“My God, Angel … no.”
Holt’s broken cry echoed through the shaft as he uncovered his wife and wiped the dirt from her nose and mouth, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Jean-Claude moved forward and gently tried to pry his friend away from her battered, broken body. “It is too late, mon ami …”
“No. No-o-o!” Furiously, Holt batted away Duvet’s hands, returning his attentions to the golden head cradled in his lap. “Angel! Angel, oh God, why?” He groaned, rocking back and forth in agony as tears ran down his cheeks.
“S’il vous plait, Murphy — ” Jean-Claude was agonized by the sight of his friend, but he stayed back, knowing better than to disturb the grieving man again.
For a long time Holt bent over his wife, his quiet moans muffled in Angel’s hair. Then a keening cry broke from his lips, and he threw back his head and howled, raising the hairs on the Frenchman’s neck.
Then the woman in Holt’s arms made a small, choking sound, and both men froze and stared down at the still figure. Angel coughed again, weakly but distinctly, and, shooting a wild look at Duvet, Holt bent over her, this time to murmur words of hope and encouragement in her ear.
“Yes, Angel, yes. Come to me.”
“The light …” she murmured faintly, wonderingly, “it’s so beautiful …”
“No,” Holt begged her, “don’t follow the light, sweetheart; follow my voice, the voice of the man who loves you.”
He pleaded, coaxed, scolded her, until finally she whispered a single, frail word, and coughed. “Holt …?”
“Oh, my God. You’ve come back to me.” He buried his face in her silken mane and sobbed without the slightest shame.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE SWIRLING MIST BEFORE Angel’s eyes cleared long enough for her to see Holt bending over her, his handsome features a study in fear. She was feverish and racked with pain, but she managed to make her bruised lips form the all-important question.
“How …?”
He understood at once what she meant. “Jack Miller saw you head off in the direction of the mine,” Holt said. “He also saw a man following you, but the fellow was too far away for Jack to tell who it was. By the time Jack got word to us, we’d almost given up. I never expected to find you alive, Angel.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she saw the tears of a man who loved her.
“Holt,” she rasped, “are we safe?”
“Yes, for the time being. I don’t think anyone will think to look for us here. Just rest, sweetheart. The doctor’s coming; he’ll be here soon.”
Angel could make out the confines of the room in which she lay, but it was too dim for her to distinguish any features. Surely she was safe here in Clara’s house, and with that comforting thought she spoke again, surprised to find her words slurring to the point of being indistinguishable.
“Holt, the m-man, it w-was …” Angel felt a fog rolling in over her thoughts, and with a sigh of frustration she drifted off again, saving her strength for what was to come, when she must tell Holt of his brother’s deceit.
Gently, Holt tucked up the covers around his wife and departed after dropping a tender kiss upon her feverish brow. Dammit, what was keeping the doctor?
Angel had lapsed in and out of consciousness during the long trip down the mountain, and if not for Jean-Claude’s steady hand on the reins, Holt knew she would be in worse condition now. They were lucky they had found the wagon intact, the horses still there. But he wondered why Angel had felt the need to go up to the mine, since the Indians were long gone.
With a weary sigh, Holt left the small bedroom where Angel was resting and met Neal in the main room.
“Thank you for taking us in,” Holt said. “I know it’s dangerous for you.”
“This is a house of refuge,” Neal said, camouflaging his nervousness with his usual piety. He was barely able to contain his terror when Holt had first turned up on his doorstep, carrying Angel in his arms. Only after several heart-stopping minutes was Neal sure Holt knew nothing of what had happened at the mine, yet.
“Was Angel able to tell you anything?” he asked as he anxiously fiddled with the well-worn Bible in his hand.
Holt shook his head. “She’s still delirious, and while the laudanum you suggested seems to have eased her pain, it’s made her too sleepy to talk.”
“Sleep is a healing process,” Neal murmured.
Holt didn’t seem to hear him. He had already turned away and went to the parsonage window, where he flicked back the curtains and gazed impatiently out at the winter morning. “Where the hell is Jean-Claude with the doctor?”
“Your friend may have encountered bad roads,” Neal suggested, pleased with himself for having had the foresight to send the Frenchman on a wild-goose chase to Clear Creek, adding miles and hours to what would otherwise have been a simple procedure, for the good doctor was presently down the street attending a birth.
“I should go after him,” Holt muttered distractedly, loathe to leave Angel but worried about her health more.
“That wouldn’t be wise,” Neal countered. “I’m sure Deputy Perry and the others are still looking for you, and it’s best if you stay out of sight. It makes much more sense for me to go.” As he spoke, he reached for his outerwear, hung on a nearby peg, and smiled with relief when Holt made no move to stop him.
As he shrugged on his heavy coat, Neal said, “I’ll come back as fast as I can.” With the deputies and a U.S. Marshal, you stupid Indian, he added with a silent laugh.
Before he departed, Neal gave Holt the bottle of laudanum and instructed him to give Angel another spoonful in a half hour. Neal doubled the dose, knowing the powerful opium would keep Angel safely unconscious until Holt was caught and taken back to jail.
After Neal left, Holt tried to occupy himself with a plan of escape, but he was too worried about Angel to care about himself anymore. How could he have been such a fool? He hadn’t realized he’d been living life on the edge, day after day, without any joy or satisfaction, until he’d met that impossible Missouri woman. A half smile curved his lips as he remembered the day he’d confronted her in Clear Creek, called his alleged “wife” every name in the book, and challenged her to try her hand at mining.
Well, Angel had called his bluff — more than once. She was a stubborn little thing, but Holt realized it was one of the reasons he loved her so much. Dammit, the thought of her dying now was too much to bear. He returned to the bedroom with the bottle of laudanum in his hand.
Angel still lay motionless, but when Holt perched on the edge of the bed she moved and opened her drug-glazed eyes. A dreamy smile was the only sign she recognized him, and Holt felt an incredible surge of protectiveness and love as he bent over his wife.
Smoothing back the golden wisps from her forehead, he said, “I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart. Today and always.”
He spoke to her in a steady, gentle voice for a long time, until Angel roused enough to reply.
“Is that a … promise, Mr. Murphy?” she whispered, a spark of the old mirth teasing in her eyes.
“Damned right it is, woman. As soon as you get well, we’re going to start over, just you and me.”
Angel shook her head against the pillows. “Not just us, Holt …” Her right hand dropped to smooth the covers over her stomach, and she gave him a faltering smile. “There’s someone else now who’ll likely have something to say about that.”
Holt stared at her for a moment, and an incredulous look of mixed joy and apprehension spread over his face. “You mean a baby? A real, honest-to-goodness, ornery little Murphy?”
“Is there any other kind?” she murmured sleepily, the smile on her face transforming to one of pure satisfaction before she drifted off again.
Holt rose and stared down at her, the unused bottle clutched tightly in his fist. My God, a baby. His own son or daughter. For a moment he stood shaking, and then he let out a quiet whoop of delight and spun around three times.
>
“YOU DID THE RIGHT thing,” Captain Renault assured Neal as he checked his six-shooter and slid it into the holster strapped to his waist. “Your brother is a dangerous fugitive. A lot of people could have been hurt if you hadn’t turned him in.”
“I’m a man of God,” Neal said piously. “I could do no less.”
Privately, the marshal disliked Neal’s self-righteous mien, but he couldn’t fault the man’s judgment. Holt might be his brother, but the preacher obviously knew when justice must be served.
“We’ll go in quick and take him into custody as quietly as we can,” Renault said as he turned to face the waiting deputies. “Perry, has the street been closed off?”
“Yep,” the acting sheriff said abruptly, returning his attention to the thick wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.
“Good. Hawkins, you and I will take the alley leading to the parsonage, and the rest of you men can guard the remaining entrances. Pastor Murphy, is there a back entrance to the house?”
“Through the chapel,” Neal said. “It’s kept unlocked.”
Renault nodded thoughtfully. “Murphy won’t be expecting this — the other Murphy, I mean — so with any luck we can lasso him before anyone gets hurt. Any chance of him taking the woman hostage?”
“Possibly,” Neal said. “I can go in first and distract him if you like, and after he’s safely rounded up I’ll stay with her until the doctor comes. She’s seriously ill.”
Fabien nodded again, troubled by the idea of the beautiful young lady he had met being put into danger. Then he shrugged philosophically. Well, there was no choice. Holt Murphy must stand trial for his crimes, and it was up to him to see it was done.
HOLT HEARD THE REAR door leading from the chapel click open and he pivoted smoothly with his knife in hand. Seeing Neal standing there, he relaxed, and then Captain Renault and his men burst into the rectory.
“Drop the weapon, Murphy,” Renault ordered, regret in his voice as he leveled his Colt directly at Holt’s heart.
To everyone’s surprise, Holt did exactly that, opening his white-knuckled fist to let the knife fall with a thud to the rug. Renault stepped forward cautiously to kick the knife out of Holt’s reach, then relaxed as two of his men moved in to restrain the fugitive.
“I’m disappointed in you, Murphy,” Renault said. “You would have received a fair trial in federal court. Now we have to add the charge of escaping the law to your growing list of criminal offenses.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Holt said, “as long as you see to my wife. She’s badly hurt, and Doc’s not bothering to show up.”
“Someone will see to her,” Renault promised, nodding to Neal as he approached the prisoner. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to escort you back to the jail. Do I have your word not to try to escape?”
“My word’s as good as any Indian’s, I guess,” Holt said coolly, and his flint-gray eyes met and locked with the captain’s in a surprising display of defiance.
ANGEL HEARD THE NOISES in the other room, penetrating her hazy mind like scurrying insects, irritating enough to coax her awake. She struggled to raise her eyelids, but they were like lead weights keeping her down, and she gasped with the effort of trying to sit up. Her heart pounded horribly, and she had an awful metallic taste in her mouth. She tried to call out for Holt, but nothing emerged from her lips except a silent moan of agony.
Her body burned and ached coming out of the drugged state, and she glanced down to find her weals and cuts carefully tended and wrapped. Holt’s work, no doubt, and she wanted to thank him for it, but where was he?
A short time later the noises stopped and the bedroom door creaked open, admitting a stream of sunlight that fell across the bed. Angel blinked against the glare, just able to make out a dark figure silhouetted against the light.
“Holt?” she whispered uncertainly, struggling to sit up against the pillows.
“He’s gone, Angel. He won’t be coming back.”
Oh, my God. The terrified scream was choked in her throat as Angel tried to scramble from the bed. Neal’s laughter rang in her ears. How could he be here, in Aunt Clara’s home? If she cried out loudly, surely someone would come.
As if reading her mind, Neal chuckled sadistically. “Not this time, my dear.” Savagely, he kicked the door shut behind him. In his hand he held Holt’s huge knife, and it flashed silver where the sunlight caught it. She realized then with horror that she was not in Clara’s house, but the parsonage. Alone with a madman.
“Don’t make this difficult,” Neal advised, his voice cracking like a horsewhip in the small room. “There’s nobody to hear you now. I’ll make it so quick and easy, no pain …”
His low, coaxing voice was hypnotic, and Angel whimpered as she slid to the floor and struggled to gain her feet. But her legs were numb and refused to bear her weight, so she gripped the edge of the bureau and the headboard of the bed instead, and slowly pulled herself up. She wore only a brief chemise and her pantalets, but she did not cower as she confronted Neal.
“What have you done to Holt?” she demanded.
Neal looked surprised by her verbal attack. He knew she had to be reeling on her feet, but her voice emerged surprisingly strong and angry.
“I didn’t have to do anything to your half-breed husband,” he snarled, his lip curling back like a cur’s. “He made his own bed and now he’ll lie in it. They’ve taken him away to hang.”
“No,” Angel cried, doubling over as his hateful words penetrated her dazed mind. Too late she realized Neal was waiting for her to falter. When he rushed her and knocked her back against the bureau, she was too stunned to fight back. The jarring impact nearly broke her already badly bruised ribs. She swooned from the pain.
In a flash, Neal held the razor-sharp edge of the big blade to her throat, pinning her in place with a single arm. “Now,” he growled, “it all ends here.”
The bedroom door slammed open against the wall, and they both jumped at the sound, the knife lightly nicking Angel’s skin. Several drops of blood stained the blade.
“Rachel,” Angel whispered at the sight of her friend, standing alone and courageously wielding her father’s Confederate revolver one last time.
“Let her go, Neal,” Rachel said, her finger snug on the trigger. “It isn’t worth dying for.”
The minister stared at his fiancée in obvious shock for a moment, but then his pale eyes cleared and took on a fanatical gleam as he said, “You’re wrong, Rachel. So wrong. Gold is worth dying for — a thousand times over. You could share it with me, if you’d only see reason.”
Angel saw her friend’s aim waver slightly, but Rachel didn’t lower the gun. “I’m sorry, Neal,” Rachel said, “but it’s wrong, and I won’t let you hurt Angel or anyone else. You’re a sick man.”
“And you’re a pathetic, sniveling ninny,” Neal exploded as he seemed to forget about Angel and squared off with the other woman. “Do you think I ever loved you, Rachel? Then you are as stupid as you are ugly.” At her hurt, startled look, he laughed and pressed on cruelly, “It’s true. The only reason I asked you to marry me was so I could have a good excuse to keep an eye on Holt and his sweet wife. After all, you and Angel were such good — little — friends.” He punctuated each word with a poke of the knife in Angel’s ribs, but she didn’t cry out, knowing it would distract Rachel and put them both in greater danger.
Tears leaked from Rachel’s hazel eyes, but she didn’t bother to wipe them and kept her gaze trained on Neal.
“I don’t believe you,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You loved me, Neal, I know you did.”
“I could no more love you than I could my horse,” he retorted, and as Rachel gave an anguished cry, he snicked the blade of the knife across Angel’s side, leaving a torn chemise and a bloody trail in its wake.
Angel saw Rachel lower the gun with trembling hands. As she prepared to meet her end, she thought wildly, desperately, of Holt and their unborn child, and a cry of pure rage rose
in her throat.
“No-o-o!”
Angel’s mouth opened, but she realized the scream had not come from her after all, but from Rachel. As if in slow motion Angel watched the gun rising again. A deafening roar slammed her back against the wall as the room filled with acrid smoke.
HOLT HEARD THE GUNSHOT ricocheting off the buildings behind them, and he grabbed the knotted reins of his mount with his loosely bound hands and wheeled the horse about, tearing back down the road the way they had come.
“Gosh-durned Injun,” Perry swore, trying to bring around his strawberry roan to pursue the fleeing man. But the plump mare spied a juicy clump of bunchgrass poking through the snow instead and lurched in the opposite direction.
As he struggled with his horse, Deputy Perry yelled loud enough and gestured wildly enough to attract the attention of the other riders ahead. Captain Renault turned in his saddle in time to see Holt vanishing around a corner. He felt a familiar sinking sensation, and a leaden resolve took hold of him.
“Knew we shouldn’t have taken him at his word,” Fabien muttered, but his tone was almost admiring as he wearily ordered his men about and they set off at a gallop back to the parsonage, thundering past the cursing, red-faced Perry along the way.
Holt knew he didn’t have much time. Something in his gut told him Angel was in danger. The gunshot had come not from any of the saloons in Oro, but from the parsonage itself. He saw he was right as he tore past a small crowd of gawking people, all of them staring in the direction of the church. A desperate fury seized Holt, so intense he didn’t feel the pain when he vaulted from the saddle with his hands still tied in front of him and landed with a jarring impact on the ground.
Tearing at the rawhide knots with his teeth as he ran, Holt paused only to hurl himself bodily against the locked doors of the church. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his bruised shoulder again and again at the barred door until he heard a splintering crack and the entrance gave way.
Mountain Angel Page 31