Mountain Angel
by
Patricia McAllister
Copyright © 2012 Patricia McAllister
Kindle Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Author's Note
Chapter One
Independence, Missouri — 1875
“THERE MUST BE SOME mistake.”
Angel heard her own anxious voice echo through the room, and she leaned forward in the damask chair to emphasize her words.
Across the gleaming expanse of his huge mahogany desk, her father’s solicitor gravely shook his iron-gray head.
“I wish there was, Angel, but I’m afraid figures don’t lie.” Henry Fraser’s soft Missouri drawl never sounded more ominous.
Henry knew better than to try to pull the wool over Angel’s eyes. She was an intelligent young woman and would learn the truth eventually. He sighed and decided to be brutally honest with her, no matter how much it tried him.
“Your father was thousands of dollars in debt when he died. It seems he made poor investments over the years, and, of course, there were the gaming tables.”
Henry cleared his throat apologetically and went on. “Unfortunately, once he ran out of funds, Royce used McCloud properties as collateral.” He pushed a ream of paper across the desk with another grim shake of his head. “Everything is spelled out here in black and white, I’m afraid. I don’t see any alternative but for you to sell everything in order to satisfy these obligations.”
He saw Angel briefly close her sky-blue eyes, but when she opened them again they flashed with resolution. Even dressed in black taffeta she was a beautiful young woman.
Her heart-shaped face was framed by loose wisps of golden hair that had escaped the neat confines of a chignon. Her skin was flawless and creamy, like the single strand of pearls fastened around her throat. That mouth alone would tempt a man to treason, Henry thought. It was no wonder there was dozens of offers for her hand before Royce’s death.
It was a good thing Angel McCloud was as strong, or stronger, than most men he could name, and, like the walls around them, could weather the worst of storms. She would need to call upon a miracle to survive the days to come, he realized. But when she spoke again, there was no doubt left in his mind she was Royce McCloud’s daughter.
“What sort of price will the horses fetch?”
“Not enough to make a difference. I understand Royce had a contract with the U.S. Army to supply mounts, but they’ve never been known to pay well, or on time.”
Angel nodded. “Sell them anyway, Henry. I can’t afford to feed them anymore.” She was determined not to let the lawyer see the heartbreak in her eyes, so she focused instead on the pen in his hand until the emotion passed. Somehow she managed to keep her tone brisk and businesslike. “What about the extra land?”
“I’ve already figured it in. You’re still thousands short. I included the stables, the house furnishings, even the kitchen sink.” His poor attempt at humor was lost on Angel. She looked as wretched as he himself felt. “However we look at it, you’ll barely make a dent in these debts.”
“What about the mine? Didn’t my father own shares in a mine somewhere out west?”
Henry pursed his lips and reviewed the papers. “Why, yes, he did, but it never produced and the claim is probably worthless. You’d never find a buyer for such a chancy enterprise anyway.”
Angel sighed, pressing a hand to her temple. “At least I have the house.”
The lawyer made a move to speak and then hesitated, and she looked across the desk at him with trepidation.
“I still have the house, don’t I, Henry?”
He shook his head apologetically. “I don’t intend to lie to you, Angel, and I’m afraid there’s no way to soften this blow. Among these papers is a promissory note deeding Belle Montagne, house and all, to Willard Craddock.”
“Craddock.” Angel shot to her feet at the name, eyes wide with horror. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“I’m sorry, but the first thing I did was verify your father’s signature. Apparently he lost the estate to Mr. Craddock in an — er — game of five-card stud.”
Angel paced his office, the mourning gown swirling around her slender ankles. It was obvious she was searching for a solution.
Henry put in tentatively, “Perhaps you’re aware Mr. Craddock has offered for your hand …?”
“Yes.” Her curt reply indicated her decision. Of all men, why Craddock? The lecherous old widower had pursued Angel for the past two years to the point of embarrassment. The fact he should be the one to own Belle Montagne now made her seethe with helpless rage.
Henry cleared his throat. “Maybe you should reconsider his offer, Angel. He’s promised to deed back Belle Montagne for your dowry.”
“No! Never, Henry. Never will I marry the disgusting swine.” He saw the passionate conviction in her voice confirmed in her eyes. It was obvious she didn’t intend to give Craddock another thought.
Calming herself, Angel picked up the black kid gloves resting on the arm of the chair and tugged them back on her hands. “How much time do I have?”
“Mr. Craddock is allowing you a month, in view of your state of mourning.” Henry picked up the cigar resting in a silver tray and took a brief puff. He was amazed by Angel’s dignity in the face of losing all she had. Though it had clearly shocked her to learn she had lost Belle Montagne, she was already planning for a future that didn’t exist.
“Very well. I shall review these papers tonight and contact you later in the week.” Angel picked up the sheaf of documents from his desk, and he hastened to see her to the door.
She managed to exchange pleasantries with Henry before they parted company. But once outside the lawyer’s office, Angel’s shoulders slumped with defeat. She never imagined her father would be so foolish as to use their family home as collateral. Royce McCloud was so proud of Belle Montagne and the fine horses they raised there.
Angel had known her father’s weakness was gambling, but she never imagined the extent of the debt they were in. He kept his problems carefully hidden from his only living child. Angel’s sole concern, he always said, should be finding a wealthy husband who could take care of her in the style to which she was accustomed.
She released a bitter laugh at the memory. Her father’s high-brow friends quickly disappeared once they heard of the debts and his subsequent suicide. The note he had left begged her to forgive him, but those words were scant comfort now.
Someday there would be tears, but for now all Angel could summon was bitterness. How much had her father wagered on the roll of the dice or flip of a card?
She shook her head in dismay as she hurried down the boardwalk to the waiting coach. She made it three steps when a wide shadow fell across her path.
“Miss McCloud.”
Angel reacted with alarm to the familiar nasal voice. Willard Craddock doffed his black felt bowler hat and gave her a formal bow. As his watery eyes rose, they fixed on Ang
el’s breasts and lingered. She tried not to shiver at the horrible sensation his glance engendered.
Craddock was twice her age, a wealthy widower with an excess of flesh always hanging over his trousers. Today he had squeezed his considerable girth into a pair of plaid knickerbockers. His satin waistcoat was stained and unevenly buttoned.
An attempt was made to tame his graying hair with brilliantine oil, but his bushy Dundreary whiskers sprouted out like small wings on either side of his round, sweaty face.
“I wish to express my condolences on the death of your father,” Craddock said, licking his thick lips while his eyes continued to roam up and down Angel’s body.
“Thank you,” she murmured, gathering up the folds of her gown to move around him. For a man of his size, Craddock moved with surprising speed to cut her off.
“Surely you must reconsider my proposal now.”
His assumption infuriated Angel. She informed him in an icy voice, “I am still in mourning, Mr. Craddock. I am therefore considering nothing of the sort. Now kindly step out of my way.”
Craddock only chuckled, daring to brush lewdly against Angel before she could escape to the safety of her carriage. She yanked down the shade over the view of his leering face outside the window and sank back against the velvet cushions.
Her hands rose to cover her face. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
ANGEL WATCHED IN MUTE agony as the last horses were led away from the auction ring. It had taken every ounce of her strength to sit and watch the soul of Belle Montagne being sold to strangers. The McCloud estate had always been known for the best horseflesh west of the Mississippi, and everyone attending the auction cast her mixed looks of pity and sympathy as the stable doors shut for the last time.
Everyone except Willard Craddock, who lurked, hat in hand, just outside the arena, waiting for another opportunity to accost her. She shuddered and turned away from the sight of the old widower. Her gaze moved instead to Elsa Loring, and softened on the stout German woman who had raised her from a child.
“Mein Gott,” Elsa exclaimed as she hurried to Angel’s side. “Is dat old vulture still trying to win your hand?”
Even in her grief Angel had to laugh at the indignation of the older woman. Elsa was short and plump with apple cheeks and a hearty, booming laugh. She was the only mother Angel had known, after the death of Theresa McCloud when she was only two years old.
Elsa and Hans had seven children of their own, and Angel had always felt a part of their big, happy family. Until now.
Now she was reminded just how far apart their worlds were, for the Lorings would be leaving Belle Montagne soon. Angel could not afford to pay the servants now, and though the Lorings were like family, they could ill afford to continue to work for her out of charity.
Angel clung to the older woman for a moment and bravely checked her tears. “It’s so unfair, Elsa.”
“Ach, I know.” The housekeeper patted Angel’s back consolingly. “But you know you are welcome to live with us, madchen. Hans and I will gladly make room.”
Angel stepped back and dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Thank you, Elsa. I know it comes from your heart, but you and Hans have too many mouths to feed. It wouldn’t be fair of me to impose.”
“But what will you do? Where will you go?” Elsa fretted.
“I have a plan; don’t worry. Do you remember what Papa always told me? He said if I was ever in trouble, I should write to his partner at the Lucky Devil Mine in the Colorado Territory. Papa said Mr. Murphy would be able to help me. He apparently owed my father a great debt of some kind.”
“But you have less than a month, child. Will you be able to hear from Herr Murphy before then?”
“I sold Mother’s silver to pay a man to take Mr. Murphy a message.”
Elsa released a heartbroken cry. “Your mother’s silver. It was her pride and joy.”
“I know, Elsa, but there was nothing else left after I settled Father’s overdue accounts in town. I was lucky the man agreed to take it as payment. He promised to ride night and day until he reaches the Territory, and he’ll give my letter only to Mr. Murphy himself. He said he would bring a reply back to Belle Montagne. If all goes well, I should hear something in a few weeks.”
AFTER READING THE NOTE, Angel crumpled the paper in her hand and flung it into the corner of the room. It was yet another of Willard Craddock’s warnings, this one worse than the last. Craddock apparently considered her fair game now that her father was gone, for he no longer offered marriage.
In his latest proposal the widower had suggested Angel take him as her “protector.” Which, she knew, meant no more than being his mistress. He had promised to deed back Belle Montagne to her if she agreed. He knew how desperate she was. But not that desperate, Angel thought. Not yet.
She whirled to pace the empty conservatory, which just days before had contained a magnificent grand piano and other elegant furnishings. She had sold everything, but as Henry Fraser had warned, the funds had barely touched the mountain of debts.
So far there was only silence from Mr. Murphy. Angel was forced to wonder if her message had reached him. Three weeks had passed now, and the creditors were beginning to circle her. Henry had held them off as long as he could, but the lawyer could not prevent them from riding out to Belle Montagne and delivering various threats.
If not for Hans and Elsa, Angel would have been completely defenseless. The big German man ran off intruders on a daily basis, some of whom were thugs who had heard Royce’s daughter was alone now. Hans taught Angel how to load and fire a revolver and rifle, for he was not always around to guard against strangers.
What a turn her life had taken, Angel thought. Once toasted as the reigning belle of Independence, she was now reduced to defending her virtue with weapons. She desperately wished her older brother, Matthew, had not died in the war. Matt would have protected her, and he would have known what to do now.
She paused beside the fireplace hearth. One item yet remained in the room. A small, roughly carved wooden horse rested there on the mantel. It had no value but was priceless to her, because it was carved with love by a young boy’s hands long ago. Her brother Matt had given it to her on her 10th birthday and even as a child, she cherished it above all other toys.
Angel picked up the wooden horse and clutched it to her breast for comfort. If only it would spring to life now and she could ride away, like in the fairytales.
A SHORT TIME LATER Angel heard the rapid clatter of real horse’s hooves on the lane leading to the house, and she rushed to the window with trepidation. Hans had gone to town and Elsa was down at the river, doing the laundry. Would she be forced to draw a gun for the first time?
When she recognized the rider swinging down from a rangy bay, Angel let out a relieved cry and gathered up her skirts. She ran outside to meet the man she had hired to ride all the way to Colorado Territory.
“Miss.” He tipped his filthy hat at her, ogling the lovely young woman who faced him with anxiety written all over her face.
“Did you give Mr. Murphy my letter? Did he send one back?”
“Yep and yep,” he said, pausing to spit a wad of juicy tobacco at her feet.
“Give it to me, please.” Angel held out her hand.
“It’s gonna cost ya, missy.”
“I already gave you all of the family silver,” she cried, outraged.
The man shrugged and spat again. “You kin pay however you want, but you’re gonna hafta pay,” he repeated, roaming his crude gaze up and down her trembling figure.
“Wait here.” With an exasperated noise, Angel rushed back into the house and grabbed one of the few things left. She returned and thrust an ivory figurine at the man, waiting impatiently while he carefully tucked it into his saddlebag and retrieved a worn, dirt-smudged envelope.
Angel snatched it from him and returned to the house. Shutting and bolting the door behind her, she tore open the travel-stained
envelope and read its contents. A small cry of relief escaped her as she deciphered the bold male scrawl. Then her brow furrowed in disbelief, re-reading the words. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
Mr. Murphy proposed she marry him by proxy and come out to Colorado Territory. He assured her it would be in name only, and for just long enough to protect Angel from other men, especially Willard Craddock. A single woman would risk a great deal traveling so far alone, he had written. He could not leave the mine at the present time to escort her west. Enclosed in the letter were several banknotes, enough to pay her passage on the train.
The letter also said Royce McCloud still had an interest in the Lucky Devil Mine, and Murphy expected a big strike any day now. It might provide enough money to buy back Belle Montagne from Willard Craddock.
What Murphy said made sense, but Angel was hesitant. What if the mine didn’t produce as expected? Would she be stuck in Colorado Territory, never to see her beloved home again?
Of course, she still had a choice. She could always agree to become Craddock’s mistress. With a quiet sigh of despair, Angel went upstairs and began to assemble her trousseau.
“DON’T FORGET TO WRITE!” Elsa Loring chugged alongside the train, waving frantically at the young woman sitting in the window seat. A final word of wisdom trailed Angel out of the station. “Watch out for men.”
Angel smiled and waved back, returning her attention to the book in her lap once the train was well on its way. She was reading all she could about the Colorado Territory, especially the mines. No surprise her father had invested in gold-mining, for it seduced his gambler’s soul. Royce was a wonderful father, but he was sadly shortsighted. He failed to provide properly for his only daughter, and now she was forced to improvise.
Soon Angel shut the book with a sigh. She could barely concentrate upon the script dancing before her weary eyes. She had gotten little sleep since the night she had made her decision to head west. No doubt she had made an unsightly bride, garbed in black bombazine and deathly pale.
Mountain Angel Page 1