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JOLLY HOLLY CONTEST
Will award the person who collects and delivers the most holly berries for stringing on a Christmas tree to be erected in the yard at Ninth and Mill Street this Friday. Deadline is December 24,1900, at the stroke of midnight. The prize will be unlike anything you've ever known. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. The key to eternal happiness. Prosper in a way you never thought possible. You will be forever grateful. Tis the season for the holiday spirit so join in and reap the rewards.
—Bellamy Nicklaus
Isabel didn't know any Bellamy Nicklaus. And the last time she was by the house on Ninth and Mill—which was just yesterday, it had been vacant and in horrible neglect. This could be a prank.
While mulling over the possibilities, a dull rattle sounded in the pipe to her pot-bellied stove. Squirrels. She absently tapped the black cylinder with a spoon. The noise stopped. But then oddly, the grated door drifted open and a sooty white ball rolled to her feet. She dismissed it as a child's errant toy. The plum-sized ball must have gotten wedged in the flue. It was amazing that she hadn't filled the house with smoke when her stove was lit.
Isabel turned her thoughts back to the contest… she could really use the winnings. How much money was the prize? The paper didn't say. Even if it was minimal, she could afford small improvements. A well on the place was financially out of her reach right now. She'd sunk most of her savings into the land and repairs on the old cabin—which still wasn't completed, but more livable than it had been. The money could tide her over so she didn't have to get another job. She'd had just about every position in Limonero. There weren't many options left open to her.
With a tired hand, she smoothed her brow and straightened her shoulders to relieve the ache. She gazed at the flyer once more. John Wolcott had one of these. Maybe everybody in town did.
Deadline—December twenty-fourth at midnight.
She had eight days.
Thoughts about going to bed vanished. The image of holly bushes loaded with big scarlet berries pulled at her. She knew just the spot. Down by the first barranca across from Santa Paula Creek where willow patches grew.
Going quickly to the kitchen counter, she snatched her gardening basket; it was an old lunch hamper, but sound and sturdy with a lid. The inside could hold a lot of berries.
Isabel was going to win that contest.
Calco Oil had started a spur out to Dutch Flat No. 3, but abandoned it when the well went dry after six months.
With a slice of moon beaming light down, John followed the length of iron railroad track. He'd slung his pillow slip over his shoulder and walked with hands shoved deep into his pockets. The wind flared up every now and then, but without any kind of cool bite.
He would rather have been drinking tequila, but the contest's lure had been too much for him to forget about. His third drink had come before he'd finally read the paper. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. The key to eternal happiness. Prosper in a way you never thought possible. No wonder the Republic had been deserted.
This was just the kind of opportunity he'd been looking for—easy money, a way to cash in at the bank and sit back and spend it. He could win this contest. It wasn't hard to find berries. He knew where a cache of them grew: in various spots around the valley; some in the foothills; more patches over the ridge toward the beach. He would pick the bushes clean. Then after he got his reward, he'd draw up to the bar in the Republic, drink a beer, and ponder what to do with all that cash.
John wasn't opposed to hard work. He'd done it most of his life, first on his father's dirt farm in Texarkana, then across the western countryside. He never put down roots. No place interested him enough. But he liked California's climate. Every chanee he got, he rode to the ocean to watch the sunset fall in a sizzling ball over the waves. Limonero he could call home.
That money could buy lumber, a band wheel, manila rope, a boiler, and a twelve horsepo
wer engine. Building his own derrick and drilling for his own oil instead of sweating for Calco—now that would be something.
John let the idea gel as he walked across Santa Paula Creek.
As he wove up the path and stared hard for signs of holly bushes, a beacon of light flashed across his face for an instant. He froze. Whoever had shot him with the reflecting lamp hadn't realized he was there or they would have kept the beam on him. The person was moving. He could see the sway of the lamp's bright shaft as the sound of footsteps rose upward toward the slope.
John fell in behind the moving light, eyes widening as he recognized who held the handle.
Isabel.
Being in a state of semi-drunkeness, his attempt to quiet his footsteps didn't succeed. Isabel turned sharply, the lantern in her hand swaying outward with her movement The brilliant white flame blinded him, and he swore beneath his breath. She lowered the beam. The manzanita-bordered path on which they stood was bathed in enough light for them to view one another.
They stared for a long moment
He noticed she held a hamper and wore an apron but no hat. Her black hair had been plaited in a thick braid that rested against the pale curve of her neck and fell across her breast like a caress. He couldn't decipher the color of her eyes. But her face was prettier than he would have thought for a crazy woman, its shape a perfect oval, her lips with a kissable bow. The arch in her brows lifted in a way he thought sensual.
She spoke first, eyeing his pillowcase. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing as you, I expect," he drawled, a leftover remnant of his native Texas slipping into his words.
"Well, do what you're going to do over there." She pointed beyond him. "I've already got a stake on this spot."
"Says who?"
