Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  The morsel he wanted stood behind the cake table. Lyla appeared to have suffered no ill effects from her double dinner. Her gown swayed provocatively each time she handed someone a plate of cake, and her bodice was cut so low that the silver shamrock pendant glistened at the crease between her breasts. He’d taken his time walking here, planning what he wanted to say, but the magic of her presence spirited away his eloquent thoughts.

  From the corner of her eye Lyla watched him approach. She purposely scraped the gooey coating off the cake platter so as not to encourage him. Much as she liked the tall, husky marshal, she couldn’t in good conscience accept his advances—especially since Frazier Foxe was watching them from the far corner.

  Well aware that the coy Irish girl was ignoring him, Barry grasped her hand as she scraped the wet clump of golden crumbs from her knife onto the platter’s edge. “That’s the best part of the cake,” he mumbled, wishing he had something more profound to say.

  Lyla looked up at him, her periwinkle eyes sparkling. “That’s why I volunteered to cut—so I could have it!”

  She stuck a lump of the sweet goo into her mouth and then teased him by very slowly pulling her finger between her lips. Lyla didn’t want him to go away angry. But she did want him to go away—for his own good. “So—am I invited to your wedding, Marshal Thompson?”

  The lady had the uncanny ability to steal his thunder. But at least she was speaking to him, and he could certainly return her fire. “And just where did you hear that rumor?”

  Lyla blinked. If she answered honestly, she’d get into uncomfortable territory. But the way Barry was ogling her low neckline, and the way Foxe’s gaze was boring into her backside, perhaps it was best to get this ordeal over with. “Apparently it was all the talk at the restaurant.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  She shifted her weight to the other leg. “Mr. Foxe thought I should be aware of—he—”

  “Did he pull you out of that trunk after I left?”

  Lyla’s mouth dropped open. The lawman sounded deadly serious, yet when she looked up, his green eyes were twinkling like baubles on a Christmas tree. She grinned sheepishly. “No, I climbed out for some air and then gave myself away by belching rather rudely. That was a fine lunch you ordered for us, marshal. I enjoyed it immensely.”

  The laughter started in his chest and erupted into a belly laugh such as Thompson hadn’t experienced for months. Understatement was another of this Irish imp’s talents, it seemed, and he was determined to discover more. “Dance with me, Lyla. It’s the least you can do after leaving me to look like a fool in Delmonico’s.”

  She hesitated; swaying in this handsome man’s arms would only make what she had to say more difficult. The wink of Foxe’s monocle egged her on, though. At least it would appear she was coaxing Thompson to contribute to the refinery fund while she was actually warning him to run like hell in the opposite direction.

  As though on cue, the musicians struck up a dreamlike waltz and Lyla was trapped. She loved to dance. And when the tall, tuxedoed marshal opened his arms, the invitation on his ruddy face tugged at the very core of her.

  Barry was a surprisingly graceful partner, large as he was, and for several moments she allowed herself to soar on the wings of the fantasy he’d created. He wanted to marry her—wouldn’t have started such a rumor if he weren’t serious—and she imagined herself floating down the aisle of the church arrayed in shimmering white, just as Emily Burnham had done.

  “Frazier’s staring at us,” Thompson teased softly. “You sure there’s nothing between you two?”

  “Mr. Foxe is the coldest, most…” Lyla sighed and stared at the knot in her partner’s white tie, hoping her next words sounded like an effective warning. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Frazier vows he’ll get even if you don’t contribute to his refinery. He hates being ridiculed.”

  “Get even?” Barry laughed aloud, realizing the cause for his woman’s anxiety now. “Honey, he’s got to catch up to me first, and that’ll never happen. If what I said yesterday hurt his feelings, we’ll just give him something more to pout about.”

  Suddenly she was eye to eye with the marshal, who’d led her into a graceful dip and then swung her effortlessly against his chest, never missing a beat. Her pulse fluttered frantically. He wasn’t listening—

  “Lyla, please,” he whispered, “let me speak my piece. Watching you at the wedding, I knew you wanted the same things Matt and Emily have found—the things I’ve waited so long for myself.”

  Speechless, she felt herself being waltzed into the curtained alcove between the ballroom and the hall. It was a dim little nook, angled beneath the grand staircase, and as Barry’s arm tightened around her, his shadowy face made her hold her breath. He was going to propose! And if she accepted, she’d make him Foxe’s target for sure.

  Barry leaned back against the wall and placed one foot on the seat of a nearby chair. God, but he wanted her! She was lodged between his thigh and his chest now, her sweet weight pressing into him, her breasts temptingly displayed where he couldn’t help but gaze at them. Lyla’s eyes were as wide as a frightened fawn’s, but with the right words he’d convince her he wanted to love and protect her for the rest of her life.

  He breathed deep and pulled her closer to nuzzle her ear. “Lord, but I love a woman with some shape to her,” he murmured. His hands roamed the warm, smooth expanses of her taffeta gown, finding the curve of her waist and then the fullness of her hips. “How is it you always smell like peppermint, honey? It’s my favorite sweet, you know.”

  At last, an answer that could move the conversation back to a rational level! With her legs parted over Barry’s thigh and her breasts crushed against him, Lyla could barely think, much less drive him away. “It—it’s schnapps!” she replied raggedly. “The Indian princess keeps a bottle in the bathing suite, for a breath freshener!”

  Stroking the silky curls that tumbled down her back, he chuckled. He was quite aware of the gadgets and enticements Cherry Blossom stashed in the room down the hall; he had half a mind to carry Lyla there and show her the pleasures they could bring.

  But the girl in his arms was too fresh and exciting to make such games necessary. Just the thought of loving her made him stiffen in the tight confines of his trousers. “I’m trying very hard to behave myself, Miss O’Riley,” he said in a husky whisper. “But you feel so damn good—so right.”

  His lips found hers and Lyla closed her eyes against a wave of rapture. One hand was still on his shoulder from their waltz, and the other found the thick, wavy hair at Barry’s nape. Her mouth opened beneath his; his low moan made a subtle accompaniment to the languid dance his tongue did with hers. He kissed her again, more fervently, his embrace tightening until she felt his heart thundering against her own. When one large, gentle palm very nearly caressed her breast, it was all she could do to slap him.

  “What was that for?” he rasped.

  “I—I can’t! I’m betrothed to another man.”

  Barry blinked away the impassioned fog that was muddling his mind “But you said at lunch there was no one—”

  “I lied!” Lyla forced herself to look into his deep green eyes, which were now clouded with pain and confusion. “When my letter about Mick’s death arrives home, it’ll be Hadley who comes to fetch me back. What with my oldest brothers Dan and Denny claiming the sheep ranch—they’re twins, you see—Hadley was gracious enough to accept my hand without requiring a dowry, so I’d be terribly rude to—”

  Her rapid brogue betrayed her panic, yet Barry sensed her situation in Ireland was fact rather than fabrication. He shifted her weight, retaining his hold on her. “You don’t love him,” he said in a tight voice, “or you wouldn’t be so set on staying in America. Wouldn’t have come over in the first place.”

  Lyla swallowed. Her attempts at rejection were going nowhere, and he seemed to see through every ruse. Perhaps a touch of the truth would convince him to leave her alone
before they both got hurt. “I came to this country to get away from Hadley McDuff,” she admitted in the firmest voice she could find. “I hate being trapped—detest men like my father and McDuff—and you—who decide what they want from me without asking what I think!”

  Thompson flinched. Perhaps he’d come on a little too boldly, but this girl surely realized his intentions were the best. “Honey, I’ve never forced you into anything. You didn’t let on like you minded when I found you in the pantry, or kissed you just now, so how—”

  “Don’t you get it?” she blurted, hating herself for the way she was about to wound him. “I don’t want you, Thompson. You’re coarse and crude and— always fondling every woman you see, like—like some beast! Like a damn ram who can’t stop rutting!”

  He was too stunned to stop her when she clambered awkwardly off his lap. And he’d be damned if he’d chase after her and ruin McClanahan’s party by starting an argument. Never in his life had any woman accused him of being coarse or crude, and by God, he’d set her straight when they didn’t have an audience.

  Barry sighed and slid dejectedly into the chair. The music was livelier now. His friends’ laughter was getting louder as the liquor flowed…and something stronger than punch sounded like the perfect tonic to bolster his bruised feelings. Cherry Blossom kept a bottle of good brandy in the bathing suite, too, bless her, so he ambled down the hallway.

  At the dessert table, Lyla was slicing off pieces of tender white cake as though a hundred guests were waiting in line. Nearly sliced her finger, too, blinded as she was by her tears. She should’ve escaped through the alcove’s other door, because Frazier Foxe would be here any second, wondering why she’d come out alone, obviously agitated.

  On a sudden inspiration, she picked up two plates of cake and assumed what she hoped was a lovestruck expression. She could pretend to be slipping back in to Barry to continue their tryst, and pass through the alcove to the back stairway instead. Once upstairs, she could figure out a way to leave the Golden Rose and Frazier Foxe behind her forever. It would mean never seeing Barry again, but after the insults she’d just hurled at him, Lyla doubted she could ever face the marshal, anyway.

  A pistol barked and her plates fell, shattering on the parquet floor. The music stopped. Amid the ladies’ shrieks she heard gruff orders being called out.

  “Up against the wall Take off your rings and watches, all of you!”

  The crowd froze, confused, until another shot rang out and had people scurrying toward one side of the ballroom like frightened livestock. As she was carried along in a tide of gasping women and their muttering escorts, Lyla caught a glimpse of the intruders who’d brought the reception to such a drastic halt. There were three of them, dressed in heavy coats, hats, and bandanas that covered their faces. Moving with menacing grace, they waved the revelers into a line with their pistols while the shortest marauder pulled a flour sack from inside his jacket.

  “Quit your yackin’!” came his muffled command, and another bullet through the ceiling made the room ring with silence. “If you wanna live to see Christmas, you’ll cooperate when these boys relieve you of your valuables, understand? Anybody caught holdin’ back’ll be real sorry.”

  Just as Lyla fell into line with the others she saw the marshal at the ballroom doorway. She tried to signal him with an unobtrusive wave, but one of the robbers saw her and then let out a cackle.

  “Well, now. I think this lawman wants to be the first to kick in for the cause—don’t you, boys?” the cocky thug called out. “He can set an example as to how the rest of ‘em should behave. Grab his gun while you’re at it.”

  While the leader pointed his pistol toward Barry’s chest, his accomplices frisked the marshal with obvious glee. They yanked the gold watch from his vest pocket and, seeing no rings on his fingers, commanded him to empty his trousers. Lyla’s heart was in her throat. She wasn’t surprised that Thompson had come unarmed—few of these elite guests would be sporting weapons tonight—but then the shortest thug plucked something large and shiny from his palm.

  “Whooo-ee! Looky here, boys,” he said as he waved the object in front of them. “The marshal musta had excitin’ plans for tonight. Coulda got a hole in his pocket, totin’ this big ring around. Which one of these fine ladies was this for, loverboy?”

  Thompson had been observing the three men carefully to see if he recognized any of them. Their insolence irked him. “What the hell do you think you’ll accomplish here?” he challenged. “In the first place, you won’t make it out of Cripple with this jewelry, and in the second place, you won’t be able to hock it. There’s not a jeweler in Colorado stupid enough to resell these custom-made pieces.”

  “Shut up and stand with your nose to the wall, smartass,” the man with the flour sack ordered. “One false move outta you and your friends here’ll be springin’ leaks on this fine dance floor.” He gestured for Thompson’s assailant to hold him against the far side of the room with his pistol in his spine, and then trotted to the beginning of the line of reception guests. “Let’s get a move on. Wastin’ too much time. Toss me that ring.”

  When she saw the huge, pale stone glimmer in mid-air, Lyla felt her breath catch in her throat. It was a beautiful piece—hundreds of dollars Barry must have spent on it. And it was obviously intended for her. She felt the curious gazes of others who’d heard Thompson’s engagement rumors in the restaurant and her cheeks scalded with embarrassment. Staring at the floor, she heard the two thugs harassing their other hostages.

  “Help us out, damn it. Don’t make me yank them rubies off ya.”

  “You, sir—I bet there’s matchin’ gold cuff links for that tietack.”

  “Gimme that cane. Gotta be two hundred dollars wortha gold on that knob.”

  Lyla glanced up just as an indignant Frazier Foxe surrendered his walking stick, followed by an ornate gold watch, a money clip, and numerous gold coins from his pockets. The short man with the sack gave the orders and watched each piece disappear into his bag, a malevolent Saint Nicholas in reverse. His accomplice held the pistol to the victims’ heads, and then turned them toward the wall when they’d contributed. No one was brave enough to protest or make a sound as the two marauders went about their work with quick efficiency.

  Emily McCanahan’s gold locket and wedding ring…Miss Victoria’s tiara and diamond pendant…Silas Hughes’ engraved watch and fob. The whores, too, lost anything that looked like it could be of value, their faces pinched with bitterness as they dropped the items in the sack. Then the pistol was pointed at her ear, and the two bandits were gazing expectantly at Lyla. “Cough up, sugar. A dress that purty means jewels to go with it.”

  She stared into two eyes that shone like black agate above the thief’s blue bandana. Had she seen this man before?

  “Get the shamrock. We gotta move.”

  Lyla gasped as the delicate chain of Mick’s memento snapped at the back of her neck. “But that’s my only—you can’t take that—”

  “Shut up or you’ll be eatin’ bullets. Nose to the wallpaper, you little slut.”

  Her lungs emptied in a rush when she thudded against the wall, but her discomfort was nothing compared with her anger. I’ll get you, you damned—nobody steals my silver shamrock! she fumed silently. I will get it back. Or by the saints, I’ll die trying!

  Chapter 5

  Before the muffled thunder of the bandits’ hoof-beats died away, Barry was hurrying toward the door, tugging at his tie. “You folks rest assured, you’ll get your valuables back,” he called out over the murmuring crowd. “Soon as I get rid of these glad rags, I’ll get my deputy and a posse and I’ll be on their trail. Stay here where it’s warm and safe. Those desperadoes’ll shoot to kill.”

  Lyla was already scampering toward the grand stairway, lifting her dress as she took two steps at a time.

  “Don’t get any ideas about riding with us, young lady!” the marshal ordered. “You’ve got no business—”

  “Watch m
e!” she hollered over her shoulder. By the time she rounded the third-floor landing, Lyla was free of her bodice. Her dress slithered into a billowing pool of blue taffeta at the foot of her bunk as she dashed toward the closet. “Damn corset!” she muttered, clawing at her tightly-laced back.

  Her trunk held a pair of denim jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, work clothing she’d thrown in when Frazier Foxe had announced she was moving to town. The dry, familiar scent of the garments soothed her as she tugged them on—nobody would tell her to stay put when her brother’s handmade treasure had been carried off! Especially since one of the thieves had had such a familiar air about him.

  Lyla slipped into Mick’s fleece-lined jacket and crammed his hat down over her hair, wishing she’d brought his pistol to the Rose, too. But there was no time now to hunt a weapon. Her heavy boots clattered on the back stairs and then she was out the bordello’s back exit, leaving the agitated chatter of reception guests behind her.

  The wind caught her at the corner and she grabbed her hat. Snow had been falling all evening, covering Cripple’s buildings and the surrounding hillsides with a thick carpet of white that glowed beneath the deep azure sky. The serenity of Christmas Eve was broken by men calling to each other as they hurried to the livery stable.

  “They’re headed toward Victor!”

  “Probably going to hole up in Phantom Canyon. You boys watch out,” came Thompson’s warning. “Awfully easy to get ambushed from those cliffs.”

  Lyla saw the marshal’s tall form silhouetted in the stable doorway. By the light of flickering lanterns she watched him saddle his huge buckskin stallion. When he mounted and loped out the door followed by his handful of men, she slipped into the corner stall where her own painted mare stood munching hay.

  “Come on, Calico. Time to work off some of that feed,” Lyla whispered. She stroked the horse’s velvety nose and then quickly buckled the bridle over her head. “You’ve got to give me your best tonight, girl. We’re making this ride for Mick as much as for me.”