She caught the scent of whiskey, and his perfumed pomade didn’t mask the odor of his unwashed hair. His hands kneaded her shoulders briefly before fumbling with her breasts, and it was all she could do not to kick him. “Clancy, please don’t—”
His mouth slid wetly over hers. He pressed her to the wall with his undulating hips—an awkward move for a man his size—and she thought she’d smother beneath his overbearing bulk. Emily pushed her palms against his chest, trying desperately to free her lips from his sour, cowlike kisses. Were those footsteps she heard, or just the rapid hammerings of her heart?
“Darlin’, take me upstairs,” her captor said with a moan. “It’s been so long since I had a woman. I thought of you the whole time I was in that damn jail, and—”
The front door flew open and someone rushed into the parlor. “What the hell’s going on here? Donahue, get out of my house.”
The bartender sneered. “I was invited—”
“I doubt that,” Silas snapped. His gray eyes flickered briefly to Emily before he reached for Clancy’s thick forearm. “Let her go. She’s not some loose woman at the Rose you can paw at whenever you feel like it. Get back to work, Donahue.”
“And what if I don’t?” The Irishman grinned with leisurely contempt. “You gonna strong-arm me, Silas? Gonna risk hurting Emily just to prove what a man you are?”
The mine manager stepped back to pull a pistol from inside his coat, cocked it, and took aim. “I could blow your brains out without the least threat to Miss Burnham, tall as you are. Now move.”
With his hands raised in a mocking gesture of submission, Donahue took a few steps away from Emily. “What brought this on, Hughes? We’ve gotten to be pretty good friends since—”
“I’ve tolerated your insolence because I had to, but no longer,” Silas replied stiffly. “And I suggest you
make plans to leave Cripple Creek after the funeral, Mr. Donahue. Go on—get moving.”
Clancy let out a derisive chuckle and lumbered toward the vestibule, with Silas following him. “I’ll be seeing you, Emily. Just like we planned,” he called out as he opened the door.
Emily moved away from the wall, taking quick, uneven breaths as she smoothed her crumpled blouse. She could still smell Clancy’s hot foulness; still tasted stale whiskey when she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Silas came back into the parlor, studying her as he laid his revolver on the mantel. “Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice. “I had no idea that ape would come here, or I’d have told you to go with Idaho. From here on out, I don’t think you should be alone.” He hesitated, then straightened her collar with tentative fingers. “What did he want?”
“He thinks I need a bodyguard,” she said with a wry laugh. “And of course, he thinks he’s the man for the job.”
Holding her gaze with eyes that were a surprisingly pretty pearl gray, the mine manager shook his head. “I didn’t mean to overstep by telling him—”
“You said exactly what I wanted to, but didn’t dare. We’ve had our differences, Silas, but I’ve never been so damn glad to see anybody as when—well…” Emily’s voice trailed off as her father’s partner continued to gaze at her. “I suppose I should tidy up before we go see Mrs. Delacroix.”
He glanced at the loosened hair around her face, and then he resumed his normal distance from her. “I thought perhaps, since Idaho’s been out all afternoon, we might eat dinner in town. If that’s acceptable to you.”
Emily was at a loss for a moment. “I—certainly. I’ll change into a better dress and be back as fast as I can.”
“Fine. I’ll wait in the study.”
What was Silas up to? Emily thought back over their brief conversation as she hurried upstairs to her room. She’d accepted his escort to the dressmaker’s without a second thought, because she needed an appropriate outfit for the funeral. But that was business—they were partners who had to support each other’s roles and stories. Yet she couldn’t translate the rare glimmer she’d seen in Silas Hughes’s eyes just now. Was it fatherly concern, or something stronger? As muddled as her emotions were these days, it was safer not to speculate about him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Casting a critical eye on her reflection, Emily turned before the triple mirror in the dressing room. The black gown was simple yet elegant, its unbustled skirt and fitted bodice more confining than she was used to—or had Mrs. Delacroix unintentionally sewn it on the snug side, because she’d never made clothing for her before?
“If you’re presentable, Mr. Hughes would like to see you, chérie,” the dressmaker’s lightly accented voice came through the door. “And we should choose a hat now, so I can stitch on the veil.”
“All right…coming.” With a slight scowl, Emily tugged at her waistband. She stepped into the main salon, where colorful bolts of fabric were stacked on the shelves, and the seamstress’s assistant was making the sewing machine whir on a mourning ensemble for someone else. Prudence Spickle, the dour hostess of the Delmonico restaurant, was fingering cloth near the rear of the shop. Mrs. Delacroix was listening to Silas, her russet bun quivering slightly as she took in the details of the explosion’s aftermath.
“Who could imagine such sordid goings-on? Quelle horreur,” she clucked softly. Then she gave Emily an appraising smile. “The dress suits you, yes?” she asked as she smoothed the folds of its black skirt. In a whisper she added, “Perhaps a light corset—”
“No thank you,” Emily replied with a polite smile. As she turned before Silas, the bell on the door tinkled and
someone entered the shop behind them. She studied the mine superintendent’s reaction to her dress, which vas hard to gauge. “It makes me look anemic, doesn’t it?”
“A little,” Silas said as he walked around her. “But it’s no wonder you’re pale, after the fright you had this afternoon.”
“Takes more than Donahue’s bullying to scare me,” she answered with a snort. “Black just isn’t my color. Too severe.”
“I agree completely,” someone said from the corner of the salon. “Scarlet sets off your complexion. Suits your temperament better, too.”
Emily’s heart pounded as she turned to stare at Matt McClanahan. He was wearing a brown suit that accentuated his dark features, and the beard that framed his face was just long enough to curl. He held her gaze sternly for a moment, until a slow, sensuous smile lit his eyes. “My condolences for your tragic loss, ma’am,” he said suavely. “If I may be of service…”
Emily whirled around and walked quickly to the back of the shop, her thoughts in a jumble. Was it McClanahan’s brash insinuation that irked her, or was it his dark beard that reminded her of the Devil himself? She picked up one pair of black gloves after another, trying to catch her breath. They’d been apart only a few days, yet it was as though the hours they’d spent making love had never existed—or at least she wanted to deny the havoc Matt was wreaking upon her mind and body. Vaguely aware that Miss Spickle was only a few feet away, Emily set the gloves down with deliberate firmness and turned her attention to a bolt of black ace.
The spinster held up a length of gray flannel, and hen laid it down to run a scarecrowish hand over some dun-colored wool. “What do you think?” she asked in a thin whisper. “I need a new dress and I just can’t decide on a color.”
Emily glanced quickly at Miss Spickle’s choices, regaining her composure as her answer came to mind. “Why not ask Mr. McClanahan?” she said lightly. “He’s always impeccably groomed, and he certainly has an eye for ladies’ clothing.”
Prudence blinked, and then her face brightened with a tremulous grin. “You’re right. And he’s gentleman enough to be honest without being blunt.”
Watching the woman approach Matt, Emily couldn’t help smiling. And when McClanahan listened to Miss Spickle’s stammered request for his opinion, his expression made her choke on a laugh. He scowled pointedly at Emily, but she ignored him by selecting a small black hat and ha
nding the lace to Mrs. Delacroix before disappearing into the dressing room.
When she returned to the main salon, Prudence was giving a detailed description of how she wanted her new dress designed—from the gray flannel McClanahan preferred—and Matt had no graceful way of escaping the spinster’s spirited discussion. Emily caught a flicker of promised revenge in his eyes as she and Silas carried her new clothes to the door. She smiled sweetly at Matt, feeling better than she had since she’d returned to Cripple.
“That was a nasty thing to do, Emily,” Silas commented as they placed the dress inside his carriage. “Once that outfit’s made, Prudence will parade it in front of him until he’s forced to compliment her on it. And what can you say about a woman who’s built like a sack with most of the potatoes missing?”
“Why, Silas,” she replied with a giggle, “I never realized you noticed such things.”
The man beside her grunted as he steered her down the sidewalk. “I’m not the dried-up old bachelor you take me for. I merely keep my conquests to myself.”
Emily didn’t comment—she was too busy wondering why her father’s partner was revealing more of himself these days. His hand rested lightly on her elbow as he ushered her into the New Yorker, a restaurant frequented by the elite of Cripple Creek. He seated her with practiced ease, at a table set with elegant Irish linens and glistening crystal, before giving her a smile that rivaled McClanahan’s handsomest ones.
“What would you like tonight, Emily?” he asked as he sat down across from her. “It’s a rare treat to escort such lovely young woman, and I hope you’ll take full advantage of the situation.”
Emily looked into his gray eyes for a moment before lowering her gaze to the menu to hide her astonishment. Silas Hughes—the stern, pepper-haired mine manager—was flirting! “I—why don’t you order for me? You’re probably familiar with the chef’s specialties.”
With a pleased smile, he asked the waiter to bring them a roasted pheasant with new potatoes, and a bottle of a French wine Emily had never heard of. Silas was acting extremely jaunty—buoyant, considering the funeral speech he would have to orchestrate very carefully tomorrow. When he’d approved the wine, he filled their goblets. “Mr. McClanahan was asking about you this morning when I saw him at the bank,” he commented.
Emily coughed as she took her first swallow of the ale, dry vintage. “He probably wants his paycheck.”
“Money wasn’t mentioned, actually. He wondered ow you were standing up under the strain of the past several days. When I told him how we plan to reveal our identity, he offered to speak in your behalf at the—”
“Absolutely not. I’m doing it.”
Silas set down his glass, his face somber. “Emily, you have to consider the miners’ perspective on this. They’re laborers; they’ll accept Matt’s explanation more readily because he’s—”
“This charade has to end, remember?” she said firmly. When she noticed a few of the nearby diners eyeing her, Emily lowered her voice and leaned closer to the superintendent. “We can’t act as though McClanahan’s going to keep overseeing Papa’s businesses. I’ve had enough of this lying—and I’m perfectly capable of talking about my father’s murder and the way I dealt with it.”
His expression said that he, too, had heard the quaver in her voice, but instead of rebuking her, Silas covered her hand with his. “I’m not denying your ability to carry through, dear,” he replied softly. “You’ve amazed me a hundred times since your father died, but I wish you’d reconsider—allow me to say a few personal words, if you won’t let McClanahan speak.”
Emily sat quietly, surprised at the tenderness she saw on Silas’s face.
“It must’ve been hell to lose your only parent and then stalk his killer after others had failed,” he continued in a whisper. “Personally, I thought McClanahan was just the man to help you bring your ordeal to an end. What has he done that’s so unforgivable?”
Realizing that the manager of the Angel Claire never let a question pass unanswered, Emily sighed and looked away. “He tried to tell me he owns the ranch that adjoins the Flaming B. Says it would be mutually advantageous to combine our properties—when what he really wants is to have Papa’s holdings handed to him.”
Silas sat back, his expression intent. “So he proposed marriage. And you saw it as a trap.”
A sour taste welled up into her throat until she thought she’d strangle on it. It was one thing for Victoria and the Indian Princess to speculate about her romantic involvements, but to have Papa’s exacting, solitary partner read her so accurately was the ultimate embarrassment. “I—I—”
“I’m sorry. It was impolite of me to intrude in such a personal matter, but I am concerned about you, Emily. Perhaps more than I have a right to be.” He smiled gratefully at the waiter who was placing their plates in front of them, his jubilant mood returning. “Well! We shouldn’t let past mistakes ruin our meal. Things will work out.”
Had it been a mistake, running away from Matt? Emily cut into her pheasant, hardly noticing how it fell away from her knife. So much depended on her now: she had to keep her story straight; had to win the confidence of the miners and Papa’s peers, so that Silas could continue to rebuild the Angel Claire and Victoria could get on with her business at the Golden Rose. The burden was suddenly very heavy, and she laid her utensils down. Maybe she should have Silas…or even McClanahan…do all the talking at the service. If the men thought she was behaving improperly— if they detected the least hint of hesitation when she was telling how Nigel Grath had…
Silas gently lifted her chin. His smile was boyish, and his eyes actually twinkled. “Don’t give up, dear—it was just lunatic luck that Grath figured out who you are. Some of Elliott’s closest friends have watched you at the Rose, and they haven’t the faintest notion you’re his daughter. Most girls would’ve cowered in their mourning clothes and resigned themselves to marrying for their own protection, so quit your worrying and work on that speech. I expect nothing short of perfection.”
The hushed tones of “Abide with Me” filled the auditorium of the Grand Opera House while hundreds of mourners found seats. The balconies were crowded, and ushers were setting extra chairs in the aisles of the main floor. Silas had a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he walked Emily toward the coffin-lined stage, yet she was anything but confident. The heavy sweetness of chrysanthemums and roses, shipped in at her own expense, became unbearable as the temperature rose with the Grand’s population. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and her mouth was dry with apprehension as occasional wails broke out around her. Would she be safely anonymous in this crowd until Silas introduced her? Or would she burst out with a distraught confession that would ruin any chance for him, Victoria, and herself to continue operating the Burnham businesses profitably?
The mine manager lowered a wooden seat in the front row and coaxed her into it. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered as he sat down beside her. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be finished with pretending and we can get on with our lives.”
Emily nodded, but his calm wisdom didn’t soothe her. For the first time in her life she felt fat, because the waistband of the black dress was cutting her in two. She could also feel curious stares coming her way—from widows and bereaved mothers, who wondered what right Silas’s niece had to join them in the row closest to the podium. When four clergymen took chairs facing the crowd, the talking stopped. The silence was sudden and complete, without even the creaking of the theater seats to interrupt it.
A pale, cadaverous preacher, Brother Tremont of the Baptist Church, walked to the lectern with his Bible. “Friends and families of our beloved brethren, we’re here to commend the souls of these Christians to their Maker, and to pray for those who weren’t saved when they were called from this Earth.”
Letting her attention drift with the rise and fall of the minister’s dramatic voice, Emily heard his words without really listening to them. He spoke of a fiery fate hotter than the mine’s explosion
for those who hadn’t met the Master, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he told of the glories awaiting the souls who’d been called to their heavenly home. Sniffles were muffled around her, and Emily was glad her veil hid the fright that tightened her own face. Was the oppressive heat she felt a warning—a premonition of the hellfire she’d earned with every white lie and blatant deception of her weeks in Cripple?
She patted her brow with her lace hanky, joining the sigh that echoed around the opera house as the Presbyterian minister took Brother Tremont’s place. Reverend Bailey was soft-spoken, preferring to recount the virtues of the miners who’d belonged to his flock, and Father Flaherty’s Latin intonations had her thoughts flitting between how she’d answer these people’s questions, to how badly she wished she were at the Flaming B right now. Had the Methodist minister spoken? He must have, because suddenly Silas was approaching the podium and her stomach was lurching once again.
“As I look at these caskets, and reflect upon the unspeakable loss they represent, mere words can’t express my admiration and respect,” he began quietly. “These fifteen miners risked their lives every day they reported for work, and spent their final hours searching for the explosives that could’ve killed every employee of the Angel Claire Mining Company. It was the ultimate sacrifice: greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for a friend.”
His eloquence made Emily’s eyes prickle. The audience leaned forward to catch every word, holding its collective breath as he spoke to the deepest, most elemental core of their humanity. Never had she imagined Silas Hughes as a skilled orator, yet he tugged at their heartstrings as masterfully as any angel ever stroked a harp. His turn of phrase was powerful in its simplicity and he quoted familiar passages of Scripture that pertained to life in the present rather than the uncertainties of the hereafter. People were crying silently, too moved to mop their faces.
“And while we pray for the souls of our sons and brothers, husbands and friends, it’s only fitting to plead in behalf of the three men who remain buried somewhere in the wreckage. It’s my first concern to find them now, and I’ll expect my crew to work as quickly as is prudent to recover their bodies.”
Colorado Captive Page 27