“We’ll get it back. Just glad we didn’t lose you, Barry.” McClanahan gazed at him for a long moment and then clapped a hand to his good shoulder. “You rest now, and think things over. We’ve got ourselves a jewelry heist to investigate.”
Jewelry, indeed. Thompson settled into his pillows, thinking about how Lyla’s eyes matched the aquamarine he’d bought, and mentally designing the magnificent diamond ring he planned to place on her finger the day she became his wife. The chat with McClanahan had tired him. He let himself doze so he’d be fresh when his woman came by, while in his mind he kissed her sweet, willing lips.
He fell asleep with a wide grin on his face.
Lyla jerked awake, shivering and disoriented Had someone slammed a door? What time was it? She’d heard the office clock strike eleven and midnight, between fits of dozing; her cell was so drafty she couldn’t sleep for shaking with the cold. A violent sneeze brought her halfway off the cot, and even in the dark she could see her breath.
She heard a grumbling, shifting noise and regretted waking the vagrant in the next cot. He sat up with a groan, mumbled a string of curses, and then walked toward the front of his cell with something in his hand. The wild cacophony of a tin cup against metal bars soon had the other prisoners muttering, and then he was calling out, “Open that damn door! Let some of that heat back here before we freeze our butts off!”
When Rex Adams peered into the hallway, his hair glowed pale orange from the light in the office. “What’s this racket? Shut up and—”
“You try to sleep in this friggin’ cold! Give this little girl another blanket before she catches her death.”
Adams sighed impatiently, but a moment later he was stuffing a quilt through the bars of Lyla’s cell. “Will there be anything else, Miss O’Riley?” he jeered.
“N-no. Thank you.” When she rose to fetch the blanket, the deputy glowered at her and then at the derelict next to her, and then he returned to the office. The light cast eerie shadows upon the walls and gave the gridwork of the cell fronts a menacing gleam, but already Lyla was warmer. Or maybe the clanging of the radiator out front made her think she felt its heat. Everything took on a different perspective from behind these bars.
The stringy-haired man ambled back to his cot, mumbling the litany of swear words she’d heard a hundred times today. Lyla wrapped the quilt around herself, wondering how to respond to his unexpected kindness. “Thank you,” she whispered when he’d burrowed under his blanket again.
He rose on an elbow to peer through the darkness at her. “You’re welcome,” he grunted. “Can’t let those bastards get you down. They commit their share of crimes, too, but nobody catches ‘em.”
“You’ve got that right,” Lyla said with a heavy sigh. It was anybody’s guess how long she’d be stuck here, because it was in the deputy’s best interest to keep her and the stolen jewelry hidden away for a while. The clock was striking two, a pitiful, rattling sound compared to the rich bonging of the grandfather clock back home, and the comparison made her ache for the company of her brother. Mick would know what to do at a time like this, would keep her spirits up with his biting wit. But she didn’t even have his shamrock pendant to comfort herself with.
She huddled on her cot, ready to cry herself to sleep, when voices caught her attention. The conversation was low and covert, interrupted by the hissing and hammering of the radiator. But what Lyla could hear made her forget all about being cold and lonely.
“…anyone know she’s here?”
“No. Just us three and now you.”
“Good…rethink our strategy…impetuous little bitch fouled us up…”
Lyla held her breath so hard her eyeballs bulged. She had indeed seen Connor Foxe’s dark eyes mocking her from between his hat and bandana—he’d been the gang leader at the Golden Rose holdup! He had drawled to disguise his voice! Eberhardt and Adams must’ve been the other two bundled-up bandits, but who was here now, conferring with them?
“…oughtta snuff Thompson?”
“Yeah! Easy to…wrong kind of medicine.”
She nearly choked; she felt as if her heart were in her throat. Now they were plotting to kill Barry, as though he’d been their target all along!
“No, no…too obvious. Better to…and let nature take its course.”
Better to what? Lyla was sweating now, despite the dankness of her cell. Adams hardly impressed her as the type who’d murder his boss in the hospital, yet the deputy had certainly twisted her circumstances around. Who was the fourth man? The damn radiator drowned out—
“…say we finish him…could make it look like the girl…perfect alibi, since we caught her with…”
“Absolutely not. Geary could trace…want your reward, you’ll have to keep playing this my way, gentlemen.”
Lyla let out her breath very, very slowly. That clipped, authoritative accent could belong to only one man—a man who had enough money to plot Thompson’s demise without anyone suspecting him, because he was paying some well-placed accomplices to do his dirty work. This revelation didn’t really shock her, just as she wasn’t surprised to see a tall, familiar form coming down the hallway toward her cell.
He stopped to peer through the bars. Lyla remained motionless beneath her blankets, listening to his measured breathing. What on earth was he gawking at? After several moments of nerve-wrenching silence, he tapped the floor repeatedly with his walking stick, until she wanted to spring off the cot and scream at him!
“I know you’re awake, Miss O’Riley.”
So? she thought defiantly.
Foxe tapped the floor again, more insistently. “As your benefactor, it behooves me to remove you from these premises now, to avoid further embarrassment to myself or more damage to Marshal Thompson’s reputation,” he said in a low voice. His precise diction indicated his irritation. Framed between the dark metal bars, his face expressed his displeasure while his monocle glowed like an evil eye. “Gather up your things. We’re leaving now, before word gets out about why you’re here.”
Lyla choked on a laugh. “Why am I here, Mr. Foxe?”
“You know bloody well—” Frazier let out an exasperated sigh and glanced around at the other prisoners, who were hanging on his every word. “Miss O’Riley, this is not the time or the place to discuss such circumstances. After the stunt you pulled, I should just leave you here to—”
“Please do,” she muttered, “because I’m going nowhere until Marshal Thompson can straighten this mess out.” Lyla balanced on an elbow to glare at him, knowing quite well he had underhanded reasons for whisking her out of here at two in the morning.
“Thompson’s condition precludes—”
“Then bring Dr. Geary, or Matt McClanahan,” Lyla challenged. “I want my name cleared by someone who knows what really happened when I came back to Cripple. The charges Adams is holding me on are ridiculous and you know it.”
“I beg your—dear-heart, I only tonight learned about your incarceration—”
“Isn’t it rather unseemly for a paragon such as yourself to be lying this way?” she mocked. “Leave me alone. I’ll stay here until someone I trust unlocks that cell door.”
She could practically see Foxe’s monocle cloud over and hear him prickling with indignation—and that thought would sustain her for days, if that’s how long it took to tell her true story. Lyla sensed he intended to use her against Thompson, since she’d apparently fouled up his first attempt on the marshal’s life. It was scary to realize what sort of monster resided beneath Frazier Foxe’s impeccably-groomed facade. Would he kill Barry merely for poking fun at him during the bachelor party? Or was there something else behind the discussion she’d overheard?
Lyla breathed much easier when Foxe finally left with a miffed sigh. Better to wait him out than to pay for a hasty departure by becoming his pawn again. If he really was the brains behind this robbery and murder attempt, Doc Geary and McClanahan were the last people he’d tell of her whereabouts. Days might pass b
efore Thompson found out why she hadn’t come to see him…which would be his clue that something was terribly wrong.
Warmed by these conclusions, she decided to plan her escape after a few solid hours of sleep.
The noon meal was carried in by none other than Princess Cherry Blossom, whose war-painted presence had the male prisoners smoothing back their hair so they could get a good eyeful when she leaned over to slide their trays under the bars. Her braid fell strategically beneath her loose buckskin bodice. The sway of her hips elicited whistles and whoops with each trip she made into the hallway.
Lyla, too, felt her pulse speed up: here was a friend…someone who could get word to Thompson or McClanahan! When the Indian princess shoved her covered tray into the cell, she grinned profusely. “By the saints, I’m glad to see you!” she gushed
“Are you?” The mahogany-skinned whore glanced surreptitiously toward the doorway and then reached so far down her front that the mangy man in the next cell yipped like a coyote.
“What’s going on here?” Rex Adams’ shrill voice called out above the echoing din in the hallway. “Shut up and eat! And you—” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Cherry Blossom. “Where’s Milly? If I’d wanted some floozy from a Wild West show to deliver dinner, I’d have…I’d have…”
The princess was smiling demurely at him, her hands on her hips pulling her dress so tight that her every curve was clearly outlined. “I’ll bring your lunch in just a moment, deputy,” she said in a coy voice. “And maybe when I’m finished here, you can show me your…tomahawk.”
Raucous hoots and catcalls brought an unbecoming flush to Rex’s freckled features. When he slammed the door behind him, the brazen Miss Blossom quickly shoved the folded newspaper page she’d been concealing through the cell bars. “Thought you’d want to see this. You’ve certainly set Cripple Creek on its ear, honey.”
Lyla unfolded the printed sheet and gasped. MARSHAL RETURNS! DEPUTY JAILS WOULD-BE ASSASSIN leaped off the front page of the Cripple Creek Times in bold letters that stunned her like a slap in the face. And there was her face, sketched two columns wide—a startling likeness of a sly, conniving young angel fallen from grace. It was bad enough to be held on Adams’s trumped-up charges, but to be accused of—
“Assassin?” she hissed. “Who’ll believe—”
“It’s all the talk at the Rose today,” the princess replied with a shrug. “Special edition. Even the folks who know you are pretty damned amazed at how well all the pieces fit. The men who’ve seen you and Thompson together are saying it’s good he found this out before he gave you that gorgeous ring.”
Lyla plopped down on the cot, too flabbergasted to speak. She knew that when Barry heard her out, it would be her word against that of his long-time deputy. But now everyone in town would think she rode after the marshal to kill him and claim the jewelry for herself, before she could explain how she’d found the leather pouch.
“I—I saved his life, damn it!” she blurted, knowing her words sounded like an alibi invented after the fact. Did Cherry Blossom think she was a killer? The whore’s eyes shone with their usual hint of whiskey-inspired mischief, yet her direct gaze held heartfelt sympathy Lyla hadn’t guessed the dove capable of.
“I never doubted it,” the princess confirmed in a confidential tone. “No woman in her right mind would kill Barry Thompson. And who’d care about that bag of trinkets once she’d had the marshal’s jewels? Must’ve been pure hell, being holed up with him for three days.”
Her attempt at humor only made Lyla shake her head dolefully. “Nearly lost him—twice. I cut the damn bullet out of him—stayed up night and day fighting his fever, and for what? Some gratitude this town’s showing me for saving its lawman.”
The whore leaned against the bars and beckoned her closer. “It’s not Barry’s doing the story got out like this,” she suggested gently, “but perhaps…perhaps it’s for the best. I—I should’ve warned you about him, Lyla.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Barry is…well, he’s like a bumblebee, honey,” Cherry Blossom whispered with a bittersweet smile. “Flits from one flower to the next, dipping his stinger in. He can swear on a pile of Bibles he loves you, and next thing you know, he’s under another woman’s dress.”
Lyla recalled the tender words Thompson moaned as he made love to her, and felt a flush creeping up out of her collar.
“So I’m too late. He’s already stolen your heart— and your flower. Hasn’t he?” The whore shook her head, clucking. “You’re young, and you’ll get over it. But I can tell you it’ll take months to forget him. He…he promised he’d take me away from the whorehouse and marry me—buy me a big ring and build me a fancy house. And that was the first time he came to my room.”
Cherry Blossom glanced toward the door. “I’d better go before I get you into any more trouble.” Reaching between the bars, she gave Lyla’s shoulder a solemn squeeze. “I’ll see if I can find a way to spring you out of here. And meanwhile, try to forget about the marshal. By now he’s probably lured every nurse in that hospital into bed with him.”
Lyla gazed forlornly after her. Should she believe Cripple’s most flamboyant dove, or relive those moments in the marshal’s arms over and over, to convince herself Barry Thompson wanted her for keeps? Lyla, please love me, he’d begged against her ear. Love me…make me whole…
She shook off the memory of his caress, shocked at how the spark he’d ignited could be rekindled at the merest thought of him, even when he was clear across town.
And when she read the lengthy piece from the Times, Lyla realized with a sinking heart that Cherry Blossom’s advice was right on target…Ruthless young hoyden…dumped the marshal at Dr. Geary’s after stealing his gun and the jewelry taken at…was escaping with Thompson’s stallion when apprehended by Wally Eberhardt, who wisely delivered her to Deputy…
The story was worded in such a way that she half believed its inaccuracies herself, so Barry would surely refuse to associate with her now. She might as well forget him, because, as the princess hinted, he could certainly find women enough to amuse himself…women who weren’t would-be assassins.
“That’s ridiculous and you know it!” she muttered under her breath. Then she realized she was talking to herself in the presence of other people, as though the strain of being held hostage was already eating away at her sanity.
Beneath the linen napkin was a plate of pork smothered in gravy, with fried potatoes, and she ate so fast the food backed up in her throat before she could swallow it all. She was ravenous, she was frustrated, she was angry, because this “special edition” had undoubtedly been the work of Frazier Foxe: his revenge for her failure to comply with his orders. If he had a deputy and a stable manager on his payroll, he could certainly buy a reporter.
Lyla recalled his hushed conference, how he’d implied that she’d messed up his plans. He obviously had a new scheme, beginning with this defamation of her character that would leave her destitute. Who could she work for now? Certainly not the genteel Victoria Chatterly, whose strict code of conduct had cost a few beauties their rooms at the Rose. Certainly not local merchants or bankers, who couldn’t turn their backs lest she steal them blind and then shoot them. She’d cost Dwight Geary his patients if she became his nurse…
Thank God and the saints Mick’s not here to see this, she thought as she gazed sadly at the newspaper. Marshal Thompson was known throughout Colorado, and the tale of his death-defying Christmas Eve chase would appear in every paper in the state—along with her portrait and the shocking story.
It seemed Ireland was the only place she could go now. She had to escape—she knew she could—and if it meant whoring so she’d be sneaked onto a ship, that’s what she’d do. Frazier Foxe would use her to lure Barry to his death: the fact that his walking stick was recovered before the loot was planted in Thompson’s saddlebag proved he was masterminding this plot! And why would Barry want her, when so many more suitable w
omen were willing to lift their skirts for him?
Lyla wrapped herself in the quilt and sat cross-legged on the cot to think. How could she dupe the deputy—or Foxe himself—into opening that iron gate? How could she flee Cripple Creek without getting caught?
Chapter 11
The coffee Thompson drank with his noon meal was now turning to acid in his stomach. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in a bed he was disgusted with, but his wounds throbbed relentlessly no matter how he sat. Once more he looked at the front page, at the sketch of his own Lyla, so hauntingly rendered. “How the hell did this happen?” he mumbled. “Why didn’t she tell me—”
“I thought you should see it for yourself, before people came streaming in here to quiz you,” McClanahan answered quietly. He glanced over to reread the lead paragraphs of the Times story, printed in bolder type than the rest of the piece. “Why did she have your gun? How’d she get—”
“She could’ve left me for dead—could’ve killed me with a potion from her herb collection. Could’ve lifted my cash and keys and whatever else I had on me, as far gone as I was,” the marshal protested. “It wouldn’t make sense to leave my pistol at her place. She probably figured she’d run up against the robbers again.”
Matt was already leaning over, pulling the bullet-riddled pants from the drawer in the bedside table. “How much money’d you have on you that night?”
“How the hell would I know?” Barry howled. “I changed in such a hurry my monkey suit’s still scattered across my apartment floor.”
With a sigh, McClanahan looked at the items he took from Thompson’s pants. “A key ring, a couple of bucks. That’s all you had?”
“My pockets got picked at your reception, remember?” Barry looked at his companion, his exasperation rising. He understood why Inspector McClanahan of the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency was asking him all these devil’s-advocate questions that could point up Lyla’s motive or guilt. But why was his best friend Matt so willing to see her in a negative light? “What else can you hang on her? We might as well hash this out between us, before anybody else gets in on it.”
Colorado Moonfire Page 11
