Colorado Captive Page 11

  Emily felt her feet leave the floor as McClanahan lifted her onto the table. He removed her boots with swift efficiency. As he tugged her pants down over her hips and knees, his face was taut with emotions that matched her own. “Matt…”

  “Honey, you’re all I could think about while I was in the Springs,” he murmured as he slipped her pantaloons off. “I don’t mean to hurry—don’t want to hurt you—”

  “You won’t.” Emily laced her fingers in his dark, warm hair and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Her pulse pounded as she watched him unfasten his gunbelt and fly buttons. Even with his shirt on, McClanahan’s virility overwhelmed her in a heady, wondrous way. His lips roved over hers, and as he stepped between her legs his hands massaged her bottom.

  “Rosebud, you’re so warm . . . Oh, Lord—” Unable to help himself, he plunged into her tight sweetness.

  She whimpered and locked her ankles behind him as he leaned her back against the table top. Her head was spinning with pent-up joy while her body abandoned itself to Matt’s rapid rocking. Spirals of desire raced through her when he peaked and crushed her to his chest.

  Through the euphoric haze inside his head, he heard a kittenlike voice. “Please…don’t stop yet.” McClanahan raised himself on his elbows, watching the pleasure ripple across her lovely face as he rubbed against her with deliberate patience. Emily bit her lip, then shuddered and gave herself up to uncontrollable passion.

  She ran her heels down his bare hips, grinning. “Maybe I am a strumpet, to let a man love me even when he smells like a wet horse.”

  Matt kissed her exuberantly. “We’ll have our times on scented sheets, but for now it feels awfully damn good to know you want me as badly as I have to have you. That doesn’t make you a whore, honey.”

  A little while later they sat cross-legged before a blazing fire, wrapped in blankets as they shared the food they’d packed. Their pants and shirts were draped over the table’s edge, and rain still dripped from chinks in the roof, but Emily felt cozy and content.

  “Something tells me you’re more comfortable here than you are at the mine.” Matt brushed a crumb of biscuit from her chin, smiling.

  “I’ve only been going to the Angel Claire to find my father’s killer, and when Grath’s behind bars, I’ll gladly return to the ranch,” she replied. “But I’ll miss tending the herd with Papa. It—it won’t be the same.”

  He nodded, noting a tremor in her lower lip. “He’d want you to continue supervising your home place, or he wouldn’t have taught you so well. Most women would’ve fallen apart after the day you’ve been through, but you handled yourself like a pro. He’d be proud of you.”

  Emily smiled and snatched a chicken leg from his bundle of food. “It was kind of fun, wasn’t it? I mean, after the train got by, and we knew we were safe?”

  “Talk like that could age a man pretty fast.” McClanahan chuckled and drank from his canteen. I’m not sure I agree with your theory on Grath, though. The pieces just don’t fit.”

  She frowned. “Matt, the man knew I didn’t hire you. And how else could he have found that out, unless he’s been snooping around at the—”

  “But if he’s after my hide, why would he blow up the Florence and Cripple Creek tracks?” he asked earnestly. “I never ride this train—and if he wanted to damage your father’s mining business, he’d sabotage the Midland Terminal line so his ore couldn’t get to the mill.”

  “That would shut the other mines down, too,” Emily argued. “The owners would consider it a union ploy and dock wages till the trains were running again. The Federation wouldn’t stand for that.”

  “No, and it’s just the sort of ruckus Nigel Grath would glory in. If he did kill your father, why’s he threatening me, when he could do more damage by killing Silas?” Matt saw a storm brewing in her light brown eyes, so he kept his voice low and serious. “Grath’s just lashing out against authority—any authority—because he’ll never be anything more than a mine worker.”

  “But he’s a killer, McClanahan. Can’t you see that?” Emily threw her chicken bone into the fire.

  “The days he was absent from the mine coincide perfectly with Papa’s death. You saw the blasting pattern—and you practically dropped your saddle on a keg of powder.”

  He glanced doubtfully toward the corner where he’d deposited their gear. “Would that stuff work in place of dynamite?”

  “Sure—they rolled their own cartridges with it before nitroglycerin came in sticks. Powder’s not as temperamental as dynamite, and it’s more reliable, but nowadays we use dynamite because it’s more convenient.”

  McClanahan didn’t doubt her sincerity or her information, but he wasn’t convinced. “What makes you think Grath stored it here?”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh. “He said he was going to blow you—”

  “And with more than four hundred mines in the district, each with a blaster, how do you know someone else couldn’t have—”

  “McClanahan, you’re impossible!” Emily gestured wildly with her arms, flinging her blanket away from her bare shoulders. “If you didn’t believe Grath’s threat, then why are you here?”

  As the firelight illuminated her ivory skin, Matt could think of two tempting reasons he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, but he gave her a straight answer. “I came because Silas asked me to, and because we can’t ignore rumors that endanger hundreds of lives. We’ve proven the rumor true now. But if Grath really wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it dozens of times today.”

  He was right about that—hadn’t she felt beady eyes following them from behind boulders and underbrush? “Then what’re you saying?” Emily snapped.

  “I think it’s a test,” he replied patiently. “Whoever started the story about blasting these tracks wanted to see how Silas would react. And by telling Eliza he was after me, Grath guaranteed I’d put the stories together and come out here.”

  Emily’s pulse pounded weakly. “He…used me to set you up?”

  “Just a theory. Eliza’s too loyal not to tell me such a thing, and Grath knows I’ll protect a defenseless young lady. Kind of heartwarming, when you think about it.” Her braid brushed across her back as she turned away; the girl who’d outrun a train and laughed about it was getting quivery around the chin when she thought she’d betrayed him. Matt stepped out of his blanket to kneel behind her, gripping her shoulders gently. “It’s all in a day’s work, Emily. Don’t blame yourself for—”

  “But what if he had killed you? I’d never forgive myself.” At the insistence of his warm hand, Emily looked into blue eyes that sparkled with understanding…and maybe more.

  “I know that, honey,” he whispered. “And if I didn’t trust your instincts, I would’ve dismissed the whole story. Right?”

  Emily nodded meekly. “Do…do you think Grath realizes who I really am?”

  “I don’t see how he could, if your father’s friends haven’t figured you out.” Matt coaxed her to her knees, his desire rising as her silken skin brushed his own. “But I’m certainly glad I know the truth about you.”

  He was doing it again, arousing her with so little effort that she wondered if she was a wanton, to respond without any resistance. “I think our clothes are dry,” she mumbled. “And listen—the rain’s stopped.”

  Chuckling, Matt gazed at the pert peaks of flesh pressing against his chest. “You want to leave about as badly as I do, rosebud. We’ve found the evidence we’re looking for, so there’s no need to search further—the marshal can do that. Plenty of time to enjoy each other and still be home before dark, don’t you think?”

  She couldn’t think. Anticipation smoldered within her as she watched Matt arrange their blankets before the fire. His movements were quick, his arousal apparent as he invited her to the pallet with a searching, blue-eyed gaze. Refusing him was as impossible as stopping an explosion once the wick was lit.

  They made love slowly this time, making the sensations last as long as they could without
reaching a peak. Matt kissed her in places where no man’s lips had ever lingered, delighted by the way she explored him in return. As he coaxed her to straddle him, Emily caressed the enticing dark hair which hid nipples as taut as her own. She rode him with firm deliberation, ignoring the hands that insisted she speed up, until her own thrusting hips refused to slow down. A starburst flared between them, and she collapsed in his embrace.

  After a moment Matt nuzzled her ear. “I should be pushing you away, swearing I’ll never hold you again. Yet I’m trying to figure out how we can be alone this week.”

  “With Silas watching my every move?”

  “He sent us here together.” Matt lifted her shoulders, smiling at the concern in her eyes. “Of course, whether he approves or not, it wouldn’t do for Eliza and me to disappear at the same time very often.”

  “You’re very perceptive, McClanahan,” she replied with a wry grin. Seeing that the fire was now a red bed of embers, she kissed him and reluctantly stood up to dress. “And if you make any moves at the Rose, you’ll have Clancy to deal with.”

  “I’d rather contend with a man I can keep track of than a sneak like Grath.” Matt sat up, then rolled their blankets back into their slickers as he recalled something the Indian Princess had mentioned during Miss Chatterly’s birthday ball. “What goes on at Victoria’s teas? Maybe I can wrangle an invitation for next Thursday.”

  “I can’t see you with your pinkie poised over the handle of a cup,” she replied with a chuckle.

  “They really drink tea?”

  “With crumpets and little cakes and scones. Victoria’s a great one for celebrating her English heritage.” Emily stepped into her overalls, gazing up at him as he fastened her straps and tucked her shirttail in.

  Matt let his hands wander down her back, and then slipped his fingers beneath her pantaloons to fondle her bottom one last time. “Perhaps if I tip the maid enough, she’ll find me a bottle of something stronger…maybe join me in a tub of hot, bubbly water?”

  “Perhaps.” She kissed him playfully, until his arms tightened around her and his mouth made her want him all over again. “Matt, we should be…what was that?”

  “What, rosebud?” He held her tightly, listening.

  A strange shriek pierced the silence of the canyon, so close to the cabin Emily hugged McClanahan harder.

  “Some sort of a bird. Maybe a hawk or a woodpecker,” he whispered with a reassuring pat.

  But as Emily tucked her braid up under her hat, the eerie noise rang out again—not once, but twice. It made her skin crawl, because it sounded exactly like Nigel Grath’s laugh.

  Chapter Eleven

  McClanahan propped his foot against the front of the desk in Barry Thompson’s cluttered office. A few rowdies were snoring off their hangovers in the cells down the hall, but otherwise the jailhouse was quiet. “What can you tell me about Nigel Grath?”

  The marshal shrugged, blowing cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “He stays the night here now and then—has a way with words a lot of guys don’t like. Most times I think I’m locking him up to protect him from fights, scrawny as he is, yet I know damn well he starts them.”

  Matt nodded. “Where’s he from?”

  Thompson stubbed out his smoke with a thoughtful expression. “I think he worked in a few other mining camps on his way to Cripple, but I haven’t seen any warrants or posters on him. Why?”

  “Silas Hughes asked me to check out some rumors about the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad being sabotaged. We think Grath’s behind it.”

  The marshal leaned heavily on his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Did you find anything?”

  Not wanting to have Emily’s name bandied about during an investigation, Matt worded his response carefully. “I spent most of yesterday scanning Phantom Canyon. Found a blasting pattern, and there’s some powder and fuse stored in an abandoned cabin nearby.”

  “Jesus, only a maniac would blow…I’ll have some of the boys look it over. Oh—got something here that

  might interest you.” Barry shuffled through the papers that littered the top of his desk, and handed a poster to McClanahan. “What do you think of this?”

  Matt studied the photograph of a man with close-cropped hair and a face pitted with pockmarks—or maybe low-quality printing was to blame for his blotchy complexion. He read the description at the bottom of the page, smiling slowly. “Keep this under your hat, will you, Barry?”

  “Want any help?”

  “No more than what you’ve already given me, for now. Next time we’re at the Golden Rose, the bottle’s on me.” He stood, keeping a triumphant grin to himself. Evidence was lining up like notches on a gun barrel, and if he could tie it all together he’d earn a handsome reward—not to mention Emily Burnham’s undying gratitude.

  “I understand next Thursday’s tea is a coming-out party for a new gal,” the marshal said with a sly smile. “Have you gotten an invitation yet?”

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “No, but I’d like one.”

  “Miss Victoria’s taken a shine to you, and her Thursday afternoons are reserved for preferred customers.” He studied McClanahan with the satisfied air of a man who’d become a member of an elite organization without having to apply. “Watch your box at the hotel.”

  “I didn’t think tea and tarts were your style, Barry,” Matt said with a chuckle. He was turning the doorknob when the marshal spoke again.

  “This business you’re on wouldn’t have anything to do with that little yellow-haired housekeeper, would it?”

  McClanahan gave the lawman a pointed look. “The less she hears—about me, or what I’m doing—the better.”

  “Yes, sir. Can’t tell her what I don’t know, can I?” Thompson flashed him a boyish smile. “Don’t turn your back on any cowards this week, Matt.”

  “Same to you, Barry.”

  He stepped outside, folding the poster into his pocket. He was itching to corral Elliott Burnham’s killer now, while the element of surprise was in his favor. The sooner her father’s death was avenged, the sooner Emily would accept another man in her life…a man who wanted her love and didn’t need her money.

  Yet instinct told him to wait. A final piece of evidence was required to connect the criminal in the picture to the man buried at the Flaming B Ranch. Matt smiled to himself and headed down the street. Miss Burnham was set on finding her father’s killer herself—and she would, before long—so his best move was to stay a few steps ahead of her and keep trouble out of her way. Remembering Emily sitting cross-legged beside him in the cabin, her eyes aglow as she snatched a chicken leg, still made him grin. Recalling the other things she’d done made him quicken his steps to the Imperial. He had to see her soon, alone.

  And the opportunity was waiting for him at the front desk: an envelope sealed with an ornate V in red wax. Matt walked up to his room to read it.

  Miss Victoria Chatterly and the ladies of the Golden Rose request the pleasure of your presence at tea this Thursday, September 22, at 4 o’clock. We will be presenting Miss Zenia Collins for your entertainment and enjoyment, and we hope you can attend.

  Matt inhaled the fragile fragrance of roses, which made him think of arms and legs wrapped tightly around him ... a face innocent of makeup and pretense, grimacing in ecstasy as she lost control. He chuckled. Zenia Collins was undoubtedly alluring and accomplished, but she’d never be his reason for going to the Rose.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The table looks lovely, Eliza,” the white-haired ma-dame purred. “I’m glad Idaho could spare you this week, because my other girl just isn’t as efficient.”

  Emily smiled and helped Miss Victoria fill the teapots with boiling water. At Silas’s suggestion, she was staying away from the Angel Claire until they found proof that Nigel Grath killed her father—proof she didn’t need. The days were endless, because McClanahan was keeping his eye on Grath rather than on her; so working at the Rose had passed the time. “We’ve had a lot to do, getting Zen
ia ready,” she commented.

  “Yes, we have.” Miss Chatterly’s voice was low and confidential. “What do you think of her, dear?”

  “She looks very pretty in those new gowns.”

  “She ought to, much as I paid Mrs. Delacroix to make them! She seems so…unsullied, to have come from a sporting house in Creede. Or maybe she knows how to use her looks that way.” Victoria glanced around the parlor, where the ladies were helping Josh raise the lid of the grand piano. “Josh, dear—play us some of your ragtime. The guests should be arriving any minute now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a wide, white grin.

  “Have you and Zenia rehearsed her songs?”

  “Miss Victoria, that girl sings like an angel. The men’ll be so taken by her, these other ladies’ll be twiddlin’ their thumbs.”

  Lucy and Darla and the others twittered, and Princess Cherry Blossom rolled her painted eyes. As Josh played a lively piece, the doorbell chimed and the ladies strolled past the bar to answer it. With a glance at Clancy, who seemed terribly pleased with himself for having discovered Zenia Collins, Emily went to the pantry for another tray of pastries.

  When she returned, the parlor was humming with quiet conversations. Miss Victoria was pouring tea, her plump fingers glistening with rings as she handed china cups to men who accepted them with quiet smiles. “Here, try one of these little cakes with the strawberry glaze,” she said to a portly banker named Conrad Stokes. Then her eyes widened. “Mr. McClanahan! How lovely that you could make it—and don’t you look dashing today.”

  Emily’s heart thudded as Matt kissed the Madame’s cheek. He was wearing the gray suit he’d had on at Victoria’s birthday party, and his hair lay in glossy waves. “I was pleased to be asked,” he responded suavely. “Thought I’d come early, to see the new lady with the exotic name. Or did you think of that?”