All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.

Thank you again to all who read and reviewed the last chapter – you really make my day! A special thanks goes to Seraphine Deesse de la Nuit and Sorcha_Cullen for looking over this chapter for me and talking me through my writer's block. You're amazing :)

An Awakening

Victoria's POV

I was started awake by the telltale shudder of bedsprings as another body entered my bed. My eyes flew open in a panic. No. This couldn't be happening. I went rigid with horror as the faint aroma of whiskey and tobacco wafted towards me. A warm body pressed itself brazenly against my back and my heart sank heavily with dread. I could have sworn I locked my bedroom door last night before I went to sleep. My mind spun with various alternative scenarios in which I escaped this situation unscathed, but such possibilities seemed hopelessly beyond my reach once an arm wrapped itself intimately around my waist.

Suddenly, I felt the familiar burn of day-old whiskers brush the back of my neck and I closed my eyes again with relief. James. The memories came rushing back to me of the passionate embrace we'd shared the night before and his strange and sudden departure. I had been so sure I'd done something to offend him given his reaction to the kiss. My reckless and girlish heart could scarcely believe that he'd returned as promised.

"Are you awake, Vicky?" he asked in a slurred whisper. His mouth grazed the sensitive area behind my ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down my body.

I was too scared to answer him lest I break the spell. I slowed my breathing, letting it sink and deepen with the weight of false sleep. If this were a dream, it was the most pleasant fantasy I'd ever succumbed to. I sighed and shifted against him, lost in the comfort of my protector's arms.

In his inebriated ardor he was well-disposed to believe my imitation of sleep and consequently let his hand wander over me without inhibition. A flutter of desire blossomed along my skin in the wake of his hand as it roamed higher over my stomach and breasts before finally settling into a gentle caress along my collarbone. I should have stayed his hand, but I possessed neither the desire nor the willpower. I wanted this in a way that frightened me. A sound I didn't recognize caught in my throat as he fumbled the top button of my dress open.

His hand froze at my suppressed outburst. I tried my best to still my breathing and feign sleep again, but he would not be fooled. He rolled away from me and within moments had fallen asleep himself, his back brushing against mine rhythmically with his breath. I lay wide-eyed and gasping in the dark, struggling to understand the new and exciting emotions he had ignited within me.

Much as I was loathe to, I knew I had to leave. When I was convinced he was asleep beyond waking and the rest of the room was encased once more in the deep snores of drunken sleep, I slipped from his bed and out of the bunkhouse. In the low light of the breaking dawn I floated as if in a trance through the yard, the thin early morning air prickling my inflamed skin. Alone in that morning, I felt so naked, so raw, so alive. I danced along the morning mist, impervious and invincible to any danger. I reached the house and pulled myself up onto the precarious trellis, the vine that bolstered it already withered and dead for the winter. I scaled it easily and climbed through my open bedroom window as quietly as my buoyant heart would allow me. I directed an appraising glance to the bedroom door, but it remained safely closed and betrayed no signs of having been disturbed during the night.

I fell back on my bed with a dreamy sigh. This must be it. This must be the reason people smile, I reflected happily. The memory of his lips on my mouth and his hands on my body warmed my cheeks to a ruddy glow. He cared. On some level, whether or not he was conscious of it, James Wilder cared about me. For what seemed like the first time, I watched the sun rise through the gauzy lace curtains of my bedroom window and felt no fear.

A short while later there was a knock at the door.

"Open this door, Victoria," my stepmother's voice reverberated sharply through the wooden door.

I rose calmly from my enamored daze to answer the door. She seemed surprised to find me dressed (but mercifully unaware that I was still in the same clothes as yesterday) and even more so to discover a serene look of satisfaction on my face.

"Sleep well?" she asked with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

"Fine," I replied neutrally. "How did you sleep, mother?" I fought the urge to add an editorial emphasis to the word mother. I was in good spirits today, and not even her petty vitriol could bring me down.

She didn't respond to my question. "Your father and the men are leaving on a cattle drive tomorrow and he would like our help making preparations."

I pretended to be surprised by the news, even though James had told me about the drive the night before. "A cattle drive? But I thought Daddy said he wouldn't do another drive until spring?"

She held up her palms as if to deflect my childish ignorance. "Don't question your father, Victoria." She looked tired, her eyes haggard. I wondered if she spent as many nights awake and afraid as I did. Strictly speaking, she couldn't be much more than a handful of years older than I was. We should be sources of each other's comfort – and yet we were forced to spitefulness and hatred by my father's faults. Yes, she was cruel, but she was hurting, too. Why was I only seeing this now?

I nodded and followed her without further question.

Downstairs my father was seated at the dining table, a large map and a steaming pot of coffee laid out on the table before him. His face went white when I appeared in the doorway, but he quickly swallowed his discomfort and smiled at me.

"Good morning," he said with feeling, standing up and extending his arms in anticipation of a hug.

I felt not the slightest semblance of hesitation as I walked into his open arms and planted a light kiss on his cheek. "Good morning, Daddy," I echoed cheerfully, picking up the coffee pot and refreshing his mug. "Mother says you're leaving us tomorrow?" Even though thoughts of James had inspired a permanent smile on my face this morning, I forced myself to frown at the mention of his leaving.

He seemed surprised at my warmth and replied cautiously, "Yes. I'm afraid the fire in the barn..." Here he paused to gauge my expression, which was carefully vacant. Satisfied with my indifference, he continued, "...has caused a minor setback in finances. We'll have to make a short drive to San Francisco to make up for it."

I leaned over the table and perused the map casually. "And how long will that take?" I hoped he didn't notice the nervous band of sweat forming around my temples. I examined the crude red line my father had drawn connecting Canyon Ridge to San Francisco. By the looks of it, the trail was over two hundred miles and it cut right through the middle of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

"Three or four weeks," he said.

That long without James? I felt the mask of my good mood slipping away.

My father must have noticed the change in my disposition, for he amended quickly, "But it will take much less time to get back when we don't have the cattle slowing us down anymore."

I nodded and managed a weak smile. "Is it very dangerous?" I asked, requiring no pretense for the warm mist of tears clouding my vision.

The wrong arm snaked around my back comfortingly and drew me to the wrong broad chest. "Don't worry, darling," the wrong lips said as they pressed against my forehead. "I'll be back before you know it."

I wrapped my arms back around him and rested my spinning head against his shoulder. "I wish it were six weeks from now already," I said, and I meant every word. I willfully mistook the tightening of his embrace as a father's attempt to comfort his daughter.

Over my father's shoulder I caught sight of my stepmother's jealous glare boring holes into my forehead. Let her think what she wanted. If she even envied my pain, then she could have it. I refused to waste any more emotional energy on earning approval she was unwilling to bestow.

My father must have noticed my stepmother's stare, because he cleared his throat and took a step back. "Well, let's discuss what I need you two to do in my absence," he said, indicating that we should all be seated at the table.

I moved to the side of the table to allow my mother to take her place at the opposite head of the table from my father. She seemed momentarily mollified by my display of deference, and managed to ask me to pass the sugar with the usual amount of civility such an action might require. My father, now in the mindset of a businessman, launched into a discourse on what aspects of the ranch's management my stepmother ought to attempt and which ones she had best leave to the staff. My stepmother demurely accepted his instructions to relegate responsibilities, but I knew that her domineering nature was already plotting to take control of the ranch full by the reins in my father's absence. In addition to the regular upkeep of the facilities and the animals, the barn needed to be repaired as quickly as possible. My father had already sent a solicitation to the local circular page to advertise for temporary laborers. With the crops already sown or harvested for the season, there would be plenty of farmers grateful for the extra work, but with the miserly compensation my father was offering I was doubtful that there would be many applicants for the employment.

I only half-heard the instructions my father laid out. I sipped my coffee and nodded absently, protected by the pleasant fog of my good mood.

My father paused his dictation to admit the entrance of one of his cowhands, Ernest McClellan. The young man removed his hat and inclined his head politely in the direction of myself and my stepmother before crossing the room to my father. My stepmother looked askance at the trail of mud the young man left on the rug, but offered no further commentary. After a series of unsuccessful stutters and hand gestures, the young man bent to whisper something in my father's ear. My father paused to hear out the man, whose hands fidgeted profusely over the brim of his hat, clasped tightly between his hands. He seemed frightened and unsteady. His eyes spun wildly around the room as he spoke; his throat contracted compulsively. My father listened to him with a serious expression, chewing the inside of his cheek in concentration. At last, he waved a dismissive hand at the pair of us females to shoo us from the room.

My stepmother stood at once. "Come, Victoria. Let us see about hanging the wash," she commanded in the voice she'd often used as my governess.

I stayed rebelliously seated, attaching a look of blank stupidity to my features to conceal my true motive for disobedience. I wanted to know what McClellan had to say that would warrant such fear and secrecy. Had someone been injured? My stepmother warned me with a glare before reaching for my unwilling hand and leading me away. I followed her helplessly out of the room, down the hall, and out of the front door.

Once we were securely removed from the line of my father's sight and hearing, my stepmother abruptly changed course, steering us not towards the clothesline but to the space directly beneath the dining room window. She shushed me violently when I attempted to voice my confusion, and I reluctantly sank into a crouched position beside her under the window. We were still, and listened.

"Now repeat what you just said, and this time take care to make it sensical," my father was saying.

The younger man began to pace, and I could almost feel my stepmother cringing out of concern for the mud he was tracking on the rug. Insufferably vain woman.

"Kittredge and I were making our rounds on the range, checking in on the herd," he said. I imagined his tongue flicking nervously out of his mouth and over his lips before he continued. "We took a short-cut back through the woods, and the horses... got all twitchy."

"Twitchy?"

"Yeah, twitchy. Like jumpy."

I pictured my father frowning and making an impatient gesture for McClellan to continue.

"...so we thought to investigate. Thought it might be wolves, and we wanted to make sure. We dismounted and set out on foot. Afore too long we came across... a steer. A dead steer. There weren't no injury that we could see, so we figured him for sick."

"Christ," my father cursed. I heard the clink of crystal and the heavy slosh of liquid that sounded somewhat thinner and more intoxicating than coffee. I knew he had to be calculating the losses that a disease spreading through the herd would cause.

"Now, I ain't no expert on animal veterinary medicine, but Kittredge is. He took a look at the body and turned to me, serious as the grave, and told me he'd never seen nothing like it. He said there weren't a speck of blood left in the beast. It was drained dry, but there weren't no wound. Now tell me that ain't the strangest thing you've ever heard!"

There was a moment of silence, in which I envisioned my father's hardened stare attempting to burn the truth out of McClellan.

Finally, my father spoke: "Did you find any other bodies?"

"Yessir, we found two more a little beyond the clearing where we found the first."

"Did you notice that any of the other steer seemed sick or weak?"

"No, sir, not that we noticed."

"And did you tell anyone else what you saw?" I could almost hear the gears in my father's head turning as he plotted the best way to keep this under cover.

"Well, no, but I didn't think—"

"Good. You don't need to think any more about it. If the other steer ain't sick, there's no problem, right?"

We heard the sound of someone shifting weight from one foot to the other. "I guess so..."

"McClellan, I need you to focus for a minute. We are leaving for San Francisco tomorrow and I need to know if we have a thousand decent steer to bring."

"Maybe, Mr. Childress, maybe. I just plain don't know before we get them all in a row. I'd venture to say we have at least eight or nine hundred – I couldn't say further than that."

My father's voice dropped to a quiet murmur, and my stepmother and I both craned our ears to listen to what he said next.

"Did you get the new branding iron?"

"Yessir."

"Do you know what to do with it?"

"Sir?"

"I asked if you goddamn know what to do with it, McClellan?"

McClellan was silent.

"You listen here: just make sure I have a thousand quality head to bring to San Francisco..." There was a slight scuffle and the sound of cloth being rumpled. The voices moved even farther away from the window, and I held my breath to barely catch the next words: "...and don't mind none what brand they're wearing."

My stepmother gasped, and suddenly we heard more voices around the side of the house. She took my hand again and hurriedly led me away from the window and towards the clothesline, where several other women were already at work hanging damp laundry. She quickly fell into working as if we'd been there the entire time. I dumbly grabbed a basket of clothespins and followed her lead.

McClellan appeared around the side of the house. Even from this distance I could see his hands shaking. Something black was clutched in a death grip between the fingers of his right hand. A branding iron. He looked around himself erratically, as if he could tell that someone was watching him. He lowered his hat over his eyes and pulled himself onto his horse, spurring it hard and fast out of the yard.

"Mother, did Daddy really mean...?" I foolishly started to ask as I watched him ride away.

She turned to me and slapped my face without hesitation – not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to warn. "Listen to me, Victoria. Don't you repeat anything of what you just heard – not to anyone. Not even to me," she told me.

Her expression was severe, but I could hear the slight waver of doubt in her voice. She was just as surprised at what she'd heard as I was. She was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth the way she did when she thought no one was looking. Sick cows were the least of our concern. If my father was serious about stealing cattle from another rancher, by law he and all his men could be hanged.

My thoughts immediately went to James. This was too much. It was more than I could bear. It was tolerable that he would be gone so many weeks, but beyond what I could stand if he should die. I worked quietly alongside my mother, handing her clothespins mechanically, all the while my mind reeling with anxiety. I had to warn James – but how? All of the men (McClellan notably excepted) were out on the range gathering the herd for tomorrow's drive. The rest of the ranch was abuzz with activity and would likely remain so well into the night, rendering it far too dangerous for me to sneak into the bunkhouse - even to leave a note.

I waited until my stepmother excused herself to the kitchen to help with the luncheon preparations and then slipped up to my room.

"I have something important to tell you. My window will be open," I scribbled hastily in the margin of a page I had torn at random from a book.

I folded the leaf into an impossibly small package and tucked it under the wristband of my sleeve. I would find a moment to steal away after lunch and deposit the note somewhere he'd be sure to see it – perhaps on the door to his pinto's stall in the stables. After I delivered the note, I would put all thoughts of it from my mind and go on playing the role of the dutiful daughter – and I'd pretend that the rapid fluttering of my heart stemmed only from concern for James' safety and had nothing at all to do with the idea of him climbing into my bedroom window later tonight.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments in a review!