Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  He briefly removed his arm from her throat, pulled open her shirt and ripped away her camisole, leaving her breasts bare to his gaze. He pressed against her throat again, an evil grin creasing his once handsome mouth as he stared down at her bosom.

  She tried to keep her gaze focused on him, fighting for breath, and suddenly, with painful clarity, she understood what Charles Campion was all about. He enjoyed the fight, savored the battle. And he always wanted to win.

  Black dots danced before her eyes as he continued to press against her windpipe. She glanced briefly at his pale manhood, swollen, hot and pink as he thrust it toward her.

  “It’s my turn now, my beautiful whore.” His voice shook with lascivious need.

  A low, garbled cry sprang from her throat and she tried to twist away again.

  Suddenly the bathroom door swung open, hitting the wall with a bang.

  “Charles! Charles! Stop it, please, stop!”

  Through a haze, Molly saw Nicolette at the bedside, pulling on Charles’s arm. He swung at her, hitting her across the chest. She stumbled backward, righting herself before she fell.

  Fighting to stay conscious, Molly saw Nicolette fling herself at him again. “Charles! Please, stop it!” She pulled his arm from Molly’s throat and clung to it.

  With a deep, agonizing growl, he threw himself off the bed and turned away from them.

  Nicolette grabbed Molly’s dressing gown off the chair, went to the bed and helped her into it. Molly gripped the girl’s hand and they sat on the bed, quietly watching Charles. Her heart continued to pound painfully against her ribs and her throat was sore. She ached all over; there was a new, throbbing pain in her wrist. She finally understood that Charles was a sick, sick man. She hoped the knowledge hadn’t come too late.

  Nicolette finally spoke. Her voice was soft, filled with pain and confusion. “Charles, what … what were you thinking?”

  Charles turned, fully composed. “Get out of here, Nicolette.”

  “No, I won’t. I—”

  “Get out of here,” he repeated. “I have to talk to Margaret.”

  “No.” Her voice was firm with anger.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. There will be no more raping or pillaging tonight.” His voice was snide, filled with venomous sarcasm.

  Molly still hadn’t completely caught her breath. Her head ached from the lack of air, and her wrist continued to throb all the way up to her shoulder.

  “I don’t care what you say, Charles. I’m not leaving Margaret.” Nicolette crossed her arms over her chest and held her stubborn chin high.

  On a disgusted sigh, Charles strode to the door and pulled it open. He turned and glared at Molly. “This isn’t the end of it.”

  Molly didn’t answer. She gripped Nicolette’s hand and looked away, aching for him to just leave. He slammed the door, the noise echoing in the quiet room.

  “I’m so sorry, Margaret.”

  Molly gave her a wobbly smile and patted her hand. “I am too, sweetie.” She clasped one of the long curls that hung over Nicolette’s shoulder, threading her fingers through the silky mass.

  They were both quiet. Molly realized that now, more than ever before, she had to leave. Charles wouldn’t stop until he raped her. She remembered the look of excitement that gorged his features when she’d fought him. She shuddered against the memory. He was one of those men who got his pleasure from hurting women.

  Yes, she had to leave, but until she could, she’d have to avoid Charles like a cluster of locusts. Somehow, she must never find herself alone with him. As much as she wanted to turn to Buck for help, she knew she couldn’t risk getting him involved. Charles was already suspicious. It was about time she learned to get out of her muddles herself. Buck had saved her miserable hide too many times.

  Suddenly she remembered Buck’s warning that she and Nicolette must be out of the house by the end of the week. Molly wanted her out of danger. “I think you should go and visit your friend for a few days, Nicolette.”

  Nicolette turned, worry lines creasing her smooth brow. “I can’t leave you now. I won’t.”

  Moving toward the edge of the bed, she took Nicolette’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “I’m going to ask you to do it as a favor to me.”

  Nicolette gave her a wary look and pulled away. “Why? What’s going to happen?”

  Molly leaned close. “Do you trust me?”

  Nicolette hesitated, then nodded quickly.

  “I can’t tell you exactly what’s going to happen, because I don’t honestly know. But I want you safely away from here.”

  “What about you?” Nicolette asked.

  “I won’t be here, either.”

  Nicolette’s face held panic. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Molly shook her head. “No, but please, Nicolette, just trust me if you can.”

  She stared at Molly for a long while. “This has something to do with Charles, doesn’t it?”

  Molly refused to lie to her, but she didn’t want to hurt her, either. “Yes, but—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted, raising her hands to her ears. “I could demand that you tell me, but I won’t. I … I don’t want anything to happen to him, but …” She gave Molly a look of despair. “He’s my brother, but these last few months, he’s become someone I don’t even know anymore.”

  Molly was exhausted. Every bone in her body ached. “I’m so sorry, Nicolette. I’m so sorry.” She crawled to the pillows, pulled back the covers and slid into bed.

  Nicolette stood beside her, a worried frown on her pretty face. She rubbed her arms, as though she were cold. “I think I should sleep in here with you, Margaret.”

  Molly gave her a sleepy smile. She didn’t think Charles would come back, but it wouldn’t hurt to thwart him if he did. “I’d be happy to have the company.”

  The morning sun captured flecks of dust left by the messenger’s horse as it galloped away. Buck stood at the door of the barn, his gaze drifting to the letter that had been delivered. “To Buck Randall, open in the event of my death,” the envelope read. He’d know Nita’s barely intelligible scrawl anywhere. God, he thought, absently hitting the letter against his palm, he hated surprises.

  He thought back to the last time he’d seen her. It had been the day he’d returned to the ranch with Molly after the kidnapping. He remembered well the pain on Molly’s face when she’d heard where he was going. Even after everything they’d shared, Nita and Tomas were two people he couldn’t talk about, couldn’t explain. He’d rushed to the whore, finding her small, thin body more wasted than ever…

  “How are you?” He came to her and sat down on the bed, taking her hands in his.

  She pulled one hand away, covering her mouth as she coughed. “I’m not getting any better, Buck. I’m tired all the time. I can’t … can’t take care of Tomas anymore.”

  He glanced around the familiar room. “Where is he?”

  “Tessa took him.”

  Buck swore. Of all the women in the world, Tessa Black was the last one he wanted to take care of his son.

  “Don’t be angry, Buck. She’s good to him.”

  Buck stood and crossed to the window, remembering his reaction three years before when Nita had told him she was going to have his child. God, how he’d hated to hear that! He couldn’t take care of the one he already had. How in hell could he take care of another? But she’d assured him she would not ask much of him. She’d known he didn’t love her.

  But over the years, he’d come to look forward to visiting them. Tomas, the handsome boy with the light brown hair and dark brown eyes, had called him “Papa,” innocently finding a place for himself in Buck’s heart.

  But now Nita was dying. She’d tried to hide the bloody sputum from her cough in her handkerchief. Another mother of another one of his children was going to die, and this time he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  “Buck, come and sit with me.�
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  He went to her, taking her hands in his again. Most of her beauty had been ravaged by the disease. Her eyes no longer drooped seductively. They were weary, flat and looked enormous above her prominent cheekbones. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, trying to smile.

  “Oh, but I saw you first.” She touched his chin before her hand fell limply back onto the bed. “I liked the way you looked. So cocky and sure of yourself. I knew that under all of that was a good, kind man.”

  He continued to look at her. “You saw all that, did you?”

  For a brief moment, her eyes flashed with intensity. “Yes, I saw all that.”

  He remembered their lusty relationship, although they hadn’t been lovers for more than a year. Not since Nita had become ill. He’d paid Tessa, forcing her to let Nita stay on in her room, even though she no longer had a source of income. He continued to feel responsible for Tomas, too, but he refused to consider Nita might die and leave the boy motherless. If that happened, he’d begin to wonder if somehow he was a curse to women who bore him children.

  She coughed, doubling over in bed.

  “Dammit, I wish I could do something for you.”

  Sighing, she collapsed against the pillows. “You can, you know.”

  A feeling of panic coated his stomach. “I … I can’t do that, Nita. I’ve failed before.”

  Her dark eyes filled with pleading. “You’re all he’s got in the whole world, Buck. It’s all I’ll ask of you.”

  He sighed, feeling himself weaken. He didn’t know what he’d do with the kid, but he sure as hell couldn’t let him grow up in a whorehouse.

  “All right,” he finally said, hoping she didn’t hear his reluctance. “Where is he?”

  Nita relaxed. “He’s in Tessa’s room, down the hall. Go. Take him with you, now.”

  “Don’t you want to say good-bye?”

  She shook her head. “I already have. He’s waiting for you.”

  If Buck hadn’t been so miserable, he might have laughed. “You were pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

  “No,” she whispered, her eyes filling. “I was pretty sure of you.”

  Swearing silently, he picked up his hat and strode to the door. He stopped, turned and looked at her. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Smiling through her tears, she nodded. “Of course.”

  Buck left, realizing they both knew it wasn’t true….

  Giving himself a violent shake, he ripped off the end of the envelope and let the letter fall into his hand. With slow deliberation, he unfolded the paper and gazed down at Nita’s scribbly print. A sudden pain gripped his gut, twisting it fiercely as he read the meager lines.

  He shoved the paper into his pocket and dug at his eye with the heel of his hand. Christ. Damned clever woman. And he was pretty damned stupid. Stupid and naive. How had he let that slip by him?

  He stood by the barn unable to move, barely noticing as Sage rode up and dismounted.

  “Well,” Sage said dryly, leading his mount past Buck into the barn. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  Buck pulled in a deep breath, trying to block out what he was feeling. “I’m glad you’re back. Let’s talk in the barn.”

  Sage gave him a stern once-over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nita died sometime yesterday.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, man. She’d been sick for a long time. Too bad no one could do something for her.”

  Cursing, Buck pulled out the letter and handed it to him. He watched as Sage’s face took on a look of pure disgust.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Buck swore again. “What can I do? It’s over. Done with. What good would it do to get mad? That she played me for a fool isn’t the kid’s fault.” But he was angry. Deep inside, he felt an angry eruption forming. Somehow he had to work through it. It was time to let the past die.

  Sage let out a long, low whistle. “As if you don’t have enough on your mind.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now, tell me what you learned at Fort Elliot. Will we get any help cornering Campion?”

  When Sage was sure they were alone, he pulled out a letter of his own and shoved it at Buck. “This will put the last nail in his coffin. And all the help we need will be here the day after tomorrow.”

  Molly prayed for the time to fly. As she dressed for dinner the next evening, she wondered if she could bear another night in the house, much less another meal with Charles. She left her room and descended the stairs just as Charles’s voice rang out in the hallway below. Her stomach pitched, causing her to grab the railing for support. Stopping for a moment, she pulled in a deep breath, and gathered her confidence.

  Suddenly Angelita came rushing toward the stairs, her face lined with worry. “Oh, senorita,” she said quickly. “There is much sickness at my daughter’s house.” She looked around wildly. “I feel I must go to her, but …” She glanced toward the dining room. “You know, Senor Campion must have his dinner, and I cannot leave until that is done.”

  Molly was already making her way to the door. “I’ll go over now, Angelita,” she said, pulling her shawl from the coat tree in the entry. “You come when you can.”

  “Oh, thank you, Senorita Lindquist, thank you.” Tears streamed down Angelita’s cheeks as she pressed her fingers over her lips. She was roughly pushed aside.

  “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” Charles held a half-full snifter of brandy.

  Molly was already out on the porch. “I’m going to care for some sick children. Don’t wait up,” she added, trying to hide her sarcasm.

  “I forbid you to go!”

  She got to the bottom step and turned. “Charles,” she said with quiet strength, “I don’t think you’re in a position to forbid me to do anything.” She held his glowering gaze, then turned away, running quickly toward the barn.

  Angelita’s daughter, Carmen, showed promise of exotic beauty. She was softly curved where her mother was round. Her eyes, the deep, nearly black sloe-eyes of the Spanish, were warm as fire.

  “These are not all my children,” she explained, holding one baby against her breast and cuddling Tomas to her side. There were two other young children besides Estella in the room, one asleep on a cot near the fire, and Estella holding another. “They are left to me by their mothers who have died or have been killed by the whites.”

  The child in her arms coughed, a deep croupy sound that shook his little body. Tomas began to cry. “All the children,” Carmen said with a weary sigh, “are burning up with a fever. And they have this cough that comes up from their toes.”

  Molly tossed her shawl on a chair and surveyed the chaos. Carmen gave her a hopeful glance, then went back to soothing the children.

  Rushing to her side, Molly asked, “What can I do?”

  Carmen shook her head. “I don’t know what else there is to do. I have done what I can.” She shrugged helplessly. “I have bathed them with cool water, yet their fevers don’t break.”

  Molly pressed her fingertips to her temples. “There must be something else we can do.” She forced her head to clear, trying to think back to her childhood. Suddenly, she remembered something.

  “Carmen, are there any rocks nearby?”

  Carmen thought a moment, then nodded. “Many outside, near the cabin.”

  “All right. All right,” Molly answered, her thoughts whirling. “I’ll go out and gather some. And we’ll need as many extra blankets as you can find, and some … some poles or sticks.”

  Carmen gave her a puzzled frown. “What are we going to do?”

  Molly was already on her way outside. “We’re going to build a steam hut!”

  Less than two hours later, a colorful blanket-and-robe teepeelike structure had been erected in the middle of the room. The fireplace roared, the fire heating dozens of rocks.

  Inside the teepee, piled on an iron grate, were hot rocks that were cooled slightly with a spray
of water, sending hot, wet steam into the air, filling the small, dark tent.

  Molly felt sweat trickle down her temples and between her breasts as she held Tomas. His hair was damp, curling lightly around his face. His black button eyes, once wide with curiosity, were dull and his cheeks chapped from fever.

  Estella peeked into the tent. “More rocks?”

  Molly nodded. “Can you handle them?” Estella gave her an answering nod, then was gone.

  The air was as thick with tension as it was with steam. There had to be a way for them to relax while they waited. The apprehension she and Carmen felt surely was passed on to the children.

  “Carmen, do the children understand any English?”

  “Si, most understand some.”

  Molly gazed down at the languid Tomas and brushed a curl from his forehead. She pulled the child close, fighting back tears when she considered the child might not survive. Oh, but she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him die! A deep, hidden part of her wished that Tomas was hers and Buck’s. Something to bind them together. Anything to keep a part of Buck with her always. “Tomas,” she whispered, smiling brightly down at him, “do you want me to tell you a story?”

  The child blinked slowly and nodded.

  Estella entered the tent, lugging a makeshift sling that held some hot, steaming rocks. Carmen rose and helped her shift them to the pile on the grate, then they poured water on them, sending a fresh hiss of mist into the warm, wet air.

  Molly snuggled Tomas close, ignoring her own discomfort. “This is the story of His-sik the Skunk. You know what a skunk is, don’t you?” She wrinkled her nose, pretending to smell something bad. It brought a small smile to the child’s mouth, and lifted Molly’s sagging spirits.

  “His-sik was a selfish, greedy skunk,” she began, speaking slowly. “He often went hunting for elk with his son-in-law, Gray Fox, but it was Gray Fox who had to do all the work. All His-sik did was spray the elk herd with his stinky scent, and poor Gray Fox was left to kill them all. And old, lazy His-sik made Gray Fox not only carry the elk home, but His-sik as well, for he always claimed to be too tired to walk. But he was never too tired to dance, often dancing on poor Gray Fox’s back on the way home.