Jane Bonander (3 page)

She lifted it off the fence, groaning under the weight. By sheer strength of will, she flung it across Baptiste’s back and cinched it, pulling it as tightly as she could.

She mounted him, flinging her leg over his back and settling in the saddle. He quivered in anticipation beneath her, and her heart responded in kind.

They left the corral and raced past the walnut grove, down the hill toward the peach and apricot trees, then beyond, through the fallow wheat field and into the open meadow. Grass, dried and golden, crunched beneath them as Baptiste’s hooves thundered across the hard-packed earth.

Wind stung Julia’s face, bringing tears to her eyes. Her hair came loose, whipping wildly around her head. She tugged on the reins, slowly bringing Baptiste to a stop. He pranced in place briefly, then lowered his head and fed on the grass.

Shading her eyes, Julia squinted toward the mountain. She loved it. Compared to other ranges, the summit of Devil Mountain was not high, but to her it was majestic. At this time of year the grassy slopes were a tawny gold, speckled with thick green clusters of oaks, pines, and laurels. In the spring, lupine and meadow daisies swept into the valley and over the bluffs, their purple and yellow beauty robbing Julia of breath. In the winter there was snow capping the higher peaks, but it didn’t usually stay. When they’d first built the house, she’d made sure her and Josette’s bedroom faced it. Not that Josette had cared, but Julia had.

When Baptiste raised his head, she flicked the reins on the side of his neck, coaxing him to turn, and they galloped toward home again. She wanted to get back before McCloud returned with Josette.

But when they drew up in front of the barn, Julia’s stomach dropped, for McCloud and Josette sat in the buggy, watching her. Sally, their Morgan mare, whinnied and tossed her head, her reddish mane flying.

Baptiste snorted and sidestepped, his neck curved high and his nostrils flared.

“Whoa, boy,” she whispered, pulling on the reins.

“Julia! What on earth are you doing?”

Josette’s tone was more one of mortified disbelief than of scolding.

“I took Baptiste for a little run.” She couldn’t meet McCloud’s gaze, but she knew it was on her. She felt a hot blush sneak into her face, for she’d been wrong to take the animal out without asking.

“Oh, Mr. McCloud,” Josette said around a pretty frown. “What a dreadful way to end such a perfectly
lovely
morning. Seeing Julia riding around like a man is
such
an embarrassment. Nevertheless,” she added, able to change moods arbitrarily, “thank you so very much for a wonderful time.”

She threw Julia a hooded look, then stretched across the seat and kissed the bastard, full on the mouth.

Julia fumed, and she kept her gaze on Josette as her sister stepped from the buggy. Josette accepted the basket of berries that McCloud handed her, then tossed him a flirty little good-bye wave.

“Julia, I think I’d like jam. Do I have enough here for you to make some?”

Julia ignored her, and Josette shrugged her dainty shoulders and went into the house.

Julia dismounted and found Wolf McCloud so close she could see the brown rim around his stormy blue eyes. A pulse throbbed at his temple. There was careless black stubble over his cheeks and chin. Every time he clenched his teeth, a muscle flexed in his jaw. There was no hint of a smile in his eyes or around his mouth. She’d never seen him so utterly and completely restrained.

Handing him Baptiste’s reins, she pulled her gaze away and unhitched Sally from the buggy.

While he fed and groomed Baptiste in the corral, Julia cared for Sally in the barn, away from the other horses, especially the virile Baptiste. They couldn’t afford a foal next year. They’d probably just wind up selling it, along with everything else, if things didn’t get better.

Finishing in the barn, Julia stepped outside to where McCloud was currying Baptiste. Finally, she could stay quiet no longer.

“I want you to stay away from Josette.”

He uttered an indelicate snort. “Only if you’ll stay away from my horse.”

Her face reddened again. Point well taken. “I regret taking him out without your permission.” That she should have to apologize to
him
was almost more than she could bear.

“Well, I don’t regret taking your sister out for a ride, ma’am. Sorry I can’t accommodate you.”

His voice was tight with emotion, but his audacious answer was not unexpected. “You will if you want to keep your job, Mr. McCloud.”

Despite the fact that his gaze was on her, she climbed the corral fence instead of going out through the gate. As she walked stiffly to the house, she realized that whether he stayed away from Josette or not made no difference. He was as good as gone.

“But Papa!” Josette wailed. “That’s not fair. Julia’s just jealous because he pays attention to me and not her. It’s
always
that way with her! She’s the one who made Frank leave, too, and now she’s doing it again.”

Julia was in the dark pantry, lifting cream from the fresh milk with her tin skimmer and pouring it into the butter churn. Years ago she’d tried to give the job to Josette, but her sister had had no patience then, and she had none now.

Josette’s petulant cries awakened Marymae, who had been asleep beside the stove, and she began to cry. Julia laid the skimmer on the shelf that held the canned fruit sauce, left the pantry and plucked the baby from her cradle, cuddling her close. She wouldn’t be comforted, for she continued to belt out long, mournful sobs.

Josette frowned and pressed her hands over her ears. “Can’t you keep her quiet, Julia? What’s the matter with her, anyway?”

Julia rocked Marymae back and forth in her arms, wanting desperately to smack her sister across the mouth. “Your caterwauling woke her, and she’d mad. And wet. And hungry. For heaven’s sake, Josette, she’s just a baby. Sometimes I wonder what
your
excuse is.”

“Papa,” she wailed again. “Don’t let her talk to me that way.”

“Now, Julia, don’t be too hard on your sister. You know how delicate she is.”

Julia felt the beginnings of a pounding headache at the base of her neck and between her eyes.

“Yes, Julia. You have no right to be mad. I had that baby, not you. I went through the worst agony in my life having her. I almost died. I
wanted
to die, it hurt so much. Be nice, Julia. Can’t you just be nice, dearest?” she ended, attempting to pacify her sister by sweetening her words.

Julia felt the tension increase in her neck as she put Marymae on the table and changed her diaper. It did no good to lose her temper. Neither her father nor her sister understood why she was angry. Neither of them realized that she might have weaknesses, too, even though she never allowed them to show.

“All right, Josette, I’m sorry. But about Wolf McCloud, I’m only thinking of you. I just don’t want a repeat of what you went through with Marymae.”

Josette pouted but said nothing, convincing Julia that her fears were well-founded.

“It hasn’t already happened, has it?”

“That’s none of your business. Papa,” she whined, turning toward their father, “tell her that’s none of her business.”

He sat at the table, his twisted fingers pressed against his eyes. “Tarnation, Josie, I like Mr. McCloud as much as you, but you gotta be careful around men. You can’t let ’em all have what they want. Men take advantage of sweet, innocent girls like you.”

“But he’ll marry me, Papa. I just know it.”

Julia gasped, unable to believe a word of it. Men like Wolf McCloud didn’t marry women, they merely deflowered them. “Has he asked you to marry him?”

Josette’s pout deepened. “Well, no. But … but he might.”

Julia felt a rage so deep, she thought she might fly apart. She crossed to the pantry, took a bottle of milk from the cooler and returned to Josette, thrusting both it and Marymae at her. “Here,” she snapped. “Feed your daughter.”

Josette hesitantly took the baby and the bottle. “What are you going to do?”

Julia stormed to the door. “I’m going to do what should have been done in the first place. I’m going to get rid of Wolf McCloud.”

With long, purposeful strides, she reached the barn door and flung it open. “Mr. McCloud?”

Ready for a fight, itching to send him packing, she was disappointed when she met with silence. She walked past Sally’s stall, rounding the corner to the door that led to the corral. Pushing open the top half of the door, she peered outside.

“Mr. McCloud?” she called again, her anger turning to disappointment when she saw there were only two horses in the enclosure. She spun around and went to the corner of the barn where she knew McCloud had slept. Her heart thumped anxiously. There wasn’t a trace of him anywhere—except a note with her father’s name on it hanging from the nail where McCloud had hung his hat.

Julia pulled the note off, carried it to the door and opened it, moving it into the waning afternoon light.

Julia crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her pocket.
Damn.
She’d wanted the luxury of firing him.

H
e’d had his first whore when he was thirteen. Her name was Rose, and she’d been old enough to be his mother—if he’d had one. He often wondered if that was why he remembered her name yet couldn’t remember any of the others. And there had been many others. Most younger by years than Rose, and all of them prettier by any man’s standards. But at thirteen he’d been certain that any woman who could give such pleasure was not only beautiful, but talented as hell.

And he’d never forgotten that Rose hadn’t made fun of him. He’d been too nervous to tell her to simply call him “Wolf,” and when she’d asked him his name, he’d responded, nervous and horny as a goat, “Wolfgang Amadeus Morning Cloud, ma’am.”

“That’s quite a moniker.” She’d given him a suggestive smile.

“You aren’t gonna make fun of it, are you?” His voice had cracked, and he’d felt stupid.

“Make fun?” she’d said. “Honey, how’n the hell can I make fun of a name I can’t even pronounce? Come over here, boy.”

With hesitant steps he’d made his way to her. When she cupped his groin, his turgid young root had nearly exploded.

“Names is the
last
thing we think about in this place.” She then proceeded to give him his first taste of heaven.

Before his trip to Rose—a gift from the bawdy Baptiste—his earliest memories had been of rejection. Even though he’d been literally yanked from the jaws of death, he felt abandoned by both of the worlds responsible for his life.

Now, in his twenty-sixth year, not much had changed. Early on, it had been because of his color. He could have been a cherub, and he would have been rebuffed by the world around him. As he grew older, dismissal came because of his attitude. It still did.

Deep inside, there were times when he wanted to change. But he usually sloughed them off, becoming whatever those he dealt with expected him to be. It was easier than proving himself to be something else.

He wasn’t even sure to which tribe he belonged. He resembled none of the half-bloods he’d met in California; he’d never felt a part of their world. And even though he had no proof as to whether his mother was Indian or white, Angus had assured him that few squaws would abandon a child so savagely, no matter how it was conceived. He didn’t know whether or not it was true, but he’d clung to that statement all of his life.

Armed with this pseudo truth, he imagined that the woman who bore him had been raped by a Pawnee or a Cheyenne on her trip across the prairie. Even so, anger pooled around his heart when he thought of her.

In his mind, she was like a shape shifter. Because he never knew her, she could be Rose one day, or any number of other prostitutes who serviced the miners in Sacramento City the next. Or maybe the woman who cooked at the camp along the river, or the one who took in laundry. Whoever she was, to him she was always white, and his father was not. He’d never envisioned it being the other way around.

He didn’t hate all white women because of what she’d done to him. He only hated her. No matter how many times he told himself it no longer mattered, he could not shrug off the intense feelings of hostility that continued to stir in his gut when he allowed himself to think about her. He desperately wanted resolution. It wouldn’t come.

When he was young, he’d wanted memories of a nourishing mother, rocking him to sleep, holding him against her warm bosom, singing him sweet songs. Instead, to her his life had been worth no more than animal shit, kicked over with straw and buried in the dirt.

Tossed in a grave to die, ye were.
Angus had been honest with him, never coating the truth with honey-filled words. Yet Wolf had searched for her everywhere. He’d learned of a serving woman who had given birth while working for Sutter and mysteriously returned to her chores without the child. She’d led Wolf to the place where she’d buried the dead baby. The small grave was covered with grass and weeds, but the headstone was a crude cross and there was a name carved on it.

Then there was the preacher’s wife, ostracized from the community because she’d been taken by the Indians, although released unharmed a few months later. Living in a shack on the edge of town with a tolerant sister, she told Wolf, in a droning monotone, she’d had a half-blood child, but it had been a girl. And her husband, a man of the cloth who supposedly worshiped a forgiving God, ordered the child killed and refused to take his wife back.

And although Wolf didn’t feel he belonged to a California tribe, he found an Indian woman who had lived with a settler for a time and had given birth to his child. The young man was nearly Wolf’s age, but he was alive and well, living in the village with the rest of his people.

Finding the woman who bore him had become an obsession Wolf couldn’t shrug off. An addiction he couldn’t kick. And after years of searching, he’d finally turned to the lists of settlers who had come overland in covered wagons, venturing west before the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Creek. He found her among them. Don’t ask him how he knew; he just knew. It was at that moment that he realized he had a sixth sense about his mother.

He wondered if she ever had any premonitions or intuitions about him. Nightmares, hopefully. But in truth, she probably didn’t even think about him. After all, he hadn’t been important enough to save.

In the meantime, one thing had not changed. He didn’t feel welcome in the world, for he was neither Indian nor white, yet the blood of both coursed through his veins.

The blaze in the fireplace crackled and hissed, and rain buffeted the cabin, clamoring at the windows, seeping in around the frames. Wolf sat in Angus’s old chair near the fireplace, his feet wrapped in warm wool stockings and propped up on a battered footstool, his boots drying by the fire.

Once again he looked down at the letter he’d picked up at John Sutter’s post, noting the November date and the troubled message.

Amos Larson’s squiggly signature was shaky at the bottom of the page.

Wolf folded the letter and tapped it against his chin. As he studied the fire, he wondered what Amos wanted from him. He’d liked the old man. They’d had many intense discussions; Wolf sensed that Amos was dying. He’d felt terrible leaving him the way he did, but he could predict what would have happened if he’d stayed. Josette Larson was a tease, pure and simple. It didn’t matter that she’d acted sweet and innocent; she’d known what she wanted, and she’d wanted him.

He snorted a soft laugh. Christ, that sounded arrogant, didn’t it? But hell, she wasn’t even subtle about it. She had heat in her drawers, that one. And the way she’d talked about her sister had put him off as well. He was far from the most innocent man in the state, but even he knew that when a person spoke ill of someone, they were often trying to cover up something in their own life.

The vision of Amos’s older daughter shoved its way into his head, and he uttered another indelicate snort.
That
was one rancher’s daughter who hid none of her feelings. She’d wanted him out of their lives in no uncertain terms, and had been about as receptive to him as a tree stump. She intrigued him. She was the kind of woman a man like him didn’t dare dream about, because there wasn’t a chance in hell he could have her.

But dream of her he did. She was a complex package of contradictions. Light eyes that brimmed with intelligence and wit, when they weren’t snapping with anger, and a full, lush mouth most whores he knew would kill for. A back so ramrod straight, he thought she might have a poker for a spine, and an ass that jiggled as sweetly as jelly on a plate. A stubborn, tenacious chin, and a neck as smooth and white as swan’s down. Contradictions.

Hell. It was a waste of time to think about her. If he could have been another kind of man, he’d have wanted a woman like Miss Julia. A woman who was pretty enough, but whose beauty went deeper than the surface. A woman who would work hard beside him, be faithful, have his children … Tension gathered in his groin at the thought of bedding a woman like that. He often wondered what had happened to her baby’s father. Oddly, in the two weeks he’d been on the ranch, no one had ever talked about him.

Bedding Miss Julia … He let out a whoosh of air. The idea made him reel. He’d never had a woman like that. A woman who hadn’t been used by many others. But there was a passion in her, he’d seen it in her eyes. And obviously she’d experienced such passion once, anyway. The baby was proof of that.

She wasn’t one of those simpering, mewling women who teased a man one minute, then cried foul the next. The way she dressed said as much.

Men’s breeches … that suggestively hugged rounded hips, shapely thighs, and a sweet ass. Oversized shirts … that didn’t hide the firm, loose breasts beneath. A big, floppy-brimmed hat … that couldn’t conceal thick, honey-wheat hair that cried out to be loosened from the pins that held it.

Like the day she’d returned from exercising his horse, her hair windblown and curling to below her shoulders. The sight had made him angry, not because she’d taken his mount out without asking, but because for the first time since he’d arrived, he actually had stirrings of desire. And he never allowed himself to desire a woman like that. A woman beyond his reach. A woman who looked upon him like he was something she’d picked up in the barnyard on the bottom of her shoe.

It had been almost a relief to leave. Almost. He’d hated leaving Amos. He remembered the day he’d come across him, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Yeah, something was wrong.

Baptiste’s new bride was in what passed for a kitchen, and he could smell the fry bread she’d recently retrieved from the fire. He sensed her approach, but had heard nothing. Suddenly she appeared before him, bearing a plate of fry bread drenched in honey.

“You want?” She shoved it toward him, her eyes downcast and her face expressionless.

Wolf took the plate and studied the young Miwok woman. She was pretty by Indian standards. Soft, round face, narrow eyes, the barest hint of a flattening where her nostrils met her cheeks. And she was plump. Sturdy, actually, something he knew Baptiste looked for in a woman. She was barely twenty, yet she was the old buzzard’s fourth wife. He’d outlive God.

The fry bread was warm. He took a bite, his mouth watering around it. As he munched the tasty, chewy bread, he thought about all of the years he’d spent in this cabin. It was odd, he mused, that even though he’d been raised here with two of Baptiste’s women, his nurturing had come from Angus. It was from Angus that he’d learned to read and write, to appreciate music, and had learned the principles of being a gentleman. He rarely practiced what Angus had preached. Angus had exuded sensitivity, assuring Wolf that all men had a sensitive side. As yet, Wolf hadn’t discovered his. For all he knew, he didn’t have one.

What he’d learned from Baptiste had been far more useful. More
practical.
He’d learned how to survive in a hostile world. He’d learned that money could buy pleasures, not only women, but good whiskey and excellent cigars. He’d been hedonistic, thanks to Baptiste.

The door opened and Baptiste stepped inside, shaking himself like a hound, sending sprays of water everywhere. His laughter boomed in the quiet room.

“Seen that devil of a stallion that bears my name hitched in the lean-to. Never could understand why you named him after me, Wolfgang.”

Wolf couldn’t suppress a smile. “I want him to have a long life filled with memorable conquests, Baptiste. Who better to name him after than you?”

Baptiste roared with laughter again. He always filled a room. His jocularity and booming voice made up for his small, wiry stature.

“What brings you home this time, after so many months of absence,
mon ami?
”

Wolf shrugged. “Just wanted to see you, you old reprobate.”

Baptiste’s eyes twinkled, but he shook his finger at him. “You came to look at my new squaw. Shame on you. Go find one of your own.”

A smile cracked Wolf’s mouth. “No, but congratulations, anyway.”

“Woman!
Mon chou!
” he bellowed.

Obediently, with her head lowered, she appeared before him and helped him off with his wet jacket. Baptiste flung himself into his chair, took his pipe off the overturned crate that passed for a table, and filled the bowl with tobacco. The woman hung his jacket by the fire, then returned to remove his boots.

Wolf shook his head. Only Baptiste could use an endearment like “my cabbage” and make it sound like a threat. At any rate, she was well trained. It amazed him that a man like Baptiste, with his enormous carnal appetites and his disregard for anything by mouth but raw meat, alcohol, tobacco, and fry bread soaked in grease, could outlive a man as pure in heart and soul as Angus McCloud.

“Well, Wolfgang,” Baptiste began between puffs on his pipe. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

Wolf hadn’t been home since they’d buried Angus, almost a year ago to the day. “I’ve been working.”

“What? You already spent all of St. Angus’s money?”

Wolf ignored the sarcasm. He’d been amazed that Baptiste and Angus had been friends for so many years, considering how different they were. When Angus died, everything he owned had been left to Wolf. Not a small fortune, but Wolf had been shocked that Angus had money at all. Now, Wolf couldn’t decide what to do with it. Foolish as it was, he couldn’t spend it on cigars and whores. Angus wouldn’t approve. God, but he was getting soft.

“No, I haven’t spent it. I’ve been working at the

Cumberland.” Which was the truth. He’d worked in the coal mines on the northern slopes of Devil Mountain before and after his little tryst at the Larson ranch.

Baptiste spat in disgust. “Coal. The whole damned world is falling apart. I yearn for the old days. The days when McCloud and I owned the mountains. And the river. And the beaver.” His voice was deceptively hard, but there was sadness in his eyes.