Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Gratefully she accepted the steaming, fragrant gift. Who was this man? One moment he seemed a threat and the next he was pandering to her. Lyla sipped the coffee and let out a sigh. “You were right about me being presumptuous, Mr. Rafferty,” she said quietly. “I was so eager to escape Frazier’s mansion I never gave a thought to the trouble I’d be, barging in on you. You’ve only limited food, and—”

  “Forget this noise, Lyla. And the name’s Jack,” he said jovially. “I just got a month’s grub, and it’s a treat to have company—the likes of you, no less! Just make yourself at home.”

  He paused, arranging his chair so he could lean on its back while straddling it, studying her with a grin that flickered like firelight. Then he cleared his throat a little nervously. “You…won’t be staying long, will you?”

  “Why no, I—”

  “Good! I mean—” He raked his hair back with his fingers, laughing under his breath. “It’s just that Frazier’s bound to come looking for you soon as this blizzard lifts—”

  “I know that.”

  “—and as for me, well—” Rafferty’s gaze intensified and he stroked his mustache. “Damn it, you’re a fine-looking filly, Lyla, and it’s been so blasted long since I had one I might not be able to keep my pants fastened. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “Loud and clear,” she mumbled.

  “And I wish you’d button that shirt, for Chrissakes.”

  “Oh!” Her cheeks scalded as she glanced down at her bosom, but Jack Rafferty’s loud guffaws confirmed that she was, in truth, properly covered.

  His brown eyes glimmered as he wiped at them, still chuckling uncontrollably. “I couldn’t resist, honey. I believe your shirt buttons must be working as hard as the ones on my fly—”

  “That’s quite enough of this talk!” Lyla crossed her arms, bumping the dogs’ heads as she squared her shoulders. “I’m nobody’s whore, Mr. Rafferty. And by the saints, if you treat me like one, I’ll—I’ll throw that copy of Fanny Hill in the stove!”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t deprive a solitary man of his finest entertainment?”

  “Watch me! I’ve defended myself against thieves and murderers, and you’ll be no trouble at all!” Where this rush of bravado came from, Lyla had no idea, and she hoped Jack didn’t see through it for the facade it was. He looked humbled for now, but when night fell and dinner was over and they had nothing but each other to look at, she would be defenseless if he chose to pleasure himself in exchange for his hospitality.

  Rafferty rose, his cheeks tinted with resentment. “It was only a joke, Miss O’Riley,” he muttered as he placed his hat on his thick mane of hair. “Come on, pups, we’ll check those woollybacks. Maybe our guest would be so kind as to rustle up our supper while we’re out. Seems the least she could do to earn her keep.”

  Lyla watched the door close behind them, shivering in the sudden snowy draft. Mr. Rafferty had a coarse sense of humor, along with a temper that flared like wildfire. But she had nowhere else to go in this impossible weather, and no one else to help her. And only one narrow bunk in a cramped little wagon.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 23

  The dogs kept them from becoming predator and prey. By the time the two wet, panting animals bounded into the wagon, Lyla had found milk and eggs among the fresh supplies and was stirring a bowl of flapjack batter. Bacon crackled in the cast-iron skillet, and as Rafferty removed his snow-covered coat and hat, the rich aromas seemed to soothe him.

  He glanced at the food, inhaling deeply. “What’s that smell from the oven?”

  “Cobbler. Foxe left you a big bag of dried apples and apricots.” Some of the wildness left his eyes and Lyla knew she’d done the right thing by spending the past two hours at the stove.

  Jack smoothed his hair and then rubbed an old towel over Maudie and Will, baby-talking as he dried them. He stole glances at her, and watched intently as the first rounds of batter sizzled in the hot skillet. “I took your horse behind the next rise, where mine’s tied. He’ll be out of the wind there, and Foxe won’t see him when he comes around. Storm’s letting up now.”

  “Thank you.” Bubbles appeared on the doughy tops of her pancakes and Lyla flipped them expertly, showing off a bit. “Hope you’re hungry. I ended up with more batter than I intended.”

  “Woman, I can devour everything you’ve got,” he replied with a suggestive laugh. “But I always share with the pups. And you, of course.”

  “Good. When I realized Hollingsworth was helping me escape, I didn’t exactly sit down to a leisurely breakfast.”

  Rafferty apparently considered her cooking reason enough for a truce. Long after Lyla could hold no more of their simple supper, her host was sopping up maple syrup with flapjacks and stuffing whole strips of bacon into his mouth with an ecstatic grin.

  Now that he wasn’t badgering her, Jack was darkly handsome, a man who savored his pleasures. When he finally pushed his plate away, he sat back and closed his eyes with a contented sigh. His long, black lashes curved down to his cheeks and his lips parted slightly…the sheer sensuality of him made her tremble, which in turn shocked her. He could never be the kind, gentle lover Barry Thompson was, and how could she even think of him in that way?

  He half-opened one eye, acknowledging the two dogs who sat attentively beside the table. “Will, can you ask for a flapjack?” he murmured lazily.

  The dog’s tan face came to life and he sat up on his haunches.

  “Say grace before you eat, boy.”

  To Lyla’s delight, the collie placed his front paws alongside his head and gave several short, rumbling barks, and he received half a pancake. “Why, you must spend hours working with him!”

  “What else do we have to do out here?” Jack answered. “Maudie and Will are the only company I keep for days on end. We drive sheep together, we curl up together on these cold nights. Seems only fitting that we should be able to share our fun, too. But Maudie’s the smart one—sings for her supper, don’t you, girl?”

  The smaller collie’s ears perked up; her dark eyes glowed in a face that looked like glossy black velvet.

  “Do you suppose Lyla’d rather hear ‘Silent Night’ or ‘Swanee River’?” he asked as he reached for the harmonica on the shelf behind him. He smiled at her, his teeth white and even beneath his devilish mustache. “Or maybe, since she served up such a fine meal, we could do both. Ladies like to be serenaded, so I hear.”

  Her cheeks tingled and then she was chuckling. Maudie was howling soulfully, her nose pointed toward the canvas ceiling as she followed Jack’s soft musical accompaniment. When the song ended, Lyla clapped loudly. “Good girl, Maudie. A touching rendition of my favorite Christmas carol!”

  “You recognized it?” Jack asked.

  “Why, of course!” She tore a flapjack in half and watched the dog eat it hungrily. “And I can’t wait for ‘Swanee River.’ I suppose she dances soft-shoe to that one?”

  “Why of course,” he echoed, and the mischievous flicker across his face told of his approval more clearly than any words. Lyla lowered her gaze, stunned by the intensity of this man’s powerful brown eyes.

  “All right, girl, let’s really show it off,” he said as he stood up. A few bars of introduction were Maudie’s cue, and then she was on her hind legs, yipping more or less to the rhythm as she and Rafferty circled each other in the center of the wagon. He was a changed man from the sinister sheepherder who’d accosted her with a rifle, a man who took proud pleasure in the accomplishments of his pets and joined in their tricks without the least concern about appearing foolish.

  As she applauded with sincere delight, he took a bow and then sat down. “Good work, pups. We’ll let you eat in peace now. You’ve had a hard day.”

  When the dogs’ noses were buried in battered pans filled with leftovers, Rafferty cleared the table. He set a kettle of water on to heat and glanced at her as she closed the flour sack. “I truly appreciated tha
t meal, Lyla. Where’d you learn to cook that way?”

  “My brother Mick had a stomach as cavernous as the gold mine he worked,” she replied quietly. “And since he was kind enough to bring me along when he stowed away to America, I raised a garden and preserved the vegetables and cooked as best I could on his worker’s wage.”

  “A woman running from her past, eh?” he said in a teasing tone. As he started washing dishes, though, he grew more serious. “What happened to your brother?”

  “He died in the Angel Claire explosion.”

  Rafferty’s eyes mellowed as he studied her, the plate he was washing suspended above the pan of suds. “I…I’m sorry to hear that, honey.”

  Lyla’s eyes were misting, but she looked up at him anyway, hoping he’d understand her desperate plight rather than complicating it. “I found out, after Foxe had me kidnapped, that he masterminded that whole ordeal. Bribed Nigel Grath with opium to blow sixteen innocent men to kingdom come. And do you know why?” she asked bitterly.

  He shook his head, his expression softening.

  “He wanted to stir up so much labor unrest that Thompson couldn’t handle it. Get him ousted when people complained about the marshal’s incompetence.”

  Jack scowled. “When I consider the various lawmen I’ve avoided, I surely wouldn’t call Thompson incompetent.”

  “Exactly,” she stated, her voice wavering now. “And when the explosion only proved what a capable, compassionate man Barry was, Foxe and his ranchhands set up the robbery during the McClanahans’ wedding party. They figured to kill the marshal as he pursued the thieves, but I stitched up his wounds and got us both in trouble by foiling another of his plans. So Frazier struck again, and this time he…succeeded. I—I’m sorry.”

  Lyla turned away to cry, and then two arms encircled her, two damp hands pulled her back against a solid chest. Rafferty rocked her as though she were a small child, yet his tough, muscular body was only inches taller than her own.

  “You cry all you want, honey,” he murmured against her ear. “God knows you’ve earned the right, after all that bastard’s done to you. And for what?” he muttered. “Meanness, that’s all it is. I suspected he and Connor had more going than just sheep ranching when I signed on here, but what could I say? I didn’t exactly tell them all my business, either.”

  Lyla sniffled and hicced, letting his low voice soothe her. His embrace was warm and comforting, but she’d give the wrong impression if she let him continue to hold her this way. Wiping her eyes with her knuckles, she turned to look at him. “A man running from his past, eh?” she repeated softly. “Yet he tends sheep and treats his dogs like his babies.”

  Jack eased his arms away, his smile secretive. “Men herd sheep for three reasons, honey. They’ve either got quirks enough that society doesn’t accept them, or they’ve got ambitions to sink their pay into a spread of their own someday.”

  “Or?” She watched the inclination to lie pass over his rugged face before he focused directly on her.

  “Or they don’t want to be found.” Rafferty’s jaw twitched, yet his gaze never wavered. “I killed a woman not so long ago, Lyla. It was self-defense, and her blood’ll be on my conscience till I go to my grave, but the Pinkertons and the United States marshals don’t see it that way.”

  Lyla felt the color die in her cheeks. She no longer feared this dark desperado, but she respected the latent violent streak that must’ve led him to murder a woman. Rather than ask what the woman had done to him, she stepped over to the stove to dry their dishes.

  “You wish you hadn’t come here now?” he demanded from behind her.

  “Self-defense seems an understandable motive,” she replied quietly. “Better than meanness or greed or revenge, anyway.”

  “How do you know I’m not lying? What makes you think I won’t pull a knife on you tonight?” he challenged. “That’s how I killed her, you see. Right through the heart.”

  His mercurial moods frightened her, but she turned, maintaining what she hoped was an unflinching expression. “And what did she use on you?”

  Rafferty stroked his thick mustache, as though he might be making the whole episode up. Yet he remained deadly serious. “A pillow.”

  “What?”

  He chuckled low in his throat as he set the dishes on the shelf above the stove. “Seems I made a few promises to this dove—whiskey talks pretty, you know—and she didn’t take it kindly when I slept it off in another girl’s bed. Tried to suffocate me, and damn near succeeded.”

  A crime of passion in a bawdy house. She should’ve guessed. Lyla handed him the towel she’d dried her hands with, her voice calm. “The way I see it, I don’t have a thing to worry about,” she said, “because if you lift a hand against me, your dogs will attack you.”

  Jack’s laugh filled the wagon. “Mighty cocksure of yourself, young lady. They haven’t known you long enough to—”

  “I have a way with animals,” she stated. “They sense my kinship with them. Most dogs will defend a sympathetic female against a male—even their own master. And to prove it, I’m going to bed now.”

  Lyla sat on the edge of the bunk to remove her boots, smiling and crooning to Maudie and Will. She could feel Rafferty’s gaze but ignored him, giving her full attention to the two border collies so like the ones she’d loved at home. She stroked each animal in turn, delighting in the silkiness of their thick coats, returning the affection she saw in their bright, curious eyes.

  And sure enough, when she slipped beneath the quilts and arranged the pillow to suit herself, both dogs hopped onto the bunk. Will settled behind her bent knees and Maudie curled up against the front of her with a contented sigh.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Jack mumbled. And he spent the night on the floor.

  When Lyla awoke she was alone in the wagon. She felt refreshed after a night of fearless, dreamless sleep. Neither the threat of Frazier’s impending visit nor ghosts of the marshal who’d gone up in flames had interfered with her rest.

  She stretched from her toes up through every muscle of her body, smiling. The only sound she heard was the constant calling of the sheep and an occasional yip from the dogs. No wind…the snowstorm was over and today she would proceed to Cripple Creek.

  The half-eaten cobbler on the back of the stove told her Jack had tided himself over and enjoyed it. Lyla smiled as she quickly washed herself with warm water he’d left in a pan. Rafferty was one of the most fascinating characters she’d ever run across. In gratitude for his hospitality, she sliced off a skillet’s-worth of bacon and mixed up a batch of biscuits. He wasn’t a man she could ever envision herself falling for, but she would like to leave with the memory of his seductive, secretive smile fresh in her mind.

  Setting the pan of biscuits into the oven, Lyla scowled, listening. Was that the footfall of Jack’s horse? With at least two thousand sheep to move to fresh grazing ground, he had no cause to gallop.

  A peek out the wagon’s door made her heart lurch. As often happened, the blizzard had blown the powdery snow across the range, leaving only a sprinkling like sugar on the stubbly grass. And from the direction of the house, a lone rider was rapidly approaching.

  Fighting panic, Lyla rushed to the bunk and unfastened the flap in the canvas above it. Hundreds of huddling, woolly Merino sheep covered the nearby hillsides like a moving, bleating blanket of snow. Jack was a speck in the distance and she couldn’t see Maudie or Will. They were the only defense she had from Frazier: she didn’t know where Dickens was tied, and searching for him on foot would make her an easy target for her approaching captor.

  “Mau-audie! Will!” she hollered urgently. She gave two long, shrill whistles, as she’d often done at home, and hoped her cry for help would be heard above the blathering of the sheep. Lacing her boots on, Lyla wondered desperately if she should try to hide somewhere or just confront Frazier. The wagon’s storage compartments were all full now…the canvas flap was too small to crawl out of. Foxe would know all these
things and ferret her out, chuckling in that evil way he had when his prey was cornered.

  The hoofbeats grew as deafening as her pulse and then pounded to a halt. Lyla stood, bracing herself so Foxe wouldn’t get past the stove, searching desperately for a weapon because Jack had taken his Winchester. She reminded herself that Frazier was soft from his life of luxury, accustomed to battling with his money rather than his fists, and probably slow to react because of his age. The last thing he’d expect was a hellcat like herself springing at him, knocking him backwards out of the wagon—

  But when the door was yanked open it was Connor’s leer that turned her blood to ice. “Hey there, cupcake.” he taunted. “Made it easy for me, hiding with the closest herd. And breakfast! How nice of you to—”

  When he stepped up into the wagon, sheer instinct took over. With one swift movement, Lyla grasped a damp wool sock and then the handle of the sizzling skillet, and hurled it at Foxe with all the strength she possessed.

  The pan thudded against his thick jacket and he swore violently when the boiling bacon grease splattered down the front of his jeans. Connor jumped back and fell out the wagon door, clutching a burned hand to his chest. “You goddamn—you’ll regret this, bitch!” he howled as he rolled to his feet.

  Frantically Lyla searched for something else to battle him with, because now that he was angry and injured he was even more dangerous. “You’ve got no right to—”

  “By God, when I get ahold of you—”

  Lyla seized the coffeepot, which was only lukewarm—but Foxe didn’t know that. “You want your coffee now, Connor? Want a face as scarred as your brother’s hands?”

  Her attacker paused for just a moment to weigh the consequences of another scalding. It was long enough: from around the side of the wagon sped two snarling, savage dogs hellbent on tearing the intruder limb from limb. Will hurled himself against Foxe, knocking him to the ground, and Maudie sprang up into the doorway to defend her home and Lyla.

  Connor hollered, flailing and kicking at the vicious beast who was attacking him. Praying that Jack had followed his dogs, Lyla pulled cans of food from the shelves to pelt Connor with while Maudie bristled and barked in the doorway. Just as Lyla grabbed the carving knife, she heard a dull thunk and a heartrending yelp. Then there was a single gunshot and silence.