“It’s already started. The city is growing, not as fast as Leadville, but it’ll catch up. After the fire of 1863, flammable building materials were prohibited downtown. All shops were rebuilt with stone or brick. That’s why you don’t see any wooden structures in the business district.”
“Is that more of Olivia’s trivia?” he asked.
“She can tell you everything about the city since it was founded in 1858 at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte River. It was only a collection of tents and flimsy wooden structures.”
He spread his hands wide. “And look at it now. Who would have thought it would grow into this?”
She laughed. “Come back in ten years, it’ll look completely different. You’ll see structures still standing in the twenty-first century. But right now, there are only about twenty houses standing that will be here in our time. Olivia just bought the house that Adam and Christine Hughes live in now.”
“It’s still standing?”
“It needs work. She wants to restore it to its original condition. We’ll have to get inside so you can take pictures to show her what it looked like when it was new.”
He lowered his voice, conspirator to conspirator. “Stick with me, baby doll. I’ll get you in.”
Amber laughed. “We won’t have to break in. We can stop by for a visit.”
They traveled through the business district, crossed Cherry Creek, and traveled up 19th Avenue to Sherman Street, along a quiet dirt road. It was far enough removed from the bustle of downtown to be considered a fashionable area.
“Is the Robinson house still standing?”
“Homes around here will come down in the early 1900s for the downtown expansion. But in this decade, houses on this street are showplaces.” The carriage lurched to a stop in front of a stern, massive, almost medieval mansion with a pillared, arched entryway constructed of sandstone and surrounded by a low retaining wall topped with decorative iron scrollwork. Rick opened the door and helped her down, and they waited there, at the edge of the dirt road, until Daniel, Noah, and Ripley alighted from their carriage.
“It’s an impressive house.”
“Scary. Out here all by itself. I just hope Mr. Robinson isn’t as scary.”
Daniel walked up to her. “I’m a mess,” she said. “My riding skirt is dusty, creased, and stained, and my hair is a wreck. We should have stopped and bathed before we came here.” She glanced up at the mansion. If she hoped to have any influence over the Rio Grande’s situation in the gorge, and limit her ancestors’ financial exposure, first impressions were important.
“Alec knows we’ve been traveling for two days. You’ll have time to bathe before you see him. Don’t fret.”
“I thought he’d be here to meet Noah.”
A vertical line appeared between Daniel’s eyebrows, and he chuckled at that, but it was a raw broken sound. He tucked her gloved hand under his arm and escorted her to the house. “Few things matter more than his bank.”
Daniel was wrong. Noah’s grandfather was home and waiting in the foyer, dressed in a coat of fine wool. He was fiddling with his shirt cuffs, adjusting them to protrude a proper half-inch beyond his coat sleeves. He was an attractive man of medium height. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and his graying brown hair gleamed with Macassar oil.
Noah ran to him, and Mr. Robinson stooped to hug him. Amber got a whiff of bay rum and lavender, a complex and masculine aroma.
Noah stepped out of the older man’s embrace and moved to stand next to his dad and Ripley. Daniel gave his son a reminder pat on his back. “What’d ye say, lad?”
Noah yanked his cap off his head, held it close to his chest. “Thank you, sir, for inviting me. This is my dog, Ripley. She’s a…” Noah looked up at Amber. “What kind of dog is she?”
“Chesapeake Bay Retriever, or Chessie for short,” she said.
“She looks like a mighty fine dog,” Alec Robinson said.
Daniel clapped his former father-in-law on the back with one hand and gave him a hearty shake with the other. “Good to see ye.”
Alec smoothed his mustache and his shoulders eased a bit, tension flowing out of his stance. He’d been as anxious about the visit as Daniel had been. Now she wondered if Daniel’s comments fearing his father-in-law would leave town were just a ruse to manipulate her into staying here.
“It’s been a long time, Dan.”
“These are my traveling companions I mentioned in my wire. Miss Kelly and her cousin, Mr. O’Grady.”
She’d prepared for a mutual inclination of their heads and polite greeting, but Alec bowed low over her hand. Between his warm fingers lightly squeezing hers and his unreadable eyes drooping at the corners, she found herself momentarily tongue-tied.
“Looks like the Irish have invaded my home.”
She untied her tongue and said quick-wittedly with a wink, “You’ve got the luck of the Irish with you now.”
He laughed and squeezed her hand again. “My son-in-law says you have a rare interest not only in fossils, but in finding a resolution to the volatile situation in the gorge. You are an uncanny woman, Miss Kelly.”
A middle-aged woman, primly dressed in black, appeared in the foyer, a chatelaine dangling from her waist. The suspended chains with thimbles, keys, and scissors clinked against each other as she strode across the foyer. “Mr. Robinson, we have rooms prepared for Miss Kelly, Mr. O’Grady, and Noah. If Miss Kelly and Noah will come this way, we’ll get them settled in.”
Mr. Robinson released Amber’s hand to his housekeeper, who patted it gingerly. His attention seemed to be wavering, drifting away from them, disappearing into indifference. Not overtly, but she sensed it.
“Pa,” Noah said. “I want to stay with you and Rick.”
“After yer bath, lad,” Daniel said, “ye may join us in the library.”
Noah perked up. “Thank you, sir.” He gave his dad a hug and with Ripley trotting behind him, Noah marched toward the waiting butler, standing by the newel post at the bottom of the staircase.
Amber found being relegated to her room to nap while Noah was invited to the library insulting. For today, though, being insulted took second place behind exhaustion. Until she rested, her mind wouldn’t be sharp enough for a serious intellectual conversation with Mr. Robinson or anyone else.
“I’d like to get my bag from the carriage,” she said.
The housekeeper put her arm around Amber’s waist and guided her toward the staircase with its hand-carved mahogany banister and railing. “The bags have already been taken to your rooms. Come along. A hot bath and a warm bed await you, along with a special concoction from the Robinson family doctor.”
“If the concoction is a cup of tea with a shot of whisky, I’ll have a double.”
Alec laughed. “Now I know the Irish have arrived.”
Amber glanced over her shoulder at Rick. “If you go out, let me know.” Her voice sounded odd, miles away, as if someone she didn’t know was speaking on her behalf. His eyebrows went up, but his gaze remained steadily on her, as if he were trying to determine what was really on her mind. She nodded, giving him a brave smile, although she didn’t feel particularly brave at all. Lifting the hems of her skirts a modest inch, she set about to climb the stairs.
“Rest easy, lass,” Daniel said.
She looked at him, even more confused. Her brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She needed hours of uninterrupted sleep. Maybe a concoction didn’t sound so bad after all. Were they trying to manipulate her? If so, why? Right now—so tired and dirty—she simply didn’t care. Carefully, she placed her foot on the bottom tread and glanced up, wondering how in the world she’d ever make it to the top landing.
33
1878 Denver, Colorado—Amber
Amber reclined in an elegant four-poster bed in an opulent bedroom filled with Victorian black walnut furniture, intricate needlepoint pillows, and tapestries hanging on the wall. Dressed in a velvet and silk peignoir, she fel
t almost decadent. The décor wasn’t her taste, but she couldn’t complain about the luxurious surroundings, and the attention she’d received from Mr. Robinson’s housekeeper, Mrs. Murphy, and from Millie, the family’s brownish-black Siamese cat.
The room had a decidedly feminine touch. So much so that she’d originally thought the room had belonged to Mr. Robinson’s wife. But Mrs. Murphy had informed her the late Mrs. Robinson predeceased her daughter and neither had ever lived in the Sherman Street house.
The fireplace on the opposite side of the room was decorated with a mahogany mantel and topped with polished brass candlesticks. The gas lamps with delicately etched chimneys created a warm, romantic glow, and cast enough light for her to write in her journal.
She’d been jotting down observations and drawings religiously since the second day of her adventure. None of her sketches would ever win an art award but they were enough of a likeness that she wouldn’t forget what people and places looked like. Her drawing of the bedroom wasn’t half bad. Although she didn’t need so many drawings now that she knew Rick had a spy camera, but she doubted he’d take pictures of furniture and wallpaper.
Her travel skirt was draped over the top of the decorative room screen, a soiled and stained reminder of the exhausting stagecoach trip from Leadville.
“Oh,” Amber said, remembering another note she wanted to make.
Millie had been asleep under the covers and peeked her head out. “Meow.”
Amber rubbed her belly. “I wasn’t talking to you. Go back to sleep.” The cat meowed again. “I didn’t want to forget to tell Olivia about the fringe, multi-colored tassels, lace, and stained glass.” Satisfied she’d covered all the room’s features, she slipped the pencil into its loop and closed the journal, patting the cover.
Olivia would love the mansion, nineteenth-century Denver, and especially Leadville. She’d be swishing her dresses with tucks and horizontal folds, pleats and flounces along the city streets, soaking it all in. If she’d gone to the cabin with her that Saturday morning, they could be sharing this adventure together.
Amber put her hand on her chest. The shortness of breath was worrying her. The thin air hadn’t bothered David or Rick, and Kenzie had only been bothered the first day or two. Maybe Amber should cut her trip short. Go home, get better. She could try, but the brooch, pinned in its usual spot above her heart, beneath her gown, hadn’t heated up since her trip there. It wasn’t ready to take her home.
Since she was so familiar with the excavation sites in Morrison, she would only need two days, maybe three, to poke around. And if there was a dig going on, maybe she could interview a few bone diggers, find out exactly what they knew about the Stegosaurus, or what they suspected.
Maybe I can give them a little… I don’t know… Insider information.
Would it be so wrong to speed up their understanding of paleontology? Maybe she could bring Cope and Marsh to the negotiating table, share information with both men and hope they might stop trash talking, stealing, and vandalizing each other’s camps. She could really screw up history, though. Marsh’s attempt to discredit Cope, and Cope’s attempt to discredit Marsh led to the Bone Wars and intrigued the public. That intrigue brought more interest to the study of dinosaurs, and with interest came investors who sponsored more digs, more studies, more scientific articles.
Kenzie had changed history when she went back in time. Could Amber change it a little bit without consequences? Was it worth the gamble? She tapped her fingers on the journal. Bottom line—she couldn’t answer either question.
With the dying fire, the air in the room was chilly now, but beneath the quilts, warm and cozy. The fire needed stoking once more before she turned down the lamps.
She’d slept through half the afternoon and most of the evening but did wake up when Mrs. Murphy brought in a dinner tray about eight o’clock. She had eaten most of the chicken fricassee served with rice, but only nibbled at the pound cake before promptly falling back to sleep. A couple bites of pound cake would taste good about now. But alas, glancing over at the marble-topped table set near the fireplace, the dinner tray was gone. And with it, the cake. But Mrs. Murphy had left behind a small silver tray with a crystal brandy decanter and matching snifters.
There was a vague memory of a visit from Robinson’s physician—who wore the crumpled look and grumpy manner of an old world-weary doctor—and an even vaguer memory of her telling him to go away and leave her alone. She didn’t like doctors and certainly didn’t need to see one trained in nineteenth-century medicine. He’d probably want to do a blood-letting.
The time on her lapel watch pinned to her pillow read midnight, but when she put the timepiece to her ear, it wasn’t ticking. She couldn’t remember when she wound the dang thing. Kenzie had warned her, “Don’t forget to wind your watch.” Amber remembered to put her iWatch on the charger at night. Why couldn’t she remember a task as simple as turning the crown a few times?
She climbed out of bed, stretching her stiff neck and shoulders, listening to the creaking of the house settling, the wind moaning around the corners, whispering through invisible cracks and crevices. There was something comforting about the symphony, but comfort reminded her of Olivia. At a time like this, they’d be texting each other. Amber sighed. She needed pound cake. Her sweet tooth needed a fix. And her melancholy needed a distraction.
It took a minute to locate her cotton and silk house slippers under the bed and another minute to find the velvet-sashed robe that Mrs. Murphy had folded over a nearby chair. The robe, with its tiers of lace cascading down the front and sleeves, was one of several items Kenzie had insisted she purchase during their Leadville shopping excursions.
Amber smiled, remembering David and Kenzie and how much in love they were. Kenzie should know by the time Amber returned home if she was pregnant. Amber rubbed her belly, wondering what it would be like to carry a child. Her parents were dying to be grandparents, but they’d have to wait a while longer. Hopefully, Olivia would have news of a budding relationship with Connor to share with their parents. At least the news would raise their mother’s level of expectation above that of a pipe dream and take the pressure off Amber.
She slipped into the robe and searched the room for a clock and the missing pound cake. When she couldn’t find either, she cracked open the door, palm flat against the wood panel and listened. Since she didn’t hear the familiar tread of Mrs. Murphy’s stout black shoes, she decided it was safe enough to go wondering around the house. How difficult could it be to find a clock and a piece of cake.
Subdued light filtered into a small landing area at the top of the grand staircase. Down the hallway, toward the room where she knew Noah was sleeping, a dimmer light flickered. She tiptoed, and when she approached the corner of the hallway that would take her to the grand staircase, she ran smack into the rock-hard chest of a man—bong.
She all but bounced off him.
She shrieked, grabbed her chest, invoking a primitive instinct to calm her racing heart. Inhaling deeply to control her breath, she picked up the scent of whisky and sweet tobacco and the wind-blown chill of the night. And like a bloodhound, she picked up the familiar scent of Daniel.
He grabbed her shoulders to keep her upright. “Are ye off to raid the kitchen?”
With his hands settled on her, the tension that had been mounting in her shoulder blades and into her neck melted under his soft touch. Assured of her balance and that she wasn’t going to topple over and fall into his arms, she stepped away, carrying the warm imprint of his hands still on her.
She quivered in that odd prelude she experienced when she knew a man wanted to kiss her. “I’m looking for a clock,” she said. “I wanted to know the time.”
He teased a smile at her. “Where’s yer wee watch?”
Guiltily she said, “I forgot to wind it.”
“It’s not useful then.” He opened his coat, pulled out his pocket watch, and flipped the casing open, angling it toward the gas lamp for
her to see the time. On the back of the cover was a picture, she now knew, of his late wife, looking slightly younger than the woman in the carte de visite she’d seen at Noah’s bedside.
Daniel closed the watch. “Two-thirty.”
She finger-combed her hair to one side and let it all drape over one shoulder, twirling the ends around her finger, something she did when deep in thought. Although right now, her thoughts weren’t deep. It was that oxygen-to-the-brain-thing again.
She looked around the empty hallway and lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose that’s two-thirty in the afternoon.”
He gave her a wide smile, all straight white teeth. “Are ye that anxious to go find yer fossils?”
“I guess that’s a no.”
She folded her arms, tapped her fingers against her biceps, wondering what she’d do until morning if she couldn’t fall back asleep. He was so close to her that on her next breath, she deeply inhaled the scent of him again. He stood still, frozen with an expression of deep concern etched on his features, yet he somehow managed to look delicious and dangerous at the same time. What was it Rick had said to her?
If you’re sure where you want to end up, let that guide the decisions you make while you’re here.
She wanted to go home without longing for a man she could never have a relationship with. If she was thinking about a middle-of-the-night activity that involved a sexy Scotsman and a feather bed—she could just forget it.
“What are you doing walking about at this hour? Did your meeting just end?”
He was dressed in dinner clothes, neat, but not freshly pressed. His cravat was slightly askew, as if done in haste or undone and redone. His blond curls were beaten, but not entirely bowed, by some hair application or other.
“It ended a while ago,” he said, without offering any explanation of where he’d been since. But he smiled, and there was something in his eyes. Something that caused her breath to catch.
“Good night, then.” She made a slow about-face and returned to her room. But before she could close the door, Daniel was standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, holding onto the ornate brass knob.
The Amber Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 8) Page 38