Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “So what’ll you do now?” the foreman asked quietly. “I thought you and Emily made the perfect pair, and that you’d—”

  “Well, we both thought wrong. I intend to finish the job I was originally hired to do, and then get the hell out of anything that involves a Burnham.”

  Crabtree opened the door to the barn and held it while he and Arapaho passed between the dim stalls. As Matt uncinched the saddle, Richard tossed a fresh bale of hay into the manger. “You don’t impress me as a man who lets his woman run off,” he commented with a wry smile.

  Matt snorted. “She hasn’t seen the last of me, Crabtree. I’m going after the evidence we need to prove who killed her father—and after I deliver it, I intend to watch every stroke of her pen as she writes out my paycheck. Wasn’t going to charge her, when I thought she was somebody I could care about, but now…” He let out a short laugh. “Miss Burnham’s going to pay dearly for my services.”

  He scowled as he piled the saddle and damp blankets in the corner of the stall. The old Matt McClanahan wouldn’t have let a woman weasel her way into his heart, let alone threaten his life. Yet earlier today he’d wanted to ride after Emily to explain about the fire—to make her understand that he’d known her father, and had liked and respected him a great deal. The little vixen probably wouldn’t have listened, set as she was on jumping to conclusions about him being Elliott’s killer…

  “You’d better walk that horse around a bit before he stiffens up.”

  Richard’s voice broke through his bitter, confused thoughts, and McClanahan let out a long breath. “I suppose I’ll be on my way as soon as Arapaho’s caught his breath. Got to see if Sheriff Fredricks still has the bullets the coroner dug out of Elliott, and then convict his killer. After that, I probably won’t be around these parts too often. Nothing here to come back for.”

  Crabtree paled slightly, but he nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As the first streaks of light broke through the cloud cover, Emily awoke. She was shivering and stiff, and her arm muscles ached from hugging herself throughout the cold, lonesome night. Had her feelings for McClanahan altered even the autumn weather when they’d ridden nude in the moonlight? Now, as she rolled up her blankets and took hard biscuits from her saddlebag, the past week with Matt seemed like a dream-turned-nightmare.

  “Good thing I woke up from it in time, too,” she muttered to Sundance. “That conniving cowboy almost had me roped and tied. What would Papa think if he knew I nearly married the man who killed him?”

  The palomino nickered, and Emily swung into the saddle, clucking at him. He, too, seemed drained of his usual energy, so she let him amble along the Gold Camp Road toward Cripple Creek. Before they arrived, she had several puzzles to solve, most of which pertained to Papa’s killing. She’d been so sure Nigel Grath had shot him, yet the blaster’s motive had never been clear. McClanahan certainly stood to gain from her father’s death if he married her…had he and Grath plotted the episodes in Phantom Canyon and the abandoned mine shaft, to make the miner look guilty while Matt sidetracked her by playing the handsome hero?

  Emily recalled the rush of relief she’d felt when she saw McClanahan’s lantern-lit face as he descended into the shaft. What an idiot she’d been, babbling about the darkness and how cold she was—and rats’ tails! Matt must’ve known then that she was desperate enough to fall for the most improbable ploy, and if Papa hadn’t kept her informed about every detail concerning the ranch, she would’ve become the dark-haired scoundrel’s wife. Rat tails, indeed. The only rodent in that inky-black pit was Matt, and he…

  She stopped nibbling her biscuit, scowling. If Grath had intended to frighten her by mentioning rats, why had he talked about their tails instead of their glistening, beady eyes or their vicious teeth? She’d been so afraid he’d rape her, she hadn’t considered how illogical the allusion was. Just as she hadn’t recalled that rat tails were the pieces of fuse hanging down from sticks of dynamite before they were lit.

  Emily urged Sundance into a trot, her stomach tightening. What had Grath actually said when he told her why he didn’t have a lantern? Something like…there was no need for her to see the rat tails. What if the rumors Silas had heard about the Angel Claire being sabotaged were true, and she’d been surrounded by the evidence the whole time she was down there? That particular shaft wasn’t in use anymore, but it did connect to the rest of the mine, and—

  “Oh Lord, Sundance, what if it’s already been blown up?” she whispered as she nudged the horse into a canter. “Hundreds of men could’ve been killed, and here I’ve been letting Matt sweet-talk me into—giddyap, boy. We’ve got to get to Cripple Creek!”

  Her poor horse tried to obey, but after a few miles he was blowing and wheezing. Emily realized he hadn’t rested any better than she had, and as they continued at a walk, her mind raced in frightened circles. What if Silas had been killed in the explosion? The miners would be looking for Matt, and trying to send word to her at the ranch. If anyone thought to question Nigel Grath, he’d probably let out one of his insane cackles and tell the world that he’d shot Elliott Burnham—and that E.R.’s daughter was letting everyone think the heir to the Angel Claire was following him to the grave, when she’d been spying on them for nearly a month. What would her employees do to her when she showed up? What if she couldn’t convince them to clean up the rubble, bury the dead, and go back to work?

  Emily bit her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of blood. This nervous speculation was getting her nowhere, and as the hours and miles went by, she tried to think rationally about how she should act and what to expect when she arrived. Sundance followed the winding stagecoach road at a steady yet frustratingly slow pace, and just beyond Victor she caught her first sight of Cripple Creek.

  From the ridge where she sat to let the palomino rest for a moment, the mining town looked normal, but Emily reasoned that if the Angel Claire had exploded a few days ago, the smoke would’ve cleared by now. She urged Sundance into a trot, her eyes riveted to the horizon.

  Moments later she heard a long, ominous rumble in the distance, and then the earth belched a brilliant ball of flame—on the side of town where the Angel Claire was. Emily’s heart thudded weakly. Unable to take her gaze from the horrible column of fire and smoke, Emily was sickened to think that even if she’d been able to gallop Sundance into Cripple Creek, she would’ve been too late to prevent the disaster. As they plodded along, she imagined the miners’ faces…how many would’ve been down in the mine, never to see the sunlight again? How many widows would she have to console? And what if Silas was lost in the rubble, already dead?

  Clenching her eyes shut, Emily tried to control her panicky thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t the Angel Claire at all—furnaces in homes and businesses exploded now and then, just as the one at the Wickersham ranch had. Or maybe the warehouse that supplied dynamite to all the mines had blown up. They were grisly thoughts, but they kept her from giving in to tears of utter desperation. Had Grath and McClanahan killed Papa and now wiped out part of his legacy, and his partner as well?

  Emily grimaced as Sundance entered Cripple Creek. Fire bells were clanging, and scores of people, horses, and wagons were rushing toward the far edge of town. Black smoke was billowing into the sky, and as she turned her horse down one of the less-crowded side streets, her nose protested at the smell of blasting powder and something she couldn’t identify. She tugged at the reins, her heart stopping. The Angel Claire’s shaft house was engulfed in angry orange flames that threatened the other buildings as well.

  Firemen were battling the blaze as more horse-drawn engines and pumps arrived, and a massive crowd was gathering despite the efforts of Barry Thompson and his deputies to keep them a safe distance from the disaster. Her eyes stinging from smoke and tears, Emily tied Sundance to a post a few blocks down the street and pushed nervously between the murmuring onlookers. If Silas Hughes was hurt—and even if he w
asn’t—it was her responsibility to take charge of the rescue efforts.

  Coughing men with scorched, blackened skin were leading or carrying victims toward the street, where wagons from the hospital were pulling up. Emily searched their faces anxiously as she dodged frenzied firemen. There was Tom Bledsoe, his lifeless form draped over Zach Short’s bullish frame. Two bodies lying in a tangle near the office were missing some limbs; Emily looked away to keep from retching, realizing that the indescribable, inescapable stench around her came from charred flesh.

  At the sight of a slender man in black pants and a torn, bloodied shirt, Emily broke into a run. “Silas! Silas, you’re all right!”

  The mine manager turned, his smudged face lighting up with recognition. “Emily” he rasped as he drew her out of a fireman’s path. “I was just thinking how glad I was that you weren’t here to see—”

  “I was riding in from Victor when it exploded. How many men were down there?”

  “Not the full shift, thank God. Ever since you left for the ranch, we’ve been trying to find where Grath did his dirty work—I was almost convinced he started those rumors just to be sadistic—and now this.” Silas squinted toward the bright flames, sighing heavily. “He must’ve rigged a trip wire somewhere, or else he has an accomplice. The explosion seemed to start in the abandoned shaft where—”

  “It did. When Grath dragged me down there, I thought he was talking about rats’ tails instead of fuses.” Emily winced and wrapped her arms around him as the ore house roof collapsed. “I should’ve known—should’ve been able to warn you about—”

  “You were scared for your life when that maniac kidnapped you.” His arms tightened around her for a moment before he released her, and he scanned the crowd. “Where’s McClanahan? God knows we’ll need him, come time to sort out the bodies and arrange the funerals.”

  Emily’s throat constricted. “He’s not coming back.”

  “What?” Silas stooped, as though the roar of the fire and the shouting around them had kept him from hearing her.

  “I said he’s not coming back. We’ll handle the details ourselves.”

  The gray-haired mine manager scowled. “But we’ve got to have McClanahan—”

  “If you knew what he tried to pull, you wouldn’t say that,” Emily replied bitterly. “We’ll talk about it later. These men need our help.”

  Silas straightened to his full height again, his expression still dark as he studied her. “Put your hair under your hat. Earlier this morning I was asked if Elliott’s daughter was finally taking over his affairs. It seems someone saw you at a party in the Springs this week.”

  She gasped as she wound her hair into a clumsy coil. Surely the men at Taylor West’s hadn’t had time to spread the word about her here in Cripple, and yet…she chided herself once again for becoming so entranced by McClanahan that she hadn’t considered the consequences of being seen with him. “What’d you say?”

  “I denied any knowledge of it, of course. Oh Lord, here come more stretchers.”

  As he hurried toward the men who carried inert, mangled bodies between them, Emily had the overwhelming urge to walk away from the heart-wrenching devastation around her. The flames, which had gutted the Angel Claire’s shaft house, were being contained by the firemen now, but only in the aftermath would they know the toll Nigel Grath’s evil handiwork had taken. She slipped through the crowd to where hospital workers were treating injured miners, and asked where she could be of help.

  All afternoon she bandaged blistered flesh and wiped feverish foreheads. She recognized most of the victims, so her ministrations were all the more difficult to perform. The men who were conscious smiled feebly and called her Eliza—some asked where she’d been the past several days—and Emily realized her deception would have to end soon. Miners who’d given their best years, not to mention life and limb, deserved the truth about the young woman who now employed them.

  As she saw women slump and dissolve into tears when they found their men among the disfigured corpses, she nearly suffocated from guilt. Her story hadn’t caused the explosion of the Angel Claire, but perhaps if she’d announced her intentions to search out Elliott Burnham’s murderer, he would’ve been caught before he could kill so many other good men. It was a heavy burden, and Emily realized she’d be carrying these deaths on her conscience for the rest of her life.

  It was nearly dusk when the fire above ground had been quenched and the firemen were pulling their hoses and ladders out of the main shaft of the mine. Most of the blackened buildings had walls standing, but the report from the rescuers who’d surveyed the underground wreckage was grim. It would take weeks to clear out the debris and rebuild the mine’s network of support timbers, conveyers, and elevators. The crews would be under constant risk of cave-in, knowing that each scoop of dirt could cause an avalanche, or might unearth more victims of today’s infernal blast.

  Women from several churches were setting up tables of food, and ladies from the Golden Rose and other houses on Myers Avenue were passing out cups of hot coffee and sandwiches. The aromas of beef stew and fried chicken made Emily realize how hungry and exhausted she was, but before she could pick up a plate, Silas grasped her shoulder.

  “Let’s go to the house,” he murmured tiredly. “We’ll eat, and I’ll have Idaho tend these burns on my arms. And then you’ll tell me about this business with McClanahan. People are already asking where he is.”

  Emily nodded, dreading the discussion as she shuffled toward the post where she’d tied Sundance. She let the horse plod through the thinning crowd, her hat slung low over her face as she tried to piece together a rational argument Silas would accept. When she approached the house, Idaho rushed out, his expression showing both worry and joy.

  “Miss Emily, these old eyes are mighty damn glad to see you!” he gushed as he took her reins. “I was working on my charts when your papa’s mine went up, and I knew—”

  “Please, Idaho, I’m exhausted,” she mumbled.

  “Why of course you are, child,” he replied with a clutching hug. “Mr. Silas should be out of the tub by now. Let’s make sure none of this blood’s yours, and after your bath you’ll have some of Idaho’s chicken and dumplings.”

  Emily eased out of his arms and looked at her smeared, smelly clothing. She climbed the stairs slowly, relieved to hear Silas moving behind his closed bedroom door. But even as she soaked the grime of the fire away and took her time dressing, she knew she was only postponing the mine superintendent’s heated lecture—a lecture she certainly deserved.

  When she sat down at the table, Silas was finishing his dinner. He set his silverware across his plate with a purposeful air that told her he, too, had been planning what he’d say. His gaze was intent as he pushed his chair back slightly from the table.

  “H-how many men did we lose?” Emily asked quietly.

  Silas cleared his throat. “Eight are dead and seven in the hospital aren’t expected to survive the night. We’ll see how many are unaccounted for when we check the rolls tomorrow morning. Had Grath not let those rumors out, everyone could’ve been killed.”

  She took a tiny bite of chicken, then set her fork down. “We’ll cover the funeral expenses, and the hospital bills. And we need to find out if the families prefer their pensions in installments or lump sums. Papa would’ve wanted it that way.”

  “I’m making those condolence calls tonight,” the man across from her stated. He looked directly into her eyes, letting out a sigh that hinted at strained patience. “My job would be a helluva lot simpler if McClanahan were here, Emily.”

  His quiet, challenging tone made her stiffen. “Well, he’s not.”

  “Was that your choice or his?”

  “What does it matter?” she blurted. “You and I would’ve handled these details had he never shown up at the mine, and we’ll—”

  “But he did, and everyone in town will be expecting him to carry out his managerial responsibilities.” Silas glared, his face g
rowing ruddy. “And how do you expect to be any help? You’ve set yourself up as a cleaning girl and a payroll clerk—or did you forget those roles while Matt was sweeping you off your—”

  “McClanahan’s nothing but a conniving fortune hunter who—”

  “I’d have an easier time believing that if he weren’t a wealthy man in his own right.”

  Emily scowled, her temper rising with her voice. “And all he cares about is adding more to his coffers—annexing the Burnham estate to his, so he’ll own the biggest spread between Denver and Colorado Springs.”

  “If he wants your father’s ranch, he can certainly afford to buy it,” Silas replied sharply. “He has numerous accounts in Colorado Springs banks, and happens to be a silent partner in Taylor West’s brokerage. I have a feeling Mr. McClanahan made you a different sort of offer—”

  “How’d you know all that?” she snapped.

  He brushed his silvery hair back from his brow, rolling his eyes. “I’m not blind, Emily. You both made feeble excuses about seeing to Burnham business when you left, but—”

  “No, I mean the part about the brokerage.” Emily caught a catlike smile, which lasted only a fraction of a second before Silas’s face turned stern again.

  “I did some checking around—something any intelligent manager would do,” he added pointedly. “McClanahan’s business reputation is above reproach. Which means this parting of ways is a personal vendetta, and I’d bet my shares in the Angel Claire that you brought it on.”

  Emily stood up so fast her chair fell over backward. “Are you forgetting who signs your checks now?”

  “How can I?” he retorted. “She’s the naive, immature young woman who got me into this mess! Surely whatever quarrel you had with McClanahan could’ve waited until your father’s murder was cleared up.”

  “What if he killed Papa? He was trying to wrangle—”

  “Emily, that’s preposterous. Everything I’ve learned about Matt McClanahan has overridden my initial doubts about him.” Silas stood, pointing, as if to reestablish superiority over her. “If your father were alive, I’m certain he’d hire Matt as a manager. What I can’t figure out is why a man of McClanahan’s wealth wanted the job of stalking Elliott’s killer…and why the young woman who’d so obviously fallen for him is now acting like a lovelorn ninny.”