Chapter Seventeen
AT NEAL’S SILENT CUE, Angel moved forward to scatter the customary fistful of dirt over the pine casket in the grave, and tried not to wince as the thudding sounds echoed throughout the churchyard. Moving back into place, she banished the memories of Lily’s death and Holt’s disappearance and concentrated instead upon the service.
Neal had agreed to perform the sermon, against the advice of all the town matrons. But if he was expecting an empty graveside, Neal was surely surprised when all of the men folk of Oro and Clear Creek showed up. Even Sheriff Garrett was there, hat in hand and his head low as he paid his respects to Oro’s well-loved Lily.
Only Holt was absent. Angel didn’t have to wonder why. Something told her he considered such affairs a mockery of the dead, though she couldn’t say exactly what made her believe it. She supposed he wanted to remember Lily as they’d all known her; snappy and vibrant and too full of life to be dead.
Angel wiped away a stray tear. She had worried so much about losing Holt to Lily when it was obvious she’d never had him in the first place.
After the service Rachel moved up beside Angel in a show of quiet comfort. In direct defiance of her mother’s orders, she had come to the funeral.
“She was a remarkable woman,” Rachel said seriously.
“Yes, she was. I won’t ever forget when she rode with us up to the mine. It seems so long ago now.”
Rachel nodded. “A lifetime.” She looked with satisfaction at the corner of the churchyard where Lily would rest in peace. Though the snow was still deep, a willow tree curved gracefully over the mound. In spring the tree’s fronds would feather out beautifully. It was a spot Lily probably would have chosen for herself.
Rachel was the one to fight the church committee on burying Lily in consecrated ground. They all maintained that Lily, no matter how good her acts in this life, didn’t merit a burial on blessed property. But Rachel’s sensitive soul had told her otherwise. She pointedly reminded each of the men involved that they all had, at one time or another, partaken of Lily’s generous hospitality themselves.
Valentine’s was closed now, though in her will Lily had left the saloon to Joe Tripper. The old man had declared he didn’t have the heart to run it, and he left town before the funeral. The windows were boarded up now, the girls disbanded to other towns in the region. But plenty turned out for Lily’s service on this cold December day.
The marker was simple and crude: Here Lies Lily Valentine, a Mighty Generous Woman … generous of Heart, Soul, and most especially Body.
Neal hadn’t found the epitaph amusing, Angel recalled. But the men who knew Lily best had thought it up themselves, and Angel was sure Lily herself would have appreciated the risqué humor of it.
As she linked arms with Rachel and they made their slow progress from the gravesite back to the waiting sleigh, Angel said, “Thank you for coming, Rachel. It means a lot to me.”
“I wanted to. Even though Neal is angry at me now.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé, who was now supervising the filling of the grave with a grim expression. She sighed and returned her attention to breaking a path through the heavy snow.
“Sometimes I don’t understand why he acts so self-righteous. I know Miss Valentine chose a less conventional path in life, but she was still a good woman. She was always giving to the poor and taking in hungry travelers. Isn’t that what counts?”
“I think so,” Angel said thoughtfully. “Lily was certainly more honest than some people I’ve known.”
“Exactly. She always said what she thought, even if she knew it was going to make someone mad. I wish I was like her.”
Angel smiled and said teasingly, “But Rachel, you are. You told both your mother and Neal you were coming to this service, come hell or high water or the ‘last great blizzard from Hades.’”
Rachel looked surprised. “I didn’t, did I?” She released a quiet giggle into her fur muff, glancing around to make sure nobody heard. “I know you’re not supposed to laugh in a cemetery. I feel awful.”
“Somehow I suspect Miss Valentine would approve,” Angel said wryly as she joined her friend in the sleigh. They waited there bundled beneath the blankets until Neal joined them a short time later. He looked cold and cross.
“Neal, can you drive the long way through the churchyard so we can stop at the grave again?” Rachel asked.
“We’re going straight back,” he said briskly as he picked up the reins and whistled sharply to the team.
“I forgot to put these flowers on the grave —” Rachel began.
“Come back in the spring, then. We’re leaving.”
He was definitely rattled about something, Angel thought. Probably the fact Lily was buried in holy ground, right between the town’s former minister and his own mother. Angel wondered then where Holt’s mother was buried. She assumed her body must have been returned to her people for a native burial ceremony.
During the service Angel had surreptitiously studied Virginia Murphy’s grave. There was nothing on the eloquently worded headstone to indicate anything unusual about Neal’s mother or her son. It was odd, though — Arthur Murphy’s marker was not anywhere to be found in the churchyard.
Angel asked, “Where’s your father buried, Neal?”
He shot her a quick and startled glance, then obviously collected himself. His tone razor-sharp and curt, he said, “Arthur’s buried up on the mountain, with her.”
“Her?” Rachel blurted in confusion.
Neal compressed his lips. “Arthur’s Indian squaw,” he finally said.
“Oh.” Rachel was clearly enlightened by this piece of news, and so was Angel, when she analyzed the tone of his voice. Angry. Hard. Every bit as resentful as Holt in his own way. Was all his talk of brotherly love merely an act?
As if sensing her scrutiny, Neal apologized. “I’m sorry, ladies. This has been a tiring day. Guess I’m mite put out Holt didn’t come to the service. After all, Miss Valentine was supposedly such an old and dear friend.”
Angel sensed the unspoken implication and tried not to let it wound her too deeply. Where was Holt now? Consoling himself with a cold bottle, or a warm woman?
She shook off pointless fears and fancies. Holt had made it clear there was only one love in his life, and Lily Valentine had been laid to rest. Angel wondered why she didn’t feel any better now that the competition was gone.
HOLT HADN’T GONE TO Lily’s funeral for a different reason than Angel and the others suspected. Though it was in the back of his mind on this blustery winter day, there was much more to be done than shedding tears over a grave. His feisty Lil was gone and he couldn’t help her now, but other lives were at stake. As always, he would pull through for his people, no matter the danger to himself.
He offered a faint smile to the man sitting across the fire from him. “Been a long time, Kaga.”
The gray-haired Indian gravely inclined his head. “It is so, Igasho,” Kaga agreed. He addressed Holt by his Arapaho birth name, rather than the English one that tasted strange on his old tongue. The name meant “wanderer,” an appropriate description of the younger man, especially considering his activity during the last few years.
Holt offered the old Indian a cheroot, and for a while they smoked in comfortable silence as the blue cloud of smoke filled the teepee and drifted lazily through the vent. Words were not as important as tradition, nor did Holt make any move to speak until Kaga had finished the tobacco and smacked his lips with approval.
“Maybe one white man knows his pipe,” he grudgingly said, in an indirect compliment.
Holt smiled but maintained a serious mien. “You came for more than tobacco. Do the People need more guns?”
Kaga’s expression never changed. “There will never be enough fire sticks to drive away the greedy ones. When one white man falls another will always take his place. This I have seen in my dreams.”
“Dreams have been known to be wrong.”
Ka
ga looked at him shrewdly. “Will you never learn to trust in the old ways, Igasho?”
Holt shrugged, the fur from the robe bundled around his figure brushing against his face as he looked away from the older man’s level stare. His gaze shifted to the fire and moodily fixed on the glowing coals.
“You deny yourself,” Kaga said. “As you have always denied the People.”
At this criticism Holt’s gaze shot back to Kaga. “I have helped the tribe many times. I put myself at great risk.”
“It is so,” the other man agreed pleasantly. “But there is no heart in what you do.”
Holt blinked, feeling the smoke from the fire stinging his eyes. He felt indebted to his mother’s people for accepting him so easily, as the whites had never done. He considered joining the tribe for a time. He knew he would have blended in easily enough. But he had too much Murphy blood to be content with living quietly in a village. Even fighting the cavalry in hand-to-hand combat alongside the other warriors didn’t appeal to him. He would rather remain an ally to his mother’s people, helping them in the one way only a white man could.
“If you came for more guns and ammunition,” Holt said, “I hid them in the usual place.”
Kaga made an absent gesture. “There is more to be done. The hard winter has kept the soldiers in their forts. They are too soft. Now is the People’s chance to move swiftly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Kaga made a move to rise, his long gray braids swinging and settling in place against his fur robes. Though thin and wiry, he had great presence, and his dark eyes were inscrutable as he waited for Holt to join him.
Silently, the two men left the teepee and walked toward the mine. Holt assumed Kaga wished to inspect the boxes of guns and ammunition he had hidden away in the shaft. He was surprised when the old Indian stopped and raised his hand.
“This time I must ask much more,” Kaga said as he looked toward the forest. Holt’s keen eyes tracked the source of the other man’s gaze. He soon saw the handful of huddled figures standing within the protective circle of the trees.
Holt exhaled a cloud of frosty air. “How many?”
“Six.”
“It will be difficult,” Holt warned.
“Maska only asks that you try.”
Maska was the chief of the Langundo Arapaho, and he trusted the tribe’s medicine man, Kaga, to make arrangements for the safety of his people. Holt did not need to ask who the six were or why they needed shelter. They were fugitives seeking to escape the white man’s law for one reason or another. Most likely they were the survivors of the recent uprising down south that had dealt the U.S. Army a crippling blow.
Holt sensed Kaga keenly observing him from the corner of his eye and sighed. “It is hard up here. Food is scarce even in the summer months.”
“Are they not of the People?” Kaga’s voice was proud. “They can hunt for themselves. You need not nurse them at your breast.”
Holt considered the six young braves watching them from the trees. “They are still children, Kaga. Is this the best Maska can find to defend the tribe?”
“All the warriors are gone,” the Indian said.
“All?” Holt was shocked.
The silence confirmed his question. It also assured Holt’s answer.
“They can stay here until spring. Then they must go north.”
Kaga didn’t reply. He merely nodded and continued gazing into the distance. Holt placed his hand on the other man’s arm. He said, “The women and children must be protected, too. You can smuggle them up here to me in small groups during the winter, before the fighting resumes.”
Finally Kaga turned his attention to the younger man. Holt was surprised to see the old man’s onyx eyes glittering with tears.
“You may have a white man’s heart, Igasho,” he said in a low voice filled with pride, “but you have an Indian soul.”
HOLT KNEW HIS PLAN was risky, but as far as he was concerned, there was no choice. Before Kaga left he saw the young braves settled in the mine. They would have a rough go of it at best.
Campfires were too risky and game was scarce. The winter cold was numbing, and though the six young men had dressed appropriately for the weather, frostbite and exposure were always waiting for the unwary. Holt would visit as often as he dared with food and extra provisions like wool blankets. But his latest secret was a deadly one. He could not share it with anyone, least of all Angel or his half-brother.
Holt knew he needed to go back to Oro and discourage Neal’s return before the holidays ended. On the way he would have to think of a plausible reason for refusing his brother’s help. It was true he hadn’t found much to complain about when he and Neal had worked the mine. Holt had expected his brother to be a whiner, but Neal had taken up the challenge with surprising enthusiasm. He had even agreed to help Holt build a new cabin as soon as the ground thawed in the spring.
The spring would bring more changes for all of them, Holt thought, as he made his way down the mountain. He paused respectfully for a moment at the spot where Lily was found shot. He forged on without looking back. Holt was relieved when it began snowing again, adding a fresh layer over old memories, starting the healing process sooner than he’d expected and bringing his mind back to the living.
Angel. Was she still angry with him for deserting her on Christmas Day? Holt wondered how he could explain the relationship he and Lil had shared. More than friends, less than lovers. It was unthinkable to him Angel might have asked him to abandon Lil on her deathbed. But he was afraid that was exactly what she wanted. He had to admit if Angel had forced him to choose between them that day, she wouldn’t have liked the result. But she hadn’t asked him to choose. She had come along in the end, lending quiet words of comfort and support to Lil though it had obviously hurt her to do so.
Holt sighed. He owed Angel an explanation. But he also owed it to her to send her back to Missouri as soon as possible. This was no life for a woman. Even a hardened one like Lil had met her match. She had died trying to warn Holt, and he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself.
There was no doubt in his mind Garrett and his cronies had killed Lily. The problem was finding proof and making it stick. Judge Felton Garrett certainly wouldn’t look twice at any case involving his brother. Holt knew it was only a matter of time before they started looking to blame him for any number of crimes in the Territory, whether or not he was guilty.
It was a fact he was breaking the law now by aiding and abetting fugitive Indians. But Holt thought it paled in insignificance beside murder. He felt obliged to justify his actions only to himself. And maybe to Angel, but he couldn’t involve the woman he loved in any more danger. Because he loved Angel so much, he would let her go — and never let her suspect how much she truly meant to him.
WHEN SHE HEARD THE parsonage door open Angel called out from the kitchen, “You’re just in time for dinner.”
She finished wiping her floury hands on the apron tied to her waist and brushed back a loose strand of hair before she turned toward the door to welcome Neal back from his rounds.
She faltered and felt the smile fade from her face. “Holt. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Obviously.” His voice was tense as he removed his hat, and his snow-flecked dark hair sparkled in the light. He set down a brown-paper wrapped package on the wooden counter.
Holt surreptitiously studied Angel as he turned to face her. She was flushed from the heat of the cook stove, and tendrils of her hair had curled around her face like a golden halo. Even flustered and pink-cheeked as she was, she was the most beautiful thing he could ever recall seeing.
She gestured at the package. “What’s that?”
“Venison. I had it cut and wrapped down at Caxton’s.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Angel picked up the meat and opened the icebox. Once she had disposed of it, she rinsed her hands and busied herself over the stove, unsuccessfully trying to calm the pounding of her heart.
Without an invitation, Holt took off his coat and tossed his hat on the dinner table, then pulled out a chair and straddled it, watching her closely as she tried to stay calm and indifferent.
“I imagine you’re hungry,” Angel said, scrubbing with a rag at a crusty spot on the stove in order to occupy her trembling hands.
“Very.”
Holt’s casual reply sent a unexpected shiver up Angel’s spine. She recognized that lazy drawl, but she was determined to ignore the unspoken meaning hanging heavy in a single word.
“Well, as soon as Neal returns from the Maxwells’, we can eat.” Angel kept her tone falsely bright and cheerful.
“I believe he’s staying there for dinner. I saw his horse still there when I passed their house.”
“Oh, surely he wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, would he?” Angel half turned and caught Holt’s amused look out of the corner of her eye. She stiffened. “I’d better serve this up before it burns.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure it won’t all go to waste,” Holt said. “I’m starving.”
Angel nodded and picked up a clean platter on which she dished up generous portions of stewed potatoes and meat, along with side servings of beans and vegetables. She poured hot fresh coffee and served the meal in silence, not looking up when Holt rose and moved his chair to join her at the small table.
With a fork halfway to his mouth Holt paused and inquired casually, “Are you still interested in the mine?”
Angel glanced at him and wondered what he was getting at. His gray eyes seemed unusually dark, smoldering with some unreadable emotion. “Of course I am. I need the gold for Belle Montagne and … other things.” She waited for him to inquire about the mysterious “other things,” thinking it might provide an opening to tell him about the baby. But Holt let it go without so much as a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. A feeling of dread rose in her tight throat. For a time they ate in silence, and then Holt sat back and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“You’re quite a cook, Angel. I imagine you could make your living in a fancy French restaurant if you had to.”
Mountain Angel Page 22