Upon a Midnight Clear Read online

  As he stepped away from the railing, a clattering noise struck overhead on the awning, then came a ping as something rolled down the roof. A tiny white ball ricocheted off the hitching post and sailed straight for him. The damn thing belted him on the shoulder, then dribbled to his feet. He stared at it

  Perfect Flight golf ball.

  Looking up and down the street and seeing no one searching out a ball, John shrugged and left it there. Shank shot. Some idiot.

  His thirst sated from the beer, he went back into the Republic to order a tequila. The cash from today's pay burned a hole in his wallet, and he doubted he'd have a cent left over by tomorrow.

  Never having the patience to settle into one trade and stick with it until the effort paid off, John Wolcott lived each moment as it came. Part-time oil driller, part-time dowser; part-time big talker, part-time drunk. Put them all together and one could say he was a professional good-for-nothing.

  John liked to think of himself as holding out for the right opportunity to come along.

  Isabel Burche sat on her porch in a rocker made from peeled willow boughs. A fiery sunset bathed the undulating grasses before her in deep brass and copper shadows. The Santa Ana winds still blew, but not with as much force as they had earlier. She'd opened the windows in the cabin, hoping a distant ocean breeze would be able to wend its way to the valley, but the small interior remained uncomfortable.

  Her muscles ached, and her palms hadn't toughened enough to form calluses. Blisters made the skin tender and painful. Even though she wore gloves to carry the buckets, the wire handles were merciless; the constant care her plants and the lemon trees required in this heat was wearing her down.

  But she wouldn't give up. Those trees represented the first real hope she had of making her own way. She'd never solely relied on herself. At twenty-eight, the time had come for her to be self-sufficient.

  Once her trees began bearing enough fruit to turn a profit, she intended on using the harvest as the foundation for her business. The lemon sauce and syrup she made could be sold. With as slow as the lemons were growing, so far all she'd canned was a case. There was a market for such a thing. In the last six months, she'd had Duster ask the roughnecks if any of them would be interested in buying sweets. Every one of the oil drillers said they most surely would.

  Now all she needed was for the lemons to multiply and ripen faster.

  Broad shoulders filling a tattered shirt with the sleeves torn out came into her view through snippets of the windblown field. When the wild mustard parted on a gust, she could see the entire figure for a moment.

  Tall and built as strong as the rig he worked on, John Wokott strode up Sespe in the twilight. Obscured by the deep cut of dark shadow in her porch, Isabel could freely stare at him.

  He's early, she thought. He never left the Republic until after ten o'clock—if at all. There were times when she took her first morning walk to get water, and she'd catch him stumbling out of the saloon with a liquor bottle in his hand. On hot evenings when sleeping in the stifling house was unbearable she'd stay outside waiting for exhaustion to overcome her and she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer. She'd sometimes doze in her rocker, then awaken with a jolt to a drunken voice as John sang in Spanish to a midnight moon. He was as crazy as a loco coyote.

  Isabel's eyes narrowed, following him through the opening of her lane. He was too handsome for his own good. She'd never seen him up close, but a woman didn't have to. Just by the manner in which he walked, held his head, and wore his masculinity so effortlessly, she knew he would be trouble.

  In the waning light, she saw a slip of green in John's hand. The slow chirp of crickets and the Santa Anas whispering through her poppies disguised the crinkle of papers as they suddenly tumbled and careened into the yard. Sheets fluttered up the porch steps with the breeze. One landed smack in her lap.

  Isabel lifted the flyer and tried to make out what it said. It was too dark. So she rose from the rocker and went inside to turn up the lamp. Kerosene hissed and gave off a soft orb of light by which she read the green paper.

  JOLLY HOLLY CONTEST

  Will award the person who collects and delivers the most holly berries for stringing on a Christmas tree to be erected in the yard at Ninth and Mill Street this Friday. Deadline is December 24,1900, at the stroke of midnight. The prize will be unlike anything you've ever known. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. The key to eternal happiness. Prosper in a way you never thought possible. You will be forever grateful. Tis the season for the holiday spirit so join in and reap the rewards.

  —Bellamy Nicklaus

  Isabel didn't know any Bellamy Nicklaus. And the last time she was by the house on Ninth and Mill—which was just yesterday, it had been vacant and in horrible neglect. This could be a prank.

  While mulling over the possibilities, a dull rattle sounded in the pipe to her pot-bellied stove. Squirrels. She absently tapped the black cylinder with a spoon. The noise stopped. But then oddly, the grated door drifted open and a sooty white ball rolled to her feet. She dismissed it as a child's errant toy. The plum-sized ball must have gotten wedged in the flue. It was amazing that she hadn't filled the house with smoke when her stove was lit.

  Isabel turned her thoughts back to the contest… she could really use the winnings. How much money was the prize? The paper didn't say. Even if it was minimal, she could afford small improvements. A well on the place was financially out of her reach right now. She'd sunk most of her savings into the land and repairs on the old cabin—which still wasn't completed, but more livable than it had been. The money could tide her over so she didn't have to get another job. She'd had just about every position in Limonero. There weren't many options left open to her.

  With a tired hand, she smoothed her brow and straightened her shoulders to relieve the ache. She gazed at the flyer once more. John Wolcott had one of these. Maybe everybody in town did.

  Deadline—December twenty-fourth at midnight.

  She had eight days.

  Thoughts about going to bed vanished. The image of holly bushes loaded with big scarlet berries pulled at her. She knew just the spot. Down by the first barranca across from Santa Paula Creek where willow patches grew.

  Going quickly to the kitchen counter, she snatched her gardening basket; it was an old lunch hamper, but sound and sturdy with a lid. The inside could hold a lot of berries.

  Isabel was going to win that contest.

  Calco Oil had started a spur out to Dutch Flat No. 3, but abandoned it when the well went dry after six months.

  With a slice of moon beaming light down, John followed the length of iron railroad track. He'd slung his pillow slip over his shoulder and walked with hands shoved deep into his pockets. The wind flared up every now and then, but without any kind of cool bite.

  He would rather have been drinking tequila, but the contest's lure had been too much for him to forget about. His third drink had come before he'd finally read the paper. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. The key to eternal happiness. Prosper in a way you never thought possible. No wonder the Republic had been deserted.

  This was just the kind of opportunity he'd been looking for—easy money, a way to cash in at the bank and sit back and spend it. He could win this contest. It wasn't hard to find berries. He knew where a cache of them grew: in various spots around the valley; some in the foothills; more patches over the ridge toward the beach. He would pick the bushes clean. Then after he got his reward, he'd draw up to the bar in the Republic, drink a beer, and ponder what to do with all that cash.

  John wasn't opposed to hard work. He'd done it most of his life, first on his father's dirt farm in Texarkana, then across the western countryside. He never put down roots. No place interested him enough. But he liked California's climate. Every chanee he got, he rode to the ocean to watch the sunset fall in a sizzling ball over the waves. Limonero he could call home.

  That money could buy lumber, a band wheel, manila rope, a boiler, and a twelve horsepo