When the Halo Falls, a heavenly romance

by Maureen Child

  “Game? I'm not playing any game, Miss…"

  At her hesitation, Patience said, "Please, Treasure. Call me Patience. We know each other far too well for formalities."

  Consternation briefly clouded the woman's features as she said, "We do?"

  "Don't you think so?"

  "Well, I —“

  "It seems silly for friends to stand on formalities, doesn't it?”

  Treasure looked at the woman and studied her for a long minute, trying to figure out who in heaven she was. And why she would be acting as though they were old friends. But try as she might, nothing came to her. Still, she seemed a pleasant woman and Treasure wasn't about to chase off a potential customer, no matter how odd she might be.

  "Yes," she said with a shrug of her wide shoulders, "I suppose it does at that."

  "Good! Now Treasure, I'm in need of a few new things."

  "Uh-huh," she said and slowly walked out from behind the counter to follow Patience toward the ladies' dresses.

  Flashing her a quick look over her shoulder, Patience explained, "All of my clothes are missing from my room."

  She wasn't sure where they'd gone, though, and that was a touch disturbing. The fog in her mind thickened a bit and she tried to will it away. But it wouldn't work. So, until she remembered exactly what she'd done with her clothing, she'd need more, wouldn't she?

  "Your room." As far as Treasure knew there were no asylums near Fortune, so she had to wonder just where the woman was staying. She flicked a glance toward the closed door and the street beyond. Was someone even now running up and down Main Street looking for the woman? Had she escaped from some wagon on its way west?

  "Now Treasure, I know you don't really approve of my staying above the saloon, but —“

  "You have a room at the saloon?" She looked at the woman and privately thought that she didn't seem the type to be working abovestairs at Brady's place. Not enough meat on her bones, for one thing. And that simple gray dress wasn't really the sort her kind of woman usually chose.

  "Only temporarily," Patience said blithely, waving one hand.

  "You're working there temporarily?"

  "Working there?" The woman 's face went ghostly white and then scarlet as realization took hold. "I should say not! Why, Treasure, I'm surprised that you would even think such a thing."

  "But you said —“

  "Now," she said and shook her head. "I don't remember doing it, but I must have decided to throw all of my old clothes out and buy new ones." Reaching up, she rubbed at a spot on her forehead, as if trying to ease a headache.

  "Are you feeling all right?" Treasure asked, halfafraid the woman was about to fall to the floor and have a fit.

  "Aren't you kind?" Patience responded, forcing a smile she obviously didn't feel. "I just have a bit of a headache," she said, then added slyly, "Perhaps we should open another bottle of Doctor Moore's Female Tonic. Do you think Beatrice has recovered enough to enjoy another small party?"

  Treasure reared back, clapped one hand to her chest and goggled at the woman. Now, how did she know about that?

  "I suppose we shouldn't have." Patience was saying, "'but we did have fun, didn't we?"

  Yes, Treasure thought, they had indeed. She and Beatrice and Vonda Shales, the laundress, had cracked open a bottle of Doctor Moore's. The three of them had toasted each other with the "elixir" until none of them could see clearly.

  And maybe that was why she couldn't recall this woman having been there. Because she had to have been there, else how would she know about it? Heaven knew it wasn't something she or her friends would have talked about. Some of the women in Fortune would be absolutely scandalized by the idea of single women playing cards and drinking elixir.

  She flushed slightly, remembering the laughter and the shared confidences that night. Maybe it had been foolish, but it had seemed harmless at the time.

  Patience laid one hand on her forearm and Treasure jumped, startled. But an instant later, a slow, easy warmth rolled through her, soothing her soul and wrapping itself around her heart like a cozy blanket.

  "I won't tell a soul," Patience said and removed her hand, taking the warmth with her. "That night is just between the four of us."

  The four of us, she thought and tried to affix this woman into the middle of the blurred memories of that night. And the longer she thought about it, the more confused she was. However odd it seemed, it was the only explanation. No one else knew about that little gathering and she couldn't imagine either Beatrice or Vonda mentioning a word of it to anyone.

  Unless, she thought, as a small, worrisome thread unwound itself inside her, someone had been outside her windows that night. She bit back a groan at the thought of what her customers would make of her then.

  Patience flicked through the selection of dresses, discarding every one that was the least bit dull or uninteresting. She had no desire for blacks and grays or even the dignified dark blue serge. She wanted color. Lovely spring colors that would make her feel alive and happy and… pretty.

  Selecting a few, she draped them across her arm and headed toward the small room at the back of the store. “I’ll just try these on, if you don't mind."

  "Not at all," the woman murmured.

  As she walked, her brisk steps kicking the hated gray skirt out in front of her, Patience called back, "Did you find those back issues of Godey's Lady’s Book?"

  She didn't see the confused expression cross Treasure's face. "The Lady's Book? Uh, no. Not yet."

  "Oh, well," Patience said loudly, just before she stepped into the dressing room, "I do hope you'll be able to locate them. I want to find just the right pattern for my wedding dress. You did say you could get the fabric for me, didn't you?"

  "Fabric?" she echoed before pausing to ask, "Wedding dress?"

  Really, Patience thought, just a bit impatiently, why was the woman repeating everything she said? But even as the flash of frustration shot through her, she reminded herself that naturally her wedding wouldn't be as important to anyone else as it was to her.

  "I really want to surprise Brady," she said. “So my dress has to be wonderful."

  "Brady?" Treasure shouted. "Brady Shaw?"

  "Of course Brady Shaw," Patience said, already undoing the buttons at the neck of her gown. As if she'd marry anyone else when she had loved Brady for so long.

  "You're marrying Brady?"

  "Not without that dress," she called, shaking her head as she reached for a lovely lemon-yellow gown.

  Treasure sighed and slid a glance across the room to the shelf behind her cash box where Doctor Moore's elixir sat temptingly. Marrying Brady Shaw? Now she knew the woman was off her rocker.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brady wasn't sure how he'd lost control of the situation. But he damn sure had.

  Patience Goodfellow — and what kind of name was that, anyway? — had stepped into his life and he had no idea how to get rid of her.

  His back teeth ground together and he shoved one hand through his hair in frustration. He'd never met a female as hardheaded as this one. She looked at him through those golden eyes of hers and saw only what she wanted to see. And how in the hell was a man supposed to argue with that?

  Logic didn't seem to be working. Just an hour or two ago, she'd complained about "her" room upstairs and demanded to know where her clothes had gone. Brady had pointed out that it wasn't "her" room and he didn't know or care where she kept her clothes. Naturally, she'd assumed that he was playing some sort of joke on her and had sailed right past any hint of reality.

  Crossing the room, he pushed through the double doors and stepped onto the boardwalk. Leaning one shoulder against a porch post, he crossed one foot over the other, brushed the edges of his jacket back and shoved both hands into his pockets. Squinting into the morning light, he studied the town of Fortune.

  Two years he'd been here. He'd stumbled across the town on his way west from Santa Fe and when he'd won the saloon, decided to stay put. He'd figured
at the time that he could always move on again when the spirit grabbed him. But he hadn't. It wasn't easy for a rambling man to suddenly take root, but then he'd always been open to trying new things.

  A wagon rolled past, the old horse that was pulling it straining every muscle to drag the heavy load through the mud. The man on the driver's bench looked as old as the horse he cursed and Brady wasn't sure which of them he was sorrier for. The beast for being in chains or the man, whose chains probably went a lot deeper.

  Damn philosophical for so early in the morning, he told himself and shook that thought aside as he slanted his gaze toward the end of town. It wasn't far. Hell, the whole of Main Street was nothing more than a few clustered buildings sitting at the edge of a creek that ran high in spring from mountain runoff. Generally speaking, in desert country, a source of water was plenty enough reason for a town to grow. And about twenty years before, a few hardy prospectors, tired of looking for gold that remained elusive, had started this little place. Lord knew, it was a far cry from New Orleans or San Francisco, but until today, Fortune had suited him just fine.

  Brady frowned to himself and absently watched his fellow citizens go about their morning business. He'd become accustomed to the town, he thought, and wondered when it had happened. He'd found a kind of comfort in knowing that every day would be much like the last. And after living the kind of life he had, that comfort meant more to him than it might to another man.

  For instance, he knew the barber would open his doors, then pour himself a cup of coffee and plop his butt down onto a chair outside his shop. Vonda Shales would start the fires under her laundry tubs just a half hour before the blacksmith started pounding on his anvil. Treasure Morgan would be washing her windows in another hour or so and Sheriff Hanks would take his first of many walks up and down the street.

  It was comfortable. Familiar.

  But now, that was all changed. By one woman.

  "Say, boss," Joe called out as he loped across the street, dodging another wagon and stepping wide around a horse and rider.

  "Yeah?" Brady answered, straightening up from the post and pulling his hands free of his pockets.

  "I found Davey down at the livery. Said he'd get right on it." Joe's broad face creased in confusion before he added, "I don't get it, though."

  "What?" Brady muttered, shifting his gaze toward the livery stable. As he watched, Davey shot through the wide doorway and headed off down the street.

  "This. Sending the kid around town asking about that woman." Brady looked at him and Joe shook his head while shrugging broad shoulders. "Why not just tell her to leave? Why're you tryin’ to find out more about her?"

  He scowled at his bartender and muttered, "Why don't you let me worry about that?"

  "Okay by me," Joe said with a shrug, then added, “but Davey would've done the work for two bits. You didn't have to pay him a dollar."

  One corner of Brady's mouth lifted as he watched the boy leap over a sleeping dog stretched out across the width of the boardwalk. "Yeah, I know," he said, but he knew only too well how hard Davey worked for the coins he earned every day. And a dollar, to a kid on his own, was a fortune.

  Still, it wouldn't do his "bad man" reputation any good at all if people were to suspect he had a soft spot for the boy.

  "You think he'll find out anything about her?"

  "I don't know," he admitted and privately thought the chances were pretty slim. In a town as small as Fortune, he would have heard if someone was missing a crazy relative. But he had to try something, didn't he?

  Shifting position, he braced his feet wide apart and folded his arms across his chest. Hell, he wasn't sure why he was doing this either. It would be a hell of a lot easier to just throw her out on her narrow backside. But she was clearly loco and Brady just didn't feel right about turning a woman whose bread wasn't quite done loose on the world. Besides, surely someone, somewhere, was missing her. No doubt looking for her. All he had to do was find out who that was and hand her over.

  The sooner the better, he thought as, across the street, the door to the Mercantile swung open and Patience stepped outside. Her arms were full of wrapped packages, her long, black hair fluttered lazily in the soft wind, and when she lifted her head and stared right at him as if she'd known he would be there, Brady's breath caught in his chest.

  Even from a distance, he felt the punch of an invisible impact as her golden gaze locked with his. For one brief, strange moment, it was as though he were looking at someone he'd always known. Though that thought made him nearly as crazy as she was.

  Still, her eyes shone in the shadows of the overhang and an uneasy sensation crept through him. It was as though she were looking deep within him, to the emptiness he knew was there and he damn well didn't like it. But he couldn't look away. Something inside him shifted uncomfortably as he met her stare, silently challenging himself to be indifferent.

  He lost.

  "Boss!" Joe's voice came loud and insistent and his tone let Brady know it wasn't the first time he'd tried to get his attention.

  "What now?" he demanded, tearing his gaze from Patience's.

  The bartender blinked at the near growl in his boss's voice. "You want me to head into Santa Fe today? That shipment of liquor's sitting there waiting to be picked up."

  Santa Fe.

  Of course.

  Brady smiled to himself as a notion formed in his brain. But aloud, he said only, "No. I'll take care of it myself."

  "Huh?" Joe asked, his surprise evident.

  He couldn't blame the man. After all, Brady hadn't been to Santa Fe in months. But then, until today, he'd had no reason to go.

  “I'll go to Santa Fe," he said, glancing briefly at Joe before stepping off the boardwalk headed for the Mercantile. "And I'll take her with me.”

  If Davey didn't come up with any information, then in a town the size of Santa Fe, surely Brady would be able to find where Patience belonged.

  Everett Tuttle leaned his head back and laughed until he was forced to clutch his sides to keep his massive belly from shaking too hard. But when the gunsmith looked down at the unsmiling boy in front of him, he fought hard to get control of himself. Taking a deep breath, he let a few last chuckles escape him before saying, "Sorry, boy, didn't mean to laugh, it just hit me funny."

  Davey's lips twisted. Some grown-ups had a right strange sense of humor. He'd been up and down the street for the last hour, talking to everybody, and hadn't found one soul yet who'd paid him much mind. Everett had been his last hope. And the way the man was laughing like a loon, Davey figured he just might be related to that crazy female Brady was so worked up over.

  "Now boy," Everett was saying, "most women I've known are pretty much loco. Never met one yet with a lick o' sense."

  "But do you know this one?" Davey prompted, eager to get his task done and his dollar collected.

  "Can't say as I do, boy," the gunsmith said, leaning back on his chair until the wood creaked and groaned in complaint. "Pretty, is she?"

  Davey thought back to his first glance of her. He hadn't thought at the time that she was pretty — not like Miss Lily or Miss Fern — but she had good eyes. Real warm and understanding.

  But he wasn't about to tell Everett that. So instead he just shrugged. "I guess."

  The gunsmith scraped one beefy hand across his whiskery jaw. "Well hell, boy, if she's pretty enough, a man's liable to be willing to overlook some craziness." He smiled to himself and added, "Why, I remember a time when —“

  "I got to get back to work, Mr. Tuttle," Davey interrupted him quickly, knowing only too well how long Everett could talk once he got wound up.

  "Ah," the man said, nodding toward a dismantled pistol lying scattered across his counter. "Well then, you best get going so's I can get back to fixing this Colt."

  Disgusted, Davey turned for the door, shuffling his feet against the unswept wood planks. Disappointment crouched inside him as he realized he had no news to give Brady. It wasn't just know
ing that he probably wouldn't be paid — after all, he hadn't found out anything — but he hated to let Brady down when the man had trusted him with work.

  He was almost to the door when Everett's voice stopped him. "What's that you've got slung over your shoulder there?"

  Davey stopped and looked back, one hand going to the brass circle he'd looped up his arm and over his shoulder. "Just a little hoop's all."

  "You're a caution, boy," Everett said, shaking his head. "Always pickin' up junk, aren't you?"

  Frowning to himself, Davey walked outside, the big man's words ringing in his ears. Pulling the metal circle off, he held it in both hands and smoothed his fingertips across its warm surface. "It ain't junk," he muttered and stepped out of the way of Martha Higgins and her twins.

  Jumping off the boardwalk, he sat down on the edge of it and, still holding the circle in both hands, looked up as Tommy Sutton ran past, chasing after his hoop, smacking it with a stick to make it roll faster. Envy puddled inside him briefly. Tommy had a ma and a pa and a house with his own bed to sleep in. He got to go to school so he wouldn't grow up ignorant.

  Davey swiped one hand under his nose and looked back at the metal ring in his hands. "And on top of all that, he's got him a new hoop to roll." He sighed as he rubbed his fingertips around the brass circle and fought down a swell of regret. "If you was just a little bit bigger, I could roll you around town."

  Instantly, the old brass hummed in his hands. Davey's eyes widened. He held his breath. The already warm metal blossomed with a heat that Davey felt clean to his bones, yet didn't burn his hands at all. He told himself to drop the durn thing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he held on tighter, harder, and felt it when the circle began to grow.

  "Oh my," he whispered, completely unaware of anything but the near miracle happening right under his nose.

  As he grasped that ring, it continued growing, stretching, and he was helpless to do anything but hold his breath and watch. It shifted, pulsing, pushing itself into a new size, while maintaining its perfectly round shape. And in only seconds, the humming stopped, the heat faded into its normal warmth, and Davey was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, holding a hoop-sized brass ring.