Emily’s stomach churned as the news of McClanahan’s generosity sank in. The Madame went on to extol Matt’s numerous virtues, oblivious to her awkward silence. Miss Chatterly’s white hair was swept up with glistening opal combs, and her fuchsia gown put roses in her cheeks. She obviously needed a friendly ear, so Emily nodded during slight pauses in the conversation. She let her gaze wander between the vases of fresh flowers and the intricately-carved ivory figurines hat decorated the mantel. How could she interrupt such gossipy chatter to admit she’d been lying to one of Papa’s dearest friends?
Then Victoria sighed. “It’s probably best that Elliott wasn’t alive to witness this madness. His heart would’ve broken had he seen the disorder here at the lose—not to mention the devastation of his mine. Did his daughter say when she’s planning to arrive, dear?”
Unable to ignore the Madame’s question, or the poignant tone that so clearly expressed her love for Papa, Emily felt her eyes mist over.
Victoria frowned. “What’s wrong, Eliza? I’ve been prattling on and you’ve gotten paler by the minute. Is Emily too ill to leave home, as they say? Has she already…oh my God.”
Emily felt her throat tighten, and her mouth got cottony-dry. When she’d first told Silas about her father’s death, she’d relied on the mine manager’s stoic strength to get her through the difficult conversation; Richard Crabtree and Clancy had been too occupied with the sheriff’s investigation to show their emotions, and Idaho had spared the added weight of his own sorrow by doing most of his grieving for Viry in private. But Victoria Chatterly was the epitome of the feminine graces. Despite her profession, she was a kind, caring woman—upset about Papa’s death, as well as the possibility that his daughter was gone, too—and Emily was overcome by the sudden urge to cry. The devious trick she’d played made these the hardest words she’d ever had to say. “She—Emily isn’t at the ranch, Miss Chatterly.”
The Madame looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
With a shuddery sigh, Emily focused on the marble mantel and tried to put her words in a logical order. “I—I’m telling you this now, before Silas and I announce it to the men at the Angel Claire. McClanahan and I were actually looking for the murderer, and we put him behind bars before we left for the Flaming B.”
Victoria’s jaw dropped. Then she scowled and dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “You’re not making a bit of sense, Eliza. The investigation was called off weeks ago, and—who did it? Was it one of those Denver cattle barons who wanted to take over his ranch?”
“No. Nigel Grath shot him.”
“What? That awful man!” The Madame sprang up to pace before the fire, her porcelain cheeks streaming with tears. “To think that Elliott lost his life to that mangy little…but I still don’t see how you and Mr. McClanahan are involved in this. He and Silas told me—in good faith, I thought—that Matt was Emily Burnham’s business manager. Why would they lie?”
Emily’s swallow clicked in her throat. “This sounds awfully selfish, but I wanted to lock Papa’s killer away while his friends and employees thought I was too weak to take action. When word gets out—”
“You?” the Madame demanded. “Why would Elliott’s death matter to Silas Hughes’s niece, when—”
“That was only a story. Silas’s way of protecting me.” Emily stood up, knowing she deserved every lash of Victoria Chatterly’s tongue. “I’m really Emily Burnham. Elliott’s daughter.”
The Madame stared, her eyes huge and glistening. “That’s the most preposterous tale I’ve ever heard. Elliott raised her to be a lady—didn’t expose her to places like the Rose, and taught her how to run the ranch so she could marry someone worthy of her. She’s polite, and respectful, and…and…”
“And I can see Papa didn’t tell you what a stubborn, impulsive daughter I can be. An heiress who listened only when she wanted to.” At a loss for a way to explain her predicament, she reached for Victoria’s hand. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Miss Chatterly, because I know how much my father cared for you. But I had to find Papa’s killer—figured whoever shot him would come to Cripple to extort money from his mine or the Golden Rose after the sheriff stopped hunting for him. And I had to watch out for myself, too. I’ll be getting all sorts of propositions when word of my recovery becomes public…I couldn’t risk being duped by the man who murdered Papa. Please try to understand.”
“I…I think I do.” Victoria, who had been scrutinizing Emily’s features, took a final look at her profile. “Why didn’t I see it? You look very much like your mother, except for Elliott’s defiant chin. And you certainly have his temperament,” she continued in a thoughtful tone. “And frankly, from what I’ve seen of you these past few weeks, I like the real Emily much better than the sheltered little girl Elliott described. Come here, dear. I think you need a hug as badly as I do.”
Emily stepped into the Madame’s arms, sharing an embrace that nearly smothered her. Miss Chatterly’s pillowy breasts radiated the delicate scent of roses as her body shook with a mixture of laughter and tears. It felt good to release her own pent-up feelings—so different from dealing with men, who kept their emotions in check —and as the last of her tears soaked into Victoria’s pink silk shoulder, she wondered if she was crying only for Papa, or if she was missing the other man she’d lost, too. It was no time to be thinking of McClanahan, but dammit, she could certainly use a dose of his uniquely masculine comfort about now.
Victoria blew loudly into her lace hanky and then dabbed her eyes. “Well. Goodness,” she said with her usual sense of purpose. “What am I to tell the girls? And what about Clancy? The only leverage I had was threatening to report his inexcusable conduct to Miss Burnham, and now…”
“It was his idea to become one of the Rose’s bartenders—he thought he might see the killer, or hear talk of his whereabouts,” she added. Then she smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry I went along with him. It wasn’t my best decision, and you’ve suffered because of it, too.”
The Madame gave a short, sniffly laugh. “We both know there’s no crossing Donahue once he’s set on doing something. What shall I say, then? The girls will sense that my feelings toward you have changed—and I couldn’t think of keeping you on as a maid.”
Emily nodded. “The miners’ mass funeral is tomorrow, and I’ll have to reveal my true identity. The men might walk off the job, unless I can convince them that Eliza was as concerned about their safety as she was her own.”
“You’ve gotten yourself into a sticky situation, haven’t you?” Miss Chatterly asked quietly.
“It would’ve been easier had Grath not blown the mine up. We were on the verge of proving he shot Papa, when…”
Victoria grasped her gently by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Disgusted with herself for weakening, Emily sighed and looked away. “McClanahan was helping me tie up the loose ends, and he—well, I dismissed him. Even accused him of killing my father, which I’m sure now isn’t true. Yet I…I don’t know that I trust him completely, either.”
“Your father taught you well, Emily,” the Madame said with a wise chuckle. “As I recall, Matt couldn’t keep those blue eyes off you for long, and I’m sure he’ll come around again after this business about the murder’s cleared up. Now what was that about the funeral?”
“It’s tomorrow morning at ten. Then Thursday, when the men return to work, I’ll be talking to Papa’s friends and investors, trying to convince them the Burnham enterprises are as sound as ever, despite my method of keeping them that way.”
Miss Chatterly nodded, sighing. “We’ll close the Rose tomorrow, too, out of respect for your father. I’ll want to go to the funeral—so will the girls—and we won’t feel much like entertaining.”
Emily smiled gratefully. Then she noticed the worry lurking in Victoria’s eyes, and sensed the genteel Englishwoman was concerned about her future. “Miss Victoria, I’m deeding the Golden Rose over to you. It’s what Papa intended when he built it.�
��
The Madame’s smile was shadowed by a scowl. “That’s very thoughtful, dear, but I’d feel I was cutting you out of income you may need—”
“Not really. I’ve got the ranch, and his properties in Denver and Colorado Springs.” She laughed softly, looking around the opulent pink boudoir. “And you have a lot more flair for this sort of business than I do.”
The skin around Victoria’s reddened eyes creased with a grin. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the night you ran out with Mr. McClanahan’s clothes!” She stroked the flyaway hairs around Emily’s face. “Whatever you do, dear, I wish you the best. You certainly inherited your father’s pluck, but if there’s ever any way I can help…”
Emily smiled. “The best favor you can do is to keep a close eye on Clancy, and keep my identity to yourself for a day or so.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” The Madame smoothed the bodice of her gown and straightened the delicate gold chain of her pendant, her expression thoughtful. “How do you plan to reveal who you are to the miners, and to your father’s friends? They’ll be a tough audience to play to.”
“I really don’t know,” Emily replied with a pensive sigh. “I’m hoping my luck—and my friends—won’t run out on me when I need them most.”
With eight condolence letters finished and seven more to write, Emily shook her cramped left hand. She and Silas had agreed that her personal notes to the deceased miners’ families, along with their settlement checks, might stem some of the resentment after the men learned who Eliza really was. Would anyone dare denounce her or call her bluff when she, too, had suffered a great loss at the hand of Nigel Grath? Silas planned to explain that she’d disguised herself to monitor her father’s businesses—a task she couldn’t have performed properly had the men known who she was—and she’d managed to flush out his killer after lawmen had given up. Once the miners knew they’d still be working for Silas, at increased wages while they were rebuilding the Angel Claire, they wouldn’t question her motives. Would they?
And what about Papa’s friends and business associates here in Cripple? They’d witnessed or heard about her capers with Matt McClanahan—would they trust Elliott Burnham’s daughter, after she’d posed as a chambermaid in his whorehouse? And once they realized she was taking the reins of his many businesses, would they regard her as his rightful stand-in, or plan to bilk her of her father’s fortune? She took another sheet of mourning stationery from its box, thinking its black border suited her mood perfectly. If she’d followed her instincts and left McClanahan out of her scheme, this web of untruths would be a lot easier to
untangle. And yet…
Someone banged loudly on the front door. Silas was at the mine and Idaho was running errands, so Emily rose from the desk to see who the visitor was. Through the stained glass in the foyer she made out a large, hulking form and scowled. “Is something wrong at the Rose, Clancy?” she asked when she’d opened the door. “I have a hundred things to finish before the funeral tomorrow.”
The Irish barkeep smiled craftily. “I came to offer you my help.”
Emily frowned, wondering if Victoria Chatterly had told him she was in on their secret. “Why now? We’ve been here for more than a month.”
“But you’re ready to let the cat out of the bag,” Donahue replied smoothly. “And when the men around Cripple hear who you are, it’ll be open season on E. R. Burnham’s daughter. Thought you might want be wanting my protection.”
She leaned on the door, noting the deterioration of Clancy’s appearance. His beard was shaggy and his hair curled untidily over his collar. There was a gap where McClanahan had knocked out his gold tooth. He’d dropped his feigned humility, as well as the brogue that sometimes sweetened his speech, and as he returned her scrutiny with pale green eyes, Emily thought he now looked more like a desperado than a cowpoke in city clothes.
“Aren’t you gonna let me in?” he asked pointedly.
She sensed that he had an ulterior motive, and that he knew she was alone. And since Donahue would read any hesitation on her part as fear, she stepped aside. “I’m due at the dressmaker’s soon, so don’t get too comfortable.”
He preceded her into the parlor, looking about with a proprietary air as he sat down on the loveseat. When Emily chose a chair across from him, he barely hid a smirk. “So you and McClanahan parted ways? It doesn’t surprise me that he dropped you, hot as he’s been for the Indian Princess.”
Emily bit back a retort. “I broke off the relationship, Clancy—not that it’s any of your business. Now what did you want to tell me?”
The bearlike bartender settled lower onto the loveseat, chuckling under his breath. “To the men around town, it won’t matter who ended it. You want bachelors your daddy’s age—men who’ve seen you at the Rose—sizin’ you up? When they learn you’re E.R.’s daughter, the fact that you’re young and pretty’ll just be honey on their biscuits, darlin’.”
“That’s ridiculous. Papa’s friends will be too busy watching how I handle his financial affairs to pursue any romantic—”
“And what about the men at the mine? Before tomorrow night, you’ll have fellas every bit as cantankerous as Nigel Grath thinkin’ you just might be their ticket on the gravy train,” Donahue said with obvious glee. “They’ll figure you owe them the pleasure of your company, for disguisin’ who you really were all this time.”
Recalling the insidious little blaster’s leer and his groping embrace in the abandoned shaft, Emily straightened her shoulders to keep from shuddering. “They won’t have that chance, because I’m returning to the ranch the day after the funeral,” she stated firmly. “And it’s because of who I am that I’ll choose who I see.”
“Just like you did with McClanahan?” Clancy’s mocking tone hinted that he knew all about her and Matt, and he studied her with a predatory gaze. “He’s one of the few men who realize how…willful you can be, little girl.”
“I can be very accommodating when the situation calls for it,” she replied in a cool voice. Tiring of his game, she looked directly into his glittering eyes. “But I’ve run out of patience with you, Clancy. Especially after the way you treated Zenia.”
“Accommodatin’…” he mused aloud. “I bet I know exactly how accommodatin’ you were when McClanahan was sweet-talkin’ you these past few weeks. Some men don’t cotton to a woman with a mind of her own, but some of us find the challenge terribly…excitin’.”
Emily suddenly realized that there was no hope for rational conversation here—Clancy Donahue had his own agenda, and he would ignore her words whenever he chose to. Threatening to fire him wouldn’t bother him either, because he’d be free to harass her any time he wanted to. Changing her strategy, Emily folded her hands in her lap. “I…hardly think this is the proper time to discuss such matters, Clancy,” she said as she widened her eyes with a coy smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I’d rather wait until my business here is finished—”
“Nope. By tomorrow night, too many other men’ll be tryin’ to stake their claims.” The beefy Irishman scooted to the end of the loveseat closest to her, grinning possessively. “You may not love me the way I love you, Emily, but you need me. There’s not a man in this town who’ll bother you if I’m your bodyguard. Your close, personal companion.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! No one’s going to threaten my life at the funeral or—”
“Don’t be so sure. Grath was about the craziest little bastard we’ve ever met up with, but he’s not the only man with a grudge against your daddy.” Donahue’s mustache twitched with his grin. “And these men may not take kindly to learnin’ they’ve been tricked by a woman—a girl, yet.”
“I don’t intend to tell them,” she said, rising to emphasize her point. “I suppose you do?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered with a foxlike smile. “But when they, or your daddy’s banker friends, realize how sneaky you can be, they’ll watch you real close, little lady. Probably never trust you
again.”
“I’m giving them no cause for alarm,” Emily informed him. “The Angel Claire will be in Silas’s name before the week’s end. They’ll never feel they’ve been taken over by a woman, because they won’t be.”
Clancy scowled. “Your daddy intended to pass the mine on to you—in your mama’s memory—just as he considers the Golden Rose your namesake. You’re not signin’ that over, are you?”
“It’s my property. I’ll do as I see fit.”
“But it’s bringin’ in—”
“Mr. Donahue, you’re my employee, the same as Silas and Victoria,” she said tersely. “But they have the common sense and the courtesy not to tell me how to conduct my affairs.”
The red-haired Irishman rose to the full, Goliath height that made him a respected man in Cripple Creek. His smile barely disguised his contempt for her. “And which one of them can protect you the way I can? Which would be the husband your daddy would’ve picked?”
Matt McClanahan, Emily thought weakly. She watched Clancy approach, wishing Matt would rush in from the kitchen as he’d done before—wishing she hadn’t given Donahue the advantage by losing control of her tongue.
“Your daddy talked to me about that very subject, you know,” the bartender said in a snakelike voice. “He may be dead, but I don’t intend to ignore his final wishes.”
“Neither do I,” she mumbled. She could never give her affections to the bestial man advancing on her, but she knew her objections wouldn’t matter. Clancy would take what he wanted, as his due for having kept her secret. Emily took a step backward, and then another. “What’s the point in this? We both know you could overpower me with one hand tied behind you.”
Clancy laughed, and didn’t answer until he’d backed her against the parlor wall. “Not so brave without McClanahan around, are you, little girl? I saw the woman he brought out in you, Emily, and I want her. Every soft, delicious inch of her.”
Colorado Captive Page 26