Mountain Angel

by Patricia McAllister

  “WHOA, BOY.”

  The buckboard shuddered to a stop on the steep incline halfway from the top, and Angel looked at Holt in alarm.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Because the wagon won’t go any farther. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way up.” He gestured up the road, where several large pines had fallen, blocking the final leg of the journey.

  “There must be another way,” Angel said, with a rueful glance at her thin-soled boots.

  “Nope. Not unless you intend to fly.”

  Angel set her lips and climbed carefully down from the wagon, smoothing out her skirts. It felt good to have a break from the jarring transportation, but she didn’t relish the idea of walking up the mountain.

  “How far is it?” She shaded her eyes and peered up into the thick growth of trees, seeing nothing but green.

  Holt shrugged, busy undoing the harness on the horse. “A few miles. Don’t worry; you’ll make it. You don’t have much choice.”

  “But what about my bags? I can’t just leave them here.”

  “Who’s going to steal them? A bear? Don’t be ridiculous, woman. They’ll have to stay in the wagon until I can make another trip down.”

  “I don’t think so. That might be days.” Angel marched to the rear of the wagon and grabbed the handle of her portmanteau. “I’m not leaving them here.”

  Holt cocked an eyebrow at her while she struggled to pull her luggage out of the buckboard. The bags fell with heavy thuds to the ground, one by one. Angel took a handle in each hand and heaved. She went ten feet or so and dropped them both, panting with dismay.

  “You could offer to help.”

  “Why?” Holt countered. “You’re doing fine. A couple more miles and you’ll be there.”

  Hands on her hips, Angel narrowed her eyes on him. “Nothing was said about leaving my luggage on the side of the mountain. By the looks of it, those trees have been there awhile. You knew we wouldn’t be able to ride all the way up.”

  He shrugged, his buckskin jacket gripping the broad planes of his shoulders for a moment. “You wanted to work the mine. That means accepting the hardships along with the profits. There won’t be any fancy tea parties up there. You can spare a few yards of lace.”

  “For your information, Mr. Murphy, this bag contains necessary feminine under things.” Angel blurted out intimate details in her anger, and to her further mortification, Holt grinned.

  “Are you suggesting I just leave it behind?” she shrilled at him.

  “Please, spare me the female hysterics.” He sighed. “Take one bag, then. But you’ll have to carry it yourself.”

  “Certainly.” Angel picked up the bag on her right and staggered up the deeply rutted road to meet him. Holt unhitched the horse, replaced the wagon tracings with a saddle and bridle, and swung up on the buckskin.

  She gaped up at him. “You’re going to ride?”

  “It’s my horse, remember? I’ll go slow.”

  Holt hid a devilish grin as he nudged the buckskin gelding around her and headed up the trail. He didn’t miss Angel’s angry mutterings as she followed, dragging the heavy portmanteau behind her, and he smiled to himself. She’d give up this ridiculous notion of mining long before the day was out.

  Before she knew it, she’d be begging to go back to the ballrooms in Missouri. It was only a matter of minutes now. With that comforting thought, Holt whistled a spritely Irish air, deliberately ignoring the unladylike curses and grunts punctuating his cheerful tune.

  “WAIT … JUST … A … DARNED … moment …. “

  Angel gasped out the words, but Holt didn’t hear her. He disappeared around the bend of the trail up ahead.

  Her head roared and her lungs burned every time she inhaled the thin mountain air. Angel was in shape, or as good a shape as any society woman who rode on a regular basis and waltzed across ballroom floors, but the high altitude was quickly taking its toll. They had only gone a few hundred feet and already she was sweating and struggling to keep up.

  Holt, the unrepentant rogue, had made no move to help her the times she had fallen. She knew he had heard her tripping and stumbling like a drunken fool over broken roots and fallen branches, but other than an occasional chuckle, he showed no sign of sympathy for her plight.

  Angel was ready to swear — and had already done so quite proficiently under her breath — that Holt was actually enjoying this. Did he think he could scare her off so easily? Well, McCloud women were made of sterner stuff.

  Just as she raised her chin a notch, Angel staggered into a large boulder in her path, painfully bruising her hip. The portmanteau also bounced off the rock and its latch broke, dumping frilly white petticoats across the dirty ground. To her own surprise, Angel burst into tears. It was the final straw.

  All she had gone through to save this one bag was for naught. She was convinced her luggage back in the wagon would be pilfered by some unscrupulous person, and now there was no way to pick up her remaining lingerie.

  Sliding down in a sorry heap beside her portmanteau, Angel examined the latch. It was broken and would not hold long enough for her to cart it the rest of the way. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and got fleeting satisfaction from getting up again and kicking the empty box down the steep mountainside.

  It bounced and rolled some distance before she lost sight of it. With a self-righteous sniff, Angel bent to scoop up the white mound of under things. A burning pain shot through both her calves, and her legs buckled. She landed face-first in the snowy sea of her intimate articles just as Holt reappeared around the bend.

  “What the — ” he began, choking off his laughter when Angel struggled back on her heels and threw a pair of lacy drawers at him.

  “Not one word,” she sputtered furiously, getting to her feet and snapping the folds of her skirts out from around her legs. “I’m coming.”

  “Angel —” he said, seeming ready and resigned now to hop down from his horse and offer her a ride, but she shook her head emphatically.

  “You go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Her voice was barely a whisper, her cheeks flushed rosy from exertion. Holt knew when enough was enough. He started to dismount.

  “Go on.” Angel’s fury lashed out at him along with a whale boned corset, which ricocheted off the buckskin’s rump and sent the horse bolting up the trail. Holt held on for dear life, ducking as pine branches whipped across his face.

  Damn the proud little priss, anyway. If she wanted to walk, then she could damn well do it. Holt got control of his horse just as they rounded the last hairpin turn in the high valley. He drew the fractious gelding to a prancing halt and gazed out over rippling meadow.

  Home again. Holt would never grow tired of the lush little valley where he had carved out a living from the bosom of Mount Elbert. Sheltered by rising peaks on every side, the Lucky Devil Mine was located in a hidden paradise. He had lived here alone for the last five years, going into town only for necessary supplies or occasional nightly comfort.

  Holt sighed with pleasure just to be back. Then he stiffened in the saddle, hearing a woman’s curses loudly echoing off the mountainside behind him. Had he mistakenly believed Angel’s story? After all, it seemed his well-bred “wife” already had the vocabulary of a miner. Holt laughed again. Then he heard the scream.

  PINE NEEDLES CRUNCHED BENEATH his high-topped moccasins, releasing a pungent scent as Holt knelt beside the fallen woman. Angel’s eyes were closed, and except for the fresh tears streaking down her grimy cheeks, she looked to him as if she’d found a permanent resting place.

  He gently lifted and touched her right foot. Angel winced and cried out at the stabbing pain.

  “Dear God,” Holt rasped. “You little fool.”

  He stared down at the bloody inch-deep gash in her sole where a sharp rock had penetrated the flimsy boot. Her other foot wasn’t in much better shape. The kid soles had worn completely through, leaving her tender skin to be mercilessly abused and torn on
the steep hike.

  Angel lay in a patch of slushy early snow between two gigantic boulders. Her forehead had grazed one of them and was dotted with blood. The fall had stunned her. She only groaned when Holt slid his arm under her and lifted her against his chest.

  Angel smelled buckskin. That, and something tickling her skin. Feathers? She slitted her eyes against the sunlight and saw a silky black strand of hair brushing her cheek. Holt had come back for her. She felt dizzy relief at the realization before she cried out in pain.

  “Quit fighting me,” Holt ordered. He carried Angel to his horse and settled her on the saddle before he mounted behind her. Leaning Angel back against him, Holt steadied her with one hand and held the reins with the other. He clicked to the horse until it lapsed into a smooth canter.

  Angel’s head lolled sideways against his chest, and she found her eyes opening again on Holt. Right now he had three faces instead of one, but he was just as handsome. She giggled at the thought, and all three Holts frowned down at her.

  “Fool woman,” they all said.

  It was not the most romantic thing a man had ever said to her, but it was a start, Angel thought. She had to close her eyes again as an overwhelming urge to retch rose in her throat.

  “Not on me you don’t,” Holt growled, and held her just far enough over the side of the horse for clearance. When Angel was through being sick, he pulled her briskly back in place and hardened his heart against her soft moans.

  WHEN ANGEL AWOKE, SHE found herself stark naked in a narrow bed with suspicious-smelling patchwork blankets tucked up to her chin.

  She tried to lift her throbbing head and moaned as splinters of pain shot through her brow. Above her, a rough-hewn log ceiling spun in crazy circles. She swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and tried to fight the nausea.

  “That was a nasty fall you took,” someone said.

  She opened her eyes again and gradually focused on Holt. Just one face this time, but looking as annoyed as ever. He hunkered down beside the bed and pressed something cool and wet on her forehead.

  “I underestimated you, Angel McCloud. You have more damn pride than a whole boatload of Irishmen. And not one single drop of common sense.”

  “What happened?” she croaked.

  “I heard you cry out and rode back to find you had bounced halfway back down the mountain. Those ridiculous dancing shoes you wore probably slipped on an icy spot.”

  She shook her head. “I remember now. I was trying to climb a big boulder.”

  “Trying to climb a — what the hell for?”

  “It was so beautiful.” Her soft voice startled Holt, and for a moment he was absorbed in watching her blue eyes shine. “The clouds parted and the sun came out, and I saw the valley below just peeking above the pines. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I had to get a better look.”

  “And almost lost your life in the process,” he said sternly. Then Holt rose from her bedside and moved away, and Angel noticed he was shirtless. His deeply tanned skin gleamed bronze in a patch of sunlight as he passed a window. The fringed buckskin trousers rode low on his hips, snugly emphasizing his narrow waist and muscled thighs. She took a deep breath when she felt light-headed and caught the heavenly whiff of something cooking.

  “Where am I?” she asked, struggling to get up on her elbows. She was forced to move quickly to salvage her modesty when the blankets slipped. “And — oh dear — where are my clothes?”

  “Drying.” Holt gestured to the limp clothing hanging from wooden pegs on the cabin wall. Her outfit looked as sorry as Angel felt. He moved to stir a black cauldron simmering on the stove. “You were soaked to the bone and shivering. Don’t want to tempt a fever.”

  As Holt sampled the beans, he saw Angel slide down under the evil-smelling blankets until only her eyes showed, round as two pie plates.

  Angel was horrified. Holt Murphy had undressed her? He had seen her female parts? Her cheeks burned as she imagined the scene. Legal husband or not, she couldn’t bear the thought of those lazy gray eyes examining her every inch.

  “Did you look?” she whispered.

  “Ah-um.” Holt made an approving noise over the mouthful of beans and raised one black eyebrow at her.

  “Is that a yes or a no? You are the most maddening man.”

  “Quit acting like a spinster.” He returned the spoon to the pot with an audible splash. “What does it matter if I looked or not? You claim we’re man and wife.”

  Angel inched down under the blankets far enough for him to see she was scowling. “I resent the fact you brought me here to this — this pigsty and proceeded to divest me of all my clothing without my knowledge.”

  “This pigsty, woman, is your new home,” Holt said. His gaze pinned her to the bed. “This is the cabin Arthur and your father built to live in while they worked the mine. We’ve both inherited it now. It serves its purpose well enough, I think, especially since it is now sheltering your sorry little — ”

  “All right,” she interrupted. “You’ve made your point.”

  “As for removing your clothes, it was necessary in order for me to get you warm and dry. Made it a damn sight easier to bandage your delicate little feet.”

  Surprised, Angel lifted the blanket and peeked down at her linen-wrapped limbs. She realized while they still smarted, the pain was nothing like it was before.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  Holt didn’t respond. He stalked with feline grace across the sod cabin floor and right on out the door.

  “Sorehead,” Angel sniffed. Once he was out of view from the tiny double-paned window she sat up and ruefully examined her injuries. She was bruised from her toes on up, with approximately one scratch or dent per limb. It was a wonder she hadn’t broken her neck.

  Her palms were raw and scraped from trying to break her fall, yet as she examined them closely Angel saw a greenish ointment was worked into the cuts. She sniffed each palm suspiciously. Yech. She was the source of that vile smell, not the blankets. If it was the last thing she did, she would have a bath.

  Inching gingerly from the bed, Angel rose feeling wobbly and tried to get her bearings. Her feet were so thickly wrapped, she was thrown off balance. She took a single step toward her clothes and felt her knees give way. Holt entered just as she nearly stumbled into the hot stove.

  “Watch out.” He caught Angel by the waist, reflexively swinging her free of danger, and she erupted like a wildcat, mortified and furious to find Holt manhandling her. Her golden hair lashed around them both, barely concealing her nudity.

  Holt was too absorbed in subduing Angel to stare at the vision of loveliness in his arms, but he could feel her ivory skin moving like raw silk under his callused hands. A shudder rippled through his frame as he remembered how long it was since he had a woman. Especially one who looked like Angel. Hell, who was he kidding? He’d never had one this beautiful.

  “Angel,” he said, “get back in the bed. Right now.”

  “Why?” she argued, struggling to free her arms so she could slap that odd look right off Holt’s face. “I want to get dressed.”

  “If you don’t get under those covers, I’ll — ”

  “What?” she taunted him. “What could you possibly do to humiliate me more?”

  “This,” he muttered, crushing her lips beneath his.

  Angel swayed and clutched his shoulders, too startled to react. Holt’s kiss was hard at first, angry and punishing, but his lips soon softened to an incredibly sensual rhythm as they branded hers with sweet desperation. Angel moaned and Holt made a throaty noise, raising a hand to caress her.

  Chills rippled through her as his fingers found and toyed with the pink tip of a breast. Angel gasped, tearing her mouth free only to watch his head descend and his lips capture the proud nipple.

  Breath hissed slowly from her lips as her head fell back, her long hair touching the floor. His tongue circled and teased at her until she cried out, and then his hand moved to cup the silky t
riangle between her thighs.

  Angel arched against him, one leg pressed tightly against his buckskin-clad thighs. Holt’s fingers parted the pale down, touching the most intimate part of her. She whimpered as invisible white lightning streaked clear up to her tingling breasts. Gently, slowly, his fingers breached her. Just as she cried out, his mouth found hers again.

  Holt’s kisses were like wildfire, burning away Angel’s every inhibition. She didn’t fight when he withdrew his hand and lifted her in his arms. She looped her hands around his neck, stroking the length of his blue-black hair as he carried her to the bed.

  Holt laid her down gently, drawing the blankets back in place. Angel waited with bated breath for him to shed his trousers.

  “Please,” she whispered, not knowing herself if it was a plea for him to cease or to continue.

  The word seemed to reach him, for the hand tracing the curve of her cheek withdrew. Then Holt stiffened and rose to his full height above the bed.

  “Nice try,” he said as he looked down at her. “You really should be an actress, Angel. But if you want a share of the Lucky Devil, you’ll still have to work a pick and shovel as well as you act. There’s no free ride on this mountain.”

  Stunned, she stared up into Holt’s hard eyes. “But in the eyes of the law we’re married. I thought — ”

  “I know what you thought, sweetheart. But I’d have to be an idiot to fall for your ploy. I don’t intend to consummate this mock marriage just so you can claim to be my wife, arrange an ‘accident’ for me and get your claws on the whole mine.”

  Her illusions shattered, Angel felt a burning rage rising in her throat. She felt furious when Holt turned and walked away.

  “I hate you,” she screamed after him, every nerve in her teetering on razor’s edge and still painfully aflame with passion.

  She threw a pillow after his departing figure. It bounced harmlessly off the doorjamb. Then Angel buried her hot face in her hands. What had she done?

  Holt apparently thought she was a tease, trying to get him to consummate the marriage in order to claim the entire mine. It was true the thought had occurred to her once, but she had dismissed it, just as she had once dismissed the idea of ever wanting a man as much as she wanted Holt.