Sacred Terrain (Traveled Hearts Series Book 2) Read online

  SACRED

  TERRAIN

  Veronica Mahara

  Copyright 2020 by Veronica Mahara

  Cover Design by Jane Dixon-Smith

  Internal Design by Jane Dixon-Smith

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Traveled Heart Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without the written consent of the author.

  ISBN 978-1-7323712-2-4

  With much love, I dedicate this book to my daughters Star and Heidi.

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Acknowledgments

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Clermont City, California–August 1887

  Stepping back from her latest painting with a tilt of her head, Jessica dabbed on a bit of green, then more purple. Had she forgotten that the minister’s daughter’s coat was more maroon? It didn’t seem to matter anymore. For the last two hours, her thoughts had drifted away from her canvas and back again. It was stifling hot in her little art studio even though she’d propped up the small window as far as it could go. The door remained closed, however, since the grocer next door hadn’t had his garbage removed in over a week. With the slightest breeze, the stench from rotting produce and animal fat wafted into the space, making her cover her nose with a handkerchief. Jessica would have to talk to Mr. Talbot, the gallery owner, about it again. She wasn’t paying him rent to smell garbage all day. Needing air, she placed her brushes in the tin of mineral spirits, letting the liquid touch her fingers. After wiping her hands clean, she took off her apron and headed home.

  The tidy, hard-packed, dirt streets of Clermont City were familiar to her now and she let her mind wander to Jacob, imagining a place where their love flourished and society accepted them. Keeping their relationship secret was a painful struggle, but they’d had no choice. Her aunt and uncle’s adopted son was considered her cousin, and it would destroy their close-knit families. The daydreaming had become a bad habit, but she couldn’t empty her heart of him and so many questions remained unanswered.

  Their last rendezvous in June had left her with some hope. The love they expressed for each other went beyond lust. Jacob had willingly left his life on the trails to come to her, and they had promised to remain true to each other. Finding peace with that had been difficult, but some days were easier than others. Since he kissed her good-bye, the shine had been scrubbed off that hope. As always, her daydream ended with a thud. Jacob had not written to her.

  The heat weighed down her clothing, making her petticoat cling to her sweaty legs, and the boned bodice of her dress was smothering her. She made her way to the gate of the white picket fence that surrounded the front of Aunt June and Uncle Burt’s bungalow, painted a cheery yellow with white trim. Today, however, it reflected the sun like a hot beacon. Curly strands from her upswept, dark-brown hair stuck to her moist neck. Why hadn’t she brought her parasol to shade her from the searing sunlight? More evidence of her distracted mind. She closed the gate behind her, ready to get into a less constricting day dress.

  Sitting on the porch in one of the white rockers was Aunt June. A large pitcher of lemonade and two glasses sat on the wooden table beside her. Aunt June was a constant comfort, not only with food and drink, but with words of encouragement. Jessica smiled. “Hello, Auntie.”

  “There you are!” Her aunt’s cherry-red cheeks swelled under her bright-green eyes. “I knew you’d be along soon enough. This heat is not fit for a lady locked in a small, stuffy room. I wish you would take our large shed for your art studio. A breeze comes through it.”

  Helping herself to a tall glass of lemonade, she listened to her aunt’s chatter. The cool liquid had just the right amount of sour and sweet. “Yours is the best lemonade in the world!” Taking a long swallow, she came up for air. “Let me change into something lighter, and I’ll sit with you for a while.”

  The larger guest bedroom with a flower-painted ceiling had become Jessica’s own room now. The generous bed with its crisp, cotton linens called for her to luxuriate in it. A lazy evening in bed would be heaven. She had been standing most of the day in front of her easel. The window overlooking the hills, the trees, and her aunt’s garden, gave her a feeling of security and gratitude, yet she was restless to be on her own. Her uncle’s shed was tucked in back of the house shaded by large trees and surrounded by her aunt’s touch of flowering shrubs and spring bulbs.

  In the heat of day, the offer tempted her and she came to a decision. The bay of windows on the opposite side of the room opened to the street side, and she recalled a warm, early September afternoon when she watched Jacob come out of the house. Bringing to mind his tall, confident body and long, brown hair sent a wave of longing through her. He mounted his horse with ease and trotted off. She hitched a breath. That was the summer life changed, bringing her to where she was now. Another September was on the horizon, and she marveled at all she had been through in a year. How different she felt and how free she had become, yet the burden of her choices lay heavy on her heart—the pain of saying good-bye to Jacob, the courage to get a divorce and start life on her own, and mostly, the heartbreak of losing her unborn child, their unborn child. Was it not enough for Jacob to see her love and her strength to want him to stay and make a life in the city by the bay?

  The windows were open, still the room was stifling. She stripped out of her sweaty clothes and changed into a light petticoat and simple dress. In the bathroom across the hall, she splashed her face with tepid water and patted it dry. With
the day’s work and the world’s dust removed, she was ready to relax on the porch.

  When Jessica returned, a plate of raspberry scones and a small bowl of clotted cream had joined the pitcher of lemonade. She smeared on the chilled cream and devoured the treat. She hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been. Thinking of Jacob had given her an appetite. “I might take you up on your offer, Auntie. Mr. Talbot’s little room is becoming so cramped with my larger canvases. He’s been a dear to let me rent the space, and being right behind his art gallery has helped.” Jessica thought aloud as she nibbled on her second scone.

  “Well, it’s settled then.” Aunt June had a smile on her face.

  Jessica felt a twinge of regret. The tiny studio was hers, even if she had outgrown it, not to mention the love she and Jacob had shared in it that June day only a few months ago. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought. She reached over to her glass of cool lemonade.

  “My, Jessica, you are thirsty.”

  Jessica grinned at Jacob’s mother. “The heat.” She turned her thoughts to her association with Mr. Talbot. Although he had raised the rent from nine dollars a month to ten, she showed a profit on her paintings. His small gallery sold most of her watercolor art. Depictions of the town’s park, its homes, businesses, landscapes, flowers, and animals sold well.

  Her canvases, thick with the heavy oil paints, were another matter. She painted scenes of the different lifestyles in San Francisco when she lived there with her husband, Frederick Moore. Her covert escapes from her stuffy, abusive life with him led her to places she had never dreamed existed—a place called the Tenderloin District, where the poor lived on the edge of society, Chinatown, where her experience was a mix of delight and horror, the wharves, Nob Hill, and the opulent Palace Hotel. She painted those scenes in stark reality to each other on every canvas. According to Mr. Talbot, they were too controversial to sell under her own name. She had let him talk her into selling those paintings under a pseudonym, J. Lingerhoph. Ridiculous, but her work sold in Oakland and San Francisco. Mr. Talbot told her the paintings were attracting an audience. City collectors accepted such art more readily than the small town she painted them in. She had heard that the mysterious J. Lingerhoph evoked thoughts one should not indulge in, and that was the reason he stayed away from the public eye. It made her laugh, yet she longed to expose the truth. But not now. Those paintings brought her a nice income.

  Sitting back in the rocker, she let its gentle movement lull her into splendid relaxation. She wanted to drift off, but her aunt was having none of it. Her chatter kept on.

  “We’ve cleared the shed of your uncle’s hobby. He’s too busy at the land company to do any more of his woodworking. As if he loved it,” she said, then laughed. “I suppose he tried it, but you know, as a lawyer, he’s much too … how do I say it”—she searched the sky for the right word—practical. He’s better suited to Dunbar’s real estate business, and they so appreciate his legal help.”

  Jessica knew her aunt meant that her husband had been under foot since he retired from his law partnership with her father, Thomas Messing, back in Hartford, Connecticut. She smiled with half-closed eyes.

  “Have you been sleeping well, my dear?” her aunt asked.

  Suddenly self-conscious, she straightened her back. “Yes, of course,” she replied. Was her daydreaming that obvious? Floating back to the sweet memory of making love with him in the small studio among her canvases and art supplies was too much to bear in the light of day. However, thinking of those times with him soothed her restless heart. Jacob had promised he and her brother, Will, would make good of their wild trading days and start a business in San Francisco. He would be nearer to her, if not completely hers to claim. Her innocent nature believed him, but her life experience gave her pause. Promises are only dreams until they become reality. Then she wondered how, at only twenty-three, she had become a cynic.

  Turning her attention back to her aunt, who was onto a new recipe, Jessica tried to remain attentive. June loved experimenting in baking and cooking, and her skill for it was reknown among the family and beyond. She hoped to someday have the same expertise. Presenting Jacob with a plate of pear crisp or roasted chicken with lemon made her smile.

  “So I feel we could do the whole thing with apples instead of blackberries. They’re too juicy … the berries, that is,” June said. “Jessica?”

  “Yes, apples instead of blackberries.” Barely listening, Jessica wondered with an eager heart where the man she gave her love to was. Would he ever return to Clermont City?

  Chapter Two

  August 1887

  Jacob Stanford took out the worn map from his pack and laid it on the blanket that covered the dew-dampened ground. He smoothed out the wrinkles. The cool morning was marked by patches of white fluff sailing along the sky. Their camp was outside of Medford, Oregon among the pines. Green pastures lay in front of them, glistening when the sun came from behind the clouds. Light and shadows played on the paper. “We’ll be heading west to Jacksonville,” he said.

  “Where exactly is the location?” his cousin Will Messing asked. He sat on a stump with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his hair untied, strands of the brownish-blond mane dancing in the breeze. The dark shadow of his melancholy still hung around him. When Jacob met up with Will in Medford after his visit with Jessica last June, he came back to find his cousin in a hotel room in a state of pathetic drunkenness. Mi Lee, the woman carrying his child and the love of his life, had vanished. It took several days to get Will sober and several more days to get him back on his horse so they could continue their lives trading, stealing, and selling guns and ammunition. From what Jacob could gather from his cousin, Doc Middleman’s nurse had taken up with a Chinese man and they took the train up to Portland for her father’s approval. Shortly thereafter, they were married.

  Jacob scratched his chin whiskers. “Damn it, Will. Haven’t you been paying attention? The post office is here, about ten miles away. The target is less than a mile from there. He pointed to where the next deal would be made. Looking up at Will, he tried again to ease his cousin’s pain. “She just wasn’t the one for you.”

  “I have a child in this world who may never know me.”

  Jacob huffed. “I know, but she’s married now and her new husband will raise it. It’s a fact you’ll have to come to terms with. Maybe someday. …” Jacob didn’t want to give Will false hope. The chances of him seeing the child again were slim to none, and Will would have to face a court battle. Will had met Mi when, on that fateful day after selling guns and bullets to five men, a war broke out between the men and a band of Indians, and Will had been shot in the arm and side. Doc Middleman, as he was known in Medford, had stitched him up, and Mi had nursed him back to health. According to the doctor, Mi wrote to him, stating her new husband would adopt the baby once it was born, claiming the real father had abandoned her and the unborn child. It wasn’t far from the truth, but Will had every intention of coming back for them once he was established in a real line of work.

  “Damn those Indians!” Will lashed out.

  “Indians? She’s Chinese.”

  “If they hadn’t stormed us after that trade, I wouldn’t have gotten shot and I never would have met her. How does a woman’s love turn just like that?” he asked, snapping his fingers.

  “You have to move on, Will.” Jacob waited for a sign to continue talking about their future. It was hard to see his cousin’s easy going nature so dampened. After a while, Will forced a smile.

  Once they solidified their plan, Jacob gathered the map and they broke camp. The men headed down the road to pick up the guns they would sell. Half the profit would go to Joe, the covert dealer at the post office. It wasn’t the best trade they made, but deals were slim and they needed the cash.

  Knowing Jessica waited for him, Jacob vowed to make enough money to fund his business. For now, he couldn’t let himself think of her—not the shape of her tender lips, not her smooth, round hips, nor
the eyes that held love for him. More so, he wouldn’t let himself dwell on the fact that she might have found someone to take his place. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. It was his lot in life ever since he decided his heart belonged to her.

  Chapter Three

  Clermont City–August 1887

  After another survey of the acreage he intended to call home, Caleb Cantrell mounted Lightfoot. “I could do a lot on this land,” he said, patting Lightfoot’s withers. “How’d you like to graze in that field, eh, boy?” The horse tossed his shiny, black mane. The rush of the Rail River, and the heady smells of sundried grass mingling with firs, spruce, and pine, were familiar to Caleb, but the peacefulness of this place was something he’d experienced only in his dreams. Yet here he stood, drinking it in. He imagined a home and barn, rows of vegetables, an orchard filled with oranges, lemons, and apples, and his own silversmith shop. His trail mates, Levi and Cork, had settled on Levi’s family’s farm. It wasn’t too far away, and the silversmith business he hoped to work at was just a few miles from town. He mused how his guiding spirits had not abandoned him after all. He rubbed his arm. Even after what I’ve done.

  ~

  It was his first purchase of land, and he wanted to do it properly. With his newly shortened, blond mane and tidy goatee, he was ready to present himself to the land company in Clermont City, California. Steering his horse down the narrow, winding, dirt road away from the land and onto the main street, he went over his finances again. He had been frugal with what he earned with J. Keaton and his company of gunrunners, along with his cut of the spoils from the Colorado shoot-out. There would be more than enough to get himself settled. At the thought of Colorado, his hand drifted to the scar on his left upper arm. He tried to abandon his memories of Colorado, but even as he moved toward a better life, the ghosts of three dead men in the shack in the hills haunted him. You gave us no choice.

  The quaint town was quiet as he secured his horse to a black, wrought iron figure standing stiffly, holding a large ring. It was an odd site to Caleb, but then Clermont City wasn’t just a backwoods village planted in the middle of nowhere. It was a proper town, with rows of houses and well-maintained, packed-dirt streets. Though the population marker just within the town’s limits read three thousand, it felt more like a small city.