Dreams of Gold

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  At that thought, he glanced at her dark pink lips drawn into a tight line, and he cursed himself for being ten kinds of a fool. He couldn’t remember ever being thwarted by a woman. Time to change tactics.

  The waitress set down his pie and coffee and cleared away Ciara’s empty bowl.

  “Thank you, Betsy.” He looked at the pie and then at Ciara, who still fumed in his direction. Not matter his irritation, he’d been raised with good manners. Holding his fork poised above the sweet treat, he asked, “Care for some? I can vouch for how tasty Mollie’s pies are.”

  She shook her head, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve had quite enough…thank you.”

  Lowering his fork, he dug into the spiced apples and flaky crust, finishing the dessert in a half dozen bites. Only after he’d drunk half of his coffee did he look back across the table. Somewhere around his third bite, he’d heard the soft impatient tapping of her shoe against the floor. “Ready to answer my question?”

  Her spectacular green eyes flashed as if lit by an inner spark. Cheeks flushed, she braced her hands on the table, her heightened emotions causing her to breathe deeply. “Ready to tell me how to locate Shamus Mulcahy?”

  Jaw clamped, he looked away, avoiding the distraction of rounded breasts straining the buttons of her bodice. He glanced at the nearby tables to see if anyone sat close enough to overhear their conversation.

  Quinn was well aware the man she sought had made a passel of enemies in this town. This morning, Ciara’s inquiries had already raised the hairs on the necks of several people—business owners and influential citizens, people to whom he had a sworn responsibility. A responsibility he intended to honor by tracking down the man who had swindled these honest, hard-working citizens. The image of his parents who ran the mercantile and struggled to put aside money for their old age strengthened his resolve. He would get to the bottom of the gold mine swindle.

  A chair scraped against the wooden floor. With swishing and rustling, she gathered her skirts and stood. Straightening to her full height, she looked down her nose and spoke. “If you will not help me, Sheriff Riley, I intend to speak to every person in this town until I find someone who will.”

  Damn. The exact circumstance he couldn’t allow. If she started talking to the townspeople, she’d get the town whipped into an uproar that would take all his time to settle back to normal. He halted her escape with a firm hand on her arm, gritting his teeth against the warmth that shot through him at the physical contact. “Miss Morrissey, I’ll tell you what you want to hear. Sit down.”

  Brows pinched over her nose, she stared, foot tapping, then her gaze went to his arm detaining her exit.

  Forcing a tight smile he didn’t feel, he dropped his hand to his side. “Please.” Pure instinct told him a fast-talking Irish dandy selling certificates in a phony gold mine, an Irish gambler caught cheating at poker, and a well-bred young lady, a lady with a definite Irish accent, all passing through a sleepy frontier town within the span of a few months could not be a mere coincidence.

  So far, he hadn’t put together the pieces. But he would. He just needed more time to figure out how all three fit into the gold mine scheme. When he did, he might accomplish the task that would put hope back into his mother’s eyes.

  Ciara’s eyes lit, and she dropped back into her chair then bobbed forward. “You will? Where might I find his office? Have you seen him in town lately?”

  “Office?” The woman was sorely mistaken about the caliber of man she sought. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as her earlier comments indicated. Maybe if she learned about the man’s reputation, she would leave off trying to locate him. “Shamus Mulcahy isn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill businessman.”

  “I certainly do not understand the disdain in your voice, sir.” Her face clouded into a frown and her posture stiffened. “I have received a letter that details his mining ventures and the numerous plots of land he owns in this region. Surely a man of such substance has a place of business where he conducts his affairs.”

  A letter…interesting bit of information. Quinn leaned back in his chair and crossed both arms over his chest. “If Mulcahy has a ‘place of business’ as you call it, look to the building directly across the street.”

  “Oh, so close?” She half rose from her chair, craning her neck to look out the front window, and then looked back in confusion. “All I see is The Red-Eye Saloon. Are there rooms upstairs that are rented out?”

  “There are.”

  “Which one is his? Do you know the number?” Her words tumbled together, and her eyes glowed. “I’d like to see him as soon as I can.”

  For a moment, the green fire directed his way distracted him, and he wondered if that was the color her eyes turned after a passionate kiss. Desire swirled in his gut, and he shook his head to dispel his wayward thought, knowing he couldn’t let this strange attraction keep him from his duty. Especially after what he’d found along the road outside of town. “One problem.”

  “A problem? What’s that?”

  “Those rooms”—he drew out his answer, carefully watching her face for a response—”they aren’t rented for the kind of business Mr. Mulcahy was involved in.”

  Her hands fisted on the table, and her lips pulled into a tight line. “You said you would tell me where I might find him.”

  “I did, and I will. In my own way.”

  She huffed out a loud breath. “Are you being vague on purpose?”

  “Never said he had rooms there. I said he conducted his business there.”

  “You mean, downstairs in the saloon? What kind of business is conducted—” Her eyes widened and her mouth slackened. “Oh.”

  At the first sight of her devastation, he regretted the game of cat and mouse he’d been playing. The dullness filling her eyes and the despair crossing her face shot him through with guilt.

  With most people, his roundabout way of divulging information forced them into saying more than they intended, and he then learned what he was after. He was real sorry she’d traveled this far only to hear this acquaintance was not a gentleman. Maybe now she’d take the next eastbound stage back to where she’d come from, and he could forget her green eyes and ready smile.

  And he would…eventually.

  “I have no wish to risk a social faux pas like earlier this morning. May I ask if women are allowed in the saloon?” She glanced at her lap and then raised her gaze to taunt his. “Or do I send someone inside to tell him I wish to speak with him?”

  For a moment, the words refused to come out of his mouth. What kind of woman wanted to meet such a man now that she knew his reputation and the facts of his habits?

  Quinn raised a hand to his shirt pocket, and the soft crinkle of paper reached his ears. Unless she was Mulcahy’s accomplice. Like the scraps of a letter he’d found stuck in a tumbleweed this morning hinted. “You won’t find him there. What’s so important that you have to see this man?”

  A sigh sounded. “Are we back to that question again? I thought I made it clear the matter is none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What did you mean when you said I wouldn’t find him there? Do you know where he is right now?”

  “Maybe.” His purpose wouldn’t be served to tell her tracking down the man in question had been his sole preoccupation for the past two months. “Answer my question.”

  ****

  Blood pounded in her ears. Ciara had reached the end of her patience and fought back a scream of frustration. This arrogant man’s refusal to give her the information she desired infuriated her. His half-answers and vague statements only served to spin their conversation in a confusing circle. “Why is that your business?”

  He cocked one eyebrow and leaned his forearms on the table. “I don’t usually encourage young ladies to associate with the likes of wretched men such as Shamus Mulcahy.”

  Wretched? Her mind raced for a response that would
convince him. She needed information Quinn Riley obviously had but refused to divulge. That left following through with her threat to talk to the town’s citizens. Given her earlier experiences, the task might prove fruitless.

  They’d reached an impasse. Neither would be the first to give in.

  She stared into his eyes, and her breath quickened. Even while battling on opposite sides of this situation, she couldn’t deny her attraction to the hard-nosed sheriff. But she had to gain distance from this intriguing man or risk losing sight of her goal. A knot formed in her stomach, and she spoke the words guaranteed to push him away. “What if I said he was my father?”

  The skin around Quinn’s eyes tightened, and his expression set as hard as granite. He rose to his full height, rested his hands on the table, and loomed close. “You’re Shamus Mulcahy’s daughter?”

  Chapter Four

  The iciness of those four words chilled her into silence. Move away from this man’s cold anger, Ciara’s instincts warned. Dash her impetuousness. Mama had always said her fiery temper would lead her into trouble. If only Sheriff Riley hadn’t baited her, she might have taken a few moments to decide how much she wanted to reveal.

  The slap of the sheriff’s hand on the wooden table resounded throughout the café dining room. He reached into a trouser pocket to draw out several coins and tossed them on the table. “Miss Morrissey, please accompany me to my office. The information you desire is there.”

  Relief over his more reasonable tone flooded through her. Finally, the man would share the information she’d traveled so far to obtain. She grabbed her parasol and walked to the front of the café.

  Holding open the door, the sheriff waited, his body rigid and his free hand drawn into a fist at his side.

  Ciara glanced at his face and received no acknowledgment from his hardened expression. The door closed behind her with a decisive snap, and she watched in surprise as he strode past without extending an arm in her direction. She raised her parasol and followed at her own pace, fighting the pinch in her chest at his obvious snub.

  From this angle, she had a good view of the sheriff’s imposing physique as he marched away. Muscular arms churned like the rods on a steam engine’s wheels, causing his shirt and vest to pull tightly across his back. In just a few seconds, his long-legged stride rapidly moved him ahead.

  Other pedestrians glanced his way and scattered from his path. One young girl clutched her mother’s skirts and hid her face at the rapid-fire sound his boots made on the sidewalk. A few brave souls spoke a greeting, but Ciara doubted they received an answer.

  He disappeared around the corner of the barber shop. A few moments later, she stood in front of the half-open door to the jail. Being this close to achieving her goal should have made her feel victorious. So, why had a nervous knot settled in her stomach?

  “Miss Morrissey, please come in.”

  She jerked at the clipped sound of the sheriff’s voice and stepped inside. His voice was firm and calm. If she hadn’t witnessed his bold march through town, she might be fooled into believing he welcomed her presence here in his office.

  Never having been inside a building used to contain society’s criminal element, she looked around in wonder.

  The sheriff lounged against a battered wooden desk on the right side of the office. Two doors led off this room, both closed.

  One she presumed led to the cells, the other probably opened into a small room where she suspected he might sleep. Images of this vibrant man relaxed and at total rest escaped her. Since she’d met him, he’d been constantly in motion—giving orders, searching for clues, seeing to her welfare, but always arguing with her.

  After a moment or two, he cleared his throat and extended a hand. “Would you care to sit?”

  Stepping in his direction, she spotted the chair he’d set across from him and lowered herself to its edge. “Thank you. This condition of being short of breath all the time is a nuisance. I hope you are correct this aberration will pass by tomorrow.” Stop filling the air with nonsensical talk and let the sheriff have his say.

  Without breaking eye contact, he reached with his left hand and grasped a paper from his desk, held it out in her direction, and indicated with a nod that she should take it.

  Irritation at the delay stiffened her movements as she reached for the printed document. At first glance, it resembled stock certificates she’d seen among the sheaves of her grandfather’s legal papers. Certificates that had become worthless by the end of the Civil War. When the truth was revealed, she’d been shocked to discover his political sympathies were with the southern cause. Sympathies that had almost bankrupt the family.

  In irritation, she thrust the paper back toward him. “Why are you showing me this…this stock certificate of some kind? How does this give me what I’m looking for?”

  “Read the whole thing.” His voice was harsh.

  On closer inspection, she read that the paper represented fifty shares in the Prosperity Mining Company dated earlier the same year. The certificate was made out to a Nevin Riley. The letters popped out, and she focused on the last name. Riley? A relative of the sheriff’s?

  “I still don’t understand.” She glanced up, hoping to read a clue in his expression. Nothing.

  “Whose signature is at the bottom?”

  With a growing sense of dread, she looked again at the paper and saw a scrawl that read Shamus Mulcahy. Her hand trembled, moving so much the print went out of focus, and she lowered her hand to her lap. The handwriting wasn’t familiar. This signature looked nothing like the one she’d seen on the batch of her mother’s letters.

  A fact she knew for certain, but one she sensed she would find impossible to prove.

  Mouth drawn into a tight line, his gaze bore into hers. “Do you recognize the name?”

  Now was not the time to appear hesitant. Chin up, she looked into his dark eyes. “Of course I recognize the name, but not the signature. This is not the signature I know as Shamus Mulcahy’s.” That much was the truth. Sheriff Riley didn’t have to know she’d only recently learned to recognize her own father’s signature. “I do not know what to make of this.”

  “Let me provide the background.” He settled himself on the edge of his desk and crossed one ankle over the other. “A smooth-talking Irishman by the name of Shamus Mulcahy came to town about five months ago. He had a sack of gold nuggets he swore came from a vein up Crazy Woman Creek.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t help but sound disbelieving. “There is really such a place named that?”

  He frowned at her interruption. “For years, people in these parts have spun stories about the potential of the rock in that area. All started in ’65 when two prospectors claiming to have struck a rich vein of gold stumbled into Fort Reno. Their story was only a few days’ work garnered them nuggets valued at seven thousand dollars. On their way to the fort, they’d escaped an Indian attack that killed the rest of their company. After wintering at the fort, they outfitted a group of ten men and headed back in search of the lode. They were never heard from again.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, but his gaze never left hers. “The excitement over the strike had died down until Mulcahy’s appearance this spring. He worked the townsfolk into a frenzy of gold fever, took a group of men out to show them the vein, and sold shares in a mining company.”

  To this point, she followed the story but wasn’t sure what had him so angry. Was this the explanation for the reaction of the townspeople? A business deal that wasn’t working out as they’d expected? Her grandparents had spoken often about her father’s grandiose ideas, and his inability to make them succeed. “I understand mining to be a risky venture. Hasn’t the mine produced the anticipated quantity of gold?”

  “The mine has produced nothing. People used their life savings to buy into this company.” He spat out the words, then took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling for several moments. “Mulcahy left with the town’s money, declaring he ha
d to travel east to order the equipment, but never returned.”

  A thief? A knot formed in her stomach. No, surely Mama would have warned her if her father were such a man. A dull pain ached in her temples. “Perhaps he met with delays. As one who has just traveled across the country, I can vouch for—”

  “I don’t need you to vouch for anything,” he snapped, and then held up a hand at her interruption. “He’s been gone twice longer than he said. The townspeople feel foolish about being duped, and angry this man stole their money through this phony mining company.”

  The memory of her grandfather sitting in his study with similar papers strewn across his desk flashed in her mind. He’d brooded over them for days, weeks, until finally he’d told them the truth. She raised the paper in her hand and pointed to the buyer’s signature. “Is this man your father? The one whose name appears on this certificate?”

  The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a short nod. “Pa used most of his savings to buy in. He’s not a young man and may never replace the money.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, and for all of the people involved.” The disparaging tone of his voice indicated his blame extended to her. Ciara’s chest tightened. The situation was so similar to Grandpa Morrissey’s. “But this is not my father’s signature. He writes with a left-handed slant.”

  “Signatures can be easily changed.”

  She’d known the sheriff would not take her word. “If the man were running a scam, why would he use his real name?”

  Pushing away from the desk, he walked with a stiff-legged stride to the back of the office. “You’re avoiding the point.”

  She followed his movements, noting how his strong legs pulled at the fabric of his trousers. Why did this particular man make her heart race? Especially at the most inopportune times. “Excuse me. I don’t see what point you’re making.”

  He paced the short distance between the back wall and the desk. “You show up in town seemingly with no other purpose than to look for a man by the name of Shamus Mulcahy. You insist on keeping your intentions secret. This document—” he flung a hand in the direction of the paper she held “—is signed by that very person. Once you started traipsing around town, asking about the man and how you could find him, you opened the floodgates on a lot of anger. I’m being hit by the results of your actions. And I want some answers.”