Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  McClanahan draped the pants over the back of his chair, pursing his lips in thought. “The part about Buck doesn’t make sense. You had me train him so he’d throw anybody but you. It took us weeks to drill that into him.”

  “You heard Geary tell her to take him to the stable, didn’t you?”

  “Her own mare was tied beside him. I assumed she’d ride it and lead—”

  “Don’t assume anything about that little lady,” Thompson interrupted with a proud smile. “I warned her she’d fall to her death if she so much as put a foot in the stirrup. Next thing I knew, we were headed toward the canyon and my stallion—who’d no more pull a plow than fly—was harnessed to a loaded toboggan, with Lyla riding him. Figure it out.”

  McClanahan’s eyes shone bluer as he digested this information. His admiration paled, however, as he formulated his next question. “All right, so she has a way with animals, and Geary attested to her healing skills. You yourself said she kept you sedated…what makes you think she couldn’t pull one over on you? Why didn’t Lyla tell you she had the stolen jewelry?”

  Thompson sighed and gazed at her portrait again, aching to hear an answer to that in her laughing, lilting brogue. “That’s where the fly sticks to the spiderweb, isn’t it?” He shook his head, bewildered, and looked McClanahan in the eye. “Maybe if we figured out how she got ahold of it in the first place, we’d know her reasoning. I’d like to think she was bringing it in so people could have their pieces back.”

  “So would I. But we can’t assume anything about that little lady,” he echoed with a tight smile. “Let’s list the possibilities. What if…what if, as the thugs left the Rose for Phantom Canyon, they dropped the bag along the way and Lyla found it?”

  “No good. That gang leader was agile as a cat and wouldn’t drop a sack of valuables. And if he did, the chances of Lyla seeing it in the snow when no one else did are slim to none.” Barry leaned back and clasped his hands over his stomach, eyes closed so he could picture the situations Matt was suggesting. “Another thing puzzles me about that. Those guys dropped our stuff into a flour sack, yet the Times says they took it off Lyla in a leather pouch.”

  “She could’ve switched it. Less likely to be identified as the loot when she came into town with you.”

  “True enough,” Thompson replied with a sigh. “All right, Inspector, give me another scenario.”

  Matt cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. “What if, after those guys shot you, they planted the booty on you? Which would either implicate you as an accomplice, or make you look like a big hero when Buck got you back to town.”

  “Can’t buy that, either,” the marshal said firmly. “No doubt in my mind they thought they killed me. Why would they leave all that high-class jewelry with a corpse?”

  McClanahan shrugged. “The paper said some items were missing. Maybe they just took what they wanted, since you warned them about hocking such expensive pieces.”

  “That doesn’t smell right. Those desperadoes took everything they could snatch, expensive or not.” He glanced over at Matt and felt his insides tightening, because his closest friend only chewed his lower lip when he was contemplating something he didn’t want to say. “Spit it out, pal. Better you than the federal boys, who’ll surely get called in if we don’t crack this case pretty fast.”

  The detective looked at his knees. “What if Lyla was in on it from the start?” he mumbled, as though the words tasted bad to him. “Let’s say the three thieves rode ahead, having told her to do the shooting—catch you by surprise—and then they circled back—”

  “Where do you come up with this crap?” Barry said with a scowl. “In the first place, I remember seeing her painted mare in the livery stable when I rode out with the posse.”

  “Whose mounts were gone?” Matt shot back.

  “How the hell would I know that? Honest people had their horses out, too,” Thompson snapped “Besides, Lyla rode in behind me and the bullets hit me from the front. I saw my assailants, Matt. This assassin malarky is just another example of—”

  “All right, all right, keep your nighty on,” McClanahan teased. “We’re trying to exhaust all the possibilities—even the remote ones, remember?”

  “Which we can’t really do until Lyla tells the story herself.” Glancing at the skimpy gown the hospital had provided, he rolled his eyes.

  Matt chuckled and then resumed his thinking aloud. “So we’ve established she didn’t shoot you. But she still could’ve been in on it, because the paper said your ring and her pendant were missing from the bag. Lyla reclaimed her own piece and took yours as payment for her efforts.”

  Marshal Thompson thought back to the reception raid as objectively as he could. He’d had his front to the wall and a gun in his back, but he’d watched the robbery from over his shoulder. And he distinctly recalled the stricken look on Lyla’s face when that cocky bastard snapped the fragile silver chain against her neck.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured, “and I’m not just sticking up for her. There’s something else involved here. If we knew who even one of the men was—”

  “It’s a good thing you’re up and talking, because that pigheaded deputy of yours is obstructing justice!” Victoria Chatterly bustled into the room, her ample cleavage aquiver beneath her flowing pink gown. She stopped on the opposite side of the bed from McClanahan, accenting her tirade by smacking her palm with a rolled-up newspaper. “He won’t set bail—won’t even let me see Lyla! Frazier Foxe told me he had no luck getting her out, either.”

  Thompson knew better than to chuckle at this white-haired whirlwind, but he certainly wanted to. “I’m glad to see you, too, Victoria,” he said suavely. “How was your Christmas?”

  The madam’s aqua eyes blazed for a moment, but then she let out the breath she’d been holding and laughed. “I—I’m truly sorry, Barry. How are you, dear? Thank God you’re alive, because I’m afraid Lyla’s in a fix only you can get her out of.”

  “Matt and I were just discussing that,” he said, taking the gem-studded hand she offered between his own. “Sit down beside me and tell me what you’ve heard. I could use the company of a good-looking woman to cheer me up.”

  Victoria nodded to McClanahan and scooted onto the edge of the bed. “So you’ve read the Times?”

  “I brought it over as soon as I saw it,” Matt said. “Figured he ought to know what sort of scuttlebutt he’s in for when he gets out.”

  “Deplorable. Absolutely deplorable,” she clucked. “We all know Lyla didn’t shoot you or steal that sack of jewelry. How anyone could print such lies is beyond me.”

  Thompson kept ahold of her plump hand and smiled fondly at her. To him, Miss Victoria was more like a doting aunt—a delectable one, to be sure—than a world-wise madam, and he found her staunch support of Lyla refreshing. No fuss, no analysis; just feminine intuition. And he hoped to God she was right. “So what did my pigheaded deputy say? I imagine he hasn’t been here to see me because he’s too busy keeping Lyla locked in her cell. She’s good at getaways, you know.”

  Miss Chatterly’s chuckle was edged with indignation. “Rex was a veritable pill. Claimed he couldn’t return my tiara or other accessories until the case was further along—”

  “Which was smart of him,” Barry conceded.

  “—and swore at me—swore at me!” she said in a shrill voice, “when I said I’d gladly pay Lyla’s bail, or take her into my custody and leave a large deposit, to ensure her presence when the investigation begins.”

  The marshal frowned. “I’ll have to remind Mr. Adams of his manners,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t fault him for the action he’s taking. Now that this article’s causing so much talk, he’ll have his hands full controlling the curiosity seekers—even the well-meaning ones.”

  Victoria’s hand fluttered to her bosom and she let out a placated sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Barry. But isn’t there some way I can help her? Grace got in
to see her by paying off the girl who delivers lunches. She says Lyla’s still in men’s clothing, and looking pale and shivery and pathetic. The poor girl deserves better. Isn’t there something you could say, something you could do? We’re all she has now.”

  Ever a soft touch when a woman’s soulful eyes were pleading with him, Thompson struggled to sit up. “Hand me those pants, Matt.”

  “But you—Doc Geary said—”

  “Doc Geary can jaw at me till hell freezes over—after I straighten this out,” Thompson insisted. “I won’t get any rest worrying about her, so I might as well be doing something constructive.”

  He grinned when he saw the madam eyeing the bare legs his gown didn’t cover. “And Victoria, I thank you with all my heart for coming to see me. You tell everybody I’m back in action, and that I fully expect to have their jewelry returned so they can wear it New Year’s Eve.”

  “I knew you’d find a way!” she purred, and she placed a generous kiss on his cheek. “Take care of yourself, though. Back to bed once this is behind us, promise?”

  “Promise.” He winked and watched her go, then looked at McClanahan. “Did I say something wrong? You look confused.”

  “It’s December twenty-eighth, Thompson. That gives you two days to make good on that prediction.”

  “No problem. I can’t tell you who shot me or stole those valuables, but I know who didn’t do it,” he said as he gingerly stuck his feet into his pant legs. “How would you rather start the new year? As a hero who saved his woman’s reputation, or as a poor slob who’s lost his own? Get my coat, will you?”

  Chapter 12

  “Do I look like my usual fierce self?” Barry asked as he turned unsteadily before the mirror.

  He preferred the denim and leather he wore to corral criminals over this dandified outfit his city position required, yet he knew he cut an imposing figure in his brass-buttoned blue uniform. It was a matter of image. Although he regretted the evolution of his rugged, range-riding predecessors into policemen, he knew bustling towns like Cripple Creek needed street-wise lawmen with savvier crime-fighting techniques.

  Even-tempered and heroically proportioned, Thompson was perfectly suited to his post. Yet as he saw the bulges at his shoulder and thigh and contemplated the controversy surrounding the woman he’d come to love, he wondered how much longer he’d want to wear the marshal’s star.

  McClanahan briskly swatted some lint off his sleeve. “You look like a warmed-over corpse, pal. And if you fall flat in the street from all the blood you’ve lost, you’ll forfeit everything you’re trying to prove with this performance.”

  “That bad, huh?” Barry sighed and slapped his haggard cheeks. Those purplish half-moons under his eyes confirmed Matt’s harsh assessment, and he realized he’d be damn lucky to make it through the afternoon still standing. ‘‘You’d do the same thing for Emily though, wouldn’t you?”

  “Damn right I would,” McClanahan replied with a wry chuckle. “You think you’ll be needing me? I can stick around, if you want me to.”

  Hearing a hint of other plans, the marshal raised an eyebrow. “Are you two lovebirds finally going to leave on your honeymoon? Get out of here! I can take care of this, I tell you.”

  Matt smoothed his dark waves and studied Thompson as though he wanted to dispute that last statement but didn’t have the heart. “Emily—well, we both want to get back to the ranch until the robbery’s solved. She knows that gang wasn’t out after her specifically, but the whole episode’s been pretty unsettling. At the Flaming B, she’ll have things to oversee, and I think she’ll feel safer.”

  “And the new husband wants to start feathering the nest,” Thompson added with a grin. “Go to it, pal. I’ll get that gold locket and her ring out to you soon as I can.”

  The stairway from his rooms to the street took more out of him than he cared to admit, and he silently thanked McClanahan for not hauling him back to the hospital. After sending his love to the bride, he watched Matt stride off toward the Imperial Hotel, envying his robust health and the sweet intimacy he’d share with Emily when they got home.

  He’d win such a love himself, but it would take a persuasive tongue to convince the people of Cripple that Lyla O’Riley was a victim of circumstance and of an irresponsible press. After accepting surprised greetings from acquaintances who passed him on the sidewalk, Barry looked across the street toward the jail. The way his left leg was throbbing, the walk stretched before him like an endless obstacle course, dotted with horse-drawn delivery wagons and laughing children dashing through the snow, and friends—or maybe the thieves—who would note his shuffle and pallor. But a journey of a thousand miles began with the first step, and he’d limp that distance and more to clear Lyla’s name.

  He started off at an ungainly shuffle, determined not to favor his injured leg. But by the time he reached the back entrance to his office he was hobbling, covered with sweat despite the brisk wind that whipped down the alley. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb to catch his breath. If he was going to pull this off, he had to look convincing—or at least alive—to Adams and anyone else who might be inside. Drawing deep, head-clearing breaths, Thompson told himself if he could get through the preliminaries, he’d be alone with Lyla. They’d solve this little jewelry problem and get on to more important topics.

  Barry squared his shoulders, unlocked the door, and entered the building with a determined grin on his face. It felt good to be back in his own domain. The large safe and messy desk were welcome sights as he hung his coat on the wall peg. He smoothed his hair and opened the interior door, waiting for Rex to notice him.

  The deputy’s freckled face paled and his Adam’s apple bobbed as though he’d been caught at something. “Mar—Barry! Here, sit down,” he stammered as he hopped out of the marshal’s chair. “Are you sure you should be here? You look a little…”

  “White? Must be a reflection from the snow.” He’d planned to remain on his feet until he got his assistant out of the office, but his chair seemed a more sensible place to land than the floor. He lowered himself with as much grace as he could muster, gritting his teeth so Adams wouldn’t see him wince when he settled his bad leg. “Sounds like I missed some excitement. Have you had many people asking about that piece in the paper?”

  “Yes sir, most of them wanting a look at Miss O’Riley or asking after their jewelry,” Rex replied with a nervous grin. “But I sent them on their way.”

  “And the jewelry’s in the safe?”

  “No sir, I had them put it in the vault at the bank. Thought it’d be more secure, what with those bandits still unaccounted for.”

  Thompson nodded, wondering how many years it would take for his second-in-command to participate in a normal man-to-man talk without shaking like a whipped pup. Rex was a responsible sort who was much more patient with paperwork than he was, though, and from the looks of things, he’d kept order pretty well. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said with a smile. “Anything I should know about? Any leads on our thieves?”

  Rex’s uniform cleared his skinny wrists when he shrugged. “I—I doubt they’ll come in to confess,” he said with a tentative chuckle.

  “Miss O’Riley giving you any problems?”

  “N-no, she’s been real quiet. Says she won’t talk to anybody but you, even though I told her I could—”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Thompson looked up into his deputy’s light green eyes and smiled, eagerly anticipating this reunion. “Bring her out here, will you? Then I want you to treat yourself to coffee and one of Milly’s cinnamon rolls at the cafe, and stop by for the jewelry on your way back. Give me about half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

  The deputy’s Adam’s apple jiggled again. “Do you think it’s wise to interrogate her without a witness, or—or somebody to—”

  “When I can’t defend myself against a pint-sized woman like Lyla, order me a pine box, will you?” he teased. “She’s no more a killer or a thief than you are, R
ex.”

  Adams hesitated, but bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right out.”

  Barry straightened his uniform and shifted in the hard wooden chair, vainly seeking a comfortable position. He pulled the folded Times article from his pocket and pressed out its creases with nervous fingers; it was a prop for the interrogation he had to conduct as a formality. Other more personal questions danced in his head, and as he recalled the swell of Lyla’s breasts above her silver-blue gown and the lush softness of the body he’d fondled in the pantry at the Rose, he had to force himself to stop these fantasies. Business before pleasure, Thompson, he chided himself. And you’ve promised to behave yourself until she shares your name.

  A commotion in the hallway made him look up and scowl. “Chrissakes, Adams, take those cuffs off her!”

  “But it’s our policy to—”

  “Miss O’Riley hasn’t been convicted of anything, and I doubt she will be,” Barry snapped. Leave it to By-the-book Adams to spoil his first moments with Lyla! He extended his hand impatiently, and when the deputy dropped the cold metal handcuffs into it, he closed them over his belt loop, out of sight. “I’ll see you in forty-five minutes, Rex. Don’t forget to stop by the bank.”

  He watched the lanky deputy leave and then focused on Lyla, who stood like a forlorn urchin on the other side of his desk. God, but he wanted to pull her into his lap and kiss away the worry on her face! Her periwinkle eyes drank him in as though she, too, longed to dispense with the tough questions they had to discuss. He had to have answers, though—evidence to convince the city of Cripple Creek that Miss O’Riley was as innocent as he knew her to be. “Have a seat, honey. Let’s get this straightened out.”