But when noon arrived and the mysterious Mr. Brindle had not yet made his grand appearance, Mrs. Maxwell was overcome, rabid with worry. She insisted he must have met with a dreadful accident, or at the least a horrendous delay, for he was far too chivalrous a fellow to disappoint her. Her reputation was clearly on the line, and she made endless excuses for the man as the ham slowly dried up and the hired cook made snide remarks about widows putting the cart before the horse.
Prudence miserably accepted defeat and stiffly joined the others at the table. But she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t talk, and looked on the verge of noisy tears. Rachel caught Neal’s eye, and the minister reluctantly abandoned his pursuit of a piece of mincemeat pie.
“Prudence,” he asked, “would you feel better if I rode across town and checked on Mr. Brindle?”
Mrs. Maxwell’s blush was instantaneous. “Preacher Murphy, how kind of you to offer, but I really couldn’t ask you to go out of your way …”
With a nudge from Rachel, Neal halfheartedly insisted. “Really, it’s no trouble, ma’am. Won’t take but a minute, in fact. I brought the wagon, so I’ll hitch up the team again and head out.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rachel chimed in. It was obvious she was eager to steal time alone with her fiancé.
Prudence was too distracted to protest or insist on a chaperone. “Very well,” she said, touching a napkin to her lips. “I’ll give you the directions to his house.”
As the other three momentarily left the table, Angel chatted desultorily with the ladies on either side of her, pleased to feel their approval surrounding her like a warm cloak. At long last she had found acceptance and, except for Holt’s absence, this was one of the most delightful Christmases she could recall.
Here among friends and the only family she had now, Angel was made to feel truly welcome and loved. In fact, she had taken to calling Clara Maxwell “Aunt,” and the spritely little English lady enjoyed it as much as Angel did.
When Prudence invited everyone to visit in the parlor after the meal Angel joined Clara on a velvet settee before the fire, and they shared stories and laughed over the surprising similarities in their lives.
Clara confessed her James was a rogue in his day and, like Holt, had courted his share of trouble before their wedding. Angel suspected Clara was minimizing the “trouble” when she mildly referred to several of James’s gunfights in the middle of town, and the fact he’d been known as “Quick-Draw Jim” in his younger days.
But it was wonderful to share the happy memories of this spry old lady, and since most of them revolved around James it was clear he was the love of her life. Clara dabbed away a tear or two as she told Angel of her husband’s last Christmas.
“James was feeling under the weather, but I wasn’t too concerned since it was a frightful winter,” Clara recalled. “I kept him bundled before the fire with hot toddies and his medicine, and I thought we’d weather that one as we had all the ones before.”
She smiled sadly. “I should have known the moment I left the room he would throw off his blankets and hobble outside to check on the horses. My James always saw to the animals. Said a man had a God-given duty to look after the lesser creatures of the earth.”
When she fell silent Angel said gently, “My father was the same way. So good with children and animals.”
Clara nodded, too choked up for a moment. Then she went on, “James caught a chill. It went to his lungs and he coughed for days, weeks, slowly losing strength. I’m not ashamed to say I begged the good Lord to let him live. Offered myself and everything I had if only he would spare my dear husband. But our Heavenly Father knows best. I guess he needed my James more than I did.”
Tears slid down the wrinkles on Clara’s crepe-like cheeks, and Angel swallowed past the lump in her own throat. She took a small hand in her own and squeezed it.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured to the older woman.
Clara smiled through her tears. “Oh, my dear, don’t be. I’ve had a good life, even without my James. I see you are missing your own husband now. Take comfort in the fact he is still here, if a mountain away. My greatest regret is I can no longer watch the doorways with anticipation written all over my face, like your lovely one right now.”
Angel felt her cheeks burning. “Is it so obvious?”
“My dear child, love is always obvious to those who have been so blessed themselves,” Clara wisely said. It was her turn to pat Angel’s hand comfortingly. “How fortunate you are, my dear. To be rich in love rather than worldly goods, and look forward to each day knowing that, sooner or later, your man will come home to you.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Clara?” Angel whispered, looking into the older woman’s twinkling eyes.
“I’m rarely known to be wrong, child. If I’m not mistaken now, I think your Christmas present has arrived.”
Angel turned slightly on the settee, and her face lit up with a glow that had nothing to do with the blaze crackling merrily in the hearth. “Holt.”
He stood in the doorway, all but hidden in his bulky furs behind a mound of glistening packages. His teeth gleamed white when he announced, “Special delivery for Mrs. Murphy from Father Christmas.”
Angel launched herself across the room, throwing her arms around him with a cry of pure happiness. She didn’t care everyone was staring, and Prudence saw fit to give one of her little sniffs. She almost knocked Holt back into the hall with the enthusiasm of her welcome.
“You came.” Her voice was accusing, and she wished he’d dump those packages where he stood and hug her back instead. “You missed Christmas dinner,” she added petulantly.
“Who says?” Holt murmured, eyeing her as hungrily he might a juicy steak. Angel smiled up at him saucily and helped him with the gifts and his coat.
As Holt shrugged off the fur and hung it up, he revealed a pair of dark trousers and a clean white shirt, wrinkled but certainly an improvement over gamey buckskins. Angel realized he must have stopped at the parsonage first to bathe in an effort to please her and perhaps placate Mrs. Maxwell.
She studied his profile. Holt’s dark hair had grown out slightly but was still an acceptable length by fashion standards. He looked, Angel thought, positively wonderful. There was still a faintly mysterious air about him as he smiled and greeted the other guests in the parlor.
Rachel’s mother moved forward and invited Holt to partake of whatever remained of the Christmas goodies, but he could hardly tear his own eyes from Angel. He realized how much he’d missed her. She was more beautiful than he remembered, somehow softer and a little fuller in the face. The good life must agree with her, Holt decided. He was glad he hadn’t allowed her to wheedle him into letting her live up on the harsh mountain this winter.
A mischievous smile teased at Angel’s lips as she tugged at his shirtsleeve. “Are all those presents for me, Holt?”
“Greedy woman,” he growled with a smack on her shapely bottom that clearly scandalized Prudence and the other matrons. All except for Clara Maxwell, who observed their exchange with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.
Holt moved to the parlor table, where Angel was now looking over the gaily wrapped packages. She picked up a small one and sniffed at it, and her blue eyes sparkled triumphantly.
“English lavender.”
“Irish whiskey,” he shot back.
She chose another little box and, unable to pick up a scent on that one, shook it and heard a satisfying rattle. “Jewelry. A necklace or earrings.”
“A box of ha’ penny nails,” Holt tossed back.
Angel set down the gift and linked her hands behind her back. She pointedly looked up at the threshold under which Holt stood.
“Mistletoe,” she declared.
Holt glanced up and sighed. “You win.”
But it was obvious by the way his hands gripped her waist and pulled her within the range of his hungry mouth that he didn’t mind losing this game. Angel’s gasp was drowned out by Prudence Maxwell’s louder sniff a
nd Clara’s delighted chuckling, but Holt heard his wife’s sigh of surrender and greedily claimed his own little victory.
When he released Angel, it was clear her mind was whirling and her eyes shone with something besides the rum punch Clara was indulging in all afternoon.
“Merry Christmas,” Holt said, kissing her again, softer this time, on the temple. “Happy birthday, too.”
“Who told you?” Angel demanded with mock outrage. She didn’t have to guess. There was only one other person here who knew her birthday was on Christmas Day: Rachel.
“I promised to protect my informant,” Holt said as he lifted his right hand in a mock pledge. “But may I say you certainly don’t look a minute older than when I kissed you last?”
“Rogue,” Angel muttered, but she couldn’t hold back a smile when his gray eyes twinkled down at her.
“It makes sense now,” Holt mused. “But I always wondered why your parents named you after something so sweet and innocent.”
“Ooh!” Angel stuck out her tongue, then started to whirl away. Her stomach tightened with anticipation when he caught her by the wrist and slowly tugged her, step by step, back into his arms.
“Come back here, wife,” he growled.
As Holt enfolded her in his warm embrace, Angel’s conscience cried, Tell him. It was a perfect moment, with everyone watching them expectantly. It shattered when the front door opened and another couple blew in with a gust of snow and wind.
“Neal.” Holt frowned as if he sensed something was wrong, though he still didn’t know his half-brother that well.
Prudence rushed forward expectantly to meet the minister. “Mr. Brindle?”
Neal shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. He wasn’t home.” Then he looked at Holt and said awkwardly, “There’s been an accident. Miss Valentine has been hurt.”
“Lil?” Holt ignored the room-wide gasp at his use of the singer’s nickname, and didn’t seem to notice Angel’s chagrin. In fact, she noted bitterly, she might as well have dropped through the floor.
He abruptly released her, strode over to Neal, and demanded, “What happened?”
With a glance to the curious crowd in the parlor, Neal drew his brother aside, out of listening range. Angel moved after them. She was determined not to miss anything.
“Apparently Miss Valentine set out last night with the intention of reaching the mine,” Neal said.
“Whatever the hell for?” Holt demanded angrily.
Neal shrugged. “The story’s garbled. We heard it secondhand from Joe Tripper on the way back. Anyway, she’s been hurt.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know. All I know is when Miss Valentine was still missing this morning, one of her girls reported it to Mr. Tripper, and the barkeep set out after her. Found her halfway up the mountain, he said. Alone.”
“Where is she now?”
“Back at Valentine’s.”
Holt’s tone was curt as he glanced at Angel and said, “Get my coat.”
When she didn’t move, he looked at her and saw the rebellious shimmer of tears in her eyes.
“Not Christmas, too, Holt,” she begged him.
Without answering, he went to snatch up the coat himself, yanking it on. Then he strode through the open door, without a backward glance.
Angel saw her chance slipping away. If she lost him to Lily now, it would be forever. She would fight for him. She would.
“Wait,” she called out, before the door had slammed shut again. “I’m coming, too.”
Holt didn’t reply. He didn’t turn around. But, to her relief, he did wait for her, and together they set off for Valentine’s.
ANGEL HAD EXPECTED A sprained ankle, scraped palms, frostbite at the worst. Heaven knew Lily Valentine was a tough customer, and nobody could imagine that tart-tongued lady laid low. But the couple had their first inkling of the depth of the trouble when they saw the lights were all turned down low in Valentine’s, and none of the girls had taken Lily up on her offer to take the day off. The saloon was open, but it was ominously quiet as ladies of the evening and customers alike waited for news with bated breath.
Holt crashed into the place like a hurricane. “Lil?” he bellowed, his eyes immediately seizing on old Joe.
The barkeep shook his head. “Upstairs, Holt. Doc’s there. T’ain’t nothin’ we can do. Up’t God now.”
“The hell it is,” Holt snarled, taking the stairs two at a time. Angel couldn’t keep up. She picked up her skirts and moved at a slower pace, conscious of the slippery steps and her wet shoes.
When she arrived at the bedroom Lily occupied, her first uncharitable thought was to wonder if Holt had ever been there before. The room was beautifully done in muted blue tones and was surprisingly tasteful, in contrast with the rest of the house.
Angel saw Holt bending over a form in the velvet-canopied bed. The doctor’s chunky frame blocked her view as he bent over to speak with Holt. Whatever he murmured apparently wasn’t acceptable, for Holt made a strangled sound, curiously like a sob, and then unexpectedly raged at the woman in the bed.
“Damn you, Lil. Don’t give up on me now.”
He reached down, as if to shake the patient, and the doctor intervened, grabbing Holt’s shirtsleeve and hauling him aside.
“Gently, now,” Angel heard him chastise Holt. “She’s in no pain, thanks to the laudanum, but you mustn’t wake her.”
As the two men spoke in low tones, Angel moved forward toward the bed. Lily had obviously been shot and the area of her chest where the bullet had penetrated was hastily and clumsily bandaged. Her breathing was so shallow, Angel had to strain to make out any signs of life.
Ironically, Lily’s red hair was as perfectly coiffed as when she had ridden out the night before. There was a shiny strand of tinsel still caught in the auburn tresses. She saw Lily’s head move slightly against the stark white pillows. As Angel leaned closer, the green eyes opened.
“Hello, chick.” Lily’s eyes were glazed from the drug and her voice was slightly slurred, but she was lucid enough to recognize Angel. “Not a … very merry Christmas for me.”
Angel felt pity wash over her and reached to take the woman’s hand. It was ice-cold and chalk-white. She saw Lily fading before her eyes.
“What happened?” she asked. “Who did this to you?”
Lily closed her eyes a moment, swallowing painfully. A single tear seeped out and rolled down her pale cheek. Instead of answering Angel’s question, she rasped, “Take care of Holt. Always in some sort of … trouble.”
“No, Lily.” Angel could feel the hot tears sliding down her own cheeks now, and she held the other woman’s cold hand protectively in her own. “Holt is counting on you to pull through. We both are. You can’t let one measly little bullet knock you down.”
Lily smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Holt’s angry voice rang throughout the room.
“Get out. Out!”
His order was feral, and the country doctor looked as if he might argue but then thought the better of it. With a snap of his black bag, he gave a loud, disapproving sniff and hurried out.
Angel released Lily’s hand and stepped away. She saw Holt was too immersed in his own secret agony to see her. Pushing past Angel, he knelt beside the bed. His balled fists pounded the mattress, where Lily’s blood had already stained the sheets bright red. Holt cradled her head with a big palm, heedless of death staring him in the face. “Lil,” he begged, “don’t leave me.”
Angel couldn’t see his agony for her own. Blinded by tears, she blundered to the window and stood there, staring unseeing at the remains of a perfect Christmas, the leagues of sparkling snow, the occasional twinkle of a tree through the window of a nearby home.
Then she heard the shallow rasp. “Mine …”
Angel stiffened and heard her husband scold the other woman gently, “No, love, save your strength. You’ve got a big battle ahead, don’t waste it trying to talk.”
“Love,” Lily whispered w
ryly, for a moment sounding like her old sarcastic self. “Don’t I … wish.”
Unwillingly, Angel glanced over her shoulder, in time to see Holt tenderly kiss the other woman’s forehead.
“You’re going to be fine, Lil.”
“Mine …” Lily said again, and made a faint gagging noise. She must be choking on her own blood, Angel realized with a chill. After a noisy swallow, the woman doggedly continued. “… your … mine, Holt …”
Angel felt an icy tendril of fear grip her. Was Lily trying to say Holt had always been hers?
“…s’not red …”
“Lil, stop. Please. You need to rest.” Holt’s tone was ragged as he pleaded with the woman. Their lips were a breath apart.
Exhausted from her efforts, Lily gave up trying to make him understand and had one simple request. “Kiss me.”
“Of course.” Holt made as if to peck her cheek again and she weakly shook her head.
“Real kiss … like you love me …”
“Of course I love you. God, Lil, don’t be a fool. I’ve always loved you —”
Angel could bear no more. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she rushed from the room, hearing the pounding of her own footsteps in her head. Blindly, she pushed into the first private refuge she could find, the garish parlor Lily had first taken her to when Holt was hurt.
Everything was like she remembered it. Even the cut-crystal decanter still sparkled beside a glass imprinted with bright red lipstick. Outside, the snow beat silently and mercilessly against the window.
Angel was trembling so hard, she had to sit down on a red velvet chaise longue before the cold hearth. She huddled there, her arms hugging herself in a poor show of self-pity. Tears poured down her cheeks, tears of betrayal, anger, and yes, even grief, for herself as well as Lily.
Then she heard the cry upstairs. It rose in intensity, a dark, keening sound of the most heart-wrenching despair. Angel looked to the ceiling for the source. The hearth in this room would always be cold now, she realized with a sudden pang.
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