He was her husband, but he didn’t want her. Angel realized how much it hurt when she waited on tenterhooks all night for Holt to return, but he never did.
Chapter Four
IT WAS SO COLD in the early morning hours of the dawn that Angel’s teeth chattered as she lay huddled under the mound of blankets. When she stuck her head up for air at last her breath emerged in frosty puffs that drifted across the cabin.
Did Holt leave her up here to freeze to death? Likely enough. He’d been furious when he’d left the night before. Angel was so upset herself she hadn’t touched the beans he’d left behind.
They sat congealed in the kettle on the cold stove, but she was so hungry now, she didn’t think twice about getting up. She tucked one of the blankets sarong-style around her body, and tiptoed across the floor to fetch the cauldron.
After Angel ate some of the sticky beans, which tasted remarkably good, she took a good long look around the little cabin Royce and Arthur had built. It was simple and functional, small and square, but so well built, she didn’t feel a draft through the log walls. There were no curtains, which she’d certainly have to do something about. She could ply a needle reasonably well, and assuming Holt would be kind enough to ride down to Clear Creek to buy her material, she could set about improving their lot.
Angel frowned. Knowing Holt, though, he’d be neither sympathetic nor sensitive to her request. Where was he? Out at the mine already? It wouldn’t surprise her if he’d completely forgotten her.
Well, she didn’t intend to stay cooped up in the cabin all day. Her head still throbbed dully, but she could function, and she wanted to see just what she had gotten herself into. Her immediate problem was one of clothing. Her gown from the day before was still damp, and she shuddered at the thought of tugging cold, clammy material over her skin. Looking around the cabin, Angel found an old trunk strapped shut with cracked leather bonds and decided to see what it held.
It took her time to undo the straps, which had gotten wet and tightened up. But at last her fingers coaxed the leather knots apart, and she threw back the heavy lid with a resounding bang and a cloud of dust.
Sneezing, Angel knelt to examine the contents of the trunk. She set aside several sheets of crumbling yellow newsprint to reveal cream-colored, soft doeskin, elaborately decorated with porcupine quills and sky-blue beads.
Angel carefully lifted out her find. It unfolded into a woman’s dress, simply but strikingly designed. She dropped the coarse blanket and held the butter-soft doeskin dress up against her. It looked like it would fit, and it certainly felt heavenly against her bare skin. Excited by her discovery, she continued looking through the old chest and also found a pair of matching moccasins and leggings.
To whom did these things belong? She dismissed her first thought that Holt had an Indian mistress hidden away somewhere. The outfit was carefully preserved but obviously old. Even the yellowed newsprint protecting the contents of the trunk was dated over twenty years ago.
Angel didn’t puzzle further but slipped into the dress. It stretched snugly across her breasts, emphasizing their fullness, and was a trifle short. Otherwise it was perfect. The doeskin would stretch further to accommodate her more generous curves after she wore it awhile.
Feeling immeasurably better, Angel removed the bandages on her feet and slipped on the moccasins, then braided her hair into two equal plaits. Now she could go outside and look around. She only wished she could thank the unknown woman who had left the outfit behind.
She opened the cabin door to a misty meadow surrounded by soaring gray peaks. Awestruck, she simply stared for a moment before venturing outside. Angel gasped softly when she startled a pair of deer not ten feet from the cabin. The doe and her fawn paused for a long moment to fearlessly regard her, before they bounded gracefully away.
The mountain morning air was invigorating but distinctly icy. Angel was grateful for the heavy leather dress, and hugged her arms around herself as she walked around the cabin in the knee-high dewy grass. In every direction there were thick stands of blue-green pines and rising slate-gray peaks. The sky was piercingly clear; it seemed she could look straight up to heaven.
A sturdy corral and outhouse lay north of the cabin; Angel gratefully used the latter before moving on. Twenty yards from the cabin, a snow-fed stream trickled by. She knelt and watched tiny fingerling trout struggling to get upstream. Angel rose and walked along the water for a time, appreciating its pure crystalline beauty. She soon discovered it led directly to the mine itself.
The mine shaft was unmarked, but the claim Arthur and Royce had staked was obvious. Yawning deep into the throat of Mount Elbert, the tunnel disappeared into total blackness. Angel shivered. She wasn’t sure she’d get used to working underground, even with lanterns. But it was the only way she would get enough gold to buy back Belle Montagne.
Angel heard the distant whicker of a horse. Turning around, she saw a strange man dismount from a piebald horse and approach the cabin. Not knowing why, she slipped behind a concealing stand of pines. There was something about the scruffy look of the man she didn’t like.
He pounded on the door several times, his blows echoing through the little valley. Then he cupped his hands around his unshaven face and peered through a window. Was he one of Holt’s cronies? He looked about the right age but was much more unkempt and dirty.
Angel held her breath when he turned in her direction and scrutinized the mine shaft. She gulped and tried to make herself as small as possible behind the trees as he started to move toward the mine. When he glanced furtively around himself the stranger’s actions told Angel he wasn’t welcome at the Lucky Devil. But where could she hide?
Trapped behind the pine trees, Angel was only feet away from the man as he stepped into the mine shaft. She could hear his harsh breathing echoing down the dark tunnel. The moment he left the mine, he was sure to see her. Perhaps she could slip back into the cabin while he was in the shaft. There she could hide under the bed until he left.
Making a quick decision, Angel moved to flee. Her moccasins were silent, but the fringe of her dress snagged on a tree limb. The branch snapped crisply in half before she could free the material.
The man came bursting out of the mine, a pistol clutched in his hand. He stared at Angel in confusion for a moment, and then with mounting lust. His beard was filthy and matted to his jutting jaw, and his bloodshot eyes roamed over her greedily.
“Squaw, huh?” he said, and squirted a wad of tobacco off to one side.
Angel shook her head, slowly backing away from him. “Please, I don’t want any trouble.”
“You speak English purty good. Half-breed, heh?” He considered her shining golden hair with obvious relish. His approach was slow but steady, like a lumbering bear. He was about the size of one, too. Angel knew she didn’t stand a chance unless she could catch him off guard.
“My husband is nearby. Leave now and I won’t scream.”
He snorted, spraying spittle in every direction. “I don’ see yer man anywheres, squaw. Ain’t no reason whys we cain’t make a little deal of our own, eh?”
Angel could scarcely understand his slurred speech, but she understood the look in his eyes. It was exactly how Willard Craddock had always stared at her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, trying to stall for time.
“Jest came up for a little look-see at the mine, honey. T’ain’t no laws against it, far as I knows. Name’s Stokes. Heard you got gold up here on the moun’tin.”
“It’s not true. The mine’s gone dry.” Angel tried to delay his approach. “But there’s word of a good strike over in Oro. Why don’t you ride on over there and take a look-see.”
Stokes considered for a long moment and then smiled, exposing blackened, rotted teeth. “Nah. I likes the company here better.”
His long hairy arm shot out, catching Angel. She screamed as he yanked her against his huge chest, and she gagged on the noxious fumes of sweat and alcohol w
afting from him. She fought wildly until Stokes pressed the cold barrel of his pistol against her temple.
“Settle down, lil’ lady. You and I gonna have fun. I hear Injun wimin knows all sorts of tricks, and yer man won’t mind sharin’. Bet you done that a’fore, eh?” He sniggered lewdly in her ear.
“Filthy pig.” Angel tried to drive her elbow into his big gut. Instead Stokes tumbled her around as easily as he would a barrel, and she found herself pinned under his arm. He proceeded to half-carry, half-drag her back toward the cabin.
“I ain’t got no qualms ’bout killin’ no Injun, so you jest simmer down and you won’t get hurt,” Stokes panted as he hauled a struggling Angel across the meadow.
She tried to plant her feet, but the moccasins were too slippery in the wet grass, and her soles still burned from the day before. When Stokes tried to heave her through the open door she caught the jamb in her fingers and held on for dear life. He grunted and shoved, but Angel clung as hard as barnacle to a rock.
Then he smacked her knuckles with the pistol, and with a wail of pain Angel let go of the doorjamb. Stokes kicked the door shut and hurled her onto the bed.
Just after Stokes dropped his trousers, the sound of horse’s hooves thundered up to the cabin. Angel’s attacker hesitated, a look of confusion on his ugly face, and then he moved to flee.
Stokes tripped over his dirty drawers in the process and lurched for freedom just as the cabin door flew open with a crash. Holt came hurtling in. The two men collided in midair and went down with a hard thud.
Angel scrambled off the bed and watched in terror as their bodies rolled across the floor. Holt ended up on top, punching his fists down in rapid succession into Stokes’s face. But the bigger man squalled like a sore bear and lopped a meaty fist against Holt’s temple. Angel cried out when Holt toppled over, dazed and groaning. Stokes heaved himself up onto all fours and crawled for his gun.
Without thinking, Angel beat him to it. She snatched up the pistol with surprisingly steady hands and leveled it at Stokes.
“I’ll shoot,” she vowed, remembering everything Hans had taught her. With both thumbs she drew back the hammer.
Stokes’s eyes went wide. So did Holt’s. It was clear neither one believed her.
“I know how to use this,” Angel assured them both. Then, with perfect precision, she lowered the sight to Stokes’s dirty drawers and pulled off a shot. The bullet winged through the narrow space between his manhood and the cabin floor and buried itself deep in the sod.
“Gawd, please!” Stokes cast an urgent plea to Holt as he protectively clutched his crotch. “Call yer squaw off.”
Holt chuckled, both for Stokes’s predicament and in amazement over Angel’s cool trigger finger. He held out his hand as he got to his feet. “Give me the gun, Angel.”
Reluctantly, she surrendered it to him. Holt prodded Stokes with the weapon and herded him out the door. Outside, Holt spoke quietly to the hairy stranger, and then Stokes ran to his own horse, leapt up in the saddle, and rode away without his trousers.
Angel dashed from the cabin with a cry of outrage. “You let him go?”
“’Course I did. What better way to spread the word about the dangers of crossing Holt Murphy, or his squaw.” Holt blew down the hot barrel of the pistol and grinned at her.
“It’s not funny. That man could have killed me.” Angel shuddered as she watched Stokes vanish through the trees. “Who was he, anyway?”
“Claim-jumper. Dime a dozen here in mining country.” Holt noticed her unusual attire and frowned. “Where did you find that outfit?”
“In the trunk.” She pointed back at the cabin. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Holt fell silent, scrutinizing her with those steely eyes until Angel grew uneasy. He was clearly displeased about something, but she couldn’t imagine why he would care if she chose to wear Indian garb or not. He did so himself, so what was the problem?
“You mean to tell me I went all the way back down to the wagon for nothing?” he grumbled, gesturing to the two large bags strapped to his buckskin’s saddle. “I was foolish enough to feel sorry for you not having any clothes.”
“Oh, Holt.” Angel’s face lit up as she hurried over to his horse. Stroking the gelding’s velvet nose, she murmured, “So that’s where you were. I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.”
“Of course I had to come back. The mine is getting close to having a big strike.” Holt nodded in the direction in which Stokes had disappeared. “Seems word is getting around.”
“He seemed to be looking for something, all right. Do you think more will follow?”
“There’ve been a handful of jumpers up here since word leaked out I was getting closer to the big vein. I’ve been finding nuggets this size for several months now.” Holt picked up a small pebble and showed it to her.
“Then a strike could come any day,” Angel said. The thought of so much gold sent shivers of excitement through her. Not only would she buy back Belle Montagne, but she would build bigger and better stables so she could raise and sell the famous McCloud trotters again.
HOLT TORE OFF A big hunk of cornbread and chewed with obvious relish. “I didn’t know you could cook,” he said around a mouthful, looking suspiciously at Angel sitting on the other side of the plank table.
She smiled back. “See, I’m more useful than you thought. I can make life more pleasant for both of us up here.”
He grunted doubtfully and took a swallow of coffee from his tin cup. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
After Holt chased every last crumb from his plate Angel got up to take the dishes to the stream. Before she left he said, “Don’t get that dress wet. It’ll ruin the material.”
Angel paused and turned to look at him. “Do you know who this dress belonged to?”
His look was brooding. He didn’t answer her for a long moment. Finally he said, “It was my mother’s. She wore it on her wedding day to Arthur.”
“But Arthur was already married to Virginia.”
“Arapaho tradition lets a man take more than one wife if he can afford it,” Holt said. “Soft Snow didn’t have a problem with being Arthur’s second wife. But Virginia did.”
Angel saw pain in his eyes. “She knew about your mother?”
“Yes. She tried to get Arthur to disown us both. For some crazy reason she thought I was a threat to her own son. It goes without saying, she was also jealous.”
Angel decided to probe cautiously for information. She wanted to know more about Holt, about what had made him the inscrutable, angry man he was today. She understood what the resentment of Virginia Murphy must have done to him as a boy, but she still didn’t comprehend his own coldness toward his half-brother.
“Virginia’s gone now,” she said, “and so is the past. Can’t you settle your differences with Neal?”
Holt shrugged. “We’ll never see eye to eye. He’s dedicated to saving men’s souls. I’m obsessed with making a fortune. That’s too wide a chasm to cross.”
“But you could be civil to each other.” Angel didn’t add that Holt was the one who needed to make the effort, not Neal.
He abruptly rose from the chair. “Why don’t you worry about the mine instead? After all, that’s why you’re here.”
Angel opened her mouth to make a sharp retort and then sighed. It wasn’t worth the effort. “When can we start working?”
“Right now is as good a time as any. Pay dirt won’t come to us without real work. Leave the dishes for now. I’ll take you down to the mine.” Holt paused and suggested, “You’ll want to change your clothes. Do you have anything practical in all those bags I brought up?”
She shook her head. She only had dresses, which would be awkward and uncomfortable to work in.
“Then I suggest you try on some of my clothing. I have extra trousers you could roll up and a spare shirt. We’ll have to get you real boots on the next trip to town.”
Holt tossed out a pile ol
d clothing on the bed and went outside. Angel took off the doeskin dress, treating it with extra loving care now that she knew where it came from. She folded it carefully and placed it back in the trunk with the moccasins.
Then she tried on one of the shirts Holt had given her. It was comfortably worn and still smelled faintly of him. She rolled up the sleeves and tucked the shirt into a pair of trousers. The pants were comically huge around her waist, but a piece of hemp rope kept them from falling down.
Angel dug through her bags until she found the sturdiest pair of shoes she owned. They were black patent leather and brand-new. After today they would likely be ruined, she thought with a sigh, and tugged them on over her bandages.
Lastly, her braids went up under an old hat hanging from a peg on the wall. She walked outside only to be greeted by Holt’s peal of laughter.
“You look like a boy trying on his pa’s breeches.”
“Thanks a lot,” Angel said sourly. She stomped after him and frowned when he turned and thrust a pick in her hands.
“Try this one today. Don’t you have any gloves to protect your hands?”
She shook her head and he gave an exasperated sigh. “You don’t have the faintest idea of what mining involves, sweetheart. But you’ll find out,” he added ominously.
They reached the shaft, and Angel suppressed a shiver as she peered into the inky blackness below them. Holt paused to light two lanterns, handing one to Angel. She tried not to let her hands tremble as she followed him down into the chilly tunnel.
The lanterns cast wavering light across broken rock as they went deeper and deeper into the mine. Angel could hear a ceaseless dripping of water somewhere on the rock floors. It echoed endlessly, as did her voice when she whispered, “How deep is the mine?”
“I don’t know. There’s so many tunnels now, it’s hard to tell for sure.” She noticed Holt was stringing a ball of twine behind them.
Mountain Angel Page 5