Traitor, The (23 page)

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Coming in early 2012.
Frail
Blood
, Jo's new romantic historical thriller, "Frail Blood."

“I hate ... any taint of vice whose strong corruption
inhabits our frail blood.” –
Twelfth Night

Prologue

Northern California, June 1909

Alma Bentley lifted the frayed hem of her cotton skirt and
strapped the pistol to her left ankle.

She’d known from the first time a fellow looked at her in
that certain way – raking his eyes over her like she was nothing more than a
cheap piece of meat on the butcher’s block – that she was a wretched,
plain-faced girl.

But Joseph Machado was different. He treated her like the
blue-ribbon winner at the state fair. He said she was a rose among the thorns.
How she’d loved the sound of that.

A rose among the thorns.

Alma repeated the words with a sigh of regret, adjusted the
gun against her leg, and let the skirt drop into place. Her chapped knuckles
caught on the coarse fabric. In the dull finish of the mirror fashioned from a
large scrap of aluminum, her reflection stared back at her, a nondescript,
dark, solemn-faced girl with a brown mop of tangles falling over a low
forehead.

What Joseph done to her was wrong. He ought not to have
treated her so poorly. With no respect. Made promises and then renigged on
them.

A promise was like a holy vow. Sacred.

She slapped her palms together several times. Well, wasn’t
no use worrying about it now. As Mama always said, you hafta lay in the bed you
make. And Alma sure had made this rocky mess of pebbles and boulders.

But still, it wasn’t right what Joe done. Now there was
nothing left but to try and get back some dignity.

And make him think twice about hurting a girl like that.

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The Machado house squatted on several acres of land off the
main road to Placer Hills. Alma was used to walking the distance, for she’d
done it several mornings a week during the four months she’d been employed by
the Machado family.

This early evening, however, the trek seemed longer. She
felt the heavy reminder of Joseph’s betrayal in the weight of the pistol
grinding into her leg.

The hem of her dress dragged in the dusty ruts. She’d begun
to sweat and dark circles dampened her long-sleeved frock even though the delta
breeze had cooled off the hot June day. Although she was a sturdy girl used to
lots of hard work, her face was red with the exertion and the seriousness of
her errand.

The sun had nearly dipped below the mountains before Alma
came round the bend to the outbuilding where the Machados stabled their horses.
She spied Mr. Machado’s fancy automobile beside the barn, but that didn’t mean
nothing. He hardly ever rode the contraption, was always out on one or another
of his horses. The animals were all he seemed to think about – that and the
farm land.

She peeked into the stable and sure enough the horse and
carriage were gone. Tonight was Miss Phoebe’s and Mrs. Machado’s night out with
their lady friends. That meant Joe was alone.

Good. It was high time they had a talk.

She rapped softly on the door at the back of the house where
she entered when she came to work. Mrs. Gulley was usually here then, but not
this late at night, of course. Alma hesitated before continuing through the
mudroom and into the kitchen. The house was eerily silent.

She tiptoed to the area that Mrs. Machado called the
“sitting room,” although not much sitting happened there ‘cause no one ever
visited the Machados that Alma could see. This room was empty too.

“Joseph,” she called softly.

No answer.

She reached down to unstrap the pistol and dangled it
nervously in her left hand hidden behind her skirts. She couldn’t have said
what she intended to do with the gun if someone had asked her at that moment.
Alma hardly knew her own dark thoughts most of the time.

Scare Joe, she might’ve said. Make him say he was sorry. Or
give her a few soft words to fill the sad, empty hole left inside her by his
deceit and betrayal.

Despair washed over her for a moment, crumbling her resolve.
What had she gotten in her head?  Wasn’t nothin’ Joe was scared of. For more
than twenty-five years he’d lived with his pa and that awful excuse for a ma
and his strange older sister. Wasn’t any gun gonna frighten Joe Machado.

Suddenly shaking, like a fit coming on, started in her knees
and spread up through her gut to her wrist where the gun dug into her hip, her
fingers numb as they gripped the handle. She turned to go, feeling like a
stupid little girl gone on a useless errand.

She was an idiot, a great big dumb fool who didn’t know when
a man was lying through his teeth and gussying up to her with sweet words –
words like a rose among the thorns. She couldn’t even tell a falsehood from the
truth.

A crash sounded from upstairs, and she jumped around like a
long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers, her eyes wide and fixed on the
stairs. They led up to the second floor landing and the bedrooms of the Machado
family. She knew exactly which one was Joe’s because she’d been there once –
only once – when his folks and sister Phoebe were gone to San Francisco.

Loud footsteps clumped down the stairs. Her eyes grew wide
and she raised the pistol. Out of fear?  Surprise?  She couldn’t hardly
remember why she was here.

“What the hell ... ?” Joe said from the doorway.

And then Alma fired the pistol without a single thought
passing through her mind except a vague sense of alarm. Even as she dropped the
pistol and backed out of the door, a niggling thought lodged in the back of her
brain.

Joe, clutching his shoulder and starting to fall. And a
faint thud from somewhere in the house.

But then panic took over and she raced into the woods as
fast as she could go and didn’t stop running, terror and fear nipping at her
heels, until she reached the turn in the road that led to Placer Hills. There
she sank down to her knees in the damp leaves and nettles by a giant pine and
clutched her head in her fists.

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