Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Nodding, Lyla lifted her hair again and presented her back to this most perplexing man. He’d entered without knocking, led her to the gates of paradise with his kiss—and she’d let him! And her wanton behavior had put her in more than one compromising position, because now that he was fastening her dress, she was supposed to reveal who’d paid for it. A foolish, dangerous confession, given the possessive way he’d nearly made love to her against the wall.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled when he looped the last button. After demurely adjusting her lace-trimmed bodice, Lyla faced him with the most direct gaze she could manage. “What’d you say your name was?”

  Whod ye say yere name wozf Her lilting, childlike voice tickled him until he laughed out loud, forgiving the tension she’d caused him only moments ago. “Barry Thompson. Pleased to be of service, ma’am.”

  Her mouth fell open and a pang of regret pierced her heart. She had to leave this man immediately, without a hint about who paid for her dress. Why hadn’t she recognized him from Princess Cherry Blossom’s detailed description? Everybody in Cripple looked up to this giant of a man as the marshal, but she’d mistakenly hoped he was the suitor who could set her free.

  “Maybe I’d better loosen those stays. You look ready to fall over.”

  “I—I’m fine,” she said with a forced smile. “It’s just that—well, I’ve heard so much about the lawman who brought the Angel Claire’s blaster to justice, yet I didn’t realize—”

  “Actually, it was Silas Hughes who nabbed him,” Thompson admitted with a shrug. “And he was so crazy for a hit of opium he hanged himself. I just kept him locked up.”

  Lyla studied Thompson for a long moment, haunted by memories of the destruction Nigel Grath had caused when he had dynamited the mine—a horrible ordeal the marshal’s kind smile couldn’t erase. “No matter what you did,” she replied quietly, “I owe you my thanks. My brother Mick was killed in that explosion. He’s the only family I had here in America.”

  The dew in her eyes tugged at him. “I’m truly sorry, Lyla. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

  She toyed absently with the silver shamrock pendant she wore in Mick’s memory. “I have a room and a good job here, and this necklace my brother made me. And Miss Victoria and her ladies make me feel very welcome.” Lyla smiled suddenly, unable to suppress a sly chuckle. “They discuss you at great length, Marshal Thompson. Tales of your upstanding character and legendary…proportion.”

  The ornery light in her eyes left no doubt as to her meaning, and her ability to rise above her grief made Thompson admire her even more. “Every inch of it’s true, Lyla,” he said with a teasing wink. “I’m a ladies’ man through and through—”

  “Is that why you followed me in here with your fly gaping open?”

  Barry’s jaw dropped, and in the moment it took him to look down, Lyla O’Riley scampered around him, grabbed her tray, and opened the pantry door.

  “I have work to do, marshal.” she called over her shoulder. “It was lovely meeting you.”

  She disappeared with a swish of her lavender skirts, leaving him to stare after her. His fly was not open, and she’d escaped without revealing who bought her that gown! When Barry could stop chuckling, he realized that this Irish sprite had also chased away his blues and given him a new challenge: he had to see more of Miss O’Riley, and to any man who stood in his way—beware!

  Thompson ambled down the hallway and paused to survey the ongoing party in the parlor. The Christmas greenery looked fresher, the piano sounded livelier, and the honey-haired girl passing among the guests with her tray of treats tossed him a teasing glance. An air of satisfaction settled over him, and as he approached Sam Langs ton, a plan came to him, full-blown and perfect.

  “Langston,” he said, grinning at the portly banker, “how about you and I stepping over to your office to discuss some urgent business? I’m going to buy myself the best Christmas present a man ever had.”

  Chapter 2

  “You want to what?” Victoria Chatterly’s jeweled tiara trembled in her white hair as she gaped at Barry Thompson. “That’s not only the most unseemly idea I’ve ever heard from you, marshal, but it smacks of white slavery as well!

  Barry smiled indulgently at the woman who stood with her fists on her hips before the fireplace. He’d expected this outburst from Cripple’s most genteel madam, so he’d requested a chat in her elegant boudoir, immediately after the bachelor party. “You’re missing my point,” he said in his most eloquent tone. “A girl like Lyla has no business living at the Rose with—”

  “I pride myself on our level of decency,” she interrupted with fire in her eyes, “and you of all people know that, Mr. Thompson. Why you think I’ll let you buy Lyla is beyond me. Utterly unthinkable!”

  “I’m compensating you for her new wardrobe and for the time it’ll take to hire her replacement, that’s all. Perhaps I phrased my original plan poorly—”

  “And how will you phrase your replies when people question this outrageous proposition? What will you do with her? Where will she sleep?” Miss Chatterly walked quickly to her bedside table and splashed some sherry into a goblet, her pudgy, ringed fingers quaking with her indignation. Then she turned resolutely toward the marshal. “I can’t go along with this, Mr. Thompson. Lyla has an honest job here, and I consider it my personal responsibility to see that she remains wholesome and unsullied until she finds a permanent home. Plenty of men in Cripple would marry Miss O’Riley—decent men, who’ll give her the love and respect she deserves.”

  Thompson considered this as he lowered himself into one of the madam’s overstuffed pink chairs. It was late, but he planned to stay until he got what he came for. “What about me?” he demanded. “I can certainly give her a home, and I’m already crazy about her. Don’t you consider me decent enough?”

  The madam fixed her pale aqua eyes on him. “You’re one of the finest men I know, Barry,” she replied quietly. “But you live in rooms above a dressmaker’s shop. And you’ve made no mention whatsoever of marriage. I can’t be party to the scandal such an arrangement would cause. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to tend to before I retire for the evening.”

  Thompson settled deeper in the chair, preparing to play his trump. Miss Chatterly was as shrewd as she was alluring; beneath her voluminous silk gowns and voluptuous curves beat the heart of Cripple’s most exacting business manager. Though her porcelain features gave no sign of it, he suspected she wasn’t laying all her cards on the table.

  “Who suggested you take Lyla in?” he asked in a low voice. “Somebody else bought that lavender gown she wore tonight. Is he also paying her room and board, so he can lay claim to her?”

  Victoria gripped her goblet and glared at him. “I won’t dignify that insinuation with a reply,” she said in a steely voice. “It’s a ridiculous notion and you know it.”

  “Then who bought her dress?”

  “Why is that your business?”

  The madam’s elusive replies confirmed his suspicions, making him all the more determined to pry some information out of her. “I want to know who my competition is. Surely that’s not too much to reveal to a good friend, Victoria.”

  It was a dirty way to fight, since he could close the Rose down any time he wanted to, and he got no pleasure from watching her powdered cheeks color with the knowledge that she was cornered. But damn it, he wanted some answers!

  The madam perched on the chair across from him and gazed into the crackling fire, her hands folded in her ample lap. After a long silence, she sighed wearily. “I suppose you’ve heard how Lyla was bereaved when the Angel Claire exploded.”

  “Yes. Which is my main reason for concern,” Barry said softly. “Cripple’s no town for a woman alone.”

  Miss Victoria nodded. “Silas Hughes told her as much when he made his condolence call to present Mick’s pension check, but she remained in their cabin out in Phantom Canyon. Said she could fend for herself. Lyla’s
headstrong that way.”

  Recalling how she’d struggled against his embrace, Thompson could well imagine her battering the diplomatic Hughes with her brogue. “What made her change her mind?”

  “Loneliness, perhaps. Or the harsh winter we’re having.” Victoria focused on the fire again, fidgeting with a fold in her turquoise gown. “Being snowbound in a miner’s shack is no life for a young lady, and—”

  “I’m not buying it.” Thompson wasn’t surprised that this principled woman would weave a story to protect Lyla O’Riley, but why was it so elaborate? He considered what he knew about the shacks scattered among the hillsides around Phantom Canyon, and then gazed steadily at the madam. “Who was her landlord? Did he force her out, thinking she couldn’t pay the rent because her brother was dead?”

  Miss Chatterly’s aqua eyes locked into his. “You’re very perceptive, marshal.”

  “That’s my job. Whatever you may think of my request, my motives are aboveboard,” he assured her. “I want all these details so I can anticipate any trouble when it comes time for Miss O’Riley to leave the Golden Rose. I may think with my crotch on occasion, but I’d never in a million years do anything to hurt her.”

  Victoria gave him a resigned smile. “I know that, Barry.”

  “So tell me who brought her here. The more you stall, the more I’ll suspect something underhanded—a situation I may have to investigate, being the marshal and all.”

  “Frazier Foxe.”

  Thompson scowled. “Frazier Foxe what?”

  With an exasperated sigh, Miss Chatterly rose from her chair. “Frazier brought her here! Told her it was unseemly for a young lady to live in the canyon by herself, and encouraged me to hire her as a housekeeper.”

  The marshal saw the madam’s cushiony bosom quiver with her agitation and he burst out laughing. “You British and your unseemliness,” he said between chuckles. “So you’re saying Foxe brought her to a whorehouse to protect her innocence? Hell, he could’ve taken her to his place! Everybody knows he’s about as manly as milktoast.”

  “He’s a very proper, generous man,” Victoria insisted. “Concerned about Lyla’s—”

  “And you’d let Foxe have her before I could? That hurts, Victoria.”

  The madam’s chin lifted defiantly and she dented her lush hips with her fists. “Mr. Foxe knew of her situation and remedied it. He found her a place to stay and a job—and yes, he bought her some clothes so I wouldn’t be out the expense of her wardrobe. What have you done for Lyla—besides pawing at her in my pantry?’’

  Thompson cleared his throat. There was no arguing with Victoria Chatterly when she stood on such solid ground, so he led her down another avenue of conversation. “What’s in it for Foxe?” he asked bluntly. “You can call him humanitarian names from now until doomsday, but he never takes on a project that won’t turn him a profit.”

  Her porcelain face cracked with a scowl. “It is Christmas, and people tend to show more goodwill toward the less fortunate. You could stand to perform a few charitable deeds yourself, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.” Barry rose to stand before the plump madam, stooping so his eyes were more even with hers. “Damn it, Victoria,” he said in a tightly-controlled voice, “my best friend’s getting married tomorrow, and I’m thirty years old, and alone, and I’m tired of it. All the women in this town are either married or whores, or so dried-up they’d crack if you kissed them. I want Lyla and I intend to have her.”

  “I never said you couldn’t,” she countered. “I merely objected to the way you proposed to go about it. Keeping Lyla would cause a scandal—the newspapers would make mincemeat of your reputation, and the faith Cripple’s citizens have in you would be totally destroyed.”

  “You’re saying I may court her, like a proper gentleman?” he asked with a sarcastic chuckle.

  “That would be nice,” Victoria replied with equal snideness.

  “Highly unlikely, what with Foxe paying her way.” The marshal reached into his trousers for the bankroll he’d withdrawn a few hours ago. “How much did her dresses cost? And I’ll reimburse you for having to hire another girl.”

  “I don’t want your money, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Then use it to pay Frazier off. Mark my word, there’s more to his generosity than you’re seeing.” He stepped over to her nightstand and counted four hundred-dollar bills onto its marble top. “That should take care of her clothes, and here’s another one to cover wages. I’ll come for her tomorrow morning.”

  He crossed the lavishly-decorated boudoir and bowed at the madam as he opened the door. “Good night, Miss Chatterly. As always, it’s a pleasure doing business in your fine establishment.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Have you mentioned your plans to Miss O’Riley?”

  “We’ll discuss them over lunch.”

  “You’ll be sorry, Marshal Thompson.”

  Barry grinned at the prospect of having Lyla all to himself in just a few short hours. “Judging from the way she pawed at me in your pantry, I sincerely doubt that.”

  Thompson reached for the restaurant door, feeling like a boy about to open a bright, shiny Christmas present. As they’d walked along the snow-powdered sidewalk, Lyla had chattered eagerly about preparations for the McClanahans’ wedding reception, to be held that evening at the Golden Rose. Each time she smiled up at him with those mesmerizing eyes, the waves of euphoria he was riding crested gloriously. The ring he’d bought this morning smoldered in his pants pocket: its large aquamarine mimicked his woman’s most stunning feature and was surrounded by diamonds that sparkled like his hopes and dreams. The thought that Lyla would be showing this ring off tonight at Matt’s wedding filled him with pride.

  “Ever eaten here at Delmonico’s?” he asked as he helped her out of her cloak.

  Lyla looked across the elegant dining room, with its crisp white linens and fashionably-attired patrons. Aromas of roasted meat and fresh rolls caught her up in their warmth, yet her appetite was edged with apprehension. “No,” she mumbled. “This was a bit beyond Mick’s means. I—I hope I’m properly dressed.”

  “Nonsense. I was about to tell you how that red plaid flatters you,” Barry said. The gown sported huge ruffled sleeves with a bodice that puffed out in the latest style, much as Lyla did. Its bold colors seemed far too flashy for Foxe’s taste, but he suspected Mrs. Delacroix had made this dress, too. Straightening the chain her silver shamrock hung on, he smiled down at her. “You look like a doll dressed up for Christmas. And your brother made your necklace?”

  “Aye. Wanted to be a jeweler when he got up the money,” she answered quietly. “I wear it so I’ll never forget the dreams we had when we came to America.”

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her and assure her that his dreams were every bit as wonderful, but their hostess appeared, walking stiffly between the kitchen doors. Prudence Spickle was a cheerless soul who wore her spinsterhood like a thorny crown of honor. “You have a guest today, marshal?”

  Barry smiled as the hostess stared sourly at Lyla. “Miss O’Riley and I would like a table near the back, where the clatter from the kitchen won’t disturb our conversation.”

  With a sniff, Miss Spickle led them between the tables, her head held high by a neck as spindly as a chicken’s. Lyla would’ve chuckled—the woman’s behind was so flat she appeared to walk without moving her legs—except for the fact that her stomach was knitting itself in knots. Such elegance, when Marshal Thompson had merely invited her for a bite of lunch! She suspected, from his buoyant air and freshly-pressed suit, that his plans included much more than casual chitchat, and the prospect terrified her.

  To make matters worse, she saw Frazier Foxe across the room. Just as Barry was seating her, the Englishman caught sight of them—adjusted his monocle as though scrutinizing their innermost thoughts—and her appetite vanished. Why was everyone staring at her? Surely her new dress wasn’t so bright as to be offensive. Surely the marsh
al brought women here often enough that they weren’t gawking at him!

  “What sounds good?” her companion’s voice interrupted her worries. “It’s a special treat to be seen with such a lovely young woman, and I want this to be a memorable day for you, too.”

  His eyes glowed with an emotion so intense that Lyla held her breath. Barry Thompson was much handsomer than she remembered from their first encounter, clearly interested in more than a few stolen kisses behind the pantry door. His smooth-shaven face glowed with a boyish happiness, and compared to the old poop she was to have married in Ireland, he was a dream come true. If only she hadn’t—

  “You’re awfully quiet, little lady. Shall I order for us?”

  “Aye—please! I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion what to choose.” She stared at the stripes woven into the white tablecloth, her cheeks flushing with anguish. The marshal was bound to suspect something: waifs like her never clammed up at the prospect of a free meal! Lyla glanced into green eyes that glimmered like emeralds. She was mortified that his large, warm hand was enfolding hers just as the waitress approached their table.

  “What’ll you have?” Miss Spickle demanded. Her gaze bored into their clasped hands, but Thompson wasn’t about to let go.

  “We’d like your roast pheasant dinner, and a bottle of your finest white wine.”

  “It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  Barry fixed his gaze calmly on the waitress, determined not to spoil the ambiance of this occasion. “It’s never too early to celebrate life and love, Miss Spickle. And it’s never too late. There’s no hurry on dinner. We’ll be here a while.”

  The spinster headed toward the kitchen in a huff, calling their order to the chef in a voice shrill with disdain. Thompson grinned. The tiny hand within his own was damp, its pulse fluttering like a bird’s. Lyla’s eyes were huge as she gazed around the dining room before suddenly focusing on him again. A quick glance revealed Frazier Foxe’s presence: the willowy stockbroker’s pointed stare made Barry chuckle to himself, and he wrapped his other hand around his companion’s, too. She was clearly as excited and nervous as he was, and trying just as hard not to show it.