Secrets of a Midnight Moon
For a young teacher in nineteenth century California, every road away from her past leads into the arms of a dangerous man—until she meets the right one.
 
California, 1858. After being abandoned by her lover and shunned by her family, Anna Jenson decides to make a new start in the rugged wilderness of the California mountains. But before she can reach her destination and begin her new life as a humble schoolteacher, she’s captured by a brooding warrior known only as “Bear.”
 
Her kidnapping wasn’t entirely random, though. Bear is actually Nicholas Gaspard, the half-Indian son of the rich rancher who hired Anna. He abducted her for what he believes to be a greater cause. Nicholas is a local hero, rescuing abandoned and abused local children, and he wants Anna to educate them. Furious at being tricked, Anna initially resists. But sparks fly between the reluctant teacher and the complex man, revealing a reckless desire that cannot be tamed.
 
“Jane Bonander reaches to her readers’ hearts.” —RT Book Reviews
1000085570
Secrets of a Midnight Moon
For a young teacher in nineteenth century California, every road away from her past leads into the arms of a dangerous man—until she meets the right one.
 
California, 1858. After being abandoned by her lover and shunned by her family, Anna Jenson decides to make a new start in the rugged wilderness of the California mountains. But before she can reach her destination and begin her new life as a humble schoolteacher, she’s captured by a brooding warrior known only as “Bear.”
 
Her kidnapping wasn’t entirely random, though. Bear is actually Nicholas Gaspard, the half-Indian son of the rich rancher who hired Anna. He abducted her for what he believes to be a greater cause. Nicholas is a local hero, rescuing abandoned and abused local children, and he wants Anna to educate them. Furious at being tricked, Anna initially resists. But sparks fly between the reluctant teacher and the complex man, revealing a reckless desire that cannot be tamed.
 
“Jane Bonander reaches to her readers’ hearts.” —RT Book Reviews
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Secrets of a Midnight Moon

Secrets of a Midnight Moon

by Jane Bonander
Secrets of a Midnight Moon

Secrets of a Midnight Moon

by Jane Bonander

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Overview

For a young teacher in nineteenth century California, every road away from her past leads into the arms of a dangerous man—until she meets the right one.
 
California, 1858. After being abandoned by her lover and shunned by her family, Anna Jenson decides to make a new start in the rugged wilderness of the California mountains. But before she can reach her destination and begin her new life as a humble schoolteacher, she’s captured by a brooding warrior known only as “Bear.”
 
Her kidnapping wasn’t entirely random, though. Bear is actually Nicholas Gaspard, the half-Indian son of the rich rancher who hired Anna. He abducted her for what he believes to be a greater cause. Nicholas is a local hero, rescuing abandoned and abused local children, and he wants Anna to educate them. Furious at being tricked, Anna initially resists. But sparks fly between the reluctant teacher and the complex man, revealing a reckless desire that cannot be tamed.
 
“Jane Bonander reaches to her readers’ hearts.” —RT Book Reviews

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781626811867
Publisher: Diversion Books
Publication date: 02/06/2019
Series: The Moon Trilogy , #1
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 353
Sales rank: 569,410
File size: 5 MB

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

North Central California, 1858

One wheel of the California and Oregon Stage Company coach slid into another rut in the road. Anna Jenson bounced up off the horse hair cushion, then tumbled back against the seat. Grabbing the leather strap that hung by the window, she pulled herself upright. A fresh ache spread across her shoulders, and she massaged her neck with her free hand. She hated to even imagine how sore she was going to be tomorrow, after bouncing mercilessly over every bumpy road from Oregon to California these past few days.

She shook herself. No sense thinking about that. A rush of excitement fluttered in her stomach. She was going to her first teaching position away from home. That made all the bumps and holes in the road worth the ride.

She held onto her new, blue Irving hat and stuck her head out the window to catch a better view of the mountain peak in the distance. It was magnificent. The brilliant blue sky framed the rocky, snow-covered mass, giving it an air of celestial beauty and power. At the timber line clouds became tangled in the treetops, slowly moving and changing shape as they hung in the air like smoke.

Breathing in the crisp mountain air, Anna turned away from the grove of deep green pines through which they were riding to look at her traveling companions. The young man across from her had finally decided to sleep, for he was sprawled against the seat, his hat over his eyes. A tiny wave of guilt pricked her conscience. The poor man had tried to start up a conversation with her by telling her the history of the mountain. She had been extremely interested until he began regaling her with stories about the savages and how they worshiped the craggy peak.

Savages. A shudder crept up her spine and she unconsciously stroked the worn surface of the locket that hung on the gold chain around her neck. Before she'd left home, her mother had placed two tiny pellets of cyanide inside it, instructing her to take them should the stage be raided by Indians.

Anna rested her head against the seat, sighed and closed her eyes. It had been ten years since she and her family had come across the prairie to the Oregon Territory, but her mother's fear of Indians, fear that had been instilled in all of them even before they had left Iowa, was still intact. And her mother's fears had only grown, despite the friendly Indians who lived near their farm today.

She opened her eyes and watched the sleeping woman seated next to her. With her pointed chin nearly on her chest, the thin woman, considerably older than Anna, snored softly. She was grateful the woman could nap. She had told Anna she was on her way to care for her niece and nephew in Pine Valley, and since she herself had never married, she'd confided, she wasn't anxious to take charge of two active children.

The thin, birdlike woman actually looked like a schoolmistress should, Anna decided. Looking wistfully at the woman's straight brown hair, she imagined it was trained to roll into a bun each morning by itself.

Sighing, Anna poked a wayward strand of honey-blond hair back under her jaunty blue hat and looked out the window again, peering this way and that at the lush green landscape. Excitement coursed through her. She was starting a new life, would put all of her past hurts and disappointments behind her. Being anxious to leave home, she'd begun to worry when she didn't hear from Mr. Gaspard, fearing that he'd changed his mind about hiring her. Then the message had come from his son Nicolas, who said he would be at the stage to meet her. She'd been in high spirits ever since.

Digging through her reticule, she found the letter, pulled it out and reread it.

Miss Jenson:

As my father's messenger, I am hoping it will be of no inconvenience if I ask that you get off the stage at the Flat Rock station rather than Pine Valley.

Sincerely, Nicolas Gaspard (son of Jean-Claude Gaspard)

She folded the letter and stuffed it back into her purse. Flat Rock had to be the next home station. She settled back against the high, hard seat of the coach and closed her eyes, wishing she could nap, if only for a few minutes. But her senses were too keen and her eyes refused to stay shut.

"Flat Rock ahead!" The whipster's voice rang clearly as he shouted back at the passengers.

When the coach stopped in front of the freshly painted building, Anna suddenly realized she was nervous. She peered outside. Good heavens, she didn't even know whom to look for.

The woman next to her had awakened moments before, and was staring at the nearly empty platform. "You be careful, now," she cautioned Anna, nodding toward the landing.

Anna's eyes followed the woman's gaze. A tall, broad-shouldered Indian whose black hair hung to his shoulders lounged against one of the pillars on the porch. Although he was dressed in civilized, nicely-cut buckskins, there was an untamed quality about him. Anna quickly glanced at the platform. He was the only person there.

The driver hopped down, opened the stage door, and Anna stepped out. Perhaps Mr. Gaspard was inside. She glanced again at the Indian, but pursed her lips in disapproval when she found the man openly watching her. A shiver danced over her skin.

A young boy ran from the building to help unload her baggage, piling it all on the wooden platform. Lifting her dark blue poplin skirt, she walked carefully up the steps to the landing and, after giving the Indian a wide berth, took a seat on a bench near the door, under the eaves.

The man pushed himself away from the tall, round column. With a natural grace Anna couldn't help but admire, he walked to the stage, where the other passengers were still milling about before reentering the coach.

He bent down to talk with the woman who was going to Pine Valley to care for her relatives. Suddenly he pulled himself up straight. "What?!" His voice exploded into the quiet air, and he turned slowly, pinning Anna with a long, pernicious look.

Her pulse raced when their eyes met. Whatever was he looking at her for? He continued to stare, his fists on his narrow hips and his feet wide apart. Shaking his head, he started toward her. Her fingers went directly to the cold, smooth surface of her locket.

As he approached she noticed that his black, satanic eyebrows were slammed down over his eyes, and his mouth was crimped into a frown. Her heart banged against her ribs. He'd been tall and imposing from a distance, but up close his size and his presence were downright frightening. There was a scar on his left cheekbone that pulsed an angry purple, and his eyes were as gray and blustery as a coastal storm.

"You're Miss Jenson?"

His voice was deep and resonant. Not trusting her own, she merely nodded and continued to touch her locket with nervous fingers.

"Miss Anna Jenson, the ... schoolmarm?"

The last two words were laced with a generous amount of sarcasm, but Anna pretended not to notice. It wouldn't do to let him think she was a greenhorn. She was, after all, almost twenty-one.

"Yes," she said as she stood up to greet ... whoever he was. "I'm Anna Jenson." His height was impressive, and annoying. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, which did nothing to enhance her attempt at aloofness. "And you are?"

He looked at her long and hard, then raked his fingers through his thick black hair, grunted a sigh, and looked away. "I'm here to take you to your teaching job." He strode to the trunk and hoisted it onto his back as easily as if it were empty.

Panic nipped at Anna's spine. She had no intention of going off into the woods with a ... a disgruntled savage. "Ah, Mister ..." She had no idea what to call the man. He hadn't even had the decency to introduce himself.

He lifted her trunk into a clumsy-looking wagon. "Bear, ma'am, just call me Bear."

Anna shuddered. How appropriate.

"Well, I ..." she began, rummaging through her purse, "I find this rather curious. Where is ... Nicolas Gaspard? I have a note from him." She pulled out the letter. "It says he would be here to meet me."

She shoved the letter at him, but he ignored it. He walked past her and hoisted her other bags into the wagon. Anna sighed and dropped the note back into her purse. He probably couldn't read English, anyway.

He gave out a low whistle, and a big, black stallion appeared out of nowhere. The animal walked right up to him and nudged his shoulder with his nose. He said something to the horse in a language Anna didn't understand, then tied it to the back of the wagon.

"The vineyards are busy," he finally said. "He sent me in his place."

She let out a huge sigh, looked around the empty station and reviewed her options. She really didn't have any. She couldn't stay here, and really, she was being foolish. She was letting her mother's fear of all Indians color her own usually good judgment. Just because Mr. Gaspard's son had sent his Indian lackey to pick her up didn't mean she had to shake in her boots.

But as she eyed the wagon, she thought about the locket and its lethal contents. Until now Anna had felt it was only a precaution against a remote possibility. If the savage standing next to her posed a threat against her life and honor, could she actually kill herself?

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Anna plastered a tight smile on her face. "All right, take me to my new home." With a confidence she didn't feel, she stepped into the wagon and tried to ignore the trepidation in her bones.

The old, horse-drawn wagon clattered over the deeply rutted forest path, with the stallion tied behind. Anna checked the sun and decided they'd been traveling at least an hour. All that time, her driver had been the picture of stoicism. Never had she known a man with so little to say.

A movement in the dense brush caught her eye, and when a beautiful tan- colored doe sprinted across the path in front of them, the horses reared up, startled.

"Easy, girls," the Indian crooned, handling the reins with ease.

Suddenly the wagon slid into a deep rut. Anna gritted her teeth and held onto the edge of the wagon seat with both hands to keep from falling backward into the pile of baggage. Her hair was escaping from beneath her hat, but she didn't dare let go of the seat long enough to fix the loose curls that fell over her face.

She yelped in pain as the wagon hit another rut. Her unpadded behind rose up off the seat, then fell again to meet the hard, wooden bench.

"Um, excuse me," she began, the ancient wagon's creaking lament making it almost impossible to hear her own voice.

He looked at her, his insolent gaze coming to rest on her jouncing bosom.

She felt herself blush, angry and frustrated that she had no control over the bumpy ride.

He looked away again, but she swore she heard him swear under his breath.

"Excuse me, please," she repeated, dredging up a superior note to cover her frustration and put him in his place.

Glancing at her again, he let his gaze linger just briefly on her chest before looking at her face. "Yes?"

His boldness was appalling. It should have frightened her, but it made her angry instead. "Is there no padding for this bench?" She listened to the wobble in her voice as they bounced along.

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated incredulously. "Because the seat is very hard and the road is very rough." Did she have to draw him a picture?

He shrugged. "Look there." He pointed to the opening under the bench.

Anna braced one foot against the side of the wagon, bent down and swept her arm under the seat. "Oh," she said, breathing in a delighted sigh. "A pillow!"

Throwing the man next to her a suspicious glance, she pulled the padding out from beneath the seat and slid it under her bruised bottom. "The least you could have done was offer me the pillow before I had to ask for it."

He made a noise in his throat that sounded very much like a grunt, but said nothing.

Although Anna was more comfortable sitting on the pillow, she still felt a niggling fear at being in the middle of the forest, alone, with someone who claimed to work for the Gaspards. After all, she only had his word that he was in their employ.

She gave him a critical look. "Tell me something about Mr. Gaspard."

"Which one?"

Anna continued to look at him, noting that the right side of his face, the side without the scar, was quite handsome.

"How many are there?" she asked.

"Four."

"Really? Four?"

He nodded.

"My," Anna said, gazing at the man with the spartan vocabulary. "You certainly are a man of few words, aren't you?"

He kept his eyes on the road. "It takes few words to tell the truth."

Anna raised her eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't strung that many words together since they'd started out. Although she still was somewhat frightened of this imposing man, she fought to maintain an outward appearance of calm. "You're right, of course." She shifted sideways so she could look at him. "I'm not familiar with your language, but I imagine we white people have many more words than you do."

She wasn't aware that she'd lapsed into her schoolmarm demeanor until the Indian gave her a look that clearly told her he thought she was meddlesome.

"You white people need them," he answered lazily.

She gave him a nervous laugh. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He looked at her, then looked away. "To the white man, 'truth' is black, white, and all shades of gray. To my people, truth is just ... truth."

Anna fell silent. "Tell me about the man who hired me. Jean-Claude Gaspard." She waited for him to say something, and finally turned to look at him.

He was staring straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw clenched. "What do you want to know?" His voice sounded strained.

Anna wondered at his reticence, but looked away. "His letters were so kind and ... and fatherly." She remembered comparing Mr. Gaspard's warmth toward her, a total stranger, to her own father's stern hand. She'd felt ashamed for even wishing her father were more like a man she'd never even met.

"He's ..."

She turned and saw what looked like pain cross the Indian's face. "Doesn't he treat you well?" She hoped she hadn't been wrong about Mr. Gaspard's character.

"He's ... a good and fair ... boss man."

Anna relaxed. "Have you been with him long?"

"Since I was a boy." He sucked in his breath, a movement that expanded his already broad chest.

It drew Anna's unwilling, yet appreciative gaze. She blinked and looked away. "You ... you've learned many things from him, then?" she asked, trying to get her mind off his body.

"He teach —"

"Taught," she corrected automatically.

"He taught me everything I know."

Anna wondered what kind of education the laborers had. Probably all practical skills. "Has he taught you to read and write?"

He puffed out his chest. "I know how to read."

She gave him an ingratiating smile. "Of course you do. But can you read English?"

He turned away from her on the seat and presented her with his back. Anna felt she knew the answer. She couldn't blame Mr. Gaspard if his laborers couldn't read or write English. After all, it was difficult enough to find qualified teachers for the white children.

"Do you know how many children I'll be teaching?" When he cleared his throat and coughed, Anna looked at him. "Is something wrong?"

He coughed again and shook his head. "Bear wouldn't know how many white children need teaching, maestra."

Maestra. Anna smiled. She actually had a title. She closed her eyes and tried to envision the schoolroom filled with a dozen or more bright, eager faces. She felt competent to teach. Her teacher, Mrs. Biddle, would be so proud of her. Just remember, Anna dear, Mrs. Biddle had said, children must want to learn. Give them a good dose of hard knowledge, but sprinkle it lavishly with enthusiasm and praise.

She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders and gazed ahead at the team, then looked at the sky. "Wh-Which direction are we going?"

"Toward home, maestra."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't you even know your directions?"

The Indian appeared to take offense, sat taller on the seat. "I know this is the direction of home." He turned and gave her an insulted look.

"But —" She put her hand on his forearm. It was solid muscle.

He shot her a quick glance, and Anna drew her hand back as if it had been burned. She felt her pulse flutter at her throat and mentally scolded herself. She hadn't expected his arm to be so rock hard. But why not? After all, he wasn't accustomed to sitting behind a desk or wandering the length of a vineyard for exercise, not like his employers. He obviously had to work very hard for his keep.

The horses were slowing down again as they made their way up the long, barely perceptible grade.

Anna's fears grew. "Shouldn't we be going downhill?" She looked at the sky again. "It seems to me," she began slowly, not wanting to show her apprehension, "that the sun should be ahead of us."

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Secrets of a Midnight Moon"
by .
Copyright © 1991 Jane Bonander.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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