Alexandra's eyes widened behind her veil. What was he doing? He would give them all away.
Jon pulled Alexandra to her feet and away from the coffin. He gave a nod to the gravediggers. They slowly lifted the lid.
Alexandra didn't want to look. She didn't want to see the high sheriff's face when he saw the empty casket, but she couldn't help herself.
The sheriff brought his hand to his mouth in sudden revulsion.
Alexandra swung her head around to look into the mahogany coffin. She saw the flash of a human form in Hunter's new burgundy waistcoat as the gravediggers lowered the lid on Jon's order.
Several women in the crowd cried out in horror. Someone fainted and there was a flurry of activity as someone ran for cool water.
Alexandra felt herself sway against Jon. What was going on here? There was a body in Hunter's clothing in that casket!
"Steady," Jon whispered. "The game, love."
His words calmed her. She had to trust that Jon knew what he was doing.
She pulled away from him, swatting at him with one hand. "Whoreson cur!" she cried. "You killed him! You killed my Geoffry!"
He reached out to her. "Alex, come inside," he said loud enough for everyone to hear. "You'll make a scene!"
"I don't care!" she screamed. "I hate you! You killed him! You didn't have to kill him."
"Alexandra," he barked, feigning angry embarrassment. "I said that will be quite enough. Now step inside and go to your bedchamber until you can control yourself."
"You can't tell me what to do!" she shouted. "You don't own me, you stinking half-breed! I'm not married to you! My husband is dead, dead at your hands."
"If you don't shut your stupid mouth now, I'll not take you back," he insisted, shaking a finger.
She was backing up now. The ladies and gentlemen stepped back, giving her room. "I don't care! I never wanted you anyway! I only wanted Dunnon Castle, but not this way! Not in bloodshed!" She turned and ran for Roland's carriage waiting along the roadside just beyond the gravesites.
"Man!" Roland shouted, pushing through the crowd. "Help her!"
One of Roland's footmen in red and gold livery and white periwig and large hat hurried for the Lady Alexandra. He put out his arms to steady her. "Easy, easy my lady," he muttered.
It was all Alexandra could do to keep from snapping up her head to stare at the footman. Hunter? He wouldn't have dared come? Would he?
"This way, my lady," the footman soothed, taking her by the hands and leading her. "My master's coach waits for you."
"Leave and you'll never be welcome on Dunnon soil again!" Jon threatened. "I warn you, I'll not take you back. I'll not marry you, chit!"
Alexandra kept walking, only now her knees truly were weak. She truly feared she wouldn't make it to the coach.
The footman . . . Hunter in footman's livery . . . swung open the carriage door and lifted her up into the coach. Roland stepped in behind her.
The footman slammed the door and the coach rolled off.
Alexandra fell into the leather seat and yanked the veil off her face. "Roland! There was a body in that coffin. A body!" she cried. "And, and Hunter! He was dressed as your footman!"
The coach went around the back of the castle and halted. The door swung open and the footman leaped in. The coach jerked forward again and rolled down the main road into London.
The footman pulled off his hat and periwig. He was laughing. Beneath the white wig was a shock of red hair.
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair, sliding onto the leather seat beside Alexandra. He was laughing, for God's sake.
Alexandra shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you stood there and listened to your own eulogy!" She pushed him in the shoulder. "You could have been caught!"
Roland was laughing too. Both men seemed to think it had been a grand joke.
But Alexandra wasn't laughing.
"The body," she said. "What poor soul was in that coffin?"
Hunter slapped his hat on his knee, obviously pleased with the outcome of their charade. "Kells, of course!"
"Kells?" She shook her head. "I know no Kells. What are you talking about?"
"The gamekeeper, sweeting. The one who blew his face off in the forest. Poor bloke, he'd never have gotten such a fine funeral if he'd been buried down in the village plot!"
The coach rolled to a sudden halt and Roland stood to get out. "My man will take you to the docks. He can be trusted. Jon said to tell you he'd be along to make his good-byes as soon as it was safe."
Alexandra reached for Roland's hand. She knew she would have to say good-bye to both Roland and Jon, but she hadn't realized how difficult it would be. "You're going?"
"Yes." He took her hand and brushed his lips against it. "Have a good life Alex, and be happy, will you? You deserve it."
"Thank you," she whispered, too choked with emotion to say more. "I'll never forget what you did for me, Roland."
He blew her a kiss and then stepped out of the coach. Alexandra lifted the leather curtain to see him get into another. The vehicle rolled off, taking a fork in the road.
Hunter banged on the ceiling of their coach with his fist and it lurched forward again, continuing on to London. He lifted his arm and draped it over her shoulder. "Damnation, we were good, weren't we?"
"I can't believe you did that," she said, staring at him. "Dressing like Roland's footman in that stupid wig! You could have been caught! You really are mad!"
He brought his hand behind her head and pulled her to him, kissing her mouth soundly. "Mad, yes, but only for you."
"Wait." She reached into a slit in her gown and took a small object from her pocket. "You can't have my wedding ring back, but if we're headed for Shawnee country, I thought you might want this." She opened her palm to reveal a gold hoop earring.
He chuckled as she leaned against him and slipped it through his earlobe.
"Thank you."
She was smiling at him as she touched the earring with her fingertip. "You're welcome."
He drew her into his arms again and brushed his fingertips against the swell of her breasts above her bodice. " 'Tis a long ride into the docks," he said, a familiar husky catch in his voice. "A long, boring ride. What say we enjoy a little pleasure . . ."
"Here?" He was already kissing his way down the length of her neck to the low-cut lace of her bodice. Her body was already growing warm and pliant beneath his fingertips. "Make love with you now?"
He raised his head to look into her eyes, his own hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well certainly not with anyone else, sweeting! I told you. I'll not share you. Not with anyone. Not after I've been to hell and back for you."
"Hunter—"
He covered her mouth with his, pushing her back and pressing her into the soft leather seat of the coach. "Hush," he murmured against her lips. "Kiss me now, Wife. You've a lifetime to prattle . . ."
The End
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HEAVEN IN MY ARMS
Prologue
February, 1869
Carrington, Colorado
Celeste sat lightly on the edge of the iron bed and smoothed the crisp coverlet. Her friends filed quietly into the room and surrounded the bed. She heard nothing but muted footsteps, the swish of starched petticoats, and the hiss of the gas lamps that lit the room. For once, the lively group was subdued.
"John," Celeste whispered, half-fearing he was already dead. "John, love. It's Celeste. Can you hear me?" She took his bony palm and smoothed it between her two hands. His skin was gray and transparent. Cold. "John," she persisted as she willed herself not to cry. "They're all here, as you asked; Sally, Kate, Titus, Ace, even the Reverend."
John MacPhearson's eyelids fluttered. He inhaled a whistle of air and his chest rattled like a stove pipe. He coughed and struggled to catch his breath.
<
br /> Celeste lifted his worn hand to her lips. "It's all right," she soothed. "Take your time."
John sucked in another labored breath and opened his eyes. "C . . . Celeste?"
She put on her best smile and leaned closer. Before his illness, John had been a strikingly handsome man with sparkling black Indian eyes and salt and pepper hair. The sparkle was gone from his eyes, the luster gone from his hair. "Here, you old codger. Where else do you think I'd be?"
Another cough wracked his body, and everyone in the room seemed to struggle with him to gain the next breath. The air smelled not of a cloying sickroom, but of sunshine and herbs. Celeste wouldn't have it any other way.
After a long, tense moment, John managed to smile. A decent smile for a man dying of tuberculosis at fifty years old. "Thought you'd be playing cards at Big Nose Kate's. It's . . . it's Sunday, ain't it?"
Celeste's heart swelled with sorrow, but she gave a little laugh. "Ah, we've got hours yet. Still time to get in some Black Jack before supper."
He closed his eyes. "Put a chip in for me, will you, sweetheart?"
"I'll do that."
He closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Silver?"
"Right here on the end of your bed," Celeste assured him.
The yellow dog lifted its head and whined pitifully, as if already in mourning for the death of his master.
"I—" John started to speak, but a fit of coughing seized him.
Celeste helped him lift a bloodstained handkerchief to his lips and held his shoulders as his frail body fought to gain another breath. He exhaled with a rattly whoosh and everyone in the bedroom exhaled with him in sympathy.
It took so long for him to inhale again that Celeste wondered if this would finally be John's last breath. The thought of losing her friend twisted painfully in her heart, but he had suffered too long. No man as good-hearted and full of life as John MacPhearson deserved to suffocate to death.
For a long moment everyone stood and stared at John and Celeste, probably wondering if he were dead. There was Big Nose Kate, the madam of Kate's Dance Hall, dressed in her Sunday best red crinolines, and Silky Sally in her silk sheath gown as shimmering as a drop of water. Titus, the washed-up gold miner, stood to the rear in his dirty denims, smelling of cheap rye whiskey. Ace, the young deaf and dumb half-breed, stood at Titus's side, perhaps to catch the miner if he began to sway. The last visitor was the good Rev. Joash Tuttle, who hovered on the far side of the bed, dressed in a tight, cheap black suit, a worn Bible cradled in one arm. Celeste knew every man and woman in this bedroom would mourn the loss of John MacPhearson, a man they called their friend.
"Celeste," John whispered hoarsely.
"I'm here. Right here." She gently dabbed at the bloody corners of his mouth with the handkerchief.
"Knew you'd stay with me 'til the end . . ."
"Why wouldn't I? You'd do the same for me."
Sally sobbed and Kate handed her a lacy handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown. "Straighten up or get out," she hissed as she elbowed her young charge.
Sally dabbed at her painted lips and sniffed. "I'm sorry."
John struggled to sit up in the bed, and Celeste reached behind him to fluff the goose down pillow. "Called you all here to—" he gave a hacking cough "—to witness my—" cough "—signature." He pointed to the carved rosewood armoire on the far side of the room. "Fetch my box, Celeste. You know, the tin one."
Deftly, Celeste retrieved the battered tin box painted with Indian symbols from the clothing cabinet and returned to John's side. "Here you go."
With a shaky hand, he opened the box and rifled through papers and a few photographs. "Got it." His head fell back on the pillow and another fit of coughing wracked his body. When he could breathe again, he held out his hand to the reverend. "Gimme your fancy fountain pen, Joash. I know you got it inside that funeral suit of yours."
The reverend handed his friend the pen. "Not my funeral suit, I'll have you know, John. It's my lucky card-playing suit."
The joke, though weak, was enough to make everyone in the room laugh and crack the veneer of awkwardness.
"Hell, you ain't gonna win, lucky suit or not," John teased.
Sally poked the reverend playfully in the side. "I was hoping to win enough off you to buy myself that new pot of rouge, Joash."
The reverend laughed with them.
John uncapped the pen and squinted to focus his eyes. "I want you all to witness that I'm of sound mind. This here's my will and last testament." He sucked in a breath. "I won't bore ya with the details, 'cause I know you got a card game to git to, but I don't want no one contestin' my words after Fred hauls my body off in that new glass hearse of his." He paused. "I'm givin' the house to my Celeste."
Celeste's gaze met his. "John, your son—"
"Let me speak, will you, girl? I ain't got much breath left in me," he panted.
Celeste folded her trembling hands in the lap of her pearl gray sateen gown. "I'm sorry, go on."
"I'm leavin' what's left of my bank account to her, too. Hell, it would have been hers anyway if the stubborn tart would have married me."
Celeste smiled, taking no insult from his words. She was a tart.
"And . . . and the mine claims I bought up," John wheezed. "I'm leavin' half to Celeste, half to that rich son of mine back in California." He tapped on the tip box. "There's a sealed letter for him inside, Celeste. All you gotta do is post it."
She nodded, afraid to speak. She didn't want John's fancy house with the gaslights and flush commode. She didn't want his money. She didn't want his worthless gold claim. She wanted John. She wanted him to live.
"That's all I got to say." John signed the crinkled document with a trembling hand.
Celeste caught the pen as it fell, while John was seized by another coughing spasm. "That's enough visiting," she told the group as she eased his frail shoulders back onto the pillow. "Go on back to Kate's."
John's eyes flickered open. "Bye to ya, friends. It's been a wild ride."
One by one the men and women filed out of the bedroom, each stopping to touch John's hand or kiss his cheek. Each said goodbye in their own way, then left the room. Celeste closed the door behind them, and returned to John's bedside.
"You still here"—cough—"Celeste, love?" John didn't open his eyes.
"Still here." She took his hand once again.
"Tired," he murmured.
"Then sleep."
"More tired than that."
A lump rose in Celeste's throat. Doc Smite said John should have been dead days ago. He didn't know what was keeping him alive. Celeste knew. She was keeping him alive. John was staying here for her sake.
"So go," she said softly. She brushed a lock of his hair off his forehead, fighting tears. "Go find that mother lode you've been looking for all your life."
"Think I might"—cough, hack—"do that. First, a kiss."
She smiled. Tears ran freely down her rice-powdered cheeks. "I thought you'd be wanting something more than that," she teased.
As she brushed her lips against his cheek, he lifted one hand to caress her breast. "Maybe after a nap, eh, sweetheart?"
She kissed him again. "Whatever you say, John."
He opened his eyes, his mouth widening into a grin, and for a moment John looked like the handsome man who had swaggered into Big Nose Kate's Dance Hall and into Celeste's life a little more than a year ago.
His eyes drifted shut and the smile faded with a sigh. It was a full minute before Celeste realized he was no longer struggling for breath.
John MacPhearson was dead, and she was once again alone in the world.
Chapter One
Carrington, Colorado
4 Months Later
June, 1867
Fox MacPhearson stepped off the train with a leather satchel in his hand and a strange sense of hope in his heart.
The Baldwin locomotive's whistle wailed and the wheels screeched as it pulled through the station behind him.
In a puff of smoke the train was gone, and Fox was alone on the wooden platform.
So what now? Fox brushed his hand over his bare chin. He'd worn a beard and mustache for years, but on impulse had shaved it the morning he'd left San Francisco. A cleansing ablution. As he washed the facial hair down the drain, he'd washed away his past. Here, in Carrington, he hoped he would find the start of a new life.
He removed his father's letter from inside his dusty wool tweed overcoat. Plum Street. That's where he was headed. That was where his new life would begin. Number 22 Plum Street.
Fox deliberated on the platform and stared at the rickety depot steps that led to the street below. For some reason he was hesitant to go. Not just because in going to his father's home he would have to deal with the emotional baggage of words left unsaid, but because . . . because . . . He sighed. Hell. He didn't know why he was standing here.
Fox took the warped steps two at a time. He reached the wooden sidewalk that kept pedestrians' shoes out of much of the mud of Carrington's rutted street, and made a decisive right turn toward the false-fronted stores lining both sides of the road through town.
It was mid-afternoon, but there were few people on the street. Many of the stores' window shades were drawn shut. The community did not appear to be the bustling gold mining town that, in his letters, his father had led Fox to believe it was.
A creaky sign, hanging by a nail from a corner post, read: Apple Street.
Fox nearly laughed aloud. After the bustling city of San Francisco with its port of call, opera houses, and art museums, Carrington was little more than a crossroads, a slum near the docks of the bay city. From the look of the loose shingles and broken windows, Carrington hadn't seen gold in years. Maybe that was why Fox had been forced to wait two days in Denver for a train passing through.
He passed a boarded-up storefront. Smythe's Emporium the peeling painted sign stated over the door. He walked past several private homes. Tinny piano music filtered through the open door of The Three Caballeros Saloon. He passed the saloon, though his heart pounded and his palms broke out in a sweat at the thought of a shot of rye whiskey. But he no longer drank. Drinking was one of the vices that had brought him to this pathetic one-horse town to begin with.
His Wild Heart Page 33
