimped into a frown. Her heart banged against her ribs. He’d been tall and imposing from a distance, but up close his size and his presence were downright frightening. There was a scar on his left cheekbone that pulsed an angry purple, and his eyes were as gray and blustery as a coastal storm.

  “You’re Miss Jenson?”

  His voice was deep and resonant. Not trusting her own, she merely nodded and continued to touch her locket with nervous fingers.

  “Miss Anna Jenson, the … schoolmarm?”

  The last two words were laced with a generous amount of sarcasm, but Anna pretended not to notice. It wouldn’t do to let him think she was a greenhorn. She was, after all, almost twenty-one.

  “Yes,” she said as she stood up to greet … whoever he was. “I’m Anna Jenson.” His height was impressive, and annoying. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, which did nothing to enhance her attempt at aloofness. “And you are?”

  He looked at her long and hard, then raked his fingers through his thick black hair, grunted a sigh, and looked away. “I’m here to take you to your teaching job.” He strode to the trunk and hoisted it onto his back as easily as if it were empty.

  Panic nipped at Anna’s spine. She had no intention of going off into the woods with a … a disgruntled savage. “Ah, Mister …” She had no idea what to call the man. He hadn’t even had the decency to introduce himself.

  He lifted her trunk into a clumsy-looking wagon. “Bear, ma’am, just call me Bear.”

  Anna shuddered. How appropriate.

  “Well, I …” she began, rummaging through her purse, “I find this rather curious. Where is … Nicolas Gaspard? I have a note from him.” She pulled out the letter. “It says he would be here to meet me.”

  She shoved the letter at him, but he ignored it. He walked past her and hoisted her other bags into the wagon. Anna sighed and dropped the note back into her purse. He probably couldn’t read English, anyway.

  He gave out a low whistle, and a big, black stallion appeared out of nowhere. The animal walked right up to him and nudged his shoulder with his nose. He said something to the horse in a language Anna didn’t understand, then tied it to the back of the wagon.

  “The vineyards are busy,” he finally said. “He sent me in his place.”

  She let out a huge sigh, looked around the empty station and reviewed her options. She really didn’t have any. She couldn’t stay here, and really, she was being foolish. She was letting her mother’s fear of all Indians color her own usually good judgment. Just because Mr. Gaspard’s son had sent his Indian lackey to pick her up didn’t mean she had to shake in her boots.

  But as she eyed the wagon, she thought about the locket and its lethal contents. Until now Anna had felt it was only a precaution against a remote possibility. If the savage standing next to her posed a threat against her life and honor, could she actually kill herself?

  Taking a deep, shaky breath, Anna plastered a tight smile on her face. “All right, take me to my new home.” With a confidence she didn’t feel, she stepped into the wagon and tried to ignore the trepidation in her bones.

  The old, horse-drawn wagon clattered over the deeply rutted forest path, with the stallion tied behind. Anna checked the sun and decided they’d been traveling at least an hour. All that time, her driver had been the picture of stoicism. Never had she known a man with so little to say.

  A movement in the dense brush caught her eye, and when a beautiful tan-colored doe sprinted across the path in front of them, the horses reared up, startled.

  “Easy, girls,” the Indian crooned, handling the reins with ease.

  Suddenly the wagon slid into a deep rut. Anna gritted her teeth and held onto the edge of the wagon seat with both hands to keep from falling backward into the pile of baggage. Her hair was escaping from beneath her hat, but she didn’t dare let go of the seat long enough to fix the loose curls that fell over her face.

  She yelped in pain as the wagon hit another rut. Her unpadded behind rose up off the seat, then fell again to meet the hard, wooden bench.

  “Um, excuse me,” she began, the ancient wagon’s creaking lament making it almost impossible to hear her own voice.

  He looked at her, his insolent gaze coming to rest on her jouncing bosom.

  She felt herself blush, angry and frustrated that she had no control over the bumpy ride.

  He looked away again, but she swore she heard him swear under his breath.

  “Excuse me, please,” she repeated, dredging up a superior note to cover her frustration and put him in his place.

  Glancing at her again, he let his gaze linger just briefly on her chest before looking at her face. “Yes?”

  His boldness was appalling. It should have frightened her, but it made her angry instead. “Is there no padding for this bench?” She listened to the wobble in her voice as they bounced along.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” she repeated incredulously. “Because the seat is very hard and the road is very rough.” Did she have to draw him a picture?

  He shrugged. “Look there.” He pointed to the opening under the bench.

  Anna braced one foot against the side of the wagon, bent down and swept her arm under the seat. “Oh,” she said, breathing in a delighted sigh. “A pillow!”

  Throwing the man next to her a suspicious glance, she pulled the padding out from beneath the seat and slid it under her bruised bottom. “The least you could have done was offer me the pillow before I had to ask for it.”

  He made a noise in his throat that sounded very much like a grunt, but said nothing.

  Although Anna was more comfortable sitting on the pillow, she still felt a niggling fear at being in the middle of the forest, alone, with someone who claimed to work for the Gaspards. After all, she only had his word that he was in their employ.

  She gave him a critical look. “Tell me something about Mr. Gaspard.”

  “Which one?”

  Anna continued to look at him, noting that the right side of his face, the side without the scar, was quite handsome.

  “How many are there?” she asked.

  “Four.”

  “Really? Four?”

  He nodded.

  “My,” Anna said, gazing at the man with the spartan vocabulary. “You certainly are a man of few words, aren’t you?”

  He kept his eyes on the road.
“It takes few words to tell the truth.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t strung that many words together since they’d started out. Although she still was somewhat frightened of this imposing man, she fought to maintain an outward appearance of calm. “You’re right, of course.” She shifted sideways so she could look at him. “I’m not familiar with your language, but I imagine we white people have many more words than you do.”

  She wasn’t aware that she’d lapsed into her schoolmarm demeanor until the Indian gave her a look that clearly told her he thought she was meddlesome.

  “You white people need them,” he answered lazily.

  She gave him a nervous laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He looked at her, then looked away. “To the white man, ‘truth’ is black, white, and all shades of gray. To my people, truth is just … truth.”

  Anna fell silent. “Tell me about the man who hired me. Jean-Claude Gaspard.” She waited for him to say something, and finally turned to look at him.

  He was staring straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw clenched. “What do you want to know?” His voice sounded strained.

  Anna wondered at his reticence, but looked away. “His letters were so kind and … and fatherly.” She remembered comparing Mr. Gaspard’s warmth toward her, a total stranger, to her own father’s stern hand. She’d felt ashamed for even wishing her father were more like a man she’d never even met.

  “He’s …”

  She turned and saw what looked like pain cross the Indian’s face. “Doesn’t he treat you well?” She hoped she hadn’t been wrong about Mr. Gaspard’s character.

  “He’s … a good and fair … boss man.”

  Anna relaxed. “Have you been with him long?”

  “Since I was a boy.” He sucked in his breath, a movement that expanded his already broad chest.

  It drew Anna’s unwilling, yet appreciative gaze. She blinked and looked away. “You … you’ve learned many things from him, then?” she asked, trying to get her mind off his body.

  “He teach—”

  “Taught,” she corrected automatically.

  “He taught me everything I know.”

  Anna wondered what kind of education the laborers had. Probably all practical skills. “Has he taught you to read and write?”

  He puffed out his chest. “I know how to read.”

  She gave him an ingratiating smile. “Of course you do. But can you read English?”

  He turned away from her on the seat and presented her with his back. Anna felt she knew the answer. She couldn’t blame Mr. Gaspard if his laborers couldn’t read or write English. After all, it was difficult enough to find qualified teachers for the white children.

  “Do you know how many children I’ll be teaching?” When he cleared his throat and coughed, Anna looked at him. “Is something wrong?”

  He coughed again and shook his head. “Bear wouldn’t know how many white children need teaching, maestra.”

  Maestra. Anna smiled. She actually had a title. She closed her eyes and tried to envision the schoolroom filled with a dozen or more bright, eager faces. She felt competent to teach. Her teacher, Mrs. Biddle, would be so proud of her. Just remember, Anna dear, Mrs. Biddle had said, children must want to learn. Give them a good dose of hard knowledge, but sprinkle it lavishly with enthusiasm and praise.

  She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders and gazed ahead at the team, then looked at the sky. “Wh-Which direction are we going?”

  “Toward home, maestra.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you even know your directions?”

  The Indian appeared to take offense, sat taller on the seat. “I know this is the direction of home.” He turned and gave her an insulted look.

  “But—” She put her hand on his forearm. It was solid muscle.

  He shot her a quick glance, and Anna drew her hand back as if it had been burned. She felt her pulse flutter at her throat and mentally scolded herself. She hadn’t expected his arm to be so rock hard. But why not? After all, he wasn’t accustomed to sitting behind a desk or wandering the length of a vineyard for exercise, not like his employers. He obviously had to work very hard for his keep.

  The horses were slowing down again as they made their way up the long, barely perceptible grade.

  Anna’s fears grew. “Shouldn’t we be going downhill?” She looked at the sky again. “It seems to me,” she began slowly, not wanting to show her apprehension, “that the sun should be ahead of us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she began, “I thought Pine Valley was, well, down in a valley. Away from that mountain,” she answered, pointing to the great, snowcapped peak ahead of them.

  The Indian gave her a contented grin. “The Great Spirit lives there.”

  Anna raised a weary eyebrow. “Yes, I know,” she answered, remembering the lesson she’d gotten on the coach. “But shouldn’t we be—”

  “The Great Spirit watches over everyone,” he interrupted. “He will get us there safely.”

  “I’m sure,” she answered, distracted by the changing landscape. But where, she added to herself, is “there”?

  She glanced quickly at her driver, then stared ahead into the trees. Something wasn’t right. Something really wasn’t right. She wasn’t such a fool that she didn’t know east from west, and they were definitely going north and east—practically the same direction she’d come from on the stage.

  Don’t panic. Whatever you do, don’t you dare panic! She would have to stay calm. It would do her no good to bolt and run. Her eyes darted over the darkening path and into the forest, where the sun was already just skimming the treetops. Where would she run to? Like it or not, she was at this savage’s mercy. She swallowed hard as her hand went to her throat and her fingers frantically stroked the locket.

  Chapter Two

  It was nearly dusk when the wagon rattled into a large clearing surrounded by an odd assortment of buildings. Anna’s heart was in her throat, and she had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Soon her teeth were chattering like a child’s windup toy.

  “Wh-Wh-Where are we?” she asked through her cold, clenched jaw as she pulled her shawl closer around her.

  He looked straight ahead and clicked his tongue at the team. Stopping in front of a building with a large, square opening, he whistled. Another Indian, whose long, black hair fell nearly to his waist, came out, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  “You finally make it, boss,” the Indian said in barely understandable English. He threw a toothless grin at Anna, who automatically scooted closer to Bear on the wagon seat.

  “Answer me,” Anna demanded, still looking at the grinning Indian. “Where are we?”

  “Miss Jenson,” he said, ignoring her question, “meet Black Joke, the finest blacksmith in California.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded stiffly at the Indian, who, she finally realized, was not just dark-skinned, but filthy as sin.

  “This …” Anna swallowed and cleared her throat. “This … isn’t Pine Valley, is it?” Her voice was barely audible.

  The one called Black Joke laughed. “You no tell her yet, boss?”

  Anna whipped around on the seat and stared at Bear. “Who are you?”

  She should have known something was wrong at the station. She should have followed her instincts and stayed there. Anything would have been better than this. Her heart pumped wildly, the sound echoing in her ears. Suddenly reality set in. Merciful heaven, she’d been kidnapped!

  “Where is Mr. Gaspard? What have you done with him? What are you, anyway? Why have you brought me here? Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you? You can get hanged for this!” Her heart still pounded with both fright and anger, and she felt a wash of cold sweat break out over her shivering skin.

  Her tirade had little affect on Bear, who jumped down from the wagon and sauntered around to the other side. “I will answer your questions when the time is right—”


  “You will answer me now,” Anna interrupted, clutching her shawl to her throat and feeling the coldness of the locket press into her skin. “Who are you? Why does that … that filthy, toothless Indian call you ‘boss’?”

  “Because here I am the boss,” he answered tightly. “And you don’t have to shout—unless you want to be surrounded by an entire horde of ‘filthy, toothless Indians.’ Now, get down.”

  Anna glared at him. “I’m not going anywhere until you answer my question.” She wondered why the man sounded so civilized all of a sudden.

  Bear’s eyes narrowed with angry determination as he pulled her baggage out from the back of the wagon and dropped it on the ground. He let the dirty blacksmith take all of her things and put them inside a tiny cabin that crouched in the darkness under the trees. Then he faced her again, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Which of your questions do you want answered first?”

  Anna pulled back and blinked, still puzzled by the change in him. “I, ah … I want to know why you’ve brought me here.”

  Black Joke joined Bear by the wagon. “You no tell her that either, boss?”

  Anna sat firmly on the wagon seat and looked directly at Bear. “Tell me what?” Her heart thumped faster.

  Black Joke looked from one to the other, seeming to enjoy the sparring match.

  Bear ran an impatient hand through his black, wavy hair. “I’ve brought you here to teach the children.”

  “You’ve—” Anna simply stared at him. “You’ve what?” Her voice held edges of anger and fear, both of which were fighting for control of her emotions.

  “It’s simple enough.” His voice was clipped. “You’re a teacher, and I need one for my children.”

  Anna continued to stare at him in disbelief. “You need one for your—” She looked away and blinked furiously. This savage had kidnapped her and brought her into the wilderness to teach his children. “And just how many children do you have?” she asked, her voice quivering in her tight throat.

  He appeared to think for a moment. “Fifteen.”

  “Fif—You have fifteen children?” She didn’t know why that should surprise her. Heavens, he probably had five wives.