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  Emily blinked. As many times as she’d recalled that awful scene, and the way Papa and Viry had expired in her arms before she could call for help, she’d never considered the intruder’s motivations. But she tightened her grip on the pistol. “It looked to me like you were coming in to see who else you could shoot—or what you could steal,” she challenged.

  “I didn’t do a very good job of it, or I would’ve found you.”

  “So your partner shot him?”

  “I don’t work with a—”

  “Then who did?” Her arms were aching, but she held the revolver steady, still aiming it at his chest.

  “That’s what I came to Cripple Creek to find out.” McClanahan sidestepped, then sighed when he saw he was still her target. “I knew your father owned a mine and a parlor house here, and I figured whoever shot him would come to check it out…which is the very reason you wanted to keep me at the Angel Claire!” He flashed her a grin, then had to force himself not to laugh or catch her up in his arms. “We’re thinking the same way—after the same killer, Emily! But it’s not me!”

  She wanted desperately to believe the dashing, blue-eyed man who stood before her, but he’d sidetracked her with his compliments before. “Who are you?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “Matt McClanahan. Honey, if you’ll put that gun—”

  “Tell me straight, or this bullet’ll bring Silas and Clancy in to finish what I started.”

  He shrugged and gazed beseechingly into her golden eyes. “Honest to God, my name’s Matt McClanahan. I can’t tell you any more.”

  “But I’ve told you—”

  He bolted sideways, grabbing for her hands, but Emily stuck the gun behind her and backed toward the wall.

  Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “For your own protection, Emily, it’s best you don’t know any more about me. Outlaws and rustlers come through Cripple Creek every day—any one of them could’ve shot your father. And if you blow my cover, we may never find out who did it.”

  “You…you don’t know?”

  “I have an idea,” he said with a nod, “but I can’t tell you that, either.”

  Exasperated, Emily pointed her pistol at him again. “That works both ways, you know. If the miners find out I’m really Elliott Burnham’s daughter, there’ll be hell to pay.” She stepped forward, backing him toward the door in case he had any more tricks in mind. “So the way I see it, this gun either makes you a supervisor who’ll keep his mouth shut, or it makes you a dead man. What’ll it be?”

  McClanahan smiled suavely, again pleased by her grit. “Do you really know how to use it, little lady?”

  “Do you want to find out?”

  He stopped, and Emily halted a few feet in front of him. “It goes against my grain to take orders from a woman, but I never met one quite like you,” he said softly. “So I’ll take that supervisor’s job, and you’ll have to keep on being a clerk at the mine, and a housekeeper at the Rose, so no one suspects we’re partners. If either of us hears anything, we’ll keep each other posted. Deal?”

  Emily thought for a moment, and nodded.

  “Give me your pistol, before somebody gets hurt.”

  A surge of relief flowed through her, and she relaxed her grip so Matt could take the gun. He returned it to the desk drawer, smiling at her. Then Emily was very aware of his warm hands holding hers, and of bold blue eyes that followed the curves of her dress.

  “Emily Rose,” he murmured. “A fitting name for such a lovely young woman. How old are you, honey?”

  Her pulse played a duet with his as he lifted her fingers to his lips. “Not quite nineteen,” she breathed.

  “Old enough to know what you’re doing to me…but how have you held this escapade together? I have a feeling it was all your idea.” Matt stroked a delicate tendril at her temple, lifting her face as he awaited her reply.

  “Papa was all I had. I have to find the man who—”

  “And we will, rosebud. I promise you.” He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her delicate ear with a sigh. “Shall we seal that promise with a kiss?”

  Emily couldn’t have pulled away if she’d tried. She’d nearly killed him! The strain of this encounter, coupled with the knowledge that Matt McClanahan had been working with her all along, left her trembling in his embrace. His lips brushed hers, then pressed into them tenderly. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, holding her breath—then giggling—as his tongue coaxed hers into following its lead. His mouth moved in a seductive rhythm, and when Matt ran a trail of silken kisses down her neck, she let her head fall back in the utter luxury of his touch.

  “Emily,” he breathed, “honey, please say I can see you someplace besides the mine and the Golden Rose. You’re so different—a woman like I’ve always wanted to find. But we can’t be seen together until we’ve caught your father’s—”

  The door flew open behind them and Clancy Donahue hollered, “Get your hands off her, you goddamn murderin’—”

  “Wait! Don’t shoot!” Emily shrieked. She pulled away from Matt to see three pistols pointed at them: Silas, Clancy, and Idaho were poised inside the doorway, their faces deadly serious.

  Blushing, she brushed nervously at the bodice of her dress. “I—I think you better put your guns down,” she said in a quavery voice, “so McClanahan can explain everything.”

  Chapter Six

  Matt was still chuckling Wednesday morning, recalling Emily’s spunk as she’d pointed her pistol at him, her eyes ablaze with loyalty for her father. There was no doubt in his mind that she would’ve shot him, and her scream would’ve put at least three bullets in his back. As he’d talked with Silas and Idaho about acting as a liaison for the supposedly grief-stricken Miss Burnham, he knew they’d included him in their scheme because they didn’t believe he was a killer. But Donahue was another story. The redheaded bartender had glowered at him through the whole conversation—which was no surprise, considering the way he’d caught Emily in the arms of the competition.

  McClanahan stuck his head inside the door of the Angel Claire’s office, where Emily was intent on her record keeping. He looked around to be sure no one else would hear, and then crooned, “Hey, little tomboy.”

  Emily glowered from beneath the brim of her dusty hat. “Call me that again and you’re asking to be shot,” she teased in a low voice. “Now get out of here, before the men notice you hanging around.”

  McClanahan laughed and walked back toward the mine buildings. Emily Rose Burnham…Emily Rose burned him, all right. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a woman whose spunk and intelligence he respected more. She could never be dismissed as clingy or frivolous, and she didn’t use her femininity as a weapon. Or

  did she? Matt grinned, recalling the swell of her breasts beneath a dress that made her eyes take up her whole face…silky-sleek thighs and a rounded, firm bottom. Even if he had no reason to be in Cripple Creek, it would be worth staying just to see more of such a golden-haired minx. A lot more.

  But for now he had other concerns. Only yesterday he’d been a common mucker—the lowest of unskilled mine workers—and this morning, dressed in a vested suit, he’d been introduced as Emily Burnham’s business manager. He knew damn little about the workings of the Angel Claire, but he didn’t have to understand the miners’ mutterings to read the mistrust in their eyes. Nigel Grath and his union buddies had been watching him from every corner of the mill, the shaft house, and the other buildings while Hughes introduced him to the various supervisors.

  Silas also invited him to the house for noon dinner, and after Idaho set steaming plates of chicken and dumplings in front of them, the gray-haired mine superintendent cleared his throat. “Will this scheme work, or are we fools to fall for Emily’s enthusiasm?”

  Matt smiled. “It’s good that we’re calling me a liaison between all of the Burnham investments, because it gives me the freedom to come and go, to follow any leads I get. And it keeps me from causing a lot of tension—especially among yo
ur union members.”

  “Do you think we’ll have problems with the Federation?” Hughes asked as he buttered a slice of bread.

  “It’s too soon to tell.” McClanahan chewed a chunk of the tender chicken, chuckling. “Guess I’d grumble too, if the mucker I shoveled beside one day showed up as my superior the next. They probably think I’m spying for you and Emily.”

  “We can’t afford to ignore their rumblings,” Silas replied matter-of-factly. “I hear Bill Haywood and Charlie Moyer are trying to increase Federation membership in all the mines. They proved they could shut us down in ‘94, and they’ll do it again if they feel provoked.”

  Matt nodded, and after finishing the delicious meal, he pushed his plate back with a satisfied sigh. “I’ll keep a low profile, and let you know if I hear anything.”

  “I’m concerned about the reactions of the other mine owners, too. Have you heard of Spencer Penrose and Charles Tutt, from Colorado Springs?”

  “Who hasn’t?” he replied with a grin. “Wouldn’t mind having my name on their bank accounts.”

  Hughes let out a short laugh. “You’re obviously no pauper yourself, McClanahan. But these fellows and some others are trying to form an owners’ association, which could get sticky when they ask why Emily hasn’t signed on. Elliott was actively involved in all of his businesses—always here at the first sign of trouble.”

  Matt nodded, thinking he would’ve been better off searching for Burnham’s killer alone. But now that Emily had so cunningly cornered him, he had no choice but to become part of her manhunt—to protect her, if nothing else. “I’ll move as quickly as I can, Silas. We’ve all got a lot at stake.”

  Hughes rose and brought a box of cigars from the sideboard. “Do you think the man we’re looking for is at the mine?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ve got a hunch he’s sniffing around somewhere among Elliott’s businesses, and the gold boom makes Cripple Creek the likeliest place to look for him.” Matt lit up and puffed until the end of his cigar glowed red. “What can you tell me about Nigel Grath, besides the fact that he likes to stir up trouble?”

  Silas shrugged. “He’s a loner—standoffish to the point that even his friends know better than to test his sense of humor. A damn good blaster, though.”

  Recalling the wiry miner’s beady eyes and giggle from when they’d met in the Angel Claire’s office, Matt raised an eyebrow. “You trust him down the shaft with dynamite? He impressed me as being a little…unstable.”

  “Ornery as hell. But down the hole, there’s nobody more accurate with explosives—the men’ll tell you that, and they stake their lives on it every day.” Hughes flicked his cigar ash with a wry smile. “They also hint that he hits the pipe.”

  “Opium?”

  “They say he frequents the dens on Myers Avenue. I can’t condone his habit, but I can’t interfere with it either.” Hughes let out a slow stream of smoke, returning a steady, gray-eyed gaze. “My doctor friends tell me that as long as Grath gets all the drug his system requires, he’ll behave and perform normally on the job. I can’t fire him—or even reprimand him—for a problem I can’t see. Not when he might blow us all to kingdom come.”

  “I see what you mean.” Matt considered this information and the way Grath had baited Emily with his blasting caps, and decided to keep the obnoxious little blaster under close observation. “So you try to avoid confrontations, and hope to hell he doesn’t get trapped with your other men during a cave-in?”

  “Precisely.” Silas rubbed out his cigar and smiled as he stood up. “Elliott would’ve liked you, McClanahan. But I don’t understand how you came to be at the ranch the night he was shot—or why you’re looking for his killer.”

  Matt inhaled deeply, letting the rich smoke drift out of his mouth as he considered his reply. “You’ve given me access to Elliott’s ledgers and investments, not to mention entrusting me with the safety of his daughter. You’ll just have to trust my motives, too, Mr. Hughes.”

  That evening, McClanahan spread the wanted posters Barry Thompson had given him across the bed in his hotel room. He crossed his arms against his bare chest, studying the criminals’ faces in turn. The first man looked familiar, but the scar was wrong. Another man’s picture was so blurry the crook could’ve walked right in front of him and gone unrecognized. He thought back to the men he’d seen at the Angel Claire, and along the streets the past few days, and he still came up blank.

  A knock at the door made Matt shuffle the posters into a sloppy pile and shove them into the drawer of the mahogany highboy. “Who is it?” he called out.

  There was a pause. “A friend.”

  It wasn’t Emily’s voice—she had sense enough not to follow him around like an adoring puppy, thank God. He opened his door to a raven-haired woman with a fox-like smile. “Grade! Not on the warpath tonight?”

  She entered his room, teasing his nipple with her fingernail as she passed in front of him. Her hair was tied back at the nape, and in her modest skirt and blouse, she could’ve been a preacher’s wife. “Everybody needs time away from the daily grind,” she replied with a wink.

  McClanahan thought she looked peaked despite her dark complexion, and as Grace gazed around his richly decorated hotel room, he sensed she needed a friend. “How about dinner? It’s the least I can do, after you provided my alibi for Silas on Monday afternoon.”

  She laughed slyly. “That’s true enough. But I ate at the Rose. I tend to lose my appetite when I eat among Cripple’s blue-bloods.”

  Matt chuckled, and as he shrugged into a fresh shirt, he realized her remark disguised her reluctance to appear in a restaurant where her wealthy clients would be dining with their wives. That the passionate savage of the Golden Rose would have such qualms surprised him a little, but every woman had her pride and McClanahan knew better than to make light of it. “How about a walk, then? I could use some air after a day at the mine.”

  “Are you sure the rising star of E. R. Burnham’s empire wants to be seen in public with the likes of me?”

  He smiled wryly. “After the way I barged into the parlor dressed only in my birthday suit, maybe it’s your reputation we should worry about.”

  Grace’s laugh was sudden and raucous, and it took ten years off her face. “Sorry if I’m being a wet blanket,” she murmured. “I was trying to congratulate you on your promotion.”

  “Congratulations accepted.” McClanahan took her elbow as they started downstairs. “Did the news travel

  word-of-mouth, or did Donahue tell you about my new job?”

  At the mention of the bartender’s name, her face tightened. “Good news travels fast. Let’s don’t spoil it by talking about that mangy beast, all right?”

  She’d never said Clancy was giving her trouble, and now she didn’t have to. Donahue apparently had sense enough to keep his mouth shut about his connection to Eliza and to himself, but McClanahan was enraged all the same. “Promise me that if he touches you—or even threatens to—you’ll come get me,” he said tersely. “If I’m out of town, fetch Barry Thompson. All right?”

  Nodding, Grace looked pointedly at the shop window they were passing.

  McClanahan caught the glimmer of a tear and wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulders. It was time to drop the subject of Donahue for now, but if Victoria Chatterley learned of his abusive behavior, she’d have no choice but to fire him. Then she’d try to contact Miss Burnham at the ranch and Emily’s identity would be exposed, all because of the bartender’s greedy lust. Matt put on a smile, for Grace’s sake. “What other news have you heard lately?” he asked. “In a house full of women, tongues must wag night and day.”

  She brightened as they approached the pillared porch of the Golden Rose. “Eliza was watching for you this afternoon. Any messages?”

  “I’ll carry my own tales, thanks “

  “Maybe you could carry your tail up to my room,” she replied in a sultry voice. “Nobody else I’d rather see.”

 
Her expression told him she already knew his answer, and McClanahan’s original hunch about befriending this unusual woman was reconfirmed. Grace Putnam, beneath her bedroom eyes and brothel talk, was very insightful—an observer he could trust, as long as she didn’t get any more involved with him than she did with her customers. “Maybe another time. Early day tomorrow.”

  Grace raised an eyebrow and gave him one of her suggestive grins. “How about Saturday, then? It’s Miss Victoria’s birthday, and the champagne’s on the house. Maybe after a few dances you and I could disappear.”

  Matt smiled and opened the door for her. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks for stopping by tonight.”

  “Thank you, McClanahan.” She stood on tiptoe to brush his cheek with a kiss. “For a man who keeps it in his pants, you’re a helluva nice guy. See you Saturday.”

  Chapter Seven

  Festooned in bright pink and gold streamers, the ballroom of the Golden Rose vibrated with anticipation. The ladies were wearing their prettiest dresses, bustling about to put the finishing touches on the decorations. Clancy was preparing the ballrooms bar, looking unusually dapper in a crisp white shirt with an apple-green vest.

  Emily smoothed the ruffles of her modest pink gown and surveyed the serving tables. The Waterford bowls were brimming with champagne punch. Crystal cups and trays of sandwiches and sliced meats were waiting on the sideboards. A three-tiered birthday cake decorated with yellow roses stood on a table of its own, surrounded by gleaming plates and forks.

  She walked over to the ballroom’s upright grand, where Josh LeFevre was practicing a snappy song as two fiddlers tuned up on the dias nearby. His elegant brown hands danced down the bass octaves in a tricky rhythm Emily liked immediately.

  “I’ve never heard anyone play the way you do, Josh,” she said when he stopped for a moment.