Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Meet me in the pantry when you’ve changed,” the valet whispered as he walked past her. “Quietly, now. Miss Keating listens through the floor.”

  Lyla closed her bedroom door behind her and immediately removed her pumps. Hollingsworth had been thinking this escapade through, because Mick’s clothes were neatly folded in the bottom of her armoire and her polished boots stood beside them. Within moments she was wearing the familiar clothing and hanging up her gown, so it wouldn’t appear she’d left. Her heart pounded with the prospect of riding off, but she couldn’t get careless or overconfident. Checking the second-floor Hallway, Lyla quickly slipped downstairs, boots in hand.

  The valet pressed a bundle into her arms as soon as she ducked into the larder off the kitchen. “I’d waste no time, miss. Those clouds look gray and full of snow. Take this back exit to the stables.”

  She gazed gratefully at the old gentleman as she pulled her boots on. “What will you tell Allegra when she finds me gone?”

  “She thinks I’m a doddering old fogey. I’ll take a nap while reading a newspaper, and she’ll go along with it.” The valet smiled, his cheeks coloring. “I…I proposed to Allegra shortly after we met here. Assumed she’d want some companionship in this isolated outpost as much as I did, but she only sniffed as though I were a moldy old bone. Has her cap set for Mr. Foxe, she does, and he strings her along with his compliments, so I doubt she’ll be sorry to see you go. She fancies herself as the mistress of Foxe Hollow, so your competition wasn’t exactly welcome.”

  Lyla’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose he’ll ever marry her?”

  “Never had the least intention of it,” Hollingsworth stated. “Gives her little trinkets, buying her loyalty, but the three of us will roll about in this cavernous house like peas in a hatbox, cold and unattached until we pass on. Damned unnatural, it is. That’s why you don’t belong here, Miss Lyla. Now scoot, before Miss Keating comes downstairs.”

  “But the papers—”

  “Right here. I gathered them together while you were changing.”

  Lyla slipped the packet inside her coat, gazing at him with a concern she never dreamed she’d feel for the stiff-lipped servant. “If—if Frazier fires you, come to Cripple. We’ll find you a job. I can’t possibly repay this—”

  “No long good-byes, now,” he said kindly. “Godspeed, and don’t worry about me. I’m about to fall asleep over my paper and haven’t the foggiest notion how you slipped out. Just a doddering old fogey, you know.”

  On an impulse she kissed his cheek and was rewarded with a flash of twinkling blue eyes she’d never forget. Then she pushed open the door and dashed toward the stables. Toward freedom!

  Chapter 22

  The moment she mounted Dickens, Hollings-worth’s gelding, she missed Calico. Touching as the valet’s generosity was, it didn’t make up for the horse’s skittishness or his aversion to going faster than a bone-jarring trot. Lyla urged him past the sheep buildings, and with a last glance at the mansion, she pointed him toward the open range.

  First she tried patience. “Come on, Dickens, old chap,” she said, mimicking his master’s accent. ‘Tick up those hooves and show Hollingsworth what a fine gift he gave me. He’s probably watching us.”

  The horse shook his gray head and insisted on circling back to the stables.

  “No! No!” she cried. Tugging the reins across his loosely-fleshed neck, Lyla forced him back in the direction of the sheepherder’s wagon. “You’d better step lively, or we’ll get caught in this storm!”

  The horse knew that, of course, and as the wind whipped around them Lyla understood his apprehension perfectly. The gray sky hung low with pregnant clouds that hovered just above the hills ahead of them. The poor nag was probably never ridden except on a rare trip into town, and his rolling eyes and nickers of protest made her feel truly sympathetic. But she had to get away from Foxe Hollow!

  Reluctantly the gelding plodded on, until the first huge snowflakes struck his nose. Dickens snorted and shook, and when Lyla saw he was heading toward a grove of trees, she had to steer him away so he couldn’t knock her off or scrape her leg against the rough bark. The snow thickened, and when they crested the next hilltop she grew increasingly nervous. Where was that wagon? From the belvedere, it had appeared to be on a straight diagonal path from the house, and now it was gone!

  She had no choice but to keep riding. Intuition told her it was well past one, and she’d started out shortly after eleven. Even Dickens should’ve gotten her to Jack Rafferty’s by now—if they could only find it! The snow was pelting them, blowing horizontally in a thick, white wall, and her earlier words about wandering lost until she died of exposure haunted her.

  “We’ve got to locate that wagon, boy,” she muttered as she turned her collar up around her neck. “I’ll be damned if I’ll give Frazier the satisfaction of finding me frozen!”

  The horse rumbled a reply, his head lowered to keep the thick flakes out of his eyes. They’d slowed to a walk because it was pointless to proceed any faster when her visibility extended only a few feet beyond the gelding’s gray nose. Her hands were going numb inside Mick’s gloves. Her toes were so cold she could no longer feel them. Her cheeks and lips felt like they’d crack if she opened her mouth. Perhaps they should take shelter behind a hill until the blizzard blew out…but thoughts of becoming a human icicle spurred her on.

  Then the horse’s ears stood at attention and he broke into a trot, his nose quivering. Lyla strained to see what he’d spotted, shielding her eyes with her hand, but they were several yards farther along before she could distinguish between the white mounds near the ground and the whiteness whirling around them.

  “Sheep! Good boy, Dickens!” She kneed his sides, reveling in the sight of a valley filled with thousands of huddling woollybacks. Their bawling shifted with the wind, a constant, guttural sound she hadn’t heard since she’d left home. In the distance, two dogs were barking as they herded the huge flock into the sheltered area behind a range of low foothills for protection.

  Giddily she searched for the wagon and gasped when Dickens nearly plowed into it. The house on wheels was the size of a prairie schooner, and in the blowing snow its ribbed canvas top resembled a huge, fleecy ewe. “Easy, boy…let’s find the side where you’ll be out of the wind.”

  Lyla dismounted and hastily fastened Dickens’ reins to a back wheel. Since the dogs were still barking, she knew Jack would also be out seeing to the sheep, so she entered his wagon without knocking.

  The place wasn’t fancy, but to her wind-glazed eyes it seemed a palace. The small cookstove beside the door greeted her warmly; two pairs of heavy socks were draped over its rack, which accounted for the smell of wet wool that filled the wagon. Alongside the stove was a compartment filled with firewood. Numerous sacks of flour, coffee, beans, and other supplies on the countertop told her Frazier and Connor had already been here. The opposite side of the wagon also housed food and a shelf crammed with books. An unmade bunk stretched across the far end. There was a square flap in the canvas above it, which probably served as a window in warmer weather. Beneath the bed were some drawers and a small pull-out table, which still had an egg-smeared plate and a tin cup on it.

  “Well, Jack, you’re no housekeeper, but you’ve a cozy home anyway.” she murmured. Lyla hung her damp coat over one of his two chairs and stood her wet boots beside the stove, her eyes in constant motion. Rafferty played the harmonica. Dozens of tattered dime novels and magazines were crammed into his shelf, along with works by Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Poe, and another book so worn she couldn’t read its spine.

  The book fell open; it was Memoirs of Fanny Hill. As Lyla skimmed a scene so blatantly erotic her eyes bugged, she wondered what sort of man Hollings-worth had sent her to. Gingerly she replaced the volume on the shelf and set about straightening his compact, efficiently-designed home—the least she could do as his uninvited guest. Outside, the wind blew so hard the canvas canopy above her rumbled continuous
ly, yet the stove kept the wagon’s interior quite cozy. Lyla put a few logs in the fire, started a fresh pot of coffee, and then sat across the bed to read the newspaper her host had left spread upon it.

  She was immediately sorry. This issue of the Rocky Mountain News, dated January tenth, featured a lengthy story about the disappearance of Marshal Barry Thompson, who was presumed a victim of foul play. The story recounted his efforts to solve the Golden Rose robbery…mentioned her as his escort back to Cripple…quoted Dr. Dwight Geary about Barry’s weakened physical condition following his gunshot wounds and short hospital stay.

  Tears were running in a continuous stream down her windburnt face. This was almost too coincidental: the paper was out of date but still fresh enough to have been delivered just this morning. Had Frazier anticipated her escape and brought this particular issue here to torment her? Highly unlikely, yet in her exhausted, miserable state, Lyla could allow that Foxe was indeed capable of such emotional tyranny.

  Laying the paper aside, Lyla pulled the quilts up around her and sat with her back against the taut canvas wall. It was poor strategy to let Rafferty find her crying. Hollingsworth had said he was surly, had hinted that he might be using an alias, as though he had reason to hide his identity. She should remain alert and prepared. A man who entertained himself with such bawdy companions as “Fanny Hill” might forget his manners if he found a real woman in his bunk.

  She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the packet of papers Hollingsworth gave her. Here was the forged premarital agreement and Frazier’s will...and the thick, oblong chunk at the bottom of the envelope was her stack of twenties! Saints above, old Hollingsworth hadn’t stiffed her after all! Two or three other documents were folded down there, too, but sounds of movement and muttering outside the wagon made Lyla stuff the envelope and loose papers under the mattress edge behind her.

  She’d hardly gotten them hidden before two dogs charged through the wagon’s door, snarling and barking. Border collies, they were, the breed her family herded with at home, and the ordinarily lovable animals would tear her to shreds if she gave them the least hint she’d harm their sheep or their master.

  And when Lyla saw Jack Rafferty, she was both frightened and fascinated. He approached with his Winchester aimed at her chest. Beneath his snow-covered hat glared two of the crudest, most alluring brown eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Who the hell’re you? And what’re you doing in my bunk?” He stopped a few feet behind the dogs, which were still growling, their hair bristling along their backs.

  “I—please don’t shoot!” she said in a squeaky voice. “I’ve nowhere else to go! No safe place to hide!”

  “And who might you be hiding from?”

  Lyla glanced at the snarling dogs, now at the edge of the bed, and then back to her host. She suspected that beneath his heavy, snow-covered coat he was deceptively powerful for his size. His wet black hair dragged on his shoulders and his thick mustache curved downward past his rugged chin in two menacing lines, framing a mouth that was cunning and lush despite his unwavering scowl. Could she confide in this dangerous-looking man?

  “Cat got your tongue? Or shall my dogs find it for you?”

  “Frazier Foxe,” she rasped. “He—he’s forcing me to marry him and I’d rather kill myself.”

  With unhurried grace he lowered his rifle. “You’re smarter than you look, then. Maudie! Will! That’s enough.”

  The dogs sat down, watching her silently as their master stepped back to shut the wagon door. After standing his rifle against the wall, he removed his coat and hat, revealing a black-and-red checked shirt and jeans that left no doubt as to his muscular, masculine build.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rafferty,” she murmured.

  He turned, one eyebrow cocked. “And how’d you know that?”

  “Hollingsworth told me. He—he said you’d help me leave Foxe Hollow. Without getting caught.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Lyla’s jaw dropped. Of all the nervy—

  “Get out from under those covers. No woman sleeps with me till I’ve had a look at her.”

  “Sleep with you? I was only—” Rankled now, Lyla tossed off the quilts and rose to her full height in front of the bunk. “If you think for one minute I came here to—”

  “Do you see another bed?” Rafferty’s gaze raked over her and then he looked again, slowly, assessing. “Presumptuous little piece, aren’t you? I should just kick your ass out, because sure as I’m standing here Foxe’ll come after you.”

  “But there’s a blizzard—”

  “Should’ve thought of that before you left his fine mansion.” Jack’s coffee-colored eyes mocked her while he stroked the sides of his mustache, as though contemplating his options. “Yep, I should just march you right back to the house at gunpoint, little lady. Never figured Foxe had such fine taste in females, but you’ll be worth a wad of cash if I return you. If I don’t, my ass’ll be grass. Foxe doesn’t like it when his underlings hold out on him.”

  What he said was true, but she hated hearing it. As he crossed his arms, waiting for her reply, Lyla wondered if chivalry had died with Barry Thompson. This man with the brazen gaze was giving her a choice between freezing to death or returning to Frazier, even though he seemed to despise the ranch’s owner as much as she did.

  The two dogs watched her expectantly. Outside, the blather of the sheep was low and continuous as several moments passed. The wind whistled against the wagon’s canvas top. The coffee boiled on the stove, its vapor warm and inviting. Assuming Jack Rafferty would help her was turning out to be another unfortunate mistake she’d pay dearly for. “What do you want?” she mumbled.

  “What’ve you got?”

  So many impertinent questions this man had! Lyla thought quickly, because being escorted back to Frazier’s was the last thing she wanted. “I—I made you some coffee. Perhaps you’ll feel more civil when you’re warm.”

  He grunted, and using one of his wool socks as a hot pad, he poured the steaming brew into the tin cup from the table. Then he lifted the chair from in front of his dogs and turned it so he could sit facing her. “You pups go on, now. This fugitive didn’t come here to visit you,” he said with fond gruffness.

  She quickly reached out to stroke the nearest dog’s head. “We have border collies on our sheep ranch in Ireland. Fine dogs, they are. None smarter, and extremely loyal.”

  “That one’s Maudie,” Rafferty commented, his tone gentler now. “And this tricolor’s Will. Who might you be?”

  She saw little point in lying, so she gave her host a hopeful smile. “Lyla O’Riley, and I—”

  “What brings you to Foxe Hollow? Thought you’d latch onto Frazier’s money, only to discover he’s not such a catch after all?”

  “No! I—” Lyla glared at the ebony-haired scoundrel whose mustachioed smile curved mockingly behind his coffee cup. “Foxe had me kidnapped, because I know too much. See this article about Barry Thompson in the paper?” she entreated, hoping she didn’t get weepy before she finished. “Well, Foxe and his men killed the marshal a few weeks ago. And since I was a witness, he can’t very well let me return to Cripple, now, can he?”

  “Thompson’s really dead?” Jack Rafferty eyed her warily and then reached for the stack of yellowed newspapers on the bookshelf beside him. After rapidly riffling through them he paused at one, and then stared at her. “You’re this Lyla? Wanted for that bunged-up robbery and murder attempt on Christmas Eve?”

  “The very one.”

  “Well, I’ll be—hot damn!” Rafferty banged his tin cup onto the table and extended his hand, his dusky face alight with pleasure. “I’ve been following your story, thinking that Belle Starr’s got nothing on you for grit. And here you are in my wagon!”

  His handshake was so exuberant that Lyla gasped. Jack Rafferty had suddenly elevated her to the status of a notorious outlaw, and his excitement was contagious. Both dogs hopped onto the bunk with her, their thick tai
ls thumping against the mattress as they pawed at her arms.

  “That’s right, pups, shake the lady’s hand!” Rafferty crowed. “I’ve read these articles to them, and they’re damn glad to meet you!”

  She first shook the paw of the black and white female, Maudie, who immediately licked her cheek. Will, who was heavier and colored more like a traditional collie, gazed at her with solemn brown eyes, as though he were honored to be meeting her. Lyla laughed and looked at her host again. “None of those charges are true, you know. All I did was—”

  “Hell, the papers’re full of lies,” he said with a wave of his hand, “but they’re the best entertainment we’ve got out here on the range. And you say Frazier Foxe killed Thompson? Doesn’t surprise me. Why, the dogs won’t let him set foot in this wagon, he smells so wicked. Has to leave my supplies outside when he comes around each month, and that half-brother of his isn’t much better.”

  It was good to be accepted as this man’s friend, yet the casual way he referred to Barry’s death made her lip go quivery. Lyla looked at Maudie to avoid Rafferty’s gaze, stroking the dog’s silky coat to soothe herself. The high-spirited heroine he’d set her up to be wouldn’t sniffle forlornly, now that he wasn’t going to march her back to Frazier’s. But he sounded so glad Barry was gone.

  Jack’s dark eyes lingered on her, and in a quieter voice he said, “That fancy ring’s from the robbery, isn’t it? And if it hadn’t been snatched, Thompson was supposed to give it to you, according to the papers. I—I don’t cotton to lawmen much, but I’m truly sorry Frazier Foxe killed your sweetheart, Lyla. And I never had the slightest intention of taking you back to him. Sometimes I carry on.”

  He stood and took his cup to a bucket of water near the stove, and Lyla watched him wash and carefully dry it before he refilled it with hot coffee. Then he brought it to her, smiling kindly. “I reckon you need this as much as I do. Poor manners on my part, but I’ve only got the one cup.”