Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  It was an impoverished immigrant’s dream, and it was Lyla’s nightmare. By hobnobbing with attorneys, bankers, mine owners, and Cripple’s highest society—some she’d known when she was a maid at the Golden Rose—she quickly became the toast of the town. The girl on the Wanted posters only weeks ago was now the mining district’s most celebrated ingénue. But she was being squired around by the wrong man!

  Why hadn’t Matt or Emily McClanahan contacted her by now? Where was Hadley McDuff hiding—and what would she say to him when she saw him? And why was it taking Barry so long to catch up to Jack Rafferty? Each time she set foot outside the Imperial on Frazier’s arm she was on constant guard, watching for the people who could spring her from this elaborate trap. Numerous photographs of her appeared in the Cripple Creek Times, but beneath the bright smile she wore in public beat the heart of a frightened little girl who wanted this masquerade to end.

  Frazier, meanwhile, basked in the glory she was bringing him and flashed a gleeful mustachioed grin wherever they went. Only Lyla knew he was gloating, holding her so possessively with his gloved hands because he assumed she’d flee the moment he let her out of his sight. The door between their adjoining rooms was always open; she sensed his presence in the night, checking to see that she was in her bed. She heard the scratching of his pen in the mornings, sketching her in various stages of undress, in a myriad of moods…in the throes of a passion he represented with aching, erotic clarity yet never showed the least inclination toward participating in himself.

  Just when Lyla thought his duplicity would drive her mad, she caught sight of Emily McClanahan. A uniformed waiter was serving them tea in a secluded alcove of the Imperial’s lobby, and in her excitement she nearly knocked the sterling tray from his hands.

  “Emily! Emily, over here!” she cried as she sprang from her chair. Knowing Foxe couldn’t stop her with other guests and the waiter looking on, Lyla hurried over to greet the petite blonde—the only friend she’d seen for days!

  Emily gripped her hands, her tawny eyes wide with questions. “I was hoping I’d see you while I was in town,” she said with a cautious glance toward Frazier. “You look wonderful, Lyla! And you’re certainly stealing my thunder, being in all the papers and becoming the belle of Cripple Creek.”

  “We were just having tea—waiter! Please bring us another cup and saucer,” she instructed.

  The man bowed on his way to the kitchen and Lyla grinned uncontrollably for the first time since she’d come to town. Finally, someone who could tell her how Matt and Barry’s search was progressing! And by the saints, she’d find a way to get Frazier out of earshot if only for a few precious moments, to hear every morsel of news Emily could tell her.

  Gesturing toward the overstuffed chair beside her own, she addressed Foxe in the honeyed voice she used when she wanted to waste his money on some frivolous extravagance. “Do you believe our luck, Frazier dear? Mrs. McClanahan’s in town, and she was looking for us!”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Emily,” Foxe replied crisply. He rose to grip her hand briefly, wary of this visit. True to his new image, however, he put on a smile and offered her the crystal plate of tarts and little iced cakes. “Sweets for the sweet? The Imperial prepares one of the most sumptuous tea trays in town.”

  “I really can’t,” Emily replied apologetically.

  In her excitement, Lyla hadn’t noticed her friend’s pallor, and Emily wasn’t the type to fret over her weight. She was wearing a jacket of burnt orange velvet trimmed in brown fur, with a matching hat that sported an ostrich plume—an outfit that would have flattered her coloring immensely if she hadn’t been growing paler by the minute.

  “Emily, is there anything—”

  The young woman clutched her stomach, covered her mouth, and glanced frantically about before leaning toward a huge ornamental urn displayed beside her chair. It was the neatest job of retching Lyla had ever seen, but it sent Frazier up from his seat in disgust.

  “Really, madam! If you were ill—”

  “Frazier, for God’s sake,” Lyla hissed. “Get us a cold cloth instead of causing such a spectacle!”

  Foxe’s expression told her he suspected something, but a whiff of the urn’s contents sent him scurrying toward the registration desk. Lyla wrapped her arm around Emily’s shoulders and guided her toward a sofa across the lobby. “An ingenious trick to get rid of Frazier,” she murmured, “but you didn’t have to throw up for me.”

  “It’s no trick. It’s morning sickness, all day long,” came the barely-audible reply.

  Her eyes widened and she hugged her friend fiercely. “Congratulations! Oh, Emily—”

  “Shhh! Just listen, before he gets back.” Emily eased herself down, her golden eyes urgent in a face as pale as the lace doily on the sofa. “Matt made it back from Foxe Hollow with evidence of forgery and extortion,” she whispered, “but Barry hasn’t found that Rafferty fellow or the other papers. He’s gone to Wyoming looking for—”

  “Wyoming?”

  “Shhhh! Here he comes.” Emily leaned back, fanning herself weakly with her hand as Frazier approached them. When he gingerly handed the wet cloth to Lyla, she managed a smile. “I’m truly sorry I spoiled your tea, Mr. Foxe. Dr. Geary says I’ll stop erupting in a month or so, but meanwhile I’m liable to be an embarrassment.”

  Frazier’s brow arched above his monocle. “You’re…in the family way?”

  “Yes. I just confirmed it before I came here.”

  “Well, I—” He seemed embarrassed, glancing toward the maid who was carrying the offensive urn from the lobby. Then he clasped his hands, composing the transparently false smile Lyla had come to know so well. “Please accept my warmest wishes, and send my heartiest congratulations to Mr. McClanahan.”

  Emily nodded, appearing stronger now. “Matt’s at the bank, probably waiting for me,” she said with a hint of mischief in her voice. “I—I hate to meet him, smelling like…would you be so kind as to bring me a shot of schnapps, Mr. Foxe?”

  His mustache twitched. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Schnapps,” she repeated, her eyes taking on a coyness Lyla truly admired. “It settles my stomach, you see, and the peppermint tastes—and smells-much better than what I just got rid of.”

  Once again Frazier’s face clouded over with suspicion but he headed toward the registration desk to make her request.

  “You are a genius,” Lyla whispered gaily.

  “And you’re treading on thin ice,” Emily warned in a low voice. “Matt says he’ll check on you when he can, but of course he can’t get close enough for Frazier to notice him, and he wants Barry to have the pleasure of making the arrest. Be careful,” she added urgently. “If Thompson doesn’t make it back before the ceremony, bail out. If you wait too long and end up married to Frazier—”

  “It’ll never happen,” she replied staunchly. She pressed the cool cloth to Emily’s forehead, refusing to consider the consequences if the marshal returned too late. “Come hell or high water, Barry’ll be here. He promised.”

  Emily nodded. “I hope nothing happens. Oh, Frazier—you’re a saint,” she continued in her normal voice.

  Foxe approached with a small tumbler of clear liquid, eyeing them, yet smiling as though nothing unseemly had transpired since she arrived. “To your health, Mrs. McClanahan,” he toasted as he gave her the glass.

  Holding the liqueur daintily, Emily smiled at Lyla. “To years of happiness with the man you love,” she said as she lifted her drink in salute, “and to you, Mr. Foxe, a lifetime of surprise and adventure only a feisty lass like Lyla can provide.”

  As the next days passed in a flurry of receptions and teas held in their honor, Lyla became increasingly anxious. Surely Hadley hadn’t returned to Ireland without speaking to her, yet she never saw him in the stores or at the nightly performances they attended in Cripple’s magnificent opera houses. He was a decent man at heart—certainly preferable to Frazier—but he was a bumbler, and Lyla feared h
e’d appear at the last moment with some trumped-up plan that would foil Thompson’s rescue efforts.

  And where was Barry? Lyla gazed out her hotel room window each morning, praying for the sight of a tall, sturdy rider on a buckskin stallion, heading toward town along one of the mountain trails. But he didn’t appear.

  She was losing her appetite. She was losing her nerve. Each event they attended became more difficult to endure, and Lyla was sorely tempted to blurt out that Frazier Foxe was a murderer and a man who cheated his closest friends. But who would believe her? Not the millionaires whose soirees grew even more lavish as Valentine’s Day approached—not after they’d watched her pander to Foxe and happily spend hundreds of his dollars every day. Exposing him without the marshal’s support would be suicide…Frazier would see to that.

  And on Sunday the twelfth, when the Foxe carriage brought Connor, Miss Keating, and Oliver Hollingsworth to the Imperial, Lyla had no choice but to keep her mouth shut and keep praying that Thompson would arrive soon. Allegra seemed more pinched than usual as she quizzed Frazier about his arrangements and her duties for the wedding. Connor, who still bore some bacon grease burns and a few toothmarks, kept his distance as though saving his revenge for when he got her alone, after the ceremony.

  Only Hollingsworth carried on with his usual dignity, smiling blandly even when Frazier’s nerves began to fray. There was little for him or Allegra to do, since the hotel’s staff performed all the housekeeping, so he chatted or merely sat reading while waiting for Foxe to summon him.

  Frazier declined invitations for the thirteenth so he could spend the morning confirming that all was ready for the ceremony and the banquet at the New Yorker restaurant. As he picked up his derby and gold-headed walking stick, he gave Lyla and Hollingsworth a pointed look. “See that my bride gets her rest,” he instructed. “Tomorrow’s her big day, and nothing short of radiance will do for Mrs. Frazier Foxe.”

  The valet bowed slightly, his face as smooth and pink as a baby’s, until Foxe shut the door. Then he turned to Lyla with a conspiratorial grin. “I know you’re up to something, Miss O’Riley. May I be of assistance? Is all going according to plan?”

  Taken aback by his candor, Lyla studied him closely. “It’s too soon to tell,” she replied. “Did Frazier explode in your face when he discovered I escaped from the house?”

  “I think he expected it, actually.”

  She nodded, gazing out the window for the hundredth time. “Does he realize I took the will and those other papers with me?”

  “Not that I know of. He was too bent on catching you to check his files, and I have no intention of telling him about Marshal Thompson’s appearance, or Mr. McClanahan’s, either.” Hollingsworth’s blue eyes sparkled, showing a boyish side Lyla had never imagined. “They’re helping you, aren’t they? Trying to catch Foxe before he catches you?”

  She nodded, sighing.

  Oliver lifted her chin with a gentle finger, smiling. “It would be my pleasure to drive the coach or help you escape on the train, right now, while Frazier’s out. Jolly good fun, watching him stomp about when he’s been had!”

  “Thank you,” Lyla murmured gratefully, “but only the marshal can solve my problem permanently. I can’t run forever, Oliver.”

  He bowed slightly. “Then I’ll see if I can amuse Miss Keating while you rest. Poor dear’s a mess, now that she realizes the man of her fantasies is indeed marrying a little princess less than half his age.”

  His jaunty words were meant as encouragement, but she glanced toward the door, her brow furrowing. “What if she tells Frazier that a detective’s searched his files and a marshal’s been snooping about? It’ll ruin everything! Barry Thompson’s supposed to be dead, you know.”

  “She never reads the papers—didn’t realize who that huge fellow was when he gave her such a fright in the pantry,” the valet said with a chuckle. “And McClanahan played her like a fine violin. Complimented her luncheon, and assured her that he’d been barking up the wrong tree, where Quentin Yarborough was concerned.

  “Actually, I’m glad she didn’t accept my proposal all those years ago,” he added with a thoughtful chortle. “Állegra’s a nitpicker of the most merciless sort, devoid of humor and imagination. She’ll spend the rest of her life sniveling over her lost love. Spineless, she is. And a bloody poor cook to boot.”

  Lyla watched him leave the suite, still amazed at the valet’s loyalty. A surprising man, Oliver Hollingsworth…or was this another of Foxe’s ploys? Perhaps he paid his manservant to encourage her escapes, so he’d have an excuse to chastise her in warped ways only Frazier could devise.

  She gazed forlornly out the window, unable to keep a tear from dribbling down her cheek. Barry, please—the ceremony’s tomorrow! Send me a sign that you’re here…tell me I won’t be wearing that wedding dress for anyone but you, love.

  Lyla, can you forgive me, honey? Run like hell rather than showing up at the church, because if I get to Cripple and you’re married to that twisted bastard…

  Thompson couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but as he gazed helplessly out his window at an endless expanse of drifted snow, he was damn close to bawling. He checked his watch again. Two hours they’d been sitting here, while the plow cleared a stretch of treacherous mountain track that an avalanche had buried earlier this morning.

  Taking the train had been his only hope for a timely arrival, after a thorough search of Brown’s Park and Hole in the Wall turned up no sign of Jack Rafferty. Both he and Buck were exhausted. He’d hoped to catch some sleep so he could arrive rested, to rescue Lyla once and for all and retire to a life of loving her.

  The conductor passed down the aisle wearing a taut smile. “Sit tight, folks,” he was saying—as though they were going anywhere! “Another hour or so should have the tracks cleared, and then we’ll be on our way. Your patience is greatly appreciated.”

  Patience, my ass! Barry fumed. All his life he’d waited for a woman like Lyla, and now just when he was about to prove himself worthy of her love, a blizzard had stopped him cold.

  He checked his watch again, and, hearing a muffled crackling in his shirt pocket, he pulled out the revealing sketch. He held his breath, gazing at Lyla’s flawless beauty. Would he ever caress those glorious breasts again? Or would she belong to another man by the time he got to Cripple?

  If the latter were true, he might as well be as dead as the papers speculated he was.

  Chapter 30

  When the swelling chords from the pipe organ drifted into the back room, Lyla’s heart lurched. Her worst nightmare was coming true. Moments from now she’d be following Grace Putnam down the aisle, toward a madman bent on destroying her while he produced an heir for his empire.

  Where are you, Barry?

  “If you don’t stop shaking so, I’ll never get this gown buttoned,” Miss Victoria fussed from behind her.

  “If we had any sense, we’d be whisking her out the back door,” the Indian princess retorted. Without her warpaint, resplendent in a gown of scarlet watered silk, Cherry Blossom resembled a beauty queen who was aging but not gracefully. She scowled as she brushed at the white ermine trim on Lyla’s gown. “Get ahold of yourself and get out of here, for Chrissakes! Can’t you see how ludicrous this marriage is? Foxe is a perverted—”

  “It’ll work out for the best. You’ll see,” Lyla mumbled. She blinked repeatedly to clear her eyes.

  “No sense in upsetting her, Grace. She’s had plenty of time to break this engagement and has chosen not to.” Miss Chatterly stepped around to give her a final looking-over. “That truly is the most magnificent gown I’ve ever seen. You look like a fairy princess, Lyla.”

  “She looks like a sacrificial lamb and you know it.” Grace went over to a bookcase and picked up a small, beautifully-wrapped gift. “From your beloved,” she sneered. “He said you’d be expecting it.”

  Her hands shook as she tore away the ribbons. Had Frazier kept his word? Was it the silver s
hamrock pendant that had started this whole horrible affair? As the delicate chain and Mick’s handiwork slithered out of its paper packing, Lyla clutched it to her chest. No matter what happened now, at least her brother’s most precious gift was hers once more.

  Gently Miss Victoria took the necklace and fastened the clasp behind her collar. Grace arranged the shamrock so it nestled where the lace flounce came to a vee above Lyla’s breasts, her dark eyes narrowing. “This is no wedding present, Lyla. You wore this shamrock when you worked at the Rose—”

  “Let her be, Grace.”

  “—and it was stolen on Christmas Eve, along with my turquoise combs!” Cherry Blossom’s eyes hardened, reflecting the red of her dress. “Foxe was behind that robbery, and you were in on it, just as the papers said! Here I was giving you the benefit of the doubt because—”

  “And right now you’ll give her your warmest smile and your best wishes,” Victoria declared as she pulled Grace back by the shoulders. “I believe our Lyla’s done things she felt she had to do, and her reasons will be revealed to us very soon now.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed. Turning from her two attendants, Lyla stood before the mirror, her heart in her throat. Never had her golden-brown hair looked more lustrous, gathered up beneath a coronet of crystal beads which held yards of diaphanous white veil that trailed gracefully over her train. The white satin of her dress glimmered when she shifted, its delicate beadwork sending little rainbows sparkling alongside the soft ermine trim. And there shone her shamrock, restored to its rightful place.

  I know you’ll be here, Barry. Just don’t be too late! she prayed silently.

  The little room’s side door opened to admit Matt McClanahan, who sucked in his breath at the sight of her. Glancing at the madam and Miss Putnam, he took Lyla in a careful hug.

  “There’s no sign of him, honey,” he whispered against her ear. “Please—I’ll handcuff Foxe myself and tell the crowd to go home. This is—”