Copper Fire

by Fayrene Preston

  “Good-bye, Brianne, and good luck.”

  Abruptly, Sloan left, and Brianne was left staring at a closed door, feeling suddenly and strangely lost. She had told Patrick that Sloan was a dangerous man, and now she believed that more than ever. She also believed that inside him there was something black and cold, hard and untouchable. The men of her family had traces of the same characteristics, yet they also had a quality that seemed to be absent in Sloan – a soul. It was almost as if Sloan were dead inside.

  But if that were the case, she asked herself, troubled, how could he make her feel such fire? And how could she account for the glimpse she had had of pain that had crossed his face at her simple question. True, the stricken look had been so brief she would have missed it if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on him.

  Her need to know the answers to these questions could easily border on obsession if she allowed it, but obsession with anything other than finding Patrick was just not possible.

  She thought about Sloan Lassiter a minute longer, then pushed a strand of hair back from her face and muttered, “Oh, hell!” She couldn’t possibly let Sloan disturb her now. They had shared two kisses, and Lord knew she would certainly never forget them. But she needed to get on with what was really important. Patrick was missing and in danger, and he was her primary concern.

  Chapter 5

  Just after sundown Brianne came riding back into town. She reigned in Dancer at the front of the hotel and stepped down. Sloan, who was returning from a walk around the town, saw her, and stopped in the shadows a moment to observe her. It was obvious that she hadn’t found Patrick, but then, he hadn’t really expected she would. She appeared tired, but, strangely enough, not discouraged.

  Young George ran out to meet her. “Can I take care of your horse for you, Miz Delaney?”

  She nodded. “Take him to the stable, make sure you rub him down well, and remember to give him plenty of water and oats.”

  Brianne untied the bedroll and the saddlebag and threw them over her shoulder. Sloan thought the saddlebag looked too heavy for her slim body, but by not so much as a grimace did she indicate it might be.

  While she was taking the rifle out of the scabbard, Sloan suddenly appeared at her side. Her heart gave a hard jolt, and as she felt her rib cage absorb the shock, she decided that she really did need to get used to the way he could come upon her so quietly, taking her completely unawares.

  He tossed George a couple of coins. “That’s for you, George, not for your dad. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Lassiter!”

  Brianne watched George lead Dancer away, then turned to Sloan. “Why did you tell him that?”

  “According to Mrs. Potter, his father takes everything the boy makes and uses it to buy liquor.”

  “Did Mrs. Potter volunteer that information or did you ask?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Does it matter?”

  “I thought maybe” – Brianne checked herself – “I just wondered why you were concerned about George, that's all.”

  “Not concerned, curious,” he said flatly. “And there's no reason.”

  “No,” she said slowly, “I guess not, but when I find Patrick, I’m going to see what I can do to help George.”

  “When not if? Then you found something?”

  She began walking. “Unfortunately, no. Last night’s rain washed away all signs and tracks. I was afraid it would, but I had to check. And, of course, it didn’t help that I got such a late start today.”

  They stepped beneath the etched ruby glass transom above the front door, and into the lobby of the hotel that had once been the generous foyer of the English duke’s mansion. A tall mahogany grandfather clock stood sentinel just inside the doorway. To one side the oak stairway swept upward toward the second and third floors, the wall of the stairway made up of painted panels of different forest creatures.

  At a gracious mahogany desk Mrs. Potter raised her head from her perusal of the paper. “Oh, Miss Delaney. I was wondering if you still wanted me to keep Mr. Delaney’s room available now that he’s disappeared.”

  Brianne’s face showed her shock at the question. “Of course! Don’t rent that room! I’ll be taking care of the bill until Patrick comes back, and that will be very soon.”

  Mrs. Potter smoothed down the apron covering her brown bombazine dress. “I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that, speaking sensibly – ”

  Unexpectedly, Brianne’s laughter peeled out, catching Sloan off guard. Her laughter, he thought, had the strange ability to penetrate a man’s skin and enter his bloodstream where it simmered long after the sound of it was gone.

  “Mrs. Potter,” she said, “no one who knows me would ever accuse me of being sensible.” She cast a teasing looking over her shoulder at Sloan. “And I’m sure Mr. Lassiter will back me up on that.”

  To have a woman flirt with him was a common occurrence for Sloan. He was used to flirtations. He knew how to respond to them. But Brianne wasn’t flirting with him. She was treating him as she would any other casual male acquaintance, and the idea rankled the hell out of him.

  Mrs. Potter glanced uncertainly from one to the other. “If you say so.”

  “I do. And I’d also like to buy a bath. I hope the bathroom’s free.”

  Mrs. Potter nodded. She didn’t know this beautiful young redheaded woman, and she couldn’t comprehend how she could laugh when her brother had just up and disappeared. But she did understand the need for a bath after a day of riding. It would do everyone good to take a bath once a day. It was just a shame that not many people did.

  And besides, Miss Delaney, her brother, and Mr. Lassiter were staying in her best rooms. In her view, paying the highest rates without a murmur like these people were doing excused a lot of things. Cowboys and less well-to-do traveling businessmen stayed on the third floor. But even with that more undesirable trade, the hotel was rarely full. Fortunately, that was a condition that would soon end if Mr. McCord's trip to Washington had been successful. The thought cheered her.

  “There’s not much call for baths at this time of day,”Mrs. Potter said. “Most people are eating. I’ll send up a clean towel for you when I have George bring up the water.”

  “Good.”Brianne paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back over the shoulder. “By the way, has the latch been fixed on the bathroom door?”

  Mrs. Potter visibly bristled. The question of how the latch had been broken in the first place was a definite mystery. “Mr. Potter fixed it this morning. Miss Delaney. We run a decent, safe establishment here, and we mean to keep it that way. We get no complaints.”

  Brianne’s charming smile took some of the wind out of the lady’s sails. “Thank you, Mrs. Potter.”

  Sloan stared after Brianne as she climbed the stairs, his eyes following the way her hips swayed gracefully beneath the riding skirt. The thickening in his loins that had begun when she had laughed told him to follow her, but with Mrs. Potter’s eagle eye on him, he thought better of it and retired to the small parlor, where a tune could be heard coming from the piano.

  Fresh and dewy from her bath, Brianne entered her room. The sight of Sloan waiting for her, sitting casually in a chair, his legs crossed, apparently completely at his ease, stopped her in her tracks.

  Anticipating her objection, he held up his hand. “I know. I shouldn’t be in here, but I am. And if you don’t want Mrs. Potter to know you’d better shut the door.”

  Brianne did as he suggested and tossed the towel and her bathing kit on the bed. “Then since you are as aware of proprieties as I am, you’ll leave.”

  “In a minute,” he said, making no effort to move from the chair. He took his time studying the beautiful sight she made in her nightgown and robe. The gown was made of ivory-colored lawn with tiny green flowers scattered over it and ruffles at the nightgown’s neck and sleeves. From the neck to the waist, a row of green ribbon bows held the gown closed across her breasts. A gold-colored r
obe thrown over the gown was a deeper shade than the peach of her skin, and the color, combined with the recent bath, made her skin glow with an alluring luminescence. Her hair fell down her back like a river in flames that blazed even when there was no sun.

  “It’s a shame you ever have to plait your hair or put it up,” he said, his voice a husky whisper.

  Hearing that huskiness, Brianne’s pulses leapt. “What do you want?”

  Hell of a good question, Sloan thought, half angry, but not sure why or at whom. The obvious answer to her question was that he wanted her. But he was a man who had learned not to take things at face value. He had taught himself to probe an opponent, to learn everything he could about a person before he allowed himself to act. He didn't question his view of Brianne as an opponent. Everyone was an opponent to Sloan.

  Lying on the floor by the chair was a sketchbook, and, surprised, he reached down to pick it up. “You’re an artist?”

  Brianne eyed him warily. “Not really.” Her family had always told her that she had a real talent. She didn’t know whether she did or not. It wouldn’t have mattered to her though if she were as talentless as a dead stump. She loved sketching, watching lines take form and shape beneath her pencil point; and she loved to paint, reveling in the colors, the texture, even the smell of oils.

  Page by page Sloan studied her drawings – a rock formation, a distant mountain, a flowering tree, an old cowboy. “I have to disagree. You have a real talent. These are sketches made during this trip, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers itched to snatch her sketchbook away from him, instinctively wanting to protect herself from Sloan. The drawings were personal, and it made her feel strangely exposed to have Sloan studying them.

  At the last drawing Sloan stopped. On the page was a most remarkable rendering of an Indian woman. Her high-cheekboned face was a model of serenity, but her eyes held unfathomable sadness.

  “That’s not finished yet,” Brianne said hastily. “I started it last night.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My aunt, Rising Star. She died in childbirth three years ago, and ever since, I've wanted to do her portrait. I’ll eventually do it in oil.”

  “Your family is evidently very unusual.”

  “Because Rising Star was an Apache, you mean?”

  The tone of her voice told Sloan she was ready to fight if he made so much as one derogatory comment about either her aunt or her family. “That and other things.” He closed the sketchbook and laid it aside. “Brianne, I want you to answer the question I asked you this morning. Why kidnapped?”

  Thrown off balance, she asked, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why couldn’t your brother simply have been robbed? Or even murdered? Why did you so quickly jump to the conclusion that he had been kidnapped?”

  Brianne gave careful thought to Sloan’s question and how she would answer it. Normally, she would never think of telling anyone anything about her family’s business. But she had already told the deputy that she believed Patrick had been kidnapped, and by this time it would be all over town. Plus, it was plain that at least one person, perhaps three people, had known who Patrick was. There would be others. She wove her fingers together and gazed solemnly at Sloan. “My brother is a very wealthy man. The three men in the saloon last night no doubt recognized him or his name.”

  “Obviously, your family also has a great deal of money.”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan sighed, wondering why he wished that Brianne didn’t have a penny to her name. “I talked again with Katy and she confirmed that it was the three men I noticed last night who took Delaney. Given the situation, I don’t understand why you won’t telegraph your family. You’re obviously going to need help. Are you afraid of what they’ll do to you when they find out your brother’s been kidnapped?”

  “Do to me?” With her emotions so on edge, the thought of her family hurting her struck her as incredibly funny. Even while knowing the mood swings she was experiencing weren’t normal, she let the hilarity replace her fear for Patrick, laughing until tears were rolling down her face. At last, though, gasping with mirth, she caught a glimpse of the dark expression on Sloan’s face. Little by little she managed to get herself under control, and, as she did, she tried to decide how best to describe her family to Sloan. As short an explanation as possible would be best, she finally concluded.

  “Well, you see, it’s like this. The Delaneys are a fierce clan, and if one of us is in trouble, we all come running. Once Granda hears that Patrick has been kidnapped, he’ll assemble the Delaney forces. Depending on where my various uncles happen to be and a few other things, the fastest I could get help would be about two weeks. And once they’ve started, I won’t be able to contact them to stop them. Believe me, it’s much better all the way around if I give myself a few days. Hopefully, I’ll find Patrick, and I won’t have to bring the Delaney version of the wrath of God down on this town.”

  “And of course you think you can find him, don’t you?”

  All lingering traces of humor left her. She threw back her head, and her red hair shimmered with the movement. “This is my brother we’re talking about. I’ll find him.”

  Sloan frowned, feeling an irritating mixture of admiration and annoyance. He could snap her delicate wristbone in two with one hand, yet she seemed so strong. Where did that strength come from?

  There was a sense of self-possession about Brianne that included no artifice or wiles. Her beauty contained a wildness and an intelligence that no woman he had ever known had come close to having. And there was something in her expression that made him almost believe she could find her brother.

  Yet he did remain a disbeliever.

  Brianne Delaney seemed an extraordinary woman, but that couldn't be. He had tried all the extraordinary women and had been disappointed. All women wanted to cling, and he had to be free.

  So instead of taking her into his arms and kissing her as his body told him to do, he rose from the chair and sketched a salute. “Good-bye, Miss Delaney, and best of luck.”

  Sloan viewed the day’s endings from the porch of the Duke Hotel. With the exception of those times when he had taken a stroll around the town or stopped for a bite to eat, he had been sitting there all day. He wasn’t a man used to such inactivity, but in this case the inactivity had a purpose.

  He hoped that once the townspeople of Chango became accustomed to his presence, they would become less guarded around him and begin dropping bits and pieces of information. To a certain extent, it was already working.

  Although reserved and basically cautious, the inhabitants of the town could be pleasant enough if they were convinced you were harmless. No one must suspect his real reason for being in town, at least for now.

  First, he had passed the time with some men in Lucky’s Saloon. It was there that a portion of his curiosity had been satisfied about Brianne. Casually, he had asked if anyone had ever heard of the Delaney family. The response had been most interesting.

  “Hardheaded, hot-tempered bunch,” one man offered.

  “Brawlers,” another man said.

  Lucky spoke up. “They settled that land down in Arizona where nobody but Injuns had ever been before. Flat wore the Apaches down until they finally had to decide to live together peacefully.”

  “They say a couple of them went down to Mexico and came back with a fortune,” someone else said. “Real mysterious, if you ask me.”

  The first man who had spoken took aim at one of the saloon’s brass spittoons. “Not a group of people you'd want to get involved with, and I say we should all find business out of town until this thing blows over with that kid.”

  Everyone nodded their grim agreement.

  Sloan sipped his beer and smiled to himself. The more he learned about the Delaneys, the more he was coming to understand Brianne. A strong-willed, independent family had bred a strong-willed, independent woman. She had grown up running free over land fought for and won by her family
– a princess of a Delaney realm. Instead of being put off, he was even more drawn.

  But Wes McCord was his reason for being in Chango, and he pressed on. At Nilsen’s Emporium, while idly perusing some goods, he had overheard two ladies talking. Activity had been brisk at the bank. Down the street men had loaded up buckboards with building supplies and headed north out of town. Two tough-looking men kept vigil at the office of McCord Enterprises, but there was still no sign of Wes.

  And there was something else too. While on his journey around town, he had received the strangest impressions. It was almost as if the people of Chango were protecting Wes, even while being afraid of him. Wes was definitely up to something, and he was going to find out what.

  Suddenly alert, Sloan narrowed his eyes against the gathering dusk. Brianne was riding up the street. And she wasn’t alone.

  Brianne leaned forward, intending to pat Dancer encouragingly on the neck, but found she couldn’t because of the tight grip the woman sitting sidesaddle behind her had on her waist.

  “Oh, I’m going to fall!” Henrietta Jones Bartholomew moaned.

  “No, you won’t,” Brianne said soothingly. She had been soothing this woman every few minutes since she had found Henrietta stranded out on the trail. “Just hang on. We’re nearly there.”

  “We’re going too fast! Can’t you make this beast go slower?”

  If Dancer were going any slower, he would be standing still, Brianne mused. But Henrietta’s plight did touch her heart. “I promised you I’d get you to the hotel in one piece, and I will. Look, there it is, that three-story building just up the street on the left.” The older woman’s grip tightened painfully around Brianne’s waist. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can't depend on you forever. How am I going to live? How am I going to ever get back home? What’s to become of me?”

  “Henrietta, you’re not to worry! I told you I’d take care of everything. You’re safe now, and that’s what’s important.”