Fox chuckled. Maybe the joke was on him. Who in their right mind would buy this fairy-tale house in the middle of a ghost town?
He walked up the painted white steps and across the porch. A swing drifted back and forth in the breeze at one end. To his left were a row of flower pots filled with dirt, zinnias or daisies yet to be planted in them. A trowel lay beside the pretty clay pots, as if recently abandoned.
His father's cryptic letter had said he would leave someone to watch after the house. Apparently he'd had the good sense to hire a man as caretaker, or perhaps a spinster nurse had stayed on after his death to watch after the house and gain a roof over her head for a few months. Fox wouldn't evict whoever it was immediately. He would give him or her a few days to find lodging elsewhere.
Fox's first impulse was to walk right into the house. After all, it was his inheritance. One of the few things his father had ever given him. But he didn't want to startle the caretaker, or worse, be shot for an intruder. He rapped his knuckles firmly on the paneled oak door, his leather satchel still in his hand.
A dog barked wildly, and he heard the padding of the animal's four paws as it approached the door from the inside.
Fox heard footsteps behind the door. Light footsteps; confident, yet feminine. It swung open and his gaze met with the clearest green eyes. An angel. A green-eyed angel with a halo of red gold hair.
Fox had never before experienced such an immediate attraction to a woman. It wasn't his way. If he'd been asked only a moment before if he believed in love at first sight, he would have denied its existence with a cynical chuckle. Suddenly he believed otherwise.
A large yellow mutt thrust its black nose through the open door and growled. Obviously a guard dog, it kept its hind end pressed into the young woman's billowing skirts.
For a moment Fox didn't know what to say. This had to be Celeste, the woman his father had mentioned in his final letter. Celeste, the heavenly angel.
A whore. The moment Celeste's gaze met Fox's—for surely this could be no one but Fox MacPhearson—she wished desperately that she was not a whore. She wished that she was once more the young socialite of Denver, her reputation unblemished. For the first time in her life, she desperately wished she could turn back the hands of time.
"Mr. MacPhearson?" she asked with a catch in her voice.
Silver whined.
Celeste smiled at the stranger as she dropped her hand to her dog's smooth head to let him know the man was welcome. Silver had been John's dog, only now he was hers. "You are Mr. MacPhearson, aren't you?" she asked when he didn't respond immediately.
"Uh, yes. Yes, Fox MacPhearson."
He seemed older than his thirty-some years, but not in a negative way. His handsome, angular face had the look of a man of experience. She was pleasantly surprised to see that he was clean-shaven, unlike most of the men that passed through Carrington. He didn't even have long side-whiskers, which were popular with city gentlemen of the day. He had the same black Indian eyes as John, the same smile that could make a woman swoon. Even a whore.
"Come in." She stepped back, self-consciously smoothing her cotton day gown. She'd been gardening and felt rumpled. She nearly stumbled over the dog as she stepped back into the foyer. "Silver, back, boy."
"How . . . how did you know it was me?" He followed her into the marble-floored foyer.
"Well, we don't get a lot of strangers here in Carrington, not since the gold petered out in the gulch," she answered, trying to get past her silly embarrassment. "And you look Just like John, I mean your father, I mean Mr. MacPhearson." She stumbled over her words, not understanding her reaction. She had been expecting John's son for weeks. Why was she suddenly so clumsy?
He laughed, his smile radiating a warmth of sincerity. His voice was deeper than John's had been, rich, heady, like the oak of a good Chardonnay wine. "No, I don't suppose you do get a lot of visitors."
He removed his hat, and she hung it on the oak hook over the mirror in the foyer. Unlike his father's black hair, his was dark brown, and without a sliver of gray.
"I'm sorry, I . . . I didn't introduce myself," she stumbled, still feeling awkward. "I'm Celeste—"
"Celeste Kennedy. Yes, John told me in his letter."
She felt a strange sinking in her heart. She also noticed that he referred to his father by his first name. It sounded so impersonal and uncharacteristic of the man that stood before her. "He . . . he told you . . . about me?"
"Not exactly." Fox set down his leather bag and pushed back a thick lock of hair that fell boyishly over his forehead. "You know John, he could be vague when he wanted to be."
She smiled hesitantly, and met his gaze. He doesn't know who I am . . . or at least what I am. John didn't tell him, the sly old bird . . . And Fox hadn't guessed. Otherwise it would have reflected in his dark eyes. It always did with men and women, though the look was different. With women it was accusing, bitter, a little envious in some bizarre way. With men it was lust, pure lust, and lack of respect. The lack of respect had always bothered Celeste more than the lust.
"I'm sorry. How ungracious of me to keep you standing in the foyer. I was making myself a cup of tea." She motioned down the hallway, toward the kitchen. "Would you like one?"
"I would love a cup of tea." He removed his overcoat and hung it on the hook beside his hat before Celeste could take it for him.
She liked a man who could fend for himself. She walked to the kitchen, Silver leading the way. Never once in her life had she seen a man hang his own coat, not even John. "I . . . I was planting flowers. Summer's going to come early to Colorado this year."
"Is it? To San Francisco, too. That's where I came from."
"I know." She indicated a white kitchen table where he could sit and retrieved an extra teacup, saucer, and white damask napkin.
Silver circled Fox, watching him with curiosity.
"Lay down, Silver."
The dog obediently slid to the floor and rested his muzzle between his front paws, but kept his gaze fixed on the stranger.
Celeste turned her attention back to Fox. "John . . . your father, talked about California often. He used to say he was headed back that way."
Fox chuckled, but his dark-eyed gaze reflected a shadow of pain.
"Always searching for that mother lode, wasn't he?"
She smiled at the memory of John. This was just small talk. Something she'd gotten good at in the last few years, but Fox was easy to converse with. He made her comfortable. Maybe it was just because she liked the idea that he didn't know she was a whore. Of course she would have to tell him the truth, but the fantasy was so pleasant that she let it go a little longer. It had been a long time since she'd felt this kind of freedom with a man—the freedom to just be herself and not have to worry about saying what he wanted her to say . . . or doing what he wanted her to do.
She watched Fox study the bright white and yellow kitchen. Sun poured in through the west window and cast golden light across his face.
"You've taken excellent care of the house," he said.
She lifted a kettle of hot water off the black, cast-iron stove and crossed the kitchen to fill the flowered china teapot. "It's a beautiful house. All the modern amenities. Gaslights and a flush—" She blushed as she replaced the lid on the teapot and walked back to the stove. "John loved modern conveniences. He was always reading the newspapers to me, telling me what's been invented. He used to swear we'd be riding in horseless carriages in another ten years."
Fox chuckled with her and reached for the teapot. Celeste reached out at the same instant. Their fingertips brushed. She lifted her gaze to meet his across the kitchen table, feeling a connection with him that went beyond John. A strange tingle arced between their fingertips.
Celeste pulled back in amazement. Must have picked up static electricity on the hall carpet, she thought. But she knew better. The moment he had touched her, her reaction had been emotional as well as physical. In her line of work, emotion was dangerous.
"I'm sorry," Fox apologized. "I thought I would serve you." He studied her warmly. He was such a true gentleman. "May I?"
Celeste couldn't take her eyes off Fox. This felt so strange. She had cared for John deeply, perhaps even loved him on some level. She had shared a bed with him many times, but she'd never felt this way about him. Never felt this immediate attraction that she felt for his son. A little frightened by the thought, she glanced away. Celeste had worked hard to isolate herself from men, to protect herself, even from John. She'd never felt like she was in danger of cracking before . . . before now.
She watched as Fox poured the amber tea into her teacup with the expertise of a parlormaid. "You do that well," she said as he poured himself a cup.
"Thank you." He smiled. "Thought I might find myself a job in a London teahouse serving crumpets sometime."
He doesn't take himself too seriously, she thought. That was admirable in such a successful man.
She laughed at his silliness and he laughed with her as he reached for the cream and sugar on the table. He had large, broad hands, clean and steady. Celeste had always thought a man's hands told much about him. She could see that Fox had not worked manually for a living, as most men who passed through Carrington had. And judging from the newsprint stains on his fingers, he read a great deal.
"I seem to have upset your dog. I don't think he cares for me." Fox indicated the big yellow mutt with a nod of his chin.
Celeste glanced at Silver. "No, he likes everyone. John used to take him wherever he went. He used to say Silver had seen every saloon west of the Mississippi and east of the Nevadas."
"Silver?" Fox raised an eyebrow. "The dog is as yellow as a nugget of Colorado gold."
She chuckled. "Silver was John's; I'm surprised you didn't know about him. Surprised you never saw him. They'd been together for years. It seems John won him in a poker game. Originally his name was Gold, but John said he wasn't a prime dog, not worthy of the name, so he called him Silver, after the lesser metal."
Fox nodded. "Sounds like something he would do."
They both sipped their tea in a comfortable silence.
"Oh." Celeste glanced up at him. "I'm sorry. I just don't know where my manners have gone today." She rose from her chair, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. It had never occurred to her that she might be physically attracted to John's son. It had been a very long time since she'd been physically attracted to anyone. Whoring did that to a woman.
"Would you like a slice of cake? Mrs. Tuttle sent it over with her husband. He's the reverend here in town. Joash keeps an eye on me."
Fox took a sip of his tea and pushed back in his chair, casually propping one ankle on the other knee. "I'd love a piece of cake."
"It's angel food." Celeste sliced off a piece and placed it on a china dish she drew from the cupboard overhead. "Light as a cloud in the heavens, Joash says." She took a fork from a drawer and set it and the plate in front of Fox before retreating to her chair on the far side of the table. She felt safer there.
"You're not going to have any?"
She shook her head.
"What? Another woman who doesn't eat?" He cut off a bite-size piece of white cake with his fork and brought it to his mouth.
Celeste watched him part his lips, mesmerized by their full sensuality. "Uh . . . no." She laughed, the spell broken. "It's not that I don't eat, only that I've had three pieces today already."
He laughed with her again, and their voices echoed off the punched-tin ceiling.
Fox took another bite of the cake and Celeste sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of the teacup, fascinated by how in some ways he was so like John, and in other ways so different. Many of his mannerisms were the same as his father's, like the way he slipped the fork out of his mouth, his lips pressed to the tines. But while John had often been crude in his table manners, Fox was smooth and obviously comfortable with the silver plate and the fragile china. She had no doubt he had been served tea in London. While John had been a simple man, Fox was obviously a worldly one. He reminded her of the men she had known in Denver, men who had wooed her. That had been more than eight years ago. It felt like eight centuries.
Fox finished the cake and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin before taking a sip of his tea. "Well, Miss Kennedy, this has been very pleasant, but I suppose we should get on with business."
Celeste set down her teacup with a slight clatter. "Business?"
He made a motion with his hand meaning to get on with it. "Of John."
That sinking feeling came back again. For a half an hour's time she had been a woman sharing a cup of tea with a handsome man. In a moment she would just be a whore again. "Your father, you mean," she said softly. "You haven't called him your father, only John." She didn't mean to criticize but, to Celeste, it seemed disrespectful.
For a split second Fox looked uncomfortable. "Y . . . yes, my father. It's just that I never called him that. Only John. We both preferred it that way."
"Even when you were a little boy?" She was amazed by his confession. It seemed so unlike John. And there was the way Fox explained it. He said he had preferred it that way, but their was something in his voice that expressed otherwise. "John never told me that."
Fox uncrossed his legs and pressed both hands to his thighs, leaning forward slightly. "Miss Kennedy, you seem to have known—or think you knew—my father quite well." There was an edge to his voice now. "Will you tell me exactly what your relationship was with him?"
Chapter Two
Celeste sat perfectly still, her hands clenched in her lap. "My relationship?" Stalling, she repeated Fox's phrase as if she hadn't heard him correctly.
"Yes, your relationship." He slid back his chair, making a wood-scraping-wood sound.
Silver looked up in response to Fox's movement, and Celeste dropped her hand to the dog's muzzle to reassure him.
The kitchen seemed darker than before. A cloud must have passed over the sun. She watched Fox pace with swinging arms and a long stride, the identical way John had paced the same floorboards.
"I don't mean to be rude but what is . . . was your relationship with John MacPhearson? Why are you in his house? Why do you speak of him in such a familiar way?" He paused, seeming dread to ask the next question. "You weren't his wife, were you?"
She blinked, surprised by his possible conclusion. Who would marry a whore? Even a whore with a good reason for her fall from grace? But then she remembered that Fox didn't know she was a lady of the evening. "N . . . no. We weren't man and wife."
Celeste could have sworn she saw relief wash over Fox's face. She got the distinct impression that he was pleased that she and John had not been husband and wife because Fox himself was attracted to her.
"So you were . . . ?" He raised a dark eyebrow, making a motion for her to complete his sentence.
Only Celeste didn't know how to finish the sentence. She wanted to be honest, but didn't want to just blurt out that she had been his paramour. Nor did she want to say that the first night she'd met John, he'd been nothing more than a well-paying customer who, to Celeste's good fortune, bathed. But their relationship had quickly changed. She had become more than that to him, and he more to her. To say she was only his whore would have trivialized their relationship . . . even John's life.
"I . . . I was his friend," Celeste said finally. "His very good friend."
"I see." Fox appeared even more relieved. "You watched over the house?"
"I took care of John during his illness." She lowered her lashes, softened her voice. "I moved in with him when he could no longer care for himself. I bathed him, dressed him, read to him. Sang his favorite songs to him."
Expecting further grilling, Celeste was surprised to look up and find Fox standing beside her.
He rested his hand on her shoulder. "Then I thank you."
Though Celeste had shared many intimate acts with men, his touch seemed more personal. She was so confused by how Fox was affecting her. By
her reaction to him.
"I appreciate your doing what I couldn't," he said with a gentleness she had never realized a man was capable of.
She wanted to ask why he hadn't come to Carrington sooner . . . why he hadn't been here for his father's last days. Yet she wasn't sure she wanted to know why.
"He was never any trouble. Not even in the end." She smiled, feeling a catch in her throat and tears welling behind her eyelids. She wanted to cover Fox's hand with her own because she felt the need to comfort him in return, but she didn't. "Even in the end. He was still laughing and teasing. It was a gentle death . . . for a gentle man."
For a moment both Celeste and Fox were silent, each lost in their own private memories. The silence seemed to bind them together as two people who had both lost a great deal when John MacPhearson had died.
Fox lifted his hand from her shoulder and stepped away from her. "Would you mind taking me to his grave, Miss Kennedy? I'd like to see it."
It amused her to be called Miss Kennedy. It had been a long time since she'd heard the phrase. "Now?"
He glanced at the window. The room had turned bright again. "There's still plenty of daylight left. If you don't mind, I'd like to go now. And then, if you'd be so kind as to indulge me, I'd like to take you to supper."
She rose from her chair. Silver moved with her. "You don't have to do that."
"It's the least I can do, considering how well you cared for John."
She gave a nod. "I'll be right back then. Just let me grab my bonnet."
Upstairs in her bedroom, Celeste closed her door and leaned against it. Her heart beat erratically, her breath was irregular, and for once she wasn't faking it. She stared at the yellow-rose vined wallpaper that covered three walls of the bright room. On a fourth wall, behind the white iron bed, the paper was yellow striped. John had had the wall coverings sent from Boston just for her, because he said the yellow had reminded him of her, of everything that was good and bright. Of an angel come down from the heavens.
Comforted by the familiarity of the room, she went to her chiffonier and removed a straw bonnet.
Heaven in My Arms Page 2