Colorado Captive Page 3

  “Every chance he gets. And he’s a slobbering pig about it.” She came to stand against him, running a fingernail through the curls on his chest. “You’re the best-looking stallion I’ve seen since I came here, McClanahan—not old and overfed like most of these men. But your mind’s on Eliza, isn’t it? Princess Cherry Blossom doesn’t stand a chance,” she continued with an artful pout, “unless you pay her, and she’ll show you some Indian tricks Little Yellow Hair will never understand.”

  “Princess Cherry Blossom?” Matt felt a laugh rumbling up out of his chest, and he draped an arm around her. “Sweetheart, you’re about as Indian as I am. No deal.”

  Cherry Blossom’s mouth dropped open. Then she chuckled until she shook. “H-how’d you know? Everybody else eats it up.”

  “You’re wearing Blackfeet beadwork and Navajo jewelry. Guess these mine owners and stock brokers are too caught up in the fantasy to notice, huh?” He smiled down at her, sensing he could learn something much more valuable than Indian fakery. “But I’m taking up your time, so it’s only fair to tip you. Something tells me you won’t see much of what I already paid Donahue”

  Cherry Blossom gave him a wry smile. “Between Miss Victoria and Clancy, most of the girls here are too indebted to leave. Would you like a cigarette?”

  He shook his head, watching as she took a metal box and a small square of paper from the vanity drawer. “I take it you’re better off than most?”

  She studied him as she rolled her smoke, and nodded.

  “So why do you stay?” He walked over to light her cigarette, noting the network of tiny lines around her dark brown eyes as he held the match.

  “It’s a living,” she said with a shrug. “No decent man would have me now. My Indian getup’s novel enough to attract a lot of generous customers, and this is certainly a tamer crowd than I worked in Denver. If it weren’t for Clancy, this house would be the closest I’ll ever come to Heaven.” She walked to the bed, lifted her dress over her knees, and scooted back to sit against the wall. “So what’s your story, McClanahan?”

  Matt picked up his whiskey bottle and joined her. The Princess was comely for a whore her age—had the taste for adventure he’d requested, too—but after the stunt Eliza pulled, he decided to concentrate on conversation. “Just got into town,” he replied as he poured whiskey into the glass she gave him. “Took a job at the Angel Claire—and from what I hear, you and I have the same boss. Ever seen E. R. Burnham’s daughter, Emily?”

  “Nope. They say she never leaves the ranch in Colorado Springs—wasting away, instead of taking care of her father’s businesses.” She blew a thin stream of smoke from her nostrils and looked pensively toward the opposite wall. “Spares no expense running this house, though. Good food, nice clothes. If anybody comes up wanting, it’s usually her own fault.”

  McClanahan studied her as he drained his glass. “So how’d somebody get manhandled today? I thought it was Donahue’s job to prevent that sort of thing.”

  Cherry Blossom’s dark eyes narrowed. “You ask a lot of questions, McClanahan.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.” He handed her the bottle and slid off the bed to check his clothes. They were damp, but he could wear them without leaving a wet trail. He pulled a soggy bill out of his wallet, laid it on the vanity, and slid his arms into his shirtsleeves.

  “I’m not used to seeing a man dress before he does anything,” the woman behind him said with a low chuckle. “You sure we couldn’t swap a few Indian tricks?”

  Matt turned, smiling. “You’ve been very entertaining, Miss Cherry Blossom.”

  She snorted and butted her cigarette against the inside of his glass. “If you promise to come back and see me, I’ll tell you my real name. But you’ve got to keep it a secret.”

  He stepped resolutely into his pants, wondering how many other men had fallen for that ploy. “Sure. I may need you to keep a few secrets for me someday.”

  The woman smiled, and the hardness faded from her painted face. “Grace Putnam,” she said with a wistful grin. “Used to go by Gracie, but I haven’t heard that in years.”

  McClanahan’s wet belt creaked as he buckled it. Then he leaned across the bed to kiss her cheek. “Take care of yourself, Gracie. We’ll do this again sometime.”

  As he opened the door, she cleared her throat loudly. When Matt glanced back, he saw a foxlike smile and long, shapely legs. He’d guessed right: she didn’t wear anything under that buckskin gown.

  “Next time, let me bathe you,” the Princess said with a wink. “I guarantee you Little Yellow Hair’ll be the furthest thing from your mind.”

  Little Yellow Hair…McClanahan chuckled as he turned toward the parlor. Then he thought better of it and used the back exit, circling the house until he saw the horses tied to the post out front. They were nickering quietly under the streetlight, cocking their ears as he approached. And there was his Stetson, half buried in a pile of fresh manure.

  “Eliza, if you weren’t so damned different, I’d—well, I don’t know what I’d do with you,” he muttered as he picked up his hat. She’d make some lucky man a helluva woman someday. But for now, Matt could see where Silas Hughes had his hands full just keeping her out of trouble.

  Chapter Three

  “Emily, that’s the most preposterous idea I’ve ever heard!” Silas argued. “It’s like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse.”

  “And what would you do about McClanahan?”

  The mine superintendent glared at her over his newspaper and the clutter of breakfast dishes. Even though it was his day off, he wore his charcoal vest and a white dress shirt, which made him look sternly autocratic. “He wasn’t a problem until you made him one.”

  Emily stabbed her last bite of honey-drenched biscuit. “You just don’t want to admit my plan’s working! We came here thinking the man who shot Papa would infiltrate the mine, and we were right. Weren’t we, Idaho?”

  The old Negro looked at her, then glanced cautiously at the man across the table as he began to clear the dishes. “Miss Emily, I’ll do whatever I can to help, but I’ve got no say about running the mine. That’s up to Mr. Silas,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll be leaving for church soon. Are you coming with me?”

  “Not today. I’m in anything but a prayerful mood.”

  “Time with the Lord may be just the thing to calm you—”

  “I’ll calm down when this thing with McClanahan’s settled,” Emily snapped. She was immediately sorry, and smiled apologetically at the housekeeper. Then she looked at Silas. “I still want you to put him in charge of the ore house. He’ll think we trust him! And the promotion’ll keep him from moving on before we can prove he killed Papa.”

  “Meanwhile the men will think I’m bringing in outsiders to keep the union from taking over.” Hughes gazed intently at her, forcing patience into his voice. “You weren’t here in ‘94, when the miners’ rebellion forced us to close the town down.”

  “But the union won! Why will Federation members care if you bring in another supervisor?” Emily protested. “It’s obvious McClanahan’s no common laborer—he’d fit in perfectly as a manager.”

  Silas flattened his Cripple Creek Times on the table, pointedly tapping his finger on a column near the top of the page. “And what makes you think he’ll take the bait, after the stunt you pulled at the Golden Rose last night?”

  “He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “The way you gawk at him, he’ll soon figure it out.” Her father’s partner smoothed the white streak in his steel gray hair, sighing as he held her gaze with bulldoggish determination. “What were you doing with his clothes, Emily?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “If it made the gossip columns, my niece will be the talk of the mines tomorrow,” he countered. “Now what happened?”

  Emily stalled as Idaho picked up her plate. The man across from her was a confirmed bachelor, discreet to the point of seeming prudish, so her best ploy would be to ei
ther appeal to his sense of decency or to embarrass him—or both. “He insulted me,” she stated flatly.

  Silas let out a snort. “And how could he do that in a parlor house, unless you were in one of the rooms with him? If your father knew you’d been—”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she interrupted. “How was I to know he’d be standing there buck naked when I took in some towels?”

  The mine manager’s face paled, yet his gaze didn’t waver. When the front door knocker clattered loudly, he gestured for Idaho to go answer it. Then he leaned across the table, and in a low voice he asked, “Did he force you to…or did you lead him into it, young lady?”

  “Silas, really! If I had something to be ashamed of, I would’ve sneaked out the back—or hidden upstairs till he left.” Emily crossed her arms and looked away, hoping her expression registered indignation rather than triumph. “McClanahan deserved to be made a public spectacle,” she insisted. “I didn’t ask him to chase me into the parlor without his clothes on.”

  Silas rolled his eyes and folded his newspaper with crisp, forceful strokes that told Emily he’d seen right through her. Her cheeks felt flushed—she was trembling like a schoolgirl, despite the fact that she’d won their sparring match—and all because of Matt McClanahan’s outrageous behavior last night.

  “Seven years ago your father put me in charge of the Angel Claire,” Silas said tersely. “And until he died, E. R. Burnham and I were two of the most respected men in Colorado. I understand your reasons for assuming another identity while you hunt his murderer—for your own safety, if nothing else. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let your cockamamie schemes ruin everything I’ve worked for.”

  “But McClanahan’ll be headed to prison as soon as we expose him,” Emily replied earnestly. “In just a few days—”

  “Why do you think it’ll be so easy?” Silas stood, slipping his newspaper under his arm. “You’re a very wealthy young woman, Emily Rose, and until yesterday I thought you were smart enough to take over your father’s affairs. But mark my words—McClanahan’s not who he claims to be. If I promote him to ore house supervisor, he’ll take advantage of the position to steal us blind. Or if he doesn’t do that—”

  “Promote him, Silas.”

  “—he’ll expose your identity, and every fortune-hunting drifter in the West will be pounding on this door, just

  as they were starting to do at the ranch.” The mine manager glanced across the dining room, to where Clancy Donahue was standing. Gesturing for the bartender to wait in the vestibule, he lowered his voice. “I won’t—I can’t—create a supervisory position for McClanahan, Emily.”

  She stood up, her eyes flashing. “Then we’ll give him your job, Mr. Hughes.”

  Silas’s mouth dropped open, but then his gray eyes narrowed and he pointed across the table at her. “I’m glad Elliott’s not here to see that you’ve become as insolent—as impossible to reason with—as the mules at the Angel Claire.”

  As he strode across the dining room, Emily suddenly felt very childish for egging him on. Silas was her father’s most trusted friend and partner; not always a likable man, but certainly a fair and decent one. And his talk of how Papa would feel about her recent escapades struck a sorrowful, guilty chord within her. “Silas, wait! I—I’m sorry.”

  The tall, black-clad figure stopped a few feet from the doorway, but he didn’t turn around.

  Emily approached him, steeling herself for the rebuke she knew she deserved. “I’m behaving badly,” she mumbled. “And it can’t be easy, having Idaho and me underfoot.”

  “It’s your house now, Miss Burnham,” he replied in a chilly voice. “I’d appreciate fair notice if you want me to find another—”

  “No! I—” She walked around to face him, her eyes smarting with tears she was determined not to shed. “It’s just that, well—Papa died so suddenly, and the lawmen found nothing to lead them to his killer. All I can think about now is avenging his death, and then I’ll go back to the ranch. This isn’t easy for me, either.”

  Silas looked down at her for a moment, and his rigid posture relaxed. “I know that, Emily. You’re carrying a very heavy load.”

  “This plan seemed to be the best thing for all of us, until…” She paused to get better control of her voice, and to compose her most eloquent, sincere appeal. “I’m not sure how long I can bluff McClanahan,” she said quietly. “Please, Silas. Let’s make him pay for murdering Papa as soon as possible, so things can return to normal.”

  For the first time in all the years she’d known him, Silas Hughes touched her. He stroked her damp cheek, sighing. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied with obvious resignation. Then he glanced over at Clancy, who was sitting on a bench near the front door. “You wanted to see me about something?”

  “Actually, it’s Emily I need to talk to,” Donahue replied.

  Silas nodded, excusing himself to the study.

  Clancy had obviously enjoyed eavesdropping on her scene with Silas—Emily could see it in the grin that flickered beneath his rust-colored beard. Did he, too, intend to lecture her about her behavior at the Golden Rose last night? “What is it, Clancy?” she asked brusquely.

  He stood, gripping his hat with pudgy hands. “Sorry if I interrupted—”

  “It’s settled now. Is something wrong at the Rose?”

  Clancy grinned as he looked her up and down. “No, ma’am. Bob’s tendin’ bar today, so I thought it’d be a good time to discuss some business—over Sunday dinner in town, if I may.”

  He was up to something; his slicked-back hair and cheap suit made that as obvious as the gold tooth shining near the front of his mouth. “It’s not a good idea for us to be seen together,” Emily replied carefully. “People might connect—”

  “Even the whores get out now and again, so nobody’d think twice about a bartender and a cleanin’ girl sharin’ a meal. We’ll go someplace quiet.”

  Emily sighed, still fighting a frown. “Why can’t we talk here? I just finished breakfast—”

  “So I’ll come for you around one o’clock.” He stroked his bushy beard, eyeing her with pale green eyes that held intentions she couldn’t read. “A change of scenery might do you good. And it’ll let the gossips know you’re not the type to hide from waggin’ tongues.”

  Her dash to the trough with McClanahan’s clothes had apparently caused quite a stir, and although it had seemed like a punishment the dark-haired outlaw deserved, Emily was now having second thoughts about her impulsive actions. The last thing she needed was for people to start noticing her, and asking questions about Eliza’s sudden appearance in Cripple Creek.

  But it would be a long afternoon, with only memories of McClanahan’s caress—and regrets about how quickly she’d succumbed to it—so perhaps dinner with this cowhand-turned-bartender would be better than keeping her own company. “All right, then. One o’clock.”

  “I was hopin’ to see one of the pretty dresses you used to wear Sundays at the ranch,” Donahue said in a sly voice.

  Emily looked up from the mashed potatoes she’d been dawdling over. Clancy’s pomaded hair, suit, and white shirt bespoke his position at the Golden Rose—a far cry from the dusty jeans he’d worn as a cattle hand on the Flaming B. Had he not dug Papa’s grave and then insisted on helping the sheriff with the lengthy, grueling search for his murderer, she would never have made this rough-cut cowpoke part of her deception. “I’m supposed to be Silas’s poor relation, remember?” she reminded him in a low voice.

  His eyes challenged her as he chewed a bite of steak. “Hughes can afford to deck you out as the belle of Cripple Creek. People must wonder why he doesn’t.”

  “They surely know by now that he’s not one to squander his money on women.” Emily set her fork down, tired of this pointless chitchat. She had wanted to wear something nicer than a simple cotton frock, but the fashionable gowns Papa had bought her hardly suited her role as Eliza. Delmonico’s was full of diners in their Sun
day finery—people who looked quickly away when she caught them watching her. She’d never felt so underdressed or overexposed in her life.

  And to make matters worse, here came McClanahan. His dark brown suit complemented his swarthy complexion; it was the exact color of his Stetson—which he wasn’t wearing—yet he tipped an imaginary hat.

  “Miss Eliza,” he said with a playful grin. Then he nodded to Donahue and stepped between the linen-draped tables, to a seat across the room.

  Emily’s face flamed, because the people around them recognized her and Matt as the stars of all the local gossip columns. Even Prudence Spickle, the restaurant’s hostess, threw her a disapproving glance as she seated customers at a table behind them. Emily looked over at Clancy in time to see him swallow a smile. “What was it you wanted to discuss?” she asked impatiently.

  The burly bartender cut the last of his meat away from the bone. “I thought we’d talk after dinner. Maybe take a buggy ride, and enjoy this fine fall afternoon.”

  “Speak now, or it’ll wait until tomorrow. These people are being unspeakably rude.”

  Clancy’s gaze hardened slightly, and then he shrugged. “Business is so good, Victoria thinks we should hire another girl. Since Miss Chatterly doesn’t know you own the Rose now, I told her I’d go see the reclusive Miss Burnham about it, to save her the trouble.”

  Although Emily had grown up expecting to take over her father’s many responsibilities, finding new residents for the Golden Rose was a job she had no taste for. And keeping her true identity and her working relationship with Clancy a secret from Miss Victoria would be no easy task, either. “All right,” she replied coolly. “I trust Miss Chatterly’s judgment.”

  Donahue nodded, chuckling quietly. “Miss Victoria wants somebody exotic…maybe a colored girl. Other houses have niggers, but Golden Rose clients would pay top dollar to indulge their fantasies with somebody fresh and excitin’.”