Angel turned to look back into the wagon bed. “He’s still sleeping,” she said. “I can see him breathing.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can’t get him squared away. He’s made it this far, and I’ll kill him if he dies on us now.” The threat was empty and Angel knew it; she exchanged a quick grin with Holt before he urged the team on down the mountain.
It was amazing how much faster they’d gone with six horses to pull the wagon and a spare behind, and she grinned at the mental picture she had of Sheriff Garrett and his cronies struggling on foot to reach Denver.
With any luck, all their important parts would freeze right off, she thought mischievously. By the time they reached town, she and Holt would be long gone, together.
It was midmorning when they arrived in Denver, and by then considerable activity was underway. Horse-drawn carriages and coaches clogged the narrow streets, and paperboys hawked the latest headlines in loud, ringing voices.
Holt stopped to ask someone directions to the nearest doctor, and it was another hour before they negotiated the busy streets and found the clapboard hospital.
There was a question about Jean-Claude’s admittance until Holt produced a handful of coins, and a doctor appeared to assess the situation. He was a thin, stooped-over old man with a shuffling gait and rheumy eyes. Neither one of them were reassured by his appearance.
“This man has concussion,” Dr. Phineas Bunker announced after examining Jean-Claude.
Angel and Holt exchanged quick looks.
Doc Bunker clucked his tongue. “You said he never regained consciousness?”
Holt shook his head.
“His chances are poor. Perhaps if we bleed him —”
Angel gasped. “Bleed him? Why, he’s lost a gallon of his own blood already. It won’t help his head injury in the slightest.”
The doctor frowned and looked at Holt. “Your wife?”
Holt cleared his throat and nodded.
“She’s outspoken.” Doc Bunker sniffed disapprovingly. “I’d remind her I’m the doctor here.” He waited, as if expecting Holt to do just that.
“Maybe someone else should look at him, sir.”
Bunker was obviously insulted, but he snapped for a passing colleague to take a look. The younger doctor was clean-cut, enthusiastic, and obviously fresh out of medical school. But he was interested in the case, and agreed with Angel bleeding Jean-Claude wasn’t the answer. The two physicians started to argue.
Strangely enough, it was Jean-Claude himself who saved the day. He groaned faintly and moved.
“Well,” Doc Bunker said grudgingly. “Maybe there’s a small chance for his recovery, after all. You’re welcome to him, Jorgensen.”
While Holt and the younger doctor saw to Jean-Claude’s removal to a hospital ward, Angel looked down at her sorry attire and dirty hands and wondered how she might straighten herself up. Holt returned shortly and read her mind.
“We’ll take a room at the nearest hotel.”
She didn’t argue. All that mattered now was getting clean, and the quicker the better.
THEY REGISTERED AT THE Henderson House, an elegant establishment which obviously cost more than its Clear Creek equivalent. An anemic-looking desk clerk pursed his lips over the signature, as if doubting they were truly married. Holt dared the man to dispute the issue with a hard stare, and the clerk swiftly turned over the key to their room.
A short time later Angel had a bath, a brush, and a new set of clothes. Holt had gone out and seen to her needs, for which she was grateful. She was testing the bed by bouncing on it when he returned, but he didn’t notice her embarrassment at being caught in such a childish act. He strode over to the window and stood scowling down at the street.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, piqued he’d failed to notice how smart her blue alpaca gown looked, and how she’d neatly plaited her hair with the matching ribbons he’d bought.
“There’s a man down there,” Holt said, his hands tightening on the windowsill, “and I’m half convinced he’s been watching me. Only I’ve never seen him before.”
“One of Garrett’s men?”
“No. I’d remember that. He’s across the street now, pretending to read a newspaper. But he keeps looking up to our room.”
Angel rose and went to peer through the lace curtains. She let out an involuntary gasp. Holt seized her by the arms.
“You know him, don’t you? Who is he?” He gave her a shake, his eyes hard and suspicious.
“You don’t understand,” Angel cried. “I don’t really know him, but — I’m almost sure it’s the man I paid to bring you my letter.”
“Almost?” Holt growled, still not releasing her.
“I never looked at him closely, but yes, he does seem familiar.” She shivered, hating the way Holt lingered suspiciously over every word, taking close measure of her expression. “But I can’t imagine why he’d be watching us.”
“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” Holt said.
She nodded, pulling him away from the window. “Please believe me, Holt, I’d never do anything to hurt you. Why, when I hired the man I only told him to give my letter to Mr. Murphy. I never knew your father had died, or that there was more than one Murphy.” She paused and bit her lip, trying to remember her exact words to the man. She was too frantic to reason back then.
“How did you find him?” Holt asked.
She shook her head. “I didn’t. He came around asking for odd jobs, offering to do anything, muck stalls, handle the horses or carry messages.” Angel realized the too-convenient circumstances of the man’s arrival at Belle Montagne. “Now that I think of it, he claimed to be from Colorado Territory, and he knew about my father’s death before I told him.”
“Kind of coincidental, don’t you think?”
She flushed. “I was too distraught to find it unusual. He seemed God-sent at the time. So I paid him to ride west and give my message to Mr. Murphy — to you.”
“Only I never knew anything about it, now or then,” Holt finished as he stared down at her. He wanted to believe Angel, but beautiful blue eyes had betrayed many a man before this. He couldn’t risk everything now.
“You stay here,” he said brusquely, steering Angel back toward the bed. “I’ll have them send up a tray for you. But you’re not to leave this room, understand?”
Angel nodded miserably. She realized Holt didn’t trust her, after all. “Where are you going?” she asked.
His gaze pinned her to the wall. “For now, Angel, I think it’s best if you don’t know.”
She tried not to feel the ache in her heart too keenly when he left her without another word.
HOLT HAD BEEN GONE for three hours. Afternoon came and went, and Angel paced the room fitfully, impatient to know what was going on. She barely picked at the luncheon brought up to her, and there was nothing of interest to be seen from the window. Even the man who was watching them was gone. Quite likely he had followed Holt when he had left.
What harm could there be in going downstairs for supper? For all she knew Holt had intended to return before now, and nobody was going to remember her up here. She was registered as a married woman, and she wore the plain gold band that was her mother’s. There didn’t seem to be any danger in having a nice, quiet meal in the hotel restaurant.
Angel brightened up considerably as she checked her appearance one last time in the mirror before she left. It felt good to be fashionably dressed again. She must remember to ask Holt where he had learned about female sizes and fashion. Then again, maybe she didn’t want to know.
She went downstairs feeling guilty for disobeying Holt’s orders, but surely he wouldn’t expect her to starve in his absence. At the entrance to the dining room Angel sensed the desk clerk giving her a dubious look, so she blinded him with her southern-belle smile and left the poor man standing flabbergasted as she sauntered past.
The small French restaurant situated in the hotel looked decent and well-kept, and was p
resently occupied by a small number of couples. Angel was heartened and so was the maitre d’ when he appeared and took note of such a beauty prepared to dine alone.
“Eh bien. Perhaps you seek someone, mademoiselle?” he inquired with a toothy smile.
Angel said graciously. She clearly shocked him when she said in perfect French, “Oui, mon man. II n’est pas encore la.”
He acted more respectful then. “Would you like to wait for your husband at a table, Madame?”
Angel said she would, and the maitre d’ escorted her to a prime table reserved for guests of worth. She thanked him and her warm smile promised a hefty tip. After handing her the menu the maitre d’ literally rubbed his hands together in anticipation and hurried off.
So her tiresome French lessons with Madame Faunt had not gone to waste, after all. Angel hid a smile behind the menu as she remembered her father’s insistence she be properly versed in French, Latin, and the classics in order to snare a rich husband. She had the distinct feeling Holt wouldn’t give a fig for Chaucer or Macbeth and, what’s more, she was tempted to agree with him.
Angel chose a consommé, followed by veal fricassee and a frothy syllabub for dessert. She was ravenous and found out how good real food tasted after a diet of hardtack and dried meat. The maitre d’hovered over her, making sure everything was in perfect order and reporting periodically her husband had not yet arrived.
When he was called away to settle some dispute in the kitchen, Angel was left in peace to finish her dessert. She lingered over the last spoonful of the rich syllabub and then touched a linen napkin to her lips. She’d better be getting back upstairs before Holt appeared. She had already told the maitre d’ to bill her dinner to their room, so there would be no problem if she slipped away now.
Just then Angel happened to glance out the dining-room window and got a close up, unexpected view of the man who was tailing Holt. It was the rider she’d hired, all right, and he was moving into position across the street near the barber shop. Holt was definitely headed back this way, then. Angel felt a quick wave of panic and started to rise from her chair. The maitre d’ was exiting the kitchen when he saw her setting aside her napkin.
“Madame.” The Frenchman hurried over, concern creasing his sweaty brow, and rushed to assist her with the chair. “Did you find everything to your satisfaction?”
“Excellent,” Angel assured him hastily. “But I must be going now. My husband is due to arrive soon.”
“Surely he will be hungry as well?” the maitre d’ asked hopefully. “Will you not wait for him here?”
“I think not,” she said. “I am sure he has already dined elsewhere this evening.”
“Vraiment? What a pity, Madame. But I trust you will recommend our establishment?”
“Most definitely.”
He gave her a grateful nod. “Send all your friends to Pierre, Madame. I shall take great care of them.”
“I’m sure you shall.” Angel was getting impatient.
Fortunately, Pierre’s attentions moved to another customer waiting at the entrance. He hurried off as Angel prepared to make her escape. She was gathering up her skirts when she heard Pierre’s high-pitched voice saying obsequiously, “Right this way, monsieur. Your lovely wife awaits you at our finest table.”
Angel looked up, expecting to see Holt. She made a choked sound of disbelief and revulsion when she recognized the florid-faced man looming over her table.
“SURELY YOU CAN GIVE a more loving greeting than that, my dear.” Willard Craddock laughed dryly as he watched the color drain from Angel’s face. He waited until Pierre had plopped down a menu and scurried away, and then he placed his fat knuckles on the table and leaned toward her ominously.
“Did you think you could escape me so easily, girl? No, don’t leave. You’ll hear me out.”
“I don’t care to hear anything you have to say,” Angel said, every nerve tense with fear.
“I think you’ll listen well enough when you know the subject involved. You still want Belle Montagne, don’t you?”
When she made no further move to depart, Craddock cackled with triumph. He pulled out a chair and eased his huge girth down beside her. Angel smelled the grease in his hair and the noxious odor of onions on his breath as he leaned close. When she looked at him with outright hatred he only waggled a fat finger at her.
“Tsk, tsk, my girl. No glaring, now. You’d do well to thank me for saving your family home.” His small eyes fell with interest on the dessert bowl, and he pursed his plump lips with disappointment when he saw the dish was already scraped clean.
He realized Angel was still staring at him, mute with shock, and he decided to feast on her instead. His gaze rose to leer at her. “The price is the same, my dear. You can have your family home back if you agree to my original proposal.”
“This is absurd.” She angrily tossed aside her napkin. “We’ve been over this before. I’m not interested in making any deals with you.”
“You’re ravishing when you’re vexed, my dear. Simply ravishing,” Craddock rasped. “Of course I couldn’t get you out of my mind after you left. It took a couple inquiries to find out where you’d gone and when you’d come to Denver.”
His words frightened her. Who had given Craddock the information?
“I’ll buy back Belle Montagne from you,” she said. “I’ll have the funds soon to buy it twice over; you’ll see.”
“But there’s one problem, my dear,” Craddock sniggered as he reached out and pressed his sweaty palm down on hers. “I’m not selling.”
Angel snatched her hand away. “I’m not buying on those terms, Mr. Craddock. I’ll thank you to remember I’m a married woman now.”
He sniffed disdainfully. “Married to a half-breed wanted by the law? A small inconvenience, I’m sure. Merely say the word, my dear, and your — ah — husband can meet with an unfortunate accident.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Angel rose and shakily ordered the old man, “Stay away from me. If I see you lurking about or following me, I’ll go straight to the law.”
Craddock smirked. “Shall we start with Sheriff Garrett? Or perhaps his brother, Judge Felton Garrett? Both of them are old acquaintances of mine.”
“You’re bluffing, Craddock.” But Angel felt the tremor of fear coursing through her.
“Your father was someone who knew all about bluffing, Angel. Why, he lost everything to me in five-card stud, except for you. I suggested he wager his delectable daughter as well, but alas, McCloud was a stubborn man. He refused.”
Angel whirled and ran from the dining room, denying his ugly words. Behind her, Craddock chuckled and made no move to follow. He had plenty of time and opportunity to force her to his hand. All that remained was to dispose of Angel’s half-breed husband, and make sure she had no refuge left but Will Craddock’s arms.
Chapter Thirteen
ANGEL’S HEART POUNDED AS she slipped into the hotel room and closed the door, leaning against it to catch her breath. She was not a moment too soon; as she stepped away the door opened again and Holt entered.
He stopped on the threshold, and Angel whirled around and stared, her hands going to her mouth. She didn’t recognize him at first, and the transformation was startling.
Gone entirely was the buckskin outfit Holt always wore, replaced by dark-striped trousers and a black swallow-tailed dinner jacket. The jacket was unbuttoned and she caught a glimpse of a white pleated shirt and a tie. But more surprising was his hair. It was cropped short, glistening blue-black wherever it caught the light. He looked handsome and debonair, and for a moment she gaped at him.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.” Holt gave her a rakish grin. His teeth flashed white against the darker bronze of his skin. He shut the door and casually spun a gold-handled walking stick in his gloved hand. “Like my new look? Might come in handy for eluding our pursuer.”
Angel nodded. She was glad he mistook her breathlessness for surprise and not guilt. “But you
r hair …”
“It’ll grow back. Time I took you out to dinner in the high style you deserve, Mrs. Murphy.”
“I’m not hungry now, Holt. Maybe later.”
He frowned, noticing her flushed cheeks and trembling hands. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
Angel shook her head too fast. Holt tossed aside the stick and the top hat he was holding and crossed the room toward her.
“You’ve never been a good liar, Angel. Tell me what happened.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze as she told him about Willard Craddock in a quivering voice. Holt listened until she had finished and then let out a soft oath.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”
“It didn’t seem important. I thought Craddock was part of my past, and he’s someone I’d prefer not to remember.”
“You’re telling me this old man has Belle Montagne now?”
She nodded miserably. “He’s refusing to sell it back to me. He has a different idea about how I can save my family home.”
Holt snorted. “Every man has his price, Angel. We just have to find out what his is.”
“I know what Craddock’s price is. He wants me to be his mistress. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s ridiculous. Doesn’t he know you’re married now?”
“Of course. He’s made it his business to know everything I do. He threatened to hurt you, Holt. I couldn’t bear it if you were in danger because of me.”
Holt tipped up her chin with his hand so he could look into her anxious eyes. “It’ll take more than an old lecher like Craddock to scare me away from you, sweetheart.” Gently his lips found hers, teasing them apart until he could touch her tongue with his own. Angel shivered and clung to his broad shoulders, awash with emotion for the man who held her now. The only man she had ever loved.
Regretfully, Holt broke off the kiss. “I’m afraid I have business to settle before we can continue. Plus I need to check on Jean-Claude.”
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