California Caress (17 page)

“Postpone?” Now what was he up to? Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him with open suspicion. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but why? What brought about this sudden change of heart? I thought you were anxious to get—um—
paid.
”

“Don’t push it,” Drake warned, his voice hard, cold, and as devoid of emotion as his eyes. “Keep arguing and I just might change my mind. And you wouldn’t want me to do that, would you, sunshine?”

“No!” she cried, much too quickly.

Drake nodded, her sudden, frightened reaction again raising the question he held in the back of his mind. “That’s what I thought.”

He sent Hope a long, hard look, then headed for the door. The cold night air rushed past him, scattering a few dried leaves on the floor. They rustled loudly as they skipped across the bare, flat planks.

Drake stopped short, and for a second Hope feared he had changed his mind. Her heart did a crazy flip-flop in her chest, and her palms grew damp as she rubbed them briskly together. Whether the reaction was caused by fear or anticipation, she was never really sure.

A sun-kissed hand reached out and plucked his hat from the rack. He settled the worn leather on top of his golden head. His voice, when it came, was so soft it might have been made by the wind; Hope knew better. “I’ll be back, sunshine. You can bet on it.”

By the time he had closed the door behind his rugged back, Hope was leaning weakly against the table, trembling far more than the fragile leaves scattering the floor.

Though he did not make it his sleeping quarters, Drake Frazier might as well have taken up permanent residence in the Bennett household. Everywhere Hope turned, Drake was there. If the tinny sound of his harmonica didn’t accompany her to bed, chuckles over the wondrous things he’d said during the day did. Everywhere she turned, she either met with his smiling green eyes or with the clinging, smoky scent of his infernal cheroots—an odor her father, atypically, abided without complaint. Even after he’d left their cabin for his hotel room, she could smell that pungent scent, and the aroma haunted her dreams.

Except for Old Joe, everyone had taken to the gunslinger as though he was a part of the family. Essentially, she supposed, he was. Her alliance with Frazier had opened up a line of friendship between him and the others that even a sharply honed ax couldn’t break. Though her father remained cautious, even he had grown accustomed to seeing Drake’s eagle-sharp features over his supper plate. That the gunslinger didn’t work in the mine, yet unflinchingly drained a percentage of the take, seemed to matter only to Hope.

Using the back of her arm, Hope wiped the sweat from her brow and looked down the pile of apple slices. Cut into perfect little wedges, they would soon be baking in a flaky crust for an after-dinner treat.

She was molding the thin dough into a pie plate when Luke trudged through the door. A sparkling of rain moistened his crop of chestnut curls.

“It’s startin’ to rain. Pa said we could call it a day.”

Hope looked over her brother’s shoulder and scowled. “So where is everybody?”

“Pa sent the twins into Sutter’s Fort for supplies. Him and Old Joe’ll be up shortly. They’re puttin’ stuff away.” He licked his sun-parched lips as his gaze settled on the raw pies.

“They aren’t cooked so don’t even think about it,” she warned him as she wiped her hands. Since it never occurred to Luke to offer to help, Hope herself was in the process of tucking the pies into the alcove inside the brick hearth when the door opened again.

“Damn, but if’n he ain’t right.” Old Joe shook off the rain that clung to him like a dog shoot off his bath. Crystal droplets splattered the floor and the table as Bart and Drake Frazier did the same.

“There’s better money in hydraulics, sure,” Drake conceded grudgingly. Hope watched as he plucked the hat from his head and hung it on what was quickly becoming “his” hook on the rack. “But it’s an expensive thing to start. You’d have to buy more equipment and hire more men, and there’s no guarantee it’d pay off. The mine could run dry.”

“But it’s still something to think about,” Bart said as, with a flick of his wrist, he flipped his hat on a curved wood hook. When had her father started seeking out Drake Frazier’s opinion or approval? she wondered.

Drake nodded, his eyes lighting on Hope. “Yup, it’s something to think about.”

For a split second, she thought he was speaking to her, then blushed furiously when she realized he was talking to her father. No, that was wrong. His lips might be talking to Bart, but he gazed at her alone.
You haven’t paid me, sunshine,
those eyes accused.

She turned away and tossed the towel onto the counter. The cloth landed in a crumpled heap on top of a pile of browning apple peels.

“I don’t know,” Old Joe said, shaking his head as he scratched his chin. Noticing where Frazier’s gaze rested, the narrow eye widened until it was almost the same size as the one that bugged. “Try askin’ Hope. The gal’s got a right good head on her shoulders. Perty one, too,” he added, with a wink. “‘Course, right now she looks like hell. What’s a matter with you, girl?” he added, noting the dark circles etched beneath her bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing. I’m fine, just a little tired,” she lied, badly. She dearly wished she could blame her lumpy mattress for her recent restless nights, instead of the piercing sea-green gaze that haunted her, which even now was directed at her intently. “Ask me what?”

Drake shrugged. “Bart’s thinking about investing in hydraulics. Joe doesn’t like the idea.”

“And your opinion?” she asked cautiously, settling her hands on her hips. “Or don’t you have one?”

“He’s keepin’ it to himself,” Old Joe told her, glancing between the two. “Fer now.”

“It’s not my decision.” Drake’s tone lacked the defensiveness his words suggested. “Well, sunshine, what do you think?”

“You saw what hydraulics did to the land in Comstock County, Papa,” she replied as she untied the apron from behind her back and pulled it off. That, too, was banished to the counter. “As I recall, you were just as shocked as the rest of us. The hoses and forced water ravaged the land until there was nothing left but crevasses and muddy gulches. Didn’t you say what they did was disgusting?” her gaze narrowed accusingly. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest it.”

“See?” Old Joe preened as he perched on the bench. “Told ya she had a good head.”

“Gotta do something, missy,” Bart grumbled. He lowered himself carefully onto the bench, massaging his aching back. “As it is, we’re only pulling out enough dust to buy necessaries. What’s going to happen when winter sets in? We don’t have nearly enough to buy the supplies it’ll take us to weather another winter in Thirsty Gulch.”

If they didn’t have the money to buy supplies, it went without saying there would be none left over to pay the taxes on Lake’s Edge. Time was running short. If they didn’t strike pay dirt soon, it would be too late to save the plantation.
And then what?
Hope thought. Lake’s Edge was the only thing that kept her father going—that, and the dream that one day, with a little luck, he could restore it to its former glory. Without that dream to cling to, the same dream that had brought them to California in the first place, Bart Bennett would crumple and die as surely as a dry leaf withered and fell from a late autumn maple tree.

Hope ran her palms down the front of her homespun skirt and sighed. “Maybe hydraulics are the answer. I don’t know,” she shrugged, ignoring Old Joe’s look of horror. “It doesn’t matter; it’s too late in the year to start now anyway. Like he said,” she nodded to Drake, grudgingly admitting he was right, “starting up would mean adding expensive equipment. We don’t have the money for it any more than we have the money to hire on more men. Maybe in the spring.”

Bart lowered his face into his hands. “Time is one luxury we don’t have, missy.”

The hopeless look in her father’s eyes told Hope what she had suspected all along. Either the mine paid off—and paid off quick—or Lake’s Edge was lost. Suddenly it was crystal clear, the reasons behind her father’s tight-lipped, evasive answers whenever she dared to inquire about matters back home.

Old Joe launched into a lecture on his somewhat dated opinion of hydraulics. Hope didn’t hear a word as her gaze shifted to Frazier. He was listening to the exchange between Bart and Old Joe with apparent interest, but occasionally she caught his gaze straying to her.

Her eyes narrowed, her mind racing. What little profit the mine churned out was being drained away by the gunslinger’s cut. Her mouth went dry. Could Frazier be convinced to abandon his share of the profits? And did she have a right to ask him to? No, she didn’t. She had already welched on half of their deal, as Frazier took every opportunity to remind her of, so how, in all good conscience, could she ask him to forget the rest?

She had no choice. Time was running short, if the look on her father’s face was anything to go by. Better by far to get rid of Frazier’s cut of the profits, and risk his wrath, than to lose Lake’s Edge.

While the men were deep in conversation, Hope slipped quietly to the gunslinger’s side.

“I seen a few Chinamen driftin’ ‘round town with not much to do. We could hire them pretty cheap.”

“Yeah, probably but....”

The rest of her father’s answer was lost as she placed a hand on Drake Frazier’s shoulder. A shiver of delight coursed up her arm as her gaze was captured by his.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, her words soft enough for only him to hear. One golden eyebrow cocked in question. “In private,” she added, her gaze insistent, “please. It’s—it’s important.”

Drake nodded. “I’ll get your cloak,” he said, uncoiling his lean frame from the hard bench. Hope caught a whiff of his soapy scent as he strode to the rack and retrieved his hat.

Setting it atop the silky mane of hair, he reached out with the other hand to retrieve the black cloak.

He tossed it to Hope, and she caught it in midair, flinging the coarse wool over her shoulders. It billowed around her legs, settling like an ebony cloud around her ankles.

“Where’s you two off to?” Old Joe asked, his large eye bulging with suspicion. Bart might not see what was going on between his daughter and the gunslinger, but Old Joe wasn’t so blind. He’d caught more than one secretive glance pass between the two when they both thought no one was looking. And he caught the looks Drake sent Hope when she wasn’t looking. It didn’t help that he knew Frazier from way back, and knew him well enough not to trust him for a minute.

“I promised Fra—Drake I’d show him the hens Mrs. Magrew sold Luke yesterday,” Hope said weakly, as she tied a poorly shaped bow beneath her chin. Her fingers were trembling as she pulled the hood into the place.

“Don’t stay out long, missy,” Bart said, seemingly unfazed at the prospect of his daughter leaving with Frazier. “It’s only drizzling out now, but it’s going to be raining fierce soon.” He massaged the base of his spine. “This back never lies.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured him, heading for the back door. Drake followed close behind. She could feel the heat of his body melting through the layers of her clothes, caressing the skin beneath as she stepped into the rain.

Drake pulled the door closed behind them, then fell into step behind Hope as she bypassed the lopsided coop. It had taken Luke the better part of yesterday afternoon to nail together a crude little shelter for the three scraggly hens. The trio of gaunt, feathery birds ran about in the barbed wire run, cackling wildly as raindrops pounded against their beaks.

The previous week Luke had built a shed for tools, and it was to this Hope now headed. She stopped in front of the door, then, on impulse, reached back and took his hand. Opening the door, she game his arm a tug.

Stumbling in the mud, Drake came treacherously close to falling. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Where are we going?”

“In the shed, fool.” She swung the door wide, sparing him a brief glance. The only concession he’d made to the foul weather was his cracked leather vest, and the collar he’d turned up high. “Or didn’t you notice it’s raining out here? Duck,” she said as she crouched and entered the shed, “Luke made the door too low.”

The scent of sawdust was strong in the large, as yet vacant room. But the dirt floor was dry and the walls cut the chill, moist breeze. Dreary gray sunlight filtered in through the single window and the slats in the walls, streaking the floor.

“You call those things hens?” he chuckled sarcastically as he nodded to the door. “I’ve seen fatter pigeons.”

“Laugh all you want, but you won’t think it’s so funny when you sit down to a proper breakfast of poached eggs,” Hope scoffed defensively. She brushed the hood back from her head and let it hang limply over her shoulder as she sent him a crooked grin. “Or doesn’t the thought of a dish of custard at the end of a long day appeal to you?”

“I don’t think you brought me out in the rain to talk about custard, sunshine,” Drake said as he stuffed his hands into the pocket of his tight denim trousers. It was either that or surrender to the temptation of reaching out to caress one of the silky chestnut curls brushing against a flawlessly ivory cheek. “Get to the point.”