Angel felt a pang of misgiving. Was Holt so devastated by Lily’s death he was warning her their marriage was over? Was he politely hinting she find a way to support herself? Questions spun in her mind while she fumbled to find words.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Holt?”
“No. I do have something to ask you, though. Would you consider selling out?”
Seeing her shocked expression he added, “It’s been eating at me, knowing you’ve got all your hopes and dreams wrapped up in that old mine.”
Not all, Angel silently corrected him, but she could only sit and stare at Holt with frozen apprehension. He sighed and shoved his plate away, then leaned back and hooked a boot heel in the brace of his chair.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this. I don’t think the Lucky Angel will be your salvation. Not now, not ever.”
His brutal prediction brought only a murmur from her.
“Do you understand, Angel? I don’t think there will be any pay dirt, ever, for either of us.”
She fixed her gaze on him accusingly. “What about the gold you’ve been finding?”
Holt snorted and shook his head. “Four years’ worth of dust and inferior nuggets. Most mines produce more in the first six months. Give me a little credit for brains, woman. If there was any hope, do you think I’d be telling you all this?”
“Yes, if you wanted it all for yourself,” Angel said.
“I’m not the one who wants to buy you out. I’m trying to help you make a wise decision.”
She regarded him mulishly. Holt sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke.
“I can’t stand to see you wasting your time up here waiting for the mother lode when you could go on with your life. There’s a new start waiting for you somewhere, Angel. I’ve received a respectable offer from someone here in town, and I think you’d be wise to take it.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Fellow by the name of Brindle. I don’t know the man, but he’s new in town. That probably explains his gullibility and the fact he doesn’t seem to know I don’t own the mine.”
“Mrs. Maxwell’s beau,” Angel said with surprise. “I wouldn’t feel right trying to deceive Rachel’s future stepfather.”
“From what I hear the man has money. This would be a temporary setback for him. It’s your whole future at stake, Angel.”
She shook her head and rose from the table. “I don’t believe you, Holt. There’s far more to this than meets the eye.”
Angel rushed out of the kitchen. Holt followed her and found her facing the fireplace in the parlor, shaking with silent sobs. He walked up behind her and gently laid his hands on her shoulders. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Angel,” he said. “You mean too much to me.”
She turned in the circle of his arms and raised hopeful, tear-filled eyes to his face. Would Holt declare his love for her now? Because if he did, she would no longer worry about the mine or anything else except their marriage. She was determined to make it work. Perhaps in time the memory of Lily might fade, and he could come to love her as deeply. Besides, now there was the child to think of. Holt would surely feel an obligation to make their marriage work.
Holt kissed her brow. “Just consider it, all right? This Brindle fellow’s made a good offer. You could live comfortably on the money for the rest of your days.”
“What about you?” she whispered.
He gave a wry grin. “I’ll make do, like I always have. I’ve been thinking of heading west anyway and trying my luck in the California goldfields.”
Angel swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. He hadn’t mentioned a shared future for the two of them. Seeing he awaited a response, she said, “I want to think about this for a while.”
“I’d advise you not to stall too long. Otherwise Brindle’s likely to get cold feet.”
Abruptly, Angel pulled free of his arms and turned to face the fire. She was cold, so cold. Her future, her life with Holt was crumbling right before her eyes. She didn’t think she could stand much more.
Then she heard Holt mutter, “That damned thing again.”
“What?”
Holt strode to the fireplace and yanked the wooden horse off the mantel. Even Angel had forgotten it was there after so many months. His fist tightened around the statue’s base. He eyed it with a scowl. “This damned thing turns up at the worst times. Maybe it’s bad luck.”
He moved as if he might toss it into the fire. “No,” Angel cried. She sprang forward and knocked it from his hand. The horse landed with a clatter on the hearthstones. Its tail and one leg broke off. It was the last straw. She crumpled to her knees, sobbing.
Holt crouched beside her and picked up the pieces. “Angel? Angel, look at me.” He sounded worried. But she was crying too hard, too hysterically to even catch her breath, much less speak.
“I can fix it,” he said. “If it means that much to you, I’ll fix it.”
As she gradually calmed his words sank in, and she remembered why the statue plagued him so. She let him assume from the first it was a gift from a smitten suitor. Once, his jealousy gave her hope. Hope that he cared for her. But now he deserved to know the truth.
“He obviously meant a lot to you,” Holt said.
She managed a whisper. “But he’s gone.”
Something akin to pain flashed in his eyes, or maybe it was only the firelight. “He made it especially for you.”
She nodded. “He was twelve.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Matt was twelve when he carved that horse for me. He was only nineteen when he died in the war. He was my big brother, Holt.” Her trembling words hung in the air between them.
“Christ.” Shaken, he raked a hand back through his hair in obvious upset. “I acted like a jealous idiot for nothing. I’m sorry, Angel.”
He took the pieces from her, rose and gently placed them on the mantel, then drew her up beside him. “I said I can fix it, and I will. It’ll give me something to do during these long winter nights.”
She tried to smile through her tears. “Holt, I want to give the mine a chance. Time; that’s all it needs. Time.”
He made a weary sound. “Well, it’s up to you, of course. I have to admire your stubbornness, Angel, but I hope you aren’t making a mistake. Don’t wait past spring to give Brindle your answer.” He paused. “In fact, I think we should use the springtime as a goal for other things, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if the mine doesn’t come through by the first of spring, I want you to sell and go home.”
Angel was silent, the pain too intense for her to speak. Didn’t Holt realize she had no home now? Belle Montagne is a beautiful place, she thought, but that’s all it is to me now — a place. Home was where the heart was, and hers was here with Holt.
“Give me your promise, Angel,” he said. “If the mine doesn’t deliver by the first of March, you’ll go back to Missouri. This is no life for a woman. Least of all one like you.”
What did he mean by that? Angel was too hurt and angry to think before she spoke. “I suppose Lily Valentine fit in fine.”
“Lil was different. She had a hard life and was used to disappointment. You’re not.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Angel said bitterly. “I’ve had plenty of disappointment in the last few months.”
When Holt stayed silent she stepped back, planted her fists on her hips and said with icy composure, “All right, you want my word. You have it. If the mine doesn’t produce by March, I’ll sell.”
“And go home,” Holt added.
Angel nodded. She didn’t feel it necessary to add “home” was a matter of definition. As far as she was concerned, Colorado Territory was as close to the definition as she could ever hope to get. That was, as long as Holt still lived there. She had three months to change his mind. It was as simple as that.
She wiped away the last of her tears. “Will you stay the night?”
H
e shook his head. “I’ve been away from the mine longer than I should have.”
“If it’s a worthless claim, why bother guarding it anymore?”
He smiled. “We don’t want Brindle thinking that, now do we?” His smile faded as he saw the look in Angel’s eyes. “I’ll be back down next week for supplies. Keep the home fires burning till then, all right?” He took the broken pieces of the wooden horse and wrapped them carefully in a clean cloth that he tucked inside his coat before he left.
She nodded, too tired and dispirited to point out he’d said her home was in Missouri, not here. She considered telling Holt about the baby, but she didn’t want to influence his decision now. If he came to love her on his own during the winter ahead, then and only then would she share the most precious secret of all. If not, she would carry the price of her love in painful silence all the way back to Belle Montagne and never look back again.
Chapter Eighteen
“A BALL!”
Rachel Maxwell’s delighted cry carried all the way to her Aunt Clara’s kitchen, where Angel was arranging pastries to accompany the ladies’ afternoon tea. She picked up the silver tray and hurried back into the drawing room to rejoin the conversation.
“Angel, did you hear?” Rachel cried. “Auntie wants to hold a New Year’s ball in honor of my engagement.”
“How exciting,” Angel said uncertainly, not sure whether she should encourage the idea or not, since she couldn’t imagine who would be invited in this small community or, more importantly, who would come.
Clara seemed to read Angel’s mind. Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously as she said, “I shall call upon you, my dear Mrs. Murphy, to help me with the arrangements. I’m certain you can provide me with a list of suitable young people for the event.” After a disarming smile at Angel, she gestured to a mahogany table arranged before her and Rachel’s chairs. “Will you pour, my dear?”
“Of course,” Angel murmured, still overcome by the sudden idea and a trifle bemused by what her role was to be in the scheme of things.
“… my gray muslin, I suppose,” Rachel was saying as Angel’s attention drifted back to the conversation and each of the ladies had appropriated one of the delicate china cups. There was a distinctly woebegone note to Rachel’s tone as she realized the unsuitability of all of her gowns for a ball.
Clara said pertly, “Nonsense, child. I won’t have my niece wearing such a dreadful concoction at a formal function held in her own honor. No, my wedding gift to you shall be nothing less than a new ensemble; a complete trousseau, if you will.”
“Oh, Auntie,” Rachel gasped, nearly spilling her tea as she set down her cup and saucer with a hasty rattle and crossed the room to fling herself into the old woman’s arms.
“Now, now, none of that,” Clara said mock-sternly, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she patted Rachel’s back and met Angel’s approving gaze. “We have much to do and hardly any time, girls. Invitations must be issued at once; of course we shall miss New Year’s proper, but I’ll wager our little community will forgive us.”
“Why, yes, it will be the event of the year,” Rachel said as she straightened up and patted her hair back in place.
“In my day, dear, we would have said it would be the ‘highlight of the season,’” Clara reminisced. “I shall never fully understand American expressions, I fear, but it is enough you appear pleased.”
“Pleased? I’m overcome, Auntie.”
“Precisely,” Clara said. She turned to Angel with a playful glint in her eyes. “What do you think of our grand scheme, Mrs. Murphy?”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Angel agreed.
“Good. Then I also insist you allow me the favor of outfitting you for the ball.”
“Oh, Aunt Clara, how kind, but I couldn’t possibly —”
The old lady cut her off in midsentence with a sniff. “I shall accept nothing less, and you would do well to take me up on the offer, since I intend to presume fully upon your good nature in the days to come. In other words, my dear, I’m going to work your delicate little fingers to the bone. I’m too old for such nonsense myself, and my Dulcie shall have her own hands full with making your gowns.”
“All right, Aunt Clara,” Angel said, but she intended to take the maid aside at the first opportunity and insist her ball gown, if she must have one, should be plain and of the most inexpensive material available.
Clara looked pleased. “I daresay if we put our heads together, my girls, we can set this complacent little community on its ear.”
“O-H-H,” RACHEL BREATHED, DREAMILY studying her own reflection in the cheval glass. She turned slowly so she could examine herself from every angle. Taffeta rustled in the enclosed room. The skirt of the gown was pink silk, matching the bloom in her cheeks, and the two overskirts of white taffeta were short at the front and longer in the back, ending with four pleated frills. The small bustle was drawn back into a flowing train several feet behind her. It was the absolute height of fashion.
Rachel wore her hair in a soft coil, though she had tied a white silk bow in the back for an accent. She looked up with surprise when Angel moved forward with a rope of creamy pearls and fastened the jewelry around her friend’s neck.
“My wedding gift to you, dear Rachel,” Angel said before she stepped away. The pearls were a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday, but Angel had rarely worn them. They better complemented Rachel’s gown and complexion, and she felt no sense of loss, only a warm glow of pleasure as she parted with them.
“Oh, Angel.”
The two young women embraced, then stepped apart so as not to crush their respective gowns. Rachel eyed her best friend with approval. “Your gown is beautiful, too,” she said loyally. “I’m glad Aunt Clara insisted you have a new dress for the evening.”
Angel smiled, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she moved across the room. Dulcibel surprised them both with her considerable skill with needle and thread. If the woman was not such a dour soul, Angel would suspect Dulcibel had dressed them as lovingly as she would her own daughters. Angel had insisted her gown be plain and practical, but in a mark of defiance the wizened little woman had crafted a masterpiece.
Angel’s dress was made from two materials, cream silk and claret velvet, and trimmed with English Midlands lace. The cuirass bodice sleekly hugged her slender frame, and the draped panniers descended in a waterfall train to the floor.
The gown rivaled anything Angel had ever worn, and she could only marvel over where Dulcibel had found the material. There had not been time to order anything from Denver, and the stage line was still closed due to the inclement weather. The only thing her new outfit lacked was matching jewelry. She was not unduly surprised when Clara soon appeared to make amends for that, as well.
After exclaiming her approval over Rachel’s new pearls, Clara proceeded to open a velvet case, revealing a magnificent garnet necklace, bracelet, and earrings. While the younger women made admiring comments, Clara lifted the necklace from its case and lovingly ran the sparkling stones through her age-spotted hands.
“A gift from my James,” she said, and then, unexpectedly, her gaze rose to meet Angel’s. “You will wear them tonight.”
“Me? But Rachel is your niece —”
“And shall inherit the more valuable family jewelry, of course. But these stones are special, my dear. James gave them to me on our first wedding anniversary. I’ve always considered them more precious than rubies.”
“Aunt Clara, I simply can’t —” Angel protested.
“Of course you can. Can’t she, Rachel?”
Angel found herself outnumbered, and she relented with a sigh. “Very well, you two. But I’m wearing them this one night only.”
The twinkle in Clara’s eyes indicated otherwise, but she deferred the argument for later as she fastened the clasp for Angel and then handed her the matching earbobs and bracelet. The dark red stones were a perfect color match to the velvet
in Angel’s gown, and they all agreed that the simple chignon in which she had styled her hair was the most flattering for wearing jewelry.
“I should go downstairs and check on things,” Angel said as she glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Dulcibel needs help setting out the refreshments.”
“Dulcie is capable of handling things from here on out,” Clara said. “I hired a pair of young girls from town to help her with the serving line, and you’ve certainly done more than your share of work in the past few weeks, my dear. I insist you rest now before the ball. You’re looking peaked, you know.”
Before Clara could suggest one of her tonics, Angel said, “Perhaps I will take a brief respite. Will you two ladies excuse me?”
Angel escaped Rachel’s room with the apparent notion of retiring to her own room for a time, but she had no intention of doing so. She merely wished for a moment of peace and privacy before the ball.
Most of all she wished for Holt, although that was, of course, an idle and futile wish. She’d seen him briefly twice since he delivered his ultimatum at Christmas. Both times they was frigidly polite to one another, but nothing was said about the mine or their future.
With a quiet sigh, Angel went downstairs and entered the conservatory. Idly she ran her fingers over the ivory keys of the piano. She was picking out the notes to “Clare de Lune” when a soft cough sounded in the doorway.
“Hello Neal.” She forced pleasure to mask the disappointment in her voice as the minister entered the room, looking dashing in his black evening coat and trousers.
“Angel,” he said, giving her a bow. “May I say you are looking quite … angelic,” he finished, with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said as she closed the piano lid and moved to greet him. “You’re early, you know. The ball isn’t set to begin for another two hours.”
“Zounds, Aunt Clara will have my hide for this,” Neal exclaimed, mimicking their hostess’s English accent. Then he switched back to a Clear Creek drawl as he said, “Actually, I needed to visit with Rachel before the festivities begin. Is she still upstairs?”
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