Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  Uttering a ragged sigh, he set the glass down.

  Tessa Black, the owner of the brothel, sashayed up to him from behind the bar. The neckline of her emerald green silk gown plunged low, revealing the shimmering tops of her large breasts. “Hey, Buck.”

  He shoved the full shot of whiskey toward her. “Hey, Tessa. How’re you doing?”

  She took the drink and dumped it back into the bottle. “I can still get it wet,” she answered, giving him a brazen once-over.

  Buck shook his head and grinned. “I’ll bet you can, Tessa girl, I’ll just bet you can.”

  Continuing to smile at him, she folded her arms in front of her and leaned against the bar, exposing more of her generous, white bosom. “Some day I’m gonna get you just a little bit drunk, Buck Randall. I bet you’re one hell of a stud in bed.”

  Buck chuckled and ran one finger over her bare fleshy arm. Goose bumps erupted on her skin. “Now, how would you know that unless Nita told you?”

  Tessa snorted and pulled her arm away. “I got eyes. That bulge in your jeans tells me somethin’, and I’ve seen a lot of bulges in my time,” she added with a smirk. “Nita may have been one of my best girls, but, sweetie,” she added, pressing her breasts dangerously close to his hand, “I’ve always wanted to give you a try. You wouldn’t be disappointed.”

  He glanced at her ample charms, then up at her face. Her eyes were thick with paint and mascara and her cheeks circles of rouge. Her hair, a brassy shade of gold, hung in lacquered curls to her shoulders. A woman ten years younger wouldn’t dress the way Tessa did.

  He gave her a slow, lusty smile. “Now, you know I could never satisfy you, Tess.”

  She answered his smile, her gaze peering over the bar at his crotch. “I’d sure as hell like to waste an afternoon tryin’.” She walked away, the shelf of her wide hips swaying seductively.

  Buck shook his head, turning as a gleeful whoop cut through the already noisy bar. Two men waited to be taken upstairs, passing the time playing an animated game of ringtoss. The object was to toss the ring over one of the enormous breasts of a painted wooden sculpture, a woman who looked suspiciously like Tessa.

  “Hey, Bucko, mi amigo!”

  Buck watched Che Ruiz and Hector Alejandro stroll toward him. The three of them were in town to escort their boss and his sister’s houseguest back to the ranch. “Stage is in, Che?”

  The shifty-eyed Mexican leered at him, flashing a smile that displayed gaping holes and ragged, rotting teeth. He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Si, and the boss, he’s comin’ down the street with the little piece of ass now.”

  Buck tossed a coin on the bar and followed the other two toward the door. Their boss had ridden them hard to finish that damned front porch before his houseguest came for a visit. The last coat of paint had been slapped on early yesterday morning.

  As Buck stepped outside, wind, warm and dry, picked up the dust from the street, filling the air with swirling whorls.

  Grinning, Che nudged him with his elbow. “See? Here they come.” He pointed toward the approaching buggy. “Brrrr,” he said, shivering dramatically as he looked at their boss’s companion. “Some icy berg, si?”

  Buck had to agree. Her nose was so high in the air, she’d drown in a rainstorm. He squinted at the twosome. His boss was a handsome White—according to the girls at Tessa’s. Buck knew for certain that he enjoyed a good life and didn’t like to get his hands dirty … at least not physically. His moral character was another matter.

  Buck turned his attention to the young woman at his side. She wore a handsome rust walking suit and carried one of those parasol things, holding it away from her like a royal scepter. She sat ramrod straight on the seat beside him, like a preening duchess surveying the peasants.

  Buck noticed her hat and almost laughed. Rust to match her suit, it sat perched on the side of her head. It was loaded with frilly geegaws and sported a gray ostrich plume. And damned if there wasn’t a small gray bird at the front that appeared to attempt takeoff every time the buggy hit a bump in the road. Buck decided it would serve the woman right if the bird crapped on her. The picture made him smile.

  Their boss nodded toward them, then leaned down to say something to the woman. She turned, just long enough for Buck to see her face. Blood pounded in his ears and his jaw fell slack. He swore under his breath, unable to take his eyes off her, even though she’d quickly turned her face away.

  What in the hell was she doing here? And it was her, no doubt about that. He’d never forget those defiant hazel eyes or those lush pouty lips. And the hair … A vision of the tawny mass blowing wildly in the wind had stamped itself into his brain years ago. She might have it tamed now, but there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

  His gaze followed the buggy as it rolled and rocked down the rut filled street. He tried to remember if Campion had ever mentioned the woman by name. Yeah, he’d said something to his sister, something about Margaret’s room. Hell, yes, it was Margaret all right, but no one had ever called her that, not when he’d known her. Growing up on the Gaspard ranch, the little hellion had been nicknamed Molly, for there hadn’t been a hair on her head that could have belonged to anyone sedately named Margaret.

  What in bloody hell was she doing here? He swore again. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. Now, along with everything else he had to worry about, he had to watch out for Molly.

  The three mounted their horses and followed a respectable distance behind the buggy. Buck couldn’t wait to get to the ranch to find out how she was going to explain this one.

  Molly Lindquist furtively glanced behind her. Oh, damn! It was him. What in the name of heaven was Buck Randall doing here, anyway? It was a big country; he could have chosen anywhere else but Texas. Of all the people on the face of the earth, he was undoubtedly the last one Molly wanted to see. Ever, ever again. And then to discover he was one of Charles’s ranch hands. Talk about bad luck. All of her life Buck had been her nemesis. Now, seeing him here was like eating a sweet peach pastry, enjoying it immensely, then biting into an annoying, disgusting pit. Buck Randall was that pit.

  She tried to concentrate on something else, like the fact that Nicolette hadn’t come with Charles to meet her. It wasn’t quite proper for them to be seen alone together.

  She gave Charles a sidelong glance. “And you said Nicolette will be home in a few days?”

  Charles pressed her hand. “Perhaps even tomorrow. Chelsea, her best friend, has a mare that’s about to foal. She didn’t want to miss it. But as I said, she was torn. She didn’t want to miss a moment of your visit, either.”

  A terrible odor suddenly contaminated the breeze. Molly brought her gloved hand to her nose, trying to filter out the smell. “What is that smell, Charles?”

  He laughed on a cough and wiped his eyes. “It’s from the holding pens for the cattle. We’re downwind of it today, aren’t we?”

  “Will we smell it all the way to the ranch?” She was desperate to keep her mind on something else, even though she still felt Buck’s glowering black eyes boring into her back.

  “No, of course not. As soon as we head down into the valley, the air will be fresh and clean.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Just the way I ordered it.”

  She glanced briefly at Charles’s hand, which possessively stroked her arm. Oddly enough, she suddenly felt uncomfortable. Still sensing, almost feeling Buck’s eyes on her, she said, “Those ranch hands of yours …”

  Charles squeezed her arm again. “Don’t be frightened, Margaret. They’re just Mexicans. And one is a breed. You won’t have to talk to them, I promise. They keep to their kind, we keep to ours. That’s a little rule of mine. To keep it enforced, I have an overseer. Hiram Poteet. He’ll make sure they don’t bother you when I’m not around. And they’re really quite harmless when they understand their place.”

  She forced herself to answer his reassuring smile, although the disparaging way he spoke bother
ed her a little. However, knowing he had many men to keep in line, she excused him. One couldn’t become familiar with the hands. He’d explained that to her. Familiarity allowed the help to expect favors. She already knew Charles wasn’t a man to grant many. He was a hard taskmaster, but that’s what had drawn her to him. He allowed nothing to stand in his way, and it appeared he always got what he wanted. She rather thought they were alike in that respect.

  But harmless wasn’t a term she’d have used to describe the three men who followed them. They all looked like renegades. But while the other two were simply unshaven and dirty, Buck was lean, hard-edged and dangerous. In spite of the danger—or maybe because of it—she’d always been drawn to him.

  She paused, waiting to feel some revulsion. It didn’t come, and that realization frightened her just a little.

  Charles might think the men were harmless, but she knew better. Buck Randall was about as harmless as a startled rattlesnake, and twice as sneaky.

  She’d have to get away and find him as soon as she could. If he so much as hinted to Charles that he knew her, everything she’d worked so hard for would disappear like so much smoke up a chimney.

  Trying to forget that Buck was behind her as they rode into the country, she stared at the landscape. It didn’t hold her interest for very long. She kept feeling Buck’s eyes boring into her back.

  They had been descending into a valley since they left Cedarville. “How far to the ranch, Charles?”

  He removed his Stetson, revealing his shock of wavy blond hair before he settled his hat back on his head. “Far enough so that we’ll have to stop and have a picnic. There’s a beautiful place not far from here.”

  Again, Buck’s face loomed before her. She squirmed on the seat beside Charles.

  “Anything wrong, Margaret?”

  She couldn’t begin to tell him. Giving him a weak smile, she shook her head. A vision of the Buck she’d had such a crush on billowed before her like an oversized balloon. Tall, lean, wild and raunchy. He’d exuded a sexual vitality that she, even at fourteen, had found compelling. Feeling herself blush, she realized that she’d tried to get him to notice her often enough. What a silly, reckless girl she’d been. And how lucky she was that she’d been sent away to school before she’d found a way to lure him into—She flushed again. Well, she would have stopped at nothing to get Buck’s full attention had she been allowed to stay home.

  As angry as she’d always been when he dragged her out of one scrape after another, she’d always felt … something. And because he’d obviously felt nothing for her, she’d needed to be as ornery as a mule, just to get back at him for not being interested. Lordy, her wild, headstrong attitude had almost ruined her back then. But no more. She knew better now. She knew that the only safe route was to suppress those wild urges. They were trouble, trouble, trouble.

  She brought her lips together in displeasure, suddenly realizing that someone like Buck could never catch her eye now that she had Charles. But you won’t have him for long if Buck gets to Charles before you get to Buck.

  Shaking the thought away, she tried again to concentrate on the scenery. In the distance, she could see the pastel hues of the canyon walls, which were dotted with the rich dark green of cedars. As they progressed into the valley, they were surrounded by a littering of detached mounds, domes, arches and colonnades, all streaked with muted pinks, reds, yellows and greens.

  She saw more rocks than she knew existed anywhere. They came in all sizes, from long needle shaped ones to those as smooth and flat as coins.

  “Gypsum,” Charles offered at her side. “The rock is gypsum. At first, you might find the drinking water a little bitter, because of it.”

  In spite of the beauty, red dust pirouetted around them, causing Molly to bring her handkerchief to her nose again.

  Suddenly Charles urged the horses off the trail, over the sandy earth. “See over there?” He pointed toward a line of cottonwood, elm and berry trees.

  Shading her eyes, she squinted into the distance. “Is there a river?”

  He nodded. “A fork of the Red. We’ll stop and have our lunch.”

  The closer they came to the river, the cleaner and cooler the air. She felt as though every garment she wore stuck to her skin; she thought she might suffocate. The water was so tempting, she wished she had the nerve to go wading. Biting back a smile, she realized shucking her shoes and stockings would shock Charles beyond belief.

  He stopped the buggy, pulled a blanket from the back and hurried around to help her down. “Come,” he ordered, taking her arm. “We’ll have a little picnic lunch over here under the trees.”

  Molly glanced behind her, noticing that Buck and the other two men had unhitched the horses and were taking them downstream to water them. She sat on the blanket, arranging her skirt out around her.

  A harsh pecking sound drew her gaze upward to the trunk of an elm. A black and white woodpecker worked furiously on the bark, let out a sharp pic sound, and flew away. A little striped ground squirrel scurried through the short grass under the trees and disappeared.

  Molly leaned back against the trunk of an elm and closed her eyes, listening to the bubbling notes of a meadowlark. The shade felt heavenly, and there was a little breeze. She could smell the river.

  “Lunch is served, ma’am,” Charles said, affecting the voice of a servant.

  Sighing contentedly, she opened her eyes and looked down at the blanket. Cold fried chicken, sourdough biscuits and dried fruit were heaped on a plate before her. She hadn’t eaten since early in the morning after she’d left the train to take the stage to Cedarville. Her mouth watered as she bit into a dried apricot.

  As she ate, she watched for Buck and the others while Charles prattled on about the ranch. Under normal circumstances, she would have hung on his every word. Now, her own thoughts were constantly interrupted by her fear that Buck would give her away and ruin everything. Her gaze kept going to the trees beyond the buggy. She half expected him to walk straight up to Charles and ask him what he was doing squiring around a breed. Knowing Buck as she did, she truly expected the worst.

  When they’d finished eating, she looked down at all the food that was left over. Enough to feed the others. Charles helped her stand. “We’re not going to just leave all of this food here, are we?”

  Charles frowned. “No, I suppose not.” He turned as his men broke through the trees, leading the horses. “Hey! Clean up this mess.”

  She felt a flush steal into her cheeks. “Did they have lunch?”

  He shrugged. “No doubt my housekeeper packed them something. If not, it isn’t far to the ranch.” He bent and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. “I know how sweet-tempered and generous you are. But one thing you’ll have to get used to is that you can’t treat these people like you’d treat your own. Unfortunately, if you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile, so to speak. Be very, very careful.” He gallantly kissed her hand. “Nicolette would kill me if anything ever happened to you.” He kissed her hand again. “I’ll be right back. Will you be all right?”

  Distracted, she nodded and watched him head into the trees. Her lunch sat like a rock on her stomach. She hadn’t told him the truth about her family, or herself, but she had a good reason. Shame had nothing to do with it. Practicality did. She’d learned that survival in the White world meant blending with it. The Whites ruled the country. The Whites got the good jobs. The Whites weren’t discriminated against because of the color of their skin. She had passed for a White for years. It was the only sensible thing to do. She was determined to survive, and if it meant burying her own heritage, so be it.

  Frowning, she thought about Charles’s strong prejudices. They really weren’t so unusual. She’d encountered them all of her life. But until now, she hadn’t thought that Charles might renounce her. Her lunch lurched upward, and she could taste the bitter acid from her stomach. What would he do when he learned about her? And she’d have to tell hi
m … eventually. Certainly before she brought her mother down to live with them. It was only fair.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. For now, she would do whatever she had to do to convince Buck Randall to keep his mouth shut. She’d deal with the problem in her own sweet time. She didn’t need or want a push from Buck.

  She glanced up, her heart skipping a beat. Speak of the devil …

  Buck rounded the buggy, his shirt in his hands. They stood and stared at one another. His eyes held angry questions. Hers, she knew, were wary. She tried to remain unmoved by his presence, but it wasn’t possible. His face, still handsome, yet different, had haunted her for almost seven years.

  The eyes were the same—dark pools of black, each rimmed with a circle of gold. Surprisingly, they were clear, void of the bleary effects of alcohol. They pierced her soul. His cheekbones were high and prominent. Beneath the left one was a scar, accentuating the sharpness. Briefly, she wondered how he’d gotten it. No doubt it had come from a fight for his honor, that tenacious, Indian honor that had mired him in a constant state of battle with the Whites from the time he was merely a teen. He’d always been the defiant one.

  His face was no longer gaunt, as it had been those years ago. But it was still keenly honed, angular and intense—and deeply disturbing. His jaw, as always, was strong, hinting at his stubborn nature, and his chin, sporting that maddening cleft, was even more compelling than it had been before. It was the stubble of beard that made him look dangerous and exciting.

  Quickly, she averted her eyes, glancing down at his chest. That was a mistake. He was shirtless and had obviously cooled himself off in the river, because his torso was wet. Water ran in tiny rivers over the expanse of smooth corded muscle. There was a faded ragged scar at his left shoulder, and numerous smaller flaws scattered over his chest. He’d been hurt so many times. A slight pang of sorrow stirred her, for she knew he had suffered much at the hands of the Whites. Shivering, she pushed the thought from her mind.