California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  Trying to control her emotions, Esther spread her hands on the table on either side of her plate. She felt a numbness in her fingers as she pressed down, a pulsing in the stubs where two were missing. "What was his name? The tall man with the moustache?"

  "Mosby. Luther Mosby. That name I will never forget either."

  Involuntarily, Esther's hands jerked outward, one of them knocking over her coffee. She stared at the spilled liquid on the table, and for a moment it seemed as dark as blood.

  "Why do you ask?" Murietta said, getting up and sponging up the spilled coffee with his napkin.

  "Just curious." She wanted to change the subject. "I'll never get the stain out of that napkin."

  "Let me soak it in cold water," Murietta said, cupping the cloth in his hands and walking out to the kitchen.

  While he was gone, Esther gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. Thoughts came spinning through her head. Oh, God, the same man. Murietta would recognize him. He bears Mosby almost as much hatred as I do.

  Murietta came back in and sat down, silent and totally absorbed by his own thoughts again. Esther released her grip on the table and tried to relax herself. She realized it was impossible to work with this new information, form something with it, in the state she was in. When her mind was cool, after she had slept on it, she thought, she would go over the possibilities. A tremor of guilt rippled through her. It is unfair of me even to think of drawing Joaquin into this. I might be risking his life. Perhaps there is a way he could simply locate Mosby for me… and then…

  "I have been thinking of riding south to spend some time in the high place above the desert," Murietta said, recalling Esther from her thoughts.

  "I don't want you to go!" she shouted, not realizing how loud her voice was until she had finished the sentence. Quickly regaining control, forcing herself to speak softly, sweetly, she added: "You are not completely healed."

  "The cuts are closed."

  "But you're still weak. It would be better if you stayed. I know it would be… and I need you," she added, ashamed but determined.

  Murietta smiled. "You can do without me… for a while." His eyes drifted away from her and the line of his mouth hardened, almost imperceptibly.

  "You'd come back soon?"

  "In time," he said unconvincingly.

  "I don't want you to go!" She lowered her voice again. "I… I'm concerned for your safety, your…"

  "All right," he said, sighing. "I will think about it for a while longer." He got up. "I wish to sleep now. Will you excuse me?"

  After he left the dining room, Esther tried to devise a way to bring him into her plans without endangering him. Distracted by the possibility that he might leave and not come back, she found it impossible to think straight. Suddenly, she was exhausted. The weight of Murietta's revelation and her own emotions had drained her. Sleep on it, she advised herself. Getting up, she walked down the long hallway and undressed for bed. I must keep him here, she thought. And find a way… She couldn't even finish the sentence in her mind. "In the morning," she said out loud as she got into bed. "In the morning, it will all become clear."

  The terror, disorientation, and lingering disquiet that followed the dream were almost gone now as she closed her eyes again. When she thought she heard the faint metallic sound of a spur clinking outside, she went to a window and opened the wooden shutters a crack. The sky to the west was still dark, but beneath the stars the pines were emerging slowly as visible black forms. She was about to close the shutters when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Down at the corral Murietta had thrown his saddle up on his horse and was fastening the cinch. The sight of it stunned her.

  When he had finished, he led the horse quietly back toward the house and stopped. He stared straight at the window, not seeing her. There was a look of infinite sadness in his eyes. He pulled the pistol out of the holster hanging from his bullet-laden belt and checked it. Then, after a last look at the ranch, he took hold of the pommel, swung up on the horse, and turned it north instead of south. She suddenly realized he was leaving, that this was not a dream. And that his preoccupation, his distance, his growing restlessness had had nothing to do with her.

  He was already walking the horse slowly away from the house when she threw open the shutters and whispered, "Wait!" He didn't hear her.

  He was trotting when she reached the front door and cried, "Joaquin!" He didn't stop or turn. Frantic, she pulled up the skirts of her nightdress and began running barefoot through the shallow layer of snow between the house and the corral. She climbed through the split-rail fence and pulled herself, up, bareback, onto her horse. Gripping the mare's mane, she leaned down and opened the gate. Then, riding as hard as she could without falling, she pointed the horse with her knees until it was headed for the opening in the line of trees through which Murietta had disappeared.

  She caught up with him a quarter mile into the pine forest.

  "You're going after Claussen," she said, out of breath, not feeling the cold, grateful that he had slowed his horse to a walk. The mounts snorted simultaneously and stopped.

  "It would have been better if you…"

  "You're going to kill Claussen, aren't you?"

  He leaned on his pommel and sighed. "Yes. I have thought about it, and that is what I must do. Please go back."

  Her body felt twice its weight. "They will kill you," she said, biting at a knuckle. "Claussen is drawing you into the filthy, childish game men play with guns."

  "I will wait until it is just the two of us, alone."

  Desperate, she ignored the fact that he was doing nothing more than she hoped to do to Mosby; perhaps even with Murietta's help. "This is not you. You said you would not…"

  "There are some things no man can avoid, no matter how much he would like to."

  "And killing Claussen is one of them?"

  "Yes."

  "You are as stupid and prideful as the rest of them," she screamed, conscious now of how much she might need him. "I hate you. You deceived me. You led me to believe you are different from them."

  The irony of what she was saying struck her full force. Desperation overwhelmed the shame she felt. Her frustration turned to anger. She saw Mosby for an instant in her mind and suddenly edged her horse nearer, swinging an open hand at his face. She was not near enough to hit Murietta, and as the force of her swing sent her toppling off the horse, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and broke her fall. Swinging a leg over, he slid out of his own saddle and dropped down on his knees next to her. She swung her other hand, and he blocked it with his palm. He took hold of her wrists and she struggled for a moment, then gave up. He let go of her and they stood up, staring at each other in the humming silence beneath the sheltering branches of the giant evergreens. He started to remount.

  "Is there nothing that will stop you?" she pleaded. Murietta's Appaloosa nuzzled her mare. Esther was suddenly aware of the musky aroma of lathered horseflesh. No matter what it costs, she thought, I will keep him here. "Could something, anything, be important enough to make you choose it rather than what you are about to do?"

  He turned to her, one foot in a stirrup. "I do not think so. My feelings are too strong."

  She reached out and touched his cheek. "There are other feelings, just as strong. I don't want to lose you. I couldn't bear the thought of you dead."

  "I do not want to die," he said. "But I would rather be dead than…"

  "Don't you understand what I am saying?" She could feel the pine needles under her feet as she reached up and undid the tie-strings of the nightdress. "I want you alive."

  "Esther…"

  "I want you alive." She pulled at the buttons and let the nightdress fall to the ground. "More than you want Claussen dead."

  He tried to turn away. "Esther…" He couldn't keep his eyes off her.

  She moved closer to him, saw his expression soften and his nostrils flare. "I know you have wanted me for a long time," she said, inwardly aston
ished at what she was capable of doing. "Do you want me more than you want Claussen?"

  He stared at her for a long time, then smiled and shook his head in wonder. And then his arms were around her, his hips were on hers, and they were sinking slowly to the carpet of pine needles and snow. He stopped after a moment, got up and unrolled his poncho and his bedroll. He spread the poncho and her nightdress and pulled the blanket over them after stripping naked and lying by her side.

  When he was in her, she felt relief and release along with a moderately, then increasingly pleasant feeling. There was no rapture, none of the convulsive, intense response she had experienced with Alex Todd. Murietta's stiff, moving presence was simply a positive physical sensation. The part of him that was in her felt like the smooth fabric of the nightdress beneath her; no more, but no less pleasant. If this will keep him with me, she thought, then I will do it; as often as he wishes. The rest will be scarcely more difficult than being affectionate to a brother or sister. She thought of Alex, and guilt rose in her. Forgive me, she thought. I have to do this. She banished the guilt from her mind.

  She watched Murietta's face tighten, his eyes grow slightly blank, and then she felt the cool film of perspiration break out all over his body just before he pulled away and his thick, warm liquid pulsed onto her abdomen. She smiled at the pleasure and contentment in his face as he lowered himself and they rolled over, facing one another. A tender, warm feeling for him lifted her out of her detached frame of mind. She kissed him softly on the eyes and cheeks. When he rested his face in the hollow of her neck, she stroked his head the way she would that of a child.

  Esther wondered if this was all any woman could feel if she loved someone else. She stared up at the rapidly brightening sky. When she finally turned and saw he was watching her, she knew there was a trace of sadness behind his otherwise contented expression. She wondered if a man might know if a woman was not in love with him by subtle variations in the sexual act. She felt a moment of apprehension as he began to speak, fearful that he would ride on after Claussen because he knew the limitations of her feelings, and they would not be enough to outweigh his need for revenge.

  But he simply said, "Querida, you have probably saved my life." He laughed at the way it sounded, at the way he had been saved.

  She understood and laughed with him. Feeling a surge of relief, she smiled happily and put her arms around him. It occurred to her that he might take her mood and the way she was expressing it as evidence of deep love. She knew that allowing such misinterpretation was deceit, manipulation, but decided she would have to live with that. There was no one else to help her. No matter how much gold she had, she did not think she could do it alone. And she would never find a more natural ally than Murietta. Somehow she would make it up to him. She hoped the limit of her feelings was obscured to him, for his sake. For a moment, as they lay silently in each other's arms, she thought he did not know.

  "I have been very lucky today," he said, gazing past her. "Perhaps I will be even luckier in the future." He nodded to a snow-covered clearing beyond where they lay. "For if that can grow at this time of year, perhaps your love for me will grow also."

  She followed the line of his gaze to an oval patch of white gleaming in a slanting shaft of sunlight. In the center of the exposed clearing, a tiny flower had thrust its yellow petals up through the surface of the snow.

  "But I love you now," she said, praying that somehow, someday, it might not be a lie.

  Forty-eight

  Mariposa Ranch

  July 20, 1852

  Sunday. Oh, Alex, how can I begin to tell you? It has been more than two years since I have written in these pages. I wish I could say that it is simply because I have been busy, here at the ranch, with the mining operations and so forth. But while that is true, the main reason has been my reluctance to convey in these pages what my life has been like with Murietta. The last time I wrote, I begged your forgiveness and asked you to try to understand my reasons for becoming involved with him. Now that so much time has passed and I have not even spoken once to Murietta of Mosby, the uneasiness I feel about breaking my vow to you weighs on me heavily.

  Things change, Alex, and I sense a shift in me concerning Murietta. Perhaps this will cause you additional pain, should you ever read these pages. Banish such feeling, for the changes I detect in myself do not have anything to do with my continued love for you. That will never change. It is just that so much time has passed, and without Murietta I would be alone. That was acceptable to me for a long time, but it is no longer. I have tried to make it up to you, by pulling a string from time to time to assist in increasing your good fortune and prosperity. And surely you have become involved, had your affairs, by this time. I hope so, indeed cannot imagine that you have not. Or that anything would change the feelings you had for me when we were together.

  Nonetheless, I shall make you two promises. First, I will speak to Murietta about Mosby as soon as possible. I have been thinking much lately about how I have let my preoccupation with running things here and the comforting hours with Joaquin lull me in my resolve concerning Mosby. To be fair to myself, I have to say that no way occurred to me in which I could enlist Murietta's aid without sending him into a situation that might easily cost him his life. Perhaps it has been dense of me, but I did not think to tell him all of the story, thereby making him understand that I must be the one to finally confront Mosby and do what must be done. And that he must simply help me find the man and arrange his final hour. I will do that—along with keeping a second promise to resume sharing everything with you—as soon as Murietta returns.

  He has been gone since Monday. To San Francisco and Sacramento again to spare me the burdens of business. I ask you to please remember how much has transpired since we were together: that each of Joaquin's brief absences has seemed longer than the year and a half (almost) that has passed since that morning at dawn with him under the pines. I suppose missing him so much means that I love him in a way. It may be a comfort to know that I have not experienced those additional ranges of feeling that were part of my love for you. Still, Joaquin is more than a comfort, and I must confess the sweet languor of our occasional nights together gentles me considerably. (I pray that you have found similar affection and relief.) There is some disquiet in me about it. I still see your face occasionally when Joaquin and I lie together. And although the ingenious wrapping of… himself… with sheep-gut seems indeed to work and I have not become pregnant, I still so much fear such a calamity that it robs me of some of the modest pleasure I feel.

  I hope Joaquin keeps his promise to avoid Sonora and Coulterville on his way back. Thank God the bestiality and injustice being heaped upon miners of Latin origin and ancestry in those places has not reached into the larger operations such as this one. Why the Sonorans, Mexicans, and South Americans stay is beyond me, reduced as they are to underpaid laborers for the combines and larger companies that now predominate. They are insulted and attacked at every turn, as you probably know. No wonder so many of them have succumbed to drunkenness and retaliated with murder and banditry. I cannot say with certainty that I would not respond in the same way if I were harshly taxed simply because I was a foreigner, and accused of every crime committed anyway.

  Moses will be five in less than two months. I wish my attempt last month to have him here had not resulted in such a turmoil of bad memories and renewed hatred for Mosby. One good thing came of it: I suspect my renewed attention and — I have told Murietta only that Moses is illegitimate — resolve concerning Mosby were triggered by Moses' presence. I wish my feelings were such that I could raise the boy myself. It will be difficult for him—and for Solana, I am sure—when I place him in school. But sooner or later it must be done. He regards Solana as his mother, obviously, and loves and trusts her as he does no one else. But he is white, and it is my duty to see that he is educated, prepared for survival in the world outside her village. And try as I will to remember there has been no trouble there, the know
ledge of violence against Indians elsewhere keeps me fearful for his continued safety. It is time. It must be done this year…

  I hope Murietta is able to see the "Lieutenant Governor" while he is in Sacramento. Happily, Warren affects little of the trappings and certainly none of the self-importance of most politicos of even modest rank. I have often wondered what you think of him. The more I know Barnett, the more I love and admire the truly decent man that resides within that huge body. Upon reflection, he seems the only man under fifty I have ever known, other than yourself, whose interest in me was untainted. Perhaps men who can accommodate a purely spiritual bond with a woman are even rarer than true friends seem to be in general…

  I am eager to hear what has developed in Blue Star's six-month-old business relationship with the new Sacramento firm, Huntington and Hopkins, which I recommended on reports received from Mr. Kellerman. Perhaps it might be prudent for me to extend my private wholesale-retail arrangements to include Huntington and Hopkins as well. From all indications, the intense competition may well "do in" Kellerman, and that would leave me without an outlet for my goods in Sacramento. That prospect displeases me, not least because I take a particular pleasure from every penny anyone keeps out of Sam Brannan's pockets. I must hand it to him—and to Coleman. They have wasted no time in establishing themselves, everywhere, it seems, from the gold-field towns to San Francisco itself.

  I wish things were not so drastically changed on the South Fork. It is true that since Barnett and Kelsey persuaded you — at my oblique suggestion — to take over the new hydraulic mining operations for the absentee-owner, "E. Cable," efficiency and profits have risen steadily. (The irony of the arrangement! What a shock it will be to you when you finally read this!) But it pains me that Miwokan is no longer involved, retreating to his hut as he has since his brother and so many more of his men went off on their own last year. Of course, I could not feel as secure as I do about the management of the South Fork Mining Company without you there. How I wish I could personally praise and congratulate you for what you have done for yourself. Somehow it does not surprise me that you are able to manage both the mining company and the stage and express line you and your cousin, Talbott, developed out of the original mail service. I am glad you resisted selling the line to Adams and Company.