Neal was taken aback and hastily removed himself from her clutches. “Rachel, what are you doing here alone?” he demanded uneasily. “Don’t you have an escort?”
“Don’t be foolish, Neal. We’re engaged, aren’t we? Nobody saw me come in. Besides, something terrible has happened.”
He sighed and shook his head. “What now?”
“Please don’t act so annoyed. I had to come. It’s about Angel. I’m terribly worried about her. She went to see Holt yesterday, and since she returned Aunt Clara’s said she’s acting strange. Something happened when she saw Holt in prison. She’s refusing to see me, and that’s not like Angel.”
“What were you doing in Clear Creek?”
Rachel was startled by his curt question. “I left several things there the night of the ball. I went back to retrieve them today, and that’s when Auntie told me what had happened.”
“I’m afraid I’m missing something here,” Neal said. “Of course Angel is upset. What woman wouldn’t be if her husband was arrested for murder?”
Rachel grew increasingly agitated. Neal acted too calm and unshakable. She wanted him to hold her, comfort her; as if he read the longing in her eyes, he stepped out of reach.
Returning to his desk, Neal murmured, “It’s a tragedy, of course, but we can do nothing until the trial. Then, if we’re called upon to testify in Holt’s defense, we can try to paint a better portrait of my brother.”
Rachel was vexed beyond endurance. “Oh, don’t you understand?” she cried. “He’s not going to get a fair trial in this town. Auntie sent for a Denver lawyer, but it’s probably too late. She confided in me there’s little she can do for Holt, and if Auntie can’t do it, nobody can.”
Neal’s gaze rose from his desk and he regarded her frostily. “Then I fail to see, Rachel, what you or I can do to rectify the situation.”
She stared at him, confused. “You’re the minister here,” she said. “People respect you. They’ll listen to you. You could delay the trial.
Neal shook his head. “I won’t interfere with the justice system, even if Holt is my brother. People would talk, and no doubt claim I arranged to divert due process or some such nonsense. Our father’s position always gave him special consideration. Arthur thought he was above the law. I won’t have the same said of me.”
“For heaven’s sake, Neal, this is Holt’s life we’re talking about,” Rachel said with exasperation. “Nothing is more important, including your damned pride.”
“Rachel,” he exclaimed, scandalized by her language.
She tossed her head. “I don’t care to be lectured any further today, thank you. Mother was furious enough when I borrowed the sleigh to go to Clear Creek. I had to listen to her whine and complain for an hour. It drove me mad.”
“You’ve been around Angel and that batty aunt of yours too much,” Need growled, slapping papers around on his desk. “First, arranging to have Lily Valentine buried in consecrated ground, then resorting to foul language to promote a lost cause. You’re hardly the demure young lady whom I thought would make a proper preacher’s wife.”
Rachel regarded him with shock. “Is that a threat, Neal?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.
“Call it what you will. I can’t marry a young woman who chooses to adopt coarse mannerisms. A woman who has the audacity to question the judgment of her future husband in important matters.”
“So it is important?” Rachel triumphantly pounced on his words. “You will grant me that much?”
He shot her a harried, angry look. “I never denied it. But I’m telling you for the last time, Rachel, it isn’t my place to interfere with justice.”
“You call putting a man on trial without allowing him to obtain a lawyer ‘justice’?” she scoffed. “Everyone knows who the judge is, and yet nobody in this town has the nerve to question it. Well, I do, and I shall.”
Neal regarded her grimly. “Do as you will, Rachel,” he said at last, “but be warned. If you make a laughingstock of me, I shall wash my hands of both you and our forthcoming marriage.”
Rachel saw the cold glint in his eyes and realized he meant every word of his threat. Neal knew how much she loved him, and yet he was turning his back on her when she needed him most.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You always preach about helping others in their hour of need, and not judging them. Yet now I see you, like your father, apparently are exempt from God’s law.”
Neal whitened at her quiet observation, looking at his fiancée with something akin to amazement. Rachel kept her head high, her gaze evenly locked with his until at last Neal sighed and looked away.
“What would you have me do?” he asked grudgingly as he toyed with a pen on his desk.
“Speak to the townsfolk before it’s too late. Force everyone to realize the grave injustice about to be committed. Don’t let anyone turn away from the truth. Oh, Neal, don’t you see the power you have to stop this charade?”
She was pleading with him now, her bold manners replaced by the winsomeness of the young woman he remembered.
“I know you and Holt have had your differences,” she said, “but if not for Holt’s sake, think of Angel. What would she do if the worst happened?”
Neal looked thoughtful. “Why, I suppose she’d go back to Missouri.”
Rachel shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Not for a while, anyway.”
“What makes you say that?”
She smiled. “I can’t tell you, Neal. I gave my word not to, until … well, I just can’t, that’s all.”
He looked annoyed. “More secrets, Rachel?”
“ ‘More’? What do you mean?”
“I’m well aware you’ve been hiding something from me for awhile,” Neal said as he considered her nervous demeanor. “I also have no doubt it is something of which you know I would greatly disapprove.”
Rachel knew she had paled at his words but tried to brazen it out. “What a silly notion.”
“Is it?” he mused. “I wager I could have you falling all over yourself to confess in the right circumstances. But I’m willing to be Christian about it and say no more, if you tell me Angel’s secret instead.”
“But, Neal, I couldn’t. I gave my word.”
“Not sworn, I hope,” he said with unusual severity. “I should hate to think my future wife had used the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Well, of course I didn’t, but …” Rachel was flustered for a moment, and then reasoned Angel’s little “secret” could possibly make all the difference in saving Holt’s life. Surely Neal would not continue to refuse to help his brother if he knew the full story.
“Very well,” she said, wringing the tear-stained handkerchief in her freckled hands as she spoke. “I’ll tell you if you promise to speak with the deputies first thing.”
Neal nodded tersely. Rachel had to accept it for his word.
“Angel is with child,” she said.
He apparently expected something entirely different, for he was visibly shocked.
“Does Holt know?” Neal asked.
“She wanted to tell him, but the opportunity never arose. That’s why she made me agree not to tell anyone else. Of course she wants to break the news herself.”
“Of course,” Neal murmured, seeming preoccupied. “This throws a whole different light on things, doesn’t it? In all good conscience I cannot sit back and watch Holt go to the gallows.”
“Oh, I knew you would understand,” Rachel cried. “That’s why I love you so much.” She hurried across the room to embrace him in a sudden show of affection, too overcome with relief to notice Neal did not return the gesture. “Will you speak out on Holt’s behalf now?”
“I shall do everything I can, Rachel,” Neal said, his hands closing at long last around her waist. “You may rest assured of that.”
ANGEL WAS SLIGHTLY HEARTENED when Clara Maxwell found a man willing to brave the inclement weather and treacherous winter passes
in order to head east and find a lawyer. It was scant comfort when she learned the man was Gil Martin, the burly stage driver who had originally taken her and Holt to Denver, but it did assure her he was unlikely to abscond with Clara’s money, and he would do his best to complete the mission.
Since Holt’s abrupt refusal of her help, Angel was searching for something to occupy her time and delay the inevitable return of her thoughts to the grim situation at hand. She tried to content herself with knitting more baby clothes and taking care of Clara, though it seemed they had reversed their roles and now Clara was looking more after her these days.
Nothing would do but for Angel to move permanently into Clara’s home. Since she was no longer a mere guest but considered family, Angel was given a large, sunny bedroom on the south side of the house, overlooking the English garden. The garden was, of course, presently buried by several feet of snow, but Clara assured the younger woman the view would be well worth the long winter wait.
It was no accident, Angel soon discovered, that her new bedroom opened up into a smaller chamber, the unused nursery Clara and James Maxwell had longed to fill with babies and never had.
There was a handcrafted wooden cradle and rocker in the room James had carved lovingly years ago, and while Clara’s eyes filled with tears when she saw them again, she insisted Dulcibel dust the baby furniture and set the room to rights.
“Dear Aunt Clara, I wouldn’t cause you any heartache for the world,” Angel said as she toured the nursery with her adopted aunt. She paused to buss the older lady’s cheek affectionately. “If seeing these things makes you sad, I’ll have Dulcibel put them away.”
“Nonsense,” Clara said sharply. “What this old house needs most of all is to ring with children’s laughter. For too long it’s been the stuffy domain of an ancient crone with the dubious reputation of having the sharpest tongue in the Territory.”
Angel had to laugh. “Surely not you.”
“Well, of course, child. Who else had the temerity to tell Prudence to sod off when she was browbeating poor Rachel about her new ball gown?”
“Oh, I would have dearly loved to hear that.”
“You were a wee bit preoccupied at the time, as I recall,” Clara said cheekily. She viewed the sunny nursery with satisfaction. “I’ve no doubt you and Holt shall manage to adequately fill this room, and perhaps overflow into others, as well.”
At the mention of her husband, Angel went quiet, a fact which did not escape the shrewd English lady.
“Buck up, my girl,” Clara said stoutly. “The war’s not over yet. I’ve been called many things here in the Territory, but one thing I’ve never lost is people’s respect. If Clara Maxwell says there is cause to pause for thought, there is, and I intend to make those puerile deputies think twice before they put Holt on trial.”
Angel couldn’t contain her tears or her gratitude. She turned and embraced the little woman fiercely.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt Clara,” she confessed.
“Rot,” came the crisp retort, but over Angel’s shoulder, Clara felt her eyes mist as well.
ON THE MORNING GIL Martin was to leave for Denver, Angel received an unexpected summons to the Oro jail. The note was delivered by one of the deputies, a different fellow than the fat, leering one she remembered from her visit, a wiry man who actually had manners and tipped his hat politely to her as he presented the message. Even more surprising was the note itself. It was from Holt, written in a bold, slashing hand she did not doubt belonged to the man she loved:
I need to talk to you. It’s important. Don’t let Gil leave until you see me.
He had signed it simply “Holt.” Angel found Clara and showed her the note, receiving the older lady’s promise to delay Gil Martin’s departure until Angel returned.
Clara insisted Angel ride to Oro in her English-style brougham, along with a hired man who would see to her safety and comfort. Since it was bitterly cold and the drive was long, Angel agreed, and she embraced the European custom of wrapping hot bricks in flannel to warm the passenger’s feet. She had donned a light blue wool gown with a matching flared cape that completely concealed her figure, and she was relieved to find Holt only gave her a cursory glance as she was shown into the inner hold of the prison.
“We only have a minute,” Holt said, with a dark look after the broad back of the departing deputy. “I don’t have time to argue with you, and I especially don’t have time to explain. Do you understand?”
His eyes were flint-gray and just as hard. Angel nodded stiffly. She had assumed he was going to apologize for his rudeness the other day. Instead, she was apparently expected to listen to more lectures that she should leave town.
Annoyed as she was, Angel couldn’t help but ache at the sight of Holt looking so unkempt and thin. He had lost weight since her first visit, and she worried he was being mistreated. She had no chance to ask, though, before he launched into a request that took her completely by surprise.
“I need you to go up to the mine,” Holt said, an urgent tone to his voice. “Take blankets and as much food as you can find or steal without causing an uproar.”
As her eyes widened, he added, “Whatever you do, Angel, don’t tell anyone else or take anyone with you.” She was about to suggest Neal, and Holt obviously knew it. “This is too important. Lives are at stake. Do you understand?”
He spoke as if to a particularly slow child. Angel’s hackles rose, and she fought the bit of silent obedience he was trying to force into her mouth.
“No, I don’t understand,” she retorted testily. “The only life I see at stake right now, and the only one that matters, is yours. Why are you trying to distract me from the real issue?”
“Real?” Holt snorted and raked his hand through his tangled black hair, then turned to pace impatiently like a caged panther in his cell. “I’ll give you more ‘real’ issues than you can handle, Angel, if you’d do as I ask. I wouldn’t ask you at all, but there’s nobody else I can trust.”
Angel doubted he intended it as a compliment and didn’t take it as one. “What’s up at the mine that’s so all-fired important?” she demanded. “Why should I help you?”
He stopped pacing and regarded her through the bars with a look that chilled her to the bone. “Maybe I was wrong,” he said. “Maybe you don’t have what it takes to survive up here. Maybe you don’t want to try.”
Holt expected Angel to rise to the challenge, and she didn’t disappoint him. With an angry toss of her head she said, “Tell me what to do. I won’t ask you any more questions.”
“Good. First of all, it’s important for you to speak to Gil on my behalf before he leaves. You remember Jean-Claude and his wife?”
“Of course.”
“I need Gil to find the Frenchman and tell him what’s happening now. Also need to retrieve some things I left at the cabin when we were passing through on our way to Denver.”
Angel was puzzled, but she remembered her word and nodded. “All right. When should I go to the mine?”
“As soon as you speak to Gil. Today, if possible.” Holt paused, seeing the questions flooding her beautiful blue eyes, wanting to confide in his wife but uncertain if he dared to. “And,” he added, “remember to be careful. I’ve seen you handle a gun before. You must find one and take it with you. Promise me.”
“I will. It’s too bad Lily isn’t around to go with me,” Angel said, a genuine note of regret in her voice.
“Yes. I’d have asked Lil to do this if she was here. But I still hate having to depend on anyone else for help.”
“You’re too proud, Holt,” Angel said softly as she raised a gloved hand to lightly touch the sun-bronzed fingers curled around the iron bars. “When will you open your eyes and see I’m here for you?”
“Guess I’m a slow learner,” he confessed, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. “But if you keep pounding it into my thick head hard enough, maybe I’ll start to see the writing on the wall.”
<
br /> ANGEL WATCHED THE LAST flurry of snow settle into place after Gil’s departing horse and turned to trudge back into the house. Halfway there she paused at the sight of Jack Miller, Clara Maxwell’s hired man, outfitting sleigh runners to the buckboard wagon he used when he obtained supplies in Oro.
A sudden idea occurred to Angel as she watched the man working on the wagon. She walked carefully down the path Jack had cleared to the barn and greeted the older man in a friendly tone. Expressing interest in his work, Angel encouraged Jack to explain how the buck-board would smoothly and easily traverse the deep snows.
“’Course, you still need two sturdy mounts to pull a load, ’specially when it’s full up,” Jack said as he nailed the last runner in place.
“Oh?” Angel inquired innocently, glancing past him at the stables he was responsible for overseeing. “Which horses are the strongest, Mr. Miller?”
He rose and brushed off his snowy canvas trousers as he considered her question. “Well, the missus keeps a mighty fine stables, considerin’ the cost an’ all, and most of her horses are big-like, rough-an’-ready types. ’Cept fer Mercury, o’course, and he’s what I call a fancy mount, useless fer pullin’ carts or anythin’.”
Angel bit back a smile at the disapproval in the man’s voice. “The dark gray gelding? I believe he’s a Thoroughbred.”
Jack snorted and shook his head. “Waste o’ feed, if you ask me. ’Course, I’m not paid to give my opinion.”
“Maybe not, but who knows these horses better than you do?” Angel reasoned, and he preened at her flattery.
“Would you like to see the horses, missus?” the grizzled old man offered, a rare treat indeed, for Aunt Clara had mentioned Jack seldom warmed to strangers.
“I’d love to,” Angel said with a winsome smile and followed him into the stable, which was kept warm and dry. There she shook out her damp wool skirts and then turned her attention to Jack’s monologue.
“This mare here, this is Juno,” he said as he reached out to stroke the Roman nose of a big piebald.
Mountain Angel Page 26