“Why do you sound so sure of that?” She turned, gazing up at him from under her hat.
Emily’s trusting expression almost made him spill a few secrets of his own, but they’d have plenty of time for the whole truth this week, after he revealed his feelings and intentions. “Let’s just say Crabtree’s story was as closely woven as yours,” he replied with a careful grin. “The last time I was in Colorado Springs I visited the Flaming B—pretended to be buying cattle. When I wanted to discuss the deal with you personally, Richard doubted you’d ever be able to conduct business again. Got downright misty-eyed about it.”
“You’ve met my foreman, and you didn’t tell me?” Emily demanded as she turned to face him.
He caught her playfully by the shoulders, pleased to see her usual spunk had returned. “It’s part of my job to keep abreast of what’s going on.”
“And you didn’t let on about who you were, or that you were working for me?” She stared up at him, not sure whether to be pleased or enraged by McClanahan’s devious tactics.
“When we get there, we’ll explain that I was testing to see how tight his mouth was. Helluva nice guy, from what I can tell.” McClanahan hugged her, vowing to share his love and his dreams—and the whole truth—as he let his hands wander to the tempting swell in the back of her overalls. “Shall we ride? The sooner we check in with Crabtree, the sooner we’ll have the evening to ourselves.”
Emily held herself away from his kiss. “What else should I know about? It’s not fair for you to be privy to my private life without telling me—”
He tilted her head back to claim her mouth with his, a move he’d been wanting to make for days. “All in due time, Emily. Let your hair down…it looks glorious when it catches the sunlight.” Lifting her hat, he watched the golden waves uncoil and tumble over her shoulders.
She realized Matt had suavely avoided her questions again, but she couldn’t be angry with him. He wove his fingers through her hair, his blue eyes ablaze as he leaned down for a kiss that held the promise of shimmering days and blissful nights to come. “Let’s go,” she breathed. “We have better than an hour’s ride yet.”
“Maybe I can’t wait that long,” he replied with a teasing smile. “Maybe I’ll take you right here in the grass.” Laughing, Emily ran for Sundance. She felt as light and free as a child—not the least bit guilty about leaving him to stare after her, because she knew it would only increase his desire.
Matt mounted and caught up with her, barely aware of the tricky spots in the trail or the rolling foothills around them. All he could see was Emily, how her body moved at one with Sundance, how her hair floated in golden splendor behind her…how her face shone brighter as they approached Colorado Springs. They cut north of town, and when they stopped on a ridge for their first glimpse of the boundless Burnham ranch, Matt recognized the fierce love and joy in Emily’s eyes. He was feeling the same way as he looked at her.
Chapter Seventeen
As they passed through the gateway of the Flaming B, greeting the cowboy on guard, the main house came into view. It was a majestic structure of dark, rough-cut timbers reminiscent of a fine old lodge, built to accommodate a large family and withstand the bitter winters of the open range. A monument both to Elliott Burnham’s financial genius and to his love of the land, it exuded a masculine strength while extending a homey welcome to them. McClanahan saw Emily’s mouth tighten as they approached the veranda, and their gait had slowed considerably. “Why don’t I tend to the horses and talk to Crabtree?” he suggested gently. “It’ll give you some time alone—unless you don’t want to be.”
Emily glanced at Papa’s favorite wicker porch chair, where he’d taken two bullets instead of the nightcap Viry had been bringing him, and then she looked at Matt. “That’s a good idea. I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Take your time, rosebud.” McClanahan watched her swing gracefully down from her palomino, and he took her reins before pointing Arapaho toward the corrals.
“Matt?”
He turned, smiling kindly at the girl who looked so fragile and small on the porch.
“Thanks for bringing me along. I feel better already.”
“My pleasure, Miss Burnham.” With a wink and a tip of his hat, McClanahan started toward the stable.
Emily paused with her hand on the doorknob, then stepped into the parlor. Everything looked the same as she’d left it. The comfortable old room was hushed—too quiet, she realized, because the Tiffany mantel clock had stopped. She turned its key with a sense of reverence…Papa had insisted the works were too delicate for a child’s impatient hands, and the weekly winding had remained his special duty until he died.
Mama smiled down at her from above the stone fireplace, wearing the wedding dress that Papa’d stored away for her to marry in someday. Emily smiled. Why did Matt come to mind now, when for all these years the dress hadn’t evoked any particular image or sentiment?
Letting her fingers trail across the green velvet love-seat, Emily continued through the dining room and kitchen. She could still see Viry peeling potatoes by the sink, or placing clean china dishes along the plate rail of the walnut hutch. These rooms seemed to glow with a tenderness she didn’t feel in Silas’s house, even though they’d been furnished in the same colors by the same man.
Saving Papa’s study for last, Emily climbed the stairs. She hadn’t realized how worn the carpet runner looked, or how much she’d missed this familiar creaking beneath her feet. From the landing, she’d had her last look at Papa while he was barely alive, and her first look at Matt McClanahan. So much had happened since that night, she could hardly comprehend it all.
Papa’s room felt chilly—but then, he’d preferred the northernmost bedroom for that reason. The cherry rocking chair and bedposts gleamed in the afternoon light; the comforter and dresser scarves were threadbare in spots, but he’d kept them because Mama chose them when he brought her to this house as a bride. When she opened the massive armoire, Papa’s suits and shirts waited in a neat row. Back in the shadows, draped with a sheet and tangy cedar sachets to keep the moths away, hung Mama’s elegant ivory wedding gown. Emily ran her fingers over the intricate beadwork on its bodice, unable to keep a smile from her face. Someday soon, she thought.
She passed a room with a vanity and a porcelain tub, then a water closet they’d added a few years ago, at her
insistence. Then came the largest bedroom, its pale pink walls and white furnishings so inviting…yet childish, somehow. Had she outgrown the four-poster bed with its ruffled canopy and counterpane these past few weeks? Her dolls and trinkets lined the shelves; well-worn books nearly ran off the end of her mantel, but these things could easily have belonged to someone else. Feeling strangely detached, Emily peered into the two guest bedrooms and went downstairs. No need to invade the third-floor dormer room Idaho and Viry had shared—not when the study seemed to be beckoning her to its door.
Emily entered Papa’s sanctum slowly, not sure what she was apprehensive about. If there were such things as ghosts, Papa’s would never intentionally scare her, and yet she was hesitant to touch the Indian pottery and the chunks of pyrite, pink gypsum, and shiny black agate he’d collected, or the books she’d read as she sat in his chair on a rainy day. She straightened a painting on the wall—a Charles Craig buffalo hunt, Papa’s favorite picture. Richard had stacked the mail on one corner of his massive desk. Shuffling through the pile, she saw Victoria Chatterly’s red wax seal on one envelope, and other more official-looking pieces she wasn’t ready to open yet.
For several minutes she gazed at Papa’s armchair. The cushion was crushed, as though he were sitting in it, and its odor and the little burn holes on the arms attested to the hundreds of cigars he’d smoked over the years. It had always been Emily’s favorite chair when Papa was away on business—a comfort during the lonely months since his death. Yet now…maybe she didn’t really feel like sitting down after all. She turned, her eyes smarting as she studied t
he familiar titles in his bookcase.
“Dammit, it’s the only chair I ever liked,” she muttered, and with two quick steps she was rushing into its arms. She stroked the mulberry velvet, blotting her tears against the wing that always cradled her head when she was reading. “Papa…Papa, I came to be near you for a while,” she whispered. “Are you still here? Did we catch the right man?”
There was only stillness as Emily held her breath, waiting. Then, as she rested her head and inhaled the chair’s smoky aroma, its arms seemed to wrap around her as they had when she’d been a lonely little girl waiting for him to come home. She smiled, and for a few precious moments her heart soared up to be with Papa’s.
As far as Matt could see in any direction, the range looked fresh and green—not overgrazed, as some ranches did this late in the season. The buildings were in good repair and recently painted, which meant Crabtree had kept the men busy between the spring and fall cattle work. He led the horses into a large corner stall in the stable, and was reaching for a bale of hay when he heard a rustling up in the loft.
“How’s it going, McClanahan? Saw you ride in.”
Matt smiled up at the stocky, curly-haired man who was descending the ladder. “So far so good.”
“Make up your mind about those cattle?”
McClanahan held Richard Crabtree’s gaze as long as he could before they both began to chuckle about their little deception. “Well, I’m back, aren’t I?”
The foreman stepped into the stall beside him, slapping Sundance’s rump with a smile that sent slender tunnels down his weathered cheeks. Crabtree was rather short, with a face that exuded honesty and a genuine pride in managing the Flaming B Ranch as efficiently as he did when E. R. Burnham was alive. “How’s Emily?”
“Considering what she’s been through the past couple days, she’s extremely chipper. Thought I’d give her a little time to look the house over.”
Richard nodded. “She’s one of a kind. A fine little lady.” He lifted the palomino’s saddle and set it in the corner with a grunt. “How goes the manhunt?”
“I’ve got him locked up,” Matt replied as he removed Arapaho’s damp blanket. “Just a matter of gathering the final proof.”
Crabtree grinned, looking cautiously optimistic. “Anybody we know? Or is it some renegade miner with a grudge against Elliott?”
For a moment McClanahan was tempted to reveal the irony of those questions, but he decided Emily should have the privilege of discovering the truth for herself, rather than hearing the hands talk about it. “All in good time, Richard. Till I get a bullet or a confession—or both—I can’t leave anything to chance.” He smiled apologetically, but he could tell the foreman wasn’t satisfied with his reply.
“Have you told Emily how you came to be involved in this whole business?”
McClanahan looked directly into Richard’s hazel eyes. “No—but not because she hasn’t asked a dozen times.”
“Feisty little thing, isn’t she?” he said with a chuckle.
Matt smiled slowly, and decided Crabtree could be trusted with a confidence of a more personal nature. “I’m going to ask her to marry me when this investigation’s wrapped up. Till I do, though, I’d appreciate you holding your tongue.”
Richard raised his bushy eyebrows. “Don’t keep her in the dark too long, McClanahan. She might backfire on you.”
“True. Emily’s got a mind as quick as wildfire and a temper to go with it.” He forced his thoughts away from her soft golden hair and delightful smile, clapping the foreman’s shoulder as they walked toward the sunlit door. “Come visit with her, if you’ve got a minute. After all that’s happened in Cripple Creek, she’ll be glad to see a friendly face.”
“She and Idaho don’t get along with Hughes?”
“Oh, that’s worked out—I think Silas is more attached to her than he’d ever admit,” he replied with a grin. “But Donahue’s caused some problems at the Golden Rose, and then yesterday one of the miners left her down in an abandoned shaft after he figured out who she was.”
“Jesus. You better close this case pretty fast,” Crabtree said in a low voice.
“Yeah.” As they walked toward the main house, Matt looked for Emily on the second-story widow’s walk and along the spacious front porch. “But what if she just hands me my check and goes on her way? Plenty of Elliott’s friends would do a fancier job of courting her than I can.”
Richard chortled. “Surely a good-looking chap like yourself isn’t having trouble with Emily. She’s so ripe she’s ready to fall off the tree.”
Stepping up to the porch, Matt eyed him cautiously. “I’m not going to rush her while she’s still mourning her father. Emily’s in no danger, now that our killer’s under lock and key, and I want to be damn sure I do things right this time around.”
He opened the door and walked into the parlor, followed closely by the foreman. Once again McClanahan was impressed by the tasteful masculine lines and colors of the Burnham residence, and his eye lingered on a large portrait above the fireplace, of a woman with red-blond hair and a faraway smile. “Emily certainly favors her mother. She’ll be every bit as beautiful when she gets older, too.”
“I beg your pardon. I’m accustomed to being told I’m beautiful now.”
When he saw Emily grinning impishly in the doorway of her father’s study, he knew she’d come to terms with whatever doubts she’d had about returning to an empty house. “That’s because Idaho’s half blind and Silas isn’t tired of you yet,” he teased. “Personally, I prefer a woman who’s all ribbons and lace, and who keeps her pinkie pointed over a teacup.”
Crabtree laughed as he looked at Emily’s overalls. “If this is what ladies wear in Cripple Creek, I’m not sure you should go back.”
“Just a gold miner’s daughter,” she quipped. She crossed the parlor and hugged the foreman fondly, then stepped back to smile at him. “Has McClanahan told you we’ve locked Papa’s killer away?”
“He mentioned it, yes,” Richard replied in a careful tone. “Says it’s only a matter of presenting some evidence.”
Emily nodded. Matt had obviously revealed his identity and told Richard his real reason for his previous trip to the ranch, too, because the men appeared quite comfortable in each other’s company. “Any problems with the roundup while I’ve been away? I’ve missed riding the range with you and the men…and Papa.”
“I’ve heard a few questions, but nothing pressing.” The stocky foreman smoothed his sandy curls as he looked from her to Matt. “We’ve found no evidence of any rustling lately either. The men’re wondering how long you’re planning to stay in Cripple, because guard duty gets a bit tiresome when there aren’t any suspects coming around.”
“Maybe a bonus will keep them interested. The profitable year we’ve had certainly merits one, and I appreciate their extra efforts.” Emily smiled, then took hold of Crabtree’s leathery hand. “I couldn’t have done this without your help, Richard. I’ll order the lumber for your new house while I’m here. Once the hands finish the fall herd work, building it will keep them occupied until we can wrap this murder up. It shouldn’t be long now.”
He squeezed her hand hard before letting it go. “How’s Idaho?”
“Some days are better than others. He’s a sad old man, Richard.”
They were silent for a moment, until the foreman brightened. “Well—I’ve got chores, and you folks probably want to get, uh, settled after your ride. I think you’ll find everything’s in good order, Miss Burnham.”
As they watched the curly-headed foreman step off the porch and head for the stable, McClanahan slipped his arm around Emily’s shoulders. “Are you as contented as you seem, or was it an act for Crabtree’s sake?”
“As much faking as I do in Cripple, I refuse to play a role here,” she replied in a low voice. “I’m fine, now that I’ve been through all the rooms. It’s still home, Matt. Even without him.”
Noting the dried tear-streaks on her dusty
cheek, he smiled and tweaked her nose. “May I give you a bath, Miss Burnham?”
Emily studied his virile face, a grin playing at the corners of her lips. “Only if I can return the favor. You smell like a horse, McClanahan.”
“Is that so terrible?” He pulled her close, letting his hands wander to the curve of her waist and beyond. She was gazing up at him, tousling his hair, wearing a smile that threatened to turn him inside out.
“Not terrible at all,” she murmured. “I’m very fond of horses. But I’d never sleep with one.”
“Will you sleep with me?”
Emily nodded, her pulse quickening.
Matt kissed her willing mouth, tasting dust and salt and the sweetness that could only be Emily’s. “Honey, the only thing I’ve been able to think of lately is making love to you,” he murmured. “And I’ve finally got you all to myself.”
Emily sucked in her breath when his hand slipped beneath her overalls. “Who said anything about making love? I thought we were taking a bath.”
“You ornery little—” He kissed her hard on the mouth, and her eager response made him wonder if they’d make it up the stairs. “Why don’t you pick out a dress to wear tonight, while I get the water ready? It’ll be nice to see you in pretty clothes, even if I don’t leave them on you for long.”
Emily went to her room and chose a dress the color of Matt’s eyes, with more ruffles and lace than she cared for—until he’d said he wanted to see her in them. She stripped down to her underwear, then stood before her mirror to pin her hair on top of her head.
When she returned to the bathroom, steam was rising from the tub and Matt was shaving—naked, as he’d been the first evening they met at the Rose. But rather than frightening her, his powerful body fascinated her this time. She perched on a stool to watch him scrape the last of the lather from his neck. “You’d look good in a beard, McClanahan.”
“You think so?” He grinned and rinsed his face. “I’ve grown one a few times, in the winter. But I didn’t want to give you whisker burn tonight.”
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