Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Lyla grunted when the toe of his boot found her backside.

  “See how agreeable she can be, once you get her attention? Let’s hoist her onto my horse before anybody happens by here.” Connor said, tugging his blue bandana over his face. “We don’t want Nate thinking something went wrong.”

  When the other man also covered his face, Lyla’s heart stopped. Could this be the desperado who’d held Barry at gunpoint during the robbery at the Golden Rose? And what was this talk about Thompson being “out of the way”?

  “You’ll never get away with this!” she challenged. “I’ll break loose and—”

  A resounding smack made her cheek sting and the coppery taste of blood seeped onto her tongue. “Quit your yammering or I’ll gag you,” Foxe threatened. “Can’t stand a woman who runs at the mouth.”

  Reeling from the blow, Lyla put up no fight as the two men lifted her between them and boosted her onto a sorrel stallion that was waiting in the trees. Jameson cantered out to the road beside them, watching her as though she might squirm out of Connor’s grip. She knew better than to hope they were heading into Cripple, and sure enough they left the main trail when they came to a wide creek. Turning north, Lyla thought.

  These foothills and open stretches of pastureland were totally foreign to her, so she soon gave up trying to memorize all the twists and turns they followed. Where on earth were they taking her? She thought fleetingly of her ruined rendezvous with Thompson in the cabin. Would she ever see him again? Would Calico return to town, alerting him or the McClanahans to her crisis? Or would Eberhardt be waiting to hide her mare away…or dispose of her?

  The way her luck was running of late, it was best not to think about such things.

  Chapter 15

  The first day of 1899 found Barry Thompson resolute indeed, resolving to clear up the Christmas Eve jewelry heist now that he had enough facts to catch the culprits. Three days of rest had cleared his head. Norbert Sykes, who’d heard the incriminating conference from his cell beside Lyla’s, had backed up her story word for word. Rex Adams, Wally Eberhardt, and the Foxe brothers were all involved, even if the pieces of the puzzle didn’t quite fit…yet.

  He sat on the side of the hospital bed to pull on his blue uniform trousers. Doc Geary had released him with the condition that he’d stay off his horse and out of his office for at least a week. He could live with that, could have Sam Langston do some of his legwork and contact McClanahan about starting the investigation in earnest. The hardest part would be locking his deputy away. Because it was Sunday, Barry refused to accost Rex when he was coming out of church with his family. He had plenty of other things to do first, like getting the jewelry returned to its owners. And maybe finding out where Lyla was.

  Barry smiled at the thought of the impish Irish lass. Who else could alert an ambulance and then disappear with five hundred dollars before anyone recognized her? He chatted amiably with the hospital attendant who gave him a ride to his apartment, all the while studying the people on the street, hoping to see the elusive Miss O’Riley in her heavy coat with her hat brim pulled low.

  He saw her, all right—in practically every storefront window along Bennett Avenue. The sketch from the Cripple Creek Times had been enlarged and reproduced on Wanted posters that made him chuckle despite the bold black headlines charging her with an attempt on his life, among other things. He’d keep one as a memento they could laugh about in years to come. Waving to his driver, he waited for the hospital carriage to turn the corner and then walked slowly toward the Golden Rose. Most of the people he needed to see were probably there, and he hoped they weren’t too hung over from New Year’s Eve festivities to assist him.

  Thompson was greeted with cheers and back slaps when he entered the bordello parlor.

  “Marshal! Good to see you up and around!”

  “Come toast 1899 with us!”

  “Barry, by God, that little Irish whore didn’t get the best of you, did she?”

  The marshal held up his hand for silence, returning the smiles he saw on these familiar faces. Some had bleary eyes and booze-reddened noses, and the ladies drooped as though they’d entertained long and hard while ushering in the new year, but seeing them made his heart swell. These were his friends, whether fabulously wealthy or heavily indebted to Miss Chatterly for the clothes on their backs. The concern in their eyes told him just how worried they’d been about losing him, strengthening his resolve to settle this robbery business quickly and decisively.

  “A couple things need to be said, since several of you were here on Christmas Eve,” he began. “First of all, Miss Lyla O’Riley has been greatly wronged by the papers and falsely accused of several ridiculous crimes. Let there be no mistake—she saved my life after I was shot while chasing the bandits, and she was imprisoned because my deputy became over-zealous about protecting me. I released her with no qualms whatsoever before I blacked out.”

  A gasp circulated among the guests, who glanced at each other and then studied him expectantly.

  Barry chuckled. “If you think I’m defending her honor because I’m sweet on her, you’re right. But we owe Lyla our thanks for pointing me toward the real culprits, and I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word about her innocence. Poor girl’s afraid to come back to Cripple because the crowd around me at the jailhouse sounded a lot like a lynch mob. Didn’t it?”

  The men murmured among themselves, until Daniel Klegg, a mine owner, asked, “So if Miss O’Riley didn’t shoot you or steal our valuables, who did?”

  “I’d rather not divulge that until I have the suspects in custody,” Thompson replied. Then he smiled at Sam Langston. “I can, however, let you reclaim the jewelry you lost, since there’s no point in holding it any longer. Sam, let’s have everybody register a detailed, written description of their stolen items with you, and then they can pick up what’s theirs at the bank, starting tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Fine by me,” the banker replied.

  “And to help you out,” Barry continued with a slight bow toward the Rose’s madam, “Miss Victoria can make a list of all the guests who were here for the McClanahans’ reception. Some of the pieces that were stolen weren’t in the pouch when it was retrieved, so please don’t get alarmed if all your items aren’t returned just yet. Once our crooks are behind bars, my first priority is to locate what’s missing.”

  “And how do we know you won’t go sniffing around to find Miss O’Riley instead?”

  It was a brazen challenge, one Barry knew was intended to make him stammer. But he smiled, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops as he addressed the buckskinned beauty with the sly brown eyes. “Princess Cherry Blossom, I can assure you it’s in my best interest to find the pieces that’re missing,” he replied suavely, “because if my aquamarine ring doesn’t show up, Lyla will be terribly disappointed. And you know it’s not my nature to disappoint a lady.”

  Laughter filled the crowded parlor and then the men replenished their drinks and came up to ask about his health. Sam and Victoria situated themselves on a settee with pen and paper, where they could make their lists on the marble-topped coffee table as the guests and whores reported the necessary information.

  Darla brought him a plate of sandwiches, pickles, and cookies from the buffet and exchanged pleasantries until Silas Hughes placed a snifter of brandy in his other hand and dismissed her with a polite smile.

  “Glad you’re back among the living,” the new owner of the Angel Claire said, “and it sounds like you’ve got the robbery situation well in hand. Or was some of that little speech designed to placate the natives until you’ve had time to find some real answers?’’

  Barry chuckled, not the least bit offended by Hughes’ astute comment. “I’m doing what I can, considering Doc Geary’s keeping me off my horse for a while. Going to have Matt round some renegades up, and then send those two on their honeymoon.”

  “Fine idea. I hope you find Emily’s ring and locket, too,” the silver-haired
magnate replied. “Poor girl, loses her father and then gets robbed on her wedding night. Makes you wonder if any of us are safe in this town. No reflection on you, understand.”

  Barry nodded and bit into a thick ham sandwich so he wouldn’t have to comment. Hughes’ concern was genuine, since the man reported to his mine every day not knowing whether his employees might blow the Angel Claire up again, by accident or on purpose. Every mine owner in Cripple lived with that threat: the unruly nature of blasters, muckers, and other laborers made for conditions as volatile as the explosives used to free the gold ore from the bowels of the earth.

  But how did Hughes know Emily’s diamond and pendant were missing? Had Langston leaked that information, or had the newspapers reported it when they mentioned his and Lyla’s pieces? Damn, it was lousy to be out of circulation—and out of his head for part of that time! Barry hated wondering if any more of his friends were tied in with the heist somehow. He glanced at his banker, who was taking down descriptions, and hoped his trust wasn’t misplaced Sam Langston and Silas Hughes had no reason to be parties to the robbery. But then, neither did Frazier Foxe.

  And Frazier wasn’t here today, he noted. The man with the monocle was a tough one to figure: frequented a whorehouse but never lay with a lady, had a brother he didn’t acknowledge in public…masterminded a robbery, paying honest men in opportune positions to do his dirty work. In addition to his brokerage house on Bennett and part interest in numerous Cripple Creek businesses, he owned the largest sheep ranch in Colorado, north of the Springs a ways. Barry sensed he’d be paying the ranch a visit if Foxe didn’t show up around town soon.

  He didn’t realize Hughes had gone to talk to Miss Chatterly until a hand slipped under his elbow and a warm, angular body was rubbing against him like a cat. He smiled down at the Indian princess, who was tipping his snifter for a sip of brandy. “Feel better, now that you’ve shot your arrow?” he teased.

  She batted her black-lined eyes with a decadent air he knew well. “I’ll feel better when you shoot yours, loverman. Deep down inside me,” she purred.

  Barry chuckled and gave her an apologetic shrug. “Not sure I could even take aim, much less fire, sweetheart. I lost a lot of blood, and this bum leg—”

  “Thompson, comes a time I can’t get a rise out of you, you’ll be holding up a headstone.” Cherry Blossom gazed at him with a coy grin, her breasts thrust forward in a blatant come-on beneath her beaded bodice. “And even if you can’t attack, you can still nibble, or squeeze, or kiss me…you know where.”

  Her seductive whisper didn’t fool him for a moment: the war-painted woman running her thumbnail up his fly was testing him. Seeing if he’d succumb, after he’d declared his intentions toward Lyla in front of all his friends. These men wouldn’t think of informing his beloved of his infidelity, but they’d file it in the backs of their minds just the same.

  “How about a bath, then? For old times’ sake,” she coaxed. “A steamy soak would do those stiff muscles good. It’s the least you could do for a poor working girl whose favorite turquoise combs were stolen by those big, bad robbers.”

  “They were?” Barry glanced at the beaded rawhide she’d plaited into her hair. “Did you report it to Sam?”

  “You’re changing the subject,” Cherry Blossom said with a roll of her eyes. “Frankly, I’m doing you a favor, Thompson. These men would never mention it, but that perfume you’re wearing leaves a lot to be desired.”

  He wasn’t wearing any…this hussy was telling him he stank! Barry cleared his throat sheepishly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more than a sponge bath administered by a meek nurse’s aide.

  But he’d be damned if he’d let this crafty dove get the upper hand. She couldn’t care less about his money—friend and confidante though she was, Princess Cherry Blossom was jealous of Lyla and intended to trap him, with a trick he knew he’d regret. He gave her one of his most suggestive once-overs, chuckling low in his throat. “All right, foxy lady, you win,” he murmured. “Go start my bath water. I’ll be in as soon as I tell Sam about your combs.”

  “Of course, marshal—anything you say.” She left the parlor with a victorious sway of her hips, but then turned in the doorway to waggle her middle finger at him, a gesture they often exchanged when they romped in her room or in the bathing suite.

  Thompson laughed out loud and approached the table where the banker and the madam were nearly finished taking names. “Sam, jot down that Grace Putnam’s minus two turquoise-and-silver combs,” he said. “And Victoria, I’d appreciate it if you’d poke your head into the suite down the hall after a bit. That wild squaw of yours says I need a bath, but her brown eyes are flashing green lightning over Lyla, and she just might try to drown me.”

  The madam smiled knowingly and waved him on his way.

  He had his brandy refilled at the bar while he polished off his lunch. It was a stall tactic, because he wasn’t sure how to approach the woman who awaited him in the bathing suite. Dozens of times he and Cherry Blossom had cavorted there—she was his favorite, and he’d told her so. Neither of them expected more than a few hours’ entertainment from the other, yet Barry knew damn well that beneath her Indian get-up beat the heart of a Grace Putnam who would’ve had a husband and children, had fate dealt her a better hand.

  Those dreams would never disappear, no matter how much mahogany dye she put on her skin or how many jaded little games she invented for her customers. And Princess Cherry Blossom wasn’t about to let him go without a protest of some sort. Thompson knew her—understood her. Yet as he slowly walked down the hall, he had no idea what to expect from the raven-haired whore who was running his bath water.

  She was leaning over to turn off the faucets when he slipped in and shut the door. Her buckskin dress was short enough to reveal shapely brown calves and tight enough to strain across her narrow, flattish bottom. At least she’s still dressed, he thought, and to avoid any unnecessary temptation he began to remove his uniform himself.

  Cherry Blossom turned, smiling at him. “Can’t wait to have me caressing you? Or afraid I’m up to some nasty little stunt?”

  “The thought crossed my mind, yes,” Barry admitted. He walked over to the room’s brass bed, his wariness masked by a subtle grin as he draped his clothes over one of its posts. “I wasn’t just putting you off, sweetheart. These bandages are the mark of a man who’s got to live a careful life for the next several days.”

  As he gingerly tugged his union suit down over his wounded arm and then past his midsection, the princess’s eyes widened with concern. “I…I thought about some sort of revenge,” she confessed softly, “but it wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t able to fight back.”

  “Were you worried when you heard I got shot?”

  She bowed her head. “I didn’t want to think about you dying, Barry. Saw enough mangled bodies to last my lifetime when the mine blew up.” Cherry Blossom came over to him, her dark eyes and voice still subdued as she reached hesitantly toward his shoulder. “Can these bandages get wet, or should we take them off?”

  “We’ll unwrap them.”

  Her touch was gently cautious as she unwound his shoulder, and Thompson thought it best to take the binding from his thigh himself. It was the first time he’d ever been nude in front of her that he wasn’t rock hard, and the first time the Indian princess hadn’t fondled him shamelessly in the places she knew he liked best. When she saw his scabs and stitches, she paled visibly.

  “Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a nurse,” she mumbled.

  Barry smiled, surprised at her squeamishness. “Most women wouldn’t make good whores, either, scared as they are of sex.” Before the words died away he realized the cruel irony of them and grasped her hand. “I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I’ll accept that as the compliment you intended,” she said with a wry smile, “and for God’s sake let’s stop acting like a couple of old fogies at a funeral. Get in that tub! You’re makin
g my eyes water like I was peeling an onion.”

  Was it another of her little acts, or was the notorious savage of the Golden Rose truly affected by his brush with death? Thompson stepped into the bathtub and then eased himself very carefully into the steaming water. Bless her, the princess knew just how deep he liked it and how warm, and she’d scented it with musk rather than the flowery oils most of the ladies preferred.

  He watched her fetch a washcloth from the vanity, still leery of her motives. Best to get her grievances aired before he became any more vulnerable. “Now that you’ve got me where you want me, how’re you going to pay me back for falling in love with Lyla?”

  Cherry Blossom’s eyebrow shot up. “Love at first sight, was it? That’s almost too cute for words, Thompson.” She walked behind him and began scrubbing his shoulders with firm, thorough strokes. “Seems to be contagious—first McClanahan and now you. But I learned my lesson. Made a last-ditch effort to seduce Matt and he got up in the middle of it. I felt like a fool for days.”

  The marshal sighed, wishing there were an easier way for her to vent her frustrations. “He never told me that, so your reputation’s safe,” he said in a gently teasing voice. “It’s not like either of us begrudges you a husband, Grace.”

  “But you neither one made me an offer, either,” she snapped Then she sighed and brought the washcloth to rest on his shoulder, sending little rivulets of water down his chest. “I’ve got no right to expect matrimony. I know that. But damn it, Barry, with you it’s—well, we’re friends. We talk about things and joke with each other, and…”

  “And we get along better than a lot of husbands and wives we know. Is that what you’re trying to say?” He turned in the tub, truly sorry for the lone teardrop racing down her war-painted cheek, but smart enough not to blot it. “I can’t explain it, sweetheart. Even before she saved my life, I wanted to marry Lyla. She’s had her share of problems, yet she—”