Fever Moon by Carolyn Haines

danger. To feel too much—the illness will trick you.”
    Chula sipped her tea. Madame was never straightforward with her lessons. This was one, turned upside down, for her to figure out. “Did you ever see Rosa’s hands?”
    “I did. She came here, wanting me to make it stop.”
    That surprised Chula. “Father Finley wanted her to be verified as authentic. I think he saw certain sainthood for her. And lots of glory for the parish.”
    “You’ve read the life of the saints. Is this something you’d willingly seek?”
    Chula laughed. “Stoning, persecution, burning at the stake, no, I wouldn’t choose that, but I’d never have thought of it that way.” She sobered before she spoke again. “Could you help Rosa?”
    “There was no physical reason for the wounds to open in her hands.”
    “Was there a mental reason?”
    Madame stood. “Isn’t that the same question we just asked of Adele?”
    Chula rose, too. She drew the letter from her pocket. “I almost forgot.”
    Madame took the envelope and looked at it. “My sister writes me every month. She says there are no bugs or snakes in California. The sun shines every day. The air is dry and like a kiss.” She put the letter on the table. “I would die there.” She shook out her apron. “Come back tomorrow if you can. I’m going to steep some tincture tonight. I may need help getting it down Adele.”
    “Certainly.” Chula hugged the older woman. “Will you be okay tonight?”
    “The full moon has passed. At least for this month.”
    It took a moment for Chula to catch the humor hidden at the corner of Madame’s mouth.
    Chula was still smiling as she drove away from the cabin. Lost in her own thoughts, she rounded a sharp curve with deep sand, unprepared for the car blocking the middle of the road.
    She slammed on brakes, cursing. As soon as she brought her vehicle to a stop, inches from the wooden bumper of the other car, she was out and striding down the road past both cars. “Where are you, you stupid son of a bitch?” She was too angry to control her language. “What kind of moron leaves a car in the middle of the road on a curve?”
    There was no sign of the person who’d abandoned the car, and she felt the edge of her anger fade. She took a deep breath; the October air held the promise of a chill when the sun went down. Turning, she looked back to see a tall, lean man standing with one foot on the running board of his car. To her disgust, she recognized Praytor Bless. He was grinning like a mule eating briars.
    “I would have said something sooner, but I didn’t want to interrupt your pleasure in usin’ foul language.” Praytor took his foot off the running board and stood up tall, his hands at his side. A brown fedora shaded his eyes. Lanky and lean, he wore a starched shirt and creased wool trousers.
    Chula disliked the fact that he stood between her and her vehicle. For all that he’d thrown in with Henri Bastion and was said to be building his own fortune, he made Chula uncomfortable. “What are you doing out here, Praytor?” She deliberately chose his first name.
    “I could ask you the same.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of a nearly new jacket. Chula noted that whatever work Praytor claimed to do for Henri, it didn’t require manual labor or sweat.
    “I’m doing my job.” Her tone belied her smile. “Delivering the mail.”
    “And I’m doin’ mine.”
    “Which would be?” She was worried about Madame. There were fools who thought Madame practiced some type of voodoo or witchcraft. They couldn’t comprehend that she was a healer, not someone who dabbled in curses and plagues.
    “Lookin’ out for my interests.”
    She would have to pass him so she started forward, her skirt swinging against her legs. “I’ve never been clear what your
interests
might involve, Praytor.”
    “I’m a businessman, Miss Chula. By the terms around here, a successful one.” He turned so that he could walk with her to her car. “I