Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  A stable boy looked up from shoveling manure, but otherwise there were only rows of horses as she slowly passed down the side aisle. None of their rumps resembled Calico’s…only by some miracle would her beloved horse have returned to Cripple and been cared for in her absence.

  Then a familiar whinny made her head snap up and Lyla stepped quickly along the straw-strewn walkway toward the corner. There was Calico, prancing happily in the last stall! Lyla squealed and rushed in to hug her horse, her heart pounding wildly. She’d found her mare, she’d recovered the man she loved, and only days from now the life she longed for would be hers!

  “Are you all right, miss? I heard you yelp.”

  She turned to grin at the young stablehand. “Never finer! How much do I owe you for taking care of my Calico? I never dreamed—”

  “Matt McClanahan’s paid up through the end of the month,” he replied with a lopsided smile. “You, uh, don’t look like the girl he married.”

  “I’m not,” she replied saucily, “but I’ll certainly kiss him for doing this!”

  The boy’s scraggly attempt at a first mustache twitched. ‘‘You’re—you’re Lyla O’Riley! The girl in the papers! Why, it’s my pleasure to feed—”

  “Miss O’Riley has more important business to attend to than listening to your yammering, Tim,” a reedy voice interrupted them.

  Lyla looked beyond the stablehand’s lean shoulders and stopped breathing. Rex Adams was surveying her, his skinny blue-uniformed arms crossed over his chest. And his catlike gaze left no doubt as to where the carroty-haired deputy intended to conduct his business.

  Chapter 28

  “I knew you’d show up here again, Miss O’Riley. Returning to the scene of the crime, as it were,” Adams gloated as he escorted her down the sidewalk.

  “If you’re so smart, why do you work for Foxe?” Lyla walked proudly along, nodding to people as they recognized her. “He had Eberhardt killed, you know. He’ll dispose of you when you’re no longer useful to him.”

  The deputy laughed sarcastically and opened the jailhouse door. “Wally was a chucklehead and everyone knew it. When Frazier learns I’ve kept you from running off again, he’ll see I get promoted to town marshal immediately.”

  “It’ll never happen. Connor himself told me Frazier had no intention of putting you in that position. And what’ll your wife and children do when you turn up as an accident victim, like Wally did?” She stopped beside his too-tidy desk to watch his reaction, almost grinning at how Barry Thompson’s return would send this traitor into a tailspin.

  Rex studied her with pale green eyes that said he, too, wondered if the gravy train might get derailed soon. But instead of backing down, he pulled a ring of keys from his desk drawer. “That’s tall talk for a short woman,” he scoffed. “Stupid, too. Why you’d want to duck out of a marriage to his money is beyond me.”

  Lyla shook her head, offering no resistance when the wiry deputy steered her toward the cells. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Frazier will be furious when he finds you’ve locked up his fiancée as though she were some whore from Poverty Gulch. You’ll look like a chucklehead yourself, Rex.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The door clanked shut on the same cell she occupied during her last visit, and Lyla gripped the cool metal bars, gazing purposefully at her warden. ‘I’m telling you this as a friend, Rex,” she said earnestly. “I came back to Cripple so Frazier would find me and get his comeuppance. Save us both a lot of trouble and let me check into the Imperial. You won’t be sorry.”

  “That’s right. I won’t be sorry for listening to my instinct instead of to you!” he said with a cocky chuckle. “As if anyone would believe what you’re saying.”

  When he walked into the main office again, Lyla settled calmly onto the rough bunk. The cell next to hers was empty, and a grizzled stranger was snoring, his mouth ajar, in the one on the other side of it. Plenty of time to think about the startling drama that would unfold as February fourteenth drew nearer…today alone had been eventful, starting with Miss Victoria’s lecture and being celebrated at the dressmaker’s, and then finding Calico!

  Her thoughts wandered back to Mrs. Delacroix’s, to the warm pride she’d experienced as the shopkeepers admired her in her splendid white gown. Foxe’s money couldn’t buy her happiness, but it had purchased a few moments of acceptance: she was no longer a mineworker’s sister or a maid at a whorehouse. She was to be a wealthy man’s wife.

  And she had no trouble projecting this inner radiance to the future, when her name would be Mrs. Barry Thompson. How far she’d come since New Year’s, when she’d begged the issue by saying her only honorable alternative was returning to Ireland—

  Lyla’s head thumped back against the wall. The face of the man in the window flashed before her: an older gentleman with a henpecked air about him, with the same slender nose and thinning hair but more wrinkles around his lusterless eyes, and a mouth not familiar with grinning.

  “Mary, Mother of God,” she said in a strangled whisper, “it was Hadley! Hadley McDuff, come to Cripple Creek to fetch me!”

  When he heard the thunder of distant hoofbeats, Barry cocked his pistol and crouched in the shadows of the cave where he was camping. A rider would need a reason for penetrating this patch of woods, and he was on Foxe’s land, so he could take no chances. He held his breath, listening to the horse pick its way through the dead leaves and close-growing trees.

  Bob-bob-WHITE, came the whistle.

  Grinning, Barry emerged into the bright daylight, holstering his gun. “I was beginning to think you found trouble. Did that poster of Rafferty get you through the gate?”

  “Yeah—not that it did me much good.” Matt McClanahan swung down from his bay and stretched, as though he’d spent the morning going at a full gallop. “The gatekeeper suspected Jack took out across the far side of the range, and his wagon was empty when I found it. Nothing there that wasn’t nailed down.”

  “No papers stuffed behind the bunk?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn!” Thompson stomped the ground, because Rafferty had their most pressing evidence against Frazier Foxe—and he knew it. And God alone could guess how that murdering fugitive would put such information to use. “Any trouble getting past Hollingsworth?”

  Matt grinned, showing a mouthful of even white teeth. “You should’ve seen the old guy’s face when I told him I was investigating for Quentin Yarborough, on suspicion that his name had been forged and his services misrepresented.”

  “Did he cooperate?’’

  McClanahan shrugged. “He had no reason not to. I waited until I saw Foxe’s carriage leaving—”

  “Probably to find Lyla,” Barry sighed.

  “—so our Oliver didn’t feel threatened when I asked him to find some paperwork with Yarborough’s name on it.”

  “Didn’t figure he’d be a problem, since he helped Lyla get out of there,” the marshal said quietly, “but now he’s in it up to his eyeballs, and we’ll have to be sure Frazier doesn’t retaliate. Did that bag-of-bones cook raise a stink?”

  “Cook is not the word for what Allegra Keating does to food, ol’ buddy. But at least she trusted me enough to feed me.” The detective wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as though the terrible meal still plagued him. “In fact, she insisted that whatever information I found in the files would only prove Frazier’s innocence. Talked like Lyla was the real criminal, for tricking Foxe into marrying her.”

  Barry rolled his eyes, hoping Miss O’Riley’s wiles would keep Foxe off-balance, once she let him find her. “What’d you see that’s useful?”

  “You remember when he was spearheading the new opera house fund drive, and raising the money to bring Arizona Charley and the Mexican bullfight to the district?”

  “Those projects had a pretty high price tag, as I recall.”

  “And all the records are signed by that phony attorney Yarborough,” McClanahan replied with a nod. “W
hich means Foxe inflated the cost when he solicited from his wealthy friends—”

  “And pocketed the difference between what we paid and the actual expense. Just like he’ll do if that refinery gets built.” Thompson grunted, his disgust stronger than ever. “At least we’ve got him on extortion. See if you can find Eberhardt’s body, and I’ll head north after Rafferty. He used to hang out with Butch Cassidy’s gang, so I’ll check out Brown’s Park and Hole in the Wall.”

  “You damn well better be back from Wyoming before Lyla becomes Foxe’s valentine,” Matt warned. “It’s already the fourth. If it looks like Rafferty’s vanished, head on back to town and we’ll lock Foxe up on the evidence we’ve got.”

  “We want to nail him so he can’t wiggle out of it, though,” Barry pointed out. “His will and that other agreement might stand up even if the other signature’s faked, because Lyla signed them, too.”

  The marshal looked out over the rolling plains beyond the woods that sheltered them, hoping his woman could keep Foxe at bay long enough. “Surely his staff knows this marriage is a hoax,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine Frazier even touching her, or flirting like a fiancé would.”

  His best friend’s swarthy face stiffened, and Matt hesitantly pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside coat pocket. “I…was going to present this little gem as a prank, at your bachelor party. Slipped it under my vest while Hollingsworth was checking the desk up in Frazier’s chambers. Seems the old boy’s more interested in her than we thought.”

  A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature went up Thompson’s spine when he unfolded a heart-stopping sketch of Lyla. Her lush breasts protruded above an unfastened lavender gown as she smiled provocatively over her shoulder at him…exactly as she had that first evening in the Rose’s pantry.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “I may have to ride night and day, but by God I will be back in Cripple before that bastard ever sees her in a wedding gown.”

  Matt’s jaw tightened. “Better hurry, pal—he’s got a painting of her wearing that, too. So unbelievably beautiful you’ll have to see her for yourself.”

  His insides tightened and he went into the cave to roll his few belongings into his blanket. “Take care, Matt. And thanks for showing your face where I couldn’t,” he said as he came outside. “Look after Lyla, will you?”

  “You bet. Watch your back, Thompson,” he replied solemnly. “Don’t take any chances, now that she’s almost yours.”

  Almost yours. The words stabbed at him as he hurried toward where Buck was tethered. What if Foxe wasn’t the pansy he’d assumed him to be? What if those threats about turning Lyla over to Connor were only a smokescreen for what that British bastard really intended to do, once he had her imprisoned in his mansion again? Any man who drew the subjects Frazier Foxe did, with such loving, damning detail, was an enemy to be watched with utmost caution.

  He swung into his saddle, vowing to smash the Englishman’s monocle into his brain if he so much as laid a hand on Lyla.

  “Of all the asinine—how do you think this looks, Adams? The future Mrs. Frazier Foxe locked up in jail, only minutes after she tried on her wedding gown in front of Cripple’s most prestigious shopkeepers!”

  Lyla came awake immediately as Foxe’s voice, more clipped than usual, reached her from the office. She lay in the grayness of the dawn chuckling, picturing the hapless Rex Adams with even less color than usual in his freckled complexion.

  “You could’ve entrusted her to Victoria Chatterly, for God’s sake, or—”

  Sitting up on the hard bunk, Lyla prepared herself for when Frazier would upbraid her, too. On and on he went at Adams, in a tirade quite unlike his usual aloof disdain. Surely his monocle was fogged, or perhaps popped completely out, angry as he sounded! She began to giggle and had to nip a knuckle to control herself when she heard footsteps and the intermittent tapping of his walking stick.

  “Dear-heart, I’m so very sorry! Oh, my Lyla, my darling, I’m here for you now!” Foxe crooned as he approached the cell. His expression matched his syrupy tone as he gestured for the hangdog deputy to unlock the cell, and Lyla thought she might gag.

  But of course Frazier had to play the doting, horrified fiancé, and it was best to follow his lead when they were in public. “I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen,” she replied archly. “I’ll simply die if Mrs. Delacroix or the others hear where I landed after I left her shop!”

  “Calm yourself, dear-heart. We’ll see that your reputation suffers no slur because of this beetle-brain’s incompetence.” Frazier clamped his arm around her shoulders with another sickening smile and then glared at Rex. “And we’ll see this nincompoop fired! My contacts at the United States Marshal’s office will be hearing about this, Mr. Adams, and I guarantee you’ll be unemployable in Colorado because of it!”

  The deputy looked ready to cry, so Lyla preceded Frazier out the door without flashing the I-told-you-so smirk she’d saved for him. Her turn was coming. Foxe’s stylish black carriage was parked a short distance down the street, with Kelly Jameson lounging on its driver’s seat. He winked suggestively at her before she was whisked inside by her escort.

  “Drop us at the Imperial and then return to the ranch, as we discussed,” Foxe instructed. “And be damn sure Connor and the others are here by the thirteenth.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Foxe.”

  Frazier slid onto the seat across from her and slammed the carriage door, his true colors showing now. “You, young lady, have some explaining to do,” he said in a hiss. “And when I’m finished with you, Connor has a few choice words.”

  “Connor deserved everything he got! I will not be threatened!”

  “We’ll discuss this in private.”

  “Yes, we will!” Lyla stared defiantly out the coach window, all the while feeling Frazier’s disgusted gaze. Since Foxe planned to guard her here until the wedding, McClanahan had the perfect chance to gather information at Foxe Hollow. Barry would return with the incriminating documents Jack Rafferty was carrying, and she’d be keeping their target in plain sight so this ordeal would be over within a few days. She couldn’t allow herself to become smug, but these aces up her sleeve would keep her confident no matter how Frazier tried to intimidate her.

  He hurried her through the Imperial’s lavishly-decorated lobby as though he couldn’t wait to get her upstairs, wearing a fawning smile for the benefit of the few people who saw them. It was Sunday morning, February fifth, and Lyla sensed she’d be sick to death of this artificiality by the time Barry and Matt rescued her.

  They entered the hotel’s most exclusive suite and when Foxe shut the door the change in him was immediate. He laid his stick and derby in a nearby chair with the deliberate grace of an executioner who had all day. His cool demeanor warned her he’d act particularly nasty until she acquiesced to his wishes.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, carefully, so he wouldn’t rumple his starched shirt. “You were a fool to leave during that blizzard, Miss O’Riley.”

  “And you were a fool to assume it would stop me.” She walked slowly to a table that held a vase of wine-red roses, reminding herself that she, too, had a facade to maintain. If Frazier suspected he was her prisoner, instead of vice versa, her cause would be lost.

  “Whatever possessed you to come to Cripple, dear-heart?” he asked sardonically. “Surely you knew I’d look here first. Surely you knew I’d not stop looking until I found you.”

  Lyla plucked a rose from the arrangement and inhaled its deep sweetness. She turned, widening her eyes at him. “I can’t imagine you trusting the fit of that magnificent gown to luck, after spending hundreds of dollars to impress your friends with it. I’m thinner than when Mrs. Delacroix made my first dresses, you know.”

  He adjusted his monocle, frowning slightly. “And?”

  “And what?” she asked coyly.

  Frazier stalked over to stand in front of her. “How did it fit?” he demanded. “What did you think
of it?”

  Milking his moment of insecurity, she closed her eyes and inhaled her flower again. “I felt…like a princess,” she breathed. “Miss Dailey and Mr. Kraus and the others loved it, Frazier, and so will all the guests who cram into that church to get a peek at me wearing it.” She opened her eyes, speaking sincerely this time. “You’re truly a talented man. Every millionaire’s daughter for years to come will copy her dress from yours.”

  As she hoped, her profuse compliments made him forget his anger. His slender face was alight with the knowledge that his accomplishments would be lauded by the elite of Cripple Creek. What other groom could boast of not only affording such a gown, but of creating it?

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said quietly. “I can’t wait to see you gliding down the aisle in it. And I’d appreciate it if you’d change out of that rag you’re wearing immediately. Your clothes are in the adjoining room.”

  Lyla chuckled, heady with her success. She turned toward the door, forcing herself to walk rather than skip, and was stopped by Foxe’s imperious voice.

  “You realize, Miss O’Riley, that if you so much as attempt another escape you won’t live through it.”

  She gave him a solemn smile, again speaking sincerely. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you, Frazier. I have far too much to look forward to.”

  Chapter 29

  For the next few days Lyla felt like an actress in a fairy tale being performed upon the stage of Cripple Creek. She floated from one fine shop to the next, costumed in her lovely dresses, spending exorbitant amounts on anything her heart desired, at Frazier’s insistence. She ordered an entire wardrobe from Mrs. Delacroix, complete with coordinating underthings from Miss Dailey’s and the finest leather shoes from Mr. Kraus. Each meal was an elaborate affair at an elite restaurant. Each evening found them at a play or a concert—any place Foxe could show off his bride-to-be.