A heavy thunk against the jail’s facade brought her out of her musings. Was that a gasp for help, or the wind whistling through a crack in the wall? Recalling Barry’s ashen complexion, Lyla rushed to open the door and her worst fears were confirmed: Thompson lay sprawled across the sidewalk, unconscious.
He was breathing, but her urgent slaps didn’t rouse him and she couldn’t possibly pull him inside. No one was in sight—gone home for the day, she realized frantically—so she rushed in for her coat, stuffed the money into her pocket, and coiled her hair up under Mick’s hat.
Lyla sprinted to Doc Geary’s office, but the sign on his door said he was making his hospital rounds. McClanahan! she thought. She paused to catch her breath, keeping the brim of her hat lowered so the few passersby wouldn’t recognize her…the Imperial! Bless Darla for filling her in on all the McClanahans’ comings and goings at the wedding. As fast as her aching lungs would allow, she ran down Bennett Avenue and then turned toward the luxurious hotel, holding her hat to keep it from flying off when the wind fought her at the door.
“I have to find Matt McClanahan—now!” she wheezed at the man behind the glossy registration desk.
He blinked, adjusting his spectacles. “And you are—?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am! Marshal Thompson’s passed out and I need McClanahan’s help!”
The clerk’s eyes widened with alarm. “I—I’m sorry, but the McClanahans checked out earlier this afternoon. Took the train back to Colorado Springs.”
Lyla grimaced, her throat and lungs still burning. “I have to get back to Thompson!” she gasped on her way through the lobby. “Notify the hospital! Get him an ambulance!”
Down the snowy avenue she ran, ignoring the curious stares of the shopkeepers who were closing up. Her lashes were starting to freeze together before she realized she was crying. What if Barry had a concussion? What if he caught pneumonia and never made it out of the hospital before he could—
Lyla grabbed at one of the bank’s wooden pillars to stop herself. A crowd was gathering in front of Thompson’s office, and above their murmurings she heard Rex Adams calling out shrill orders.
“Get a doctor over here! I told him that O’Riley girl would—you, and you! Go find her!” he cried. “She won’t get away with this a second time!”
Sobbing for breath, Lyla ducked down the nearest alley, praying Connor Foxe wasn’t lurking around the livery stable. Eberhardt was in the crowd at the jail—probably because Deputy Adams had warned him that the marshal would soon be asking questions they didn’t want to answer. If she was to get out of Cripple before a lynch mob found her, she had to move like lightning.
The horses shuffled in the musky shadows of the stable, murmuring as she ran behind them. Calico nickered eagerly, and in a matter of minutes Lyla swung into her saddle and was galloping down a side street. Remorse stung her eyes: this was the ultimate betrayal, leaving Barry helpless—maybe dead by now—and looking as though he’d let a prisoner escape. She was adding fuel to the fiery accusations the Times had made, sealing her doom if she got caught.
But it was the only way she knew to survive. And if she didn’t survive, the real Christmas Eve criminals would go free.
A sharp sting of camphor pierced his nostrils and Thompson came to with a jolt. He batted at the hand holding the smelling salts, struggling against the weight that held him down. Dwight Geary and Rex swam above him, their earnest faces doing a languid dance as voices murmured indistinctly in the background. He vaguely recalled stepping outside…waving to Lyla…
He fell back with a groan, more embarrassed than he’d been in his entire life. He’d tried to play the avenging hero and had passed out like a prissy little miss with the vapors!
“Thompson, can you hear me?”
The lips above him were moving, yet the familiar voice seemed to come from somewhere else. “Yeah,” he rasped.
“You lie there a minute, get your bearings. Then we’ll take you back to the hospital—which you shouldn’t have left without my releasing you.”
Geary was giving him the lecture he deserved, yet he felt curiously detached. His mind wandered…warm as it was, he must be in the bed beside the fireplace…yet the mattress was hard, like—like that damn toboggan he was strapped to! “Lyla,” he breathed.
“She escaped. Probably knocked you on the head! I told you I should’ve stayed, but—”
The voice whined on: Rex Adams. And as the deputy’s words filtered through his murky thoughts, Thompson finally understood that he was back in his office, surrounded by Geary, Adams, Eberhardt, and a few others. And Lyla had run out on him.
“Damn.” He shook the last cobwebs from his head and looked at the men above him until he could bring them into focus. Rex was yammering about sending somebody to chase her down, and Wally was nodding beside him. He hadn’t fetched either of them, but they were here, together. Did Lyla’s story have some truth to it after all?
“Did she get your gun? Was there anything else she could’ve hit you with?”
The deputy’s face was directly above him, and for the first time Barry realized how much his assistant resembled an oppossum ... a freckled oppossum that looked scared of being cornered.
“Lyla did not strike me—nor did she escape,” he added on an impulse. “I blacked out and hit my head on the wall.”
Rex scowled. “You’re still groggy. Miss O’Riley hightailed it out of here—”
“With my blessing. I had no evidence to hold her on,” Thompson said in the firmest voice he could manage. “She probably saw me hit the sidewalk and ran for help.”
“Charlie from the Imperial said someone short, wearing a man’s coat but with a female voice, told him to get an ambulance.” Geary confirmed with a nod of his head.
“There you have it.” Thompson looked smugly at his deputy. “And if she’s disappeared, after the way that article called her a killer and a thief, I can’t say as I blame her.”
Adams let out an exasperated gasp. “But marshal, she was our only—”
“That’s quite enough, Rex,” the doctor said with a pointed look. “Here’s the ambulance—let the stretcher through. This man belongs in bed, and by God, I want no one disturbing his rest until I release him.”
Thompson allowed himself to be lifted into the horse-drawn ambulance without complaint, thankful that Dwight Geary had provided an alibi for Lyla. He was disappointed that she’d gone, but not surprised. He had no illusions about Miss O’Riley’s skittish nature and only regretted that he wasn’t strong enough to give chase. Maybe, in the back of his mind, he’d intended for her to take that money, because instinct told him she’d rather solve the robbery than return to Ireland.
He was counting on that. And thoughts of joining her when he was well helped him pass the next few days in a narrow, short bed that he would’ve complained loudly about had he not had his fantasies to distract him.
But Thompson wasn’t a man who could lie low for long, and Lyla O’Riley wasn’t the only topic he had to ponder. He’d stake his life on the fact that Rex Adams was in church with his family instead of robbing the Golden Rose on Christmas Eve, but after that…some of the ideas Lyla had spouted during their brief reunion were taking root. After one of Victoria Chatterly’s frequent visits he asked her to have Sam Langston stop by, and when the portly banker appeared at his bedside that afternoon, Barry was sitting up, alert and ready to resume the investigation.
“I thought you’d cashed out for good, the way folks talked when you banged your head on the jailhouse.” Langston eased onto a nearby chair, chuckling until his chins quivered.
“You’ve always told me how hard-headed I was, and I guess I proved it,” Thompson quipped. “But I’m not getting that robbery solved by lying here. I need your help.”
The banker raised his pale eyebrows.
“First, I want another bundle of twenties like we keep in the back room safe for emergencies. Take the money out of my personal account.”
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Sam’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me—you’ve been playing poker with the night nurses.”
“Nope. Let’s call it an investment in the future.”
“Like buying that piece of land north of town?”
Barry studied his financier and decided to let him draw his own conclusions. He saw no need to connect Lyla’s name to such a sum of money, since tongues were already wagging full tilt about her disappearance. “You’ve got the combination. Tell Rex you’re putting it in the safe for me—that I had it in my coat pocket when I passed out.”
Langston’s brow puckered. “Is there something I should know about?”
“All in good time,” the marshal replied with deliberate vagueness. “And then I’ll need you to bring me that pouch of stolen jewelry Adams put in your vault. If I can’t be out doing legwork, I can at least inventory the evidence.”
“I’ll give you the list I compiled when he brought it in,” Sam said. “Since you were incapacitated, I felt it my responsibility to make a complete record of the bag’s contents.”
Barry nodded, pleased that his deputy had been as good as his word about depositing the valuables. He hated to even think Rex was in on the heist, since his family depended upon his paycheck…the idea of Theresa Adams raising those six little children while her man was in prison didn’t set well with him. Then he noticed Langston’s expression was as troubled as his own. “Was there a problem with the deposit, Sam?”
“I…haven’t mentioned this to anyone,” the bank president said with a sigh, “but one of my own pieces is missing—the Masonic ring that belonged to my father. I carried it in my pocket, you see, because it’s too small for my finger.”
Thompson scowled. “Is anything else gone, that you know of? A lot of jewelry was taken that night, and I didn’t get a good look from where I was standing.”
“Well, as the Times mentioned, your ring and Miss O’Riley’s pendant weren’t there,” he said, watching the marshal’s reaction. “And neither was the diamond wedding set Matt McClanahan gave to Emily.”
He felt a sick sensation creeping around in his middle. “What about her gold locket that’s engraved with the letters E-M-R?”
Langston thought for a moment. “I don’t recall seeing that, either. Who’d take such obvious pieces, when everyone for miles around would recognize them as Emily’s?”
“Somebody with more greed than sense,” Barry mumbled. “Somebody who had access to that bag between the time it left the Rose and the time it arrived in your bank.”
“So the thieves picked through it? Or…or Miss O’Riley?” The man’s vest buttons nearly popped when he let out his breath. “But she’s long gone! And surely you can’t think Adams—”
“I need one more favor.” The marshal spoke in a voice that was deadly calm, despite his growing concern over how much of the jewelry had dis appeared. He needed to put a finger on the thieves now, while they assumed he was laid up and unable to track them, and there seemed only one way to tie all these loose ends into a knot that would hold. “I want you to bring Norbert Sykes to see me tomorrow, early.”
“That fellow your mine manager caught with his pockets full of ore?” Sam protested. “But he smells!”
“So buy him a bath and a clean set of clothes, on me,” Thompson said with a chuckle. He reached for a pencil and a sheet of the paper he kept by the bedside, and then scribbled a note. “Give this to Adams. He’ll demand proof before he lets you take Sykes out of that cell. Norbert’s a decent sort, really, and now that he’s sobered up, he might have some interesting things to say about this whole affair. Those jailhouse walls have ears, you know.”
Chapter 14
Half frozen and utterly exhausted, Lyla stepped up to the door of the Flaming B ranchhouse. Knowing Foxe’s men would trap her at the cabin, she’d urged Calico along the Gold Camp Road toward Colorado Springs instead, and spent the night holed up in an abandoned shanty along the way. Her first view of the legendary Burnham estate gave her pause: the vast network of corrals and outbuildings and bunkhouses impressed her, yet the dark-timbered, two-story mansion with its wrap-around veranda was truly intimidating. Had she not had Emily’s jewelry to deliver, Lyla would’ve turned around. Infamous immigrants who hadn’t bathed for several days had no business even approaching such a grand house.
And when a wizened old colored man opened the door, his scowl mirrored her poor opinion of her appearance. She recognized him as one of the men who escorted Emily to the altar. He was dressed in ordinary pants and a shirt now, yet he clearly felt it was his place to send her packing.
“Please don’t shut the door,” Lyla implored him. Her voice was husky from riding in the cold wind, and he cocked his head in surprise as he listened. But of course he would! She removed Mick’s broad-brimmed hat and let her hair fall around her shoulders. “I—I’m Lyla O’Riley. I’ve brought the jewelry Emily lost at her reception.”
The man’s chocolate-brown eyes widened, and he motioned her inside. “Come in—why, for a moment I thought you were one of the renegades who…”
Lyla watched his wrinkles stiffen as he shut the door, and her heart sank. He recognized her now—was going to throw her out! Quickly she reached inside her coat for the jewelry, but the Negro pinned her to the wall with a viselike grip that made her gasp.
“Don’t you dare draw a gun in this house!” he threatened. “You’re the girl who shot Marshal Thompson! One of the thieves who—”
“No! I—”
“—ruined my Emily’s wedding day! Your picture was in—”
“It was a pack of lies, that story! I—”
“What’s going on here?” a familiar voice rang out above them. Matt McClanahan was thumping barefoot down the grand stairway, his face taut as he buttoned his shirt. Then he blinked. “Lyla? How on earth did you get here, unless—Thompson cracked the case, didn’t he? Emily!” he called over his shoulder. “Emily, honey, come on down!”
Lyla smiled gratefully at the colored man when he released her, and then she looked at Matt. “Actually, it was his head he cracked, when he passed out and hit it on the front of the jailhouse. He needs your help, McClanahan, because I…I left him in a bit of a predicament.”
As he smoothed his dark waves into place, his expression turned wary. “What do you mean, predicament? Miss O’Riley, you didn’t break out of jail, did you?”
“No! I—Barry had just turned me loose, and he was going to fetch Rex Adams when—” The sight of Emily descending the stairs, her blond hair tumbling in disarray over the robe she was wrapping around herself, made Lyla blush. “I seem to have arrived at an inopportune time. Should’ve waited until—”
“Don’t change the subject,” Matt said in a teasing yet concerned voice. He put his arm around his bride’s waist and looked at the colored man who’d opened the door. “Let’s have some breakfast, Idaho. This is indeed the young lady we read about in the Times, and she’s as slick as any con artist, to hear Thompson tell it. But Lyla’s no more a thief than you are.”
Idaho’s wrinkles warmed with a smile, and he bobbed slightly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lyla. I’m truly sorry I read you wrong when you came in.”
“You were just being careful.” Seeing Emily’s expression wavering between curiosity and disgust, she again reached beneath her coat. “I apologize for the way I look, but I was rather…in a hurry when I left Cripple last night. I—I thought you’d want these back as soon as possible.”
When she saw her gold locket and wedding ring, Emily’s tawny eyes lit up with sunshine. “Oh, my—Matt, look! Please, put them on me. I…”
“Nothing would make me happier,” he murmured, and when their eyes met, Lyla wondered if they were going to continue the lovemaking she’d interrupted, oblivious as they were to everything but each other.
She held her breath, her heart beating with joy for them as McClanahan slipped his diamond ring onto Emily’s dainty finger and then fastened the locket’s chai
n beneath her disheveled golden hair. Their love was stunning to behold, and Lyla ached to be a part of such a blissful marriage herself. But now that she’d abandoned Barry Thompson, perhaps such a relationship would never be hers.
“Well, now,” Emily said, forcing her gaze away from her husband’s. “How can I thank you, Lyla? I was so afraid I’d never see my jewelry again, and I never expected you to—” Her forehead crinkled, and she focused intently on Lyla. “If you left Cripple last night…how’d you get out of jail? Why isn’t Barry with you?”
“It’s not what it seems,” Lyla explained hastily, “and I’m sorry if I smell like I’ve slept in these clothes for a week, but—”
“Look me straight in the eye and tell me you weren’t involved in the robbery,” Matt ordered.
His eyes, ordinarily a beautiful blue, now resembled icy bullets in a double-barreled shotgun. McClanahan would haul her back to jail the moment her story faltered, so Lyla returned his demanding gaze as directly as she could. “The pouch was in Barry’s saddlebag—when I went out to tend the horses, after I sewed him up,” she said in a plaintive voice. “I—I suppose I should’ve told him, but he was out of his head with fever. I…thought he was going to die.”
McClanahan’s face softened somewhat, but his tone remained serious. “And how’d the jewelry get into Thompson’s tack?”
“At the time, I thought the thieves circled back and put it there, to reclaim it after the blizzard. But now that I’ve talked to Barry about it, I’m not so sure,” she replied quietly. “I do know that Connor Foxe and Wally Eberhardt set me up, though. They knew I had the jewelry when I left Doc Geary’s to take Buck and my mare to the stable. And they marched me over to Deputy Adams, who jumped right in with their story about me trying to kill Thompson and escape with the jewelry.
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