Angel in My Arms (21 page)

"Oh, Sally." Celeste rose off the bed and wandered to the mirror
where a fur boa lay draped over it. She smoothed the white fur with a
hand. "This is all so complicated with Fox and me." Though secretly
pleased that Fox would say such a thing, she wasn't ready to admit it.

"Y'all being business partners and ownin' all that silver lode, you mean."

"It's not a lode yet. It's got to be excavated, hauled to the smelt, refined, and sold first. We're not rich yet."

"But it's only been three weeks since you hit the vein. It'll come," Sally encouraged.

Celeste sighed. "I suppose."

"You certainly don't sound happy, being a woman who's not only
struck it rich, but has caught herself a rich, handsome, manly man
who's going to take her away from a life of whorin'."

Celeste spun around. "Don't say that, because it's not true. He's
not taking me anywhere. He's going to take his silver and go back to
California."

Sally scrunched up her pretty nose. "He's not takin' you with him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's a handsome, rich, manly man and I'm a whore!"

"Not anymore you're not."

Celeste groaned. "Sally, once a whore, always a whore. A woman can't get away from that kind of reputation."

"Sure she can."

"No man like Fox MacPhearson is going to marry me or you, Sally. Men like that want decent women."

Sally lowered her gaze as if she'd been reprimanded. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I didn't mean to snap at you. I just don't want you
to expect too much out of life. I don't want you to get hurt."

"So you never even thought of him askin' you to go with him, or had the idea of you askin' him?"

"No. I wouldn't go with him if he asked me," she added for good measure.

Sally looked up. "You saying that for truth, or so it won't hurt so much?"

Celeste didn't know how to answer. Silky Sally knew her well, too well.

Sally rose off the springing bed to fetch her dressing gown. "That's
all right. You don't want that man anyway. There's some sayin' he's got
a past."

Celeste dropped the fur boa over her neck to try it on before the mirror. "Everyone's got a past."

"A bad one." Sally tied the ribbon of her dressing gown and picked
through a bag of face paints. "I hear the sheriff's questioned him."

"Oh?"

"More than once."

Celeste turned, an uneasiness coming over her. "About what?"

"The murders, of course. Rosy said that Mad Mary over at Sal's said
that Sal said that Sheriff Tate said that Mr. MacPhearson's been
spotted on the streets of Carrington long after decent folk are abed.
Something ain't right there."

Celeste removed the boa and put it back over the mirror. Sheriff
Tate was right. Fox did wander about at odd hours of the night, but it
was because he had trouble sleeping. The cool mountain air and the
walking tired him. "Did they say that, now? And that makes him a
murderer?"

"Talk is, Tate knows something about Mr. MacPhearson that the rest of us don't know. Something that happened in California."

"Gossip." Could the sheriff really think Fox had something to do
with those brutal murders? Celeste flipped her hand. "People are
jealous over Fox's silver strike, so they're gossiping. It's much more
exciting to think that a rich Californian has come to town to kill
whores than some stinkin', fish-bellied miner."

"I don't know." Sally painted a broad streak of blue eye paint under
one brow. "Maybe you ought to watch your back just the same."

"Fox is not a murderer."

" 'Course not."

"He's
not."
She said it to convince herself as much as
Sally. Of course Fox wasn't a murderer. There was a lot about him she
didn't know or didn't understand, but surely she was a good enough
judge of character to know the man didn't murder women.

Sally looked into her hand mirror at Celeste. "I'm agreein' with
you, for heaven's sake! Now help me do something with this hair of
mine. Big Nose Kate expects me to be on stage in two hours to do the
opening number, and I'm a mess."

Pushing her uneasiness aside, Celeste picked up a hairbrush. "I've
only got a few minutes and then I have to go. Fox and I are going to
supper at the place that opened in the old Crystal Hotel. The chef is
supposed to be French." She pulled the brush through Sally's pretty
blond hair. "So what shall it be? Up and sophisticated, or down and
girlish?" Celeste looked into the mirror over Sally's shoulder, and
both women broke into laughter.

Celeste stepped onto the dark street. After visiting with Sally, she
was anxious to return home and dress for the evening. She and Fox were
going out to dine, to be seen in public together socially for the very
first time. She didn't mind that people would point her out as his
mistress, or that she'd once been his father's woman. She was too happy
to be with Fox and to celebrate their silver strike.

An assayer had come from Denver to determine the authenticity and
quality of the silver on MacPhearson's Fortune, the name she and Fox
had given the land claims. In the assayers expert opinion, the silver
ore from the mine they called The Celeste would yield twenty-three
thousand dollars to the ton. Even with the cost of equipment and labor
to mine the ore, even splitting the profits with Fox, the strike meant
Celeste was a rich woman. It meant she would never have sex with
another man again, except by choice.

For weeks, Celeste had carried that joyous excitement in her heart.
Only in the last two days had her feet finally touched the dusty
Colorado ground enough for her to begin to make plans for her future.
Right now her future involved getting the ore out of the ground, and
protecting hers and Fox's rights to that ore. When she and Fox had made
the discovery, she had immediately known what good changes the fortune
would mean to her, but what she was just discovering, were the bad
changes.

Within days of their initial discovery, she and Fox were hounded by
miners seeking work, businessmen wanting to buy them out, and an
assortment of men wanting to steal from them in one manner or another.
And not only had Celeste's life changed, but the life of the town had
changed.

She was astounded by the number of folks on Carrington's streets.
Since the discovery of silver on MacPhearson's Fortune three weeks
before, the population had increased nearly twofold and more miners
were pouring in every day. They came by train, by stagecoach, by wagon,
and under the power of their own worn boots, each man hoping to make
his fortune.

Along with the miners who staked their own claims, came other men
eager to make a dollar or two off any silver that might filter through
the town. There were laborers to construct the mine shafts and haul the
ore from the depths of the steamy tunnels, and freighters with mules
and wagons to carry the ore to be pulverized and shipped. Investors
dressed in fancy suits with ready money appeared on every doorstep,
willing to finance the entire operation at an exorbitant profit.

Both of Carrington's hotels had reopened this week, as well as a
bank. Three mercantile stores opened their doors and several
entrepreneurs on the outskirts of town had raised tents and were
selling everything from mining supplies to prepared food. Miners filled
the hotels, but most men threw crude shelters on the land where they
had staked their precious one-hundred-square-foot claims.

On a Saturday night like tonight, the new arrivals were all in town,
looking for a little companionship, a drink, a hot meal, and maybe a
roll with one of Kate's or Sal's girls. And it wasn't only men who had
flocked to Carrington. There was a laundress, several cooks, and a
seamstress who was said to be staking a claim on the next miner who
struck gold along the river. One enterprising hurdy-gurdy girl had
apparently put up a tent near the train station, and hung a sign to
advertise her wares. Celeste hadn't been down near the tracks, but she
heard that on a Saturday night, there was a line of men eager to make
her acquaintance.

Celeste walked quickly down the street, passing miners without
making eye contact. There were so many strangers that it made her
uncomfortable. Unfortunately, along with those seeking an honest
living, came the riffraff from other towns. Two days ago there had been
a knifing in a new saloon and gambling house on the far end of Peach
Street, and a miner had been shot and killed north of MacPhearson's
Fortune, when he'd evidently attempted to jump another man's claim.

To add to Celeste's discomfort over the town's new arrivals was the
ever-present threat of the murderer who had killed Pearl and Margaret.
It seemed as if everyone had forgotten their deaths in the commotion of
the silver strike, even Sally and Kate. How sad that their lives could
be dismissed so quickly. But Celeste hadn't forgotten. It seemed as if
the happier she was, the more the murders haunted her. Maybe it was
because for the first time in a long time, she truly valued her own
life.

A wildly bearded man in a dusty overcoat passed her; his arm brushed
hers. What if one of these men was the murderer? She met the miner's
gaze as she passed and, spooked by the idea, she looked quickly away.

The more Celeste thought about the murderer, the more concerned she
became. Apparently Sheriff Tate still had no suspects. Well, other than
Fox, which was, of course, a ridiculous, unfounded notion.

Another miner passed her on the sidewalk and she averted her gaze.

The idea that Fox was the killer was preposterous. So what if he'd
arrived the night the killings began? So what if he wandered the town
at night? Did being an insomniac automatically make Fox a cold-blooded
killer? These supposed bits of evidence were all coincidence, she told
herself. Sheer coincidence.

Celeste turned the corner off Peach Street and found herself
suddenly alone. There had been lanterns hung outside saloons and hotels
on Peach Street, but Cherry was dark and vacant.

Celeste walked faster, gripping her cape. She wished she'd brought
Silver along for protection. Her heels clip-clapped on the board
sidewalk.

"Howdy there, Celeste."

A man stepped out of the shadows of a dilapidated livery stable, and
Celeste took a step back in surprise. It was so dark that she squinted
to recognize who had called her by name.

"What's a matter, girl? Don't know old Reb?" The man caught her
around her waist with one large, dirty hand. He reeked of sweat and
whiskey.

"Let go of me," Celeste intoned. She shoved his hand down. Just the
thought of a man—other than Fox—touching her, made her skin crawl.

"Celeste, baby, it's Reb. Old Reb Cattleton." He reached for her
again. "I know I ain't been through in two years, but I know you
remember me. 'Member my
big reb
for certain." He grasped his groin.

Celeste swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. It had been
months since she'd slept with a customer, but it seemed like another
lifetime.