Jade Star (30 page)

“Would you care to play something else, Dr. Saint?”

“What a wanton woman you are, Jules,” he said. “I suppose I have no choice?”

“None at all,” she said, and dragged him upstairs.

The child screamed at the top of his lungs, so loud Jules wanted to clap her hands over her ears. Instead she held the wriggling little boy down while Saint vaccinated him.

“There,” Saint said. “Stop your caterwaulin', boy. You'll live, I promise.” He patted the boy's woolly head and helped him up. “Now, you're going to live forever—”

“Yessir,” the boy gulped. “Ma name's Jonah.”

“That chile need a whippin', Docta,” the mother said, shaking her head fondly. “No guts atall. Yer little missis here is a real sweetie pie, yessir, she shoh is.”

“Hi, sweetie pie,” Saint said, kissing her the moment they were alone. “I'm about ready to drop, love. How about you?”

“A nice strong cup of tea would put me to rights, I think,” Jules sighed. She shook her head. “I think I'm temporarily deaf.”

“Did I ever tell you that Napoleon had all his troops vaccinated if they had not already had smallpox?”

She blinked up at him and he grinned, adding, “I've done about eighty-five vaccinations today, and not a soul would have known who Napoleon even
was. I had to tell that interesting fact to someone, just to keep my hand in.”

Jules clasped his hand in hers, silently studying the long, blunt-tipped fingers, the sprinkling of chestnut hair.

“Now, I wonder where you think my hand should be in next?”

She kissed each finger. “This is a start,” she said. “Now, you need to tell me how you managed to get enough supplies to vaccinate all the children.”

“A mistake, Jules, a simple mistake, at least that's what Sam Pickett told me. Some government fellow showed up at the hospital wanting to get rid of cases of what he believed were useless medical supplies. Needless to say, Sam nearly did a jig for joy, kept a straight face, and called me. And here we are and all the children are now protected, thank the Lord.”

“You're a perfect man, you know that?”

“That's what my mother told me,” Saint said, “but it was a number of years ago.”

He stopped a moment, and straightened her bonnet. “The sun is strong, love. I do love that one freckle on your nose, but I don't know as I'd like to see more of the little fellows.”

She poked him in his ribs, laughing. “You know that isn't a freckle on my nose—it's a liver spot.”

“I've aged you so quickly, hmm? I think I'd best do a thorough examination. If you have any more of these liver spots, I'll just have to do something about it.”

“What?” Jules asked, taking a skipping step to keep pace with her husband.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“Michael!”

* * *

Jameson Wilkes stared at her from his post in the narrow alley. He was dressed roughly, a felt hat pulled low over his forehead. The scratchy wool pants increased his anger at Saint Morris. He hated having to appear like one of the black beggars in Brent Hammond's town.

He leaned forward and watched the breeze lift a waving curl off her forehead, watched her husband straighten her bonnet, and stiffened when the huge man who was her husband leaned down to whisper something to her.

Don't touch her, you damned bastard!
He could barely keep the words from spurting from his mouth.

He'd lived with the dream of her, the fantasies of her that he'd woven over the months, and knew that he would have her, have her lying beneath him, helpless, yet wanting him as he did her. The reality of her shook him, as did her bright laugh. Reality, he thought, an odd word, something to avoid, to escape. He'd never heard her laugh before. He'd cursed himself again and again for ever taking her to the auction. He should have kept her with him, sailed from San Francisco and taken her to the far reaches of the earth. But for what reason? He shook his head, his thoughts tangled. His hand roved over his belly, rubbing frantically, and the pain made him think clearly.

Now she was married to that damned do-gooding bastard Saint Morris. He closed his eyes a moment against his anger. If only he'd kept her with him, if only he'd managed to take her the night of the Stevensons' ball, if only . . .

He wanted her. And he was here, and he was
going to take her, had to take her, and her husband, Dr. Morris. Oh yes, he had to see Saint Morris, had to . . . He winced at the increasing pain, but forced his mind away from it, forced his mind to plot, to come up with strategies. He had to have focus. No, he wouldn't dig into his opium supply until the pain made him want to howl.

Your last grand gesture, he thought suddenly. Your last gesture to affirm that you are alive, that you managed to win one last time. And he knew it was true. Juliana now represented both life and death to him. He smiled a bit, remembering how Hawkins had come to him, a huge grin splitting his ugly face. “Yessiree, they're off early, bound for the nigger town.”

So easy, Wilkes thought. He wondered if Juliana now believed herself safe from him.

Saint Morris was here to deliver the Hammonds' child. Wilkes had only to remain out of sight and wait for his opportunity.

It would come, oh yes. He knew suddenly, at that precise moment, with the bright sun overhead, exactly when and how he would strike.

 

Jules was striding down the street beside Thackery and Little Tony, a black man who would intimidate the bravest of men. His size was formidable, his body hard with muscle, and he had the gentlest eyes Jules had ever seen.

She was listening to the two men talk. Although Thackery had never said anything to her, she realized now that he missed being here, missed being part of the town's growth. She silently cursed Wilkes.

“I must get back to work now, Miz Morris,” Little
Tony said, pausing a moment before a freshly painted wooden building. “This is where we keep all our records,” he added, pride in his voice.

“Please call me Jules,” she said, but knew that he wouldn't. Old habits were hard to break.

Little Tony nodded to her from his great height.

“Thank you for the tour,” Jules said. “Now,” she continued to Thackery, “why don't we go for a ride? I should love to see the land around the town and all the planting and all the new building.”

Thackery agreed and they walked to the livery stable. “Little Tony was telling me how much trouble they're having with names.”

Jules cocked a questioning brow.

“Slaves have only one name,” he said tersely. “Outlandish names, given by white owners.”

“What are you doing about it?” Jules asked, fascinated.

“Mr. Hammond, he's made lists of names—real names—his missis too. All of us choose what name we want, then Little Tony writes out certificates.”

“What name have you chosen?”

“Me? I was lucky. I just chose John. John Thackery.”

Jules stopped and thrust out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, John.”

He gave her a crooked grin and enfolded her small hand in his large one. “As for Little Tony, he's now Mr. Anthony Washington.”

“That's some name to live up to,” Jules said.

They rented two horses and rode out. Jules was wearing her new blue velvet riding habit and a jaunty little hat. She felt happy and content. The morning was sunny and warm. The rolling hills surrounding the wide valley were green from the winter rains.
They reined in occasionally, Thackery showing her how the plots of land had been divided up, pointing out the constant building of small houses.

“I think Mr. Hammond has every banker in San Francisco involved,” he said. “The amount of lumber we need is incredible. Just look over there—”

There was a loud cracking sound. Jules whipped about to see Thackery grab his chest.

“Thackery!”

She tried desperately to keep him upright on his horse, but his weight was too great and he slid to the rocky ground. Jules dismounted quickly, rushing to him.

“Leave him be, Juliana.”

Jules knew that voice—it had played in her dreams countless times. Now it was hard and cajoling at the same time. And filled with triumph and satisfaction.

“I must help him,” she said, her voice blank from shock, still disbelieving. She felt Wilkes's hand on her arm, felt him pull her about to face him.

“Look at me, Juliana.”

She couldn't. She wouldn't.

She felt his long fingers grasp her chin and force her face upward. “You're insane,” she said. “I am nothing, nothing at all to you. Why?”

Jameson Wilkes sought the depths of her eyes. He laughed. “If I could answer that, my dear, in a fashion you could understand, I shouldn't have lived in hell for so long a time. Come now, Juliana. We have a goodly distance to go.”

“No,” she said, her voice so calm it surprised her. “I must help Thackery.”

“You touch him, my dear, and I'll put another bullet through his black hide.” He saw the flaring of
fear in her eyes, and knew he had found his lever. “However, if you come with me, I'll leave him as he is.” He didn't want her fighting him, didn't want her struggling until she hurt herself. He saw the growing stain of red on the black man's chest and knew he would die in any case. But the man was tough, and Wilkes hoped he would make it back to tell Saint Morris. He was counting on it; that was why he hadn't put a bullet through the man's heart.

“You will die for this,” Jules said as she walked to her horse. “My husband will kill you for this.”

“Actually, my dear,” Wilkes said easily, “your husband is at this moment helping Byrony Hammond. From what I could tell with all the excitement, she is now birthing her child.”

Jules shut her eyes. When would she be missed? Would she be missed at all?

“Now, I believe I shall take your reins. Unfortunately, I cannot trust you to do as I bid you once we are away from your bodyguard.” He grasped her horse's reins, pulling himself closer to her.

“Behave, Juliana, else I'll tie you up. Remember how I tied you up before? There is much we will do together.”

Jules thought of her derringer, so safe and distant in the bottom of her valise. It was the oddest thing, but she wasn't particularly afraid, for the fear of the reality was much less than the fear of his shadow and his threats. The fear would come, though, she knew it. But before it numbed her mind, she knew she had to think clearly. She had only herself to rely upon. As Wilkes nudged their horses forward, she turned in the saddle to see Thackery. Pain seared through her. He was lying utterly motionless on his side.

“You are a filthy man,” she said.

“Nothing a bath won't cure,” Wilkes said. His eyes darkened, and she flinched. “Ah, you're remembering those baths aboard my ship, aren't you? And how I watched you and admired you.”

“No, I am remembering how I coshed you on the head. I wish only that I'd hit you harder.”

“Such a pity,” Wilkes said before turning his attention to the trail in front of them.

“What is?” Jules demanded.

“That you are married, my dear. I wanted to marry you, but now you'll just have to be my mistress. Please me, and I will keep you with me.”

“I won't please you, I'll kill you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You've lost your girl's terror, haven't you? Now that you know about plowing, I fancy you will certainly please me in bed.”

She shuddered, and she knew he saw it. She closed her eyes, but just for a moment. She had to keep alert, try to remember the way they were traveling.

Wilkes grew silent. He was thinking about his two men—Grabbler and Hawkins—scum, both of them. He didn't doubt for a moment that they'd want to share her. He considered not going to the caves where they awaited him.

When Jules suddenly dug her heels into her horse's belly, causing the mare to snort and rear back, tearing the reins from his hands, he knew he would need them. He caught the flying reins before Jules could grab them, and brought the frantic mare back down.

He crowded his horse next to the mare. He saw Jules breathing heavily, her eyes dilated. Without
warning, he grabbed her about the waist and pulled her before him.

“How very stupid of you, my dear,” he said softly.

Jules felt fear and rage flow through her. She began to struggle, striking at his face, her nails scoring his cheek.

He cursed, and dragged her off the horse. She fell onto her back, but the sharp stones digging into her body made no impression. She watched him pull off his belt.

She came up on her knees, and nearly fell back again, dizziness from the fall making her shaky.

Wilkes grabbed her wrists, forcing them together, and bound them with the belt. He saw her flinch, and loosened the binding leather just a bit.

“There,” he said. He clasped her beneath her armpits and pulled her to her feet. For a moment he brought her against him, and Jules went rigid.

“No,” she gasped. “No!”