Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  He heard her cheerful prattling, only half listening to it. Somehow Lyla had secreted the McClanahan jewelry without anyone discovering it, so she was guilty of a minor crime, no matter how noble her motives were. But damn, she was slick! When he thought back to his brief interview in the jailhouse, he suspected she’d been covering the bulky diamond with her hand—right in front of him! And he hadn’t thought to empty her pockets, or—

  “You’re not listening, Barry. We can’t remove the other handcuff until you wipe that impudent grin from your face and give Emily your full attention.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Thompson smiled as politely as he could under the circumstances and then focused on the blonde beside him. “You were saying?”

  Emily glanced hesitantly at Miss Victoria. “Marshal, it seems that…well, some things went on at Lyla’s cabin, and I can see why she’d feel awfully dejected since—but Matt defended you by explaining that you were probably—”

  “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. Her rosy color and unusually high voice suggested something was amiss. This woman had tracked her father’s murderer without batting an eye, so Lyla must’ve revealed some startling facts about the ambush and robbery that she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him. “Spit it out, Emily. I’m hardly in a position to take a swing at you—not that I’d even think of it.”

  She nodded, nipping her lip. “Barry, do you recall your last night at her cabin, before she brought you back to Cripple?”

  He thought for a moment. “I slept off and on. Vaguely remember her fixing the toboggan up and scaring me out of bed so I’d get into it. Why?”

  “You really don’t remember?” she mumbled. She toyed with her diamond, keeping her eyes on it. “It seems that when Lyla went to sleep beside you, assuming you were too tired and weak to…well, you weren’t.”

  Barry raised his head to stare at her. “What’re you saying?”

  “It seems you made love to Miss O’Riley,” Victoria cut in quietly. “And by giving her that money—”

  “What? How can you believe I—”

  “—to return to Ireland, you made her feel that your promises during a tender moment were nothing but lies.”

  “—could possibly…no, no,” he said emphatically. “As much as I’ve wanted that girl, you think I could’ve had her and not remembered it? You know me, Victoria. I’m a passionate man, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  The madam glanced at his nakedness with a chuckle. “Your passions have their price, it seems. And after talking with her, both Matt and Emily feel sure you claimed Lyla’s virginity, amid whisperings of love inspired by high fever. Miss O’Riley can understand that, but it doesn’t bring her innocence back. Think how crushed she must’ve felt when you offered her sailing fare rather than matrimony, Barry. Think how difficult it must’ve been to admit this to people she barely knew.”

  Miss Chatterly’s grip tightened on his free arm, conveying the same concern he saw on her lovely face. As a madam, she enforced the strictest code of conduct in any parlor house in town. As a woman, she expected integrity and respect for and from her customers and ladies alike. But it was still a damn hard story to swallow.

  “I—I’m sorry you found out about it this way,” Emily said in a muted voice. “We told Lyla you’d be shocked and embarrassed, but that you really did love her and deserved another chance to prove it. I hope we didn’t speak out of turn.”

  Thompson shut his eyes against the anguish that was starting to seep into his being. In vain, he tried to sift through his memories of those days alone with her…how could he have fondled her lush body and taken the most precious prize she could offer without recalling even a second of the sweetness they shared?

  Or had he raped her?

  A groan escaped him as he tried to deny he was capable of such bestial behavior. He would never force a woman. Never I Yet he’d considered Grace Putnam a loyal friend until a few hours ago, when she’d revealed a dark side he hadn’t dreamed existed Who could say what horrendous acts he’d performed, what liberties he’d taken while out of his head, except Lyla herself?

  “She’ll probably never see me again,” he mumbled. “And I can’t say I blame her. My God, I could’ve crushed her so she had no chance to escape—”

  “To hear her tell it, it wasn’t as bad as all that,” Mrs. McClanahan said with a soft chuckle. She reached into the pocket of her plaid skirt and pulled out a small envelope. “She wants you to have this, Barry. You can thank us later.”

  His eyes bored into the envelope, trying to read through it. He didn’t know whether to feel ecstatic or wary. Perhaps Emily didn’t know what the note said, or was too nice to tell the whole, damning truth. Victoria was leaning over him, unlocking the other handcuff while Emily untied his ankles. Thompson watched them go with a grateful smile, until the door clicked shut and he was alone. Then he sat up, wincing as the blood rushed through his stiffened limbs again.

  Barry ran a finger over the wax seal, stalling. It was incomprehensible that he’d made love to Lyla—that she hadn’t mentioned it when they talked in his office.

  She was waiting for YOU to say something, idiot. And you as good as sent her home to that Hadley McWhat’s-his-name.

  His conscience smarting and his mouth uncomfortably dry, Thompson slid his finger under the seal. “‘Come to the cabin, love. I can’t leave without seeing you,’” he read. “Holy socks! She wants me to—by God, she’s not going to leave. I won’t let her!”

  Defying his sore muscles, he pulled on his clothes with amazing speed, stuffing the bandages into his uniform pockets. There was no time to waste. Lyla had ridden in with the McClanahans and was waiting for him. Visions of her crackling fire and cozy little home propelled him out the back exit at a swift limp. The investigation would have to wait: he couldn’t put catching a few disloyal friends ahead of apologizing to—and winning—the woman he loved. Besides, Lyla O’Riley was the perfect partner, and with her help he’d be packing the thieves off to the prison in Canon City before the week was out.

  He hobbled down the street, noting the crowd coming out of the Presbyterian church. People were chatting cheerily, wishing each other a happy new year, and he shared their joy. He was celebrating a new life!

  The sight of Rex Adams, Theresa, and their brood of carrot-haired children sobered him a bit. They were only a few yards ahead of him…he could ask his deputy for a word at the office, and—

  No. He would not stoop to subterfuge and leave Theresa and her children at home, expecting her husband for dinner. He’d corner Rex when he returned to town with Lyla, when he had McClanahan as a backup.

  As though sensing his presence, Mrs. Adams turned and spied him. “Happy New Year, marshal!” she called above the crowd’s chatter. “It’s good to see you looking so well!”

  Bless her, she had no idea what he was about to put her through. He waved and returned Rex’s reserved—perhaps nervous—nod. “It’s good to be back,” he replied, and then he nearly choked. Theresa’s auburn hair was swept up into an intricate Psyche knot, adorned at the crown with… “Those turquoise combs are quite becoming,” he said in the most sincere voice he could find.

  His deputy leaned down to swing the youngest Adams into his arms, while Mrs. Adams beamed. “A Christmas present,” she said gaily. “Rex must’ve been saving up for months.”

  Barry smiled again, but his spirits were tumbling. How many times had he removed those combs from Princess Cherry Blossom’s hair? How stupid could his deputy be, assuming no one would recognize a whore’s jewelry from the Christmas Eve raid?

  He lumbered on toward his apartment, torn between hauling Adams in and spending time with Lyla, starting over with her. His jeans and heavy shirt went on slowly. Thompson was drained from the ordeal he’d suffered at the Rose, and the startling truth he’d learned afterward. His body told him to go to bed, to face these matters tomorrow when he was rested.

  Yet he knew he’d see those turquoise combs as he tossed sleep
lessly, yearning to be with Lyla…to kiss her again and pour out his heart as he should’ve done at McClanahan’s reception.

  Love won out. He took the stairs slowly, figuring he could make Phantom Canyon before dark and find the little cabin he’d never seen while fully conscious. With any luck, Doc Geary wouldn’t catch him cantering off on Buck.

  Something made him take the back alley to the jailhouse rather than the direct route to the livery stable. Thompson went in, satisfied that all was as it should be in his back room. He and Adams generally took turns stopping in on Sundays, so no one was in the cluttered office right now. One of the prisoners was snoring. He’d let Norbert Sykes go home, so only one other derelict was locked away, playing solitaire with a shabby deck.

  Barry opened Rex’s desk drawer, not sure why gut instinct told him to look inside. There were two loose keys—handcuff keys, he realized with a rueful grin. Otherwise he saw pencils and a logbook and an assortment of Wanted posters, Lyla’s on top. Something rattled when he shifted the papers back into place and there it was: a Masonic ring. Sam Langston’s, no doubt.

  He left the evidence in place, slamming the drawer shut with sickening certainty of what he had to do— tomorrow, with Lyla and Matt.

  The wind whipped at his hat as he crossed over to the livery stable. He doubted Wally Eberhardt would be there, and he was right. Thompson saddled up and rode out of the stable seen by relatively few people on this brisk New Year’s Sunday. He pointed his stallion south, toward Victor and the canyon, his mind already on his reunion with Lyla O’Riley.

  What would he say to her? She would assume he knew of his inexcusable deed, but he couldn’t let the McClanahans’ defense of his feverish act speak for him. Such a misunderstanding, left unreconciled, would fester between him and Lyla for years, like a wound that refused to heal.

  So he would tell her straight out that he loved her, had intended to marry her before taking her to bed. And Barry prayed she’d be lenient, and believe him. Her presence seemed so real as he rode along the snowy path…his hands itched with the tactile recollection of her velvet skin, the ample breasts unbound for his eyes to savor…her lilting brogue and laughter that danced like birdsong in the spring…the scent of peppermint. Lord, but he wanted to kiss those rosy lips and drink deeply of her heady nectar—

  But then the breath was knocked out of him and he was falling, shoved off Buck by a man who’d jumped him from the trees. Thompson struggled briefly, at a disadvantage because he hadn’t seen what hit him, then struck the ground with a force that knocked him senseless. He heard voices and felt himself being tugged up out of the snow.

  “Let’s hoist this sucker back onto his mount. Tie him on and be quick about it. We shoulda been out to the ranch by now.”

  Barry tasted blood and his face felt like a train had hit it. Buck moved beneath him, being led, and he instinctively hugged the stallion’s neck to keep from falling off. Lyla…oh God, honey, I’m so sorry. So sorry.

  Chapter 17

  Lyla tossed, knowing her dream was the result of another night on a bad bed, yet unable to let go of it. She saw Barry at the cabin, clutching her note, looking behind every door and in the shed for signs of her. Calico was contentedly munching straw, but when the marshal realized she wasn’t to be found, his face crumpled into a pained grimace: betrayed…again. Once more she’d left him, without giving an explanation or allowing him his. He gazed forlornly at the note. “Honey, I’m so sorry…so sorry,” he murmured.

  Her own sob woke her. As her night vision faded away, Lyla got her bearings, feeling foolish for allowing a dream to upset her so much. Now that she’d apparently ducked out on him again, Thompson wouldn’t be the least bit sorry to be rid of her…would he? And thinking that her mare had returned to the shed at the cabin was nonsense…wasn’t it?

  Not that either of these things mattered now. She was in a rough shanty, out in the middle of nowhere. Dawn’s first light revealed Kelly Jameson snoring on his bedroll, in the shadows of the far corner. Connor Foxe was seated on the floor at her feet, grinning down the barrel of his pistol.

  “Nightmares, cupcake?” he asked in a suave whisper. “They’re not over yet. Unless you try to run, and I put you out of your misery.”

  “You wouldn’t kill me,” she blurted. “This is all Frazier’s doing and you’re taking me to him. Aren’t you?”

  Connor chuckled, a gleam in his agate-black eyes. “He wouldn’t mind if you had a hole in one of those luscious thighs. Wounds and scars, they sort of fascinate him, you know?”

  Sickened, Lyla stood slowly and straightened her rumpled clothing. She buttoned her coat against a coldness the log walls couldn’t keep out, then slipped her hands into her pockets. The bundle of twenties was still there. At least Foxe hadn’t swiped it while she was asleep.

  From the single window she saw endless pastureland, rolling in every direction like pastry dough powdered with sugar. The image startled her: she was so hungry, everything reminded her of food. Out here, though, there was no such luxury as fresh bread—not a tree to hide behind or a rock formation to shield her, either, should she dart away when Connor wasn’t watching.

  And Connor Foxe was always watching, his motives clearer and more repulsive with each hour they waited. For what, Lyla was afraid to ask.

  “Where are we?” she mumbled, figuring to keep him talking. Perhaps he’d reveal information she could use to escape. And he’d have less chance to reconsider the vile suggestions he’d been threatening her with since the ambush.

  “Welcome to Foxe Hollow, Miss O’Riley,” he said with a sneer. “Hope you like what you see, because you’ll be on this sheep ranch for a long, long time. If you’re lucky.”

  Lyla ignored his insinuation—always hinting she’d be killed on a whim, Connor was—and clutched at a familiar straw. “Frazier raises sheep?”

  “Thousands of them. After he acquired this spread, woollybacks seemed the most profitable thing to grow here.” The younger Foxe looked her over as though assessing her ability to keep her mouth shut. “And it’s a way to keep me busy between other little jobs he finds for me. A means for me to work off my obligation to him.”

  She sensed Connor’s obligation wasn’t something she wanted to hear about but that he was going to tell her anyway. Another reminder of his unsavory nature, in case she thought about defying him.

  He settled against the shanty wall, the pistol resting on his knee. “Yeah, I was the ornery one when we were younger—but then, Frazier was such a damn mama’s boy, any normal child looked like a hellion in comparison. We’re stepbrothers, you know,” he added matter-of-factly. “After Frazier’s father couldn’t defend himself during a pub brawl, our mother married the bruiser who did him in, who happened to be his brother. Guess she was desperate, and he didn’t give her much choice, since she’d been seeing him on the sly—which was the cause of the brawl. I suppose that’s where I got my…attitude about women.”

  Lyla nodded, hoping her horror didn’t show. “When did you come to America? You could’ve been born here, by the sound of your accent.”

  “Accent!” he scoffed. “Frazier practices his—part of his mystique as a foreign businessman, he says. The types I hobnob with don’t put on such airs.”

  Connor studied her, leary of revealing too much, yet his eyes seemed to probe for chinks in her facade. “He’s nearly sixteen years older than I am. Wasn’t keen on sticking around after our mother remarried, because her husband called him a pansy-ass. He has a way with money, though. Came to this land of opportunity about twenty-five years ago, and when the gold fields opened up he had enough capital to establish himself in various business endeavors. Sent for me to manage this ranch. Which was the ticket out of England I was looking for.”

  What horrid past was he running from? Lyla didn’t want to know, but having him brag on himself was better than listening to hints of what he’d do to her when he had the chance.

  “Yeah, I was always in a touch of trouble.�
� he continued with a proud chuckle. “Frazier learned his trade in school and I picked mine up in the back streets of London and Liverpool. Never got caught at it, either, which is why I make him such a perfect partner.”

  Outside, the pastureland rolled on uninterrupted. Jameson’s snoring missed a beat and he turned over in his bedroll. Perhaps her captor would respect her pluck if she challenged him—there was little else to break the tension while waiting for some unknown event to take place—so Lyla focused intently on him. “What line of work were you in?”

  “Hired assassin.” He gave her a cool grin. “When borrowers couldn’t pay their loans, I’d go out to collect. If one politician threatened to take over another one’s bribes or territory, I’d bump him off and disappear like a shadow. Guess how many men I’ve killed.”

  Lyla swallowed the lump that threatened to choke off her breathing. “I—I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Connor chuckled. “I lost count after twenty. But the women, I never forget them. They start to struggle, and their crying and carrying on makes me crazy, you know?”

  The confession was intended to startle her, and it did. What sort of madman killed women, not to mention such a number of men, and spoke of these crimes as other people talked of their accurate accounts or their impeccably-kept shops? No wonder Frazier never associated with his stepbrother! Connor was a man of the alleys, better left unrecognized. Lyla didn’t dare ask how many people he’d murdered since he’d come to Colorado.

  As though reading her racing thoughts, Foxe stood with a stealthy smile. He came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, as amiable as an old school chum. “Now don’t you worry your sweet little head about what I’ll do to you, cupcake,” he crooned, “because I’ve taken a fancy to you. Long as you stay feisty and don’t turn bawlbaby on me, we’ll get along just fine. Big Brother promised me a bonus for this assignment, and I figure to ask him for you instead of money. Hell, what would I do with more money? It’s not like I can sashay into town and flash my cash. Draws too much attention, you know?”