Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Don’t you two look cozy?” the outlaw jeered. “Hope you got your licks in, marshal, because this is the end of the line. Frazier wants to see you outside, cupcake.”

  Lyla swiveled in Thompson’s arms. “Tell him he can damn well come in here if he wants—”

  “Go on, honey,” Barry said in a tight whisper. “These boys are up to no good, and I don’t want you hurt.”

  “I’m not leaving you!” Her fears multiplied a hundredfold when she saw his face tightening with grim anticipation. “We can’t let them get away with this! If the Foxes think they can—”

  “Keep up your hollering,” he murmured into her ear. “Go outside and cause a commotion so I can dash out of here, too. They’re going to torch this shack.”

  Her shriek resounded like a battle cry as she slipped off his lap. Lyla charged, head down, running at Connor as fast as her binding would allow. “You bastard! If you think I’ll stand by—”

  “I think your nipples’ll get frostbit if you—” He hit the wall with a whumph and then grabbed at her hair. “But those boys’d be happy to keep you warm while we watch—Jesus!”

  Lyla had heard Barry coming behind her and ducked out of his way when he struck. His joined fists came down at the juncture of Connor’s neck and shoulders, but the marauder was healthier and more compact, and he recovered quickly. “Get in here!” he yelled. “Tie his legs! Get him off me, damn it!”

  Before she could rejoin the fray she was seized by two clutching hands and hauled backward out the door, kicking and trying to wrench free. Nate and Wally hurried inside, and as Lyla spotted the new man’s rope she also saw the lethal liquid sloshing out of the red can Eberhardt was carrying. “Traitor!” she cried. “You’ll roast in hell for—”

  She nearly choked on the handkerchief that was stuffed into her mouth by the gloved hand of Frazier Foxe. The Englishman’s face puckered with disgust when he glanced at her exposed breasts, and he stepped back to avoid her flailing feet. “Tie her ankles and for God’s sake, cover her up,” he ordered. “What we don’t need is a hysterical female foiling our plans.”

  Jameson’s arm tightened around her, which made her struggle harder. She landed a solid backward kick on his shin, but his boot shielded him and his low laughter told her he was enjoying this sport immensely. “I wrestle rams all the time, Miss Lyla,” he crooned as his hand closed over her breast, “so don’t get yourself hurt by fightin’ me. I can play this game all day.”

  Her eyes bulged and she screamed into her gag when the stockman lifted her with one viselike arm and coiled a short rope around her ankles with the other. Because one foot was tied higher, she toppled to the ground when he released her. The air rushed from her lungs when she hit, and she lay in a dazed heap at his feet.

  From inside the shanty she heard the sounds of Thompson’s struggle…stuttering footsteps, and someone thudding against the front wall. “Think about it, Eberhardt,” the marshal said above the scuffle. “If I don’t show up in Cripple soon, the federal marshals will get involved. You and Adams don’t stand a chance, unless you cooperate and tell them Foxe is behind this.”

  “It’ll never happen,” the Englishman spoke quietly beside her. He giggled, almost girlishly. “With what I paid him, he’ll be on vacation for the rest of his life. Cheerio, Thompson, old chap. I’ll be hard pressed to find another quarry as challenging as you’ve been.” His monocle glistened when he glanced down at her. “And poor Lyla. You’ll be beside yourself with grief, won’t you, dear-heart?”

  Still gasping for breath, she shut her eyes against his insidious grin. Then there was a shout and thundering footfalls…and the whoosh of fire as it followed the trail of kerosene around the inside of the shack.

  From deep inside her came a cry of abject terror. A red-orange wall of flame was dancing in front of the window and doorway, blocking any chance Barry had for escape. Lyla barely noticed the blanket being wrapped around her, or the arms that carried her toward the carriage several feet behind them. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the gut-wrenching sight of the weathered wooden shack, the perfect food for a hungry fire.

  Thompson was silent. She prayed he was unconscious so he wouldn’t feel the infernal monster that was devouring him.

  “Get her into the carriage. We’ll be off now,” Frazier said with quiet satisfaction.

  She was too shocked to struggle when Kelly Jameson tossed her over his shoulder so he could unlatch the door. When a column of flame jumped out the window toward the roof, the dilapidated shingles caught and were engulfed immediately.

  Then Lyla stopped breathing, clutching the carriage door before Kelly could place her inside. A shrill whistle came from the cabin, the whine of a small, trapped animal or the wind being forced between its chinks. The other desperadoes had mounted their horses and were watching the blaze from a safe distance, but Buck remained tethered to the scraggly tree they’d used for a hitching post. The stallion reared frantically, tossing his majestic head, terrified of the flames lapping so close to him. Once more he pawed at the sky with his front legs, and with an arch of his mighty neck he snapped the leather cord that held him.

  Lyla’s scream pierced her heart instead of coming out. Rather than galloping away, Buck—the loyal horse who’d tolerated a harness for her and then transported them through a snow-clogged canyon after reviving his master—hesitated, and then jumped through the door of the burning shack to die with Barry.

  Her limbs went limp and a merciful blackness enveloped her.

  “Lyla? Miss O’Riley, snap out of it now.”

  She was aware of being rocked…the steady clatter of wheels and hooves…a slapping on her cheek that smelled of fine leather…a suede finger tapping her collarbone.

  “Wake up, Miss O’Riley, we’re almost home. Playing dead will get you nowhere.”

  The man’s clipped diction brought it all back: the ambush, the night in the shack…the unthinkable things he’d done to her Barry. Lyla blinked repeatedly and then glared at the impeccably-dressed beast seated across from her.

  “I took the liberty of untying you while you slept,” he said with a proprietary smile. “You could at least show your gratitude by improving your attitude.” Frazier twittered at his rhyme until his monocled gaze drifted lower. “And for God’s sake, cover yourself. I can’t abide such immodesty. It simply won’t do once we arrive.”

  She almost blurted obscenities about his younger brother, but then realized Foxe was baiting her. He knew damn well Connor had lashed her up half-exposed to humiliate her—and by the saints, it wouldn’t work! Since Frazier apparently abhorred the sight of her breasts, she drew her tattered camisole over them with teasing slowness, making them sway while she badgered him with a come-hither look that would’ve had Connor reaching for his fly buttons.

  Frazier pursed his lips. “You are indeed a whore, Miss O’Riley.”

  “And you’re lower than the manure Eberhardt shovels from his stable.”

  With a mirthless chuckle he glanced out the carriage window. “Not anymore, he doesn’t. He was caving in, ready to confess, so he’ll not survive the ride back to Cripple. Too bad the marshal put such an idea into his witless head. There’s the estate. What do you think of it?”

  Unable to stand the sight of him any longer, Lyla looked toward their destination. A steel-gray three-story house dominated the horizon, its turrets and gables giving an impression of nobility as false as she knew Frazier’s to be. It was a huge, showy place with miles of white gingerbread and moldings along the eaves and veranda posts, larger than the McClanahan ranchhouse yet more like a fortress than a home. At a distance of perhaps a quarter mile stood the pens and dipping vats and outbuildings used during the sheep shearing, abandoned now because the flocks were wintering in the pastures.

  “Don’t even consider hiding there,” her host said dryly. “Connor and his crew live in those bunkhouses year-round. And do you see that belvedere? A guard’s posted in it day and night. Think of his spectacular
view!”

  Lyla eyed the small, cube-shaped structure perched atop the house. Frazier Foxe’s elaborate security measures further proved his criminality. What rancher would need the little guardhouse they were passing through at the arched en try way, or a constant watchman in a belvedere, unless he was harboring secrets…or hostages? Foxe Hollow was miles from its nearest neighbor, isolated from civilization in more ways than one, she suspected.

  The carriage lurched to a halt in front of the veranda steps. As though he’d been watching out the etched glass of the massive front door, a bald, reedlike man in a pinstriped suit rushed out to greet them.

  Frazier gripped her shirt lapel, his gray eyes as cold as an iced-over pond. “Not a hint—not a whimper!” he warned. “Hollingsworth and my housekeeper will inform me of your every word and deed, Lyla. They lead a sheltered, comfortable life here, and they won’t believe what you’d tell them about Thompson, so don’t bother. I have ways of dealing with ungrateful guests.”

  The carriage door swung out and the servant’s pink face lit up with sophisticated shock when he saw her. “Welcome home, sir! I—we weren’t expecting—”

  “Nothing to fret about, my man. I daresay I’ve surprised even myself this time.” He put a gloved hand on her shoulder, his waxed mustache lifting in a grin. “Lyla, this is my valet—”

  “Oliver Hollingsworth the Third, at your service, miss,” the man intoned with a bow.

  “—and Hollingsworth, I’m pleased to introduce Miss Lyla O’Riley…my fiancée.”

  Chapter 18

  The valet’s pate grew pinker as he stared first at Foxe and then, with disapproval he couldn’t mask, at Lyla. “I never—gracious me, Mr. Foxe, but this is a surprise! I—I must go tell Miss Keating—”

  Hollingsworth turned back toward the house but stopped when he saw the woman who was watching them from the door. She was tall and angular, clad in gray, and Lyla’s immediate impression was that her face would crack if she attempted even the slightest smile. The woman patted her silver-streaked hair, which she wore in a severe bun, staring at them as though they’d just ruined her day.

  “Well…perhaps you would prefer to give Miss Keating the good news, sir,” the valet mumbled. “Have you any luggage, Miss O’Riley?”

  “Everything atop the carriage needs to come in, and should be placed in Miss O’Riley’s room,” Frazier replied smoothly. He stepped to the ground and offered his hand to her as though she were the queen, his smile and bearing eloquent. “And you may have your choice of rooms, dear-heart. Should none of them suit, we’ll redecorate one immediately.”

  Lyla’s head was spinning. This man had just threatened her life if she breathed a word about Barry, and now he was offering her his world on a gilded platter—as his fiancée!

  Confused and wary, she offered Hollingsworth a weak smile and allowed Foxe to tuck her hand under his elbow.

  “Try to act at least pleased that you’re marrying into this,” he muttered under his breath.

  “A little warning would’ve been nice,” she hissed back. She wanted to yank her hand away and run-anywhere! These people were all too old to catch her, and the servants knew as well as she did that something was terribly amiss. But Frazier was ushering her up the white enameled steps toward the housekeeper, smiling as though he were the happiest man alive.

  “And this is Miss Allegra Keating, whom I’m sure you’ll come to adore just as I do.” he was saying. “May I present Lyla O’Riley, soon to be Mrs. Frazier Foxe.”

  The woman grabbed for the doorjamb to steady herself, her other hand flying to her high buttoned collar. “I—had no idea—”

  “Life sometimes takes unexpected turns. Doesn’t it, my dear?” he replied with a warning glance toward Lyla. “You can show Miss Lyla the available rooms, and then she’ll be wanting a bath—”

  “Yes, I should think so.”

  “—and when she’s dressed we’ll be ready for tea. Nothing fancy, since I realize you weren’t expecting us,” Foxe went on in a honeyed voice. “But even the scraps from your pantry will taste like manna from heaven, Miss Keating. As always.”

  The housekeeper’s eyelashes fluttered at his compliment. She watched him until he passed through a door at the far end of the entryway, and then turned back to Lyla, her expression hardening again. “Well. Here you are in the vestibule.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s lovely,” she mumbled.

  “We’ll go upstairs.”

  Nodding, Lyla followed the taciturn woman past ornately-carved tables with sculptures and Oriental vases displayed on them. The deep green hall was bordered with gleaming woodwork, and large gilt-framed mirrors and oil paintings graced each wall. There was no time to peek into the salons they passed because Miss Keating was already halfway to the landing of the wide, carpeted stairway. Aside from the Golden Rose, it was the most magnificent house Lyla had ever set foot in.

  The landing glowed with the colors of a huge stained-glass mural that depicted nymphlike ladies representing the four seasons. Frazier Foxe was obviously an art connoisseur. The sheer beauty of his home made her pause to study her surroundings—until she saw the housekeeper staring impatiently at her from the second floor landing.

  “Sorry. I—I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lyla mumbled.

  Miss Keating studied her closely. “And just how did you get here, Miss O’Riley?”

  She blinked. “In Mr. Foxe’s carriage. I—I know I look frightful.” she added quickly. Then she realized Frazier’s maid wasn’t referring to her mode of transportation, and by the look in her glittering little eyes she was tallying up all of Lyla’s faults so she could report them to Foxe—along with every gesture and reply, just as Frazier had threatened. “It was the most…the luckiest day of my life when that dear man found me. Took me under his wing after my brother died in a mine explosion, you see.”

  With a haughty sniff, the housekeeper proceeded down the wide hallway. “Choose a room, then, so I can direct Hollingsworth where to deposit your luggage. Your bath shall be ready shortly.”

  Lyla almost snapped that she hadn’t chosen to be such an inconvenience, or to sleep on a dirty floor—or to even be here at all. But voicing such frustrations could only get her into trouble. She wandered into the four spacious bedrooms, each exquisitely decorated, wondering why a bachelor would require so many. The far end of the second story was obviously Frazier’s suite: it spanned the front of the house and had windows on all three sides that afforded him a panoramic view of his estate. For that reason she returned to the room nearest the stairway to wait for Miss Keating.

  “A wise choice.” the housekeeper remarked. “Mr. Foxe does not like to be disturbed when he’s in his chambers. These floorboards tend to creak, Miss O’Riley, so I’m sure you’ll observe the rules of common decency during this…prenuptial period.”

  As though she’d sneak into Frazier’s bedroom every chance she got! Lyla nearly choked on the irony of the woman’s words and hurried to the room where a steaming tub awaited her.

  A locked door and a long soak seemed like luxuries after all she’d been through. Lyla shed her coat and shabby clothes quickly, but after a few minutes she realized this bath was more of a problem than a solution: now that she was alone, images of the burning shack, and Buck jumping into the flames, and Barry’s bruised, dusty face crowded all other thoughts from her mind. What did it matter how she behaved in front of these servants and their master? The man she loved was dead!

  Two huge tears plopped into the bath water. It was a poor time to cry, knowing everyone else would be waiting tea, probably talking about her. Lyla splashed her face with the soothing water, telling herself over and over that this was no time to knuckle under. Now that she knew who’d assisted with the robbery and murdered Marshal Thompson, she had to get back to Cripple. Every waking moment should be spent listening and watching, searching for a way to escape. She was the only person on earth who could see that justice was done—Barry would expect, and des
erved, no less.

  When she returned to her room, Allegra had shaken her clothes out and hung them in the armoire. Foxe must’ve done some fast talking before he slipped out of Cripple. In addition to fetching her dresses and trunk from the Rose, he’d brought along three new gowns: a pale green one with pink flowers, an apricot-and-blue stripe, and a sky blue one with a violet windowpane plaid. Lyla chose the new plaid dress, wishing Barry could see how it accentuated her eyes—and just as quickly pushed thoughts of him out of her mind so she wouldn’t cry in front of Foxe and his insufferable staff.

  She descended to the vestibule, where Hollingsworth awaited her. The valet’s eyes widened with something akin to approval, yet he merely gestured toward the parlor where Allegra and Frazier were seated around a table set for tea. Festive iced cakes were arranged on a silver plate, along with gingerbread men and cherry tarts. Scones and hot cross buns sat on the other side of the porcelain teapot, with a crystal dish of marmalade to the side.

  Lyla hadn’t seen such a spread since she worked at the whorehouse, and she almost said so, just to watch the housekeeper twitch at the unseemliness of her background. Instead, she forced a smile in Foxe’s direction. “Thank you for the new gowns,” she said quietly. “They were a thoughtful gift.”

  “I should think that one would suit better if you wore a corset,” the housekeeper chirped as she poured tea into four bone china cups.

  The silence was stifling. Hollingsworth brushed nervously at his fringe of gray hair, while Frazier was trying not to laugh. Allegra Keating set the teapot down and offered Lyla the tray of sweets, gloating as she awaited a response.

  Lyla sat straighter, thrusting her bosom out, and looked the brittle housekeeper in the eye. “Ordinarily I wear one. But Frazier wasn’t there to lace me up.”

  Two gingerbread men tumbled onto the table before Miss Keating regained her composure, and Lyla snatched one up. She felt like a croquet ball surrounded by three mallets—how dare these beanstalk Britons make fun of her figure! She bit the cookie’s head off, wishing it were Frazier’s.