Close to Heaven: A Colorado High Country Christmas

by Pamela Clare

  “Good heavens, Joe. If this were my house, I would never leave. How can you spend so much time at Knockers when this is your home?”

  “Hey, I like Knockers.” He led her upstairs and showed her the library. “This is my favorite room in the house.”

  It wasn’t large, but its shelves were packed with his books, including his despicable great-great-grandfather’s leather-bound journals. There were two leather wingback chairs and a big leather sofa chosen for comfort. There was a wood stove in here, too. He preferred its heat to that of a gas fireplace.

  Her gaze traveled over the old photographs on the way. “You must really love history to collect so many old pictures.”

  “Those aren’t just any old photos. They’re photos from Scarlet and Caribou, part of a collection my great-great-grandfather Silas commissioned. He wanted to dazzle his investors with images from the wild west or some damned thing.”

  “Really?” She stepped closer, peered at one of the photos.

  Joe pointed to the man standing to the left of the kibble—the big iron bucket used to lower and hoist miners from the mine. “Do you recognize this guy?”

  Rain studied the image. “He looks familiar, but…”

  “That’s Cadan Hawke, Eric’s great-great-great-grandfather. He was the mine foreman.” Until Silas decided he was too much of a rabble-rouser.

  Rain’s face lit up with a smile that made it hard for Joe to think. “Seriously? Wow. He looks so much like Eric, doesn’t he?”

  From downstairs in the kitchen came the sound of beeping.

  “Sounds like the biscuits and bacon are ready.”

  After Joe left for town, Rain contacted her insurance company, more than a little afraid they were going to tell her she was out of luck. The woman who took her call was sympathetic and understanding and assured Rain that damage to her house and her belongings was covered by her policy. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that her policy didn’t cover a rental car, so she’d be without wheels until her SUV was liberated. Also, she had a deductible of a thousand dollars, so she wouldn’t be able to replace everything. And the cherry on top? She would have to keep paying her mortgage—even if her home no longer existed.

  The representative had assured her that they would send a claims adjuster as soon as they could. The woman hadn’t been able to tell her when she’d be able to get to her belongings or how to hire a company to remove the wreckage of her home or how she would be able to afford rent together with the mortgage.

  The entire situation sucked.

  Knowing she’d done all she could do for today, Rain walked upstairs to take a shower. What would she wear when she got out? She didn’t want to wear her PJs for the next two months. Joe had said he’d talk to the fire department about getting access to her clothes and personal stuff, but Rain knew Eric. He wouldn’t risk anyone’s life so she could have clean panties.

  She turned toward her bedroom—and stopped. Maybe she could borrow a T-shirt and some jeans from Joe. He had told her to make herself at home and given her the run of his house. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed some clothes.

  She changed directions, walked to the other end of the hallway, and slipped inside his room. She stood there for a moment, allowing herself to take in the sight of it—the king-sized platform bed with its black leather headboard, the pile of books on his nightstand, the overstuffed black leather chair in the corner. Oh, yes, this was the Joe she knew and lusted after—masculine, unaffected, graceful. The room even smelled like him.

  She inhaled his scent again, her gaze fixed on the bed. She had fantasized about sleeping with him a thousand times, but she’d never made it into that bed.

  You never will. Get used to it.

  She gave herself a little tour, walking to the window and then stepping into his bathroom. “Wow.”

  It was even bigger than hers with a fireplace, a glass shower stall the size of the women’s bathroom at Knockers, and an enormous marble bathtub. She walked over to the tub, ran her hand along the cool stone, her mind filling with images of Joe making love to her here, that mouth on her skin, those arms holding her close, his big hands working to please her.

  Dream on.

  She left the bathroom, walked over to his closet, and opened it to find herself smiling. It was the most organized closet she’d ever seen. Jeans hung here, casual shirts there, dress shirts near his neatly hung ties. Shoes ranging from running shoes to cowboy boots to formal dress shoes sat on shelves. Was that a tux? Yep, it was.

  God, she’d pay money to see him in that.

  Get what you need and leave. You’re not here to snoop.

  Couldn’t she snoop just a little? She’d never been this close to the private Joe Moffat, and it fascinated her. She opened drawers in the built-in dresser, telling herself that she was looking for T-shirts. Instead, she found boxer briefs. She reached inside the drawer, ran her hands over them.

  Oh, for God’s sake! Stop! You’re not this desperate.

  Maybe she was.

  Feeling a little ashamed, she took out a pair of briefs, figuring she had to wear something, then picked a shirt and a faded pair of jeans and headed to her own room. She dropped the clothes on her bed and hooked her phone to the sound system she’d discovered this morning. Then she flicked on the gas fireplace, which was double-sided, the fire visible both from the bedroom and from inside the bathroom. Just because she’d been forced to abandon her home didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy staying here.

  She stripped, tossed her pajamas on the bed, and walked into the bathroom. The tile floor was warm against her feet. Yeah, she could get used to radiant heat.

  She found small bottles of shampoo and conditioner in one of the drawers, along with bars of soap, travel-sized tubes of toothpaste and several unopened toothbrushes, and a bag of disposable razors. “You think of everything, Joe.”

  She took shampoo, conditioner, and soap to the shower, which was big enough for four adults to stand together without touching, its floor and walls made of gray stone tiles, its half-dozen chrome fixtures promising her a massage as well as a shower. She studied the knobs for a moment, then turned the largest of them.

  Ice-cold water sprayed at her from all directions.

  She shrieked, scooted back against the wall, and fumbled with the knob in a rush to turn off the water. “Let’s try that again.”

  This time, she stayed out of the way of the nozzles, testing the water with her hand until it was warm before stepping into the spray.

  “Oooh!” She couldn’t help but moan, warm water raining down on her from above and hitting her spine from behind, the warmth and the gentle rhythm of it as relaxing as a massage.

  This was luxury.

  She’d grown up without money and had needed to work for every penny she’d earned, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate nice things.

  She took her time washing her hair and skin and shaving her legs and underarms, turning so that the massage heads worked over her entire body. Best. Shower. Ever.

  She stepped out and dried off with a fluffy gray towel, tying it around her body before grabbing a second smaller towel to dry her hair. Humming to the music, she danced her way out of the bathroom and began to dress.

  She stepped into the boxer briefs. They were a bit tight around her hips, but not uncomfortably so. His jeans fit, too, though she had to roll them up at the ankles. The shirt was too big for her, so she rolled up the sleeves and let it hang like a tunic.

  She didn’t have a bra, which meant that the tips of her nipples stood out beneath the soft white fabric. Ah, well. There was nothing she could do about that. Joe never looked at her anyway. He wouldn’t notice.

  She’d just combed her hair when her cell phone rang. She hurried to the shelf, unplugged it. “Hey, baby, how are the snow sculpt—”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Lark sounded truly angry. “The roof collapsed on our house, and you didn’t even call me? You could have been
killed!”

  “It was the middle of the night, and there was nothing you could have done. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “I’m your daughter. I’m your only family. It’s my job to worry about you.”

  Rain told Lark what had happened and how she’d been able to take cover under her bed. “I can’t get in to get anything out or see what’s been damaged. Joe said he would talk to the fire department about that for me.”

  Lark’s tone of voice changed from angry to intrigued. “Oooh! So Joe rescued you? He likes you, Mom. I know he does. The whole town knows he does.”

  “Eric and his guys rescued me. Joe is just being kind. He’d do this for anyone.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Where are you staying?”

  “Joe’s place.” She was about to tell Lark how amazing Joe’s house was, but before she could get a word out, Lark cut her off.

  “Excellent! See? He likes you.”

  Rain felt a niggling of irritation. She had waited for twenty years for him to notice her, wasted the best years of her life pining for him. “If he likes me, why doesn’t he say something?”

  What about last night?

  He’d called her honey. He’d seemed genuinely worried about her. He’d stayed with her, held her hand in the ER.

  “How am I supposed to know, Mom? Men are weird.”

  Lark’s call was the first of many, as news of Rain’s situation made its way through town. Apparently, the newspaper had done a front-page article on the collapse of her roof, and people wanted to help. Kendra called and told Rain that she could stay in Lexi’s old room at the inn. Rose called, too, asked a lot of questions about Joe, then told Rain she was welcome to stay in her spare bedroom. Lexi, and Vicki, called, too, and Cheyenne—all of them offering her whatever she needed, whether it was a place to stay or clothes to wear or a shoulder to cry on.

  Their kindness touched Rain. She thanked them all but told them she was staying with Joe for now. As for the clothes… No one could drive to her, and she couldn’t go anywhere. That would have to wait.

  Rain wasn’t used to having an entire day off. With no job to go to and no house to clean, Rain didn’t know what to do with herself. She wandered downstairs to the kitchen, wondering what there was to eat for lunch. She searched Joe’s pantry and refrigerator—and then inspiration hit her. She found the ingredients she needed and got busy making a big pot of chili. She turned on music, dancing while she thawed and browned the bacon and beef, chopped onions, garlic, celery, and tomatoes, and measured out spices. It was a recipe she’d made a hundred times in her crockpot and perfect for a snowy day.

  Her phone buzzed—again.

  Joe.

  She answered. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Most of the streets in town are slick but passable, but a lot of people need help with their sidewalks and driveways. How are you doing?”

  “I called the insurance company, and I’m covered, so that’s a relief.”

  “I bet. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I love that shower in your guest room. I could live there.”

  “In the shower?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He chuckled. “I left a message with Hawke about getting into your place to get some clothes and personal stuff. He hasn’t called back yet. He’s probably still asleep. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Be careful. Nothing in there is worth your life.”

  “I’ll check in a bit later. I’m off to clear the parking lot at the pub again and check on the roof. Talk to you later.”

  Rain went back to the chili, adding a bottle of Glacier Stout she found in the fridge. Soon, it was simmering in a big cast iron pot on the stove, the scent making her mouth water. She ate a quick bowl for lunch, added a little more chili powder, and then left it on low on the stove so that the flavors could cook together. She would make cornbread and a salad to go with it later.

  She drifted through the house, retracing the steps of the tour Joe had given her, still amazed by the luxury and beauty of his place. What a humble man he was. He never let on that he was wealthy. His family had earned a fortune off their silver mine. Everyone knew that. But Joe didn’t behave like a spoiled rich kid, the heir to a fortune. He rarely mentioned his family or his ancestry. He was just a normal guy—okay, a very hot guy with a successful business who was ethical to a fault, as demonstrated by his disappointing refusal to hit on her.

  She found herself in his library, looking at the old photos on the wall. Eric’s great-great-great-grandfather with dust and grime on his face, a steel drill propped over one shoulder, the stub of a candle stuck to the brim of his helmet. A building of wooden planks with the words Caribou Silverlode painted on the side. Five miners holding sticks of dynamite. A woman making a meal on a barrel stove, a baby lying on a blanket in the dirt nearby. A man standing on a scaffold about to be hanged, a hood covering his head, the noose already around his neck. She found herself wondering who he’d been and what crime he’d committed.

  She walked over to the bookshelves, perused the titles. Shakespeare. Byron. Dickens. Austen. Faulkner. Hemingway. Shelley. Fitzgerald. Tolkien. Lewis. Wharton. He had all of the classics, but they weren’t there for show. The bindings were worn, and some still had bookmarks.

  Deciding she might as well read, but not interested in anything heavy, Rain moved to another set of shelves, her fingers tracing the leather-bound tomes. These were labeled only with Joe’s last name and gold embossed numerals. Curious, she drew out the first volume and opened it.

  It was a journal, but not Joe’s journal. The date at the top of the page was June 15, 1868, the handwriting meticulous. This wasn’t the original. It was a bound copy of an original. Joe must have had it copied and bound it so that he could read it without risking the original. In the margins were notes written in pencil in Joe’s familiar cursive.

  Rain set the diary on a nearby chair, built a fire in the woodstove, then settled herself on the plush leather sofa with a fresh cup of coffee and began to read.

  Chapter 4

  June 15, 1868

  I arrived yesterday afternoon in Scarlet Springs in the Colorado Territory. I have come to this rough frontier town to invest my inheritance in the gold and silver buried in these Rocky Mountains. As Father said, “The noblest use for wealth is the procurement of greater wealth.”

  Those who are not affluent decry the pursuit of capital, calling it avarice, but they would snatch up gold with both hands if it were offered to them. There is nothing that advances a man’s prospects more surely than lucre. To a wealthy man, all doors are open, and no one, from priest to politician, turns him away. I intend to elevate my fortunes so that the name of Moffat is spoken with reverence in the halls of power and so that my descendants might live like kings.

  I traveled with the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express from Leavenworth, Kansas, as the railway has not yet reached Denver City. I was told by a fellow traveler, a newspaperman named Greeley, that dueling railways are under construction—one from Cheyenne and one from Kansas—and that I could do far worse than to invest in one or both. Indeed, this area must have the railway to prosper. The journey of six days by stagecoach passed through lands best described as desolate and over roads that are unworthy of the name. Though the drivers worried ceaselessly about Indian attacks, I saw not a single Indian the entire way—a disappointment, I must admit.

  Denver City itself is as squalid a frontier town as one could ever hope to see. Wagon trains and oxen share the muddy streets with horses, carriages, and those who have no means of transportation but their feet. Even so, a man of means can find comfortable lodgings and a good meal. If he is not too particular, he can satisfy his baser needs among the tents and Indian huts set up along Cherry Creek. One such tent had a crude wooden sign out front that read, “Men taken in and done for.” As ineloquent as it is, the advertisement seemed to work, as some twenty men stood in line, each waiting his turn at
whatever pock-scarred, toothless strumpet plies her trade there.

  Yet, one might well consider Denver City a metropolis compared to Scarlet Springs, this little mining town high in the mountains. The town can only be reached by wagon over a steep and winding road. This will make getting supplies difficult and costlier, especially in the winter. While this rugged country presents challenges, it is rich beyond measure in opportunity for men of vision and determination. These untamed mountains will surrender up whatever treasures a man’s will can wrest from them—lumber, quarried stone, meat, pelts, silver, and gold.

  As for Scarlet Springs itself, the town boasts but a single inn, which stands near the center of town. Mr. O’Hara, the owner, is an educated man at least, despite being a flame-haired Irishman who talks too much. Brothels far outnumber other businesses. There are two dry goods stores, three saloons, a mercantile, a blacksmith, a wheelwright, a stable where a man can rent a horse or a mule, and a newspaper. In addition to these respectable enterprises, there are at least a dozen brothels, which cater to the miners.

  Edward Gundry, the drunken Cornishman who brought my luggage via cart from the station to the inn, told me the town is named for its whores, scarlet being the color associated with soiled doves. Mr. O’Hara, upon hearing this, immediately denied it. Indeed, he grew scarlet-faced in defense of his town, claiming the name honors the bright red soil that is common in this area.

  As tedious as these little people can be, I also find them amusing.

  Gundry for his part quietly offered to procure me the services of one of these women of ill repute should I find myself in need. “For a silver coin, I’ll talk to the madam and bring back the right maid for you. We’ll bring her in through the back like, aye? No one need know.” I thanked him for his offer, but declined.

  Two months hence, I shall marry Louisa Beaulieau. I shouldn’t like to risk a scandal that might outrage her father and end our betrothal. He owns steelworks in Pennsylvania, and I shall no doubt need his connections and his capital, along with a great deal of steel, if I am to succeed in Colorado. Truth be told, I find his money far more attractive than his daughter, but I shall have both, as he has no male heirs. Once the wedding is consummated—I am confident I can rise to the task no matter how plain Louisa’s countenance might be—then I shall be free to dally where I will.