Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  Like nubs of dark chocolate, his brown nipples drew into tight beads right before her eyes. She quickly jerked her gaze away. But something pulled her back, forcing her to linger over the hard, washboard-like ridges of his stomach. Her gaze dropped lower. His jeans were slung low on his narrow hips, and she could see swirls of black hair around his navel.

  A long repressed fluttering started in the pit of her stomach, radiating both down into her pelvis and up into her chest. For a moment she felt the breathless seeds of desire, but she closed her eyes briefly and willed them away.

  Dragging her gaze up to his face again, she found him watching her. There was a familiar arrogance about him that infuriated her. Sucking in a greatly needed gulp of air, she stumbled away from him and walked as sedately as possible toward the buggy.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Buck slid his arms into his shirtsleeves and swallowed a groan. So the little hellion was all grownup. For some stupid reason, it bothered him that she had developed such rich, ripe curves—curves that turned men’s heads and made them drool. He’d have preferred to see her shapeless, washed-out, skinny, maybe. Flat chested, for sure. Why in the name of hell did she have to be such a beauty? She’d even learned how not to sweat.

  He buttoned his shirt, amazed that all those years in a convent school hadn’t turned her into a plain brown wren. Instead, she still had the beauty of a Lazuli Bunting. Although she’d been an unruly little brat, she’d had a freedom of spirit before they’d shipped her off. Obviously that was long gone, or more than likely, well hidden. The realization brought him a pang of disappointment.

  He’d often thought about the times he had to drag her away from her friends. He’d always put on this show of hating to do it, of only doing it for June’s sake. He’d really believed that, until Molly was gone. Then, for some stupid-ass reason, his life had taken on a drudgery he couldn’t explain.

  And now she was here, visiting Campion—a man Buck believed to be secretly dealing in stolen horses with a ragtag bunch of Mexicans. And she looked at the bastard with such worship, one would think he was responsible for hanging out the sun every morning.

  Buck swore. He didn’t really want to be around when Molly discovered what a two-faced swindler Campion was, but no doubt he’d have to be the one to tell her.

  She won’t believe you. Hell, no, she probably wouldn’t believe him. Hoping something brilliant would come to him before things went too far, he tucked his shirt into his jeans and went to help Che with the horses.

  Once in the buggy again, Molly’s brain was inundated with jumbled thoughts of Charles and Buck. Charles treated her like a queen. He always had, ever since that first day he’d seen her teaching piano to his little sister at the school. And Molly had been attracted to him. He was, after all, everything she’d been looking for. He was perfect husband material, and it had surprised her that he hadn’t already been snatched up by someone else. She gazed up as the waning sun painted purple-hued brush strokes on the canyon walls.

  In spite of the beauty, a feeling of dread nudged her spine, and that feeling had a name. Buck Randall. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, she didn’t want to think about him. She had never felt guilty about her goals. Never … until now. And it was only because deep down, she and Buck were the same. Physically, anyway. Yet here, she was treated like a queen, and he like the hired help. And things would never change, for he was, is and always would be, a proud, arrogant breed who hated the Whites with his entire soul.

  Dabbing at her neck with her handkerchief, she thought about the many dreadfully foul names Buck was probably calling her. And he knew many. She’d been on the receiving end of them a few years ago. But she’d have to tell him her plans, anyway. Not that he’d understand them. Oh, no. But she had to try. Unless he’d drastically changed, she knew what his reaction would be down to the impertinent sneer.

  She tried desperately to conjure up a way to stop thinking about him, and what he could do to her well-ordered life. First of all, she couldn’t let it eat at her. She had to talk with him first. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Maybe she was worrying needlessly. Nothing got accomplished by worrying about it. Pulling in a resigned breath, she ruefully realized there was nothing she could do about Buck until she got to the ranch.

  As they moved deeper into the valley, Molly noticed more pecan, willows and cottonwood growing along the sloping hills.

  “Oh, Charles,” Molly whispered on a breath. “It’s quite beautiful here.”

  He gave her a broad grin, as though he’d planted the sight just for her. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Margaret. Wait until you see the house.”

  Craning her neck, Molly could just get a glimpse of a tall white structure beyond the trees. “Oh, I see it, Charles, I think I see it!”

  The grove parted before them, and there, rising like a white stone castle, stood the ranch house. Deep eaves, high, narrow windows and similar doorways made the place look grand. Rustling cottonwood swayed with the breeze, and the checkerboard dappling of light and shade shifted over the limestone.

  It was everything Molly had dreamed it would be, and more. Much, much more. Excitement swelled within her until she got a glimpse of the outbuildings on the south side of the house. Then she remembered Buck, and her stomach briefly sank to the tops of her shoes.

  But all of her anxieties disappeared once she stepped into the house. She felt as though she’d walked into a mansion on Nob Hill. She was almost speechless. “Charles, it’s beautiful. And the floor.” She gasped in awe. “Just look at that floor.”

  His chest swelled with pride. “It’s a Roman mosaic patterned after the floors in Herculaneum and Pompeii.”

  Properly impressed, Molly’s gaze lingered on the ornate tiles before lifting to the three-part horizontal division of the walls. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” She tentatively touched the wooden border.

  “They’re tripartite.”

  “Whatever you say,” she answered with a smile.

  Charles gently pulled her closer. “See this?” He pointed to the bottom third. “This embossed relief paper is the wainscoting. The cornice around the top,” he said, pointing to it, “is embossed anaglyph.”

  Molly had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded impressive, and it was beautiful. She could live this way; she had no doubt about it.

  Charles gripped her elbow. “You’ll probably want to freshen up. Your room is—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Please show me the house, Charles.”

  “You’re not too tired from the ride?”

  Shaking her head, she answered enthusiastically, “I want to see every room. Right now.”

  She was given the grand tour, finding large cool rooms filled with furnishings she’d only read about. Marble fireplaces with ornate brass accessories, enormous gilt-edged mirrors, stenciled wall decorations, a sixteenth-century Persian tile wall, and a Brussels carpet, not to mention two Aubussons, an Axminster and a small Oriental rug in front of the fireplace in the library. And a Steinway grand piano in the salon. Her head swam with the opulence of it all. Perhaps it was a little ostentatious, but she didn’t fault Charles. He’d worked hard to get where he was; he deserved to spend his money any way he chose.

  “Now,” he ordered. “Up to your room. I won’t have you exhausted your first day here.”

  She went reluctantly until she saw the room. Holding back a ragged sigh, she stepped inside and stared.

  “Nicolette’s room is next door, through the bathroom. You’ll share it,” he explained. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  With a mute shake of her head, she walked into the room. The wainscoting and ceiling were papered in a matching pink floral design, and the walls were done in a coordinated pink with tiny gray dots. The woodwork was all painted gray, and the white lace curtains billowed outward, vainly holding back the breeze from the open window. A dainty walnut armchair with needlepoint upholstery sat in a well-lighted corne
r near a window, and a small round pedestal table with a frothy pink cloth stood next to it. A delicate gray commode nestled against the opposite wall, next to a small mahogany fold-out desk.

  Her gaze fell to the four-poster bed, which was tucked into an alcove. A half-dozen small pillows were scattered over the bed, and the spread was yards and yards of pink and gray froth.

  She swallowed hard. “Charles, I don’t know what to say.”

  He nervously cleared his throat. “I have some work to do in the library. Now, please. I want you to be rested for dinner.”

  She didn’t even notice that he’d left as she crossed to the window and looked out onto the yard. Glimpsing Buck as he went into the barn, she made a face. As much as she dreaded talking to him, she knew she had to. And the sooner the better.

  Feeling her happiness dwindle, she stepped back into the room. After removing her jacket, she checked herself in the mirror over the commode and went downstairs.

  Grateful Charles had some business to attend to, she stepped out onto the porch on the pretext of getting acquainted with her surroundings. The day had been clear, cloudless, the sky a brilliant shade of azure. Now the bluffs, once sharply etched against the sky, were a muted purple.

  Trying to act as casual as possible, she stepped off the porch and strolled to the barn. Her heartbeat accelerated when she saw Buck preparing oats for his horse.

  “Buck?”

  He lifted his gaze and stared at her briefly before going back to his task.

  “It … it is Buck Randall, isn’t it?” Fool. She knew it was him as well as she knew her own name.

  He gave her a humorless laugh—a familiar sound that dredged up memories she thought were long forgotten.

  She swallowed and pulled a sweet smile. “Thank you for not giving me away earlier.”

  His face was void of emotion as he continued his chores. “Yeah, sure.”

  Although it had been almost seven years since he’d last spoken to her, she remembered the sound of his voice as though it were just yesterday. That sexy, throaty, whiskey-harsh voice that had invaded her dreams, her heart … her soul. Clearing her throat, she nervously fiddled with the high neck of her Battenberg lace blouse. “I … it’s been a long time.”

  His mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile, and the scar beneath his cheekbone she’d noted earlier formed a devilish dent in his cheek.

  She reached toward him, then pulled her hand away. “I … you didn’t have that scar when I left.”

  “Cow,” he answered succinctly.

  “Cow?”

  He nodded. “I got kicked by a cow.”

  “Oh, I’m … I’m sorry.” Wasn’t that just typical? Leave it to her to imagine he’d gotten scarred defending his honor.

  He shrugged and went about his business, virtually ignoring her.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

  He turned, giving her a mocking smile. “I’d say it’s pretty obvious, Molly—”

  “Shhh!” she hissed, glancing quickly around her. Relieved that no one was nearby, she sweetened her tone. “Buck, it … it probably doesn’t make any difference to you, but I’ve worked very hard to get where I am.”

  He turned away, appearing to be unimpressed with what she’d done with her life. “Haven’t we all.”

  “I mean, I spent years at that awful school where the nuns did their best to break me. But I stayed, I didn’t try to run away, and believe me, I sure as h—” She cleared her throat again. “I sure wanted to.” Lord, he brought out the very worst in her. She hadn’t had the urge to really cuss in years.

  “And when I finally graduated, they found a position for me at another school for girls. That’s where I met Charles and Nicolette. I was teaching her to play the piano. That’s what I do, Buck. I teach music. Did you know that? I’m a different person now. I’m … I’m—”

  “White?”

  His expression of loathing made her cringe. He would never understand her reasons. Never. She had to try, but she didn’t want to fight with him. Frowning, she decided on another tactic. “I was sorry to hear about Honey’s death. I—”

  “That was six years ago. And thanks for coming to the funeral,” he said with dry sarcasm.

  Her gaze fluttered to the ground. She could still detect pain in his voice. It had been a shock to learn that Honey had been raped by the reservation schoolmaster. Until she had bled to death from his forceful entry and his beating, no one had known that she’d bleed so easily. When Molly had been told that Buck had drowned himself in his precious whiskey, drinking even more than he had before, she’d felt a stupid sense of loss, for it had suddenly dawned on her that he’d loved his wife very much. Everyone knew that’s how people in love responded—unable to cope with the death of a loved one, they tried to destroy themselves, too.

  She kicked at the loose hay with the toe of her shoe. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I was in San Francisco.” She looked at him as directly as possible. “I believe with your help,” she said, adding a little sarcasm of her own.

  He glanced toward the house. “You’d better get your tail back up there. The feudal lord of the manor wouldn’t approve of you mingling with the hired help.”

  His derision was palpable, but she still didn’t want to fight with him. “Buck,” she said, trying not to beg, “please don’t let Charles know what … what I was. I mean, what I am. Don’t even indicate we know each other. I don’t want him to know about Pine Valley or … or anything else. Not yet.” She gave him her most innocent, pleading look.

  He swore. “Campion doesn’t know you’re a breed, huh?”

  “My mother is a breed. I’m … I’m only one quarter.” She had the decency to blush. She lowered her gaze to the ground again, embarrassed that she’d taken his baiting so easily. “And, no. I … I haven’t told him that yet. But I will. Honest, Buck, I will. Just … just not yet.”

  He swore again. “What would your mother think if she knew you were so ashamed of her that you’re passing yourself off as a White?”

  “It’s for my mother that I’m doing this,” she shot back.

  He gave her an insulting snort. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  His anger went so deep, it almost frightened her. “Are you really ready to listen to me?”

  “Try me. I can’t wait to hear it.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the gnarled branch of an oak tree that hung over the roof of the barn, hoping to choose her words carefully. “I want you to understand. I … I’ve got to have some security for mother and me. I can’t always depend on Anna and Nicolas to take care of her. I miss her, Buck. I really do. But … but I hardly make enough to take care of myself. I—”

  “What a crock of shit.” He gave her a look of disgust.

  Fury surged through her. “You aren’t even trying to understand, are you? Why is it so hard for you to believe I’d want to care for Mother?”

  “To be honest, I don’t give a damn what you do with your life. You can go to hell, for all I care. But from where I stand, it sounds like you’re lying to yourself.” He snorted a sound of disgust again. “You’d better watch your back, brat. Campion has a real aversion to breeds. He might hire us, but he sure as hell doesn’t want us in his family tree.”

  She remembered Charles’s prejudices. “I know he’s a bit hard on his help, but he’s basically a good man, Buck. He … he wouldn’t …” She couldn’t finish. She wouldn’t sound unsure or express her fears in front of Buck. After all, surely once she and Charles were married, he wouldn’t lock her dear mother in an attic, like some deranged madman. Buck was exaggerating. She could change Charles. Love did many strange and wonderful things. But a niggle of fear crept into her consciousness anyway, and try as she might, she couldn’t get rid of it.

  His sardonic, lopsided grin told her that somehow he knew what was in her thoughts. “You’re pissin’ in the wind, bra
t.”

  “Oh, don’t call me that!” He’d called her that so often in the past, in her mind it had almost become an endearment. But she shrugged off all feelings of tenderness.

  “And I’d expect gutter talk coming from you. When you haven’t anything intelligent to say, you swear.” She turned to leave, then spun around again. “You haven’t changed, Buck Randall. I’m really sorry to see that. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “I’ve never pretended to be anything but what I am. Unlike you, I have nothing to hide.” He brushed past her and strode toward a low, whitewashed building on the other side of the corral.

  Frustration welled up inside her, but she pulled in a deep breath. He was here; she couldn’t do a thing about it. She’d just have to keep an eye on him, that’s all. She couldn’t let him be alone with Charles, not if she could help it. Knowing how she and Buck riled each other, it wouldn’t take much for him to spill all the beans. And she’d do that in her own sweet time.

  Huffing resentfully, she turned on her heels and stormed back toward the house, the crisp swish of her skirts a blatant clue to her own anger.

  Buck stared out the bunkhouse window long after Molly had disappeared into the house. He swore and pounded the windowsill with his fist. The glass rattled as though a huge wind had briefly invaded the building.

  He dragged his hand over his face. Molly might be all grown-up, but she was still rushing willy-nilly toward self-destruction. He wondered how long she thought she could get by without telling Campion what she really was. And that cock-and-bull story about trying to snag a rich husband so she can take care of June. It was a laughable excuse, typical of Molly.

  And of all the Whites in the world she could have chosen, it had to be Campion. He’d learned a great deal about Campion’s history, a grisly tale that involved his mother, and knew that Campion would kill any Indian or Mexican who looked at his sister cross-eyed. Campion also believed that any woman who was touched, much less raped, by an Indian should kill herself. Yeah, he was some prince, his boss.