Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  COLORADO CAPTIVE

  Charlotte Hubbard

  Chapter One

  Matt McClanahan strode into the Angel Claire Mining Company’s tiny office building and looked around. The walls were bare, except for a photograph of two middle-aged men shaking hands, and a portrait of a woman whose eyes held an ethereal beauty that almost made him shiver. The room was only big enough for a plain wooden desk, and the slender clerk sitting behind it seemed well suited to poring over his ledgers. McClanahan noted a rather girlish face beneath the brim of his dusty hat, and could imagine the whistles and catcalls these hard-rock miners tormented the young bookkeeper with.

  “I’d like to see about getting work here at the Angel Claire,” he said quietly. “Is this where I talk to the manager?”

  Emily Burnham nodded, and without looking to see who belonged to the easy-going drawl, she pushed the registration book toward him. His hand was well formed and unusually clean for a miner’s, and his script stood out from the illegible scrawls and X’s that preceded it . . . Matt McClanahan. When she glanced up into his tanned, handsome face, she knew he’d never swung a shovel in the dark belly of a mine. But when he focused his bottomless blue eyes on hers, Emily couldn’t have questioned his application for work if she’d wanted to. She’d seen those eyes before!

  “E. R. Burnham’s manager turns one of the biggest profits in Cripple Creek,” McClanahan said with a matter-of-fact smile. “You must be a sharp young fellow, to be doing his bookwork.”

  Emily grinned nervously. The man seemed to be looking right through her, yet her dust-caked overalls and oversized hat had him believing she was a boy—a common mistake here at the mine, and it suited her purpose. She tried to remember her usual questions about previous employment, but before she could open her mouth, a reedy voice came through the window.

  “Do yourself a favor, pal. Go to work for Tutt and Penrose across the Gulch, at the C.O.D.”

  Emily grimaced, knowing quite well who’d made the snide remark. Sure enough, Nigel Grath was grinning in at them, his eyes beady and a little too close together under eyebrows that met in the middle.

  “Why do you say that?” Matt asked. He sensed the gangly miner was a troublemaker, and the last thing he wanted right now was trouble.

  “Hey—this place is haunted, by Angel Claire herself,” Grath replied with a high-pitched giggle. He pointed to the woman’s portrait with a dirt-blackened finger. “Ain’t you heard about her? Ask Eliza there. She’s so scared she ain’t hardly said boo since she’s been here.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” McClanahan glanced curiously at the clerk, whose hand was shaking badly, and he finished signing in.

  But Grath wasn’t ready to give up. “You’ll be sorry,” he jeered. “Everybody knows Silas Hughes is a slave driver. He’s just like E. R. Burnham was—too damn rich to care that we’re bustin’ our butts in his hellhole. He pushed for a longer day with no pay raise back in ‘94, and he’ll do it again.”

  McClanahan rolled his eyes, irritated by the scrawny miner’s incessant whining. “Is that true?” he asked the wide-eyed bookkeeper.

  Emily shook her head so hard her hat almost slipped off. The wiry miner taunted her every chance he got, but when Nigel Grath accused her murdered papa of dealing unfairly with his employees, it was more than she could stand.

  “You gonna believe that little tomboy, pal?” Grath challenged. “Why, she’s so odd she don’t even like boys, if you get my meanin’.”

  McClanahan moved toward the window, but Emily beat him to it. She slipped in front of him to slam down the sash as Grath loped away, laughing at her. Then a loud pop ricocheted in the little room, and the window-pane shattered in a puff of smoke. She shrieked, lurching backward into McClanahan’s solid chest as pointed pieces of glass showered their feet.

  “Jesus! Are you all right?” Matt exclaimed. When his arms closed around her, there was no doubt she was female, and the poor girl was such a bundle of nerves it was all he could do to stand her upright again.

  “Dammit, Grath, I’ve told you to steer clear of my niece!” a voice shouted outside. “Your shift’s over. Go home.”

  Thank God Silas was here! Emily crammed her hat farther down on her head, avoiding McClanahan’s stare as she stepped away from his steadying grasp. Fragments of glass were scattered across the floor, and the window was now a jagged hole with a splintered cross-piece at the bottom.

  “This’ll come out of his pay,” her father’s partner was muttering as he entered the office, but his scowl relaxed somewhat when he saw they had a visitor. “I hope you’ll excuse the commotion, sir. Mr. Grath has a nasty habit of baiting Eliza with his blasting caps. I’m Silas Hughes, manager of the Angel Claire.”

  “Matt McClanahan.” He smiled confidently as he shook Hughes’s cool, slender hand. “I was hoping to find a job in your mine. I’ve heard you’re the best manager to work for here in Cripple.”

  “I like to think so.” Silas appraised him quickly and adjusted his black hat. “I start my men as muckers, at three dollars a day, unless they bring me some experience.”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  Silas nodded and glanced toward Emily. “My niece isn’t usually so tongue-tied, Mr. McClanahan. She’s just recently come to work for me—but Eliza’s smart beyond her years, so don’t think you’ll fool her as to how many hours you’ve put in, or how much pay you’re due.” He gestured toward the door, and the blue-eyed man tossed Emily a smile before he preceded Silas outside.

  She’d never seen such a handsome grin, but Emily had watched Matt McClanahan’s compact physique in her nightmares a hundred times, recalling his swift, powerful movements from the night Papa was shot. This was the moment she’d been waiting for—the reason she’d come to Cripple Greek! Yet now that her number-one murder suspect had shown up, Emily Burnham was suddenly afraid to go through with her plan. What if he remembered her?

  Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely hold the broom as she swept the broken glass into a pile in the corner. Fortunately, the only person close enough to notice her agitation was Silas Hughes. As he entered the office again, regally tall and slender in his black suit, Emily saw amusement crinkling his crow’s-feet.

  He glanced behind him, then leaned on the door jamb to block the view of any passersby. “If you don’t keep those eyes in their sockets, you’ll give yourself away, young lady,” he teased quietly. “Just because McClanahan’s the best-looking—”

  “It’s him, Silas!” she said in a strained whisper. “It’s the man who shot Papa!”

  The manager’s gray eyes sobered. “How can you be sure? It was nearly midnight, and you were awakened by the gunshots and—”

  “But the lamp was lit in the parlor,” she insisted. “When I saw him dragging Papa in from the porch, he looked up toward where I was peeking through the stair railing.”

  Silas scowled. “You’d better be certain about what you’re saying, Emily. If it’s true, we just hired a killer.”

  She glanced nervously toward the ore house, where the miners were changing shifts, filing in and out like busy ants—too far away to realize the new payroll clerk wasn’t who Silas claimed she was. “It’s him,” she repeated quietly. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

  The mine manager sighed as he looked at the pile of broken glass, and at the window that gaped like a toothless mouth beside him. “You’re upset about Grath. I think you’d better head on back to the house.”

  “But I haven’t finished—”

  “I’ll check the day’s records myself,” Silas replied firmly. “Now scoot! The men’ll be curious enough about McClanahan without my niece staring after him.”

  Emily leaned the broom against the wall, v
ividly recalling every detail about McClanahan and the way he’d studied her with his startling blue eyes. “He doesn’t look much like a miner, does he?”

  “No, but with the shiftless types who’re drifting in from Creede and other mined-out towns lately, I’m not complaining.” Hughes gave her a businesslike nod, dismissing her. “Tell Idaho I’ll be dining at the club tonight.”

  Silas turned and walked briskly away, and Emily knew she’d better be gone when he looked back. She shut the ledger with a thump, and after a last glance toward the buildings of the Angel Claire Mining Company, she followed the dusty, downhill trail into town.

  It was a crisp September day, and the intense sunshine made her squint. The air around her vibrated with the roar of the mines, while ahead of her the crystal-blue sky made a brilliant backdrop for groves of golden aspens, with a hazy Pike’s Peak standing watch behind them. Below her, Cripple Creek bustled like a hive of bees preparing for winter. Only two years ago one fire had followed another through the original collection of clapboard buildings, but now, in 1898, the city had risen from its ashes to rival Denver and Colorado Springs.

  Gold fever had settled into a steady, heady wealth for men fortunate enough to own the mines and the businesses that supported them—and Emily’s father had been one of those men. But the new brick buildings and streetlights standing proudly along Bennett Avenue failed to impress her. Not even the invigorating breeze made her smile as the stately Victorian mansion north of the business district came into view. Her father had built the house for Silas, and as a place to stay when he came to Cripple to supervise his businesses here. But without Papa, no place would ever feel like home to her again.

  Emily walked around back to the kitchen entrance, pausing to collect her thoughts, because Idaho would know something was bothering her the moment she stepped inside. And when he heard Papa’s killer was in town—the same man who shot Idaho’s wife as she’d carried Papa’s toddy to the porch that evening last May—the old housekeeper was likely to wither up and cry.

  She took off her hat, letting her braid uncoil down her back. As Emily opened the door, a sweet cinnamon scent greeted her as cheerfully as the black man who was pulling a lattice-crusted pie from the oven.

  “You’re early, missy! Did you smell Idaho’s apple pie all the way to the mine?”

  Emily inhaled deeply, still trying to think of the easiest way to break the news. The old cook was her dearest friend now, and the last thing she wanted was to upset him.

  Idaho set the steaming pie on the windowsill. Then he glanced at her and shuffled back to the oven, this time for a pan of golden biscuits so high and light they had splits around their middles. “Wish you’d let me wash those clothes, Miss Emily,” he said crisply. “If your papa would’ve seen you looking so gritty—”

  “He’s here, Idaho. Came to the mine today.”

  The metal pan clattered onto the stove top as the housekeeper stared at her. “I don’t need any of your teasing, child,” he said in a wavery voice. “Your papa’s been gone four months, but I still feel his—”

  Emily smiled sadly and picked the stray biscuits from between the stove burners. “Not Papa’s ghost, Idaho. It was the man I saw dragging him into the parlor.”

  The old cook’s breath caught in his throat. “The man who…who shot my Viry?”

  She hugged him fiercely, seeking the same comfort Idaho needed as he crushed her in his muscled arms. His chest heaved with silent sobs as they rocked each other for several minutes. Then Emily pulled away slightly, stroking the coarse black hair that was sprigged with white. “Did—did you see him that night, Idaho? I have to be sure he’s the same man.”

  The colored cook shook his head, taking a shuddery breath. “No, child. All I saw was my Viry lying there beside Mr. Elliott, with their blood soaking into the parlor rug.”

  Emily shuddered against him as she recalled the gut-wrenching sight of their lifeless bodies. Alvira Pearce had all but raised her, from the day Mama died of birthing complications. Those gentle black hands had coaxed her to eat and combed her hair—and occasionally warmed her bottom—and now they were still, along with Papa’s.

  Idaho wiped a tear from her cheek. “Guess we’d better dry our eyes, missy. Mr. Silas means well, but he doesn’t know how it is to lose his family. He’ll be wanting his dinner soon, and—”

  “He’s going to the Club tonight.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” The furrows in Idaho’s broad brown forehead relaxed as he loosened his hold on her. “You and I’ll eat mighty high on this baked chicken, Miss Emily. And we can discuss this piece of news between us. What name does this gunslinger go by?”

  “Matt McClanahan.” Emily wondered why an outlaw’s alias would roll so easily off her tongue, and how such a heartless man could come in such a handsome package. Then, when the old cook backed away as though she’d named the Devil himself, she frowned. “What’s wrong? What’d I say?”

  Idaho passed a hand over his brow. “Is this McClanahan a dark-haired fellow? Good-looking?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He cleared his throat anxiously. “During those months you were mourning your papa and wouldn’t see anybody, he came to the ranch, must’ve been four or five times. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

  Emily let out a short, humorless laugh. “Probably wanted to propose—wanted to save the Burnham empire from ruin, like the rest of them,” she added wryly. She’d spent an endless, empty summer holed up at the Flaming B, running Papa’s businesses and refusing callers through Idaho, while lawmen searched the mountains and ranches around Colorado Springs for her father’s murderer. When they found no clues, she decided to hunt the killer herself, allowing the rumor that E. R. Burnham’s daughter was on the verge of collapse to continue its course among Papa’s friends and associates. The fact that McClanahan was applying at the mine confirmed her plan as a good one, but how would she snare him without endangering…

  Idaho’s quiet voice interrupted her thoughts. “So now that he’s here, what’re you going to do?”

  “I’ll see that he gets what he deserves, by—”

  “Now don’t you take one of your wild notions!” Idaho warned as he shook a gnarled finger at her. “He’s a dangerous—”

  “But he doesn’t know who I am—or that I’m here!” Emily blurted. “If McClanahan saw me up on the stairway that night, he didn’t recognize me at the mine today. He’ll never guess we’re plotting to—”

  “I don’t want any part of killing.” The old Negro gazed sternly at her, crossing his arms.

  “Who said we’d kill him? I want to see him suffer for what he did to Papa and Viry. For what he did to us.” Emily took his leathery hands in hers, challenging him with her eyes. “You’ve got to help me, Idaho. Silas thought we were crazy to come here, hoping Papa’s killer would believe the rumors about me and try to worm his way into one of the businesses. And now that he’s in town, I can’t let him get away.”

  Idaho sighed and shook his head wearily. “You be careful, child. You’re all I have left in this world to love.”

  She hugged him tightly, and then put the warm biscuits in the napkin-lined basket he’d set out by the stove. “I’ll change into my uniform, and then we’ll see how much of that chicken and pie we can stuff ourselves with before I go to the Golden Rose.”

  The housekeeper took two plates from the cabinet and set them on the small kitchen table, watching her uneasily. “What if McClanahan shows up there tonight?”

  Emily smiled. “I doubt he’d recognize me in clean clothes, and with all the bawdy houses on Myers, there’s not much chance he’ll choose ours. It’s too refined for his tastes—and too rich for his wallet, if he’s got to earn his pay as a mucker.”

  Chapter Two

  McClanahan paused inside the double doors of the Golden Rose, struck by how a whorehouse could be so opulent without looking overdone. The parquet floor and stairway were decorated with rich Persian rugs in a gold rose pattern; the w
alls, velvet draperies, and parlor furnishings were the color of cream and trimmed in gold. Ornate gilded mirrors reflected a magnificent crystal chandelier, which hung from the parlor’s vaulted ceiling. A young colored man played softly upon the grand piano—a somber piece for a bordello, Matt thought—as a few of the ladies conversed with their clients. He smiled at an exotic Indian princess, who winked as she ran her tongue across her lips.

  “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

  The voice came from his left, where a burly Irishman stood behind the carved bar. His thick auburn hair defied its center part; he stroked his beard, studying Matt with suspicious eyes.

  “I just got into town, and I’ve heard the Golden Rose is the best place to find an evening’s entertainment,” McClanahan offered.

  “It doesn’t come cheap, mister.”

  McClanahan reached for his wallet as he approached the massive bar. “I’d like a bottle of your best whiskey, and a black-haired beauty with a taste for adventure. But first I’d like a bath. Let me know when this runs out.” He laid one hundred dollars on the counter.

  “Keep goin’.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Matt added another fifty. “This better be the best roll I’ve ever had, Mr.—”

  “Donahue. Clancy Donahue.” The barkeep stuck the money in his cash drawer and slid a brass token across the bar. “I always charge first-timers a little extra. We’re a high-class establishment, and it’s my job to keep it that way.”

  Matt nodded, watching the bouncer reach for a bottle and a glass. Donahue was built like a buffalo, and the buttons on his stiff white shirt strained across his belly as he moved. “Is it always this quiet on a Saturday night?”

  “It’s early yet,” the Irishman replied. “And you know how women are—one day you can’t get two words out of ‘em, and the next you can’t shut ‘em up.”

  Matt poured some whiskey. “It wouldn’t be because one of your girls got roughed up today, would it?”