Renault shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry; it isn’t possible. Perhaps if the young lady here could explain the circumstances to one of the deputies —”
“Those worthless pigs?” Rachel exclaimed.
Elijah Perry appeared in the doorway. “Here, now, missy,” he said indignantly.
“Craddock could have Angel halfway back to Missouri by now,” Holt said. “I promise I’ll come straight back to the jail, but this is much more involved than either of you fellows realize. Craddock is a madman.”
“Craddock?” Renault repeated patiently, drawing out his infamous pad and pencil. “Do you spell that with two Ds? Is he one of the other men involved in the supplying of arms?”
“Dear God, not now,” Holt exploded, clutching his throbbing head between his hands. “Rachel, will you kindly explain all of this to the good captain’s satisfaction before I knock out his teeth?”
Renault quickly stepped back from Holt’s cell as Rachel sketched out the events of the last few months. The marshal didn’t grasp everything, as evidenced by his questions, but he waved a hand and said, “That’s quite enough, Miss …”
“Maxwell,” Rachel said, surprised and embarrassed to find herself noticing how handsome the captain was under these terrible circumstances.
“It’s unfortunate, of course,” Renault said, “but I cannot possibly release you until you have been cleared of all charges.”
“Now why did I expect that?” Holt drawled sarcastically. “You’re too damn obsessed with not letting a petty criminal slip away to give another thought to a possible murder taking place.”
“It doesn’t sound as if this Craddock person intends to harm Mrs. Murphy,” Renault said. “It sounds more as if he is trying to woo her away from you.”
“‘Woo’?” Holt echoed. “Woo? You damned Frog, is that all you Frenchmen think about? My wife’s life is at stake.”
“You have my sympathies,” Renault said frostily before turning to instruct Perry to lock the outer door and keep it locked at all times. Then he escorted Rachel out, fortunately too late to notice the iron file she had slipped through the bars into Holt’s clenched fist while the captain was looking the other way.
THE LATE-AFTERNOON SHADOWS provided momentary cover for Holt as he slipped the last of the bars free and set it gently down on the hard-packed floor. The spot he had opened up was barely wide enough for him to squeeze through, but there wasn’t time to risk another bar before Perry or Renault appeared to bring him his evening meal.
Carefully, Holt threaded his lean frame through the narrow opening, wincing as the sharp edges of the cut iron caught on his shirt and trousers and skin. He was halfway through when he heard voices coming in his direction from the other room. He swore and reentered his cell, turning his back to the gaping hole as the outer door was unlocked and swung open.
“I don’t like it, not one durn bit,” Holt heard Deputy Perry grumbling, but another man stepped forward from the shadows and Holt couldn’t restrain a grin.
“Jean-Claude. So you lived after all. Here I did my best to kill you.”
“And nearly did,” the Frenchman said, a huge grin splitting his swarthy, bearded face as he came forward to survey Holt’s mean quarters. “Not much of a hotel here, eh, mon ami?”
Perry waited to make sure the two were up to no apparent mischief, then relocked the door behind Holt’s visitor and returned to his half-eaten supper. The moment the heavy door closed, Jean-Claude’s twinkling eyes shifted to the man-sized hole Holt had uncovered.
“Why did you send for me, eh? You are doing fine.”
Holt shrugged. “It’s a tight fit, but I reckon I’ll be out of here shortly. Your timing couldn’t be better, Duvet. I need your help.”
“Tiens. What now?” the fur trapper demanded good-naturedly. “Was it not enough to involve me in your dealings with Maska?”
“It was too obvious for me to smuggle the arms to the tribe directly and you know it,” Holt said beneath his breath. “Besides, you got a fat cut of the profits, enough to keep yourself in fine furs, I see.”
Jean-Claude accepted the rebuke with good grace. “Do you like my coat?” He stroked the rich brown fur he wore with loving fingers. “I can find you another like it — for a price, of course.”
“Of course,” Holt chuckled, finding he still liked the irrepressible Frenchman, against his better judgment. He and Duvet had done a brisk business for years, and though Holt had never let on to Angel he already knew Jean-Claude and his family, it hadn’t been easy to maintain an impersonal air when Duvet was so seriously injured.
“How’s the head?” he asked the other man, tapping his own temple as he spoke.
Jean-Claude winced at the memory and sighed. “Better, mon ami, but I still have strange dreams and visions of a beautiful angel bending down to earth to claim my soul — a golden-haired beauty with sky-blue eyes.”
“That angel you speak of is my wife,” Holt said gruffly. “She wet-nursed you all the way to Denver and held your hand while you were ranting about Anne-Marie.”
Jean-Claude laughed at his old friend’s obvious irritation. “But of course. Okoka told me of your lovely bride; why didn’t I figure it out myself? A girl with yellow hair, Okoka said, and eyes like Zuni stones.”
“Is Okoka with you?”
“Oui, she and the bebe are staying in a boardinghouse. Le Grand Hotel would not take us in; they said they do not cater to squaws and Indian-lovers.” Jean-Claude shrugged, apparently not offended, but he didn’t miss Holt’s low growl.
“The people of this town have a lot to learn,” Holt muttered as he positioned himself to slip between the bars .
Duvet looked alarmed. “What are you doing, Murphy?”
“Making a break for it.” Moments later, Holt stood beside the other man, a wry grin on his face. “Now comes your part, Duvet. Angel — my angel — is in danger. I need you to distract the deputies while I slip out the back way. Then I want you to meet me behind the building. Do you have a horse, or a wagon?”
“A dog sled,” Duvet said proudly. “I thought you might want speed and agility in the snow.”
“How well you know me, old friend,” Holt said, and instructed the other man in the final details of his plan.
NEAL’S HAND TREMBLED AS he poured a shot of amber whiskey into a glass and hurled it down his throat in one stiff movement. He was still shaking from the close call he’d had, when the unstable mine shaft had collapsed after the gunshot and sent tons of rock and silt pouring down on both him and Angel. The memory of the muffled roar still echoed in his head, as did Angel’s cries, until the thundering earth had snuffed out her life.
He wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his dusty sleeve, yanking open his clerical collar to get more air. God, how close he’d come to dying himself. The realization sent a cold chill through him. It was merely Providence he’d been able to find a pocket of air that lasted until he was able to paw through the rubble and crawl free.
He glanced down at his clothes with chagrin. His black trousers were torn and stained, his usually immaculate shirt and hair peppered with dirt as well. He would have to get rid of the evidence before anyone suspected —
A sharp knock at the door startled Neal from his musings and he looked up, panicked, to assure himself the parsonage door was locked. It was, but he could hear Rachel’s muffled voice on the other side, demanding he answer her.
“Neal, I know you’re in there. Please, I have to talk to you.”
His panic subsided when he realized there was no way she knew of his activities. Quickly, Neal looked for a way to cover his soiled clothing. He found a dressing gown behind his bedroom door and shrugged it on, kicking his shoes and stockings under the bed.
Barefoot, he hastily combed his fingers through his hair to dislodge any dirt clods and went to answer the door. He forced a smile to his lips and managed to say, evenly enough, “Rachel. I just finished my bath. I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you at
the door at first.”
“Oh, Neal, it’s the most awful thing,” Rachel burst out, pushing past him before he could block her entry. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
“Well, I had my calls to make,” he mumbled, wishing she would leave. But she was distraught and had come to him for aid.
“Angel is missing,” she said, and Neal congratulated himself on looking appropriately shocked at the announcement.
“Any sign of foul play?” he asked, and when she shook her head he smiled, which he knew Rachel would misinterpret for a smile of relief. He suggested, “Perhaps she went back to Missouri, after all.”
“That’s ridiculous. She never would have left Holt.”
“He’s not out of prison, is he?” Neal asked uneasily.
She shook her head. “No, not yet, but I’m sure he’s working on it right now.” She didn’t tell Neal about the file, because she knew he’d disapprove of her tampering with justice and she didn’t have the heart to argue with him or anyone else right now. She was too worried about her friend.
“There’s a horrible man named Craddock who is surely behind all this,” Rachel started to explain, and after she finished the story Neal could hardly believe his luck. William Brindle … Will Craddock … yes, yes, of course. It made sense now, and what a fool he’d been not to question the old lecher’s obvious interest in Angel before this. But Craddock was the perfect dupe to take the blame for the crime. Nothing the old man could say would keep him from hanging.
Suppressing a hysterical urge to laugh, Neal offered to escort Rachel back to her mother’s house and then look for Angel and Craddock himself.
“I want to go with you,” she countered.
“It wouldn’t be wise, Rachel. I insist on taking you home, where you will be safe.”
“Angel is my friend,” she said, softly but firmly, and her hazel eyes sparkled with tears. “I can’t rest until I know she is safe, Neal. Surely you understand?”
“Of course,” he soothed, reaching out and taking her hands to pat them. “I need a minute to dress.”
He hurried off and Rachel sighed, wiping her tears away on the back of her glove. She couldn’t figure out what was bothering her so, other than Angel’s disappearance, but something about this room or Neal himself … something was definitely amiss. Rachel remembered glancing at Neal’s hands when he had taken hold of hers a moment ago, and her brow puckered in confusion.
His nails were dirty. Black. Caked with dirt. Besides the fact Neal was a fastidious man, he told her he had just finished bathing. Then, he had lied. But why?
Rachel’s sharp gaze singled out something else out of place in the parlor. An unstoppered liquor bottle sat on the sideboard, an empty glass beside it. She knew Neal kept spirits, ostensibly for wounds, but he always preached liquor was the devil’s nectar. She stared at the half-empty bottle, her thoughts whirling wildly.
“Ready to go, Rachel?”
His crisp voice spun her around.
“Oh! Of course,” she stammered, her cheeks reddening when she felt Neal’s pale blue eyes taking close measure of her as she hurried to the door. She caught the faint whiff of liquor on Neal’s breath as she passed him, and she almost stumbled. Something was wrong here, she thought. Something very wrong, indeed.
HOLT GRABBED THE MAN by the lapels and spun him around, slamming Will Craddock against the outer wall of the town smithy.
“You bastard,” he snarled, battering Craddock’s head against the bricks, “Where is she? So help me, if you’ve hurt her —”
Craddock wheezed for breath, struggling against Holt. He managed to whimper, “For God’s sake, man, I’m leaving town today. Don’t kill me.”
“Killing’s too good for you,” Holt said with a snarl, releasing the old man long enough for Craddock to clutch his collar and hack and gasp for air. Holt watched impassively, half wishing Craddock would crumple up and die before his eyes, and half wishing he could have the pleasure of throttling the old reprobate first.
Jean-Claude was watching out for him at the other end of the alley, but he hadn’t liked the idea of Holt pummeling someone in public, particularly considering the fact Holt was supposed to be in prison, not wandering the streets and making a noisy spectacle.
“Mon ami,” he hissed in warning. “There are men in uniform coming, on horseback.”
Holt grabbed Craddock by the collar, literally dragging the man after him into a tiny doorway, where their faces were forced but inches apart. Holt smelled the rank scent of fear on the whimpering old man and grinned wolfishly into Craddock’s perspiring face.
“I ought to gut you right here and now, like the swine you are,” Holt growled under his breath.
“Please,” Craddock wheezed again, “please. I haven’t touched Angel, I swear!”
“Why should I believe you, Craddock?” Holt asked in a dangerously silky-soft voice. “Angel is missing and you’re the only one with any reason to do her harm. Don’t deny you followed us here from Denver.”
“All right, all right,” the old man sputtered. “I did follow you, but not for the reason you think. I would never hurt Angel; she was everything to me.”
“Then we have one thing in common,” Holt snarled. “If you’ve touched a single hair on her head, by God —”
“No! I swear it,” Craddock babbled. “I was leaving today; I’ve had enough of this godforsaken wilderness and the p-people who live here, s-savages like you.”
Holt threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Craddock.” His eyes narrowed on the man who shriveled in his fierce grasp. “You know what, mister? I almost believe you, almost, but not quite.”
“Oh, God,” Craddock whimpered, sagging in Holt’s grasp as he saw the murderous rage filling his adversary’s eyes.
“Save your breath. I think He’s forsaken a fat slug like you,” Holt murmured as he slid his strong hands to press into the folds of fat jiggling around the old man’s neck.
Duvet appeared, tugging urgently on Holt’s sleeve. “Murphy, we must go. Now! They have discovered you are gone. There is no time.”
“Damn,” Holt cursed, releasing Craddock, who slid to a sorry, gurgling heap at his feet. “This bastard knows more than he’s telling.”
“Maybe so, but it is more important to keep you hidden now. They will be searching the streets soon, and there are dozens of them and only two of us.”
Holt swore. “You’re lucky this time, Craddock,” he told the sniveling man at his feet, before he turned to follow Jean-Claude to safety. “Next time I’ll cut your throat and leave your innards for the dogs.”
“Hurry,” Jean-Claude urged, and he and Holt stepped off the sled and ran past the team of panting huskies toward Clara Maxwell’s home. It was dark now, and the lights within the house cast the men’s haggard, weary faces in sharp relief as they approached a window.
Tapping quietly on the windowpane, Holt waited until a light flickered on the porch, and he nodded to Duvet and slipped from the cover of darkness onto the doorstep.
“You devil,” Clara scolded Holt when she opened the door wide enough to admit him and his friend. “You scared half a dozen years off me.”
“No wonder you look so young tonight,” Holt said mischievously as he planted a quick kiss on the old woman’s cheek. Then he became serious. “Clara, this is Jean-Claude. He’s my friend from Denver.”
“Hmmph,” was the response, as Clara stood with two fists on her hips and looked the grinning trapper up and down. “Another Frenchie. What’s this world coming to?”
Turning to Duvet, Holt said with amusement, “Clara here thinks the French are solely responsible for all the evils in the world.”
“An unfortunate shortsightedness in one so lovely,” Jean-Claude said, bowing low over Clara’s hand and bringing two spots of high color to her cheeks.
“Smooth, isn’t he?” the old lady quipped tartly, withdrawing her hand with a sniff of not-quite-so-forbidding di
sapproval. “Have you found our Angel yet?” she demanded.
Holt shook his head. “I found the man I think is responsible for her abduction, but he wouldn’t talk. Duvet and I have been too busy trying to outsmart Renault and his men to look for her anywhere else.”
“I have a terrible feeling,” Clara said, wringing her hands as she spoke, “a dreadful feeling she is in dire trouble. You must find her soon …” Tears welled in the old woman’s eyes, and Holt moved to hug her reassuringly.
“I’ll find Angel,” he vowed. “You have my word. I won’t rest until she has been returned to us, safe and sound. If she isn’t …”
Clara swallowed hard in the momentary silence. “Yes?”
“If she isn’t,” he said, “so help me God, I shall personally see to the man who did this, and he will wish a thousand times over that he had died earlier, when he had the chance.”
ANGEL CRAWLED WEAKLY, DESPERATELY, after the tiny shaft of light, her lungs bursting with the effort of holding her breath to make each precious inch of air last.
Bit by bit, hour by hour, she moved as if swimming against the crushing tide of dirt and rock, slowly inching free of the rubble. She no longer remembered who she was, or where she was; only the primal instinct for survival kept her legs and arms churning toward the light, away from the black hole threatening to suck her down into its gaping maw.
Her bloody fingers clawed through yet another pile of sharp rocks and silt, and she felt the dirt pouring back over her arms, into her mouth and eyes and nose, and the entire wall gave way, spilling a wave of winter sunlight across her gasping face.
Cold air poured through the hole she had dug; blessed, fresh, sweet air. She gulped it in greedily, her lungs still burning painfully from all the dust she had inhaled, and then, exhausted, she lay down her head and knew no more.
HOURS LATER, AS HOLT and Jean-Claude sifted fruitlessly through the rubble, the Frenchman was the first to spy a lock of golden hair mixed into the dirt.
“Merde,” he cried, pointing. Holt scrambled across the pile of debris, carrying the lantern, and an anguished cry escaped his lips as he set the light aside and dug feverishly, his big hands sending the dirt flying in every direction.
Mountain Angel Page 30