Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two

by Jane Bonander

  “A lot of good it’ll do now,” Buck replied with a derisive snort. “She still has that look of fear in her eyes. Believe me, I know that look well. She thought I was guilty as hell and hightailed it to that bastard Weber to tell him so. Never mind that she’s changed her tune now. It’s too damned late.”

  “Well, you certainly made it easy for her to hate you. Jesus, Buck. Spitting at her?”

  Buck shrugged, as though he couldn’t care less. “You’d have thought that would have made her want me dead all the more. And I’m not so sure her retraction wasn’t just an act to save her own skin.” He tossed Jason a knowing look. “After all, how can she still have you if she accuses me?”

  That thought had gone through Jason’s head, too. But only fleetingly. Rachel was a lot of things, but she wasn’t duplicitous.

  “And don’t give me any of that shit about how she’s changed,” Buck snapped. “Once a White, always a White. And why not? They’re no different than we are. That’s the only thing I can say in their defense. Right or wrong, they believe in their own—at least they stand by them, whether they believe them or not.”

  Jason scowled. Dammit, Buck made perfect sense, and it irritated the living hell out of him. He hadn’t wanted to believe Rachel would turn Buck in, but when it came down to the wire, she would side with her own—just as he would with his. There was no honor in turning against your own people.

  “You were pretty hard on her, Buck.”

  “I’m not sorry for a damned thing I said. I meant every word of it. I’m glad they’re dead. Who knows, I might have killed them myself if someone hadn’t beat me to it.”

  “Jesus, Buck. Why didn’t you just confess, then? Considering what you said, you might as well have.”

  Buck’s arm came through the bars and he grabbed Jason’s shoulder. Jason glared at the hate-filled agony he saw in his face.

  “Tell me, good doctor, how I’m supposed to live the rest of my life with the sound of Honey’s laughter waking me from a dead sleep. Shit, I only drink to kill the pain. The only peace I have is when I’ve drunk myself into a stupor. Unfortunately, goddammit, the minute I wake up, I hear it again.”

  “Everyone deserves a period of mourning, you lunatic. You, on the other hand, have a death wish.” Jason pried Buck’s fingers loose and moved away from the bars. “What good are you going to be to Dusty if you’re hanging from the end of a rope?”

  “I’ve told you, Dusty’s better off with Sky and Ma.”

  Shaking his head, Jason walked away. Damn, they’d had this conversation before—many times before.

  He glanced around the room, noting the high, barred windows and the solid brick walls. “We’ve got to think of some way to get you out of here.”

  “You think she really remembered who killed her husband?”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jason turned, once again taking a good look at his childhood friend. He saw a gaunt, surly half-breed on the brink of alcoholism. On the surface, that’s what he was; that’s what others saw. But deep in Buck’s charcoal eyes, Jason saw the anguished, self-destructive force that would probably kill him. Jason didn’t want to lose him. There had to be a way to save him from Weber… and from himself.

  “I think she probably did. But, more than one person has told me I’m too close to see the real you, Buck.” He waited a heartbeat. “Am I?”

  Buck groaned and threw himself on the cot. “I’m no smooth talker, Jason. Hell, I went through school kicking and screaming, and the fewer words I have to use to say something, the better. The sack of shit you see,” he said, folding his arms under his head, “is the sack of shit you get. You know that.”

  Jason stared at him for a long time. His normally arrogant sneer was gone. The anguish had won. He looked whipped, broken. Like he’d given up.

  “Any idea who might have killed them?”

  Buck gave him a sarcastic, lopsided grin. “You should have asked me that months ago.”

  Jason came to attention. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

  Buck shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. It all started with a feeling—along with a few little clues that everyone else had missed. By the way,” he added. “Ty Holliday has a scar on his cheek.”

  Tossing a quick glance toward the door, Jason sidled closer to the bars. “Could he have planned the whole thing and carried it out with so much secrecy?”

  Buck smirked. “Not unless he was using someone else’s brain.”

  Jason felt a twinge of excitement. “All right, old friend. It’s time to tell me what you know.”

  Tully strolled into the room. “Oh, by the way,” he said with a sigh. “Ty Holliday and two of his pals were found near the ravine this mornin’. They each took a bullet to the head, and they was all practically swimmin’ in whiskey.”

  “Injun lover!”

  Rachel winced as the words hit her. The boy wasn’t more than eleven or twelve, yet when he shouted at her, his face had been filled with hatred. She knew it was only the beginning. Her refusal to accuse Buck of her own husband’s murder would undoubtedly be fodder for dinner conversation at every White home in Pine Valley for days, even weeks, to come.

  She stopped at the abandoned building and unlocked the door to the quiet, dusty room that stored the reservation supplies. She stepped inside. Four days ago, Jason had left for Sacramento to pick up provisions. He’d left without speaking to her. In fact, they hadn’t spoken directly since the day before Buck was arrested. Intellectually, she couldn’t blame him. Emotionally, it was like being stabbed in the heart. What else could he do but think she’d told her father-in-law about Buck? It’s what she’d as much as told him she was going to do.

  She gave the room a cursory glance. Getting it ready for the supplies gave her something to do. And she’d heard Jason tell Earl that the children at the reservation needed the carton with the shoes. She’d keep an eye out for it while she reorganized the boxes.

  The room was damp and cold. Shivering, she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, then crossed to the boxes in front of the fireplace. She couldn’t start a fire without moving them. She read the contents of several: brass nails, mending leather, feather dusters—she made a face. Feather dusters? Shaking her head, she looked at the bottom box and discovered shoes written in bold, black letters.

  Slowly she moved all the boxes that blocked the fireplace, leaving to one side the box with the shoes in it. She found a small pile of wood stacked against the wall and took two pieces to the grate, along with some kindling, and started a fire. Rubbing her hands near the blaze to warm them, she glanced casually at the fireplace brickwork. It was old, but obviously hadn’t had much use. The mortar between the bricks was still well cemented, and the bricks themselves were red and even.

  She frowned. Except that one down there. Curious, she got to her knees and touched it. It was loose. How odd, she thought. She wiggled it, and to her surprise, she was able to pull it out halfway.

  A wistful memory washed over her. As a child, she and George had hidden their “treasures” under a board near her bed.

  She pulled the brick out. To her surprise, it came away from the rest quite easily.

  Squinting into the dim light, she tentatively put her hand into the dark hole, shuddering at the thought of maybe touching something furry… and alive.

  Instead, she felt something soft. Briefly, she pulled her hand away, then slowly moved it around inside the hole, touching the object again. It felt like a bag of marbles. Grabbing it, she pulled it out and held it, feeling the odd, heavy weight in her palm.

  With the bag clutched in her fist, she got up and moved closer to the fire so she could look more carefully at the leather bag. There had once been an initial on it, but most of it was worn away. Squinting closely, she saw the faint outline of the large, gold W. Her stomach fluttered nervously, and her throat went dry.

  She pulled at the leather thongs, opened the bag, and shove
d her hand inside. Money. Swallowing convulsively, she dropped the coins and paper, jerking her hand quickly from the bag.

  Tossing a frightened glance around her, she tugged at the thongs, pulling the bag closed. She’d seen it before. Not recently, not even since she’d been in California. But she remembered it clearly, for Jeremy had paid the preacher with money from that bag the day they were married.

  She sagged to the floor and leaned against the boxes of supplies. It was what the marshal had asked her about that day at the cottage when she’d picked up her clothes. It was something he’d known Jeremy had… It was something that could identify Jeremy’s murderer.

  Swallowing nervously again, she pressed her fist to her mouth. Jeremy’s killer had hidden the money in the fireplace. But, who? Who was it?

  She took a deep breath and stared at the bag in her lap. The coward in her wanted her to put it back where she’d found it. After all, whoever had put it there would come back for it. And what if the killer was watching this place, or watching her? Remembering her brush with death in the smoky cabin made her break out into a cold sweat. Jason had as much as admitted that someone wanted her dead. She was beginning to understand why.

  She was half tempted to put the money back. Maybe she could watch to see who came for it. But it wasn’t possible to spend every waking minute staring at an empty building. And she might miss the thief, and then never know who’d killed Jeremy and stolen the money. Then, again, the killer might discover her.

  With a shuddering sigh, she stood, making her decision. She’d take the money. In spite of her fears, she refused to leave it behind. After all, it was rightfully here—and she needed it desperately. But she also realized that she couldn’t tell anyone she’d found it. She couldn’t even tell the marshal. She no longer believed he could do anything about it, anyway.

  She wondered if there was any way to discover whether or not Buck knew of the money and the fireplace. Oh, the last thing she wanted to do was face the man again, and no doubt he’d refuse to talk to her anyway. But… he was behind bars, and couldn’t hurt her, and someone would have to bring him his lunch from the cafe. Nancy usually did it, but…

  Shuddering again, she turned to leave. Then, remembering the box of shoes, she shoved the bag of money into the deep pocket of her apron and hoisted the box into her arms.

  She’d go back to her room, count the money, then decide whether or not to confront Buck. Lord, she didn’t think she was that brave… she hoped she wasn’t that foolish. Maybe he wouldn’t even talk to her. Maybe he’d tell the marshal to get her out of his sight.

  Her mouth lifted in a half-grin. Or maybe she’d forget the whole stupid idea. At any rate, since the money was rightfully here, she’d think about dropping a payment off at the bank. At least she could get her mother’s cameo out of hock. Then, after that, she’d take the shoes to the reservation. It would keep her mind off everything else.

  Struggling around the box to open the door, she looked outside, scanning the street and sidewalk to make sure she wasn’t being watched. Then, as casually as possible, she hurried back to the cafe.

  Stunned, Rachel sat on her bed and stared down at the money. Fifteen hundred dollars. She sucked in a mouthful of air, expelling it slowly. The bills had all been rolled into a wad with a binder wrapped around them. They were a little damp. The coins had been loose at the bottom.

  She counted out what she still owed the bank, slipped it into her purse, then stashed the rest of it in an old cloth bag of her own. She hid the bag inside one of her shoes, and shoved the shoe to the back of the wardrobe, laying towels over it to cover it.

  After folding the empty leather bag as best she could, she put it in her purse, then stepped into the cafe. Nancy was putting a cloth over Buck’s lunch tray.

  “Nancy?”

  The woman looked up as Rachel came toward her.

  “Is… is that the prisoner’s lunch?” Rachel’s heart was in her throat.

  “I’m taking it over there now,” Nancy answered.

  The cafe was filling up. “Listen,” Rachel said, “why not let me take it?”

  Nancy gave her a strange look. “Why would you do that?”

  Rachel laughed nervously. “Oh, it’s not… not like I’m going to give it to him personally. I… I just have to go to the bank, and the jail is on my way.”

  Nancy glanced around the noisy cafe, then shrugged. “Fine with me. I have plenty of work here.”

  Rachel didn’t know if she was scared or sorry that Nancy had given in so easily. Anyway, it was up to her, now. As she picked up the tray, she decided that she could simply leave it with the marshal if she wanted to. But, if she had the nerve, she’d follow through with her little plan.

  Marshal Tully was busy arguing with a couple of ranchers when Rachel stepped into the jail. He turned and stared at her, obviously surprised that she was delivering Buck’s lunch.

  “Wanna put it down over there, Rachel? I’ll get it back to him when I have a minute.”

  Rachel’s grip on the tray was so intense, her knuckles were white. Nodding, she stepped to the table on the other side of the room while he went back to his heated, noisy debate.

  The ranchers, obviously cattle owners, were complaining about the sheep ranchers who used the land near theirs. If Rachel had learned one thing, it was that cattlemen and sheepmen had no time for each other.

  She glanced at the door to the cells, then down at the tray, which she still had gripped in her fingers. Tossing Marshal Tully a quick look, she put the tray down on the table and took the empty leather pouch from her purse. With her back toward the men, she spread the pouch, faded gold W facing up, beneath the plate that held Buck’s lunch, then smoothed the big napkin over the tray again.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked into the alcove and found Buck lying languidly on his cot, reading a book. That, in itself, surprised her. She stood, unmoving, and watched him.

  Suddenly, he raised his head and looked at her. With a look of disdain, he turned back to his book, shutting her out.

  Rachel swallowed hard. She put the tray on the floor, and hurried away without a backward glance. However, once outside the alcove, she stepped to the narrow slot in the wall that the marshal used to observe his prisoners and waited for Buck to eat his lunch—and discover the evidence.

  It didn’t take long. Once Buck was sure she’d gone, he tossed his book on the cot, reached through the bars, and whipped off the large napkin. Through an opening between the floor and the bars, he pulled his plate off the tray and into the cell.

  Rachel put her hand over her mouth and held her breath as Buck paused, staring down at the tray. She watched his face. He put his plate on the floor and reached through the bars to pick up the bag.

  He frowned, then looked quickly at the door, as if expecting her to step through with an explanation. After a few seconds, he shifted his attention back to the bag. He turned it over and over and held it toward the light, appearing to try to make out the faded letter.

  With a puzzled little laugh, he tossed the bag back onto the tray and devoured his food, obviously untroubled and only mildly puzzled by the presence of an empty leather money bag on his lunch tray.

  Rachel let out a long, quiet breath, and continued to watch him. When he was finished, she scurried back into the alcove and picked up the tray. The plate covered the bag, and Rachel didn’t even glance at Buck before she tossed the napkin over the tray, picked it up and left the room. Before leaving the jail, she stuffed the empty money bag back into her purse, and left the rest of the tray on the table. She hurried out of the jail unnoticed, the marshal still in a heated discussion with the ranchers.

  At the bank, Rachel stepped up to the window and asked for Mr. Bailey. The elderly teller told her to take a chair and wait. Someone would be with her shortly.

  She sat, trying to digest what she’d just learned about Buck. Guilt ate at her. His actions proved he was an innocent man.
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br />   The door to Mr. Bailey’s office opened, and he stuck his head out. “Mrs. Weber? Come in, please.”

  Rachel marched confidently into the room. “I’ve come to pay off my… Jeremy’s loan, Mr. Bailey.”

  Abner Bailey had taken his seat behind the desk. “I see. You’ve been paid, Mrs. Weber?”

  “I… well, of course,” she murmured guiltily. “Here,” she said, fishing into her purse and pulling out the round wad of bills. “It should be exactly enough.”

  He stared at the money, then quickly glanced at Rachel. “Your debt has been paid, Mrs. Weber.”

  Stunned, Rachel gaped at him. “It has? But… but who could have… I mean, who paid it?”

  Bailey took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “You’re not at liberty to say? But… but that’s ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous or not, I can’t divulge that information, Mrs. Weber.”

  Rachel was surprised, yet wary. Who on earth would pay her bills for her? No one, except the marshal and Ivy, knew she had debts. And neither of them had the money.

  She smiled at the frosty Mr. Bailey. “I… I guess it’s good news, then. At least I can get my cameo out of jail,” she said, trying to sound glib.

  The banker frowned and pursed his lips. Rachel didn’t like the look at all. “I… I can get my cameo back, can’t I?”

  He stood and came around to the front of his desk. “I do regret this, Mrs, Weber.”

  “Regret what?” Somehow she knew she was going to hate what he had to say.

  “Whoever pays the debt gets the collateral.”

  Rachel’s stomach lurched. “You mean… you mean you gave my brooch to… to someone else?”

  He shrugged. “It was all quite legal, I assure you.”

  Rachel dropped into a chair and stared at her lap. “Mr. Bailey,” she pleaded. “Can’t you please tell me who paid Jeremy’s loan? How… how can I possibly get my pin back if you won’t tell me where it is?”