Mountain Angel

by Patricia McAllister

  A tears slipped from her eye. “You’re wrong.”

  “No, lady, you are.” He whirled and pinned her with a hard silvery gaze. “In two months’ time you’re going back to Missouri, if I have to hogtie you myself and toss you on the eastbound stage. Understood?”

  Angel faced him down, her expression a stony mask hiding all the churning emotions beneath.

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t think even Lily Valentine could have said it any plainer.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whatever you think it does. I won’t take up any more of your time,” Angel said with chilly dignity as she swept up her shawl and started to leave the room.

  “Just a damn minute,” Holt growled. “There’s something we need to straighten out here. About Lil —”

  “I don’t care to hear the details of your relationship with that woman, thank you,” Angel said crisply before she stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut.

  Holt stared after her, fists balled at his sides. Here he stood ready and willing to explain everything about him and Lil, and Angel had cut him off cold. Fine. Damn fine, in fact. For all he cared, she could stew in her own jealous juices until she was broiled a deep, lobster red.

  ANGEL GLANCED UP FROM the letter she was writing to Elsa Loring when Rachel entered the study.

  “Holt’s gone?” her friend asked, trying not to make an issue of it though she was concerned.

  Angel nodded, still trying to think of a way to word her peculiar circumstances on paper so Elsa wouldn’t be more worried than she already was. She’d received several hysterical letters from Belle Montagne’s former housekeeper and her old nursemaid, and it seemed like Angel had spent the better part of three months now trying to convince poor Elsa she was not only alive but surviving as best she could.

  “You know the stage won’t make a run again till spring. Your letter will have to wait,” Rachel said.

  Angel sighed and set the pen aside. “Unless I can pay someone to take it to Denver for me.”

  “Not likely. Is it important?”

  Angel smiled wanly. “Only to an old woman back east and a young fool like me.”

  Rachel’s expression was sympathetic. “You miss your home in Missouri, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Angel admitted. “But less and less as time goes on.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “Mostly green.”

  “Like the pine trees here?”

  “Oh, no. Entirely different. There are walnut and maple and oak trees. What they call a mountain in Missouri wouldn’t register on the scale out here. Except for the Ozarks, of course.”

  Rachel was glad to be able to distract Angel for a while, and she kept asking polite questions until the subjects of Missouri and Belle Montagne were completely exhausted. Then there was no avoiding the inevitable, not when Rachel realized Angel was waiting for advice.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Rachel admitted. “But if it’s any consolation, Holt told Neal not to bother coming back up to the mine this week. He’s on the outs with nearly everyone in town.”

  “I’ve never met such a moody man,” Angel snapped, and then sighed and apologized. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I’m tired and overwrought after last night.”

  “Did you tell Holt about the baby?”

  Angel shook her head. “No. There wasn’t time — actually, there was never the right moment at all. Now I’m glad I didn’t bother.”

  “Angel!”

  “You don’t understand.” With another sigh, Angel rose from the chair before the desk and paced the blue Persian carpet. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Rachel. Neal, either, though he knows more than you do.”

  Briefly, she explained about the proxy marriage back in Independence, and as Rachel’s eyes grew wider and wider, Angel finished her tale on a wry note. “You see why I’m not certain of Holt’s position. He never actually proposed to me. I don’t want him feeling obligated now. He’s made it clear where his first — and only — love lies. Six feet under the snows right now.”

  “Not Miss Valentine?” At Rachel’s gasp of disbelief, Angel nodded, but her friend seemed unable to accept it so readily.

  “If he loved her, why wouldn’t he have married her long before you arrived?”

  Angel shrugged. “Maybe he asked her. Lily had a pretty low opinion of herself as a marriage prospect; she might have refused him.”

  “Oh, I know Holt is a scoundrel sometimes, but he does love you, Angel. I’ve seen it in his eyes; the way he looks at you when you’re not aware of it.”

  “Please, Rachel, don’t try to soften the blow for me. I know my place in Holt’s life now is nothing more than it was six months ago.”

  “I think you’re wrong. Don’t make a decision you’ll come to regret. You said he’s given you till spring. If I were you, I’d use every minute to try and change his mind.”

  “Before last night I thought that way, too. But you didn’t see the way he acted toward me this morning, Rachel. I’m nothing more than a convenience to him, a body to warm his sheets.”

  Rachel shook her head. “You’re his legal wife, according to Neal, and that’s what matters. Holt owes you — and the baby — a chance. I think you should tell him, Angel. If it gives you the trump card so you can stay, who will know the difference?”

  “I will. I won’t stay in a loveless marriage, not even for a child’s sake,” Angel said. “Besides, Holt would come to hate me for deceiving him. He might accuse me of trying to trap him.”

  Rachel sighed and walked over to her friend, stopping Angel’s pacing in order to embrace her.

  “Promise me, dear, you won’t make any rash decisions today or tomorrow. So much could happen before spring; you’d be selling both yourself and Holt short if you didn’t give your marriage every last chance.”

  Angel gazed into her friend’s sober hazel eyes and realized Rachel had grown up considerably in the past few months. She thought seriously about the suggestion and then nodded.

  “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll try to stick it out longer, Rachel. But you’d better pray nothing else happens to kill my trust in Holt. There’s precious little left of it now.”

  ANGEL STAYED ANOTHER WEEK at Clara Maxwell’s house; Rachel’s aunt insisted on it, and Angel found herself too weary to consider the long drive back to Oro. Rachel departed after extracting Angel’s promise to stay put, and for a time, all was peaceful and serene in the snowbound town of Clear Creek.

  With nothing on her hands but time, Angel discreetly began knitting baby clothes, planning for the day when she would be forced to make a living for herself and items like clothing would be scarce. She supposed she could always return to Missouri, but the thought of Will Craddock lurking about still gave her the shudders. She knew Elsa and Hans were sincere in their offer to take her in, but would they truly appreciate having a penniless young woman and another hungry baby on their hands?

  As she considered her few options, Angel felt more and more discouraged. She considered confiding in Clara, who was indeed like an aunt to her now, but she suspected the old lady would seek to put things right, even if it meant interfering as she had the night of the ball.

  Clara meant well, but she didn’t know all the facts about Angel’s marriage. If worse came to worst, Angel supposed she could sell the garnet jewelry Clara had insisted she keep, but she decided it would be nothing short of thoughtless to part with the priceless heirlooms.

  So Angel made her plans for the future, though they were vague and unsatisfactory at best. As Holt had so coldly pointed out, she was a passable cook; perhaps one of the restaurants in Denver would give her a chance. She could take in laundry or sewing for the miners who filled the frontier town. Why, she could probably stay in Clear Creek, though Holt would hear rumors about the child, and she would not risk the possibility of him taking her son or daughter away.

  A light snowfall began at the start of her seco
nd week at Clara’s home, and Angel was considering returning to the parsonage before it worsened when there came a muffled pounding at the door.

  Dulcibel answered it, and the grizzled little maid was almost knocked over by the figure of Neal Murphy as he burst into the hall.

  “Angel,” he shouted urgently, and she hurried out from the adjoining parlor, her heart already beginning to pound at the ominous tone of his voice.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” the pastor cried. “A terrible thing happened over in Oro — Sheriff Garrett was found dead last night.”

  “Dead?” Angel gasped. “How?”

  “Shot twice in the back after he left Jake’s saloon.” Neal’s face was pale and grim. “That’s not all, I’m afraid. Holt has been arrested for the murder.”

  “Holt? There’s some mistake. He was up at the mine.”

  Neal shook his head. “Witnesses say Holt left the saloon before Garrett did. They apparently exchanged words, and Holt stormed out.”

  Angel fumbled for the back of a chair in the hallway, and she sank down on the seat with trembling legs. Dulcibel had already hurried off to spread the news, and within moments Clara Maxwell arrived and took charge.

  “What’s all this nonsense about a murder?”

  Neal faced the older woman with regret. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I came to inform Angel of Holt’s whereabouts.”

  “The Oro jail, I presume?” At Neal’s affirmative reply, Clara sniffed and said, “We’ll see about that. I’ll have a lawyer brought in from Denver if I have to.”

  “But, ma’am, the stage line is closed until spring.”

  “Bosh and twaddle,” Clara said emphatically. “Money has worked miracles before this, and I daresay it can do so again.”

  Angel listened gratefully as Clara rapped out orders. After Neal left, Clara clucked her tongue. “That boy has no backbone. He should have thought of all those things before he came.”

  “I’m sure Neal is as upset by all this as I am.” Angel defended her brother-in-law. “He probably suspects the worst of Holt.”

  “Do you?”

  Angel didn’t hesitate to shake her head. “No. Holt does have a temper, but he’d never kill someone in cold blood, and especially not by shooting them in the back.”

  Clara nodded. “Then that’s all that matters, child. I trust your judgment. After all, who knows a husband better than his own wife?”

  Probably half of Oro City, Angel wanted to say, but instead she said, “I appreciate all you’re doing, Aunt Clara. I can hardly keep my head on straight.”

  “It was thoughtless of Neal to upset you,” Clara said with disapproval. “A woman in your condition doesn’t need a shock.”

  “My condition?” Angel looked up with surprise.

  “Surely, my dear, you didn’t think you could hide such a thing from a wise old owl like me?” Clara gave a merry laugh. “Even a childless woman knows something is up when the food can’t stay down.”

  Angel felt herself blush, and the older lady took her hands and squeeze them comfortingly. “Never fear, my dear; I want only the best for you and the little one. In fact, I would be delighted if you would stay on with me until the babe is born; late summer, wouldn’t you say?”

  Still stunned, Angel could only manage a nod.

  “Then we shall see, of course. Right now the important thing is to find good food and plenty of rest for you, and the best lawyer in the Territory for that rascal Holt.”

  “Oh, Aunt Clara, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Nonsense, child. The only thanks I want is to see you safe and happy. You’ve brought a light into my life I should heartily regret to lose.” The elderly lady bent and fondly kissed Angel’s cheek. “Now, I think we should start by unraveling this wild rumor about your husband, don’t you?”

  HOLT SPRANG TO HIS feet the moment the outer door leading to the jail cell opened.

  “I demand to see the judge,” he said to the deputy who entered and approached his cell carrying a tray in his hands.

  The other man was taken aback by the fury in Holt’s voice and paused to consider whether or not he should risk handing a meal to the prisoner.

  “Yu’ll see ’em,” he said at last, his small piggy eyes dancing with laughter as he spoke. “Don’t worry, yu’ll git ta see ’em all, Injun. The witnesses, the barkeep, an’ ’specially the hangin’ judge, the Honorable Felton Garrett.”

  “Honorable, eh? Sounds like a case of skewed justice to me,” Holt said. “Everyone knows he’s the sheriff’s brother.”

  The deputy grinned, exposing rotted yellow teeth. “Yep, so’s everyone knows yur gonna swing, Injun.”

  “Everyone also knows I didn’t shoot Red.”

  “Tell it ta the judge,” the deputy said with an ugly curl to his lip. He decided against feeding the prisoner, looking over the plates on the tray with obvious greed. Holt watched in disgust as the man chose a chicken leg and ate it right in front of him, chewing noisily and smacking his greasy lips.

  “Good vittles,” the man grunted, and picked over the rest of the tray until only scraps and bones were left. Then he laughed and shoved the remnants under the bars to Holt. “Eat up, Injun. It’s better’n ya deserve anyway.”

  Holt stared at the deputy until the other man backed away uncomfortably and turned to hurry from the room. Once the outer door had swung shut and was securely locked again, Holt returned to the hard wooden bench in his cell and sat with his head in his hands.

  He could hardly believe he was going to be tried for murder. He’d expected Red Garrett and his cronies to try something, all right, but he’d never dreamed the sheriff himself would wind up dead, unknowingly framing Holt for the deed.

  Garrett had other enemies, obviously. Who and why didn’t matter as long as Holt was absolved of the crime. But as Holt ran over the events of the previous night in his head, he couldn’t believe how neatly he’d been set up. He and Garrett had quarreled publicly in Jake’s when Red had made an ungentlemanly remark about his wife and Holt took quick offense. Holt sighed now. It seemed Angel always got him into hot water, even when she wasn’t there.

  The bar fight had erupted into a downright brawl, and for a time Holt enjoyed cracking heads with chairs and smashing his fist into faces. But he’d never drawn his gun or knife like the yellow-livered boys in Garrett’s employ always did. In fact, he’d narrowly missed being gutted by Garrett himself, and only after Jake threatened to kick them all out did Holt gather up what was left of his dignity and leave. It was true, he’d briefly considered waiting for Garrett in the shadows of the alley …

  “Holt?”

  A soft female voice startled him from his brooding thoughts and he looked up. “Angel. You shouldn’t be here.”

  His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but he couldn’t take back the words. She clutched the bars of his cell and swayed slightly as she spoke.

  “I had to come and let you know we’re doing all we can to get you out of here. Clara is hiring an attorney from Denver.”

  Holt shook his head. “It’ll be too late by then, sweetheart. They intend to rush this one right through the courts.”

  “They?”

  He smiled at her innocence. “Judge Garrett and his friends. Guess I’ve been a burr under their saddles for a mite too long. Who else was the obvious man to take the fall for Red’s death?”

  “Don’t say that,” Angel whispered, tears making her blue eyes bright. “I don’t believe you killed Garrett, and neither will anyone else when this goes to trial.”

  “Trial? Afraid they aren’t so formal here, Angel. It’ll be a rope on a tree by Sunday noon, mark my words.”

  “Damn you, Holt,” she cried. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because I’ve seen it too often. Now get out of here, before they start thinking you had something to do with this, too. Better yet, have Mrs. Maxwell pay someone to take you to Denver. If my brother was half a man, I’d ask him to do it.”

&n
bsp; “Don’t talk badly about Neal. He’s doing everything he can to convince the townspeople of your innocence.”

  “Tell him not to preach any extra sermons on my account,” Holt snapped. He turned his head, unable to look any longer at Angel’s tear-streaked, pleading face. “Go on, woman. I don’t have time for your tears. Get out of Oro while there’s still time.”

  “No. I won’t leave you, Holt.”

  “Don’t you understand?” His voice was harsh. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

  The cold words echoed off the stone walls. Angel opened her mouth to speak, but nothing escaped her except a faint, strangled sound. She turned and blundered through her tears to find the exit from this nightmare. She collapsed against the outer door and pounded on it weakly until the deputy unlocked it, and she nearly fell into his arms.

  “Easy, lil’ lady.”

  With a sob, Angel shoved past his groping, sweaty hands and dashed through the office and out into the street. Grinning after her with a touch of disappointment, the fat deputy turned back to lock the door and was met by Holt’s murderous, level stare from the jail cell.

  With a shiver, the deputy hastily slammed and locked the door again, taking care to listen for the reassuring click of the bolt sliding into place. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow and quickly returned his attention to the half-devoured plate left on the dead sheriff’s desk.

  Chapter Twenty

  NEAL HEARD A SOFT sound and looked up from the desk where he was doing paperwork in the rectory. He was surprised to see his fiancée standing in the doorway, more so because her normally merry face was splotched with tears.

  “Oh, Neal,” Rachel cried, rushing into the room in a sudden burst of emotion. She clutched a linen handkerchief in one hand while the other held up the skirts of a peach lute string dress. It was the first gown of her new trousseau, painstakingly copied from the pages of Leslie’s Weekly and reproduced with considerable skill by the redoubtable Dulcibel. But at the moment Rachel cared little for her new finery, and she flung herself into Neal’s arms, crushing the bows and frills bedecking the dress.