Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Thompson clenched his jaw against the obvious question.

  And when Lyla saw the jealous streak flash in the marshal’s green eyes, she knew precisely what he was thinking. “I didn’t want Rafferty to know the details—wasn’t sure, when he first came back to the wagon, if I could trust him. And now he’s off to— we’ll never find those papers!”

  Thompson pulled her onto his lap and cradled her quivering body, trying not to chuckle. This Irish imp had formulated a plan—not a half bad one—to bring Cripple Creek’s most odious crook to justice, and now was forced to admit she’d forgotten the evidence. Probably because he’d shocked her by coming back from the dead as he had.

  Barry stroked her silky hair and marvelous skin, indulging her in a brief cry. Lyla O’Riley would recover and proceed confidently, but meanwhile she was in even more danger than he’d anticipated. If Foxe discovered such documents missing, he’d know damn well Lyla had escaped the estate intending to expose him. And airing such secrets wouldn’t exactly endear her to him.

  “That settles it,” he said quietly.

  Lyla sniffled, wiping her wet cheek on his chest. “Settles what?”

  “Your plan. I don’t like you playing bait, but with Victoria and Mrs. Delacroix and others knowing you’re getting married, you’ll be too much in the public eye to be in danger for the next few days,” Barry explained. “They’ll be suspicious of the match—protective, if Foxe shows up acting like he’s going for murder rather than matrimony.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll send McClanahan back to the mansion to find other evidence of fraud or forgery, and I’ll hightail it after Rafferty myself. No doubt he found those papers, and since he knows better than to show himself in any towns, I’ll be safer trailing him than I’d be holing up here or at Emily’s ranch.”

  He paused, his expression softening as he took in the loveliness of Lyla’s nudity on the dark bear rug, backlit by the dying fire. “And I’ll send Emily in to Cripple to keep an eye on you. She’s nearly as devious as you are, and I’ll feel a lot better about this, knowing you two are working together.”

  Lyla smiled, her spirits lifting. “You think it’ll work?”

  “I don’t see how it can miss, unless our timing gets off.” He stroked her hair before standing up to stretch. More than anything he wanted to make love to her again; the anticipation of that pleasure would keep him sharp during the days to come. “You be careful, sweetheart. Stick close to the Rose, and convince Foxe with all you’ve got that you ran off only because you’re excited about the wedding.”

  “Do you think he’ll believe that?”

  “No,” he sighed, “but I know you’ll outfox him somehow and get him into the church just as you planned. And Matt and I’ll be waiting in the wings to grab him. Cripple’s not ready for a wedding like this one,” he added with a chuckle.

  Lyla watched him pick his pants up from the floor, her heart thudding like a knell in her chest. It was fine to plan all this derring-do when only her life was in danger, but knowing Barry couldn’t get caught and live through it again made her wonder if the risk was worth it. “Do you have to go now? You’ll travel faster by morning light, after a good breakfast.”

  Barry grasped her hands and pulled her up to stand in his embrace. “Rafferty’s already several miles away, in who knows what direction by now. And traveling at night’s the surest bet I won’t be seen,” he murmured. “Ride with me as far as Victor, Lyla. Then get some rest and take the train into Cripple. And be prepared for the stir you’ll cause when you get there.”

  He had a point. And since she had no idea where Calico went after Foxe’s men ambushed her last month, Buck was her only reasonable means of transportation.

  They dressed quickly, and while Barry saddled his stallion, Lyla banked the fire and bundled up food for him and clothing for herself. She shivered in the doorway, watching until he came around the side of the cabin, looking regally tall and masculine atop Buck. By the pale moonlight she could see his stricken face, feel the loneliness that he, too, was already experiencing even as he hoisted her up in front of him.

  The ride was silent, except for Buck’s occasional snorting and his muffled footfalls along the canyon trail. It was a glorious, calm night. The deep azure sky formed a backdrop for black silhouettes of bare trees and evergreens decked in a silvery lace of snow and icicles. Lyla barely noticed, because she was praying that Barry Thompson’s ride across the range would be short and successful, and that he’d return safely to her arms to continue the lifetime of loving they’d just begun.

  When they could see the lights from the Victor taverns and hear the tinkling of a piano on the breeze, Barry halted his horse. Impulse told him to just keep riding with her—disappear and start fresh, rather than risk another separation. But neither he nor Lyla would be free from Frazier’s far-reaching tyranny until the Englishman was confronted and convicted.

  “Well, play it safe,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “You, too.” Lyla turned and met the lips that sought hers, sharing a desperate kiss within arms that squeezed her as though they couldn’t let her go.

  Barry broke it off reluctantly and helped her down before his need for her got the best of him. Then, with a wave, he turned toward the Gold Camp Road.

  Lyla’s heart lurched. Would he find Jack Rafferty? Would he return safely, to begin the life they’d both fought so hard for? Tears prickled in her eyes, until another thought occurred to her.

  “By the saints, you’d better get back to Cripple in time!” she called after him. “If I’ve already said ‘I do’ to Frazier Foxe, you’ll live to regret it!”

  Chapter 27

  Lyla hesitated with her hand on the Golden Rose’s doorknob, bracing herself for whatever Victoria Chatterly and the other ladies might say upon seeing her. She’d made it from the train station unrecognized, wearing the worn brown checked dress and cape she’d rolled into her bundle, with her hair tucked up into its matching hat. She looked and felt like a frump, but these outdated clothes were more convincing attire than pants for the visits she’d make as a bride-to-be.

  She stepped into the whorehouse’s hushed parlor and stood for a moment. Aromas of bacon and coffee drifted in from the kitchen, but she heard no voices. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning, which meant most of the doves would be rising soon. Best to check in with Miss Victoria before too many curious eyes and ears got her so rattled she couldn’t keep her story straight. She’d taken only a few steps toward the madam’s boudoir when a voice stopped her.

  “My God, that is you! I hope those raggedy-ass clothes mean you’re coming back to work instead of marrying Foxe, honey.”

  That cigarette-roughened bark could belong only to Cherry Blossom, and when Lyla turned she saw the Indian princess seated at one of the tables in the shadowy bar, her dark face encircled by a wreath of smoke. It wouldn’t do to ignore her bridesmaid, so Lyla put on a smile. “I—I’m in town to make the final arrangements for the wedding, and thought I’d stop by to—”

  “And you chose me to be your maid of honor. Tell me another one.” The whore’s dusky gaze flickered over her outfit and then settled on her face, cynical as ever. She inhaled her cigarette, releasing the smoke with a sigh. “Look, I said some unflattering things about Thompson when I took your lunch into the jail, but Jesus! Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean you have to sentence yourself to life with Frazier.”

  Lyla managed to remain unruffled. “On the contrary, Frazier’s a very interesting, generous—”

  “Then why’re you wearing that dress instead of a gown he bought you? He’d shit if he saw you looking this way.”

  Cherry Blossom’s foul language was quite accurate, and it was clear she’d accept nothing short of the truth, which Lyla had no intention of telling. When she heard purposeful footsteps coming down the hall, she was ready to welcome anyone who’d be a diversion—anyone except Victoria Chatterly, whose porcelain features lit up with joy as she hurried into the bar.


  “Lyla, dear! I knew you’d see the light,” she gushed. “You may have your same bed, and a clean uniform, and start immediately. Reliable help’s so hard to find, and this being Friday, we’ll need to…whatever are you looking at me that way for?”

  Knowing that Barry Thompson was alive and that she’d never again have to work in a whorehouse made stifling a smile very difficult. Lyla tried to control her expression while concocting a reply, but Cherry Blossom cut in.

  “She’s going through with it,” the whore muttered as she stubbed her cigarette in an ashtray. “I’m glad Thompson’s not around to see this, because he thought you were smart, Miss O’Riley. Must be rolling in his grave, wherever he is.” Cherry Blossom stood suddenly and hurried toward the grand staircase, obviously shaken.

  Miss Chatterly sighed, gesturing toward a chair. “I’m afraid we’re all having a hard time accepting the marshal’s demise,” she said with a sad shake of her head. Her aqua eyes misted over, beseeching Lyla to listen to reason. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into, dear? You’re young, and I know a dozen men more suitable than…surely your grief is blurring your perception of this marriage.”

  More than anything, Lyla wished she could blurt out that Barry was alive and this charade was for his sake as much as her own! But she pressed her lips into a line, deeply touched when Victoria dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Miss Chatterly.”

  The madam patted her snowy-white hair and straightened the chain of her opal pendant as though searching for an appropriate response. “We do foolish things when we’re young, things that alter the course of our lives, because we cannot—or will not—see an alternative,” she said softly. After blinking away a tear, she focused directly on Lyla. “What have you to gain from this? You’re throwing your life away on a—a bloody blackheart! A snake in the grass!”

  Lyla’s eyes widened; her story about being alone and unemployable in a town where she was accused of murder wouldn’t work with this woman. “I thought you liked Frazier. He’s British. Elegant and refined.”

  Victoria laughed harshly. “This business has taught me never to trust a man who pays for conversation. But it’s our policy to provide what our clients request, and since Grace can tolerate him, I never questioned his coming here, or his bringing you here after your brother died. I grew suspicious, however, when he fetched your dresses and you weren’t with him. Lying’s not your strong suit, Lyla. Tell me what’s really going on.”

  She was glad she’d removed the aquamarine ring before coming, because Miss Chatterly’s eyes took in every detail of her shabby clothing and facial expression. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she hedged. “Frazier’s been extremely gracious and kind to me, and he’d be crushed if he heard your true opinion of him. He respects you a great deal.”

  “He respects anyone who turns an outlandish profit, Lyla. Which makes me certain he has unsavory plans for you. What’s he after, besides an heir? Frankly, I can’t see him sullying himself to produce one.”

  Lyla stood, startled at the madam’s hostility. It was time to leave, before she either caved in or lost this caring woman’s friendship forever. “Please—trust my judgment,” she implored. “There’s more to this match than meets the eye, and someday everyone in Cripple will understand that.”

  She strode out to the street without looking back, her thoughts in a jumble. The Rose had been her first stop because her story needed polishing before she faced the dressmaker, the caterer, and other shopkeepers who were helping make this the most spectacular wedding Cripple had ever seen. Dealing with such luxury and its price tag intimidated her, because her tastes had always been as simple as her needs.

  As Lyla approached Mrs. Delacroix’s shop she faltered. There in the plate glass window, displayed with queenly grace upon a dress form, was her wedding gown. Frazier’s creation, translated from a sketch into satin and lace and white ermine trim, made her mouth hang open. If only she were donning this magnificent dress for Barry!

  She stepped closer to read the elegantly-printed card posted in the window: You are cordially invited to celebrate the uniting in Holy Matrimony of Miss Lyla O’Riley and Mr. Frazier Foxe, Esquire…

  Her wedding invitation, in black ink on creamy vellum…Reality suddenly grabbed her by the in-sides: to everyone except herself and Barry, this ceremony was as sacred and binding as the McClanahans’. What if Thompson and Matt didn’t return in time to stop it? What if God himself detained them somehow, and as punishment for this blasphemous deception she became lawfully wedded to a man determined to defile her?

  Sweat popped out on her upper lip despite the brisk wind. She was ready to bolt, to disappear to anywhere, when a lightly-accented voice called out from the shop.

  “Chérie! Miss O’Riley!” Mrs. Delacroix was waving excitedly, and then she was rushing out to grab Lyla’s hand. “Do you like it? Do you think Monsieur Foxe will be pleased?” she gushed. “Such exquisite fabrics he ordered—and his design! It was an honor to be chosen to sew your wedding gown!”

  And it was probably a year’s pay, Lyla caught herself thinking. She smiled then, because people who stood to make so much money from this grandiose event wouldn’t demand her justification for it. The dressmaker clutching her hand probably gossiped to all her other customers about this unlikely match, but while in her presence Mrs. Delacroix would express only praise…and encouragement to spend more of Foxe’s money. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

  “I—I really shouldn’t be here. My gown was to be a surprise from Frazier,” Lyla said with a little laugh. “But I couldn’t stay away! The fit must be flawless, and we can’t trust a man’s judgment about accessories and underthings for the most important day of my life, now, can we?”

  “Mais non!” the seamstress replied with a giggle. “Please—come in! Now’s the perfect time to coordinate what you’ll need. Marie!” she called to her assistant, who sat sewing at a treadle machine near the back of the shop’s main salon. “Miss O’Riley’s here for a fitting and she needs everything. Have Miss Dailey and Mr. Kraus and the others come at once! We mustn’t keep her waiting.”

  Within half an hour Mrs. Delacroix’s salon was buzzing with shopkeepers drawn like bees to the golden pollen Lyla was ready to shower upon them, as befitted her celebrity status. She loved it! The finest shoes and hosiery and silk underthings were displayed by six or seven of Cripple’s most exclusive merchants, and she couldn’t bear to disappoint any of them. She chose the best of their lines and then disappeared into a fitting room as sedately as her childlike glee would allow.

  On went lace-trimmed silk bloomers, a feather-light corset—which buttoned down the front!—and stockings of sheerest white. The leather pumps slid easily onto her feet, and when she peeked into the mirror she chuckled. Barry would be getting such a grin out of this, in more ways than one, and Foxe was in for a jolt when he saw the tab she’d run up on his accounts. And esquire that he was, he’d have to keep a civil tongue until he had her alone, which she didn’t plan to let happen.

  “Chérie? You are ready for the gown now?” the seamstress asked from outside the door.

  “Aye! Come in!”

  Mrs. Delacroix gave her an approving glance as she carefully wheeled the dress form in, holding the voluminous train over her other arm. Lyla stroked the ermine trim along the flounced front, marveling at its softness. Frazier had designed a fairytale gown that sparkled with crystal beadwork and shimmering white satin, with leg-of-mutton sleeves that ballooned gracefully at the shoulders. “It’s so lovely,” she whispered.

  “Monsieur Foxe should’ve been a designer,” the seamstress agreed as she gathered the dress into her arms.

  Moments later Lyla was gaping at her reflection, awed by the transformation: from a pauper to a princess, by the grace of a gown. Mrs. Delacroix was humming, checking the fit at the bust and sides, her russet bun quivering with her excitement. “The others, they would like to see,
if you don’t mind,” she suggested quietly.

  “Oh—of course.” Lyla smiled, and with the petite dressmaker taking charge of her train she entered the main salon.

  A whispering of admiration went though the gathering like the fluttering of wings, and the shopkeepers broke into solemn applause. They walked slowly around her, exclaiming over the gown’s intricate detail and exquisite materials, and Lyla felt herself flush with delight. If only Thompson were here to wink at her!

  And then she stood stock-still, watching a gentleman who’d paused outside the shop window. He was gazing at her with a tenderness that was touching, a thin smile that was so familiar…

  “…a romantic Valentine’s Day ceremony—certainly a wedding I won’t miss,” Miss Dailey was chirping, her hands clasped at her bosom.

  “Nor I,” another shopkeeper replied. He bowed slightly and picked up his shoeboxes. “You’ll be the loveliest young woman ever to grace the aisle of a church, Miss O’Riley. Every man there will wish to be in Frazier’s place, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Lyla didn’t mind at all—would choose nearly any other man. Her memory prickling, she glanced toward the front window again, but the wistful admirer was gone.

  And a few minutes later so was she, once again wearing the brown checked dress and cape, once again blending into the crowd along Bennett Avenue. Her visit to the printer and the caterer would wait until she was more fashionably attired, so these men would treat her like Frazier Foxe’s fiancée rather than an urchin who claimed to be the Lyla O’Riley on the vellum invitations.

  She strolled along the sidewalk, smiling when people recognized her. Lyla had no trouble imagining the whispers that passed behind hands as she walked by well-heeled matrons and others who knew her from the Wanted posters—which Frazier must’ve ordered removed from the storefront windows. Recognition was precisely what she wanted, so Foxe would have no trouble finding her.

  Crossing the street, she felt lured to the livery stable. Surely after all these weeks her mare had found another home, or met a fate Lyla didn’t want to consider, but she had to satisfy her curiosity. She stopped inside the entrance, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness.