She climbed out and then curled up on the cool wooden floor, wondering when the pheasant and wine would stop waging war inside her. The heat of her hiding place had accelerated the effects of the liquor. Her thoughts were jumbled, and all she could do was loll there, weaving from one edge of consciousness to another.
Picturing his ruddy, youthful face, Lyla tried to sort out what it was about Barry Thompson that made her run like a rabbit. He had a gentle voice, a humorous way about him that she couldn’t help smiling at. Even in her miserable stupor, the memory of his kiss made her ache for his tender caress. He was thoughtful and generous, a popular customer here at the Rose because he so freely admitted his weakness for women.
And he had chosen her, and for more than just a game of cat-and-mouse around the whorehouse. Lyla shifted uncomfortably. The pieces were starting to fit: the moment Father had announced she would wed Hadley McDuff, she’d felt the need to flee. Such a relationship, where she would become just another of the wealthy old codger’s possessions, rankled her because she had no say in the matter. Her marriage would’ve been as stifling as staying curled up inside her trunk for the rest of her life.
Thompson, it seemed, was making the same mistake. By not asking her to say yes, he was forcing her to say no—truly a tragedy, because except for this one regrettable flaw, he was a man whose company she enjoyed.
Lyla started to sit up, and then stiffened. A rustling on the other side of the closet door made her hold her breath, and then she nearly collapsed with horror. Someone had eased onto the nearest bunk I The springs squeaked so softly she wouldn’t have heard them had she not been lying silently on the floor.
Minutes ticked by. Was the marshal back, waiting her out, or had one of the staff come up to rest before tonight’s party? She herself needed a nap or some sort of relief before dressing for the wedding. Emily Burnham had invited the entire household to the ceremony, and even if she had to be propped up between two of the whores, Lyla would never miss the biggest wedding in Cripple’s recent memory. She felt clammy and nauseated, and a huge gas bubble was pressing against all sides of her stomach at once.
Lyla intended to belch quietly against the back of her hand, but the air rushed out of her in a raucous burp that filled the closet with the rude noise. Drunk as she was, she got to giggling—until a voice just outside the door said, “Come on out, Miss O’Riley. We have things to discuss.”
Her blood froze in her veins. She prayed desperately for the floor to open up, or for Miss Chatterly and the marshal to come storming in after her—anything rather than facing Frazier Foxe alone.
Slowly she shuffled to the door, dreading whatever it was Foxe wanted. When he’d informed her he was moving her into town, Lyla had tried every conceivable argument: Mick’s pension would pay her rent through the winter, and she liked living out in the cozy canyon shack with her potted plants and the animals that came calling when she needed companionship. But the landlord had other plans. And as he had urged her to accept a position at the Rose, plus three beautiful new dresses to sweeten the deal, Lyla had had the sinking sensation he’d extract repayment someday soon. Wealthy men never did their tenants any favors unless they had ulterior motives.
Now, as she opened the door a crack, Lyla squinted at a glint of afternoon sunshine Foxe’s monocle beamed at her. His close-cropped curls looked freshly brushed, and he was wearing a natty checked suit. He was perched on the edge of the bed, one slender leg draped over the other, with his gloved hands resting atop his walking stick. Why did he always wear fitted kid gloves? Some people dismissed the habit as another of his eccentricities, yet to Lyla they signified something…clandestine. Something she didn’t really want to know about.
“I don’t have all day.”
Hoping to keep her fear—and her dinner—under control, Lyla swung the door open and leaned limply against the jamb. The lines of Frazier Foxe’s face tightened, outlining the slightest of jowls despite his slenderness. He resembled an English bulldog who’d missed dinner, lean and disgruntled.
“You look absolutely ghastly.” he said in his clipped accent. “As well you should, after inhaling all that pheasant and wine.”
“Thank you,” she rasped. She had the sudden urge to throw up all over this sanctimonious fool.
“We have business, Miss O’Riley. After more than a week, surely you’ve heard what the customers here are saying about my refinery.” Adjusting his monocle, he awaited her reply.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be eavesdropping,” Lyla answered sourly. “What—am I to listen at the bedroom doors? You’ve not spent much time in a parlor house, or you’d know—”
“No need to become insolent, dear heart,” Foxe said tautly. “After finding you a job and providing three hundred dollars’ worth of new clothes, I thought a token of your appreciation was in order. What have you heard?”
“Nothing.” What she detested most about Frazier Foxe was that he never raised his voice. He was too damn civil, as though loud talk might rumple his suit. “All the chitchat’s about Matt McClanahan’s wedding, and Christmas…and what sort of risqué little pleasures are in store for the next hour,” she added, to ruffle his feathers.
Foxe’s hands twitched; apparently he thought lovemaking was an improper topic even in a whorehouse. “Well! The talk at Delmonico’s was about you and the marshal,” he said with a hint of a grin. Frazier twisted one tip of his waxed mustache as though pondering the most pointed way to finish. “I hear congratulations are in order. Am I invited to your wedding?”
Lyla felt the color drain from her face. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“Of course you do, dear heart,” he interrupted with simpering cheerfulness. “Why, the way Prudence Spickle tells it, Barry Thompson’s afloat on a veritable ocean of happiness—as well he should be, now that I’ve attired you so attractively.”
Her stomach shuddered. This conversation had taken a turn she didn’t like; even though he was merely repeating what the real culprit had told him, Frazier’s own undertones were unmistakable. “Miss Spickle strikes me as a woman with a very creative tongue,” Lyla said in a coiled voice.
“Most women enjoy spreading news about weddings. And it was news she got from the marshal himself,” Foxe added smugly. “The way he followed you out through the kitchen confirms it. Barry Thompson wants you, Miss O’Riley.”
Standing before this impeccably proper man as he tittered at his own jokes about her was the ultimate embarrassment. Lyla stepped away from the door, determined to leave before he let the other shoe drop, but he sprang lithely from the bunk and planted himself in the aisle, his gold-headed walking stick centered precisely between his stylish leather shoes.
“We’re not finished.” he whispered.
“Yes, we are. I have to help the ladies prepare—”
“Inebriated as you are, you’ll knock the crystal from the tables,” Frazier replied lightly. “Your job is to sober up, dear heart, and then to adorn yourself for the wedding and reception, where you’ll settle that apparent tiff you had with the marshal. The silver-blue taffeta gown should do nicely.”
“Why?”
Foxe blinked. “Because it’s the most exquisite. I chose the fabric to complement your—”
“Why am I to reconcile with Thompson?” Lyla braced herself for a reply she already knew she would despise.
The man before her chuckled to himself. “Did you hear what he said about my refinery idea at the party last night?”
“No. I must’ve been fetching tarts from the kitchen.”
“He said it was stupid! And in this enlightened era, we can’t—shan’t!—tolerate such ignorance. So—” he continued in a proprietary tone, “you shall help me educate him. Drink with him, dance with him—seduce him, if you like. You might as well live up to the gossip.”
Lyla shot him a look that should’ ve melted his mustache wax. “And what does that have to do with contributing to your mill, Mr. Foxe?”
“And if he refuses to fall for it?” She crossed her arms, feeling sicker by the minute. It was pillars of society like Frazier Foxe who required the deepest dirt to remain standing.
“He’ll be eternally sorry he ridiculed me in front of my friends. And so will you.” He laughed almost girlishly and ran a gloved fingertip along her cheek. “Take your nap now, dear heart, and I’ll make your excuses to Miss Chatterly. I expect nothing short of radiance to rival the bride’s tonight. Radiance!”
Chapter 4
The church was filling rapidly when the usher escorted Lyla and the others from the Golden Rose to their pews near the front. The ladies spoke with hushed excitement as they glanced around the magnificent sanctuary, which was adorned with lace-trimmed bouquets of red and pink roses. Candles flickered serenely behind the altar and in the bronze sconces on the walls; the fresh scent of pine garlands blended with the flowers’ subtle sweetness, enveloping the congregation in a warm, fragrant sense of expectation.
Lyla settled herself between Princess Cherry Blossom and Darla, a henna-haired dove who seemed pleased to provide commentary about everyone around them.
“My stars, would you look at this crowd!” the vibrant whore whispered. “Miss Burnham and Matt certainly know their share of good-looking men. But then, I’ve known most of them myself, at one time or another.”
Smiling, Lyla nodded during appropriate pauses while the redhead chattered on. A nap and numerous cups of strong tea had released her from the wine’s wily grip, and all the ladies had complimented her silver-blue gown, yet she fell far short of the radiance Frazier Foxe was expecting. Her stomach was still complaining about her gluttonous lunch, so the thought of the feast and wedding cake that awaited them at the Rose only made her queasy.
At least they were seated far enough down that she wouldn’t spot Mr. Foxe in the crowd. Or was it Barry Thompson she wished to avoid? She’d be serving the wedding cake, so confronting him was inevitable. And after learning about her part of the bargain she’d never meant to strike with Frazier Foxe, it was clear she had to dissuade the marshal from ever seeing her again.
“…and the young colored man sitting down at the piano is Josh LeFevre,” Darla was saying. “He and his wife Zenia came back just to perform for Miss Emily’s wedding. He used to play at the Rose, you know, until Zenia was nearly killed by a bartender who became quite taken with her.”
“Goodness,” Lyla mumbled as the pianist began to play. “I’m surprised they’d return to Cripple. Miss Burnham must garner a great deal of loyalty.”
“She’s the one who got rid of the bartender. Same outlaw who killed her daddy, you see—but that’s another story.” Darla sucked in her breath and gazed wide-eyed toward the door at the side of the chancel, where three men were entering the sanctuary.
“God, what a man,” Princess Cherry Blossom murmured on Lyla’s other side. “Every woman here wishes she were Emily tonight. Matt McClanahan’s a fine piece of work. A true gentleman.”
It was the first time the Indian princess had spoken since they’d arrived, and Lyla heard a deep sense of loss and frustration in her husky voice. Without her war paint and buckskins, the adventurous whore looked positively meek, far less intimidating than when she regaled the Rose’s clients with her ribald jokes.
And Matt did look stunning in his black cutaway coat with tails and pinstriped trousers. As the robed minister ascended the two steps behind him, the groom swept the crowd with a confident smile and then looked expectantly toward the rear of the church.
But it was Barry Thompson who had Lyla holding her breath. He stood beside McClanahan, a head taller and several inches broader at the shoulders, his hands clasped before him as he surveyed the congregation. When his eyes found hers, she could only stare back, helpless beneath his gaze.
Josh LeFevre played a rolling arpeggio which silenced the whispers and had people craning in their seats as the Wedding March began. The stately chords filled the church, the melody carrying to the high, beamed ceiling even though the pianist was playing with effortless control. A buxom bridesmaid appeared, regally attired in a cerise gown trimmed with ermine and pearls, and Lyla gaped. “It’s Miss Victoria!”
“Isn’t she something?” Darla whispered back. “She and Emily have gotten real close since Mr. Burnham was killed. Kind of standing in for the mother who died when she was born, you know.”
Lyla nodded, somewhat amazed that madams and marshals and millionaire brides meshed so comfortably. Yet Cripple Creek society thrived on such juxtapositions of social status. She flashed Miss Chatterly a grin, admiring the woman’s exquisite gown and the proud way she wore it.
Then a majestic piano crescendo announced the coming of the bride, and people were on their feet. It was a poor time to be short: oohs and ahs rose above her head as the crowd around her leaned forward for a glimpse of the illustrious Emily Burnham. All Lyla could see were dark suits and colorful gowns and Cherry Blossom’s bare shoulders, until the bridal trio strode sedately past their pew.
“You know Silas Hughes, of course,” Darla spoke next to her ear. “Emily’s deeded the Angel Claire to him, and that colored man on her right helped raise her at the ranch. Name’s Idaho something.”
Lyla nodded, struck again by the way Miss Burnham managed to bring such opposites together. The bride was a heavenly vision, afloat in a shimmering gown of white satin with lace-capped leg-of-mutton sleeves that dwarfed her tiny waist. Her golden hair was swept up beneath a gossamer veil which cascaded the entire length of her train. She was so petite and lovely, kissing each of her escorts before slipping her hand under Matt McClanahan’s elbow. Lyla despaired of ever being that elegant, or that obviously adored, or of ever having such a perfect lifetime to look forward to.
Thompson, too, had watched the procession with a mixture of wonder and wistfulness. Emily shone like the Star of Bethlehem, radiating a love so complete and serene he could only ache in McClanahan’s shadow. He knew he was partly responsible for this glorious moment: he’d saved Matt after an explosion, and then rescued Emily from pining away when she thought he was dead. But it was a fleeting victory. As he watched the couple exchange vows, he doubted the aquamarine in his pocket would ever find its home on Lyla O’Riley’s hand. The way she’d run off and then hid from him made her feelings painfully plain.
LeFevre was playing softly on the piano now, familiar triplets that brought Zenia to her feet beside him. This couple, too, basked in each other’s love, their brown faces aglow as they cued each other. The congregation behind him held its breath in expectation, for Zenia’s voice had made her something of a legend during the few weeks she’d lived here.
O holy night
The stars are brightly shining…
The colored girl’s words stirred him. Could Lyla feel their power, too? Barry turned slightly, only intending to glance at her, yet her enthralled expression held him captive. Her gown glowed like blue moonlight in the candlelit sanctuary; her hair, pulled into a knot at her crown, shimmered past her shoulders—a style that was deceptively innocent and extremely flattering. Lyla’s breasts rose with the volume of Zenia’s song. She was spellbound, as he was, and he pulsed with a longing that was as emotional as it was physical. God, but he wanted her to love him!
Till he appeared
And the soul felt its worth…
Lyla felt a tugging on her heartstrings and held her breath when she saw how intently Barry Thompson was studying her. His expression held no malice—in fact, it mirrored her own silent desperation. He was so large and so handsome, yet he appeared every bit as lonely and vulnerable as she was, standing there beside his best friend. And Barry had made her soul feel its worth: he wanted her for herself rather than for what she could give him or do for him. What would it hurt to allow herself a little more laughter, a few more exhilarating kisses?
>
Fall on your knees…
It seemed God was directing him to forget Lyla’s talent for escape and propose to her tonight. Her eyes glimmered like the ring in his pocket, and he sensed she’d be more receptive to his ideas now that she’d seen how the glory of true love could transform them.
O hear the angel voices…
Lyla’s heart soared with the words of the song. The angels were indeed telling her to listen to her heart and give this man a chance!
O night divine…
Barry saw a tear slither down her cheek and his insides tightened. She’d never blinked, never looked away, and her yearnings were written all over her face…tender feelings he intended to share the moment they could slip away and be alone.
The song climaxed, and as Zenia’s sweet soprano rang out triumphantly, Lyla released a silent sob at the sheer beauty of it. The marshal’s gaze faltered only when Matt nudged him for the ring. The rest of the ceremony went by without Lyla’s being aware of it, because every throb of her heart told her she could no longer deny her feelings for Barry Thompson.
But a tiny voice in the back of her mind said she must.
The marshal entered the Golden Rose, pausing to brush the snow from his shoulders as he took in the familiar scene. The ballroom was already alive with the excitement of Josh LeFevre and a small orchestra playing a ragtime waltz. Husbands who frequented the parlor house on the sly were here, some dancing with their wives on this very special occasion, and the bachelors were being entertained by the finest doves to be found in Cripple Creek. The candles on the parlor Christmas tree winked at him; the beribboned sconces in the ballroom scented the whole house with hollyberry, accentuated by the pungent scent of the evergreen garlands over the doors.
The Rose’s opulence always lifted his spirits-such a contrast from the barren, drafty jailhouse that smelled of unwashed drunks most nights. Barry scanned the crowd. Matt and Emily were waltzing on the dais, while Silas Hughes danced with Miss Victoria. One whole wall was laid out as a buffet, loaded with the choicest cuts of meat, fresh oysters, elegant pastries, plum puddings, and other delicacies only the wealthy ever got to enjoy.
Colorado Moonfire Page 4