Orchids in Moonlight

by Patricia Hagan

  She was fascinated and wanted to know. "So how can you tell if it's been done, salted, that is?"

  "Because you can't blast just any kind of dust. You have to know what you're doing, because it has to be the kind that would have got there in the normal course of geological events. I heard of one instance where a man salted his mine with particles of free gold that were deeper and redder in color than usual under a microscope. A suspicious investor ran a bullion assay and proved there was a trace of copper, which is used by the Royal Mint in London to make gold hard enough for use in coinage. There's no way that dust could have come from that mine.

  "Another way," he went on, "is to take a few bushels of ore from a good mine and scatter it at the bottom of a shaft or along the drift of a mine that's poor. But salting isn't as prevalent as it once was, because investors are getting smart enough and wary enough to hire the services of professionals to appraise the property."

  "Why wasn't that done with your father's mine, the one that caused so much trouble?"

  "It was," he said matter-of-factly, "but I heard he hired the appraiser himself, and that's why so much hell was raised when the mine played out. There were those who claimed the appraiser wasn't honest."

  "And what do you think?"

  "Nobody likes to think his father is capable of hornswoggling," he retorted lightly, then added with a frown, "I'd really rather talk about something else, if you don't mind. I'm not like my father. I don't worship gold. I'm like my mother. Money never meant that much to her. Land is the thing. And freedom. You could have moved her into one of those hovels carved out in the cliff and she'd have been happy. My father was always the greedy one. Not her. And I feel the same. That's why I'm interested in the vineyards, the gardens, and when I inherit this one day, I won't be living in that monstrosity of a palace he's created. I'll live simply and happily.

  "With a wife who's just like my mother," he added with a caressing smile.

  Jaime glanced away, not meeting his adoring eyes as she asked, "Was your mother happy with your father?"

  "No. He was a tyrant, and it was bad enough even before he took Morena as his mistress, but after that my mother eventually couldn't take any more. Oh, she knew he had lovers, mistresses, from time to time, but Morena was different. Morena made up her mind she was going to get my father to divorce my mother and marry her so she could move into the mansion and have the status of wife instead of mistress. So she made sure my mother knew about her. That made my father mad, but he was too infatuated to get rid of her."

  "But he didn't marry her when your mother died. How long has it been?"

  "Two years. But that doesn't mean anything. I think he would have married her if not for me. He knows I blame her for Mother's death."

  Jaime was curious but refrained from asking further questions. After all, they had only met that morning, and she felt somewhat disconcerted already at the way he had bared his soul to her.

  Suddenly, he blurted, as though he had to share the pain, "My mother killed herself."

  "Oh, Blake, I'm so sorry."

  "I was the one who found her. She—"

  Jaime reached to cover his hand with hers. "Really, you shouldn't be telling me all this. We're practically strangers."

  His mouth curved in a mysterious smile. "You're wrong. You see, I've been waiting all my life for this, and when I walked into the dining room this morning and saw you, my heart almost stopped beating. No," he repeated fervently. "We can't be strangers, because I've known you always."

  "Oh, Blake." She shook her head. "I wish you wouldn't talk this way. I'm glad we met, and I certainly appreciate your friendship, but I've only got one thing on my mind right now, and that's finding my father. I'm not looking for romance."

  He took a deep breath, forced a bright smile, and yielded. "Very well. We'll let the future take care of itself, but meanwhile I want you to know I'm willing to do anything I can to help you with your search."

  Jaime relaxed. They had wound up on the beach, directly below the highest point of the bluff. On one side the ocean glistened in the sun like gold flakes dusting the green waves beyond the frothy whitecaps. Bordering opposite were the cliffs, stretching skyward as though trying to touch the clouds.

  They rode in silence. Jaime allowed her mind to drift.

  Blake stared toward the outcroppings where ridges eventually met sand. Suddenly, with a low curse, he dug his heels into his horse's flanks, sending him at a gallop toward the rocks.

  Jaime urged the mare to follow, curious over what had upset him.

  "Devil worship." He pointed to a pile of flat stones, five or six feet high and covered with a weird collection of beads, feathers, shells, and what looked like bits of food. "It's an ancient Indian custom that goes back hundreds of years, one the Franciscans had to deal with when they were trying to convert them."

  Jaime shivered instinctively to contemplate such a thing.

  He went on. "Every once in a while, one will spring up. I've always suspected Morena has something to do with it. She's a half-breed. Her mother was full-blooded Yahi. For reasons nobody quite understands, their tribe was attacked by white settlers about four or five years ago and nearly wiped out. The few who survived scattered. By then, Morena was already being kept by my father. I think she gave some of them shelter in the caves, but I can't prove it.

  "So I find these from time to time." He gestured with a disgusted grimace. "It's an altar to a god they're terrified of called Cooksuy. This homage you see, the beads and things, is called pooish."

  "The missionaries didn't succeed in converting all of them, did they?"

  "Hardly. It was disastrous. The Spanish came to find gold and tried to force the Indians into Christianity, but instead brought new diseases that wiped out entire villages, destroyed their culture, and made slaves out of them. The Indians eventually deserted the missions and fought back, waging their own war. So today they're hated and given the contemptible name of Digger Indians, because they eat a lot of roots and clams—digging for them, of course.

  "And they sneak out of their hiding places to do this." He dismounted and began to scatter the rocks and offerings. "They build a big fire and dance around and go into some kind of trance and later swear they summoned Cooksuy up out of the flames in the form of a large white serpent or a bull with fiery eyes." He paused to laugh. "But it doesn't work, or I'd have been dead by now, because I have an idea Morena tries to call up her demon spirits to get me out of the way. One of these days, my father will wake up and run her off, and then the Diggers will come out of those rocks up there where they hide and we won't have to put up with this nonsense."

  They rode on down the beach, and Jaime listened with interest as Blake talked on, about himself and his love of the land, about his mother and how much he had adored her. It was obvious, however, that he did not hold his father in high esteem, and not altogether due to his obsession with Morena. Jaime came to the conclusion that if Stanton Lavelle was, indeed, unscrupulous, Blake was not involved. In fact, she suspected he didn't like his father at all.

  The sun began to bleed into the sea. Reluctantly, Blake said they had to be getting back but added happily, "This is like it used to be when Mother was alive. We rode together and forgot all about the time."

  Jaime felt another uncomfortable wave.

  "I want you to know something."

  She tensed.

  "I said I'd help you look for your father, and I will, but you have to agree to stay here in the meantime."

  She turned her head to stare at him in wonder. She could have told him she had little choice but instead asked why he was giving her such an ultimatum.

  His face lit up in a grin. "Don't you know? Dear, dear Jaime, I'll give you all the time you need, but surely you know by now I'm falling in love with you."

  Aghast, she cried, "Blake, I made it clear—"

  He held up a hand against her protests. "I know, but all I'm asking is a chance. Fair enough?"

  Jaime wo
ndered again what she had got herself into. He was sweet and kind, but she did not love him and somehow knew she never could. Yet for the moment she could only agree to his offer. Managing a tight little smile, she murmured, "Fair enough."

  * * *

  Stanton Lavelle leaned back in his leather chair and took a deep draw from his cigar. He swirled the bourbon in his glass and stared across his desk at Cord. "You owe me something, Austin."

  Cord had suspected when he got word Lavelle wanted to see him that it had something to do with money. "Sorry." He repeated his words from the day before. "I don't see it that way. I did the best I could."

  "At least you had guts enough to come back and admit you failed. Most men wouldn't."

  Cord was getting impatient. He had other things to think about, like figuring out a way to get to Jaime without anyone seeing him. He wanted to know what the hell was going on but did not think it wise to let it be known they were acquainted.

  With an exasperated sigh, he reminded Lavelle, "You said all this yesterday. What's on your mind now?"

  Stanton flushed with annoyance. He didn't like anyone questioning his motives, especially those he considered subordinates. For an instant, he considered telling Austin to get the hell out, but he knew Cord was best-qualified for what he had in mind. "I'm offering you a job."

  "I've got one. Working with the vaqueros."

  "I'm offering you something much better, with a future. It could lead to big things. Big money."

  Cord shook his head. "My future is south of here. Mexico, maybe. As soon as I make enough to get me there." And as soon as I make sure Jaime is going to be all right, he promised himself.

  "I'll make it worth your while to hang around a little longer."

  Cord's interest was piqued. A little longer was all he needed. "I'm listening."

  "I need a hired gun. It's said you're the best."

  "True. But I don't believe in killing a man for money, so I'm not for hire."

  Stanton's patience was wearing thin. He was not used to anyone turning him down. He slammed a fist on the desk. "You listen to me, damn it. I'm not asking you to kill anybody. I'm asking you to protect me. And like I said, you owe me. The least you could have done was sell the wagons and animals and brought me the money from that."

  "True. But it would have held me up crossing the Sierras. I didn't want to chance it. Besides," he dared add with a crooked grin, "everyone knows you can afford the loss."

  Stanton's eyes narrowed. "I'll be the judge of what I can afford to lose, and the fact is, since I backed off from hard-rock mining, I don't have the wealth I used to have. And I don't like that, Austin. I don't like it one little bit. I like being rich, and I intend to keep on being rich."

  "So what's that got to do with you needing a hired gun?"

  "I had to sequester myself here after a disgruntled investor took a shot at me at my office in San Francisco. He missed and I was lucky, because I didn't have a bodyguard then. But now that I'm going to be getting out more, getting back into hard-rock and hydraulic investments, I don't want to take any chances. You'll go with me and keep watch."

  Cord thought about how very little he actually knew about Lavelle's business. When he had first drifted onto Pointe Grande, he'd been hired to work with the vaqueros. When he eventually got involved with Morena, she had filled him in on Lavelle's family—how his son refused to get involved in the War Between the States because he didn't want to leave his mother and how she eventually committed suicide.

  When Cord did not say anything, Stanton tried another ploy. "You know, if you're as good with a gun as they say, you have nothing to worry about, so what's your problem?"

  "Actually, I don't have one," Cord replied dryly. "But you do, since you're the one getting shot at."

  "Look, Austin." Stanton crushed his cigar in a tray, biting back his temper. "I'm offering you a chance to make some real money, not the lousy pay of a vaquero. All you have to do is be close by when I'm around people, like the big party I'm having to introduce a lady guest who'll be staying here awhile. I want you to hang around in the shadows and keep your eyes open."

  Cord felt a rush to realize the party would be a perfect place to run into Jaime without arousing suspicion. Still, he did not want Lavelle to think him too eager, "If the pay is right, I'll do it," he said finally, in a tone that hinted it didn't really matter one way or another.

  Stanton grinned and held out his hand to seal the bargain.

  "With one stipulation," Cord stated quietly.

  Stanton's smile faded.

  "It doesn't include being ordered to kill anybody. I'm a hired gun. Not a hired killer."

  "But you'd shoot somebody to keep them from killing me, right?"

  Cord shrugged. "There are ways of saving a life besides taking one."

  "That's good enough for me." Stanton held out his hand once more.

  This time, Cord took it.

  As he maneuvered his way out through the maze of passageways, Cord was relieved not to run into Jaime. As anxious as he was to talk to her, he wanted first to do a little investigating cm his own.

  If he had known, back when they were together, that Lavelle was the man she'd be looking for in San Francisco, things would damn sure have been different.

  Now he found himself wishing he had yielded to his gut feeling as he left Sacramento and gone back to her. It had taken every shred of self-control he had to keep putting distance between them.

  But he had done so, because he felt it was best—for both of them.

  And now, with a pang of sadness, he knew when the time came, he would have to find a way to do it again.

  * * *

  Morena paced about angrily, restlessly, her curses bouncing back at her from the dirt and stone walls of the dugout. The scene with Stanton over her threatening Jaime Chandler with a knife had been ugly. Blake had wasted no time in telling her father, and Stanton had been furious. He had slapped her several times and threatened to kick her out of his mansion, out of his life, if she ever did anything like that again.

  He didn't want the gold-haired bitch upset, because she could lead him to her father's gold mine. Morena knew all that, but she was still mad over his hitting her and also infuriated that Jaime had been allowed in Emily's room to help herself to her clothes.

  Morena was staunch in believing no one had a right to Emily's room or Emily's clothes except herself, by God.

  She had stormed out, planning to spend the rest of the night with Cord and take out her fury in a carnal way. Many times she had come to him in a frenzy and rode him all night long like a wild stallion. No other man she had ever bedded came near to matching her passion. Cord Austin miraculously surpassed it.

  She wanted him fiercely this night.

  "But where is he now?" she cried out loud, striking the air with her fists.

  Gathering her shawl about her, she left the hut. She had threatened to go to his place, and now she would show him she meant it.

  But he was not there.

  She pounded on the door, then entered and fumbled in the darkness for a lantern. Lighting it, she glanced about but saw none of his belongings, no sign of him at all.

  He had left.

  A bowl and pitcher sat on the table by the stripped bed.

  She sent both shattering against the wall.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, not too far away, in the hayloft of a barn with a good view of the cliffhouse above, Cord settled down for the night.

  Maybe it was not the best of lodgings, with hay prickling and the odor of horses wafting from the stalls below, but he could keep an eye on the goings-on at Pointe Grande... and Morena would never think to look for him there.

  Chapter 20

  In the days since her arrival, every time Cord had caught a glimpse of Jaime, Lavelle's son was always with her. He cursed himself for the way it needled him. What difference did it make? If not Blake, some other man would come along to try and win her hand. She was lovely. It was inevitab
le.

  And it was none of his business.

  Once he either found her father or got her settled somewhere, she would be out of his life. This time, for good.

  But what was rankling in the short while he had been nosing around was why Chandler would have dropped out of sight without attempting to stay in touch with Jaime. It didn't make sense, especially since she had indicated that he had communicated with her right before all this happened. This made him suspect that Chandler might well be dead, murdered. Whatever the truth, Cord was sure Stanton Lavelle had had something to do with it.

  Another thing that worried him was fear of what Lavelle might do if he thought Jaime knew where her father's mine was located, maybe even had possession of the right map.

  Cord was not going to rest easy, would not even think of riding on, rill he got to the bottom of the Chandler mystery.

  * * *

  At last it was the night of Lavelle's party, and some of the wealthiest and most prominent people in San Francisco and the surrounding areas were coming. Most, Cord knew, probably despised Lavelle, but they leaped at the chance to visit the famed cliff house.

  Cord had positioned himself on the terrace where, from the shadows, he could observe everything.

  Earlier in the day, workmen had installed a new crystal chandelier, and the expensive jewels of the women glittered and sparkled in its shimmering prisms.

  An orchestra played while some of the guests danced. Others sipped champagne or gathered about tables laden with food.

  Cord watched Lavelle as he mingled graciously, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the men, complimenting the ladies. All the while, he kept an eye out for Jaime. The terrace was going to be a perfect place to attempt contact. He figured Blake would be unable to resist bringing her out to such a romantic spot. Light spilled from the ballroom onto baskets of flowers brought from Lavelle's greenhouse, The air was fragrant with the smell of the potted eucalyptus trees and honeysuckle vines trailing the mission walls. If they appeared, Cord hoped she would not give him away before he could signal to her to get rid of Blake so he could have a moment alone with her.