Heaven in My Arms

by Colleen French

  Silver leaped onto the bed and lay down.

  Celeste studied her own reflection in a floor-length oval mirror as she tied the bonnet to her head with the wide, pale green ribbons.

  "It's wrong not to tell him who you are," she whispered to herself. "What you are." But there was another man in her life who didn't know the detestable truth either. She turned away from the mirror and her own admonitions. "Stay, Silver. I'll be home directly."

  Celeste found Fox outside on the front porch, seated on the swing, his bowler hat in his lap. "Do you want your coat?" she asked as she tossed her sage green cape over her shoulders. "It gets rather cool quickly here in the mountains, and it looks like rain. I could fetch it for you."

  He shook his head. "No, thank you. I think I'll be warm enough without it."

  She stood at the steps leading down off the porch and waited for him, but he seemed in no hurry to leave the swing. "It's nice here, isn't it?" she asked.

  "Peaceful," he murmured.

  She wrapped her arm around a white pillar and stared off into the mountains beyond the tiny town. Carrington was situated in a bowl, surrounded by mountains with a river running through the valley. It was that river that had brought the town its success in the form of gold, until it had eventually played out and produced nothing but fresh water again.

  Celeste glanced at Fox from around the pillar. The air was cool and fresh and the scent of the surrounding pine trees mingled with her neighbor's apple pie, and a hint of rain. Though the sun was bright, somewhere in the distance a thundercloud rumbled. "I suppose after your city life in San Francisco, you would find the beauty of nature rather boring."

  Warmth spread from her ears to the tips of her toes as his gaze met hers.

  "I have never been a man to find beauty in anything or anyone boring." He emphasized the word anyone in such a way that she knew he was referring to her.

  For sweet heaven's sake. John's son was flirting with her!

  She turned away. Celeste knew that by a man's standard she was beautiful. Her thick, wavy hair was a natural red gold, her eyes bright green, her porcelain skin flawless, save for the sprinkling of freckles on her nose. She had full breasts and a narrow waist and legs—a gentleman had once told her—that stretched to the moon. But Celeste despised her appearance. Perhaps if she'd been moon-faced and bucktoothed like her younger sister, she would not be selling her body to make enough money to keep her secret safe in Denver.

  Fox rose. "Well, shall we go?"

  They walked side by side down the wooden sidewalk, through the residential part of town, past storefronts and saloons, many closed and boarded up. Celeste took the long way through town, so as to avoid Peach Street and Kate's Dance Hall. She wanted Fox to herself a little longer, the truth about her safe from him just a few more hours.

  As they walked, they chatted amiably, as if they had known each other a very long time. Celeste told herself that she was comfortable with Fox because he was John's son, but the truth of the matter was that she was insanely attracted to him. His flirtation on the porch seemed to be evidence that he was attracted to her, as well. It wasn't that he had done or said anything obvious, it was just that after all these years, if there was one thing Celeste knew, it was men. What was truly charming about Fox's interest in her was that he wasn't blatant, at least not compared to the fellows that passed through her life at Kate's.

  Fox and Celeste reached the grave site just as the sun was setting in a ball of fire beyond the crests of the snow-sugared mountains to the west. The small, whitewashed clapboard church was surrounded by dozens of graves marked mostly by wooden crosses, but a few headstones.

  Most of the men who rested here had died in mining accidents, either by cave-ins or runaway ore wagons. A few had died of gunshot wounds in bar brawls. There were no female graves, to Celeste's knowledge, save for Lottie's. She'd died last year of the clap.

  Celeste led Fox to his father's grave, weaving her way between the many burial mounds arranged in orderly rows. The Reverend Joash Tuttle kept a neat graveyard, as neat as his church on the bluff, as neat as his parlor with the horsehair settee.

  Grass had begun to grow over the mound of earth that covered John's grave, and the wildflowers Celeste had planted were beginning to spread with bushy green leaves and buds. By mid-summer, the daisies and bluebells would be in full bloom.

  Fox halted at the foot of the grave and stared at the polished granite headstone. John L. MacPhearson, it read. Loving Father. The inscription was followed by his dates of birth and death. He had been a few months short of his fifty-first birthday.

  "Loving Father," Fox read sarcastically. "Yeah, right, John." He turned away.

  Celeste was as surprised by his bitterness as she was by the pain in his voice. John had painted a verbal portrait of devoted father and son, telling Celeste that he didn't see Fox often because his son was so busy traveling the world as a successful businessman. Had it been a deliberate lie, or perhaps just wishful thinking?

  "How'd you get the stone so quickly?" Fox asked, apparently recovered from his emotions. He stood with his back to the grave, studying the whitewashed church with its cupola bell tower.

  "He ordered it before he died." Celeste lifted her cotton skirts and sank down on one knee to pull a weed from the grave. "He looked at hundreds in a catalog before he chose just the right one. Had it shipped from Denver."

  "How morbid."

  "Perhaps to you or to me." She tossed the weed over her shoulder and reached for another. "But for John it was a way of preparing himself for the inevitable. He liked to make plans; it made him feel secure."

  Fox turned back to the grave, rolling a small rock with the toe of his polished shoe. "He shouldn't have had to choose that headstone alone. I should have been here for him."

  She rose and brushed the gray dust from her sprigged skirt. "You should have been here," she agreed, "but he wasn't alone."

  Their gazes met, and once again Celeste felt warm all over. Fox wasn't angry with her over her mild admonition. John had been right. His son was special. Fox was the first man in the last eight years to make her forget her shame, to make her feel pretty. This feeling inside that he created, allowed her to see hope for her own future where no hope had been. She didn't know what it was about Fox that made her feel this way. Maybe it was just the idea that she could spend time with a man, enjoy his company, and have him enjoy hers without the inevitable looming over them—sex on a squeaky bed. "Shall we go?" He bowed his arm out to her, and Celeste accepted.

  As they passed the church and the rectory, Joash Tuttle walked out on the porch. "Evening to you, Celeste."

  "Evening, Joash." She halted, knowing she'd not escape before she introduced Fox. "I'd like you to meet Mr. MacPhearson, John's son."

  The reverend strode off the porch to greet Fox. In his mid-forties, Joash was tall and wiry, with a bulging Adam's apple. His head seemed too large for his body, emphasized by his receding hairline. Behind his silver wire-frame glasses, his gray eyes were kind.

  "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. MacPhearson." Joash did not shake Fox's hand, but folded his pale, beefy hands together as if he intended to pray.

  "Thank you."

  "I'm sorry you couldn't make it before he passed on. Your father was a good man. A friend to us all here in Carrington. Appreciated by us all."

  Fox nodded.

  Celeste sensed that Fox was trying to be polite, but that he wanted nothing more than to escape the graveyard and the reverend's incriminating gaze. Celeste never paid any mind to Joash. He'd been trying to save her soul for years, but she could understand how Fox could find that innocuous, yet accusing gaze unsettling.

  "Mr. MacPhearson hasn't had his supper yet, and I'm sure he's tired from traveling," Celeste said. "We really should be going."

  The screen door shut and Mrs. Tuttle descended the porch steps. She was a tall woman, as tall as her husband, with broad, sturdy shoulders and a plain, round, German face. Her graying hair was
curled tightly in corkscrews at her cheeks, often singed from overindulgence with the metal rod of a curling iron.

  "Miss Kennedy, did you enjoy the cake Mr. Tuttle brought you?" Despite Mrs. Tuttle's plainness she had a pretty smile. Celeste guessed that it was that smile that had first attracted Joash to her.

  Celeste smiled back. She knew Mrs. Tuttle disapproved of her, but the woman always made it a point to be kind. Once when Celeste had been ill, Mrs. Tuttle had actually come to Kate's Dance Hall and nursed Celeste through the fever. "It was delicious. Thank you. No one makes angel food cake like you, Mrs. Tuttle."

  "Mrs. Tuttle," the reverend said. "Let me introduce you to John MacPhearson's son."

  Mrs. Tuttle fluttered her eyelashes as she always did with handsome, younger men, and she and Fox exchanged pleasantries.

  Celeste glanced up at the sky as thunder rumbled across the sky. "We'd best be going, Mr. MacPhearson. I fear the storm is moving in quickly."

  Celeste and Fox said their goodbyes and headed back through town, taking the same route they'd come. Dusk settled over the empty streets. A few stray dogs scuttled in the shadows. Piano music could be heard faintly, though from where, one couldn't quite tell.

  "Creepy," Fox said.

  "What?" Celeste strode beside him, her petticoat swishing, her arm brushing his.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Reverend." He twitched his shoulders in a shudder. "They're creepy the way they look at you with that holier-than-thou air."

  Celeste laughed. "They're really very nice, both of them. It's a minister's job to keep his sheep in the flock. They're harmless. Besides, Mrs. Tuttle is the best cook in Carrington. If you think her angel food cake is good, you should try her cherry cobbler."

  "Speaking of food, I'm hungry." He glanced at her. "Is there a hotel where we can dine?"

  She frowned. "The Green Glass burned to the ground last fall. It was a beautiful place, three stories high with a muralled ballroom and enough rooms to put up a hundred people, but Mr. Marvel didn't rebuild after the fire. No one came to stay any more, anyway. I hear he moved to Colorado Springs and opened a new hotel."

  "Surely there must be some place to eat." They circumnavigated a battered ram barrel. The clouds overhead moved taster, and the rumble of thunder grew louder and closer as if pursuing them.

  Kate's was the best place to dine, but obviously Celeste wasn't going to suggest they go where customers would constantly be attempting to buy her services. Celeste hadn't returned to Kate's Dance Hall since John died, and many of her regulars had been asking for her. Celeste knew she would have to return to Kate's soon, but she was trying to stretch what little money John had left her to delay the inevitable. "I have an idea," Celeste said brightly. "Come back to the house, and I'll cook you a meal better than any you can find in Carrington."

  "I thought you said Mrs. Tuttle was the best cook in town," he teased. "Perhaps I should go there."

  She laughed and looped her arm through his and stepped off the end of the plank sidewalk, crossed the rutted street, and stepped back onto the walk. "Rack of lamb with fresh mint—the last of Mrs. Tuttle's spring lambs—new potatoes, and buttermilk biscuits. Will that suit your palate, Mr. MacPhearson?"

  He placed his hand over hers where it looped through his arm. "Fox."

  She looked at him from beneath the rim of her straw bonnet. "Pardon?"

  "Call me Fox."

  She smiled. "Only if you'll call me Celeste."

  "You took such excellent care of John. I feel like I know you well. Like you immensely."

  She felt heat in her cheeks in response to his compliment. No one before had ever come right out and said they liked her.

  "There's no need for formalities between us."

  She said nothing. He was charming, this son of John's. She'd give him that. Charming enough to have coaxed the pantaloons off many a young lady, she guessed.

  "Fox?"

  "Celeste?"

  "Have you a wife?" John said his son had never married, but she doubted he'd remained celibate. She wondered if he had a woman, perhaps even a fiancée.

  He glanced at her sideways with sparkling dark eyes. "I do not. I'm quite available."

  She felt a curl of pleasure in the pit of her stomach and she cut her eyes at him. His flirtation didn't pass unnoticed, and she felt a strange surge of anticipation.

  "No fiancée, no woman you lavish with attention?" He glanced down at the plank walk caked with dried mud. "There was, but . . . she's gone. Dead."

  "Oh." She knitted her brow. "I'm sorry."

  He waved his free hand as if he could skim over emotions that she sensed weighed heavy on his heart. "Oh, I miss her, but it wouldn't have come to anything. We wanted different things. We had different values, shall I say."

  "I see." She wondered what he meant by values. "How long has she been gone?" Celeste didn't know why she was being so nosy. She never asked her customers anything, not even their names. Many, though, were anxious to spill their life stories into her lap before lifting her petticoats, as if that could somehow justify their deed.

  "A year," Fox answered.

  "And there's been no one since then?"

  "I suppose I was waiting for you."

  Celeste felt a warmth rise across her cheeks. She was amazed to discover that she could still blush. "You're as charming as your father was, Fox."

  "Hopefully more sincere."

  There it was again, that dry sarcasm of Fox's. They walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  Supper was all that Celeste had promised it would be. One of her best efforts. She had not learned to cook in her mother's home. There had been cooks and kitchen maids for that. It wasn't until Kate Mullen had taken Celeste in that Celeste had found the need to learn how to prepare meals. She had found it less laborious than scrubbing wood floors with lye soap, and far more rewarding.

  After supper, Fox suggested that they take their sherry out onto the porch.

  A light rain began to patter on the tin roof. Bright lightning cracked the skin of the dark sky. It should have been a full moon, but the black clouds obscured it from view.

  Protected and dry in the shelter of the porch, Celeste sat beside Fox on the swing, safely at the far side. He pushed with his long legs, and she tucked her feet beneath her, enjoying the smooth motion. She sipped her sherry, wishing the evening would never end.

  "Thank you for the supper and your company, Celeste. I can't say when I last had such an enjoyable evening."

  She smiled at him. "Funny how people take to each other, isn't it?" She didn't know what made her speak so boldly of her own feelings, or to suggest she understood his.

  The swing glided back and forth.

  "Funny," he echoed. "I've been with women from all over the world, Paris, China, New York City, and I've never felt so comfortable with anyone as I do with you."

  She could feel his gaze on her. "You're quite the popular man, Mr. MacPhearson."

  She heard him slide his hand toward her and then felt its warmth on her arm. "I didn't say that to impress you with my manhood. I meant it as a compliment to you."

  Over the years Celeste had become wary of men and their words, but for some reason she believed Fox spoke sincerely.

  He took her hand in his and she squeezed it. "I know. I'm just not used to such lavish attention."

  "John said you were unattached." He slid along the swing until he was beside her. "Is that still true? No rich miner has come to sweep you off your feet and out of this dying town?"

  Celeste held her breath. She didn't know what to do. She'd spent so many years playing the game of seduction that she didn't know how to allow herself to be seduced. She was afraid of Fox and his advances, but at the same time she yearned for the attention. She longed to feel special.

  "No," she answered in a small voice. If only he knew the truth of how desperately she had once wanted to be rescued. Before the resolution. Before the dull, throbbing acceptance of her lot in life. "No one has rescued me."


  "I'm sorry. I've offended you."

  "No."

  "Frightened you, then, by my forwardness."

  She felt so strange inside, like a young girl with her first flirtation. It was so odd to couple those feelings with her obvious experience with men. "A little."

  He caught a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek and gently tucked it behind her ear. "I want you to know I'd never take advantage of you or your virtue."

  She almost giggled out of nervousness at his mention of her virtue.

  He tentatively slid his arm around her shoulders. In a way, he seemed as shy as she felt.

  "It's just that . . . I don't know how to explain it," Fox said. "I suppose I feel like I've waited my whole life for you, Celeste."

  She knew she should jump up from the swing and retreat to her room, or just burst out with the truth. It was wrong not to tell Fox what she was, or what she had been to his father. But she couldn't help herself. John had lavished attention on her. He had made her feel secure. But John had never made her heart pound like this. He had never made her feel so alive.

  Fox touched her chin with two fingers and gently turned her face toward him.

  In the darkness she could only make out the outline of his face, but she knew he was going to kiss her. A real kiss. Something she'd not experienced in many years. Celeste never allowed her customers to kiss her; it was too personal.

  Just one kiss, she told herself. Another moment of fantasy, and then she would go back to the harsh reality of life.

  Though she was prepared for his kiss, Fox took her completely by surprise. His lips brushed hers in a warm, light caress. It was a chaste kiss, but one of promise if she dared part her lips. Did she dare?

  She touched her finger to the corner of his mouth, and he kissed her fingertip.

  "Marry me," Fox whispered.

  Chapter Three

  Celeste inhaled sharply, but felt as if she were suffocating. It wasn't that she'd never been proposed to. Customers were always asking her to marry them. John had made that request at least once a week for the last three months of his life. But somehow this was different. It cut into her heart and bled her. It made her want to cry, not just tears, but torrents. She wanted to cry for all that was lost, all she would never have.