Heaven in My Arms

by Colleen French

  Fox lifted the leather reins in his hands and urged the horse south toward town. "I don't know about you, boy," he said to the dog, "but I'm parched. I could use a drink. You?"

  Silver sat up on the bench seat beside Fox and stared straight ahead at the storefronts and buildings that loomed ahead. At the mention of a drink, the mutt cocked his head inquisitively and thumbed his tail eagerly.

  "I suppose we could stop at Kate's Dance Hall." He looked at the dog. "No?" He grimaced. "Doesn't sound like a good idea to me either. How about Sal's? I could get you a big bowl of water and a nice sarsaparilla for myself. What I really want is a good kick of whiskey, but I don't imbibe anymore. Got me in too much trouble. Made me too trusting."

  Fox chuckled as the dog licked his arm where he'd pushed up his dusty sleeve. Surprisingly, he'd enjoyed his day out on his father's land. It had made him feel closer to him. He had remembered some of the good times they'd spent together, rather than the feelings of loneliness and abandonment that he usually associated with John MacPhearson.

  Fox remembered sailing wooden boats with canvas sails on a stone-lined pond in a Boston park. He remembered riding his first horse, a palomino, at a livery stable in St. Louis. He remembered his first whore, a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday. Her name had been Antoinette and she'd been a redhead. Maybe that was why he was partial to redheads.

  Fox glanced at Silver. Surprisingly, the dog had been good company. Better than Celeste would have been. The dog was comfortable with him, and he with the dog. Neither expected anything from the other, so neither could be disappointed. Celeste made him uncomfortable, not because she was a tart, but because he knew she was a tart and he was still insanely attracted to her. Hadn't he learned his lesson with Amber? Apparently not well enough.

  Fox returned the wagon to the livery where Kate Mullen stabled her horse, and then he and the dog walked down Peach Street, past Kate's Dance Hall to Sal's. While Kate's was not yet open for business, Sal's was a saloon and, therefore, always open to a thirsty man with a coin in his pocket.

  Fox entered Sal's through the swinging doors, carrying his coat and waistcoat on his arm. It had gotten warm out on the claim, and he'd shed them hours ago. It was the only suit of clothing he owned, and he knew he had to take care of it. Only a week ago he'd been heartsick at the loss of all his French suits and German leathers. Today, though, one suit seemed plenty for any man.

  With Silver trailing behind him, Fox walked up to the bar and took a seat on a cracked wooden stool. It shimmied when he lowered his weight onto it, and for a moment he wondered if it would hold him or send him crashing to the floor.

  Fox looked up and groaned inwardly at his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the bar. Sal's Saloon was written with a flourish in gilded gold paint across the top. Fox always hated mirrors, hated being forced to look at himself. He glanced away.

  No one sat at the bar or the tables that were scattered in the hall. The red and gold velvet drapes were pulled shut on the small stage constructed at one end of the bar. There wasn't a soul in sight. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  "Hello? Anyone here?" Fox's voice echoed off the crumbling plaster walls and high ceiling, sounding tinny.

  After a moment a curtain of fringe rustled over a doorway to the far left behind the bar. A man with a handlebar mustache and a balding head emerged. "We're closed," he grumbled.

  "You don't look closed. Door's open." Fox didn't mean to be argumentative, but he didn't feel like going back to the house on Plum Street. It was too strange being alone in his father's house. Too strange to be there without Celeste.

  The man looked up. "I said, we're closed," he barked.

  Fox threw up his hands defensively. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't meant to ruffle your feathers, I just wanted a drink of water for my dog."

  The bartender peered over the bar at Silver. "That ain't your dog. 'At's John MacPhearson's." He lifted a pitcher from the bar, poured water into a large glass, and slid it across the polished but scarred bartop.

  Water sloshed onto Fox's hand as he caught it. "John was my father." He lowered the glass to the floor and Silver began to lap it up greedily.

  "Still ain't your dog. Now he's Celeste's. You ain't got no right to claim that dog, same as you ain't got no right to that claim of John's."

  Fox frowned. "Who might you be, sir?"

  "Sal," the bartender grunted. He pulled a cloth from the strap of his green suspenders and wiped at a drop of water on the bar top.

  "So this is your place." Fox indicated the room. "I heard about the woman who was killed. I'm sorry."

  Sal continued to wipe the bar despite the fact that the water was gone. "'Bout put an end to my business. Who wants to come drink, play cards, dance in a place known for dead whores?"

  Fox gave a nod of empathy, thinking it ironic that he was the one at the bar doing the listening, rather than the talking.

  "Not that it matters," Sal went on. "I'm about ready to close up anyway, move onto another place where I can make a decent living." He continued to rub the same dry spot. "I'll miss her, though, little Margaret. She was right cheeky. Nice girl. Wanted to go to Oregon and catch herself an apple farmer."

  Fox glanced over his shoulder as the hinges of the swinging saloon door squeaked behind him. A man wearing a ten-gallon hat and a badge in the shape of a star approached. "Afternoon, Sal," he said in a Texas drawl.

  "Afternoon, Tate."

  Sheriff Tate took the stool beside Fox. "A double rye," he ordered.

  Sal had said that the saloon was closed, but apparently it was never closed for the town sheriff.

  "Afternoon," Fox said. "I'm Fox MacPhearson, John—"

  "I know who you are," the sheriff cut in, then accepted his double whiskey, and threw back half the shot in one gulp. "Already know who you are, 'cause it's my business to know strangers in town."

  Fox glanced uneasily at the sheriff, then back at Sal. The sheriff was almost too stereotypical to be real. Who did he think he was, a Texas Ranger? "Well, thanks for the water for the dog. Appreciate it, Sal." Fox started to rise off the stool, and the sheriff tapped the bar with one hand.

  "Not so fast."

  Fox stared at the sheriff, not liking the way Tate looked at him. He didn't like the man's accusatory tone of voice either.

  "Have a seat, Mr. MacPhearson. I got a question or two for you."

  Fox hesitated for a moment and then settled on the creaky bar stool again. He didn't know why he was feeling so defensive. If the sheriff wanted to ask a few questions, he supposed he could answer them. After all, what could the questions possibly be? Why was he here? When was he leaving?

  The sheriff finished his whiskey and wiped his mouth with his bulging forearm. Fox wondered if he'd been a blacksmith in a former lifetime.

  "Did you know the girl?" Tate asked. He stared at Fox with pale blue eyes.

  "The girl?" Fox cocked his head. "What girl?"

  Tate looked at Sal and then back at Fox. "If yer gonna be difficult, Mister, I can haul your fancy white ass down to the jail and see how difficult yer feelin' after a few days on Deputy Garner's pork and beans. Give you gas something ferocious."

  Fox would have laughed at the man's ridiculous statement, but he knew Tate wasn't kidding. He really would throw him behind bars, and what could Fox do about it? Telegraph his lawyer? How would he pay him? Hell, he barely had enough cash to pay for the telegraph.

  "I've only been in town a few days," Fox said as he looked the man straight in the eye. "You'll have to clarify whom you speak of."

  "Have to clarify whom you speak of," Tate mimicked. "The dead girl, that's who the hell I speak of!"

  Fox didn't flinch. He'd been to hell and back on more than one occasion in his lifetime. Men like Tate didn't scare him. "No. I didn't know the dead girl, though I believe I heard her name was Margaret. Miss Kennedy knew her."

  Tate's eyes narrowed. "You bunked up with the Kennedy hussy, now, are you?"

  Fox g
round his teeth, suppressing his urge to knock the sheriff off the bar stool with one well-placed punch. It had been a long time since Fox had been in a brawl, but not so long that he'd forgotten how to swing. He knew what Celeste was, but he didn't like hearing it come out of this jackass's mouth.

  "Miss Kennedy has ottered the hospitality of her home to me while my father's estate is settled," Fox said icily.

  Tate looked away, backing down a notch. "So you didn't know Mealy Margaret?"

  "No, sir."

  "But you came in on the 4:30 the night she was murdered?"

  "Coincidence."

  Tate didn't say anything. Fox took that as his opportunity to depart. He slid off the bar stool that wobbled and picked up the glass Silver had used. "Thanks, Sal. What do I owe you?"

  "For water?"

  Fox hooked his thumb toward the bar stool. "You ought to get that thing fixed before someone falls off it."

  Sal frowned and leaned his elbows on the bar. "John MacPhearson used to do the repairin' 'round town. Never charged nothin' but a rye or two."

  Fox nodded and glanced at the stool again. "Well, I may be around a few days. Might come by and take a look. Once upon a time I was good with my hands."

  For the first time Sal met his gaze and something twinkled in his eye. "That'd be nice of you, Mr. MacPhearson."

  "Fox." He tipped his bowler hat and walked out of the saloon with Silver on his heels. "Have a nice day, gentlemen."

  Back at the house, Fox and the dog ate what was left of the angel food cake, bread and jam, and some peas he found in the icebox from the night before. Silver wouldn't eat the peas, so Fox gave the mutt the last slice of his bread. Their meal finished, they went into the parlor as twilight settled. It was too early to go to bed, but Fox didn't know what to do with himself.

  He missed Celeste's light footsteps, the delicious smells that came from the kitchen, her voice.

  He sat in a chair with a newspaper on his lap and scratched Silver behind the ears. Fox had never had a dog, not even as a child. He had never thought himself the kind of man who would like a pet, but honestly, he enjoyed the dog's company.

  "So who do you think is in Denver?" Fox contemplated as he stared at the gas lamp that flickered and cast shaky shadows on the floor and far wall. "A man? A client?"

  The dog licked Fox's fingers.

  "She doesn't seem the type to be in a place like Kate's. Maybe she's working on her own, trying to build business in Denver. Or maybe . . . " He stared without seeing. "Maybe she has a wealthy, married man. He beckons; she runs to him."

  The dog stared with big, limpid brown eyes.

  Fox sighed. He couldn't believe it. He was jealous. He was jealous that Celeste might be lying in bed with some fat, balding businessman at this very moment, while Fox sat talking to a dog. The truth, though hard to admit, was that Fox wanted to be in Celeste's bed.

  He wondered what it would be like to stroke her hair, to nuzzle her breasts, to make her sigh with pleasure. Of course Amber had always faked her pleasure with Fox. All whores did. Would Celeste be the same, or could he crack her veneer? He liked to think he could arouse her. But more importantly, he liked the idea that maybe he could make her feel—really feel. She had certainly unsettled him emotionally.

  Fox groaned and lunged out of the chair, letting the newspaper fall.

  The dog started.

  "Want to go for a walk, boy? I can't stay here. I can't just sit here and think about her." He walked into the foyer and grabbed a sturdy coat made of denim that he'd found in his father's armoire. In the same dresser he'd discovered denim pants and a durable brown shirt. From under the iron bed he'd retrieved a pair of work boots. They had all been his father's, and though Fox had never worn such common men's attire, he liked the feel of it against his skin. He liked the smell of the washed clothing. Probably because it smelled like her.

  Silver bounded toward the door. "We'll go for a walk and then hit the bed early."

  Silver followed him out the door.

  "I figure she's got to be back in a few days, but we might as well keep busy while she's gone. Let me go over my plan with you."

  Six days after she left Carrington, Celeste returned on the 9:30 A.M. train. It had been a tiring trip with the train passing through little towns, sometimes stopping to pick up passengers, other times sitting for hours while coal or supplies were loaded into cars. Still, Celeste returned calm. Everything was all right in Denver. She'd taken care of the problem, which turned out to be minor.

  As Celeste walked up Plum Street, she wondered what she would find when she reached home. Would Fox still be there? All week she had tried to think of nothing but the problem at hand. She'd tried not to remember the way his hair fell boyishly over his forehead, or the way he laughed in his rich baritone voice. Mostly she tried hard not to think about the one kiss they had shared.

  But once she had solved the issue in Denver, all she'd been able to think about was Fox and returning to Carrington to see him. Logic told her it would be better if he'd returned to San Francisco never to be heard from again, but she hoped he'd still be here. Even knowing nothing could exist between them, she liked having him around.

  Celeste came into sight of John's house and spotted Fox sitting on the porch, swinging, the dog beside him. She felt a heat flush her cheeks at the sight of him. Fox was dressed in his father's denims and a leather miner's cap. The sturdiness of his attire was complimentary to his own rugged good looks, the clothes as becoming as the pin-striped suit had been.

  "I see you didn't harm each other while I was gone," she called, hoping he couldn't tell how glad she was to see him.

  Fox looked up, his face breaking into the most engaging smile she'd ever seen on a man. His dark eyes crinkled with laughter and her heart gave a little patter beneath her breast. She didn't understand what was happening between them, but he seemed to be as happy to see her as she was to see him.

  Silver bounded off the swing and ran down the walk toward her, barking and leaping. Fox rose to take her bag.

  "We were beginning to worry about you."

  "We?" She untied the wide azure ribbon of her bonnet as she climbed up the porch steps.

  Fox looked sheepish. "Silver and I."

  "Don't tell me you changed masters again?" She halted on the porch to pet the dog that bounced up and down around her and nipped at the hem of her azure taffeta gown.

  Silver dropped to his haunches and huffed and chuffed with pleasure as she scratched his back with her blunt fingernails.

  "You were gone so long." He swung the carpetbag in his hand, trying to seem causal. "I was . . . afraid something might be wrong. You didn't say why you'd gone."

  She gazed up at Fox, not certain if she was flattered by his concern or disturbed by it. Something had changed between them in her absence. It was almost as if they had both forgotten who the other was, and they were on the porch swing for the first time again. Of course Celeste knew they couldn't go back, not ever. "I didn't tell you where I was going because I didn't want you to know."

  He sighed and pushed back his hair. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I'm just . . . we're . . ."—he indicated the dog—"glad to see that you're all right. With a killer on the loose, you never know," he finished lamely.

  He walked around her and backed toward the door with her leather satchel still in his hand. "Hungry? I made flapjacks. They're not as good as yours, but decent. Or tea." He glanced up, as eager to please as the dog was. "I could make you tea."

  She stood and pulled off her bonnet. "I'm not hungry. Just tired."

  Fox gestured. "You want to sit on the swing. Rest? It's a beautiful day. Has been all week."

  Celeste took a seat on one side of the swing, flattered by his attention, charmed by his awkwardness.

  She gave the swing a push with one toe of her black button shoe. "So what did you two do to keep busy all week?"

  He set the satchel by the door and joined her on the swing. The dog immediat
ely jumped up and sat between them.

  Celeste didn't know who was acting more peculiar, Fox or the dog. The dog had never sat in the swing with her before. Not even when John had been alive.

  "We . . . uh, the dog and I, we checked out the claim." Fox said it so casually that she knew there was more meaning behind his words than he let on.

  "Oh?" She scratched Silver behind his ears. "And?"

  Fox pushed Silver off the swing impatiently as the dog turned and tried to lick his face. "Enough all ready." Fox's eyes met her gaze. "And . . . " He gave a noncommittal shrug. "We panned a little in the river. Didn't find anything, but I think digging is worth a try. We might hit gold. Who knows?"

  Celeste lifted an eyebrow. She didn't know what she expected from Fox, but this wasn't it. Did he mean they should mine the land together, as business partners? Would he be willing to do that? Could she trust him?

  But that would mean he would stay, a little voice whispered in her head.

  Celeste halted the swing with her foot. "We? When did my idea of a mining operation become a partnership?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I think you've got some explaining to do, Mr. MacPhearson."

  Fox took his time in responding. "I just thought it would be a decent business venture for us both. You could make the kind of money you would need to get yourself out of Carrington—"

  "And whoring," she offered tartly.

  "You could do what you wanted to do, Celeste, whatever that might be. Set yourself up as a rich widow in California. Open a mercantile store in Boston. You could do anything you set your mind to."

  She pushed the swing with the toes of her boots and they glided backwards. The warm breeze kissed the dark hair at his temples and sent it fluttering. His rugged good looks and earnest, dark eyes made it difficult for her to concentrate on the subject of the claims John had left her. "I understand the advantages for me of making money off the claims, should I strike gold." She looked straight ahead, focusing on the painted white rail on the far side of the porch. "My question is, what's the advantage to you?"