California Caress (42 page)

“You know,” the old woman said wistfully, “I miss George more than a tomcat misses his mate. And sometimes I think it wouldn’t hurt so bad if I’d never met him. But when I start thinking that way, I start thinking about all the good times, all the chuckles, all the problems. Best years of my life, those were. Wouldn’t trade them in for all the tea in Britain.”

“That’s different. George was your husband. You loved each other.” What would it be like to be Drake Frazier’s wife? Hope wondered fleetingly. She’d had a taste of it, a small one, and she thought that, if he offered her the kind of love Bentley had shared with George, she would be powerless to refuse it.

“It isn’t different,” the crackling voice scoffed. “You just see it that way. Tell me something, dearie. If you could wake up tomorrow, brandspankin’ new and an orphan from birth, would you do it? No, don’t answer yet, I just want you to think about it. Can’t miss a family you never had, can you? Course, you wouldn’t have had the pleasure of having known these people, either. No birthday parties, no late night stories, no nothing. Remember, you gotta take the good with the bad,” she added, studying Hope carefully. “Well? Would you do it?”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed. “We’re talking about my parents, my brother, my friend. Of course I knew them.”

“Humor me,” Bentley snapped, the cane beating the deck impatiently. “Pretend you didn’t. Would you be so different today? Would you even be
here
today?”

Hope thought for a minute, then turned briskly away. The wind caught her cloak and made it flutter around her ankles. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” In fact, she hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the first place.

Bentley caught her arm, reeling her back in. For a feeble old woman, she was strong.

“Well, you’re gonna! Seems to me like you’ve shirked talking long enough. I’ll tackle you to the deck and sit on you if I have to, but I want an answer. And while you’re at it, think about how your parents would want you to feel.”

“What do you mean?” She pulled away from the old woman’s biting fingers, but she didn’t give in to the temptation to flee.

“Think they’d want their daughter moping around all the time, pining away for ‘em? Think they’d be proud of you running away from people for no good reason but that you’re scared they’ll hurt you? I could be wrong, but most parents I know want better for their kids. I think they’d want you to cut the self-pity and get on with the rest of your life.”

“And Drake Frazier is ‘the rest of my life’?” Hope asked skeptically.

“Could be. Way you’re going, though, you’ll never know.”

Hope turned away, raising her cheeks to the tangy salt spray. “I’m scarred,” she said suddenly. “You saw my back, you know.” She didn’t know why she said it, or why she’d said it to this particular person, but the words were off her tongue before she could stop them. Oddly enough, it felt good to voice the thoughts that constantly nagged at her.

“And I have a club foot,” the old woman huffed. “So what? I had myself four good husbands, and I’m taking applications for the fifth. Men don’t care about those things as much as we women like to think they do—but it does make a convenient excuse to think that way.”

Hope shook her head. Her hand strayed inside the parted cloak and she fingered the flannel, thinking of the man who had once worn it next to his flesh. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t saddle Drake. He’s so handsome, so virile, and I’m... well, I couldn’t even wear a dress that was cut low in the back. And the smell of charred wood sends me into a fit of hysteria—although I’m much better with that now.” She shook her head and the tangled chestnut mane fluttered at her back. “No, it wouldn’t be fair to him. He deserves better.”

“Fair?! Bah! You talking fair to him, or fair to you?”

“Both. I’d always feel like he stayed with me out of pity.” Her dark eyes misted with unshed tears and she quickly dashed them away. “I hate pity. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime and I don’t want anymore. Besides, he doesn’t love me, he loves—.

“Her. Right. You go on telling yourself that for as long as you want. Eventually, you’re bound to get as sick of hearing it as I am. Either that, or you’ll start believing it.” Bentley looked around the deck, smiling tightly at the captain as he sauntered past. “I’m tired. I’m going back to the room,” she said finally. Patting Hope on the hand, she added, “Think about what I said, dearie. And when you do, remember that the price love asks may be high, but there’s a dern good reason most people are willing to pay it over and over again.” Her eyes narrowed and quickly became lost in the folds of her wrinkled skin. “The ones who pay will know what they could’ve missed.”

When Hope didn’t reply, Bentley hobbled away. She could hear the clatter of the woman’s cane as it click-clicked on the wooden stairs.

Is she right?
Hope wondered, shifting her gaze back to the churning ocean. True, she wouldn’t feel pain at her family’s passing now if she hadn’t known them, but just how much would she have missed if that were so? She couldn’t imagine a childhood without Luke’s gentle grin and boyish escapades. She couldn’t imagine a night without her father’s bedtime stories. Hell, she couldn’t even imagine the state of California without a bulging-eyed Old Joe haunting it.

And what about Drake? Was it possible he had other motives for what he’d done? Motives he hadn’t told her about? If nothing else, Bentley was right about one thing; he
had
gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble on her behalf. Once, briefly, he’d even confessed to feelings for her.

But he never said he loved you,
she reminded herself.

You never aid you loved him, either.

Never had the scar that marred her back obsessed her the way it did lately. She thought of Drake’s finger—warm and rough—running against the puckered flesh and a shiver of heat curled up on her spine. There had been no repulsion in that touch, only tenderness.

Had
she misjudged her gunslinger? Would she ever really know?

“Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Hope Bennett,” she muttered to herself, pushing the hair from her brow as she glanced up at the rigging. “It isn’t your scars, it’s death that frightens you. You’re afraid that if you love Drake Frazier he’s going to die just like everyone else you ever loved.”

There was a crash of waves against the ship’s hull. The impact of her words hit her as hard as if she had climbed over the rail and tossed herself into the icy ocean depths. My God, why hadn’t she ever realized that before?

Hope pushed away from the rail, deciding to take that stroll after all. A little exercise would do her good. But even wandering the spray-slickened deck and drinking in the crisp salt air couldn’t keep her thoughts from straying back to the old woman’s words and her own realizations.

She’d been home here for four hours, but Hope still couldn’t get over how little had changed in the brick house Bart Bennett had built for his family after the main house had burned down. Two small bedrooms stood off the main room, one on each side. Neither was used for more than sleeping, since the main room held the kitchen table, cupboards, and fireplace. The floor was plain, its unstained planks unrelieved by so much as a scatter rug.

Although not grand on any scale, this small brick cabin beat the rickety shanties of Thirsty Gulch hands down. It might be the same size as the one they’d shared in the Mother Lode, with an extra sleeping room, but at least she didn’t have to worry about a strong wind blowing it down around their heads.

Hope speared another of the “musketballs,” as her mother used to call them, with her fork, dipped it in the spicy sauce, then popped it into her mouth. The flaked, salted cod, mixed with mashed potatoes then rolled into tiny balls that were fried to a crisp, golden brown, melted on her tongue.

Luke smiled at her from his place on the opposite bench. She returned the smile, but it thinned when she saw her father staring at her oddly. The time had come. Swallowing hard, she said, with typical Bennett bluntness, “How’d you manage to escape the fire?” She was careful to keep her voice lowered lest she wake up Bentley, who had foregone supper for a nap on the cot beside the dancing fire.

“Could ask you the same thing, missy,” Bart replied poignantly. “Last time I saw you, you were showing your friend Frazier the henhouse. I thought for sure you came back in the house when you saw the flames.”

“I didn’t see the flames. At least, not right away. By the time I did, it was too late. Drake and I tried to put the fire out, but it spread too fast.”

“Hmph!” was all the reply Bart made.

Luke quickly took up where his father left off. “We hid in the root cellar, Hope. Pa said the cabin went up faster’n a matchstick and that we’re lucky we made it out at all.”

“Hotter’n hell down there,” Bart grunted as he pushed his plate away. “Couldn’t hardly breathe from all the smoke.”

Luke nodded in agreement. “Pa made us wait until he was sure the fire was out before he let us go up. That weren’t easy, either. The door stuck from all the stuff that fell on top of it. We looked all over for you, Hope, but we couldn’t find you.”

The root cellar. Of course! She had never thought of that, but it made perfect sense. What better place to hide from a fire there was no apparent way out of? She nodded thoughtfully. “I was gone by then,” she said absently, pushing the remaining two musketballs around her plate. “Everything happened so fast—the fire, Tubbs, the gunshot.”

Luke’s head jerked up. “Gunshot? You got shot?” He scowled, his gaze raking her body in brotherly concern. “You don’t look like you got shot.”

She smiled patiently. “I healed, you big lug, thanks to Drake Frazier. Say all you want about him, Papa, but he nursed me back to health single-handedly.”

“Frazier?” Bart grumbled, raking his fingers through his graying hair. “Should have known he couldn’t keep his nose out of things.” He glared at his daughter. “Where’s this paragon of virtue now? I would have thought he’d follow you like a trained seal.”

“I left him in Boston, visiting his brother,” she murmured evasively. Suddenly, the food on her plate held great interest, although not a bit of it went into her mouth. What was wrong with her father? Last time she’d seen him, Bart Bennett had thought Drake Frazier was God. Or, at the very least, the next best thing to Him.
So what changed his mind?
she wondered. “You shouldn’t be so hard on Drake, Papa. He saved my life.”

Bart’s gaze hardened. “Drake, is it now? And what happened to ‘Frazier,’ or ‘that no-good gunslinger,’ or ‘that conniving, low-down rat?’ Something changed that I should know about?”

Hope didn’t know what to say. Although she dearly wanted to say yes, the truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure. She spared herself from answering by changing the subject. “What about Old Joe?” she asked as she reached for a mug of hot, spiced cider. With elbows on the table, she sipped at it, regarding her father from over the chipped rim. “Did he—” she sucked in a ragged breath, “um, make it out of the fire?”

“That old grizzly bear?” Bart chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “It’d take more than a puny old fire to do him in. Stubborn as a mule, and twice as ornery. Got a letter from him last week—Kyle wrote it, ‘course—said he was still working the mine and it was paying like a whore with four—” her father flushed and sent her a guilty look. “Sorry, no offense. Anyway, he said it was paying right fine. Better than we’d ever hoped. We should be seeing more of the profits any day now. Joe sends them on when he can. Then I’ll see what I can do about hiring on some help and replanting the south field. Do my heart good to see some cotton growing in that dirt again.”

Hope frowned. She lowered the mug to the table and for the first time noticed how the last ten months had added a new network of lines to the creases shooting out from her father’s eyes. His hair was grayer, too, his skin thicker and weather-darkened. “But if the mine’s paying so good, why are you here? After everything we did to get that land, I’d think you would’ve stayed and worked as much gold out of the claim as you could.”

“Did—for a while,” Bart shrugged. His long fingers played with the coffee cup in his hands as Bentley’s snores punctuated the air. “But things change. I’m not the type of man who likes to wander far from home. You know that, missy. I get damn itchy being away from these hills. So, once we pulled out enough money to pay the taxes, I turned the lead over to Joe. Figured that even if I didn’t have enough money to replant, I could pay the taxes. The land would be ours, the way it should be.” He scowled. “Only....”

“Only what? What happened? Had someone already bought Lake’s Edge when you got here?”

Bark shook his head and scratched his stomach. “Noooo, just the opposite. The taxes were paid in full by the time we docked. I had Bat Knowley, he’s the county clerk now, check around to see if he could find out who put up the money. I wanted to pay the fellow back. Anyway, Bat came up blank. He tracked the funds to St. Louis, but then the trail went as cold as a rock in winter. I still don’t know who did it—or why—but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. I put the money I brought with me to good use. Started building the house up and planting crops. That sort of thing.”