John strode through the saloon, shoved at the batwing doors, and slumped a shoulder against the boardwalk post.
The irony of it was—he had cash! The morning after a payday he was almost always flat busted. But since he'd left the Republic early last night, he'd left with money in his pocket.
And he had berries, too. What was left of the big cleanup he made.
John shot Isabel Burche's rundown cabin a frown.
Crazy Isabel had stolen the berries he'd picked. John figured that out when he got back into town early that morning, dropped his pillowcase on the bed, and stepped on a few berries at his feet. The sack had a hole in the bottom. Not so big he lost everything he'd gathered—but a good part of it. All that fumbling behind him had been Isabel picking up what had dropped.
Then when she'd slammed into him… for a moment he'd thought she might be a tad attracted to him and flaunting it. Not that he wanted to attract a walnut.
John's eyes hardened as he remembered her words. Rabbit his butt.
Damn … but he had to give her credit for ingenuity.
Rubbing his jaw and the bristly growth of day-old beard at his chin, John pondered his next move.
He'd slept half the morning away, right into the afternoon. He missed going out to Ferndale No. 8 and working on the rig. But he wasn't worried Calco would give him the boot. John knew so much about drilling, he had a job whenever he wanted one. He could man every hand position: tool pusher, floor, lead tong, chain, and derrick.
Seeing as he had the berries at his place—a small bungalow off Grove—he could walk home, get them, and sit in the Republic for a while and think up a plan for going after more berries.
He spied Isabel leaving her house, a hamper hooked in the crook of her arm. She had a sneaky air about her as she walked swiftly out of town on the main road, then veered off on Junipero Avenue—a long and dusty country lane that led up to Chumash Mountain. And Chumash Mountain, on the eastern side, was chock-full of holly bushes.
John pushed away from the awning post and made a run for the livery, striding over the golf ball rolling down the powdery street.
Isabel stopped her climb to take a drink of lemonade and dab her forehead with a handkerchief. She'd almost made it to the little bluff on Chumash Mountain. Gazing at the valley below her, she saw most of Limonero's rooftops and a few of the streets—and the Sun-Blessed Growers Association's endless lemon tree groves.
She had a job there once that lasted nearly four months. She'd been let go for excessive peel polishing before packing. But the lemons had looked so much better with the pretty yellow sheen to them.
As she proceeded, Isabel kept a close watch for contest competitors. She'd encountered parties of berry pickers on the town side of Junipero Avenue. This area of the mountainside was remote so she felt fairly confident she wouldn't be discovered. A person would have to walk over three hours to reach it or ride on horseback.
Isabel didn't have a horse.
A corner of shale jutted from the mountain, and just around its bend: holly bushes. Ignoring the perspiration gathered on her upper Up, Isabel continued. At the turning point, she stopped in her tracks. There on the bluff, sitting on his duff, lazed John Wolcott.
He had the audacity to wave at her.
Trudging forward, Isabel drew up to him and east John in her body shade. If she allowed herself a small consolation, his face appeared sun-browned to crispness beneath the brim of his hat; his wide hands sported numerous fresh scratches from holly leaf spines. His legs were casually spread, and the boulder he sat on also had a pair of saddlebags as large as the long defunct Pony Express's mail pouches. One had its flap open, exposing the hoard of berries inside.
"You've been busy, I see," she managed in a tone tight with agitation. How had he known about Chumash Mountain?
He injected his reply with accusation. "I had to make up for all the berries that fell out of my sack and somehow got lost."
Isabel feigned an air of innocence. "How did you get up here ahead of me? I saw you at the Republic three hours ago."
The lopsided grin he gave her wou
ld have been bone-melting if it had come from anyone but him. "I have a horse. He's tethered up there." He tilted his head toward his left.
"I didn't think you owned anything."
His mouth fell in a grim line. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Scanning the bushes to see if he'd left her any berries, Isabel vaguely commented, "You aren't ambitious. You spend more time in that bar than any other place." Her eyes landed back on him. "And you dress like a tramp."
John gave himself a cursory inspection.
He wore denim pants so thin in the knees the indigo had faded to pale blue. His shirt had been rolled up at the sleeves, the thread for the hem missing.