Upon a Midnight Clear by Jude Deveraux
"Forget it, Isabel. The jig's up. Bellamy's a crackpot With a mashy club."
"With a what?
"Mashy golf club. I've played the game before. This guy's brain is just as mashy as that club he's holding. The old bird has been duffing balls at me."
Isabel had to walk fast to keep up with John. "Him? Really… I don't think he'd hit you on purpose. He looks so… harmless."
"Harmless as a busted pump rod."
"But what if he really does have money he's giving away?" she reasoned. "We can't risk somebody else getting it."
He stopped and faced her. "Isabel. There is no money. The guy's flat busted after the renovations he made on that house. This contest is a fake."
She understood why John was skeptical. Deep down she had her doubts as well. But there was something about Bellamy's eyes: the crinkling blue with tines in the corners; the warm depths; the merry cheeks; the way his tummy sort of shook when he laughed.
"You have to want him to be real," she said with firm conviction. "Bellamy Nicklaus's contest is all we have."
John pointed his forefinger toward the direction of the house on Ninth and Mill. "That guy reminds me of somebody."
"Me, too," she conceded. "But I can't put my finger on it."
"Yeah… like somebody I knew when I was a kid or something."
"Right…"
Rubbing the stubble at his jaw, he pondered aloud, "A lot of land swindlers in Texas when I was growing up. Could be he's one of them and this is his new scam. Holly berry contests."
"I doubt that. I grew up in Los Angeles, and I'm sure I know him. I think my mother and father showed me his picture… but I can't remember why."
"Too bad Limonero doesn't have a telephone. You could call them and ask them who this Bellamy is."
Unexpected tears filled her eyes. "My dad died some ten years ago. And my mother's been with him for three."
John let out his breath and laid a comforting hand on Isabel's shoulder. "Isabel… I'm sorry."
"You didn't know." She blinked her eyes, thinking her mother hadn't lived to see her become divorced. The shock of such a thing would have wounded her—even though Isabel had been deserted by her husband. Her mother had old values and old ideals. To her, marriage was forever no matter what
Isabel was no longer a romantic woman. But that didn't mean she'd given up on love. She was hopeful that maybe one day she'd meet somebody… and he'd be everything her husband hadn't been.
Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, John lowered his arm. "Okay. We'll keep collecting the berries."
Gratitude made her smile bright.
John added, "But if Bellamy doesn't put up, I'm having the sheriff lock him behind bars."
"He'll make good on his word. I know it."
"All right. Pack for overnight. We're leaving for Foster's Hideout just as soon as we water those lemon trees of yours."
The hair on the back of John's neck still prickled as they rode through the narrow canyon. Bellamy Nicklaus had gotten to him, had unraveled him right out of his skin and muscles… had stared at him down to his bones.
John knew him.
And Bellamy had sorely disappointed him in the past.
But what exactly that past was… John couldn't be sure. It was too vague. Too cloudy. But he kept seeing a scene play out in his head.
He'd been about five or six. It was Christmas morning. His dad hadn't come home the night before, and he must have promised his mother because she'd kept a vigil at the window. That's where he and Tom had found her when they'd come down to see what was under the tree.
Nothing.
His mother had tried to make up for it by baking them special gingerbread cookies for breakfast. Then his father had finally come through the door and his parents had argued a long while; afterward, Dad had stormed outside and gone into the barn.
It was then John stopped believing that penny whistles and wind-up dancing bears and pull toys came from some magical being. They were from his dad. And his dad had drunk their gift money at the Lucky Spot bar. From then on, John had known Christmas was for dreamers.
As he nudged his horse onward, John reflected on the years after that winter day. He'd changed. Rather than being an optimist like his brother, he'd turned into a bitter young man. From then on, he knew he could never count on anyone but himself. Discovering he had a talent for a divining rod, John would make a little money from time to time.
Mostly he worked the fields with his father, giving his elder no more than a few words when necessary. He hated having the plow strapped on him, so much that one day he'd said he'd had enough and had never gotten behind one again.
He'd left Texarkana and made his own way, doing just enough to stay afloat. Enjoying a game of cards. A glass of liquor. The soft and willing flesh of a woman.
A disturbing musing filled John's head. How did he get to be so much like his father? Why couldn't he be more like his younger brother, Tom?
Tom, who was ambitious enough to open his own sporting goods store. Tom, who saved enough earnings for it to amount to something. Tom… to whom John owed a pocketful of money. Every time John asked his brother for a loan, Tom complied. When would he wise up and realize John would never pay him back?
John lived day to day. It had been the smell of flowing oil that had attracted him to Limonero. But what did he have to show for years of working for Calco? Not a damn thing.
When Bellamy had looked at him, a single word had played over and over in John's head, knotting him up with apprehension:
Change. Change. Change.
What did Nicklaus want him to do? Change his ways? How could he? It had taken him thirty-four years to get this way. He didn't know any other existence but the one that had him Irving by the seat of his pants.
Change. Change. Change.
The branches of valley oaks stretched overhead, framing Isabel as she rode through them. They traversed oil country—all of it owned by Calco. The vast spread of shale glistening with a rainbow of petroleum and water oozing from the slopes made John think. If he could just get enough money together and buy a piece of land… he could drill for himself… be rich… have something to offer a woman.
A woman like Isabel.
Where that thought came from John didn't want to go. He didn't even know her very well—other than to know she worked hard, was trustworthy, and was more pleasant to look at than the sunset over Ventura beach. And that was saying a lot, because he surely enjoyed that hour when the sun slipped into the ocean.
"How much farther?" Isabel called over her shoulder.
"Not that much. Across the creek and over that ridge." He pointed and her gaze followed his hand.
Along the hillside stretched an endless length of pipeline. Calco's. They'd finished it some five years back and saved a bundle on transporting fees through the railroad. The oil flowed from the fields all the way to the pier in Santa Barbara, making for one hell of an enterprise.
The distant gallop of horses caught John's ear in the windless canyon. The cliffs and large grove of oaks muffled sound, so the horses had to be well inside the canyon's mouth for John to hear them. They were close. Too close. He didn't want anyone giving them a run for the berries, so he trotted up to Isabel.
"We're crossing here." He steered his horse down the incline, Isabel falling in behind.
As he cantered toward the water, he flushed a flock of buzzards looking for a little wind to ride up over the ridge. But nothing moved down here except dust and heat. Not even the gunmetal layer of clouds that hung low in the sky could give any respite from the simmering air. Rain would be a salvation. And while he thought it, several fat drops hit him on the face and arms. John didn't want to be near the creek when the downpour hit. Flash floods could strike swiftly.
He urged his horse fast up the incline, making sure Isabel could keep up. He didn't see the riders behind them, but a swirl of dirt rose from an area in the canyon about a mile back. Whoever else was on the berry chase wasn
Isabel caught up to him and they rode side-by-side in the peppering rain. "Do you think we're being followed?"
"Not followed. It's just that there aren't any bushes left around Limonero that have berries. People have to spread out. And after that speech Bellamy gave, I reckon the frenzy is only going to get worse."
Although he hadn't heard all of what Bellamy had to say, whatever it was had put the angst of a stirred beehive into town. When he and Isabel rode out the main street, shop windows had been painted with signs offering a penny for every berry brought into the store. The mercantile had upped their payment to two cents for every berry. And the Republic had done one even better—three cents.
While exiting Limonero, voices had been raised with excitement. Some said Bellamy was giving away five hundred dollars in gold. Others claimed it was one thousand in cash. Another assured the prize was the key to Bellamy's house. As the speculation increased, so did the fervor.
That was why John had buckled on a gun belt with a loaded Remington in the holster. He wasn't about to get shot over berries. Nor was he about to let anything happen to Isabel.
The need to protect her welled inside him and he rather liked the feeling. It made him think he had a worthwhile purpose, something important and more of a cause than sitting in the Republic drinking beer.
After a few miles, the climb grew steep and the oaks gave way to evergreens. A meadow loomed ahead, and with the rain coming down as hard as it was, John decided to make camp here on the sleek grass.
He reined in and dismounted. Keeping hold of his leathers, he dipped under his horse's neck and went to help Isabel. She was light in his arms as she sprung to the ground. He would have lingered a moment if it hadn't been for the need to put up the tent.
"Hobble the horses," he directed, his gaze on the raindrops clinging to her full mouth.
She set out to do so.
John began cutting poles for the tent and worked fast to stake it down. When he was finished, both he and Isabel were soaked through.
Sitting beneath the canvas and listening to the pulse of rain, John tucked a striped Mexican blanket around Isabel's shoulders.
"Cold?" he asked.
"No. The rain's warm."
Her hair had come loose from its twist. She lifted the length from beneath the blanket and the glossy black hair fell in a wet river down her back. He wished he had a brush on him… he would have liked to run it through her hair to get the tangles out.
She gazed through the part in the tent flaps, sitting Indian style and with a pensive set to her profile.
With a leisurely sweep of his eyes, John admired the beautiful view. Then he asked something he'd never asked a woman before—because he'd never cared… until now. "What are you thinking, Isabel?"
A soft smile overtook her mouth. "I was thinking about how I got here."
He grew puzzled a moment, then realized she meant the grander picture. Not here on the meadow… but here as in her life.
"Why's that?"
"Well…" She licked her lips, and as she blinked, dewy sweet rain fringed her lashes. "I'd planned to be a modern woman. A teacher, to be exact." She gave him a quick glance to look for his reaction.
He had none that was ill-willed. He thought being a teacher was an admirable thing. But he just couldn't imagine Isabel hiding her womanly figure in a shapeless crow-black dress and with a severe bun in her hair for the rest of her youthful years. "And once I was a teacher," she continued, "I was going to save all my money and every summer I'd travel and go on a grand tour of Europe. While in Rome, I'd sit in the piazza and write poetry. Then I'd pen a novel while staying in an English cottage." Her expression fell somber, the luster left her eyes. "And I'd never have to do the will of a man… because I'd be independent and happy."
At that, any hope John had of them together dimmed. In a voice brittle with disappointment, he asked, "What happened?"
She slowly turned toward him. "I got married."
* * *
Chapter Five
There was no reason for Isabel to tell John about her marriage… other than she had to know if he'd look down on her for it, if he'd find her unappealing. She'd been fast denying the feelings for him that had been blooming inside her since he'd almost kissed her at Rigby Glen. She'd wanted him to. She wanted him to now.
But he had to know who she was.
A lot of men were put off by divorced women. Not that she'd told a lot of men. In fact, John was only the second person she had told, Duster being the first, in that long night spent at the Blossom's kitchen table.
"Where's your husband?" John eventually asked.
It was a logical question. "I don't know. Down in San Diego, last I heard. He could be anywhere."
"You're still married to him?"
"No. I divorced him on the grounds of abandonment." She nervously plucked at the fringe on the colorful blanket "I had every right to… but that doesn't change the fact that I'm a divorcee."
She waited for his disdain to show—his cool reception, the silent distance he would put between them. Rather than reacting the way she expected, he asked another question.
"How'd you meet him?"
Isabel looked at her lap, then out the tent's opening to watch the rain fall in little beads that bounced off the meadow. "I was an operator for the City of Angels Telephone Company. He would call the same numbers daily and I happened to get him most of the time. After a week, he began asking for me to connect him. I fell in love with his voice before we ever met." That last part she probably shouldn't have said, but it was true.
"The marriage wasn't any good from the start. Those calls he made were to bookkeepers—and I don't mean the legal kind. He wasn't reliable… only I was too blind to see it at the time. We barely lasted a year. Then after he was gone for two, I filed for the divorce." Meeting John's eyes, she shrugged. "And that's all."
Again, the disapproval never came, no condeming eyes. Maybe she'd been hoping to scare him off, unable to face the facts: She was more than a little attracted to him. She enjoyed his strength and take-charge air. It was nice having a man do things for her, like when he'd watered her trees. She'd never had that before. Her husband had been quite self-centered. Money, the lack of it, had been the root of their problems. She'd always wondered if they would have stayed married if they hadn't been so broke.
"Well… ?" She could stand the quiet no longer. "Aren't you going to tell me I'm a ruined woman?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I've been married before myself." His eyes darkened with distant memories. "So many times, I've lost track."
She hadn't been prepared for such a confession. Her pulse betrayed her and skipped several beats as she fought dismay. One marriage was bad enough—but numerous?
"Bartenders have married me to dozens of women, but come morning, I was single again." He ran a hand through his damp hair and gave her a slight grin that sent her heartbeat leaping. "None of my so-called marriages were legal. If a keep had been a bona fide minister, though, I would have been." Then his features went serious; the set of his mouth fell in a line and his brows leveled. "Mistakes happen, Isabel. It's not for me to judge."
"Then you don't care?"
"I care that you were left by your husband, and I wonder if you'll ever get over the hurt. Aside from that, your status doesn't mean squat to me. You're still Isabel. The woman I…" His words trailed off as if he'd meant to say more.
She'd hoped to hear more. But it wasn't to be. The tent's roof sprang a leak and a steady drip tattooed the floor.
John scrambled to his feet. "Hand me that slicker out of my pack," he said as he went outside. She quickly found the coat and gave it to him. With a few flicks of his wrists, he stretched the garment over the tent's top and came back inside.
Water dripped from the ends of his hair. He hadn't worn his hat—not that it would have mattered. His face didn't appear so hard and chiseled in the afternoon's cloud
"We should get a fire going. I'll go see if I can find some wood dry enough to light."
"And I'll stick the coffeepot out in the rain for some water."
"Naw. You'll be holding your arm out to Christmas to get enough for a pot. Give me that and I'll fill it from the creek. I suspect it's chased us up here. I've seen a flash flood carry automobile-sized boulders then wash them downstream until they snag on an outcrop of granite."
"Really? Are we camped high enough?"
"We'll soon find out."
Then he went off and Isabel set out the lunch she'd brought. When she'd done all she could to make the shelter comfortable, she listened for every sound that could be from John. All she heard was the occasional nicker from the horses and the spatter of rain against the side of the tent.
It seemed as if he'd been gone hours before she spotted his familiar form coming toward her with an armful of timber and the coffeepot somehow anchored to his gun belt. He dropped the load at the tent's opening, gave her the pot, then crawled inside.
She handed him the blanket. He barely draped it over his shoulders. His arms were thick with muscles, the sleeves of his shirt torn out. He had a penchant for this particular style, which she'd thought slovenly… until now—when her eyes could see every bulge and swell of bicep as he ruffled the moisture from his hair with the blanket.
Isabel marveled, watching him dry off. She liked the play of splayed fingers as they wove through dark brown hair to tame the waves. She studied the planes of his face: the angle of his chin in comparison to his forehead, his straight nose. It had been a long time since she'd felt the stirrings of desire, the want of a man in a physical sense. She felt that now… and the pull that had grabbed hold of her with a fierce grip scared her.
She wasn't a loose woman by any means. But if John Wolcott had come into the Blossom right this minute and she'd still been one of the girls, she would have gone through with the hour he'd paid for.