Barry Thompson raised his eyebrows as though he knew something he wasn’t telling. “Well—better see to getting Grath out of here. I’m real sorry about the way things’ve happened, Emily. You and Silas let me know how I can help, all right?”
She’d come this far without giving in to her grief, yet the lawman’s sympathetic voice made her eyes sting. Emily preceded Silas out the front door, blinking rapidly as he helped her into the buggy. A tear finally slithered down each cheek, but she made no effort to wipe her face.
“…drop you by the house before I go to the mine,” the man beside her was saying. “And until we figure out how to tell Victoria about this, maybe you’d better stay away from the…Emily? You’re pale as death. Do you feel all right?”
She let out a shuddery breath and looked away.
“What a stupid thing to say. Of course you’re not all right—your whole damn world’s caved in.” After a moment, Silas’s hand closed around hers and he held it tightly. “Emily, we’ve had our spats but through it all you’ve amazed me, young lady. You’re welcome to stay—”
“Please, Silas, don’t turn into a marshmallow.”
“What?” He halted the horses in front of his house, still grasping her hand.
Emily blinked and smiled ruefully at him. “I’ve made some decisions, Mr. Hughes, and if you act too understanding I’ll get too weepy to tell you about them.”
His gray eyes widened in confusion. “Oh…yes, of course. Shall we talk inside?”
With a demure smile, she accepted his help down from the buggy. They went into the study, and while Emily gazed at Papa’s portrait, silently summoning his support, Silas instructed Idaho to bring them in a pot of tea. The housekeeper seemed to sense their conversation wouldn’t include him, so he excused himself after he filled their china cups.
Silas slipped into the chair behind the massive desk, wearing a pensive expression.
Emily picked up her teacup, and then set it down. “I’m going to see Papa’s attorney, Mr. VanAntwerp, and have the Angel Claire deeded over to you,” she said quietly. “I feel badly doing it now, after it’s been nearly destroyed, but—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Emily.” Silas frowned, making his eyebrows meet. “The mine was named for your mother—it’s part of your father’s legacy, which he intended to pass on to you.”
“Please don’t argue,” she said with a sigh. “The mine would be nothing without your years of supervision and effort. Papa always said so, and I think after all you’ve done for me, he’d want you to have it. I certainly don’t need the income.”
The gray-haired manager took a long sip of tea. “Neither do I,” he admitted. “I’m flattered by your generosity, but—”
“Then take it. I’m not doing you that much of a favor, when you consider the average life expectancy of a gold mine. I’m signing the Rose over to Miss Victoria, too. Papa built it for her, and it’s really not the sort of business I’m cut out for.”
Silas smiled, then he actually chuckled. “I have to agree with you on that point. And in all fairness to Miss Chatterly, we should tell her who you are in person, before she hears it from one of her customers. If you’d like me to call on her—”
“I’ll do it. The deception was my idea, so it’s my responsibility to explain it.” Emily drank deeply of the hot, soothing tea, dreading the moment she had to face Victoria Chatterly. She’d been Papa’s lover and confidante, the woman who’d encouraged him to enjoy investing his money again, and the English Madame’s rare but formidable temper would probably flare up no matter how diplomatically Emily explained her presence in Cripple Creek.
“Perhaps Mr. McClanahan could be persuaded to accompany you,” the man behind the desk said softly.
“No,” Emily insisted. “He tried to trick me, and I won’t tolerate his cavalier attitude any longer.”
Silas cleared his throat as he set his teacup back on the tray. “Is it true that you were out shopping with him, and that you socialized with some of your father’s associates?”
Emily nodded, again disgusted that she hadn’t foreseen the consequences of letting Matt show her off.
“Then let me suggest that you make these arrangements during the next few days, while people are preoccupied with the miners’ funerals. By the end of the week, we’ll have to announce that you’ve been here—”
“I’ll do it.”
Her father’s partner gazed intently into her eyes, inclining his lean frame toward her. “You’re dealing yourself some awfully heavy penance, Emily. Your father always encouraged your independence, but even he would refuse to let you bear this burden alone. I insist on helping you, dear, because Elliott was my closest friend. And because no matter how able you are to manage his estate, you’ll need some…impartial advice and support when eligible men find out you’re back in circulation.”
Emily didn’t lower her gaze—that would be conceding to the earnest gentleman across the desk—but she didn’t protest either.
“It’s settled, then. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
She gave him a wry smile. “I think we’ve covered enough business for one day. And I know you’re wanting to get back to the mine.”
Silas rose with a nod. Was that a trace of wistfulness in his pale gray eyes as he looked at her? If so, it disappeared as he slipped his hat on, and his angular face resumed its usual businesslike expression. I’m sorry McClanahan’s disappointed you, Emily,” he said. “You two were well suited. Even your father would’ve thought so.”
When his footsteps echoed through the parlor, Emily allowed her grief to well up inside her and pour out. She cried silently, huddled in her chair, feeling utterly, hopelessly alone. After weeks of pitting herself against the wiles of her father’s killer, the hardest task still loomed before her. Now that she could tell Papa’s friends and associates who shot him, she had no crusade to occupy her time. A cold, bleak winter stretched ahead of her, when there would be nothing to do except ponder not one but two holes in her heart.
“There now, Miss Emily, you blow your nose into Idaho’s hanky and tell him what’s happened,” the old Negro whispered lovingly. He stood behind her chair, leaning over it to wrap an arm around her as he held the square of crisply-creased linen before her. “Is it true? Did Nigel Grath shoot your papa and my Viry, and then blow up the Angel Claire?”
“He says he did. The marshal’s shipping him off to Canon City tomorrow,” she replied with a hitch in her voice.
Idaho’s hug tightened around her shoulders. “So you did it—you snared the killer. And once the details are ironed out, we can go home again. Get on with our lives.”
Home again…as Emily envisioned the high-ceilinged rooms at the ranch, furnished with their friendly, familiar charm, she knew Idaho was only pretending their days could still have meaning and purpose there—just as she was. Nigel Grath’s confession should have filled her with a victorious thrill: despite a few treacherous twists of fate, the loyal daughter had avenged her father’s death and thereby proven herself worthy to assume command of his empire.
But why did she feel so empty? And why did the blaster’s confession have such a hollow ring to it?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Matt McClanahan tied Arapaho to the post in front of the marshal’s office, gazing intently into the little building through the early-morning fog. All the lamps were lit, but when he stepped inside, Thompson didn’t seem to be around. McClanahan scowled as he walked quickly through the main room and past the empty jail cells. When he opened the door that led to the back alley, two flashes in quick succession made him blink. A pair of photographers adjusted their tripods for another shot, and when Matt saw their subject—an unkempt, skeletal man they’d propped against a hay wagon—he looked again to be sure who it was.
Seeing the glowing tip of the marshal’s cigarette in the deep blue of the dawn, Matt crossed the alley. “What the hell happened?”
Barry let his smoke out in a s
low stream. “Grath braided his bedsheet and hung himself last night.” The marshal studied McClanahan’s face, and then he grinned slowly. “They say a man’s beard grows fastest when his woman’s holding out on him. Or did you lose your razor?”
“Neither,” Matt grunted. “It’s almost winter, you know. Or maybe I’m growing it to prove a point.”
“Uh-huh.” They watched the photographers decide who would shoot first before Thompson spoke again. “Guess you heard about the mine, and that Grath confessed to blowing it up?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s in all the papers—which was one reason I came into Cripple.” Had Emily’s true identity come out in the aftermath of the Angel Claire disaster? Matt decided to steer away from that subject and get right to the reason for his visit. “Where’s Donahue?”
“Victoria bailed him out last night. Seems that for all his faults, he’s the best bouncer she can come up with, so—”
“Thompson, didn’t I tell you to keep him locked up till I got back? He’s a wanted man, dammit!”
The marshal frowned and walked farther away from the photographers, who were eyeing them curiously. “But he’s wanted for crimes he committed before he came to Cripple,” Barry reminded him in an impatient whisper. “If those other states are so hot for him, they can come and get him! My deputies are too busy keeping order around the Angel Claire to be breaking up fights at the Rose, so I put him back to work.”
“What about my work?” McClanahan demanded. “I was gathering evidence that would—”
“Far as I could tell, you were gallivanting around Colorado Springs with a lady friend.” Thompson leaned down slightly, his face hardening with anger. “If Donahue was so vital to your case, why didn’t you have me lock him up a long time ago? And why didn’t you tell me your little blonde was E. R. Burnham’s daughter?”
Matt stiffened and then swore at himself for not catching Donahue on his own—and for getting mixed up in Emily’s harebrained scheme in the first place. “It was for her own protection, Barry. How’d you find out?”
“Grath dropped that bomb when he confessed to shooting Elliott. Silas and Emily were here—asked me not to let that part of the story out to the papers, so they can square things away with Angel Claire employees after the miners’ funeral.”
Matt eyed him intently. “Sort of risking your badge, going along with their lies, aren’t you?”
The marshal glanced toward the photographers, who were folding their tripods, and tossed his cigarette aside. “This all started out as a favor to you, McClanahan. We’re both in too deep to jump out now…and I figure with Grath dead, things’ll smooth out of their own accord.”
He was probably right, and it was pointless to let his frustrations with Emily spoil a friendship that had seen him through some tighter spots than this one over the years. Giving Thompson a friendly slap on the back, Matt felt his anger retreating. “Did they believe his story about killing Elliott?”
“Seemed to. Why?”
He glanced at the departing photographers, a grim smile spreading across his face. “Nigel Grath didn’t shoot him.”
“And just what makes you so sure—”
“Remember a few weeks back, in front of Delmonico’s, when we watched Emily flat-out refuse to marry Clancy Donahue?”
Barry frowned again. “Sure. But that was before I realized she was heir to the Burnham fortune.”
“And now that you know—and you’ve seen how Donahue operates—what do you suppose he’s after?”
The marshal cleared his throat, his scowl deepening. “Then why the hell’d Grath confess to killing Elliott Burnham?”
“Maybe he and Clancy made a deal—we’ll probably never know,” Matt replied with a shrug. “If you rounded up Donahue’s guns, like I asked, we’ll see if these slugs in my pocket fit any of them.”
The marshal’s rugged face paled slightly and he started toward his office. “I’ve got them. When’re you going to tell Emily about this?”
“I’m not.”
Barry’s expression was pointedly grave as he shut the jailhouse door behind them. “Now that Clancy’s out, her life’s in danger, McClanahan. You can’t just—”
“No more than it’s been for the past month,” he said quietly. “Don’t you see? Donahue’s proposals have been a smokescreen, and Grath’s confession’s the perfect cover for him now. He figures that if he marries Emily, he’ll have the Burnham fortune—not to mention her—without having to kill her and attract attention from the law. But she’s too sharp to fall for his cow eyes, Barry. And while she’s stalling him, he’s bound to get mad and tip his hand. So she’ll catch her father’s killer, just as she intended to all along.”
Sliding into the chair behind his desk, Thompson gave him a catlike smile. “If Emily’s so smart, and if she was so fascinated by your company last week, why’d she come back to town alone?”
“Bullheadedness.”
The marshal chuckled softly. “Care to explain that?”
“Nope.” He reached into his jacket pocket for the bullets, avoiding his friend’s teasing gaze. “I was hired to do a job, and I’ll finish it—so Miss Burnham will have the honor of signing my paycheck before I leave her to fend for herself. She had her chance, and she blew it.”
“Uh-huh. That’s how I had it figured.” Barry laid three pistols on his desk: a pearl-handled .38, and two .45 caliber revolvers. “I told Donahue these would stay here for safekeeping, in case he got any ideas about following Zenia and that colored piano player. Think they’re what you’re looking for?”
McClanahan picked up the nearest .45, studying its hammer closely as he cocked it. “Not this one. The bullets I got from Fredricks were nicked, as though the hammer that fired them was bent or…aha—here we go.”
Thompson leaned over his desk to gaze at the second revolver, which Matt had cocked and was now grinning at. “Poorest job of welding I’ve ever seen,” the marshal commented. “I could’ve repaired that hammer better myself.”
“Yep. Too bad he didn’t have a smith—like me—do the work for him.” With a chuckle that made him feel better than he had for days, McClanahan held one of the notched bullets against the faulty hammer. “What do you think, Marshal?”
Thompson cleared his throat. “Out of respect for what Miss Burnham’s been through these past couple days, you and I’ll keep a close eye on Donahue till she and Hughes settle up with their miners. Then Clancy’s mine, whether Emily’s figured him out or not.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
As Emily entered the Golden Rose on Tuesday morning, the parlor reminded her more of a hospital lobby than a bawdy house. Darla and Maria were talking quietly on the sofa while Lucy dealt a hand of solitaire onto a marble-topped table. Their faces were rouged, yet their expressions still held memories of the missing limbs and charred bodies they’d seen after the explosion at the Angel Claire. Clancy gave her a smug smile from behind the bar, letting his gaze linger on her deep blue cape and dress. Except for the sparkle of his catlike green eyes, the house seemed dreary and somber—a grim reminder that the mines gave life to Cripple Creek, and occasionally took it away.
Princess Cherry Blossom looked up from lighting her cigarette. “Eliza! After the way McClanahan waltzed you out of town, I thought we’d never see you again.” She approached Emily with a sly smile. “Did he give you anything to show for your time? Like a ring?”
“No, I’m here to—”
“And he didn’t come with you? I saw him on Bennett yesterday.” The raven-haired woman glanced up and down the street before shutting the door. “I suppose he’s tending to mine business for Silas?”
“No, he’s not.” Emily took a deep breath to settle her nerves. Had everyone in town heard about her and Matt leaving together? And why had he come back to Cripple? “I-I need to talk to Miss Victoria.”
The stripes of red and yellow war paint on Cherry Blossom’s check rose with her eyebrows. “She’s in her suite. She’ll be glad to see you
—mighty quiet around here since the Angel Claire blew up.”
As she crossed the parlor, Emily could feel Clancy’s gaze probing her backside. Her footsteps echoed on the gleaming parquet floor of the ballroom and then she paused in front of the Madame’s door, praying Victoria Chatterly would respond to this confession with her usual gentility. She knocked quietly. After a moment, the silken rustle of skirts approached her from inside the room.
Miss Victoria’s aqua eyes lit up when she peeked out. “Eliza, dear! Come in!” she exclaimed as she swung the door wide. “I was wondering if you and Mr. McClanahan went on a honeymoon instead of seeing Miss Burnham for me. Silas told me you were helping Matt with some business—but you know how Silas has such a modest way of putting things.”
Emily managed a halfhearted smile as she entered the sumptuous pink and ivory boudoir. She had the feeling Victoria wanted to hear every little detail about her week with McClanahan, so she had no idea how to begin her story about the search for Papa’s killer instead.
“Well, you’ve certainly shown up on the tail end of all the excitement,” Miss Chatterly continued. She ushered Emily toward two pink chairs by the fireplace. “It was all I could do to maintain decorum while Clancy was locked up, much as I hate to admit it. Even with Marshal Thompson and Silas stopping in, the customers seemed so unruly. Can you imagine bankers brandishing their fists over a poker game? And then the explosion! I imagine Matt’s help has been invaluable to Silas these past few days.”
“Well actually, he hasn’t been—”
“And isn’t it horrid about Nigel Grath? Blowing up the Angel Claire and then hanging himself. I bet it’s all Mr. McClanahan can do to keep the papers from spicing that story up with some nasty rumors.” The plump Madame perched on the chair across from Emily, fingering her lustrous opal pendant. “And I suppose you realized when you came in that Josh and Zenia are gone. Did Matt tell you he paid for her dresses? I couldn’t bear to make the poor girl stay, anyway. I think they were heading to San Francisco.”
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