Then Isabel half-smiled and sat up. "I don't know why I told you all this."
As if a hot Santa Ana wind had come down on him, John's thoughts of kissing Isabel Burche evaporated. He pushed himself to sitting, knocking the twigs and sand from his pants legs.
John couldn't rid the tightness in his voice when he said, "I expect you'd have told somebody sometime."
"But I told you."
"Yep."
She heaved a great sigh. "I never have enough to do what I want. I thought working at the Blossom could give it to me."
"Money, you mean."
"Yes... money."
"I never have any extra either."
"That's why we have to win this contest."
For a haphazard couple of seconds, John had allowed himself to think Isabel was glad they were partners. But he wasn't so sure. Hell, she would probably have been better off if they weren't-- because his mind wasn't clear at the moment. He was thinking of her more as a desirable woman and less of a fifty-fifty partner.
"Well, we aren't going to win it sitting on our duffs."
John got to his feet and held a hand down for Isabel. She grasped it, and he berated himself for reveling in her touch. Gruffly, he knocked the stems of flannel bush from her shoulder and hair, forcing himself not to feel.
"Best we make sure Newt's gone. Then well ride up farther and finish out the day."
She nodded.
A little later, they were on their horses. She rode in front of him. John got to watch the gentle motion of Isabel's shoulders; see the way the sun shone on her black braid; appreciate the outline of her backside in the split skirt she wore.
The view was worth all the stalls he'd be mucking out for the next couple of months in order to work off the loan of her piebald mare.
Chapter Four
John bellied up to the polished bar at the California Republic Saloon and spilled twenty-five berries on the counter.
"Pour me a tequila, Saul."
As Saul went for the liquor, John avoided his reflection in the back bar's long mirror. It wasn't as if he couldn't face himself. He had every right to these berries. He'd gone on a late-night scout and had only picked the twenty-five needed for a midnight drink. He shouldn't be feeling guilty. There was no reason to share with Isabel. He'd thrown in everything else he picked. His intentions were still on the up and up.
But for right now, he needed the tequila to smooth over his rocky emotions.
He'd never been so... heroic... around a woman-- first, getting her a horse by promising to shovel its apples, then making a half-dozen trips for water at dawn when he could have been catching a few extra winks in bed.
What had gotten into him?
No liquor is what. His brain had dried up. As soon as he had a drink, he'd be back to his old self. John licked his lips in anticipation.
Saul turned around, set the drink down, and slid it toward John.
"You can take your hands off the glass, Saul," John said confidently. "It's all there. Twenty-five berries. Count 'em if you don't trust me."
The barkeep's fingers remained on the shot glass's circumference. "I trust you, John. But tequila's gone up to fifty berries. Berry inflation."
John's spirits plummeted. "What was that?"
Motioning to the sign, Saul read, "All drinks are to be paid for with berries, at a predetermined price set by the barkeep."
"Well, hell!" John erupted, removing his hat and then smashing it back on. "Pour me a damn beer then."
With quiet emphasis, Saul explained, "Beer's thirty berries."
"But I only have twenty-five berries!" Taking off his Stetson once more, he was vaguely aware of creasing the crown and resettling the brim over his forehead again. "Pour me a damn half a beer!"
"Sorry, John. No discounts."
Muttering a string of oaths, John stood.
Newt Slocum had the misfortune of entering the Republic with a grin on his mug. "Hey, John. Haven't seen you around."
Without a word, John coiled his arm back and hit Newt square on the jaw with a punch that sent him reeling backward into a limp heap. "That's for lying about Isabel."
Then John stormed out of the saloon and left thoughts of Newt behind.
Somebody was out to get him. He didn't know exactly who, but somewhere, somebody, was thinking this was a hell of a funny one to pull over on John Wolcott--shut off the tap to his liquor by decreasing the value of berries.
He shoved the swinging doors and stood on the darkened boardwalk. A thin moon spilled down on Main Street. In its pale milky cast, a golf ball flew past like a shooting star, diving into the horse trough in front of John. The force of its impact splashed him with murky water.
John took a sharp look to the right where the ball had come from.
Nothing stirred. He couldn't see anybody.
To the night shadows, he shouted, "I've got news for you, whoever you are! I'm not laughing!"
The speculative buzz in the growing crowd escalated the closer the hour got to noon. Isabel had heard Bellamy Nicklaus would be stepping onto his porch to announce the arrival of his Christmas tree-- the very one the berries were going to decorate. Supposedly a big Douglas fir had been cut near Santa Barbara and was being shipped down on the Pacific Coastal Railroad.
Gazing at the freshly painted house with its old gold half-timbered gables, Indian red trim, straw body color, and medium brownstone roof, Isabel couldn't believe it was the same decrepit place it had been less than a week ago. Box elder that had been overgrown and gangly was neatly clipped. Monkey flowers thick with sticky foliage and trumpet-shaped flowers in a colorful profusion bookended the house's sides leading to the front path. How had Bellamy managed to do so much overnight? It was as if he were... magic.