Chapters
55-64
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 55
Jarrod stirred, reaching sleepily across the bed for Catherine.
She wasn't there. As always, she had left him at some point during the night,
after their lovemaking. He understood that she wanted to be in her own bed if
Cadence should awake early and go looking for her. It always gave him such a
sense of loss though, that her body no longer warmed his mattress, and that her
head no longer pressed against his pillow. How wonderful it would be to know
that he could wake and find her rightfully there beside him.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching, scooping his nightshirt up off
the floor. He pulled it over his head, then got up and crossed to the chair
where his silk smoking jacket had been tossed the night before. There was
something else lying over top of it, and he picked it up, curiously.
It was a dark blue linen shirt. The early morning rays caught the detailing on
the arms. Jarrod took the garment to the bed, lighting the lamp so that he
could examine it better. Beaded bands encircled both sleeves. The glass beads,
painstakingly attached with silk thread, formed a subtle pattern of jade
greens, turquoise, red and white. He held the shirt in his lap, wonderingly.
When had Catherine found the time to do this? How many hours must she have
spent, her needle flying as her fingers wove the pattern across the fabric? She
must have brought it to his room sometime in the night, this unique gift from
her heart, that extended to him a piece of her heritage through her remarkable
talent.
Jarrod held the shirt against his chest, feeling his heart thud beneath it.
Catherine hadn't bought herself a single thing out of the money he had given
her, he knew. She had bought things for others. And despite his admonishment
not to get anything for him, she had done it anyways. And how glad he was now
that she hadn't listened to him. How priceless, this handsome garment with the
beaded armbands. Just when Jarrod thought that it wasn't possible to love
Catherine more, she would say or do something that expanded his heart's
capacity. Last night, it had been her wise words about Charles Crocker. This
morning, it was this incredible gift. There was not another woman like her on
earth, Jarrod believed, with such a mature, generous, selfless and decent soul.
He set the shirt on the bed, and went back for his silk robe, slipping his arms
through and tying it around his waist. He left his room and walked softly
across the hall to Catherine's. He opened the door, peering inside. Catherine
lay on the bed, curled on her side, her dark hair tumbled on the pale linen
sheets. Her dark lashes were smoky fringes sweeping her bronze skin. Her
burgundy lips were partially open, as she inhaled and exhaled rhythmically. She
looked so peaceful and contented.
On the nightstand beside her lay an assortment of coloured beads, and some
spools of silk thread. She must have worked through the night to decorate the
shirt for him, Jarrod realized, forfeiting much of her sleep. Well, he would
listen for Cady this morning, and when the child was up, he would bring her
downstairs and they would let Catherine rest as long as she needed to. Her
drapes were partly drawn, so he crept quietly into the room and closed them, so
that the impending light of dawn would not rouse her.
He watched her sleep for a moment longer, then retreated from the room, waiting
for the soft click to signal that her door was closed again. Then Jarrod went
downstairs to see if the Fongs were awake yet, and if there was any coffee
made. The image of Catherine's lovely face on the pillow stayed in his mind as
he crept noiselessly down the staircase.
* * * * * * * *
Audra rose early, dressing to go take Blossom outside for
the morning. Mike Chang had already picked up the male puppy several days ago.
The remaining female puppy was still in an empty stall in the stable, until
Audra had her properly housetrained. She carried the little Lhasa Apso down the
stairs, running into Heath passing through the foyer on his way to breakfast.
"Mornin' little sis," Heath said, smiling at her.
Audra noted the concern in his blue eyes. "Good morning, Heath," she
said brightly, returning his smile. "I'm just going to take Blossom out,
and then I'll join you for breakfast."
"That sounds mighty fine," Heath agreed. He was relieved to see that
his sister's mood seemed much better this morning. He felt guilty that they had
been dealing with so many other things, that Audra's heartache had been swept
aside.
Audra allowed Blossom to scamper around the front yard, watching in amusement
as the little dog chased the leaves that danced and pirouetted on the stir of
fall air. She couldn't image that George Vail, Jarrod's friend, had killed one
of Blossom's beautiful little puppies and terrorized Catherine and Cadence that
way before trying to kill them. It was all too horrible and vicious to
understand. You thought that you knew someone, and then they turned out not to
be the person you thought they were at all.
Just like Bobby Olson, Audra knew, fighting back fresh tears. She thought that
she had cried herself dry, but now thoughts of Bobby were causing them to well
up again. She knew that she had to pull herself together. She couldn't continue
to mope around and expend valuable energy on something that was in the past
now, not when her family would need her to help face whatever trials it would
be dealing with.
She had learned that two of the hands had quit, and that the breeding bull Nick
had been so keen on acquiring from Al Langford, had been sold to someone else
instead. She knew what had precipitated both of those actions. She knew that
some fence in the north pasture had been cut, and that Nick, Heath and the men
had had to spend the day yesterday dealing with all of the problems related to
that.
She knew that there were more important issues facing her family, things that
she should be concentrating on. Still, she couldn't help think of Bobby.
She had saddled up North Star and ridden out the day before yesterday shortly
after lunch. She hadn't planned on going past the Olson spread. Not originally.
Not consciously anyhow. Yet somehow, she had found that the trails she and Star
had traversed had taken them to the ridge above the Olson's. Since she had been
so close, Audra had figured that it was only neighbourly to stop by and say
hello to Mrs. Olson and Bobby's younger sister, Gertrude. And if Bobby happened
to be around...well...that would just be an added bonus.
As the grey mare had picked her way down through the rocky trails, Audra's
heart had pounded louder in her chest with each step that took her nearer to
the Olson home. At last, as she had reined the mare to a stop in front of the
lovely two-storey home, and had seen Bobby's dun gelding tied to the hitching
post. Her cheeks had coloured becomingly with eager anticipation.
"Hello!" she had called out gaily, climbing from the grey's back and
slipping Star's reins through the iron ring. She had patted Bobby's dun on the
neck. He was saddled, so Audra assumed that Bobby had either just come in from
somewhere, or was on his way out somewhere. Her timing had been fortuitous.
Perhaps, if he was heading out, she could ride along with him for a way.
The door to the house opened and Bobby came out onto the porch. Audra beamed to
see his handsome silhouette. He strode purposefully towards her, his long, lean
legs closing the gap between him. He carried his hat in his hands and the sun
bounced off of his curly golden locks, making a halo around his head.
As he drew closer, she saw that his mouth was pressed in a thin line, and his
grey eyes were guarded. Something was wrong, she knew at once. "Bobby,
what's the matter?" she asked without preface.
"Nothing, Audra," he told her, glancing at her briefly before looking
away again. He untied the gelding's reins, then swung effortlessly into the
saddle. He looked down at her from that height, his face unreadable. "I
hadn't expected you today," he told her curtly.
Audra was perplexed by his behaviour. Something must really be bothering him,
she knew. She hoped that none of the Olson's were ill. She wondered if
something had happened to the Olsons similar to what had happened to the
Barkleys yesterday. If someone had been causing mischief on their ranch.
"I know, I...I was just passing by and thought I'd say hello," Audra
stammered. Seeing that Bobby was about to turn the gelding and leave, she
quickly remounted Star. Bobby did indeed begin to move the big dun away from
the property, and Audra dug her heels into Star's side to keep pace with him.
"Are you angry with me for something?" Audra asked in confusion.
Bobby looked across the dun's flanks. His throat tightened at the sadness in
Audra's lovely sapphire eyes. "No. I've just got a lot to do, Audra,"
he said tightly.
"Are you too busy for me to ride along for a bit?" Audra pressed. She
wanted to understand what had happened to make Bobby act so coldly. He was always
so gentlemanly towards her, always treating her so well, and always seeming so
thrilled each time he saw her. He wasn't himself today.
"I guess I can't stop you," he told her.
Audra brought the mare directly alongside, and reached angrily for the gelding's
bridle. Grabbing hold, she tossed her platinum mane of hair, and manouevered
Star's body to block the dun's path. "You talk to me, Bobby Olson!"
she demanded, her blue eyes flashing.
The young man gazed at her across his horse's head. "Audra, I've got
nothing to say," he said sadly.
Audra began to feel the first stirrings of fear. "I thought we were closer
than that. I thought we could always talk to one another, if something was
wrong or something was bothering us. Whatever it is, Bobby, don't shut me out.
Please. If I've done something, I deserve to know what it was." She tried
to remain calm, though inwardly she was shaking. Something felt terribly wrong
here.
Bobby looked down at his mount, fingering the black mane. He couldn't look at
her. "Audra," he said at last, "I think maybe we need to slow
down a bit. Back off a little, and give each other some space."
Audra jutted her delicate chin, determined not to cry. "Does that mean
that we shouldn't expect you to dinner on Sunday?" she asked, already
knowing the answer, but needing to hear him confirm it.
"I don't think so, no Audra," he said quietly, stealing a glance at
her.
"And what about the Thanksgiving party at our ranch?" she pressed.
"Shall I assume you won't be attending that either?" Bobby nodded
miserably. "And that I won't be seeing you any time between? And shouldn't
make any plans for the near future?" The young man hung his head.
"If you're going to dump me, Robert Olson, at least have the courage to
come right out and say it!" Audra shrilled. Then she paled. "Is there
someone else?" She loved him, and had thought that he loved her as well.
Bobby looked at her then, his eyes wild, his face stricken. "No!" he
insisted. "It's just that...things are complicated right now. There are
other people involved, and it's making things difficult for us..." his
voice trailed off miserably.
Audra stared at him, hoping that she was wrong. "Other people? Are you
talking about Catherine?" His guilty look was all the answer she needed.
She had spoken to him about Catherine and Cadence many times, and had never
gotten any hint that Bobby had any negative feelings towards them. Obviously
though, something had changed. "I'd never have thought you to be a bigot,
Bobby Olson," she said, her pink lips trembling.
She had believed him to be the man she would spend the rest of her life with.
Aside from being so handsome, he embodied all of the qualities that she admired
in her brothers. Intelligence. Humour. Loyalty. Honour. Or so she had thought.
Tears pricked her eyes. "Don't worry," she cried flippantly, "I
will never darken your door again!" Then she had dug her heels into Star's
ribs and galloped off, without waiting for Bobby to say anything more. What
more, really, could he say?
It was sheer luck that she hadn't ridden Star through a chuck hole, as she had
taken off across the range, her tear-filled eyes unseeing. She couldn't believe
that things had ended that way, so abruptly. She couldn't imagine her life
without Bobby Olson's gentle charm, his good-natured teasing, or his persuasive
kisses that made her know in every corner of her being that she was a woman.
She would miss their talks, the way he always asked for her opinion and really
listened to what she had to say, giving credence to her thoughts and her ideas.
She would miss the look that used to shine in his grey eyes that said she was
special...that she was loved.
She had locked herself in her room and sobbed disconsolately. She had teetered
between anger towards Bobby and anger at Jarrod and Catherine. If it hadn't
been for her brother's relationship, none of this would have happened. Her
happiness wouldn't now be at the expense of his. And it wasn't even a forgone
conclusion that Jarrod wanted any real future with Catherine. Her suffering
might all be for nothing! Then Audra had felt guilty for even thinking such a
thing, or ever blaming Jarrod or Catherine at all.
It wasn't their fault that Bobby was an ignorant racist. Their relationship had
simply precipitated Audra's discovery of this grievous flaw in Bobby's
character. Eventually, Audra would have discovered that her Bobby was not as
perfect as she had believed him to be. Better for it to be now, than later,
once they were wed. She did not want to spend her life with someone who was so
hateful and narrow-minded.
Still, there had been so many good facets to his personality. And it was those
that she would miss. Gradually, her tears had slowed, as she had accepted the
truth, and dealt with her loss. She couldn't help still love him, or the man
she had thought him to be, at any rate. And she would miss him for a long, long
time. But she had finished her grieving, not sharing any of the sordid details
with her family. They had enough things to worry about. She was a mature woman
now, and she would deal with this on her own.
It was a valuable lesson though, however painful. That sometimes, you might
think you knew a person, and then discover that you never really truly knew
them at all.
* * * * * * * *
Patricia Vandermeer woke up feeling disoriented and out of
place. It took her a few seconds, as her green-eyed gaze took in the unfamiliar
surroundings, to remember that she was not at home, but ensconced in a hotel
suite. If her going to see Clayton Knowles yesterday hadn't been enough to
cause her father to banish her for all time and totally disown her, the fact
that she'd been out all night without his knowing her whereabouts, certainly
would be.
She had no idea what she was going to do or where she was going to go. She had
some money that had come to her from her mother's side of the family, that she
received as a small allowance. It was currently held in trust and administered
by a trustee...her father. At the trustee's discretion, she could be allowed to
take larger sums from time to time. Somehow, she didn't think that her father
would be inclined to be very accommodating with her finances. And it was still
another four months before she would turn twenty-five, and then be in control
of the money herself.
The allowance that she had, and her personal account at the bank, would not
keep her going for four months, she didn't think. Not at the prices that decent
Sacramento hotels were charging. She wasn't even entirely sure how much money
was in the account. Her father had always looked after such things, and she had
believed that after her marriage to Jarrod, he would take over those details.
Patricia sat up in bed and chewed her bottom lip, her eyes clouding over. What
on earth was she to do now?
Clayton had offered to get a house for her, and she had been touched by the
offer. She had been even more touched when he awakened her at eight o' clock
last evening, after she had further embarrassed herself by falling asleep on
his settee. His earnest concern for her reputation had come as a shock to her.
For the first time, she really felt that Clay Knowles did care for. That he
wasn't simply taking advantage of her to get back at Jarrod, or embarrass her
father and his cronies.
Clay had been sweet to her in his office when she had sat bawling in his arms,
but she hadn't been entirely convinced that his concern and compassion had been
genuine. It might still have been part of some elaborate ruse to lull her into
thinking he cared for her, just so that he could use her.
How easy it would have been though for Clay to have let her sleep last evening.
Undoubtedly, as emotionally drained as she had been, she would have slept
through the night. At least well past any decent hour. And then he would have
had his revenge, if indeed it had been revenge he had been after.
Her reputation would indeed have been ruined, and it would have been a huge
stain on the Vandermeer name. Even if nothing had actually happened between she
and Clay, it wouldn't have mattered. All that would have mattered was that she
had been in a compromising situation with a man.
Yet, Clay had wakened her. And he had accompanied her to the hotel of her
choice, though he had allowed her to go in and register alone, so that there
would be no risk of impropriety. He had bid her good night with a chaste kiss
on the cheek, and arranged to meet her in the hotel's dining room for lunch.
Clay had some business that he had to attend to in the morning, he'd told her
regretfully, but he would clear his afternoon and spend it with her. Patricia
knew that Clay was a very busy man, and his taking the time yesterday to not
only see her at his office, but to rearrange his schedule to be with her for
the remainder of the day, had been deeply touching. Her own father had thought
nothing of going off to work that morning, in spite of the words they had
exchanged. All of Clay's actions yesterday had pointed to a man who had genuine
feelings for her.
Of course, she didn't love Clayton Knowles. She barely knew him. And anyways,
the torch that burned for Jarrod Barkley, though it had been dimmed, still had
plenty of fuel. She couldn't imagine that she would ever stop loving Jarrod, or
that another man could ever take his place. But she was pulled towards Clayton,
for the security that he offered and for the deferential way he treated her
that buoyed her badly damaged pride and self-esteem.
The two men in her life who had been all-important, who had always cosseted
her, and cared for, and protected her...had let her down. Feeling bereft and
incidental to their lives, she knew that she was vulnerable. She had turned to
Clay. Clay who, instead of taking advantage of the situation, had proven to be
the only one who really did seem to care about her feelings.
Patricia couldn't think much further than today, though she knew she would have
some important decisions to make. For now though, there was still a man to turn
to, a man to yield herself to, who would watch out for her, and guide her. And
as incredible as it might seem, Clayton Knowles was that man.
* * * * * * * *
Patrick knew that Mary had not come down to breakfast to
punish him for whatever had happened to drive her sister from the house. They
had not spoken of the matter, and Patrick gathered that Patricia had not spoken
to her sister either before she had left home yesterday. Mary had not asked any
questions, but the reproach in her eyes last evening had been unmistakable.
He had learned that Patricia had not checked into any of the area hotels by six
o' clock. He had sent servants to the homes of some of her girlfriends,
swallowing his pride and risking incurring further gossip, to see if she was
with any of their families. That search had also yielded no sign of Patricia.
Patrick had thought of going to Clayton Knowles' house, but he hadn't really
believed that Patricia would be there. And if she had been, he didn't think
that he could have survived the humiliation.
More likely, Patricia was just staying away all day, and on into the night,
because she was ashamed of her behaviour and her temporary defection to the
enemy camp. Patrick had waited up for her, watching the clock in his study tick
off each agonizing minute, and then each hour after hour.
When midnight had come and gone with no sign of his daughter, Patrick had begun
to grow angered. He would give her a stern talking to when she got home, the
likes of which she could never have imagined. When two o' clock came and went,
Patrick grew enraged. If she walked through the door then he thought that he
might well throttle her!
When four o' clock came and went, he grew fearful. He would have given anything
to hear her voice as she announced her return. He would have held her close and
apologized until he was hoarse. And when six o' clock came and went, and with
it arrived the dawning of a new day, he had sat there at his desk in disbelief,
his face an unhealthy, grey mask.
He sat now at the breakfast table, staring vacantly at the food on his
untouched plate. Grey stubble shadowed his cheek and jowls. Dark circles
shadowed his eyes. He hadn't slept at all. Each second that had ticked on the
clock, had taken his daughter further and further away. He hadn't quite
believed it when morning had broken, and his daughter still had not come home.
He'd known in his heart that nothing had happened to her physically. She hadn't
been in a carriage accident or accosted by thieves or hooligans.
She'd spent the night with that man. His little girl was ruined.
Patrick Vandermeer's world crashed down around him. And it was all Jarrod
Barkley's doing.
Their last day in San Francisco was a whirlwind of activity,
as Jarrod escorted his two girls from one attraction to the next, eager for
them to see it all before they had to head back to Stockton. He wanted to
create for them a multitude of happy memories to superimpose over any of the
ugliness that might haunt them. He could have happily stayed in the city
forever, just the three of them cocooned in their own little world, but as
always, real life intervened.
Duty and responsibility had to be met. Perhaps Catherine and Cadence could
escape their past horrors. But he, Jarrod, could not escape the events that he
had already set in motion before falling in love with Catherine, nor deny the
promises he had made, or his commitments and obligations. They had to return to
Stockton, and then he would have to go Sacramento.
Catherine hadn't slept very late after all, coming downstairs to join and
Cadence just as they had finished their breakfast. She had apologized profusely
for lazing about her bed while Jarrod had tended to Cady. Jarrod had assured
her that it had been his pleasure. That he and his 'little Pumpkin' had been
just fine on their own, and that he had, in fact, quite enjoyed the time he and
Cady had had alone.
And Jarrod had enjoyed it. When he had heard Cadence stir, he had hurried
upstairs to prevent her from dashing into Catherine's room and waking her.
Cadence had been quite content to let her mother sleep while accompanying
Jarrod to the dining room to await the breakfast that Mrs. Fong was preparing
for them. Jarrod had held the child's hand as they descended the stairs,
marvelling at how small it was in his large grasp. How delicate the little
bones were beneath the honey-gold skin. How good it made him feel, so
paternally protective.
Cadence had climbed up on his lap and slipped her arms about his neck. She was
so vivacious, her smile so broad, her sweet sing-song voice so enthusiastic as
she had spoken to him about everything they had seen and done so far, and then
had tried to pry from him his plans for this day.
Her happiness and excitement warmed Jarrod. The feel of her slender little arms
about his neck, the weight of her balanced on his knee, the trust and affection
that she exuded, combined to make him feel euphoric. Jarrod thought that he
understood then, how his brother Heath must feel when he held his son Chase in
his arms.
They had played 'I Spy' while they ate their bacon, eggs and fried potatoes,
finding details within the dining room to focus on, and then trying to get one
another to guess what those details were. Jarrod was initially surprised at how
quickly Cadence was able to guess his first few attempts. Then he noticed that
as he looked around the room, her big, sapphire eyes were following his gaze,
seeing where it seemed to pause and concentrate, and then calculating what in
that area fit the colour description that he had spied and selected.
Jarrod was impressed by her logical reasoning, that Cady was bright enough to
figure out this strategy and then apply it so successively. 'She has her
mother's intelligence', Jarrod thought with inordinate pride.
When Catherine had joined them, he could see that she was a bit flustered. He
had risen from the table and taken her in his arms, laying his cheek against
hers, insisting that it was quite all right for her to relax a bit for one
morning. That she had not forsaken her sacrosanct vows of motherhood. That his
watching over Cadence had not been a chore, but a privilege and a pleasure.
Gradually, Jarrod felt the tension ease out of her.
He drew back from her a bit, so that he could look into her face, though he
still held her in his arms. "I thought that you would want to sleep later
than this," he told her. "I am sure that you were up for most of the
night, weren't you?" Catherine coloured slightly.
"Your gift, Catherine, is wonderful. I feel the love in each stitch. I
can't thank you enough, and don't have the words to tell you how much I
appreciate what you've done for me, decorating the shirt like that. You are a
talented artist. And a remarkable woman. And I'm glad that you're mine."
She was thrilled to know that he had enjoyed her surprise.
He had leaned in again, nuzzling her ear. "Are you mine, Catherine?"
he had whispered.
The warmth of Jarrod's breath against her skin, and the seductive, husky tone
of his voice combined to cause Catherine's arms to ripple with gooseflesh. Was
she his? It was as though she had been predestined before birth to be a
part of his life, and he a part of hers. Was she his? Every thought
that ran through her head, every drop of blood that coursed through her veins,
every dream she had ever dreamed was tied inexorably to this man who was Jarrod
Barkley. Was she his? "For time eternal," she whispered
back.
They spent the first part of the morning tracing a route over San Francisco's
legendary steep slopes in the cable cars. Cadence had loved riding the
trolleys. Afterwards, Jarrod had hired a carriage and taken them on a tour of
the city. At Catherine's insistence, they had gone by the modest building
downtown that housed Jarrod's San Francisco law office, though they had not
stopped to go in. Jarrod assured them that there was nothing much to see there,
and that there were still many other wonders he wanted them to enjoy before
they left the city.
Since Jarrod was a voracious reader, with a variety of interests and a head for
facts and figures, he made a wonderful tour guide. Not far from his law office
were the offices of the Overland Monthly. Established in 1868, it was one of
the United States' leading literary journals, Jarrod explained to Catherine.
It's format was based on that of the Atlantic Monthly. They printed and
distributed over 10,000 copies a month. Jarrod said that he felt it was a
well-done periodical and thought that they should pick up a copy before heading
back to Stockton, because Catherine would likely find it interesting reading.
Cadence had been bored by the views of the drab, unexciting buildings, though
she had sat quietly, her behaviour exemplary. Jarrod had the driver take them
to Brenham Place next, overlooking Portsmouth Plaza, to point out the Fire
Alarm Office, situated on the third floor of the building. Cady was not very
interested in the place itself, but she did lean forward raptly, as Jarrod told
them about San Francisco's fire fighting system.
"There is someone manning the office twenty-four hours a day," Jarrod
told them. "While the office itself does give a fairly comprehensive view
of the entire lower and business portions of the city, it's really the fire
alarm telegraph system that alerts them to dangers."
Cadence and Catherine were both fascinated to learn that the city was connected
to this office through a series of alarm boxes, either automatically, whereby
only a hook needed to be pulled down and an alarm would be sent through, or by
crank system, where the crank had to be turned in a certain manner to send the
alarm.
Each alarm box throughout the city was represented by a different system of
dashes and dots, each with it's own unique signature. Officers could determine
from the length of the first incoming dash, where exactly in the city the alarm
was coming from. While the automatic system worked quickly, the crank system
sometimes required several attempts before the excitable user could turn the
crank correctly and get through an intelligible warning.
The trio paused for lunch at a small, German cafe where they enjoyed sausages
and noodles and sauerkraut. Jarrod had a big stein of beer. Catherine had never
tried beer before, and she sipped Jarrod's, finding the dark ale slightly
bitter but enjoyable. She declined his offer to order one for herself though,
and she and Cadence downed tall glasses of milk with their meals.
Afterwards, they passed by the California Academy of Sciences and History on
Clay Street, founded some twenty years earlier with a mission of surveying and
studying the vast resources of California. The group was the first of it's kind
in the west. A core of naturalists met weekly to collect field specimens, and
to scientifically identify, classify and name them.
Through this forum, scientific papers were presented on topics of interest to a
growing membership of San Francisco citizenry. Catherine was heartened to know
that there were people who were interested in protecting and preserving the
land, as opposed to simply taking from it.
Next on the tour was the grounds of the University of California at San
Francisco, which had been part of the larger academic institution since 1873.
Concerned with health sciences, the campus featured a Department of Medicine,
and another of pharmacology. There was even talk of expanding to include a
Department of Dentistry. Jarrod informed them that in 1874 the University had
allowed young women to apply for the Medical Department. In 1876, Lucy Wanzer
had become the first female graduate of Medicine at the University.
"That must have taken a lot of courage and dedication," Catherine had
mused. "I would imagine that there were some men who didn't take too
kindly to a woman invading their chosen field. I would wager she had to work
twice as hard to be taken half as seriously. And then probably faced some
prejudices trying to set up a practice. What a brave and committed person she
must be."
Jarrod had reached for Catherine's hand. "You understand courage, my love,
because you exemplify it yourself." His words of praise had made her
blush.
They had trotted down the streets of Lafayette and Union Squares, enjoying the
sights and sounds of the shops and the latest, ornate architecture of the time.
Jarrod had been emphatic about forgoing a jaunt to the rough Barbary Coast,
despite Catherine's curiosity, claiming that it was no place for gentlewomen,
even by the light of day.
They had ended their tour in Union Square, getting out of the carriage and
stretching their legs. Jarrod took them through the expensive shops there,
trying to entice them with beautiful goods, but both Catherine and Cadence were
content just to window shop.
When they passed by a jewellers, Jarrod held his breath, watching Catherine
intently, but she paid the dazzling diamond engagement rings showcased there no
more than a passing interest. His eyes darkened. He had hoped that perhaps she
would pause there to reflect and consider them, might look at them with longing,
might give him some indication that she might be thinking of their relationship
with more permanency. But she hadn't, and so he had merely sighed and continued
their walk.
Jarrod offered Catherine the option of returning Cadence to the house on Russian
Hill, and allowing Miss Price to tend to her evening meal while he and
Catherine went to dinner alone, or of taking Cadence with them now for an early
dinner, to a restaurant of her choice. Catherine had decided to let Cady remain
with them, though part of her longed to spend this last evening alone with
Jarrod.
They had been surprised when Cadence had insisted forgoing the elegance and
splendour of this part of the city, for a return to Chinatown. She had
apparently been captivated by the sights and sounds of the different world
within it's confines. They had taken a final cable car ride back up the Twin
Peaks and Jarrod had escorted them to the same place they had enjoyed lunch
previously.
Afterwards, they had walked back to Jarrod's brownstone, holding hands, Cady in
the middle between Jarrod and her mother. They strolled placidly, full of their
delicious meal, and content just to be together, making little conversation,
while the sun began to draw a coral brush across the canvas of the sky. Once home,
Jarrod told Catherine that he had one final place to take her, on their last
night in San Francisco, if she would allow him the honour.
She was happy to comply, and at his urging, changed into her silk gown, while
Jarrod once more donned his black tuxedo. He cautioned her that he hadn't made
reservations, and that there was a good chance they might not be able to get in
on short notice, but that he would try to arrange for them to have dessert at
someplace special.
If that proved out of the question, she was not to worry, because that was not
the real point of their destination. But they would dress anyways, just in
case. Catherine had been intrigued by Jarrod's refusal to say more, or to give
her any hint of where they were going.
They had taken a carriage part of the way, to the foot of an impressive cliff,
then had joined other similarly fashionable and elegant couples for a trolley
ride to the top. To their left were the jagged cliffs, the sandy beach, and
then beyond it the silver-blue waters, on whose surface now danced the gold and
vermillion of the steadily descending fiery orb of the sun.
"This is Cliff House," Jarrod said softly, as the car clattered to a
stop. "It's a very popular restaurant with some of San Francisco's most
affluent denizens. The Hearsts, the Stanfords, the Crockers. Of course, we
really have no business being here, commoners that we are," he winked at
her. Catherine loved it when he was so light-hearted.
Cliff House was situated on the cliffs overlooking the Seal Rocks, at the
northwest corner of the city. It had been erected right on a rocky outcropping,
and directly beyond it's walls, plunged the coastline, straight into the sea.
It had been built in 1863, and enlarged in 1868. It was a popular spot for the
city's elite, who often drove their carriages out to the spot for horse racing
along the beach and other pursuits.
From above, Jarrod and Catherine could look out on the entrance of the San
Francisco Bay, and observe any large steamers that moved in or out of the Golden
Gate. The only way across the expanse was by ferry. The view was spectacular, a
crowning denouement to their expedition to the city. Gulls screeched and
whirled through the air, as Catherine breathed deeply of the salty air and
listened to the waves crash in unceasing undulation against the rocks below.
"I wish that my parents had made it here," Catherine said, a trace of
melancholy deepening her voice. "They would have loved to have seen the
ocean. And I do believe the air here would have been good for my mother's
lungs."
Jarrod, who stood beside her, slipped an arm around her shoulders. "You
must miss them terribly," he said softly.
Catherine nodded. "I do. They were wonderful people and I loved them very
much. I wish they could have had the happiness and long life that they
deserved. And I wish they could have known Cadence. But God has His plans for
us all, and we are not privy to them." She smiled at him. "Let's take
a walk along the beach," she urged, before she became maudlin. No feelings
of sorrow or loss were to blanket this last night here in her fantasy land with
her prince.
They had walked down the length of the beach and back again, along the shore
where the sand was damp and sturdy. Catherine got too close to the water, and
an incoming flow of the tide swirled the salty water around her boots. She
picked up her skirts, gave a little cry, and skipped quickly away from the
amorphous, watery fingers that plucked at her. Jarrod laughed aloud, his
spirits unfettered.
It was dark when they made their way back to the Cliff House. Jarrod had taken
Catherine's arm and led her inside the restaurant, stopping at the front door.
"They are probably booked solid," he warned her. "It's very
popular, and very exclusive, and I didn't have time to make a reservation. But
we'll take our chances, shall we?" Smiling, she had agreed.
Jarrod had asked the doorman if it was at all possible to find a quiet corner
for two to partake of some of the sumptuous desserts that the Cliff House had
to offer, even if they did not have a reservation. The man had looked at them
impassively and said that that was out of the question. Jarrod had expressed
his thanks anyways, and they turned to leave.
"Mr. Barkley!" a voice behind them hailed. "Wait, please!"
They turned to see a short, corpulent, bald man in a tuxedo hurrying towards
them. His cheeks were red from the slight exertion. "I'm sorry, I hadn't
known you were coming," the man apologized, straightening the jacket of
his tuxedo. "I'm Paul Hodgeson, the maitre d' here. We weren't aware of
your name on the guest list for this evening. I'm terribly sorry for the
oversight, there must have been some mix-up in the bookings."
Jarrod smiled graciously. "No apology necessary. The error is mine. My
trip to San Francisco was on short notice, and I didn't have time to wire ahead
and request a reservation. I can fully understand that such a fine
establishment would already be at capacity. The young lady and I had an early
dinner and had hoped to enjoy a dessert and coffee, but perhaps next
time."
Paul Hodgeson's dark eyes shot daggers at the doorman. "We do have a
table, Mr. Barkley, which just came available. Allow me please to escort you
there, if you would. And please, your evening's orders are on the hospitality
of the house."
Jarrod hid his surprise. "Well, thank you very much indeed," he
accepted.
Paul Hodgeson seated Jarrod and Catherine at a table near the window with what
would have been a commanding view by day. As it was, they could still see the
lights beyond the Bay, and one or two ships lit up on the water. He excused
himself and marched back to the doorman, fighting to keep his anger in check.
"You fool!" he hissed at the man. "Do you have any idea who that
man is?" His thick neck and heavy jowls were purple.
The doorman blinked. "No, Sir," he said fearfully. "He didn't
give his name, Sir, and he didn't have a reservation."
"That's Jarrod Barkley! The man who will probably be the next Governor of
California!" he snapped.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't know," the doorman said forlornly. He
wondered if his job was on the line.
"It might help if you'd open a newspaper one in a while!" Hodgeson
berated.
"Do you want me to go apologize, Sir?" the other man asked miserably.
"It's a little late for that now!" Hodgeson turned and stormed away,
his tuxedo straining at the seams, his short arms pumping.
The doorman watched him go. 'You're the fool,' he thought to himself. 'That
might well be Jarrod Barkley, but I'd bet money that the dark-skinned woman
with him is an Indian! We'll just see how your other fancy patrons feel about
THAT! Future Governor or not!' At least, if there were repercussions from
this, it wouldn't be on his head.
Dessert was an epicurean repast, and Catherine's taste buds sang with the
combination of flavours and textures offered by the Nesselrode pudding that
Jarrod suggested. It was a heavenly concoction of chestnuts, candied fruits,
almonds, pineapple and sherry, mixed together with a sugar, cream and egg base
and then molded in a tin. It was served with mounds of fresh whipped cream. It
was delicious, unlike anything she had ever tasted before, and was incredibly
rich.
Jarrod ordered a selection of pastries and bonbons, and he and Catherine
happily shared desserts and their opinions on the various sweets. They warmed
themselves with Irish coffees, tranquil conversation, and the mutual attraction
that burned in the depths of their eyes.
Afterwards, they took a stroll outside. The night air was chill, the tangy
ocean breeze carrying with it a dampness. Catherine was grateful for the
cashmere cape. They stopped on a rocky point, the Bay somewhere on their right
and above them, and the Pacific on the other. Jarrod stood behind Catherine,
his arms about her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder, as together they
looked out at the darkness.
They could not discern where the night sky ended and where the waters began.
There was no horizon, only the inky velvet, dotted further heavenward by the
constellations. They stood together, silently, listening to the waves breaking
on the rocks somewhere below.
Jarrod began to speak, his deep, mellifluous voice soft against Catherine's
ear. "They say that for everyone, there's a certain special someone out
there, somewhere. I spent years looking for that someone, looking hard,
searching every heart that I met along the way. But I was getting nowhere. That
one woman who would know me true, that soulmate, was not to be found. I never
knew that all this time, I was making my way inexorably to you."
Catherine's heart felt as though it had stopped in her chest. She ceased to
breathe, or to be aware of anything but the sound of Jarrod's voice and the
words he was sharing with her now.
"All of those miles of loneliness, they now seem to make perfect sense, as
I stand here with you in my arms. All those long, dark nights alone, it was
worth them all, just to find you, Catherine. Yours are the last arms I'll ever
turn to, the last lips I'll ever kiss." Jarrod paused and Catherine heard
him swallow.
"Yes, I believe that I know how the river feels, once it has completed
it's journey to the sea. It finally finds the place it was always meant to be.
It is home at last, knowing the long, difficult journey is through. Standing
here with you, I think I know how the river feels. I love you, Catherine, with
my whole heart."
Catherine waited, the moment frozen in time. She felt for a few exalting
seconds that perhaps Jarrod was finally going to whisper those words that she
had never thought him to say. She knew he loved her. She knew he loved Cadence.
He had just told her that there would be no others for him. She waited,
spellbound, for the question that did not come.
Realizing that Jarrod was not going to ask her to share his future as his wife,
Catherine fought back her disappointment. She had known all along that she
could never be Mrs. Jarrod Barkley. It just wasn't possible. It would destroy
Jarrod's fledgling political career, and perhaps his flourishing law practice
as well.
But he was telling her that he loved her above all others. Even if they could
not have a life together such as she might have dreamed, Catherine knew that
just being able to share any part of Jarrod's life, even as his eternal
mistress, was more joy than she could ever have imagined before.
She pivoted in his arms. "I love you too, Jarrod," she murmured. Then
she lost herself in the thrill of his kiss.
"Is anyone home?" Jarrod called merrily, ushering
Catherine and Cadence through the front door of the Barkley mansion. He hadn't
wired ahead that they would be returning from San Francisco this evening,
wanting it to be a surprise. As such, no one had been there to meet them, and
he had had to hire a buggy to bring them in from Stockton.
It had needed to be a buggy with carrying space. In addition to the cases they
had left with, and an extra one from the house that contained the gifts for the
Barkleys and the McNeils, Jarrod had filled an enormous Saratoga trunk with the
new clothes for Catherine and Cadence. Unbeknownst to the two of them, there
were additional garments in there as well, delivered to the San Francisco
brownstone courtesy of Chiu Yi. Two more riding outfits for Catherine, and
another for Cadence, as well as some simpler dresses and jackets for them to
wear everyday, awaited discovery. And of course, packed in there as well were
shoes and all of the fripperies that women usually felt they needed to make
themselves presentable.
"Jarrod!" Mother came down the main staircase to greet them, looking
lovely and stylish as ever in a high collared dress of midnight blue.
"Catherine! Cadence! How good to see everyone again." She smiled a
welcome. "How was your trip?" Victoria thought that they all looked
wonderful. So relaxed and happy. She was glad for her decision to leave their
sojourn uninterrupted.
Jarrod bent to kiss her powdered cheek. "Wonderful!" he enthused.
"I never knew San Francisco could be so much fun."
Victoria did not miss the way her son looked at Catherine, nor the dreamy gaze
she gave him in return. "I'm so glad," she said. "Dinner will be
in half an hour, just time for you all to freshen up."
"Perhaps Silas can give me a hand with the bags," Jarrod suggested.
"I've got a trunk as well. I'd ask for Nick or Heath, but since this is
Saturday, I'd imagine they've gone into town to kick up their heels." He
grinned rakishly.
"Actually, no they're both here," Victoria said.
An underlying tension in the quiet calm of her words alerted Jarrod that
something was amiss. "Well then, where are they? Hiding, I suppose,
knowing there's work to be done," he teased with an exaggerated sigh.
"Since Silas is probably busy preparing dinner, I'll have Ciego give me a
hand with the things then." Jarrod directed Catherine and Cadence to go
ahead upstairs, and to change and freshen up after their train ride. Once they
were out of earshot, Jarrod turned to Victoria. "All right, Mother,"
he wanted to know. "What's up?"
"Nothing that can't wait, Jarrod," she told him lightly, patting his
arm. "We'll talk later, after dinner."
He knew that it was pointless to try to get anything more out of her now.
Jarrod figured that whatever it was couldn't be that urgent. And nothing could
dampen his high spirits. So, he returned to the buggy, and with Ciego's help
brought in the luggage.
They were all there at dinner. Jarrod was so wrapped up in his own happiness,
that it wasn't until dessert that he realized that the bulk of the conversation
had belonged to he and Catherine. And that the smiles and interest displayed by
his mother, siblings and sister-in-law had been mostly forced. Finally, the
meal had ended and Annabelle had suggested that Catherine and Cadence might
like to accompany she and Chase for an evening walk.
Catherine had known immediately that something was troubling the Barkley clan.
They had done an admirable job of trying to hide it, but the preoccupied looks
that often settled over their faces, and the knowing glances they exchanged,
had spoken volumes. So when Annabelle had suggested a walk, Catherine had known
the Barkley family needed to have a private conference, and had readily agreed,
getting coats for she and Cady to ward off the chill of the fall air.
"So, what is it you need to discuss?" Jarrod cut to the heart of the
matter.
Victoria had once again had her way, wielding her not insignificant hold of age
and the respect and love they felt for her, over her sons. They had agreed not
to say anything to Jarrod about the matter of the hands who had quit, or of the
loss of the breeding bull, or the damaged fence line. She had argued that those
things were all in the past, and since there had been no more incidences, felt
that it would only be hurtful to bring it all up to Jarrod after the fact.
There was nothing Jarrod could do to redress any of what had already occurred.
To tell him, to repeat the hateful things that had each in some way involved
Catherine, would serve no purpose. All it would do, would be to anger and upset
him.
But Victoria had known that the time had come to warn Jarrod about the threat
on his life, now that he had returned to Stockton. So that he could protect
himself. Audra had already been brought up to date about it's existence, as
Victoria had reasoned finally that her daughter was mature enough to handle
this bit of business as well. Naturally, Audra had been shaken by the news, but
she had remained remarkably composed.
Catherine would, of course, still be dragged into the equation, but in this
case it was vital that Jarrod know what he was dealing with. Now Victoria rose
from the table and went to the sideboard. She opened a drawer and extracted the
letter that had arrived the other day. Wearily, she handed it to Jarrod.
"This came to the house, in an unaddressed envelope, delivered locally,
and I was the one who opened it," Victoria explained.
Jarrod took the piece of paper. His eyes scanned the words, narrowing. He
continued to hold it for a moment, then looked up at the familiar faces, now
grim, which were fixed on him. He gave a wry smile. "I hope this hasn't
given you cause to worry excessively," he said. The threat, while it
angered him in it's bigotry, did not really raise in him a sense of alarm.
"I'm fairly certain that I know who sent this."
"Jarrod, how can you be so calm?" Audra asked in exasperation, her
blue eyes fearful. "Someone has threatened your life!"
Jarrod smiled at his little sister. "It's part and parcel of politics,
Lovely Lady. I can't say that I'm terribly surprised. As part of my dealings
with various legal cases over the years, I've actually received quite a few of
these," he informed her calmly. "Similar threats, at any rate."
"Oh really?" Victoria stated, ruffled. "I don't remember you
sharing that!"
Jarrod spread his hands and shrugged. "There was never any point in
upsetting everyone, Mother. Nothing ever came of it. It's usually the same
thing, some poorly written, unsigned, unspecified threat. Just scare tactics.
Someone trying to vent their displeasure."
"How can you be so lackadaisical?!" Nick demanded.
Jarrod sighed tolerantly. "Nick, if a man is sincere in his desire to kill
you, he doesn't send you a warning first. He doesn't want you on your
guard."
"You might have a point there, Jarrod," Heath allowed.
"Trust me," Jarrod tried to reassure them. "This means nothing.
And anyways, I have a pretty good idea of who is behind this. And where I can
find him. I'm going to go into Stockton tonight and get this settled."
"Well, if you're riding into town, Heath and I are going with you,"
Nick said adamantly.
"Brother Nick, I appreciate the thought, really," Jarrod said sincerely.
"But if I arrive with two bodyguards, it will look like I place more stock
in this threat than it deserves. If I look like I'm running scared, it will
only incite the vultures to come feast on the carrion. I'll be there and back
before bedtime, and when this coward realizes his foolish games aren't going to
bring him any satisfaction, he'll cease them."
They were all silent, contemplating his words. Heath spoke then, his blue eyes
intense. "You'll wear your gun though, right Big Brother?"
Jarrod inclined his head. "Of course." He lit up a cigar. "So,
is there is anything else?"
"There is one thing," Nick remembered. "I heard from the foreman
out at the number three mine. Seems that one of his men went missing, round
about Halloween night. Burly guy, fitting the description of the swine who
tried to..." he caught himself, glancing at his mother and sister,
colouring slightly, "...to hurt Catherine that day. Name of Ben Jenner.
Seems that he just lit out not long after we starting makin' inquiries. Without
so much as a word to anyone. Had some pay comin' to him too, but just forfeited
it. Sounds to me like that's probably our guy."
Jarrod's jaw tightened. "I guess we have no idea where Jenner is
now?"
"He's nowhere in the San Joaquin valley," Nick assured him.
"Probably not anywhere in the state any longer either. I'd say we're rid
of that poor excuse for a man for good." Nick had decided that there was
no point in telling Jarrod about that other business that Starr had shared with
him...that some stranger had come to Stockton asking about Jarrod and
Catherine. After San Francisco, everyone would know anyways.
Jarrod realized that it would be fruitless to try to pursue the miner.
"Yes, I'd imagine that's the last we've heard from him," he agreed.
Jenner. Ben Jenner. That was one name Jarrod was not ever going to forget
though. And God help Jenner if he and Jarrod ever crossed paths in the future.
"Thanks, Nick, I appreciate knowing that," Jarrod said. "Now,
I'd also appreciate if none of you would say a word to Catherine about this
letter. I think she was actually able to forget for a time all of the horrors
she's had to endure lately, and I don't want anything to upset her. Can I count
on you all?"
One by one the people around the table gave him their assurances that this
matter would not be discussed with Catherine. "Thank you," Jarrod
told them gratefully. "Now, I'm going to get ready to go into Stockton.
I'll be leaving for Sacramento in the morning. I've got some business there that
I'm overdue in attending to. So, I trust that Catherine and Cady will be well
taken care of in my absence?"
"When they're under this roof," Nick told him, "they're part of
our family. You don't have to worry about that."
"Hear, hear," Heath chimed in.
Jarrod smiled broadly. "I knew that. It's just good to hear."
When Catherine and Cadence returned from their walk, Jarrod explained to
Catherine that he had to go back into Stockton for a bit. She would want to
know why, he knew. So he had told her a partial truth. That he wanted to go
back and see the Vails. That he had to make sure that George had used that
ticket Jarrod had left for him, and that he was no longer in the valley, but
miles away on the other side of the country. Jarrod told her that it was the
only way he could ensure himself a restful night's sleep. And all of that had
been true.
Catherine had seen Jarrod strap on his gunbelt, and begged him to be careful,
clinging to him for a moment as he readied to leave. He kissed her lips,
promising her that he would, and that he would be back in a few hours at the
most. He instructed her to go to bed whenever she was tired, and told her that
there was no need for her wait up for him. He would see her in the morning
before he left for Sacramento. He had suggested that she present her gifts to
the family while he was gone. They were all gathered in the billiards room,
Jarrod informed her. Catherine had agreed that that was a fine idea.
Reluctantly she had released him, watching as he shrugged into the leather and
sheepskin jacket, then had tipped his hat to her, and left the house.
Jarrod rode Jingo back towards Stockton, his anger about the anonymous letter
keeping him warm. They trotted past the saloon, past the lights and the music
and the raucous voices, that heralded the fact that this was indeed Saturday
night. Jarrod would be going there, in due time, but first he wanted to stop at
the Vails and ensure that George had indeed left town.
Gladys Vail was not pleased to see him, naturally. Her voice was bitter, her
eyes accusing, as she stood with the door cracked open, peering out at Jarrod
hostilely. She told him that yes, her George had left two days ago. He was
somewhere on the prairies by now, on a train barreling through the darkness,
carrying him far away from Stockton and out of their lives. Jarrod had seen the
truth in the trembling of her lips. Satisfied, he had remounted Jingo, and gone
next to the saloon.
He pushed through the swinging door and his blue eyes methodically scanned the
crowd. Just as he had expected, Jed Slater sat at one of the tables, a bottle
of whiskey at his elbow, cards fanned out in his hands. Jarrod crossed the
room, coming to stand next to the table near the older man. "I want to
talk to you, Slater," he growled. He felt a juvenile sense of satisfaction
at Jed Slater's misshapen nose, a reminder of their altercation in the street
that day.
"I ain't got nothin' ta say to you, Barkley," Jed snarled. His eyes
were slightly glassy from the liquor. "I'll take two," he said to the
man on his left who was dealing the cards, slapping two from his hand down on
the table.
"Well I want to speak to you," Jarrod said icily. "This won't
take more than a minute."
Voices at the tables nearest to them lowered their decibel level, as curious
eyes turned towards the two men. The air was pregnant with impending trouble.
The men at the table sat back quietly observing, their hands lowering to their
holsters, but keeping out of things. This was between Barkley and Slater and
none wanted to get involved.
"Get lost," Slater said laconically.
"I got your letter, Jed," Jarrod said conversationally. "I just
wanted you to know it won't work."
Jed Slater scowled. "I don't know what the hell yer talkin' 'bout
Barkley."
"Don't play dumb with me Jed," Jarrod warned, leaning towards him,
his hands spread on the scarred wooden surface of the table. "I want you
to stay out of my business. Who I see is none of your concern. I thought we
settled that. And I don't take kindly to threats." Jarrod's stare was
glacial.
Jed Slater leaned back in his chair, and tipped his hat back on his greying
hair. He smiled smugly. "I don't have a clue what yer mumblin' 'bout,
Barkley," he laughed meanly.
Jarrod reached swiftly to snatch the cards from Slater's hands, turning them
face down in front of the other man. "You know exactly what I'm
talking about," Jarrod accused. "That letter, with your ugly threats
about Catherine and my run for Governor."
Jed Slater pushed back from the table, rising agilely to his feet. His deep set
eyes glowed. "I ain't sent you no damned letter!" he spat. Then he
laughed again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Catherine...that's yer
squaw, ain't it? Whatsa matter, Barkley? Somebody tell ya some truths y'ain't
wanna hear?"
"Stay out of my life," Jarrod said through clenched teeth, advancing
on the other man.
"I AIN'T sent ya no letter!" Slater hollered. "Ya think I'm the
only one in the valley who don't cotton to white men whorin' with
savages?!" All eyes in the saloon swung in their direction. Even the piano
player stopped plinking out tunes and swivelled his chair. "Ya think it
ain't stickin' in the craw a most a the decent folks in this town?! Ya got
trouble, all right, Barkley, but if ya think I'm the only one here whose
stomach's turnin' cause ya got that squaw livin' out at yer ranch, yer plum
loco an' jes plain dumber 'n I thought!"
Jarrod realized then that he had miscalculated. It hadn't been Jed
Slater who had dropped off the envelope on his doorstep. Jarrod stepped back a
bit, feeling confused. Feeling the animosity in the room that encircled him
now, and which didn't emanate solely from the grey-haired rancher any longer.
Jarrod looked slowly at the other faces of the saloon's patrons that regarded
him with a range of curiosity, disdain, and hostility. One or two seemed
slightly sympathetic. He noticed Verna then, the only compassionate figure in
the crowd, her expression pained. All Jarrod could think, absurdly, was that
Verna must have gotten a new dress. She wasn't wearing the familiar red gown
that she normally wore, but a dark purple one. He'd liked the red better, he
thought, detachedly.
He had made a terrible error in judgement in coming here, Jarrod knew. There
was nothing he could say, no graceful way to exit. Jed Slater was telling the
truth, he hadn't penned the poison letter. But Jarrod wasn't about to apologize
to him. He spun on his heels, and walked out of the saloon. He was almost to
the doors, when the jeers started. He kept on going, unhitching Jingo and
springing into the saddle. His shoulders slumped as he pressed his knees into
the gelding's sides, and urged him back towards the direction of the ranch.
Catherine had done as Jarrod had suggested, and she and
Cadence had brought the presents for the Barkleys downstairs to the billiards
room. Cadence had passed out the blouses to Victoria, Audra and Annabelle, and
then billfolds for Nick and Heath, that Catherine had embroidered their
initials on, with beading.
She had been pleased with their reactions, everyone seeming genuinely touched
and appreciative. And they had been so complimentary about her work. It had
given her ego a tremendous boost. Catherine had wanted some way to repay them
all for their kindnesses and for taking she and her daughter into their home.
She was glad that the one she had chosen had seemed to strike a chord in each
of the Barkleys.
Catherine had noticed right away that she was not the only one who was
concerned about Jarrod's ride into Stockton. The others, once the fun and
excitement of opening their gifts...and in Audra's case, modelling them...had
passed, had seemed unusually tense. Catherine couldn't really understand why
they were so on edge.
She wasn't very happy that Jarrod had ridden out at night, alone, to go assure
himself that George Vail had actually left town. But after reflecting on it,
she had realized that it shouldn't actually be dangerous for him. Unpleasant
probably, especially if George really was still in Stockton. But not dangerous.
Catherine had known that George's attack on her had resulted from a desire to
protect Jarrod...out of a warped respect, admiration and appreciation for him.
It wasn't likely that he would then turn around and try to destroy Jarrod.
Catherine couldn't understand why Nick or Heath, or both of them together,
hadn't ridden out with Jarrod, since they were obviously worried about him.
Heath kept glancing at the clock, and Nick kept pacing the room, while they
both tried to concentrate on a game of pool that was bringing neither of them
any joy.
Victoria finally laid aside her crocheting, sighing in frustration as she undid
yet another bungled chain of stitches. Annabelle hadn't turned a single page of
her novel for at least twenty minutes. Audra, playing checkers with Cady,
Blossom sleeping at her feet, was constantly prompted by the child to make her
next move.
Catherine watched them, her own unease growing with each minute that passed.
Finally, she had risen to go tuck Cady into bed. Annabelle had decided that it
was probably Chase's bedtime too. The two women had gone upstairs together,
Annabelle thanking Catherine yet again for her kind gift and commenting that
she would love to be able to do such fabulous beadwork. While Annabelle changed
Chase's diaper and fed him his last meal of the day, Catherine read Cadence's
alphabet book to her, then turned out the lamp and went back downstairs.
Jarrod wasn't terribly surprised to arrive home and find out that everyone,
except for Cadence and Chase, was waiting up for him. He noted their collective
sighs, and the relief in his Mother's and Catherine's eyes especially.
"Well, George Vail has indeed left town. We don't have to worry about him
anymore," Jarrod said with forced good humour.
Catherine felt the tears prick her eyes. She hadn't realized that she really
had been worried about George still being in Stockton and possibly posing a
potential threat to either Cadence or herself. She wanted to go to Jarrod and
throw her arms around his neck and kiss his lips, and thank him for taking such
good care of them. But she couldn't do so in front of his family. With their
relationship not clearly defined, she felt that it would be inappropriate.
"Thank you, Jarrod," she said instead, hoping to convey with her tone
of voice and through the love in her eyes, just had grateful she was.
"Everything's taken care of then?" Nick asked, his dark eyes
piercing.
Jarrod nodded to him. "Yes, it is. It's over with," Jarrod replied
evenly. He hadn't wanted to lie to his family about resolving the issue with
the writer of the threat against him. Even though he hadn't actually found the
culprit, Jarrod still believed what he had told them earlier. It was an empty
threat. He had dealt with this kind of thing numerous times over the years,
threats against his safety when some case he was involved with didn't meet
someone's approval.
Even if it hadn't been Jed Slater, it had been someone else like him. Some
angry, ignorant racist, who was just trying to cause upset. He wouldn't let
such a troublemaker succeed. And if he told the family that his hunch had been
wrong, that he hadn't really been able to confront the author of the note, then
they would know that in addition to the enemy Jarrod already knew or believed
to have...there was another just like him. And that would only worry them more.
The truth of it was, Jarrod knew, after the scene in the saloon, that the
letter could have come from any number of small-minded hateful folk. Well, they
could just think or say or write whatever they wanted. No one was going to dictate
to him how he lived his life! And he wasn't about to share his humiliation in
town with his family. It would only worry them unnecessarily.
The ladies had retired to bed not much longer after that. Jarrod had followed
Catherine out into the hall, grabbing for her hand and keeping her back a
moment longer. He pulled her into his arms for a quick embrace, his lips
descending to hers. His body began to stir, so Jarrod pulled back from her just
a bit. This was neither the time nor the place. He just wanted to make sure
that she wasn't worried any longer about George. "You get a good night's
sleep," Jarrod told her gently. "If you like, I've got time for a
quick ride in the very early morning, before I have to catch the train."
Catherine's eyes darkened with passion as she thought about the last time they
had taken a ride on horseback together. It had been the first time they had
shared themselves with one another wholly. It was going to be difficult, she
knew, to fall asleep tonight knowing that Jarrod was just across the hall, as
he had been in San Francisco, but that she could not go to him here. "I
would love that," she told him eagerly. "You sleep well too. And
thank you. For George."
Jarrod nodded, kissing her on the cheek. "You're welcome."
Nick had poured him a glass of brandy, which Jarrod accepted, lighting up a
cigar as his two younger brothers racked up the balls for a game of pool. Both
Heath and Nick were much more relaxed now, believing the imminent danger to be
over. The three men talked together, idly. Jarrod began to get the feeling
before too long, that Heath and Nick shared some secret, something that they
had no intentions of filling him in on.
Sometimes, he envied the bond Nick and Heath had forged, working so closely
together, day in day out here on the ranch. Jarrod never felt like an outsider,
but he was aware that being in such close proximity, sharing so many of the
same daily concerns and experiences, his brothers were bound to be close to one
another in a way that he could never share. This ranch, and the hands on
running of it, was in their blood, and it was a passion that Jarrod, while he
could understand it, didn't quite feel the same way about. Every day Nick and
Heath had to trust one another and depend on one another in a way that they
never did with Jarrod.
He also knew though, that his own relationships with both men were strong. And
that, in many ways, he and Nick shared a bond that often excluded Heath. A bond
forged by a lifetime of shared history and memories, and of knowing and
remembering the man who was father to all of them.
He and Heath shared a bond because they were very similar in many ways. Both
preferred to think before acting, to reserve judgement, and to make decisions
that consulted both their hearts and their heads. Nick, on the other hand, was
a man of pure emotion, who lived in the minute.
Neither of those bonds that connected the brothers in pairs, was as strong as
the one that the three shared together though, Jarrod believed. They each
complimented one another's strengths, and cancelled out one another's
weaknesses. Each needed the other.
Tonight though, Jarrod could sense that his presence there was making Nick and
Heath uneasy in some way. There was something that they were dealing with, that
they did not wish to involve him in. It was probably something to do with the
ranch, that would take longer to explain than they believed it was worth, and
that they had been handling, and would continue to handle on their own. He felt
that they needed to talk freely, and weren't able to do so while he was there.
So, he excused himself, setting down his empty glass on the tray, and retired
to his study for a bit.
There Jarrod found two letters on his desk, and a wire from Patrick Vandermeer.
The thicker envelope was a letter from Gene, that Jarrod slit open with
anticipation. It congratulated him on his bid for the Republican nomination,
and told how proud Gene was. It wished him the best of luck on his
gubernatorial campaigning. The words exuded confidence and joy. Jarrod missed
his youngest brother, way out there on the east coast.
Gene was clearly enjoying his job as veterinarian to a stable of racing
thoroughbreds. He let Jarrod know that there was one little filly in
particular, the boss's daughter, that Gene was growing very fond of. He
described the young woman in equine terms, tongue-in-cheek, and Jarrod had to
laugh out loud.
His brother's light-hearted correspondence put Jarrod in such a good mood, that
he almost forgot about the scene in the saloon tonight. He did forget that
another letter that was there for him. Jarrod turned off the light and closed
the study door, taking Gene's letter up to bed with him to read and savour
again. The other letter lay unopened on his desk.
Jarrod stood on the steps of the Capitol building late
Sunday afternoon, pulling his topcoat around him against the chill of the day.
It was a Sunday, the legislature was at rest, the city was at rest, and he was
the only one there. He enjoyed his solitude, and the quiet that allowed him to
think his private thoughts.
He tilted back his head and felt dizzy as he looked up the full one hundred and
twenty feet to the top. It was no accident that the Renaissance Revival style
of California's State Capitol building, with it's soaring columns and prominent
dome, was so reminiscent of the nation's capitol in Washington, D.C. It was a
direct tribute to the power and glory of those most hallowed of halls.
Jarrod bent, touching the granite base of the building. He knew that the colour
variations were a result of the fact that the stone initially used in the
construction of the capitol had come from a quarry in Fulsom. But the stone
excavated from there had been found to be too coarse, not nearly refined enough
for such an important structure, and too difficult to work with. The granite
from the new quarry was several shades lighter.
To Jarrod, this variation signified a reminder that first decisions weren't
always the best. That sometimes you had to take stock of things, even once you
had committed to a course of action. That it was often best to admit to a
mistake, and to try a different route, than to continue to plunge ahead with an
action that was doomed. That sometimes, it took more pride and self-respect to
admit that you had been wrong, than to try to ignore the evidence that stared
you so blatantly in the face.
And these truths didn't just apply to erecting structures. They also applied to
the laws that were debated and passed within the walls of the impressive building.
They applied to a man's life, as well. Sometimes, people became so set on
taking a certain direction, so entrenched on doing things a certain way, that
they failed to see that though they continued to build on their initial ideas,
their foundation was crumbling beneath them.
Jarrod stood, turning to look out over the wide expanse of treed grounds. Forty
acres of gardens provided a picturesque setting for the Capitol. Around this
park were the homes of some of the most powerful men in the state, not just the
city. The California Capitol occupied two square blocks, between Lord and N
streets to the north and south, and 10th and 12th Streets to the east and west.
Jarrod had been here many times in recent years, since it's completion in 1874,
at a final cost to taxpayers of $2.4 million.
The people of the state were proud of their capitol though. Proud of their
state. No one who passed through the front doors failed to be moved by the
spectacular, intricate rotunda. There was a sense of power, of history in the
making, when one stepped into the lobby and realized that here duly elected
officials hammered out the laws that affected the lives of every man, woman and
child in California. It was both an awe-inspiring and humbling feeling.
Jarrod had spent many hours here, lobbying those in power to cast their votes
for causes that he believed in. Sometimes he was successful. More often, he was
not. The chance to have a stronger say in the future of his state was a strong
lure. He knew that though such things were never easy, even from the position
of Governor, he really could make a difference. Could take on that mantle of
responsibility and help those people that he had spent a lifetime fighting for,
in a scope that had heretofore been denied him.
Jarrod approached the Great Seal, the bronze piece that had been created by
inmates in the San Quentin State Prison. His fingers traced over the relief of
the Roman goddess Minerva. According to myth, Minerva had been born a fully
grown woman. Just as she had arrived in maturity, so California had become a
state, without having first been a territory. Minerva symbolized California's
direct rise to statehood. So many great things had happened so quickly for this
expanse of land that ran down the western coast, and for the people who had
forged lives here.
How proud Jarrod had been when Patrick Vandermeer and the others had approached
him about replacing Sam White. That they saw in him qualities of leadership
conducive to assuming such a role, had been a boon to his ego. That they were
willing to do whatever was in their power to support him in a quest for
governor, had been appreciated by the attorney more than they could ever know.
The wind picked up, and Jarrod turned up the collar of his coat. He walked down
the steps of the capitol building, heading on foot for 1526 H Street, at the
corner of 16th and H street, not far away in this downtown section of
Sacramento. He kept his head bent, his hat pulled low, to keep the gusts and
the minute debris they carried, out of his nose and eyes. It wasn't a very
pleasant afternoon, and most people had the good sense to stay inside. The few
that he passed on his way were also hunched over, hurrying to their own
destinations.
The Governor's Mansion came into view then, the mustard coloured wooden siding
and sage green trim making the home stand out as much as it's distinctive
architectural design. Jarrod paused in front, leaning towards the tall, black,
wrought iron gate, both hands gripping the cold metal bars. Somewhere, beneath
the Secone Empire-Italiante facade with it's windows aglow, behind the
multitude of decorative details, behind the turrets, and the bay windows, and
the angles and curves...resided Samuel White.
Somewhere inside one of the Mansion's thirty rooms, with it's fourteen foot
ceilings, it's nine bathrooms, it's crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs and
marble fireplaces, was the man who currently held the title of Governor of
California. A beloved man who had given so much of himself to the people of the
state. A great man, whose health was failing. A man who was aging before his
time. Whose illness wrenched the breath from his lungs much the same way the
cold air did now to Jarrod's. A man who had paid Jarrod the ultimate compliment
in endorsing him to pass the reins of power to once he could govern no more.
The knuckles that gripped the rails were white. Jarrod was so close. So close
to his ultimate goal. He could almost envision himself, seated inside by a
roaring fire. His clothes hanging in the closets. His razor on the marble
counter in the bathroom. His initials embroidered into the towels that hung
from solid gold racks. His name on the lips of the men who strode the halls of
the Capitol not too far away. Governor Jarrod Barkley. He was so close
that he imagined he could feel the warmth of the fire, despite the reality of
the late autumn chill. His mind cast back through the years.
"Jarrod," his father called to him warmly, as the young boy
passed the study. "Come here a minute, son."
"Yes, Father," Jarrod said, entering Tom Barkley's inner sanctum.
They were not allowed to play in this room, it was forbidden them. It was their
father's private place. How his thin, boyish chest had swelled with pride to
receive the invitation to enter.
"Your mother was telling me that she spoke to your teacher, Miss
Johnstone, today. She said that Miss Johnstone was telling her that she has
never seen such a smart, dedicated student. She told your mother that you are
far ahead of the other boys your age. That everything you apply yourself to,
you do without holding anything back."
Jarrod's heart overflowed with joy at praise from the man he idolized. His
vivid blue eyes met those of the man who sat behind the desk. He wasn't sure if
he was supposed to say something in response to his father's comments or not,
so he waited, unsure.
"I'm so proud of you, Jarrod," Tom Barkley said, beckoning the
boy forward. He pushed his chair back and patted his knee. Jarrod blushed. He
was nine years old. It had been a long time since he was just a little guy like
his brother Nick and had sat in his father's lap. But he hurried forward
anyways, resting himself on the man's leg.
"You've got your mother's book smarts, son, and I'm glad of that. I'm
a bright man in my own way, I think, not to toot my own horn. But you and your
mother, you're from the same mold. All that reading you both love to do. You've
been devouring every book you could get your hands on, since you first learned
to identify the alphabet," Tom chuckled affectionately. "And it comes
easy to you, too, I know. You've got a keen intellect, Jarrod. There's nothing
that you can't do, if you set your mind to it, nothing that you can't be, no
door in this life that will remain closed to you."
"Your bright mind will one day bring you great power. Thinking men
become powerful men. I hope that when the time comes, you will use these gifts
that God has seen fit to bestow upon you, for good. To help people. Sometimes,
God puts gifts in a man's mind, but not in his heart. I see in you already that
that's not the case. Again, you favour your mother in that respect.
"I watch you Jarrod and I see how well you treat others. Those who are
smaller, or weaker or not as bright. You treat all people with respect. You
have empathy and compassion, and when others hurt, it hurts you too. You're
just like your mother that way, bless both your hearts. Most of us go through
life trying to be decent people, doing the best that we can. But some of us are
just born with something extra. You and your mother...you couldn't not help
someone, even at your own expense."
Tom Barkley reached to ruffle his son's jet black hair. "I want you to
know son, that in addition to being so proud of you...I admire you."
Jarrod thought his heart had stopped. His father admired him? Surely he must
have misheard him. "I admire the boy that you are, and the man that I can
see you will become. You will be a great man, my son. And one day, you will do
great things."
His father pulled the newspaper closer towards him on the desk. His long,
broad fingers tapped a photo on the first page. "Who is that,
Jarrod?"
Jarrod laughed lightly. That was an easy one. "The President,
sir."
"And what does a President do?" Tom asked. He waited as Jarrod
recited a text book version of the powers and legislative duties of the office
of the President of the United States. "Umm hmm," Tom agreed, nodding
sagely. "He is in a position of great power."
Tom drew a deep breath. "With great power, comes great responsibility.
I know that I am in an enviable position. I have a beautiful wife, and fine
children. I have a lovely home and a wonderful empire that I built with my own
two hands, your mother at my side every step of the way. In my position,
limited though my power might be, I have certain responsibilities. I have
responsibilities to you children, as your father. I have responsibilities
towards your mother. To keep you all fed and clothed and safe and cared for.
"I have responsibilities to every man who draws their pay, either here
at the ranch, or elsewhere, in my name. To ensure that they have safe working
conditions and decent treatment and honest pay. Because they in turn, have
obligations towards their own families. Do you understand what I'm saying,
son?"
Jarrod nodded, his gaze fixed on her father's bearded face, and intent
sapphire eyes. "One day, you will be a man of great power. I hope that I
live to see that day, to guide and support you. But if I don't, I want you to
remember something. All of the power in the world, all of the wonderful qualities
and talents a man might have are nothing if he uses them for selfish gains.
"God has given you great gifts, Jarrod and you have a responsibility
to share them with others. You have a duty and an obligation to help those less
fortunate than you. I know that it won't be a problem for you though, because
that is your very nature.
"One day, you could be President of the United States I am just a
simple rancher and businessman, and I aspire to nothing more. I'm good at it
and I'm proud of what I do. That's my destiny. And I can see already that
that's your brother Nick's destiny too. I see in him many of the qualities that
I see in myself. Different qualities than you or your mother share, but
valuable, important qualities just the same.
"But your destiny Jarrod, is so much more far-reaching than mine could
ever be. Than most people can ever dare dream. As much as I love and admire
you, son, I have to tell you that I am somewhat sorry for you as well. Your
intelligence, your goodness, your amazing capabilities will also be a burden
for you. Sometimes, those gifts come at great personal cost. Because you will
always be a man who puts others first.
"One day, son, you will be a man who leads other men. Sometimes it
seems easier not to accept that burden. To deny it. But the world needs the
kind of man that I know you will grow up to be. Promise me, that when you are
grown, you will always do your best to remember your responsibilities and
obligations towards those who need and look up to you, no matter how hard that
might sometimes be?" Tom urged.
"I promise, Father," the boy repeated.
Tom Barkley pulled his oldest son close for a gruff hug, overwhelmed with
emotion. "I bet none of this is even making sense to you," he laughed
self-consciously. "There will be time enough for such talk when you get
older."
And there had been other talks. Many of them. Talks where Tom Barkley had set
his son Jarrod on his life's course. Encouraging his interest in law.
Discussing politics with him. Sending the young man to college. Jarrod had been
the first Barkley to ever attend University. But in all the talks that
followed, and all of the years that intervened, Jarrod Barkley never forgot his
promise to his father.
A lone tear slid down his face, as he turned away from the Governor's Mansion.
Hands in the pockets of his coat, head bowed, Jarrod began the walk back to his
hotel.
* * * * * * * *
(Author's note: I took some literary license and rewrote history a bit here. The Governor's Mansion as described here, though accurate in description, and built in 1877/1878, was not actually home to California's governors until 1903. However, since I wasn't aware of that little tidbit when I started this story, I let it stand.)
"And then it moved!" Cadence announced
triumphantly to her captive audience. "The room really
moved!" The Barkleys, Catherine and Cadence sat in the drawing room, where
Cadence had been sharing some of her reminisces from their San Francisco trip.
Catherine regarded her daughter with indulgent affection, warmed as much by
Jarrod's family's open acceptance and caring, as she was by the fire that
burned in the hearth.
"Miss Audra," Silas interrupted, standing in the doorway. Audra
turned to him from where she had been standing, still smiling at Cady's
excitement. "Mr. Olson is hear to see you."
The smile faded and Audra felt light-headed. She thought she was going to
swoon. She gripped the back of her mother's chair. She couldn't look at anyone
else in the room. "Bobby?" she queried unnecessarily.
"Yes, Miss Audra," Silas confirmed.
"Will you excuse me please," she said, her voice sounding a bit too
shrill even to her own ears. She smoothed the immaculate skirts of her pale
pink dress and, straightened her shoulders, and followed the houseman from the
room.
Bobby Olson stood in the foyer, his hat in his hand, his long, blond curls
tumbling wildly about his oval face. His grey eyes were haunted. Silas
continued on to the kitchen, where he was busy preparing a rack of lamb for
Sunday dinner. Audra stood uncertainly, wondering what on earth Bobby was doing
here. Waiting for him to speak first. There was nothing welcoming in her
manner, as she stood with her hands clasped before her, her full pink lips a
pressed line, her blue eyes devoid of emotion.
"Audra, I'm about the biggest jackass in this valley," Bobby began
forlornly. "I don't blame you if you don't want to talk to me, or ever see
me again. I haven't been able to eat or sleep or get you out of my mind these
last few days. I should have stood up for what I believed was right. I should
have stood up and fought for you...for us. But I didn't. I was afraid, and I
let myself be manipulated. At the very least...I should have explained."
He hung his head in shame.
"I love you, Audra, even though I'm not worthy of your love in return. A
man's not a man if he can't be true to himself, and can't stand by the woman
that he adores." He looked up again, the pain etching his handsome
features. "I was so angry, and so confused. I felt so boxed in, and I
didn't know what to do. I never meant to hurt you, or to make you think that I
didn't want to be with you anymore."
"What was I supposed to think?" Audra asked, jutting out her chin.
Bobby sighed, running his fingers through his golden locks. "I know. I
handled it all wrong. Everything. From Ma and Pa to you." He tilted his
head to one side, his eyes beseeching. "May I explain now? I know it's too
late, but I just can't stand to know you're thinking of me even worse than
needs be. I don't want you to think I really am a bigot, on top of being a
coward."
Audra felt her knees weaken at the sight of him there. So young and masculine
and virile, and yet so vulnerable at the same time. She had been wrong. She
wasn't over him just yet. "Say what you want to say and then go,"
Audra instructed bitterly. "My family will be having dinner shortly...with
our guests," she added pointedly.
Bobby nodded, grateful that Audra hadn't thrown him out of the house already.
Of course, she wouldn't actually have done the throwing. That job would have
been left to one of her older, very protective brothers. "My folks are
like a lot of folks. They've grown up a certain way and they've been taught
certain things. They're good and decent folk for the most part, you know that."
His face softened. "But in some ways, they aren't as Christian as they
like to think they are. In some ways they're down right close-minded and
prejudiced."
It hurt Bobby to talk about his family this way, but it was the truth. They
were his, and they loved him, and he them, but he knew their flaws as well as
their attributes. "I think you know that I personally don't have anything
against Catherine and Cadence. I've never even met them, so I don't presume to
judge them. From what you've said, they sounded nice enough I thought."
He took a deep breath, hesitant to continue, but knowing that he must.
"Well, my Ma and Pa, mostly my Pa I realize now, got caught up in some of
the talk going around. Especially after Jarrod brought Catherine and her little
girl here to the ranch. It brought out some of their buried prejudices. Pa
started getting after me to stay away from here. To stay away from you. At
first, I wasn't having any of it. I'm a man now, and I make my own decisions.
Then Ma had one of her spells."
Pain darkened Bobby Olson's eyes. Audra knew that Mrs. Olson's health was not
always good. She had some heart problems, a residual effect of a bout of
influenza that had almost killed her several years ago. From time to time,
especially in situations of stress, her spells would cause her to black out and
she would be confined to her bed for a couple of weeks. Each episode seemed to
age her more. "Is she all right?" Audra asked in concern.
"She's about the same as she always is afterwards," he said sadly. "Weak."
Then his face hardened. "Pa started to use that against me. Saying that
what happened to Ma was because of everything that was going on with your
family, and how it was affecting me and them too. He kept blaming me, keeping
at me and at me, until I began to blame myself too."
Bobby's grey eyes shone with unshed tears. "He told me that I had to make
a choice. My own selfish happiness, or Ma's life. You have no idea of the agony
I was in," he said simply.
Audra's heart went out to Bobby. What a terribly cruel position his father had
put him in! "You should have told me," Audra said quietly.
He nodded. "I should have. I was too hurt and confused. I figured that
even if I told you, and you knew what my folks were really like, you wouldn't
want to have anything to do with me anyways. I was embarrassed. And I was
afraid. Do you know what it's like, to feel that you have the power to decide
whether someone lives or dies? That a choice you make can kill someone you
love? Whether or not it's true?"
Thankfully, Audra didn't. "I think I can understand now," she said at
length.
"I've told Ma that I'm sorry she's not feeling well. And that I want her
to get better. But I've told her I'm sorry, I can't pretend that I don't love
you. And that her attitude and Pa's, towards someone they don't know either, is
just plain wrong. And that if you would give me a chance, I'd do everything in
my power to win you back." Bobby's hands clutching the hat trembled.
"So you see, I'm no better of a son, than I am a beau."
Audra was filled with compassion for him. He still was all of those wonderful
things that she had thought him to be. He had been put in an impossible
situation. It would have so much better for both of them if he had just been
honest at the onset. She would have understood, and could have helped him
weather this storm. Who knew though, how she herself might have reacted if she
had been held emotional hostage by those she held most dear.
She moved nearer to him, taking his hat and setting it on the tree. "I never
did revoke Mother's invitation to Sunday dinner," Audra told him. "Do
you like lamb?" She smiled. "There are a couple of people I'd like
you to meet."
"I need to apologize to your family now, and Catherine as well,"
Bobby said, his shame evident.
"Thank you, Bobby, but that's not necessary," Audra told him softly.
"I never told them any of the details." She looked into his grey
eyes. "I've missed you."
Bobby took her in his arms, crushing her against his chest, his lips
desperately seeking hers. "Oh Audra, I thought I'd lost you," he
whispered, his voice so filled with pain that Audra thought her heart might
break.
After dinner, as Bobby kissed Audra good bye at the door, he spoke
thoughtfully. "If my parents could meet Catherine, I think they would change
their minds about her. She seems very nice, Audra. And Cady is just cute as a
button."
Audra's face lit up at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't she
adorable? She's such a sweet child! Catherine's done a marvellous job with her
so far." Cadence had managed to claim Audra's heart in the time she had
spent with the little girl. "I'm glad you could come for dinner after
all," Audra changed the subject.
Her family had been surprised to see Bobby joining them at the table, but had
welcomed him back into their fold. They all liked Bobby Olson, she knew, and
had been flabbergasted at their break up. She was glad now that she had kept to
herself the reasons for their separation. It might have changed their feelings
for Bobby somehow.
And she herself did not blame him any longer for what had happened the other
day. At the very least, it would have humiliated and pained Bobby to have to
explain to the Barkleys how his own family had tried to manipulate him, and why
they had done it. Just as it had when he had explained it to her.
Ciego was leading Bobby's dun out from the stable, when Dr. Merar's buggy
pulled up in front of the mansion. At the grim look on Dr. Merar's face,
Audra's first thoughts were that something had happened to Jarrod. Then she remembered
that he was in Sacramento. She followed Bobby outside, bidding him farewell,
then hurrying toward the doctor, her hands rubbing her arms against the chill.
"Dr. Merar," Audra called. "We weren't expecting you! We've just
had dinner, but there's some dessert left and Silas is just putting on a fresh
pot of coffee."
"Hello, Audra," Howard said quietly. "I was in the area and
thought I'd stop by to remove Catherine's stitches. I heard that she and Jarrod
returned from San Francisco yesterday." Audra confirmed this with a nod,
her teeth starting to chatter as the wind whipped around her, unseen fingers
pulling at her hair and her skirts. "I'm afraid I have some bad news as
well. Tommy Norris passed away today. I've been out there all afternoon with
the family."
"Oh my word, how awful," Audra cried, her blue eyes filling with
tears. "He was just a boy. Mother will want to go right over to the
Norris's I'm sure. Come on in, Dr. Merar. It's freezing out here. I'll get you
some of that coffee."
Victoria did indeed want to head over to the Norris's as soon as she heard the
news. Audra wanted to go with her, but when Howard explained how broken up
Tommy's parents were, she agreed that perhaps it was best not to overwhelm
them. And she knew that she would never be able to keep her own tears in check,
and thus would probably not be much help just yet.
Nick, who was fairly close with Tommy's father Kent, volunteered to drive
Victoria over. They also heard that young C.J., consumed with guilt and grief,
had run away when he learned that his brother had finally died from the bullet
that had been fired from C.J.'s gun. If the nine-year-old hadn't returned yet,
Nick might be able to help locate him.
Once they had gone, Howard went upstairs with Catherine to the guestroom, to
check her arm and remove the stitches. He told her that he was very happy with
the healing, as he snipped the sutures and tugged the thread through. Catherine
replied lightly that it must have been all of that fine sea air and good food.
"Still, go easy on it," Howard told her. "No really heavy
lifting or anything for at least another week."
Catherine thanked him, then finished dressing. She was healed now. And George
Vail was hundreds of miles away. Jarrod had told her that even a miner they suspected
of been the one who had tried to rape her, had left Stockton. There was really
no reason for her to remain at the Barkley Ranch any longer. She would wait a
few more days until Jarrod returned from Sacramento, to see if he would give
her one.
Chapter 61
The next morning, Catherine rose early. She passed by
Jarrod's study on her way to the kitchen for a glass of juice. She happened to
glance in and saw Heath standing there, one elbow on the mantle. Something made
Catherine pause in the doorway, and she observed Jarrod's brother, staring up
at an oil portrait of his late father, Tom Barkley.
There was something so wistful in his normally guarded gaze that pulled at her.
Without pausing to think that she might be interrupting, Catherine stepped into
the room. She knew that Heath had never known this man who sired him. That even
though he now had brothers and a sister and a second mother to love, he would
always be denied the knowing of the one whose name he finally carried.
"He was a handsome man," Catherine said softly. "I see some of
each of you in him."
Heath started and looked towards her guiltily. He'd been waiting for Nick to
finish breakfast, and had wandered in here, drawn to the portrait of a younger
Thomas Barkley. "Yeah?" he asked curiously. "What do you
see?"
She smiled. "You have his eyes. Jarrod shares their colour, but the shape
of them, their intensity, is unique to you and your father. Nick has that same
determined jawline. Jarrod has the rounder face shape, the same cheekbones and
the nose. There is some of him in all of you. I would imagine in your other
brother Eugene as well."
"Yeah, people say I look like him some," Heath allowed. "I can
look at a painting and see what he looked like on the outside. But I can't ever
see who was inside. 'Cause I never got to know." His bitterness had faded
somewhat over the years, but there would always be a residual resentment
towards this man. A man who had planted his seed in a young woman's womb and
then left her and his resultant child to fend for themselves, however
unwittingly.
And though Heath didn't like to admit it even to himself, he often resented his
brothers and sister. For having gotten to grow up with their father, even
though Heath had mixed emotions towards the man. He resented them for knowing
not only who the Barkley patriarch was as a father and as a man, but for
knowing the gift of his love as well.
"No," Catherine agreed. "You never did, and it isn't fair. I
can't imagine how terrible it was."
Heath looked at her intently. She was the first person who hadn't tried to
offer him platitudes. Who didn't try to tell him that Tom Barkley lived on
inside of him and so he did know who he was. She was the first one who
didn't try to insist that he could know Tom Barkley from his sibling's
memories. From hearing stories about him, second-hand from others. Heath had
tried that, had asked the others about Tom Barkley. But he had discovered to
his surprise that each one of them knew a different father. Their own father.
Tom had interacted with each of his children differently, as the different
people that they were, and their memories and perceptions of him were
contingent upon their individual relationships with him. Heath could never ever
know the Tom Barkley would might have raised him. The father he might have been
to child Heath. He could get a sense of the man, perhaps, but he could never
really know him.
Heath appreciated Catherine's simple honesty. How she didn't just seem to feel
he should just 'buck up' and 'be a great example of who his father was'. She
admitted that the situation had been unfair to him, without pitying him. And
she knew alot about life's unfairnesses, he knew.
"I often worry how it will affect Cadence, to grow up without a
father," Catherine admitted softly.
"Where is Cadence's father?" Heath found himself asking. Neither
Jarrod nor Catherine had alluded to Cady's paternity, since that first night at
dinner when all Catherine had said was that she had not ever been married.
Heath had assumed that her situation had been similar to his mother Leah's.
That Catherine had fallen in love with some man, had expressed that love
physically, and then been abandoned. Either before or after knowledge of her
pregnancy.
Normally, Heath would never have pried into another person's life this way,
knowing how private he himself was, and how painful his own memories. But his
question seemed to evolve naturally from their conversation. Heath found an
openness and honesty in Catherine that reached past his defenses.
"I don't know," she said. Briefly, she shared her story then, of the
man, Jesse, who had killed her parents, raped and beaten her, and left her for
dead.
"I'm so sorry," Heath said hoarsely, "for all that you
suffered." Heath wondered how many young women would have kept their child
under those circumstances. How many would have been able to give themselves so
totally and selflessly to a baby who was the product of such an ordeal, and who
would be a continuing reminder of such horror and shame?
Heath looked at Catherine with new eyes. She hadn't been in love with the
child's father or desired to hold a piece of the man who had stolen her heart,
the way his own mother had. Catherine had not carried a love child. He wondered
how many women, in Catherine's situation, would have abandoned their child to
an orphanage, putting both the baby, and the stain of it's conception, out of
their lives and their memories.
Heath was unable to keep from wondering about little Cadence. Another innocent
child who would grow up a bastard, through no fault of her own. He recalled
painfully his own childhood. The questions he had had. The fantasies he had
woven about the father who would one day return to rescue him, showering him
with love, giving him a name and a respectability. Bringing joy and comfort to
their lives. "Have you told her anythin' at all about him? Has she ever
asked?"
Catherine shook her head. "She knows, just lately, that some children have
a father. Before Stockton, we'd moved so much, and been so ostracized, we'd
never have a chance to get close to anyone. She never saw how other people
lived their lives. Now that she's seen her friends the McNeil children with
their father, I'm sure she's begun to wonder."
Heath felt own wounds resurface. "I'd wager she has."
Catherine turned to him then. "What should I tell her, Heath? What do you
tell a child who has no father, yet longs for one? How do you shield them from
that hurt? She's heard the word bastard but of course, she has no idea
what it means." Her dark eyes had misted over.
Heath's throat was tight. "I don't reckon I know for sure. I s'pose every
child's different, just like every adult is. Lovin' helps, but it ain't
enough," he told her, respecting Catherine enough to return her honesty.
"And mebbe it's different for boys than for girls. I dunno." He
sighed. "I reckon the only thing to help get over the pain of not havin' a
father, is to one day find one. I found mine, more or less. And it did help in
a lot of ways." Heath was surprising himself with these revelations. It
was unlike him to lay himself open and be so vulnerable, especially with
someone that he didn't know well.
Except that, on some level, he did feel that he knew Catherine. That in some
ways, they were kindred spirits. "Cadence might not ever have her birth
father...sounds like it'd be a bad thing if she did anyway...but maybe someone
else could take over that job one day."
They both stood there, thinking of Jarrod. Thinking of the bond that had been
forming between he and Cady. Thinking of what a fine father he would be.
"Perhaps, one day," Catherine said softly. "It isn't always that
simple though, is it?"
Heath wondered what the situation was between Jarrod and Catherine. He believed
they were in love with one another. But he didn't know what Jarrod's intentions
were towards Catherine and her daughter, or just how much he was prepared to
sacrifice to have them in his life. He thought it was down right cruel of his
oldest brother to leave the young woman in a state of limbo this way. He thought
his brother a fool if he couldn't see the gift that God had put here in his
path with the arrival of this woman and her child into his life.
"No, I reckon it isn't," he agreed laconically. Then he felt that
perhaps he should say something more. "Sometimes," Heath remarked
uncertainly, compelled to in some way apologize for or explain his brother,
"Jarrod gets so wrapped up in his quests, in slayin' his dragons and doin'
his good deeds, that he kinda forgets about the real world. That there are
other people out there who ain't so decent as him. Sometimes, I figure Jarrod
thinks it's his job alone to change the world."
Catherine smiled at that. "I know. Jarrod is a 'Warrior of the
Rainbow'," she said enigmatically. She saw the curiosity in Heath's
gentle blue eyes. "There is a Cree prophecy, proclaimed by a woman named
Eyes of Fire. She had a vision of the future. One day, in the next century,
because of greed, the world as we know it will cease to exist. The forests will
be ravaged. Birds will fall from the sky. The waters will be undrinkable and we
won't be able to eat of the animals who live in it's depths.
"Then a time will come when keepers of the legends, the culture and the
rituals, will be needed to restore the earth again. They will be our key to
survival, and they will be the Warriors of the Rainbow. With their arrival will
come a new world where justice, peace and freedom will prevail." Heath
listened, fascinated as her husky voice repeated the prophecy.
"The Warriors of the Rainbow will teach people how to live the way of the
Great Spirit. People will be free of petty jealousies, and love one another as
brothers, regardless of their colour, race or religion. Their hearts will be
pure and they will have an understanding and respect for the earth and all who
share her. The earth will heal. The poor, sick and needy will be cared for by
their brethren." Catherine's eyes had a faraway look as she peered ahead
into this future.
"Leaders of the people will be chosen in the ancient, Indian tradition.
Not by political party, or who can speak the loudest, boast the most, or sling
the most mud. Actions will speak louder than words. Those chosen as Chiefs, or
leaders, will be those whose love, wisdom and courage foretell that they will
work for the good of all. That they were chosen for their quality as people,
not by the amount of riches they have managed to obtain.
"The Warriors tasks will be many and difficult. There were be terrifying
mountains of ignorance to conquer, and they will find prejudice and hatred.
They will have to be dedicated and unwavering. And their strength will heal the
earth, and all mankind." Catherine finished the story, looking at Heath
intently.
"Jarrod didn't know the Warriors weren't supposed to come for another
hundred years," she said, her burgundy lips curling almost imperceptibly
at the corners. "He doesn't know that he's here ahead of his time, or that
the other Warriors aren't here yet. But he continues to battle on, doesn't he?
Because Warriors have no choice. It's what they were sent here to do."
Catherine lowered her eyes, her lashes inky fringes across her bronzed skin.
When she looked up at Heath again, her dark eyes were unnaturally bright.
"But while he lives in the future, the rest of the world still lives in the
here and now. Men don't love one another as brothers, regardless of the colour
of their skin, do they?" It was a rhetorical question, she did not expect
Heath to answer. "Do you even think that a Warrior should stop
and do for only two, what he could do instead for so many, many more?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, and bowed her head. When she looked back up
at Heath again, the tears and the sorrow were gone. "He's a good man, your
brother," Catherine said. "Only time will reveal to us our destinies,
though. Most of the time, I like to believe that God has a plan for us.
"Yet at other times, I can't help but get discouraged." Catherine's
sultry voice quoted, " 'Tis all a checkerboard of nights and days
where Fate with men for pieces plays. Hither and thither, moves and mates and
slays, then one by one back in the closet lays.' "
"The Rubaiyat," Heath said wonderingly.
She was pleased that he recognized it. "Thank you, Heath," she told
him sincerely.
"For what?" he asked self-consciously.
"For caring." Then Catherine slipped back out of the room, leaving
Heath alone again with his thoughts.
Heath considered all that Catherine had just shared with him. She had what he
knew Hannah would have referred to as an 'old soul'. A timeless wisdom
that belied her corporeal youth. She was a remarkable young woman. Heath
thought, that had things been different, had their lives been different, had he
not already been so crazy in love with Belle...he might have fallen in love
with Catherine Vaillancourt.
Walls panelled in cherrywood gleamed as they reflected the
midday sunlight that streamed through the mullioned windows. The thick,
hand-woven Turkish rug covered the floor. A fire danced in the big, open
hearth. Blue smoke hung overhead and the pleasant and familiar aroma of cigar
smoke permeated the room. Jarrod stood near the fireplace in this private room
of the Carlton Club where he had originally met this same grouping of men back
in September.
At that time, Jarrod had been the one invited to the meeting, and he had been
the one who sat listening as Patrick Vandermeer had informed him about the
seriousness of Governor Sam White's health concerns. About the Governor's
impending retirement and the necessity for the upcoming election. Patrick had put
forth the group's proposition, letting Jarrod know that if he had the desire to
run for the Republican nomination, he had the full support of not only these
men, but of the esteemed Governor White himself.
So much had changed since that day. This time, it was Jarrod himself who had
called the meeting. The attorney looked at the assemblage, sipping the fine
scotch. They observed him with a mixture of trepidation and interest, but still
with unflagging support.
Except for Patrick Vandermeer, whom Jarrod had sensed immediately to be furious
with him. Patrick hid it well, with his legendary poker face. But Jarrod
couldn't fail to note the tension in the man's posture. And Patrick had failed
to meet Jarrod's eyes even once since his arrival.
"Gentleman," Jarrod said, "I don't want to beat around the bush.
I've decided to withdraw from the nomination process." There was a stunned
silence. "I'll be forgoing politics. I know this is short notice, but it's
the best thing for all involved. I want you to know how much your faith in me,
and your generous support, has meant."
Jarrod had not spoken to Catherine about what he had planned to do in
Sacramento. He had known the time had come to accept that there was no possible
way to have both Catherine and the governorship. He had been afraid to speak to
her of the election at all, during the time they had spent together. He'd been
worried that she would ask how her presence affected things. And he would have
had to tell her the truth. Jarrod had also been terrified that if Catherine
thought she might potentially be responsible for his losing the election or for
ruining his political future, that she would selflessly bow out of his life.
That she would abandon him and run, forfeiting her own happiness for what she
perceived to be his. And he couldn't take that chance.
Even if he had been able to convince her that there was no contest for him,
that having her was the only thing he wanted, Jarrod had still worried that she
might leave him. That she might sacrifice their relationship, and all of it's
splendour, because she believed that the good that he could do as a lawmaker
was of tantamount importance to their individual happiness.
This way, when Jarrod returned to her, it would all be over and done with.
Catherine would not be able to do anything to alter the past. He could offer
her his life, all of it, and the only thing she would have to consider was
whether she loved him enough to share it.
Jarrod hadn't mentioned his decision to the family either. That had been hard.
They had always shared with one another so completely. He had worried that he
would disappoint them. He knew what their expectations for him were. What they
had always been. Jarrod strove to live up to those perceived expectations. He
believed that eventually they would support him. They always did. But he hadn't
wanted to have any debate on the matter. And someone, most likely Nick or
Mother, might have tried to reason with him to reconsider. Would have wanted to
present all sides to the equation. And that would only have brought about hard
feelings all around. And so, Jarrod had spared all of them the angst.
Catherine, his family and himself.
"What the hell are you doing, Jarrod?" Wyatt Bostwick asked
incredulously. "You can't be serious! I mean...I know there are some
problems...we've all heard some things...some rumours...but we can work
together to overcome this!"
"Wyatt's referring, of course, to the rumours coming out of both Stockton
and San Francisco, about your...extracurricular activities," Henry Stanton
said, with a raised eyebrow. "And yes, we've been meaning to discuss this
with you, and come up with a course of action. Normally, what a man does in his
private life is just that. His private business. Except when he's in politics
and then everyone and his brother has an interest." Henry removed his
spectacles, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing the glass
lenses. "And I must admit, these latest rumours are definitely bad for us,
but I think that we can overcome them."
"You work on...eliminating the problem from your end," Wyatt said
firmly. "We'll deal with things here. We'll come up with something to say
to appease ruffled sensibilities. You can take a day to tidy up any loose ends
back in Stockton, then come and stay in Sacramento full-time until the
convention. We'll arrange for you to be out and about with an appropriate
escort. As long as there are not any further...errors in judgement," he
said, pausing, "we can still contain this. I don't think you need to toss
in the towel just yet, Jarrod."
Jarrod felt his anger grow at their words. They were talking about Catherine.
They were telling him to just dump Catherine, and that they could fix
everything. That he could still salvage his political career, as long as he
dealt with his little problem, his error in judgement. He
clenched his jaw.
Jarrod knew that he shouldn't really be surprised by any of this. He had known
all along that there was no real chance that he could have both his political
dreams, and Catherine Vaillancourt. He had hoped against hope that perhaps it
wouldn't matter to people. That perhaps it wouldn't make any difference who he
loved...only who he was. What kind of man and what kind of leader he would be.
He had tried to ride this train as long as he possibly could. He had tested the
waters of public opinion. He had watched to see just how Catherine would be
accepted into his life while he ran for office. In his heart of hearts, he had
known that people would never allow it. But he had tried to cling to his dream
as long as possible.
One day, Jarrod believed, times would change. People would change. It had been
too much for him to expect that that time would be now. But one day, some other
person would also try to combat the chains of prejudice, and one day there
would be a small victory. And then another. And another. It would happen in a
series of small steps. He had tried to take one, and failed. One day, someone
else would take a step, and they would meet with success. But if no one ever
tried, no one could ever break the bonds that leashed them all.
If Jarrod had fallen in love with Catherine first, he wouldn't even have
thought of pursuing his gubernatorial ambitions. He wouldn't have wanted to put
her through that, or himself either. But it hadn't worked out that way. He had
committed to this election before there had been anything but the first faint
stirrings between he and Catherine. When Jarrod had accepted the offer from
these men, he had been whole-hearted in his desire. He had imagined the good
they could do, shaping California laws and policies, seeing that the richness
and splendour of this great state worked not only for those who were already at
the top of the mountain, but for those who dwelt on it's slopes as well.
'I live for those who love me, for those who know me true;
For the heaven that smiles above me, and awaits my spirit too;
For the cause that lacks assistance, for the wrong that needs resistance,
For the future in the distance, and the good that I can do.'
The first time Jarrod had read that poem, it had struck a chord deep inside
him. It embodied all that his father and mother had ever taught him. It defined
the way he had always tried to live his life, and gave him a clear path to
follow through his life. If he had made it to the Mansion, he could have
realized this stanza at last, on a more sweeping scale than he had might have
dared hope. There truly would have been so much good that he could do.
It pained Jarrod to know that he would be letting people down. Not just the men
in this room, or Governor White, or any of the party's faithful who had vowed
to support him. But the nameless, faceless citizens who might have benefited
from his term in power. Whose burdens might have been made a bit lighter, their
lives made a bit brighter, by a man who genuinely cared to do what was right.
Once he had fallen in love with Catherine, there had never been any doubt in
Jarrod's mind though. There had never been the slightest hesitation, the barest
whisper of choice. She was everything to him, and he would not give her up. Not
even to keep a child's promise to his father.
Tom Barkley had said that he wasn't a 'great man', but Jarrod knew that it
wasn't true. All of those things that his father had said to him that day, they
really were qualities that Tom Barkley shared, even if he did not believe them
mirrored in himself. His father had forfeited his own life to try to help other
people. To do what was right. All of that decency that Tom had projected onto
the young Jarrod, had also been mirrored in his own soul.
Tom Barkley's way to fight evil, his way to help those less fortunate had not
involved politics. And perhaps his eldest son's wouldn't either. But Jarrod
knew that there were still causes he could champion, still wrongs that he could
address, even if he didn't do it from the sacrosanct walls of the California
Capitol.
"If you bow out now, Barkley," came the threat from one of the other
men in the group, Len Post, "you aren't just done for this election.
You're done in politics in California forever."
A flash of pain crossed Jarrod's face. He understood this. He had said his good
byes to his life's ambitions yesterday, alone, in the cold, grey, windy streets
of Sacramento. He had asked forgiveness of the multitudes who might have
counted on him. And of the father whom he had adored.
Jarrod thought though, that his father would understand. Might even approve.
Tom Barkley had always put his own family first, their welfare and well-being
of tantamount importance to him. His love of his wife and children had been his
rock. His home and family life, his beacon. Jarrod thought, that if Tom Barkley
had met and known Catherine and Cadence, that if he knew how very much they
meant to his son, he would have understood Jarrod's devotion and commitment to
them.
Jarrod hadn't given up his dreams of helping people. He might not do it on the
floors on the California legislature as an elected representative, but he could
continue to fight for what was right. The battles would just have to take place
through other venues.
"I realize that, Len," Jarrod said softly. He reached for a cigar,
lighting it.
"I don't understand you at all!" Wyatt Bostwick railed.
"We more or less brought you the state, laid it at your feet, and you're
ready to toss it all aside for some...some woman?!" Bostwick's
eyes slid uneasily towards Patrick Vandermeer. They had all known that Jarrod
Barkley and Patricia Vandermeer had been courting, that the union was approved
by Patrick. Patrick had in fact hinted not long ago about marriage between the
pair.
When the courtship had appeared to die down for a while, Bostwick, like so many
others, had thought it to be only temporarily on hold, so that Jarrod could
present a sympathetic figure to the voters. Not that he would have needed much
more to sway them than Sam White's endorsement. But Bostwick had understood
that Jarrod was likely hedging his bets and had been impressed with his acumen.
When the rumours had begun to surface in the last couple of days about Jarrod's
mistress, and his foolish public indiscretions, Bostwick had wondered what
Patrick Vandermeer would be thinking and feeling. How humiliating it must be
for the man, Bostwisk realized, to see his precious daughter dumped for an Indian
woman. There had been some confusion initially as to her nationality, but the
consensus had been that Jarrod Barkley's mistress was indeed of Indian
heritage.
Bostwick and the others had believed they could still salvage this mess,
especially with Vandermeer's continued public support of Jarrod Barkley. Oh,
there would be a furor when Clayton Knowles and his camp got wind of Jarrod's
transgression, but Bostwick and the others had felt that they could still hold
onto the nomination.
As long as Barkley had been willing to cease his ridiculous dalliance, and had
severed all ties with this other woman, they might have had a good chance to
turn any tide that was building against him. People knew that Jarrod was a
liberal, that he had many friends of different heritages. It was likely that
they could have passed the woman off as a family friend, or a client. They had
invested hours debating how to handle this situation, and had come up with some
concrete plans.
And now Jarrod Barkley was turning his back on them. Was turning his back on
the Mansion. Was rejecting the promise of power that had been dangled in their
grasps. Bostwick recalled now the group's initial mild concern about Jarrod.
About his strange behaviour at the Wheeler trial in San Francisco. The way he
had seemed to blank out. The other incidents that had precipitated the trial.
Just little things, but things that had caused niggling doubts about Jarrod's
mental fitness.
They had been accepting of his explanations of fatigue, and his assertion that
he had just been working too hard and needed some rest. He had seemed totally
in control of himself, charming and at ease, and had allayed any of their
fears. But now Wyatt had to wonder, if perhaps they hadn't been too eager to
believe that Jarrod Barkley was indeed in command of his faculties. His bizarre
behaviour with the Indian woman, his renouncing of his political aspirations,
they didn't sound to Wyatt like a man who was in touch with reality. They
sounded more like the actions of a man who had taken leave of his senses.
Jarrod glared at Wyatt Bostwick now with an icy stare that made Wyatt's blood
run cold. "I don't give a damn whether you understand me or not,
Wyatt," Jarrod told him icily. "I'm stepping back, that's all there
is to it."
Henry Stanton fingered his greying moustache. "There's a little more to it
than that, Jarrod," he informed him with a sigh. He was bitterly
disappointed in this turn of events. Henry considered Jarrod Barkley a friend.
Had respected and admired the man. His foolhardy announcement left Henry
feeling cheated. But he could see that there would be no changing Jarrod's
mind. Despite what they had believed, Jarrod Barkley was not their man.
It was time to consider the matter at hand, Henry reasoned. Knowles and his
people would be all over this fiasco. The group would have to work now to put
forth a new candidate, and to make him seem a desirable choice over Jarrod.
They would have to look strong, not like they were on the run, licking their
wounds, grabbing at the first replacement they could find. "I'm going to
assume that despite your personal decisions regarding this matter, that you are
still a Republican at heart? That you still support our long-reaching goals and
share our ideals and persuasions?"
"Yes, Henry, I do," Jarrod agreed. "I still believe in our
cause. I just can't be the man to lead it."
Henry Stanton believed the regret in Jarrod's eyes was sincere. "Well
then, we're going to need a couple of days at least to regroup. To approach
another candidate. To lobby Governor White for his support. To determine how
we'll want to run our new man against Knowles. I'll assume you still have no
desire, as an interested Californian, to see Clayton Knowles become Governor of
this state?"
"Absolutely not," Jarrod said emphatically, his eyes flashing.
The other men in the room watched Henry Stanton, content for now to follow his
lead. "Then we'll ask you, respectfully, to keep any of this out of the
press. Until such time that we're ready to make the announcement. It will have
to be in the next couple of days...time is at a premium. But it will be better
if the announcement comes from us, under controlled situations."
Jarrod could understand this. He still wanted this faction of his party to win
the election. "I'd like to tell Governor White myself though," Jarrod
told him. "He's been bedridden all weekend, I gather, and the earliest I
can see him is tomorrow. I feel that I owe it to him to tell him in
person."
Stanton inclined his head. "I think that would be fine. But when this hits
the newspapers, I want us to be fully ready. I want us to have a new man on
board. I want us to look strong, as though this is not a mad scramble to deal
with unforeseen events, but a change of course that will be best for the party
and for the state. I'd like the official story to be that we asked you to step
down, on further consideration, and that you did so willingly for the good of
the party. That you express your full support for your successor."
All eyes swung back to Jarrod. "That's fine," he assured Henry.
"However you think it best to handle things, I'll go along with. Who do
think we should bring to the fore? Burns? Or MacIntyre?"
Len Post spoke again, his tone bitter. "I don't think that's any concern
of yours anymore Jarrod. You no longer have any say in the matter. You
just forfeited that right! You'll have to wait and find out from the papers
just like everyone else!"
Jarrod's cheeks coloured, but he knew that the other man was right. "Of
course," he said wearily. Then he looked over at Patrick Vandermeer, who
had finally glanced in Jarrod's direction. Patrick's eyes had lifted their
veil, and the hatred and animosity that Jarrod saw there almost made his heart
stop for a moment. Jarrod was the only one who realized that Patrick Vandermeer
hadn't said a single word during the entire discussion.
This was the part of his job that Nick liked the least. The
paperwork. He sat hunched over the desk in the library, a cup of coffee at his
elbow, papers strewn across the surface. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. Nick
didn't know how Jarrod did it. How he managed to spend so much of his life
cooped up inside. Nick wondered what he would do, if he couldn't spend his days
outdoors, in the fresh air and sunshine. Even on days like today, cold and overcast,
it was preferable to be outside, rather than trapped indoors.
Nick envied Heath who was still out on the range with the men. The dark-haired
cowboy had worked with them through the morning, but finally accepted that he
couldn't put off the mundane tasks any longer, and had ridden back in to the
main house after lunch. He tried to concentrate on the figures in the long
columns, but his vision swam, and he couldn't concentrate. His thoughts were
elsewhere.
Victoria had stayed over night with the Norrises. Nick thought despondently
about the scene that had greeted them when they had arrived at the small ranch
last evening. Kent and Pauline Norris had been sitting there silently, in the
bedroom that had been Tommy's and C.J.'s, slumped in their chairs, keeping
vigil over their oldest son's body. Dr. Merar was notifying the undertaker when
he got back to Stockton, and the Norrises were waiting for Seth Heinz's
arrival.
Tommy Norris had been only thirteen years old. In many ways, on his way to
becoming a man, but in many others still just a boy. His pale body lay rigid on
the small bed. Pauline hadn't wanted Dr. Merar to cover her son's head with the
quilt. So Tommy lay there, almost as if in sleep. His head was wrapped in
muslin bandages, the way he lain since the accident several days ago.
Dr. Merar had told Kent and Pauline that the first forty-eight hours would be
critical. And so they had waited, neither eating or sleeping, occasionally
dozing off with their head and shoulders resting against the bed, occasionally
fortifying themselves with coffee. When that time had passed, they had begun to
grow hopeful, even though Tommy had not once spoken to them or even opened his
eyes. Then that morning, his gangly, youthful body and breathed it's last, gasp
of breath. And then had stilled forever.
Nick couldn't imagine what it was like to be a parent, and he couldn't begin to
imagine what it would be like to lose a child. He knew that it was perhaps the
greatest torture a soul would ever have to bear. If a child survived infancy,
and was healthy and strong, a parent began to believe that they would have that
child until their own natural end. They began to believe that they would see
that child grow, and mature and reach adulthood. Fall in love, and then have children
of their own. Nature's design was for the parent to grow old, and then leave
this earth first. But God's plan didn't always allow for that.
It had wrenched Nick's heart to see the emptiness in the eyes of his friends.
That they were unable to give voice to their unbearable grief, had pained him
even more. They both just sat, staring at their lost child, apparently unable
to accept their loss. Neither Kent nor Pauline had even acknowledged the
Barkleys' arrival.
Nick and his mother had stood in the little room. Tears had run down Victoria's
smooth cheeks, as she clutched Nick's hand. Nick had felt that he was
intruding. He hadn't wanted to witness this terrible scene. He knew that C.J.
was still missing. Iva Merar had accompanied her husband to the Norris place
when word had come from one of the Norris hands that Tommy had seemed to have
taken a turn for the worst. His heartbeat had slowed and his breathing
shallowed. One look from Howard had told Iva the end was near, and she had
grabbed her coat while the doctor had grabbed his bag.
She had made a fresh pot of coffee for everyone, seeming grateful for Nick and
Victoria's arrival. They were the closest neighbours to the Norrises, in
addition to being the first to be notified of Tommy's death. Iva had whispered
to the Barkleys, as she bustled about the Norris kitchen, trying to keep
herself busy, that C.J. had fled from the house when Howard had voiced what the
Norrises already knew. That Tommy had left his earthly body and gone home to
his maker.
C.J. had grabbed his coat, and banged out the front door, his body racked with
heart-rending sobs, as he had raced across the homestead, through the fields,
as fast as his nine-year-old legs could carry him. Iva and Howard were both
worried when he hadn't returned within the hour. It was bitterly cold out,
especially on the open range with no trees or boulders to act as wind breaks.
They knew that since C.J. had fired the bullet that had taken his brother's
life, his guilt was enormous. Even though it had been an accident. Iva had
whispered to the Barkleys that she had heard from one of the hands that neither
Kent nor Pauline had said a single word to their youngest son since his
brother's bleeding and comatose body had been brought in from the woods.
Nick had been at a total loss, far out of his element. Mother and Jarrod were
always the ones who knew what to say. Who knew how to act around people who
were in pain or suffering. They were the ones who were adept at providing
comfort and support in such emotional times. It wasn't that Nick didn't feel
things as deeply as they did. He just didn't know how to communicate that to
other people. Now, his own heart was breaking at the vacant looks in the
couple's eyes. Nick had stood there, on tenterhooks, waiting to follow his
mother's lead.
At last, Victoria had softly suggested that perhaps Nick should go try to find
C.J. before it got dark. Kent and Pauline must have heard her, in the stillness
of the room, but they gave no indication that they had either heard or
understood. Grateful to be able to escape the oppressive agony of the room, and
the sight of the lifeless lad, Nick had hastened to comply.
He had found C.J. easily enough. Nick was on horseback, while the boy was on
foot. On a hunch, Nick had asked the hands where the accident had taken place.
They had indicated a forested area on the south side of the ranch, near the
river. Nick had urged Orion to a quick pace and had headed south across the
pasture. He had found the young boy, sitting on a fallen tree, his knees pulled
up tight, his head tucked in towards them. He had been sobbing so loudly, he
hadn't heard Orion's approach, nor the jingle of the tall, rangy cowboys spurs.
Nick had reached a hand towards the boy's shoulder, giving a squeeze. The wind had
picked up again, whooshing down from the mountains, stinging exposed skin.
"You need to come home, Boy," Nick said gruffly.
"I'm n...never g..going back there," C.J. stuttered through his
tears. "Th...they h...hate me! I k...killed my b...brother!"
Nick's heart bled for the child. "They don't hate you boy," Nick
said, hoping that that was true. "It was an accident son." He waited
while the thin shoulder under his hand continued to heave. "You gotta come
home, Boy. It's cold out."
C.J. turned his face towards Nick, his blue eyes fevered. "I k...killed
Tommy!" he wailed, shaking his head wildly against the horrible reality.
"I killed my b..brother! I wish it had been m...me who died!" His
face mirrored this truth.
Nick knelt down in the pine needles next to the fallen log. This wasn't a job
for him, he knew. But there was no one else to do it. He closed his eyes for a
moment, and prayed for God to put the right words in his heart. His own eyes
stung with tears, and his normally gravelly voice was even raspier.
"You're alive, Boy. And your Ma and Pa are gonna need you. They're
grieving, C.J., just like you are. Like we all are. Tommy was your brother, and
I know how much you loved him, and how much you're gonna miss him. I've got
three brothers myself." Nick's throat tightened as he imagined losing any
of them, let alone by his own hand.
"They hate me, Mr. Barkley. They b...blame me," C.J. said, his red
hair messed, his blue eyes swollen, grimy rivulets staining his freckled
cheeks. "Tommy's gone and I'm never gonna get to see him again! I ain't
never gonna get to tell him I love him! Or that I'm sorry!" The boy had
launched himself into Nick's arms then.
Awkwardly, Nick had slipped his own arms around the child. Patting his back,
and smoothing his hair, he had let the boy cry. Until finally, the wracking
sobs had become the occasional hitch, and then finally all sound had ceased.
And then Nick had lifted the child up onto Orion, and ridden with C.J. back to
the ranch.
By that time, Nick had hoped his mother would have worked her magic. That Kent
and Pauline would finally be exhibiting some signs of emotion. But the couple
remained just as he had left them. It was almost as if, Nick thought, they had
died too. Unable to endure things no longer, and feeling that his presence
wasn't helping his friends any anyhow, Nick had begged off and returned to the
ranch. Victoria, understanding, had encouraged him to go. She would remain
overnight with the Norrises, and help with the arrangements for Tommy once Seth
Heinz arrived, in case Kent and Pauline were unable to.
Nick had tossed and turned all night, haunted by the tragedy and the raw
emotion of the day. He had welcomed daybreak and the opportunity to get out on
the range, and throw himself into his work. Hard physical labour was the cure
to many ills, Nick had found. In keeping his body busy he could ward off too
many intrusions from his mind. He could work out his pain and frustration
through the straining of his muscles. Eventually though, Nick had had to return
reluctantly to the house, and to the paperwork that needed his personal
attention.
Victoria was upstairs sleeping. Resting, at any rate, Nick knew. He wasn't sure
how much sleep she would get either, despite her fatigue. He had been out this
morning when she had arrived back at the ranch, and so he hadn't had an
opportunity to speak with her yet about what had happened since his abandonment
of her.
Annabelle and Catherine were in the drawing room with Chase and Cadence. The
mood in the house was very subdued. Neither woman had known the Norris family,
but the death of a child was felt by all. And their mother's hearts had
sorrowed, as they kept their own precious offspring near.
Nick forced himself to concentrate on his work. He had to figure back in again
the money that had come out of the cattle books for the breeding bull. Nick's
ire flared again. Damn that Al Langford! That bull had been part of an
extensive breeding programme that Nick had worked out. He would find another
bull, he knew, but he wanted one with similar genetics to introduce to his
herd. He had done a lot of research before selecting just that bull. All of
that effort was now down the drain.
Nick raked a hand through his dark hair, and it tumbled over his forehead. He
tried not to think about the bull, or about the fight in Stockton, or about the
two hands who quit. They had found two men willing to replace them, men who
seemed eager for the chance to sign on with the Barkley ranch.
But though they seemed like decent enough men, they were both young, and they
were both green when it came to ranching. They could ride, and rope decently
enough, but they weren't experienced with raising either cattle or horses. They
were brothers, farmers, Cole and Chad Powers, who'd come west from Nebraska. Ah
well, Nick thought, beggars can't be choosers. It was hard to find experienced
men this time of year.
At least something was going right, Nick reasoned, trying to cheer himself up.
Audra and Bobby Olson had made up. Nick had been happy to see the young man at
dinner yesterday. He thought well of Bobby, and thought that he was a good
match for Audra. At least that had been one situation that had had nothing to
do with Catherine.
Nick had managed to work steadily for an hour, before Silas had knocked on the
open door, announcing that there had been a special delivery letter for him. In
addition to some other correspondence, there was an envelope addressed to the
Barkley Ranch. All such general mail came to Nick first. If it was a legal
matter, it would be referred to Jarrod, but anything else was Nick's domain. He
thanked Silas and reached for the letter opener.
The envelope was return addressed to the Kimball-Merriweather Company in
Sacramento. Nick recognized the name immediately. In addition to their other
concerns, Kimball-Merriweather was parent company to Overland Freight, and to
Sacramento Western Wholesalers.
Nick had managed to swing a lucrative deal with Sacramento Western to purchase
the Barkley almond and walnut harvests this year, by contracting for Overland
Freight to be responsible for the shipping arrangements. With his agreement to
use Overland Freight, Sacramento Western had signed on to purchase the Barkley
produce at five cents a pound more than Nick would have gotten elsewhere. And
the freight costs were still in line with what they would have contracted with
any other shipping company.
He took out the letter within, skimming over the legalese at the beginning to
get to the heart of the matter. His dark eyes widened as they took in the full
import of the words. Kimball-Merriweather, by order of it's board of directors,
was ceasing all dealings with the Barkleys. They would not be honouring their
current contract to either ship or purchase the Barkley harvests. Nick fumed as
he read the paragraphs that outlined the loopholes that would allow Overland
Freight and Sacramento Western to get out of their obligations.
The dark-haired rancher let out a string of expletives, slamming his fist on
the desktop. What the hell were they supposed to do now? This late in the
season, with the harvests already underway, it would be next to impossible to
find another wholesaler. Getting a new freight company would not be a problem,
there were always new companies clambouring for business. But deals to purchase
crops were made months in advance, and the other major wholesalers would
already be tied into deals to purchase almonds and walnuts elsewhere. Even if
Nick could find another buyer, or buyers, this late in the game, the prices for
his crops would have spiralled downward astronomically.
This just didn't make any sense, Nick thought, his head spinning. Especially
since one of the major shareholders in Kimball-Merriweather was Jarrod's
political ally, Patrick Vandermeer.
Nick had sat stewing, waiting for Heath to get home. By the time his
fair-haired brother had arrived back at the ranch, Nick was a lit stick of
dynamite whose fuse was just about to reach its end. When he'd heard Heath's
voice, Nick had given a strangled call for Heath to get into the library now!
Heath hadn't even stopped to find his wife and son, but had hurried to see what
had his brother so riled up.
"Read this," Nick had spat through clenched teeth, thrusting the
letter at his younger sibling.
Heath's blue eyes had scanned the page. "I don't get it," Heath said,
frowning. "Can they do this? Legally I mean?"
Nick shrugged his broad shoulders. "How should I know?" he snarled.
"I'm not a lawyer! That's Big Brother's department! But I don't imagine
Kimball-Merriweather's lawyers would allow them to draft this unless they were
pretty damned sure they had an out!"
"Don't make sense," Heath commented. "This was a good deal for
everyone. Why would they want to back out now? And where does this leave
us?"
"I'll tell you where this leaves us!" Nick growled. "With
orchards full of nuts and no one to ship them, or more importantly, no one to
sell them to!" He stopped and took several deep breaths as he looked at
his brother through narrowed eyes. "As for why they would want to
back out....they sighted personal reasons. I've been giving that one
some thought. And I think I know what this is all about! This has got to do
with Jarrod and Catherine!"
"Now Nick," Heath interjected hastily, "that's a pretty big
conclusion to leap to."
"Oh is it really?" Nick demanded. "You don't see a pattern here?
The backlash from the folks in town, Millar and Forbes quitting, Al Langford
reneging on his deal to sell the breeding bull...what's the common denominator
there, Heath? Huh? It's Catherine Vaillancourt!"
"None of that is her fault," Heath said quietly, fighting for
control.
"No, I didn't say it was her fault," Nick agreed. "Just
that her and Jarrod, her being at the house...that's all tied in with those
other things. And I can't help but believe that this latest has something to do
with it as well!"
"Well, we'll wait till Jarrod gets back, and see what he can find
out," Heath said reasonably. "Why would some suits in Sacramento care
about Catherine. How would they even know?"
"I'll tell you how," Nick pounced. "Because one of the
major shareholders, and a big voice on the board of directors at
Kimball-Merriweather is Patrick Vandermeer! Jarrod's old girlfriend Patricia
Vandermeer's daddy. Doesn't that strike you as just a little coincidental?!"
Heath licked his lips, considering Nick's words. "Well, maybe you got a
point. It is a kinda big coincidence. But there's nothin' we can do about
it."
"No, there isn't, is there?" Nick repeated furiously. "Because
we can't say a damned thing to Jarrod, can we?" Heath lowered his eyes.
"What are we supposed to do Heath, just sit around entertaining Jarrod's
lady friend while everything we've worked so hard to build comes crashing down
around us?"
"That's a bit of an exaggeration, Nick," Heath said stubbornly.
"We don't even know what Jarrod's plans are, do we? He isn't sharing them
with anyone. He walks around with his head in the clouds while the rest of us
deal with the fall out! Is he planning on keeping Catherine and Cadence here
indefinitely? Does he have any idea of how people in the valley are reacting to
all of this? This just won't hurt business either, Heath. It can hurt Mother or
Audra or Annabelle too!" Nick's shoulders slumped. He lowered his voice
despondently. "I don't blame Catherine, Heath. But let's be realistic
here. Jarrod is playing with fire, and if he's not careful, we're all going to
get burned."
Catherine had been passing through the hall, when she had heard Nick's voice,
raised in anger. She had hurried by guiltily, not wanting to eavesdrop on
private family business. Then she had heard her Nick say her name. Had heard
his frustration. 'This has got to do with Jarrod and Catherine.'
She'd stood riveted to the spot, unable to do the decent thing and keep moving.
Her feet just wouldn't obey the frantic commands her brain was sending them.
She'd frozen there, listening to the remainder of the conversation. She had
begun to shake as she had heard Nick talk about the backlash the Barkleys had
been experiencing over her presence here. She felt the nausea wash over her. Oh
dear God! What was she doing to these good people? Catherine eyes
glistened. She knew that she and Cady couldn't stay another night under the
Barkley roof.
At dinner that evening, Catherine announced that it was time
for she and Cadence to be getting back home. Cadence had opened her mouth to
protest, but a warning look from her mother had silenced her. Catherine had
explained that her arm was healed, and that any of the dangers that might have
lurked in Stockton had been nullified. She had been afraid that there might be
opposition to her plan. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed
when the Barkleys put up little resistance.
"Maybe you ought ta wait til Jarrod gets back," Heath told her. He
had been the most vociferous in encouraging her to extend her stay just a few
more days, but even he was quickly mollified.
"We came here because I was hurt, and because Cadence and I might be in
danger," Catherine had responded. "The danger is over, and I'm as
good as new. I've got work that I need to get back to, and I've imposed on your
hospitality long enough."
Victoria had demurred, assuring Catherine that it had not been an imposition,
and that it had been their pleasure to have she and Cadence as their guests.
Catherine could see that Mrs. Barkley was tired and upset. Victoria had
informed them before dinner that Tommy Norris's funeral would be tomorrow
afternoon. She hadn't said too much about Kent and Pauline, only that they
weren't coping with the loss very well, and that she was concerned that they
weren't voicing their grief. They had turned away from one another and away
from C.J. as well.
Both Nick and Heath had been long-faced and serious, communicating mostly
through a series of grunts. Catherine, of course, knew what was bothering them,
and she also knew they hadn't had time to share their latest trouble with the
rest of the family yet. Annabelle had been very introverted, hovering over her
baby son, getting up twice during the meal to check on Chase who was sleeping
contentedly in his bassinette.
When the dessert course came, thick slices of warm apple pie, Victoria had
tried to interject some levity into the atmosphere. She had announced with a
game smile that she had forgotten to mention that there had been a letter from
Eugene. He had written that he was coming home for Thanksgiving. He hadn't been
home since the spring, and hadn't even had the opportunity to meet his new
nephew yet.
Audra, who had been the only one who had seemed calm and, if not quite happy
due to the circumstances of their neighbours' tragedy, at least at peace, had
seized on the revelation that her younger brother was coming home in a couple
of weeks.
"Oh, you'll just adore Gene!" Audra had told Catherine, her lovely
face beaming. "He's such a sweetheart. And a wonderful dancer too. You'll
have to save him a dance at the Thanksgiving party." Catherine had
returned her smile. "And Gene is a lot like Jarrod. Cultured and
chivalrous. Not like those two heathens," Audra chuckled, inclining her
head in first Nick's and then Heath's direction. Audra's laughter was cut short
and her ivory cheeks turned scarlet as she realized with mortification that she
had made an unfortunate word choice.
Heath tried to cover her embarrassment with a quick change of topic.
"Whenever you and Cadence are ready, I'll load the buggy and drive ya back
to Stockton," Heath told Catherine. He had looked to his left, to Belle,
to make sure that was okay and she didn't have any other plans. Her nod was
almost imperceptible.
"Well then, I guess we'll go finish gathering up," Catherine said,
pushing her chair back from the table and rising. She waited for Cadence.
"Thank you all again, for making us so welcome here." Catherine
couldn't help but notice that Nick didn't look towards her at all. Instead, he
stared morosely into his glass of wine, swirling the claret liquid.
The days were getting much shorter, and night had just fallen when Heath pulled
the buggy to a stop in front of the shack. The wind made the front gate swing
in the wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. It reminded Catherine eerily of the
night she had found Fluffy's body. The little house looked so dark and
unwelcoming. Neither she nor Cadence had set foot inside since the night George
Vail had tried to kill them. Catherine's palms were sweaty, and her heart
raced.
"I'll go in and light a lamp," Heath said, sensing her apprehension.
His long legs took him quickly up the front walk, then through the door. It
took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the inky shroud that blanketed the
room, but soon he could make out the outlines of furniture. A rocker and a
table. He felt his way to the lamp, lighting the wick, then turning it up. The
golden glow dispelled the shadow.
Heath's stomach tightened when he saw the darker stain on the wood floor and
recognized it for what it was. He began to have second thoughts about the
wisdom of Catherine and Cady coming back here. Alone. At night. They had both
suffered a traumatic event in this very room. Returning to these surroundings
was bound to cause the pain and suffering to resurface. Heath knew how that
was. It would be the same way that he had felt on those couple of occasions
that he had returned to Strawberry after his mother's death.
"Thank you, Heath," Catherine said from the open doorway. She stood
in the threshold, Cadence in front, her hands on the little girl's shoulders.
Cadence clutched her homemade dolly, and though she didn't look very happy to
be back home to the shack again, she didn't look frightened either.
"I'll stay and get a fire goin' in the stove," Heath volunteered.
"It's a might chilly in here."
"That's not necessary," Catherine assured him. "I'm more than
capable."
"Yeah, I know that," Heath told her gently. "It'd jus' make me
feel better to know you were both squared away 'fore I left."
Catherine realized she had sounded ungracious. She was nervous. Halley had done
an excellent job of cleaning the floor, better than Catherine could have dared
hope, but seeing the faintly darker area on the planks had affected her more
than she had thought it would. How close she had come to losing her precious
daughter. Or even her own life. Her eyes had gone to the gunrack Jarrod had put
up. Empty now.
And Catherine already felt guilty enough for dragging Heath out here this
evening. He must be tired after a hard day's work, and eager to get back to see
his wife and son. And to discuss with Nick and the others this news they had
gotten today from Sacramento.
Additionally, being here again, walking through the door, Catherine felt as
though she had donned again that shawl of fierce independence that had seemed
to slip from her shoulders when she had temporarily abdicated responsibility to
Jarrod. It had only been a few days really, but how easy it had been to grow
soft. To begin to become dependent. She would have to toughen up again.
Quickly. Cadence depended on her.
"I'm sorry, Heath," Catherine apologized, chagrined. "Thank you
for the offer." His lopsided smile let her know that he understood. And
she believed that he did. Probably more than she could imagine.
Once the stove was stoked, and Catherine busied herself putting on a pot of
coffee, Heath went back out to the buggy for their things. In addition to the
couple of small boxes Jarrod had brought out to the ranch, there was the
Saratoga trunk with their new purchases from San Francisco. Catherine had gone
back out to assist Heath with the trunk, but he had shooed her away. The doc
had told her to take it easy with that arm for at least another week, and she'd
better listen to him, Heath had advised.
So Catherine watched as Heath slid the heavy wooden trunk to the rear edge of
the buggy. Taking a deep breath, he hefted it with both arms gripping the side
handles. His biceps beneath the jacket bulged and he gritted his teeth.
Balancing it against first one lean leg then the other, his arms and chest
straining, Heath moved across the yard. He had to lean way back to manoeuver it
up the steps, his face showing the exertion. At last, he deposited it inside,
near the small dining table.
"Boy howdy, what've you young ladies got in there?" Heath asked,
wiping sweat from his brow. "I had no idea a bunch of frilly dresses could
weigh so much!" He winked at Catherine and Cadence. The child giggled.
Catherine invited him to stay for coffee, citing that it was cold out, and he'd
have at least an hour's ride back to the ranch and should warm himself inside
and out first. Intuiting that she wasn't quite ready to be on her own there
yet, Heath had accepted. Cadence was more quiet than usual, but whether that
was because she was tired, or whether there was some other cause, Heath
couldn't tell. After a second cup of coffee, gauging finally that Catherine
seemed more comfortable, he finally took his leave.
Catherine closed the door, and stood for a moment with her forehead pressed
against the chilled window pane. This was their life, hers and Cady's. Of
course, now that they had been away, playing at the luxurious life of high
society, their little shack would feel painfully lonely, the bare room
incredibly tiny, their single bed unbelievably hard and lumpy.
That was the problem with dreaming that you were a princess and that you lived
in a castle, Catherine knew. When the dream ended, and you woke up, you still
had to live your real life. And if you were a washerwoman, and your home was
one of a row of run-down shanties, the residual memories of those dreams could
make your reality all the harder to bear.
* * * * * * * *
The only light in the room came from the fire that burned in
the hearth along the wall opposite the bed. The red-gold flames cast flickering
shadows in the darkness, dancing over the exquisite planes of her face, and the
soft, milky curves of her body. She stood there silently, fully bare, her eyes
downcast, her trembling arms modestly trying to cover those areas no longer
covered by corset or knickers.
He had given a sharp intake of breath when she had stepped from the adjoining
bathroom, her dark hair tumbling over her naked shoulders, down her back and
around across her cleavage. She had hesitated, and he had gone to her, gently
pushing the hair back, so that nothing would obstruct his view of her feminine
perfection.
She had come to him willingly, without any pressure or attempts at seduction on
his part. After dinner at his home, she had risen from her chair, and moved to
his, sitting on his lap, putting her arms around his neck, and parting his lips
with her own. Her tongue had slipped over his teeth, seeking his. She had kissed
him with growing intensity, until at last, drawing back, she had looked at him,
her eyes wide and shining.
She had slipped from his lap, his body aching as he relinquished her from his
arms. She had taken his hand then, wordlessly, and begun to move through the
house, across the room, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room. One of
the servants had lit a fire earlier in the day, to keep the bitter autumn winds
at bay. The room was warm, subtly illuminated and inviting.
She had closed the door, then pivoted in his arms, pressing her firm young body
against him. He could feel the outline of her curves, certain that she must
also feel the outline of his desire. Her lips had found his again and he
plunged his tongue into her mouth, seeking and tasting. She moved back from
him, and reached her hands between them, beginning to unbutton his shirt. She
had pushed the fabric aside, her delicate hands roaming over his smooth,
hairless chest, and down across his flat, well-muscled abdomen.
She had paused at his belt buckle, her hand hovering, then she had looked up at
him with a shy smile. She had backed away then, and he had thought the game was
over. That she had lead him to this point, had changed her mind, and that there
would be no sweet release for his body's tortured state. He bit back a groan of
disappointment. But he would not force her, no matter how much he longed to
possess her.
When she had slipped into the bathroom, his mouth had gone dry, and his heart
had pounded in his chest. He didn't dare hope that this could possibly be
happening, and when she stepped out again after what seemed an eternity he had
gasped aloud to see what she was offering him.
His breathing came in shallow pants as he worked out of his own clothes, then
reached hesitantly to touch her smooth, pale skin. He moved her arms and hands
away slowly, his eyes trying to communicate that she had no reason to feel shy
with him. "My God," he whispered, "you're the most
beautiful woman I've ever seen."
He touched her gently, reverently, his fingers sliding over new and previously
forbidden territory. When her own hands began an exploration of their own, he
gave a strangled moan. He swept her off her feet. carrying her to the big bed,
and laid her down on it. With her dark hair splayed around her head against the
start white of the coverlet, and her tiny, curvaceous body spread invitingly
before him, he found it hard to breathe.
Amazingly, he was able to maintain his desire for her. It did not begin to wane
as it usually did when he was with a woman, so that he had to resort to his
games. He had no longing to hurt her or to shame her, he realized wonderingly.
He continued to hunger for her, and when her eyes slipped below his waist, and
she gave a small gasp at the evidence of his need, his wanting for her, he
thought that his knees might buckle beneath him.
When he took her, and she arched against him, biting back a strangled cry, her
body trembling, he ceased his movements and leaned on his elbows, staring down
at her in wonder. She was a virgin! Incredibly, he felt the moisture
in his eyes. She had not ever been with a man before. And now she had bestowed
on him, of her own volition, that most precious of a woman's offerings. He felt
overwhelmed and humbled.
Murmuring sweet words to her, he gentled her, loving her with more care and
physical reservation that he would have dreamed himself capable of. He expertly
soothed her, got her to relax, and gradually began to ignite the fires in her
own loins. He knew that usually a woman's first time was not the most
enjoyable. He wanted to ensure that this would be a special, memorable
experience for her. So that she would know how much she meant to him. So that
he would be worthy of her incredible gift.
It took all of his not insignificant self-control to bring her to her highest
point and to truly initiate her in the art of physical love. At last, she
gasped and cried out, tears squeezing from the corners of her closed lids, and
he allowed his body to join hers at least in release. She moved beneath him,
her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, as her perfect bow mouth
expelled a barely audible name while her body shuddered in the most intense of
physical gratifications. "Ohhh.....Jarrrrod...."
Clayton Knowles raised himself on his hands, staring down at Patricia
Vandermeer's beautiful face in horror. He felt as though someone had taken a
sledgehammer to him, knocking him off his feet, cracking his body's bones,
smashing through his skull and finally disintegrating his heart. She lay beneath
him, unaware of what she had just said, her head turned to one side, eyes still
closed as she breathed heavily, reveling in the aftermath of her pleasure.
He rolled off of her, fighting the urge to place his broad, strong hands around
the long, creamy throat, fighting the urge to squeeze until her face turned
blue and those incredible green eyes bulged out her head. He couldn't stand the
pain, the way his heart convulsed in his chest, and the empty, hollow feeling
in the pit of his stomach. These latter sensations were unfamiliar, alien
territory, and Clayton Knowles didn't realize that his heart was breaking.
Patricia turned and curled her body over towards him and with a sigh, rested
her head on his chest. She traced a finger over the broad expanse of skin,
until he captured her hand and brought it to his lips. His kissed each
fingertip. They didn't speak, laying there while the firelight continued to
dance over their glistening bodies. At last, she fell asleep, and he eased
himself out of her embrace.
Quickly, furiously, Clayton Knowles dressed. He left the house, his rage
building by the minute, and went out to the carriage house. He saddled his
black, vaulted into the saddle, then kicked the horse sharply in the ribs, and
galloped away from the house. He raced to his destination, the cold night air
no match for the inferno that consumed him from within.
It had been his body that had loved her, his skill that had brought her
pleasure, and it had arisen from his passion and the enormity of his feelings
for her. Yet, in those final throes, it had been Jarrod Barkley's name
that had slipped from her lips. It was Jarrod Barkley that she
envisioned through her closed lids as she gave herself to him so freely. It was
Jarrod Barkley's name that instilled such passion in her. Jarrod
Barkley that Patricia still loved.
Knowles used his crop against the side of the horse's frothed neck, as they
raced through the Sacramento downtown backstreets. Seeing his destination, Clay
reined in the stallion, dismounting and roping the reins on the hitching post.
He burst into the bordello, his footsteps heavy, as his wild-eyed gaze scanned
the room. The other men glanced at him for only a moment, then turned their
attention back to the various beauties they were being entertained by, and the
to the drinks in their hands.
The girls looked his way, those who already had customers or potential
customers, grateful that they were busy. The few girls who were not otherwise
attached yet for the evening looked at the newcomer fearfully. They knew who
this man was. His reputation in houses of ill-repute was legendary. He was
ruthless and cruel and often physically dangerous. He paid well, extremely
well, if a girl was of a mind to let him own her soul.
Brandy chewed her bottom look as she stared at Clayton Knowles. She'd had the
misfortune to be with him before, and was not eager to do so again. But she was
in a bit of a predicament right now, and she needed some fast money. The doc
that Madame Bianca could get for her, to take care of her little problem, would
cost more than the girl had. And she knew she had to deal with her situation
before too much more time had passed. So, she took a deep breath and sashayed
over to the blond man, despite the thunderous look in his pale blue eyes.
She would do, Clay thought, sizing the young woman up. Her eyes weren't green,
they were hazel, but her hair was dark. It was pinned up now, but it would be
long once it was let down. He nodded to her curtly, grabbed her roughly by the
wrist, then marched up the stairs to one of the rooms.
Clay came back down a half hour later. He was no longer seething with anger,
but calm and refreshed. He beckoned Madame Bianca to a private corner and
exchanged a few words with her in private. He took out his wallet and counted
out $500. She shook her head. Knowles frowned and dipped back into his
billfold, extracting more. Madame Rosa took the $1,000 that he offered, and
then he left her establishment.
Madame Bianca crept up the stairs to the second last door on the right. She
opened it and peered inside. The room was still. Brandy lay on the bed, her
eyes open in a vacant, terrified stare. Her throat was red and bruised. Her
lips were frozen open after uttering the last words she would ever say. The
ones the blond-haired devil had insisted she utter before he had strangled her
to death.
"Ohhh.....Jarrrrod...."