Was this a trap? Matt looked the older man in the eye, taking a long sip of his whiskey. It was time to make his move. “Well, everybody says E. R. Burnham was about the fairest boss there ever was, and you must be a man of the same breed, to be doing so well now that he’s gone. I hate to sound presumptuous, Mr. Hughes, but I’d like to meet Burnham’s daughter. I couldn’t be a supervisor for a mine owner I’ve never seen.”
Hughes sat back against his chair, staring. “Emily’s still distraught about her father’s murder,” he insisted. “The last time I heard, she was—”
“Surely she’ll come to Cripple Creek sometime soon. Her father invested a fortune in businesses here,” McClanahan countered quietly.
The mine superintendent studied him, crushing out his cigar. “Maybe Clancy can tell us if she’s seeing visitors yet. I’d regret losing you over such a modest request.”
McClanahan poured himself another tumbler of whiskey, and from the corner of his eye he watched the whispered conference at the bar. Hughes had his back to the room, but Matt couldn’t miss Donahue’s pointed, wary stare.
Finally Silas came back to the table, clearing his throat. “I’ll get in touch with Emily this week. May I tell her you’ve accepted the position? She’ll be disappointed if she makes the trip for nothing—and Miss Burnham’s not a young lady any of us likes to disappoint.”
Matt grinned and stood up to shake his hand. “Yes, of course. Thanks for being so accommodating.”
“I’d kick myself for letting a man with your qualifications get away.” Hughes reached for his glass and drained it quickly. “And now I have another appointment. But please don’t hurry off on my account—enjoy another drink, and another cigar. I’ll let you know when Miss Burnham will see you.”
McClanahan watched him stride to the door, and then splashed more whiskey into his glass, thinking it was going to be a very interesting week.
“Why on God’s earth would he ask such a thing? And why did you humor him?” Emily paced beside the fireplace in the study, glaring first at Silas and then at Clancy. The unkempt bartender seemed out of place, surrounded by leather-bound books, gleaming walnut furniture, and the colorful mineral samples her father and Silas collected, but it was no time to be concerned about Donahue. “How’s McClanahan supposed to talk to me without figuring out that we’ve all lied about who I am?” she demanded.
Silas looked at the painting of Elliott Ross Burnham, which dominated the room from its spot above the fireplace, as though wishing for his deceased partner’s guidance. Then he glanced nervously at Clancy. “Emily, I’ve told you—I was stunned that he asked to meet you. Your hysteria is getting us nowhere.”
“It was your idea for Silas to promote him,” Donahue chimed in. He sank lower in his wing chair, smiling smugly as he clasped his hands over his belly.
Emily glowered at him. It had been her idea to let Clancy come to Cripple Creek, too, and she was starting to regret it. “All right. I’m sorry, Silas,” she said with a loud sigh. “What have you found out about him?”
The mine manager rested his elbows on the massive desk and relaxed somewhat. “Like I said, McClanahan’s run a ranch and a smithy, and he’s worked for Wells Fargo. Those references check out. And frankly, I have a hard time believing he’s a killer.”
“He was there, Silas,” she replied firmly. “No doubt in my mind that he shot Papa.”
Clancy shifted, crossing his legs. “Silas could ask him to come here, to pay Miss Burnham a call about the mine job,” he said in a stealthy tone, “but he’ll be answerin’ to you about the murder instead. It’s the trap you’ve been waitin’ to set, Emily.”
“McClanahan and me alone?” she demanded. “What can I do with him, once he’s figured out who I am?”
The barkeep snorted. “You’ve handled him before “
Silas sent Clancy a warning glance and focused on Emily again. “You could keep him talking,” he suggested tautly. “Coax a confession out of him, or press him point-blank about where he was the night of May seventh. We’ll be waiting outside the door, and at the least sign of trouble…” He pulled a .45 caliber revolver from the desk’s top drawer. “Elliott used to brag that his daughter was a crack shot. Is that true, Emily?”
“Yes, but—” The sight of Silas’s gun suddenly made her plan to bring McClanahan to justice a little too real. She’d practiced with a pistol dozens of times on the ranch, but she’d never aimed at a person.
“You’ll only have to fire a warning, and we’ll be in here,” Silas reassured her. “He won’t have time to retaliate.”
Emily hesitated. “What if he doesn’t confess? He’ll know I haven’t been pining away at the ranch since—”
“Lie to him! You’re certainly good at that,” Clancy muttered.
She looked away from the Irishman’s nasty little grin, recalling McClanahan’s handsome smile and blue eyes that were extremely observant. “He’s a smooth talker, Silas. We could be spinning tales at each other all night, getting nowhere.”
“We’ll be listening outside. We’ll know if you’re having trouble.”
“And then we’ll be in here, shootin’ him?” Clancy added gleefully.
Emily scowled. “You can’t just open fire! The neighbors’ll hear—”
“So we’ll knock him out with our gun butts. Pile him into the wagon after dark, and finish him off out in the mountains.” Donahue looked at her with a half-smile, stroking his beard. “Your daddy probably never told you, but we did that to a few rustlers at the Flamin’ B. When you catch a thief—or a killer—the only sure justice is your justice.”
She sighed, glancing up at Papa’s portrait for inspiration. But the sternly-handsome man in the painting merely gazed back at her. “How long do I have to get ready?”
“I’ll tell him to come tomorrow evening,” Silas said quietly. He checked the pistol’s cylinder and put it back in the desk drawer. “The sooner we get this behind us, the better.”
“It’s for the best, Emily.” Clancy stood up, looking her over with a possessive smile. “Once McClanahan finds out who you are, he might try to kill you next. And Silas and I’d never forgive ourselves if he hurt even a hair on your pretty little head, darlin’.”
Chapter Five
Emily carefully pulled a stocking up over her calf, savoring the silk’s caress. A glance in her oval mirror gave her a heady sense of power…power over McClanahan. He’d expected her to believe she was the first woman to wash his dark, wavy hair—had coaxed and kissed her beyond the limits of her control! But tonight she’d show him a woman he’d never forget. A woman he’d want, but could only wish for as he suffered the consequences of killing Papa.
She took a deep breath and pushed McClanahan’s face from her thoughts. This was no game: she was risking Silas’s safety and reputation—everything he and Papa had worked long and hard for—not to mention her own life. Matt McClanahan was quicker and smarter than Donahue realized, and much more distracting than Emily cared to admit. Getting such a handsome, affectionate man to confess to shooting the two people she loved most would be the hardest thing she’d ever done. She’d stayed home all day, trying to anticipate every argument and trick the gunslinger would use to elude her.
Emily slipped into a gown of golden-brown watered silk that matched her eyes. Its fitted bodice showed off just enough curve around her breasts…she refused to torture herself in corsets, yet her billowing skirts made her look stylishly slender, feminine, and fragile. She laughed, and swept her long blond hair into a swirling
topknot, wishing for Viry’s expert hand at controlling her waves. After rouging her cheeks—McClanahan liked women who wore paint—she put on Mama’s pearls for luck. McClanahan didn’t stand a chance!
When she went downstairs to the kitchen, Idaho’s eyes lit up. “Missy, you’re a sight to behold,” he murmured. He touched her puffed sleeve wistfully, and then went to the pie safe. “I baked you some gingerbread, because you hardly touched your supper.
We can’t have you turning all weak-kneed and woozy when McClanahan gets here.”
“This is hardly a social call,” Emily mumbled. Then she bit hungrily into the warm, spicy cake, reminding herself that Idaho, too, had a stake in her performance.
His eyes were wide with worry as he watched her eat. “Do you really think he killed Mr. Elliott and my Viry? He seemed nice enough when he brought his hat here for me to clean—and I doubt he’d come on such an errand if he murdered our family.”
Emily raised her eyebrows at this information. “I guess we’ll soon find out,” she replied quietly.
The colored man nodded, brushing a crumb from her chin. “You be careful, you hear? Nobody else loves old Idaho the way you do. I’ll be saying my prayers for you, Miss Emily.”
She hugged him, but let him go before his tender words could weaken her resolve. Straightening her shoulders, Emily stepped into the dining room, where Silas and Clancy were talking at one end of the table. They looked up, appraising her silently through the haze of their cigars. Donahue sucked in his breath, gazing at her as though he were a beggar at a banquet.
Silas stood up, his face expressionless. “You’re trying for a confession, young lady. Not a seduction.”
“My uniform’s hardly appropriate,” Emily replied with a lift of her chin. “And I certainly can’t wear my overalls from the mine.”
“She’ll bring McClanahan to his knees, Silas!” the barkeep exclaimed. “He’ll forget all about who she is and
what she’s tryin’ to pull when he gets a look at her.”
That was Emily’s strategy exactly, but she wouldn’t admit it to Clancy. She watched Silas walk toward her, desperately wishing for his approval. Would McClanahan bolt before she could expose him as a murderer? Or would he expose her before she could explain her deception to Miss Chatterly and the men at the mine?
Her father’s partner stopped in front of her, his face softening as he studied her hair and gown. “Elliott would be very proud that his daughter’s so beautiful, and so brave,” he murmured. Then he glanced at the mantel clock. “You’d better get in there before McClanahan arrives. Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“He’s not the only one with a smooth tongue.” Emily hoped she sounded more confident than she felt as she entered the study.
“We’ll be right outside, listening,” he called after her.
“Fingers on the trigger,” Clancy added with a laugh.
Emily closed the door and leaned on it. The paneled room was cozy, with its rich Persian rug, and shelves full of books, and chunks of mineral ore that gleamed with a familiar warmth. The study at the ranch was decorated much the same way, but this one had paintings that ran more to Silas’s taste. Flaming logs crackled in the fireplace beneath Papa’s portrait. Emily hoped that even though Elliott Ross Burnham hadn’t spent much time in this room, his spirit would guide her tonight.
Her hands were clammy and her shoes were starting to pinch…maybe Silas should be in here, in case she twisted her words into a noose around her own neck instead of around McClanahan’s. There was a loud knock on the front door—damn, he was punctual! Emily chose a spot behind the heavy walnut desk, so Papa could face his murderer with her and McClanahan’s back would be to her bodyguards. She prayed again for the right words, then forgot everything she’d intended to say as Silas spoke on the other side of the study door.
“Right in here, Mr. McClanahan. She’s waiting for you.”
The door opened and he came inside, wearing a dark suit and glossy black boots. A gold watch fob glistened between his vest button and pocket, and he looked devastatingly handsome.
“Eliza?” Matt glanced around the study, then approached her with a wary smile. “You look wonderful, honey. But didn’t your uncle tell you about the meeting? I’m here to see Emily Burnham.”
Emily suppressed a grin. He was gazing at her as though he anticipated a rendezvous later, but she was about to change his plans. “And so you are,” she said as she stepped from behind the desk.
He frowned. “You don’t understand. I’m looking for Elliott Burnham’s daughter—she was to come in from Colorado Springs to discuss a supervisor’s—”
“Do you have any questions about the position?” Emily asked with a coy smile.
McClanahan glowered at the lovely young woman before him. “Yes, ma’am, I do. Who do you think you are, to—”
“You weren’t listening?” she interrupted sweetly. “I’m Emily Rose Burnham.”
“Elliott’s daughter?”
“Yes.” His blue eyes were blazing at her, and it was all she could do to keep from laughing at his confused expression.
“And why should I believe that?” Matt approached her, glaring at her graceful dress and hairdo as he realized he’d walked right through the loophole in Silas and Eliza’s story. “You told me you were Hughes’s niece, staying here because your father abandoned you. And everyone knows Emily Burnham’s been wasting away since her father was shot. Now what’s going on here?”
Emily smiled primly and decided to keep him off-balance for as long as she could. “I believe we’re clarifying who I am, Mr. McClanahan. If you’d like to sit down, we can discuss your new role as—”
“The hell we will! You’re the picture of health—quick enough to outrun me, and so damn devious you’ve
passed yourself off as a naive little—”
“A fact I take great pride in.” Emily gasped when McClanahan reached out to shake her by the shoulders, but he stopped, his hands framing her like parentheses. His blue eyes were anything but beautiful now. They pierced right through to her soul, and she was suddenly afraid she’d gotten herself in so deep that Silas and Clancy couldn’t rescue her in time.
Then McClanahan stepped back and stuffed his hands in his pockets, disgusted that he hadn’t figured her out before. “Let me see if I can piece this together,” he said in a strained voice. “Hughes and Donahue are outside, listening. Am I right?”
Emily nodded, her heart pounding beneath her pearls.
He relaxed and let out a long breath. If she was indeed Burnham’s daughter—and he believed she was—she’d certainly inherited her old man’s grit. Her eyes were as round and golden as harvest moons, unwavering despite the brazen tricks she’d played on him. He cleared his throat, deciding to see what other aces she might have hidden up her dainty sleeves. “You haven’t been in Cripple very long—and you obviously haven’t been holed up in your room these past four months. So where have you been?”
“At the ranch in Colorado Springs,” she insisted quickly. “We were having problems with rustlers. I thought rumors about my failing health would make those outlaws careless enough that we could catch them.”
McClanahan raised his eyebrows, yet he wasn’t surprised that Miss Burnham was so adept at covering for herself. “A good foreman could handle rustlers,” he contended. “E. R. Burnham’s heir should’ve been checking on the mine before now, and overseeing the Golden Rose—certainly the most extravagant investment of its kind in Cripple Creek.”
“I prefer working cattle to watching over whores.” Emily widened her eyes at him, then rested her hand on the cool, solid desktop. “Papa opened the Rose as a favor to
Victoria Chatterly—and because he thought another high-class house would do well in Cripple—but my interests have always been at the ranch. When Papa died, I kept abreast of all his businesses through Idaho, and I’ve kept his books for years, so I know exactly how all my investments are doing. I—I made Papa a pretty good partner, actually.”
“You’d also make a helluva poker player, Miss Burnham,” he said as he stepped toward her again.
Emily frowned uncertainly. “Why’s that?”
“Because reliable sources claim that Donahue signed on at the Rose to get away from the foreman at the Flaming B, and that Idaho left because he couldn’t stand to live there anymore without his wife. That’s a lie, isn’t it? Just like Idaho telling me you were in no
shape for visitors when I stopped by the ranch a few times.”
She was curious about his sources; the rumors about Clancy and Idaho weren’t totally untrue, but that didn’t really matter now. Maybe Papa’s spirit was here, or maybe her blood had turned to ice water, because Emily suddenly felt serenely confident. She opened the desk drawer and pointed the pistol at McClanahan.
Matt stared. “What’s this all about? I—”
“I’ve been wanting to ask you about your visits, McClanahan,” she said coldly. “And you’d better give me the right answer. Why’d you kill my father?”
“What makes you think I—”
“You were there that night. I saw you from the upstairs landing.” Her pistol clicked as she cocked it. “And I swore I’d do whatever it took to make you pay.”
McClanahan took a step backward, noting the set of her jaw and the steady barrel of her gun. “Yes, I was there,” he said quietly. “Trying to see who did shoot him.”
“And why should I believe that?” she demanded.
Matt saw a slight tremor go through her arms, and he looked at the stony expression on her face. It was a sure bet Hughes and Donahue would gun him down if Emily didn’t, so he put together his most persuasive argument. “Your father and the housekeeper were still alive—barely—after the gunslinger galloped off. And frankly, I’m a better shot than whoever attacked them,” he added with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “And if I’d killed them, I certainly wouldn’t come calling afterward, or ask Idaho to clean up the hat you ruined.”
She grunted, watching his expression for signs of a lie. “Why not?” she demanded. “It would be the perfect smoke screen, wouldn’t it?”
McClanahan let out an exasperated sigh, yet he had to respect her quick thinking and unwavering stance as she aimed the pistol at his chest. “Eli—Miss Burnham — I think you’re sharp enough to realize that this killer was a desperado of the worst sort. If I’d shot your father and the housekeeper, do you think I would’ve dismounted to drag them into the house and risk getting caught? I was hoping they’d be tended to instead of being shot again.”
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