Upon a Midnight Clear

  "He did?"

  "Hell yes. Why do you think he knows the landscape?"

  "I assumed he knew it because he used to drill for oil… and came up dry all the time. That's why they call him Duster."

  "That reputation came a long time after he gave up his illegal ways."

  "Why… I never would have figured Duster for an outlaw. He's just too sweet."

  John grew annoyed by the way she stuck up for the old man. "Well, some people can lead a surprising life. And Duster's one of them. He goes on and on about this rock cut and that creek—"

  "—this ridge and that ravine…"

  "Where white alder grows and where purple sage is thickest."

  Isabel nodded. "And where black sage is compact or junipers are the tallest." She gave an audible sigh. "Rigby Glen."

  He knew the spot—the next logical place to search for hollies if a man… or a woman… had been listening to Duster go on. After that—John threw up his hands in resignation. "Foster's Hideout."

  "And the day after… ?" Isabel baited him, but he remained quiet.

  Then after a long pause, they both said: "Moontide Ridge."

  "Well, damn," John muttered.

  "Damn," Isabel seconded, surprising him. "No wonder we keep stepping over each other. We both think like Duster."

  Isabel plucked her gloves off, wet the kerchief at her neck with water from a canteen, and wiped the damp cloth over her cheeks, nose, and mouth. He watched in fascination. Then he fixed his stare on her horse weighted down with ungainly panniers—a much safer target for his preoccupation.

  "That's the sorriest horse I've ever seen."

  The liver-spotted nag with a swayback deeper than a gully, and knock-kneed to boot, looked ready to keel over.

  "It's a rental," Isabel replied.

  "It's a standing corpse."

  "Well, she was free for the day." Her lips pursed. "Or almost free."

  "How many berries did she cost you?" John had seen the livery tacking up a big sign out front saying deals would now be made berries on the barrel or no deal at all.

  Isabel's face lit up, as if she felt real proud of herself. He liked the spirit and merriment in her eyes; they made her look lively. "She didn't cost me any berries. Just a case of my lemon syrup. I wanted a pretty piebald mare, but the livery said she was two hundred and forty-eight berries for a day's use. Highway robbery."

  "Yep, it was highway robbery to give you this one."

  "Well, I didn't have to give up a single berry for her, so she's good enough for me."

  He wondered about her lemon syrup, but not enough to ask her about it right now. The problem at hand took precedence.

  "Seems we're bound to keep tripping over one another."

  "Seems like it."

  The reins in his fingers tugged as his horse shook his head. John looked down, thought a minute, then looked up into Isabel's expectant face. Even though his plan made sense, his words surprised him. "We could work together."

  Wariness crept into her features. "How so?"

  "Collect the berries together, then split the prize money down the middle. Fifty-fifty."

  She pondered this with a gnawing of her lush lower lip, then a gaze at the sky where a condor soared overhead. After a moment, she stared at him. "How do we know this Bellamy Nicklaus is for real? Has anybody seen him?"

  "Somebody's had to. Lights go on and off in that house at night. That I've seen for myself."

  "Well, what if this contest is a hoax?"

  "Can't be a hoax. I've heard it said Nicklaus is the main man for Calco Oil"

  "I heard he owns the Pacific Coastal Railroad."

  "Whatever the case, he took that rundown house on Ninth and turned it into a show palace overnight. That takes money and power. He's some big man from someplace, and for reasons I'm not going to question, he's willing to part with a bundle of his cash." John adjusted his hat against the afternoon glare. "You may think a lot of low-down things about me, but I've never battled a woman. The best thing would be for us to pair up."

  "As much as I hate to admit it… you may be right." She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, then slapped the dust off her gloves against her thigh. "But there's a problem with your plan."

  "Which is?"

  "We don't trust each other." She laid the gloves next to the fork of her saddle. "Where do we keep the berries?"

  John mulled this over. She had a point. They didn't trust each other. She'd no sooner have him hold the berries than he would her. So where to put them as they built up their store?

  The idea of hiding them out in the countryside didn't thrill him. Animals might come across the cache and have a real feast. The possibility of discovery was even stronger out in the open without being guarded—not to mention that berries shouldn't be in the heat A dark cool place was best—like beneath the floorboards of his bungalow___or the inside of a cabin—where they would be behind a locked door.

  It was a choice between the two. But before he made up his mind, he had to know if she was playing with a full deck.

  "Why are you growing trees in dirt that's no more than rocks? And with no water on your property?" He refrained from adding: Only a crazy person would do such a thing.

  She bristled, her posture going erect. "My trees aren't planted in rocks. I cleared every last one from that bed. And I'll get a well just as soon as I can afford to have one dug—which will be when I get the contest money. I know there's water. Then I'll have a lot of lemons and I'm going to sell lemon syrup."

  He gave her a sidelong stare, thinking over her explanation. She seemed to know what she was doing and her efforts weren't misguided. He liked lemon syrup on his pancakes. Knowing what she was up to greatly relieved him and gave him the reassurance he needed for what he had to say next.

  Amid the buzz of grasshoppers, John asked, "What's your word worth to you?"

  Isabel's violet eyes unflinchingly measured him. "Everything. My word is everything."

  John eased back in the saddle. "Then we'll keep them at your place if you give me your word you won't take off with them."

  "I give you my word."

  "So, then, are you in?" Slowly she replied, "I'm in." "Partners," he said.

  "Partners," she agreed, extending her hand. John took the offering and they sealed the deal with a handshake.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Isabel drifted awake to the chitter of finches and a warm shaft of sunshine that spilled across her bed. Snug and drowsy, she didn't feel like getting up. Eyes still closed, she relived the dream that clung to the edges of her sleepy mind.

  John Wolcott had been kissing her.

  And she'd been kissing him back.

  Rolling from her side, Isabel put her arm over her forehead. Dreams of such a passionate nature hadn't snuck up on her in longer than she could remember—and never as vivid a one as she'd had about John's mouth covering hers. It was as if he'd actually been kissing her. Her lips tingled even now. .

  With a lift of her hand, she ran her fingertips over the seam of her mouth. A kiss as tender and light as the breeze… that's how it had started. Then it turned to an intensity that sent spirals of ecstacy through her.

  Reckless abandon, that's what it had been.

  How could she? Even in a dream?

  He was a good-for-nothing, a serenader to full moons—not the kind of man she wanted.

  Isabel became aware of a tinny sound that didn't belong outside her window. Her heartbeat faltered. Sitting up and flipping her braid behind her, she grabbed the tiny derringer she kept in a bedside drawer. The gun wasn't very powerful, but it was enough to persuade any intruder to think twice about trespassing or harming her.

  Not bothering to slip into her wrapper, she crept onto the porch and walked to the side of the house, pistol raised. She paused when she saw John.

  He was watering the last lemon tree with her metal bucket. All the other trees had sloppy wet pools at the bases of their trunks. He must
have been at this for hours. Why hadn't she heard him before?

  Her mind had been too occupied with thoughts of kissing him… that's why.

  Lifting his head, John spied her. The sides of his mouth curved down. "I didn't think you'd stoop this low."

  Nonplused, she murmured, "What…?"

  "Shoot me and take the berries for your own."

  "I'd never do that." Indignation laced her reply. Isabel gazed at the gun, then at John. She lowered the pistol to her side. "I heard a noise. I didn't know it was you out here."

  "Somebody had to get these trees watered if we're going to get an early start over to Rigby Glen. Half the damn morning's been wasted."

  Embarrassment clutched Isabel. She normally did rise early. It still was early, by the looks of the sun. Usually she'd have been up by this hour and already had half her trees watered. That John had gone out of his way to help her… it just… well, the gesture flustered her. She didn't know what to make of him.

  She caught him eyeing her nightgown with a smoldering stare. To be precise, he was eyeing the thin muslin covering her legs as the rays of sunlight poured through it left the fabric as transparent as white poppy petals.

  "I'll get ready," she said and turned toward the house, unable to rid herself of the longing that gnawed inside her. With a single gaze, John made her feel like she ought to be in his arms.

  Inside the cabin, Isabel collected herself and rushed to dress and pack a meal for the day. A couple hours later, they sat beneath a pungent eucalyptus eating the tortillas with brown sugar, powered cocoa, and cinnamon rolled into tubes that she'd made, and handfuls of dried apricots.

  They'd gathered a good share of berries, having dodged a group to the south by riding west several miles, then doubling back in the higher country and heading for the glen undetected.

  John had surprised her with that piebald mare she'd wanted—saddled and waiting in the yard next to his mount. When she asked him how he'd managed to get the horse when he'd given her all the berries, he wouldn't tell her. For a few flickering seconds, she wondered if he'd held out on her… if he'd kept some berries for his own vices.

  She knew that nearly all the businesses in town were now taking only berries as payment. And she knew that John liked his liquor… But she didn't press him for an answer. She had to trust him. They were partners now.

  "Goin' to be a cooker today," John mentioned as he brought his leg up and rested his forearm on his knee.

  His accent made her ask, "Where are you originally from?"

  He turned toward her. They shared the small blanket she'd brought, John leaning his back against the eucalyptus trunk. "Texarkana, Texas."

  "You sound like you're from Texas."

  "Do I? I didn't think my drawl was that noticeable."

  She shook her head while smiling softly.

  "Where're you from?"

  "Los Angeles," she replied.

  Isabel faced forward and looked at the expanse of wide open country growing wild with lilac, spicebush, and California juniper. It was hard to believe that she'd actually lived in the city, been confined by brick buildings, the first motor cars, and street noises so loud she'd grown used to them.

  "You lived alone?"

  "No. With my sister and her husband."

  She thought about the two years prior to her arrival in Limonero.

  She'd been living in a tiny apartment with Kate and Andrew while working as a maid at the Hotel Ramona. As much as she loved her sister, Isabel found the close quarters disquieting, especially when tensions rose between the couple.

  Having gone through a bad marriage herself, Isabel hadn't wanted to add to Kate and Andrew's troubles by being in the way. So she'd packed her belongings, wished her sister well, and left on the first northbound train with the promise that she'd write. She did stay in touch, and was glad to hear the couple was working out their differences.

  "Do you have family back in Texas?" she asked, folding her napkin and John's and putting them back in her picnic hamper.

  "Nope. My dad and his new wife live in Mexico. My mother's dead. I've got a brother—Tom, who lives in Montana. I haven't seen him in ages." His expression grew distant, as if talking about his brother wasn't something he was used to. "You see your sister much?"

  "No."

  "Sometimes families just drift apart, I expect."

  Quietly, she nodded.

  They shared something, and it somewhat unsettled Isabel. Both of them had family; both of them were on their own. Both of them seemed to be… loners. She didn't like the word. She hated even using it on herself. But it was the truth. She didn't get close to people. The only person she could call a friend was Duster, and even so, she didn't see him as often as she used to. Except for that night in the Blossom, she hadn't sat with him for a long spell and had a conversation.

  "You sure have had a slew of jobs since coming to town," John commented, pulling Isabel from her thoughts.

  The dry inflection in his tone put a pebble in her shoe. It sounded as if he wondered what was wrong with her that she couldn't hold the same position for more than a few months.

  "Yes, I have." She stared at him, daring him to make a smart remark.

  He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't bite my head off. I was just making an observation. Hell, the same could be said about me."

  "You're right. It sure could."

  She'd seen him working at the feed and seed, the livery, repairing the engines Calco used on the rigs, and warming the bench in front of the Republic while eating peanuts and drinking beer. The latter was his favorite occupation.

  Since he'd admitted to employment shortcomings, she was willing to let the subject go—until he added, "But at least I've worn my clothes in my jobs."

  Pinning him with a glare, she choked, "What did you just say?"

  "Think you heard me, Isabel." With that, he went to his feet. She shot up next to him.

  "You have no call to be saying such a thing to me."

  "Wasn't me who worked at the Blossom." His eyes locked with hers. If she could have calmed her jagged pulse for a moment and looked at him rationally, she would have seen the jealousy in his gaze. "And we know what kind of place that is."

  "I suspect all of Limonero knows exactly what kind of place the Blossom is. And don't you try and tell me you've never been there. Jacaranda told me all about you."

  John adjusted his Stetson—that habit of his; there was never anything wrong with the angle. He just rearranged the brim when he got mad and always set the crown exactly the way it had been before he messed with it. "She did? What in the deuce did she have to say?"

  Isabel wasn't about to tell him that Jacaranda said she should have been paying him instead of the other way around. Jacaranda had claimed John was the best—

  "Somebody's coming," John hissed between his teeth.

  Snapping her chin up, Isabel searched the dull horizon. A dust cloud rose in a thin plume: one rider.

  "Get on your horse."

  Isabel protested. "But we haven't picked all the berries. Why let somebody else have the rest?"

  He brought his face close to hers, his nose and forehead inches from her own. The smoldering fire of his blue eyes grounded her to the spot. She could smell the sweetness of cinnamon and cocoa on his breath. "It's not the berries on the bushes I'm worried about. It's the ones we already picked. Some people would do anything to win this contest, even if it means thievery at gunpoint. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like getting killed today."

  They loaded the horses with their gear, and rather than ride out, John told Isabel to take the reins and follow his lead. Where they'd stopped for breakfast had been flanked by an outcropping of sandstone directly behind them. He knew of a narrow canyon inside that had been carved out by water some hundreds of years ago. The stream that meandered through it now was low, but crystal clear. He had a good mind to go swimming as soon as whoever the rider was had either passed this way and left, or got his fill of
berries.

  Guiding his horse around the twists and turns of the soft rock incline, John reached the top and tied off the reins, motioning Isabel to do likewise. Once their animals were secured, he crouched low and went to the ground. Crawling up to the edge of the cliff, he peered down at the scene below just as Isabel scooted next to him.

  The flashy gray roan tipped him off as to who the rider was reining in and dismounting.

  "It's Newt," John stated dully.

  "Who?"

  He flashed her a sideways stare. "Guess you didn't go by names."

  Nudging toward him, she said, "I don't like what you're hinting at."

  "I'm not hinting at anything." John kept his gaze fixed on Newt, who was in a hurry to pluck berries and throw them in a burlap sack. "Newt told me all about it."

  "All about what?"

  "You and him at the Blossom."

  "There wasn't anything between me and him at the Blossom."

  "Not what he told me."

  The censure in her voice had slapped him as sure as if she'd used her hand. "Well there wasn't and he's a damn liar!" With that, she cuffed him for real and they both went sliding backward down the ledge.

  He put a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream and she latched on to him with both hands on his shoulders. John lost his hat, swore, and yelled at Isabel to shut up. She kept on with her cries. He cupped his fingers tighter over her mouth; she bit him. He swore once more.

  Looking about for a strong foothold to stop their decsent, he wedged his boot into a flannel bush. They came to a sliding halt. Pebbles showered their heads and dust clogged the air.

  John didn't remove his hand from her mouth and arm, fearful he'd reach for her throat if he did. She'd come after him as if she was some kind of crazy woman. To think, he'd watered her stupid lemon trees to help her out.

  Hell, he'd thought she was sound—her reasoning about the lemon syrup and alL But he guessed he was wrong. She was still nutty and her hull had just cracked.

  Violet eyes glowered at him; dusty lashes blinked in rapid succession. She was spitting mad. He couldn't release her yet.

  "Now listen." He brought his nose smack up to hers. "If I let you go, you'd better not be screaming because these canyons carry noise—if Newt didn't hear us already. I've known him for a while, but I can't vouch for a man's character when money's at stake. No telling what he might do if he finds us up here. He travels with a Colt, and I don't want to be on the barrel end of it."