Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  “How do you know that?”

  Molly snorted. “How do I know? Because, you bastard, I saw you talking and laughing with her just moments before. Did it give you pleasure to tell her what a fool you think I am? Did it?”

  He took off his Stetson and tossed it aside. “It may come as a surprise to you, but you aren’t the only topic of conversation around here, brat.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that. Why don’t you just admit you told her and get it over with?”

  His study of her was probing. “What did she say, exactly?”

  “She … she said I wasn’t … wasn’t white.”

  He snorted softly. “Well, you’re not.”

  “And you told her.”

  Turning away, he crossed to the small window and glanced outside. “Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t?”

  “Not if you were on your deathbed, which,” she answered fiercely, “I just might thoroughly enjoy.”

  He turned from the window and stared down at her, his lids dangerously hooded. “Why are you such a shrew?”

  The question caught her off guard. She struggled with it briefly. “I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you.”

  “So, I’ve made your life miserable, is that it?”

  “Yes.” He always had. Always. She turned away so he couldn’t see her. She felt dangerously close to tears. She hadn’t cried tears of self-pity in years, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you are your own worst enemy?”

  “What does that mean?” She stared at the door, trying to separate herself from her topsy-turvy feelings.

  “If you didn’t make life so hard for yourself, you’d have a much easier time coping with it.”

  She snorted. “When did you get so philosophical?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised, brat.”

  She rounded on him. “You’ve got to stop calling me that. You might slip one day and say it around—others.” She felt her anger waning, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t fire it up again.

  He came to her and ran his hands up and down her arms. His touch was familiar, physically tender yet emotionally painful. There was a softness in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Without conscious thought, she reached up and pressed her finger against the scar on his cheek. His eyes darkened.

  He gripped her harder and pushed her toward the door. “Get out of here.”

  The threat was meaningless. She refused to move. She had an urgent need to be kissed, again. Her lips parted, felt dry, so she licked them, bathing them with moisture.

  He swore, low and profoundly, before he dragged her against him and lowered his head to touch her mouth with his.

  Boldly, she allowed her tongue to meet his, and the kiss deepened briefly. Groaning, he pulled away, moving the tip of his tongue over her lips, inside her mouth, over her teeth. She shuddered, answering with her own, touching, probing, circling until he clamped his mouth over hers again.

  His hands framed her face, and she feared he might push her away, so she pitched forward, pressing herself against him, feeling the heat of his passion, which matched her own.

  Suddenly, he broke the kiss and shoved her away. “I said, get out of here.”

  She was more bewildered by her need than his anger. It wasn’t what she wanted. Of course it wasn’t. Desire and passion were empty words, describing vague, empty feelings. Feelings that didn’t last. Feelings that were far best buried deep inside. Oh, kissing Buck had felt good. Better than good. But that didn’t matter. Allowing her feelings to surface now would ruin all of her plans with Charles. He was right to push her away.

  With a firm hand, he guided her toward the door. “Dammit, this should never have happened. Never. I want you to forget about it. Forget, do you hear me? And don’t come looking for me again. We have nothing to talk about. I won’t tell Campion your precious little secret. If you want to tell him, go right ahead. I hope to hell it all works out for you. Now, go. Have your white life. Live it up. Enjoy it. You have my blessing. Just remember one thing, brat,” he added with deathly quiet. “You are what you are, and all the money in the world won’t change it.”

  Suddenly his anger filtered through her thoughts. Her feet and her head felt like stone. She couldn’t move, could no longer think. Confusion reigned inside her.

  Buck shoved her outside and slammed the door. Wincing against the sound, she stood there alone, her bewilderment and confusion growing. All of her adult life she’d known what she wanted. It did no good to admit to the world you were an Indian if you looked white. Whites were accepted. Whites were hired for the good jobs. Whites weren’t discriminated against. Why, then, did all of her facts suddenly sound so shallow and wrong?

  And even though her head still told her she wanted Charles, her heart wanted Buck. She couldn’t ignore it, and she didn’t understand it. Everything Buck had just said to her should have been exactly what she wanted to hear. He wouldn’t tell Charles. She could live her white life and tell him in her own sweet time. She wanted Charles. She wanted the security Charles could give her. She ached for everything he had, and now it looked like she might have it.

  So, why did she feel such a sense of loss? She stumbled to the mare and, with great effort, pulled herself into the saddle. Ride. She’d ride. It always helped clear her head. Gently kicking her mount, she urged the animal into a lope then a gallop.

  The wind hit her face, forcing her tears over her cheeks and into her hair. Somewhere, deep in her soul, she wondered if she really knew what she wanted at all.

  Blinded by the wind and her confusion, she didn’t notice the riders approaching until they were directly beside her. Startled, she pulled on the reins. A cloth was clamped over her face, and she felt herself falling…

  Seven

  Buck returned to the ranch, cursing himself for being so hard on Molly. He couldn’t just let her go off and marry Campion, in spite of what he’d told her. She might be determined to go through with her plans, but she had no idea how shattered she’d be once Campion learned what she really was. Buck could predict Campion’s response. The bastard wanted Molly, and he’d find a way to have her without marrying her.

  Even though Sage was aware of how dangerous Campion was, he didn’t know what Buck did. He didn’t know that it was Campion’s men who had killed Buck’s old friend, Scully. The poor old fellow had been murdered for a meager one hundred head of cattle. If Buck lived to be ninety, he’d never forget finding the old man’s frail body slumped over the table, riddled with bullets. And if it was the last thing he did, he’d prove Campion was the ringleader for all of the stolen herds in Texas.

  Buck had to vindicate himself for not being there to save the man who had saved him. Even that wouldn’t have been an even trade.

  As he left the barn, Jorge ran up to him, leading Nicolette’s mare.

  “Miss Lindquist is back from her ride, I see.”

  The boy’s eyes were large, and he looked puzzled. “No, senor. She not on the horse.” He handed Buck a piece of paper. “This pushed under the saddle.”

  Buck opened the note and scanned it. Terror seized his heart. Senor Campion, we warn you. Now we take your sister. Molly had been riding Nicolette’s mare.

  “Hurry to the house and get Senor Campion.” He watched the boy run off, then let his gaze return to the paper. We warn you, he read again. When Campion came outside, Buck jogged over and handed him the note.

  Frowning, Campion read it. “They must have mistaken Molly for Nicolette.”

  They? Buck mused. Campion hadn’t even asked who could have done such a thing. It was as if he already knew.

  “She went riding on Nicolette’s mare? Alone?” Campion dove his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, she knows better than to go off by herself.”

  Buck knew it was his fault, but he could hardly confess. “I’ll go after her.”

  Campion nodded, seeming preoccupied
. “Yes. Yes, you go after her, Randall. Take what you need.”

  Buck left him standing on the grass near the house, gazing into the distance. He tried to interpret Campion’s odd reaction. This was something he obviously hadn’t expected, yet wasn’t surprised to discover. Hell, Buck didn’t trust the bastard, but he didn’t have time to analyze him, either. The kidnappers’ trail was growing cold.

  Molly awakened slowly. She felt groggy and nauseated. Groaning against her discomfort, she lifted her head slowly, then let it fall back again. It ached, pounded. She swallowed the urge to retch. And her arms … Had she slept on them? They were numb. She couldn’t move them. But it was odd … they seemed to be behind her, not under her.

  Confused, she opened her eyes. They teared, her headache was so severe. She was suddenly filled with fear. Where was she? An unfamiliar arch of daylight angrily probed her sensitive eyes, and the light blurred before her.

  She tried to get up. She couldn’t move. With the panic of one confined against one’s will, she tugged frantically, suddenly realizing that she was bound, hand and foot. Sucking in hysterical gulps of air, she looked around her. Stay calm. She forced herself to take a few deep, well-measured breaths. All right, she thought, finally gaining control. She was in a cave. And for the moment, she was alone. But she knew that probably wouldn’t last, for she heard voices outside, not far away.

  Without thinking, she attempted to bring her hand up to ease her pounding head. A sharp pain shot up her arm and into her neck, and she slumped back against the wall. What had happened? She didn’t remember anything after leaving Buck arid riding off in tears. Except … the vague, sketchy memory of riders and a foul-smelling cloth being pressed against her nose. The smell still lingering in her nostrils. Yes, she shuddered, she remembered that.

  Glancing down, she discovered she was dressed only in her camisole and her drawers. A brown heap in the corner resembled her split riding skirt, but she couldn’t see her linen blouse anywhere. Her boots were by the cave opening.

  She attempted to shove herself into a more comfortable position, biting back the pain that shot through her hip as it scraped against a rock. She tried to move her hands, desperate to feel something. They could just as well have been wooden stumps.

  She drooped against the wall, pulling in great gulps of air to relieve her nausea. Who had done this to her? Her active imagination moved into high gear, and she imagined herself the victim of the worst kinds of torture. Oh, damn. She should have known better than to ride off alone. Had she not been so foolishly bawling over Buck, she’d have had more sense. The hills were full of thugs and renegades. She’d scolded Nicolette repeatedly about riding off by herself. Too bad she hadn’t had the sense to heed her own warnings.

  Suddenly the cave opening darkened, and someone entered. Startled, Molly slowly eased herself back against the wall. She sagged with relief when she discovered her “visitor” was a woman.

  She stood before Molly, her bare feet planted wide and her hands on her ample hips. It took Molly only a moment to discover that the woman was wearing her blouse, but she had it unbuttoned halfway down the front, exposing a deep, full cleavage. Her brown skin showed through the eyelet design at the bosom, and she’d rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. Her skirt was full, similar to that which Molly had seen the Mexican women wear in Cedarville.

  As the woman moved toward her, Molly could tell that except for the blouse, she was filthy, covered with the reddish dust that seemed to coat everything. No doubt her skirt had once been colorful. Now, it was torn in several places, and so soiled it was difficult to tell if it had ever been any specific colors at all. There was a fringed shawl tied around her waist.

  That it was a woman and not a man who stood before her gave Molly courage. “My hands are numb. You’ve tied them too tight.”

  The woman didn’t move. Molly wasn’t sure she understood English. Probing her own meager Spanish vocabulary, she finally said, “La mono … doler.”

  “What kind of stupid Spanish is that? Speak English.”

  “Then you heard me the first time,” she repeated tersely. “My hands are numb; I can’t feel them.”

  The woman sashayed toward Molly, her fists still on her hips. “You will ask nicely. Por favor. Please.”

  Molly glared up at her, refusing to be intimidated. That was a mistake. She was rewarded with a kick in the stomach.

  Gasping for breath, Molly tried to double over to protect herself, but she had no sense of balance without the use of her hands. She fell to the side, still unable to catch her breath. She struggled quietly, hoping she wouldn’t get kicked again.

  “I said, you will ask nicely. You will say ‘please.’ ”

  Battling for breath, Molly nodded and finally pushed out a strained, “Please.”

  The woman grabbed Molly’s hip, rolled her onto her stomach, and untied her wrists. Her cheek was pressed into the dirt, and dust clung to the soft, moist area on the inner sides of her lips. She tried to spit out the grit, but her mouth was too dry. Although her hands were untied, her limbs were still numb and her arms flopped to her sides. Slowly she rolled to one side and hoisted herself up on one elbow. With effort, she brought her other wrist up to wipe the dust and dirt from her mouth. Tingling pain, like shards of glass or needles beneath her skin, began as the blood flow returned to her fingers and hands.

  She stared up at her captor. “My feet?”

  The woman kicked Molly again, this time hitting the lower edge of her ribs. The pain was excruciating, cutting into her ribs, across her chest and up into her neck. Molly groaned, but bit back a cry. “P-please,” she murmured.

  The woman sniggered. “No. Just your hands.” She picked up Molly’s stockings, first one, then the other, sliding them up over her feet and calves, rolling them into a knot above her knee.

  Next, she took the riding boots and ran her fingers over the soft leather. “Nice,” she said around a sly grin. “I think they are mine now.” She easily pulled them on and strutted back and forth in front of her. “Look good, si?”

  Molly didn’t respond, but out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at her split riding skirt, which was now a rumpled heap in the corner.

  As if reading her mind, the woman crossed to the corner and picked up the skirt. Giving Molly a slow, evil grin, she unfastened her own filthy skirt, letting it fall to the ground. She wore no underwear. She stepped into the riding skirt, grunting and wiggling as she tried to maneuver it up over her ample hips. When she could get it no higher, she spewed an angry curse and shoved it down her legs, finally kicking it away.

  “Stupid way to make a skirt, anyway.” She picked it up again and inspected it. “What the hell good are these?” She pulled at the wide leggings. “Too hard for your man to get at you and, you know,” she said with a whorish smile, moving her hips around suggestively. “What word you use?”

  Molly refused to play along. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  The woman tossed the riding skirt aside and stepped into her own. “Ah, sure,” she said, pulling her skirt up over her hips. “You know. Skirt like that too much trouble when you want to play stallion and mare.”

  Molly didn’t show any response, and that seemed to anger the woman.

  “Maybe white bitches are too cold to play,” she snarled, jabbing Molly’s thigh with the toe of her newly stolen boot.

  Molly flinched but didn’t cry out.

  “You a tough one,” the woman said, examining her new boots.

  Molly decided she was grateful they hadn’t stripped her naked, grateful they probably found underwear unnecessary, and certainly cumbersome. Feeling was returning to her hands and fingers, and she gingerly moved herself back against the wall. “Water … please.”

  Her captor crossed to the other side of the cave, picked up a canteen and tossed it at Molly. It fell in her lap, and as she struggled to uncap it, she sensed that if she spilled it, she would get no more. She drank, smal
l sips that she knew would stay on her queasy stomach. She even swallowed the sand that had clung to her lips. Her hands trembled, and she almost dropped the canteen, but she willed herself to hold it tightly.

  After she’d finished, she clumsily recapped it and put it on the ground beside her. The woman stood nearby and continued to watch her.

  Rubbing her wrists to improve her circulation, Molly asked, “Who are you?” Outside the cave, she heard raucous laughter and loud voices.

  “You don’t have to know who I am.”

  “What am I doing here, then? Can you answer that?”

  The woman scratched the pendulous breasts that strained against the linen blouse. They moved around beneath the fabric like puppies in a sack. She crossed to the cave opening and quickly peered outside. “Che will tell you what he wants you to know. He comes now.”

  She stepped to the side as the man entered. He turned and abruptly pulled the woman into his arms, fondling her lecherously. Molly looked away.

  The man said something to the woman in Spanish, and they both looked at Molly and laughed lewdly, undoubtedly at her expense. He then swatted the woman on the behind, and she left the cave.

  As he moved toward her, Molly had the urge to scurry farther into the cave wall, but she’d gone as far as she could go. The man was dirty and dusty. And as he got closer, his malodorous smell gagged her. When he was mere inches from her, she felt a fresh jolt of fear, for she recognized him. “You,” she said in a shaky whisper. “You work at the ranch.”

  “Si.” His filthy, arrogant gaze raked her.

  “Charles will kill you for this.”

  He just grinned, showing wide gaping spaces where his teeth had rotted away. He reached out and fingered the snarled curl that hung over her shoulder. Molly swallowed a shudder and tried not to cringe.

  “So, they bring me the wrong woman.”

  She frowned. Wrong woman?

  He settled himself on the ground in front of her, squatting to reveal the split seam in his crotch. Like the woman earlier, he wore no underwear. Again, Molly looked away.