COLORADO MOONFIRE
Charlotte Hubbard
For Johnny Lynn, a friend like no other.
Chapter 1
“You get first pick of the women, McClanahan!” a voice called out over the crowd.
“What the hell?” another man exclaimed. “It’s your last night as a free man, so we’ll let you have ‘em all!”
The Golden Rose’s parlor rang with the laughter of its gentlemen revelers and with the twitter of the ladies in question as Matt McClanahan rose a few steps higher on the grand staircase to address his well-wishers. He looked supremely confident, dressed in a dove-gray frock coat and a white shirt that set off his swarthy face and easy smile.
“Miss Victoria,” he said with a bow toward the Rose’s madam, “I’m delighted to be honored at this bachelor party in Cripple Creek’s finest establishment—not to mention flattered by my friends’ confidence in my ability to entertain your lovely ladies,” he added suavely. “But I’ll toast my bride-to-be rather than deprive these men of their evening’s sport. Emily’s a helluva woman—”
“Hear, hear!” the men cheered.
“—and if it weren’t for Marshal Thompson here, neither of us would be alive. And I wouldn’t be the happiest man on the face of the earth.” McClanahan’s voice vibrated with his gratitude. He raised his glass in a solemn salute as he gazed at the lawman. “So here’s to you, Barry, the finest friend a man ever had—”
“To Thompson!” Silas Hughes led the crowd in lifting their drinks.
“—and I bequeath to you my skills and reputation as Cripple’s legendary lady-killer,” he finished with a grin. “Not that you need them.”
Laughter filled the opulent parlor house, making the prisms of the crystal chandelier clitter with the crowd’s gaiety, and then all eyes focused expectantly on Barry Thompson. Ordinarily he would’ve shot Matt a comeback—his friends were awaiting one of his flippant remarks—yet the words didn’t come. Despite the whiskey punch and the camaraderie of the wealthy men in the room, and his sincere happiness for McClanahan and Emily, an inexplicable emptiness clutched at his heart. “You’re marrying a fine little lady,” he replied, “and if I hear you’re not treating her right, by God, you’ll answer to me.”
He might as well have announced he was closing down the whorehouse. Miss Victoria and Matt appeared stunned, and his ominous tone had hushed even Princess Cherry Blossom and the giddier girls in the crowd. Barry felt lower than a midget’s heel for sounding so brusque, but before he could amend his statement, Frazier Foxe stepped up beside McClanahan on the staircase. Foxe was intensely British; his monocle glistened above his waxed mustache as he addressed the gathering in his clipped accent.
“I believe our honorable marshal speaks to our highest intentions,” the stockbroker stated as he adjusted his eyepiece with a gloved hand. “And we join him in wishing Mr. McClanahan all the best.”
Matt’s polite smile reflected the tightening Barry felt beneath his belt. Foxe was known for promoting his latest business schemes every chance he got, a trait that caused secretive snickers among Cripple’s mine owners and bankers. Nobody could argue with the Englishman’s talent for turning a buck, though. And his contributions to charitable causes spoke for themselves, so the locals usually indulged his windiness.
“And while successful beginnings are uppermost in our minds,” Foxe went on, “it behooves me to repeat my invitation for investments in a gold refinery. We’re well aware of the expense of shipping our ore to the Springs. Building a mill here in the mining district would save us all thousands of dollars while requiring comparatively little in capital from each of us. It’s an investment in Cripple Creek, gentlemen. A down payment on our future.”
Thompson snorted. Foxe’s plans for a gold mill sounded as sensible as pouring a hundred decanters of brandy down the drain…and sampling a bottle sounded like a damn fine idea, all of a sudden. Barry started toward the bar at the far end of the room, until Frazier’s crisp voice rose above the guests’ murmurings.
“Your marriage to Miss Burnham seems a most auspicious time to contribute to such a worthwhile cause, McClanahan,” the Englishman hinted. “May I count on your generous support? Several of your colleagues have already pledged substantial amounts.”
Thompson turned in time to catch the roll of his best friend’s blue eyes. “I wish you well in your efforts, Frazier,” McClanahan replied smoothly, “but the Angel Claire belonged to Emily, not to me. And now that she’s deeded the mine to Silas Hughes, we’re out of the gold business entirely.”
Undaunted, Foxe quickly scanned the gathering. “I say, Thompson—what’s your reply? Surely your profits from the Flaxen Lassie justify an investment in a mill.”
Barry stiffened. It was no secret to the elite company around him that a lucky strike a few years back had made him wealthy enough to retire from his position as city marshal, but he didn’t want the source of his bankroll bandied about in common conversation. It wouldn’t set well with the brawling miners he jailed if they realized he was one of the anti-union mine owners they got so riled up about.
“Surely you know, Mr. Foxe,” he answered acidly, “that the gold in our mines is petering out even as we speak. Building a mill sounds like a damn stupid idea, frankly. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to toasting McClanahan’s happiness.”
Barry felt the Englishman’s piercing glare follow him out of the parlor, along with the puzzled frowns of his friends, but he kept walking. A man had a right to speak his mind. And if Frazier Foxe was going to spoil Matt’s bachelor party by soliciting funds for a mill that would be bankrupt before it opened, he, as the marshal, had a duty to stop such talk.
He leaned heavily on the walnut bar, gesturing at the slender man behind it. “Brandy, Bob. Your best—and keep it coming.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Thompson.”
As the first sip of sweet, mellow fire slid down his throat, Barry stared forlornly at his crystal snifter. He wasn’t normally this testy, and everyone here knew it. So what was eating him? Why, when he was celebrating the marriage of two perfectly-paired people, in a bordello that Cripple’s comeliest doves had bedecked for Christmas, did he feel so damn…lonely?
Before he could think of an answer, a feminine hand slithered around his elbow. “You look like a little boy who got caught pissing in the punchbowl, Thompson. Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
Princess Cherry Blossom, the Golden Rose’s most flamboyant whore, was studying him with a solemn expression—or at least as serious a look as her Indian get-up allowed. The stripes of war paint on her cheek were a seasonal red and green, and her raven hair was plaited with white beads. A nosegay of red carnations and mistletoe graced her buckskin gown’s single shoulder strap, and as she rubbed against him, Barry could see every inch of her cleavage.
“I thought it was in damn poor taste for Foxe to start in on his fund-raising, that’s all,” he muttered.
“So it’s Frazier you’re worked up about. Funny, I could’ve sworn you were jealous of McClanahan for catching the most eligible heiress in these parts.”
Barry glared at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Neither of us needs her money.” He held her gaze, forcing her to look away first, because the Indian princess had hit closer to the truth than he cared to admit.
Cherry Blossom’s lips eased into a coy grin and her hand slid down the front of his frock coat. One button…two. With a practiced hand she fondled him, chuckling low in her throat. “Money’s the least of your assets, far as I’m concerned, marshal,” she crooned. “I’m not in the mood to toast McClanahan’s marital bliss, either, so I thought we might run a tub full of bubbles and play cowboys and Indians. What do you say, loverman?”
It was an invitation he’d accepted many a time, with no regrets. But as Barry looked at the woman beside him, it suddenly struck him that everything about the princess came from a bottle: her coal-black hair, her mahogany skin ... the hard gleam in those knowing brown eyes. For the first time in his thirty years he realized how little he had to show for the attention and money he’d lavished on sporting women, and the thought depressed him even more. “Maybe after I buy you a drink. Or two.”
His response sounded less than complimentary, but his companion was wise enough to nod and accept her usual tumbler of whiskey. It was a damn sorry day when Cherry Blossom couldn’t arouse him, but maybe if he downed enough of this brandy it wouldn’t matter to either of them.
I must be getting old—or crazy—if I want to get drunk more than I want to get laid, Thompson agonized. And then the hurried rustling of skirts made him look up and blink. He saw only the back of her, a tiny fairy in lavender and lace bearing a half-empty tray of tarts down the hallway. But there was merriment in her step and sunshine in the light brown hair that shimmered past her shoulders, and in her wake she left the alluring scent of…
Peppermints. He was sure of it.
“Who was that?” he whispered.
The Indian princess raised a dark eyebrow as she polished off her whiskey. “The new housekeeper. Just started this week.”
“Name, woman. I need her name!”
“Lyla O’Riley. Irish. But she’s not one of the—”
Thompson didn’t care who the girl wasn’t. He stepped away from Cherry Blossom’s intimate grasp and followed the sweet candy smell of her until he came to the closed pantry door. He heard the stealthy rustling of satin and an uneven gasping that made him wonder what the hell was going on in there. Had Lyla met a lover on the sly? Being Barry Thompson, he wasn’t about to leave until he found out.
Lyla whimpered with frustration, cursing the fashion designer—a man, obviously—who’d put so many buttons on the back of her dress. As she fumbled with the last of them and then struggled out of her sleeves, she also muttered choice words at the other man—no doubt a sadist—who’d created the corset no well-dressed woman could be without. She desperately needed to fill her lungs with air, and how she was going to truss herself up again and return to her serving duties was beyond her. Lightheaded to the point of fainting, she clawed at the laces that held her in their cruel grip, and then collapsed against the wall with a moan of profound relief.
When she opened her eyes, Lyla gasped. A tall, sturdy man in a pinstriped suit was staring at her as though he’d been struck dumb. Lyla stilled the impulse to yank her bodice up and took advantage of his dazed state to inventory him. He posed no threat, this huge intruder; sandy waves of hair framed a likable, boyish face. He was a humorous man of deep, tender passions, she sensed, with eyes as gentle and green as the hills of home. But he’d gawked enough.
“Your mama never taught you that it’s impolite to stare?” she demanded.
Yere mam niwer tawt ye that it’s imp’lite t’ steer? Her brogue danced in Barry’s ears, and when he could pull his gaze away from two of the plumpest, roundest reasons he’d ever seen for falling in love, he was captured in the spell of her eyes. They were the periwinkle blue of columbines dotting the mountains in springtime, a hue made more intense by the lavender of her gown—which she made no effort to pull up. She just kept watching him, unblinking, as though she knew exactly what he would do next.
“Lyla O’Riley,” he whispered. It was a prayer of thanks to God for delivering him into her presence, a solemn promise to win this woman no matter what it took, foreign as that sounded to a man of his sporting experience. And it was an impish invitation to grin, every time he said it. “Lyla O’Riley,” he repeated with a chuckle. “Lyla O’Riley.”
“I know my name, sir,” she insisted, refusing to flinch beneath his roving gaze. “Now what is it you’re wanting in here?”
Thompson swallowed a groan, along with the obvious answer to her question. Her peppermint scent made him feel like a kid in a candy store, or like a young swain flushed with his first bellyful of booze. She expected a rational answer, but the only safe reply he could think of was, “Uh, your dress! I came to tell you how—flattering— it is, and to ask where you got it.”
When he took a tentative step toward her, Lyla knew it was time to escape—no easy feat, given her state of undress. “Thank you, sir,” she answered, and then she looked him over saucily. “Mrs. Delacroix made the gown. But as for who gave it to me, well—a girl’s entitled to a few secrets, isn’t she?”
Once again her lilting voice teased at his insides. But Barry refused to fall for her coy reply, just as he resolved to steal her away from her man, if indeed she had one. “Miss Victoria gets all her ladies’ gowns made at that shop,” he challenged. “Her maids generally wear uniforms, though. So who bought this for you?”
For the first time since this burly man barged in, Lyla felt naked beneath his gaze. The sudden pounding of her heart warned her that he posed a threat of the most dangerous, intimate kind, and that revealing her benefactor’s identity would be a major mistake—although not so drastic an error as accepting the dress had been. With a sly smile, she tugged the top of the corset over her breasts. “Are you a man of honor, sir? A man to whom I can entrust the truth?”
Only a lovesick fool would fall for such a question, but Thompson played along. He was too fascinated not to. “I’m the most honorable man I know, Miss O’Riley. You can ask anybody in the parlor to vouch for my impeccable reputation.”
“Good. But I can’t go out there looking like this, now, can I?” Lyla allowed him a moment to consider her predicament, and then smiled. “If you’re gentleman enough to fasten me up without getting handsy, perhaps I’ll tell you who bought this gown.”
Knowing a line when he heard one, Thompson felt a grin spreading slowly over his face as he approached her. She was looking up at him with that beguiling smile, but Lyla O’Riley was about to find out that he had a few tricks of his own. “I’d be pleased to assist you, Miss Lyla,” he replied in a husky voice.
“A man has to wonder why you’d rush in here and start peeling off your corset, though.”
“You’ve obviously never worn one.” Lyla turned to face the wall, sweeping her hair up off her shoulders and holding it atop her head with both hands.
It was an extremely sensuous gesture, and Thompson held his breath, hesitating, as he gazed at her arched neck and smooth shoulders the color of richest cream. Her corset gaped at him, held only by its slack satin laces, and it would be so easy to just rip the damn thing off… “If—if it’s so uncomfortable, why wear it?” he stammered.
“The gown wouldn’t fit without it. I’ve been endowed with too much of a good thing, and no matter what I wear to control it, everything just…sticks out.”
He reached out to cup her rounded breasts—God, how he wanted to squeeze her alluring little behind while she wrapped her thighs around his! Barry groaned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Only a cad would take advantage of a young lady who’d confessed such sincere agony about being full-figured. “Honey, I think you’re a fine-looking woman,” he rasped, “and as far as I can see, you stick out in all the right places.”
His words divulged a desire Lyla felt quickening inside her own trembling body. Why had she made such an absurd request of this man instead of insisting he leave? “You’d better lace me up immediately,” she said in a stiff whisper. “Before we forget how honorable you are.”
Nipping his lip, the marshal tugged on the laces until the two halves of the stiff undergarment came together over her spine. It was a sin to truss her up this way, and he was ready to rip—
“Tighter,” Lyla gasped. “If you don’t start at the top and adjust it as you go, you’ll never get my gown buttoned.”
How had he gotten himself into this mess? His resolve was turning to syrup as the heat of Lyla’s curvaceous young body sent her peppermint essence wafting around
him. “Begging your pardon.” he breathed, “but why didn’t you just have the dress made a size larger?’’
Figuring nothing she said could possibly embarrass her further, Lyla twisted slightly to look up at him. “The man who ordered this gown prefers his women to fit a modest mold. He says that anything more than a handful is just a waste.”
Her flushed cheeks and lilac eyes told Thompson she was utterly serious, ashamed of her generous curves. “Then he’s a goddamned fool,” he muttered, “or else he’s got hands too small to do you justice. I don’t have that problem.”
His green eyes glimmered above hers and then he was pulling her back against himself, kissing her with splendid, lush lips that refused to let her go. The man’s hands were large, and as they roamed lovingly over her breasts and stomach, Lyla tried to slap him, but from this position it was a feeble effort at best. Despite a heady warmth that seeped through her body like butter into hot bread, she struggled into a position where she could take better aim.
Barry let her turn in his arms and then he cupped her bottom to lift her to a more comfortable height. Pressing her to the wall, he continued to move his mouth over hers in a breathless kiss. She was soft and silken beneath him, and once she stopped swatting at him she answered his every nuance with subtle responses he’d only fantasized about until now. Her legs had parted when he lifted her, and she was locking an ankle behind his knee, driving him toward a frenzy that galloped through him like a wild stallion.
He pulled away abruptly. “Jesus, woman! You’re driving me crazy!”
“I—I’m sorry! I never should’ve asked you to—” A gentle finger shut off the rest of her protest, and Lyla could only stare at her captor in bewilderment. She’d tried to fend him off—tried to buckle him at the knee—yet at the same time her body had been ready to surrender to this man, and she didn’t even know his name!
Barry let out an agonized sigh and slid her down the wall until her feet touched the floor. “Never apologize for kissing me that way, Lyla. It’d be an insult to both of us,” he murmured. “Now turn around. Let me button your dress before I forget how trustworthy I am.”
Colorado Moonfire Page 1
