“I have to think about what you’ve said,” she said. “It’s hard for me to accept this story, since I know a far different Neal than you do. But I promise I will look and listen carefully from now on.”
Kaga nodded at her words. It was enough for now. But he feared Igasho’s Mountain-Angel might be made to suffer, too, if the white snake’s son ever learned of her visit here, or of the child she carried beneath her heart.
ANGEL’S EYELASHES FLUTTERED AGAINST her skin, and as she came awake she heard a crotchety voice exclaim, “About time.”
She opened her eyes on Aunt Clara’s worried face, dazed and confused for a moment when she realized she was back at the house, but with no recollection of having arrived. Had she dreamed everything? Had she fallen asleep instead of taking the supplies up to the mine as she’d promised Holt? Had Kaga and the others been a figment of her imagination?
As Angel groped for answers, she had a sudden, intense memory of the interior of a warm teepee, the smell of damp skins and of the mellow tobacco Kaga had smoked, and of her own eyelids growing heavier and heavier as the medicine man sang softly in his hypnotic voice, his eyes like fathomless black pools as he gazed knowingly at her across the fire.
She looked up now at Aunt Clara, saw another pair of knowing eyes, and knew she had not dreamed her adventure. She also saw the questions coming, and she laughed weakly as Clara helped her to sit up against the fluffy pillows in her bed.
“Where did you find the extra blankets?” Angel asked, knowing she could not deny she had stripped nearly all of her hostess’ upstairs beds.
“I’m well stocked for the hard winters here, and it’s apparently a good thing, too,” Clara said in a mock-scolding tone as she handed Angel a cup and saucer. “Now, drink all of this down, dear, and then I’ll send Dulcie to prepare a dinner tray for you.”
“Aren’t you going to ask what I did with all the blankets and food?”
Clara sniffed. “Certainly not. If you wanted me to know, you’d have involved me in your little drama in the first place. I won’t deny you frightened the tar out of all of us, child, turning up so early this morning, but as long as you’re no worse for wear, I’ll content myself with knowing you’re safe.”
Another vivid memory came to Angel, this time of her drowsy, fur-bundled figure being handed up into the wagon by several hands, and of someone driving her back down the mountain, then disappearing into the snow-flecked trees as dawn broke across the pearly sky.
“What time is it, Aunt Clara?” she asked.
“Late afternoon. You slept most of the day, dear. You were exhausted.”
Angel set down the untouched tea on the bureau beside the bed and threw back the covers. “I have to see Holt.”
Clara was alarmed. “Not until you’ve recovered completely. I won’t hear of it.” She picked up the saucer again and thrust it at the younger woman firmly. “Drink this. It will help you regain your strength.”
Reluctantly, Angel accepted the cup again and sniffed suspiciously at the flower-scented contents. “What’s in it?”
“A nerve tonic and a restorant, both guaranteed to put the roses back in your cheeks. Neither one will hurt the babe, I promise.”
Angel sampled the hot brew and, finding it surprisingly delicious, finished the cup, to Clara’s clucks of approval. Within minutes she felt unaccountably sleepy again, and as she struggled to keep her eyes open, she looked up at Rachel’s aunt with a look of hurt betrayal.
“But Aunt Clara, I have … to … have to … see Holt,” she murmured between huge yawns.
“Tomorrow, my dear,” Clara said, smoothing Angel’s golden hair back from her face with a loving hand. “Today the only thing you have to do is get some much-needed rest.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME in months Holt hadn’t any extra time to think about Angel or his mixed feelings for her. Instead, he was torn between overwhelming relief and a sense of deeper dread as he overheard the heated conversation talking place in the front room of the jail.
“T’ain’t right,” the fat deputy, whose name was Elijah Perry, whined to an invisible party standing on the other side of the sheriff’s desk. “The judge’ll hear ’bout this, and then we’ll see who’ll git ta hang the Injun.”
There was a tense silence, and then another man’s voice, lower-pitched and crisp with authority, said, “I can appreciate your position, Mr. Perry, but I’m afraid the federal government has a prior claim on Mr. Murphy. He must be tried in federal court first, for the charges listed here, and only then can he be returned to the Territory to stand trial.”
Holt heard rustling paper. Just as if Perry had not heard a word the other man had said, he grumbled, “That half-breed done kilt our sheriff, and he ain’t leavin’ here alive.”
The visitor said coolly, “While I dislike pulling rank, sir, I’m afraid you leave me little choice. As United States Marshal for this region, I must insist you release the aforesaid prisoner to my custody.”
Holt heard Perry’s fat fist pound the desk. “I’m the law here now,” he wheezed.
“You are the newly deputized sheriff?” the other man inquired skeptically.
“Well, naw … not yet. But I will be.” Perry sounded belligerent as he apparently scrutinized the federal marshal with equal disdain. “’Sides, Mister Fa-bien Ree-nalt — what kind of a bloomin’ name is that, anyways? — I don’t see no proof of yer ’dendty, an’ I sure as hell won’t release nobody without askin’ more questions.”
“Very wise of you, I’m sure,” said the second man dryly. “By the way, Mr. Perry, the name is correctly pronounced ‘Renault.’ It’s French.”
Perry snorted, effectively indicating his opinion of the French, U.S. Marshals, and Fabien Renault in particular.
Marshal Renault said, “I trust I have made myself clear, but this prisoner is not to be put on trial or moved before I have made adequate arrangements to transfer him to Denver.”
Perry said sullenly, “I s’pose not.”
“Very good, Mr. Perry, though I hope you will not take it amiss if I ask for your word in writing?”
There was a tense silence, after which Perry admitted grudgingly, “’Fraid I c’ain’t do that.”
“Are you refusing to cooperate?”
“Nope. Just c’ain’t, that’s all.”
Comprehension dawned on Renault. He inquired almost kindly, “You don’t know how to write?”
“Never learnt. Hell, what need’s a man got way out here fer fancy book-learnin’? Shee-it, Elijah Perry’s word’s as good as gold.”
“I see,” Renault said. “Well then, I suppose your word will have to do.” As he left the front room and came toward the open door leading to the prisoner’s cell, Holt overheard the marshal mutter sarcastically, “Elijah? What kind of a name is that, anyway?”
MUCH TO HIS OWN dismay, Holt found he liked Fabien Renault. The marshal was witty, cool in his approach, but undeniably fair. He questioned Holt over the matter of the Indian uprising several times, obviously trying to elicit an unguarded response from the prisoner, but after a while he stepped away from the cell and regarded Holt with visible admiration.
“I must admit, Mr. Murphy, you are sticking to your story quite well. But I have to ask, are there any witnesses as to your apparently harmless activities in the fall?”
“One. My wife, Angel.” Reluctantly, Holt brought her into the picture. “We were newly married then, living up at the mine.”
“Where is Mrs. Murphy now?”
“Staying with a friend until this blows over. If it ever does,” he added.
Renault scratched more notes on the pad he held, then inquired, “Would you have any objections to my speaking with your wife?”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. “Do you intend to bully her into a false confession, Renault? Because if you try, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
The marshal’s dark eyes locked with Holt’s momentarily, but he was the first to look away. Renault was a handsome devil, a la
dies’ man if Holt didn’t miss his guess, and his uniform was crisply creased and pressed, not a speck of lint or soil to be seen. His curly black hair gave him a boyish look, but his face was weathered with experience — experience Holt did not underestimate.
“You have my word as a gentleman, sir,” Renault said at last, clicking his heels and bowing slightly in a European fashion. “Your lady will not be harassed by me or any of my men.”
Holt relaxed imperceptibly. “She’s staying with Mrs. Clara Maxwell, over in Clear Creek.”
“Thank you for cooperating,” the captain said.
“Anything to postpone the stretching of my neck,” Holt jested, but there was no real humor in his voice, and Renault did not laugh.
“These are serious charges, Mr. Murphy. Aiding and abetting fugitive Indians is a serious crime in the Territories.”
“Show me the proof and I’ll gladly pay the price,” Holt said, meeting Renault’s gaze with unflinching calm.
“You doubtless know we have no proof, as yet. But I am most thorough in my research, sir, and I guarantee if there is anything to be found, I shall find it.”
Holt nodded curtly, accepting the challenge. “You have my permission to try,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-two
“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” CLARA MAXWELL said, blocking the doorway with her small, rigid frame. “It is out of the question for you to see Mrs. Murphy now, or at any other time.”
With only the greatest admiration for the little woman’s spirit, Fabien Renault bowed low and said, “I’m afraid I must insist, ma’am.”
As Clara started to argue again, she was interrupted by a clear, feminine voice inquiring from the stairway, “Who is it, Auntie?”
“Some man …” Clara began angrily, helplessly, but before she could continue, the second woman had descended the stairs and moved forward from the shadows.
Fabien stared. The younger woman wore a rose-pink gown trimmed with black Chantilly lace. The color enhanced the faint pink glow to her fair skin, and her hair was simply drawn to one side and tied with a black velvet bow. Long ringlets cascaded over her shoulder and down to her waist like a golden waterfall.
She regarded him with curiosity, and then demanded in a surprisingly crisp tone, “Who are you, sir, to be upsetting Mrs. Maxwell so?”
“I regret if my arrival has upset you, ma’am,” Fabien murmured as he fumbled awkwardly, his hat in his hands. He was stunned by her beauty and almost forgot his manners.
Recovering himself, he apologized to Clara, “It was certainly not my intention to disrupt your household.” He bowed again, this time in Angel’s direction. “Captain Renault, ma’am, at your service.”
“I’m Angel Murphy. What do you want?”
“A word with you, ma’am, regarding your husband.”
He saw wariness spring to life in her sky-blue eyes. “Indeed? Then you have come to the wrong place. Holt is in the Oro jail, not here.”
“I know. I have already spoken to him myself. It was he who gave me permission to visit with you concerning the charges brought against him.”
Angel glanced at Clara, who was still livid, and said, “I need to speak with this man, Auntie. May we use the parlor?”
“You don’t have to tell him anything, Angel,” Clara insisted. She looked Renault up and down with a sniff and then announced sotto voce, as if he could not hear her, “French. They’re not to be trusted, my dear.”
Fabien tried not to laugh as he informed Clara, “The war in the colonies was over long ago, ma’am. I am an American now, as was my father.”
Clara sniffed again, but Angel persuaded her to allow the captain to enter. She told the older woman soothingly, “Go upstairs, Auntie, and take your tonic as you usually do. I’ll have Dulcibel call you when we’re finished.”
Clara Maxwell sent one final warning glare at Fabien and reluctantly departed. Angel invited him into the sunny parlor reserved for entertaining guests. She motioned for him to take a seat on the red velvet settee. Fabien gingerly complied, fearing his weight would break the spindly legs.
“I am sorry my arrival distressed your aunt so,” he said.
Angel’s eyes were twinkling now as she said, “Clara Maxwell is not my real aunt, but she is dear to me, and I won’t abide anyone upsetting her.” Angel turned to busy herself at the sideboard, while Fabien watched her graceful movements with admiring eyes.
“Will you take tea, monsieur?” she inquired in French.
He was so surprised and delighted, he forgot his manners all over again. “No, thank you, but I must confess to being most curious as to where you learned French.”
Angel smiled as she chose a sugared comfit from a tray on the table and sat down in a chair facing him. “My mother was of French descent, and where I grew up it was considered only proper for young girls to know a Romance language or two.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “But some men consider educating women a dangerous thing, I think.”
“My father was more enlightened than most. But we are not here to speak of me. You came about Holt.” She bit into the comfit and waited for him to explain himself.
Fabien had to admire the way Angel got down to brass tacks. She was no-nonsense now, their pleasantries having concluded, and her blue eyes were keen on his face as she listened to him speak. He informed her of the serious charges against Holt, and questioned her about her husband’s activities in the past few months.
Aware Holt’s life was at stake, Angel kept calm throughout the inquiry, though her heart was pounding rapidly. Renault was a shrewd man, and he watched her every gesture and expression like a hawk. The only way she could disarm him was with a laugh or smile, and then, like any other man, he would briefly lose his composure and gaze at her admiringly.
But for all his fascination with her, she knew Renault did not forget his mission for a single minute. Like a terrier, he kept returning again and again to persistently question her about her knowledge of Holt’s dealings with the Arapaho. They both knew her coy simpering was an attempt to divert him from his pursuit of the truth.
“So you know nothing about your husband’s involvement with these renegade Indians?” he later asked in what seemed to Angel to be the thousandth time, and she made her eyes wide and pressed a fluttering hand to her throat.
“Mercy, no. I haven’t seen so much as a bead around Holt, much less any red men. Do you still call them red men, Captain? Or is there another term now? Savages, perhaps?”
Her voice held a faint sarcasm he could not miss. “We call them Indians, ma’am, and these particular ones are dangerous indeed. Surely you’ve heard of the massacre down at Fort Lyons?”
“No,” Angel said. “At any rate, I can assure you Holt would have nothing to do with such riffraff.”
“Not directly, but perhaps by supplying arms and ammunition to the war parties?”
She sighed. “Your persistence is most fatiguing, Captain. I can only say, for what is surely the hundredth time, I knew nothing then and still know nothing of Holt’s supposed activities with these outlaw Indians. What will it take to satisfy you, sir?”
“The truth, Mrs. Murphy,” Fabien said, aware she was growing weary of his questions, and also knowing she was at her most vulnerable now. “The truth is always the easiest course, is it not, and when you tell me the truth I shall gladly release you from this interview.”
She pressed a hand to her temple. “I’ve told you before, we were up at the mine most of the time. There was never any chance for Holt to smuggle arms or anything else down south.”
“Ah, yes. The mine.” He flipped back several pages in his notebook and reviewed his previous notes. “This gold mine of yours — where is it located?”
She made a vague gesture. “Up on the mountain.”
“Which one?”
“Mount Elbert, of course.” Seeing his patient, waiting expression still tinged with suspicion, she cried, “Oh, please, enough.”
Agitated, Angel rose ab
ruptly from the chair. He saw her distress, and they were both aware she had almost slipped. He had been there only an hour, but he was an expert at pulling and pushing witnesses. She was confused and hardly knew what to say anymore. Any moment now the dam would break.
A taut silence reigned for several moments and her breathing slowed. Forcibly calming herself, she said, “I repeat for the last time, Captain, I know nothing. Nothing.” She folded her arms and set her lips.
Fabien reluctantly rose as well, aware the interview was over then. “Very well, ma’am,” he said, “I shall leave you now, but if you wish to reconsider any portion of your story, you can leave word for me at the hotel in Oro.”
Angel looked at him with flashing blue eyes. “There is nothing to reconsider, sir.”
“Of course,” he murmured. Without another word he donned his military hat, nodded with excruciating politeness in her direction, and left.
THE MOMENT THE CAPTAIN was gone, Angel flew upstairs to find Clara. Her heart was still pounding and her mouth was cotton-dry from the long interview. She realized with a keen instinct of her own that Renault intended to search the mine, and somehow she must beat him up there to hide Kaga and his people.
She found Clara in her bedroom dozing fitfully in her rocker before a warm fire, but the old woman came awake and alert when she felt Angel’s kiss on her cheek.
“Oh, dear me, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Clara said crossly as she sat upright in the chair. “I must say, that particular tonic packs a wallop.” She eyed Angel with concern. “Did that bossy Frenchie leave yet?” she demanded.
“Yes, Aunt Clara, but I’m afraid I must also depart again. I have a great deal to ask of you. I need to borrow the horses and wagon again.”
Without asking a single question, Clara said, “Of course. But I do wish you’d take Jack along for company and protection; he’s grown fond of you, you know.”
Mountain Angel Page 28