Those Who Know Me True

Chapters 31-38

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 31

The last thing Catherine wanted to do later that afternoon was walk from town, all the way past the outskirts, to where she had set her snares. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, by her ordeal. All she wanted to do was crawl under the cover on the little bed and sleep. After her bath, she had stoked the little pot bellied stove and started a pot of soup to simmer. She wasn't the least bit hungry...the thought of food made her nauseous...but Cadence would need to eat towards evening.

Tiredly, Catherine called out the back door for Cady to come inside. Fluffy trailed in happily on the child's heels. Catherine was amazed that the little dog didn't try to run off. She always stayed right by Cadence, as though knowing that was where she belonged.

Halley McNeil, her husband Leo, and their five children had clamboured aboard a buckboard earlier that afternoon and were on their way to Joshua Gulch to visit Halley's sister. Since it was a four hour trip each way, they would be spending the night and returning the following day. Leo couldn't be away from his job at the blacksmith's for too long, Halley had explained. She had begun to say a few words to Catherine now and then, seeming to warm to her as time passed. Catherine knew that Cadence was a big part of the reason for that...her sweet nature and innocent charm. Another part she guessed was the rabbits that Catherine would occasionally take over to the McNeils, to thank Halley for the times when she would watch Cadence. Halley had never asked for anything in exchange for the favour, but Catherine had always been taught that when you take, you give in return.

Right now, there was no one to watch Cadence. And Catherine had to go back out to the traps, and get back again before dark. The sun was starting to set earlier these days, and there were only a couple more hours of light. She would have to take Cady, which would make the going even harder, and increase her time. She explained to her daughter that Fluffy couldn't come with them, because she might scare the rabbits, or get her scent all over the grove and then the hares might totally vacate the area. Besides, the pup was too young and too small to travel that far. Because Fluffy was just a puppy and guaranteed to mess in the house, Catherine had to rummage around for a piece of rope to tie the little dog in the front yard. It was still threatening to rain, but if it did, the overhang of the roof would shelter the pup.

Cadence had begged to take her dog, saying that she would make sure Fluffy didn't cause any trouble. But Catherine, who denied her daughter little, forbade it. Cadence sniffled as her mother tied the dog to the post, hugging her canine companion. Catherine took the child's hand, looking longingly at the little shack and thinking of the bed that was within.

However, her father had taught her that you didn't ever leave your traps unattended for more than a day. Sometimes, an animal would get caught, but for some reason death might not come quickly and mercifully. You owed it to the animal, he had said, to check your traps and snares daily. It was one thing to take nature's bounty if you needed it to survive. It was another to be brazenly unconcerned that these were living beings giving their lives for yours. You might need to take them, but there was no need to let them suffer. There was no excuse to leave a tortured creature to slowly strangle to death, or to starve or dehydrate, or to suffer in agony, trying to amputate it's own limbs in a frenzy to escape. All trappers didn't feel that way, but Catherine agreed with him, and his convictions had become hers. So, she and her young daughter began their long walk.

He watched them head out, the woman and the child. He wished that they would just keep walking. Not stopping until they were far away from Stockton. Or, that they would meet with an unfortunate accident on their way. He smiled to himself at the thought. But, that wasn't likely to happen, he knew. That big, ugly Indian woman and her half-breed child would be back eventually. He wondered how much time he had.

There was an old man sitting on the porch of the shanty to the left of the woman's. But he knew that sometime in the next half hour the old man would get up from the porch and shuffle down to the saloon for a drink or two. The old guy did this every day, from what he could tell. The Negroes who lived on the other side had ridden out of town hours ago. He had seen them when he came out of the restaurant after lunch. He only had to wait a little longer and then he could slip unnoticed into the shack. Not that anyone was likely to pay him much mind anyhow, with the steady succession of men that the squaw had parading to her door. For their laundry. How gullible could Jarrod Barkley be?

Cadence didn't complain about their lengthy trek at all, skipping along on her short legs, trying to keep up with her mother's longer stride. She loved to be with her mother. Even if she was quiet and not very talkative, like she was now. She loved to go anywhere and do anything that she did. Her mother was the most wonderful person in the whole world. Cadence felt safe when she was with her. Safe and loved.

Miss Audra and Mr. Jarrod were pretty nice too, the child thought to herself. Miss Audra was so very pretty with her long, yellow hair like sunshine, and her pretty blue eyes like the sky, like Cady's, and her skin was so soft, even if it was so colourless and dull. And her voice was so quiet and sweet, and she was always smiling. And Miss Audra was so nice to her, and nice to all of the animals too. Blossom and the puppies. The big horses that lived in the stable. Miss Audra was her first grown up friend.

And Mr. Jarrod was such a nice man. He was taller even than Momma, and though his voice was deep, it wasn't loud and scary. And he was always smiling at her, always asking her what sorts of things she liked and how she spent her days. He never spoke to her and then looked away, his mind on other things, as Momma sometimes did in the evenings, when she was busy with her sewing, and Cady was eager to tell her something. She knew that he was really listening to her. And he gave her presents, and would pick her up and carry her in his arms. Cadence wondered if that's what pappas did. She didn't have a pappa, but her friends next door did and they seemed to think a pappa was a pretty great thing.

And Miss Audra and Mr. Jarrod had given Cady her dear little Fluffy. Not just any puppy, a special puppy from a far away palace like in a story. That made Cady feel like a princess. She remembered the night that Mr. Jarrod had taken them to dinner...how she had worn her pretty new yellow dress, and how he had thought she was a princess, instead of just being Cadence. She giggled now at the thought.

Catherine looked down at her little girl, at the amusement in her blue eyes and the smile on her sweet features. She didn't think she could have survived in this country, in this harsh and unwelcoming land, if it hadn't been for her daughter. Cadence had given Catherine a reason to go on. Something to struggle for. Someone to live for.

Her heart tightened with fiercely protective maternal love. There was nothing in this world that she wouldn't do for Cady. She would kill for her, if it ever came to that. This little child, who was a part of her, conceived on the night that Catherine had lost both of her parents, was her reason for continuing to battle on in a world that was often so hostile to them.

Catherine shivered, thinking again what might have happened this afternoon. How Cady might have been hurt. How she might have seen something that would have torn away her childhood innocence, frightening her and leaving her forever insecure. Would people ever just leave them alone, and allow them to live their lives in peace, and with dignity?

He opened the little gate, though he could almost just as easily have stepped over it. It wasn't very high. The little yard was neat and tidy. A pink rose bush bloomed below the single window. He had seen the woman pruning it, cutting off a single, long stem to bring inside the house. Her house of sin.

He moved up the path towards the front door. The puppy, who had been laying down on the stoop, tied with a bit of rope, jumped to it's feet, and began to bark and growl. He hadn't ever seen such a small dog before, though he'd heard Jarrod Barkley speak of it. Some Chinese dog or something. It's features were buried beneath it's long, beige fur. He couldn't understand why anyone would want such a useless animal. It couldn't hunt, or herd, and wouldn't keep strangers at bay. Not like Trooper, the big, black hound mix he'd had growing up. Now that had been a dog!

He kicked half-heartedly at the little ball of fur when it continued to growl and began to snap at him, connecting with it as it yelped and went skidding across the stoop til it reached the end of the rope. He reached for the door handle, and then he was inside the little shack.

He wished he'd brought a kerchief to cover his nose, so that he didn't have to breathe the contaminated air inside. His eyes quickly scanned the room. There was little of interest there. He went to the stove, lifting the lid on the pot, looking down at the thin broth. Hmmm, he thought. How easy it would be to slip something into the soup. Something that was poisonous. He imagined the pair of them, mother and child, curled up on the floor in agony, clutching their bellies while the life drained out of them. Perhaps...if they failed to heed his warning...he would go this route.

First though, he would give them a chance. He would give them a warning, and if they failed to respond to it...well then, it wouldn't be his fault if they drove him to extreme measures. He had thought of burning down the shack in their abscence. But they had so very little, and what was here was probably furniture that came with the rental. So really, he decided, there wasn't much point. There wasn't much for them to lose, so they probably wouldn't even be affected by the loss of their dwelling. They'd just rent another cheap shack. Still be in town. And Jarrod would continue to be in danger.

The pup outside began to growl and bark again, scratching at the blue painted door. Another idea came to him then, and his lips curled. He would have to go home first, but he probably had plenty of time still. He could be gone and back before they returned. And the idea really appealed to him. He wondered if the woman would be smart enough to appreciate the irony.

Catherine asked Cadence to stay back a bit, while she checked the snares. Two had been sprung, the rabbits dead, the other was undisturbed. Catherine triggered the other snare herself, knowing that she would not want to make this journey again tomorrow. Two rabbits. That was good. Two more pelts and more meat. Of course, she thought tiredly, she would have to go home now and skin and clean the catch. She caught herself, ashamed of her ingratitude. Here the Lord had provided them with food, and instead of saying a prayer of thanks, her first thoughts had been of what an imposition it would be to take this bounty home and prepare it. She bowed her head then, her lips moving soundlessly, as she asked forgiveness and thanked Him for his gift.

Cadence began to lag behind on the walk home. Catherine wasn't surprised. It was a long walk for a little one. Especially this late in the day when Cady had already expended so much energy playing with the McNeil children and with Fluffy. She was tired too, but she reached her arms for the girl, lifting her up onto her hip, while the rabbits dangled from her hand. "I'll carry you for a while, Sweetie," Catherine told her, kissing one golden cheek.

They hadn't gone too far when Catherine heard the first faint rumblings of thunder. It had gotten darker so quickly, the grey clouds hanging overhead, pregnant with unshed rain, though the sun still shone through bravely in places. She could smell it in the air, the impending downpour. She hurried along, clutching Cadence close. They were still quite a distance from town. Would they make it? she wondered worriedly, chewing her bottom lip in consternation. The thunder clapped again, as if to mock such hopes.

He had scrawled the message on the piece of paper. Now, he picked up the Apache arrow, and drove it through hard, into the picket gate. He stepped back to survey his handiwork. That ought to do it, he reasoned. Ought to get the message through loud and clear. That ought to make her pack up her bastard child and take the road out of Stockton, leaving Jarrod Barkley far behind. Before it was too late. And...well...if it didn't....He would deal with that at the proper time.

Catherine heard the steady clop of hooves, as the horse and wagon drew nearer. She moved off to the side of the road, still carrying Cady in arms that groaned with protest. The little girl had her head on her mother's shoulder, worriedly looking up at the darkening sky. Feeling the wind begin to whip up, as dust and debris stung her cheeks and made her close her eyes. She didn't like storms. They frightened her. The noise and the bright flashes of light. She wished that Momma would hurry.

As the wagon passed by, Marjorie Fletcher looked down at the woman and child at the side of the road. All the way out here on foot, by themselves, with a storm threatening. Her husband Worth slowed the horse, glancing over too. When he saw that it was the Indian woman, he flicked the reins, increasing the mare's pace.

Marjorie's eyes rose to the sky, before sliding over to the man who sat beside her. "Worth," she said hesitantly. "It's gonna storm bad. They's a long way from town yet."

"Yeah, well, I ain't lettin' no Injuns ride my wagon," he grumbled, as they continued to pull away.

"Worth," she said again. "It's just a woman and a wee child. Unarmed. I don't see as they'd harm us any."

He muttered under his breath. "Likely to steal all we got," he complained.

Marjorie glanced at the back of the wagon, empty except for some sacks of grain and a pair of Worth's old work gloves. "Don't reckon there's much to take," she said dryly. "Do you recollect preacher's sermon on Sunday?" she asked. "'Bout being a good Christian and helping wheres you could, without bein' asked?"

She heard him sigh as he pulled back on the reins, halting the mare.

Catherine saw the wagon with the middle-aged couple stop just ahead of she and Cadence. 'Please, Lord,' she implored silently. 'No more trouble today. Please. I just couldn't take it.' She tightened her grip on Cadence, raised her head high and kept on walking until her path drew her up alongside of the wagon.

"Ya goin' ta Stockton?" the woman asked, her eyes kind. Catherine nodded. "Well, looks like we're in for a heap a rain. You and the young 'un climb on in back, and we'll take you as far as the crossroads. Then we goes west, our place is just t'other side of town. But you'll be no more'n a few minutes from there."

Catherine thanked her gratefully, stunned at their good fortune, pushing Cadence up into the back of the wagon, then scrambling up herself. It felt so good to rest for a moment, as the horse started off again and the wagon began to rock from side to side, bumping over the rutted road. The couple up front didn't say anything to them, though the woman did turn a couple of times and smile at Cady, who grinned in return. Finally, they reached the crossroads, and Catherine and Cady climbed out again. She felt the first faintly scattered drops on her face.

"We're very grateful, we would never have made it back before the rain came," Catherine told the couple sincerely. They seemed taken aback at her perfect English. "I'll be sure to keep you both in my prayers tonight, for the kindness you have shown."

The man's eyes widened in surprise. "And jest who would ya be prayin' to?" he asked suspiciously.

Catherine gave a tired smile. "The Lord our God who created man in his likeness and gave his only son to save our sins," she replied patiently. The man's jaw dropped, and the woman gave a sharp intake of air. "Please," Catherine said, unwinding the strings in her hand, and passing one of the rabbits towards the woman. "We'd be honoured if you would accept this small gift, with our thanks for your generosity."

Marjorie looked at the young woman. She couldn't believe her eyes or her ears. She'd never really met an Indian before, but this gentle, well-spoken woman certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting when she asked Worth to stop. She realized that the woman and child must have walked all the way from Stockton, to catch the rabbits for their food. They had only the two, and the woman was willing to part with one, simply because they had allowed the pair to ride in the back of their wagon. They hadn't even gone out of their way or anything. She thought of her smokehouse, full of meat. "Thanks all the same," Marjorie told her. "Weren't nuthin'. Pleased to be along when we did." She smiled at the young woman.

The wind gusted again, and this time there was a sting of raindrops. "Well, thank you," Catherine said, taking Cadence's hand, and hurrying up the road. She could see the buildings of the town, not far now.

"Well, don't that beat all," Marjorie said to Worth as he snapped the reins, urging the mare to a faster pace before the heavens opened on them.

Catherine put Cadence down now. The little girl was rested, and they could move faster this way. She urged her daughter to a jog, and soon they were on the familiar lane, the little shack with the blue door looming before then. Catherine's attention was drawn to something on the front gate. Something pinned there, as the gate swung to and fro in the wind. 'What can that be?' she thought in vexation. They hurried towards home, when suddenly Catherine stopped short. 'Oh dear God!'

Her hands came down on Cadence's slender shoulders, spinning the child around. She couldn't let her daughter see that. Her first instinct was to force Cadence back down the road, and around the lane behind, to the back porch of the house. Big, cold drops of rain fell then, splashing on her hair and face, beginning to dampen her dress. But what if someone was back there? Someone who would hurt Cady? She had no where to send the child. No one to turn to for help. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. It wasn't likely that anyone was still here, waiting for them, she decided.

"Cady, honey, go on around back," Catherine said, trying to keep her voice level, giving her daughter a gentle shove. "If you see anyone, you yell for me, and you run right back around here as fast as your little legs will carry you. Do you understand me?"

Cadence was frightened, the rain beginning to come harder, and she shivered as it began to soak through her clothes to her skin. The grey sky was beginning to get black, the clouds massing together, starting to block the light. Something was wrong, she knew. They were only steps from the house, from the safety and dryness of the shack. Why was her mother making her go all the way around to the back? All by herself? Tears sprang to her eyes. "It's raining, Momma! I have to get Fluffy first!" she worried.

Catherine looked back at the house, realizing that she was too late to do anything anyhow. Dejectedly her shoulders drooped. "No Cady, not right now. We have to get inside." She scooped her daughter up in her arms, heading back down the lane, back the way they had just come. She might as well take Cady around back with her, checking for danger first, making sure the child was inside, safe and dry. Then Catherine could come back out through the front. Wordlessly, she hurried down the lane.

"Hurry, Momma," Cadence wailed, huddled by the stove, as Catherine told her to take her wet clothes off, and stay inside. "Get Fluffy! She'll be scareded and all wet and get sick!"

Catherine couldn't speak as she opened the front door, turning her face from the wind and the rain. She hugged her arms around herself and pushed outside, across the stoop, stepping over the rope that lay slackly on the ground. The gate continued to bang relentlessly, swaying back and forth in the wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. Such a steadily eerie sound. The wind whipped her wet hair, sending it with a stinging slap against her right cheek, already tender from the miner's earlier brutality. She pushed the hair out of her face, and knelt by the gate.

She grabbed the Indian arrow, having to pull mightily to get it out of the splintered wood. The little body impaled on the end was cold and wet. Already stiffened. The once soft beige fur was matted with blood. Tears coursed down Catherine's cheeks, indistinguishable from the rain. She couldn't pull the arrow out again, because of it's design, so she pushed it through, enraged and sickened, pulling the long wooden shaft through the puppy's body. Then it was out, and she held Fluffy's tiny body against her breast, sobbing for the second time that day. How could she possibly go back there in tell Cady that her precious puppy was gone? There was a piece of paper that fell to the ground, the words smeared and unreadable because of the rain. But Catherine could well imagine what it said. She didn't need anything to clarify the hatred of this message.

Chapter 32

It had been a wonderful day, Jarrod thought with satisfaction. His meeting with Sam White to pose for photographers had gone splendidly. They had stood together, shaking hands, both men smiling. Governor White had been enthusiastic and sincere in his praise of Jarrod. Jarrod had fielded questions easily, and then met with some of the newspapermen separately afterwards, for more in depth interviews.

Photographers had snapped his picture again. Reporters had asked him all about his history. Law school. His practice. His war service. The Barkley businesses. They had quizzed him about some of the legislations that his family had been instrumental in bringing about. And some that had been his pet causes alone. They asked again about some of the more famous trials he had been a participant in, both as a prosecutor and as a defense attorney. Some of them asked, with sensitivity, about his marriage and the loss of his wife Beth.

One reporter, from a Fresno paper, had asked him with a sly smile about his brother, Heath. Jarrod had looked the man levelly in the eye, and told him that there was nothing to tell. Heath Barkley was one of his three brothers, just as Nick and Eugene were. Heath was a driving force behind the success of the ranch and a valued member of the family. And anyway, Jarrod had finished, Heath Barkley wasn't going after the Republican nomination. He was. And then he had dismissed the man, without completing the interview. That had been the only irritation in his day.

They had asked him who his running mate was going to be, and he had been animated in his praise of Peter Burns. Complimentary about Burns accomplishments as a former state assemblyman. Proud that he would be having his name on the same ticket.

They had asked him who else would be running for the Republican nomination, and Jarrod had declined to comment. One reporter had brought up Clayton Knowles name, and Jarrod had brushed the speculation aside. They asked him who he believed the Democrats would be putting up against him...or whoever eventually got the Republican nomination...and he had honestly said that he had no idea. His most educated guess would have been Judd Kingsley, a southern California businessman who, among other interests, owned thousands of acres of prime orange groves and a profitable shipping line. Who had not-so-secretly wanted to see the South win the war. But it would have been no more than a guess, and so Jarrod had merely shrugged, smiling engagingly and declaring that only time would tell.

Jarrod found that he enjoyed the attention. Enjoyed even the interviews, where clever reporters would try to trap him into saying more than he intended, so that they could have a wonderful quote for the front page of tomorrow's paper. He enjoyed the way they made him think, and carefully assess each word. His profession as an attorney made him ideally suited for these exchanges, he knew. He was well aware that things that sounded innocent enough on the lips, could be twisted and made to look much different when taken out of context in print. He was cognizant of the power of words.

Then it had been time for the dinner that Wyatt Bostwick had arranged in his honour at the banker's opulent home on the park, not far from the Vandermeer mansion, and within sight of the capitol building. Jarrod had never been to the Bostwick residence, which some referred to as a 'palace'. He was impressed by the grand architecture, the Grecian columns, the gleaming black marble entrance. Everywhere there was greenery and candles. A black coated butler, an older man, very upper crust British in style and accent, greeted Jarrod at the door, taking his coat.

Bostwick and his wife, a lovely blonde woman more than twenty years his junior, were there immediately to welcome him. Winnifred Bostwick, 'Please call me Winnie,' she had trilled in a girlish voice, was stunning, with big, grey eyes, and a voluptuous figure. She wore a tight, green dress that accented each delectable curve. Wyatt Bostwick's eyes travelled over her greedily...possessively, his small, dark eyes bright in his perpetually flushed, fleshy face.

His wife had a wide, generous smile, her lips painted bright red, her teeth small and even. She was a gorgeous woman. But there was something about her eyes, Jarrod thought. That vapid expression. He thought he detected a faint bruise high on her left cheek, beneath the thick makeup and powder that she wore. He wondered anew about the rumours.

Winnie Bostwick threaded one slender arm through her husband's, and the other through Jarrod's and led the men to the dining hall, swaying her hips suggestively as she walked. Jarrod recalled that the Bostwick's hadn't been married all that long. Three or four years, perhaps. Bostwick had married much later in life, to a much younger woman. Not that that was at all unusual for men of his wealth and standing.

They walked through the double French doors into the dining hall, and Jarrod was surprised, and somewhat discomfited, when every man and woman in the room rose to their feet and began to applaud. Jarrod thanked them briefly, expressed his pleasure at being there, and then Winnie Bostwick pulled him along to a bigger, rectangular table at the front of the room, clearly meant for the guest of honour. He held out her chair for her, not noticing Wyatt's frown, then seated himself.

There were at least a dozen round tables, perhaps more, in the enormous room, each seating six guests. The walls were two stories high, covered with cream silk. There were candelabras everywhere, with white candles, giving the room lots of flickering light. The tables were outfitted as well as any Jarrod had ever seen, even in the fanciest of restaurants. Gleaming silverware and crystal and china. Dozens of bouquets of red roses in cut crystal vases, one to each table, three on the long table where Jarrod sat. There were black-suited waiters, one assigned to each table, who poured wine and carried out plates of roast duck, and roast beef, and ham. Jarrod had never seen anything in such a grand scale in a private residence before. The sheer size of everything amazed him. This home made the Barkley mansion seem small and quaint. He tried to note every detail, so that he could retell it all later to Catherine.

After the sumptuous meal, during which Jarrod had felt Mrs. Bostwick's hand on his knee on more than one occasion, and her foot caress his shin, she had taken his arm again, leaving Wyatt to follow, and guided Jarrod to another room beyond this dining area. The black expanse of marble was clearly a dance floor. A raised area near the front of the room accommodated musicians, who were setting up their sheet music. There were three wide steps down to the dance area. Potted plants and luxuriously upholstered chairs lined the walls of the room.

Most impressive though, was a large stone fountain in the centre of the room. Water bubbled musically out the top, tumbling down sides graced by cherubs, into a small pool below. Koi swished in the shallow water above a blue and gold mosaic pattern. The water was then recycled, and drawn up again to begin it's enchanting, perpetual journey once more. It was a stunning centrepiece.

"Isn't it delightful?!" Winnie Bostwick exclaimed. "Wyatt sent to Rome for a team of artisans and had them construct this for our first anniversary. Isn't he a dear?" She batted her lashes at Jarrod, still holding his arm.

"Indeed," he told her. "It's splendid." He smiled, wishing that Catherine were here with him to see this marvel.

The first sweet strings of a violin floated on the air. Wyatt Bostwick led his wife out onto the dance floor. Other couples soon joined. Some of the men gathered around Jarrod, and naturally all of the talk was of the events of the week, and the upcoming convention to be held in a little more than three weeks. Just after Thanksgiving.

"May I have this dance, Counselor?" a familiar voice inquired.

Jarrod turned to Patricia Vandermeer. He hadn't realized she was here, though it wasn't so surprising since Patrick was, of course. There was no way to refuse, so Jarrod nodded, taking her hand, and they moved out amongst the gliding bodies.

She looked lovely. He had almost forgotten what a physically beautiful woman she was. Her green eyes sparkled. Her dark hair was swept up off her bare shoulders, and pinned with diamond clips. She wore a white gown, the collar and cuffs trimmed with ermine. Emerald earrings glittered on her lobes. She was wearing the perfume he had given her, Jarrod realized.

Patricia had taken extra special care with her appearance that evening, knowing that she would be seeing Jarrod again. Her heart had swelled when she had seen him walk into the dining room earlier. How incredibly handsome he looked, in his black tuxedo. She had been missing him unbearably, refusing to allow any other man to escort her while she waited for him to come back to her. She had heeded Audra's advice. She would wait for Jarrod until he was ready to put his past behind him and forge ahead with his future. Their future, which she dreamt about in the evenings as she worked on her needlework in the parlour.

She had been so proud when the newspapers had proclaimed that Governor White would be retiring, and that he was endorsing Jarrod Barkley to replace him. She knew how ambitious Jarrod was. Knew that he was made for great things. She couldn't imagine that the Republican party wouldn't give him the nomination, and the voters wouldn't give him the state. A few more months, and he would be Governor Barkley.

Patricia's heart soared to know that Jarrod would soon be living his dream. If only she could soon be living hers, at his side. The only thing that she wanted in the entire world was to be his. And what she had told him in Stockton, at his home, had been the truth. She really didn't care if he was Governor, or if he was a lawyer, or a rancher. Whatever pursuit would make him happiest, was all that she wanted for him. She loved him beyond compare. There could never be another man to take his place.

Patricia looked up at him now, with a smile and a look in her eyes that made Jarrod uncomfortable. He had one hand on her tiny waist, the other holding one of her delicate hands. Her other hand was on his shoulder. She was so light in his embrace, moving fluidly as they twirled around the dance floor. She was truly a wonderful dancer, so lithe and graceful.

"I'm so happy for you, Jarrod," she said sincerely. "I just know that the Governor's Mansion will be yours. Your family must be so proud of you. I know that I am." She lowered her gaze shyly, her long, dark lashes sweeping her cheeks.

"Thank you, Patricia," he responded. Jarrod felt claustrophobic, despite the size of the room. He recalled angrily Patricia's words in his office as she had spoken those denigrating words about Catherine that day. He wanted only to push her aside, to get away from that adoration in her eyes, away from the feel of her in his arms.

They danced near the Bostwicks now, Winnie looking back at them over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. Patricia caught the look. She laughed lightly. "You'd better be careful, Jarrod," she teased, her voice soft and low. "I think Winnifred Bostwick has you marked to be her next lover." She laughed aloud at the scandalized look on his face. The wine she had had with dinner had loosened her tongue. "It's no secret in the capitol that Mrs. Wyatt Bostwick has a certain...fondness for handsome men. Despite how much that lout of a husband dotes on her. Apparently, there are just some things that money can't buy." Patricia laughed again. "And you are exactly the sort of man who would appeal to her. I've seen that look before. You're a marked man, Jarrod Barkley!"

Instantly, Patricia regretted her words, seeing the hardness settle over Jarrod's handsome features. She flushed, wondering what had gotten into her. She didn't normally speak this way. She detested those women who were loose-lipped, silly gossips, and she knew that Jarrod did too. She supposed that there had been an element of jealousy to her prattle. Of fear. Winnifred Bostwick was a stunning woman, with a reputation for being a skilled, insatiable lover. Patricia couldn't bear to think about her with Jarrod.

The dance ended, and Jarrod dropped her hand, releasing his hold on her waist. "Thank you for the dance, Patricia," he said automatically.

"Jarrod," Patricia hesitated. She looked longingly into his incredible blue eyes. "I miss you." She hated humbling herself this way, especially when he was giving her no encouragement. "Will I see you again? While you're here?" She wanted to reach up and stroke his cheek, to put her hand against his head and have him lean into it as he had done in the past. Wanted more than anything to feel his lips on hers again. She could almost feel it...their masterful pressure.

Jarrod felt his agitation grow. Perhaps it would be best to tell her about Catherine now. That he was in love with someone else. "Patricia..." he started, sighing.

She reached up, putting a finger on his lips. "I know," she said softly, thinking of his wife, Beth. "One day, if...when you want me, I will be here. Waiting." Then in a swirl of white fabric, she was gone.

"Well now, we mustn't have our guest of honour standing here alone," a voice purred. Winnie Bostwick came up behind Jarrod, lightly touching his arm. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mr. Barkley?"

While they swirled across the gleaming black floor, Jarrod tried to keep space between their bodies, but Winnie kept pressing up against him. She kneaded his shoulder, smiling coyly up at him from half-lowered lids. Her thumb caressed his palm suggestively. She licked her bright red lips in what he assumed she believed was a seductive gesture. Her perfume was cloying, and he found himself longing for Catherine's fresh, slightly floral, soapy scent. It was Catherine that he wished he held in his arms, dancing to the lovely waltzes that played.

When Winnie boldly asked him what he was doing later, what hotel he was staying at, Jarrod abruptly ended the dance, though the music continued to play. "I thought that perhaps we could have a little fun," she told him, puzzled, not used to being rejected. "I assure you, we would be very discreet." She batted her eyes at him.

Jarrod felt nauseated at the brazen way this married woman was trying to seduce him. And right here in her own home, under the watchful eye of her husband. "I think not, Madam," he said coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." and he strode away, not caring what she would think or how she would feel, leaving her alone while others danced around her.

Helping himself to a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, Jarrod stood brooding. He didn't want to be here any longer. Didn't want to have to make mindless chatter with people that he didn't even know or care to know. Didn't want to be around women like Patricia Vandermeer or Winnifred Bostwick. He didn't want to answer any more questions, or talk about politics. He didn't just want to be away from the Bostwick home and this dinner party, he wanted to be away from Sacramento. All that he wanted was to go back home. To Catherine.

Chapter 33

The grey light of early dawn greeted Catherine as she stepped out the back door into the rear yard. The storm had abated sometime in the middle of the night. The ground was damp, muddy in spots where there were pools of standing water. The rain barrel was nicely topped up again. The sky was cloudless today, Mother Nature had spent her fury the evening before, and the already warming temperatures promised a good day weatherwise.

There wasn't much activity out here yet. The McNeils were still away, and the old man next door wasn't usually up til mid morning. Someone was moving around further down the row of shacks. She could hear shuffling and coughing. Other than that, the only sound was the cawing of crows who had gathered in a nearby tree.

A stray mongrel dog moved slowly down the lane, it's once white fur darkened with grime, missing in patches from mange, it's ribs standing out starkly. It's long tail was tucked under, it's head low. It looked at Catherine with sad, dark eyes, watchful for the kick that it knew from past, painful experience might be coming, skirting her yard. She knew just how it felt.

She thought of Fluffy again, fresh tears forming in her eyes. She had left the pup on the porch, coming back inside for a bit of fabric to make a shroud. Cadence had met her at the door, her features pinched with worry, hopping agitatedly from one foot to the other. Sensing that something was terribly wrong. Catherine had knelt on the floor, gathering her daughter into her arms, fighting back tears, as the rain water dripped from her hair and clothes, puddling on the floor.

She had considered at first telling Cady that Fluffy had run away. But she hadn't wanted to give her daughter false hopes. Hadn't wanted to go through days or weeks of searching for a pet who would never be found. It had seemed crueler to let Cadence believe there was still a chance that Fluffy would come back to her. And so, her voice choked, Catherine had lied to her precious Cadence, telling her that the little dog had chewed through it's rope. Had wandered out into the laneway out front, and been run over by a passing rider or buggy.

Cady's sobs had rended Catherine's heart. She had held the little girl, rocking her in her arms. Cadence hadn't even seemed aware of the growing fury of the storm, of the lightning that flashed around them, or the thunder that shook the little shack to it's foundation. She had clung to her mother, her small body spasming with grief at her loss. Cadence hadn't said a word, burying her head against Catherine's breast, her grip on Catherine almost unbearably tight, not caring if her mother was soaking wet, or that she was getting wet as well.

Catherine had held her that way for a long while, until the trembling and the tears seemed to cease. Then she had picked up her little girl, and carried her into the back room, setting her gently on the bed, while she took off her own wet dress, and put on a nightgown, before changing Cady into her nightshirt as well. Cadence hadn't said a word, had simply sat there, sucking her thumb. It was something that she hadn't done for more than two years. The child had reached for the doll Catherine had made her, hugging it close. She had lifted her arms compliantly when her mother changed her clothes, had looked at Catherine, but the blue eyes had been unseeing, focused on some distant point in the child's mind.

Catherine had tried to get Cadence to eat some broth, but she wouldn't, turning her head aside wordlessly when Catherine brought the spoon to her mouth. She had allowed Catherine to hold her in her lap in the rocker, curling her body in on itself, her right thumb still tucked between her lips. The child had continued to stare vacantly, still not seeming to heed the storm outside, or to express fear of it, the way she normally would. Catherine had smoothed her daughter's dark hair, kissing the top of her head, murmuring to her words of comfort and understanding, and finally, when words ran out, just cooing softly to her.

Eventually, Cadence had fallen asleep. Catherine had carried her to the bed, setting her down, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin, tucking the doll deeper into the child's arms. Cadence still had her thumb in her mouth, and when Catherine tried gently to remove it, Cady stirred, and made a small moaning sound, clamping her lips. Catherine had left her like that.

She had gone back outside to wrap up the puppy's body in the cloth, then had found an old crate to set Fluffy in, to keep her carcass safe from nightly predators. It was raining too hard just then to dig a hole to bury the dog. And, Catherine believed, it was important for Cady to be there when she did. To say good bye to her beloved pet. Catherine had thrown the deadly arrow behind the rose bush in disgust, her stomach churning with guilt and rage.

Then, her work still not done, she had had to skin the rabbits, and clean them, salting the meat before putting it in covered pots to be cooked the following day.

Catherine hadn't been able to sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see the miner...feel his hands on her body...smell the sour stench of him. Or, she would hear the gate as it banged in the wind, thump, thump, thump, Fluffy's small body impaled there. Cadence slept, albeit restlessly. Though she didn't fully wake, she whimpered often in her sleep, thrashing about, and a couple of times, when Catherine stroked her soft, golden cheeks to comfort her, she felt the wetness there.

Now Catherine stood looking out on the yard, the tin cup of coffee clutched in her hands, hoping the warm liquid would take the chill out of her bones. That wasn't likely, she knew pragmatically, because the cold that she felt wasn't the result of physical causes. She decided that today might be a good day to make more soap. She was starting to run low. And the difficult all day task might be just what she and Cadence needed. Something to concentrate on, to strain their muscles, taking their minds away from the unpleasantness, and their sorrow.

She believed that Cadence would probably sleep late today, and thought that she might have time to make the lye first, before her daughter woke. Then Catherine could take a break, try to coax some food into the child, and they could bury poor, dear Fluffy. Afterwards, they could throw themselves into the mindless task of making the soap.

Catherine finished her coffee, then put water on to boil. She went to the covered barrel on the back porch where she had been carefully hoarding the wood ashes from old fires. She pulled out the hopper, a funnel shaped container that would hold the ashes. She filled the hopper, then set it over a wooden trough. Once the water had boiled, Catherine poured it over the ashes. The liquid that collected in the trough underneath was the lye. She couldn't make the soap without that all important ingredient, leached from the wood ashes.

She paused in her chore, to pour herself another cup of coffee from the pot that warmed on the stove. She went then to sit inside on the rocker, first picking up the book of verse that Jarrod had given her. She let the book fall open naturally, reading again the poem that was his creed. She wondered what he was doing. Wondered what his exciting news was, that he wanted to share with her. She wondered how she could tell him all that had happened in his abscence. She felt shame at what the miner had almost done to her. At what had happened to Cadence's puppy, that very special gift from Jarrod and Audra.

"Momma?" the sweet voice interrupted her thoughts.

Catherine looked over to see Cady standing there, clutching her doll, still sucking her thumb. Catherine set down the book and reached out for her, and the child climbed up into her lap. "Good morning, sweetheart. Would you like something to eat?" She was afraid that the girl would refuse again, but Cadence nodded to indicate that she would.

"Momma, are we going to bury Fluffy today?" Cadence asked quietly, her head on Catherine's shoulder, remembering what her mother had told her the previous night.

Catherine swallowed. "Yes, darling. I have some sticks and some string, and I'll help you make a little cross for her grave." Cadence nodded. It was the child's first experience with death and loss, though it was something they had discussed before, when Catherine had told her daughter about her grandparents.

"Can we do it now, Momma? God must be waiting for Fluffy to come to heaven."

Catherine brought the twigs to Cadence, and some string, and showed her daughter how to wrap the string around the twigs to fashion a little cross. The child worked quietly, deftly, fashioning the marker. When she was done, she ran into the back room, then came back with the yellow ribbon that matched her new dress. She put it around the cross, trying to tie it there in a bow, but she didn't have that skill yet. Wordlessly, Catherine took the ribbon, smoothing it out, then tying a big bow on the front of the cross.

Cadence stood beside Catherine while the young woman used a bowl to scoop the rain-softened dirt from a spot near the rose bush that Cady had picked out. The puppy was so tiny, they didn't need a very big hole, so it didn't take Catherine very long. She brought the dog's body from the crate, still wrapped in muslin, and prepared to lower it into the hole.

"Can I say good bye?" Cadence asked. Catherine hesitated. Perhaps it would be better for the child to see the puppy. Didn't people say good bye to their loved ones who lay in open caskets? It helped the living to go on, they said. Helped to make things more real. Allowed them to settle things in their minds and in their hearts.

She pulled back a corner of the cloth, exposing Fluffy's head. Cadence reached out tentatively to touch the cold little body. Her blue eyes glistened. She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. "Momma, is heaven like a palace?"

Catherine blinked quickly to stall the tears that threatened. "Some people say that heaven is the grandest palace there ever was."

Cadence seemed to consider this for a moment. "Then I think that Fluffy will like it there." The child pulled the cloth back around the form of her little friend. "Take good care of my grandma and grandpa," she bid her pet. "Tell them that Momma and me say 'hi'."

Catherine placed the dog in the ground, and then quickly covered her with dirt. Catherine said a little prayer and then Cadence placed the marker on the grave. She took her mother's hand, looking up at her with eyes that held too much sadness and knowledge, more than any child should have to know. "I guess we're all alone again, aren't we, Momma?" Catherine couldn't speak. "It was nice to be a family for a little while."





Catherine put the fat on to boil, enlisting Cadence's help to bring the greasy pots over by the fire. Once the fat was bubbling, Catherine added the lye. Now came the physically demanding part. She would have to stir and stir all day until the soap formed. It was hot work that strained the muscles. The steam that rose from the pot was greasy, settling on Catherine's hair, clothes and skin. Smearing across her face.

She allowed Cadence to take turns stirring, though of course the child had neither the size nor the strength to really do more than drag the stir stick around, while Catherine held her balanced on one thigh. But Cadence enjoyed helping. When it was time for lunch, the girl went into the shack and tore for herself a chunk from the loaf of galellette bread, smearing it with some of the preserves Mrs. Barkley had sent. Cadence wasn't very talkative, preferring to sit near Catherine quietly and just watch her. But Catherine was proud of how stoically her daughter faced the day, knowing how she must still be inwardly keening the loss of the pup.

Catherine decided to forgo lunch, wanting to get this horrible chore over with. This batch of soap, upon it's completion, would be enough to last her for quite a while. It would serve not only to clean the laundry, but to clean the house, and she and Cadence as well. The muscles of her arms screamed their resentment at the task that was required of them, but Catherine ignored their painful protestations. She continued to stir, as the soap thickened. Finally, she judged it finished, and poured it into wooden tubs. She capped these and dragged them up onto the back porch.

She wiped her hands tiredly on her apron. The sun was beginning it's downward journey, but she was done. Her work had kept most of her negative, painful thoughts at bay. And Cadence seemed even more relaxed towards evening. How resilient children were, Catherine mused.

Catherine gave Cady a bath, then had one herself, scrubbing to get the smell of the boiling fat out of her hair. She fried up the rabbit meat for their dinner, adding some vegetables to the concoction, and was surprised when both she and Cady ate heartily. They would both get past their ordeals, Catherine knew. They had no choice, really.

After dinner, she sat with Cady and played checkers for a bit. She was proud of how quickly her young child was catching on to the nuances of the game. Before too long, Cady's eyelids began to droop. She was spent, so Catherine picked her up and carried her to bed, saying her prayers with her, before tucking her in. The child was asleep before Catherine left the room. She had ceased the thumb sucking at midday, but now, in sleep, resumed the old habit. Catherine decided to let her find comfort where she could.

It was after dark when the knock came on the front door. Catherine had been reading by candle light. Her heart hammered in her chest. Who on earth could it be, this late at night? What could they want? She thought immediately of the miner, her eyes darting around the room, but there was nothing there she could protect herself with. She thought fearfully of Cady, sleeping just feet away behind the muslin curtain.

"Catherine?" the deep voice said. "I'm sorry to come by so late. It's me, Jarrod."

Chapter 34

Catherine flung open the door, stepping back to allow Jarrod to enter. He took her into his arms, kissing her gently, then stood back a bit, his hands on her waist. "I've missed you," he said tenderly. "I couldn't wait to see you again. I didn't catch the train, I had a meeting that kept me in Sacramento too late, so I took the stagecoach. There wasn't another one going directly to Stockton. I took it as far as King's Pass, got off and hired a horse. I rode hard the rest of the way here. I couldn't go another day being apart from you." He spoke quickly, trying to get everything out at once. He paused and smiled. "I know it's late, I'm sorry, but I just had to see you."

Catherine smiled at him, but he detected the pain in her eyes. "Catherine, what's wrong?" he asked urgently, placing a hand on either side of her face, worry darkening his blue eyes.

She drew a deep breath, fighting back the urge to cry. "Come in," she said quietly. "I'll pour us some coffee."

She turned away from his hold, crossing to the stove, pouring the black liquid into two cups. Fearfully, Jarrod followed her, taking his coffee, dreading whatever she was about to tell him. She sat at the little table, lighting the lamp, and he took the stool across from her. "Catherine...?" he prompted, his brow furrowed with concern.

"We had some trouble, Jarrod," she said, her voice filled with sorrow.

"What is it? Is it Cady? Is she all right?" he asked, his stomach knotting.

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Cady's fine, for now. She's sleeping. But this affected her too." She saw the worry in his eyes, reaching across to touch his cheek. The black eye had all but faded, she saw. Steeling herself, she began to fill him in, starting with yesterday after lunch when the miner had come by for his laundry.

Jarrod's face paled as he listened to her speak. Her voice was halting, though her words were void of emotion. It was as though she was telling him something that had happened to a stranger, not of a terrible, frightening event, an unspeakable act that had been perpetrated against her.

Rage boiled within him, as Catherine told him about the miner forcing his way into the house. About the way he had touched her, how he had knocked her to the ground. How she was finally able to thwart his brutal intentions. How the man had struck her, as she lay on the floor. Jarrod had to fight back the nausea, and the guilt that began to rise in him, as he thought about what he had been doing yesterday, blissfully unaware of the horror that Catherine was going through.

Jarrod reached to touch her face, seeing now the bruise on her cheek. 'I'll find that son of a bitch,' he thought to himself. 'And I'll see that he pays for what he's done!' He rose from the stool, pulling Catherine up off her chair and into the safety of his arms. He laid his cheek against hers, holding her, rubbing her back, trying to will away her memory of the animal who had tried to force himself on her. How in God's name could something like this have almost happened to her again?!

He would get an accurate description from Catherine, and then tomorrow he would alert Nick to make sure the foremen at the Barkley mines would watch for any man who fit that description, and get his name. Jarrod would also ensure that the description circulated the other mines as well. No matter where this man was, no matter who he worked for, Jarrod would ferret him out and make sure that justice was served.

"In the morning," Jarrod began comfortingly, "we'll go see Fred Madden. The sheriff. We'll tell him what happened here. I'll be right there with you, don't worry. We'll give him a description, and when we find this bastard, we'll let Fred know, and he can bring him in. And then..."

Jarrod's voice trailed off, in horror. There would be no trial. Catherine was the only witness. And he, above anyone, knew how the law was written. In no case, shall a white man be convicted of any offense upon the testimony of an Indian. He closed his eyes against the frustrated tears that threatened. He knew that disgusting law, had fought unsuccessfully to have it changed. There would be no legal retribution against this monster. Catherine would not have her day in court.

Catherine had listened to Jarrod with growing hope. The evil man worked somewhere around Stockton. He could be found. Jarrod would see to it that the man was charged. That the man would go to jail where he couldn't hurt anyone again. Then she felt his body stiffen, felt him draw back from her, and she looked up into his eyes, so full of regret. He was unable to look her in the eye as he explained the California law that would allow this animal to do whatever he wanted, leaving her no recourse.

Catherine's throat grew tight. Even if nothing could ever be done, she loved Jarrod all the more that he had wanted to try. That he, at least, believed that she was important enough, deserved enough respect and consideration that this sort of thing should not have to happen to her. That she hadn't been, in his mind, just some Indian woman, but a person in her own right, a woman whose honour deserved to be avenged. She saw the guilt in his eyes, knew that somehow, he was blaming himself for this terrible law. For what had happened to her. That he felt that he was letting her down.

Catherine took Jarrod's hand, and brought it to her lips. "Thank you," she said softly. She saw the incredulous look pass over his face. "For even have been willing to try."

He bent his head to her, his lips seeking hers. He had never know a person, any person, man or woman, to have such amazing inner strength. He was in awe of her. Humbled. His kiss was gentle, not of passion, but filled with love. 'One way or another', Jarrod vowed to himself, 'that animal will pay'.

"There's more," Catherine began hesitantly. Then she told him about going to check her snares yesterday, of the couple who had given she and Cadence a ride, of hurrying home along the lane before the rain fell. When she told him about how the miner must have come back when they were out, about finding Fluffy's body, impaled by the arrow, her voice broke and tears splashed down her cheeks. "I know he was angry with me, but how could he do that to a little animal like Fluffy? How could he do that to Cady? She's no more than a baby, really, and she's never hurt anyone!"

Jarrod was stunned. He remembered the joy on the child's face when she had brought her new puppy home. This was a whole different kind of brutality. It smacked of a cruelty that made his blood turn cold. Perhaps the law wouldn't help him, but Jarrod would see to it that there was retribution. He tightened his arms around Catherine, pressing his lips to her forehead. "You and Cady have to come to the ranch," Jarrod said firmly. "You'll be safe there."

For a moment, Catherine let herself consider just how wonderful that might be. Then she shook her head vehemently. Their place was here. Hers and Cady's. This wasn't the first time they had faced hate and prejudice and she knew sorrowfully, it wouldn't be the last. "Thank you, no," she said firmly. "We're not in any danger, I don't think. He's a coward, taking his hatred out on a defenseless dog. He wanted to get back at me for that afternoon, and he did. It's over and done with. There won't be any more trouble from him, I'm sure of it."

Jarrod was flabbergasted. How on earth could Catherine be so stubborn? How could she refuse him this way, when his suggestion was obviously in she and Cady's best interests? Why would she insist on remaining in this tiny shack, when he had offered her the comforts and security of not only the ranch, but all of the Barkleys that lived within? Why wouldn't she let him help her, when it was so plain that she needed help? "Don't be silly," he chided gently. "We have lots of room. You and Cadence would be welcomed there with open arms!"

Catherine took both of Jarrod's hands in hers. "It's a wonderful, generous offer Jarrod, and I love you for it. But we just can't. I know you don't understand, but please, don't press the issue." The immoveable set of her features told him that there would be no point in arguing.

To say that he didn't understand, was an understatement. "It doesn't make any sense," Jarrod said wearily. "But I'll respect your wishes. Though I'm going to stay the night here myself, to make sure he doesn't come back." He jutted out his chin defiantly. "And there's nothing you can say that's going to get rid of me!"

Catherine's smile was tender as she put her cheek against his again. Once more, his arms tightened around her. How good it felt to be with him again. How much she had missed him. Her hand caressed his broad back, up to his shoulders and neck, feeling the tension there. "All right," she agreed, speaking softly against his cheek. "You can stay. There's no where for you to sleep though."

"The rocking chair will do," Jarrod murmured. "I've slept on far more uncomfortable beds out on the trail before." He smoothed her black hair, so silky soft between his fingers. He had been so upset to have missed the train today. Frenzied almost. Desperate to get out of Sacramento and back to Catherine. It had been a long stage coach ride, and then another four hours from King's Pass, northeast of Stockton, at a brisk pace on horseback. He knew that he should be tired, but he wasn't. He felt revitalized, holding her in his arms again. So solid and real. "I missed you so much," he whispered against her ear. "I love you so much, Catherine."

"I love you, Jarrod," she told him, turning her head slightly so that their lips were touching. Everything was all right now. Nothing mattered except to be here in his arms. She kissed him...a long, sweet kiss that left him breathless.

He felt his body stir at the pressure on his lips, and he began kissing her in return, but his mind told him that she had been through so much in the last couple of days. This wasn't the time. He broke the embrace, going to fill the cups again, and then led Catherine outside, to the front stoop. He sat down, parting his knees, pulling her down to sit on the step below. Then he pulled her back against him, and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin on her head, , her elbow on his knee, just luxuriating in being there with her.

Jarrod had intended, as he rode over the ever darkening landscape that evening, to tell Catherine of his news, and to present to her the lovely opal necklace, but he knew it would be best to wait until a better time. She had enough to deal with right now, enough to absorb and process. He shut his eyes tight against a vision of some brute's hands on her, his body pinning Catherine to the floor. Closing his eyes didn't help though, because it was in his mind's eye that the horrific scene played out. He felt his anger gathering again...felt the hate began to fill him.

He thought it would be better if they both had happier thoughts to replace those of recent events. He could help Catherine better by remaining calm, he knew. By helping her to get past what had happened, not by dwelling on it. He wasn't about to let what had happened be laid to rest. He would find that miner, and make him pay for hurting Catherine physically...for scaring her and humiliating her that way. He'd also make him pay for killing the little dog, and hurting both she and Cadence emotionally. But for now, his best course of action was not to shout and rail at the heavens as he felt like doing, which would only upset her further, but to hold Catherine, to let her know he was here for her, and to help her think of other things.

And so, he began to ask her again about growing up. Encouraging happier thoughts. And, in the process, learning even more about her. At first, she responded stiffly, but eventually she grew more relaxed, and Catherine left behind the little shack and that horrible man, and she was once again in the Red River Settlement.

At Jarrod's prompting, she told him about her father's business, the mercantile. About how the trappers would bring in furs, to trade for supplies, and how her father would then sell the furs to the Hudson's Bay Company. Many of the trappers were Indian, many others were Metis, but some were also European. She told him how everyone in town knew that Joseph Vaillancourt was crazy about books, and how he would trade excessively to get his hands on one that he didn't already have.

Her voice was full of love and warmth as she talked about her father. How she recalled him coming home one day, so excited, because he had able to procure another book of poems, for the paltry sum of a sack of flour and a set of pots and pans. How her mother had sighed and rolled her eyes, because as usual he had traded far too much. Other merchants often wouldn't even consider such silly, useless items as books in exchange for their goods. Her mother, Marie, was always lovingly indulgent of such folly though, knowing that his fondness for literature was one of the things she loved best about her husband, and an integral part of who he was.

Jarrod loved to listen to Catherine speak. Her deep, throaty voice, that he found so very sexy. How animated she would become, speaking about her life with the Metis. What a thriving, special culture they sounded, with their mixed traditions and the way they moved easily between both worlds of their heritage. It was different than anything Jarrod had ever known, but intriguing and interesting. People who were very centred on family, who had a love of music and dance.

Eventually, her voice began to sound tired. Catherine ceased speaking and just leaned back against Jarrod. The ugliness that had plagued she and her daughter seemed so remote now, as she snuggled into Jarrod's embrace. She knew what he had done, deliberately leading her thoughts away from unpleasant things, to memories that would make her happy. So that when she retired for the night, it would be those pleasant thoughts that filled her head.

She tilted her head back, looking up at Jarrod, trying to communicate her need to him. He pressed his lips on hers, his hand grasping the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her long hair. How soft and yielding hers were beneath the pressure. Her kisses were exquisite, igniting in him a fire that he knew they could not quench. Not tonight. As last, he pulled back. "Time for you to get to bed, My Love," Jarrod said, kissing the tip of her nose.

Catherine sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is. You really don't need to stay tonight Jarrod. You should go home to your warm, soft bed," she told him casually.

"I'm staying!" he said emphatically.

And so he did. Catherine pulled back the muslin curtain, allowed Jarrod into the tiny back room to say good night to Cadence, who was sound asleep, hugging her doll to her chest. He kissed Catherine again, chastely on the cheek, then he let the curtain fall. He settled himself into the rocker, leaning back, closing his eyes, his right hand patting the solid pistol in the holster at his hip. If anyone tried to hurt Catherine or her daughter again...he would kill him, without a second thought, and with no remorse.

Catherine lay awake for a while, her body tingling to know that Jarrod was so close. Longing for his masterful touch, for the incredible sensation of his lips roving over her. She still found it hard to believe that he was actually here. That he had gone out of his way to get back to Stockton tonight. Not for business. Not to see his family or hurry back to the ranch. But to see her.

How sweet he had been to offer to let she and Cadence stay at the house with he and his family. For an instant, Catherine had almost considered it. Had envisioned how comfortable they would be there. With the big, soft beds. The wonderful food. The loving atmosphere that filled the big house. She and Cady would both be extremely happy there, she knew. Safe.

And then what....?

How long could they possibly impose on the generosity of the Barkleys? And how would Cadence feel, when at last they had to leave the splendour of the ranch, and come back to their shack? Once she had gotten accustomed to the luxury there. How, Catherine thought, panicked, would she even be able to hold onto their home? How could she work, if she were out on the ranch? She felt sick at the thought of losing her regular customers. How then would she make a living? How could she pay her rent here? What would happen to them if they lost this place?

And running away wouldn't change anything. Eventually, they would have to come back. There would always be people like that miner. People who thought it was all right to treat and she Cadence as though they were less than human. Spending some time on the Barkley Ranch wouldn't envelope them in a protective cloak. It wouldn't change the colour of their skin, or the way people thought about them. They would still be a half-breed Indian woman and her bastard child. That was their lot in life. It wasn't something they could run and hide from.

It would be unfair to Cadence to get her accustomed to the kind of life the Barkleys enjoyed, only to turn around and bring her back here. She and Cadence were fine. That miner wasn't going to bother them again, Catherine honestly believed. In time, someone else might. But she would deal with it, as she always had. They had a roof over their heads, and food on their table. Cadence was a bright, beautiful, happy child, and she was loved, and loving in return.

It was sweet of Jarrod to make the offer. And Catherine knew that he had their best interests at heart. He simply didn't see how impractical it would be. He hadn't thought it all the way through. He could take them there for a while, but what would happen when it came time to send them back?

Chapter 35

Jarrod felt the hand on his shoulder, the gentle shake, and opened his eyes. He looked up into Catherine's smiling visage. He thought that she was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen in his life. Her tanned features, framed by a mane of jet hair, her luminous dark eyes, her lips...claret, like a delicious Bordeaux.

He stretched, his muscles bunched from his night spent in the chair. It had been late when he had finally drifted off to sleep, his body consumed with the thought of Catherine so nearby, his mind consumed with thoughts of the man who had tried to hurt her. Eventually, accepting that Catherine was correct, and there would be no more trouble, he had drifted off to sleep.

"Good morning," Catherine said lightly, handing him a cup of coffee, the fragrant steam rising in the cool, early morning air. He saw that she was already dressed and ready to face the day.

"Good morning," he said with a smile, taking the cup. "Cady?"

"She's still asleep," Catherine replied. She had been grateful that her daughter had slept deeply, untroubled. She had been surprised when she herself had fallen asleep not long after parting from Jarrod. Knowing that he was there, that he would take care of them and she could finally relax, she had given herself to rest. No dreams or visions had plagued her nocturnal hours. She had woken feeling refreshed, and happy. "Are you hungry?" she inquired.

He was. He had missed an evening meal last night, not wanting to stop, his only thought being to get back to her. "I am," he acknowledged with a smile.

While he drank his coffee, she fixed them both a plate of cheese and fruit, and some of the galellette. Jarrod joined Catherine at the table. The sun was shining through the front window, making the terrible news that she had shared with him last night seem a distant shadow that could not compete with the cheerful rays, and the joy of being here with her. He sighed, contentedly.

Cady came out of the back room as they were finishing up, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She stopped suddenly, seeing Jarrod there at the table, her mouth dropping open. "Mr. Jarrod!" she cried, then ran to him, flinging her little body into his arms. Jarrod marvelled at the feel of her, so small and warm against him.

"Good morning, Pumpkin," he smiled at her.

"Mr. Jarrod, Fluffy had to go to heaven," the child said sadly, her clear blue eyes reflecting her melancholy.

Catherine had shared with Jarrod the story she had made up about the little dog's death. "I know, Cady," he said compassionately, watching her lower lip tremble, "and I'm so, so sorry." He would make that man suffer, as Catherine and Cadence had suffered.

"Will Miss Audra be mad?" Cady asked, looking downcast. She was afraid that Miss Audra would blame her for not tying her puppy properly, or for not taking her with them in the first place. She was afraid that Miss Audra wouldn't like her any more.

He hugged the child. "Not at you, Pumpkin. She'll be sad that Fluffy had to leave us so soon though." He picked Cady up and set her on his knee. 'How full a house felt when there was a child in it', Jarrod thought. A child made a place a home.

Catherine brought her daughter some of the same breakfast that she and Jarrod had shared. Cady remained in his lap while she ate, her legs dangling in the air, swinging back and forth contentedly. Catherine poured another cup of coffee for she and Jarrod, and then when Cady was done, and had run to the back room to dress for the day, Jarrod lit a cigar.

"You are coming shopping with me today," Jarrod announced. As Catherine opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. "Sorry, you don't have any say in the matter. If you insist on staying here, we're going to get you a rifle. Do you know how to use one, if you had to?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well...I...yes...my father taught me to shoot. But I honestly don't know if I could ever use one against a person, Jarrod, even to defend myself," Catherine admitted.

He watched the smoke that curled up from his cigar. "And could you use it to protect Cadence?" he asked quietly, looking at her again, his mouth pursed in a thin line. His blue eyes were intense...serious.

She started. "Yes," she told him, not even needing to think about it. "For that...I could." She glanced down at the floor. "I don't have the money for that though, Jarrod. Even a used rifle is more than we can afford right now. Besides, I don't honestly think it will be necessary."

He reached across the table, covering her hand. "I know that you don't have the money, Catherine," he said softly. "I want to buy it for you. If you won't come back to the ranch and allow me to protect you there, at least please allow me to do this for you. You're right, you probably won't ever need to use it. But I will sleep better knowing that you've got it. And I'm just starting to sleep through again, after months of insomnia. It might come back, if I don't think you can take care of yourself. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?" he asked teasingly, his smile lopsided.

"Jarrod Barkley, that's blackmail," Catherine told him, but she couldn't hide her own smile. "I'm a bit nervous though, to have a loaded gun in the house, with Cadence here," she added seriously.

Jarrod considered this. "I'll put up a gunrack. You can keep it in the air, out of her reach, but within yours. How does that sound?"

She sighed. Part of her felt guilty about allowing him to spend money on her. The other part was secretly overjoyed that he wanted to...that he cared enough, about both she and her daughter. For Cadence's sake, if for no other reason, she knew she should accept his generous offer. "You drive a hard bargain, Counselor," she told him.

"Don't you forget it," he winked.

Catherine asked Halley McNeil if she could watch Cadence while she went to do some shopping. Halley had readily agreed. "She ain't no trouble," Halley had assured her. The children would spend the morning playing outside anyhow, and Catherine would be back long before lunch. Catherine was surprised when Halley shared with her how much she had enjoyed her visit with her sister, and how pleased she was to see her new nephew, just two weeks old. "The spittin' image of our Pa," Halley said, with her gaping grin. Catherine was beginning to believe that perhaps a friendship might blossom between them after all.



Jarrod walked into the gunsmith's shop and tapped his hands on the counter. "I need a rifle," he announced with good humour. Normally, the Barkley's purchased their guns at Ned Palmer's 'Guns and Ammunition', but this shop, which had only opened a few months ago, happened to be closer.

Jake Rawlings, the owner, looked past him at the half-breed woman who stood shyly looking around. If she hadn't come in with Jarrod Barkley, he would have ordered her right back out again. He recognized the lawyer though, who had a practice on the main street, and was the eldest son of the mighty Barkley family. If the squaw had been with any man other than a Barkley, he would have refused to serve him as well. As it was, he swallowed his anger. "Well, I got a nice Springfield Trapdoor," he said, putting on his best salesman's face. "Double-shouldered ramrod, breech blocks, long, high arch on the underside." He set the rifle on the counter.

Jarrod looked past him, to a new Winchester Model 1866 that gleamed in a rack. "Let me see the 'Yellow Boy', please," he asked.

Jake handed him the other gun. Jarrod hefted it in his hands, picked it up and pointed it to the back of the shop, looking down the barrel. The 'Yellow Boy' so named for it's polished brass receiver frame, had a loading gate on the side of the action. It was two feet in length, with a round barrel, and weighed about nine pounds. He ran his fingers over the crescent buttplate and stock. It would hold a maximum of seventeen rounds, Jarrod knew, but it was normally loaded with fewer than that, to prevent strain. It boasted .44 calibre rimfire and took 28 grain powder weight.

"Here," Jarrod said, handing it to Catherine. "How does this feel?"

Reluctantly, she reached for the rifle. She raised it as he had done, looking down it's length. She nodded, embarrassed.

"I'll take it," Jarrod said smoothly. "Load it up for me please. I need a single rack as well."

Jake couldn't believe that things were as they appeared. Jarrod Barkley couldn't possibly be buying this gun for that Indian woman! Besides being new in Stockton, Jake wasn't a very social man, and didn't often pass the time of day with other townsfolk. In addition, he was a teetotaler, and never went into the saloon. As such, he hadn't heard any of the rumours that were circulating about the pair. It bothered him to think where that rifle might end up. Money was money though, and selling to a Barkley might mean bigger orders down the road. Not to mention, it never hurt to be on the good side of a lawyer. One never knew.

He pasted on a smile, took the payment, and quickly and expertly loaded the rifle. "Thanks. Ya have a good day," he said.

Jarrod thanked him as they left the shop. Their next destination was the general store. Jarrod picked up a few nails, and a hammer, so that he could attach the rack. Then, he added some coffee and some lard, some flour, eggs, and some canned goods to the bill. The clerk was surprised to see him in person. Usually, one of the Barkley hands came in to pick up goods.

He was even more surprised that Jarrod Barkley was with the Indian woman. They were obviously together, and hadn't merely wandered in at the same time. They had a familiarity and ease with one another that shocked him. So...those rumours about Jarrod Barkley and the Indian woman...they appeared to have some substance.

Jarrod paid for the items, taking the hammer and nails with him, asking for the balance to be delivered. Catherine gasped when he gave directions to her little shack. Outside the store, she laid a restraining hand on his arm. "You don't need to do that," she said, blushing.

"I know that I don't have to. I want to," Jarrod told her. "Look, Catherine, I love you. I want to help. I know that you're a proud woman, it's one of the things that I admire about you. And I know that you've been doing just fine on your own, and were long before I ever appeared on the scene. But when a man is in love with a woman, sometimes he expresses that with gifts. It makes him feel good, too. Can you understand that?" He looked at her intently. "Can you let me do little things for you? Out of love?"

Catherine was touched by his earnestness. "All right," she said simply. "Thank you." His beaming smile made her believe she'd said the right thing.

"Good! Now I trust we'll never have to have this discussion again! Let's go get this thing put away," Jarrod urged, tapping the rifle against his thigh.

The man watched from the window, stunned. He hadn't even known Jarrod was back in Stockton. Yet there he was, strolling down the street, as unconcerned as you could please! With that Indian! The stupid cow hadn't gotten the message at all! How dense could she be? He fumed, shaking with the rage that threatened to consume him. He had tried to be reasonable, tried to give her fair warning. His message on the note had been very explicit. 'Leave Barkley alone! Get out of town or meet this same fate!'

He had expected her to be gone yesterday morning, to pack up and take her brat with her. Yet she didn't look as though she was going anywhere at all. There she was in plain day, walking along, as conspicuous as could be! WITH JARROD!

Did she honestly expect he could let this continue? He owed Jarrod Barkley too much to watch him throw away his future. Especially for some worthless Indian squaw. He ran his hands through his hair in extreme agitation...appalled. Anyone, ANYONE could see them!

She'd pushed him to his limits! Whatever happened now was all HER fault!

Chapter 36

"There, that looks perfect. What do you think?" Jarrod asked Catherine, mumbling around the nails that protruded through his clenched teeth. She agreed, so he hopped down from the stool, picked up the loaded rifle, and hopped back up again, carefully placing the gun in the rack.

Catherine stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing this new addition. She wasn't sure if having a loaded gun in the house made her feel better...or worse. Jarrod had put it far enough up the wall that Cady wouldn't be able to reach it, even if she climbed on a stood. Still, it made Catherine nervous. Perhaps it wasn't so much the potentially deadly weapon itself, she reasoned, as it was trying to accept the idea that she might ever need it. That she might ever be in such a dire situation that she would have to reach for it, to protect their lives.

She had been made to feel unwelcome in towns that she had Cady had passed through before. Had been yelled at, spat on, shoved around even...but never, except for the night her parents had been killed, and again when the mission was attacked, had she actually feared for her life.

Jarrod climbed back down again, removing the extra nails from his lips, and setting them on the table. He had secured the gunrack high on the left wall. Since the house was so small, it would never be more than several steps away, if Catherine should ever need it. It did, indeed, make him feel better to know that the rifle was here. To protect them, in case he couldn't. He moved to Catherine, putting his arms around her shoulders, and pulling her into his embrace. He pressed his cheek to hers, inhaling that soapy, floral scent that was so uniquely hers.

He moved his head back a fraction, then his lips found hers. Her mouth opened beneath his, their tongues seeking. His hands roamed her back, along her spine, over the small of her back, down her hips to her buttocks. They stopped there momentarily while he kneaded the flesh, and then he was pulling her closer. She moved her hips seductively against his groin, and Jarrod groaned as his body responded. Her kisses deepened, her hands roved across his shoulders.

Catherine revelled in the feel of his muscular back beneath her fingers. With their bodies pressed together so tightly, she could feel his desire, and it fueled hers. She insinuated one hand between them, letting it slip below his waist, caressing him, while he groaned again. His lips moved across her face, over her forehead, her cheeks, before claiming her lips again. His hands travelled up the sides of her body, his thumbs slipping between them, pressing against the mounds of her breasts, teasing, making her gasp.

When his fingers began to undo the buttons at her bodice, Catherine finally came back to reality. "Cadence..." she murmured against his cheek. "She could walk in any minute..." Her voice was deep not only with passion, but with regret.

Sighing, his fingers stopped in their task. He drew back from her a bit, looking into her face. His eyes were bright, and a flush spread upwards from his neck, across his cheeks. His breathing was heavy. "You are the most beautiful, desireable woman I have ever known," he whispered. "And I love you, above all else."

Her heart sang at his words. "I love you too, Jarrod Barkley," she told him, her own breathing laboured. Her body still burned where his hands had touched. She wanted nothing more than to feel his naked skin against hers, to take him deep inside her, and to quench the fire that only he could ignite, and only he could extinguish. But she knew that her daughter could run through the back door at any moment.

Still, he held her, his arms tight around her back, their foreheads touching. "I suppose I might as well tell you my news now," he said lightly. "Something to take my mind off of imagining you naked." He chuckled, and Catherine did the same, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks at his comment. She had almost forgotten about his wire, proclaiming that he had some exciting news to share with her. He stood back from her, taking both of her hands in his.

"Yes?" she prompted curiously.

"The Governor of California, Sam White, had announced that he will be resigning, for health reasons. Some of the prominent members of the Republican party have asked me to run, to try for the party nomination. And Sam White has given me his public endorsement. Catherine...they want me to run for Governor! That's why I've been in Sacramento!" Jarrod said proudly and enthusiastically.

Catherine felt as though her knees would buckle. Jarrod...Governor of the state. How happy he looked, and how happy she was for him. But what would this mean...for them? Didn't he have any inkling of what it would mean for his fledgling political career...to be associated in any way with someone like herself? She had experienced firsthand the prejudice and bigotry that existed in this land. The intolerance and the hatred. Did Jarrod honestly think that the voters of California would be accepting of a Governor with an Indian mistress?

She marshalled all of her strength to remain calm, to stave off the tears of regret that fought to formulate beneath her lids. She turned her thoughts away from herself, from what this would mean for her, and concentrated instead on how truly wonderful this was for Jarrod. "I'm so happy for you," she said, bringing his hands to her lips, and kissing them. And she was. Jarrod was a bright, conscientious, compassionate man, and there was no end to the great things that he could do in such a position of power.

She couldn't begin to conceive of the enormous good he could do for innumerable people, the ways in which he could better the lives of so many. He had worked hard in life to make a name for himself, a reputation outside the blanket of the Barkley name. He deserved to be courted by men of power, and to take an important role in his country's history and growth. "There's not a man who deserves this more than you," she said sincerely. "Congratulations, Jarrod, this is such wonderful news!"

Jarrod was buoyed by her support and encouragement. He knew that she was sincerely happy for him, that she believed that he deserved this, and that she was confident that he could do it. All that she expressed to him through the strength in her voice, and the reverent way she had touched her lips to his hands. He could see the love and the pride that shone in her obsidian eyes. "Thank you," he said gratefully. "There's still the convention in three weeks...I might not even get the party nomination...but with Sam White's backing, I can't help but feel optimistic."

She kissed him on the cheek. "I believe that you will attain whatever your heart desires," she told him. Then she turned her head, so that he would not see the despondency in her eyes. She would take whatever time she had with him, until they could be together no more. And she would cherish each moment, and leave them both with only happy memories.


Before he left to go on to the ranch that afternoon, Jarrod asked Catherine if she still had the Indian arrow. She retrieved it from behind the rose bush, holding it in her hands away from her body, as though she feared it was possessed with the power to kill of it's own volition, independent of human will. Jarrod took it from her, turning it over in his hands. It was an Apache arrow. He recognized the work. The shaft was stained brown with blood, the feathers at the end crumpled and congealed. The arrowhead was sharp...deadly. For a moment, Jarrod felt something niggling at the back of his brain, but it passed just as quickly as it had sprung up. He dug a shallow hole in the dirt behind the plant, with his boot, and dropped the arrow in, covering it again.


Clayton Knowles sat back, smoking a cigarette, staring vacantly out the window as the landscape rolled past and the train trundled along the rails. They had missed Barkley's departure from Sacramento. He had left unexpectedly, cutting his stay short. The man hadn't even waited another afternoon for the train, or until the next morning for a direct coach. As near as Knowles could figure, Barkley must have taken another stage as far as King's Pass and then gone on to Stockton from there. A needlessly circuitous and uncomfortable journey. Just what, he wondered idly, had been Barkley's hurry? 'Catherine'?

He had purchased a ticket on the next day's train, knowing that he would still have plenty of time to get to the bottom of this mystery. He had bade Bannon to remain in Sacramento, while he did his sleuthing. There were things for Bannon to do there. Pressures to be exerted on certain influential men who had done a bad job of covering their tracks when it came to their gambling problems and financial distress, or their excessive drinking and mismanagement of their businesses, or their whoring with the wrong men's wives, or their illegitimate children. Pressure to be exerted that would help such men see their way clear to offering their support to Clayton Knowles in the upcoming convention.

In the meantime, he would enjoy his little respite away from Sacramento and the political arena. He'd spend a day or two in quaint Stockton. Get to know some of the people there. See just what he could find out about Jarrod's 'Catherine'. 'With love'.


Jarrod stopped at his office before heading back to the ranch, wanting to pull some files that he needed to be sent to the San Francisco office. George was there, his desk covered with papers. He looked up when Jarrod entered, his grey eyes warm. "I read the Stockton Eagle," George said, his pride evident. "Congratulations, Governor Barkley!"

Jarrod laughed. "That's a bit premature, George, but I thank you just the same." He thought that George wasn't looking well. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and a stubble of beard on his cheeks, as though the young man had forgotten to shave that morning. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off, George. Go home and get some rest. I know you've been working double time, with me gone so much lately."

Jarrod felt guilty for the extra work the young clerk must have been taking on in his abscence. George had taken a year off of law school to help his family out. His father had been injured in a fall from a ladder earlier that summer, painting the shutters of their house here in town. He'd broken his leg in two places, and wrenched his back. The older man had needed months to recuperate. Jarrod had given George work here at the office, clerking for him. He knew that Mrs. Vail had taken over the running of her husband's small cafe. In addition to the hours that he put in here at the office, George was also working many evenings at the cafe.

George shrugged. "These papers arrived today, the ones from the Granite City mergers. I'll just get them sorted and filed for you first."

"Thank you, George," Jarrod said sincerely. "I don't know how I'd manage without you."



Jarrod made it back to the ranch in time for dinner. He walked through the big front door, sighing deeply, happy to be home again. "Jarrod!" Audra's excited voice called as she hurried down the stairs. "We weren't expecting you!" Her blue eyes danced. "I'm so glad you're home!"

Jarrod crossed the hall to her, giving her a brief hug, and kissing her cheek. "I've missed you all," he told her. "I figured it was time to get back here."

"Hail the conquering hero!" a gravelly voice boomed. "If it isn't Governor Barkley himself...in person. To what do we owe this honour?"

Jarrod turned to see Nick, a wide grin splitting the other man's face. "Brother Nick!" he called. "I'm not quite Governor yet," he said modestly.

"Well, according to that glowing article in the Stockton Eagle, you've just about got this election sewn up," Nick insisted. He clapped his older brother on the back. "We're all so proud of you, Pappy!"

Audra linked her arm in Jarrod's and the three of them made their way to the dining room where Victoria, Annabelle and Heath were already seated. Jarrod stood grinning as the others rose to welcome him home, and to offer their congratulations.

"The whole valley's buzzin', Big Brother," Heath grinned at him.

They sat down to their meal, and Jarrod gave them all details about his trip to Sacramento. He felt the excitement building in him again, as he talked about the upcoming convention, about the dinner party in his honour, about the reporters who clamboured for quotes. Their support was tangible.

As the meal wound down, Jarrod's thoughts turned serious. He told his family, briefly, about what had almost happened to Catherine, about the as yet unidentified miner who had attacked her. Their horror was as deep as his own. Victoria and Audra paled visibly. Annabelle let out a short gasp. Jarrod, Nick and Heath looked one to the other, and a silent communication passed between the three brothers. This man would be found.

Then Jarrod explained how the man had come back later, when Catherine and Cady were out. That, disgruntled, full of hate, he had killed the puppy. Audra's eyes filled with tears, and she got to her feet, excusing herself from the table, before rushing from the room.

Jarrod rose to follow her, but Victoria waved him back to his chair. "Just let her be for now," she advised. "Perhaps you should bring Catherine and Cadence here to the ranch, Jarrod, until you find this man," Victoria said. She couldn't imagine how frightened they must be.

Jarrod frowned. "I tried to, Mother. I all but insisted, but Catherine wouldn't come. I know she's a proud woman, but I honestly don't understand this stubbornness! I don't see what purpose it serves to remain there in town, when we could offer them safety here at the ranch." His brow furrowed, and his tone was sharp. He didn't see the way that Heath was looking at him...the thoughtful, considering look on his features. "I did buy her a rifle, and she says she knows how to use it. So that makes me feel a bit better at any rate."

Nick was shaking his head. "Women! I'll never understand 'em," he said in exasperation.

"Well," Victoria continued. "At least she's armed and can protect herself. And her child. Please let her know though, Jarrod, that the offer to come to the ranch is extended not just on your behalf, but from all of us. We would all welcome her here."

Jarrod nodded gratefully. Then he turned to Nick. "I'll need a man tomorrow. There's a rented horse in the stable that has to go back to King's Pass."

"King's Pass?!" Nick thundered! "That's an all day job, Jarrod! We're running new fence line this week. I can't spare anyone for that length of time. We're moving the Herefords to the section next to the north pasture. I've got to get that new fence up." No one seemed to understand just how much was involved in the day to day running of this ranch. They didn't understand just how much work there was to do, or the time constraints he had, or how important the manpower was. Even one man short could set them back considerably.

"I need a man, Nick," Jarrod said levelly. "One man." His tone of voice, the hardness in his face, said that he would brook no arguments.

"Well," Nick said reluctantly. "There's that young kid, the new one, Millar. He cut his hand up pretty badly on some wire. I guess he could use light duty for a day," Nick acquiesced.

Jarrod thanked him, then rose from the table, explaining that he had some paperwork to catch up on his study. Mother told him that a copy of the paper was waiting on his desk. That she knew he'd want to see it. He smiled at her thoughtfulness, kissing her cheek, then strode from the room.


Annabelle and Heath left shortly afterwards to go up to the nursery and check on Chase who was napping. Heath paused on the stairs. "What is it, Heath?" Annabelle asked solicitously, touching his arm. "You were very quiet at dinner...quieter than usual."

He gave her a lopsided grin, his blue eyes full of love. She could read him so well. He glanced over through the other doorway that led to Jarrod's study. He hesitated. It wasn't his nature to meddle in other people's affairs. Still...he felt compelled to seek out his oldest brother. "I'll be up directly, Belle," he told her finally. "I just gotta do something first."

She kissed his lips, a sweet, tender kiss. "We'll see you in a bit then," she said, and turned and continued up the stairs. She was curious about whatever he wanted to see Jarrod about. But Heath was an intensely private person, and she knew that if he wanted to share something with her, he would, in his own time, on his own terms. And that was good enough for her.


Heath stood in the open doorway of Jarrod's study. His oldest brother was sitting in his chair behind the desk, his dark head bent over the paper, as his blue eyes roved over the words that accompanied the big picture of he and Governor White that took up a good portion of the front page. The headline read, 'Stockton's Favorite Son Poised to Take the Mansion'. Jarrod was deeply immersed in his reading. Heath stood there, uncertainly, then cleared his throat.

Jarrod looked up, suprised but pleased to his blond younger brother standing there. "Well, come on in, Heath," he said good-naturedly. "Would you like a cigar?" Jarrod half-rose, pushing the cigar box towards him. When Heath declined, he lit one for himself, then settled back.

"I feel like I haven't seen Chase in ages," Jarrod smiled. "I bet he's grown again."

Heath grinned. "He eats like a horse. I don't know how Annabelle does it." He stepped into the room, turning one of the chairs, and straddling it backwards. He looked uncomfortable.

"Something wrong, Heath?" Jarrod asked, trying to draw his brother out. Heath's reticence was a part of who he was though, and Jarrod knew he would have to wait until Heath was ready to say his piece.

Heath looked away from his brother, his eyes focused on some distant point that only he could see. "Sometimes," he began slowly, "it's hard for some to understand folks who don't have much in the way of material things. Folks who've had a hard time of it in other ways too." One hand tapped his knee. Jarrod stayed silent, letting his brother talk. "Oft times, it seems as though they've got a lot of pride. And many times they do. Sometimes, it seems like that's all they've got left."

Heath rubbed his chin reflectively, wondering how he could best explain this to Jarrod. Jarrod, who had never known real hunger, hunger so bad that you could cry from the pain and you felt that your body was going to start digesting itself. Hunger so bad that it made a flap of shoe leather look good. Hunger so bad that you'd just about kill for the right to forage through someone else's garbage.

Jarrod, who had never known what it was like to have anyone look down his nose at you, like you were less than human. Like a mangy dog in the street had more right to be there than you did. To look at you like it didn't matter to a single soul in the universe if you were dead or alive, and they'd just as soon see you dead.

Jarrod who had never had to worry about how he would keep a roof over his head. Or how he could put clothes on his back. Who had never walked into a room and not been able to expect to command respect. Who had never had a dream that he wasn't free to pursue, and couldn't honestly believe was within his grasp. Who didn't know what it was like to truly be alone in the world.

Heath loved his brother with his whole heart, but he knew that because of the circumstances of his birth, there were just some things that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how smart he was, or how compassionate or empathetic he was...Jarrod could never begin to understand.

Heath had heard the frustration and anger in his brother's voice when he had spoken about Catherine over dinner, about her stubborn refusal to come to the ranch, to let Jarrod protect her. And he'd felt something deep inside himself stir again, something that most times he'd forgotten was even there. The remnants of the man he had once been, and who he still carried around inside. His shadow. And Heath had known he had to try to explain...so that Jarrod could understand Catherine's decision. They way Heath though he did.

"Sometimes, when a body doesn't have anythin' else left in the world, pride really is the only thing they got. And their independence becomes what they draw their strength from. It's how they survive all the ugliness, and the goin' without. The hate and the humiliation." He paused, embarrassed at the way his throat had tightened as he forced the words out.

Heath swallowed hard. "Being the only person you can count on...that becomes who you are. It's how you define yourself...how you survive. It's what keeps you goin', that independence. That knowin' that even though other people need to lean on others for support...you can do it all yourself. It doesn't matter then if they reject you, because you don't need 'em anyway."

Jarrod held his breath. He had never heard his brother speak this way before. He knew that his brother was sharing something precious with him. And he just waited, his eyes riveted on the younger man. He couldn't help but feel that the wisdom Heath was about to share with him, would somehow change his life.

Heath continued to stare at that distant point. Jarrod wondered what it was he saw. Wondered if he really wanted to know. "All of your strength is tied up in doin' for yourself. You just know, that if you were to ever give that over to someone else, if you ever let them take that responsibility from your shoulders...there'd be nothin' left. Nowhere for you to take your strength, and keep you goin' the next day, and the next after that. There'd be nothin' left to hold you up. You can't imagine how you would ever get along without havin' that independence to cling to.

"It ain't so much pride, as it is fear. Fear that if you let up for even a second, if you pass all that hurt and fear and loneliness to someone else...if you let yourself soften and relax for even a moment...and then they have to give it back again...you might never find the strength inside you again to bear those burdens anymore. And then they would crush you, and you really would have nothin' left."

Heath looked at Jarrod then, their blue eyes locking. Heath smiled wanly. "I know I ain't a man of many words. And I don't put things as pretty as you do. But do you understand what I'm tryin' to tell ya? You know I ain't a man to interfere. But I think Catherine's special, and I know you think so too. I don't want you to judge Catherine too harshly. I don't think it's just her pride that keeps her from comin' here, Jarrod, that might keep her holdin' back. I believe it's fear.

"Because when you finally find deep within yourself the strength you take from your independence, the strength to face all the pain and trials in life...the thought of ever losing that...," Heath's eyes glistened, the muscles in his jaw clenching, "its' enough to freeze your soul."

Chapter 37

Rising from the chair, Heath pushed it back towards the desk. He held his older brother's gaze for a moment, wondering if he had shared too much...or not enough.

Jarrod wanted to get up from his chair, to go to his younger brother, to embrace him...but he knew that it would probably only make Heath uncomfortable. Heath was a warm and affectionate man with the women in his life...his wife, his mother, and his sister. But he was more reserved when it came to his brothers. Not that Jarrod didn't know that Heath loved just as deeply an anyone else...just that he didn't always express that physically with the males of the family. Jarrod held back, respecting his brother.

He knew that the words Heath had shared with him, the honest way he had delved into the possible reason for Catherine's motivations, had come from his heart. And the only reason Heath had been able to deliver them so convincingly, was because at some point in his past...he had lived them. Heath had given them glimpses into his past before, though he usually spoke of facts, rather than feelings. That he felt close enough to Jarrod now, that he trusted him enough to bare his soul to him this way...was one of the greatest gifts anyone had even given Jarrod. That Heath had done it for someone other than himself, that he had risked opening old wounds for the woman that Jarrod loved, was a testament to the unique, wonderful man that Heath was.

The truth of it was, Jarrod had never considered things the way Heath had explained them. He thought of himself as a compassionate man, but reality was that it was difficult to put yourself in another person's situation if it was totally alien to you. It had wounded him that Catherine had not allowed him to bring her to his home, where she could be safe and pampered and he could take care of her. He had taken it personally, had thought her merely stubborn. He had been angry and frustrated, never for a moment dreaming of what she might be feeling.

And in his totally non-judgemental way, Heath had helped to open his eyes and his heart, so that he could better understand not only Catherine...but some of what drove Heath as well, especially in his early days with the family. Jarrod felt honoured and truly fortunate to have a brother who was so very wise and very selfless.

"Thank you, Heath," Jarrod said simply. Words were usually his forte, but right now he felt at a loss as to how he could possibly sum up for his brother his appreciation for the magnitude of the gift he had given him.

Heath gave a lopsided grin. He thought that perhaps Jarrod had understood. Those few words were all that Heath needed. "See ya later," Heath said lightly, then he walked from the room.

Outside his brother's study, Heath paused for a moment. He knew that Nick and Mother believed that Jarrod was living in a dream world, blissfully unaware of the potential problems a relationship with Catherine might bring him, of the reactions it would provoke in others. Heath wasn't so sure about that, though he'd kept his own counsel. He couldn't help but believe that on some level, Jarrod was indeed very well aware of the fact that he was playing with fire...fire that, if fanned, could consume his political ambitions.

Jarrod was crazy in love with Catherine, Heath could see that. And yet...what exactly had Jarrod offered Catherine? A few nights at the ranch to help keep she and Cadence safe? A few weeks perhaps? Heath couldn't help but wonder what Catherine's response might have been if Jarrod had offered her something more...permanent. And if Jarrod did love her so...why hadn't he? Unless, somewhere in the recesses of his soul, he knew that his two pursuits were at odds, but refused to reconcile that in his conscious mind. Heath sighed. There were storm clouds ahead for Jarrod, and no one would be able to help him weather them. This was one battle Jarrod would have to fight on his own. Because it was a battle that would be waged within.



Jarrod finished reading the article in the newspaper. He thought that they had portrayed him very flatteringly indeed. Of course, that wasn't too surprising. He was known and liked in Stockton. Papers in other cities might have entirely different slants on the matter. He refolded the paper, opening one of the drawers of the desk, and setting it within. This would be one to keep for the family scrapbook, if Mother hadn't already kept another copy.

He looked around for his briefcase, not seeing it anywhere in the room. Frowning, Jarrod left the study and went to the front hall, thinking that perhaps he had set it down there upon his entrance, and that it would be near the door. It wasn't there either. When he thought about unsaddling the rented horse, he didn't recall untying his case. Sighing, knowing that his search would be fruitless, Jarrod nonetheless shrugged into his tan jacket and went to the stable to see if he had left it there.

With clarity, he recalled setting it on his desk at work. At speaking briefly with George, at slipping some papers inside the case...but he couldn't recall leaving the office with it. Damn! He would have to ride back to town for it. Of course, he reasoned, it wouldn't be a total loss. He could stop and check in on Catherine and Cadence again. He smiled at the thought.

As Jarrod saddled Jingo, he called to Ciego to let Mother know that he had had to go back into Stockton. He mounted the sorrel gelding, and tapped him lightly with his heels, urging him to a canter. How much smoother Jingo's gait was then the horse Jarrod had ridden home from King's Pass. How much more responsive he was. He petted the gelding's neck with pride and pleasure as his long loping stride ate up the miles back to town.



Clayton Knowles ordered a whisky, and went to sit at an empty table in the centre of the saloon. He knew he was taking a risk, that he might well run into Barkley here, but he had searched the room first, to satisfy himself that the other man wasn't here. If he came in later...well, he would deal with that then. He wanted to be able to overhear as many conversations as possible, so he chose this table, strategically located as it was. His ears were finely attuned for any mention of the name Barkley, as men around him drank and told tall tales, and played poker. He downed his drink, watching a well-endowed brunette in a red silk dress sashay across the room towards him.

She paused at his table, looking down at him with a welcoming smile, her brown eyes speculative. She could sense that he had money, and he exuded power. And he was a good looking man, this blond stranger with the icy blue eyes. "Hi there," she said coquettishly. "I'm Starr." In reality, her name was Verna Gibb, but 'Starr' sounded much more exotic, so that was the name she went by here. "What's your name, stranger?" she asked, putting her hands on the table and leaning forward so that he could get a good view of her cleavage.

Clayton Knowles smiled back at her. He didn't normally mix business with pleasure, but he could well be in Stockton for a couple of days, and there was no sense in denying himself a woman's charms. He wondered idly if she would be an accepting partner in some of the games he liked to play. He supposed if he paid her enough, she would, but he liked it all the better when he happened upon a woman who actually seemed to enjoy the degradation and abuse that he liked to dish out before he actually possessed her. Such women were few and far between, but when he found one....ah!

"Clay," he told her, reaching across the table to cover her hand, crushing her fingers against one another in his grasp. He saw her eyes widen, but was pleased when she didn't try to draw away. "Join me for a drink?" he asked her, his lip curling. Working here in the saloon, she was probably privy to most of what went on in town, and might well be able to provide him with some answers to the questions that had brought him here.

Verna...Starr...bit her bottom lip. There was something cold and calculating in this man's eyes that she didn't like. But he reeked of money, and it had been slim pickings this week. This month actually. His suit was tailor made, the stitching fine, his shirt clean and well-pressed. His black boots with the silver tips were new, the leather finely tooled. His hair was well-styled, his face clean-shaven, and he smelled of expensive cologne, not that cheap pomade that the miners and ranch hands doused themselves with...when they even bothered to consider how they might smell.

"That's right neighbourly of you," she purred, sliding into the vacant chair next to him, discounting the warnings that resonated to her core.



Catherine and Cadence shared some of Victoria's canned peaches as an after dinner snack, relishing the taste of the sweet fruit on their tongues. Catherine was proud of the way her daughter had seemed to accept the loss of her puppy, but part of her worried that perhaps the child was being too accepting...had handled things too well. She knew that sometimes people pushed difficult, emotionally wrenching things aside, refusing to deal with them. They always came back to haunt a person later though. She prayed that wouldn't be the case with Cady, that it was simply a matter of the child's youth and steadfast belief that her puppy wasn't really gone, but in a better place, watching over them still.

After they had eaten, and Catherine had washed up their few dishes, Cadence brought out the checkers game, imploring her mother to play with her. Catherine had happily obliged. She set up the board on the little table, placing the red and black disks on their appropriate squares. Cadence counted along as her mother set up the board.



He knew that there was no time to waste. He had finished his dinner and simply waited now in the front room, listening to the clock tick the minutes away. He would wait until it was a bit later. Until it was dark. He wasn't really concerned about anyone seeing him and identifying him and having to face any consequences for his actions...who would really care about what happened to some stinking Indian? But if he was seen, if someone mentioned his connection to Jarrod, it might bring the newspapermen sniffing around, and he didn't want any of this in the papers, didn't want Jarrod Barkley's name attached to this at all.

It was for that very reason that he had decided to bring the hunting knife, instead of his pistol. Gunshots might bring the curious, and he didn't want that. It would take longer, would require more effort with the knife, he knew. It would be bloodier too. But it would be the best way.

He looked at the clock above the mantle again, then out the front window, willing the sun to hurry it's journey below the horizon. Things had already gone too far. He had to put a stop to this ill-conceived imprudence tonight!



There it was, right on his desk where Jarrod had left it. He shook his head, reaching for the briefcase. He really was getting absent-minded in his old age. First he had left it in the street where Catherine had found it that September day, several weeks ago. And now this. He smiled to himself as he recalled the first time she had come to his office. He must have a guardian angel, Jarrod thought, that had arranged their meeting that day. Even though their first encounter hadn't been a very good start to their relationship, it had led to the most wonderful experience of his life.

It had actually worked out to his benefit, that scene in the office. It had resulted in him needing to find Catherine Vaillancourt again, had made him seek her out so that he could apologize. Had allowed him to get a glimpse of the incredible woman that she was, to whet his curiosity about her so that he had had to learn more.

If it hadn't been for his outburst, he might simply have thanked Catherine for the return of the case. She would have accepted his thanks, and then gone on her way. He would probably have seen her around town again, but there would have been no reason for their paths to cross, except perhaps to exchange a smile in the streets. He might well have missed the opportunity to ever really know her. His blood chilled at the thought.

He was still uneasy about the thought of that miner out there somewhere. It wasn't likely that he would approach Catherine again. And if he did, she would be able to protect herself and her daughter. Even though he could understand now why she hadn't come back with him to the ranch, he still regretted her decision. He wished that he lived closer to town, so that he could keep a better eye on her.

Perhaps he didn't, but there was someone who lived right here in Stockton. Someone whose help he might be able to enlist. Someone that Catherine could turn to if she needed to in an emergency. Someone who might not mind passing by her house now and then just to ensure that she and Cadence were all right.




Clay Knowles grew tired of the talk in the saloon. Oh, they were discussing Barkley all right. But no one was saying anything other than how exciting it was that Jarrod Barkley was going to getting the Republican nomination. That Jarrod Barkley was going to be the next Governor of the state. They talked as though it were a done deal, as though nothing could stand in the way of one of Stockton's own taking the Mansion.

They irritated him, these stupid, uneducated fools. They had no grasp of politics. No clue as to what was involved in an election. No idea even of what the Governor did or what his powers were. Clay could discern this from their cretinous prattle. It chafed Knowles to no end to listen to their extolment of all of Barkley's dubious virtues.

He downed several more whiskies. This wasn't getting him anywhere, this nonsense. He thought that there should be more strenuous restrictions put on who could and couldn't vote. They should make acumen and erudition a requirement before handing out ballots. That would eliminate all of these blithering, jabbering imbeciles from having any say in such significant verdicts when it came to control of the state.

He was agitated by the noise of the piano, by the voices that increased in volume with each glass downed, by his failure to unearth anything that was of any use to him. He turned his hard eyes on the woman next to him. Starr. One of her hands rested on the sleeve of his jacket, her long nails blood-red. Perhaps the evening was not a total waste. He leaned forward and whispered something into the woman's ear.

Starr blanched while he spoke, her dark eyes roving the room. There were no better prospects though. And it was a lot of money he was offering her. Enough to make up for the slow business lately. Enough even to afford her a couple of nights off. She hadn't come to be where she was by being modest, and there were many things she had done that she wasn't proud of, and which hadn't always been in her best interests. She had heard tell of men like this, with their strange preferences, though she had never been with one herself. Her inner voice screamed 'No!', but Starr's lips formed the word 'yes'. She was almost thirty years old, and because of a combination of circumstance and choice, this was what she did. She rose and led Clay up the stairs to her room.



Jarrod knocked on the door. Mrs. Vail answered, her smile telling him that she was genuinely pleased to see him. "Mr. Barkley!" she exclaimed. "Do come in! What a surprise. We're not normally home this early in the evening, but it was a slow night, so I left the cafe in Dora's capable hands. George just stepped out for a moment. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Gladys Vail was a nice woman, very loquacious, who had risen well to the occasion following her husband Norman's injury. She had never worked the cafe before, staying in the family home, raising George and his older brother, Maynard. But she had done well, showing a real talent for business, and the cafe was thriving under her ministrations. Since she was so talkative, she also did well with the customers, making them feel welcome at the homey little restaurant. In addition to running the business, she had taken care of her husband all on her own, from his early days when he was bedridden, to the present, when he was just starting to get up and around. She was short and plump, with vivid blue eyes and grey hair, and an endless supply of energy.

"Gladys!" a loud voice carried down the stairs. "Someone there?"

The gruff voice reminded Jarrod of Nick. "It's Mr. Barkley, Norm," she called back up to him, equally loudly. "Please come sit," Mrs. Vail instructed. "I'll be back directly with the coffee. Would you like a little cake with that?" she inquired.

"Thank you, no, just the coffee will be fine, Mrs. Vail," Jarrod replied. He watched her retreating form as she bustled from the room.

It had been a while since Jarrod had actually been in the Vail home. He had stopped by months ago when Norman Vail had first had his accident. He assured the Vails that the Barkleys would loan them money if they needed to keep the business afloat while Mr. Vail recuperated. He hadn't told them at that time that all of their medical bills with Dr. Merar had been taken care of.

Before that, it would have been four years prior since he was at their residence. George's older brother, Maynard, a Captain's aide in 10th Cavalry during the Apache wars, had come from his service a changed man. He'd been plagued with nightmares, and taken to drinking excessively. He had fallen in with a bad crowd, who had tried to frame Maynard for a murder they had committed during a botched robbery at one of the outlying ranches. Jarrod had taken on the case, pro bono, proving finally that Maynard hadn't even been there. This had proved to be a wake up call that had encouraged Maynard to turn his life around. He was married now, living in Fresno with a young dressmaker, working driving a rig for hire.

There was a large photo of Maynard over the mantle, proud and serious in his army uniform. Something niggled at the back of Jarrod's mind again. He reached for it, but it slipped elusively from his thoughts. Mrs. Vail brought him his coffee, in one of her best china cups, beaming at him. "I can't tell you how much George enjoys working for you, Mr. Barkley. It's such an opportunity you've given him, first with the scholarship, and then with the position clerking for you. Ever since we watched the way you defended Maynard, the law is the only thing George has thought about.

"I guess it's no secret how much he idolizes you. And now with the news that you'd be running for Governor...well, he was positively floating! You've been a good friend to us all, and a real inspiration to George." She glanced at the clock on the mantle. "He should be back directly. He told me he just had to run that important errand for you, and then he'd be right back."

"An errand for me?" Jarrod repeated curiously.



Catherine tensed at the knock on the door. Her eyes went to the rifle. "Cady, honey, I want you to go on into the back for a few minutes," she instructed her daughter. Cady could sense her mother's unease, and scurried behind the muslin curtain.

Catherine rose to her feet, walking woodenly to the gunrack, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached for the rifle, and it felt like an enormous weight in her hands. She cocked the trigger, and cradled the weapon in her arms, her body jerking when the knock came again. Would she always feel this way, every time someone knocked at her door? she wondered to herself. She tried to calm her ragged breathing, annoyed at the sweat that broke out on her forehead and upper lip. She forced herself to approach the door.



Starr buried her face in the pillow to muffle her cries as she felt the leather of the man's belt come down hard across her back and buttocks. He had taken his shirt off, exposing his muscular, hairless chest. In other circumstances she would have been aroused by the masculine beauty of him. He had grabbed her roughly, ripped at her dress, then shoved her down onto the bed. He laughed cruelly, hissing obscenities at her, as the belt struck her again.



"Why yes, he said that there was something extremely important that he had to do tonight," Mrs. Vail continued, perplexed. "Something about having to deliver a message in person, and that after tonight things would be back to normal. 'Back the way they should be,' I believe he said." She frowned. "He seemed nervous and excited at the same time. You didn't ask him to do anything dangerous for you, did you Mr. Barkley?"

Jarrod remembered suddenly what had bothered him about the arrow that had been used to kill Fluffy and frighten Catherine. It hadn't just been a single arrowhead...there were plenty of those around...children loved to collect them and play games with them. It had been an intact Apache arrow. A rarity. Not something that some miner could just readily pick up in town. Jarrod's blood began to race in his veins.

"Maynard had a hard time of it during the wars," George had told Jarrod the final day of the trial, while they waited for the jury to reach their verdict. "He lost a lot of friends and saw a lot of things that changed him from the brother I knew. I would think he'd want to forget all about those damned Apaches. But you know what he brought back for me? A genuine Apache quiver, full of arrows. Leather with all this intricate beadwork. He shot the Indian that owned it, before he could kill him instead. He took the whole works, and he brought it home with him, and gave it to me. He said he never wanted me to forget that beautiful things can be deadly. What do you think he meant by that, Mr. Barkley?"

Jarrod saw then the things he had missed before. The sullen way George had acted when Catherine was around. The way he tried to keep her from him. His barely concealed disapproval. George had been in the office the day that Patricia Vandermeer had come to meet him for lunch. George had known that Jarrod was in there with Catherine, yet he had sent Patricia in unannounced. Hoping to cause trouble?

Jarrod prayed that he was wrong, couldn't really believe that George, his friend and protégé, would do anything to either Catherine or Cadence. But he couldn't shake the cataclysmic wave that washed over him, or the feeling of impending doom. The feeling that Catherine and Cadence were it danger. And that it had something to do with George.



Catherine pulled back the curtain as the knock came again. She recognized George, Jarrod's clerk. "Miss Vaillancourt?" he called through the glass. "It's George. I have a message for you from Mr. Barkley."

Relaxing, Catherine lowered the gun, chastizing herself for her paranoia, as she opened the door.

Chapter 38

"Come in please," Catherine said, opening the door and stepping back to allow the young man to enter. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" she offered solicitously. She was well aware that Jarrod's clerk neither liked nor approved of her. The he would come out to seek her after dark, to deliver this message, was a testimony to how much George respected and cared for Jarrod.

She saw that George was staring strangely at the rifle. She blushed. "Forgive me, I didn't realize that it was you. I've had a bit of trouble recently, and I suppose it's got me a bit jumpy." She smiled, embarrassed. "Excuse me, while I put this thing away." Catherine turned her back to George, and walked to the far wall, disengaging the trigger and sliding the weapon back into it's rack. She realized that the young man hadn't answered her question about the coffee yet. In fact, he hadn't said a word since entering.

George stared at Catherine's back as she returned the Winchester to it's place on the wall. The rifle hadn't been here when he had been to the shack a couple of days ago. It had to be a recent addition. He had been thrown for a moment to find her holding a gun. It wasn't a development or potential complication that he had anticipated, and as such he had no contingency plan for finding her armed. He hadn't even worn his gunbelt. George was relieved to see that she trusted him though, and watched with satisfaction as the woman put the weapon away.

Catherine faced him again. There was something distinctly unsettling about the way that George was looking at her. His animosity, which he at least made an effort to conceal whenever she had been at Jarrod's office, was much more open now. His eyes were bright. There were spots of colour in his cheeks, and she watched his jaw clench and unclench. She wondered then, apprehensively, if there was something wrong with Jarrod. If something had happened to him...an injury perhaps.

"You have a...a message for me?" she prodded nervously.

"I already sent you a message, but you didn't listen to me," George said, his eyes narrowing, as he advanced towards Catherine.

She stepped back automatically. "I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "I'm afraid that I don't understand." She felt very uncomfortable, and wanted to tell him to leave, but she felt she first had to know what Jarrod had sent him here for.

"How stupid can you be, I wonder?" he hissed suddenly. "I couldn't make it any plainer."

"If there was another message at some point, then I apologize, but I didn't receive it..."

"DON"T LIE TO ME!" George shrieked indignantly, cutting her off. Catherine paled. "I know you got it! I left it right there on the gate where you would find it! I told you to get out of Stockton. To leave Jarrod alone!"

Catherine felt her heart plummet as she realized the import of his words. It hadn't been the miner after all. George, Jarrod's trusted law clerk, had killed Cady's puppy. 'Oh dear, God!' Catherine thought. Cady was only feet away, still in the back room where Catherine had sent her. She recalled that there had been a note pinned with Fluffy's body, but the rain had washed away the words. She had assumed that it was from the disgruntled miner, and contained the usual slurs and insults. Catherine had never dreamed that it could have come from someone else...that she had an actual enemy to be wary of.

"The rain..." Catherine said hoarsely. "It rained...I...I couldn't read the note..."

George considered this, remembering that it had indeed rained that night, a torrential downpour. He shrugged. "Well then, that's just your bad luck, isn't it?"

He moved his hand forward then, and Catherine saw the glint of a long knife blade. She gasped, stumbling backwards, half turning as she sought to reach the wall and the rifle there. She wasn't quick enough though, and she felt the hand grab at her arm, felt her dress tear at the shoulder, felt the hot, searing pain in her left arm, followed by the warm spread of liquid.

She knew that he would be expecting her to pull away, to get out of his grasp and away from the danger of his weapon. So instead, she pushed herself away from the wall, backwards into George. She was taller than he was, and her weight propelled them both onto the floor. She heard the breath whoosh out of him as he hit the ground, then she fell on top of him, across his lap. She half expected to impale herself on the knife, and tensed waiting to feel the impending agony as it sliced through her spine, but miraculously it didn't come. Not yet.

Catherine slammed the heel of her right hand towards his groin, but George twisted a fraction at the last second, and instead she struck his inner thigh. He grabbed her hair and with a roar of rage, slammed her head into the floor. Catherine shook her head, fighting to keep the blackness that threatened to envelope her at bay. She thought of her precious daughter, still in the back room, trapped in the house with this maniac.

"Cady! Go! Run! Run to the McNeils!" Catherine shouted hoarsely. She kicked out at George, and felt her foot connect satisfyingly with his soft lower abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. He released his hold on her hair, and she scrambled to her feet, relieved to see Cady come out of the back room. The child was only feet away from the door...and freedom. "Go!" Catherine implored, her eyes brimming with concern and fear for her daughter's safety.

Before seeing Cadence rush out the door, Catherine took faltering steps towards the wall again, towards the rifle. Each step caused molten daggers to pierce her left shoulder. Her head pounded, making the room spin. It was her only hope though, and she dragged herself nearer. George was smaller than she was, but he was still much stronger. She couldn't hope to defeat him in physical combat. And though she wasn't sure where the knife was right at that moment, she knew that it had to be somewhere there where they had fallen. She had to get to the rifle before George got to the knife.

George couldn't believe the fight the Indian squaw was putting up. They really were like animals, just as Maynard had said.

"Momma!" Cadence screamed in terror, her eyes rolling at the sight of her mother's torn and blood-stained dress, at the way she wobbled on her feet. Instead of following her mother's instructions, the normally obedient little girl, shaken by the horror that was unfolding before her, ran instead towards the woman who was her world.

Catherine heard her daughter's voice, heard the little footsteps echo on the planks. She turned in trepidation and her worst fears were realized. She stared, stupefied as in seeming slow motion Cady moved not out the door and away from them towards safety, but into the room, towards her. The child's path would in another step or two take her right to the crazed man who still huddled on the floor.

"NOOOO...!" Catherine howled in shocked disbelief.

A sly grin came over George's face. He reached towards the running child, towards her swiftly flying feet, grabbing one, as the girl crashed down beside him on her buttocks, the momentum knocking her back to the floor. Cady cried out in shock and terror.

Catherine knew agonizingly that she was only a step or two from the rifle, but there was no time to lose. She sprang forward, back towards the monster who had invaded their home, falling short of where George clutched Cady's ankle, not aware that the pained groan came from her own lips, not aware of the wrenching misery that caused it or the fresh spurt of blood. She saw George's other hand come up, saw the lamplight accentuate the wickedly curved point of the knife. She watched as the hand began it's downward descent, the knife poised in an arc that would take it through the air and into Cadence's chest.

There could be no terror worse than this, Catherine knew. No boiling cauldron in purgatory, no eternal conflagration in Hades, could ever corrode her hopes or atrophy her spirit, or tear her heart apart, more than the thought of losing her precious daughter.

Cadence had been her only light these past few years, the child's bright and gentle spirit rising like a phoenix from the ashes of Catherine's loss and hopelessness. Her terrible loneliness. Without Cadence, Catherine knew she would have given herself up to the hurt and hatred in this world long ago. Cadence was her child, her life, her reason for living when there seemed to be no other. Cadence made every struggle, every hardship worth whatever effort it had cost Catherine.

Cadence had been conceived in violence and in hate. Catherine would not let her daughter...her sweet, sweet baby...die the same way.

"NO!" Catherine screeched again. "NO!" She couldn't reach George in time, but she could reach Cady. Ignoring the pain in her left arm, both hands tightened on the girl's other ankle and she yanked the child sideways, away from George.

His grip on Cady's ankle was loose...he had not expected any opposition. He felt her small body jerk away from him, just at the knife crashed into the floor. The blade buried itself into the wood, the force sending splinters flying. George howled with inhuman rage and choler. His disbelief at being thwarted manifested as an apoplectic purpling of his features.

Somehow, Catherine struggled to her feet, pulling Cadence towards her and up into her arms, seemingly possessed of deific strength. She swayed dangerously, panting, gasping for breath, clutching her daughter to her breast. She watched George pull up to a crouch, saw him reach for the knife, working it back and forth to dislodge it. Catherine brought her heel down hard on his right arm, watching as it bent unnaturally at the elbow.

"Owwwwwww!" he screamed. "You BITCH!" He sobbed, bringing his flopping appendage close to his body, tears coursing down his face.

Catherine staggered under Cadence's weight, shifting the little body that was in danger of slipping from her grasp. She couldn't feel her left arm anymore. She knew that it was tucked against Cady's back, she could see it, but she couldn't control it anymore. In another moment she knew it would drop uselessly to her side.

"Put your arms around Momma's neck," she commanded the girl. Cadence obeyed. The child had been screaming when George had first knocked her to the ground. She was sobbing hysterically now in her mother's arms, but still she did as she was told. Catherine willed her feet to move, one shuffling after the other, intent on reaching the back door, the rifle now forgotten. All she wanted to do was get Cadence away from this madman.

George knew, somewhere in the limited rational recesses of his mind, that his arm was broken. He couldn't seem to make it work. He would have to tend to that later though. First, he had to finish off that bitch and her bastard whelp. He couldn't let Jarrod down now, not when he'd come so far and gotten so close. He used his left hand to heave the knife out of the floorboards, and then to push himself up to his feet. He moved towards them again, before the woman and child could slip out the back door and possibly to safety.

Catherine reached for the door handle. "MOMMA!" Cadence gasped, looking back over her shoulder. Instinctively Catherine sidestepped, and saw the arm come down and the knife slice the now empty air where she and her daughter had been rooted just seconds before. The door was still closed, Catherine realized dispiritedly. She would never get it open now, not in time. George was upon them. In another moment, he would raise the knife again, and this time he would bury it between her shoulder blades.

Cadence would watch her mother die. And then...'Dear God', Catherine prayed, 'take me if you must. But please, by some miracle Lord, keep my little one safe. She's just an innocent child and she's already been through so much.' The tears that dashed down her cheeks were not for the end of her own life, but in sorrow that she had failed her only child.

"Drop it George, or I'll shoot!"

George hesitated. Only one voice could have cut through the shroud that fogged his reason, and found the man who still dwelt somewhere in this insanity. That one deep, familiar voice that George valued above any other. He bowed his will to the other man's, this person who he idolized. The knife clattered to the floor. His head and shoulders drooped. He had failed Jarrod.

Catherine thought she was hallucinating when she heard Jarrod's voice ring out. Then she heard the clang of the knife as it dropped to the floor. She slid to the floor, still clutching her daughter, her head against the rear wall. She turned her head as her stomach voided it's contents. Then her world went black.

Jarrod had run from the Vails' to Catherine's, desperate to get to she and Cadence, praying that he was wrong about George. He pushed himself, the muscles in his legs aching, his sides heaving with exertion, his face bathed in sweat. As he neared the little shack, and saw that the door was ajar, as he heard the commotion inside, he'd drawn his gun, hurtling over the little front gate. Never in his life had he been so terrified. He pushed through the door at last, praying to God that he wasn't too late, stunned by what he witnessed as he stumbled across the threshold.

Catherine was by the back door. He could see Cadence's terrified face over her shoulder. George's left arm followed through with it's downward motion, missing Catherine and Cadence by inches. Before George could raise his arm again for another attempt, Jarrod had called out to him, the gun trained on the other man's back, his finger poised on the trigger.

Jarrod watched the knife fall, and saw Catherine slump to the floor. He saw the blood that was everywhere. Saw the dark stain on the left side of her dress. Misery swelled inside him. He was too late. George had killed Catherine. Great, wrenching moans came from his very depths, gaining in volume and momentum until he threw back his head, a horrible, mournful keening escaping him. He couldn't lose her. Catherine was everything to him.

Jarrod dropped his pistol and flew across the room without even being aware that he was moving. His hand came down hard on George's shoulder, spinning the younger man around. He drew back his right fist, delivering a hard blow to George's jaw. The other man's head snapped back, his knees buckled, but Jarrod held him upright, landing another blow that crushed George's nose in an explosion of blood and gristle.

This time, even with Jarrod determinedly trying to hold him up, George went down. He fell against his broken right arm, screaming in agony, his left hand clawing at his face, at the blood and snot that gushed down his chin and splattered across his shirt, his own blood mingling with the woman's. George lay on his back. He looked up at the man he idolized, incomprehension clouding his eyes.

"WHY?!" Jarrod thundered, his face drained of colour, his eyes full of anguish. "Why?" he choked out, his body beginning to tremble.

"Did it...for you," George managed, hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. "Savages. Maynard said...burned men alive..skinned them...the screams haunted him." George shook his head weakly. "Animals."

Jarrod stood over him. "Not Catherine," he shook his head wildly.

"All...the same," George insisted, his breathing uneven. "A whore. Fornicating...all those men." George looked up at Jarrod now, his eyes filling with tears. "A heathen...whore. Not for...you." George's head rolled to one side for a moment, then he snapped it back up again. "I owe you...everything. Couldn't let this happen...ruin you..." George's eyes closed then as the darkness washed over him.

Jarrod stared down at the stranger at his feet. What sort of ignorance and misguided loyalty had been at the root of this tragedy. Why hadn't Jarrod been able to see what was happening right before his very eyes? He felt empty. His world, his very existence had lost all meaning.

Jarrod became aware of Cadence's sobs. The child...Catherine's daughter...was still alive. He turned to the back doorway where Catherine lay, covered in her own blood. So much blood. His stomach churned. His dear Catherine. The only woman he had ever truly loved. He moved towards her, slowly. Knelt down beside her body. Cadence was trapped between her mother's body and the wall. Her eyes were giant sapphire spheres in her beautiful little face. She looked right through him, shivering with shock.

Gently, reverently, Jarrod reached for Catherine's slumped form. Her pulled her towards him, and her head lolled. He bit the insides of his cheeks hard, to hold back his own sobs, as tears burned his eyes. He reached one hand towards Cady, to help her up, but she remained where she was, looking at him with that terrible vacant expression.

So instead, Jarrod smoothed the dark hair back from Catherine's face, bending to touch his lips to hers. He stilled, his heart galloping wildly. Was that really a faint expulsion of breath he had felt against his mouth? Desperately, Jarrod felt her throat, detecting a pulse. Not a faint, fluttering, near-death pulse, but a steady, strong beat. Catherine was alive!

Continued…