Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  When she returned to the parlor she paused beside her captor to observe the men’s contest. It was Hollingsworth’s move. Foxe glanced up at her and then remembered to smile. All part of the game, the deceit they carried out to convince his staff they were indeed engaged. When Miss Keating sat down across the room with her sewing basket, Foxe actually reached up to stroke her cheek with a gloved finger and she turned what she hoped was a telltale pink.

  The housekeeper quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in her handwork, her pointed face a clear warning that she wanted no part of conversation. Lyla chose a book from the shelves and sat down to read, or at least to turn the pages. It was a leather bound collection of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, never before opened.

  The lines about love were too painful to follow, so Lyla glanced surreptitiously at the others. It was still Hollingsworth’s move, and Frazier sat back unperturbed, as though he whiled away innumerable hours anticipating his valet’s strategy. Allegra’s wooden hook dipped swiftly in and out of the dull brown yarn she was crocheting into an unidentifiable item…yarn that seemed rather curly to Lyla’s untrained eye.

  When the housekeeper finished a row of stitches and slipped her hook free, Lyla immediately wondered if it could become a weapon. Plenty of time to ponder that…the mantel clock ticked on, the two men sat motionless in their leather chairs, and the four of them seemed to be suspended in time and space and silence, a diorama in an ageless, lifeless museum.

  Then Miss Keating gave a quick yank, and row by row the brown strip was reduced to a growing clump of crinkled yarn. When she’d undone the entire piece, she began winding the kinky worsted into a ball, as though she’d done it a dozen times and would do it a dozen more.

  And Lyla suspected she had and would. The futility of this kind of life struck her hard: all this wealth, and for what? So four people could spend their evenings not speaking to each other, their days engaged only in the business of living a life that never changed, never lightened?

  Lyla muffled a sigh and chose a different book. Her stay here already felt like an endless wake, with three corpses propped into lifelike positions rather than laid out in coffins. But she could wait and watch…for however many eternities it took.

  The following morning, after breakfast, Frazier steered her into his study and shut the door. “We need to conduct some business, you and I,” he said briskly. “Have a seat, dear-heart, and we’ll make our arrangement official—everything tidy and legal so we’ll have no misunderstandings about division of property after I’m gone.”

  Lyla perched on a leather chair in front of his desk, thinking his mood rather jovial for a man contemplating his own death. Today his suit was a natty tan-and-green tweed which complemented his olive complexion, and his gloves were nearly the color of his skin. He sat down, swiveling to one side so he’d face a shiny black typewriter, and then pulled a sheet of letterhead from his top drawer.

  “I hope you’ll see these documents as protection in the event of my demise,” he explained as he prepared to type. “Not only does Connor need to know where he stands, but everyone else should be informed of my wishes and stipulations. Too many unscrupulous schemers have designs on my holdings, and they’ll be contesting your rights before the casket’s lowered unless I spell everything out.”

  She nodded, slightly puzzled. “A last will and testament seems only prudent for a man like you.”

  “A will, among other things,” Foxe replied. His fingers flew over the keyboard for a few moments, producing a rapid clatter. His lips moved slightly as he composed a paragraph on the page.

  “Now then,” he said as he looked at her, “I need your assurance that you have no other living relatives in this country. Is that correct?”

  “Aye. My parents live in Ireland.”

  “Too far away to interfere. A bridegroom’s fondest dream.” He typed a few lines more and then smiled wryly at her. “No other kin I should know about? No estranged husbands who might appear from out of nowhere if they hear what you’re marrying into?”

  “I have twin brothers who’ll inherit the O’Riley homeplace,” she replied hesitantly. Was there, after all, a chance to get out of this unholy alliance? “And there is Hadley McDuff. I was betrothed to him when I left.”

  “And why did you leave him?” Frazier Foxe’s eyes narrowed as he awaited her reply.

  She couldn’t admit the truth—that Hadley, too, was a spinsterish old geezer who needed an heir—so she told the closest fib. “My father arranged the match without my consent so I’d have a home after my brothers took over the sheep operation. Upon meeting Mr. McDuff, I decided to take my chances here in America and I ran off with Mick.”

  Foxe’s chortle rumbled in his throat as his hands again attacked the typewriter. “Your running days are over, my dear. But McDuff couldn’t possibly offer you the life you’ll lead at Foxe Hollow, so that escape was the wisest move you could’ve made.”

  After a few more lines he pulled the paper from his machine with a flourish and handed it to her. “Your signature will assure all who read this that you’ve entered into this marriage of your own free will and that at the time of your death, all property passes to my heir or reverts to Connor in the event there isn’t a child yet. It also attests to your agreement upon all stipulations presented herewith.”

  Lyla read the page carefully, ignoring the fountain pen Foxe was trying to hand to her. Not only was the entire page error-free, but it was also signed by a Colorado Springs attorney, a Quentin Yarborough, near the bottom. Did Frazier keep a box of such letterhead, already affixed with a seal and a signature, for whenever he needed a quick contract?

  “Will you please just sign, Miss O’Riley?” he prompted.

  She glanced at the gold-trimmed pen without reaching for it. “I haven’t yet seen the stipulations presented herewith,” she mimicked.

  “We discussed them when—”

  “Put them in writing. Perhaps your attorney trusts you enough to sign beforehand, Mr. Foxe, but I want it all spelled out.”

  He adjusted his eyepiece. “Are you always this obstinate, my dear?”

  “Aye. If you don’t like it, let me go.”

  Frazier’s laughter chilled her. “The only way out of this arrangement is death, Miss Lyla. ‘Till death do us part,’ as they say.”

  It was a sobering thought, and Lyla sat quietly as her captor hastily added a few more lines to the page and then thrust it toward her. The new part stipulated that she was to produce a male offspring, and that any divulging of Frazier Foxe’s ranching, financial, or personal affairs was license for her disinheritance. In other words, she thought glumly, I’ll keep silent about his murders and his network of secret associates, or I’ll die.

  Lyla signed the page slowly, her heart aching. This was an outright betrayal of Marshal Thompson, yet it was the only way she saw to survive. If she didn’t do as Frazier demanded, there’d be no chance to escape when they went to Cripple Creek for the wedding, no chance to warn the McClanahans so they could act in her behalf as well as Barry’s.

  “Next is the will,” Frazier continued when she handed him her document. “It’s all signed and sealed, but again your signature affirms your agreement to and understanding of its contents. I think you’ll be pleased, actually.”

  Amazed and appalled was more like it. Lyla read the precisely-typed paragraphs of legal terminology carefully to glean their full meaning, and after several minutes she glanced at Foxe, whose hands were tented in a prayerful pose just below his mustache. “The way I understand this, your various businesses in Cripple and the Springs will be entrusted to your partners until your heir’s eighteenth birthday—”

  “That’s correct.”

  “—and Miss Keating and Hollingsworth are to have a home here for as long as they wish to stay—”

  “Only fair, after their years of loyal service.”

  “—and I will inherit Foxe Hollow, its buildings, grounds, and pastureland—”<
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  “A generous compensation for your youth, your silence…and your freedom.”

  “—but Connor inherits the sheep!” She stared at him, horrified. “He’s your own kin, sir! And he despises the sheep!”

  Frazier’s head dropped back and his laughter filled the cozy study. “No one said life was fair, dear-heart. Connor despises me, too, yet I’ve met his demands and paid his debts ever since I made him manager of this ranch. I’ve pandered to his whims during this life and I bloody well refuse to continue in the hereafter.”

  “But—but what if he decides to sell all the stock?” Lyla stammered. “I’d be left without—”

  “Adequate means of support?” Foxe cleared his throat, not quite covering his chuckle. “I had to leave him something, my dear. If I were in your place, I’d be very, very charming to Connor. It’s the only way to keep him from selling—or gambling away—your livelihood. Not an easy task, considering his history of loving women and leaving them.”

  “This is an outrage! Bad enough that I have to couple with that criminal to produce your heir, but to be dependent upon him after your death!” Lyla stood suddenly, and in her frustration she went around to grasp Frazier’s typewriter as tightly as she wanted to wring his neck. “I won’t sign it! Absolutely not!”

  “And what’s your alternative?” he asked slyly. “Your loyalty to Barry Thompson has made you my prisoner now, Miss O’Riley, and my stepbrother’s after I’m gone. We can’t have you telling what you know, now, can we?”

  “I—I’ll get him to sell his sheep to me!” she gasped.

  “And what will you buy them with? My accounts are to be frozen in trust for my son,” he replied smoothly. “Not only will you need to keep Connor and his sheep in Foxe Hollow, you’ll have to rely upon an adequate lambing and wool harvest each year to remain self-sufficient. You’d better pray Mother Nature smiles kindly on you.”

  Her heart shriveling, Lyla sank back into her chair. What had she done to deserve this? Why was the estate this ogre had appeased her with now dangling before her like a noose? If she’d had an inkling of the price she’d pay for those first three dresses…

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done differently, dear-heart,” he said gently, “except perhaps convincing your marshal to support my refinery. But things moved more quickly than I anticipated, and you were caught up in the tide of events.”

  Frazier came around his desk and placed the fountain pen in her hand, smiling benignly. “And don’t be too hasty to assume you’ve sealed your doom today, my sweet. While I’m alive, I’m sure you’ll coax all manner of baubles and gowns and whatever else your heart desires out of me. Actually, I’m looking forward to the role of doting husband.”

  His honeyed voice only infuriated her more. “Why should I believe that?” she demanded bitterly. “Each time you give me something, you take something else away!”

  “Ah, come now, Miss Lyla,” he crooned, brushing a wisp of her hair aside with a gloved finger. “If you don’t believe, all is lost.”

  She reread the will in front of her to avoid his probing gaze, realizing that he was right about that: if she stopped believing she could escape and bring this villain to justice, then all was indeed lost. Her only chance was to resume the docile, accommodating attitude she’d won him with last night at dinner. Saints help her to keep a civil tongue, so he’d not suspect her true motives!

  Lyla signed the will beneath Frazier’s own flowing signature and then folded her hands in her lap. The man beside her lifted her chin with utmost tenderness, and she thought she detected a flicker of genuine warmth as he gazed down at her.

  “You’re wise beyond your years, sweet child, and I truly look forward to your companionship. This house needs your sunshine, your laughter,” Foxe murmured. “I realize far more fully than you do just what you’ll sacrifice to become my wife. Ask me a favor, dear-heart—anything these documents we’ve signed will allow—and I’ll grant it as a token of my esteem.”

  Lyla studied him warily while trying to sort out her wishes. She couldn’t have Barry Thompson back, and she’d have no chance to see her friends until the wedding… “I—I’d like my shamrock pendant,” she ventured. “My brother made it for me. It’s all I have to remember him by.”

  “It shall grace your gown on our wedding day,” he promised with a genteel bow. He lifted her hand to his lips, his kiss almost reverent. “And what would you like for now, to enjoy during our betrothal?”

  If he had her pendant, Foxe also had the ring Thompson had bought! But she couldn’t bear to ask for it. Too many memories…too many dreams that would never come true. She felt quite strange with her hand in his gloved grasp…best to ask for something she could truly benefit from, because his favors might run dry at any time. “I…I want your word that Connor will keep his distance until after the wedding. Promise me you’ll enforce that.”

  Foxe’s brow puckered. “I can understand your concern about an untimely pregnancy, dear-heart. However, the only way to insure he’ll not have access to you is to remain at my side, or with Miss Keating or Hollingsworth, at all times. One step outside the house and I can’t guarantee your safety, because the ranch is his domain.”

  She smiled wryly, wondering if she’d ever be free of this insidious web he’d spun around her. “If that’s the way it has to be…”

  Frazier bowed slightly. Then he released her hand and went to the marble mantel, where he picked up a small velvet box. “This is the first of many gifts I intend to give you, my dear—not just for the sake of appearances, but because I admire your courage and spirit. And because, in my own way, I do love you, Lyla.”

  Why couldn’t it be Barry saying those precious words? Why did this man’s evil nature overshadow even his compliments and kindnesses? Her hands trembled as she took the small box, because she knew it held an engagement ring—a large, showy, expensive gemstone, judging from the finery he surrounded himself with. She hesitated to lift the lid. Wearing Frazier Foxe’s ring was the ultimate sign that she accepted his terms and belonged to him for the rest of his years. And beyond.

  Each second that ticked by made her appear more untrusting…foolish…afraid.

  Lyla opened the box and threw it onto the desk as though it were a burning coal. “You—you!” she rasped, springing from the chair to bolt out of the study.

  But Frazier grabbed her arm and then he freed the glistening ring from its casing. She watched, sickened, as he slid onto her left hand the diamond-encircled aquamarine—the ring Thompson had bought for her. The ring this twisted Englishman’s brother had stolen at the Golden Rose, just as he’d taken her shamrock pendant 1

  Her captor’s laugh came straight from hell, a cruel, blackhearted sound that scarred her very soul.

  “The marshal had exquisite taste,” Foxe remarked, turning the large, blue stone to admire it by the light of the chandelier. “And it’s yours to remember him by, Lyla. Every time you look at it you’ll wish for the love you lost. Each time you see it—every day, because you will wear it!—you’ll recall his dying moments and realize that a similar fate awaits anyone who crosses Frazier Foxe!”

  Chapter 20

  Lyla rushed upstairs to her room, chased by her captor’s wicked snickering. The man had the soul of Satan himself! She now possessed proof that he’d masterminded the Rose’s robbery, but what good did it do her? Rather than bringing her joy, the glistening gems on her finger tore her apart. Not only was Foxe reprehensible enough to present the ring as his own, he was forcing her to wear it under the vilest of pretexts and to keep silent about the man who’d actually bought it for her.

  Oh, Barry…who would ever have guessed the extent of Foxe’s revenge? Who’d have guessed at his capacity for evil?

  Her pent-up grief poured out, and when her sobs grew uncontrollable Lyla buried her face in the cool feather pillows of her bed. If Allegra Keating came snooping, she could give no answers to the housekeeper’s questions—and who would believe the truth if
she told it? Here in this lavish home, isolated from the news of Cripple Creek and Colorado Springs, Foxe’s staff knew only what he told them and assumed he was the upstanding citizen everyone in town thought him to be. Her word as an outsider would mean nothing and could only get her into deeper trouble.

  Footsteps creaked on the wooden stairway, paused before her door, and then proceeded down the hall. Lyla held her breath…it sounded like Foxe had gone into his chambers and shut the door behind him.

  Wiping her wet face with her sleeve, Lyla sat up, inspired by the view of the sheep pens and the rolling pastureland beyond. She would leave—simply change into the clothing she’d worn here and rush out before Frazier emerged or the two servants could catch her. If there was indeed a guard in the belvedere, she’d be long gone by the time he could alert the household of her escape. It meant leaving Mick’s shamrock pendant behind, but this was a small sacrifice compared to what she would suffer if she remained here any longer.

  As though she’d given them a telepathic cue, three men on horses galloped out of the stable toward the front gate—Kelly, Connor, and Nate! Never would there be a more opportune time to flee this gilded prison 1 Surely there was a spare horse, another way out besides passing the guardhouse at the arched entryway!

  Lyla flung open the armoire, but the coat, pants, and shirt weren’t inside. The chest of drawers held only the new underthings Foxe had provided for her. Her panic rose as she searched beneath the bed, rifled her vanity drawers—looked everywhere in her room. Everything she’d worn here was gone, along with the five hundred dollars she’d had in her coat pocket!

  Without a moment’s pause she strode down the hall and barged into Foxe’s room. It was a spacious, airy suite done in soothing blues and greens, flooded with sunlight from the glistening glass windows. Who’d have thought a craven beast like Frazier would inhabit such an appealing lair?