A half block ahead, Fox spotted the first humans he'd seen in Carrington. So it wasn't a ghost town, after all. There was a big woman dressed in waves of red crinolines. She had a rather prominent nose, but pretty blue eyes and a come-hither smile. Her rouged red lips and cheeks gave evidence of her profession. The woman standing beside her, laden with brown paper parcels, was barely more than a girl, with a fine mane of wheat-blond hair. A whore, too, but a natural blond whore. Fox had known enough bleached women in his life to recognize a natural one when he saw her.
The blonde was dressed in a shimmering sheath, not the billows of skirts and protruding bustle common to the day. The gown met tightly at her ankles, so that she had to take tiny steps to walk. On anyone else the outfit would have been ridiculous, but on this woman, it was exquisite. Up until a few months ago, she would have been just the type he would have taken for a tumble in bed.
"Good afternoon, ladies." Fox swept off his bowler hat and gave a slight bow.
"Afternoon to you," the woman with the big nose responded warmly. "Just come to town on the four-thirty, I see." She offered a gloved hand. "Kate Mullen, but my friends call me Big Nose Kate."
He hooked his thumb in the direction of the train depot. "Guess the stop's not long. The conductor nearly pushed me out the door as the train passed through."
The young blond woman laughed shyly. Her heavily rouged cheeks and the thick blue shadow on her eyelids detracted from her ingenuous beauty. "Have business in town, sir?" She shifted the weight of the bulky packages from one slender arm to the other. Her steady gaze made no excuses for her appearance, nor for her vocation.
"Um. Yes." Fox hedged, hesitant to say why he was here, just yet. "I suppose I do. I'm looking for Plum Street."
Big Kate's blue eyes lit up as if she were privy to some secret. "Plum Street? Expected there, are you?" She studied him more carefully.
"Yes, as matter a fact, I am."
The wooden sidewalk creaked under her weight as Big Nose Kate took a step toward him. "We could show you if you want. Not that this sniveling town is so big a fine, smart man like yourself couldn't find your way on your own."
For a moment Fox thought she would reach out to stroke his coat, or perhaps his cheek, but she didn't. For a whore, she had a touch of class. He replaced his black wool hat on his head. "Just point me in the right direction and I'll be on my way. I don't mean to trouble you."
"Wouldn't trouble us a bit if you stopped by Big Kate's Dance Hall tonight," the blonde said in a finely textured voice. "I'm Sally, Silky Sally." She managed once again to blush beneath her heavily rouged cheeks.
"I just might do that." He smiled and winked. He had no intentions of frequenting a whorehouse. That fragment of his life was gone, washed down the drain with his beard. "Plum Street?" He lifted his brow.
Kate pointed a red lace-gloved finger. "You're headed in the right direction, handsome. Two blocks south. If Petey, the town drunk, is passed out on Plum and Peach, just step over him. He's harmless."
"Thank you. I'll do that." He tipped his hat and passed the two women on the plank sidewalk.
"Big Nose Kate's is on Peach Street," Kate called after him. "Can't miss it. It's one of the few places still open on that side of town."
Fox waved over his shoulder, but did not turn back. Two blocks down, he turned right onto Plum Street. The wooden sign at the corner had a plum painted beside its name, only the purple had faded to a pale blue. The street seemed to be mostly residential; white clapboard houses with varied roof lines, elaborate porticoes, and gingerbread moldings. Each home was trimmed in a different confection color; bright pink, seafoam green, lavender. The houses appeared to have been no more than ten years old, built during the town's short gold boom, no doubt.
Plum Street was a pleasant, tree-lined street, out of place in the desolate, muddy town. He smiled to himself as he passed an empty porch swing shifting in the breeze. No wonder his father had liked it here.
At Peach and Plum, Fox did not encounter the town drunk. He read the numbers on the houses as he walked, amused that the townspeople would actually anticipate the need to give the houses numerical addresses, as if they had expected the town to grow to the size of Denver or Colorado Springs. But the practice served his need.
Number 22, Plum Street. He halted on the wooden sidewalk to study the white frame house, trimmed in sunshine yellow. It looked almost identical to the other houses, except that while some of the others appeared abandoned, this one was definitely occupied. While many of the others had been left to deteriorate, someone had obviously taken care of this house. The clapboard walls had been painted recently. The shutters hung straight. The glass of the windows were squeaky clean and unblemished by cracks or breaks. A stone walk had been laid and flowers planted on either side of the walk. It was like a house out of a child's fairy tale.
Fox halted on the stone walkway feeling somehow undeserving. Would his father be disappointed that he intended to sell the home? Surely he hadn't expected Fox to live here in Carrington. Fox, who had traveled the world, Fox, who had once owned town houses in San Francisco and New York City at the same time.
Fox chuckled. Maybe the joke was on him. Who in their right mind would buy this fairy-tale house in the middle of a ghost town?
He walked up the painted white steps and across the porch. A swing drifted back and forth in the breeze at one end. To his left were a row of flower pots filled with dirt, zinnias or daisies yet to be planted in them. A trowel lay beside the pretty clay pots, as if recently abandoned.
His father's cryptic letter had said he would leave someone to watch after the house. Apparently he'd had the good sense to hire a man as caretaker, or perhaps a spinster nurse had stayed on after his death to watch after the house and gain a roof over her head for a few months. Fox wouldn't evict whoever it was immediately. He would give him or her a few days to find lodging elsewhere.
Fox's first impulse was to walk right into the house. After all, it was his inheritance. One of the few things his father had ever given him. But he didn't want to startle the caretaker, or worse, be shot for an intruder. He rapped his knuckles firmly on the paneled oak door, his leather satchel still in his hand.
A dog barked wildly, and he heard the padding of the animal's four paws as it approached the door from the inside.
Fox heard footsteps behind the door. Light footsteps; confident, yet feminine. It swung open and his gaze met with the clearest green eyes. An angel. A green-eyed angel with a halo of red gold hair.
Fox had never before experienced such an immediate attraction to a woman. It wasn't his way. If he'd been asked only a moment before if he believed in love at first sight, he would have denied its existence with a cynical chuckle. Suddenly he believed otherwise.
A large yellow mutt thrust its black nose through the open door and growled. Obviously a guard dog, it kept its hind end pressed into the young woman's billowing skirts.
For a moment Fox didn't know what to say. This had to be Celeste, the woman his father had mentioned in his final letter. Celeste, the heavenly angel.
A whore. The moment Celeste's gaze met Fox's—for surely this could be no one but Fox MacPhearson—she wished desperately that she was not a whore. She wished that she was once more the young socialite of Denver, her reputation unblemished. For the first time in her life, she desperately wished she could turn back the hands of time.
"Mr. MacPhearson?" she asked with a catch in her voice.
Silver whined.
Celeste smiled at the stranger as she dropped her hand to her dog's smooth head to let him know the man was welcome. Silver had been John's dog, only now he was hers. "You are Mr. MacPhearson, aren't you?" she asked when he didn't respond immediately.
"Uh, yes. Yes, Fox MacPhearson."
He seemed older than his thirty-some years, but not in a negative way. His handsome, angular face had the look of a man of experience. She was pleasantly surprised to see that he was clean-shaven, unlike most of the
men that passed through Carrington. He didn't even have long side-whiskers, which were popular with city gentlemen of the day. He had the same black Indian eyes as John, the same smile that could make a woman swoon. Even a whore.
"Come in." She stepped back, self-consciously smoothing her cotton day gown. She'd been gardening and felt rumpled. She nearly stumbled over the dog as she stepped back into the foyer. "Silver, back, boy."
"How . . . how did you know it was me?" He followed her into the marble-floored foyer.
"Well, we don't get a lot of strangers here in Carrington, not since the gold petered out in the gulch," she answered, trying to get past her silly embarrassment. "And you look Just like John, I mean your father, I mean Mr. MacPhearson." She stumbled over her words, not understanding her reaction. She had been expecting John's son for weeks. Why was she suddenly so clumsy?
He laughed, his smile radiating a warmth of sincerity. His voice was deeper than John's had been, rich, heady, like the oak of a good Chardonnay wine. "No, I don't suppose you do get a lot of visitors."
He removed his hat, and she hung it on the oak hook over the mirror in the foyer. Unlike his father's black hair, his was dark brown, and without a sliver of gray.
"I'm sorry, I . . . I didn't introduce myself," she stumbled, still feeling awkward. "I'm Celeste—"
"Celeste Kennedy. Yes, John told me in his letter."
She felt a strange sinking in her heart. She also noticed that he referred to his father by his first name. It sounded so impersonal and uncharacteristic of the man that stood before her. "He . . . he told you . . . about me?"
"Not exactly." Fox set down his leather bag and pushed back a thick lock of hair that fell boyishly over his forehead. "You know John, he could be vague when he wanted to be."
She smiled hesitantly, and met his gaze. He doesn't know who I am . . . or at least what I am. John didn't tell him, the sly old bird . . . And Fox hadn't guessed. Otherwise it would have reflected in his dark eyes. It always did with men and women, though the look was different. With women it was accusing, bitter, a little envious in some bizarre way. With men it was lust, pure lust, and lack of respect. The lack of respect had always bothered Celeste more than the lust.
"I'm sorry. How ungracious of me to keep you standing in the foyer. I was making myself a cup of tea." She motioned down the hallway, toward the kitchen. "Would you like one?"
"I would love a cup of tea." He removed his overcoat and hung it on the hook beside his hat before Celeste could take it for him.
She liked a man who could fend for himself. She walked to the kitchen, Silver leading the way. Never once in her life had she seen a man hang his own coat, not even John. "I . . . I was planting flowers. Summer's going to come early to Colorado this year."
"Is it? To San Francisco, too. That's where I came from."
"I know." She indicated a white kitchen table where he could sit and retrieved an extra teacup, saucer, and white damask napkin.
Silver circled Fox, watching him with curiosity.
"Lay down, Silver."
The dog obediently slid to the floor and rested his muzzle between his front paws, but kept his gaze fixed on the stranger.
Celeste turned her attention back to Fox. "John . . . your father, talked about California often. He used to say he was headed back that way."
Fox chuckled, but his dark-eyed gaze reflected a shadow of pain.
"Always searching for that mother lode, wasn't he?"
She smiled at the memory of John. This was just small talk. Something she'd gotten good at in the last few years, but Fox was easy to converse with. He made her comfortable. Maybe it was just because she liked the idea that he didn't know she was a whore. Of course she would have to tell him the truth, but the fantasy was so pleasant that she let it go a little longer. It had been a long time since she'd felt this kind of freedom with a man—the freedom to just be herself and not have to worry about saying what he wanted her to say . . . or doing what he wanted her to do.
She watched Fox study the bright white and yellow kitchen. Sun poured in through the west window and cast golden light across his face.
"You've taken excellent care of the house," he said.
She lifted a kettle of hot water off the black, cast-iron stove and crossed the kitchen to fill the flowered china teapot. "It's a beautiful house. All the modern amenities. Gaslights and a flush—" She blushed as she replaced the lid on the teapot and walked back to the stove. "John loved modern conveniences. He was always reading the newspapers to me, telling me what's been invented. He used to swear we'd be riding in horseless carriages in another ten years."
Fox chuckled with her and reached for the teapot. Celeste reached out at the same instant. Their fingertips brushed. She lifted her gaze to meet his across the kitchen table, feeling a connection with him that went beyond John. A strange tingle arced between their fingertips.
Celeste pulled back in amazement. Must have picked up static electricity on the hall carpet, she thought. But she knew better. The moment he had touched her, her reaction had been emotional as well as physical. In her line of work, emotion was dangerous.
"I'm sorry," Fox apologized. "I thought I would serve you." He studied her warmly. He was such a true gentleman. "May I?"
Celeste couldn't take her eyes off Fox. This felt so strange. She had cared for John deeply, perhaps even loved him on some level. She had shared a bed with him many times, but she'd never felt this way about him. Never felt this immediate attraction that she felt for his son. A little frightened by the thought, she glanced away. Celeste had worked hard to isolate herself from men, to protect herself, even from John. She'd never felt like she was in danger of cracking before . . . before now.
She watched as Fox poured the amber tea into her teacup with the expertise of a parlormaid. "You do that well," she said as he poured himself a cup.
"Thank you." He smiled. "Thought I might find myself a job in a London teahouse serving crumpets sometime."
He doesn't take himself too seriously, she thought. That was admirable in such a successful man.
She laughed at his silliness and he laughed with her as he reached for the cream and sugar on the table. He had large, broad hands, clean and steady. Celeste had always thought a man's hands told much about him. She could see that Fox had not worked manually for a living, as most men who passed through Carrington had. And judging from the newsprint stains on his fingers, he read a great deal.
"I seem to have upset your dog. I don't think he cares for me." Fox indicated the big yellow mutt with a nod of his chin.
Celeste glanced at Silver. "No, he likes everyone. John used to take him wherever he went. He used to say Silver had seen every saloon west of the Mississippi and east of the Nevadas."
"Silver?" Fox raised an eyebrow. "The dog is as yellow as a nugget of Colorado gold."
She chuckled. "Silver was John's; I'm surprised you didn't know about him. Surprised you never saw him. They'd been together for years. It seems John won him in a poker game. Originally his name was Gold, but John said he wasn't a prime dog, not worthy of the name, so he called him Silver, after the lesser metal."
Fox nodded. "Sounds like something he would do."
They both sipped their tea in a comfortable silence.
"Oh." Celeste glanced up at him. "I'm sorry. I just don't know where my manners have gone today." She rose from her chair, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. It had never occurred to her that she might be physically attracted to John's son. It had been a very long time since she'd been physically attracted to anyone. Whoring did that to a woman.
"Would you like a slice of cake? Mrs. Tuttle sent it over with her husband. He's the reverend here in town. Joash keeps an eye on me."
Fox took a sip of his tea and pushed back in his chair, casually propping one ankle on the other knee. "I'd love a piece of cake."
"It's angel food." Celeste sliced off a piece and placed it on a china dish she drew from the cupboard overhead
. "Light as a cloud in the heavens, Joash says." She took a fork from a drawer and set it and the plate in front of Fox before retreating to her chair on the far side of the table. She felt safer there.
"You're not going to have any?"
She shook her head.
"What? Another woman who doesn't eat?" He cut off a bite-size piece of white cake with his fork and brought it to his mouth.
Celeste watched him part his lips, mesmerized by their full sensuality. "Uh . . . no." She laughed, the spell broken. "It's not that I don't eat, only that I've had three pieces today already."
He laughed with her again, and their voices echoed off the punched-tin ceiling.
Fox took another bite of the cake and Celeste sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of the teacup, fascinated by how in some ways he was so like John, and in other ways so different. Many of his mannerisms were the same as his father's, like the way he slipped the fork out of his mouth, his lips pressed to the tines. But while John had often been crude in his table manners, Fox was smooth and obviously comfortable with the silver plate and the fragile china. She had no doubt he had been served tea in London. While John had been a simple man, Fox was obviously a worldly one. He reminded her of the men she had known in Denver, men who had wooed her. That had been more than eight years ago. It felt like eight centuries.
Fox finished the cake and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin before taking a sip of his tea. "Well, Miss Kennedy, this has been very pleasant, but I suppose we should get on with business."
Celeste set down her teacup with a slight clatter. "Business?"
He made a motion with his hand meaning to get on with it. "Of John."
That sinking feeling came back again. For a half an hour's time she had been a woman sharing a cup of tea with a handsome man. In a moment she would just be a whore again. "Your father, you mean," she said softly. "You haven't called him your father, only John." She didn't mean to criticize but, to Celeste, it seemed disrespectful.
His Wild Heart Page 34