Those Who Know Me True

Chapters 1-10

by heartcat

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

This story includes adult situations and sensitive scenes that might be too realistic for some readers.

Chapter 1

In frustration, Jarrod Barkley swept aside the papers that covered his desktop. Resting his elbows on the surface, he lowered his dark head to the valley of his cupped palms, his fingers massaging his temples. His eyes were shut tight, his features twisted with pain and fatigue. It was only early afternoon, but he felt that he just couldn't stay another minute in this stuffy office, dotting 'i's and crossing 't's.

He drew a deep breath, pushing back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck. He sat that way for several minutes, trying to clear his mind of all thought. Concentrating only on the beating of his heart and the rhythmic expulsion of his breathing. Distancing himself for the sounds of the dusty street below, from the four walls of his office, from the papers on his desk, and in his file drawers.

At last he opened his eyes, and his gaze travelled the familiar room. The cases that held leather bound volumes. The impressive oak desk that had come all the way from England. The paintings on the walls, and the framed law degree. The table to his right that held the crystal decanter of bourbon and the single, partially filled glass.

How many hours of his life had he spent here? Here, or in the office in San Francisco? Or a courtroom in Fresno, or Reno.....or any number of towns and cities across the western states? Cities that, over time, blended together as one, nearly indistinguishable from the next. Courtrooms with the federal and state flags proudly displayed. Serious-faced judges behind imposing, raised benches. Jury boxes where twelve pairs of eyes stared out at him, weighing his every word as the life or freedom of another man, or sometimes woman, hung in the balance.

How many hours had he spent with his head bent over what his brother Nick referred to as his 'dusty old law books', preparing cases? How many hours spent striding confidently across courthouse floors, addressing the men who sat on juries, coaxing or haranguing witnesses, launching objections, and giving stirring orations as he summarized? How many reams of paper painstakingly handwritten to help legalize land deals, and sales of cattle and produce, and company buyouts or mergers, for rich California businessmen? How many hours spent on horseback, or on a stagecoach or in a railcar, travelling to trials or to look after the business interests of clients or the family?

Most of his life, Jarrod knew. Most of his life had been spent serving the law, trying to ensure protection and justice and equality for all. He'd lived it. Breathed it. Dreamt it. Defended the often misunderstood wheels of justice from men used to taking the law into their own hands. Protected the sometimes fragile institution in a sometimes still too 'wild' west. He'd believed in it with every fibre of his being, believed in all that it stood for. Making it all that he stood for. Drawing his strength from it.

Except that now, in the last several months, and more notably in the last few weeks, it's wasn't giving him strength, but draining him. It gleefully took everything that he had to offer, and gave him nothing in return. Like a parasite, it sapped his life's blood, physically and spiritually. And he found himself confused as to what his place was in, a world where he had always felt such purpose and drive.

The last trial in San Francisco.....was it really only a week ago?......had been a fiasco. Jarrod had believed that his assistant, Mark Treymore, could easily have handled things, but the client had requested that Jarrod handle the case personally. Actually, the client's father, wealthy San Francisco businessman Cam Wheeler, an old friend of Jarrod's father, had requested that Jarrod give his personal attention to the trial. His son, Kent, was accused of raping the daughter of a local merchant.

Jarrod's investigators had discovered enough evidence to show that Kent hadn't even been in the city at the time that the girl claimed the assault had taken place. Kent claimed that he had gone out with the girl, who was in no way his social equal, he admitted to trifling with her affections, and to lying to her to bed her. But he swore to Jarrod that he hadn't raped her. Jarrod had believed him, and there were many witnesses, impartial witnesses, to back up his story that he had been in Fresno.

The prosecution had decided to try the case just to stifle the public outcry that would have arisen had the son of a wealthy, prominent family not had to face his accuser. There would have been talk of preferential treatment and of money equating clemency.

Jarrod discovered that though he believed his client was innocent, he didn't find much to admire in the young man. He was boyishly handsome and vain about it, privileged, spoiled, lazy and selfish. He treated women poorly and with disrespect. In fact, he treated anyone that he considered a social inferior that way. Still, his detestable character wasn't on trial here, Jarrod knew. He was charged with a specific crime and Jarrod agreed to prove him innocent.

It had been an uneventful trial until the final day of summations. Jarrod had risen to address the jury, tucking one hand into his vest pocket, smiling in his easy way, approaching the jury box, had cleared his throat to speak......and his mind had gone blank.

All of the carefully considered and artfully constructed words that only moments before had been about to be shared with the attentive jury, seemed no longer to be a part of his vocabulary. Jarrod strained his memory but he couldn't recall what words the prosecutor had uttered as he half-heartedly wrapped up the state's case. He couldn't even, for one heart-stopping moment, remember what the case was about.

Jarrod had faltered. He'd glanced back at his table, as his heart pounded in his chest. He'd looked at his client, genuinely mystified, a surreal sense of both knowing him, yet feeling him to be a complete stranger, washing over him. He felt a detachment as he watched the look of concern and confusion on the young man's face as Kent's eyes darted between his lawyer and the jurors. Jarrod wasn't sure how long he stood there, looking at his client, a frown furrowing his brow. He was peripherally aware that the jurors were fidgeting in their seats, that his client had grown pale, that there were speculative whispers among the spectators. Finally, Judge Crawford had spoken. "Mr. Barkley.....is everything all right?"

Those words had seemed to break down an amorphous dark wall that had been surrounding Jarrod. He turned apologetically to the judge, smiling wanly. "Excuse me, Your Honor," he said, surprised at the smoothness of his voice that belied his inner turmoil. He'd turned back to the jury, where he was regarded with curious eyes. He smiled again. The well-practiced words had come back to him now. "Gentlemen......" he'd begun.

And then, after the acquittal, he'd fled back to Stockton on the first available train. Fled. That was exactly what he'd done, he'd realized, as he felt the warmth in his cheeks. Wanting to avoid the inevitable questions. The speculations. This hadn't been the first hint that something wasn't 'quite right' with Jarrod Barkley, though it was his most public humiliation.

He'd told the rest of the family only that he'd won his case. He'd sidestepped their interested queries for details of the trial, focusing instead on news from their friends in San Francisco, relaying messages of good will, and gently teasing but sincere invitations to come to the city soon to enjoy some 'civilized' company . He'd produced with a flourish gaily wrapped packages for Mother, and Audra and his sister-in-law Annabelle. The diversion had worked for the most part, though Mother had continued to regard him with bright, perceptive eyes, aware that he was holding something back.

Jarrod sighed, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. His blue eyes scanned the legalise that was his brother Heath's will. Heath's and Annabelle's. Outlining what would happen in the remote and unlikely event that they should suffer premature deaths. Outlining how their assets would be distributed and who would have custody of their infant son, Chase.

For the first time that day, Jarrod actually felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he contemplated his nephew. Chase Edward Barkley. The baby boy was just over a month old now, born on a beautiful August day, in a bedroom of the immaculate white mansion on the Barkley ranch. How awed Jarrod had been at the first sight of his nephew. Hard to imagine that such a tiny being could be capable of eliciting so much love. How ecstatic Heath had been....Jarrod had never seen him like that before. How happy he'd been for his younger brother, how envious too of the wife who looked at him so adoringly and the son that was the culmination of their love.

A soft knock at the door disturbed his reverie, and the smile vanished from his handsome countenance. "Yes, come in," he called resignedly.

The door swung inward and a young woman stepped into the office. Jarrod rose automatically. "Mr. Barkley? Mr. Jarrod Barkley?" she inquired, her voice deep and husky.

Jarrod tilted his head slightly, jutting out his chin, crossing his arms defensively. "I'm not taking on any new cases right now," he said, more harshly than he'd intended. He just couldn't deal with anything more for the time being. He had nothing left inside himself to invest in anyone else, nothing there worth giving. And he had to be sure to let her know, before she began to tell him her story. Before she spoke of the injustice that would rouse his anger, or the sadness that would tug at his heart. Before he found himself committing to something that he knew he simply could not handle. Even if he heard her out, and wanted to take the case, he wasn't the best lawyer for her or anyone else right now, and he knew that. To pretend otherwise would be doing them both a disservice. He knew that he hadn't seen her around town before and wondered if she was new to Stockton, or if perhaps she had travelled to find him. A guilty pang tugged at his conscience. He hoped that she hadn't come far in search of his help only to have him let her down.

For a moment, a resigned sadness crossed her features. She was tall, her long dark hair and bronzed complexion proclaiming her native heritage. She was dressed like a white woman though, in a simple, faded calico dress. She looked away from him, her dark eyes scanning the office before coming back to rest on him. "That's quite all right, Mr. Barkley," she replied evenly. "I understand. Actually, I haven't come to you as client seeking representation.......merely as a......" she paused, a sardonic half-smile lifting the corners of her mouth, ".....friend. To return something that belongs to you."

She extended a worn, leather briefcase, noting the puzzled recognition in his striking blue eyes. Jarrod moved from behind the desk and towards her, accepting the case. "Thank you, Miss.......?" Standing so close to her, he was aware of how very tall she was. Only a few inches shorter than his six feet. Taller than many men that he knew. Statuesque. Somewhere between plain and pretty. Her dark eyes regarded him levelly.

"Catherine Vaillancourt," she told him.

So, she wasn't fully Indian, but part French as well. Or perhaps married to a Frenchman. His blue eyes moved instinctively to her left hand, noting the absence of a wedding band. She followed his gaze, saying nothing, the sardonic smile still in evidence.

"I discovered it outside of the general store," she said. "I opened it to see if I could identify who it belonged to, and I saw some papers with your letterhead on them. So, I brought it right over."

Jarrod knew that he had had the case with him at lunch. He'd taken it with him purposely, so that he could peruse some papers and maintain a busy air of importance as he ate his meal. Hoping to ensure his solitude and to discourage any interruptions. And it had worked. After lunch, on the way back to his office, he'd stopped in at the store on impulse, to purchase something for his new nephew. He'd decided on a baby rattle. Jarrod recalled stepping outside the store into the midday sun, and setting down the briefcase as he removed the rattle from the plain brown paper bag, thinking that perhaps he should have had it wrapped. Marvelling at how small and delicate the handle was, envisioning it clutched in tiny fingers.

And then he must have continued on his way, forgetting to pick up the briefcase. Not giving it another thought as he turned his attention instead to completing the wills for Heath and Annabelle. How careless of him. By the very nature of his profession there was always something confidential in his briefcase. He always took that responsibility very seriously. Except today, obviously, when a momentary lapse had caused him to leave it there in the street. Well, not so momentary actually. He'd been in the office for the last couple of hours and not once had he realized that it was missing. Jarrod felt the helplessness crash over him again. What in God's name was going on with him lately?

He struggled to keep himself in check, to not let his exterior belie how shaken he felt. He shrugged his shoulders and gave a self-deprecating grin, tapping lightly at his forehead. "Time marches on, and the attic grows dusty and cluttered. Perhaps the oncoming cooler fall breezes will sweep the cobwebs and restore order to the house."

Her burgundy lips parted in a genuine smile. "You have the soul of a poet, Mr. Barkley."

Jarrod recoiled at her words, his face blanching in horror as he remembered just what the briefcase contained. 'The soul of a poet....' How dare she? How DARE she? Two bright spots of colour sprang to his cheeks and his eyes narrowed menacingly. He felt so violated. "Get out of here," he snarled, clenching his hands tightly. "How dare you look at my personal things!" His deep voice was so low that she could barely hear his words but his rage was unmistakeable.

Catherine Vaillancourt backed up automatically, bewildered by this sudden change in his demeanour. "I......I'm sorry, Mr. Barkley," she stammered, her dark eyes widening. He took a step towards her. She turned abruptly and fled from the room, hearing the heavy wooden door slam shut behind her.

Jarrod locked the closed door, then leaned heavily against it, his head pressed into his right forearm as he dropped the briefcase to the floor. His left fist pounded the door. Ragged breaths shook his frame. He gritted his teeth, trying to get his seething emotions under control. He'd frightened her, he knew. Frightened himself, when for an agonizing moment he had wanted to reach out and grab her and shake her. But the thought of someone else reading his innermost thoughts was more than he could bear. Tears of frustration filled his eyes but he squeezed them back.

Eventually, no longer able to sustain such a heightened level of emotion, Jarrod turned and strode to where the glass of bourbon rested. He lifted it to his lips, finished it, then refilled the glass and drained it just as quickly. He stood there, looking out the window but not really seeing the town on the other side. Looking instead for these demons that chased him, wanting to confront them for once and for all. The liquor warmed him. Soon all that was left was a crushing sense of melancholy.

Jarrod turned to retrieve the briefcase, loathe to touch it. He went to his desk, where he gathered up the papers for Heath and Annabelle to sign, slipping them inside the deep pockets. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. There was no way he was going to get any more work done. He might as well go home to the ranch. He let himself out of the office, locking up for the day. Then he walked wearily to the livery stable.

Once Jarrod arrived home, he sequestered himself in his study. He'd forgotten all about the rattle for Chase which still sat in it's paper bag on the desk in his office. He didn't come out when Audra called him for dinner, pleading too much work to do. Or later, well past dark, when Nick knocked and tried to cajole him into joining him for a game of pool. Jarrod stayed there until all sounds in the rest of the house ceased, until he was sure everyone else had retired for the night. And then he climbed the long, curving flight of stairs to his room.

Jarrod lit a lamp, and sat on the edge of the bed, removing his boots. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the chair. He lit a cigar and leaned back on the bedframe. Something on the bedside table caught his eye, a piece of paper, and he reached over to retrieve it. He stared at it, as a dawning comprehension of the enormity of his mistake made him pale. Here it was. It had been right here in his bedroom this whole time. Not tucked into the briefcase as he thought. Not ever scanned by strange eyes.

He thought back to the conversation in his office. Realized now his mistake. Realized that Catherine Vaillancourt's reference to his 'poetic soul' was merely a passing compliment in response to his remark about his forgetfulness. She hadn't violated his privacy. She hadn't read through all of his private papers, hadn't slipped past his confident facade to the agonized soul beneath.

Jarrod Barkley had never been one to jump to conclusions. It wasn't his way, wasn't who he was. He'd always given others a chance for rebuttal, had always looked at things from every possible angle. But here he'd been judge and jury and....if she'd stayed a moment longer, perhaps hangman as well. He crumpled the sheet of paper in his hand, regretting it's existence. Regretting the turmoil that that had first lead him to touch pen to page. Regretting the shameful way he had treated the young woman in his office today. So many regrets lately. They seemed to be the hallmark of his life these days.

Jarrod remembered the look in Catherine Vaillancourt's eyes as he'd told her he wasn't accepting new clients. He should have recognized that look right then in the office. He'd seen it before in the eyes of others. He knew what it meant. It was the look of men and women who were too used to being judged by others and found wanting for one reason or the other.....their past sins, their station in life.......the color of their skin.......... She'd thought his refusal to consider what he'd thought was her 'case' had been because of her heritage.

Dear God, how had he allowed something so simple to become such a mess? There was nothing he could do about it tonight. But tomorrow he would ride back into Stockton and find Miss Vaillancourt and apologize. Try to explain his abominable behaviour, as best he could, without giving too many of his secrets away. Jarrod smoothed the piece of paper against his thigh, and read once more the poem he had written.

Chapter 2

Jarrod nervously opened the gate, and strode up the walk to the front door of the little house. He noted that despite the fact that the window frame needed to be repaired, and that some of the shingles on the swayed roof had come loose, the property had an air of being cared for. There was a pink rose bush below the window, well-pruned, the old blooms dead-headed. There was an old canning kettle on the front step, overflowing with orange and yellow poppies. It was unusual to see the common wildflowers out of their natural element. He'd never noticed before how truly pretty they were. The stoop was swept clean of dust. The glass in the front window and on the blue, wooden door sparkled in the midday sun.

It hadn't been too difficult to find Catherine Vaillancourt. Jarrod had started his search at the post office, but no one of that name, or her description, had been in recently to either send or pick up mail. No telegrams either. He'd stopped off at the sheriff's office next to speak with Fred Madden. Fred admitted that he had seen the woman around town, for the first time only a couple of months ago, and then again on other occasions, but hadn't known her name and had never actually spoken with her. He'd asked Jarrod what she had done, if Jarrod wanted him to get involved. Jarrod had assured him it was a personal matter, not a legal one.

The new deputy, Cyrus McCade, did know her, however. He told Jarrod that she lived in one of the tiny rental properties on one of the backstreets behind the livery stables. She did washing and mending work for some of the single men in town, like himself, who couldn't afford the Chinese laundry. Also some of the cowhands and miners in the outlying areas would drop off bundles whenever they made the journey into Stockton. Those were the only 'services' she provided though, McCade said with a shrug and a wink. He told Jarrod that she was cheap, did a good job, and was quiet and minded her own business. She was all right 'for an injun', McCade had remarked, with what he believed was high praise, oblivious to the disdainful way the lawyer raised his brow. He described her place as a shack with flowers out front, and a blue door. He hadn't known her name, hadn't taken the time to learn it even though she'd been washing his clothes for the last couple of months. But from his description, Jarrod was sure that it was the same woman.

Jarrod removed his hat now, smoothing back his dark hair, and knocked purposefully on the door. He hadn't thought of what, exactly, he was going to say to her. Of how he could possibly explain his shameful behaviour. He knew only that he had to say something. He owed her some sort of explanation and apology. He had tossed and turned for most of the night, though that was the norm these days, not the exception. Jarrod heard sounds from inside the house, a chair scraping the floor, the sound of footsteps.

Catherine heard the knock and a weary sigh escaped her. She needed the work, needed the money, but she was just so very tired. She gave a silent prayer of thanks nonetheless, that God had seen fit to send another customer her way. Each stinking bundle that was left for her to tend to, at least meant another night with a roof over her head, another day with food in her belly. Even if her back was sore and her hands were red and raw. And it was honest work.

She drew back the lace curtain and gave a gasp to see the tall silhouette of the lawyer on her front stoop. 'Oh Lord,' she thought, panicking, 'what does he want?' She knew that a man like that wasn't dropping off his washing or sewing. A sick feeling churned her stomach. It had to be something to do with what had happened yesterday. That briefcase. 'Please God,' she implored silently. 'Please don't let there be something missing from that bag! Money or important documents or something.' Why, oh why, hadn't she just left it there? Hadn't she learned that it never paid to get involved, and that good deeds didn't always equate good karma?

At least he was alone, and not accompanied by the sheriff, so perhaps she still had a chance to clear her name of whatever wrongdoing she was about to be accused of. Not that anything she could possibly say could make any difference if one of the powerful Barkleys, a lawyer at that, had decided that she was guilty of some crime. She felt the first stirrings of real fear, though it wasn't her own safety or freedom that concerned her.

Catherine opened the door. At least Jarrod Barkley looked much calmer than he had at their last parting, she thought. Gone were the fancy, white pressed shirt and the black string tie and the immaculately tailored grey slacks. Today he wore a plain grey shirt, and a tan vest and pants. Still - they proclaimed quality. She could tell by the intricate stitching on the vest, and the sheen to the fabric of the shirt.

"Miss Vaillancourt, I'm sorry to disturb you," Jarrod began. It was obvious that she was afraid of him. He didn't blame her at all, after that scene in his office. It pained him though to see fear on another person's face, and know that he was the cause. She must have thought that he was perhaps mentally unstable, after the way he had acted. "I owe you an apology for my boorish and unconscionable behaviour yesterday."

He saw her eyes widen with shock. It was apparent that whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't an apology. And then the shock was replaced with immense relief. Her stiff posture relaxed, and she gripped the doorframe for support. She looked at him in confusion.

Catherine didn't know what to think. She had found the briefcase yesterday, and once she'd determined who it belonged to, after seeing the letterhead on several of the papers, she had decided to return it to it's rightful owner. She had passed by Jarrod Barkley's office on many occasions. It was on the main street, not far from where she had found the briefcase - and since it was on her way, she thought she would take it to him. She hadn't looked closely enough at the documents to determine what they were about, but had only glanced at them long enough to read the stamped impression.

He had thought her to be a potential client, initially. She had seen the determined jut of his chin, the coldness in the blue eyes that regarded her.......had heard the rejection in his deep voice. She had felt the familiar humiliation. Always, always she hoped it would be different. That one day, someone would be different. Yet each and every time that indefinable wall went up, and she was always on the outside. Why should she have been surprised that this wealthy lawyer was no better? Why she should let the old pain grip her heart? She had gotten better at hiding the fact that they had hurt her though, her cool smiles and sarcastic words easily turning their insults aside.

Then, when she had handed him the briefcase, he had seemed to relax, and to actually warm a bit. He'd made a joke about his own forgetfulness, sharing his human failing with her, his smile, for a moment, making her feel included. And his light-hearted words had been well composed, musical to her ears. Poetic, she had thought. She had joined in the pleasant exchange, meaning only to compliment him.

And then without warning, he had turned on her. She had seen his blue eyes darken with rage, his cheeks drain of colour. She had seen the tension in his frame. Had heard the words that fell upon her as a slap. She'd known that she had done something terribly wrong, crossed some imperceptible line, horribly offended him somehow. Afraid and embarrassed, she'd turned and ran. She'd run all the way home, as though Lucifer himself was on her heels. Though of course, Jarrod Barkley hadn't gone after her. She wasn't worth the effort. He just hadn't wanted her in his office, bantering with him as though she was his equal, poisoning the sanctity of his office. Once safe in her private space, these two small rooms, she had released hot tears, sobbing quietly until the pain and humiliation had washed out of her.

And now, he stood before her, hat in hand, offering her an apology of his own volition.

Catherine didn't know what to think. She bit her bottom lip nervously. She stared at him probingly, trying to determine if this was some sort of trick. But Jarrod Barkley looked sincere. He actually looked contrite. She made a decision, stepping back from the door. "Come in please, Mr. Barkley," she said.

Jarrod stepped inside, glancing around. There was one main room with a woodstove in the corner, next to a small cabinet. The room was clean and tidy, though mostly bare. A worn, braided rug in faded earthen tones, covered the centre of the room. There was a wooden rocker, with a wicker basket of clothes on the floor next to it. A small wooden table along the left side of the room was covered with a blue checkered cloth, and neatly folded piles of clean laundry. There was one high-backed chair, and one small stool on either side. A small barrel with a plank top served as a makeshift table next to the door. Along the back wall was a doorway, covered with plain, beige muslin.

Bright, white, lace curtains hung at the door and on the front window. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs, knick knacks or other personal effects. There wasn't anything in the room to give him a sense of who she was. There was only a single, pink rose in a tin can on the windowsill. Jarrod thought there was something quietly dignified and touching in that simple gesture.

They stood together uncomfortably near the door. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked him, unable to meet his eyes.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," Jarrod assured her.

"It's no trouble, there's some made," she replied evenly. He nodded in ascent, and she went to the enameled pot on the stove, slipping her hand under her apron to grasp the heated handle. She poured some of the fragrant liquid into a tin cup. "Milk or sugar?" she asked, glancing furtively across the room at him from lowered lashes. Then she coloured instantly.

'She doesn't have any milk,' Jarrod understood at once. "Black is fine, thank you," he told her. He heard her grateful sigh. She brought him the cup, and he as he took it from her, he noticed that her hand was shaking. Her eyes were everywhere, except on his. He could only imagine what she must think of him. He felt like an ogre. He sipped the dark brew. It was surprisingly delicious, hot and not too bitter. "It's wonderful, thank you. There's nothing quite like a good cup of coffee. Sweet elixir of the gods," Jarrod commented absently. She did look up then, and her dark eyes smiled at him, even though her features were a study in detachment. Jarrod wished he could ease her tension. "I'm not quite sure what to say. Nothing I could possibly say or do can excuse my atrocious actions of yesterday. You have no idea how ashamed I am about that.....that misunderstanding."

Catherine wondered how much of his aristocratic pride he had had to set aside to make the effort to find her, to apologize this way. More importantly, she wondered why he had even bothered? What motive had compelled him to lower himself to paying a social visit to this part of town....to a woman like her? To clear up a 'misunderstanding' witnessed only by the two of them? Why wouldn't he have simply forgotten her the moment she no longer darkened his door? It wasn't as though she was going to tell anyone about their exchange, or that anyone would have cared if she had. "It's quite all right," she said at length, looking down at the floor.

"No!" Jarrod said emphatically. "It isn't all right!" He frowned. His blue eyes sought her dark ones as she raised her head curiously. She was standing very near to him. Again he was struck by how very tall she was. She smelled like soap, with a pleasant under fragrance of floral. "Miss Vaillancourt, I appreciate what you did for me. Finding the briefcase, and taking the time to identify who it belonged to. Making the effort to return it. I was very careless, and there were important papers in that case that I.......I just couldn't afford to lose."

He paused, looking away for a moment, then back at her again. "I was angry at my own carelessness and....concerned that I might have lost them. I hadn't had a very good day. A very good week, actually," he admitted wryly. "I've had a lot going on in my life lately. I....haven't quite been myself. I was tired, and preoccupied, and my overwrought imagination made a leap that it shouldn't have. One that I deeply regret. And as soon as I realized my mistake......I knew that I had to find you, and apologize, and ask your forgiveness. The man you saw in my office yesterday.....that isn't the man that I really am." She could see a faint flush in his cheeks. "Not the man I want to be, at any rate."

Catherine wasn't quite sure what the handsome lawyer actually meant, or what had truly transpired in his office the previous day. She knew only that he seemed sincere. And he did look tired still. Dark smudges filled the hollows under his bright, blue eyes. He had thought that there had been something in that worn briefcase, something intensely private and personal, and this powerful, well-respected man hadn't wanted anyone to see. Not just her, she could tell. Anyone. And he had been angry and.....yes......afraid......when he'd thought that someone had. And now, he realized that his fears had been unjustified.

For him to be so certain that she hadn't read his papers, she knew that he must have found them elsewhere. It wasn't simply a matter of deciding that he trusted her, but of knowing irrefutably that she couldn't have read the papers, because they hadn't been there. He had been genuinely ashamed of his behaviour though, she had no doubts about this. He had tracked her down for no other reason that than he had made a mistake. Even if he wasn't exactly telling the whole truth, he was principled enough to need to apologize for that mistake. Even to a woman like her. Catherine straightened her shoulders proudly, and her smile was wide and wondering.

"Let us gather up the sunbeams,

Lying all around our path;

Let us keep the wheat and roses,

Casting out the thorns and chaff."

Unbidden, the words tumbled from her lips. She saw his blue eyes widen in surprise as she quoted the first verse. Silently, his lips had formed the last long along with her. He was familiar with the poetic words as well. And then his body relaxed. He understood what she was saying. She was casting out from her memory the terrible way he had treated her on their first meeting. She was not going to let that determine how she viewed his character. She would keep the good, this gentle apology, and discard the rest.

Jarrod felt relieved. Perhaps he hadn't explained himself that well, there was so much that he had had to keep back, but his apology had been accepted. The young woman no longer believed that he thought her guilty of any wrong doing. She understood that his venomous words hadn't been something personal, but a reaction caused by a chain of events that had been set in motion before she had ever happened upon the briefcase. "Thank you," he said simply. He set the cup on the small table by the front door, turning to leave. He paused with the door open, setting his hat back atop his head, looking at her over his shoulder. "What I said when you first came to my office," he began softly. "About not taking any new clients. That was true. I hope that you can believe that."

Catherine felt that she couldn't move, caught in the light of those incredible blue eyes. His deep voice was low, quiet, but his gaze was intense. She remembered what she had thought at his rejection. That it hadn't simply been a rejection of a case, but a rejection of her. She remembered the pain and the humiliation she had felt. But she saw the sincerity on his face, it was almost a tangible thing, reaching out to envelope her. He wasn't the only one who had jumped to conclusions yesterday. Tears shimmered in her eyes. She felt her throat grow tight and she swallowed with difficulty. "I believe you, Mr. Barkley," she managed to whisper.

Jarrod nodded gratefully. "Good day, Miss Vaillancourt."

Then he turned and she watched his broad back as his long strides carried him away. What an amazing, unusual man Catherine thought. And she whispered the next few lines of the verse.

"Let us find our sweetest comfort

In the blessings of today,

With a patient hand removing

All the briers from the way."

Chapter 3

"I have to leave in the morning for Sacramento," Jarrod said, touching his napkin to his lips, as he looked at Mother and Audra across the table. They were enjoying lunch at the Cattleman's Hotel, Victoria and Audra having met him there after spending the morning visiting friends in Stockton.

"Personal business?" Audra asked coyly, smiling sweetly at her brother, her blue eyes sparkling. She bowed her lovely blonde head to hide her mirth.

"Whatever kind of business it is, young lady," Jarrod responded with teasing affection, "it's none of yours."

"How long will you be gone, Jarrod?" Mother asked him. He looked so tired, she thought. There were dark circles under his eyes, and new lines had appeared at their corners. She knew that something was troubling him, but she hadn't been able to get him to open up to her. She had noted the many late nights he spent alone in his study. Had noted the rapidly decreasing level in the bottle of bourbon he kept there. Had heard him thrashing about when sleep did finally claim him, moaning incoherently as he wrestled with the nocturnal invaders who plagued his darkest hours.

"A few days," he told her. "Perhaps a week at the most." He saw the concern on her face, and wished that there was something he could do or say to put her maternal fears to rest. Anything he would say that would do that though, he knew, would be a lie. And so instead, he said nothing. He tried to smile reassuringly.

"You should take a vacation, Jarrod," Victoria remarked casually, putting down her fork. "When you finish your business in Sacramento, why don't you just stay there a few days, and do absolutely nothing at all? Or you could go from there out to the coast, to San Francisco. Not to work though. Take in some of the sights, simply relax and enjoy yourself."

She wasn't certain, but she thought the changes in her eldest son had begun to intensify at about the time little Chase had been born. Jarrod was genuinely pleased for his brother Heath, and for Annabelle. He obviously doted on the infant. But perhaps, she thought, it caused him to examine his own life, and to find a gaping hole in his existence. Jarrod wasn't like his brother Nick, who was quite happy to go through life for now sampling the favours of different women, escorting a different one each time out, resistant to 'settling down', happy to spend his time on the trail, or in the saloons, drinking hard and playing hard and loving lightly.

Jarrod was different. Jarrod was a natural protector. He needed to have someone to care for. He drew his strength from giving. He had such a generous heart, so much to share. How different things would have been, had Beth lived, Victoria knew. But Beth had been dead for almost three years. It was time for Jarrod to move on. Those who lived in the past might as well be dead themselves, she thought. She had learned this lesson the hard way, in the days and weeks and months that had followed Tom Barkley's death. When she had lost her husband, Victoria had wanted to retreat to the past where his memories would blanket her and keep her safe. But eventually she had emerged from that dark tunnel of grief, thanks to the love and strength of her children. Especially Jarrod.

She wished fervently that there was some way now that she could help him. But she also knew, having been down that terrible, lonely road herself, that he had to first want help. She had thought, after those first few weeks of madness, when Jarrod had almost killed Cass Hyatt and destroyed himself in the process, that her eldest son had accepted his loss. He had made it through that dark time, and for the next year or so, he had seemed his old self again. She had worried, when Heath and Annabelle had married last year, that Jarrod might slip into despondency, that it might reopen old wounds. But Jarrod had seemed fine, outwardly anyhow. It wasn't until her grandson Chase was born, that Victoria had begun to notice the unmistakable changes.

Perhaps this girl in Sacramento was the answer. Victoria had never met her. She didn't know much about her, only her name, Patricia Vandermeer, and that Jarrod had been seeing her since the spring. And she only knew that much because Audra had learned these snippets while gossiping with her friends. Victoria knew the Vandermeer family by reputation though. Patrick Vandermeer had parlayed a lucky gold strike into a mining business, and then branched out into other prospects, much as the Barkley's had branched out from cattle themselves. They were good people, the Vandermeers, with a good reputation built on community involvement and fairness. Perhaps this girl would be the one to chase the shadows from Jarrod's eyes.

"I was thinking about taking some time off, actually," Jarrod admitted. Both Victoria and Audra looked surprised. Jarrod never took time away from work. His work was his life. The law wasn't simply a profession for him, it was who he was. When Victoria had made the suggestion she hadn't really thought her son would consider it. It had been her way of trying to tell him that she knew something was wrong, and that she was here for him when he was ready to talk about it.

After lunch, Jarrod walked Mother and Audra back to the carriage. He assured them that he wouldn't stay in town long, and that they would have the evening together before he went off to Sacramento the following day. He watched the horse trot off down the road, then returned to his office.

Once there, he stood before the tall bookcases, his fingers dancing lighting over the spines of the volumes encased there. He knew that it was here somewhere. The thin volume of poetry that he sought. It had been a while since he'd taken it from the shelf and enjoyed the lovely, lyrical words that it contained. How he envied the men and women would could paint such beautiful pictures with their words, who could see into another person's heart and soul and translate that into something that transcended mere language. Ah, there it was. He tipped it forward, pulling it from the shelf and moved to take a seat at the desk.

Many of the passages Jarrod had memorized by heart. He had a keen mind and incredible recollection, both of which had helped him to excel as a lawyer. She wasn't expecting him, his visit would be a surprise, but he wanted to bring her a gift. While he had been sharing lunch with Mother and Audra, it had occurred to him that this might be just the thing. Jarrod smiled as he immersed himself in the pages.

He was surprised when he consulted his pocketwatch next, that more than an hour had gone by. He had promised his two favourite ladies that he would dine with them tonight, and share the pleasure of their company before he had to go away. Perhaps Audra would play something on the piano. It had been a while since they'd had an impromptu family sing. Jarrod rose from behind the desk, tucking the book of poetry into his coat pocket and left his office.

Catherine was outside trimming faded blooms from the rosebush when she saw him. She felt a surge of amazement that she just as quickly quashed. It was a coincidence, that was all, him being down here. He wasn't coming to see her. His long legs would take him right past her house, and he probably wouldn't even glance her way. He probably didn't even remember that her little shack was along this lane. And that was all right. That was as it should be. But Catherine couldn't seem to look away from the imposing figure that drew steadily closer. She didn't notice when the knife slipped, piercing the skin of her forearm, and the bead of red blood spread on the golden surface.

And then, remarkably, he was turning through her open gate. He raised a hand in greeting, and his smile was warm and friendly. "Good afternoon, Miss Vaillancourt," he called, his voice so deep and masculine. She wondered if perhaps she had been too long in the midday sun, and was seeing apparitions. But Jarrod Barkley looked just as solid and real as he had two days ago when he had stood inside the little shack, offering his apology.

"Mr. Barkley," she returned his greeting.

"I hope you don't mind my stopping by," he said, almost shyly. "I've been thinking that my simple apology wasn't quite enough. I wanted to do something more to make amends. I thought you might like this."

Jarrod reached into his pocket and withdrew the book. He saw her bottom lip start to tremble as she read the embossed and gilded cover. She reached for it reverently, taking it from him as though it were the finest, most delicate bit of crystal, or some other fragile treasure. She brought it slowly to her face, inhaling the leather binding. He watched her, mesmerized by her reaction. Catherine pressed the book to her cheek, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, there were tears in their ebony depths.

"It's been so long since I've held a book," she said simply, but with such profound sorrow that it caused his heart to ache. "Poetry," she said slowly, wonderingly, looking at him. Jarrod had hoped Catherine Vaillancourt would be pleased, but he hadn't expected this sort of reaction. It filled him with wonder and a gratitude that he couldn't quite decipher. "I can't accept this," she said at length, as something indefinable passed over her features.

Jarrod was afraid that he had insulted her. That she might think there were strings attached to his small gift. "Please," Jarrod implored quietly. "I don't want anything in return. Except perhaps to see a smile, and to know that I am truly forgiven."

"I thought you already knew that, Mr. Barkley," she admonished gently, though she still held the book in her hand.

"Yes, I did," he agreed. "You were very gracious. But I suppose my conscience hasn't been quite assuaged yet. Might I not impose on you to take this gift, and free me from the bonds of self-recrimination?" Jarrod had wondered about this woman often in the past couple of days. She was an enigma. Obviously bright and educated. Yet poor, doing menial labour to survive. The words she had quoted on their last meeting had stirred something within Jarrod. A passion that he had laid to rest, except for his single ill-fated attempt....the one that been the catalyst for all of this. A hunger for words that attempted to find order and beauty in a world that was often disorderly and ugly. He had sensed in Catherine this same yearning. She had roused his curiosity.

Catherine looked longingly at the book, and then back at the handsome countenance of the lawyer. What a strange man, he was. So complex. "I would be honoured to borrow it," she told him after a moment, compromising. She felt it would be churlish to refuse him completely.

Jarrod was pleased. "Keep it as long as you like. Words such as these only find life when we open our minds and hearts to them. It's an injustice for them to be sitting in a void on my shelf." He noticed the smear of blood on her left forearm. He reached to hold the underside of her arm, turning it so that he could see the wound. "You've cut yourself," he frowned.

Catherine's breath caught in her throat at his touch. At the concern that shone in his eyes. Eyes as blue as the brightest, clearest California sky. She watched, fascinated, as he removed a grey, silk handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and dabbed at the blood. "Well, that's not so bad," he said lightly. "Just a little scratch." He smiled at her, holding her arm a moment longer, then released her. Catherine was finally able to exhale.

"I'm going out of town for several days," Jarrod informed her. "So please don't feel that you have to rush through the book to return it. I'm not even sure exactly when I'll be back in Stockton. I'd like to think that you were taking your time to enjoy it."

Catherine nodded solemnly. "I shall savour every word, Mr. Barkley."

Jarrod didn't have any doubt that she would. "Til we meet again, Miss Vaillancourt," he said gallantly, his handsome features relaxed.

Tipping his hat to her, he was gone again. Long after he was out of sight, Catherine could still feel his presence, as surely as she could feel the book of poetry resting solidly in her hand.

Chapter 4

The lurching motion of the train as it ran inexorably over the rails towards Sacramento, along with the fullness of his belly after a hearty lunch in the dining car, washed down with a few glasses of wine, combined to make Jarrod sleepy. His blue eyes fluttered then closed. His head drooped against the window. His breathing evened. As he snored gently, his eyes began to move rapidly beneath their lids. His corporeal self rested, but his subconscious mind did not. And the recurring dream claimed him again.

He ran through the darkened streets, deluged by the falling rain, exhausted, his lungs on fire. He slipped in the mud, falling to the ground, feeling the foul smelling mire splash up around him. He wiped at his face, struggled to regain his footing, looking desperately up and down the row of deserted buildings. He could hear the galloping hooves in the distance, growing closer, growing louder, and the earth began to shake. They would be here soon They were almost upon him. He clawed frantically at his right hip but his gunbelt wasn't there. There was no way to defend himself. If he stopped to face them, he knew they would kill him where he stood.

Suddenly, a light came on in one of the buildings nearby. It was the courthouse. Relieved, he staggered from the street, pushing through the door, and into the warm, dry exterior. It was packed - standing room only. The crowd of spectators stared at him wordlessly. "Help me," he implored them, reaching out his mud caked hands. "They're coming......."

The crowd parted as if on cue, and he made his way to the front of the room. He stood there, doubled over, hands on his knees, his muscles spasming, his heart thudding in his chest, his breathing strained with exertion, as he looked back at the door. He could still feel the earth trembling beneath his feet. They must be almost outside the building by now.

He wondered abstractly what all of these people were doing here at the courthouse, so late. There were no big trials right now, nothing that would warrant such a large gallery. And though he wasn't sure of the exact time, it had to be past midnight, he knew. No court should be in session. And it was eerily quiet, no one had so much as coughed or cleared their throats at the way he burst in upon them. There was something not quite right here. This didn't feel like a sanctuary.

He turned to look at the spectators, who all gazed back at him with expectant expressions. He recognized many of them, confusion sweeping over him. There were old clients that he had defended, and men he had prosecuted, some whom he knew to be in prison....or dead. There were lawyers who had been on opposing sides. There were old law professors and men he had gone to college with.....people that he hadn't seen or thought about in years. There were women whose names he couldn't recall, that he had enjoyed himself with in bars and saloons in now forgotten towns and cities. There were other women whom he had had actually had feelings for, taken out to dinner or dancing, and courted until one or the other of them had known that there could never be anything permanent. There were other ranchers from the valley. There were men who worked for the Barkleys, on the ranch, or in the mills, or in the mines....men who he knew by sight but not by name. There were some of the men he had served with in the war, still wearing their uniforms, those from the war offices in D.C. and from the regiment of Buffalo soldiers that he had led. He saw some of his cronies from San Francisco and Sacramento, and a host of other California locales. All of these people, from different parts of his life, all standing here together on this night, shoulder to shoulder now, watching him with knowing eyes. Standing there so calmly....as if they had been waiting for him and were not surprised to see him stumble in from the darkened street.

Wildly he looked to his left, to the jury box, and gasped to see the familiar faces. Mother. Nick. Heath. Audra. Eugene. Annabelle. Silas. They regarded him coldly, disdainfully. "We've been waiting," Mother said, her voice devoid of emotion. "How long did you think you could keep running? Do you think you are above the law? Did you think you wouldn't have to pay for your sins?" He was shocked by the derision in her voice, confused by her words. Hurt and bewildered by the contempt....the hatred.....he saw on the features of those who knew him best....those he cared for most.

Two hooded figures came forward, grabbing his arms. He was too tired to put up much of a struggle, but he twisted in their hold as a third figure came forward and shackled his ankles and wrists. He was shoved forward, almost tripping, but he kept his balance. He could hear thunder in the distance. Or were those the many hooves of the equine mounts of his pursuers? The ground was still shaking and he began to wonder if perhaps it actually was an earthquake. No one else seemed to notice or showed the slightest concern though.

The judge behind the bench had his broad, robed back turned to him. "So much blood, Mr. Barkley," he whispered, so quietly that he had to strain to hear his words. What was he talking about? What in God's name was going on here? He looked down at his shackled hands and saw with alarm that they were no longer caked with mud, but sticky with a crimson stain. He could detect a faint, unpleasant coppery stench. He realized with horror that his white shirt was soaked, not with rain water any longer, but with blood. The lights went out.

He heard moaning, the lamenting cries echoing through the pitch. Such a pitiful sound, almost more animal than human. Then a woman's voice, soft and desolate called his name as if from a great distance. "Jarrrrrrrrrrod...........Jarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrod................" He twisted his hands, the iron cutting into his wrists. The anguished pleading tore at his soul. Someone needed his help. Someone needed him. He had to get free, he had to go help. His own safety wasn't of paramount importance anymore, as he forget the riders who had chased him through the black of night. Jarrod twisted his hands futilely, the iron cutting into his wrists, his own blood flowing down to mingle with.....whose? He had to get free somehow.

Lightening flashed, illuminating the room for an instant. The judge had turned towards him now. He had risen from his seat and was pointing accusingly at Jarrod. Jarrod paled as he recognized him, swaying on his feet as though he'd taken a physical blow. That brief flare of light, the shadows, were playing tricks on his eyes. It couldn't be. Then the flash came again, followed by another roll of thunder. There was no mistaking the identity of the robed adjudicator. The judge banged his gavel hard. It echoed like a gunshot. "Guilty!" Tom Barkley pronounced. "GUILTY!" he shouted with a satisfaction that made Jarrod's blood turn cold.

Somehow, the lamps were lit again, but now Jarrod was alone in the eerily silent room. The ground had ceased to shake. There was no sound of approaching hoofbeats at all. He was still shackled, still covered with blood. A door creaked open at the front of the room, between the now empty bench and jury box. A hooded figure came through, moving slowly. One arm was stretched behind as he...she....it?.....dragged something along. Jarrod could hear the scrape of something heavy moving methodically across the plank floor.

As the hooded figure came closer, Jarrod saw that it was pulling a woman by the hair. She was face down so he couldn't identify her, wearing a blue dress that was torn and dirtied. Somehow he knew that she was the one who had been calling him. Her arms and legs hung limply askew, as she was pulled along. She was dead, Jarrod knew, as he felt the bile rise in his gorge. He was too late. He hadn't been able to save her. It was an abomination, the way the hooded figure dragged her over the floor. It was just so callously undignified. Even the deceased deserved respect.

Jarrod wanted to grab the hooded figure, stop this madness, but he felt paralyzed. He couldn't even call out an objection. He just watched, repulsed, as they passed him by. The hood concealed the robed figure's face. Jarrod saw that one of the woman's shoes was missing. Her heel pushed through a tear in her silk stockings. The other shoe scraped and bumped along the floor. Her hair was long and honey blonde, wrapped in the fingers of this grim reaper. There was something familiar about her, Jarrod thought sickly.

Jarrod found that he could move now. He separated his hands and feet with a wrenching motion and the shackles that bound them, now seeming to be made from silk instead of iron, tore away and he was free. "Stop!" he found his voice, and was surprised when the dark figure did halt. It continued to face the front of the room, towards the door, not looking back at either Jarrod or the woman. Ignoring them both. Jarrod wasn't sure if it had paused on his command, or if it had even heard him or knew he was there.

Perhaps the woman wasn't really dead. Perhaps she was just unconscious. Perhaps there was still time to save her. Jarrod knelt by her side, lifting one of her delicate hands, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing. Her skin was cold beneath his fingers. He withdrew his hand, averting his eyes from the smeared red fingerprint his bloodied hands left on her slender wrist. The hooded figure still waited, it's back to Jarrod, not interfering with the examination, not even acknowledging Jarrod's presence.

It was too late to save this woman's life, whoever she was. But Jarrod knew that he had to get her body away from this fiend. She should be taken to the funeral home. Identified. Her family notified. A proper Christian burial arranged. Whoever, whatever had done this to her, had to pay. Justice had to be served. Gently, reverently, he turned her body over. The robed executioner released her hair at that moment, and Jarrod reached swiftly to catch and cradle her head before it could slam ignominiously to the ground.

Jarrod gave a guttural moan as he looked down at the featureless face. Where eyes, nose and mouth should be, there was only a flat plane, pale skin pulled taut. There was blood starting to congeal on the front of her dress. Suddenly, he knew that dress. It was the same one that Beth had worn when they had eloped in Colorado. He grabbed the woman's left hand, recognizing too the filigreed gold band that he had placed on her finger when they had exchanged their vows. Jarrod gave a cry of incredible anguish, his fist pounding the floor in pain and loss and helpless frustration.

Incredibly, horrifically, the dead woman began to speak, slowly, her voice flat and without intonation, but Beth's voice nonetheless. There was no mouth to form the words, but Jarrod heard them. He knew the verse that she quoted, as well as he knew the words to the Lord's prayer.

"When man to man united,

and every wrong thing righted,

The whole world shall be lighted,

as Eden was of old."

Jarrod shook his head wildly, trying to reject her words, refusing to contemplate their reference or meaning. He was overcome with hatred and loathing for whoever had extinguished the light of her sweet and innocent soul, and by a pain so deep it seared his own. He set her body aside, gently, then sprang to his feet. He grabbed the hooded figure by the shoulder. "What did you do to her?" he bellowed in outrage. "For the love God, what did you DO?" he demanded savagely, spinning the figure around. Jarrod recoiled, aghast, as his own face smiled benignly back at him.

Chapter 5

Jarrod Barkley stepped off the train, into the beautiful California afternoon, the warm beams of the sun, oddly juxtaposed to the inner chill that gripped him. He had wakened from the nightmare, half-rising from his seat, just as the train whistle sounded and the engine pulled into Sacramento Station. He had settled back, embarrassed, his forehead and upper lip damp with perspiration, his heart thumping explosively in his chest.

An older, matronly woman seated across from him on the journey had reached across and patted his arm in a motherly gesture. "Bad dream," she comforted him understandingly, in what only he knew was a gross understatement.

"I can't remember now," he had lied, smiling off-handedly.

"That's usually the way," she had nodded.

He had turned his back to her as he had retrieved his case, so that she wouldn't see the way his hands were shaking. Then, still trying to shrug off the after effects of his nightmare, Jarrod had disembarked from the train. They always clung to him so insidiously these nightmares. Like winged phantasms pursuing him from beyond perdition.

"Jarrod!" a young woman called with delight, rushing across the platform to embrace him. Jarrod dropped his suitcase, taking Patricia in his arms. Delighting in the softness of her, the swishing sound of her silk dress, the heady aroma of the perfume that he had brought her from San Francisco the last time. She tilted her head back to look up at him, her lovely green eyes shining. Her pink lips were slightly parted in expectation, and he bent his head obligingly to press his own against them. "Oh, Jarrod, I've missed you so!" she exclaimed, when they drew apart.

"I've missed you as well, Pretty Lady," he told her with a smile. Trying to fill his senses with the sweet sight, smell and feel of her, trying to block out the ugliness that was still so fresh and had seemed so real.

Jarrod bent to pick up the suitcase, and as he straightened, she linked her arm through his. 'We make a perfect couple,' Patricia Vandermeer thought, as she walked with him to the waiting carriage, conscious of the admiring glances they received. She believed that there could not possibly be a luckier, happier woman in all of California...in all of the country...than she. Jarrod Barkley was a lifetime of dreams come true. His was everything any woman could ask for. She loved him beyond compare. All that she thought about lately was that inevitable day when she would become his bride. When she had received his telegram that he was coming to Sacramento she had just known that when he left her again, this time she would be wearing his ring. She believed fervently that each new dawn brought her one day closer to her heart's desire.

Jarrod helped Patricia up into the carriage. She was such a tiny little thing, so light in his arms. Her head only came to his midchest. But she had a big heart, and a generous nature that exceeded her small stature. He admired the fact that she didn't simply sit around and preen like many of the lovely, privileged women that he knew. She volunteered at the hospital and through her church. She had a genuine desire to help out those in need, and was selfless in her efforts, turning aside praise, believing that she had an obligation to assist those less fortunate. Her father, Patrick Vandermeer, had done an excellent job in raising her. Especially since he had done it without a woman's help, and yet she was the epitome of feminine grace and virtue. His wife had died giving birth to Patricia's younger sister Mary, when Patricia was only four years old. Her father had never remarried and for the next twenty years it had been only the three of them. The trio had a close family bond that Jarrod, as part of a very loving, devoted family himself, could recognize and identify with.

Patricia's inner beauty was generously mirrored by her external beauty. Large, green eyes regarded him from across the carriage, in an engaging heart-shaped face that boasted flawless, creamy skin and lovely high cheekbones, accented lightly with rouge. Her long hair, worn up now and tucked under her fashionable hat, was almost as dark as his own. Jarrod remembered the feel of it in his fingers, so silky soft. "What are you thinking?" she asked him, her smile sweet and interested.

"That you are an incredible woman, Patricia Vandermeer," Jarrod said simply.

She blushed, pleased at the sincerity of his remark. "How was your trip? How long will you be staying?" she changed the subject modestly.

They made small talk as the carriage took them across the city to the impressive cut stone mansion on the park that was the Vandermeer residence. There Jarrod freshened up before they shared a pleasant roast beef dinner with her father and sister in the regally impressive dining room of the Vandermeer home.

Afterwards, as Jarrod stood in the foyer, waiting for Patricia to change before accompanying him on a walk about the park, Patrick Vandermeer clapped him on the back, pulling him aside. "Thanks for coming, Jarrod," he said conspiratorially. "We're getting together at the Club tomorrow evening at eleven. It's time to start laying the groundwork, and to find out where we all stand."

"It's my pleasure, Patrick," Jarrod replied. "I look forward to seeing everyone there."

Patricia came down the hall then, and Patrick Vandermeer nodded at Jarrod, his green eyes inscrutable for a moment. Patrick Vandermeer was equally unbeatable in business and in cards. His expression never gave away what was going on in his keen mind, unless he wanted it to. Now, he smiled at his eldest daughter, helping her slip a shawl around her slender shoulders, and his pride was evident. How happy she looked, smiling up at her beau, he thought with satisfaction.

Patrick had had some concerns initially about the relationship, since Jarrod Barkley was closer to his own age, than he was to Patricia's. But he knew Jarrod, as a business acquaintance if not quite a friend, and he knew of his untarnished reputation. Jarrod Barkley was from a good family, educated, with a flourishing career, and he was a decent man. He was, in fact, one of the most eligible bachelors in the state. And while not a young man, he certainly wasn't an old one either, not yet forty. Just coming into his prime. Patrick had been astounded when his shy eldest daughter, usually so reserved and seemingly indifferent with men that she didn't know well, had been so completely smitten by the handsome lawyer from their first meeting.

Patrick had escorted Patricia and Mary to the theatre one evening, and during the intermission they had chanced upon Jarrod, there alone. Patrick had invited Jarrod to join them for a late dinner after the show, and Jarrod had accepted. He had noted the lingering glances that had passed between Jarrod and Patricia during the meal. Not long afterwards, the lawyer had begun to call on the family socially, and shortly thereafter, with her father's permission, had begun to escort Patricia to various functions when he came to Sacramento.

The one time that Patrick had vocalized his mild concern about the relationship to Patricia, because of the age difference and the fact that Jarrod had been married before, she had become so upset that he had vowed to himself to never to bring up the subject again. He doted on both of his young daughters, and anything that made them happy, was exactly what he wanted for them. He had hated to see the light go out of the emerald eyes that were so like his own. Had cried internally every tear that had slipped down sculpted cheeks that were so like those of her late mother, his beloved Lenore. He had silently chastized himself for trying to find problems where none existed. If Jarrod Barkley made Patricia happy, if he treated her well, if he was the man she felt she wanted, then that was good enough for Patrick.

Jarrod took Patricia's arm with his own as they began to walk through the park. The early evening was pleasant, the sun not quite set, colouring the undersides of the few clouds that dotted the sky with a rosy hue. Several other couples walked together through the serene setting, absorbed in one another. The park was a common spot for courting. It was public, and for the most part open with grassy areas, though there were treed copses here and there with stone benches, that afforded some privacy. They came upon one now and Patricia suggested that they sit.

She regarded Jarrod thoughtfully. How very tired he looked, she noticed. His beautiful blue eyes, though bright and alert, had deep shadows beneath them. That once easy smile of his seemed lately to require a conscious effort. And she couldn't be sure if it was her imagination or not, but she thought that there seemed to be a few more grey hairs scattered through the black at his temples. She knew that something was troubling him. She wished that she could slip into his arms and comfort him as only a wife could. But that wasn't her place...yet.

So for now, she reached over to take one of his large hands between her two small ones. "Is everything all right Jarrod?" she asked him. "You...don't seem quite yourself lately."

Jarrod brought their cojoined hands to his lips, kissing the back of hers. "I'm very busy," he told her. That was only a partial lie. "Between preparing for trials, and dealing with family business, and all the travelling in between.....I guess I'm not as young as I used to be," he laughed lightly. "And, to be honest, I haven't been sleeping all that well. I seem to have a touch of insomnia. I think it's getting a bit better though," he added at the concern that clouded her lovely features.

"How did the Wheeler trial go in San Francisco?" Patricia inquired. Her father had told her that Jarrod had won the case. She had overheard him talking with a friend one evening though, and they had been discussing an event that had happened on the final day of the trial. Apparently, Jarrod had seemed to blank out, and had simply stood there unmoving for several minutes. Always a confident trial attorney, there had been lots of speculation as to what had happened this time. She could only imagine how upsetting it must have been for him.

"We won," Jarrod said smoothly. "There was no way we couldn't have. All of the evidence was in our favour. It was a very straightforward trial. I didn't think much of Kent Wheeler personally, but he didn't commit the crime he was accused of, I know that. So, justice was served and he was acquitted. I didn't even really need to be there. It was all very uneventful." 'Except that I forgot where I was and what I was doing for a while,' he added, only to himself.

Obviously, Jarrod didn't want to share with her what had gone wrong at the trial. Patricia understood. Some things, men just needed to keep private. She was not going to press the issue and upset him further. That was the last thing he needed. She didn't ever want to be a source of pain or stress or frustration for him, only a safe haven where he could shut out the rest of the world, safe in the knowledge of her complete support, understanding...and love.

He hadn't ever told her that he loved her yet, though Patricia was sure that he must. It was there in the deferential way he treated her. It was there in the depths of his incredibly, breathtakingly blue eyes, and in the gentle set of his chin. It was there in the way he brought her little gifts whenever he returned to Sacramento, to let her know that he had been thinking of her even when they were apart. Patricia knew that Jarrod wasn't seeing anyone else. His early, chaste kisses had progressed to more ardent exchanges during his last couple of visits. They had roused in her, even as inexperienced as she was, a burning desire that her senses told her was shared. Jarrod Barkley might not ever have told her he loved her in so many words, but Patricia knew in her heart that he must.

She didn't know how much longer she could be expected to endure the pain of parting from him. How she longed for him to take her with him each time he departed from Sacramento. Or, for him to announce that he was settling down in the state's capitol, was buying a home here, and wanted her to share it as his wife. She would often daydream about such things, in the lonely hours when Jarrod was away, sharing whispered hopes and musings with her younger sister Mary.

Patricia took one of her hands from his and reached to touch the hair at his temples. He leaned his head into her palm, closing his eyes then, all of the tension and worry draining from his handsome face. He looked so young at that moment. So vulnerable. She felt so protective of him. Her heart swelled with emotion. "I love you, Jarrod Barkley," she whispered, unthinkingly.

She immediately tensed. Aghast. A young lady never made such declarations until a gentleman had made them first. She was a young woman of breeding and standing, not some floozy in a saloon. She was a woman who aspired to be his wife, not just a bed partner. She wanted him...all of him...including his love and respect. Shame washed over her. What would he think of her now?

He opened his eyes, giving a small intake of air. For an agonizing second or two, Patricia tried to read what was going on inside him. Her throat grew tight, as she prayed that he would repeat those same words back to her. He remained mute, but she thought she knew what that expression was in his blue eyes. It was not joy or relief. It was fear. Patricia felt nauseous.

Jarrod tensed at the heartfelt words. He looked down at her, his eyes widening in shock. He felt panicky. Suffocated. He didn't know what to do or say. He'd been completely caught off guard. He supposed that he shouldn't find it so incredible that she would say these words to him. They had been spending a lot of time together over the last several months and the relationship had been progressing to this junction for quite some time, surely he had to have realized that. He saw the sadness in her pretty green eyes, the tears that had sprung in their corners. The pink blush that had spread out from her cheeks.

Jarrod couldn't bear the thought of letting another person down. He just couldn't stand to see sadness in yet another person's eyes. He didn't want that responsibility, that burden, for the happiness of another. Obviously though, he had implied certain things over the course of the relationship. She did love him, he sensed. He wondered why he hadn't seen that before. Just how selfish and introverted was he?

Patricia Vandermeer was everything that a man could want in a woman, Jarrod knew. She was the ideal partner. She was the kind of woman who could help a man's career, if he had certain ambitions. They shared a common background, and some common interests. She adored him, obviously, wanted him alone over any number of young men who constantly called, trying to gain her affections. Jarrod thought of the long, lonely nights. Of the demons that chased him. Of how soft and pretty she was, and how when he held her in his arms it kept the world at bay. He knew that if he didn't return her murmured sentiment that he would not ever see her again. And that her young heart would break in shame and humiliation. He could not allow that to happen. And he did care for her, very much.

"I love you too, Patricia," he replied. She gave a small gasp, burying her face gratefully against his chest as his arms went around her. He felt her tremble, with relief, he surmised. He stroked her long, dark hair, staring over her head into the distance. 'After all,' he thought, with lawyerly distinction, 'it isn't as though I proposed marriage.' And for the time being, she was happy and the tears that dampened his shirt were tears of happiness, not of sorrow. That was all he would think about, for now.

Chapter 6

Jarrod looked up at the soft rap on the partially open door. His law clerk, George, stood there hesitantly. "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Barkley. There is a Miss Vaillancourt asking to see you," the young man said, disapproval underlying his tone.

Jarrod grinned broadly, oblivious to the clerk's displeasure. "Send her in please, George," he instructed, rising from his desk. Jarrod felt inordinately pleased to know that Catherine was in the outer office. He had been home from Sacramento for a few days now, and had thought many times of stopping by to see her, to inquire how she was enjoying the book of poetry. He had always hesitated though, afraid that she might think he was rushing her, or that he wanted the book returned. He had found himself standing by the window behind his desk, several times a day, gazing out into the street, hands on hips. The first few times it had been a subconscious action, until he had realized, to his surprise, that he was actually watching for Catherine, hoping to get a glimpse of her passing by as she went about her errands.

She stepped through the door now, smiling uncertainly. "Good day, Mr. Barkley," she said, in a soft, husky voice. "I'm sorry to just stop by like this. I hope I'm not interrupting you." She seemed nervous, both hands clutching a book to her chest.

"Not at all," Jarrod assured her smoothly. "It's a pleasure, Miss Vaillancourt. Thank you, George," he dismissed, and the clerk left the inner office, closing the door behind him.

"Please, call me Catherine," she offered, still standing hesitantly across the room.

"I will, if you will call me Jarrod," he returned, coming around the desk, still smiling widely. "Please, come sit down." He indicated one of the comfortable chairs there, then perched himself on the corner of the desk. One knee was bent, one leg braced the floor, and he leaned his weight on hands that gripped the edge of the desktop.

Catherine sat down, and when he settled back onto the desk, was acutely aware that he was only a couple of feet away. He was dressed as she had first seen him. Dark charcoal suit, crisp, white shirt, black string tie, black leather boots. She was very conscious of the grey fabric pulled taut across the thigh of his bent left leg. Of the light that reflected from his gold cufflinks. Of his shiny, black hair. Of his incredibly blue eyes that regarded her now with genuine warmth and welcome.

She had known that he had returned from Sacramento a few days earlier. She had been in the general store, and had overheard a tall, rangy, dark-haired cowboy, comment to the clerk that he was picking up 'some supplies for the ranch, waiting for Jarrod's train to come in'. She had stopped what she was doing, and just stood and stared at him. Of course, he was talking about Jarrod Barkley. She wondered if this man was one of the ranch hands. There was an air of confidence about him though. Another Barkley perhaps? A brother to the handsome attorney?

She had wanted to come to Jarrod's office the very next day. Just to discuss the book she had borrowed from him. Or so she had told herself. It had nothing to do with the way she would picture his gentle face when she would glance at the book of poetry on the table beside her, as she sewed on buttons, or repaired tears in shirts by lamplight. It had nothing to do with the deep voice that would play across her inner ear as she drifted off to sleep. It had nothing to do with the remarkable blue eyes that she was reminded of every time she stepped outside and looked up into the beauty of an azure sky. Blue eyes that she couldn't help note were so like the eyes of another. It had nothing to do with the way she had found herself daydreaming while he was away, speculating about what he was doing in Sacramento, wondering wistfully when he would return as she stirred laundry in a boiling pot.

She had made herself wait three full days. To give him time to rest from his journey. So that she wouldn't appear too over eager. Three days where she had found her eyes surveying the streets hopefully whenever she walked about town. Three days spent imagining running into him by chance, seeing happy recognition in his eyes, starting up a conversation with him. Three days spent wondering if...fresh from the delights of a big city, from parties and culture and rich, privileged white women...he would even remember bringing her the book, or would even recall her name? Or, if he did, would he regret his earlier friendly overtures towards her and be wondering how to extricate himself from the acquaintanceship?

And now, she was here in his office again. Trying not to think about the way her pulse raced while having him so close to her. Trying to remember that he was simply a kind and thoughtful stranger who shared her love of poetry. Concentrating on the feel of the book in her hands, that she held in front of her now like a shield. She dropped her gaze, bowing her head before he could see something there that she didn't want him to see...something that she didn't want to admit to herself.

Jarrod could see that Catherine was uncomfortable. He felt embarrassed knowing that she must be remembering that horrible scene in his office just a couple of short weeks ago. Perhaps wondering if he was going to turn into a raving lunatic again. After all of his years spent as a lawyer, he had learned to 'read' people. To determine from their postures, their facial expressions, the look in their eyes, what they were really thinking and feeling, when their words might be saying something different, or saying nothing at all. And he knew that the way she hugged the book to herself was an unconscious defensive gesture. He was desperate to put her at ease.

"How have you been keeping, Catherine," he asked, starting small, wanting only to relax her. Jarrod found himself wanting to reach out and slip a finger under her chin, to raise her head and force her to look into his eyes, to somehow communicate to her that he meant her no harm. He wanted to reach out and tuck behind her ear, several strands of black hair that had fallen over her shoulder when she had lowered her head.

She looked up at him again with a guarded smile. "I've been well, thank you. I've been keeping very busy with work."

"Did you have an opportunity to do any reading?" Jarrod asked hopefully, glancing pointedly at the book.

Catherine straightened in the chair then, her body leaning forward towards his, her dark eyes shining with delight. "Oh yes!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "It was just wonderful! There were some poems that I already knew, some old favourites, and some that I had never read before that will be new favourites. It was like entering another world, seeing this world through the eyes and hearts of others. There are so many things that we just don't notice or take the time to think about in our daily lives, mired as they so often are in the mundane or in mediocrity. Poetry is so much more than talented minds painting pictures with words. It is extraordinary souls helping us to see realities, both good and bad, that we so often fail to recognize, and probably could never verbalize even if we did."

Jarrod was delighted by her response. He was enchanted by her words, and by the deep voice that spoke them. He was buoyed by her excitement and honoured that she would share her feelings with him this way. He wondered how he could ever have thought her plain, or even not quite pretty. His breath caught in his throat to look at her now. The intelligence and passion radiating from her strong, tawny features. The big, dark eyes that could undoubtedly hold a man in their depths. The long, smoky lashes and finely arched brows. The deep, burgundy lips that parted now to reveal an even, ivory smile. She was really quite lovely. Very different from the soft, petite, pampered women that he was used to, with their delicate features and pale skin. But lovely nonetheless.

"Which of those that were new to you, did you particularly like?" Jarrod asked her with interest.

Catherine didn't hesitate. "There is one called, 'Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?' It's rather poignant, but I found it compelling."

Jarrod nodded in happy agreement. "May I?" he inquired, reaching towards her, pointing at the book. She handed it to him, their fingers touching briefly, her bronzed skin work roughened, but clean and warm. He thumbed through the pages, at last opening the book wide at the familiar verse. He was pleased that she had selected it as one that she had found memorable. He cleared his throat and he began to read.

"Oh! Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to rest in the grave."

Catherine listened, mesmerized as Jarrod read the poem to her. His deep voice was very expressive. He wasn't merely reading the words, but feeling them. He finished the last line, and set the book on the desk beside him, smiling reflectively. "A very great, very remarkable man shared that poem with me once on a train to Washington, in another lifetime." he told her. "It was one of his favourites."

She could sense that this was a happy memory for him. "Who was the man?" she asked, hoping she wasn't prying.

Jarrod sighed. "President Abraham Lincoln. It was during the war. I shared the pleasure of his company over a drink and a cigar. It was late at night, and neither of us he could sleep. In the course of our discussion, we determined a common fondness for poetry. He shared his favourite with me. He had the entire poem committed to memory, all twenty-four stanzas. It was an incredible insight into a man that I had never met before, and only knew by well-deserved reputation. It is something that I will always treasure."

Catherine thought that she could understand that. Just as she would always treasure the stirring recitation that Jarrod Barkley had just shared with her. She repeated back to him, from memory, her favourite verse.

"For we are the same that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun
And run the same course that our fathers have run."

A pensive look came over her. "The message of this poem is humbling, but I find the sense of continuity expressed in that verse comforting," she admitted. "I think that's why that is my favourite part"

Jarrod thought that she was probably one of the most unusual, remarkable people that he had ever met. His curiosity about her was whetted once again. Where did she come from, this woman, who surprised and delighted him at every turn? "Where are you from originally, Catherine?" he found himself asking, before he could question the propriety of his queries. "Who are your people? Where were you educated?"

Catherine was surprised and flattered that Jarrod Barkley was asking about her this way. He seemed sincere in his interest. Dared she hope that their tenuous connection might actually evolve into a friendship? Wasn't that how it happened though? People sharing bits of their lives with one another? Their interests? Their backgrounds? She drew a deep breath and began her story.

"I was born in the Red River Settlement, in Canada," she told him. "I am Michif. We are also called Metis. You probably have not ever heard of us," she remarked matter-of-factly. Jarrod shook his head and she nodded in understanding. "We are the children of two cultures, Indian and European. In my case, Scottish and Cree on my mother's side, though predominantly Cree, and French and Cree on my father's. We are what people from both cultures call 'half-breeds'." She paused, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to know any of this. No one here on the other side of the border had ever expressed any interest in her before...who she was, or where she came from. She had learned that even when people seemed outwardly tolerant, prejudices ran deeper than she could ever have imagined. And so she had kept to herself.

Jarrod was surprised to learn that she was from Canada. She was such a long, long way from home. He knew very little about his northern neighbours. He did know that they had only recently become an independent country, though they still maintained close ties with the Britain. He wondered what events had occurred in Catherine's life to bring her here now to Stockton, California, where their paths had crossed. He only knew that part of him was very glad that she was here, and that he really did want to hear more. "Please," he encouraged. "Go on."

He listened attentively, never once interrupting, lost in another world, as Catherine's sultry voice and eloquent words brought to life the story of the Michif people...her people. They were the mixed blood offspring of French fur traders from the North West Company, and English fur traders from the Hudson's Bay Company who had intermarried with women from the Plains tribes. Cree, which was her background. But also Ojibwa and Salteaux. For two hundred years the cultures had intermingled, and then these half-breed peoples had begun to marry amongst themselves, until eventually a very distinct culture had arisen. Neither fully Indian nor fully European, but a fusion of the two. The Michif, as they called themselves. They were commonly referred to as Metis as well.

Some Michif lived nomadic lives on the prairies, their survival centred on the buffalo. Others, like most of Catherine's ancestors, lived in settlements and on farms, planting crops and raising livestock, just as white settlers did. Most were Catholic. A few decades ago, the Metis had petitioned the Governor of the Red River Settlement to recognize their special status, and had organized and fought for their rights to free trade. They had challenged the Hudson's Bay Company's monopoly on furs with success. Catherine explained that her father had been very active for the rights of the Metis.

Because of their mixed heritage, the Metis were the logical intermediaries in commercial relationships between the two cultures. The majority were traders or merchants. Many Metis men were educated, often being sent to the east, to Upper Canada, to attend schools. Some Metis even studied to be lawyers, she had told Jarrod with a wink.

"Historically, the conflict in Canada between the native peoples and the new settlers has been minimal, compared to your costly wars of extermination that have been waged in the name of 'Manifest Destiny'," Catherine told him quietly. Jarrod, who had been almost shocked to hear of Indian and half-breed people living as whites, and enjoying many of the same rights and freedoms, now found that he could not meet her eyes. He knew first hand that the treatment of the Indians in his country was often deplorable. Though the Barkleys themselves had never had a part in any of that. They had always treated all men fairly and with respect and dignity, regardless of the colour of their skin. But he knew well that this was not the norm. That Indians were often regarded as heathens and savages. Something that had to be eliminated in the 'civilization' of the nation.

"My father was a merchant," Catherine continued. "He loved books and loved poetry, and was always reading to me as far back as I can remember. Many nights I remember sitting curled up in his arms by the hearth, while he recited his favourite poems. He taught me to read and to write and about many of the wondrous things beyond our own world. He was a very bright man. He was educated in the east, and had planned at first to become a Jesuit priest, but discovered that he did not have the calling or the devotion. He continued to be curious about the world and spent his entire life learning where and when he could.

"I was an only child, and much doted on by both of my parents. My mother's health was always very fragile. She almost died giving birth to me, and never fully recovered. She was often tired, and would fall ill easily. Father and I were always very protective of her. Despite her health, she was a very positive person, very caring and loving and a hard worker still. She was a seamstress, and used to make the most beautiful clothes." Catherine smiled as she reminisced about her parents and her life growing up. Jarrod was fully drawn into her tale.

"The winter that I was sixteen, my mother became gravely ill with pneumonia. It had infected both lungs. She was terribly sick. Fevered, weak, struggling to breathe. We didn't know if she would make it through the season." Catherine's eyes clouded over, and Jarrod had to fight back an urge to put his arms around her in sympathy and understanding. "When the spring came, my father had decided that we had to leave the Red River Settlement and go south, somewhere where the weather was more hospitable. He sold almost everything that he owned, and loaded up a wagon and we said good bye to friends and family and headed out.

"For months, we travelled, through often harsh and untamed lands. Encountering mostly hostility along the way. Neither the 'Monias', the white settlers, nor the Indians accepted us. Sometimes, because travelling took such a toll on my mother, we would stop for a time in different towns and settlements along the way. But in the end, when it was obvious that we were not wanted, we would move on.

"We headed for California, because my father had read the climate was more temperate. He thought that perhaps he could begin life over in one of the big cities. San Francisco. And he thought that the ocean air would be good for my mother." Catherine paused here, swallowing hard.

"We never made it to San Francisco. Our camp was attacked one night. My parents were murdered, our horses stolen, our wagon and everything that it contained, burned." In detail, she described for him the harrowing events, from being woken roughly by the marauders, to the nightmare that had followed in the time that had ensued until they had left her for dead.

Jarrod's jaw grew slack, and he felt nauseous, trying to imagine the horror of what Catherine had been through. She told her story stoically, but he could see the unshed tears in her eyes, the tension in her frame.

"So, I was left here in California. Alone. Penniless. Far from my birthplace and everyone who had ever cared about me. And here I have been, for the last five years. Moving from place to place. Working where I could find work. Settling for a time where I could be undisturbed." She blinked the tears from her eyes, and looked at him levelly. "Aren't you sorry now that you asked?" she chided, with a brave smile.

Jarrod wanted to go to her, to hold her, comfort her. To soothe her pain and loneliness. But he could not do that, of course, so he rose from the desk, moving to the side table and the crystal decanter of bourbon. He poured a drink, and brought it to her. He did touch her shoulder, briefly, squeezing gently as he offered her the glass. "I'm sorry if I caused you any pain in reliving that horror," he told her at last. "I'm sorry for what you have been through and for the loss of your parents. I'm sorry if I was insensitive in asking, or if I overstepped any bounds. But I am not sorry that I have gotten to learn more about you."

Catherine stared up at him in wonder. She was touched by the tenderness of his gaze, by the comfort of the hand he had laid on her shoulder. By the empathy in his eyes. She took the drink gratefully, sipping, the liquid leaving warm trails down her throat that spread through her chest and abdomen. "Thank you," she told him, hoping that somehow he would know that her gratitude wasn't merely for the liquor. She sipped again. "And there you have it," she finished. "The story of my life."

Except that it wasn't, Catherine knew guiltily, glancing away from the handsome face above. What she had shared had been true. But it hadn't been everything. And the rest, she knew, would tear the look of sympathy from Jarrod Barkley's face, and replace it instead with disdain.

Chapter 7

Catherine felt embarrassed about monopolizing the conversation. She hadn't intended to say so much, it had all just come tumbling out. Jarrod Barkley's obvious and sincere interest had opened the floodgates to parts of her life...a past...that she tried not to think about too often anymore. A life that hadn't been hers for half a decade. She could easily imagine that he must be very good at his profession. An attorney who could gain a confidence, elicit trust and project empathy and understanding would do well in a courtroom, both with witnesses and juries alike. And she knew that it wasn't a facade either, but a real facet of who this multi-dimensional man was.

"I haven't even asked how your trip to Sacramento was," Catherine said (embarrassedly), setting the unfinished glass of bourbon on the desk next to her. "I hope that it went well." She was surprised to see his mouth tighten, to see frown lines furrow his brow, inwardly chastizing herself for asking.

Well? Jarrod thought to himself. He didn't know exactly how to gauge his time spent in Sacramento. "I saw the people that I needed to see, and was able to do everything that I intended to do." And a little bit more. He was unaware of how tired he sounded then. Of the shadow that crossed his eyes. Of how introspective he appeared, as he looked away from her and at some imaginary point on the far wall.

Catherine knew that he didn't want to talk about his trip. She could see that despite how energized he had been earlier, he was tired now. "I should really be going," she said, rising to her feet. "I thank you for taking the time to see me, and for allowing me to borrow the book. I thoroughly enjoyed it, more than I can even say."

Jarrod picked up the volume from where he had set it on his desk. "I really would like you to keep this," he said quietly, extending it towards her. "Now, more so than ever. It would mean a great deal to me."

Perhaps she could never really have this man's friendship. But could she deny herself this tangible reminder of their chance meeting? Of the way his solicitous treatment of her had renewed her sense of pride? The way it had stirred in her a reminder that she was a woman? Could she deny herself the beauty of the words that lay within that book? Would it be so terrible? One small extravagance in a life where she had so few material things. She had so little chance at self-expression and self-nurturing these days. Would it really be so wrong to accept his gift, offered freely and without strings? Her hands reached out of their own volition, taking the book from him.

"Thank you," Catherine said finally. "I will treasure it always."

Jarrod was pleased that she had agreed to accept the book of poetry. A softness returned to his face. How glad he was that she had come to see him this time. That she truly seemed to have forgiven him his initial, inexcusable behaviour. That she seemed to feel more comfortable with him. He didn't want her to go, but there was no way to ask her to stay that wouldn't be self-serving and inappropriate. "It was good to see you again, Catherine," he told her.

"It was my pleasure," she countered.

He walked her to the door, then through the outer office and out to the street. He didn't see the stony look that his clerk George gave them as they departed. They stood together outside the building, neither sure how to proceed. "I will see you again soon, I hope," Jarrod remarked, his blue eyes holding her dark ones. He wanted to prolong the moment when she must leave him.

"I would like that," Catherine said softly. There was an a moment of awkward silence, when words seem to hang unsaid, suspended in the afternoon sunshine, as people went about their business in the bustling street. Then she turned, and walked away.

Reluctantly, Jarrod re-entered the building, retracing his steps back to his office. He instructed George to wrap up and take the remainder of the day off. True to his words to Catherine, he had not accepted any new cases, and was working only to finish off those that he was already committed to. He went into the inner office, shutting the door and the world behind it. Then he poured himself a drink and sat in the comfortable leather chair that Catherine had just recently vacated. It was still warmed by her impression, and he found himself oddly comforted by that.

'I hope that it went well,' she had said innocently about his trip to Sacramento. Indeed, Jarrod mused. How exactly did he feel about his recent sojourn?

It was almost midnight, and Jarrod was ensconced in one of the private rooms at the prestigious Carlton Club, at Patrick Vandermeer's invitation. Jarrod was not a member of the Club, but he had been here numerous times over the years as a guest of different friends and colleagues. There were no women in this intimate, private meeting room...no billiards tables or chess boards or high stakes games of cards. No music. Nothing to distract from the conversation at hand.

Walls panelled in cherrywood gleamed in the glow of the oil lamps. A thick, hand-woven Turkish rug covered the floor. A fire danced in the big, open hearth. Blue smoke hung overhead and the pleasant and familiar aroma of cigar smoke permeated the room. Jarrod sat in an overstuffed, burgundy leather chair, a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other, his jacket off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his tie gone and the top button of his shirt undone. Listening to the men who sat, or stood about the room. Wealthy, important, influential men.

"Sam White is going to announce soon that he is unable to fulfill his term in office," Patrick Vandermeer was saying. "For health reasons." Jarrod was surprised, but not shocked by this revelation. The current Governor of California, Samuel White, had been ill for some time with heart problems. He was still a relatively young man, in his mid fifties, but the stress of public office was too much for him in his current condition.

Jarrod had heard rumours that the respected and beloved Republican Governor might be retiring, but knowing how stubborn and dedicated Sam was, hadn't really believed it. Sam White must be sicker than he had realized, Jarrod knew. "That's a shame," Jarrod commented. "He's done a wonderful job for the people of California." The people knew it too. This was Sam's second term as Governor. He came from a prominent political family. He had a brother who was serving in the Senate.

Normally, if the Governor were to step down from office, the Lieutenant Governor would assume the role. But only last month, White's Lieutenant Governor, Vernon Cavanaugh, had been killed, an innocent bystander in a violent and tragic daylight stage robbery.

"Yes," Wyatt Bostwick interjected. "He has. And the voters of California are very loyal to him as a result. It's almost a guarantee that anyone Sam White endorses to replace him will be a shoe in the interim election." Bostwick was a big, florid faced man, fond of food and drink. He was a prominent banker in the state's capitol. Jarrod didn't particularly like the man...he had a mean temper, and there had been rumours that on occasion he gave in to that temper behind closed doors at home. But they were only rumours, and Jarrod tried not to let them colour his perception of the man.

"As you are aware, your name has come up in some of the initial discussions, Jarrod," Patrick was saying now. "As a possible replacement for Sam." He paused. "Hypothetically, you had expressed an interest in possibly running. What we need to know now, is where you stand. What your feelings are, and what sort of commitment you would be willing to make."

Jarrod took a long sip of the scotch. He had assumed this meeting would be something to do with the governorship. He had thought that it would be for the next scheduled election though, more than two years away. And he had known that in the fickle world of politics those who were interested in him today, might not be at the end of that time. Especially with his reformist ideals. He hadn't seriously considered that he could actually be running for Governor any time soon.

Wasn't this what he had always wanted though? Wasn't this what he had been working towards all of his adult life? He had always been open with those who knew him about his political ambitions. Perhaps the Governor's Mansion. Maybe even a more prestigious seat in the Senate, one day. But it had always seemed so far away. Something to do 'some day' when the time was right and he had paid his dues. Could 'some day' actually be here?

It would mean putting his law practice on hold. Perhaps indefinitely if things went well. It would mean leaving Stockton and relocating to Sacramento. It would mean power and prestige and could perhaps even lead to greater ambitions one day. How proud his late father, Tom Barkley, a self-made man, with no education to speak of, would have been to know that his eldest son's name was being discussed in earnest by powerful men for one of the most powerful positions in the state of California.

Electioneering was always hard work. Lots of travel. Lots of hands to shake. Lots of friends to cultivate and voters to woo. It would mean dedicating himself one hundred percent. Even if, by some chance, Sam White did decide to endorse his candidacy, Jarrod knew that there were no guarantees. There were other ambitious men in the state who would be unwilling to just let Jarrod Barkley walk away with control of the state without putting up a fight. And he had seen first hand how ugly these things could get.

His decision would affect not only him, he knew, but his mother, brothers, and sister. It would affect how much time and attention he would be able to give to the family holdings...minimal at best...both while he ran and then especially if he was elected. He had responsibilities there, aside from those at his law offices. This was something that he would have to discuss with the family before he could make any firm commitments.

Perhaps this was exactly the change that he needed in his life, right now. He hadn't been taking the same satisfaction from his work as an attorney these last several months, as he had previously. What had always been a pleasure was lately just that...work. And he was always so tired these days. Perhaps this was just the thing to revitalize him. Perhaps he could find himself again, immersed in the political arena. Perhaps this new direction could exorcise the demons that tormented him.

"I will have to speak to the family, of course," Jarrod said finally, gently turning his glass so that the amber liquid swirled. "Determine if this is the right time. How much we can devote financially to an election. Other considerations."

"And if they are in support, which I can't imagine they wouldn't be?" Patrick asked.

Jarrod looked from face to face, at the half dozen men in the room, who all gazed back at him expectantly. "Then if they are, and if Sam does announce his resignation...I would be honoured to be your candidate."

"As for this being the 'right time', it can be if you make it the right time, Jarrod," said Wyatt, beaming.

A grey-haired man with a long moustache and spectacles spoke then. "You know how I feel about you, Jarrod, the respect that I have for you," Henry Stanton began. He was a fellow counselor, and a man that Jarrod both liked and respected. "While your youth might ordinarily put you at a disadvantage, you do have a last name that is known throughout the state. And a first name that is well-respected. Many people known of your reputation, of some of the things you have accomplished as an attorney. They know that you have experience overseeing the Barkley empire. So, I don't foresee that to be a major problem."

Stanton paused uncomfortably. "However, someone needs to bring this matter up so that we can lay it to rest, so it might as well be me. There has been some talk lately, Jarrod, as I'm sure you must be aware, that you aren't exactly in top form these days. There was an incident in San Francisco in the courtroom...you apparently blanked out, or something similar, though I know you did regain your composure and finish the trial with an acquittal. But people have been wondering. That incident, coupled with some other smaller...oddities...have left some people wondering if there isn't some underlying problem...health or otherwise," he looked pointedly at the glass of scotch in Jarrod's right hand, blushing slightly, "that we should be aware of, before we proceed with any of this. Not that it would necessarily mean that you weren't the man for us...but just so that we can know what we are dealing with, and act and react accordingly. Normally, it wouldn't be any of my business, any of anyone's business, but if we are talking about investing time, energy and not inconsiderable finances in this venture, then I do feel that I need to ask, respectfully."

"I appreciate you being so forthcoming, Henry," Jarrod said. "And it's a question I would ask in your position." He smiled at the other men, giving his most confident, attorney smile. "I can assure you, gentlemen, that the only thing wrong with me is that I need a brief vacation, and a chance to catch up on some lost sleep." They had seemed more than happy to accept his reassurances.

Now Jarrod sighed, setting his drink aside, rising to his feet and began to pace the room restlessly. He hadn't even spoken to the family about any of this yet. He couldn't understand why he was delaying. This was such an incredible opportunity, the culmination of a lifetime of aspirations. Why hadn't he rushed home, excitedly making his announcement, asking for their opinions and, hopefully, their blessings? Patrick Vandermeer was expecting a telegram from him, and then shortly thereafter, his return to Sacramento so that the wheels could be set in motion. Why then, didn't Jarrod feel the elation that he should?

And then there had been the last couple of days spent with Patricia. He had tried to share in her joy at their mutual declaration. For the first time, Jarrod had actually known just what the expression 'starry-eyed' meant, he had realized guiltily. It had become apparent to him that the lovely young woman now had certain expectations, though she hadn't actually voiced them.

They had gone for a stroll through the city streets, past the lovely, expensive shops with their beautiful window displays. And she had paused from time to time, to admire fabrics, furnishings, decorative items. All the while asking his opinions. He wasn't a fool. It was obvious that she was thinking ahead to a time when she would decorate her own home. Their home.

And when they had parted at her home on his last evening in Sacramento, her kisses had been more passionate than ever. Her hands more bold. She had told him again that she loved him. This time, he had only told her how beautiful she was, and then captured her lips with his own so that he wouldn't have to say anything. Wouldn't have to think anything. And when she had bid him good night, her green eyes shining with desire, she had told him that she couldn't wait for his return. Couldn't wait to let the whole world know how much he meant to her. Patricia Vandermeer was fully expecting that Jarrod was going to ask her to marry him.

And why shouldn't he? Jarrod mused. She was exactly the sort of woman who would be the perfect wife for him. She was beautiful, inside and out. She was reasonably bright. Fun to be around. She was the sort of woman who shared his background, who moved easily in his social circle. She was everything that he had ever looked for in a woman. He respected her. Desired her.

And Jarrod thought of baby Chase, now more than a month old. The little tyke was smiling already. He thought of the joy that radiated from his brother Heath's face whenever he held his infant son. How much Jarrod wanted to know that same joy. He had always wanted a family of his own. He would have had one too by now, if Cass Hyatt hadn't stolen Beth from him, literally tearing her from his arms with the single blast of a gunbarrel.

He was almost forty years old. Each season that passed took him further and further from his dream of a wife and family of his own. Patricia was devoted to him. She was exactly the type of woman who would make him the perfect wife, and be the perfect mother to his children. She would make exactly the kind of wife he had always known he should have. What, exactly, was he waiting for then?

Chapter 8

Jarrod rode up to the stable of the Barkley Ranch, dismounting easily, reaching to untie his briefcase. Ciego came forward, offering to take Jingo, to unsaddle and curry Jarrod's favourite mount before turning him out to the paddock. "Thank you, Ciego," Jarrod said gratefully.

"Jarrod!" Audra called excitedly from within the barn. "Come see the puppies!"

Jarrod strode into the darkened interior, smiling down indulgently at his young sister, who sat in the hay with her small beige and white dog and the bitch's three puppies. The pups were wriggling around, trying to get close to their mother to nurse. They were four weeks old now, and becoming quiet active. They were so small, Jarrod thought, they looked like little balls of tan cotton.

"Blossom has turned out to be a wonderful mother," Audra said proudly, as Jarrod squatted down on his heels next to her.

He reached to scratch the little dog behind her silky ears. Blossom, an unusual breed called a Lhasa Apso, had been Jarrod's Christmas gift to Audra the previous year. His friend and fellow attorney, Mike Chang had brought back a male Lhasa from Hong Kong a couple of years ago. Audra, who had always had a soft spot for animals of all kinds, had been enchanted with the tiny, yet hardy, and intelligent little canine. When Mike had made the journey back to Hong Kong early last December, Jarrod had asked him if he would mind trying to find another Lhasa for Audra, a female if possible. Mike had agreed and his search had been successful, and he had returned with the little beige dog that Audra had named Blossom. The puppies were the offspring of Audra's female and Mike Chang's male.

Despite their small stature, they were hardy, vigorous little dogs. Mike Chang had explained that they came originally from the mysterious land of Tibet, where they were used as interior guard dogs in the palaces. Their Tibetan name, Abso Seng Kye meant 'Bark Lion Sentinel Dog'. They were valued for their uncanny instincts for identifying friends from strangers.

Audra picked up one of the little bundles of fluff, nuzzling it against her cheek. "Aren't they just the most adorable little things you've ever seen, Jarrod?" she smiled with delight.

Jarrod leaned over to kiss the top of Audra's platinum head. "They're pretty all right, but they don't hold a candle to my lovely little sister," he told her gallantly. "I'm going to go wash up, and then I'll see you at dinner. Don't spend all day and night out here now," he teased, rising to his feet.

Later, as the family sat around the dinner table, enjoying Silas's delicious lemon baked chicken, orange rice and kiwi salad, Jarrod finally brought up the matter of Sam White's impending retirement, and the fact that some of the prominent Republicans in Sacramento wanted him to run in what would probably be a spring election.

"I gather that Sam would like one more Christmas in the Mansion," Jarrod told them, "if at all possible. If his doctor and his wife Bertha give the okay." Jarrod winked.

Victoria beamed at her son, seated across from her at the other end of the table. Since Tom's death, Jarrod had moved to the head of the table, assuming not only the chair, but the mantle of responsibility that had been Tom's. Jarrod was always doing things for others. How wonderful it would be for him to finally do something truly for himself. Though she knew that he would be an incorruptible champion of the Californian people, and that in doing this for himself, he would also be doing something wonderful for them. That was the way it was with Jarrod though. Nothing that he ever seemed to do was totally narcissistic.

"Jarrod, I can't tell you how pleased I am," Victoria said, her voice husky with emotion. "It's a shame about Sam White. But what an honour to be asked to run."

"Governor Barkley," Heath mused, bringing his fork to his mouth and biting his salad. The sandy-haired man chewed thoughtfully for a moment before turning to grin broadly at Jarrod. "Yeah, I like the sound of that, Big Brother," he announced.

"Well, there's no doubt in my mind that you'd be the best man for the job!" Nick enthused proudly, banging a fist on the table, resulting in the clinking of glasses and china and a disapproving look from his mother.

"I guess you'd have to move to Sacramento for good then," Audra said, setting her hands in her lap, her thin smile unable to disguise the sadness in her clear blue eyes. "But you could always come home to visit and we could go to visit you." She seemed to be reassuring herself, even more so than her eldest brother.

"Of course," Annabelle interjected in agreement, before Audra could become too maudlin. "What an incredible opportunity this is for you, Jarrod. We're so proud of you, so pleased for you."

Jarrod knew that his sweet sister-in-law was sincere. He thought that Heath had made a wonderful choice when he had selected Annabelle to be his bride. She was lovely, with her chestnut hair, and hazel eyes, and long, graceful neck and delicate figure. But she was also gracious and caring and insightful. Qualities that made her ideally suited as a spouse to Heath. Heath, who, despite his current happiness, still bore faint scars from the deprivation and uncertainty of his early childhood. Annabelle, herself from a broken home, understood Heath in a way that no one else could. And in return he absolutely adored her, giving her all of the love and loyalty that his big heart had to offer. Yet again, Jarrod felt the faint stirrings of envy at the bond that they shared. A bond that now extended to the tiny marvel that was Chase Barkley, asleep in another room.

"There are a lot of things to consider," Jarrod continued seriously. "If I was elected, I would have to spend almost all of my time in Sacramento. And I wouldn't be able to handle the family's legal business. Or perhaps even most of the personal business. I wouldn't be able to deal with the stockholders, and would probably have to turn my proxy over to you, Mother.

"I might have to make decisions that could affect the Barkley holdings in a negative way, at some point in time. And though you know my heart would always be with you, I would feel duty bound to uphold my oath of office.

"Even if I'm not elected, the election process itself is long and tiresome. I would be away for quite a bit, all over the state. I would be opening not only myself, but all of you as well, to all sorts of allegations and slander from opponents who might not have any personal sense of decency." He paused for effect, knowing that they would all be remembering the river boat scandal where Tom Barkley's name had been dragged through the mud, and many of their friends and neighbours had turned against them for a time. "And they might not just target me, I could handle that. They might go after some of you, as well." His eyes rested on Heath then, and a silent communication passed between the brothers. Heath knew that Jarrod was talking about the circumstances of Heath's paternity, that he was Tom Barkley's bastard son born out of wedlock.

"And it will cost money too, though that would come out of my personal holdings, of course," Jarrod commented.

"Jarrod, whatever decision you make, we will all be behind you, one hundred percent," Victoria said, her maternal love and pride evident. "Whatever it takes, we will be there for you. Whatever you need. Whatever battles you encounter along the way, we will fight them by your side."

"Amen to that," Nick all but growled.

Victoria continued. "We love you Jarrod and whatever is best for you, is what is best for all of us." To his horror, Jarrod felt tears spring to his eyes at her heartfelt declaration. He really did need to get some sleep. He wasn't usually so emotional. "We'll have a vote on it right now, unless anyone feels they need time to think about this." Victoria looked around the table, where the others shook their heads. "All right then. If you're in favour of backing our Jarrod in a run for Governor, let's see a show of hands!"

Victoria raised hers. Simultaneously, around the table, every other hand was raised in support.

"There you have it, Governor Barkley," Heath announced playfully.

In the library afterwards, Audra cajoled Jarrod into playing a game of chess with her. "We might not get many opportunities to do this again," she said lightly, then bowed her head so that he wouldn't see her tears. Though she loved all of her brothers dearly, Nick and Heath and Gene...Jarrod was her favourite. She dreaded the weeks when he was away on business, and couldn't imagine how much their lives would change if he moved to Sacramento. Of course, she was incredibly happy for him, and very proud, and not surprised to know that others saw qualities of leadership in her handsome eldest brother.

But especially since their father had been killed, Audra had come to depend on 'Pappy' as her surrogate paternal figure. She valued...no needed...his advice and his guidance. Always a gentleman, he treated her like a lady, even when she had been a gangly and awkward teenager, making her feel valued and important. Making her realize that any man she should settle down with, would have to treat her with the same consideration and respect. Some people thought her fickle or too particular, she knew. But Jarrod had made her realize that she should not ever settle for less.

And now, these contented evenings in the library might be drawing to a close. No more quiet games of chess. Of course, she could play against Nick or Heath. But they were inpatient with her when she was slow to move. Teased her mercilessly when she inevitably lost. Jarrod was always patient and encouraging. He even let her win now and again, though he claimed that she had won fair and square. The twinkle in his eye always gave him away though. She knew she could never beat him, really. Jarrod was the smartest person she knew. He could plan several moves ahead, while she struggled with just her current move. She just didn't think the way that he did. The important thing to Audra was that he let her try, always challenging herself even though she could never really challenge him. And in playing against him, she knew that she had gotten better.

Jarrod had always told her. 'Be the very best you, that you can be Audra. Don't ever try to be someone else, because then you will never reach your goal, and you will never be happy. You are a wonderful, special young lady with a gentle and caring soul. Be proud of who you are inside, because who you are is a woman deserving of love and respect and a special man who can appreciate that.'

And he was so thoughtful too, so considerate, their Jarrod. He was always giving the very best gifts to people. Things that they hadn't even asked for, or sometimes even known they had wanted. Like her darling little Blossom. Though she had loved Mr. Chang's small and unique dog, she had never openly expressed her longing for one. But Jarrod had known. Jarrod always knew.

Jarrod reached across and laid his broad hand comfortingly on her arm. She looked up at him, hoping he wouldn't see the sheen of the tears that she had been desperately blinking back. "I may not always be here for you, Audra, in body," Jarrod spoke quietly. So quietly that she had to strain to hear his whispered words. "But I will always be here for you in spirit. And whenever you really need me, you have only to send me word, and I will come. But you are stronger than you think, Pretty Lady, and more independent too. You will always be my little sister, and I will always be your big brother, no matter what else happens in our lives." He squeezed her arm reassuringly. "And anyways, it might well be you who moves away, before me. I've seen the way young Robert Olson looks at you when he comes to call."

Audra chuckled then, blushing furiously. There was something special about the young man, the son of one of the local ranchers, Audra thought. And they had been spending a lot of time together lately. Maybe what Jarrod had intimated wasn't really so farfetched. She knew that Jarrod was trying to comfort her, in his special way.

"I love you, Big Brother," she said softly.

"I love you too," he smiled.

"Hey, what's with all this whispering?" Nick demanded jovially.

Jarrod looked over to where a very uncomfortable looking Nick was holding baby Chase cradled in his arms, while Annabelle and Heath looked on in amusement. Nick was more comfortable with a gun in his hands, or a sack of grain, or a sledgehammer, than he was with an infant. "He's so darn little and fragile," Nick had said in bewilderment on those rare occasions when Heath had settled the baby boy in his arms.

Now Nick stepped closer to Jarrod and Audra. "Here, you two are just talking, not playing anyways," he said gruffly. "Jarrod, it's your turn." He extended his arms, and the cooing baby, straight out to his other uncle.

Tenderly, Jarrod took Chase, smiling down into the perfect, round, chubby little face. Chase's blue eyes were open wide, and he looked curiously up at the man who held him now, as he sucked on his tiny fist. Once again Jarrod was struck with wonder at the miracle of this small being. He felt a protective rush as he cradled the baby next to this chest.

Jarrod missed the look that passed between Heath and Annabelle, as they reached wordlessly to join hands. He didn't see Audra turn to look at Victoria, or the sadness that settled on both lovely faces. He didn't see the knot in Nick's jaw, as it clenched and unclenched. As each of them thought yet again about the lost Beth, and the future that might have been Jarrod's.

Annabelle came towards him then, reaching for her son. "It's time for me to feed this little man, before he devours his hands," she said with a laugh. "And then it's time for him, and I, to turn in. With any luck, he'll sleep through the night again," she commented optimistically.

As Jarrod reluctantly passed the baby back to his mother, and that warmth dissipated from his chest, Jarrod was overcome with such a sense of loneliness, such a yearning, that he made a sudden decision. "I think that the time has come for me to let you all know that there is a young lady that I have been seeing in Sacramento for the last while," he announced. All eyes turned to him in wonder, and he did see the look that passed between Mother and Audra this time. An 'I knew it!' look of satisfaction.

"I was thinking that, with your approval, I might like to invite her out to the ranch for a few days."

"And does this young lady have a name?" Heath teased.

Jarrod laughed. "Her name is Catherine Vandermeer," he said, smiling. "Her father is Patrick Vandermeer."

Audra frowned, perplexed. "I thought her name was Patricia," she said hesitantly.

"Yes," Jarrod confirmed. "That's what I said. Patricia Vandermeer." He shook his head indulgently at her.

"Well, actually," Nick told him, regarding him with dark, thoughtful eyes. "You did say 'Catherine'."

Jarrod was flustered. "I...well...no, her name is Patricia. Patricia Vandermeer." He looked confused. "There was a woman who...came to see me today...at the office...and her name was Catherine," Jarrod said lightly, as though it were of no importance. "I guess I just got things mixed up for a moment. I think by the sounds of it, Annabelle and Chase aren't the only ones who should be turning in and getting some sleep." He laughed uneasily.

"Well, no matter," Victoria said. "We would welcome Patricia to come to Stockton and spend a few days with us here on the ranch. Just let us know when, and I'll make sure Silas fixes up one of the guest rooms. We would be delighted to meet her." Her broad smile hid her sudden reservations. There was more going on with Jarrod than perhaps even he knew. "This has been quite the day," Victoria continued. "Announcements about elections, and now future special guests. I think we should all call it a night!"

Surprisingly, sleep did come easily to Jarrod. But it was not a restful sleep. He tossed and turned, moaning, as the nightly marauders tried to steal his nocturnal soul. And he had the recurring dream again. Only this time, towards the end, there was a difference.

(supposed to be italics here again...sigh)Perhaps there was still time to save her. Jarrod knelt by her side, lifting one of her delicate hands, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing. Her skin was cold beneath his fingers. He withdrew his hand, averting his eyes from the smeared red print his bloodied fingers had left on her slender wrist. The hooded figure still waited, it's back to Jarrod, not interfering with the examination, not even acknowledging Jarrod's presence.

It was too late to save this woman's life, whoever she was. But Jarrod knew that he had to get her body away from this fiend. She should be taken to the funeral home. Identified. Her family notified. A proper Christian burial arranged. Whoever, whatever had done this to her, had to pay. This robed personification of evil had to be detained. Justice had to be served.

Gently, reverently, Jarrod turned the body over. The executioner released her hair at the moment, and Jarrod reached swiftly to catch her and cradle her head before it could slam ignominiously to the ground.

Jarrod gave a guttural moan as he looked down at the familiar face. Green eyes were wide open, but glazed and lifeless. Her pink lips were drawn back, frozen in an eternal scream. Patricia Vandermeer's face, so animated and lovely in life, was a grotesque mask in death. There was blood starting to congeal on the front of her dress. Suddenly, he began to tremble. He knew that dress. It was the same one that Beth had worn when they had eloped in Colorado. He grabbed the woman's left hand, recognizing too the filigreed gold band that he had placed on her finger when they had exchanged their vows. What was this horrible trick? Who was this woman? Beth? Patricia? Jarrod gave a cry of incredible anguish, shaking uncontrollably, his fist pounding the floor in pain and loss and helpless frustration.

Incredibly, horrifically, the dead woman began to speak then, slowly, her voice flat and without intonation. It was Patricia's mouth that formed the words, but it was Beth's voice nonetheless. He knew the verse that she quoted, as well as he knew the words to the Lord's Prayer.

"When man to man united, and every wrong thing righted,
The whole world shall be lighted, as Eden was of old."

And the voice changed, and it was no longer Beth's, but Patricia's. And it quoted another part of the same poem.

"I live for those who love me, for those who know me true;
For the heaven that smiles above me, and awaits my spirit too..."

Jarrod shook his head wildly, trying to reject their words, refusing to contemplate their reference or meaning. He was overcome with hatred and loathing, for whoever had extinguished the lights of these sweet, innocent souls, as a deep pain seared his heart. He set the body aside gently, then sprang to his feet, his earlier fatigue gone. He grabbed the hooded figure by the shoulder. "What have you done to them?" he bellowed in outrage. "For the love of God, what did you DO?" he demanded savagely, spinning the figure around.

Jarrod recoiled, aghast, as his own face smiled benignly back at him.(end of imaginary italics)

Moonlight streamed through his open window, bathing his sweat soaked, naked torso, as Jarrod woke, screaming.

Chapter 9

Jarrod read the message written on the piece of paper once again, before handing it back to the clerk in the telegraph office. "Yes, that's fine, thank you. Please send it now. Hopefully we'll receive a reply before too long."

The telegram had been worded as an invitation from Victoria to Patrick Vandermeer and both of his daughters, Mary as well as Patricia, to come out to the Barkley Ranch as her guests. Naturally, for reasons of propriety, Jarrod couldn't directly ask Patricia to come visit he and his family, since they were not officially engaged yet. Though things were often done more informally here in the Valley, the Vandermeers were from Sacramento high society and there were certain unwritten rules to observe.

Jarrod paid for the message to be sent, then stepped out into the street. He still hadn't quite shaken the talons of last night's nightmare, and was feeling edgy and out of sorts. Mother had asked him over breakfast how he had slept. He assumed that she must have heard him cry out in the night, so to deny that he had been dreaming would only intensify her worries. So instead, he had admitted that he had had a bad dream of some sort, that had awakened him, but that he couldn't recall what it had been about. Jarrod wasn't sure whether or not she was satisfied with that, but she hadn't pressed the matter.

He couldn't understand what this latest development meant...this deviation from the recurring dream that had been bothering him these last few months. It was one thing to dream about Beth's lifeless body. As scary and sickening as that was, Beth was indeed dead and gone from them. Her body laid to rest on a grassy knoll in the family cemetery not far from the house.

But Patricia was vibrantly alive, and to picture her that way, as a corpse, was nauseating. Jarrod hoped that a reply would come from the Vandermeers soon, just so that he would know that Patricia was all right. Of course she was, he knew logically. It was just a meaningless dream. Why then did he feel like he was carrying a great, invisible weight on his shoulders?

Almost without realizing where he was going, Jarrod found his steps taking him past his office, and towards the livery. Then beyond it, to the little shacks that were hidden from the main streets, cramped together back on dusty lanes. Before he could even formulate a plan, he was there at the little house with the blue door, walking through the front gate, ascending the steps. Knocking. He could smell the pink roses, so deeply fragrant on the still morning air.

"Ya lookin' for the squaw?" a voice called to him, from off to his left. Jarrod drew back, hands in his pockets, and peered towards the shadowy porch of the building next door.

"I'm looking for Catherine," he confirmed.

An old man spit a wad of chewing tobacco into his bare yard. "Well, you'll more'n likely find her out back, cookin' up some washin'," he said, amiably enough.

Jarrod thanked him, looking down the row of little cabins, all so close together they were almost touching. There was no way to slip through between them, he would have to go all the way to the end of the row, then circle around back behind to the alleyway there. For the first time he hesitated. What was he doing here? What was he planning to say to her? What reason would he give for seeking her out this morning, when he had only seen her last less than twenty four hours ago?

He had no idea, Jarrod knew. He only knew that he wanted to see her, to be near her. To hear her voice speak anything at all. He felt so discordant today. He didn't want to stop and question his motives. He squelched the inner voices that whispered warnings. That told him that his telegram and invitation to Patricia, coupled with his declaration of love, was a promise to her, and that his presence here was a disloyalty. He only wanted to talk to Catherine. To hold onto this thin ribbon of friendship that he believed they had begun to weave. What could possibly be wrong with that?

He passed through the rear alley, his heart quickening as he picked out her tall, sturdy form, bent now over a big metal pot that hung over an open fire. She had both hands gripped on a thick stick that she used to stir. There were two big piles of dirty laundry on the ground, and other clean clothes hanging from a washline. Her back was to him as she swished the clothes in the pot, keeping a constant agitation. He could see the thin material of her calico dress strain across her back and shoulders as she laboured. What hard, unpleasant work this must be, Jarrod thought, inexplicably angry at the harsh reality of Catherine's existence.

"Good day," he called shyly.

Catherine froze at the sound of his voice. 'Good God,' she thought, stiffening. 'It can't be. Please, no, don't let him see me like this.' She looked down at her hands that held the stick, hands that were raw and blistered today. She felt the sweat that slicked her skin, the dampness under the arms of her dress. She glanced furtively down the laneway where a group of small children were playing, laughing and chasing one another. She looked up at the almost cloudless blue sky, and the shining ball of gases that was the sun. 'Such a beautiful day,' she thought abstractly, 'for all of my dreams to end.'

"Catherine?" Jarrod said, uncertainly. He had seen her body grow rigid at the sound of his voice. He knew that she wasn't happy that he was here. He felt bad that he was intruding, saddened that she didn't seem pleased to know he was there. Foolishly, he had imagined that she might be as glad to see him as he was to see her. Obviously, he had presumed far too much. Had made more of her shared confidences yesterday than she had intended.

She turned then, squaring her shoulders as she faced him. She could only imagine how she must look, what he must be thinking of her. Not that she had ever dared imagine that a man like Jarrod Barkley would ever look at her as a woman. Except perhaps, in the deepest recesses of her most private dreams in those few short hours when sleep finally claimed her fatigued soul. She stood there, rubbing the back of one reddened hand against her forehead, feeling the greasy sheen of sweat that glistened on her face. She knew that the bottom of her dress was smudged with soot from the fire, and dust from the alley. There was nothing remotely feminine or desireable about her, she knew miserably. How shamefully she must compare to the lovely women of his world. Catherine bit her inner lip to hold back tears of humiliation and frustration.

The sounds of the children playing grew closer. 'Couldn't his lovely dream have gone on just a little while longer?' Catherine silently implored an unseen God. She knew how this was all going to play out, with a growing certainty. She had been such a fool to even make herself vulnerable this way. Hadn't she learned anything at all over these last five years?

Catherine saw the confusion on Jarrod Barkley's handsome face. This wasn't the reception he had been expecting, she knew. She was stunned to see that there was no haughty look of distaste on his handsome countenance though. He didn't look totally disgusted and repulsed at seeing her this way. She was confused.

The she heard the dear, sweet voice. "Momma! Momma! Look at my pretty rock!"

Jarrod's eyes widened with surprise as the little girl, no more than three or four, ran up to Catherine, throwing her bare, tanned arms around the young woman's legs. The little girl opened her fist, revealing a sparkling piece of quartz. From the other hand dangled a handmade, cloth doll. She looked up at Catherine with adoring blue eyes. She was a stunning little girl, truly beautiful, with her wavy dark hair, and sapphire eyes set in a honey-coloured face.

Jarrod watched, a detached sense of unreality stealing over him. Catherine bent to admire the stone, smoothing back dark bangs out of the little girl's...her daughter's...eyes. Catherine's touch was so gentle, so loving, the lips that pressed against the child's forehead so sweetly tender. "It's just lovely, Cady," Catherine said, and there was no mistaking the maternal love in the husky tones of her voice.

The child turned to Jarrod, cocking her head curiously, her blue eyes intent. "Hi," she said finally, in her sweet, sing-song voice, bestowing on him a dazzling smile, before running off again to play, the hem of her plain, blue dress skimming the earth.

Jarrod couldn't respond to the girl...Cady, Catherine had called her. He felt as though he'd been punched in the gut, that the wind had been knocked out of him. Catherine Vaillancourt had a child. And if she had a child...quite probably a husband as well. The blood seemed to roar through his ears, as he stood there, feeling disoriented. He felt, irrationally, as though he had been tricked. As though something had been stolen from him. It was illogical, but he couldn't ward off the growing pain and animosity he was feeling.

He hadn't ever asked her about children or a man in her life, and hadn't given any information about his private life either. He couldn't reasonably have assumed that she would just volunteer it up, on the strength of their few brief meetings. Their...acquaintanceship...whatever one wanted to call it, was based on their mutual interest in poetry. Nothing more. Yet Jarrod felt a burning rage building within.

"So, that's your daughter," he said, ashamed at the accusation in his tone.

Catherine jutted out her chin. "Yes," she said, defiantly. Proudly.

"And your husband?" he asked coldly, his eyes narrowing. He almost gagged as his lips formed the word.

"I don't have one," she told him, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

"Divorced?" Jarrod pressed on, unable to stop himself. "Deceased?" There was no sympathy in his voice, however.

"No," Catherine snapped back at him. "Actually, I have never been married."

Jarrod nodded to show that he understood. "I see."

"No, Mr. Barkley," Catherine told him, her voice choked with anger, and humiliation, and what she knew was the impending loss of their tentative friendship. "I can't imagine that you do."

'Mr. Barkley', Jarrod noted. So, whatever warmth they had begun to establish had clearly dissipated. "No, he agreed, "probably not."

Catherine felt the dismissal in his tone. "I don't even know his last name," she continued with forced brightness.

Jarrod wanted to shout at her to stop, to tell her that he didn't want to hear anymore, but he just stood there.

Catherine continued flippantly. "I have no idea where he is now. I don't know anything about him. Or if he was even married. It was just that one night. He doesn't even know about his child." Her dark eyes glinted, daring Jarrod to say more.

Suddenly, all of the anger drained away, and Jarrod felt deflated. Saddened. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Miss Vaillancourt," he said tiredly. "I obviously came at a bad time. You're very busy." He stared at the little girl who skipped happily across the dirt nearby. "Good day." Jarrod tipped his hat, and without waiting for a reply, turned and strode quickly back down the lane, the way he had come.

Catherine watched his receding back, knowing that she would never see him again. The anger that had been sustaining her was gone now, and her shoulders slumped. She took a few stilted steps to the back porch, sinking to the floor. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. She knew what Jarrod Barkley must be thinking of her now. How disgusted he must be. How angry and ashamed that he had wasted his time with a fallen woman like her.

How foolish she had been to think that for a short time she could escape the reality that was her life. She looked over at her playing child, her heart aching with love. She wasn't ashamed of her daughter. Cadence was beautiful and innocent and pure, and the circumstances of her birth were not her fault. To the world she might be a 'bastard'...a horrible word that Catherine loathed...but she was the child of Catherine's body, the child of her heart, and the only thing that had kept her going these last few years. Never once had Catherine regretted this wondrous gift that God had seen fit to bestow upon her. Even though she knew she was not worthy.

Had she honestly thought that she and Jarrod Barkley were going to be friends? Was she really so naive? Catherine recalled the way he had touched her that first time, holding her arm to look at the small cut where the knife had slipped. She recalled the sensitivity in his handsome face as she had told him the story of her people. She remembered the deep, mellifluous sound of his voice as he had read to her from the book of poems.

'The saint, who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.'

She pictured his face as he made the comment about her daughter, his lips curling with distaste. And she wept, burying her face in her apron. Then a small hand began to caress her hair, with short, gentle strokes, and Catherine wept harder until she had no more tears to cry. Then she picked up the little body and pulled her onto her lap, and sad wordlessly, rocking her child.

Chapter 10

Jarrod sat in his study, holding the telegram that Ciego had brought back from town this evening. He read it again, trying to muster some enthusiasm. 'Thank you for the kind invitation. Stop. Unable to come myself due to prior business. Stop. Mary currently out of town with family. Stop. Patricia will accept on our behalf. Stop. Will arrive on the Thursday train. Stop. Regards, Patrick Vandermeer. Stop.' She had wasted no time. Patricia Vandermeer would be here tomorrow.

Jarrod set the telegram down on the desk, and rose, easing one hand into the pocket of his silk dressing gown, while he smoothed the other through his black hair. He imagined he should sleep well tonight. He would have earned it. It wouldn't hurt to have a little insurance though, he thought, as he poured himself another brandy.

After he had spoken to Catherine, he had retrieved Jingo from the livery and ridden home at breakneck speed. Before anyone had even seen him, he had changed clothes, then remounted and ridden out to the south pasture, where Nick had mentioned some fences needed work. Nick, Heath, and the men were in the north end, doing some branding on a small herd of mavericks that had wandered in from the hills and mixed with the Barkley herd. Jarrod had toiled in the afternoon sun, alone, the way he wanted, mending breaks in the fence line. Uncoiling barbed wire, recoiling it again, pounding fenceposts back into the baked earth.

Jarrod hadn't done such physical labour in a long while. Though he was still in good shape, his muscles had felt the strain of overuse. He had ignored the protestations of his body though, throwing himself into the mindless work, trying to drown from his memory his earlier exchange with Catherine Vaillancourt. It hadn't done him any good though. He couldn't ignore the anger and the pain that he was still feeling, and he was too confused and bewildered by his responses to this latest revelation...that Catherine had a child...to know how to compartmentalize them. He only knew that he was deeply upset and that he was...

...was what? He pondered now. What exactly did he feel? He remembered the look on Catherine's face as he asked his curt, haughty questions about the child. Not just any child, he thought ashamedly. Her child. A beautiful little child that she loved. And he had stood there, speaking so detachedly, as though any of it had even been any of his business, or should be any of his concern. As though he had some supreme right to question her.

He understood what she must have thought. That he was judging her. Jarrod closed his eyes, his features pinched. That wasn't it at all though. He didn't really think poorly of her because she had had a child out of wedlock. Sometimes, things just happened he knew. He was no saint himself. He'd lain with women that he had loved or lusted after, and who had had feelings for him, without the benefit of marriage.

His own father had strayed from his vows, had been intimate with Heath's mother Leah, resulting in the birth of his half-brother. Jarrod didn't think poorly of Leah, though he had never actually known her. She had died before Heath had learned that he was a Barkley, and then had shared that bombshell with the rest of them. It had taken Jarrod some time to come to terms with what exactly his father's indiscretion meant to them all. But he didn't harbour any ill-will towards Leah or even imagine that he could every possibly understand what had happened between the pair, or believe that he even needed to.

Jarrod had befriended clients before with shady pasts, and he had never passed judgement on their lifestyles. He knew that in a world where men had all of the power, women sometimes had to do things as a last resort that they might have preferred not to do. That sometimes, they had to use the only hold it often seemed that they had over men, the only thing that they alone could control, their bodies. And sometimes, children were born, in less than ideal situations.

Jarrod couldn't stand the thought that Catherine must believe that he looked down on her, that he thought less of her now. It truly wasn't that at all. This didn't change how he felt about her, which was that she was an unique, wonderful, warm-hearted woman. It was only that he was...

...jealous. Yes, he acknowledged to himself. Jealous. Jealous of the man whose lips had claimed Catherine's. Jealous of the man who had held her in his arms. Jealous of the man who had kindled in her what Jarrod knew instinctively would be a great passion. Jealous of the man whose child she had carried and borne.

It was totally irrational for him to feel this way. A friendship between he and Catherine could never be more than that...a friendship. He had certain obligations. He simply could not entertain such ludicrous thoughts. It was likely only his male pride and vanity...his ego...that was feeling bruised. She hadn't ever hinted that she was interested in him as any more than friend, anyhow. Catherine had given him no encouragement in that direction. There was none of the coy flirting that he was used to from women. Perhaps that was one of the things that he had found so refreshing about her. She had seemed so pure and untouchable. He didn't care about her any less though to learn that she was not, indeed, a paragon of virtue, but instead a very real, very human, fallible being.

I can salvage this, Jarrod thought. I can make amends to her...yet again. He couldn't come right out and admit that he had been jealous though. In addition to humiliating himself, he would only embarrass and perhaps offend Catherine, distancing her even more. But maybe there was a way that he could make her know that this didn't need to change things between them. To let her know that whatever had happened in her past, whatever decisions she had made, or choices she had been forced into...it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter to their friendship.

An idea came to fruition then, and Jarrod returned to his desk. He reached into a drawer for a sheet of paper, then dipped his pen into the inkwell. He touched the end of the pen to his lips for a moment, hesitating briefly, then touched the pen to paper and began to write. Three times he crumpled up the page and began again on a new sheet, until on the fourth try he was satisfied with what he had produced. It was well past midnight when Jarrod extinguished the lamp and headed upstairs to bed. And for the first time in a long while, he actually did sleep soundly.

The next afternoon, Jarrod hitched up the buggy to go into Stockton and meet Patricia Vandermeer's train. Silas had prepared a guestroom for her, and Mother and Audra bustled about cleaning and tidying what Jarrod thought was already an immaculate house. The others were so excited at breakfast, Nick, Heath and Annabelle, Mother and Audra, that Jarrod had found their mood infectious. He had bantered good-naturedly, more like the Jarrod of old. He had consumed a hearty breakfast, and ensured Nick and Heath before they headed out to the range that he would have Patricia here in time for the evening's meal.

Jarrod had spent the morning working in his study on some legislation that he hoped to have introduced, that would help iron out some of the inadequacies in California's parole system, one that the Barkley's had been influential in instituting, and which was still in it's growing stages. He paused as he rewrote a paragraph, fine-tuning the language, as it hit him just what it could mean if he were elected to Governor of the state. Of the things that he could change, the good that he could do. The reality of it took his breath away.

Now he waited on the platform outside the station, as he heard the train whistle in the distance. In no time at all, Patricia would be stepping from the coach, and into his arms. And before she left the Barkley Ranch, she would be expecting him to ask her to marry him. His stomach knotted at the thought. It was natural to be nervous, he told himself. It was a big step. Something that would alter forever the course of his life. Hadn't he felt these same reservations before he had asked Beth to be his wife?

Jarrod felt the ground shake as the train chugged along the tracks, and he could see it now in the distance. He was hit suddenly with a memory of his recurring nightmare, the way the ground would shake as the unidentified riders pursued him. He felt the sweat break out on his brow, and wiped it away with his handkerchief. He recalled Patricia's face in the nightmare, twisted eternally in the agony of death.

"Jarrod, you all right?" a voice called to him. Jarrod turned to see the station master, John Hodges, looking at him with concern. "You look white as a sheet."

Jarrod felt as though he'd boarded a runaway train, and was being swept along helplessly. He gulped several times, trying to steady himself, as John laid a hand on his arm. Finally, Jarrod nodded. "Fine thanks, John. Just a bit dizzy there for a minute. I think I got a bit too much sun yesterday, I was out on the range fixing fences. An old desk mule like myself isn't used to all that fresh air and sunshine," he laughed jovially, fixing a smile on his face.

John clucked at him. "It was a warm one, by golly," he agreed. "Well, as long as you're all right, it looks like I got me some more tickets to sell." John indicated the wicket where two young women stood waiting. "Take care, you hear."

"Thanks, John," Jarrod said.

And then there was the screech of metal on metal as the train from Sacramento pulled into Stockton station. Jarrod saw the soft grey blur, and felt the displaced air on his face. Then suddenly Patricia was in his arms, covering his face with light kisses. "Oh Jarrod, it's so good to see you!" she enthused. "I couldn't wait to get here, once we got your telegram. Oh darling, I can't wait to meet your family, to see the ranch, your office here, everything that is a part of your life! I can't tell you what it means to me to be here!" She laid her cheek against his chest.

Jarrod held her in his arms, looking around surreptitiously. Checking to see who might be watching them. Relieved that there was one pair of dark eyes in particular that wasn't witnessing this reunion. Jarrod did see though that young Petey, the shoeshine boy, was finished with his latest customer and on his way to complete his errand.

Petey was now headed towards the other end of town, carrying a small package and an envelope with Catherine Vaillancourt's name written on it. The half dollar that Mr. Barkley had given him felt satisfyingly heavy in his pocket, and he whistled as he hurried along the sidewalk, down to the shanties, to that injun washerwoman's shack. The house with the blue door and the pink flowers, Mr. Barkley had told him, making Petey repeat the instructions back to him. Petey liked Mr. Barkley. He had his black, leather boots shined often and was always a big tipper. Petey was more than happy to make this delivery for him. Especially as he thought about some of the penny candy he would reward himself with afterwards, grinning broadly.

"It's wonderful to see you as well, Patricia," Jarrod. He picked up her suitcases, and carried them to the waiting carriage. Then he helped her up into the front seat. "And you look lovely," he complimented her. She did, with her dark hair piled up in stylish do, her features lightly accented with powder and rouge, her lips darkly pink. Her dress was the latest in fashion, he assumed, with it's deep green folds and pleated cream bodice. Her hand, reaching across to take his, was small and delicate and soft. He gazed down at it, knowing that these beautifully manicured hands had never stirred laundry in a steaming pot, never scrubbed clothes on a wash board, never sewn torn or tattered fabric.

"I am bit nervous," Patricia confided, as Jarrod urged the horse to a trot. "About meeting your family." She smiled bravely.

Jarrod grinned, and reached out to tap the end of her pert, little nose. "Don't you worry about a thing," he assured her. "You are everything that they could possibly be expecting." He didn't notice the funny sidelong glance she gave him at what she thought was a peculiar choice of words.

Continued…