Moonlight on Monterey Bay

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Laughing, Mercy said, “Sister Aggie has either mellowed or you’re trying to spare my feelings. Which is it?”

  Nick shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his chin. “Mellow is not exactly the word I’d use to describe Sister Agatha.”

  “Not exactly the word? Why do I get the feeling you’ve given a lot of thought to the matter of describing her in one word?”

  “It’s a habit of mine.”

  Mercy put her hands on her hips and studied him for a minute. “What’s the definitive word for Sister Aggie?”

  “Perceptive.”

  “Agreed. What did she say about my show?”

  “She said she was praying that you’d find a husband soon so you could stop advertising.”

  “She said what!” Mercy’s body went rigid, her hands falling to her sides in small white-knuckled fists.

  “She said—” Nick began helpfully.

  “I know what she said!” Mercy eyed him suspiciously, opening and closing her hands in an obvious attempt to control her temper. “What the hell are you supposed to be? The answer to her prayers?”

  “Actually, darlin’, I was kind of hoping you were the answer to mine.” Nick recognized the real truth in that statement.

  “Of course.” Mercy nodded and stepped closer, folding her arms across her midriff. She checked for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one, which led her to an interesting conclusion: Sister Agatha was matchmaking. “Dr. Devereaux, you are one smooth son of a gun, but you go right back and tell Sister Aggie I’m a damn sight smarter now than I was at nineteen. I can spot a heartbreaker fifty yards away.”

  “Ah no, I’m a doctor, chère,” Nick argued gently, remembering Sister Agatha’s insistence that he make the trip instead of phoning. “I don’t break hearts. I mend ‘em.”

  “But my heart doesn’t need mending. By you or anyone else,” she told him with a toss of her head, giving him a taste of the provocative Midnight Mercy. “Sister Agatha should realize that. Don’t you two ever watch television? Mercy Malone is in the business of breaking hearts, not the other way round.”

  “Now, that I believe, but it doesn’t scare me off.”

  “My breaking your heart doesn’t scare you?”

  “No, being the first man to break yours doesn’t scare me,” he deadpanned. For a second he saw surprise flare in her eyes and knew, however unintentionally, he’d scored a direct hit. Mercy Malone was off balance, and she wasn’t used to being off balance. Nick decided he liked her that way.

  Mercy felt as though the gauntlet had just been flung, that her honor was at stake. She wanted to wipe that smug, sexy, irritating smile off the doctor’s face. Doctor! That certainly explained a lot about his attitude. She had grown up with surgeons for parents and knew exactly how futile it was to argue with doctors who thought they were right. But that never stopped her from trying.

  “I’m twenty-nine years old, Dr. Devereaux. Trust me,” she said in a confidential tone. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities for broken hearts.”

  “Aw, darlin’,” Nick said with a shake of his head. “But how many of those … opportunities did you take advantage of?”

  Irrationally, Mercy wanted Devereaux to leave so she wouldn’t have to answer the incriminating question, and she wanted him to stay until she found out exactly what Sister Agatha had told him! Never before had anyone questioned Midnight Mercy’s experience, even in jest Usually people tended to mix up her television persona with her private self. As she studied him Mercy drew attention to her bottom lip with one long red fingernail.

  “You’re so sure that I’ve never suffered a broken heart,” she mused, infusing her voice with the same teasing sexuality she used on television. “Is that a professional diagnosis, Doctor?”

  “Oh no. I haven’t asked the question.”

  “What question?”

  “A simple one. Who broke your heart?”

  Nonplussed, Mercy floundered for a snappy reply, and then just tried to figure out something he’d believe.

  As the silence stretched, Nick briefly considered letting the subject drop, but only briefly. The sexy, confident Mercy Malone he’d seen on television seemed perfectly capable of telling him to go to hell, and she hadn’t. So he didn’t back off. “What’sa matter, chère? Don’t remember the details?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You’re stalling,” he corrected, and turned away from her, walking toward the wide carpeted stairway that led to the second story. “I’d think twice about getting a dog if I were you. This newel post looks like a giant, hand-carved fireplug.”

  Exasperated, Mercy gave a small huff, and not just because he’d insulted her post. “How am I supposed to think with you talking all the time?”

  “You shouldn’t have to think. Any woman who’s had her heart broken knows every little detail. She knows who, and where, and when. The lady can even tell you the moment it happened. But not you.” Nick ran his hand along the highly polished banister. He missed her widened eyes, and the way she followed the motion of his hand. Nick paused for a heartbeat and then added, “Now, why is that?”

  The sharp ring of the telephone caught them both by surprise, breaking the spell of intimacy that had been weaving itself around the two of them. When Mercy didn’t move, Nick said, “I believe someone is callin’ you.”

  “I can hear,” she replied, and walked past him to the phone table. Snatching up the black bone-shaped receiver, she answered more sharply than she intended and silently swore she’d wipe that self-satisfied look off Devereaux’s face if it was the last thing she did on this earth. “Oh … Sophie, hi. No, nothing’s wrong.”

  Nick chuckled and wandered toward the opening into the living room, which looked comfortable but still reflected the century-old character of the house. Without sacrificing any of the architectural flavor, Mercy had managed to make an inviting home—something he hadn’t been able to do with his apartment even though he’d hired an interior-design firm.

  “No, he’s not the plumber,” Mercy patiently explained to her elderly neighbor as she eyed her guest. “He’s a doctor. No, I’m not sick. Devereaux. Dr. Devereaux. No, not France. He’s from New Orleans. Yes, the one in Louisiana.”

  When he heard his name, eavesdropping became too great a temptation for Nick, but he salved his conscience by facing her so she’d know he was shamelessly snooping. Fleetingly, Nick wondered if she’d forgotten her plumbing problems as completely as he’d forgotten about being tired.

  “No!” Mercy’s answer to the unheard question was sharp. Suddenly she clenched her teeth as though trying to hold out against pressure. She shot him a furtive glance, then turned away and lowered her voice. “No, I’m fine. Really. Now is not a good time, Sophie. Sophie … Sophie!”

  Gingerly, Mercy replaced the receiver. She turned and announced, “We’re about to have company. Sophie would like to meet you. She’s never met anyone from New Orleans.”

  Something in Mercy’s tone of voice straightened Nick’s spine. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Should I be worried?”

  Mercy’s sense of humor began to surface and her mouth twitched. “I would. She’s afraid you’re ravishing me.”

  “She’s afraid I’m what?”

  “Ravishing me,” Mercy said pleasantly as she passed him on her way to the screen door to wait for Sophie.

  “You can’t be serious,” Nick declared.

  “Oh, I’m perfectly serious. Sophie says she saw you drive up and you’re just the sort of man who might, and I quote, try something.”

  “And Midnight Mercy is just the sort of woman who could handle it if I did,” Nick replied sharply.

  A shiver raced up her spine. He had used her nickname. “Why did you call me that? I mean—Midnight Mercy. Why’d you call me that?”

  “Chère, I look at you and see two incredibly sexy women who excite the hell out of this poor Cajun.” He joined her by the door and leaned against the jamb. Mercy Malone was a complicated woman; not w
hat he had expected, and she fascinated him. He gently lifted her chin and forced her to look at him as he explained. “One woman breaks hearts so easily while the other seems to be very careful with her own.”

  This time the shiver raced through her entire body, and a flush of heat quickly followed. The new intensity in his eyes belied the shadows beneath them. Nick no longer looked like he needed sleep; he looked dangerously intent on getting what he wanted.

  “Mercy dear!” Sophie called out as she started up the porch steps. As usual in the summer, Mercy’s neighbor wore a comfortable and brightly embroidered Mexican sundress. “I just needed to borrow a little brown sugar. You don’t mind, do you?” Sophie crossed the wooden porch and affected surprise, “Oh, dear me! I see you’re busy at the moment.”

  Startled, Mercy realized that Nick’s thumb was slowly but surely tracing her collarbone as he slid her soft, white cotton shirt off the shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mercy ground out, and shrugged off Nick’s hand. “Come on in, Sophie.”

  This time when she opened the screen door, it screeched its usual banshee protest Once the sprightly octogenarian scooted inside, Mercy made the introductions. “Sophie Jensen, Dr. Nick Devereaux. There. All introduced.”

  Without rushing, Sophie tapped the plastic measuring cup against her thigh, sized Nick up, and said, “So how long have you known our Mercy?”

  Nick laughed, crossed his arms, and gave her an equally careful once-over. “Not quite long enough to ravish her, but don’t you worry. I’m wearing her down.”

  Mercy choked and muttered hopelessly, “Oh God, what else can happen today?”

  “My!” Sophie exclaimed as though nothing embarrassing had transpired. “Don’t the floors look nice. This entrance hall seems enormous now that you’ve gotten all that nasty old green carpeting out of here. Mary Jane Hiller, rest her soul, did so like shag carpeting. But this is much better, dear. More spacious.”

  “You think so?” Mercy took the cup from Sophie and looked pointedly at the two of them. “I was just thinking how crowded it felt You two get acquainted while I swim through the kitchen and get some sugar.”

  “Oh dear, your plumbing problem!” Sophie snatched her cup back from Mercy’s hand. “I wouldn’t think of borrowing sugar at a time like this. I’ll just run down the street to Joan’s and get some sugar there.” She whisked the door open before Mercy could protest. “Nice to have met you, Doctor.”

  “A pleasure to be met, I assure you,” Nick said, and reached to flip on the porch light. “It’s beginning to get dark. I wouldn’t want you to slip before you got that sugar.”

  “How thoughtful,” Sophie murmured as she toddled off. “Now, Mercy,” she said, “you call me if you need me.”

  Mercy shook her head. “What I need is a plumber.”

  “I offered to help,” Nick reminded her.

  Without taking her gaze from the receding figure of Sophie, Mercy asked, “And which of us do you want to help? Midnight Mercy or Mercy May Malone?”

  Read on for an excerpt from Judith E. French’s

  Morgan’s Woman

  Prologue

  Autumn 1865

  “Two horses? What do you mean, two horses?” Tamsin MacGreggor pushed back the black netting of her widow’s veil and stared in shock at the lawyer.

  “Best you sit, Mrs. MacGreggor,” Randolph Crawshaw advised. “It’s understandable that a lady in your circumstances—”

  Tamsin found it hard to breathe. “You knew what my grandfather left me,” she managed. “Four hundred acres of prime farmland, a mill, two houses, barns, over forty head of breeding horses—”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, your husband—”

  “Was a fool!” She struggled to regain her composure. “Surely our investments, the railroad stocks—”

  “All gone.” The lawyer mopped his bald head. “It grieves me to bring you such terrible financial news on top of your loss.”

  “Loss? Atwood MacGreggor?” She pressed her lips tightly together and stood up. “The only good thing my husband ever did for me was to save me the trouble of shooting him.”

  Chapter 1

  Sweetwater, Colorado Spring 1866

  Tamsin MacGreggor rose at first light and tiptoed across the bare, splintery floorboards to the washstand. The room was unheated and smelled of lye soap and tobacco. Shivering, she poured water from a pitcher into the cracked crockery basin.

  Sweetwater, Colorado, hadn’t impressed her very much, but it was farther west than Denver. And the ugly boardinghouse room was cleaner and cheaper than the hotel in Wheaton, Nebraska, where she’d worked in a general store for two months. Best of all, she’d left Jack Cannon behind her.

  Tamsin scrubbed her face, then rubbed her aching back. She was still tired, despite ten hours’ sleep. Sometimes it seemed as though she’d been weary since she left her home in Three Forks, Tennessee. There’d been so many small towns she couldn’t remember them all, most cold and muddy. She’d traveled by train when she could manage the expense of shipping her horses. The rest of the time she’d ridden them, stopping only when her funds ran low or the weather was too awful.

  She’d have made faster progress if she hadn’t had to work her way across the country. Lawyer Crawshaw had been right when he’d said that Atwood had left her nothing but the two animals. She’d sold her mother’s jewelry and most of her own clothing and personal items for what little money she could get.

  Now she was down to ninety-two dollars and sixty-three cents. There would be no more trains. From here to California, across desert, mountain, and plains, she would ride her horses. Heaven help them all if one of the animals broke a leg or pulled a tendon.

  Randolph Crawshaw had laughed at her when she’d told him that she intended to take the mare and stallion to California to start a new life. The lawyer had scoffed that a gentlewoman, alone, in these lawless times since the war had ended, wouldn’t get as far as the Tennessee line with such valuable horseflesh.

  “I guess I showed you, didn’t I, Randolph?” she declared as she twisted her carrot-colored hair into a sensible braid and tied her hat strings under her chin. One thing she hadn’t sold was her grandfather’s Navy Colt. And any man who tried to take Fancy or Dancer from her would have to come through a hail of lead to get them.

  The small looking glass over the washstand was blackened with age. Tamsin didn’t bother to glance into it as she dressed. Years of rushing out in the darkness to aid a horse in distress had taught her to find her clothing and plait her thick hair by touch. Besides, a twenty-six-year-old woman, as tall and sturdy as she was, had no need of mirrors.

  Tamsin had left her black widow’s garments behind in Tennessee. Her clothing was as sensible as her plain freckled face: a dark green wool skirt, divided for riding astride, a neat white shirt, and a short green jacket to match the skirt. Her russet boots were old but crafted of the finest leather with heels high enough for riding and low enough for comfortable walking.

  She gathered her few belongings and stowed them in the saddlebags, then slid the heavy pistol into the holster hidden beneath her skirt. It was amazing how little a woman could get by with when it had to be carried on two horses. Her entire future, all her hopes and dreams, was wrapped up in those animals.

  Thoroughbreds both, the stallion and mare were the results of her grandfather’s life as a breeder of champion racing stock. Surely, such speed and noble lines would be appreciated in California. And with luck and hard work, she intended to build another stable of purebred horses, one that no spendthrift husband would ever wrest away from her.

  She hurried through breakfast, paid for her accommodations. Pausing for a moment on the uneven wooden walkway outside of the boardinghouse, she swung the saddlebags over one shoulder and looked carefully around.

  Except for a farmer leading a workhorse into the smithy and a boy washing the window in front of a dry goods store, the muddy street was nearly deserted. A block down, she could see someone ra
king the dirt in front of the livery stable where she’d left Fancy and Dancer for the night.

  It had rained sometime after midnight. Tamsin remembered hearing the rhythmic downpour against the tin roof. Yesterday’s choking dust was gone, replaced with brisk, fresh air. Fingers of fog hung over the town, but the golden rays piercing the clouds promised a fair day.

  Then, to her left, she heard the creak of saddle leather. She glanced at the tall rider coming around the corner and quickly looked away when their eyes met.

  “Morning, ma’am,” the big man said. He shifted his rifle to his other arm and touched his hat with one gloved finger.

  Tamsin gasped as she took in the stranger and the two horses trailing behind him. Each animal carried a gruesome cargo, a dead man slung over the bloodstained saddle.

  Muffling a cry of distress, she seized the doorknob, preparing to rush back into the boardinghouse. The quick glimpse she’d had of the ruffian was enough to convince her she didn’t wish to be on the same street with him.

  A wide-brimmed hat had shaded stark features bronzed by sun and wind. His sensual mouth was a thin line, his sharply chiseled jawline unshaven. The broad shoulders, long legs, hard-muscled arms were barely concealed by the black calf-length leather coat.

  Tamsin had seen her share of desperate men since she started traveling west. This one reminded her of Jack Cannon. The polished rifle, and the gun belt visible where the stranger’s duster hung open, didn’t belong to a cowhand who had innocently stumbled upon two bodies.

  The boardinghouse door opened and the widow Fremont peered into Tamsin’s face suspiciously. “You forget something?”

  “No, no,” Tamsin assured her. “I just …” She motioned toward the horseman. “That man—He’s … He has two dead—”