Holt stumbled through the broken door, tossing aside the rawhide as he freed his hands. “Angel,” he shouted, rage giving way to fear when he heard sobbing at the rear of the parsonage. He also heard the pounding of hooves and the snorting of horses as Renault and his men drew up outside the building, but he dashed through the main room to the tiny bedroom where he had left his wife sleeping peacefully.
When he stepped into the room, Holt had eyes only for the blond woman slumped against the wall, blood dotting her snow-white chemise.
“Angel,” he cried again, and when her tear-filled blue eyes flickered open and she attempted a weak smile, Holt felt a dazed sense of relief wash over him. Slowly, he took in the rest of the room — Neal on the floor, motionless; a shaking Rachel still holding a smoking gun in a death grip. Moving past them both, he took Angel into his arms, soothing her trembling body until she dissolved into deep, wracking sobs, her tangled golden hair spilling across his chest.
Holt thought Neal was dead, but he found he was wrong when the man on the floor groaned and moved. Startled, Rachel uttered a whimpering sound and dropped the gun, backing away with her hands clapped to her mouth until she was flush against the wall.
As Neal stirred again, Holt saw his half-brother only sustained a wound to his right leg. Moments later, Neal opened his eyes and looked around, apparently as surprised as they were to find himself still alive.
Seeing Holt nearby him holding Angel protectively, a bitter smile curved Neal’s lips. “So, it comes to this. You’ll be the one to carry on the Murphy name with your dirty Indian blood.”
Holt’s gritted his teeth, but said, “You’re not going to die, Neal, much to my regret. I wonder why I didn’t figure it out before. You killed Lil and Garrett and tried to frame me for it. You were the one who followed Angel to the mine and tried to kill her, too, weren’t you?”
“Bravo.” Neal coughed, coming up on his elbows and staring at Holt with hate-filled eyes. “Guess you’re smarter than you look. But the mine belongs to me, and you know it. Father was tricked into changing his will by his Indian mistress.”
“That isn’t true, but if it was, it’s a moot point now, and as worthless as the mine itself. There’s never been any gold, Neal. I salted the mine myself, in hopes of tempting a prospective buyer.”
“Liar,” Neal burst out, his pale eyes almost popping from his head. “You’re as much a liar as that Indian whore you called your mother.”
Holt couldn’t restrain a low growl, and he set Angel aside as he confronted Neal. “Soft Snow was my mother, and a damn sight more motherly than the snake who spawned you. She loved Arthur with all her heart and soul, and Virginia’s way of repaying her was to kill my mother in cold blood.”
Neal gave a shrill, hysterical laugh. “But you’re wrong, Holt. Mother didn’t kill Istas. Oh, you’re right, it was her idea to waylay the little Indian slut up at the cabin and threaten her, but that’s all she was going to do. Until I convinced Mother she and I would never be safe until Istas was dead.”
“Damn you for a liar.”
“Am I, Holt? Or don’t you want to admit the thought of a thirteen-year-old raping and killing your precious whore of a mother is too fantastic to be believed?”
With a feral howl, Holt charged for Neal, just as Captain Renault and his men flooded the room, and the marshal himself grabbed Holt by the collar and spun him around.
“Don’t do it, man. I overheard everything. Justice can be served now.”
“The hell it will,” Holt said hoarsely, wildly. “That bastard killed my mother, he’ll pay for it, don’t stop me, damn you.” He pleaded with Renault, but the captain was adamant in his restraint.
“As of now you’re a free man, Murphy. Don’t risk it. My men found the arms stashed in your brother’s rectory; it’s all over now.”
Holt suppressed his own wild urge to laugh. Renault found the guns and ammunition Jean-Claude had stashed here on his request; until now, he’d forgotten they had hidden them temporarily in Neal’s parsonage, knowing it would be the last place the law would look for supplies being funneled to the renegade Arapaho.
Renault said, “Your wife needs you. As for this one —” The captain’s eyes narrowed as they swept with disgust over Neal, “he’ll be dealt with as harshly as the law permits. Now, let’s see about getting your wife and Miss Maxwell to the doctor.”
Reluctantly, Holt turned away from Neal to tend Angel, tenderly wrapping her in several blankets while the captain saw to Rachel. A pair of deputies were left behind to guard Neal until the doctor was sent to look at his leg, but none of the men saw the dropped pistol Neal managed to slide under his sleeve.
As Holt carried Angel in his arms down the street, a curious crowd trailed them at a distance. Then a second shot rang out, its sharp rapport echoing in the winter air. Holt faltered briefly when he realized it came from the parsonage. Then, with a look of steely resolve settling over his features, he left the past behind and strode firmly into the future.
Epilogue
AN UNEXPECTED CHINOOK WIND swept through the high mountain passes, the last vestige of fall before winter would clench the new state of Colorado in its iron grip.
As she stopped scrubbing on the washboard to raise her sun-kissed face to the warmth of the wind, Angel sighed with contentment for herself, and regret for the friends who were no longer there to share her life with her.
She received a letter from Rachel a week earlier, and while she was happy for her friend and Fabien, and excited at their news they would soon be adding to their family, Angel couldn’t help but feel a tiny twinge of longing to see Belle Montagne again.
The house seemed the perfect wedding gift for the couple when the captain proposed to Rachel in the spring and then announced his impending transfer back east, but now Angel wished she had taken the baby and visited the Renaults earlier in the fall when they had invited her.
But Holt was the one to cancel her plan, worried such a long trip would be draining or dangerous to his wife or their newborn son, Matthew. For being a fearless man himself, Holt treated his family as if they were made of porcelain. Angel chuckled as she remembered how he had hovered over her during her long but uneventful pregnancy.
Her other regret was Kaga was no longer there to teach Matthew the way of the Langundo Arapaho. Holt’s grandfather died in September, shortly after Matthew had made his appearance. Fortunately, Angel and Holt had made a trip to the reservation to show Kaga his only great-grandson days before the old man had passed away.
Angel’s eyes misted now as she remembered how gently Kaga had placed his withered hands on the baby’s head and solemnly christened him Mingan — Gray Wolf — either for the color of his eyes, which were gray like Holt’s, or the way Matthew howled when anyone other than his mother held him, Angel wasn’t sure.
Smiling at the memory, Angel looked down at the cradleboard propped beside her, to look at her precious son, snuggled sleeping in his blankets, his tiny fists clenched. Little Matthew resembled Holt, with his gray eyes and dark hair, but he had the McCloud nose and temperament, too, the latter loudly evidenced whenever the baby decided he was ready to eat.
Of course, Clara served as Matt’s godmother, though she herself was Mrs. Miller now, since Jack had gotten over his shyness after all these years. The older couple was as deliriously happy as any pair of newlyweds, and just as inseparable. It had definitely been a year for love.
Angel was so absorbed in precious memories, she didn’t hear Holt sneaking up behind her until he caught her around the waist and swung her in the bright fall sunshine.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, pecking her nose and pulling her flush against his broad chest.
“I was thinking I’m a lucky woman,” Angel said with a mischievous grin. “Lately I seem to be thinking that a great deal.”
“Good.” Holt sounded as content as she was, and though he was dirty and sweaty from a day working in the mine, she didn’t have the slightest he
sitation about wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly.
Laughing, Holt asked, “What was that for, Mrs. Murphy?”
“For building me the cabin.”
“Jean-Claude helped,” he reminded her.
After a short pause Angel kissed him again.
“Mmm. And that one?”
“For making the beautiful cradleboard for Matt.”
“Okoka showed me how, remember?”
Angel sighed and thought a moment, then brightened and kissed him, this time more emphatically.
“Well?” Holt asked.
“That’s for giving me Matthew. Nobody else could help with that.”
“Nobody’ll help with Lillian, either,” Holt growled under his breath as he playfully nipped at her ear. They had both agreed their first daughter, whenever she was born, would be named after the woman who had meant so much to Holt as a friend, and who had given her life for the special friendship they had shared.
“I think,” Holt said, a hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek, “it’s time for us to both take a break from work and enjoy one of the last warm days before winter sets in. What do you think, Mrs. Murphy?”
Gazing around at her home in the wilderness, at the mine shaft that had unexpectedly and ironically begun to produce gold beyond their wildest dreams, at her delightful, sleeping son and the man she loved with all her heart, Angel didn’t have to think twice.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” she retorted, and dissolved into laughter when Holt swung her into his arms and charged like a wild bear for their bedroom, just inside the cabin door.
Kaga was right; Life was good. It was very good, indeed.
The End
Author's Note
Dear Reader,
The romance and drama of the Old West swept me away as I was writing Mountain Angel. I hope you enjoyed a virtual whiff of crisp mountain air, too. Look for my other titles, including:
Gypsy Jewel
Sea Raven
Fire Raven
Snow Raven
On Gentle Wings (novella)
I also write under the name Brit Darby with author Fela Dawson Scott. If you love Celtic characters and settings, you’ll be enchanted by Emerald Prince, a medieval set in the day of the dastardly King John. With Dragons She Walks is a historical romantic fantasy peppered with Picts and Vikings aplenty. Please join me for blog and book updates at www.britdarby.com.
Best regards,
Patricia McAllister
p.s. I love hearing from readers. If you want advance notice of future releases, please drop me an email at [email protected] and I will add you to my notification list. Rest assured your contact info remains confidential.
Reviews are very important to authors. Will you kindly take a moment to share your thoughts on this book with other readers on sites like Amazon? Thank you!
Mountain Angel Page 32