Upon a Midnight Clear Read online

  John's fingers were warm and strong around her. She hoped he couldn't detect the erratic thrum of her pulse. His voice went through her with a husky grate. "What's the matter with you?"

  She couldn't tell him. She needed a diversion. Turning her head toward the hillside, she exclaimed, "Oh—look! There's a rabbit."

  "So what?"

  Slowly she faced him once more. "I thought you might want to shoot it."

  He released her, suspicion in his tone. "I'm not wearing a gun. Besides, why would I want to shoot a rabbit?"

  "For your dinner."

  "I eat dinner at the café."

  "Oh…"

  "I always knew you were…" The thought trailed off.

  Isabel frowned. He always knew she was… what? He couldn't possibly know a thing about her.

  "Stay the hell away from me," he barked, then swung around once more.

  With his motion, Isabel was peppered with berries. They hit her bodice, shoulder, and one on her cheek. He disappeared, and she had a good mind to holler out good riddance. But she kept quiet. She had one up on him.

  As soon as she felt it safe to move, she foraged the hillside for the berries that had scattered; then she resumed her clean sweep of the path.

  All the way down the hill, Isabel picked up John's fallen berries and claimed them for her own. Yes, there was a great deal to say about being the wiser sex.

  Women kept their pillowcases mended.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  "Pour me a tequila, Saul." John propped his elbows on the Republic's bar and turned to acknowledge Duster Hobson, the only other patron in the saloon. The old-timer sat in one of the chairs at a table, too bowlegged to keep his foot on the brass rail. "Hey, Duster. Haven't seen you in a while."

  "Went over to Ojai to visit with my sister." His chin glistened with snow white stubble, his hair the exact same color. A weathered hand lifted a beer bottle to his mouth.

  John turned, his eyes following the drink as Saul put the shot glass in front of him. Sliding the coin beneath his fingertip, John paid the barkeep. Except Saul didn't remove his grasp from around the crystal rim. "Money's no good today. Twenty-five berries for the liquor."

  "What was that?"

  Saul motioned to the sign hanging above the cash register.

  On account of the Contest, the

  California Republic Saloon ain't taking money for

  the next seven days. All drinks are to be paid for with

  berries, at a predetermined price set by the barkeep.

  Yours truly, Saul

  John leveled his gaze back on Saul, who shrugged. "I've got a bar to run. I can't go out and scour the countryside for berries. I want to win as much as the next guy. This is how I'm going to do it. Some men just won't give up their liquor and they’l pay top berry to get a shot."

  Irritability churned inside John. "Well, this is a hell of a way to run a bar." The drink sat not but three inches from him. He could smell the liquor. He could almost taste it.

  John could let days pass without a drink. He wasn't dependent. Only today he didn't want to go without the fire burning sweetly across his tongue. Right now, he wanted that tequila. "Saul, I've got some berries at home. Float me for an hour and I'll bring them by."

  Saul's hand didn't flinch. "Sorry, John. No berry credit."

  The glass began to slide back, away from John's reach. He swore up a storm inside his head. He yanked his hat off, creased the crown, then smashed it back on. Thumping his boot off the rail, he turned around.

  Duster's face lit up as he enjoyed his cold one. John scrutinized the bottle.

  "Duster, can you loan me twenty-five berries?"

  Setting the beer down, Duster leaned back in his chair. "I'm a man of few needs. Never carry extra money or berries on me. Goes against the simplicity of my nature."

  "Well dammit all."

  John strode through the saloon, shoved at the batwing doors, and slumped a shoulder against the boardwalk post.

  The irony of it was—he had cash! The morning after a payday he was almost always flat busted. But since he'd left the Republic early last night, he'd left with money in his pocket.

  And he had berries, too. What was left of the big cleanup he made.

  John shot Isabel Burche's rundown cabin a frown.

  Crazy Isabel had stolen the berries he'd picked. John figured that out when he got back into town early that morning, dropped his pillowcase on the bed, and stepped on a few berries at his feet. The sack had a hole in the bottom. Not so big he lost everything he'd gathered—but a good part of it. All that fumbling behind him had been Isabel picking up what had dropped.

  Then when she'd slammed into him… for a moment he'd thought she might be a tad attracted to him and flaunting it. Not that he wanted to attract a walnut.

  John's eyes hardened as he remembered her words. Rabbit his butt.

  Damn … but he had to give her credit for ingenuity.

  Rubbing his jaw and the bristly growth of day-old beard at his chin, John pondered his next move.

  He'd slept half the morning away, right into the afternoon. He missed going out to Ferndale No. 8 and working on the rig. But he wasn't worried Calco would give him the boot. John knew so much about drilling, he had a job whenever he wanted one. He could man every hand position: tool pusher, floor, lead tong, chain, and derrick.

  Seeing as he had the berries at his place—a small bungalow off Grove—he could walk home, get them, and sit in the Republic for a while and think up a plan for going after more berries.

  He spied Isabel leaving her house, a hamper hooked in the crook of her arm. She had a sneaky air about her as she walked swiftly out of town on the main road, then veered off on Junipero Avenue—a long and dusty country lane that led up to Chumash Mountain. And Chumash Mountain, on the eastern side, was chock-full of holly bushes.

  John pushed away from the awning post and made a run for the livery, striding over the golf ball rolling down the powdery street.

  Isabel stopped her climb to take a drink of lemonade and dab her forehead with a handkerchief. She'd almost made it to the little bluff on Chumash Mountain. Gazing at the valley below her, she saw most of Limonero's rooftops and a few of the streets—and the Sun-Blessed Growers Association's endless lemon tree groves.

  She had a job there once that lasted nearly four months. She'd been let go for excessive peel polishing before packing. But the lemons had looked so much better with the pretty yellow sheen to them.

  As she proceeded, Isabel kept a close watch for contest competitors. She'd encountered parties of berry pickers on the town side of Junipero Avenue. This area of the mountainside was remote so she felt fairly confident she wouldn't be discovered. A person would have to walk over three hours to reach it or ride on horseback.

  Isabel didn't have a horse.

  A corner of shale jutted from the mountain, and just around its bend: holly bushes. Ignoring the perspiration gathered on her upper Up, Isabel continued. At the turning point, she stopped in her tracks. There on the bluff, sitting on his duff, lazed John Wolcott.

  He had the audacity to wave at her.

  Trudging forward, Isabel drew up to him and east John in her body shade. If she allowed herself a small consolation, his face appeared sun-browned to crispness beneath the brim of his hat; his wide hands sported numerous fresh scratches from holly leaf spines. His legs were casually spread, and the boulder he sat on also had a pair of saddlebags as large as the long defunct Pony Express's mail pouches. One had its flap open, exposing the hoard of berries inside.

  "You've been busy, I see," she managed in a tone tight with agitation. How had he known about Chumash Mountain?

  He injected his reply with accusation. "I had to make up for all the berries that fell out of my sack and somehow got lost."

  Isabel feigned an air of innocence. "How did you get up here ahead of me? I saw you at the Republic three hours ago."

  The lopsided grin he gave her wou