Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward, asking you to dinner this way,” he began hesitantly. “The Rose didn’t seem an appropriate place to get better acquainted.”

  “Seems we got quite acquainted last night,” she quipped. “I’m not that free with every man I meet, you know.”

  “Of course you’re not. And I had no business barging in on you, either. I apologize.” The memory of her smooth, supple body yielding beneath his made him shift in his chair; the way she’d hooked her ankle around his knee told him she was as playfully passionate as he was. And this line of thinking would have him making love to her under the table, if he wasn’t careful.

  Barry tugged at his starched shirt collar. “I—I guess I’m curious as to why you came to this country with your brother,” he said with a strained smile. “I hope it’s not because he was the only family you had left.”

  “No, no. My parents are still alive—in the sheep business, they are.” Lyla considered Thompson’s taut expression and decided not to reveal the real reason she’d fled Ireland. Putting on a flirtatious grin, she added, “Woollybacks don’t provide much adventure, actually. So Mick and I stowed away on a ship to come prospecting for gold.”

  Barry’s eyes widened. This little sprite was even spunkier than he thought! “And what’d your folks say to that?”

  She shrugged. “They didn’t know where we were till I wrote that Mick had a job in the Angel Claire. We thought it was a lucky place for him to sign on, what with our mama being named Claire.”

  When her eyes clouded over, Thompson gripped her hand. “I suppose they’ll expect you to return home now?”

  “It took me a while to write them about the mine explosion, and it’ll be weeks before their reply comes back,” she said softly. “By that time I can tell them I have a good job—that it’s safer to stay here among friends than to travel home alone. Unless somebody brings their letter in person.”

  Lyla grimaced as though she’d swallowed a bitter tonic, and her distaste for returning home made him wonder why she’d really left. Not that it mattered. He didn’t intend to let her go back, either alone or with a family friend. It seemed the perfect time to reveal his own plans.

  “Honey, is…is there anyone else? Another man in your life?”

  Her eyes flew to his face. How could he know she’d been thinking that the mealy-mouthed fiancé her father had chosen for her would be the most likely person to come fetch her? “I—no! No one I care about.”

  An encouraging answer, considering the favors Frazier Foxe had done for her. Barry glanced toward the stockbroker, who was receiving his coffee and dessert, and decided to plunge in before he lost his nerve. “Lyla, I want to move you out of the Golden Rose to more suitable quarters,” he began. He leaned forward to expound upon his motives, but just then Prudence Spickle shoved their plates in front of them.

  “Pheasant for two and wine,” she said as she plunked the tall bottle onto the table. She arched an eyebrow at Lyla. “You work at the Rose, do you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m a housekeeper,” she added pointedly.

  “That’s what they all say.” Miss Spickle turned on her heel and strode to the cash register at the front of the dining room.

  Lyla was dumbstruck. No one had ever insinuated that she was a whore just because she worked among them, and a slow burn worked its way up to her face. She sensed that their waitress was sneaking glances at them, and also felt Frazier Foxe looking their way after overhearing Miss Spickle’s rude remark. But the real reason her heart was pounding concerned the marshal sitting across from her—a man who’d obviously made plans for her future. A man like Father, so concerned about her welfare. And also like her fiancé, Hadley McDuff, who was all too happy to acquire her so he’d have an heir to whom he could will his fortune.

  A wave of longing overtook her as she looked at their delectable meal. Rich, buttery pheasant with gingered carrots and new potatoes…how could she resist such a spread, after two years of cooking the plain food Mick’s salary allowed? A forkful of the tender fowl convinced her Barry Thompson and his schemes could be stalled for a few minutes while she enjoyed her dinner.

  The marshal stared at Miss O’Riley, who was forking down her food as though she hadn’t been fed in months. Meals at the Rose were sumptuous—he’d eaten enough of them to know—so as he gently grasped her hand, he grinned. “Whoa there, little lady. Much as I’d love to unlace your stays, you don’t want me to have to do it here, do you?”

  Lyla gaped at the large hand holding her fork a few inches from her mouth and then glanced sheepishly into his sparkling eyes. “Sorry. When I get upset, I speed up.”

  “Upset?”

  She loosened her hand from his grip. “The work I do at the Rose is honest labor. I don’t appreciate people assuming that I’m a whore by association.”

  Thompson realized he’d get no proposals made until the air was cleared, so he stood up. “I’m used to being jabbed by Prudence Spickle’s tongue, but you’re right—there’s no call for her to be rude to you. Excuse me for a moment.”

  He walked to the cash register at a sedate pace, calling up his most diplomatic air. The last scene he needed was one female lashing out at him while another worked herself into such a frenzy she’d never want to see him again. The hostess was counting another man’s change, and then she challenged him with a silent, beady-eyed glare.

  Barry cleared his throat. “Miss Spickle, have I ever told you what exemplary service you always give, and how much I appreciate it?”

  She blinked as though she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Well, I—”

  “Your manager surely owes you a raise—”

  “Actually, it’s my brother—”

  “—and I owe you an apology for all the times I’ve smarted off at you. You’re a fine woman, Prudence. A star in the crown of your profession.” Thompson paused to let his compliments soak in; it was a rare woman who squawked after she’d been stroked properly. “And being the gracious lady you are, I know you’ll tell me—nicely, of course—what it is about Miss O’Riley that offends you.”

  Miss Spickle’s mouth clapped shut, her thin lips working back and forth in her agitation. Then she leaned forward to speak in a conspiratorial tone. “Marshal, I’m worried that being seen with such women will ruin your reputation. You’re known by the company you keep.”

  “I appreciate your concern, ma’am.” Barry glanced back at Lyla, whose placid expression and empty plate told him he should move this show along. “Prudence, do you believe in the power of good over evil?”

  The waitress stood taller, her beaky nose rising with self-righteousness. “Why, of course, Mr. Thompson. It’s the power of our Lord himself.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” He grasped the old maid’s bony hands, ignoring the sensation of holding brittle sticks wrapped in tissue paper. “So you’ll understand that by taking Miss O’Riley away from the Rose—letting her associate with me—I hope to keep her from sinking into that sordid environment. She’ll make me a fine wife, but that’ll be our little secret, all right?”

  When he winked at her, the old busybody’s cheeks actually flushed. It couldn’t hurt to let her spread his good news, since Lyla would be wearing his magnificent engagement ring within the hour. With a final squeeze of her fingers, Barry turned to finish wooing the woman he loved, only to see the back of her red plaid skirts disappearing through the kitchen doors.

  Feisty little imp’s going in to ask for seconds, he thought as he strode between the linen-draped tables. He smiled and nodded at a few friends, thinking of a joke about corsets to make Lyla laugh when he caught her coaxing more food from the cook. A glance at their table made him pause, though. She’d picked both their plates clean and had drained the wine bottle!

  Barry pushed through the batwing doors and searched anxiously around the steamy, fragrant kitchen, which bustled with men in white aprons and hats. “Did you see a lady in red go through here?” he asked the
nearest chef.

  The man gestured toward the alley door. “Good luck. She was in a big hurry.”

  Probably looking for a place to unlace, the marshal reasoned. And he was just the man to help her! But why hadn’t she signaled him, or come up front for her cloak?

  She didn’t want to be humiliated in front of Prudence. Or maybe she’s sick. He stepped quickly into the back alley, expecting to find Lyla doubled over, losing all that lunch. Instead, he saw only the clutter of rubbish, the swirl of snowflakes…and the flapping of a red plaid skirt turning the far corner.

  He broke into a run, sweating despite the chill wind that blasted him. There must be something dreadfully wrong, something much worse than Miss Spickle’s rude remark, to make Lyla dash off this way. His snow-muffled footsteps echoed against the shabby buildings as he approached the street. Barry saw her then, leaning against a pillar of the bank, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. If she could run this fast, she sure as hell wasn’t sick, so she must be—

  As Lyla caught sight of him, her panic-stricken expression stopped his heart. She turned tail like a frightened deer and bounded down the sidewalk, ducking into the druggist’s shop. Barry shivered, as much from the icy clutch of Miss O’Riley’s rejection as from the wind that sent snowflakes whirling around him.

  Damned if he’d chase after a woman who ate his dinner and then stood him up! His friends in Delmonico’s were probably already snickering, watching this little drama from the restaurant window. But it hurt like hell to let her run off, because she was taking a lifetime of saved-up love along with her. It amazed him, how much of his future he’d invested in this woman after one brief, enticing encounter, and by God, she wasn’t leaving him before she did some tall explaining!

  Barry stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and walked resolutely toward the restaurant’s front door. His fingertips found the smooth, cool aquamarine in his pocket. By now everyone who’d paid for a meal had heard he intended to marry that little minx—hell, even Frazier Foxe probably knew! Probably popped his monocle when he heard about it.

  The thought made Thompson laugh, and it gave him the gumption to step inside for Lyla’s cloak and then continue down the street toward the Golden Rose, to wait her out.

  Chapter 3

  Clutching herself against the cold, Lyla darted out the druggist’s back door. Her dress offered little protection from the wintry wind, and this hide-and-seek was insane! She was a fool to think Marshal Thompson wouldn’t corner her at the Golden Rose: he had every right to be furious, and there was nowhere else for her to go. She only hoped Miss Victoria or Princess Cherry Blossom could detain him in the parlor while she found an obscure cranny to hide in.

  Desperation made her stick to the side streets, where the snow was up to her ankles. To gain any speed, she had to lift her skirts, which allowed the freezing breeze to flutter up under her petticoats. Her breath was coming out in billowing white clouds after only a few blocks—damn corset! Lyla saw the whorehouse’s butter-yellow gables only two lanes away and walked more slowly. She could slip through the back door without being noticed, because the ladies would be preparing the parlor and ballroom for tonight’s festivities.

  “Cold day to be out without a cloak, little miss. I could warm you up in here, though.”

  Lyla glanced into the dim livery stable, where a man stood in the shadows only a few feet away from her. She walked more quickly.

  “What’s your hurry, sweetheart?”

  The sharp edge in his voice made her wish she’d listened to Miss Chatterly’s warnings about the derelicts who haunted Cripple Creek’s alleys. Her heart was hammering as she broke into a trot. She gasped, the icy air slicing her lungs, when the man sprang in front of her and grabbed her by the arms.

  “I asked you a question.” Her assailant’s dark eyes glittered beneath his black hat. He was compactly built, dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt, but he smelled too clean to be a stablehand.

  “Let me go! I’m late for work!”

  He grinned and pulled her closer. “And where might ‘work’ be? You’re dressed too fancy to be a shopgirl.”

  Lyla tried to wrench herself free, but his steely grasp tightened around her arms.

  “The Golden Rose. Now turn me loose, before Miss Victoria comes looking for me!”

  A stealthy laugh rumbled in the man’s chest. “One of Lady Chatterly’s girls, are you?” he quizzed, cocking an eyebrow. “Why is it you high-class whores think you’re too good for us working stiffs? I’ve got the same equipment as those fat-ass bankers, and I’m just the man to show you how much better I can use it.”

  Something in the planes of his face looked familiar. Lyla narrowed her eyes and spoke in the most threatening voice she could muster. “You touch me, cowboy, and I’ll kick your equipment right up to your ears.”

  “An Irish lassie who’ll give me a fight—God, how I’d love that!”

  Lyla forced herself to keep staring him down, despite the man’s brute strength and base intentions…which might assist her escape. She stopped struggling and took a deep breath, distracting him with the movement of her bosom. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She forced a sultry chuckle and replied, “I keep a file of randy braggarts like you. So I can call out your name when you…shoot me.”

  His answering laugh was ripe with desire. “The name’s Connor Foxe,” he breathed. “What’s yours?”

  “Frazier’s brother?”

  Foxe’s eyes took on a hooded, predatory look. “And how does Frazier know a cute little cupcake like you?”

  Lyla chided herself for blurting out her benefactor’s name, because this man obviously planned to put such information to use. She glanced nervously toward the Golden Rose, wondering if Marshal Thompson would hear her if she screamed. Or would that be a stupid move? Better to lure Connor to the whorehouse, where Miss Chatterly and the ladies would protect her, than to deal with him in this deserted alley. Fighting the chatter of her teeth, she gazed into Foxe’s dark eyes. “We’ll catch our death if we stay out in this wind,” she said in a husky voice. “Come with me. We’ll slip in the back way, and I’ll show you precisely what makes me worth more than an ordinary whore.”

  Connor’s low laugh registered his approval and he stepped to one side of her, still holding her elbow in a possessive grip. “Now you’re talking, sweetheart. This being Christmas Eve and all, I might feel extra generous and—what the—?”

  They were passing a stock trough, so Lyla deftly slipped a foot between his legs and shoved as hard as she could. A tinkle of splintering ice gave way to Connor Foxe’s vehement swearing as he tumbled into the frosty water, and Lyla took off sprinting down the lane.

  Thank God the back door was unlocked! She scampered inside and up the narrow stairway that led to the third-floor help’s quarters, her heart hammering so hard in her throat she nearly choked. When she reached the long dormer room she fell onto her own bunk, wheezing like a winded horse.

  Her stomach pitched violently. Her eyes started playing tricks with the pattern of the wallpaper as her head began to dip and spin like a lazy top. The wine she’d guzzled was now racing through her system, and she felt the sudden urge to vomit.

  She stumbled into the small water closet and hunched over the commode, but nothing came up. In her frenzied, swaying state she couldn’t decide whether to keep hugging this cool fixture or struggle out of her restrictive clothing or just pass out on the floor. A noise made her hold her breath…there it was again—creaking stairs!

  Instinct drove her into the double clothes closet, which was crammed with the uniforms, dresses, hatboxes, and trunks of the housekeepers and cooks. God help her if she threw up on anyone’s things, but the fear of being caught by Marshal Thompson or a lecturing Miss Chatterly was far worse. The footsteps were already coming down the hall! Lyla shut the door behind her and huddled in the close darkness, listening frantically.

&n
bsp; It was the heavy tread of a boot rather than the clatter of the madam’s pumps. As quietly as she could, Lyla fumbled along the crates and boxes beneath the hanging clothes until she came to her own trunk. She’d had precious little to pack when she’d left the cabin, so she struggled with the latches and clambered inside.

  Were her skirts sticking out the lid? She had no time to check, because Barry Thompson was now strolling down the room’s center aisle, between the beds. Right toward her.

  There was a pause. Lyla’s heart pounded painfully and she struggled to rearrange herself. Why had she thought it such a joke to gobble the marshal’s meal with all that wine? She was scrunched into a tight square, arms clutched over her breasts and legs folded against her bottom, feeling pinched in half by her laced-up stays. How long could she remain in this claustrophobic box before she either climbed out of it shrieking or fainted dead away?

  The doorknob clicked and the hinge whined. Lyla felt her eyes bulging against her eyelids—why she’d squeezed them shut in the dark, she didn’t know—as her predator entered the closet. He stood there while seconds of not breathing turned into hours. “Damn,” he muttered, and then stepped out and closed the door.

  She gulped air as quietly as she could, listening. The marshal swore again as his heavy, measured tread faded in the opposite direction.

  Cautiously, Lyla lifted the lid of the trunk. Her face was beaded with sweat, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry: she’d eluded the tall lawman this time, but there was no avoiding him at the wedding reception tonight. If she was too ill to attend, he’d be the type to come upstairs and check on her.