Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One Page 3

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice continuing to quake.

  “When you gonna tell her, boss?” Black Joke continued to enjoy the drama that unfolded in front of him.

  “What else haven’t you told me?” She directed the question at Bear, but Black Joke supplied the answer.

  “Him,” he said with a grin, jerking his head toward his boss.

  He wasn’t making sense to Anna. “ ‘Him’ what?”

  “Him Nicolas,” Black Joke said with a flourish, as if he were introducing royalty.

  Anna’s teeth began chattering again, the cold mountain air soaking into her bones. She stared at Bear, expecting him to laugh along with the smith, but he merely glared back at her, his arms still folded across his chest.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said in a quiet voice, “I don’t believe it.”

  The man heaved an angry sigh. “I don’t much care what you believe, ma’am. But if you don’t get down from that wagon right now, I’m going to pull you out and let Joke drag you into the cabin.”

  Anna bristled. Why did men always think threatening women with their superior strength would subdue them? Her stubborn Swedish pride reared up and she decided she wasn’t going to give in to his intimidation. “I’m not going anywhere. I demand that you take me to Pine Valley.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at him.

  He moved so swiftly, Anna had no chance to prepare. She suddenly found herself slung across his wide, strong shoulder. His arm, strong as a vise, was clamped around her legs just under her behind.

  “Ohhh!” she screeched. Wrenching wildly, she jabbed the toes of her shoes into his stomach and pounded his back and neck with her fists. “Put me down!” Her hat slid down over her eyes, and she shoved it back, barely feeling the brief bite of pain in her skull from her pearl-topped hat pin.

  “I said, put me down!”

  He shoved the cabin door open and hauled her into the dimly lit room. Striding to the corner, he dumped her onto the bed. “Anything you say, ma’am.”

  His voice was cool and composed, but Anna sensed his anger had not abated. She swallowed hard, hoping to hide her sudden fear. She’d acted foolishly. He wasn’t a normal person, he was a savage. He could lift her scalp as easily as she poured tea. She had to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t about to simply give in, but she needed time to think. She gave the room a superficial glance, noting the smith had lit a lamp on a round table in the center of the room and had apparently stoked up the fire in the fireplace.

  “Who are you, really?” She looked at the harsh angles of his face.

  He stood over her like a jailer. “Black Joke told you who I am.”

  Anna threw up her hands in despair. “But you’re an Indian.” She could have bitten her foolish tongue. So much for gathering her thoughts before she spoke.

  He narrowed his eyes. “No, Miss Jenson,” he said tightly, “I’m not an Indian. I’m what they call a ‘breed.’ Do you know what that is?”

  Of course she knew what that was, but she also knew it was probably a rhetorical question.

  “As a ‘breed,’ ” he continued, his voice raw, “I don’t belong anywhere. Even though my father was white, I’m not accepted in his world, no matter how well-educated I’ve become. And my mother …” He looked off into the distance. “My mother’s people are gone. … So you see,” he finished, looking at her again, “I can make my own rules, and no one cares.”

  He strode to the fireplace, and Anna was reminded again of his superior strength as he lifted a large, heavy log off the floor and dumped it onto the grate. Then he turned back toward her, the fire glaring around him like the opening to hell.

  With cold, shaky fingers, she removed the long hat pin with the pearlescent tip, took off her hat and wove the pin through the brim. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, but she made no attempt to redo it. Tense, uncomfortable quiet hung in the air as she gave the room a more thorough look and noticed a single window on the wall to the right of the door.

  “Please,” she said softly, “take me to town.”

  He looked at her for a long while, as if contemplating his answer. Finally, he walked to the door. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Before Anna could recover from her shock, the man had left the cabin and slammed the door soundly behind him.

  “No, wait!” She ran to the door and pulled frantically on the latch. Her heart sank when the door wouldn’t open. He’d locked her in. “Bear!” she shouted, pounding on the solid wood barrier.

  Anna turned from the door, her eyes wild as she anxiously scanned the dark, empty room. The window.

  She ran to it, threw up the canvas flap and saw the shiny metal bars. “Oh, God, no!” she moaned, peering out into the dark night. Gripping the round, cold rods, she opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth. “Help! Help me! Please!” she pleaded. “Won’t someone help me?”

  Nicolas tried to ignore her screaming as he stormed to the barn. Dammit, she wasn’t what he had expected. She was a mere girl, a white girl. And, he thought angrily, when her glorious mass of golden hair had tumbled to her shoulders, she had reminded him of Sarabeth. But she was lovelier than Sarabeth.

  He swore again. Sarabeth had taught him a very important lesson about white girls. He’d never forget his humiliation at her hands. His proposal, her acceptance—all so long ago, yet fresh as a bullet wound. What he hadn’t known at the time was that she never intended to follow through with the wedding. And even if she had, she’d never have given up her handsome white lover. It was then that Nicolas realized that pretty white girls often dallied with “breeds” like himself, but that’s where it always ended. No white girl he knew would seriously consider marrying an Indian.

  Nicolas stopped in front of Diablo’s stall and pressed his forehead against the wooden column that reinforced the door. Fresh pain washed over him as he recalled his last confrontation with Sarabeth. He remembered how tousled she’d looked … her hair loose from its pins, her lips newly kissed. And she was wearing nothing but her lover’s shirt over her loose, beckoning breasts. …

  Nicolas hammered his fist against the post as he entered Diablo’s stall. Almost three years had passed since that day, he thought bitterly. He threw a heavy blanket on the stallion’s back and lifted the saddle over it. Almost three years, and he still felt the fool.

  A wry smile lifted one corner of Nicolas’s mouth as his mind came back to brood over the new schoolmistress. When he had realized she wasn’t the plain, wrenlike woman he’d pictured, he’d almost changed his mind about bringing her to the compound. Hell, a girl like that would be useless to him.

  He could already see the typical pattern unfolding, known what her reaction to him as an Indian would be. He’d considered giving her a real scare, but thought better of it. He hadn’t needed a hysterical white woman on his hands, especially since the home station was being run by new people. People he didn’t know, who would have no compunction about shooting an Indian in the back for accosting a white woman. A pretty white woman—one who had a dimpling smile, wide, innocent blue eyes, and hair the color of melted gold.

  His angry mood blackened when he remembered her reaction to Black Joke. He should have expected it. She was, as all pretty white girls were, a bitch. A spoiled, self-centered bitch.

  All right, so he had tricked her into believing he was a dull, uneducated savage. It was what she expected, after all. He wouldn’t have pulled that little stunt if she would have at least asked him if he was Nicolas Gaspard. He’d given her the opportunity, but it obviously hadn’t even occurred to her that Jean-Claude Gaspard, the rich, powerful, successful vintner, might have a half-breed son.

  Nicolas slumped against the stall and closed his eyes. He knew why he was allowing her to bother him. Ever since the day he had stumbled onto his father’s land, weak with hunger and loss of blood, he’d lived with the same prejudice he had seen today. No matter how much education he had been given, no matter how well-
spoken he was, he was still that savage little half-breed.

  Now, he had kidnapped a schoolmistress who nearly fainted at the sight of one scraggly Indian. How in the hell was she going to be of any use to him when she got a look at an entire classroom of them?

  “Nicolas?”

  He turned. “Yes, Shy Fawn?” His eyes softened as the young Indian woman limped toward him, but his heart ached every time he watched her walk. Her crippled hip was getting worse; he could see the pain in her eyes.

  “She is here. I hear her screaming like a wet cat.”

  Nicolas cringed. “Did she wake Cub?”

  Her smile made her face glow. “No. He’s like you. He works hard at his play, then sleeps like a bear in winter.”

  Nicolas turned away. The adoration in her eyes was not only for her son, but for him as well. She’d often come right out and told him so. It frustrated him, for what they were to each other now was all they would ever be.

  “She’s not very happy to be with us,” he said, turning to face her and bringing the conversation back to the schoolmistress.

  Shy Fawn lifted a black, raven-winged eyebrow. “She is not happy to be locked up like the white man’s criminal, behind heavy iron locks and windows with bars?”

  Nicolas ignored her sarcasm. He frowned and turned to his saddle.

  “You are not happy?”

  He tightened the flank cinch and checked the stirrup strap. “No, I’m not particularly happy.”

  Shy Fawn sighed. “I told you she would not want to stay.”

  “Well, she’s staying!” Nicolas snapped. When Shy Fawn lowered her head, Nicolas felt immediate remorse. “I’m sorry, Shy Fawn. She isn’t … what I expected.” He threw his saddlebags over the back of the saddle.

  “You are leaving?” Shy Fawn’s voice held surprise.

  “I’ll be back early tomorrow morning.” He stepped into the stirrup and threw his leg over the back of the horse. “Check on her at first light, would you?”

  Shy Fawn toyed nervously with her bodice. “What if she asks many questions?”

  Nicolas shrugged. “Pretend you don’t understand her. She probably won’t expect you to, anyway.” He couldn’t hide the bitter edge in his voice.

  “Nicolas, what if she asks why we are all here, hiding in the mountains?” Shy Fawn’s face was drawn with fear.

  Nicolas looked in the direction of the cabin and noted the light in the window. “She doesn’t have to know that. She wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

  Chapter Three

  The fickle breezes of night gave way to the lustier winds of dawn, blowing out the canvas flap that covered the window. The noise of the heavy curtain hitting the bars brought Anna awake with a start.

  Momentarily confused, she lifted herself up on her elbow and stared at the window. Frightened awareness flushed her skin, and she sat up, drawing in a quick breath. She hadn’t undressed the night before, and the stays from her corset dug into her flesh. Muscles she didn’t even know she had, from her knees to her neck, ached and throbbed.

  She got up and walked slowly to the window. Opening the flap, she stared out at the cool, gray dawn. She shivered, dropped the flap and turned from the window.

  The brightly colored patchwork quilt that was folded over the back of the big chair by the fireplace drew her eyes. She hurried over, took off the quilt, and threw it over her as she curled up in the chair. Glancing at the dead coals in the grate, she shivered again. She didn’t have the energy to start another fire.

  Resting her head back against the cushioned seat, she closed her eyes. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She still found it hard to believe the man called Bear was really Nicolas Gaspard. If he was, why had he put on that act at the station instead of simply introducing himself? Oh, she might have been a little surprised to discover that Jean-Claude’s son was half Indian—no, she would have been very surprised. In fact, she thought with a little shame, she probably wouldn’t have believed him then, just as she found it hard to believe now.

  She opened her eyes and glanced toward the door. As she studied the roughly cleaved wooden boards, she went over her first conversation with him on the platform at the station. It still puzzled her, and annoyed her. He’d been so intimidating. His size alone had been enough to frighten her. But to present himself as an uneducated savage had only made it worse. Considering what he wanted her for, she would have thought he’d have acted as civilized as possible so he wouldn’t scare her off.

  She wrinkled her nose. Maybe he saw through her attempted aloofness to the frightened, gullible girl she really was, and just wanted to give her a good scare. Well, she thought, giving the room a wry glance, he’d succeeded.

  She felt herself flush when she thought about her ingratiating behavior. We white people have many words … She could still hear herself blabbering.

  “Fool.” Her sound of self-derision echoed in the quiet room. Well, she may have acted like a naive girl, but he’d lied to her. All that Indian mumbo-jumbo about truth, and he’d been lying to her all along. She let out an angry, indelicate snort. “Some all-truthful Indian he is.”

  Hearing voices outside, Anna’s pulse quickened. Someone was unlocking the door. This was her chance to escape. She scrambled out of the chair and frantically searched the room for a weapon. Spying the long, metal fireplace poker, she grabbed it and hurried to the door.

  As the door opened, she gripped the base of the poker and raised it over her head. She was surprised when a short, somewhat stocky Indian woman limped into the room, carrying a bowl of food. When she saw Anna poised with the poker, she cowered and screamed, nearly dropping the bowl on the floor.

  They looked at one another, Anna noticing the unusual markings on the woman’s face, a series of tiny black dots that formed lines from her bottom lip to her chin. The woman was short and rather square. And, in spite of the fear Anna saw in her eyes, she had the feeling the woman would be a formidable foe. Anna’s stance remained threatening, the Indian woman scurrying over and sliding the bowl of gruel on the table.

  Anna inched her way to the door. “Stay back,” she ordered, jabbing the poker at the other woman like a sword. “I won’t hurt you, just stay away from me.”

  The woman screeched again and circled back behind the table, holding onto the chair for support.

  Anna glanced over her shoulder at the open door. A few steps to freedom. If only the woman would stop screaming. She was going to bring the entire camp of savages down on her back.

  Anna didn’t dare loosen her hold on her weapon, but she knew, even if the pathetic woman didn’t, that she wouldn’t use it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t you understand? I just need to get to Pine Valley. People are expecting me. They’ll come after you and throw you in jail if you try to stop me.” God only knew if the savage understood English, but Anna couldn’t seem to stop babbling.

  Suddenly she was picked up from behind, hauled into the cabin and dumped on the floor. The poker was wrenched from her grip. She looked up to see the dirty, toothless savage from the night before standing over her, grinning. His eyes were wild, and his hair was even longer and stringier than she recalled. There was a malodorous air about him that seemed thick enough to cut, and he wore a ghoulish necklace around his neck that reminded her of shriveled pigs’ ears. She shuddered and swallowed a glob of bile.

  He towered over her, his large, square hands on his hips. “Missy scare Shy Fawn.”

  The Indian woman limped out the door, leaving Anna alone with the dirty savage.

  She scooted away from him. “S-Stay away from me.” Her voice quivered, her breath caught in her throat as vile thoughts of rape attacked her brain.

  He took a menacing step toward her, spreading his toothless mouth into a maniacal grin.

  “Get away!” Anna scurried to her feet and backed away until she bumped into the wall.

  He threw his head back and let out a deranged whoop, turned on his heels and left the cabin, l
ocking the door behind him. As he walked away, Anna heard him laugh, and the sound spiraled through her like icicles splintering in the frozen wind.

  She leaned against the wall for a long, quiet moment, listening for sounds from outside. When she was sure the odious savage was gone, she crossed to the window and stared out into the sunny, green compound. The knobby spine of the distant mountains gave her a brief, sad reminder of home. The day she had left on the stage, her father told her he expected she’d be back in a month, her tail between her legs. She pressed her forehead against the cold metal bars. How sanctimonious he would be if he discovered her present situation. Would he even be worried? She didn’t know. All she knew for sure was that with her gone, there was one less female mouth to feed.

  The coldness of the bars was soothing, and she pressed her cheek against them. To her, Pa had always been like the metal bars of a jail—cold, hard, and unbending. But when she had become pregnant with David’s child, he had turned fanatical and hateful, raging at her that she’d shamed the family.

  She pushed away the image of her father’s angry expression, focusing instead on David’s boyishly handsome face. The day he’d come to the farm looking for work, she’d been outside, beating the rugs on the clothesline, looking for all the world like a scrubwoman. One glance at his tall, lean body and his winning smile had sent her scurrying into the house, hoping to repair her appearance before he truly noticed her.

  Once her father had hired David and he’d begun his duties, Anna had arranged her outside chores to coincide with his. At first he’d given her only a polite nod, but after seeing her many times a day, he’d finally graced her with a smile. How her foolish, innocent heart had soared. After that she’d not been able to think of anything else.

  He and her father always got up before dawn and ate breakfast together before they milked the cows, and they often lunched in the field, but David took his evening meal with the family. She remembered how impossible it had been for her to eat those first few times with him sitting across from her. One evening, after it had finally gotten easier and she felt more comfortable, he’d dared to wink at her. She’d almost choked on her soup. Her mother had seen the exchange, and had told her later that David seemed restless and immature. The warning was not heeded. She was falling in love.