Those Who Know Me True

Chapters 11-20

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 11

Patricia handled herself at dinner with grace and charm, just as Jarrod had known she would. She looked stunning in the off-the-shoulder, gold gown that she wore. He had noted the way that Nick, and even Heath's eyes had widened appreciatively as she had descended the staircase behind Audra. Candlelight from the silver candlesticks that graced the table danced on the emerald necklace at the hollow of her slender, creamy throat, and on the matching emerald earrings. She wore her dark hair swept up off her neck and rolled into a chignon. She looked bright and refreshed and youthful and vibrant.

She spoke easily with Mother and Annabelle, and Audra especially. Her questions to Nick and Heath were demure, designed to draw them out, to flatter them and make them feel masculine and important. Jarrod worried at first about Annabelle, but she merely looked on with indulgent amusement, secure in her place in her husband's affections. And Patricia never crossed any lines, or behaved the least bit inappropriately.

Audra was particularly animated, questioning Patricia at length about Sacramento, about the parties she had most recently attended, about the people she knew, about the latest fashions. Patricia was happy to indulge the other young woman's curiosity, managing at the same time to include everyone with her often humourous observations. Her table manners were impeccable. Her voice, her laughter, were just the right octave, not too loud or brash. She was educated, and well-informed on current events, but not the least outspoken or opinionated.

And all the while as dinner progressed, every so often her gaze would return to Jarrod, her eyes so tender and full of love. He knew that she was beautiful, elegant, and charming. She fit at the Barkley table like the piece of a puzzle that they hadn't even known was missing. She might have known them all for years, rather than only a couple of hours. She was a young woman who had been groomed to enjoy the finer things in life, and to move easily through the lives of others in her station. She was a young woman who had been destined from birth to be the partner of a man like himself.

Silas brought dessert, assorted pastries on a tray. As he set them down on the table, he grumbled that he had also made an almond cake, in honour of Miss Patricia's visit, but that somehow it had gone missing. Almonds were in season now, and this coffee cake was one of his specialties, a recipe that had been passed down in his family for generations.

Silas had frowned sharply in Nick's direction, but Nick had raised his hands before him in innocence. Patricia had insisted that she really preferred the pastries anyhow, taking a bite of a miniature tart, exclaiming that it was the most delicious thing that she had ever tasted. Silas, had puffed up at the praise, forgetting about the lost cake, his feelings assuaged, as he beamed at the young woman.

She always knows exactly what she should say and do, Jarrod thought with satisfaction. He could tell that they all liked Patricia. Just as he had known they would.

Afterwards, Jarrod took Patricia for a stroll in the moonlight. The moon was full and white, clearly defined in the indigo sky, the shadowy craters easy to detect. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, it's mournful call echoing through the valley. Patricia shivered, moving closer to Jarrod.

"No need to be frightened," Jarrod said lightly. "They're miles away. They rarely come anywhere near people if they can help it."

Patricia stopped, tilting her head up to him. "It seems so wild here," she commented. "So untamed." She looked past him to the stars. "They sky seems so big out here. I can't help but feel so small."

Jarrod too looked up at the familiar constellations and felt himself stirred by the vastness of the universe. He understood what Patricia meant, about feeling small. He remembered the words to a verse and felt compelled to quote them for her. To let her know that it was universal, man's feeling of insignificance when faced with the unending magnitude that was only revealed when the sun had dimmed.

"Thou proud man, look upon yon starry vault,
Survey the countless gems which richly stud
The night's imperial chariot;--Telescopes
Will show the myriads more, innumerous
As the sea-sand;
What art thou in the scale of the universe?"

Patricia smiled at him politely. "That's pretty, Jarrod. You're so very smart, and you have the most amazing memory," she told him, eager to please.

He tried not to show his disappointment. "Could you live out here, Patricia?" he asked her. "In this wild country?"

Patricia tilted her head to one side, frowning. "But Jarrod, if you're to be Governor, you'll be moving to Sacramento permanently," she said gently. Her eyes widened then and she pressed her hand to her lips. "Oh dear, I am sorry. Daddy didn't tell me anything, honestly. I just overheard him talking one night." She reached for him, touching his face with her cupped palm, in the gesture that she knew he found soothing. "But if that doesn't happen, or it isn't what you want, it doesn't matter to me, Jarrod. Wherever you went, I would follow, if...if you wanted me to."

Jarrod took her hand in his, pressing his lips to her palm. Further along the valley, a coyote howled again, perhaps the same one, and it's mate answered. "It's late," he said quietly. "And you've had a long day. I think we should call it a night. Tomorrow morning I have to ride into Stockton to take in some papers that I forgot to drop off at the office. I thought that perhaps you could meet me for lunch."

"That would be fine," Patricia agreed pleasantly. "I'd like to see your office."

He kept hold of her hand as they turned and headed back to the house, which was illuminated softly in nocturnal light. There was a light on upstairs, his mother's room, and another had been left on in the guest room where Patricia would sleep.

He parted from her at the bottom of the stairs, kissing her chastely on the corner of the mouth. She turned her face, her lips hungrily seeking his. She pressed herself against him, and he felt the soft, womanly outline of her body. He slid one hand around her waist, and kissed her in return, then pulled away abruptly. "Good night," he said gently. "I'll see you in the morning at breakfast. Sleep well, Pretty Lady."

Patricia looked for a moment as though she wanted to say something, then thought better of it, bowing her head. "Good night, my dearest Jarrod," she acquiesced.

He watched her go up the staircase, delicate hands holding up the length of the lovely, expensive gown, her carriage so regal. She looked like she belonged there, against the sweeping backdrop of the curving main staircase. He tried to imagine for a moment that she were his bride, and it was their shared bedroom that she ascended to now, and that it was his right to follow her. What delights might await him there? He sighed, then went on into his study.

Only moments after he had lit the lamp on the desk and sat down, there was a knock at the door. "Jarrod," his mother's voice called out softly. "May I come in?"

"Certainly," he called in return, rising.

"Please, sit down," Victoria told him, crossing the room towards another chair.

She wore a long, high-necked blue dressing gown, and the way it swirled over the beige-carpeted floor, made Jarrod think of the way the child's blue dress had skimmed over the packed earth yesterday morning. "You're up late, Mother," Jarrod said, leaning back in the chair and lighting a cigar. He unbuttoned the collar of his dress shirt.

"I was doing some needle point," she explained. Then she laughed. "Well, that's only partly true. I was waiting up for you."

Jarrod frowned. "Is there a problem with Patricia?" he asked, leaning forward intently.

Victoria looked taken aback. "A problem with Patricia? No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Then you like her?" Jarrod probed, sounding eerily like an attorney at trial.

"Well, I've just met her," Victoria prefaced. "But yes, I like her very much. She's a lovely young woman, and I think she cares for you very much."

Jarrod nodded, relieved. "Is she everything that you expected then?" he queried.

Victoria hesitated, as her brow creased. "That I expected?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "Jarrod, what exactly is it that you think I 'expected'?"

Jarrod looked uncertain. "Well, I'm sure you must have certain expectations for a Barkley wife," he prompted.

"A Barkley wife?" Victoria said carefully. "Son, you haven't said exactly what your intentions are with this young woman, though I imagined that it must be getting serious for you to be inviting her here to meet us all. But if there is anyone that you love deeply, that you are committed to and want to share your life with, who you believe is what you want and need in a partner...then my only 'expectation' is that you follow your heart. As you did with Beth.

"I don't even know what you mean by a 'Barkley' wife. Annabelle is, I believe, the perfect wife for Heath Barkley. And I can't help but feel that one day you, and Nick, and Gene will all find the perfect wives for each of you. But only you can know what and who would be the best wife for Jarrod Barkley."

How much pressure her beloved son always put on himself, and how much he always had, almost from childhood it had seemed. Victoria wondered sadly if there were things she and Tom had done when Jarrod was growing up, expectations that they had implied, certain standards of behaviour that perhaps they had enforced too strictly.

Jarrod had always had such an overwhelming sense of duty. She had always been proud of him for that, felt that it had helped to make him the exemplary man that he was. But now, for the first time, she wondered just what it might have cost Jarrod over the years, to always have to maintain that sense of dignity, to command respect and to always feel such a sense of obligation to others.

Jarrod seemed agitated. "Well, isn't Patricia exactly the sort of woman that I should be with? She's beautiful. From a good family. Kind. Charming."

Victoria's mouth pulled down at the corners. She pushed up from the chair, going around the desk to her eldest son, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Jarrod, listen to yourself. The sort of woman you 'should' be with?" He's describing Beth, she knew. Was Jarrod trying to replace Beth with this other young woman. She was not so like Beth in appearance, but Victoria had thought to herself earlier during dinner that in temperament, and attitude, and background, Patricia Vandermeer did indeed remind her in many ways of Beth.

Not once had she heard her son mention the word 'love' when speaking about Patricia Vandermeer. Had he perhaps seen something of Beth in her, something that drew him to her unwittingly? Had he made or implied promises to this girl, without truly being in love with her, just because she made him think of his lost Beth? Might he know in his heart of hearts that he didn't love her, but feel that he was in too deep to see a way out?

"I know that sometimes we find ourselves caught up in situations that, as time progresses, we might realize aren't really what is best for us. And sometimes it's hard for us to see a clear way out. Just remember though, until those sacred words are actually exchanged before God, we still have the right to change our minds."

Jarrod looked at her intently, wanting to believe her. "But I've been seeing Patricia for months, courting her in effect. I've told her that I loved her, and I know that she loves me. I've invited her here to the ranch, and now she will be expecting a proposal of marriage. I've more or less stated my intentions, made certain obligations..." he let his words trail off. "And I'm more than ready for a family of my own, Mother. It's something that I've wanted for a long, long time. How much longer should I have to keep searching?"

Her heart went out to her beloved son. Her first born. Was Jarrod setting himself up for heartache and disaster, trying to replace a woman who was dead and buried, trying to recreate a lost love? It would be impossible for any mortal woman to measure up to a romanticized memory. Was he trying to recreate the family that he had imagined he would have shared with Beth by now? What though, could she say to Jarrod, without alienating him or causing him additional pain? Without overstepping her bounds?

In her heart, Victoria didn't believe that Patricia Vandermeer, as lovely and 'perfect' as she was, as obviously as she cared for Jarrod, was the right woman for him. Her dear, sweet Jarrod...a truly special man with so very much to offer. But a complex man, she knew, who needed a very special woman to understand and appreciate all that he was.

"Are you in love with his woman, Jarrod?" she had to ask.

"I believe she loves me very much," he replied, without answering her question, which was answer enough.

"Jarrod," she said, touching her hand to his chin, gazing down into his blue eyes, so like Tom's. Blue eyes that now were clouded with uncertainty. "Just because someone chooses to love you, it doesn't mean that you owe them the same in return. Love isn't always fair, and it isn't always equal, and it isn't something that you can write up laws to govern," she told him sadly.

"Marriage is hard enough at the best of times, I know. And in the worst of times, it can be damn near impossible. Even for two people who love each whole heartedly and have a full commitment to a shared life.

"The only thing you ever owe someone else, Jarrod, is honesty."

He nodded finally, seeming to consider her words. "She's a lot like Beth, in many ways, don't you think?" Jarrod asked suddenly, almost as though he had read her earlier thoughts.

"Why I...yes, I suppose she is," Victoria answered truthfully.

Jarrod smiled up at her then, seeming satisfied, patting the hand on his shoulder. "Well, I know that you approved of Beth, didn't you mother."

Again Victoria was confused by Jarrod's choice of words. Expectations? Should marry? Approved? "I only knew her a short time, but yes, I cared for her." She hesitated. "Jarrod, you've been in love before. You know what it's like, how to tell when you've found that special person that you couldn't not give your heart to, even if you tried. You will find that again. You deserve that again. And maybe it could be with Patricia Vandermeer, and maybe not, but the only one who can really know that, is you."

For a moment, Victoria felt that they were at a crossroads. Jarrod's face relaxed for a moment, he looked unguarded, not like the confident, take charge attorney that always faced the world. The one who always had all the answers. She thought that he wanted to say something more to her, then a veil settled over his eyes and the wall was up again. "Well, I have to get to bed now," was all that he told her, seeming to forget whatever had brought him to the study in the first place. "Even if you don't need your beauty sleep, Mother, I still need mine," he teased, putting out the cigar.

Victoria felt that she was missing something vital. That there was something important that she needed to say to Jarrod, some mistake that she had to prevent him from making. But all she could do was follow him up the stairs, kissing his clean-shaven cheek, before watching him disappear into his room. 'Oh Jarrod,' she thought sorrowfully. 'I hope that I figure out how to help you before it's too late. For you, and for Patricia.'

Chapter 12

Catherine sat at the small table, sipping the hot, black coffee, savouring the small piece of cake. Savouring too these few quiet moments when Cadence was still asleep in the back room, on the narrow, sagging cot that was their mutual bed. Savouring the stillness, and the chance to think private thoughts, before she must begin again, with the steadily rising sun, her labours.

She looked at the sheet of paper that she held in her hand, awed and humbled all over again. She had been surprised when she had seen the freckled face of the young shoeshine boy at her door yesterday afternoon. She had seen him in town before, usually near the train station. He had handed her an envelope and a small package wrapped in brown paper, bowing grandly, before giggling and scampering off.

Curiously, she had unwrapped the package first, her mouth watering as the delicious, fragrant scent of almonds wafted from the freshly baked cake. It had been so long since she and Cadence had had anything sweet like this. The last time had been Cadence's birthday, more than two months earlier, when Catherine had taken one of the carefully hoarded bills from the glass jar in the cupboard, and splurged on some extra lard and powdered sugar, and made her darling daughter a little cake. Where had this wonderful treasure come from, Catherine had wondered.

Suddenly afraid that perhaps the package had come to the wrong house, that it wasn't meant for her at all, she had turned the envelope over. But no, that was her name, written in smooth, even strokes. With shaking hands, she had eased it open, removing the single, folded sheet from within. She had unfolded it hesitantly, unsure of whether or not she really wanted to read it. She had carried it over to the rocker, sitting down slowly. There was only one person that she could possibly think of who would write to her, would send her a gift. But that just wasn't possible, she knew. That dream was dead...she had watched it die. A sudden thought came to her, tension lining her face. Perhaps, this delivery had been arranged before the debacle of yesterday.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine had begun to read the elegantly penned words. Her mind raced. She had to read it again, to make sure that she wasn't misunderstanding. Tears had welled up in her eyes then, spilling over and leaving glistening trails down tanned cheeks. She couldn't believe it. He had done this...for her. In spite of what he believed about her, he was reaching out to her yet again. Catherine thought that she had never read more beautiful words in her entire life. Her breath caught in her throat as she whispered the words aloud, their full impart releasing a store of pain and fear and loneliness.

"Sometimes in God's unique design, there is a bigger plan
That cannot ever be understood by simple, mortal man.
Sometimes he gives us tribulations, trials that wrench our soul,
While all the time he has for us a final, worthwhile goal.

Sometimes, what first might seem a blow, that throws us from our moorings,
Is really a blessing in disguise, as we feel those first faint stirrings.
An act that made us bow our heads in humility or shame - comes to a sweet fruition.
And what started out on shaky ground, becomes a welcome and special addition.

Forgive those who forget and falter, and at first fail to understand,
What human frailties others might have, though it makes them no less grand.
All that matters, is what is before us today, and what course the river now flows,
And the way that we handle and conduct our lives now can put rest to life's past woes.

Our past we put behind us, we can no more change what's locked in time,
Than we could ever unravel our maker's plans, or discover the reason or rhyme.
Let no other man ever judge us, for what we have had to do in our lives,
For only mighty God can do that, and only He knows what we've survived."

It was signed simply, 'J.B.'

Jarrod Barkley had written this poem especially for her. Had taken the time, had felt that it was important, to let her know that whatever her past sins, whatever the circumstances of her daughter Cadence's birth, he did not judge her for that. Despite the way he had seemed to react initially, he did not believe that her sweet girl was an abomination. Or that she, Catherine, was someone beneath contempt.

Catherine didn't understand. She recalled, with shame, the way she had tried to bait Jarrod into saying something that would be irrevocably damaging to their burgeoning relationship. The way she had thrown up his face the fact that her daughter had no father, that she, Catherine, had no husband. She knew why she had done it, of course. To protect herself. To feel not that he had turned away from her, but that she had forcefully turned him away. To save what little pride she had left. But it hadn't worked, it hadn't accomplished that at all. She had only been left feeling worse. Bereft.

And in the end...incredibly...he had come back. He had searched his mind and his heart for a way to let her know that he was not prepared to be her judge and jury. That there were things that he might not understand, but that it wasn't necessary for him to understand them. He offered her unconditional acceptance. Catherine was unaccustomed to such a gift. Wasn't sure, if after her behaviour yesterday, she even deserved it.

What a truly one-of-a-kind man Jarrod Barkley was. She was ashamed that she was always putting such low expectations on him, and that he was constantly raising the bar. She knew that she had to go to him, had to explain everything, tell him the truth, no matter how shameful and painful it was. He deserved that much from her.

She had gone to his office yesterday afternoon, only to find it locked. She had knocked anyways, but no one had answered. How desperately she had wanted to talk to him, but she had walked home again, consoling herself that tomorrow was another day. And that there would be a day after that, and one after that. Eventually, she would speak with him again.

She had arranged for Halley McNeil, the woman next door, to watch Cadence for her for a while this morning. Halley had five children of her own. One more wouldn't make a whit of difference she had assured Catherine, as she had done on other occasions, her broad, black face breaking out in a semi-toothless grin. Halley wasn't quite her friend. Catherine could sense the woman had some reservations about an Indian woman. But Halley found Cadence adorable, as did her gregarious brood, and the child, at least, had found a measure of acceptance.

The morning couldn't pass quickly enough for Catherine, who tried to keep herself occupied with mending. She couldn't concentrate though, and kept pricking her finger with the needle. Finally, disgusted and annoyed with herself for getting blood on one of the clean shirts, which would now need to be washed again, she set the sewing aside and decided that it was late enough in the morning for her to attempt another visit to Jarrod's office. She let Halley know that she was going now, washed her hands and face and brushed her hair, tucked the folded sheet of paper into the pocket of her dress, then headed out.

Jarrod had just returned from the courthouse where he had filed some papers, when he heard Catherine's voice in the outer office. "Well, Mr. Barkley isn't officially working today," George was explaining grumpily. "He's on his way out again soon, I don't really think he's seeing anyone..."

"George!" Jarrod interrupted from the doorway. His eyes sought Catherine's across the room. His heart began to gallop in his chest. She was here. She had come. She had understood, and she had forgiven him yet again. He thought that her smile was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen. "It's all right, George," Jarrod told him. "Miss Vaillancourt is a friend, not a client. Catherine, please come in."

Catherine heard the clerk make an unhappy sound, but she ignored him, walking past him and on into the private inner office. Jarrod closed the door, ushering her to the same chair that she had sat on before, this time taking the chair angled nearby. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. As George had indicated, Jarrod wasn't dressed for the office today, but more casually in dark blue pants and shirt, with the tan leather vest. The dark blue of the shirt made his eyes appear a deeper shade today.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to see you," he began. "How awful I felt about what happened the other day."

"Jarrod, please," Catherine assured him. "You didn't say or do anything wrong."

"I gather you received and read my amateur attempt at poetry," Jarrod said, his mouth curving to the left in an embarrassed smile.

"It was the most beautiful thing I have ever read," Catherine said, with such emotion that he was taken aback. "Jarrod, what you did was the kindest, most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done for me," she told him. "And you have been doing nice things for me since we first met. Treating me with the same respect and consideration that I believe you must show all people.

"The first time you came to my place, I was terrified that you were coming to arrest me." She saw his eyes widen with surprise. "I thought that something might be missing from your briefcase, perhaps money, and that you would think I had taken it. I was afraid...not for what might happen to me, but for what would happen to Cadence, if there was no one there to take care of her."

"Cadence," Jarrod repeated slowly. "What a wonderful name. Like the balance and rhythm of poetry."

Catherine nodded and smiled. "Or, as in music. A harmonic finish...a sense of resolution. That is what my sweet Cadence is to me," she explained to him.

"I'm sorry that I frightened you that day," Jarrod said regretfully, returning to her earlier remark.

Catherine shook her head. "I was simply projecting my fears onto you. I wasn't giving you the benefit of the doubt, the way I hadn't in your office the previous day when you had told me that you weren't taking new clients. When, I...well, you know what I thought." He nodded, knowing too that she had had good reason to make that leap, based on the way the world had treated her. "Anyhow, the point is, despite the fact that you kept proving to me, over and over, what a good and decent man you are...despite the fact that you offered me your...friendship...and honesty, and showed what sort of person you are...I continued to expect the worst from you."

"Catherine, really, there's no need to say any of this," Jarrod said. "I understand. People often make assumptions, and it's usually based on other experiences. I can imagine why it would be hard for you to trust me."

"I need for you to understand why I acted the way that I did yesterday," Catherine continued insistently. "Why I let you think the worst of me, because I believed that no matter what I said, that was what you would think anyways. Why I tried to push you away, rather than risk rejection. When I should have trusted you enough to tell you the rest of my story."

"Please," Jarrod said. "It doesn't matter. Not to me. I don't need to know. There's no need to put yourself through any of that."

Catherine's eyes were bright, her gaze intense. "Please, Jarrod," she implored. "I need to tell me story, and I need for you to listen. Please."

Jarrod looked at her, waging an inner battle. He really didn't want to hear all of the details. He could accept that she had a past...that there had been a man...but he didn't want to know. He could feel the bitter jealousy building up in him again. But he could also see the naked need on her face. She needed for him to be her confessor. Jarrod sighed, pushing his personal feelings aside. That was who he was. It was what he did.

And then she began to tell him the rest of the tale, life as it had been when, and after, her parents had been killed. And it wasn't at all what Jarrod had been expecting.

"We awoke to heat and flames, and smoke filled the interior of the wagon," Catherine was saying. "The nights had gotten cooler, and rather than sleeping out under the stars, which Father and I actually preferred, we had taken to sleeping in the wagon, for Mother's sake.

"My father and I helped my mother out, and then he made sure that I was out too, before jumping out of the wagon himself. I was disoriented, and couldn't understand what had happened. I was scared and felt guilty too. It had been my responsibility to put out the campfire that night. All I could think was that I hadn't kicked enough dirt over the embers, hadn't poured enough water onto the logs. Somehow, a wind must have sprung up, a spark must have caught on the dry timber of the wagon, igniting the fire. I knew that the even with the little creek nearby, there was no way we could save the wagon. And everything that we owned was inside.

"Then I heard the whinny of our horses, tethered nearby. Followed by a horrible, evil laughter. And I knew that I hadn't been careless with the fire. Someone had deliberately set us aflame.

"Father hadn't heard the men, and he was trying desperately to crawl back into the burning wagon, to salvage what he could. We didn't have much, but there were some things that were precious to us. Some of my father's favourite books. A quilt that his mother had made when my parents were married. A hollowed out rabbit's bone that my mother stored her precious sewing needles in. It had belonged to her mother, and grandmother, before her.

"While my father was busy, two men grabbed my mother and me. A third trained his rifle on us. I yelled to my father, and as he turned away from the wagon, his face a mask of disbelief, a spark landed on his sleeve. The fire devoured his arm, and he dropped to the ground, rolling, as the flames lapped at his upper body. My mother and I struggled to get free, yelling to my father, begging the men to help him. They just kept on laughing, then the one with the rifle started to fire bullets into the ground."

Jarrod's face was slack, as he sat up in his chair, his hands gripping his knees, as he watched Catherine relive the terror. How in God's name could people treat one another like that? No matter how much ugliness he saw firsthand, or heard about, it never ceased to shock and sadden him.

"My mother, my tiny, weakened mother, managed somehow to get away. She threw herself on my father's body, just as he was starting to scream, as he writhed in agony. The man with the rifle said, 'You want me to help him, squaw? Okay, I'll help him.' And he fired the rifle.

"But the bullet struck my mother instead of him. I heard him say, 'Oops!' He laughed again. In the midst of his pain and his terror, I think my father realized what had happened. That he knew my mother was dead. And he let out a cry of such loss, such pain, that I still hear it sometimes when I close my eyes at night."

Jarrod was nauseated. He wanted to tell Catherine to stop, please stop. He couldn't bear to see the emptiness in her eyes, as she pulled away from the world, into some lonely corner of her mind.

"'Shut up!' the man shouted then. 'You're giving me the willies!' And then he fired again, and all was quiet and my father's body too was still. The fire though began to envelope them both. I could smell the stench of burning hair, and then skin. And I began to retch."

Catherine had already given Jarrod the condensed version of the attack, and of her parent's deaths. She had spared him the vivid detail the first time around, though he had thought it bad enough. Now, he felt as though he were there with her, witnessing everything first hand.

"The men began to beat me then. Striking blows to my face, my chest, my abdomen. When I slumped to the ground, they began to kick at me, calling me vicious, horrible names. I tried to curl up, to protect myself as best I could, to tuck my head close to my body, and cover it with my hands. But it was no use. There were three of them. Strong, young men.

"Then...then one of them was tearing at my dress, pulling at my undergarments. Instead of hitting me, he was kissing me now. I could smell the stench of him, as though he hadn't bathed in months. And the liquor on his breath was strong. I...I had never been with a man before, but I knew what men and women did together. And I knew what this man was going to do. I fought and kicked and bit his mouth til I drew blood.

Catherine's face was flushed crimson with her shame. "The other two men held me down. I was in shock from my parent's death, and in pain from the beating, and I couldn't fight for long. The other two men laughed and called encouragement to him. They called him 'Jesse'. I could see in the light from the fire that he had long, curly red hair, and that his eyes...so wild and inhuman...were a pale blue. He forced himself on me, while the other two men watched.

"When he was done, he offered them a turn, but they didn't want to touch 'a dirty squaw'. They took the horses, and then rode off. I could hear the sounds of the receding hoofbeats."

Catherine got suddenly to her feet then. Her face had an unhealthy pallor. Jarrod got up to go to her, but she stepped backward, away from him, shaking her head vehemently. He wanted to go to her, to hold her, to take away her pain and her fear and the horror of what had happened to her. But she couldn't stand to be touched just then, he could see. Jarrod was filled with a deep rage at the heinousness of the acts those unknown men had perpetrated.

"I passed out for a time. When I woke up, I couldn't get to my feet. I was sore all over. My face was badly bruised, my scalp was cut, and my lips were split and bleeding. Part of me knew that my parents were dead, but another desperate part thought that perhaps I could still save them. That I could find help.

"I crawled and dragged myself the three hundred yards or so that we had camped from the little dirt road that wound through those hills. It took me the rest of the night. I clawed my way along inch by inch, and then just before dawn I collapsed by the side of the road.

"When I woke again, a wagon had stopped not three feet away. I tried to speak, but my throat was parched and dry. I looked up into the face of a white man, his wife seated beside him. I managed to say, 'Help me, please.'"

Tears filled Catherine's eyes now. "They...they looked at me like I was some dirty animal, lying there in the road," she whispered hoarsely. "They didn't say a single word to me. They looked right through me, like I didn't even exist. Then the man shook the reins, and the wagon moved off. I stared after them, and the face of a little blond boy appeared from inside the back of the wagon. He spat into the road as they continued on past me.

"I kept crawling along the road, I don't know for how long, or how far I got, before I passed out. When I awoke, I was indoors, in a bed, with bandages on my head, and clean clothes. A mission priest had found me, and taken me back with him. The Sisters cared for me. They told me that I had slept for four full days, the sleep of death, and that they hadn't really expected me to recover. The priest had found my parents bodies, and had given them a proper burial.

"I stayed there while I convalesced. Afterwards, since I had nowhere to go, they let me remain, helping them with their chores. Before long, I knew that I was with child. I went crazy at the thought of that murderer's seed growing inside my body. A Mexican woman who sold goods to the mission approached me. She said that she knew of special herbs that, mixed right, could make a woman's womb inhospitable so that it would reject a child.

"But I just couldn't do it." Her eyes begged his understanding. That she had at first even considered it, and then that she had failed to follow through. "As much as I hated that man, this was my child. This baby was a part of me, and of my now dead parents, and of their parents, and of all who had come before us. It was an innocent child, not responsible for it's paternity. It was my child, a child that for some unknown reason God had chosen to bless me with, though I didn't realize at first what a blessing it was.

"Not long after Cadence was born, the mission was attacked by Modoc Indians. They killed the Father, and the Sisters. The young man who lead the attack, had raised his rifle to kill me too. I wasn't afraid of death, not for myself. But I was afraid for Cadence, what would become of her without me. I gave a silent prayer to God to watch over her. And then the young man heard my Cadence's infant cries. He hesitated, put the rifle down, and then they all rode off. I believe that Cadence saved my life that day.

"And so we left the mission, with no more than the clothes on our backs. And once more, those that I cared about were ripped cruelly from me. We have been moving from town to town ever since. Just the two of us. I do sewing or cleaning where I can. I've worked in salons, late at night, sweeping out dirty sawdust, scrubbing vomit off the floors. Inevitably, if we become too comfortable it seems, someone takes a dislike to us and we are forced to move on.

"I try to protect her, as best I can, from those who want to hurt her. Not just physically, but with their words." The tears were streaming down Catherine's face now. "They call her 'half-breed' and 'bastard' and she doesn't even know what that means, only that it's something bad and it upsets me. She hears them call me 'half-breed whore' and she sees the sadness in my eyes. She senses my pain. I don't know why they want to hurt her," Catherine said in bewilderment, her voice cracking. "She is just a little girl. Just an innocent little child.

"I am all that she has, and she is all that I have. In order to protect her, I have to protect myself. We are all alone in the world," Catherine finished quietly, with such heartbreaking sorrow, looking then very young and very vulnerable.

Jarrod felt the tears in his own eyes as he moved closer to Catherine. She didn't flinch from him this time, as he put his arms around her shoulders. As he pulled her close to him, she pressed her hands, palms out, against his chest. She was tall enough that their bent heads touched at their foreheads. Jarrod rubbed one hand up and down her back, trying to comfort her as she sobbed quietly. She had learned to cry quietly, so as not to wake her daughter, in those hours between dusk and dawn when she always felt so alone, and so afraid.

"You are not alone, any more," Jarrod said softly. "I'm here now." He continued to hold Catherine, wordlessly, just letting the pain and the terror pour out from her.

Neither of them heard the door open, though they did hear the shocked intake of breath.

Chapter 13

Jarrod and Catherine pulled away from one another guiltily. In embarrassment, Catherine turned her face away from whoever had entered the office, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks with her bare hands. She was still trying to understand what had just happened...Jarrod Barkley's compassion, the gentle way he had held her in his arms, the sweet words that he had said to her. What did any of that mean exactly?

Jarrod's face was a study in irritation as he wheeled to face whoever had just taken it upon themselves to enter his office unannounced. And where the devil was George? Why hadn't he knocked, alerted Jarrod that there was someone to see him? Jarrod's eyes widened in surprise to see Patricia Vandermeer standing there, regarding him through narrowed eyes. Of course, he remembered. She was supposed to meet him here for lunch.

Patricia stood there, wordlessly, staring at Jarrod, her green eyes glinting. She stood with her shoulders squared, her delicate chin in the air. There were two bright spots of colour high on her lovely cheeks. Her lips were pursed in a thin, bloodless line. The arms that hung stiffly at her sides ended in clenched ivory fists. Her gaze moved slowly, to Catherine, her animosity tangible, before sliding back to Jarrod. "Well," she said coolly, her voice sounding hollow to his ears. "You'll have to excuse me, darling. I didn't realize that you had...company."

Catherine's heart tightened when she heard a woman's voice, heard the possessiveness in the endearment that she used to address Jarrod. Catherine couldn't help but turn then, to look at the woman. She felt immediately deflated. So, this was Jarrod Barkley's woman.

She was beautiful! Just a tiny little thing, so small and delicate. How protective a man would feel over a woman like this. Her figure was perfect. Her waist so narrow. Catherine imagined that Jarrod's broad hands and long fingers would have no problem spanning it. Her long dark hair was soft and shiny, pulled back fashionably. Her eyes were the clear green of gems. Her face was lovely. The Maker who had sculpted it had been generous. Her skin was firm and unlined, and so perfectly pale, obviously protected from the sun...from any of it's undesirable darkening effects. She was beautifully dressed in a long, dusty rose gown, accented with frills and bows.

This woman was the epitome of femininity and everything that a man could desire. Catherine couldn't help but compare herself, and was left feeling huge and awkward. Unrefined. Ugly. Even the woman's voice was soft and lilting, sweetly dulcet, unlike Catherine's deep throaty tones. The woman's eyes found hers, and their contempt was unmistakeable.

Already vulnerable, Catherine thought that if she had had any tears left, she surely would have cried them then, at the whole, terrible unfairness of life. Of course, this was exactly the sort of woman that a man like Jarrod Barkley would love, would choose to share and adorn his life, would invite to his bed. He was a good man, and he had been kind to Catherine, no more than that. Never once had he intimated that his interest in her went beyond friendship. In her mind she had always known that. But how her foolish heart ached now, to actually face this woman. How the jealousy churned her stomach, almost making her physically ill.

Jarrod wondered just what Patricia had seen...and what she was thinking. He looked back at Catherine. How weary she looked now, how exhausted she must be emotionally after all that she had just relived. He wanted to continue to talk with her. He wasn't ready to release her from his hold, either physically or emotionally. He was a myriad of emotions that he just couldn't sort out right now.

And then there was Patricia, standing there now expectantly. She was here at his request, after all. He had sent the telegram inviting her to come spend some time at the ranch. He had been the one who had suggested that she come to town today and meet him for lunch. It was no accident that she was here, no trick of Fate. She was here because he had arranged it all. Because he had wanted her here. Why then, for a fleeting instant, when he had had to end his embrace with Catherine and had looked to see Patricia there...had he wished here away?

"Catherine, I'd like you to meet Patricia Vandermeer. Patricia, Catherine Vaillancourt." Jarrod made the introductions with outward calm.

Catherine came forward then, smiling faintly, extending one of her calloused hands. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Vandermeer," she said politely, her voice even huskier than usual, deepened by the rawness of her emotions. Patricia just looked at Catherine's hand, extended towards her, her lips curling in revulsion. Catherine faltered, blushing, letting the hand drop to her side. "Uhhh...I should be going now. Good day." She looked to Jarrod, including him in her farewell.

Jarrod nodded. "Good day, Catherine. I'll speak with you soon," he promised, reaching out to touch her elbow lightly, wanting in some way to reconnect with her. Wanting to know that she was all right for now. Catherine's smile was a reassurance that she was fine. Then she had left the office.

Now that they were alone, Jarrod moved closer to Patricia. "Well, I'm about done here for the day. Shall we go to lunch?" he asked, reaching to take her arm.

Patricia's gaze was withering, as she looked at his hand in disgust. "Don't touch me," she spat at him. Jarrod pulled the hand back as if he had been burned. "Don't you dare put your hands on a dirty half-breed squaw, and then think that you're going to touch me! I don't know if even a bath would take the stench and the dirt off of you," Patricia hissed.

Jarrod's mouth dropped open in shock. He had never seen Patricia this way before. Had never seen her so angry, or heard her speak like this. His jaw clamped shut and his eyes narrowed, and he tried to give Patricia the benefit of the doubt. She was a woman, and she was young, and women were known to be possessive and to be spitfires when they felt threatened or jealous. She couldn't possibly mean those words the way they were coming out from her now. She just hadn't understood what she had seen...had read more into the embrace than she should have. Naturally, she was upset. Coming here to meet him and finding another woman in his arms. Once he explained, she would understand and relax.

"Catherine is a friend of mine," Jarrod said lightly. "She was just reliving something terrible that happened to her when she was younger, and I was comforting her..."

"I don't want to hear it!" Patricia snapped at him. "I'm not naive, Jarrod, though you might think I am. I'm young, and not terribly experienced, but I am not a fool!" She took a deep breath, trying to control her emotions. "You are a man, and I know how men are. I know that they have...needs. And I know that it's not realistic to expect that any one woman can fulfill all of those needs.

"I know that you must have your little dalliances, especially since we haven't..." she let the thought go unspoken, blushing. "And I know that that isn't going to stop just because we are married. I can accept that, I can live with that. But as your wife, I would expect some respect, and some consideration. Some discretion."

Jarrod couldn't believe that he was hearing this correctly. He was stunned. Patricia was letting him know that as his wife she would not only expect him to cheat on her...she would more or less accept, even condone it. Did she really think that of him? After all of the time they had spent together, after everything that she had learned about him? Didn't she understand him at all? The kind of man he was and the way he tried to live his life? "Patricia," he said, confused. "I don't know where you've gotten these sorts of ideas, or who has put them in your head. And I can't speak for all men, I know there are some men who behave in the ways that you've described, but I can assure you that..."

Yet again she interrupted him, this time with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Please, spare me your lofty promises. Relationships based on lies can never work. All I ask of you is honesty, not to ever lie to me. I don't expect to hear all of the sordid details of parts of your private life...I'm not a masochist, Jarrod. It brings me no pleasure to imagine you in the arms of another woman. But I am a realist. What I've just witnessed here goes to prove that I should be. Not that I don't believe that you aren't the most wonderful man in the world," she added, her face softening for the first time.

Jarrod felt a coldness begin to settle over him. "So, you would allow me my...indiscretions...as long I kept that part of my life separate from our life together?" he probed.

Patricia smiled brightly, "Yes, exactly. I care for you that much, my darling." Then a hardness came over her again. "But there are one or two stipulations, and on this I will not waver. Just be sure to stick to our own kind."

Jarrod felt a sick dawning of understanding. "Our own kind?" he repeated quietly.

"Yes," she nodded emphatically. "I know that you are a bit of a bleeding heart. I know how much work you have done to help Negroes, and Chinese, and other strangers in our land, even against your own people at times. And while that is somewhat embarrassing, I can withstand the whispering amongst our circle. I actually find it rather endearing, your commitment to those who are beneath you."

Jarrod regarded her in amazement. Had they never talked, he and Patricia? What exactly had they been doing these last several months, at the parties and theatre they had attended, at the dinners they had gone out for, during the long, moonlight strolls in the park? How could he have never seen this side of her before? Had she kept it hidden from him or had he simply resisted looking for it, unwilling to spoil the perfection that he sought...that he knew others would expect in his life?

"But I especially will not tolerate you being intimate with...with savages." She paled. "My God, Jarrod, why would you even want to? What could possibly be the allure? They are like wild animals!" Her delicate nostrils flared.

"I think you had better stop right there," Jarrod said, enunciating through gritted teeth.

But she seemed not to have heard him. She shuddered. "I...I just can't stand the thought of your lips on some half-breed savage, and then pressed against mine. It makes me physically ill to even consider it! It's unfair of you to even expect any self-respecting white woman to put up with such a thing! God only knows what diseases you could pick up!

"It was just sickening, Jarrod," she told him reproachfully, "to find you in the arms of that big, ugly heathen! She's not even fit the share the same air that we breathe, let alone to touch a handsome, wonderful, important white man like you!" she finished irately. "Our biggest problem was not finishing them all off in the wars, but allowing some of them to live...to breed." Patricia shook her head. "What in God's name were you thinking, Jarrod! Don't you have any self-respect!"

Jarrod stood immobile as her words crashed against him. He felt the itch in his palms, and he dug his nails into them. He had never hit a woman before, and he wasn't going to start now. He drew deep, ragged breaths, trying to calm himself. He couldn't believe that Patricia was actually standing here in his office saying these words...to him! About Catherine! About anyone! "Don't you DARE talk about her that way!" Jarrod roared.

Patricia looked stunned at the way he spoke to her, at the venom in his words. She couldn't understand why he was being so stubborn, why he wasn't being more apologetic. She was going out of her way to be understanding and accommodating. She could see that he was angry though. She thought that perhaps he was just feeling foolish for having been caught red-handed that way. He was probably already regretting whatever vile, masculine needs had made him reach out to whatever woman was available. He was probably even angrier at himself than she was with him. Poor Jarrod.

"Darling," she said softly, taking a new approach. "Let's not even discuss it. It's over and it's done with. It's probably just as well that we had this opportunity to have this little chat. There's no reason for us to ever bring it up again." She moved closer to him, though she still wasn't ready to touch him yet. Not until he'd had a chance to wash up...to air out. She batted her long lashes at him. "Darling, there is no man in all the world that I love and admire more than you. You know that. And no matter what people say or think, I don't care. I don't care about any skeletons in your closet. I don't care about anything you've done in your past. I don't care who you choose to represent as an attorney.

"You know that I didn't care when you told me about your half-brother Heath. Haven't I treated him just as though he were any other member of your family? Even though you parade it before the world that he is illegitimate, I stand right by your side, and I accept him, because you do." And Patricia had been proud of the way she had interacted with Heath Barkley...Jarrod's bastard half-brother. She didn't notice the tightening of his features as she spoke of Heath.

Though she personally found it scandalous and shameful that the Barkley's even allowed Heath to use their name, when he was clearly illegitimate and in no way legally entitled to it, she had been willing to put aside her personal feelings because she loved Jarrod so very much. And she thought that she had done well in her acceptance of the other man, treating him as pleasantly as she would anyone from her class. She had had the greatest respect and admiration for Mrs. Barkley in the way she dealt so graciously with what must be a hideously embarrassing and shameful mistake from her late husband's past. Patricia had almost dropped her fork when she had heard Heath refer to the older woman as 'Mother'. She had regained her composure quickly though and didn't think that anyone had even noticed. Surely Jarrod must appreciate the effort that she had made to treat his half-brother as though he were no different from any of the rest of them.

"Jarrod, I don't ever want to be a source of strife for you," Patricia told him earnestly. "I love you more than I could ever have imagined caring for a man. All that I want is to be a part of your life. Let's just forget all about this. I don't want to quarrel with you. I care for you too much. I think that we understand one another now, and that's all that matters."

Jarrod looked down at Patricia, as though he were seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he really was. She clearly did not understand him, but he knew that he understood her now. He felt light. He felt free. Unwittingly, she had found a way to release him from his obligations. He smiled at her then, no longer seeing her beauty, but only the ugly prejudice that lay underneath. "Yes," he agreed evenly. "That's all that matters."

Chapter 14

They had gone to lunch as planned, since Jarrod figured that she was here now, and they would both need to eat. He was totally stunned that Patricia appeared not to know that there was anything wrong between them...that everything had changed now. She was as she always was, charming, graceful, mannerly. She spoke to him of her morning on the ranch. How she had played piano for Victoria. How Audra had shown her the puppies. She had told Jarrod that she would like to have a funny little dog like that one day, hinting casually.

Jarrod hadn't eaten much, and she had fussed over him about his appetite, telling him that he would get sick, that a man needed a hearty midday meal. Suddenly, she was behaving more like a wife than he had ever seen her behave before.

Once most of his anger had cooled, he had realized that essentially Patricia was the same person that he had known her to be in Sacramento. In many ways, she really did have a kind and giving nature. She was tireless, he knew, in her work with the poor and the sick back home. The racist attitudes that he so loathed were partly a product of their times, and probably from the influences of those who were closest to her during her formulative years. Not everyone had been as blessed as he to have been raised with tolerance and understanding. Perhaps it wasn't entirely her fault that she felt the way she did, likely having been inundated with such despicable messages since she was an impressionable child. In a way, Jarrod pitied her.

However, she was a grown woman, able to come to her own conclusions about people and about the world. She had made a conscious decision to hold onto ignorant and hurtful attitudes. And no matter how beautiful she was, no matter how many other wonderful qualities she might have, Jarrod knew that he could never get past that. That he could never truly care for such a woman, with hatred and prejudice in her heart. At last, unable to stand the pretense any longer, Jarrod had paid for their meal and they had left.

Silas had brought Patricia to town midday in one of the carriages. She didn't ride, and she wasn't the sort of woman who drove her own carriage, especially over unfamiliar terrain. He had only dropped her off at the office, then stopped for a brief visit with a friend, before driving back to the ranch. Jarrod would be taking Patricia back home with him following lunch. Jarrod had brought the surrey when he had come into Stockton earlier.

On the ride back, with Patricia sitting close to him on the seat, seeming to have overcome her aversion to touching him, Jarrod made a slight deviation from the route, pulling the buggy to a flat spot that overlooked the river. It was quite picturesque, and serene, and would give them a measure of privacy while Jarrod said what needed to be said.

At first, Patricia seemed not to understand the finality of his words. He explained to her that he had realized, and probably she had too, that there would never be anything more lasting between them, and that the time had come to say their good byes and go their separate ways. He told her that he had enjoyed her company and would take with him many pleasant memories of their time together.

"What are you saying, Jarrod?" she had asked him forlornly, her green eyes filling with tears. "Why are you doing this? What has happened? Have I done something wrong? Does your family not approve of me?" The bottom lip of her perfect bow mouth trembled.

Jarrod had sighed, removing his hat, and running his fingers through his hair. "It's not that at all," he had told her gently. "I just don't think that we're suited for one another, Patricia."

"Not suited?" she asked, confused. "But we are ideally suited! Both of our fathers were self-made men, starting with nothing but their own two hands, and building empires with hard-work and brains and determination. We understand where each other has come from, we share the same background. We enjoy the same things...the theatre, parties, reading. Culture. We know all of the same people..." she stopped, a catch in her voice. "I love you, Jarrod," she whispered brokenly. "Don't you love me?" A tear squeezed from her left eye.

Jarrod hated to see people hurting. It tore at him like nothing else in the world. But he could not, would not, lie to her again. "I thought that perhaps I did," he told her, "but I'm sorry, no, I don't."

She bowed her head then, heartbroken and mortified. He was the only man she had ever loved. She had thought that when she had come to Stockton that she would leave here engaged to the man of her dreams. Mary, not really visiting family, but waiting back home with baited breath, had said that she couldn't wait to see the ring that Jarrod would give Patricia...that she wanted Patricia to remember every single detail about the proposal so that she could relive it vicariously in the retelling.

And now her beloved Jarrod was telling her that he didn't love her. That she wasn't good enough. She had tried to do everything right, to be everything that he wanted her to be. And she had failed. She thought for a moment of begging Jarrod to reconsider. Of telling him that many marriages started out based only on common backgrounds and perhaps the beginnings of affection, and that often strong, loving bonds were forged as a result of shared experiences, good and bad, and raising a family.

But she was Patricia Vandermeer, and she was not going to lower herself in his eyes, or her own, by begging. Perhaps Jarrod didn't love her, but she would make sure that he didn't pity her. If he made her walk away, she would make sure that she held her head up high. "Well then," she said softly. "I guess that's that. I want to thank you for the time we have shared in recent months, and for the opportunity to meet your wonderful family." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to be bright. "I will miss you, Jarrod Barkley. Perhaps we shall still see one another from time to time when you come to the capitol."

Jarrod wanted to say no, that that would not happen, because he honestly had no desire to ever see her again. But reality was that he was still tied very closely with Patrick Vandermeer, and would soon be spending even more time in Sacramento than he usually did. What point was there in hurting her further? They might never spend time together again as a couple, but if he should see her at a social event, there was no reason for him to ignore her. There was no reason for him to be cruel. "Perhaps," he allowed.

"There won't be a train again until tomorrow afternoon," she said. "I suppose I could take the stagecoach this evening, and make the journey that way."

"You don't want to travel by stagecoach," Jarrod told her. "You are welcome to spend the night again. Tomorrow is soon enough. I'll wire your father in the morning to let him know that you will be returning, and then Mother or Audra can bring you out to the station to catch the afternoon train."

Patricia nodded, though she dreaded the thought of one more night under his roof, knowing now that he was lost to her. She would get through it, though it would be one of the hardest, most awkward things she had ever had to do.

Later that afternoon, when Audra returned from the orphanage, she found Patricia in the stable, curled up in one of the empty stalls, clutching one of Blossom's pups to her, crying quietly. "What's wrong?" Audra had asked in alarm, sitting next to the girl, one hand on her small, slender shoulder. "Where's Jarrod? Are you all right?"

Patricia had wiped away her tears, trying to smile reassuringly. "Oh, I'm all right," she said. "Though I am embarrassed at your finding me this way. Jarrod had to ride out to one of the neighbouring ranches on business, he'll be back later."

"Business?" Audra asked incredulously. "And he left you here all alone?!" Patricia averted her face. "Did something happen," Audra asked suspiciously. "Did you and my big brother have a lover's quarrel?"

Patricia set the wriggling puppy on the floor of the stall, and it hurried off to find it's mother and siblings, sniffing and barking as it went. She hadn't even thought about that scene in Jarrod's office before lunch, or believed that it was related at all to his decision. After all, he had been the one in the wrong, not her. Her face did warm now though, as she recalled the way she had raised her voice to him, had made demands. How very foolish of her. That wasn't the way you did things with men, through bullying and nagging.

Men hated a shrewish woman and would avoid one like the plague. How many times had her father told her that the best way to be a partner to a man was through her silence, or by following his lead? And how many times had he explained to her and to Mary that a man had to be the master of his own house, or there was no way he could hold up his head and take his place in the world of men? Her delivery this morning had been all wrong. She hadn't expressed herself well, in her shock and outrage. No wonder Jarrod was sending her back now to Sacramento on her own, the third finger of her left hand still naked.

"I...I suppose we did," Patricia admitted to the other girl.

Audra nodded sagely. "Well, that happens sometimes. It's not the end of the world. I know you wouldn't think it to look at him, but Jarrod can have quite a temper sometimes." Audra smiled to soften her words. "Don't you worry. He'll have forgotten all about it by the time he gets back, you'll see."

Patricia shook her head. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. He's told me that he doesn't love me."

Audra reached over and took one of Patricia's hands, pausing as she considered this. Patricia was just perfect for Jarrod. In fact, in many ways, she was just like Beth. Audra had been so impressed with the young woman in just the short time that she had known her, thinking that she would be a wonderful wife for Jarrod, and another wonderful sister-in-law for her. Why, after inviting Patricia out here to meet them all, and after everything had gone so well, was her big brother suddenly acting this way? Audra chewed on her bottom lip, frowning, as an idea came to her.

"Patricia, I'm sure you know about Jarrod's first wife, Beth. The one who was killed?" she said quietly.

Patricia nodded. Jarrod had told her that he had been married before, briefly, and that his first wife had been murdered not long after their elopement. Her killer had been a man that Jarrod had once prosecuted and sent to prison, who had vowed revenge upon his release. Cass Hyatt hadn't meant to kill Beth, his target had been the attorney. But the bullet hadn't known that. "Yes," Patricia said. "It was so horribly tragic."

Audra nodded. "Jarrod almost went out of his mind with grief. I don't think I've ever known a man to love a woman so much." She paused, trying to formulate her thoughts. "Maybe Jarrod is just afraid to love again," she suggested. "This has to be very difficult for him, preparing to make a new life with another woman. My brother is very loyal, as you know. Maybe..." Audra frowned, "...maybe Jarrod feels that in loving someone else, he's being disloyal to Beth's memory."

Patricia considered that. Her own father had been unable to remarry after the death of her mother, Lenore. What Audra was saying made a strange sort of sense. Perhaps it wasn't all her fault after all. "I would never expect him to forget that she was an important part of his life once," Patricia said.

"Maybe Jarrod just needs some more time," Audra consoled her. "He has a huge heart, and he feels things deeply. Don't give up on him," she advised. She hated to think of Jarrod's happiness evaporating again. Patricia was just what he needed. Audra was confident that Jarrod knew that, that's why he had invited Patricia Vandermeer to the ranch. Jarrod was always the one helping everyone else. Perhaps this time, she could help him.

Patricia felt renewed hope. "Perhaps you're right," she agreed. "I won't pressure him though. I'll go back to Sacramento, and I'll let him know that I still care about him. That if he should ever change his mind, I will be waiting for him. Perhaps he will find that he misses me, and that he does care for me." The smile she gave Jarrod's sister was dazzling. "Thank you so much, Audra! I can't tell you how much better I feel now!" She threw her arms around Audra's shoulders, and Audra smiled as she embraced her in return.

Chapter 15

Patricia Vandermeer was on her way back to Sacramento.

Jarrod had been surprised at how smoothly the previous evening had gone. Patricia herself had made the announcement at dinner that she was returning home the next day, without divulging any reasons. She had been calm, and gracious as always, during the meal and on into the evening. She had been pleasant with Jarrod, but more detached, preferring instead Audra's company, playing checkers and gossiping with her. Victoria had looked at Jarrod across the room with a meaningful, probing glance, but hadn't questioned him either that evening or the following morning at breakfast.

Jarrod had announced that he was going to Stockton in the morning, to send the telegram to Patrick, and to purchase Patricia's ticket, which he would leave at the wicket. Then he had to go to Granite City for a meeting, and to get some papers signed, and he explained that he would be gone most of the day. Audra volunteered to help Patricia pack and to drive her to the train station after lunch.

Jarrod and Patricia had parted amicably in the front yard, as Jarrod tied his briefcase onto Jingo's saddlepack and prepared to head out.

"Take care of yourself, Jarrod," Patricia had said, standing close to him. She had wanted to ask for one final, farewell kiss, but she sensed that he might not comply. And that would have broken her heart.

"Thank you, I will," he said. "And you too, Patricia."

"Jarrod..." Patricia had begun hesitantly, "I just want you to know, that if you ever change your mind, I will be in Sacramento waiting for you."

He frowned then, sighing. "Patricia..." he began.

She shook her head at him. "There's nothing you can say that will change that. You know how I feel about you. I do want to say though, that I think I understand. About Beth, I mean." She bowed her head, then turned her face up to him again. "I wouldn't ever try to replace her, Jarrod, or expect you to forget her or stop loving her." She smiled bravely, as a longing came over her features. "I just wanted you to know that."

Jarrod stood there looking down at her. She really was very beautiful, perhaps one of the most physically beautiful women that he had ever met. But he could never love her. Didn't, really, even like her anymore. And she was so totally clueless as to who he even was, that she couldn't possibly love him. "Have a safe trip," was all that he had said though. Then he had ridden off.

Jarrod had sent two telegrams from Stockton that morning. One to advise that Patricia was returning home, another to let Patrick Vandermeer know that Jarrod had considered the men's proposal and had accepted, and that he would leave for Sacramento the following morning to discuss things in person. He hadn't mentioned to Patricia that he too would be going to Sacramento, the very next day in fact, in case she had wanted to wait for him so that they could travel together. He couldn't bear the thought of having to sit next to her and make polite conversation for the duration of the journey. He had finished his errands in Stockton then he had remounted and headed for Granite City and the business that would keep him occupied there.

It was a day of mindless work for Jarrod, sitting through the meeting, making his brief presentation, coaxing signatures from greedy men who wanted to merge their businesses but were suspicious of one another, explaining to them again and again what their obligations were and how the documents he had drafted would protect each of them. At last, he had been able to head back to Stockton.

It would have been quicker for Jarrod to just head through the pass, going straight on to the Barkley Ranch, rather than going the long way around through Stockton. But he wasn't ready to go home yet.

Once again, Jarrod found himself knocking on the painted blue door to the little shack. As there had been that first day, there was a scrape of furniture along the floor, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. And then the door opened and Catherine stood there, suprised to see him, but obviously pleased. She opened the door wider, stepping back into the room. "Jarrod, please come in."

There was the delicious aroma of something cooking on the stove. The sun had already begun to cast long shadows, and the oil lamps were lit, were making the small room look cozy. Cadence came forward, wrapping her arms around her mother's legs, and peeking out from behind her skirts. Jarrod winked at her, and the lovely little girl giggled.

"Excuse the intrusion," Jarrod said smiling. "And the short notice. I have come to invite you two young ladies to dinner with me. If you would do me the honour." He seemed almost shy.

Catherine was stunned at the invitation. Why on earth would Jarrod Barkley want to have dinner with she and Cady? Where was his beautiful lady friend this evening? "Well," she replied slowly. "We certainly do appreciate the offer. But our dinner is almost ready." She indicated the pot that bubbled on the stove.

"Oh," Jarrod said simply, and Catherine was touched by the genuine regret on his handsome, gentle face. "Of course."

"Would you like to join us?" Catherine offered before she could really think it through.

Jarrod grinned broadly. "I'd be delighted." He removed his hat, setting it on the small makeshift table near the door.

He loosened the buttons of his jacket, and Catherine saw that he wore a gunbelt today. It was the first time she had seen him with a sidearm. She noted the beautiful work on the handle of the pistol, the inlaid mother-of-pearl. A quality piece. Everything about Jarrod Barkley bespoke of quality. She thought of what she was just about to offer him for his evening's meal. Rabbit stew and bread. "We're not having much," she said humbly.

Jarrod could see that Catherine was uncomfortable. He wanted to go to her, to touch his forehead to hers again, to tell her that he didn't care if they were having stale bread and water...that all he wanted was to be near her for a while. He strode instead to the stove, grabbing a cloth, and lifting the lid off the pot, inhaling deeply. He smiled at Catherine, who had followed him, as she reached for a ladle to stir the stew. "This looks wonderful," he assured her.

Catherine asked Cadence to take some of the clean laundry from the little dining table and to go put it on the bed out back. Then she pulled the rocker up to the table, and the table away from the wall, so that there would be room for the three of them. Jarrod watched as Catherine tasted the stew, and then, seemingly satisfied, ladled it out onto three tin plates. She poured a glass of milk for each of them into tin cups, and set that on the table as well. Finally, she cut thick slices of bread, smeared them with a bit of bacon grease, and brought those to the table.

They sat down to eat, Catherine saying a few words of grace first. Then she looked across the table at Jarrod. It had been four years she had shared a meal with anyone but Cadence. Four years since the tragedy at the mission. Four long, lonely years. She would have given anything to have something more to offer Jarrod for his evening meal. As it was, they were lucky to have the rabbit which Catherine had snared at a little spot not far from town. With some root vegetables to bulk it up. A few herbs. She felt so nervous, unsure of what to say or do. Unsure of what he might be thinking about them. Unsure of why he was even here.

Jarrod thought that Catherine looked particularly lovely by lamplight. It played on the long tresses of her black hair, making it shine blue in places. It danced across the strong features of her face, casting becoming shadows. Her dark eyes looked so large and luminous. She hadn't said much yet since he had been here, and he longed to hear her sultry voice. "This is delicious," he said, dipping his spoon into the thick stew again.

"I'm glad," Catherine said. She didn't apologize for the fact that it was only rabbit stew, though she knew that he was probably used to thick cuts of steak, and tender beef roasts, and baked chickens. This was her life...hers and Cadence's. And Catherine was doing the very best that she could. She wasn't going to apologize for that to anyone, or pretend that they lived more grandly than they did.

"I spent the day in Granite City, and I didn't really stop for much of a lunch," Jarrod continued. "I didn't realize how hungry I was until just now." He felt the slight awkwardness between them, in the conversation that seemed so casual in light of their last exchange. He wondered if perhaps he was intruding on a special, quiet time of the day that mother and daughter might have preferred to share together on their own, without a virtual stranger at their table. He didn't regret being here though, or accepting Catherine's invitation.

"I have a dolly," Cadence said shyly. It was the first time she had spoken directly to Jarrod since he had been there.

He smiled at her encouragingly. "Well, aren't you a lucky little lady."

"She's sleeping now. My Momma made it for me, for my birthday," she told him proudly.

"How old are you?" Jarrod asked.

"I'm four fingers," Cady told him, holding up her right hand, and tucking in her thumb. She grinned impishly at him, her beautiful blue eyes flashing.

"Her birthday was at the end of July," Catherine told Jarrod.

"I have a new baby nephew that was born in August," he remarked.

"What's a baby nephew?" Cadence asked curiously, tilting her head to one side.

"That means it's a baby boy," Catherine told her. "The baby boy of Mr. Barkley's brother or sister." She smiled at Jarrod. This was the first personal thing he had ever shared with her. "Congratulations," she told him.

Jarrod beamed, obviously proud of his nephew. "His name is Chase Barkley, and he's my brother Heath's and sister-in-law Annabelle's little boy. They live with us on the ranch."

"Do you have a little boy?" Cadence asked Jarrod.

Catherine watched the sadness settle over him, the regret in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped slightly. "No," Jarrod told her wistfully. "No little boy, and no little girl."

Perhaps that beautiful green-eyed woman would give him the children that he seemed to long for so much, Catherine thought. What beautiful children the pair of them will make. She felt an overwhelming sorrow at the idea.

"Where do you live?" Cadence went on.

"Cady, honey, it's rude to ask Mr. Barkley so many questions," Catherine told her gently. Naturally, the little girl would be curious. She'd never had anyone come to dinner before. And most of the adults that they saw in the course of their days seldom had anything to say to her, or even acted as though she existed.

"I don't mind," Jarrod assured Catherine. "And you can call me Jarrod, if that's all right with your mommy." Catherine nodded her ascent.

Jarrod began to tell Cadence about the Barkley Ranch. About the buildings and the orchards and the horses and the cattle. About the people who lived there with him. His family. She listened, enthralled. It was like hearing one of the wonderful stories that her mother was always telling her. Catherine, too, was entranced. How proudly Jarrod spoke of his family. Not of their material things, which he mentioned only casually in passing, but of the people themselves, and how much they meant to him. Gradually, Jarrod began to look away from Cadence and towards Catherine more. Telling her about his life, wanting to share with her.

Catherine loved the sound of his voice, so deep and mellow. He looked so happy and at ease as he spoke. He ate heartily, seeming to enjoy his meal, draining the cup of milk, and using a piece of the bread to sop up the last of the stew gravy. He complimented her on the unusual unleavened bread. Catherine explained that it was called galellette, a traditional bread of the Michif, made from flour, baking powder, lard and water and cooked outdoors in a skillet over an open fire.

After dinner, Catherine gathered up the dishes, setting them outside on the back stoop to wash later. Cadence slipped into the back room and returned with a little slate, eager to show Jarrod that she could write her name. After she was done, he took the slate and drew a tic-tac-toe board. Catherine was amazed at the patience he showed when the child besieged him to play game after game. The sound of her daughter's pleasant laughter, mingled with Jarrod Barkley's indulgent chuckling, warmed her.

Catherine made coffee and served up thick slices of the almond cake that Jarrod had sent to them. Finally, as Cadence's yawns became more frequent, she told the little girl to wash up for bed, and change into her nightdress, and that she would tuck her in in a few minutes.

Before Cadence did any of that, she had a question for their guest. "Do you like me, Mr. Jarrod?" she asked innocently. He told her that indeed he did, that he was happy to have been able to spend the evening with her. Shyly, she reached across the table towards Jarrod, laying her small, light brown hand over top of his white one. "You're a white man," she remarked slowly. "Me and Momma, we're Michif." He told her that he knew that. "Most white people, they don't like us," the girl said, so matter-of-factly, that Jarrod felt his heart grow heavy. "I have some friends," she went on. "They're even browner than Momma and me. They like me too." She pulled her hand back then, gazing up at him. "You're a nice man," she said simply. "Good night." Then she slipped down from the stool, gave her mother a kiss, and went behind the muslin curtain to her room.

Jarrod couldn't speak. His throat felt tight. He looked over at Catherine, who had watched this exchange with tears in her eyes. Her voice no more than a whisper, she excused herself to go tuck her daughter into bed. Jarrod stayed at the table, lighting a cigar, listening to the faint sound of Catherine's voice as she recited a nighttime prayer.

When Catherine returned, she had regained her composure. At some point during the evening, the sun had stolen from the sky, and it was now black outside. She returned to her chair at the table, sitting with her hands in her lap.

"She's a beautiful, delightful little girl, Catherine," Jarrod told her sincerely. "You must be very proud of her."

Catherine nodded, and smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. She is my whole world," she admitted. Catherine looked away from him then, and a faraway look came into her eyes. She was silent for a few moments, before speaking again. "This is the hardest time of the day," she told him quietly. "After dinner, when Cady is in bed. It's when I miss my parents the most. My father always worked long, hard hours, but after dinner he would always take time to be with me. We'd sit near the hearth and he would read to me, or we would play checkers or chess. My mother wouldn't join in too often, usually just sitting nearby, humming quietly to herself while she worked on her sewing. But I felt her presence, felt her love."

Catherine swallowed hard. "I wish sometimes that I had just a couple of my father's books still. Or a game that I could play with Cady. I think, that if I could create some memories for her, like I have of my parents, it might make me feel closer to them."

Jarrod knew that he couldn't possibly understand the loneliness and sense of isolation that Catherine, and to a lesser extent her daughter, must feel. How much he had always taken for granted that there were people he loved, who loved him in return. Even out on the trail, camping alone, or at a strange hotel in a distant city, when for the moment he was away from those he cared about, he always had the comfort of knowing that they were never far away. That somewhere, they were thinking of him, as he was of them. He missed his father dearly, but that loss was lessened by the comfort of his family, and by the fact that he was already a grown man when Tom Barkley was killed.

How would it have been to be all on his own while still in his teens? With not a single person to fall back on for comfort and support? He didn't know if he would have had the strength to survive something like that, especially as bravely as Catherine had faced the tragedies in her own young life.

"It must be very difficult for you," he said sadly, then could have kicked himself for the understatement.

She looked back at him. "We manage," she told him with a faint smile, more guarded now than she had been in his office when she had told him of the horrors she had faced, and the circumstances of her daughter's conception and birth. Of the lives that they had led since. "Would you like some more coffee?" she asked.

Jarrod wanted to say yes, to prolong the inevitable moment when he would have to leave the warmth of this little house. But he knew that he had already taken up far more of Catherine's time than he had any right to. "No thank you," he said finally. "I suppose I had better be on my way, and let you ladies get some rest."

He rose to his feet then, and she stood as well. "I'm off to Sacramento again in the morning," he announced. "For a few days at least. But when I return, I would like to take you and Cadence to dinner, if you would let me." His blue eyes were hopeful.

Catherine looked at him closely. Why? she wanted to ask. Why, Jarrod? Out of pity, or some quixotic need to redress the wrongs that you feel 'your people' are responsible for? But she didn't ask. She didn't want to know. She told herself that it didn't matter, as long as she was able to see him again. "That would be wonderful," she accepted.

The smile that lit Jarrod's handsome face almost took her breath away. "I will see you when I return then," he promised. He strode to the door, and picked up the grey hat, setting it atop his head at a jaunty angle. "Thank you again for dinner. I've had a lovely evening."

"We have as well," Catherine replied, following him to the door.

Jarrod looked across at her, hesitating for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. Her hair had fallen over her right shoulder. He couldn't seem to stop his other hand from reaching to push it back behind her ear. His fingers grazed the side of her cheek, so soft and warm. "Good night, Catherine," he said huskily. "Sleep well."

The door closed behind him and Catherine went to the corner, picking up the basket of mending. She would be up late, she was already hours behind. She didn't care though. She would gladly stay up all night, if it meant that she had been able to spend this precious time with Jarrod Barkley. She threaded her needle, keeping thoughts of Jarrod's lovely Patricia at bay. The beautiful young woman might have the right to call him 'darling', might be the woman who graced his arm about town, might one day soon be the mother of his children.

But it was Catherine's roof that Jarrod had spent this evening under, her cooking that had filled his belly. And that was all that she would think about, she told herself, as she settled back to do her work, and tried to recall the words he spoken, the home he had described, and the loving family that lived there.

Victoria had waited up for Jarrod in the drawing room, reading. She wanted to be there for him, in case he wanted to say anything about Patricia Vandermeer...about whatever had happened between them. He was later than she had expected, and she had put dinner in the warmer for him, in case he hadn't eaten. Nick and Heath were in the bunkhouse, engaged in a friendly game of poker with some of the men. Audra had retired early. So, Victoria had sat alone, to be there in case her son needed her.

She heard the door open and close, and saw Jarrod come in. He didn't see her, hanging up his hat and gunbelt on the tree in the hall. She was about to call to him, when she noticed the soft smile on his face. The faraway look in his eyes. The relaxed set of his shoulders. He looked so happy. Happier than she had seen him in a long time. She watched him cross to the stairs, his steps light, as he began to ascend them by twos. And so, Victoria sat without betraying her presence. Not knowing where Jarrod had been or what he had been up to, and not really caring. Not daring to disturb his reverie. He was happy, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter 16

"The Governor will see you now." The fair-haired young man opened the big double doors to the office, stepping back to allow Jarrod to enter.

"Jarrod Barkley!" Sam White called with genuine pleasure, coming slowly forward to great him, extending his hand. "Thanks for coming."

Jarrod took it, giving a firm shake, saddened at how frail the other man's once hearty grasp was now. Sam had lost a considerable amount of weight. His hair had greyed considerably, and was even thinner than before, receding further from his browline. His skin had an unhealthy, grayish pallour. His hazel eyes looked cloudy. His lips had a faint tinge of blue.

"Governor, it's an honour," Jarrod said, trying not to let his features mirror his distress. Sam White had once been such a vibrant man, truly a larger-than-life type. Strong in mind and body. He had been recently ill when Jarrod had seen him earlier in the summer, recovering from a series of undisclosed spells, or attacks. But the change from then until now was shocking. Jarrod could barely recognize him as the same man. He looked twenty years older.

"I'm not looking so great, I know," Sam White said bluntly. "Though you hide it well, Barkley. That trained counselor's mask." Sam White chuckled, then began to cough. "Let's sit down, shall we," he wheezed.

Jarrod reclined in a chair across from the immense, carved desk. The room was quite large, the floor covered with expensive woolen rugs, the walls paneled in light oak. There were dozens of framed portraits on the wall, of prominent state officials, both past and present. And the California flag was displayed prominently behind Sam's desk on a gilded pole, next to the flag of the United States. Jarrod had never been to this inner sanctum before today's summons. 'This could be my office, one day,' he realized, as his heart quickened. He could feel the power in the room...it was almost a living, breathing thing.

"The doc says I should put my affairs in order...all that nonsense," the Governor sighed. "I've got it all taken care of. He thinks I should leave office right away too, that the stress is too much for me, and he's almost got Bertha convinced of that as well." Sam White shook his head sadly. "They don't understand, Jarrod, that when I leave this building for the last time, and go back home to sit around and do nothing...I'll be dead within the month."

Jarrod wasn't sure how to respond to that...what he should say.

"It's true," Sam continued. "I realize that, and I think that somewhere deep inside, Bertha...she does too. That's why she hasn't been after me too much to give up the mansion." The eyes that regarded Jarrod now were melancholy. "Politics has been my life, you know that. Mayor of Sacramento. State assemblyman for a while. Now a couple of terms as Governor. It's in my blood, Jarrod. It's not just something I do, it's who I am.

"How can they expect a man to just stop being who he is?" Sam asked in genuine puzzlement. He shook his head. He reached for a cigar box, offering one to Jarrod who accepted, then lighting one for himself. "They say that I've done a lot for the people of California, and I'm grateful for the praise. But the fact of the matter is that they've done so much for me. A man isn't really a man unless he has some sense of purpose, some sense of his place in the world. Don't you agree, Jarrod?" The young lawyer nodded agreeably. "I get up in the mornings, and I say to myself, 'You are the Governor of the great state of California'. And I feel proud of that fact. It's a great responsibility, the power that goes along with it. But there is no greater feeling than to know that you are doing something that affects not just your life, but the lives of countless other people who you will never even meet...whose faces you will never even see...whose stories you will never even know.

"But as much as it brings out all the good in a man...it can also bring out the bad. The temptation to use that power for selfish personal gain is overwhelming. It's almost daily. It's an ongoing struggle, for a man's soul. The personal ego can take on a life of it's own and threaten to drown you." The Governor paused then, sitting quietly, trying to catch his breath after his long oration. He watched Jarrod Barkley as he sat across from him. Not saying anything. Not fidgeting. Just holding his gaze. Knowing that there are times when a man should speak, and times when a man should just listen. He had a lot going for him, this young attorney.

"No matter how good a man is when he starts out...there is corruption almost everywhere. There is pressure from so many sides, so many things and interests to consider that it can boggle the mind. You'd think it was pretty straight forward. I'm the boss. What I say goes. But it doesn't quite work that way," he chuckled.

"I've tried to be a good man, a decent man, for the most part" Sam White continued. "But I've had some weak moments, made some self-serving decisions. I've been a good friend to the railroad men at times, and they've been a good friend to me in return. I'm not going to apologize for that," he added hastily. "Overall, I think I've done just about as damn good a job as any man could have!"

"That you have," Jarrod said honestly.

"As much as this job gives to you, it also takes from you," Sam cautioned. "I think it's the best job in the whole world. For me it has been, at any rate. But you have to be prepared to give all of yourself...everything that you've got...to sacrifice everything...if this chair is your goal." He looked intently at Jarrod. "So tell me, Jarrod. Is this your goal? Are you committed to giving everything that you are, and everything that you have, to fight for this chair? For the right to govern the people of California, and all of the power and prestige that goes along with that?"

Jarrod didn't have to think before replying. "I am," he said simply, his voice strong. He had spent his whole life working towards this goal. He felt as though this was what he was predestined to do from birth. He had always known that his path would take him away from the ranch, away from Stockton, one day. As much as he had always enjoyed being an attorney, he had known that one day there would be more for him.

His brothers Nick and Heath were quite content to spend their days toiling on the ranch. Taking their strength from the earth. Jarrod had put in his time as well, working shoulder to shoulder with them, doing some of the hardest, dirtiest jobs on the ranch when it was necessary. But he didn't take that same satisfaction in it that Nick and Heath did. It didn't renew his strength in quite the same way.

He and his youngest brother, Gene, had gone in different directions from their more traditional rancher brothers. Gene, now back East, was working as a veterinarian for a thoroughbred race horse breeder. Only the second Barkley to attend college. And he, Jarrod, had his career as an attorney. And always, in the background, had been that desire...that knowledge that one day he would take his place in his state's political history. Perhaps his country's.

Jarrod remembered the way his father had always encouraged his studies. Had pushed Jarrod to do better, to do more, to stand out from the other boys that they knew. It was there in the way he would pull a young Jarrod onto his lap, and tell him that he was really going to be somebody one day. That with his smarts, and a maturity that had always belied his young years, there was no end to how high Jarrod could set his sights. He used to regale the boy with tales of Washington, D.C., of the great men who controlled the destiny of a nation.

"You could be President one day, boy," Tom had told him, on more than one occasion. He had encouraged Jarrod to pursue a profession in law. Had always given his support. Tom Barkley had put more of the chores of the day to day running of the ranch on a young Nick's shoulders, channeling his oldest son's time and energies and not inconsiderable talents into more academic pursuits. "You'll do the Barkley name proud one day, son," Tom had always insisted with quiet confidence.

"Well, when they came to me with some names...Vandermeer, Stanton and the others...and yours was on the list, I knew that you were the man," Sam White went on. "You don't have the experience with politics, but you've got the Barkley name behind you. And you've made quite a name for yourself as an attorney. Not to mention that you Barkley's are pretty well known in the legislature," he chuckled, "always petitioning us for some new law or the other. 'Rights of the individual', that's your big thing, isn't it?" A coughing spell overtook him then. Jarrod began to rise solicitously, but Sam White waved him down.

"I'm fine," he said, though he knew he wasn't fooling either Jarrod or himself. "And I don't think it's any secret that the Chinese League would be behind you. I don't think they've forgotten that whole mess with the rice, and what Masters tried to do...would have done if it hadn't been for you Barkleys."

The Governor was referring, of course, to the time a few years earlier, when Warren Masters and his wife Janet had tried to corner the rice market. They had set about quietly buying up all the shipments, until only the two Barkley loads had stood between them and a lucrative monopoly...which would have been devastating for the Chinese.

When Mike Chang had alerted Jarrod to what was going on, and he had informed Victoria, the Barkleys had pledged their shipments to the Chinese League, which would have ruined the Masters financially. Janet Masters, who had turned out not to be the woman that any of them, even her husband, had known, had arranged for Victoria's kidnapping in an attempt to force her to sign the Barkley rice over to them. It hadn't worked though, and eventually Victoria had gotten free. Janet Masters had been killed, and Warren had been sent to prison for his part in the crime.

"And then I think the Negroes would be partial to you as a candidate as well. Aside from the fact that you led those Buffalo soldiers for a time, there was that convict that you were instrumental in getting paroled. Only the second man in the state to be freed under that program, as I recall. What was his name again? Johnson?" Sam White frowned, trying to remember.

"Jackson," Jarrod supplied. "Damien Jackson." Damien Jackson had come to the Barkley Ranch one harvest, when the peaches had needed picking and all of the men had been out on the trail and then in quarantine. Victoria had arranged with the warden for some prisoners to be hired out to perform the work. One of them had been a man named Damien, who they had learned was once a soldier in the 9th Cavalry, the very division that Jarrod had once commanded a regiment in.

A brutish guard and a series of circumstances had led to the deaths of the guard and the two other prisoners, who had been attempting to escape and had planned to take Victoria and Audra as hostages. Damien had saved their lives. The Barkleys had learned that Damien had been convicted of killing a superior officer in the cavalry. One who had used Indian prisoners, including women and children, as target practice. True to their words, the Barkleys had used their influence and arranged for Damien Jackson's case to be reviewed, and he had, indeed, been the second man in the state of California to earn parole. The last Jarrod had heard, Damien was working as a blacksmith. His parole had been very successful.

"I've been keeping my eye on you for a while now," Sam White smiled. "I have to tell you, that some of these liberal ideas of yours didn't used to wash so well with me. But, now...I don't know. Times are changing. The corruption in politics is getting out of hand. I admit, I've played my role in things, though for the most part I think I always did keep the people of California in my sights." He sighed. "I think that what we need, for the survival of the system, as well as the survival of the party, is some change. And I think you might be the man to help lead that change." His gaze on Jarrod was searching. "Are you that man, Jarrod Barkley?"

"I'd like to think that I could be," Jarrod said.

"And do you want it bad enough?" Sam White probed.

Jarrod again felt the power in the room. Power that still emanated from the physically frail man before him. Power that seemed steeped in the walls, in the very air that he breathed. Not far from here was the state capitol building, where an elite group of men made decisions for the whole of California.

Jarrod had been on the floor many times before, extolling the members to help his causes. He had felt the tug and pull of that power. Had hungered for it. How good it would feel to be there instead as one of the powerful, one of the courted. And what worthwhile changes he could make for the people, even if he were to only serve one term.

"I do," Jarrod said vehemently.

Sam White smiled, "Well then, God help you man. And welcome to the world of politics." He sobered. "You know who is going to oppose you, don't you? Who wants this nomination?" Jarrod shook his head. He had heard some names bandied about, but nothing definite. "Clayton Knowles has already been to see me." He let that hang in the air.

Clayton Knowles. A man that Jarrod despised. Who despised him in return. Young, ambitious, arrogant, Clay Knowles was an orphan who had grown up poor, had worked his way up from a clerk in the offices of the Central Pacific Railroad, to one of the organizations biggest power brokers and major stock holders. He was ruthless. Cunning. Jarrod had bumped heads with him more than once within both the legal and political arenas. Sometimes successfully, sometimes not so successfully. Knowles was mean, and he held a grudge. And he hated Jarrod and everything that he stood for.

"I can take on Knowles," Jarrod said, his voice hard, his eyes narrowed. "With or without your backing, Governor."

Sam White was glad to see the spark inside the other man. He already knew that Jarrod had the education, the legal background, the qualifications to run for office. He just wanted to be sure that he also had the fire. "It'll be with my backing, Jarrod," he smiled. "Clayton Knowles is not the man that I want living in my mansion. But you'd do well to never count him out, and never turn your back on him. He's meaner than a rattlesnake."

Almost as though the governor had had a precognition, Jarrod ran into Clayton Knowles later that evening at the Carlton Club. Knowles and an associate were just leaving, as Jarrod was entering the stately private building. "Well, Barkley," Clay had said, his blue eyes narrowing. "I was just talking to some people about you."

Jarrod had tried to ignore him, moving to step past him into the club. Clayton Knowles had put his hand on the lawyer's arm to halt him. "Don't think you're just going to walk away with this thing," Knowles cautioned him. "I'm going to fight you with everything I've got. You might have that decrepit skeleton White's blessing, but he's losing his grip fast. Not just on the state, but on the party. There are more than a few who aren't willing yet to let some bleeding heart throw away all that they and their forefathers have worked so hard to build."

"Thanks for sharing that, Clay," Jarrod said easily. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"How's your brother doing, Barkley? That bastard that your wandering father sired? Still living out there on the ranch all cozy like?" Clayton Knowles laughed, his eyes issuing a challenge.

Jarrod's right hand itched, to either reach for his gun, or to take a swing at the smirking blond man. But Clayton Knowles was a faster draw, and Jarrod wasn't about to take stupid chances. He wasn't going to make it that easy for Knowles, letting him shoot him down in the street in self-defense in front of a witness, clearing the path to the mansion for him. Nor was he going to hit the other man, and find himself plastered all over the front of tomorrow morning's newspaper. Jarrod wasn't one to back down from a challenge, or to let anyone make disparaging remarks about those he cared about. But he wasn't stupid. And to get down to Clay Knowles level would only be stupid. There would come a time and a place to redress past wrongs, Jarrod knew.

"Good luck Knowles," Jarrod said simply, not giving the other man the satisfaction of riling him. "You're going to need it." He was rewarded with a look of fury, then he shrugged off the hand, and continued on inside.

'So,' Jarrod thought to himself. 'It begins.'

Chapter 17

Catherine sat by lamplight, sewing by hand the neat, even stitches that her mother had taught her...in another land...another lifetime ago. She worked quickly, stopping every so often to test her seams, to adjust the pins, and then to hold the garment out in front of her to eye it critically.

She couldn't believe that Jarrod Barkley was actually taking she and Cady out to dinner when he returned to Stockton. To a real restaurant. To sit and be served and dine just like other people. She wondered if he knew that she and her small daughter had never done that together before. Had never just walked into a restaurant, and ordered a meal that had been prepared by hands other than her own.

Catherine only had the two dresses, simple hand-made calicos. The faded beige one that she usually wore, and the lilac-coloured one...the slightly better of the two, but certainly not high-fashion. How she had longed to be able to buy herself something new. One incredible extravagance. Something nice to commemorate this special evening. To help create memories that she was counting on to sustain her through the long, dark nights, curled next to Cady's little body in the narrow, uncomfortable bed.

She had gone to the dressmaker's shop the next morning on a whim, admiring the pretty ready made dresses that hung there. The clerk had eyed her suspiciously, but had left her unbothered. Catherine had found that even the simplest dress had a price tag that was far more than she could possibly justify. It would just about drain the emergency resources that she had tucked away in the jar.

Her fingers trembled as she felt the soft fabric, as she held one of the impractical, feminine dresses up against her tall, full figure. Most of these were too short anyhow, made for smaller, more delicate women. Women who weren't so long in the waist and in the leg. Women who were narrower in the bust and the hip. Women like Patricia Vandermeer. Though undoubtedly she had her dresses custom made, with cost being no object. Catherine sighed, hanging the dress back on the rack, and left the store.

She had made her way to the general store next, to admire the selection of fabrics that they stocked. She had passed Jarrod's office, reading the shingle. 'Jarrod T. Barkley, Counselor at law, Offices in Stockton and San Francisco.' She remembered his face, so gentle and open, as he had played with Cadence last night. The way he had said goodnight to Catherine...how his hand had brushed against her cheek as he had pushed back her hair. The longing that his touch had evoked.

'Don't be a fool!' she'd chided herself. Thoughts like that would inevitably cause her pain. Jarrod Barkley was spoken for. He was her friend, and she was extremely fortunate to even known him that way. She would be grateful for that, and not dare fill her head or her heart with ridiculous notions.

She had found a simple yellow cotton fabric with small white dots, but no specific pattern. She could get away with less fabric that way, not having to worry about matching things up. She had calculated how much fabric she would need, and what it would cost. She figured in the price of buttons, and additional thread. She chewed her bottom lip in consternation. It was just so very much money.

But she was worth it. She would look lovely in the yellow dress that Catherine envisioned making. And so, before she could talk herself out of it, Catherine had counted out her money, and fled from the store before she could regret her purchases.

She had been working on the dress for three nights now, late on into dark after her other work, seemingly endless, was done. Painstakingly folding in the little pleats at the waistband of the skirt. Taking out the stitches that she was not satisfied with, and resewing them. She was almost done. She had fashioned a little rose out of some of the leftover fabric, and was now attaching it to the upper left-hand portion of the bodice. She had made a matching ribbon to tie in her hair. She held the dress out in front of her one last time, giving it a gentle shake to see how the lines would fall. It was darling. Cadence would look just lovely in this dress.

After all, it didn't matter what she, Catherine, looked like, she had surmised. Jarrod Barkley wasn't interested in her as a woman. He likely wouldn't even notice what she was wearing, or care if he did. And Catherine was unconcerned with what anyone else thought about her. But she did want to do something special for Cady. To give her something new...something that would bring her pleasure and make her pretty blue eyes shine with pride and delight. So that when she walked into that restaurant holding her mother's hand, she could hold her head up, and know that she was the prettiest girl in the room. How surprised her dear daughter would be when she saw her new dress.

In the end, Catherine hadn't been able to totally escape the helpless desire to do something to improve her own appearance. She had parted with a few more precious pennies and had picked up a small scrap of white lace that had been marked down cheaply because it was stained. She had soaped it and scrubbed it gently, and laid it in the sun to dry, hoping the hot rays would help to bleach out the marks in the lace. And it had worked. It looked like new. Catherine had carefully removed the plain collar on the lilac dress. Then she had skillfully gathered the lace until it made a soft frill, and she sewed it onto the neck. There was even enough that she was able to encircle each of the cuffs, not only making it look prettier, but hiding some of the threadbare areas.

Whenever Jarrod Barkley returned, she and Cady would be ready for him. Yawning with fatigue, Catherine put out the lamp and crawled, exhausted, into bed.

Jarrod sat restlessly as the train chugged back towards Stockton. He was eager to get home, glad to be leaving Sacramento and all of it's drama. He had had to stay longer than he had anticipated, remaining there a full five days. But there had been so many people to see, so many discussions to partake in. Everyone who was anyone in the Republican party within the city limits had wanted an audience with Jarrod. Had wanted to query him and assess him and have their say. Patrick Vandermeer had arranged luncheons, and meetings and taken care of all of the details. Jarrod had had only to show up and to be himself. But still, he had found it draining. And it was only a mild forerunner of what was to come, he knew.

When he and Patrick had had a private moment, the older man had brought up the matter of Patricia. He had told Jarrod that he had been surprised and concerned when he had gotten the two telegrams...the first to say that Patricia was leaving Stockton so soon, unaccompanied...and the second to say that Jarrod was also coming to Sacramento...alone. He admitted that he'd been angry and worried about his little girl, knowing how excited she had been about her trip to be with Jarrod and meet his family. But he told Jarrod that Patricia had explained things to him...that she and Jarrod just needed some time apart to really think about things and to decide where the relationship was going.

"I can understand you not wanting to rush into things," Patrick had said kindly. "I'm a widower myself. Never quite got over the loss of Lenore, truth be told. And now this business with the election. What happens between you and my Patricia is between the two of you, it has nothing to do with me. As long as you are treating my little girl with decency and respect, then that's all that I ask. A woman like Patricia could also really help a man's career though. Not that I'm pleading her case! I think you already know you'd be a damned lucky man to get a woman like her. And that there are many more in line after you in case you don't!"

He had clapped Jarrod on the back then. "What happens in the personal areas of my life though doesn't affect how I conduct my business dealings. Who you are when you come to the house to call, I keep separate from the man that I am touting now for Governor. I just wanted to make sure that you knew that. I wouldn't have gotten as far as I did in this life if I had made my important decisions with my heart instead of my head."

Jarrod had wondered just what Patricia had told her father...just what exactly she thought. Whether she was saving face by pretending there was some hope that she had Jarrod would eventually be together...or whether she really believed that. Jarrod had been glad when he hadn't run into Patricia at all during his time in Sacramento. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but he was just glad not to have to deal with the awkwardness that would have ensued.

Naturally, he and the other men had begun to discuss who would be the best person to run with Jarrod as Lieutenant Governor. Some of the names that had been on the initial list as potential candidates for the nomination for Governor, were brought forth again. Of the three, Jarrod's personal favourite was Gil MacIntyre, a newspaper man. Gil and he shared many of the same opinions and ideals.

"I think that's a bad idea, Jarrod," Henry Stanton had cautioned during one of their private meetings, running his fingers over his grey moustache. "MacIntyre is too much like you. You would appeal to same members of the party, as well as to the same demographic of voters. What you need, is someone who is slightly different from you in their politics. Someone who will be strong in the areas that you are weak. Someone like Millar or Burns."

Jarrod considered each of the men. He knew that Henry was right. As much as he liked Gil MacIntyre, he needed to consider widening the appeal they would present to the voters. "I guess my vote would be for Burns," he had said at last. Middle-aged Peter Burns was a former state assemblyman, from a wealthy banking family back east. He was sort of middle-of-the-road, not tied too closely to the railroads, but recognizing that they were a big part of his bread and butter and generally marginally supportive. He might well soothe what the men had taken to calling 'the railroad element'.

"I have another idea," Wyatt Bostwick had announced quietly. All eyes had turned to him. "I don't want you to reject this out of hand, either. I want you all to consider it carefully, because I believe it has some real merit." He held up one of his chubby hands. "I've been doing some serious thinking, and listening to what some other members of the party are saying. And I was thinking...perhaps we should approach Clayton Knowles, to run with Jarrod as his Lieutenant Governor."

"There's no way in hell that my name is going to be linked with the likes of Clay Knowles," Jarrod raised his voice, his blue eyes hard.

"Just think about it, Jarrod," Wyatt implored, his natural ruddy complexion deepening. "As an adversary, I think Knowles can be very dangerous. I don't believe he's got the support of the majority of the party, but there are those who are afraid of you, and what you could do. And they believe that their interests would be better served with Knowles in office, over you. The railroad element, certainly, but others too. I don't honestly think that he would garner enough support to get the nomination over you...especially with Sam White in your camp...but I have to wonder if it's worth the risk. Rather than devoting our efforts to fight for this nomination, we could align ourselves with Knowles and his people, and then you would be virtually unopposed. And we could turn our energies to the actual election. I know that Knowles wants the governorship...but maybe if we approached him, gave him the opportunity to at least serve as Lieutenant Governor..."

"If the registered Republicans of this state want Clay Knowles as their candidate, then they can have him," Jarrod spat. "But I refuse to run on the same ticket."

"Jarrod, please..." Wyatt continued, stubbornly.

"No!" Jarrod had insisted with finality. "Never!"

"All right then, fine," Wyatt Bostwick had told him. "It's our job as your advisors to advise, and that's what I've done. I thought the proposal had merit, so I brought it up. Bottom line is that it's your call. I just hope you know what you're doing," he added morosely.

"At any rate," Jarrod had said, his expression darkening. "There's absolutely no way Clay Knowles would settle for Lieutenant Governor...especially my Lieutenant Governor. He's going to go after the top job with everything he's got. He is our adversary and we've got to deal with that. I'm confident that we can."

Eventually, it had been decided that Peter Burns would be the best running mate for Jarrod. Patrick Vandermeer had scheduled a meeting, and Jarrod had approached Burns with the proposal. Burns had happily accepted. At last, Jarrod had been able to break away, and head home to Stockton.

And now the iron wheels clicked rhythmically over the track, taking him closer and closer to his destination. He couldn't wait to see Mother, Audra, Nick, Heath, Annabelle, Chase and Silas again. He always missed each and every one of them when he was away. He couldn't wait to step through the front door of the Barkley mansion into the familiar rooms that he called home.

But mostly, he realized, with a joy mingled with fear...he couldn't wait to see Catherine and Cadence again.

Chapter 18

Jarrod didn't even bother to go home to the ranch first. It would have been an hour there, and an hour back again. To save time, he took a room at the Cattleman's Hotel, had a bath and changed his clothes. He told them he was done with the room, wouldn't be spending the night. But, he told them with a smile and a wink, they would see him again for dinner. He was having two very special guests. Then he went to his office, to leave his bags and briefcase there.

Before he had stopped off at the hotel, Jarrod had composed a quick invitation to Catherine, requesting the honour of her and Cadence's company at dinner that evening. He had written that he would pick them up around sundown. Then he had paid one of the street urchins, with explicit direction, to deliver the envelope to Catherine's house.

Now he stood on the front stoop, feeling inexplicably nervous, holding packages in his hands. He juggled them, giving one quick, sharp rap on the door, then he held his breath, waiting for Catherine to answer it.

She was wearing a different dress, he noticed right away. Light purple, with a long skirt and long sleeves. Feminine touches of lace at the throat and cuffs. The colour flattered her bronze skin tone. Her hair was still down, the way she always wore it, but the sides had been swept to the back with a clip. "You look lovely," Jarrod said in admiration.

Catherine felt herself blush at his praise. She even allowed herself to pretend that he meant the gallant words. "Come in," she invited, stepping back into the room, holding the door for him. "What have you got there?" she laughed lightly, raising an arched eyebrow curiously as she eyed the gaily wrapped packages. He looked so handsome, in a dark brown suit with vest, and black string tie, the grey hat perched atop his dark hair.

Jarrod grinned. "Just a little something that I picked up for you and Cadence in Sacramento." Catherine's face froze and his grin faltered. "I...I hope that's all right," he said uncertainly. It wasn't quite protocol, for a man to give a woman who was not a member of his family gifts, unless he was courting her. But Jarrod hadn't really considered that as he'd strolled through the various shops that lined the streets of the capitol. All he had thought about was pleasing them...she and her daughter. What joy it had brought him to make his selections, to try to guess what they might like, to arrange for the wrapping, all the while imagining the happiness that he hoped these small gifts would bring them. They had so very little, and he had so very much. And he just wanted to share his good fortune. It hadn't occurred to him that he might offend Catherine with his offerings.

"But...why?" Catherine asked him, disconcerted.

Jarrod's eyes grew sad. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I meant no offense. I just...I was just thinking about the two of you. It's just a few little things..." his deep voice trailed off.

Catherine stood staring at him, trying desperately to understand. The book of poetry had been one thing...to make amends for his poor behaviour he had said...but these colourful packages...things for she and Cadence...for no reason at all. Catherine wondered what the beautiful Patricia thought about that. She had vowed to herself that she would not ever bring up the woman's name. That for whatever time she was able to share with Jarrod Barkley, she would pretend that Patricia Vandermeer didn't even exist. But she couldn't seem to stop the name from tumbling now from her lips. "Your...Miss Vandermeer doesn't mind?" she asked, bowing her head.

For a moment, Jarrod was puzzled. Of course, he remembered. When Patricia had come to the office that day, she had called him 'darling'. Had appeared angry at finding another woman there. Catherine had thought...rightly at the time...that Patricia was his special lady friend. Of course she had no way of knowing that Patricia was no longer a part of his life. "Miss Vandermeer and I have parted ways," Jarrod said lightly. "We discovered some...fundamental differences that can't be overcome."

Catherine's heart thudded in her chest. Could this possibly be true?! Jarrod was no longer seeing the perfect Patricia?! Of course, it didn't really make any difference for her anyway. She was not, and never would be, the kind of woman who could share his world...or claim his heart. Still, she couldn't help the smile that lit her face.

"Is one of those for me?" a little voice broke in incredulously.

Jarrod and Catherine both turned to the sound of Cadence's voice. She looked beautiful, Catherine thought proudly. The yellow dress was a perfect fit for her. With her honey colouring, her dark hair, and her big blue eyes, the colour of the dress was extremely complimentary. The matching ribbon tied her long, wavy hair back into a ponytail.

"And who is this incredible little princess?" Jarrod asked, bending down on one knee. "What fairytale kingdom have you come from to grace our presence tonight?"

Cadence giggled behind her hand. "It's me, Mr. Jarrod. Cadence! Do you like my pretty dress? Momma made it for me. Watch this!" The little girl proceeded to twirl about, the skirts of the dress floating around her.

"It's beautiful," Jarrod assured her. "Your mother is very talented." He looked at Catherine. "May I give her the gifts?" he whispered.

Catherine sighed. What would it hurt, really? If they were going to live a fairytale, and dine with the handsome prince...they might as well go all the way...totally immerse themselves in the fantasy. "Thank you," she murmured.

Jarrod handed the child two brightly wrapped packages. At first, she was hesitant. Taking one from him, she turned it over and over in her hands, then set it on the ground before doing the same with the second. "These are for me?" she asked uncertainly. "Is it my birthday? Christmas?" she asked Catherine, perplexed. Catherine shook her head, and Jarrod told her that they were just 'because'. Suddenly, she had squealed with youthful abandon, crouching down on the floor and tearing the wrap off the packages.

Catherine watched as the paper fell away to reveal the gifts that lay within. She gave a soft gasp of surprise. The longer, rectangular present was a checkers set. Her eyes darted over to Jarrod, who was looking not at Cadence, but at her. He had remembered what she had said the other night, about wishing she had a game to play with her daughter, the way her father used to play with her. Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat.

The other gift was a book. A book especially for children, with a bright, yellow cover. Cadence flipped some of the pages over then handed it to her mother, her eyes dancing. "Now I have a book too, Momma," she said, awestruck.

Catherine took the book, reading the cover. 'The Alphabet of Flowers for Good Children', by Edmund Evans. She skimmed through the book. Each letter of the alphabet was represented with it's own full page, a pictorial engraving by the author, and a little verse below. It was such a lovely thing. Only the very rich spent money on books for children that weren't school books. Catherine felt her eyes grow moist. Never would she have been able to give her daughter such a precious thing.

"You were doing so well with your alphabet the other night," Jarrod said to Cadence. "I thought maybe this book could help you to practice. And your mother can read you the pretty poems."

Cadence moved closer to her mother, shy again. She looked up at Jarrod with large, luminous eyes. She seemed overwhelmed. "Thank you, Mr. Jarrod," she said at last, remembering her manners.

"You're very welcome, Cadence. Now it's your mother's turn." Jarrod handed Catherine a heavy, boxy package.

She opened it slowly, pulling at the delicate ribbon, savouring the crinkle of the pretty paper, careful not to damage either so that she could save them. She held in her hands a wonderful chess board. With squares of inlaid ivory and a dark material that she thought perhaps was onyx. She unwrapped the chess pieces themselves. They were intricately carved. Her finger trailed along the flared nostril of the knight's horse, the folds of the queen's robe, the detailed carving of the rook. The set was obviously handcrafted by a true artisan of quality materials. It must have cost a fortune, Catherine realized with horror. She couldn't possibly accept something like this.

Jarrod seemed to know what she was going to say, and reached to take her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Please," Jarrod implored. "Please accept it. You can probably start teaching Cadence how to play soon, though it will take a while before she can really challenge you. In the meantime, I thought that you might need an opponent. I was hoping that you might let me come by and play against you, from time to time. I warn you though, I'm pretty good." Jarrod's eyes sought and held hers, as he moved his hand from her face.

"I don't know what to say," Catherine told him hoarsely.

"Say that I am welcome to come by sometime and play chess with you," he prompted softly, hopefully.

Catherine nodded. "Thank you, Jarrod," she murmured.

"Now then, let's go to dinner, shall we?" he smiled.

They stepped through the double doors into the lobby of the Cattleman's Hotel. 'Stockton's Finest', the sign outside had proclaimed, and Catherine could well believe it. Jarrod guided them around the lattice divider and through to the elegantly appointed tables in the dining area. There were other diners there, sitting enjoying their meal. No other children though, Catherine noted. Curious eyes regarded the trio as they passed between them to a table near the rear, in a quiet corner.

Catherine glanced around at her surroundings. The walls were covered with luxurious red wallpaper on the upper portion, gleaming hardwood on the bottom. There was a big wooden cabinet with rails that displayed beautiful pieces of blue and white porcelain, copper cups, and a silver tea service. The table was set with white linen, a white candle, gleaming silverware and a small crystal bud vase with a single, red rose.

There was even a piano in the opposite corner, where a well-dressed older man played soft, unobtrusive tunes. It had been a long, long time since Catherine had eaten in such a place. Not since she had been back in the Red River Settlement. Her parents had taken her to a good restaurant for her sixteenth birthday, she recalled, her eyes growing soft at the memory.

Jarrod had ordered pheasant and it had been served on white china, with cherry sauce, little roasted potatoes, carrots and soft, warm buns. He had also ordered a bottle of chablis. He raised his glass in a toast, "To the two prettiest ladies in Stockton," he had said grandly. Catherine had raised her glass as well, touching it lightly to his, smiling as Cadence lifted her glass of milk with two hands, bumping it into their wine glasses, almost spilling all of their drinks. Catherine had been about to caution the child to be more careful, but Jarrod only chuckled in amusement, so she let it pass.

Jarrod spoke to them briefly about his trip to Sacramento. He said that it had been a successful one, that he'd had lots of meetings to attend, many of which had bored him to no end, but which had been necessary. He said that he had a good feeling about what he had accomplished while there. He described the city for them, the grand homes and the parks. The government buildings. How wonderful it was to Catherine to share a conversation with another adult. She had Cady to talk to, of course, but this was naturally so different, on an entirely different level.

Catherine listened to Jarrod speak, his voice so deep, his words so eloquent. She could imagine how easily he would move through that world that he described to them. How well-suited he was to a place of culture and beauty and power. She noted the deferential way the wait staff treated him, and the way the manager came out to inquire mid-meal if everything was all right. Jarrod Barkley was a man who commanded respect. He really was the crown prince, she thought, and Stockton was his kingdom. She also noted the way the staff ignored both she and Cadence, wordlessly filling their water glasses, avoiding eye contact. But perhaps, in a white man's world, that was the norm, so Catherine didn't dwell on it.

All that mattered was that for this incredible night, she and her daughter were guests of Jarrod Barkley. His eyes and his words were only for them. He made a point of including Cadence in the conversation often, encouraging her to share her thoughts with them...really listening to what she had to say. He seemed so relaxed, more so than he had been when she had first met him in his office just a few short weeks ago. There were still faint dark shadow under his eyes, but they certainly didn't detract from his devastating good looks.

He also drew Catherine out about her life with the Metis back in Canada. He encouraged her happier memories, asking about the people she had known, if she had much family there. She had grinned, telling him about the dozens of aunts, uncles and cousins that she had grown up with. About the holidays where the homes, though simple, were always filled with love and the laughter of children. And good food. And always there was music.

Fiddle music, accompanied by the bones and spoons, and, in her Uncle Moise's home, there had even been a piano, brought all the way from Upper Canada. Catherine explained the Metis fiddles were handmade, different from the ones Jarrod knew, made of maple wood and birch bark. Manufactured fiddles were hard to obtain and terribly expensive. The music was different too, she told him, livelier, bouncier, more like a Scottish or Irish jig, though uniquely adapted by the Metis people with an uneven, irregular beat. Many of their legends were preserved in fiddle tunes she said proudly. And there was always lots of dancing. Rapid, at times almost frantic movement, joined in by all, even the smallest children.

Jarrod loved the way her heartfelt words transported him to another world. The Barkleys had lots of friends in the valley, but no real family outside of one another. How nice it would have been as a child to have cousins to scamper around the ranch with, exploring nooks and crannies, making up wildly imaginative games. He envied her that. And, he hoped that one day his nephew Chase, the first of the next Barkley generation, would have not only lots of brothers and sisters, but lots of cousins that he could play with.

Catherine's face grew animated as she spoke to him about times past that brought her pleasure. Jarrod was captivated by the husky tones of her voice, by the way the candlelight reflected from her dark eyes. By the totally guileless way she conversed with him. There was none of parrying that was so common with most of the women he knew. That constant and subtle flirting and flattery. The false modesty. The conversations and games that seemed the same each time, almost as though they'd been scripted. How refreshing it was, to spend time with Catherine. To have a woman who really talked to him. Who really listened.

After the meal was completed and cleared away, Jarrod pushed back from the table a bit, lighting a cigar and ordering a brandy. He had been pleased to note that both Catherine and Cadence had eaten heartily, not picking at their food daintily, pretending to have no appetite, the way other women that he took to dinner usually did.

Catherine declined a glass of sherry. She had barely touched her wine, he saw. She had admitted wryly that she wasn't used to wine and spirits, and didn't want to get fuzzy-headed. "I like the smell of a cigar," she told Jarrod quietly after they had been sitting for a few moments in companionable silence, as the blue smoke curled up into the air around them. "It's such a masculine thing. And it reminds me of my father and uncles."

Catherine and Jarrod declined dessert, but Cadence had been willing to give it a try, so Jarrod had ordered a slice of walnut tarte for her. The little girl had devoured it with great gusto, using her napkin to wipe the crumbs from her lips, swallowing down her second glass of milk, and then proclaiming that she was done. "That's the best chicken I ever ate, Mr. Jarrod," she had pronounced with great satisfaction.

At last it had been time to go, and Jarrod had paid for the meal. Catherine had blanched when she had seen the number of bills that he peeled from his billfold. This one meal had cost more that she earned in two months, no doubt. Perhaps three. She wasn't going to feel guilty though. Nothing was going to spoil the pleasure of this evening.

He walked them home, holding Cadence's hand. Jarrod longed to take Catherine's arm in his, but she wasn't giving him any of the signals that he was familiar with. The long, lingering glances through lowered lashes. The coy smiles. The light touches on his arm as they spoke. Perhaps, she wasn't interested in him that way...as a man. Perhaps she was quite content to simply offer her friendship, nothing more. The thought made his throat go tight.

Catherine went to tuck Cadence into the bed, while Jarrod sat outside on the stoop, smoking the remainder of his cigar. It was a wonderful evening, warm, with a light breeze. He could see the waning moon high above, set in the blanket of stars.

"There is no death! The stars go down
To rise upon some fairer shore;
And bright in heaven's jewelled crown,
They shine for evermore."

Jarrod turned at the sound of Catherine's voice as she joined him on the stoop. She smoothed her dress beneath her, then sat down near him, gazing up at the sky. The verse she had quoted was from the book he had given her.

"You have a prodigious memory," he told her in admiration.

She nodded, not bothering with false modesty. "As did my father." She turned to him in the darkness. "As do you." Jarrod nodded. In the shadows on the little roof that overhung the stoop, he could barely make out her features. "My Aunt used to tell us a tale," Catherine began, "about the waxing and waning of the moon, and of the eclipse. A long time ago, when Father Sky took Mother Earth in his arms and mated with her, the Moon was born. As it grew bigger and bigger out there amongst the basket of stars, the Sun Dogs took turns biting it. Snap, snap, they went, until the moon was crescent shaped." Jarrod watched, his eyes tracing the shadowy contours of her countenance, as she turned her face to the sky, lost in her tale.

She seemed unaware of the intensity of his scrutiny, continuing with her story. "The ragged little Moon continued to shine brightly in the sky. Spirit Walker, who guided all the Two-Legged and Four-Legged Creatures at this time, worried about the Moon. She told all the creatures to dance around the plaza, men with Deer, women with Corn, children with Turtles.

"On the Night When Red Leaves Fell, the creatures looked up. The Moon was growing bigger! It grew and grew until it had a full, happy face. But then the Sun Dogs chewed on it again, and whittled it down until it was crescent shaped again.

"From then on, the Two-Legged Creatures and the Four-Legged Creatures got used to the growing and dying of the Moon. They got used to the Sun Dogs chewing on it, and Father Sun casting a black shadow on it's round face every once in a while. And each month, the cycle continued, as we can see it today."

She looked back towards him, smiling. Jarrod couldn't sort all of the emotions that swirled within him at her gaze. He ached to reach out and gather her into his arms. But he was afraid of what her reaction would be. Afraid to do anything to cause her to pull away from him, both physically and emotionally. Afraid to damage their growing friendship which was still so new and so fragile.

"Would you like to go on a picnic with me tomorrow?" Jarrod asked, not willing to part from her until he had definite plans to see her again. "Just you, if you have someone to care for Cadence. Not that I don't like her and enjoy her company," he put in hastily. "You know that I do. But I was hoping that perhaps I could just spend some time with you alone. If you would rather she accompany us, or there isn't anyone to keep an eye on her, then she is welcome to join us."

Catherine couldn't believe that Jarrod wanted to see her again so soon. Alone. Just the two of them. Her head swam at the thought. She couldn't understand why he wanted to...knew that she was only opening herself up to heartache...but there was nothing in this world that she would rather do than spend more time with him. Alone. She shivered at the thought. "It would be my pleasure," she said.

"You're cold," Jarrod said with concern, even though the evening was mild, misinterpreting the tremor that had passed through her. "I should be going and let you get inside."

He stood up first, then extended his hand towards her. She took it as he helped her to her feet. Her hand was rough and calloused, but warm and solid in his grip. Reluctantly, he let it go. "I thank you for a wonderful evening," he said sincerely. "The best that I have had in longer than I can remember."

"We thank you," Catherine murmured. "For everything. Your thoughtful gifts. That wonderful meal. The pleasure of your company." How broad and strong his hand had felt on hers just a moment ago. She had felt the warmth steal up her arm at his touch.

"The pleasure was mine," he said, his voice no more than a whisper. "I will see you tomorrow then. Midmorning if that's all right?" She nodded in the dark. "Til then," he said softly.

Chapter 19

Jarrod had coaxed Catherine into bringing the new chessboard along with them on the picnic. They sat now, alone together on the blanket, which he had spread over a sparsely grassed area near the river. Catherine had cautioned him that she would be very rusty, that it had been years since she had played. He had been encouraging during the first game, holding back, even setting it up so that she could win.

"Don't you dare do that again, Jarrod Barkley!" Catherine had scolded him, her dark eyes flashing, as she reached out a tanned hand and swept the remaining pieces from the board. He had been, very skillfully he had thought, leading her towards the point where she would soon be exclaiming, 'checkmate'.

Jarrod expressed mock surprise. "Do what?" he asked innocently.

"Let me win!" Catherine frowned, her brow furrowing, nostrils flaring. "That is just so...so condescending!" she admonished. "First of all, it's like saying that winning is what's truly important...that that's why we play the game. Instead of playing for the sheer pleasure of the challenge and to better ourselves. Secondly..." she continued, tossing her head, her dark hair floating around her face, "...it's implying that I don't have the skill to beat you! That you are somehow better than I am. Deliberately letting someone else win a game, any game, unless they are a child, is so...so...so self-important and superior!" she sputtered.

Jarrod sat with his knees bent, his arms resting casually across them. He tilted his head to one side during her tirade, surprised at the feistiness that Catherine was exhibiting. He was delighted though, seeing that proud spark in her. He kept his expression a mask of neutrality, just looking at her wordlessly while she berated him.

Suddenly, Catherine seemed to realize what she had just said, and lowered her head, a flush staining her cheeks. 'Oh that's very nice,' she thought in humiliation. 'Yelling at Jarrod and insulting him.' He would think she'd never learned any manners, was totally ignorant of the social graces. Jarrod Barkley probably wasn't used to being yelled at by anyone...especially young women that he invited to share his company over a picnic lunch. It wouldn't surprise her if her loaded up the wagon immediately and drove off, and made her walk back to Stockton.

Then, to her confusion, he began to laugh. Big, hearty laughter that welled from deep inside him and shook his whole frame. She tilted her head, looking at him curiously. Then, at the genuine glee in his blue eyes, at the amused curve of his lips, couldn't help laughing herself.

"You are absolutely right," Jarrod told her agreeably, still chuckling. "Everything that you said is so true. Will you play again, if I promise to behave myself?" he asked her, chagrined.

They put lunch on hold, while Jarrod won the next two games, fairly easily. The third game he won as well, though it required all of his skill and effort. The fourth game, Catherine won, smiling at him triumphantly, knowing that she had earned it.

Jarrod had removed his hat, and scratched at his head. "You are very good," he complimented her. "A brilliant strategist. You'd make a wonderful lawyer," he said, leaning back on one elbow, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

He looked so handsome, thought Catherine with deep admiration. Jarrod was dressed casually in tan shirt and pants and tan vest, his black boots crossed one over the other at the ankles. The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, and Catherine could see a faint scattering of dark hair across the top of his chest. She wondered what that broad chest, those little hairs, would feel like beneath her fingers. "Tell me why you decided to become a lawyer," she said, to stop the wayward thoughts that threatened to consume her.

Jarrod reached out to snap off a blade of long grass, sticking it between his teeth as he considered her question. "I just always knew that I would be a lawyer," he told her. "My father used to tell me since I was just a little boy that that's what I would do one day. How I would go to college and earn a degree. How much it would help the family and the business concerns to have someone with legal expertise. About all the good that I could do for people. He had great plans for me, my father," Jarrod admitted, looking away from her and to some point far on the horizon. "Certain goals. And I've fulfilled most of them," he said proudly. "And have another in my sights."

Catherine listened to Jarrod speak. He had told her about his father, about how he had been murdered. Whenever Jarrod told her about himself, she had noticed that it was always in terms of obligations...of duties...of what other people expected of him. She wondered if Jarrod Barkley ever did things for himself. If he truly looked into his soul and took real pleasure from his life. "Do you enjoy being an attorney?" she had queried.

Jarrod looked back at Catherine, sitting on her haunches, her legs tucked under her and to the right. She was so tall, so regal looking, her back so straight, her shoulders squared so proudly. If he reached out his arm, he could touch her knee, she was that close to him. "Yes," Jarrod answered her. He paused. "Or, I used to. Lately, I haven't been feeling quite the same way about it. I've been lucky to have the opportunity to help different people. People who might not otherwise had gotten representation, or so I tell myself. People whom I like to think truly needed me. I've had a chance to work the other side of the courtroom, as a prosecutor and to see the law slowly come to a land where outlaws and gunslingers ruled. When I used to believe that I'd done good, I could feel good about myself. I could sleep at night. My life had a purpose."

"But lately?" Catherine asked him quietly.

Jarrod sighed. "Last year, I defended a man who used to ride with a gang that committed robberies. Stage coaches. Banks. When he was just a young man. He was caught, and tried, and sent to prison for several years. Then he was paroled. Reformed he said. Married and moved to Stockton. Got a job on a nearby ranch, while his wife worked in town. Davey Keppel, was his name.

"Then there was a hold-up one night on the stage into Stockton. The driver of the coach and two male passengers were pistol whipped. Rumour was that it was the gang that Keppel used to ride with. One of the passengers identified Keppel as one of the robbers.

"He and his wife, Lynn, they came to me for help. He swore that he hadn't had anything to do with the robbery. Lynn confirmed that he had been home with her that night, all night. I believed them both, and agreed to represent Davey at trial.

"The other members of the gang were all convicted. But I tore apart the credibility of that witness who had sworn that Davey Keppel had been one of the men who robbed the stage that night. Had, in fact, been the man who had beaten him. He'd sustained serious head injuries, his sight was affected by the blows he'd taken. I was able to convince the jury that there was reasonable doubt about the validity of his testimony, due to his injuries. And since none of the men from the gang would testify, or say that Davey Keppel had been with them that night, he was acquitted."

Jarrod paused, rolling over onto his back, his hands linked beneath his head, staring up at the cloudless sky. "Then this past spring there was another stage coach robbery. A single bandit. Who shot and killed the driver and the lone male passenger and shot and wounded the female passenger. He made off with six dollars and a pocket watch." Jarrod's voice had changed, becoming wounded. "The woman passenger, when she recovered, identified Davey Keppel as the man who had killed the driver and her husband, and who had robbed the stage. Again, Davey came to me, begging me to be his attorney, but I just knew that he had been involved. Another witness had seen Davey in town that night, when his wife Lynn again swore that he'd been home with her the whole time."

Jarrod drew a ragged breath. "I attended the trial as a spectator. Davey Keppel was found guilty, and sentenced to hang. As the injured widow, Mrs. Evernham, left the courtroom, I approached her, to offer my condolences. To tell her how sorry I was about the loss of her husband, and everything that she had been through.

"'I know who you are, Mr. Barkley,' she said to me. Her adult son stood beside her, holding her arm. 'You're that lawyer who made them let Keppel go that last time. Even when that man TOLD you he saw him. If it weren't for you, he'd be in jail, and my Jim would still be alive. You just as good as pulled the trigger and killed him yourself.' Then she spat in my face."

Catherine saw the anguish on Jarrod's features, and felt it just as deeply in her own heart. He went on. "And since then, I've been second guessing myself all the time. Wondering if any of it's worth it. Wondering if any of the good that I like to think I've done, could possibly outweigh this bad. I'd defended guilty men before, never knowingly, even got them acquitted. But I'd never helped a man go free, only to have him turn around and murder two innocent men and destroy the lives of those who cared for them." He sighed. "I was getting too proud of myself. Feeling that I had a special gift, a power to help other people. Believing that I was infallible."

He turned to look at Catherine then, guilt and shame shining from his eyes, his features twisted in despair. "And since then, I've been second guessing myself at every turn. Doubting myself. Doubting my instincts. Even victories have been hollow ones. Always, at the back of my mind, is the knowledge that because of me, because of my self-righteousness, those two men are dead."

Catherine leaned over him, touching her hand to his smooth-shaven cheek. "Oh Jarrod," she said haltingly. "Jarrod, you didn't kill those men. Their blood isn't on your hands. You're not omnipotent. You could only work with what knowledge and instincts you had at the time. And if you honestly believed that this Keppel was innocent, then it would have been wrong for you not to help him.

"You can't expect yourself to be perfect, Jarrod. I'm sure that no one else does," she said sadly.

Jarrod laid his hand over Catherine's. His eyes bored into hers, seeking absolution in their dark, mesmerizing depths. His family knew about the trial, of course, but he had never told anyone else before about the things that Mrs. Evernham had said to him afterwards. 'You can't expect yourself to be perfect, Jarrod. I'm sure that no one else does,' Catherine had told him innocently. Oh, if only she knew.

"Davey Keppel lied to you Jarrod. And so did his wife. They stole your trust, and abused it for their own selfish ends. Don't let them steal your joy in who you are and what you do. Don't let them take that dedication away from others who still need it. Don't let them take your soul," Catherine insisted. She leaned her head down towards him until her forehead was just barely touching his. She closed her eyes.

Jarrod held his breath. Her face was just above him. Her lips were less than two inches from his. He could feel her soft, warm breath mingling with his. His heart pounded in his chest. And then she pulled away. Sat back again. And withdraw the hand that had caressed his cheek. He had missed his chance. His stomach churned.

Catherine wanted to press her body against Jarrod's, to take away through osmosis all of the pain and guilt and sorrow that he was feeling. To press her lips against his and inhale, drawing away all of his sadness. But of course, that wasn't the way it worked. Jarrod had judged himself as failing, and only he could reverse that decision.

She'd gotten up then, leaving him to his thoughts, as she busied herself setting out the picnic lunch that he had brought for them. Cold, grilled ribs. Cheese. Bread. A bottle of red wine. Some fruit. These simple tasks allowed her to forget the brazen way she had touched him, while allowing Jarrod time to compose himself and forget the pain of his memories.

They had eaten their lunch, shyly talking of inconsequential matters after their earlier, emotionally charged and draining conversation. Then Jarrod had suggested that they take a walk. 'Such a complicated man,' Catherine knew. 'Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. When would he admit that he was not Atlas, but merely a mortal man? Could he ever do that? Could he ever be a mortal man? Or was perfection too deeply entrenched in his whole self-perception?'

As they walked, Catherine came upon an eagle's feather. She stopped, picking it up, and turning it over in her hands. She faced Jarrod, her fingers smoothing the object. "The eagle feather has two sides," she commented. "If the feather had only one side, then the eagle would not fly. On one side we find the intellect, the body and the spirit. Once these are balanced a person is balanced.

"On the other side there is education, process, and ceremony. Once these too are balanced, then a person's life is balanced. When the two sides of the feather are balanced, then our lives have proper balance, and we can fly." Her dark eyes sought his, willing him to understand what she was trying to tell him. For a moment, Jarrod felt as though he was on the edge of a chasm and that Catherine was reaching across to him from the other side. He felt that if he could just reach across to her, if their fingers could join, the chasm would narrow and she would help him across.

Catherine watched Jarrod teeter on the brink of understanding, then pull back from her. She smiled wanly, pressing the feather into his hands. "One day," she told him, with feeling.

Jarrod took the feather from her. What an unusual, amazing woman Catherine Vaillancourt was. He tucked the feather into his shirt pocket. Then, before he could change his mind, he reached out for Catherine. He cupped her face in his hands, watching her eyes widen in surprise. He bent his face towards her, his lips brushing across hers ever so gently. They might have been the soft caress of a warm breeze. Satisfying himself with that single, faint kiss, Jarrod released her, though a fire burned in his veins. He would have to proceed slowly. She had been through so much, had been so horribly hurt and abused.

Catherine's eyes filled with tears. "What are you doing, Jarrod?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this? Is it out of pity?"

He shook his head, unable to speak, willing her to see the truth in his eyes. 'Pity?' Jarrod thought incredibly. Of all of the things he might feel for Catherine, pity wasn't one of them. He couldn't find the words to communicate to her though that what he was really seeking was his own salvation. Probably because he couldn't quite understand it himself.

Chapter 20

Jarrod dropped Catherine off at her home midafternoon. There had been lots of food left over from their picnic, and he had insisted that she take it for she and Cadence. He carried it into the house for her, along with the chess set. She came back outside with him as he climbed back onto the carriage. Jarrod took her hand, bending his head to press his lips against the back of it.

They smiled at one another with shy longing. "Thank you, Catherine. I'll see you some time tomorrow," Jarrod said, telling her rather than asking her, minimizing the chances that she might turn him down.

"I'd like that. Good day, Jarrod," she smiled at him.

Jarrod had clicked to the horse, given a quick snap of the reins, and the buggy had begun to move off. At the end of the street, a man stepped out from the boardwalk, directly into his path. Jarrod had to pull back hard on the reins to avoid running the man down. It was Jed Slater, he saw, one of the local ranchers who had a small spread in the valley.

"Well, well, well," Jed drawled, reaching up to pet the horse on the withers. "I heard it, but if'n I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd a never believed it." He spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the ground.

"Good day, Jed," Jarrod said, puzzled. "Something I can do for you?" he asked pleasantly.

Jed looked down the lane towards the shacks at the far end. "I heard the rumours, but I says to myself, 'Surely there must be some mistake'. They was talkin' 'bout how Jarrod Barkley marched on into the Cattleman's Restaurant last night, with some half-breed squaw and her young 'un. How he set 'em down there 'mongst all the white folks tryin' to have a decent meal, like they skin wasn't red. Like they wasn't dirty heathens stink' up the place." He tipped the hat back on his greying hair, looking up at Jarrod, moving back to take the side of the horse's halter.

Jarrod's eyes narrowed. "You'd better stop right there, Jed," Jarrod warned icily.

Jed Slater's lips twisted in disgust. "Ya think yer so high 'n mighty, Barkley. Ain't a gal in this here valley good 'nuff for ya, is there? Gotta do all a yer courtin' out in 'Frisco or Sacramento. Ain't none of the gals here quite measure up to you Barkleys, ain't that right?" Slater laughed bitterly. "My own Vi weren't worth no more 'n a first look, ain't that right? And her, one of the sweetest, purtiest gals in the county."

Jarrod had spent some time with Jed Slater's eldest daughter several years ago. A dance or two, at parties in the valley. She'd been a pretty girl, but empty-headed, and boring, and Jarrod had quickly disentangled himself from her company. "I don't know if you've been drinking, Jed, or what, but I suggest you let go of my horse, and let me get on my way," Jarrod tried to reason. He could feel the anger rising in him at the way Slater had spoken of Catherine and Cadence, but tried to hold his temper, trying not to give Slater the satisfaction of getting to him.

"Ain't bad 'nuff you make all the gals in town feel like they ain't good enough for a fancy pants lawyer like Jarrod Barkley," Slater went on, his face reddening. "You got to go rubbin' their faces in it, prancin' 'round town with yer dirty squaw whore."

Jarrod stood then with a hissing intake of air, and sprang fluidly from the buggy onto Slater. The horse whinnied in fright as the men tumbled to the ground beside her, rearing up, her front legs pawing at the air. The men rolled out of the way of the deadly hooves. Passersby gathered to watch the spectacle.

Jarrod pinned Jed Slater to the ground, pulling his right hand back and then unleashing a sound punch to the other man's jaw. Slater swung his arms wildly, one of his fists connecting with Jarrod's left eye. Slater was not a big man, shorter than Jarrod, but he was tough and wiry from hours spent out on the open range. He was a man who lived by his fists and who was accustomed to such confrontations, and he could give and take a punch with the best of them.

Jarrod usually preferred to settle his battles with words, but he was furious right now, his anger a hot, living thing that clawed inside his gut. He thought of all of the pain and degradation that Catherine had suffered in her life, because of people as mean and ignorant as Jed Slater. He thought of the lousy bastard with the red hair and pale blue eyes who had stolen her innocence while two other animals watched. He thought of intelligent, beautiful, gentle Catherine scraping vomit off of saloon floors because that was the only job a 'half-breed' Indian woman could get. He thought of Clay Knowles contemptible jibes towards Heath. Of all of the ugly, hateful prejudices that spurred men to be cruel to one another.

And with each thought, his fists drove harder, pummeling Jed Slater's face. Slater continued to try to fight back, landing a couple of blows of his own, but Jarrod was barely aware of them. He roared his anger and frustration, pounding away. He wasn't even cognizant of the point at which Slater stopped trying to defend himself. Not until he felt big hands grab his shoulders, pulling him off of the prone body of the other man.

"What the devil is going on here?!" an impatient voice snapped.

Jarrod stood up, panting, his sides heaving, his left eye already beginning to swell. There was blood in the right corner of his mouth, and he reached up with the back of his hand to wipe it away, smearing it. He looked down at the unconscious form of Jed Slater, at his badly beaten face. But instead of feeling remorse, Jarrod felt a cold satisfaction.

"Someone get this man to a doctor," the voice was instructing now, as other hands reached out to drag Jed Slater from the street. "Now, do you want to tell me what the hell happened here? You're just about the last man I expected to find tangled up in this ruckus, Jarrod!" Sheriff Fred Madden removed his hat and held it out in front of him, his fingers tracing the brim. "And who the hell was that anyways?"

Jarrod paled, realizing what he had done. Jed Slater's face wasn't even recognizable. He felt the bile rise in his gorge, but he fought it down. He stood there silently, winded, looking away from Fred Madden. From the incredulity in his eyes, the disgust on his weathered features.

"C'mon, Jarrod," Madden said at last, his tone softening. "I'll buy you a drink." He looked towards the Golden Eagle saloon across the way. "Or, you can come back to the jail with me, I've got a bottle of whiskey there." Jarrod shook his head. "Who was it?" Madden asked again, curiously.

"Jed Slater," Jarrod told him, turning back to face the sheriff. Fred Madden nodded curtly. The rancher was no stranger to trouble. "I'd better go over to Doc Merrar's and see how he is," Jarrod sighed resignedly.

"Aw, he'll live, I'm sure," Fred remarked gruffly. "Though I'd imagine he'll be in a world of hurt when he wakes up. And if he doesn't...well, I know where to find ya." He gave a thin smile. "Anything you want to talk about, Jarrod?" he asked casually.

Jarrod shook his head. "I think I'm just going to head on home to the ranch now then, if it's okay with you, Fred," Jarrod told him wearily.

"Yeah, sure." He watched Jarrod climb back into the buggy. "Next time, keep your fighting outside of the limits of my town though," Fred said with a friendly smile. "I run a nice, respectable place here." He winked at Jarrod, then slapped the bay on the flank, and she began to trot off.

Fred Madden watched Jarrod head out, wondering to himself if this episode had anything to do with that Indian washerwoman people in the town were talking about. He had a sinking suspicion that it did. And if so, that it was just a precursor to the trouble that Jarrod Barkley might have in store for him.

"Jarrod, my goodness, what happened!" Victoria Barkley exclaimed in distress as her oldest son walked through the front door. She was used to seeing Nick, and even Heath on occasion, come home with bumps and bruises, but it wasn't the norm for her gentlemanly Jarrod. She took his arm and led him into the parlour, sending Audra to get a cold cloth. She poured a brandy for Jarrod, and brought it to him. "You've been in a fight," Victoria said, noting the scrapes and bruises on his swollen knuckles.

Jarrod grinned at her over his glass. "It's nothing, Mother," he assured her. "I just lost my temper, when I should have known better."

Audra returned with the cold, damp cloth, and reached gingerly to wipe the blood that was smeared on her brother's chin, and then to set the cloth gingerly over his bruised and swollen left eye. Her blue eyes were wide with concern. She chewed at her bottom lip.

"Ladies," Jarrod said lightly. "Really, I'm fine. I'm not made of glass, you know," he chuckled, winking at them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Victoria asked solicitously.

As he had done with Fred, Jarrod shook his head. "There's nothing to talk about. It's over and done with. I'll survive." He grinned at them, hoping to ease their worries.

Heath came through the door then, whistling when he saw Jarrod's face. "Well," he drawled. "I've got a letter here for Jarrod, but all I see is Nick." He winked at Victoria and Audra. He frowned then and narrowed his eyes, peering closer into Jarrod's face. "Boy howdy, it ain't Nick after all, it's Jarrod!" he expressed mock surprise. "Well, stands to reason I'd figure it was Nick. He's usually the one wearing 'black and blue' after all," Heath chuckled. "Hey, weren't you going on a picnic today, Big Brother?" he asked suddenly. "Seems to me I recall you bothering Silas this morning, loading up a basket and hitching up one of the mares."

Heath gave Jarrod a long, appraising glance. "Well, I hope that wasn't the reception you got from whoever it was you were hopin' to share a meal with." Heath fought back a smile. "And I sure hope you were behaving yourself and that the young lady, whoever she is, wasn't defending her honour!" He stuck out his tongue at Jarrod then, his blue eyes full of mirth.

"Oh, Heath!" Audra frowned at him.

Jarrod gave a lopsided grin at his blond brother. "Give me my letter," he demanded. Heath passed it over. Jarrod opened it. His eyes scanned the first few lines and he frowned. "Well, it looks like I'm off to San Francisco tomorrow," he said unhappily. "There's some business at the office there that requires my personal attention."

"Oh but Jarrod, you just got back from Sacramento!" Audra pouted.

"Audra," Victoria cautioned. "You know that with the election coming up, Jarrod is going to have to spend quite a bit of time away."

"Yes, Mother," Audra agreed sadly. "I'm sorry, Jarrod."

"It's all right, Pretty Lady, I miss you too when I'm away. I don't like it any better than you do." But it wasn't Audra, or any of the other Barkleys that Jarrod was thinking sadly about having to leave.

"Anything happen that you need me and Nick to back you up on," Heath offered then, his voice serious, indicating the marks on Jarrod's face.

Jarrod smiled his gratitude at the younger man. Always, he knew, he could count on his support. Heath and Nick were the two finest men he could ever want in his corner. "Thanks, Heath. But it's been resolved," he told him.

Heath nodded his head, then strode away, eager to see his young wife and son. As he took the stairs, he couldn't help but think of the strange way some of the townsfolk had treated him today. The averted gazes. The whispering that he imagined he had heard when he walked along the boardwalk. He wondered if it had something to do with the fight Jarrod had been in.

His brother's impending nomination hadn't been announced publicly yet, but Heath had to wonder if word hadn't somehow gotten out. If folks weren't already talking about him...about the Barkley brother who was born out of wedlock. His heart felt heavy to think that who he was, and how he had come into this world, was going to be a stain on Jarrod. He felt shame to think that Jarrod might have been defending his honour.

That night, as Jarrod drifted off the sleep, he tried to hold to the memory of Catherine's hand on his cheek, her forehead on his, her breath on his lips. He relived the feeling of holding her sweet face in his palms, of the tantalizing feel of her dark red lips when he'd brushed against them. Of the gentle and profound words she had spoken to him.

But even this shield couldn't protect him. Jarrod was not really surprised when he woke in the wee hours of the morning, his limbs tangled in the sheets, his chest heaving, his body bathed in sour sweat after the nightmare had claimed him yet again. He sat up in bed, burying his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his short, black hair.

He would have to tell Catherine everything. The whole story. Because until he did, she would never really know who he was. And despite the risk involved, he was desperate that she should know the truth.

Jarrod lay in the silent dark, hands behind his head, staring unseeing at the shadowy ceiling above. He remained that way until the first faint tendrils of light began to steal across the valley, and extend their pale fingers across the land.

Continued…