by Angel Smits
Dark hair peeked out of his open collar and dusted his forearms. A large, white box fit snugly in his arms—just where she’d been in her dreams. As he bent down behind the bar to set the box on the floor, his jeans pulled tight in all the right places. She leaned just a little farther forward . . . her memories and imagination hadn’t lied one little bit.
Oh, my. Faith failed to breathe and tore her gaze away from the appealing sight before she suffocated.
She knew him. The simple way he tilted his head toward her in greeting. His habit of rubbing his chin as he considered her. Every motion was well known to her. A spooky shiver shook her. Where had she met him other than her dreams?
The solid click of his boot heels as he came to stand across from her alerted her to his close proximity. She cast her gaze down to the smooth surface of the bar. Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Friend of yours?” Cord reached across the bar and nudged Johnny, who moaned in protest.
“Faith McCoy, this is my boss, Cord Burke, owner and proprietor of the Double Barrel. Faith’s a photographer.”
“A . . . photo journalist actually, and . . . uh . . . we met last night,” Faith corrected, daring to glance up. Cord’s gaze captured hers, and she was trapped, falling into the crystal blue depths of his eyes. Surely he remembered her?
“What brings you to Cripple Creek?” The question sounded innocent enough, though his eyes narrowed as he looked at her.
“Work. I’m finishing a photography collection for the Historical Association. Actually . . . last night you asked me what I wanted.” If the picture she’d already taken turned out, she’d like to use it. Her excitement grew. She saw the muscles of his throat work and rushed on before he said anything. “I want to include your casino in my book.” She reached for her bag and pulled out the ever-present release.
“And what do I get for this?”
She blushed under his hard stare. “Free publicity.”
He smiled and, for a minute, her thoughts froze. His laughter startled her and burned across her nerves. Doing portraits had taught her one thing—the beauty and art of expressions. For the first time in ages she yearned to capture a single face—his.
“Who else are you including?”
His words startled her, and she forced her mind to think again. “Who?”
“What other buildings?”
“Oh, yes.” She hesitated long enough to cause his left eyebrow to raise in question. “The old depot.” She recovered quickly. “The jail, the school and the brothel museum for example.”
Both eyebrows shot up this time. “Interesting collection.”
“All history.” She hesitated to explain more. Not everyone would like or understand her ideas. Victorian times were very proper, yet women like those who lived in the brothel still existed. She pushed the image of her father’s frown away. “The Historical Association hired me to document the old buildings. That’s what I’m doing.”
The sound that came from his throat might have been a laugh, but there was no humor on his face. “Are you sure you’re working for the same Historical Association that I know? Last I heard they would just as soon erase us from the map.” The disbelief in his words matched the directness in his glare. He seemed to dare her to tell him otherwise.
“They may. I don’t.” She met his glare with one of her own, just as determined. “There were as many—if not more—casinos here then.”
“And whatever you decide to do, they’ll accept?” He didn’t sound as if he believed her.
She didn’t blame him. She wasn’t sure what they’d do. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to try.”
Cord crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her as if by looking long enough he could read her thoughts. Only her determination not to let him intimidate her kept her from moving away from him.
“My customers value their privacy. Anonymity is part of the draw. Having Mom, Dad and the kiddies back home seeing them gambling isn’t something they want.”
She couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. He seemed to actually be considering it. “I won’t include anyone who doesn’t sign a release.”
She held her breath as he looked down at the paperwork and read it.
“The inside or out?” He leaned back against the counter behind the bar.
“Both.”
“You’re welcome to take all the outside shots you’d like. None inside except after hours.”
Why did she feel her hopes fade? He’d given her the okay to use the outside, wasn’t that enough? Once again she looked around. While the faces in the room looked different in the daylight, they still held the same intensity and appeal.
“There’s more to buildings than wood and stone.” She wanted to explain to him what she saw in her mind. He watched her, and she saw emotions in his eyes—desire and questions that echoed her dream. This time she did climb off the barstool.
“I’d like to make the book more than a picture book of architecture. People occupy these buildings, both then and now. The people are what’s important.”
“I’m not sure the Historical Association will agree with you. Not the group I’ve met anyway.” He grabbed a rag and made circular polishing motions on top of the spotless bar.
“Maybe.” She watched him, noticing the long fingers that curled around the white towel. Tanned and strong. She recalled how they felt against her skin last night, curling around her arm in much the same way. Heat grew low in her belly,
“Have we ever met before?” she asked and immediately wished she could take the words back. His hand stopped moving, and he looked up at her.
“Before last night?”
“Yes.” What answer did she expect? What answer did she want?
“Not that I can place off hand.” He looked away, returning his attention to cleaning the bar. “But a lot of people come in here every day.”
“I haven’t,” she said. Her mind reeled. She’d seen the recognition in his eyes last night. Where had they met? Frustration nagged at her. Then a thought made her stop. If she was familiar to him—what about the observation room? Either her dreams were simply that or this man was tied to her mind. She wanted to know where the dream man came from. “Have you been to the brothel museum, Mr. Burke?”
Faith studied his expression, curious to see any reaction there. Nothing.
“Can’t say as I have, but you’ve stirred my interest.”
He gave her a look that didn’t clarify if the sudden interest was in her or the museum or something else entirely. She didn’t ask. “You really should see it sometime.”
“I doubt there’s anything I could learn there that I don’t already know.” Mocking laughter edged his words.
“History, Mr. Burke. History.” She met his gaze, though her first instinct was to avoid his nerve-shattering stare.
“Could be interesting.” His hand stopped moving as he met her gaze.
Her heart pounded and dampness pooled in her palms. He unnerved her with a simple glance so easily. Too easily. “I really need to get to work. I’ll leave the release, and you can let me know.”
Cord grabbed a pen from under the bar, and after a couple changes allowing her outside use only, he scrawled his name on the line at the bottom of the page. He pushed the paper across the bar toward her. “Let Johnny know if you need anything.” He turned and disappeared into the storeroom.
She watched him go. Would he vanish? She wanted to wait and see if he returned and mentally chided herself for her foolishness. The curiosity and desire she felt toward Cord Burke were too strong, too similar to those in her dreams. Until she analyzed them and figured out what was going on, she had no business indulging in them.
“I’ll see you later,” she said to Johnny as she shoved the paper into her bag. Grabbing her camera and sunglas
ses from the bar, she walked to the door and out into the bright sunshine.
She wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery of who he was or where they’d met. Disappointed, she headed to the other place she might find answers.
The brothel.
CORD RETURNED with another box in time to watch Faith leave. He’d dreamed of her too many times to believe she was real now. She didn’t vanish, but she didn’t come back, either.
“Don’t you go scaring her away.” Johnny’s words shattered Cord’s thoughts as he glared at Cord. “She’s the best thing to walk through that door in ages.”
“I won’t scare her. I’ll probably never see her again. Man, you’re grumpy in the morning.” Cord pulled bottles from the box and shoved them under the counter.
Cord wasn’t in any better mood than Johnny. He’d had another dream last night, a new twist this time. They’d been lovers—happy lovers. He’d actually given her a rose, for God’s sake. Cord Burke had never given a woman a rose in his entire life. From his experience there weren’t many women who deserved such treatment.
The contented feeling the dream gave him didn’t sit comfortably. He’d actually cared—something he’d seldom let himself do. Seeing this woman, who looked like the one in his dreams, stirred the unwanted emotional embers to life.
“When did you meet her?” Cord couldn’t keep from asking, and immediately regretted it when he saw the twinkle of curiosity in Johnny’s eye.
“Couple months ago. When she first came up here. Took her out to dinner.” Johnny paused, taking a deep gulp of his coffee. He grimaced as he swallowed.
“You turning into a lady’s man while I’m gone?” Cord teased, enjoying the scowl on Johnny’s face.
“Aw, shut up Cord. I saw the way you were looking at her. Your mind’s in the same place mine’s been most of my life. The gutter.” Johnny chuckled then moaned as if regretting it.
Cord stared at the door. His thoughts about her were vivid all right, but he doubted Johnny had the same ones. He certainly hoped not.
“I can handle it until the next shift. Why don’t you go on?” Johnny offered, in an effort that obviously cost him as he grimaced again.
“And where am I supposed to go?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “Maybe on a tour of the museum?”
Johnny stood, impressing Cord with his resilience. It was all show, but he wasn’t going to pass up the offer. His interest was piqued. What could possibly be in that museum that interested her? Cord pulled off the bar apron covering the front of his jeans, and strode toward the front door.
He saw her at the other end of the street, leisurely making her way toward the museum. There was no missing her bright head of hair. The sun seemed to love playing in it, just as the moonlight had last night. She turned around a corner, disappearing from sight. He quickened his pace, half convinced he’d never see her again.
CLICK . . . WHIR . . . the familiar sound of the film advancing filled Faith’s ears. She aimed the telephoto lens at the brothel again and snapped off several more shots. Antique glass windows reflected the sunlight in a distorted, ethereal way. Gray paint turned white. Window shades partially drawn gave the illusion of slumber and the rigid line of the veranda formed a grim, unsmiling visage.
Perched atop a crumbling brick wall, the only remnant of yet another deteriorating old building, Faith lowered her camera. She glared at the house, willing it to reproduce itself on the film as she envisioned. Good shots would go a long way toward convincing the board—and her father—that it belonged in the book.
She jumped down from her makeshift seat and headed toward the front door. The little museum was crowded with tourists. A sign on the door informed her that in fifteen minutes it would close for the lunch hour.
The polished hinges squeaked softly. They’d been imported from Belgium. Why that fact stuck in her head from the tour yesterday she didn’t know, but she looked up at them. A sense of dejâ vu slipped over her. She shivered and shook it off. Of course this was familiar, she’d taken the tour yesterday. A tiny bell jingled at the top of the door as she entered.
Faith held back while a group prepared to leave. Several people handed the guide a dollar or two, which was graciously accepted. The tiny lady pocketed the bills nearly as quickly as they met her palm.
“Excuse me,” she said to the woman.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for the director.” Faith plastered her broadest smile on her lips.
“That would be me. I’m Opal Drysdale.” The woman took her hand and returned the smile. “And you are?”
“Faith McCoy.” She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out her business card. “I’m doing a pictorial book for the Historical Association of the old buildings.”
“Oh, yes.” Opal moved to sit behind the antique desk where she pulled out a modern-looking strong box. “I heard about it. I didn’t know they’d made a final decision.” After putting the box away, Opal straightened. “Were you here before? Yesterday, on the tour?”
“Uh, yes.” Faith shifted from foot to foot. “I wanted to get a feel for things before we talked.”
“I didn’t think they’d be interested in us.” A pleased smile formed on her lips and lit her entire face.
“I’m still compiling the list.” The woman would obviously be disappointed to learn the museum had been left off the original list, and she didn’t want to disappoint her. “Since you know about the project, I hope you’re interested.”
“Yes.” The older woman picked up a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles. “But, I can’t permit flash photos.” Opal pointed one knitting needle at Faith’s camera. “The light damages the old fabrics.”
“The new films don’t need a flash.” Faith looked down at her camera, hiding her excitement. She’d already taken several exterior shots, but now she wanted to shoot the inside. All the inside. The room upstairs had stirred up too many feelings. Cord’s face came to mind, and she forced the image away. She had to see the room and trunk again. Perhaps after all these years she could solve the riddle of the dream. She swallowed her apprehension. Would the laughter come back? She forced those thoughts away, too.
This wasn’t the time to let Opal know there was more to her request than the photos for the book. Her search for answers to the dream was too private.
Opal’s chuckle interrupted her musing. “A brothel.” She gestured to the room around her as if it were a much-loved friend. “Hardly the normal Victorian image, as I’m sure the committee mentioned.”
“I realize that.” Faith responded to the laughter in Opal’s eyes with a smile of her own. “But it is a new twist.”
“That it is.” For a moment Opal sat silent. “I’m more than willing to share whatever information I can about the girls and the building.”
“I’d like that.” Faith’s mind spun with ideas. Where should she start shooting? The other buildings she’d photographed had been beautiful, but none evoked this same personal reaction. In the months she’d been working on this book, searching for answers to only half-asked questions, none of her subjects had drawn her as this one did.
“One more thing.” She met Opal’s gaze. “The observation room. I want it included.” The air hung still and quiet between them.
“I’m not sure.” Opal’s eyes grew distant. “The key’s been missing for quite some time.”
Faith felt her cheeks grow warm. “Surely such an old lock would be easy to open.” Had she even bothered to relock it yesterday?
“I suppose,” Opal said. “I’ll have to contact the owner. I can’t promise anything. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Elation soared through Faith. She quickly put a clamp on the emotion. Seeing the room again wouldn’t necessarily give her the right to go through the old trunk, which is
what she really wanted to do. “Sure. Thank you, Ms. Drysdale.”
The older woman smiled a reassuring smile. “Call me Opal. Everyone does.”
“I hope we can work together, Opal. I’m sure the book could use your expertise.”
“What makes you think anyone will be interested in this old brothel?” Opal peered over her glasses at Faith.
“For the same reason you continue to give tours. It’s a forbidden fantasy.”
Opal chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it. We don’t get as many visitors since they legalized gambling.”
Faith saw the sadness in Opal’s eyes. Had the legalization of gambling in this small mining town harmed the museum? Could the casinos really save the town?
If not, would they let this place die? History lived here. So many stories—some Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to hear—hung in the air.
Faith’s enthusiasm rose. “Let’s see what we can do about that, okay?”
CORD PULLED THE museum’s front door open and stepped inside. His guard went up, and he didn’t know why. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled.
No one came to greet him. He paced the small foyer for a moment or two, glancing first up the stairs and then down a short, dark hallway. Still no one. He thought about leaving but refused to back away.
A soft sound came from down the hallway. An open doorway allowed faint light to fall onto the old-fashioned carpet, and he followed its trail.
Faith knelt in the center of the room, her copper curls tumbling down her back. Black jeans cupped her bottom as she crouched, aiming her camera at a chair. The sound of the shutter going off seemed loud in the silent house. A jolt of recognition shot through him as she grabbed a handful of her lovely curls and flung them over her shoulder. The gesture was expected. Familiar.
“I didn’t know chairs were part of the business.” He smiled when she jumped. A soft snapping sound filled the silence as the shutter went off again.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Faith knew irritation tinged her voice. The sudden, wild beating of her heart didn’t help. “I thought you were working,” she said.