Those Who Know Me True

Chapters 39-46

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 39

Jarrod laid Catherine on the floor, turning her body over, seeking her wounds, and the source of the bleeding. Her dress was torn on the left side. He grabbed the fabric and pulled it downward, exposing her bronzed shoulder and arm. He could see the ugly gash on the fleshy underside of the arm. She had lost a considerable amount of blood he thought, but already the flow was tapering off. It wasn't a major vein or artery then that had been cut, he realized with relief. He shrugged out of his jacket, quickly undoing the first few buttons on his shirt, lifting it over his head, then tearing it into strips. Jarrod bound several of the strips around the gash, and though blood continued to soak through, it was no where near as copious as he had feared.

Catherine was alive! He hadn't lost her. He would have to get her to Doc Merar's very soon. But her pulse was strong. She would survive. He bent his head to hers. His tears splashed down onto her cheeks.

Catherine felt the dampness on her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered open. It wasn't a hallucination then. Jarrod was here. He had saved them. Catherine coughed weakly, tried to sit up, reaching fearfully for Cadence with her good hand. She felt the child's hand, covered it with her own, and squeezed gently. She was rewarded with faint pressure in return.

Jarrod felt her move, as joy surged through his veins. He sat back, helping her to sit up. "It's over," Jarrod said quietly. "It was George. George that day with the arrow. I'll make sure he never hurts you again. That no one ever hurts you again," he promised, bending to kiss the top of her head. "I'm so, so sorry, Catherine. I thought..." his voice caught. "I thought I'd lost you."

Catherine looked into his eyes, so fraught with worry. "You won't lose me that easily," she said, smiling tremulously. She looked over at Cadence, frowning with concern. Her little girl was very pale, and she didn't like that empty look in her eyes. "Cady?" she called gently.

Finally, the child focused on her mother's features. Momma wasn't gone to heaven with Fluffy. Momma was still right here, and Mr. Jarrod was too. She couldn't see the bad man anymore. "Momma?" Cady asked weakly.

"I'll get you both to Doc's," Jarrod assured Catherine.

She let go of Cady's hand and reached to touch his cheek. "Thank you," she told him. "I thought...I thought I'd never see you again." A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Jarrod bent to kiss her lips, lightly. "I love you," he told her. So much emotion, so much meaning, in three small words.

"I love you too, Jarrod Barkley," she murmured. Then Catherine fainted again.

"What the hell's goin' on here?" a gruff voice demanded.

Jarrod turned to see a balding black man scowling at him, the man's rifle trained on Jarrod. Behind him, in the doorway stood a woman, her mouth open, her eyes wide and frightened. She was Catherine's neighbour, Halley, and this must be her husband. "Catherine's been hurt," Jarrod told them, cradling her head in his lap. "I've got to get her to Doc Merar's."

Leo McNeil motioned to the unconscious man with his gun. "This guy did it?" Jarrod nodded. "He dead?"

Jarrod glanced briefly at George, realizing that he didn't care one way or the other. "I don't think so," he said finally. He looked hopefully at the man who still regarded him with suspicion. "Can you help me get her to Doc's?"

The black man passed the rifle to his wife. "If that man makes a move towards you, shoot him," he instructed her. He moved towards the white man and the Indian woman, stepping over a pistol that lay just inside the room. He saw the blood that stained the floor, and covered her dress. The little girl, Cady, the one that always played with his children, was cowering against the wall. His eyes softened at the sight of her, looking so small and so scared. "The child hurt?" he asked. He didn't see any blood, but that was no guarantee.

Jarrod glanced at Cadence, reaching to stroke her cheek. "I think she's in shock, but I don't think she was injured. I want to get her over to see Doc too."

Leo waited while Jarrod stood up, holding Catherine underneath the arms. Then he took the woman's legs. Jarrod looked indecisively at Cady. He didn't think she could walk along with them. He spoke to Halley. "Can you come sit with her, please?" he asked. "I'll be back for her in a few minutes."

Halley went to Cadence, kneeling down beside her, and putting her arms out towards the girl. Cadence went to her, snuggling into her embrace, her eyes never leaving her mother.

"Cady, we're going to take your mother to the doctor's, all right?" Jarrod explained. "Then I'll come right back and take you to her, okay?" Cadence looked at him and then at Mr. NcNeil and her mother between them. At first he thought she didn't understand what he was saying. Then she nodded. "Okay, let's go," Jarrod told the other man. "Nice and easy."

"She been shot?" Leo asked as they moved towards the front door, manouevering around the other white man's body.

"Stabbed," Jarrod said, and the words wrenched his heart. He couldn't look at George as they passed him. "Wait," Jarrod said. He motioned for the other man to put Catherine down for a moment. He didn't think that George would come around anytime soon, but he didn't want to leave him any weapons in case he did. Jarrod retrieved his pistol, and then picked up the hunting knife, his stomach spasming as he saw the blood on the blade, sticky and turning dark. Catherine's blood. He stuck the knife through his gunbelt, then they picked Catherine up again, and continued their journey.

Howard Merar heard the insistent knock on the front door. He'd just finished a late dinner. He'd spent the morning removing a bullet from a boy of thirteen who'd be accidentally shot by his younger brother while they were out hunting. It had been a head wound, the worst kind, and he wasn't sure that Tommy Norris was going to make it. Mr. and Mrs. Norris had been inconsolable. The next forty-eight hours would be critical.

Then he'd spent the afternoon at one of the outlying ranches, assisting in a breech birth. June Owen had bled a lot, and he'd been worried about the child, a little girl, who came into the world with her cord wrapped around her neck, not breathing. Eventually, the afterbirth had delivered and the bleeding had stopped, and though June Owen would need some time to recuperate, he was confident that she would survive. He had managed to get the baby breathing again, her weak cries music to his ears. Finally, with friends and family in attendance, he had left the Owen home, satisfied that he had done all he could for the time being.

He was tired, wanting no more than to take a hot bath and climb into his bed. But this was how it went. Some days, there was nothing much for him, other days he was deluged. He drew a deep breath, asked his wife Iva to put on some more coffee, and went to answer the door.

He was surprised to Jarrod Barkley there, shirtless, blood on his chest and his pants. With him was the black man who worked at the smithy's. McNeil, he thought it was. Between them they cradled a young half-breed woman, her dress soaked with blood. "What happened?" he asked brusquely, stepping back to admit them to the room.

"Stab wound," Jarrod said, his features lined with worry.

"Take her on back to the surgery," Dr. Merar instructed. Later, he would be curious about the situation, but right now his only thought was for the patient.

Jarrod and Leo carried Catherine into the back room, lifting her onto the table. "Can you stay with her, please?" he implored, his eyes pained. "In case she wakes up. Just to let her know I'll be back in a minute and that I've gone for Cady?" Leo nodded. Jarrod's thin smile was grateful. Then he hurried from the room and back to Catherine's.

Halley McNeil and Cadence hadn't moved since he had left. George apparently hadn't stirred. Jarrod took Cady from Halley's arms, turning his body to shield her from the sight of the man on the floor. "Thank you," he told the woman. "If you could just keep watch over him for a bit longer, I'll be back again soon."

Jarrod held Cadence close to his chest, his stride long as he retraced his steps to Dr. Merar's. The child was no longer shaking, nor was she crying, but her face was still so pale, and her cheeks felt feverish to him. He wondered how this horror would affect the out-going little girl. He kissed her cheek, tightening his grip on the child, and stepped through Doc's front door without knocking. Iva Merar was there to take Cadence from his arms.

Catherine was awake now, and Dr. Merar was examining the wound, readying to clean it. Jarrod told Catherine that Cady was here now, and then promised that he would be back soon. He asked Halley's husband for his help again, this time to take George to his home. Jarrod was not going to bring the young man here to Dr. Merar's where his proximity was certain to further upset Catherine and Cadence.

Leo went for his buckboard, while Jarrod went back to the house. He relieved Halley McNeil, who twice had had to shoo various members of her brood back to the shack next door. He thanked her for her help, agreeing to let her know later how Catherine was. If she was in no imminent danger, then Jarrod would stop by Halley's in the morning with an update.

Leo returned with the wagon, and assisted Jarrod in loading George into the back. At the pain of being moved, George moaned, his eyelids fluttering. Jarrod offered him no words of comfort, and neither did Leo. They transported George to the Vail home.

Gladys Vail began to wail when she saw her youngest son's body, sagging between the arms of a bare-chested Jarrod Barkley and some coloured man. "George!" she gasped. His face was almost unrecognizable. She averted her eyes in embarrassment from Mr. Barkley's naked upper body, leading the men to George's room in the back of the house, where they laid him on the bed.

"What's wrong with him?" Gladys demanded of Jarrod. "Does this have something to do with that errand you sent him on? With why you lit out of here the way you did? You DID send him to do something dangerous, didn't you?!" she accused, her blue eyes clouding with maternal fear and anger.

Jarrod spoke to Halley's husband first. He extended his hand. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate all of your help, Mr.....?"

"Leo McNeil," the black man said, shaking his hand.

"I'm Jarrod Barkley," he returned.

Leo nodded. He knew who the lawyer was. He was the eldest Barkley son, the lawyer. The one who was going to be running for Governor. "Glad we could help," he said. Then he gave George a withering stare and left the room.

Gladys Vail watched the exchange in confusion. She settled her ample frame onto the bed next to her son. George was pale, his skin glistening with sweat. His face was swollen and bruised. Dried blood stained his crumpled nose and his chin. His right arm was bent at an angle that God had never intended. She began to sob, brushing the hair back from his forehead. "George. Oh George, my baby."

They could hear Normal Vail yelling from upstairs, but both Jarrod and Gladys ignored him. "I'll send Dr. Merar over later," Jarrod said wearily. He found himself unable to comfort the woman, in light of what her son had tried to do. He felt that he was in the presence of strangers.

"Later?!" Gladys Vail cried in astonishment. "He needs a doctor now." She couldn't understand Jarrod Barkley's dispassionate handling of her son's injuries.

"Well, right now Doc is busy," Jarrod bit out. "Tending to the woman and child that George tried to murder tonight." He saw the shock that made her plump features fold.

"Murder? That's a lie! You sent him to do something and he got hurt, and it's all your fault! You're trying to cover up, to protect yourself, and to slander my poor George in the process! How can you do that! You know how he feels about you?" George's mother began to sob in frustration.

"I never asked George to do anything for me this evening," Jarrod replied levelly, his anger rising. "He's been terrorizing a young woman and her child. An innocent woman who lives in town and has never done a single thing to George. A young woman who works her fingers to the bone as a laundress, minding her own business, trying to make a life for she and her child." His chin jutted out.

Gladys Vail was thoughtful for a moment. "That Indian woman?" she asked. Jarrod gave a curt nod. "Well, she must have done something to George first. He was probably protecting himself. What did she do to him?" she asked anew, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"She didn't do anything to him," Jarrod told her, though he knew Catherine must have broken George's arm somehow. "I did this."

"You did?" the woman cried in disbelief. "You hurt George?" She couldn't fathom any of this. None of it made sense.

"He tried to kill Catherine, and maybe her daughter too. I had to stop him. He wasn't rational. Something must be wrong in his mind." There was no sympathy in Jarrod's words though. "When Dr. Merar is done, I'll send him over here. You can wash him up in the meantime."

"I'm going for Sheriff Madden," Gladys said, shaking with emotion. "He'll get to the bottom of this!"

Jarrod's eyes were steely. "No," he told her, his chest expanding. "You're not." She looked away from his piercing gaze. "As soon as Doc says George is fit to travel, I'm buying a ticket and he's getting on a train and going back east. To your sister's in New York. He can continue his education out there." There was no way to revoke the scholarship, Jarrod knew. "And he'll stay there. And if he ever sets foot in Stockton again...if he ever goes near Catherine or her child again...I'll kill him."

Gladys Vail's jaw dropped at the venom in the lawyer's words. "You...you can't do this..." she said in confusion.

"Would you rather he be tried for attempted murder?" Jarrod asked coldly. In reality, he was uncertain about just what the law would do to George. It made him sick to realize that if he did insist Fred Madden press charges, George might well be acquitted...because of Catherine's birthright. As well...there would be sure to incredible interest in the case from newspapers all across the state. But he was serious about George leaving town, and his threat against him was not an empty one.

Gladys Vail's head dropped in defeat. She had already watched one son on trial for murder. Had somehow gotten through the anxiety and the humiliation and the intense fear. This time, all of Jarrod Barkley's considerable influence and legal skills would not be working for them, but against them.

She looked at her son, as he mumbled incoherently. How could this have happened? Her sweet George wouldn't hurt anyone. What had driven him to this? She felt hatred towards this Indian woman. The rumours she had overheard in the cafe were true then. About Mr. Barkley and the half-breed woman. She couldn't imagine what any of it had to do with George though.

"I'll see that he goes," she said resignedly. There was nothing for George in Stockton anymore anyhow. Not if the Barkley family was going to be against him. Not if Jarrod Barkley was serious with his threats. And she saw by the coldness in his eyes, that he was. If George stayed in town...this man who had been such a good friend to them all...might well kill him. She couldn't understand this horrific turn of events.

"One more thing," Jarrod told her. "What happened tonight stays between us. George was jumped tonight, by two men who tried to rob him. If I hear anything different, anything at all, I'll know it came from someone in this house. Do you understand me?" She nodded hollowly, her spirit broken. "Good. I'll send the Doc over later."

Chapter 40

Clayton Knowles finished buttoning the French cuffs of his expensive shirt, looking out the window to the darkened street beyond. He slipped his gold and onyx cufflinks through their holes. He felt invigorated. Rejuvenated. He glanced dispassionately at the woman...Starr...as though that were really her name...who sat naked on the bed. Her knees were drawn up tight against her ample breasts, her slender arms wrapped around her shins, and her head rested on her knees. Her dark hair was in disarray, her face pallid, her eyes vacant.

He picked up his hat, positioning it on his blond head, then tipped it to her in a mockingly gentlemanly gesture of farewell, his smile sardonic. She wouldn't look at him, nor did she express any interest when he pulled out his billfold, peeling off bills, adding a couple more than had first been agreed upon, and setting them on the nighttable beside her.

It had been worth it, he thought with satisfaction. From her first muffled cries as he'd struck her with his belt, to the final act where he'd sought and attained his release. He hadn't really hurt her. Not physically. Not much. Oh, there'd be some marks, and she'd be pretty sore for a few days, but he always made sure to compensate his girls for the lost wages they were sure to incur if they couldn't work for a bit. The physical domination had just been the beginning. To let them know who was in charge. To instill fear and uncertainty, and to begin to steal their will.

That was the true game. The mental domination. Watching the women fight to maintain their dignity, watching them struggle to distance themselves from the acts he required of them. Knowing that the degradation he put them through stole a bit of their soul, gave him his true pleasure. Making the women demean themselves, making them beg him to allow them to do things to him...to beg him to do things to them in turn...depraved things...how it thrilled him.

Skillfully, he would discern their weaknesses, then draw them out, playing them like a finely skilled musician played his instrument. Until at last, he had them blubbering, sobbing, broken and humiliated. It wasn't such an easy task as it might seem, Knowles knew. These were women who would do just about anything for money. And who had. And who had learned to live with themselves afterwards.

But his games...ah...they always took women to a place they had never gone before. And would pray never to go again. He wasn't merely a brute who overpowered them with his considerable physical strength like some men did. Those were usually stupid men, lacking in self-esteem, who couldn't see beyond the immediate, who enjoyed hurting women and felt important in doing so.

Clayton Knowles didn't just want to hurt them. He wanted to them to hurt themselves. Spiritually. To debase themselves in ways that they would have thought unimagineable. And to beg him for the right to do so, until they had exacted his permission. And then, when he knew that the women were almost at the edge, and could not possibly endure much more...he would make them beg and plead for him to at last take them. And finally, when he was ready, he would.

This woman, this Starr, who was no celestial body shining brightly this night...not anymore...had been particularly enjoyable. In the lulls between his games, allowing the woman time to really pause and consider what she was doing, and for the shame and self-loathing to intensify, he had asked her questions about Jarrod Barkley. He had determined to his delight, that this woman had a crush on the dapper counselor. Oh, she denied it, but it was there in her eyes. Knowles had hoped that perhaps she was one of Barkley's harlots, but she told him she had never been with the man.

To his annoyance, her voice had been deeply regretful as she had disclosed that bit of information. It was too bad, he would have enjoyed playing these games with one of Jarrod Barkley's whores, superimposing his own image over the other man's, leaving his own particular brand. But, that wasn't why he'd come to Stockton after all. He was here to find out what he could about 'Catherine'.

So, he had inquired of Starr, between bouts, what she knew of Jarrod Barkley's woman. She had been evasive at first. Denying that she knew anything at all. Declaring that as far as she knew, Jarrod Barkley was unencumbered by female companionship. Knowles had known immediately that she was lying, however. Once she had paid for her lies, with a split lip and the loss of a tooth, she had eventually 'remembered' that she had indeed heard some recent talk about the handsome attorney and a young woman in town. Further queries had revealed that while Starr was honestly unaware of the woman's name, she did know where she lived, and how she made her living. The information had not been very forthcoming, and Knowles had had to work to extract it. He had enjoyed the process though.

Knowles hadn't been able to stave off his laughter at learning that the esteemed Mr. Barkley was dallying with a common washerwoman. Oh my, it was just so...clichéd. She must really be something, this lowly laundress and seamstress, if the good attorney was willing to incur the delectable and irreplaceable Patricia Vandermeer's wrath by sullying himself this way. Of course, since Starr didn't know the woman's name, he couldn't be sure this washerwoman was really the 'Catherine' of Barkley's wires. But it was an interesting development nonetheless. And useful to him either way. And it should be easy enough to follow through with...to determine her name. He wondered idly if Barkley had found his very own pygmalion.

Knowles hesitated with his hand on the door knob. Sometimes, he would dress, and seem in the process of leaving, allowing the women to believe their ordeal was over. Then, with the door slightly ajar, he would 'change his mind' and go back for more. They would usually begin to cry then when the door closed and he approached them again. Great, shuddering sobs, of wretched abjection. And that was normally enough to arouse him all over again.

This time, however, he realized ruefully, he really did have other things to do. He couldn't stay in Stockton indefinitely, and now that he had a place to begin his search, he had better get to it. He had to find out who this washerwoman was, and if she wasn't 'Catherine', who 'Catherine' was. So, with a final look at the woman's naked, huddled form, at her bruised and mildly bloodied back, he left the room.



Verna heard the door close. She wanted to get up and run to it, to lock it, but found that she just couldn't move. In her almost fifteen years in the business, she had never met such a malevolent being as this man Clay. He hadn't given her a last name. Just 'Clay'. She had made some poor choices in clientele before, had been knocked around, and even beaten severely once, almost to the point of death.

But that had been different. She had been an unwilling victim in those cases. Neither agreeing to, nor welcoming the brutality. But this time...she had been an active participant in her own debasement. She dry wretched, just thinking about it. She had had no idea, when she initially agreed to his terms, that no amount of money could ever make satiating his debauched needs worthwhile.

Verna knew that what she did for a living was not something to be proud of. But, like other women in her position, she had always found a way to hold her head up, to keep a part of her soul separate, to allow the men to take her physically, without ever touching the person she was inside. She had always felt as though she had been the one in control of the situation. And as such, had been able to continue with this sort of life, keeping sanctified her view of who she really was inside...as a person.

Now though...now she felt so dirty. So soiled. And not just on the outside, where she could wash away all traces of this contemptible man and his horrible games. But on the inside. In a place where she would never be able to clean. She didn't think she would ever be able to look at herself in a mirror again, without seeing the pathetic creature that this man Clay had found within her and forced her to confront. She scrubbed at the tears that gathered in her eyes.

And to add to her misery, Verna was afraid that she had in some way betrayed Jarrod Barkley. Oh, not that she was a friend of his, or anything. But she knew who he was. He was an important man in this valley. He came to the saloon frequently, when he was here at his law office in Stockton, and not away in San Francisco or one of the dozens of other places his work took him to. He was so smart, so cultured, a true gentleman. And he was such an incredibly handsome man, tall, with his shining black hair and his glorious blue eyes. Verna had never been able to entice him to her room, though she had tried many times. She had even offered to share her skills with him at no charge.

To her unending regret, he had always declined though. Yet he always turned her down in a way that left her with her pride intact. He was always friendly. Would sit with her and have a drink on occasion, and ask her how she was doing in his amazing, resonant voice. Had inquired on more than one occasion if there wasn't something else she would rather do with her life. He never seemed to judge her though, or look down on her. He always treated her with respect. Treated her as though she were a lady. And Verna hadn't been able to help falling in love with him...just a little.

When this man Clay had first asked her about Jarrod Barkley, about any women in town that he had been seen with, she had denied knowing anything. She didn't know why this man would want to know, but she knew he was no friend of Mr. Barkley's. She thought it might have something to do with the upcoming election. She wasn't interested in such matters, but she had heard the men talk about Jarrod Barkley, and about the governorship of the state.

Whatever Clay's intentions were, they were not benevolent. She hadn't wanted this horrible man to know anything that could potentially hurt Jarrod. Of course, working where she did, she had heard the rumours. About Jarrod Barkley's dinner at the Cattleman's Restaurant with the woman and child. About his purchase of goods that he paid for from his own pocket and had delivered to the little shack. But she wasn't going to volunteer any of that to this cruel-hearted stranger.

Clay had shown her his displeasure, but she had still maintained her denial. At last, when he had knocked her tooth out, she had given in. She had tried to protect Jarrod Barkley, but she had to protect herself as well. Her looks were all she had in this life, all she had to trade on. As it was, the years and gravity were already taking their toll, and there were younger, fresher girls getting into the game all the time. Besides, this wasn't top secret information...if Clay didn't get it from her, he would readily get it elsewhere. And so, gradually, under duress, she had told him about the washerwoman who lived near in the shack beyond the livery.

She hadn't told him that the washerwoman was a half-breed Indian woman though. Perhaps he would go there and find out for himself. But she had determined that he wouldn't find it out from her.

Chapter 41

When Jarrod returned to Dr. Merar's, Iva had a fresh shirt of her husband's laying out for him to borrow. He was taller and broader than the doctor, so he couldn't button the shirt up, but at least he had something to throw over his shoulders. He found Cadence sleeping on a chesterfield in the Merar's private quarters, curled on her side, her thumb between her lips. Iva had covered her with a quilt.

He touched the top of Cady's head, lightly, bending to kiss her forehead. He was relieved to note that she was no longer flushed, and didn't seem fevered at all. Iva told him that the child had just drifted off to sleep, apparently too overwhelmed by the evening's events. Jarrod thought that sleep, if it could hold her, would probably be a blessing for the little girl. As he looked down on her, appearing even smaller and younger in repose, he felt a rush of some emotion that the couldn't quite identify. A fierce love and protectiveness that was different from other kinds he had known. It was almost as though a piece of his own heart lay sleeping there. He was surprised at how much this small child had come to mean to him.

Dr. Merar had finished his examination of Catherine, and allowed Jarrod into the surgery. Some of the tension eased out of him, at seeing her sitting up on the examining table. She was pale, but she was sitting up of her own accord, as Dr. Merar finished wrapping a bandage high on her left arm. She saw Jarrod and smiled bravely.

Catherine's dress was undone and off her shoulders. Her blood was a drying crimson stain on the pale fabric. He was across the room, and reaching for her, wanting to touch her, to know that she was real. That she was alive and she was safe.

"It was a nice, clean wound," Howard was telling them both. "Deep, but missing any of the major veins and arteries. It's a tissue wound, I don't think any of the muscle is badly damaged, and it should heal up just fine with no lingering ill effects. I disinfected it thoroughly, and put in several stitches. Miss Vaillancourt has lost some blood, and I was just telling her she'd need extra fluids over the next couple of days especially. And some rest. It'll be sore, but she's young and healthy, and should heal up just fine."

Jarrod nodded sharply. He would see to it personally that she had both of those things, and whatever else she needed.

Dr. Merar continued. "She's got a big lump on the side of her head, but I don't think she has a concussion. I believe the loss of consciousness was due more to the loss of blood, and the extreme stress of the situation. In essence, she fainted. Which is different from the passing out into unconsciousness that we sometimes see with head injuries."

Jarrod's eyes widened. He hadn't known Catherine had injured her head. She read his thoughts, raising her right hand to the top right side of her head. Gingerly, Jarrod placed his own fingers there, wincing to feel the large, egg-shaped protrusion through her hair.

"I'll want to see you tomorrow, Miss Vaillancourt, just to make sure there isn't any infection setting in, and to change the dressing," Dr. Merar cautioned. He smiled at Jarrod over the top of Catherine's head. It was obvious how much this young woman meant to the eldest Barkley son. "She'll be just fine, Jarrod. In fact, as soon as she feels up to it, and can get her feet underneath her steady again, she's free to go. I'll just go get a glass of juice for her, and I'll be right back." He squeezed Jarrod's shoulder reassuringly before stepping from the room.

Jarrod was concerned because Catherine hadn't spoken yet. "Are you all right?" he asked, taking her right hand in both of his.

Catherine nodded tiredly. "I'm fine. Thanks to you." Her dark eyes shone with devotion. "And Mrs. Merar told me Cady is sleeping. I had the doctor check her over first. He said that she seems to be in shock, but she's fine physically." Her eyes clouded over. "I can't imagine how horrifying this was for her." Tears formed in the obsidian depths.

Jarrod pressed his forehead against Catherine's. "She'll get through this. We'll help her," he said encouragingly, letting Catherine know they both had all of the support and assistance he could offer them. He was rewarded with a grateful smile.

Dr. Merar poured orange juice into a cup for his patient, but his thoughts were not on the simple task. Catherine Vaillancourt had told him that a man had attacked her in her home, stabbing her with a knife. That was all she had said. She hadn't elaborated on who this man was, whether or not she even knew him, or what might have precipitated such an assault. He hadn't pressed her for details, though naturally he had been curious.

Additionally, when the young woman had undone her dress, and lowered it for his ministrations, he couldn't help but notice the crescent shaped bruises on her upper chest. They were not the dark purple of fresh contusions, but the greyish-green of those that were already fading. They looked, to him, as though they were bite marks. Discreetly his eyes had roved over her neck and face, noting another faint smudge on her left cheek. Another, older bruise. These had not happened in the attack tonight, he was certain. Since they did not require his attention though, he had not mentioned anything. But he couldn't help but wonder.

Howard Merar had known the Barkley family for a long time. He had known of Tom Barkley's aspirations for his bright, articulate older son, and since Jarrod had been a teenager, he had been very vocal about his ambitions. He was going to pursue a career as an attorney. One day, he would go into politics. Young Jarrod Barkley had never had any of the indecision or restlessness of most youth. He had always been so mature, had seemed to always know who he was and what he wanted from life.

It had been no surprise to Howard when he had gotten the newspaper and read on the front page that Jarrod was seeking the Republican nomination for Governor of California. The upcoming election itself had been a surprise. Governor White was a popular, much-loved and respected man in the state, with a firm hold on his office and lots of time left in his second term. His resignation for health reasons had astounded the doctor. But learning that Stockton's own Jarrod Barkley was being endorsed to replace Samuel White, had not been such a great shock. He could think of no man who deserved...or might want...the honour more.

Jarrod showing up at his door this evening, with an injured young woman, had not been shocking either. Jarrod was always helping people. It was an integral part of who he was. Dr. Merar had thought that perhaps Jarrod had chanced upon this young woman, injured and bleeding in the street, and rushed to assist her, as was his nature.

It wasn't until he had noted Jarrod's concern for the young woman, had seen his inner turmoil and the way he wore his heart on his proverbial sleeve, that Howard had realized that Jarrod and the young woman not only knew one another, but were deeply in love.

That, had shocked him. Not necessarily that the young woman was part-Indian. The Barkleys...Victoria and Jarrod especially...had always been colour blind. What Howard had been nonplussed by, was the fact that Jarrod Barkley, incontrovertibly in love with the woman...was also seeking the highest political office in the state. Jarrod was no thick-headed dolt from some backwoods town. He was bright, accomplished and savvy. Surely he must know that any path to the Governor's Mansion, no matter how seemingly well lit now, would be barred to him as soon as word got out that he was involved with an Indian woman. 'Could love really be so blind?', wondered the physician.

Well, it was not his place to be either confessor or advisor. He was a healer. If Jarrod Barkley had some physical problem that modern medicine could cure, then Howard would willingly offer his assistance. As it was, this situation was none of his business. What happened in his office was a confidence between himself and those he treated there. He knew unequivocally that his Iva was every bit as circumspect as he.

Dr. Merar returned with a glass of orange juice for Catherine. She accepted it thankfully, and drained it thirstily. Already, he thought with satisfaction, there was a bit more colour in her face.

"They need you at the Vail residence, Doc," Jarrod informed him coolly. He observed the raised eyebrow and the questions in the physician's eyes. "George Vail was attacked by two unknown assailants tonight. He's home, in his bed. Gladys is cleaning him up, readying him for your visit. He has a broken arm and a broken nose. Some lacerations as well."

Catherine's eyes widened, and she looked at Jarrod, confounded. He didn't see the look though, as he was concentrating on Dr. Merar's reaction.

Howard Merar's mind was reeling at this new bit of information. George Vail was Jarrod's law clerk. His protégé. Jarrod Barkley had been a benefactor to the Vail family on more than one occasion over the years. He was grooming young George to join him in his Stockton practice one day. It was no secret that George Vail revered Jarrod Barkley. And Jarrod had always been so fond of the young man.

Now, Jarrod's features were full of contempt when he spoke George's name. His eyes were like shards of ice. His voice was heavy with rancor. Howard saw the young woman stiffen at the mention of the clerk's name. He was too overwhelmed for the moment, his mind too dazed to make speculations, or draw conclusions just then. But they wouldn't be long in coming.

Yes, some days there wasn't much at all for Dr. Merar to do. On others, his life was a whirlwind, he was totally overwhelmed, and he felt every single one of his progressing years.

"Well, there's not much more for me to do here," Howard said, trying to hold back a sigh. "I guess I'd better get my bag and head over to the Vails'. You stay here as long as you need until you feel you're steady enough. I'll see you tomorrow then, Miss Vaillancourt."

"Catherine, please," Catherine spoke then. "And thank you so very much, Dr. Merar, for everything."

Jarrod added his own words of gratitude, then watched the doctor depart. "You and Cady are coming home with me," Jarrod pronounced.

"Jarrod...." Catherine began.

"Yes!" he insisted. His face softened. "Catherine you can't go back there. At least not tonight. There's blood everywhere. That's not somewhere either of you need to be, or something you need to see and contemplate right now. And you need to take it easy for a few days. You heard Dr. Merar. You need time to allow yourself to heal." He touched her cheek. "Please, Catherine," he implored.

Catherine knew he was right. She couldn't imagine taking Cadence back to that shack, not just yet. Not until some of the horror had faded from her memory. And Jarrod was right about the blood. That wasn't something Cady should see. And Catherine was too tired, too weak, to spend the night scrubbing everything clean. She needed Jarrod's help. And he was offering it freely. "All right then, thank you Jarrod, if you don't think your family will mind."

Jarrod smiled at her. "They've already extended an invitation earlier today, before this happened, that they would welcome you and Cady to spend some time at the house." Jarrod's smile faded. "About...George." He proceeded to let Catherine know all that had transpired at the Vail home between he and George's mother. "If you want, Catherine, I will go get Sheriff Madden now, and you can tell him what happened. I will see that George has to face trial."

"And what would happen then?" Catherine asked, her eyes searching Jarrod's handsome features.

Jarrod shrugged, but his brow creased. "They wouldn't let you testify. But I could. I don't honestly know how it would go. I have a feeling he would be acquitted," he admitted, "but we could try."

Catherine knew what a trial would mean, if it even came to that. Newspapermen would flood Stockton. Jarrod was seeking the Republican nomination for governor. He was one of the most important men in the state right now, and anything that he did was news. Any justice they might seek, would be lost...muddled... buried beneath the hoopla that would surround Jarrod. She and Cadence would be hounded. And Jarrod would get no respite. He would be required to stay in Stockton for the trial, instead of spending time in Sacramento as he would need to do for the election. Their relationship would become public... Jarrod would be on the witness stand, under oath, and they would be sure to ask him. Or George. Everything would come out at the trial.

And, in the end, George would probably be freed. Free to roam the streets of Stockton. While she and Cady would receive the backlash of public hatred. And Jarrod would lose any chance at attaining his dream. Catherine could see by the look on his face that he would do it though. If Catherine asked him to go for the sheriff...Jarrod would. If she wanted him to go through the rigors of a trial, for a probable losing cause...he would. For her. Despite the price he would undoubtedly have to pay.

Jarrod's way was better, she knew, though her heart bemoaned the fact that justice would not be served. That she could not face her attacker, and make him admit what he had done to her, and what he had attempted to do. He would not have to face his peers in court or spend any time in jail for trying to take her life...hers or Cady's.

This was not the Red River Settlement. They had no rights here. They just didn't matter. Except to Jarrod, whose honest, open, handsome features told her that if she asked it of him...he would try. Even though he knew there was no hope.

Jarrod was offering another option. To do what he could. He would ensure that George Vail left town. That he would never return to Stockton. That George would never hurt she or Cady again. That no one would have to know what had occurred this night. She and her daughter would not be the objection of discussion or scorn in the town because of something that was not even their fault. There was only one way, and Jarrod had already carefully thought everything through and taken care of it for her. She agreed to his proposal. And saw the relief in his eyes.

Jarrod left Catherine there to rest a bit more, while he went to the livery to rent a carriage, tying Jingo to the back. He stopped at Catherine's to pick up her lilac coloured dress, and Cadence's yellow one. When he walked through the door and saw the dark stain on the floor, he had to fight back nausea. What tragedy might have ensued if he had not found them when he did? The concept was just too terrible to contemplate.

He found a carpet bag in the back room, and put the dresses inside. He found a brush as well. And some undergarments. He gathered up anything that he thought Catherine and Cadence might hold dear, not wanting to leave anything unattended in the shack. He took the books, the chess and checkers board, the rifle, and finally Cadence's little doll that Catherine had made her. There was not much else of value.

Leo McNeil saw the lamplight and came over to investigate while Jarrod was picking up his tan jacket. Jarrod informed him that Catherine and Cadence were well, would recover, but that he was taking Catherine to the Barkley ranch for a while to rest and heal. He thanked the other man once again for his help, and Leo McNeil wished them all well.

Clayton Knowles had taken a stroll through the darkened Stockton streets, heading towards the livery and then on past it to the little row of shacks that Starr had described for him. He didn't think he would learn much tonight. He couldn't well go knocking on the washerwoman's door after dark. But he was curious to see the place where she lived. To perhaps get a glimpse of her through a window, illuminated by lamplight. It wasn't that late yet, and she might still be up. Of course, he never dreamed that he would actually chance upon Jarrod Barkley there, but one never knew. And since there was nothing very exciting to do in this hick town, and since he was in such good spirits after his recent encounter, he thought he would go for a walk.

Knowles was intrigued when he halted near the shacks, and saw a man coming out of one of them, carrying a box and a rifle that he set in the back of a carriage. The man was about Barkley's height and frame. The open door, visible in the lamplight that came from within, was indeed blue. He watched as the man went back to the shack, disappearing inside for a moment, and then there was darkness. He came back out, closing the door behind him, and climbed up into the buggy. Another horse was tied behind.

Knowles stood on the boardwalk, watching the buggy as it passed. It was indeed Jarrod Barkley. With his shirt unbuttoned, the sides open exposing his chest. Barkley was too deeply wrapped up in his own cerebration, too immersed in his thoughts, to notice either the glowing tip of the cigarette, or the man who held it in his hand. Knowles glanced down the street to the shack, but it had an air of emptiness. Perhaps his time would be better served in seeing what this esteemed counselor was up to this fine night.

The horse went slowly, and Knowles long, powerful, loping stride meant that he had no problem keeping Barkley in view. The other man reined in the horse outside an office that proclaimed it was where Barkley practiced law in this dusty little town. He was only inside for a moment, then came back out with a briefcase, which he also set in the back of the carriage. The horse wheeled around and trotted back down the way they had just come, stopping at another place, just around the corner from the lane of little shanties.

It was a physician's office, Knowles saw. Barkley jumped down from the carriage, and hurried inside with a bag. Knowles lit another cigarette, wondering if he was just wasting his time, and perhaps should begin his search fresh in the morning. However, he was here now, so he might as well follow the other man as long and as far as he could.

His patience was rewarded when several moments later, Barkley came back out of the doctor's. A tall, young woman was leaning on his left arm for support, as he facilitated her passage, tenderly assisting her into the carriage. She was an Indian woman, dressed in the clothes of a white woman, Knowles saw. He was close enough to see and overhear everything perfectly, while far enough back, leaning nonchalantly on a post, that they paid him no mind.

"I've just picked up your things from the house," Barkley's voice carried to him on the still night air. "I think I have everything you need." Knowles watched, fascinated, as Barkley bent his head towards the woman, reverently kissing her cheek. "Are you up for the journey, Catherine, or would you rather spend the night in a hotel here in town?"

Catherine?! The woman answered Barkley, but Knowles couldn't hear her over the blood that roared through his ears. Knowles was thunderstruck. This was the washerwoman. This was also the 'Catherine' of Barkley's wires from Sacramento. 'Missing you'. 'With love'. He stared at the woman...agog. This was just too perfect! It simply couldn't be this easy! Jarrod Barkley...and an INDIAN woman?!

Knowles had always had a grudging respect for Barkley, despite his deep-seated hatred for him. The man wasn't as imbecilic as most. Knowles had always found him to be ingenious. Shrewd and resourceful, if too annoyingly moral. He had thought Barkley would be a worthy opponent in his battle for this nomination. But now...Knowles smirked in the dark, unable to believe what he was seeing. An Indian mistress! Barkley had just handed him the Republican nomination.

He watched enraptured, as Barkley touched the woman's long, dark hair, whispering something that he couldn't catch. Barkley took off his jacket, laying it around her shoulders, before going back into the doctor's. He came out holding a small child, a girl, wrapped in a quilt. Jarrod Barkley lifted the child up into the buggy, kissing the top of her head first, then tossing the bag back into the carriage. Catherine's child? Barkley's bastard, Knowles wondered? He had never heard anything about Barkley with an Indian mistress.

So, maybe Barkley wasn't that stupid after all, and had been carefully covering his tracks. Lots of powerful men had mistresses of other races. Usually Chinese, in this part of California. Sometimes, Mexican. Even Negro. And such things, if kept discreet, were tolerated. But Knowles had never, ever known a man, not one in a position of such power or influence certainly, to keep an Indian mistress. He hadn't heard the faintest whisperings of this in Sacramento, and if there had been talk, he would have been the first to know.

Knowles wanted to throw back his head, and spread open his arms and whoop with merriment. He wanted to step forward now, to confront Barkley, to watch him go pale, to see the knowledge in his eyes that he had been bested. However, he held back. This was powerful information, but he had to be sure to use it to his very best advantage. He couldn't let his personal feelings about Barkley, his hatred, manifest itself in acrimonious behaviour that might not be in Knowles' best interests. This would bear some thinking about.

Well, well, well, Knowles mused. This had been a most fruitful journey after all. And what a phenomenal way to cap off a delightful evening that had begun upstairs in the saloon with Starr. Already an inkling of an idea had begun to ripen. Knowles wondered, raptly, what the lovely Miss Vandermeer would think about all this.

Chapter 42

Victoria heard the carriage pull up in front of the house. She peeked curiously through the parlour's lace curtains. She had been checking every so often for Jarrod, wondering what was keeping him so late in Stockton. Ciego had informed her sheepishly, only a half hour ago, that her oldest son had gone into town a few hours earlier and should be back directly.

Before talking to Ciego, she had searched the house for Jarrod, and then the grounds, wondering if perhaps he would want to talk about the events that had transpired at Catherine's. About the death of the puppy and whether Jarrod believed that would be the end of it, or whether he was worried that the miner might continue to harass the young woman and child. When she hadn't found him anywhere, at last checking the stable for Jingo, an embarrassed Ciego had reported that Jarrod had asked him to let her know he had had to return to town after dinner, but that he had forgotten to do so.

Jarrod had been gone a long time though. Victoria thought that he might have stopped at the saloon for a drink. More likely, he had gone to Catherine's again, to reassure himself that she was still all right. Victoria couldn't shake the notion that something was wrong though, and that that was the reason for the delay in his return home.

Audra, Nick, Heath and Annabelle had all retired early, and Silas was in his quarters, so Victoria kept her vigil alone. She would pick up her book to read, then set it down again, going once more to the window, looking out on the darkened expanse, willing Jarrod to come back safely.

Seeing Jarrod alight from the carriage knowing he had ridden Jingo into town, was her first hint that her premonition had been correct. Victoria let the curtain drop, hurrying to the front door to open it for him, one hand nervously at her throat. She peered out onto the veranda, as Jarrod came towards her, carrying something bundled in a quilt. He was wearing a too-small shirt that obviously wasn't his.

"Mother, take Cadence please," Jarrod requested, passing the child to her. The quilt slipped down and Victoria stared into the sapphire eyes of the little girl who looked at her sleepily and uncertainly. Before she could ask any questions, Jarrod was out the door again.

Victoria moved into the doorway, and watched Jarrod help Catherine down from the buggy. The young woman moved gingerly, as Jarrod hovered around her. Catherine leaned on Jarrod's arm, walking slowly to the house. Undoubtedly, Catherine was injured in some way, though Jarrod hadn't mentioned that when he had spoken to them earlier today. Victoria just knew that something dreadful had happened since then.

Ciego had heard the buggy as well, and came forward to take over, calling out that he would take care of things. Jarrod thanked him over his shoulder, as he led Catherine into the house.

Victoria was brimming with questions and concern, but she stood aside as the pair entered. Jarrod guided Catherine to the chesterfield, then took Cadence from his mother's arms. "Perhaps you'd make some tea for us, Mother?" he asked gently. She nodded, then disappeared through the doorway.

Jarrod carried Cady to the chesterfield, and set her down next to Catherine. She had woken briefly when he had taken her from the Merar's, and then fallen asleep again on the ride back to the ranch. She was looking around now, taking in the familiar surroundings. The child had been here before, and it held pleasant associations for her. She popped her thumb into her mouth, then laid her head on her mother's lap, curling up beside her.

Jarrod excused himself and went back to the kitchen to find Victoria. There, the fear and horror seizing him again, he told his mother what had happened. Victoria heard the anguish in her son's voice when he admitted to finally suspecting that it had been George who had killed Fluffy, and not the unknown miner. She saw the distress that clouded his eyes as Jarrod told her about racing to Catherine's and finding George about to stab her with a hunting knife. She watched as he fought to maintain his composure when he told her that upon seeing all the blood, and seeing Catherine sink to the floor, he had thought he was too late and that the young woman was dead. She heard the hostility in his voice when he spoke of hitting George Vail, and then of breaking his nose.

While the water continued to boil, Victoria stood appalled and alarmed as her son explained everything. She let him finish his tale uninterrupted. She poured hot water over the tea ball in the pot, listening as he told her about taking Catherine to Dr. Merar's, and then about dropping George off at his home, and the threats Jarrod had uttered there. Victoria had never seen such coldness in her son, as when he told her gravely about his promise to kill George Vail if he didn't leave Stockton. She felt her throat tighten, knowing that he meant those words. She couldn't help but remember how crazed Jarrod had been when he had gone after Beth's killer, Cass Hyatt.

Victoria was flabbergasted. Why on earth would George Vail want to harm either Catherine or Cadence? Especially in light of all that Jarrod had done for the Vails over the years. George Vail was a recipient of the Thomas Barkley Scholarship, largely due to Jarrod's personal intervention, and had been under Jarrod's personal tutelage in addition to the young man's studies at university. George had always seemed like such a nice young man. And he had seemed so beholden to, and in awe of, Jarrod. What could possibly have motivated such a desperate, violent act? It simply didn't make any sense. She kept her questions buried beneath a calm exterior though, sensing that that was what her beloved son needed from her just then.

"Of course, Jarrod, Catherine and Cadence can remain at the ranch as long as they like," Victoria assured him. Then, as Jarrod picked up the tea tray, she followed him back to the parlour.

Later in the guest room, Victoria helped the young woman undress for bed, easing the lilac gown over her shoulders. Jarrod had volunteered one of his nightshirts for Catherine to wear. Victoria saw to it that there were extra pillows, all fluffed up, and a pitcher of water on the nightstand, close at hand. Naturally, Catherine wanted her daughter to sleep in the room with her, in case Cadence woke with nightmares, or just wanted her mother near. When they were both settled, the little girl sleeping, her dark wavy hair framing her cherubic, golden features against the starched backdrop of the cream-coloured Irish linen bedding, Victoria readied to take her leave.

"I don't know what I can possibly say to express my horror at what the two of you experienced this evening," Victoria said sympathetically. "Or my gratitude that you weren't...injured more seriously. I know that the rest of us don't know you that well yet, though I do hope that while you are here, we can rectify that. I do know that you mean a great deal to my son." She put a hand on Catherine's right shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Anything that you need...anything that we can do for you...anything at all...please don't hesitate to ask."

Catherine's smile was tremulous, touched at the sincerity of the older woman's remarks. "Thank you," she replied. "You can't know how much that means to me." Victoria smiled graciously and as she left the room, turned down the lamp a bit so that it wouldn't bother Cadence.

Jarrod tapped on the open door, then traversed the room, coming to perch on the side of the bed next to Catherine. He took her right hand in both of his, rubbing it lightly. He couldn't imagine all that she was feeling, in light of everything that had occurred in the last few days. The attempted rape by the nameless miner, the death of Fluffy, and now the attack on their lives by George. How courageously she endured the adversities that had beset her recently. He didn't think he had ever met anyone braver.

"I'm glad that you're here now," he said, kissing her hand. He hesitated, the pain evident in his eyes. "I can't imagine how terrifying this was for you. To have to face death that way."

Catherine's face was softly illuminated by the lamplight. Jarrod watched her lips curl slightly at the outer edges. Her dark eyes, eyes that a man could lose himself in forever, fixed on his. Catherine knew that in the course of his life, especially during the war, Jarrod must have had to face death countless times himself. She had seen the scars on his body from old wounds. She tilted her head to one side, and spoke quietly.

"Though Earth and Moon were gone,
And sun and universe ceased to be,
And thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void,
Since though art Being and Breath,
And what thou art may never be destroyed."

Jarrod did not recognize the quote. How beautiful Catherine looked, lit in the lamp's golden glow. How indomitable her spirit, Jarrod realized. What an exceptional young woman she was and how his heart filled with adulation. "You are truly the most remarkable person I have ever met," he told her honestly. "Weren't you afraid?"

She smiled thinly. "Terrified. Though in those last moments, I wasn't afraid for myself. I knew that if this was my time, if I had to go, that I would still exist on some other plane.

"But I was afraid for Cady. She is so young, so innocent. She hasn't had a chance yet to truly sample the wonders of this world. It wouldn't be right for her to go on to the next yet. And I couldn't bear the thought of him causing her to suffer. Also, I was in agony thinking about what would happen to her if...if I had to go and she had to remain behind. All alone, with no one to care for her. No one to love her." Tears gathered in her eyes, glistening, unshed.

"You and Cadence will never be alone again. Neither of you. Not as long as I can draw breath," Jarrod said emphatically. "I love you, more than I even knew it was possible to love."

Catherine's breath caught in her throat, at the love and sincerity in his eyes. What exactly was Jarrod trying to say? What was he offering them? She gazed at him with buoyant anticipation.

He seemed about to say more. His mouth hung open for a moment as he hesitated. Then his eyes clouded over with indecision. Instead of speaking, he pursed his lips as he bent to kiss her forehead. "I will take care of you. Both of you," he told her quietly, without elaborating.

Catherine accepted his kiss, then turned her head upwards so that his lips could press against hers. How she loved this wonderful man. She would never be able to repay him for saving her, or more importantly, her precious child. Whatever part of himself he offered to her, that would be more than she could ever have dreamed of sharing. Whatever role he wished her to play in his life, she would be honoured to accede to. And she would learn to keep foolish notions and impossible dreams from invading her mind or her heart where they would only cause her sorrow or regret. She would cherish whatever time they had together and be thankful for it.

When Jarrod asked Catherine if there was anything that he could do to make sleep possible for her that night, she did ask him shyly if she could impose on him to read to her. Jarrod was more than pleased to comply with her simple request. Finding the slim volume of poetry amongst her things in the box, he pulled an over-sized wing chair up next to the bed, and began to read to her.

Catherine closed her eyes, listening to his expressive, sonorous voice bring to life the words on the printed page. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but finally her eyelids closed, and her breathing took on the even inhalations and exhalations that signaled that she had indeed drowsed off.

Jarrod closed the book, setting it down on the table. For a long while he sat quietly, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his fingers steepled, as he watched the woman and child sleep. Finally, he extinguished the light, but remained there in the dark, listening to the unbroken sounds of their breathing. He thought that perhaps he should retire to his own room, but he couldn't tolerate the thought of leaving Catherine and Cadence here alone. Even though he would be just across the hall, and down one door.

Now that he had them here, under his roof, Jarrod knew that he would never want them to leave again. He frowned in the dark, wondering how he could reconcile his dilemma. How could he keep them here, and still pursue his dream?

Chapter 43

Clayton Knowles waited patiently for Jim Bannon to arrive. He sat in his library, nursing his second glass of bourbon, and lit another cigarette. He had left Stockton that morning, less than twenty-four hours after uncovering his bonanza, deciding that there really was no point in remaining in that dreary town. He had learned more than he had ever hoped for. More than enough to bury Jarrod Barkley.

Knowles had been eager to get the dust of that singularly unappealing little community off of his boots, and to return to the civilization that was Sacramento. He couldn't understand how Barkley, well versed in the delights that both the capital and the free-wheeling burg of San Francisco had to offer, could possibly continue to migrate back to that pathetically provincial whistle stop. No wonder Barkley was so eager to assume the governorship and have a legitimate excuse not to have to keep returning to the old homestead.

It hadn't taken Knowles long to decide how best to use this new ammunition. He chuckled to himself now, just thinking about it again. Jarrod Barkley and his Indian whore. Catherine. Perhaps the most pathetic thing of all had been that, from what he had espied, this woman wasn't even the least bit attractive. If she had been extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps he might have rationalized Barkley's falling for her feminine wiles.

But this Catherine wasn't beautiful. She was markedly too tall, full-figured but without the waspish waist that men found so desireable. Her facial features were strong, as opposed to delicate, her skin a cross between a copper penny and the colour of weak coffee. Comparing her to Patricia Vandermeer was like comparing a sway-backed draft horse to a thoroughbred filly. How Barkley could go from Patricia's exquisite embrace, to that big, ugly savage's, was beyond reason.

"Mr. Knowles, sir, Mr. Bannon here to see you," his manservant Oscar announced. He nodded that the other man should be admitted.

Shortly, Bannon entered the room, bee-lining for the drinks table and pouring himself a generous splash of scotch. He grinned at Knowles, coming to sit on the chair opposite him. Setting his glass on the table, he leaned forward eagerly, his elbows on his knees. His eyes were bright with anticipation. He hadn't expected Clay back from Stockton so soon. That meant either that nothing had come of his tip about the telegraphs...or they had hit the jackpot. "Well?" he prompted, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

"You did well to intercept those wires." Knowles began with a compliment. Even though he paid his people generously, he found that most of the simpering fools seemed to be inordinately pleased, and to even work harder and pledge further loyalty, if from time to time he stroked their pathetic egos. It was true, Bannon had saved him some time, but eventually his investigators would had uncovered this tidbit about Barkley. Still, the man had shown rare initiative and that should be praised and encouraged.

"Did you find Catherine?" Bannon asked, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat.

"I did," Knowles admitted with a smirk.

"And?" the other man asked excitedly.

"Barkley is indeed cheating on Patricia Vandermeer, and is involved with another woman. A laundress," Knowles permitted Bannon this morsel and waited as the man guffawed loudly. "An Indian woman," Knowles said casually, studying his cuticles.

Bannon's jaw dropped open, and he frowned, mystified. "You mean...a squaw?" he asked, his brows knitted.

"Yes," Knowles repeated mildly, "a squaw. A heathen. A savage. A half-breed whore." He grinned openly then. "Jarrod Barkley, who had thought to run for Governor of California, is screwing an Indian."

Bannon slapped his hands against his knees. "Well, if this doesn't beat all!" He leaned back, howling with laughter, clutching his midriff while tears collected in his eyes. "Just...too...good..." he managed between convulsions of mirth. Finally, he got himself under control, using a silk handkerchief to dab at his eyes. "Okay, before you've turned in for the night, all of Sacramento will be buzzing with the news, I promise you," Bannon vowed, feeling the laughter well up again. Jarrod Barkley with an Indian woman?! Why hadn't the man just danced naked through the city's streets, screaming vulgarities and shooting and killing innocent women and children? It couldn't have done his reputation any more harm than this disclosure that he had an Indian mistress would do.

"No, you fool!" Knowles cried in exasperation, his blue eyes narrowing. "Think!" His voice was thick with vexation.

Bannon sat straight up in his chair as though he had been physically slapped. "You don't want me to see that word of this gets out?" he asked, bewildered. "Do you have photos or something, Clay? Is that it? Do you want it to come out in the papers so that we keep our hands clean?"

Knowles sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and inhaling deeply. He tried to remember that Bannon had his uses, even if the other man wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. "What would happen if news of this ungodly relationship were to leak out?" he demanded.

Bannon was baffled. "Well...uh...Vandermeer and the others would drop Barkley like a hot potato. Governor White would withdraw his support. Barkley's political career would be ruined."

"Umm hmmm." Knowles agreed, impatiently. "And then what?"

His eyes darting nervously, Bannon reached for his drink, taking a large swallow of the fine scotch. "And then...uh...you would get the Republican nomination."

Knowles shook his head in disappointment. "We are still approximately three weeks away from the convention. This news would devastate Barkley, no doubt about it. And yes, Vandermeer and the others would turn on him. But do you honestly think they would just step back and allow me to walk away with the nomination? There would still be three weeks. Three weeks for them to delete Barkley's name from the ballot. And then to bump up Burns, and give him a new running mate. Or perhaps, they would substitute that newspaper editor, Gil MacIntyre, for Barkley, convince White to endorse him, and leave Burns in the second spot. MacIntyre and Barkley are pretty much of the same persuasion politically, though MacIntyre has none of Barkley's charm, and only half the brains.

"And then where would we be? Where would I be? Still battling Vandermeer and his consortium, still without an endorsement from that ox White, and still with no guarantee of getting the nomination!" Knowles eyes blazed, his nostrils flaring. "We have to bide our time, Jim. Wait until the last possible minute before we disclose our little secret about Barkley and his paramour. I believe two or three days before the convention would be best to inflict maximum damage and prevent Vandermeer mounting a counter attack."

Bannon nodded, chagrined. This was why Knowles was where he was in life. His legendary propensity for discerning his opponents' weaknesses and his infallible sense of timing. "Of course," Jim Bannon agreed. "That's perfect."

"Now," Knowles continued reflectively. "When I was in Stockton, I must say I couldn't help notice that Barkley wasn't being particularly discreet. Chances are that this might get out before we want. Rumours may begin to circulate a little too early to do us any good. Oh, it would still oust Barkley, which would gladden me to no end, but it wouldn't solidify my position.

"So, I want you to notify me the second you hear the faintest of whisperings or speculations about Barkley and this woman."

"And then what, Clay?" Bannon asked.

"And then, if it's too early to work to our advantage, I want our people to work towards laying the rumours to rest. I want our people to regretfully repudiate any such claims as total hogwash." Knowles sipped his bourbon.

"Huh? You want us to convince people that Barkley isn't involved with the squaw?" Knowles had lost his assistant once again.

"Temporarily, yes. That is exactly what I want them to do. Everyone will expect that if there was any validity to the scuttlebutt, then surely our camp would be exploiting that. If we express calm regret that, alas, the rumours are untrue, then they should die down. Until such time that I seek to resurrect them again." He shot a self-satisfied smile at Jim Bannon.

"How will we quell such rumours if they do surface?" Bannon was almost afraid to ask the question, afraid of appearing stupid before the man he admired. But he also didn't want to venture any suggestions and have them shot down. His bruised ego couldn't take any more. Better just to demur to Clayton Knowles superior intellect and strategizing.

"Well, everyone knows what a liberal bleeding heart Barkley is. He's always taking on cases for the misbegotten dregs of society. We will put about that our investigations have shown the woman to be nothing more than a client. And then....when it is too late for both Barkley and his unfortunate backers...we will reveal that not only is Barkley involved with an Indian woman...that she is indeed his mistress...we will reveal that he shares a bastard child with her." Knowles winked, draining his glass with a flourish as Bannon looked at him in awe.

"Did Jarrod Barkley really father a child with a squaw?" Bannon asked, wrinkling his nose distastefully.

Knowles shrugged. "I saw a child, and he seemed pretty protective of it. It might well be. It doesn't really matter if it is his, only that we say it is." He stretched his legs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a party to attend. It's Hallowe'en night, you know. Not normally my thing, but I understand that the delicious Patricia Vandermeer will be in attendance." His thin smile was contemplative.

Chapter 44

Dr. Merar had stopped by the Barkley ranch on his way back from the Norris homestead later the next day. Tommy Norris's condition was still critical, but he had at least made it through the night. Howard's heart had gone out to young C.J., naturally distraught to have shot his older, beloved brother, and visibly consumed with guilt. As well, both Kent and Pauline Norris seemed to be ignoring nine-year-old C.J., perhaps blaming him for what had happened. Howard felt awful for all of them, praying that the older boy would pull through, wondering how, either way, his younger sibling would make it though this tragedy. Every one of the Norrises would be scarred by the bullet that had entered Tommy Norris's head, the doctor knew.

Howard had been to see George Vail last night, and found him to be much as Jarrod had described. Gladys Vail had been overwrought, crying and babbling. George had been conscious then, though in obvious pain. His nose was broken, and Howard had packed it. George had refused to speak or even to meet the doctor's eyes. It hadn't taken any great leap for Howard to deduce that George had been the one responsible for the attack on the Indian woman, and that Jarrod Barkley was responsible for the young man's current condition. After seeing the way Jarrod had looked at the young woman, Howard thought George Vail an extremely fortunate man to even still be alive.

Gladys had mumbled some story about George being robbed and beaten by two strange men. George had neither supported nor denied her version of events. The young man had lain there, seemingly drained of all will. Dr. Merar knew the Vail family fairly well. George had been born in Stockton, and Howard had attended his birth some twenty years earlier. He had been caring for Norman Vail since his fall. He never would have thought that George Vail would be the kind of person to attempt to take someone's life. George had seemed intent on emulating Jarrod Barkley, clearly idolizing the older man. Law. Order. Justice. That was Jarrod's creed. What had gone wrong that the young man had strayed so far from those teachings?

Dr. Merar had reset the badly broken arm and put a splint on it. He hadn't wanted to plaster it right away, because there had been a great deal of swelling and he wanted it to recede a bit overnight. Then Howard had gone home, collapsing exhaustedly into bed fully dressed, removing only his boots.

George had been brought by his mother to the surgery that morning where Howard had put a cast on the arm, from hand to just below the shoulder, then fashioned a sling. Once again, the young man had averted his gaze, and had not spoken a word. Not even to answer the doctor's questions about the severity of the pain, or about any other symptoms he might have. Gladys Vail, always a talkative woman, had done all the speaking on her son's behalf. Gladys had jabbered on nervously about George going back east to stay with her sister as soon as Dr. Merar thought he could travel.

Catherine had sat in her room, slipping the dress from her shoulder so that Dr. Merar could unwind the bandages and check on her wound. He was pleased that the skin around the gash didn't show the angry red of inflammation, and that there was no discharge oozing from the puckered skin around the stitches. The flesh there wasn't hot to his touch, and Catherine exhibited no signs of fever. He cleansed the exterior of the wound, and bound it again, instructing her to begin leaving it exposed to air for longer and longer periods between dressings, beginning that evening. Dr. Merar left extra bandages and advised Catherine to refrain from using them after three days.

He had her raise and lower her left arm, before having her hold it out straight in the air for several seconds. Though the action made the wound ache a bit, there was no biting pain. He asked her to clench and unclench her left fist, and to turn the arm one way and then the other. Satisfied at last there were would be no permanent damage, he announced that, barring any signs of infection, the young woman would not need to see him again until it was time to remove the stitches. She was not, however, to do any hard physical labour for at least a week.

Hesitantly, Catherine explained to Dr. Merar that she was unable to pay him the full amount for his services at that point in time, but that as soon as she was back to work, she would make arrangements to settle her bill, with interest.

Howard Merar smiled down at the young woman understandingly. He patted her hand. "Don't you worry about any of that. It's all been taken care of." He watched her blush. He didn't think she was accustomed to having people care for, or do for her. He hardly knew this young woman, but he sensed in her a pride and strength that he found admirable.

Jarrod's worries were greatly abated by the physician's optimistic prognosis. His concerns were further laid to rest by Catherine's good spirits and her renewed strength. He thanked Dr. Merar for coming by, and assured him that he would see to it that all of the physicians orders, especially the one about rest, were followed to the letter.

Catherine had slept late that morning, waking to find Jarrod entering the room, bearing a breakfast tray. She had sat up in bed, smiling sheepishly at oversleeping and at the grand treatment. Cady had stirred beside her, waking when her mother shifted in the bed, rising with a yawn, her eyes brightening to see the food that had been brought for them. Jarrod had had Silas fix scrambled eggs and biscuits with jelly. There was sliced tomato and two big glasses of orange juice. Jarrod had added the single red rose in the crystal bud vase, setting it now on the night stand.

He had ended up spending the night in the chair, next to the bed, eventually falling asleep himself. His dreams had been tortured though...repetitions of crossing the threshold of the shack, of seeing Catherine slump to the floor, of the blood that was everywhere, of the sight of the knife as it sliced through the air. Several times he had jolted awake, only to drift off and have to go through the same ordeal again. Every time he woke though, he was reassured by Catherine and Cadence's even breathing. They did not seem to be plagued with nocturnal phantoms, and for that he sent a silent prayer heavenward.

Jarrod had explained everything all over again at breakfast earlier with the family, as he had done the night before for his mother. The others had been just as shocked and puzzled as Victoria by this unbelievable turn of events. Each one professed to help watch over Catherine and Cadence and to make them welcome at the ranch.

Nick let Jarrod know that a search had begun to find the anonymous miner, and that as soon as they had narrowed down some suspects, he would advise his older brother. Jarrod had voiced his appreciation for the alacrity with which Nick had thrown himself into the task.

After rising, Catherine had wanted to give Cadence a bath. Jarrod had admonished her to take it easy, so Audra had cheerfully volunteered for the task. Catherine felt bad about imposing on the Barkleys and taking advantage of their generosity this way. She felt much stronger this morning than she had supposed she would. There was still a lump on her head, but she had no dizziness. And she was able to walk about on her own, without feeling she might collapse. She supposed that Dr. Merar had been right, in that she should take it easy and get well. That way, she could end this dependency on the beneficence of the Barkley family as soon as possible. It was just so hard to be cosseted, when she felt as though she could readily do for herself.

Jarrod spent the entire day with Catherine and Cadence. He brought Cady's checkers game down to the library, and played game after game with her. He let her win frequently, glancing over with amusement at Catherine, remembering her outburst after he had endeavoured to let her win their first game of chess. She had admonished him never to do that again, claiming while it might be acceptable behaviour to encourage a small child, it was not something he should do with an adult. Catherine had followed his thinking, winking to let him know that in this case, with her four-year-old, his consideration in letting Cady get the best of him was acceptable.

Jarrod insisted that Catherine sit in his favourite chair all afternoon, except for the visit with Dr. Merar. He pulled over an ottoman so that she could put her feet up. He lit a fire in the hearth to take an imagined chill out of the air, and to create a relaxed ambience. He covered her with a mohair throw, and hovered over her like a first-time mother tending her newborn babe. He brought her tea and cakes, a pillow to rest her arm on, and magazines that he asked Audra to gather for him. He made sure that there was also a glass of water or juice within her reach. Jarrod was constantly touching her, a caress on her cheek, smoothing her hair, squeezing or kissing her hand, as though in an effort to reassure himself that she was indeed there, and well, and not an apparition that his heart only wished to see.

While he was diligently nursing Catherine, Jarrod saw to it that Cadence too was well cared for. He brought her milk and sweets to enjoy in the library. He played games with her, and told her stories. He got down on the floor with her and tickled her, her laughter like the uplifting strains of the most well orchestrated music. He was relieved at how vibrant she seemed today, though he knew that often in cases like this, following such a shock, there could be mood swings and irrational behaviour. For now though, Cadence was coping with what might have been a true calamity, with youthful resilience.

For the most part, Victoria, Audra and Annabelle left the three alone. Since it was Hallowe'en, they had other things to occupy their thoughts and their time. They finished decorating the house, a task that they had begun a few days earlier, with symbols of the harvest as well as smiling Jack o' lanterns, candles, and symbols of witchcraft.

There was a party that evening at the nearby Wallace ranch. Nick and Heath finished up work early and came home to bathe and change into their costumes. Jarrod announced that he would stay home with Catherine and Cadence, and asked his mother to express his regrets to the Wallaces. Catherine had tried to tell him that he should go as well, and she and Cady would both just turn in early, but one stern and wounded glance from Jarrod had cut off her protestations.

Cadence was excited to see the Barkley's in their Hallowe'en costumes. Annabelle was dressed as a ballet dancer in a lovely, pink costume that showed she had had no trouble regaining her pre-pregnancy figure, and which complimented her chestnut hair, worn up in a little bun. Heath had chosen to tease his oldest brother, and had worn the poufy white wig, and black robes of an old time English barrister. Nick was outfitted as an admiral, with his black coat and vest with gold braid and trim, his tight, white pants and plumed hat. Audra was a fairy, with a turquoise and white gown, gold wings, a little tiara and a gold wand. Cadence was enraptured by how beautiful the young, blonde woman looked. Victoria was the last to join the family in the front parlour, resplendent in a genuine Japanese kimono, complete with obi and paper fan. The garnet coloured silk, woven with gold and black threads, was exceptionally flattering on her.

Cadence clapped her hands to see them all there, smiling gleefully at the costumed assemblage. Even baby Chase, tucked into his portable bassinette, had on a little jester's hat with bells, and a ruffle around his neck. Cadence and her mother had never celebrated Hallowe'en before and the girl was delighted to see the Barkleys all decked out.

Once the carriages had left, Jarrod announced to Cady that he had a little surprise for her. With Catherine following curiously, he led Cadence to the kitchen where several apples dangled from the ceiling on strings. Jarrod explained that Hallowe'en parties in the valley were celebrations for both children and adults. And that with the help of the three Barkley women, he had arranged for Cadence, Catherine and he to have their own little party.

Jarrod told them that parties usually focused on games, foods of the season and festive costumes. Social rules were set aside on this one night, and the parties were set in kitchens and bedrooms and other normally 'off-limits' areas of homes. Because Hallowe'en was considered the night when the veil between both time and the netherworld was thinnest, people believed spells would probably work the best that night.

The apples were for a special game. The three of them would each try to take a bite out of the suspended apple that would swing through the air whenever touched, and whoever was first able to do so, was the winner. Because the apples were hung so low, Catherine and Jarrod had to get down on their knees to play. Jarrod often forgot to try to bite at the apple, so delighted was he by Catherine's laughter and the lightness in her eyes. The three of them would snap at the red spheres, sending them banging into their opponents heads and faces, resulting in mock anger and threats, followed by further gales of laughter.

Once, Jarrod tried to clamp down on an apple, sending it ricocheting into the side of Catherine's head, colliding with her tender lump, and causing her to suck in her breath, tears springing to her eyes. At his stricken expression, Catherine blew Jarrod a comforting kiss, then got her revenge by being the first to successively capture and bite into an apple. With Jarrod's help, Cadence managed to taken a little chunk out of an apple, squealing triumphantly. As a prize afterwards, Jarrod gave her an apple with a silly face carved into it, and a handful of Hallowe'en postcards with spells and depictions of beautiful young witches and happily grinning pumpkins.

While they played, Jarrod regaled them with stories of how Audra and other young, unmarried maidens believed that Hallowe'en night was the perfect time to try out different spells or fortune-telling games, especially to attempt to divine the identity of one's future spouse. He said that over the years, he had personally witnessed Audra go to such lengths as throwing apple peelings over her shoulder, with the belief that when they fell they would form the initial of the man she would one day marry. She had also waited until midnight, walking backwards several steps, a candle in one hand, a mirror in the other, repeating some rhyme, entreating the mirror to show her the face of her future husband.

Jarrod had announced with a wink that if Audra had indeed gotten any portents from the mirror's silvered depths as to who that lucky man would be, she had never shared them with the rest of the family. However, he said with an awed whisper, his blue eyes holding Cady's, the initial that the apple peel had shown them one year ago, had most resembled the letter 'b'. And Audra was currently spending a great deal of time being escorted about Stockton by one Robert Olson. He watched Cadence struggle to sound out the name 'Robert', looking disappointed when she realized that it did not, after all, form the 'b' sound.

"He more commonly goes by 'Bobby'," Jarrod revealed to the child in a secretive whisper. After a moment, he was rewarded by a widening of her sapphire eyes, as her little bow mouth formed an oval. He chuckled.

After they had played the apple game, Jarrod had another game for them. They gathered at the kitchen counter, and he gave each of them a bag of beans, tied with a ribbon. Blue for Jarrod, white for Catherine, and pink for Cadence. He explained that this game was another used to augur one's fortune. The object was to count out the beans, one by one, repeating a little verse.

Jarrod's deep voice sang out, "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief." He repeated this several times, while pulling beans out of the sack. At last, he withdrew the last bean as he came to the word 'lawyer'. "Well, this says I'm going to be a lawyer!" Cady stared at him in awe. She wasn't quite sure what a 'lawyer' was, but she knew that Mr. Jarrod was indeed one.

She clamoured to have her turn next, eager to see what her own future would hold. Jarrod voiced a new verse as Cadence pulled beans out of her sack. "Rich girl, poor girl, beggar girl, crook, school girl, dressmaker, servant, cook." By the fourth or fifth repetition, Cadence had it down to memory, and recited the words as she sorted her beans.

Catherine watched apprehensively, her mouth tightening whenever Cady spoke the words 'poor girl' or 'beggar girl'. She was worried that she would end there, and it would spoil the little girl's joy. Jarrod caught her eye and winked reassuringly.

Finally, Cadence reached in for the last bean, holding the sack upside down and shaking it, and crying out triumphantly, "Rich girl!" Her blue eyes sparkled like two of the most beautiful, brightest gems Jarrod had ever seen.

When it was Catherine's turn, she was not surprised to discover that her future too held happy dreams of wealth. She had realized by then that Jarrod had already counted out the beans, ensuring that it would be only happy endings to the game, and pleasant thoughts to fall asleep with that night. Catherine was amazed at his carefully contrived thoughtfulness. He hadn't wanted there to be any disappointments or sadness, even though this was just a silly game.

They enjoyed a fruit juice punch, to which Jarrod added white wine in his and Catherine's glasses. There were snacks for them to nibble on as well between the merriment of the festivities. Cheeses. Dried fruit. Pastries. And amid it all was the easy laughter of the three people, and the palpable affection that they shared.

Later, after Catherine had tucked a sleeping Cady into bed, curled up with her doll and a fistful of her new postcards, Jarrod took Catherine's hand and drew her from the room. He guided her to his own room, lavishly and comfortably decorated. A fire burned in the hearth. When she opened her mouth to speak, he gently placed his finger over her lips, and then brought the finger to his lips, with a shhhh.

Jarrod motioned for Catherine to sit down on the thick woolen rug in front of the fireplace, over which he had placed a fluffy quilt. There was a silver bucket there, from which a bottle of wine protruded. Two crystal glasses rested side by side on the floor. Catherine did as she was bid, and then Jarrod joined her, kneeling across from her. From the pocket of his shirt, he withdrew a small, black velvet box. He handed it to Catherine, watching her reaction closely as she opened it.

Catherine gasped as she beheld the pendant that lay within, suspended from a fine, gold chain. The light from the fire danced across the ivory surface, causing multi-coloured beams to refract. She found that as she turned the box, first slightly in one direction, and then the other, the intensity of the hues would change, and new shades would appear in the stone's depths. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Catherine felt tears prick her eyes. "You've captured the Northern Lights and contained them forever," she whispered in awe. "Oh Jarrod, thank you."

Jarrod felt his throat tighten. He took the box from her hands, removing the necklace. He undid the clasp, and Catherine swivelled, lifting her long, black hair from the nape of her neck. Jarrod's fingers trembled as he set the piece around her neck, the pendant resting in the hollow of her throat, and then did the clasp again. She turned so that he could admire it against the soft brown of her skin.

"It looks perfect on you," he told her huskily. "I saw this pendant when I was in Sacramento, and I had to have it for you. You are like this opal, Catherine. Full of fire, and beauty and sparkling warmth. And every time I look at you, I see something new and marvellous and just as beautiful as what I found before. Each time I look at you, there is a new surprise, another facet to treasure. You are a rare and precious jewel, Catherine. I love you with all of my heart."

Catherine looked into Jarrod's earnest face. His eyes, so vividly blue. His hair, as black and smooth as a raven's wing. He had tried to make this day special for both she and her daughter. To make it fun and jovial, to help them forget their recent suffering...the pain that accompanied it. He had wanted to create a peaceful memory to superimpose over the other. And he had succeeded. "I love you as well," she replied fervently. "Thank you, Jarrod. For everything."

The tears did overflow then, and Jarrod crooked a finger, reaching to catch them as they spilled from the ebony orbs. "Being with you and Cady tonight, has been one of the best nights of my entire life," Jarrod expressed wholeheartedly. "Thank you. Not just for this evening, but for being you. For showing me what love truly is, and what it can be. For finding me when I was lost and adrift and for returning me to myself." He paused, bringing his finger to his lips, tasting the saltiness of Catherine's tears. "I live for those who love me, for those who know me true."

Catherine was in his arms then, one hand cupped to either side of his face, her lips hungry for his. Jarrod returned her kisses, feeling her mouth open beneath his, feeling her tongue explore his own, before slipping past his teeth, roving the cavern within. He sank back onto the floor, gently pulling her down on top of him, the pressure of her body against his maddeningly delightful.

Jarrod was worried about Catherine's arm, but she silenced his concerns with kisses. She undid the buttons on his shirt, her lips trailing over his skin, through the dark hairs that scattered there, softly nipping and licking the exposed areas. He moaned, his fingers curling in her hair. His hands ran across her shoulder blades and down her back, pressing along the length of her spine.

Catherine raised her head, sitting up and straddling him. Slowly, teasingly, she undid the buttons on her dress, brushing his fingers away when he tried to help. He did have to help lift the dress over her shoulders, gasping when her full breasts sprung free of the binding cloth, full and luscious, the dusky nipples already hard with desire.

Jarrod sat up, bringing his head towards her, burying it between the bronzed mounds. She sighed in anticipation, her hands pressing his head tight. His hands and lips sought sensitive areas, as he knew instinctively how to arouse her. She pulled at his belt buckle, loosening it, but could not undo his pants with one hand. He was more than happy to assist, wriggling out of his clothes, helping her out of the last of hers, until they were naked, Catherine still straddling him.

Jarrod had not intended to make love to her, heedful of Dr. Merar's orders that Catherine should take it easy. But he was too lost in the sensations of the moment, of the pleasure that her wandering touch elicited from his eager and responsive body, too aware of her own cresting desire, to want to stop. He did raise his head to look at her for a moment before he entered her, his eyes questioning. Her answer was the shifting of her body to accept his, and a corresponding groan that sent every nerve in his body alight.

Their lovemaking was exquisitely slow. Jarrod was afraid to hurt her. Catherine moved above him, her head thrown back, her back arched, moaning softly. Joined with him this way, she was no longer a being of thought, but a being of raw sensation and incredible need. She moved gently, while his hands on her hips guided her. Her head fell forward again, her long hair brushing his chest, as their lips merged.

Unable to hold back any longer, their frenzied bodies strained against one another, as first Catherine cried out, her body bucking, and then moments later, Jarrod, his hands gripping her hips, his body trembling with sweet release, as he called out her name.

They lay together on the blanket afterwards, the ends curled up around their naked bodies, Catherine's back against Jarrod's chest as they gazed into the dancing flames. The bottle of wine and the two unused glasses were forgotten. Catherine's right hand curled around the opal pendant at her throat. Jarrod's arm was around her waist, his hand curved over her abdomen. Their bodies satiated, their hearts overflowing, they fell asleep.

Chapter 45

The well-dressed scions of Sacramento's social elite whirled and sashayed light-heartedly around the dance floor. For this one evening the men were no longer bankers, lawyers, and merchants...their wives and escorts were no longer ladies of the manor. They were outlaws, warlocks and Greek gods...lovely witches, opera singers, and princesses. The music was up-tempo, the liquor was flowing, and the tables groaned with their excesses of meats, cheeses, and other comestibles. Candles burned within the caverns of carved gourds, flickering, making the eyes of the assorted Jack o' lanterns seem to dance in tune with the music. Voices were louder, laughter was shriller, and movements freer, as guests let go of their inhibitions and metamorphed into their alter egos.

Clayton Knowles stood off to one side, his sharp eyes surveying the festivities and the carousing forms. Parties were not his preferred entertainment. However, they were a necessary evil, and always an opportunity to make an impression on those that might feature prominently in one's business or political life. More deals were made over dinners at the beautiful mansions, than were ever made in the austere boardrooms. Besides, people always imbibed too much at such functions, the expensive and abundant alcohol loosening lips and often allowing unexpectedly fortuitous information to spill forth.

There would be no foolish costumes for Clayton Knowles though. He wore only a black tuxedo. He fiddled with his gold cufflinks as he scrutinized the crowd. His blue eyes travelled from one face to the next, until at last they came to rest on that one fair visage that he had been seeking.

Patricia Vandermeer danced with her father, gliding effortlessly across the polished wood floor. She wore a dress of silver silk that hugged every incredible curve of her perfect figure. From her slender shoulders trailed a blue velvet robe trimmed in snow leopard fur. As they passed near his vantage point, he saw that a silver and diamond tiara sparkled atop her dark, upswept hair. Additional diamonds glittered on her earlobes, and a diamond choker encircled her slender, ivory neck. She was gazing up at her father, laughing lightly at something that he had said. Knowles fancied that he sniffed a whiff of perfume as she went gliding by.

Never before had such a bewitching creature graced the earth, Knowles was sure. He longed to possess her. His eyes narrowed as he thought of Barkley touching this glorious maiden in secret, feminine places. His stomach churned to know how lightly Barkley took this incredible gift, accepting it as his due, confident enough to leave this enchantress here to wait for him, while he copulated with his heathen whore. Confident that the lovely Patricia Vandermeer would wait for him, would linger around, until such time that he thought to once again reclaim what he so haughtily believed belonged only to him.

Knowles unconsciously clenched his fists as he thought of Barkley, with his smooth orations, seducing this beautiful woman, without ever truly appreciating her. Oh, Knowles didn't doubt that eventually Barkley would deign to take her for his bride. His brow furrowed and his pulse raced.

Barkley was not here, however. Not tonight. Not right now. But Patricia was. And he was. There was seldom anything that Clayton Knowles could not have once he put his mind to it. He had not been too surprised when Patricia Vandermeer had turned him down that first time. He had thought she was merely playing hard to get. He knew that he was young and handsome, wealthy and powerful, and he normally had his pick and choose of women. He had thought that he might enjoy pursuing Patricia Vandermeer, might welcome the coquettish, virginal games that would precede his winning her. So he had asked her again, and then again, to allow him to call. And each time, she had demurred.

His patience had been reaching an end, he had been about to confront her and demand she stop toying with him, and admit her mutual desire for him, when he had learned that she was seeing his arch-rival, Counselor Barkley. Had, in fact, been doing so for a couple of months, and during the time that Knowles had attempted to court her. Knowles had broken a delicate Turkish table and an irreplaceable Ming vase in his library, when Jim Bannon had innocently remarked one day that Barkley and Patrick Vandermeer's oldest daughter were keeping company.

Once again, Barkley had usurped what should rightfully have been his. But there was no ring on the stunning Miss Vandermeer's finger so far, and Jarrod Barkley had condemned her to obscurity while he satiated himself with the half-breed woman, and concentrated on his campaign. Knowles was not yet ready to abandon his pursuit. This wasn't over yet.

Patricia thanked her father for the dance, accepting a kiss on her cheek, before drifting away from the dance floor and towards a group of her girlfriends. She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, sipping it while she watched the costumed figures swirl across the floor. She loved Hallowe'en, it was her favourite holiday next to Christmas. She enjoyed the various guises, the decorations, and the gala parties.

She had hoped though, that perhaps Jarrod would be in Sacramento this night, that she would see him here, that she could be once more in his arms, if only for a single dance, such as they had enjoyed at the Bostwick's dinner party. Her disappointment had not gone unnoticed by her father, or her sister Mary, who had both tried their best to encourage her to get into the spirit of the evening.

Patricia wondered where Jarrod was, what he was doing. If he was thinking of her at all, as she was thinking of him. She had told him she would wait for him, would wait until he was free of the velvet chains that still tied him to his lost Beth, and she had meant her words. There would be no other man for her, and her heart would be on hold until he returned to reclaim it.

"May I have the next dance," a suave voice inquired.

Patricia turned to look up into the countenance of Clayton Knowles. She pasted a superficial smile on her face. She had never really liked Clay Knowles. He had asked to be allowed to call at the house on numerous occasions over the past year, and she had always deflected his interest. She found him too slick, his aura too self-centred, too cunning. He was a handsome enough man, but he had never made her heart flutter the way it had that night she had first met Jarrod Barkley.

Even after she had begun to see Jarrod, Clay Knowles had continued to press her to be allowed to escort her. She wanted nothing to do with the man, especially once she began to fall in love with Jarrod. She didn't like his superior attitude, and she had intuited later on that Jarrod despised Knowles, so she in turn began to despise him. She had never mentioned to Jarrod that Clayton Knowles had ever pursued her, or that he continued to do so. It just wasn't important, seeing that she had no feelings for him whatsoever.

"Thank you, no, I think I need a little rest," she said thinly. "I've spent the day helping out at the orphanage. I've been on my feet since early morning, and I'm afraid that I'll just sit this one out." Before he could reply, she spun on her heels, and drink in hand, moved through the big double doors and out onto the balcony.

Knowles heard the tittering of Patricia's girlfriends at her abrupt dismissal of him, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He rolled his eyes and winked at them charmingly, as if to say 'ah, you ladies and your little games.' Then, clenching his jaw, he followed Patricia outside.

She stood at the edge of the balcony, her hands on the ledge, looking out onto the park and the lights of the city. The moon was large and white, though not quite full, hanging imposingly over the cityscape. They were alone out there. He stepped nearer to her, leaning his arms over the balcony. She did not turn to look at him or acknowledge his presence. Knowles waited, his irritation turning to anger.

"It's a beautiful evening," he remarked casually. "And you look lovely. The most beautiful woman here," he told her gallantly.

She moved away from him. Just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to set his teeth on edge. "Thank you," she replied coolly.

Knowles could feel the anger and frustration building. She wasn't just playing games, he sensed. She thought she was perhaps too good for him. Too pure. Saving herself for her lover Barkley. "This is the night when you young ladies play with ouija boards, and cast spells, trying to determine who your future love will be, isn't that right?" he tried, attempting to be playful, trying to draw her out.

She turned to him then, her chin jutting haughtily. "I don't need to play such juvenile games," she told him airily. "I already know what my future holds. There is only one man for me."

She looked so desireable there in the moonlight, with her tiny, exquisite figure clothed in the best fabric and fashions that money could buy. With her sweet, lilting voice like a chorus of angels. With her dark hair, and lovely emerald eyes. Her full, pink lips and her smooth, pale, alabaster skin. Knowles wanted to grab her to him then, take her in his arms in a crushing embrace and shower her with kisses that would leave her breathless and begging for more. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, and he had had some of the most desirable women in the country.

A vein in his temple began to twitch. How dare she stand there, looking at him so pityingly?! As though he were some simple stable boy who was not worthy of her. As though he were something that the great Jarrod Barkley might scrape off of the bottom of his boots!

She seemed to sense his thoughts, and she laughed then. Lightly. Insultingly. He lost all reason then. He clamped a hand down on one slender wrist. "And who might that one man be?" he hissed the question at her, watching her eyes widen. "Jarrod Barkley?" he spat the name.

Knowles got himself under control then. "I must say, I don't know how you do it, my dear," he told her, fighting to change his tone, allowing sympathy to flood his voice. He released her wrist. Patricia continued to stare at him, her fear shifting to puzzlement. "I know how very difficult this all must be for you."

Patricia knew that she should go back indoors, and get away from this horrible, beastly man. But there was something in his voice, something about the way he looked at her, that made her stay. She wanted to hear whatever it was he was up to.

"You are bearing up so well. So bravely. It's a shame really, a woman as young and beautiful as yourself, condemned to your lonely rooms, waiting for a man who is nowhere good enough for you. Who doesn't appreciate you. Who doesn't really even want you."

He was wrong, she thought. If Clayton Knowles was talking about Jarrod, he was wrong. Jarrod did appreciate her, she knew. He did want her. Somehow, Clayton Knowles knew that she and Jarrod weren't seeing one another right now, but it was her own choice to wait for him. She understood how heartbreakingly difficult Jarrod's position was, thanks to the honest concern of his sweet sister, Audra. Jarrod had to bury his past, before they could ever have a future together. Patricia understood and accepted that.

"And to have people talk about you this way behind your back." Knowles shuddered theatrically. "That's perhaps the worst isn't it? The whispers and the laughter. People mocking you."

"What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded irritably, her green eyes flashing.

"To be made a fool of like this...Barkley's callous disregard for your feelings, his holding you up to ridicule this way...." Knowles sighed. "It just isn't right. The man has no idea what a treasure he holds." He frowned then, pretending to see her confusion for the first time. "But surely you know. Surely you know what your Jarrod Barkley does, when he leaves your arms?" Knowles shook his head. "Oh my, that's even worse. I thought perhaps you simply had no pride, that you were content to play second fiddle while Barkley sowed his wild oats. Humbly waiting for whatever crumbs of affection he might throw you, whenever he decided to throw them."

Patricia felt herself grow cold inside. She didn't want to listen to anymore of this man's diatribes, but she couldn't help herself. Something told her that despite the fact that this man was undoubtedly a very good liar, that there was a truth reflected in his icy blue eyes. What was he trying to tell her?

"It's especially horrendous and humiliating considering who this other woman is, too. Do you not wonder where you wonderful Mr. Barkley is tonight? What has he told you? Working? Spending time with his family?" Knowles laughter was bitter. "He's not though. He's with another woman."

Patricia paled. "You lie! Jarrod wouldn't do that! He would never do that to me!" Her bottom lip trembled.

Knowles shrugged. "I happen to know that at this very moment he's probably wrapped in the arms of his mistress. Sad really, because she doesn't hold a candle to you. I personally can't fathom how he could ever kiss the lips of another, once he had tasted the sweet promise of yours. However, I've never been able to understand Jarrod Barkley, nor he me. We're on two totally different planets, I sometimes think."

He had Patricia's rapt attention, Knowles knew. He could see the pained uncertainty that tightened her aristocratic features. He was enjoying this. He continued. "Oh yes, everyone knows. Everyone is laughing about Patricia Vandermeer, waiting alone at home while her precious Jarrod Barkley, the man of her dreams, whores around with a common washerwoman." Patricia shook her head. It simply couldn't be true. "Oh yes, it's really quite amusing. Barkley, making you lock yourself in your castle awaiting the White Knight's return, while all the while he is dallying with his beloved Catherine."

Knowles heard the sharp intake of breath. Watched Patricia Vandermeer grab the balcony railing for support. He hadn't anticipated this. Patricia knew about Jarrod's 'Catherine'. Somehow, she knew the woman, or knew of the woman, but not that Barkley was involved with her, that he was cheating on her. This was even better than he had hoped.

"You...you're lying..." Patricia whispered hoarsely, as the world swirled around her. 'Catherine'. The Indian woman she had seen Jarrod with in his office. The one that he had claimed was only a friend. Jarrod couldn't possibly be involved with the woman! And yet...she recalled the guilty way they had broken apart when she had found them together in Jarrod's office.

"I think you know that I'm not," he said quietly. "Hard to believe, I know. Jarrod with his Indian mistress, and their bastard child, back in Stockton." Patricia gave a moan. "Oh, I'm sorry, you didn't know about the child? Well, obviously this is a long-term relationship, not some little fling he's having. Seems our esteemed counselor has been double-dipping." Knowles sighed, deeply. "There's nothing worse than being played the fool is there?" He reached out to pat her hand sympathetically.

Patricia was reeling. Jarrod. Her Jarrod. Telling her that their relationship was over. Making her think that she had done something wrong. That she wasn't good enough for him. And all the time that they had been seeing one another, he had been leading her on. All that time, inviting her to his home, pretending they had future...he had been lying to her. Kissing her with lips, touching her with hands, that had been on a savage. Deliberately practicing deceit.

And then, when he had finally shown her the door, he had gotten his sister to give her false hopes. To throw her off the trail. Knowing that she would be here still waiting for him, rather than getting on with her life. Using his own sister, for duplicitous ends. And Audra...such a wonderful actress! Jarrod's sister should really take to the stage! They had used Patricia's own sweet and understanding nature against her! She could imagine the two of them laughing about it later...Jarrod and his beautiful blonde sibling...chuckling over how easy it had been to put one over on Patricia Vandermeer! She felt the mortification wash over her.

Knowles stared down at the woman, looking suddenly so young and waif-like. It would appear she had had some real, and deep feelings for Barkley. She looked absolutely shattered by this revelation. "The best thing for you to do, is pretend that there is absolutely no credence to this horrible truth. Don't ever speak about it with anyone. Hold you head up high, go on with your life, stop allowing Barkley to make a mockery of your feelings for him, and soon everyone will forget about your shame. There will be new things for people to talk about." He took a chance, and laid a hand consolingly on Patricia's shoulder. How fine and bird-like her delicate bones felt through the blue velvet beneath his broad hand.

Knowles knew that he had taken a chance blurting this all out to Patricia. But he had been so incensed by their encounter, that he had forgotten his cardinal rule. Do not ever act out of emotion. Then, once he had begun, he hadn't been able to stop himself. He realized that Patricia might well go to her father now with this news. That that would be the end of his plan. Barkley would have lost his political chances, he would have lost Patricia Vandermeer, both of which would be a consolation, but Knowles would still have the problems he had outlined for Jim Bannon. However, wiping that superior smirk off of Patricia's face had been worth it.

And, he was banking that she would not tell her father. That the humiliation of being two-timed, of an Indian woman being the dreaded 'other woman', would probably be too much for her sensibilities to bear. Who could she possibly confide in or discuss this with? These aristocrats held their pride above them like a banner. Pride was of the utmost importance. Knowles did not think it likely that a single word of their conversation would ever pass her lips. It had been worth the gamble, to see her humbled this way now, and to know that Barkley had lost her forever. There would be no coming back to reclaim Patricia after his triumph in the election, the way Barkley was likely expecting.

For a moment, Patricia glanced down from the balcony, to the dark bushes and cobblestone patio below. For just an instant, her pain was so great that she considered just leaning forward into the night air. Just letting gravity carry her down and smash her body on the stones below. To end forever this pain...this knowledge that Jarrod wasn't ever coming back to her. She had lost him forever.

But she pushed such thoughts aside. She was a Vandermeer and Vandermeers were strong. They had their pride. Patricia wanted to leave the party. To go home. But she would not let Jarrod Barkley and his Indian whore win. She closed her mind and heart to the pain that assailed them. The light went out of her eyes. Later, when she could be alone, she would grieve for her lost dreams and the humiliation she had endured.

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I'm feeling rested now," she said, surprised at the evenness of her voice. She smiled up at Clayton Knowles. "May I impose on you now for that dance?" One day, she thought, Jarrod Barkley, his lying sister and his dirty squaw would pay for what they had done to her.

Knowles bowed slightly, taking Patricia permanently now from Jarrod Barkley, taking her arm in his as he led her back inside, back to the dance floor. Away from Jarrod Barkley's sphere of influence, and into his.

****************************

The men sat around the fire, making boasts, laughing and taking swigs of the cheap, rotgut whiskey straight from the bottle as they passed it around. Ben Jenner tilted his head back, letting the liquor burn down his gullet to his empty belly. This was the best time of the day. Sitting around with his friends after a hard day in the mines. Shooting the @#%$. Some of the men had gone into town to celebrate Hallowe'en, but Jenner and some of the others, those who wouldn't have another red cent to their name until payday, ten days away, remained at the mining camp.

"Hey, didja hear the foreman is lookin' for someone?" Stu Hall asked, accepting the bottle from Jenner. "I guess the Barkley's are gunnin' for somebody, and they figure he works in the mines." He took a long drink, the passed the bottle along.

"Yeah? What'd the guy do?" another voice asked curiously.

"Seems that one of the brothers, that lawyer fella, has got himself a squeeze in town. And from what I hear tell, some moron put the moves on her!" Stu chortled. "They're lookin' for a miner. Not tall, but burly. Big chested. Dark hair and eyes." Stu's bleary eyes narrowed as he peered at his comrades through the smoky haze. "Hey, Cranston...Jenner...that sounds like either of you two guys!" He slapped his thigh, howling with laughter.

"Yeah, well it weren't me," Cranston laughed. "I was puttin' the moves on a couple of gals at the saloon. Took on two of 'em at once! The one gal took one look at my crotch and decided she was gonna need reinforcements!" His big shoulders shook with mirth. "What about you, Ben?" he winked.

Jenner held his hands out in supplication. "Ain't no fancy lawyer's gal gonna look twice at a poor, workin' stiff like me," he said regretfully. "Though it's more her loss," he bragged, slapping Stu on the back. "And I had enough to handle while I was in town, anyhow!" he bragged.

"What makes 'em think some shaft crawler was dippin' his pen in the company ink anyways?" Cranston demanded scornfully. "You sure you got this right, Stu?"

Stu nodded. "Yep. Just before shift change, I hears Nick Barkley talkin' to the foreman, describing the man they's lookin' for. Seems there's some washerwoman in Stockton that the older Barkley's keepin' there for his own amusement. Seems some fella that works in one of the mines 'round here tried to take some liberties."

"That squaw washerwoman?!" Cranston asked incredulously. "I heard some talk 'bout her bein' Barkley's woman, but I didn't put no stock in it. Oh man, some miner had a go at 'er? Barkley's gonna geld him for sure!" He let out a long low whistle.

"Yeah, if it don't rot and fall off first," Stu mocked. "I didn't know it were an injun."

None of the men noticed how quiet Ben Jenner had gotten. And none of them noticed when later that night, while they worked on sleeping off their drunken stupours, Ben Jenner gathered up his meager belongings and headed away from the mine on foot. He had four days pay coming to him at that point, but he couldn't put enough space between himself and Stockton. At dawn the next morning, a buckboard going east picked Jenner up and allowed him to hitch a ride. No one in the San Joaquin valley ever saw Ben Jenner again.

Chapter 46

When Jarrod awoke the next morning, he found himself on the floor of his bedroom, in front of the fire, just where he had dozed off the night before. The only differences were that now the grey light of early dawn was shooting tendrils through a gap between the drapes, the fire had consumed itself, and Catherine was gone. He felt a sharp pang of loss, that her warm body was no longer snuggled into his embrace. He sighed contentedly, remembering the previous night and the love they had shared.

Jarrod rose and dressed, gathered up the wine bucket and the two unused glasses, then crept down the hall to Catherine's room. He opened the door and peeked in, smiling to himself to see her laying there on her side, Cadence curled next to her, the downy quilt pulled up to their chins. Carefully, he closed the door, then headed downstairs.

He found Heath and Silas in the kitchen, Heath leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, sipping coffee, while Silas fried up thick slabs of bacon and ham. Jarrod greeted the men, who returned his salutations, as he picked up a couple of the apples from the previous evening off of the counter. Jarrod was surprised at the warmth that enveloped him as he looked at the small bite that Cady had made, at the little semi-circle of toothy imprints.

"I'll see you gentlemen at breakfast in a bit," Jarrod winked, tossing the apples up in the air and catching them again in the opposite hands. He whistled softly as he marched out the kitchen door towards the stables.

"I haven't seen him this happy in a dog's age," Heath remarked quietly.

Silas nodded. "I was gettin' worried 'bout Mr. Jarrod, m'self. It's nice to see him turn his thoughts from inside, to outside, and to see a real smile on his face again."

Heath regarded the other man, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, Silas, that's exactly it. Well, Belle was feedin' Chase, she should be just 'bout done now. I'll go let her know breakfast is almost ready."

Jarrod leaned into the stall, patting the gelding's crooked white blaze, while the horse nuzzled the apple from his palm. "That's my boy," Jarrod murmured. "I hate to tell you this, Jingo, but we've got to go back into town today. I've got some arrangements to make. Then you have my word, I'll let you have a good romp in the pasture afterwards." The sorrel tossed his head. "I swear, sometimes I think you speak English," Jarrod chuckled.

After breakfast, when Nick and Heath had ridden out to the range, Annabelle had placed Chase into his baby carriage to wheel him around the grounds for some fresh air. Audra and Victoria decided to accompany them, and invited Cadence along for the walk. Catherine had held her breath, wondering if her daughter would feel secure enough to leave her, but her concerns were alleviated when Cady did not hesitate to join the little group.

"I have to go into Stockton for a bit," Jarrod explained to Catherine as they sat in the library, enjoying another cup of Silas's delicious coffee. "I've got a couple of things to take care of there. Not the least of which will likely be to check the sign outside my office and see who I am this morning," he chuckled. Catherine tilted her head curiously.

"Often on Hallowe'en night, people like to make mischief," he explained. "They'll do things like removing gates from their hinges, tipping over outhouses, soaping windows, and switching shop signs. In years past, I've found myself to be Dr. Merar, Miss Jennie Hall the dressmaker, the U.S. telegraph office, and even the undertaker." He winked at her. "Of course, it's never a matter of a simple switch. I might be Dr. Merar, but my shingle might be hanging outside Harry's saloon. It usually takes the better part of a morning to get things straightened up again." Catherine smiled.

"I'm glad that the others had a good time at the Wallace's party," Jarrod commented. "I know that I had the best Hallowe'en of my life." His eyes roved over Catherine suggestively, causing her to blush. Jarrod reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. "And I don't just mean that way," he hastened to add. "Though you are incredible. I also mean just spending time with you and Cadence that way. Like a family."

Catherine watched Jarrod's internal struggle, sensing that there was more he wanted to say. Then the moment passed. "We enjoyed it too," she said finally. "You were wonderful to us Jarrod."

"If I go into town for a bit, will you be all right here?" he asked. "I won't be too long, and I won't leave until Mother, Audra and Annabelle are back." He still held her hand, gently rubbing the calloused underside.

"Jarrod, I'm fine," Catherine insisted. "You don't need to babysit me, really. I'm sure you have many things to do and to take care of. I don't want you worrying about us, or letting that interfere with what you need to do. My arm feels just fine, and the swelling on my head is going down a bit more every hour, it seems. And I know that George would never dare to come here after us."

Jarrod looked away guiltily. They hadn't spoken of George or about his attempt to kill Catherine and Cadence the night before last, since they had discussed it in Dr. Merar's office. Jarrod had sensed that George had felt he was acting out of some warped belief that he was in some way protecting Jarrod. That George might have acted this way because of Jarrod, was a thought too terrible for the lawyer to contemplate. He had been relieved when Catherine had not seemed to question George's motives too deeply.

"No," Jarrod said coldly. "He wouldn't dare."

Despite Catherine's assurances, Jarrod waited until the ladies and Cadence had returned from their walk, before saddling up Jingo and heading into Stockton mid-morning. The smooth, rocking gait of the horse was lulling, serving to ease his tension about leaving Catherine's side, even for a little bit.

Jarrod's first stop was Dr. Merar's office. He hadn't had a chance to speak to Howard privately yesterday, and he wanted to know how things had gone at the Vail's. And to find out when the earliest that George could travel would be. The doctor was not there, however. Iva told him sadly that Tommy Norris had taken a turn for the worse overnight, and Howard was out there at the Norris'. Jarrod had been deeply saddened to learn what the Norris family was going through.

His next stop was his office. Indeed the windows were soaped, and this time he found a sign outside proclaiming that this was now the firehouse. He took down the sign, tucking it under his arm, and dropped it off at the station on his way to Catherine's.

She had asked him if he could please impose on Halley McNeil to keep the three bundles of wash that were awaiting pick-up, at her place, and to watch for their owners. All three were for good customers, one of them being the deputy, Cyrus McCade. Catherine had told Jarrod to tell Halley should could keep the monies paid for the laundry. Catherine was mostly worried about disappointing her customers and wanted to make sure they could get their articles whenever they needed them.

Jarrod felt a cold sweat break out on his brow as he opened the door to step into the shack. He dreaded seeing the concrete reminders of how close the two who had captured his heart, had come to their demise. He had to force himself to reach for the doorhandle and to push the door inward and step inside. He was astonished to see things had been set to order. The blood had been cleaned, leaving only faint, darker stains on the wood floor. He picked up the labelled bundles of cleaning from the floor by the door. How desolate the little shack felt without Catherine and Cadence's vibrant lifeforces to fill it. He let himself back out again, before going next door to the McNeils'.

Halley greeted him cordially, with a gape-toothed grin, a toddler hoisted on her hip. Jarrod explained Catherine's request. Halley nodded immediately that she would help. She was here all the time anyways, tending to the little ones, she explained, so it wasn't going to put her out any.

Jarrod knew that there was only one person who could have cleaned the little house. "You scrubbed and tidied up?" he prompted.

Halley nodded. "Didn't want her to come back to that. It's not right, cleaning up your own blood that's spilled at the cruel hands of another," her eyes grew distant.

"I can't believe how well you managed to get the stain out, Mrs. McNeil. I've never seen such a wonderful job," he told her, honestly impressed. Blood was perhaps the worst thing to have to clean.

She shrugged. "Special trick my mama taught me. Bicarbonate soda, vinegar, and a little family secret." She looked at the white man then, as she struggled to contain old hurts. "She was a slave, back 'n Georgia. Her and my daddy picked the cotton fields. We was luckier 'n most. We got to stay together as a family til I was fo'. I member sometimes my daddy would come in from the fields, with his back all cut up from a whippin' from the masta's overseer. My daddy had this bad habit he couldn' break, of heppin' other folks who was sick or tired and tryin' a rest in the fields." Her eyes blazed. "The bosses always repaid his kindness with cracks from they whips."

Her shoulders sagged. "My momma, she tried to protect him one time when the bossman came to our shack to give daddy a bit mo'. That man beat her so bad, right there 'n front ta me. My daddy was too beat hisself to hep her any, but he tried. He got a cracked skull fo' it."

She looked at the Barkley man, seeing the compassion in his eyes, the horror on his face. He was a good man, Halley thought. Not like some of those other white men. "Anyways, my momma had to clean up her own blood afta that man leff. Down on her hands an' knees, scrubbin', blood tricklin' from her mouth, jes 'bout as fast as she could clean it up off 'n the floor. She taught me how to take the stain a blood out, best ways a body can." She squared her shoulders proudly then, bouncing her child on her hip.

Jarrod's throat was tight. So much pain and suffering in the world, and yet how defiantly those who suffered fought on. That was true bravery. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For what happened to your family." He swallowed hard. "I justed wanted to tell you how grateful I am for all that you and your husband have done for Catherine. I know that she appreciates it. We both do."

Halley was touched by the genuine emotion on the man's face. "Won't ya come in fer a coffee, Mr. Barkley?" she offered at last. "I gots a raisin cake here too, if'n ya wouldn' mine takin' it to Catherine and little Cady fer me. But I made an extra one, so I can offer ya a slice a that."

Jarrod was eager to get back to the ranch, and to Catherine, but he realized what an honour it was for Halley to extend this invitation. "I'd be delighted, Mrs. McNeil," he said, removing his hat. "And please, call me Jarrod."

Afterwards, he went to the train station, to make arrangements. The Barkley's private railcar would be hitched up to the San Francisco express train two days from now, ready to head out just after noon. Then Jarrod stopped at the telegraph office, which this morning was a 'guns and ammunition' shop, to send his wires. One to San Francisco and one to Sacramento. He reread them, and satisfied paid for them to be sent.

He had one more place to visit before finally heading back home to the ranch. He strode into the mercantile, moving to the counter, a mental list ready. He ordered the items, then asked for a slip of paper and some ink. He wrote a brief note. 'With gratitude for all that you have done, and the selfless friendship you have displayed. Jarrod Barkley.' He then paid for two boxes of staples, and the assorted treats, to be delivered to the shanties back of the livery, to the little shack to the right of the one with the blue door.

At last, he placed the raisin cake into his saddlebag, and mounted Jingo for the ride back to the ranch. It was a glorious fall day, hardly a cloud in the pale blue sky, the temperatures above average for this time of year. Just past the crossroads outside of town, Jarrod urged the eager Jingo into a gallop, and they flew across the landscape, Jingo's hooves barely seeming to touch the earth as his long stride ate up the miles. There was something about riding the gelding that transported Jarrod to another world. Man and horse seemed to become a union of one, their thoughts communicating to one another with the subtlest of pressure from masculine knees or hands, and through the slightest toss of a mane, or ripple of equine muscle. Everything would be perfect, Jarrod thought to himself, if only Catherine were galloping alongside him.

************************************

Patricia had slept late that morning, finally rousing when Mary had come into her room and drawn the drapes, allowing the sun's golden rays to flood the room, stinging Patricia's sensitive eyes. She knew that she had had too much to drink last night, for the first time in her life, and the flash of light was a molten dagger in her head. "Oh, Mary, noooo," she mumbled, pulling the coverlet up over her head.

Mary stood beside the bed, hands on her hips. She and her father had left the party last night before Patricia did, after Patricia's assurances that friends would see her safely home. Their father hadn't seen who had dropped Patricia off, past two o'clock that morning, but Mary had. Standing at her bedroom window, she had seen her sister clenched in an embrace with the tall, blond man. Had recognized him when their bodies had drawn back and he had watched her sister's weaving progress up the wide stairs and into the house. Had watched Clayton Knowles climb back into his carriage, and pull away.

She had wanted to talk to Patricia last night, but her sister had been too tipsy from champagne. Instead, Mary had helped Patricia undress, and guided her into bed, laying a cool cloth on her forehead. She had noticed her older sister's swollen lips, and smeared lipstick. So, Patricia had decided not to wait for Jarrod Barkley after all. Mary didn't really know anything about Clayton Knowles. She had seen him around, and always thought him very handsome.

Oddly enough, she had always gotten the impression that Patricia didn't think very much of the man. Yet, it had indeed been Mr. Knowles who had escorted her sister home from the Hallowe'en party. And Patricia had seemed to like him well enough when he was holding her body against his, and raining kisses over her.

"It' almost lunch time," Mary announced, prodding her sister through the blankets. "Time to get up, lazy bones."

Patricia sighed. "All right, all right," she agreed petulantly. "My head hurts. Just leave me alone for a few minutes to dress and freshen up. I'll be down shortly."

"Very well," Mary agreed, closing the bedroom door behind her as she left.

Patricia sat up in bed, running her hands across her face. She felt awful. Her head was pounding, as though someone were inside her skull, hammering against it. Her stomach was queasy. Worst of all, was the pain that knifed through her heart when she recalled her conversation out on the balcony with Clay Knowles. Jarrod Barkley, the one man she had ever loved, did not love her in return. He wasn't simply playing around with another woman as men were want to do. He was in love with another woman. That horrible, ugly Indian woman. She wasn't sure how Clay Knowles had learned the truth...but Patricia did not doubt that truth it was.

Tears formed in her eyes, splashing down her wan cheeks. Perhaps, if Jarrod had been honest with her, and allowed her to get on with her life, she might even have forgiven him, though the pain would have been no less. She certainly would have fought for him, never giving him up without some sort of struggle. Making sure that he knew just how much he meant to her. But his sister's clever lies had caused Patricia to retreat to Sacramento in seclusion, meekly allowing this other woman to steal Jarrod away. Deliberately giving Patricia false hopes. She wouldn't have thought any of the Barkleys capable of such cruelty.

Patricia drew up her knees, and buried her head against them, sobbing hot tears of anguish. How on earth could she ever live without Jarrod? He was her heart and her soul. Never again would she touch his temple, and feel him lean into her cupped palm. Never again would his fine, deep voice address her with endearments. He was gone, taking with him her heart.

And what on earth had she done, encouraging Clay Knowles that way? Dancing every dance with him. Allowing him to pull her close inside the cab of his carriage while the driver took them back to the Vandermeer mansion, taking the long, circuitous route. She remembered the way his lips had sought hers, hungrily, seeking to claim her as his. She had been reeling from the champagne, her will easy to bend. Finally, she had closed her eyes, and imagined that it was Jarrod who held her in his arms.

At least Clayton Knowles had been honest with her. Which was more than Jarrod had done. If Clay called on her again, as he had promised he would, Patricia decided that she would see him again. What would Jarrod think when he learned that she was not sitting around like a fool waiting for him, but was instead out amusing herself with the man Jarrod hated? It would serve him right.

For now though, she could only focus on her sorrow and her loss, and great shudders shook her body as alone in her room, she said her good byes to the man of her dreams.

*************************************

"We're going on a little trip!" Jarrod announced, his blue eyes animated. He had Catherine were just outside of her room, where she had tucked in Cady for a little nap after lunch.

"Oh...of course," Catherine said, misunderstanding his meaning. "I'm fine, really. Cady and I can go back home any time now, there's no reason for us to stay here while you and your family are away."

Jarrod's laugh was gentle. He reached to touch her cheek, tilting his head to one side. "No, silly woman. You, Cadence and I are going on a mini-vacation. I've arranged for us to leave for San Francisco by train, the day after tomorrow. We'll stay at my brownstone there. The three of us will tour the city during the day, and go shopping and out to lunch. And then in the evening, we will have a nanny to care for Cadence while I show you the delights that unfold when the city is in darkness." His smile beamed.

"Oh Jarrod," Catherine said, feeling overwhelmed. "I don't know about this..."

He leaned towards her, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "I think it's just what you and Cady need," Jarrod whispered. "A change of scenery. To forget all of the ugliness that's happened recently. We'll only be gone for a few days, but when we return, George Vail will have left Stockton for good." He ran his hands lightly over her back. "Please, Catherine?" he implored. "You'll have fun, I'll see to it. And Cady will too. I want to show you the city...take you shopping...please?"

Catherine closed her eyes. What was Jarrod thinking, wanting to whisk she and Cadence off to San Francisco? And to parade them around in public? Didn't he think that anyone would see them? That anyone would recognize him in the city that was his second home? Perhaps he did, she thought at last. Perhaps he did, but he just didn't care. Her hopes soared.

Catherine had never been to San Francisco before, though it was the destination her father had been heading for, all those years ago. How she would like to gaze out on the ocean, just once in her life. How she would like Cadence to see such a sight. And how much it would mean to her to go there with Jarrod. And then, when they returned, that evil man George would be gone. He would no longer be a threat to she and Cadence. And Catherine would have a better sense of just what Jarrod intended for their place to be in his life.

"All right, Jarrod," she acquiesced softly. "We will go with you to San Francisco. Thank you for thinking of it, it's a sweet, thoughtful gesture."

"You won't be disappointed!" Jarrod promised, turning his head to brush her lips.

Catherine didn't imagine that Jarrod Barkley could ever disappoint her.

To be continued…