Silas paused, gazing solemnly at the crowd. “I ask you to also say a word for Elliott Ross Burnham, founder of the Angel Claire, who was shot in cold blood five months ago. He never saw his assailant, or had a chance to defend himself, and the finest lawmen in the area failed to track down his murderer. The devastation of the Angel Claire has been yet another tragedy for those of us who knew Elliott, but the cloud has a silver lining: when Nigel Grath confessed to blowing up the mine, he also admitted that he shot E. R. Burnham.”
A gasp reverberated through the theater, followed by the hiss of people whispering in disbelief, but Emily barely noticed. Could she maintain the aura Silas had created? Her lips were as dry as parchment and she didn’t realize she had a death grip on the arms of her seat until she saw that her knuckles were blue-white.
“Mr. Burnham’s daughter was instrumental in catching the criminal, mainly because she refused to let her grief stand in the way of justice,” the mine superintendent continued. “Emily Burnham has been here in Cripple Creek this past month, learning her father’s businesses from the ground up, now that she has taken the reins of one of the most prestigious business empires in the West. None of us ever imagined she’d have to assume such responsibility so soon, or that she’d be placing herself in such grave danger, but we are greatly indebted to her for avenging her father’s death and ridding the Angel Claire of a dangerous employee.”
A fond smile lit Hughes’s face as he glanced in her direction. “Please don’t find fault with the way Emily has moved among us, because I felt she would learn more if she were disguised. She’s proven herself a competent partner—never too proud to perform the most menial tasks, or too pampered to work as long and hard as any Burnham employee. Hers was the last loving face some of these miners saw, because Emily was laboring alongside the hospital crews after the Angel Claire exploded, binding their wounds and easing their grievous pain.”
People were shifting in their seats, straining to see this paragon of virtue—and Emily wanted to disappear between the floorboards. Silas had spun a gossamer web, wrapping a blatant lie in the shining illusion of truth so skillfully that even she had been taken in for a moment. But how could she follow his magician’s act? One false word would shatter the fantasy, and all that her father and Silas had worked for would be lost. The deception she herself had started might well bring an end to the legacy she was trying to preserve.
Silas cleared his throat and looked at her again. “I’ve had the pleasure of providing lodging for Miss Burnham and her chaperone, and I’m pleased now to introduce this lovely young woman for who she really is. I beg your indulgence and respect for her feelings, as she’s been under considerable strain since the explosion and Grath’s confession. Many of you will recognize her…as the payroll clerk at the Angel Claire, and as the chambermaid at the Golden Rose. Emily?”
His arm was extended toward her and his smile overflowed with gentle concern, but it was all Emily could do to stand up. Her knees wobbled as she walked, and with each step she had the horrible feeling that she was about to throw up or collapse or cry—or all three. Grasping the wooden lectern for support, she looked through her black lace veil at the sea of faces. Her vision blurred for a moment. Where was the courage and pluck Silas had spoken of, now that she needed it most?
Emily cleared her throat, wondering if she had a voice. There was Clancy Donahue, wearing a catlike smile as he sat beside Darla and the unpainted Indian Princess. Marshall Thompson was studying her intently from his seat on the aisle. When she found McClanahan, his defiant grin seemed like a challenge from Papa himself. She stood straighter, forcing her thoughts into rational phrases. But when she opened her mouth, all she could get out was, “Please…pray for these miners and their families. And pray for my papa, and for me. Lord have mercy—on us all!”
She was vaguely aware of a hush, and of Silas announcing a stockholders’ meeting tomorrow morning, and of his hand on her back as he escorted her past the curious gazes of people who waited for them to pass. Her father’s partner was silent as he drove them to the house, evidently as ashamed as she was for such a brief, self-centered utterance. Emily hugged her cloak closer around her, shivering with disgrace even after she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.
A pot of soup simmered on the stove—chicken with Idaho’s thick, chewy noodles—yet its tempting aroma only made her cry. She didn’t deserve the old cook’s devotion; didn’t belong on the pedestal Silas had placed her on. Guilt squeezed at her heart, and had demons from Hell come up through the floor to claim her, she would’ve surrendered to them.
Idaho looked up from the clutter of astrological charts spread before him on the table. He stood quickly, wrapping his arms around her. “Missy, don’t fret now. Must’ve been a fierce lot of grievers, to have it at the Grand, and all that crying can be contagious. That’s why old Idaho stayed home.”
Emily sucked in a shuddery breath and clung to him. “Oh, Idaho,” she mumbled. “Silas gave me such a build-up—had the crowd eating out of his hand, and I—I made a complete ass of myself.”
“How can you say that? You were brilliant, Emily. Absolutely brilliant.” Silas slid the pins from her hat and carefully lifted it off, so he could look her in the eye. “Your plea had all the fervor of a convert’s—Idaho, she moved that crowd as Brother Tremont wishes he could. They’ll talk of nothing but Emily Burnham’s piety for the rest of the day. And tomorrow, when you address your father’s associates with your usual sense of purpose, they’ll have nothing but respect for the heir to the Burnham throne.”
Emily blinked, looking from the mine manager to the colored man who held her. “But Silas, we’ve lied. If Nigel Grath told anyone that this was all my idea while he was in jail—”
“I doubt they’d believe it. He was a known addict—a braggart who murdered more than fifteen miners.” Silas’s eyes clouded as he sighed. “I don’t feel any nobler about this deception than you do, Emily. But your father was shot, and we were only trying to protect you while we searched for his killer. Our tales haven’t harmed anyone else…and I daresay you are more capable of carrying on for Elliott, now that you’ve been closely involved in two of his businesses.”
Emily loosened herself from Idaho’s hug. “And I guess there’s no backing out. I knew that when I started this whole mess.”
“It’s almost over, dear. And we’ll see each other through to the end.” With an affectionate squeeze of her shoulder, he looked at Idaho. “I could use a big bowl of that soup, and then I’ll tend to some things in town.”
“It’ll be on the table in just one minute, Mr. Silas,” the cook replied. He went to the stove to stir the steaming pot, and when he saw that Silas had left the kitchen, he nodded toward the cluttered little table. “I’ve been studying our charts, Miss Emily,” he said in a low voice, “and they say you’ve got big secrets and major changes coming your way soon. After you eat some soup I want you to rest, all right? Old Idaho’s counting on you to finish this business in short order, so you and I can go home to the ranch again.”
The overcast October sky hinted at snow as Silas halted the horses near Sam Langston’s bank. Word of Emily Burnham’s heroic efforts had spread quickly through Cripple Creek, and Papa’s investors and business associates were arriving early to get the best seats. The board room would be crowded…Emily breathed deeply, hoping the frosty air would sustain her through the meeting. Once the Angel Claire and the Golden Rose were signed over tomorrow, she’d have no ties here and would close this chapter of her life forever.
But for now, she had to prove herself a competent and trustworthy heir; she had to be alert to false flattery and immune to any praise for catching her father’s killer. And while she refused to apologize for her deception, she couldn’t appear cocky about it either. In short, Emily had to convince Papa’s peers that she was as genteel and ladylike as Victoria Chatterly while being as steel-spined and shrewd as E. R. Burnham himself.
Silas steadied her as he
helped her from the carriage. “Ready for this?” he murmured.
“Yes. It’s time to put the rumors to rest.” She watched the cloaked gentlemen entering the bank, and then straightened her shoulders when a few of them tipped their hats.
“Just do the best you can without upsetting yourself,” her companion said in a low voice. “You look pale today.”
“I feel fine,” she replied with a shrug. “Papa’s friends would be appalled if I didn’t appear to be upset—although it’s certainly not a facade.”
“All the same, we’ll keep the meeting as brief as possible. And the moment I sense you’re faltering, I’m sitting you down. Understand?”
Emily nodded, and then was taken completely by surprise when Silas held her in a tight, silent hug before ushering her toward the door. As they entered the bank’s board room, she saw several men she knew from the Golden Rose and two rows of financiers and mine owners were seated around three sides of the huge mahogany table. They studied her expectantly; some of them wore curious smiles and a few scowled in disapproval. Matt McClanahan sat near the front, talking quietly to Spencer Penrose and his partner, Charles Tutt.
Silas helped her remove her cloak and then sat down beside her at the head of the table. Those who were just now arriving had to settle for folding chairs in the rear of the room, and Emily wished the onlookers would stop filing in so they could get this ordeal started.
McClanahan gave her a tight smile and then nodded at Silas. Did he plan to rescue her by speaking in her behalf? Or was he here to point out the discrepancies in Silas’s glowing funeral speech? Emily clenched her jaw to keep from glowering at the dark, bearded man who regarded her so coolly. His black pinstripe suit was extremely flattering; his all-too-familiar scent of pine and leather drifted her way as the room’s temperature rose. And to make matters worse, his blue eyes seemed to become frostier with each passing moment.
When Silas stepped to the lectern, Emily knew she had to concentrate on him rather than on the distracting desperado in front of her. Once again the mine superintendent’s voice soothed her; Papa’s associates were listening attentively as Hughes recounted his days of partnership and friendship with E. R. Burnham.
“It behooves us all to follow the example Elliott set,” the mine manager was saying. “The Burnham empire was built on a foundation of fairness, mortared with respect for his colleagues and employees alike. Who among us knows when well be called to the hereafter? Will our affairs be in order, ready for the next generation to resume command, as Elliott’s were? I consider it a privilege to carry this proud tradition into the future with his daughter, Emily.”
Emily stood as Silas approached his chair. She clasped his hand, because the burdens he’d borne this past week were now etched plainly on his face. With a calm smile—she’d planned her speech carefully, to include only truth—she looked out over the crowded board room. She felt serenely in control, which was just how Papa would expect her to be at such a time.
“First of all, please accept my thanks for your help when the Angel Claire blew up,” Emily began quietly. “I consider it a blessing that my father didn’t witness the devastation of his mine—the venture he undertook in my mother’s name, to ease his loneliness after her loss.”
She paused, breathing deeply to prevent any quavering in her voice. It was disconcerting to see these men eyeing her so intently…as though she were a prime cut of beef. Emily pushed the thought from her mind and continued.
“My father wasn’t a man who made a big fuss over who his friends were, but he often reminded me that without the faithful interest of his stockholders and investors, none of the Burnham concerns would have gotten off the ground. I appreciated that wisdom while I was working with Mr. Hughes and Miss Chatterly this month, and I’m grateful for your support. Silas will be assuming my shares in the mine—as payment for his loyal service, and so the men at the Angel Claire won’t suffer the indignity of working for a woman. Especially one who wears overalls.”
As polite chuckles rose from the audience, Emily felt her confidence bubbling up. Only a few more sentences and she’d be finished—free from the burden of her elaborate lie, and far from the predatory gazes Papa’s associates were giving her. “And on a more personal note, I want to thank you for making my father’s life a full and productive one. While I realize my method for cornering his killer wasn’t entirely honorable, I hope you won’t—”
She blinked as a prickly wave of heat washed away the rest of her sentence. Sweat popped out on her forehead, and she struggled to ignore it. “…think I’m not fit to…”
The last thing Emily saw before she passed out was Silas’s startled expression as he sprang up out of his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Six
McClanahan came up out of his seat immediately, wincing as Emily’s head struck the corner of the table. He caught her before she wilted to the floor, but her pallor scared the hell out of him. Cradling her against his chest, he fumbled with the tiny buttons at her throat and then ripped two or three of them off in his frustration. “Damn dress is too tight. We’ve got to get her home!”
“Please, let my driver take you,” Sam Langston offered anxiously.
“What in God’s name—? She said she felt fine just before we came in here,” Silas whispered. He slapped her cheek lightly, and then with more force. “Emily, can you hear me? Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
“She’s out cold,” Matt replied. “Or probably out from the heat—must be a hundred degrees in here. She’ll never forgive us if she comes around to find all these men staring at her, after she’s lost control of herself.”
“You’re right. Get her to the house, and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Hughes replied.
Matt lifted Emily’s inert form and carried her out of the board room as quickly as the curious crowd would allow. Langston’s young driver was holding the carriage door open, gaping at the waxen-faced woman in McClanahan’s arms.
“She’s not going to die, like the rumors…”
“Emily? Healthy as a horse,” Matt responded as he stepped inside. “Nothing a dousing of cold water—or maybe a dose of whiskey—won’t take care of.”
The slender colored boy nodded doubtfully and shut the door. A few moments later the carriage lurched and
they were crossing town at breakneck speed. Matt loosened his hold on her, slipping her body onto the seat and resting her head in his lap. Emily’s breathing was shallow and irregular, and she didn’t respond when he called her name. He unbuttoned the rest of her snug bodice, and had to close his eyes to keep a tide of longing in check. Even pale and unconscious, she was the most alluring woman he’d ever held. And as his hand came to rest below her waistband, McClanahan suspected that Emily Burnham’s condition had nothing at all to do with death.
When they arrived at Silas’s, he whisked her upstairs and laid her gently on her bed. Emily’s lips were moving now, and she was moaning softly. “Get her shoes off. Find her a nightgown, will you?” he asked the worried cook beside him.
Idaho’s eyes widened when he saw that McClanahan was peeling Emily’s dress down. “Mr. Matt, I wonder if—”
“Do you want her to be squeezed senseless?” he demanded as he yanked at the stiff fabric. “Look at this! Since when does Emily wear a corset?” He turned her on her stomach to untie the offensive laces, smiling apologetically at Idaho. “Maybe you should brew her some tea. It’ll help settle her temper when she discovers what I’ve done to her.”
With the slightest smile, the old Negro nodded and pulled a pink nightgown from the dresser drawer for him.
When Idaho left, McClanahan finished removing Emily’s dress with one strong tug. Beneath her corset and camisole, angry red stripes marred her delicate skin, cruel reminders of the stays she’d been imprisoned in. “How the hell did you lace yourself up so tight?” he muttered as he massaged her back and sides. She was murmuring incoherently now, so he quickly slipped the nightgown over her head and got her betwee
n the sheets.
Idaho appeared with a teapot and a cup on a tray. “I suppose you two’ve got plenty to catch up on,” he said as he set the dishes on the night stand. He gazed at Emily, who was regaining her color and was nearly awake. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks. I think she’ll be fine now.”
As the colored man limped to the door, McClanahan thought he seemed older, wearier today. He focused on the young woman lying beside him, and decided she’d be more comfortable with her hair loose…or maybe he was just indulging himself for one last time. Her waves spilled over the pillow in a lustrous golden avalanche as he removed her hairpins, and he longed to bury his face in their sweet, clean fragrance. Why was he still a slave to her beauty, after her ruthless rejection at the ranch?
Emily jerked, and her eyelids flew up. For several moments she stared at the man who was seated beside her. Her head was spinning like a lazy top, except for her right temple, which throbbed painfully. She rubbed it, trying to remember…she was in bed, between crisp, cool sheets, yet she recalled faces…men dressed in suits and…she blinked. “McClanahan. Took me a while to recognize you with that beard.”
He smiled wryly. “I grew it to prove a point about—”
“What happened? I remember being at the bank, talking about Papa, when I got so hot I—”
“Take it easy, rosebud. You gave a…memorable speech.” He poured her tea, perturbed for letting such an endearment slip out. Barely conscious, and already she was running at the mouth. She didn’t deserve any mercy—not after the accusations she’d slung at him—so he would simply see that she was all right and then leave, before he became impossibly entangled with her again.
“I feel pretty stupid,” Emily said with a sigh. She took the teacup and saucer, but her hands were shaking so badly she rested the china on her thigh. “Good thing I’d already told those men Silas would be taking over the mine, because by now, they’ve certainly lost confidence in me.”
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