Angel in My Arms (8 page)

For once Kate didn't try to take over or tend to someone else. She sat there in numb silence and nodded.

Celeste, accompanied by Sally, went down the hallway and up the back
stairway. The private rooms all faced an open balcony with the dance
hall directly below. They found the girls huddled together in Sally's
room in various states of undress, their eyes puffy and red from
weeping and wide with the fear that any one of them could be the next
victim.

Celeste spent half an hour with the girls, calming their fears, then returned to the kitchen.

Kate seemed more like herself again. She had removed her rag rollers
and fluffed her hair. She'd even added a bit of rouge to her lips and
cheeks and covered her sleeping gown with a ruffled red satin wrapper.
She was flirting with Fox.

Celeste battled a sudden surge of irritation, even as she wondered
why she should feel it in the first place. "I think you should consider
remaining closed for a day or two," she told Kate. "Give Sheriff Tate a
chance to catch the murderer. Give the girls a chance to calm down.
They're pretty upset."

"That won't happen in my establishment," Kate said. "I'm careful who I let up those steps. I protect my girls."

Celeste leaned on the back of Kate's chair, eyeing her. "So, you're going to open tonight?"

"Of course. It's Saturday. Best night of the week. The boys from
Odenburg'll be in cashin' their pay and wantin' a little fun." Kate
winked at Fox. "Besides, the girls need something else to think about
besides poor butchered Margaret."

Celeste winced. She liked Kate. No, she loved her. But Kate's bottom line was business.

"I'm going home," Celeste said, swinging her cape over her
shoulders. "I'll check back this afternoon. Maybe the sheriff will know
something by then." As she passed Fox she noticed that he was watching
her, a strange look on his face.

"Coming?" Celeste asked Fox.

He stared at her with an accusatory gaze.

Celeste knew what he was thinking. She knew what he would say once
they stepped out of Kate's door. The tension made her palms sweat. What
was wrong with her? How could she have expected anything else out of
Fox? "Coming?" she repeated.

"Coming." His voice was cool.

The minute they stepped into the alley, Fox brushed his hand against her arm. "How do you know those people?"

"Kate didn't say?"

"No."

She walked faster, wishing she could halt the conversation that was
about to take place, wishing she could go back to the swing last night.
"I told you, they're my friends."

"Friends. Did John know them?"

"Yes. They were his friends, too."

"That doesn't surprise me." Their shoes clacked on the wet, wooden
sidewalk. They passed Sal's and the crowd of curious citizens still
standing around. "My father made a lifetime career of passing time with
whores, miners, and no doubt a few outlaws."

Celeste drew her cloak closer. The sky was gray. It was raining
again, the drops falling lightly on the hood she'd drawn over her head.

"I know my father frequented every whorehouse, in every flea-bitten
town this side of the Mississippi, but what about you, Miss Kennedy?
How did
you
come to be associated so closely with that lot? I
understand that in a town of this sort, the same rules of propriety
don't apply, but surely you know the danger of associating with women
like Kate."

Celeste ground her teeth as she rounded the corner onto Plum Street.
She had become Miss Kennedy again. "Could we take this conversation
inside?" she asked, walking faster. "I don't want to talk about this in
public."

Silver bounded toward her as Celeste opened the front door of her
house. She yanked off her cloak, dropped it over the wooden coatrack,
and headed for the kitchen. Dog and man followed at her heels.

"Celeste!" Fox clamped his hand on her shoulder and spun her around in the kitchen doorway.

Silver pricked back his ears.

Fox eyed the dog, then fixed his gaze on Celeste. "Tell me how you
know those women so well. Tell me how you knew my father. I have to
know."

She felt her lower lip tremble. She'd make no excuses. She did what
she did for a reason. For a damned good reason and not Joash Tuttle,
Fox MacPhearson, nor the Holy Father himself would make her feel guilty
for what she had done. "You know how I know everyone at Kate's," she
said quietly. Firmly. She was surprised by how strong her voice
sounded, how easily she met and held his gaze.

"No, I don't," Fox said softly. He released her shoulder slowly, as if beginning to fear some type of contamination. "Tell me."

She looked directly into his eyes, choosing to speak simply. The words came so hard. "I'm one of them."

" You…you couldn't be that kind of woman!" He sounded so sure of himself.

Feeling suddenly bone-deep cold, Celeste marched into the kitchen
and threw open the door of the blackened potbellied stove. She grabbed
the coal shovel in the bin behind the stove and tossed a full load
inside. Her anger flared. She knew it irrational to suddenly be upset
with him. There was no need for her to take this personally. How could
she have expected any other response but this one? "And just what kind
of woman is that, Mr. MacPhearson?" She slammed the door shut.

Now he was beginning to anger. "An intelligent, attractive, capable woman."

She folded her arms over her chest. She was trying so hard not to
feel the pain of disappointment. He wasn't going to ask why she did
what she did, because the truth was, like everyone else, he didn't
care. It was crazy of her to have ever placed a single grain of hope in
this man. Dreams didn't come true and handsome, rich men didn't save
women from prostitution.

"I am intelligent, attractive, and capable, Mr. MacPhearson. I'm
also a whore. I was your father's whore, later his lover, then his
friend when he could no longer
perform."

Fox tore off his wet bowler hat and threw it on the table.

Celeste didn't know why she shouted at him like that. Said it so
crudely. Maybe she just wanted to shock him, make him hate her enough
to leave now before he broke her heart any further.

"You slept with my father for money?" he spat.

"At first. Later because I cared for him."

"Because you cared for his money. "

Celeste narrowed her eyes. "You son of a bitch," she said softly,
too angry to shout now. "You have no idea what I shared with your
father. You have no idea because you weren't here. You weren't here
when he became ill. You weren't here when he died. You couldn't even
make it for the blessed funeral because you were too busy with your
fancy house and your business in California!"

Fox blanched.

For an instant Celeste felt a pang of guilt. No matter what he said
to her, she shouldn't have said that. She didn't know what his
circumstances were, why he hadn't come, any more than he knew why she
sold her body for money. His cruelty was no excuse for her own.

"Fox…" she said softly. She took a step toward him. She knew what
she had said hurt him because she knew he cared about her, just as what
he had said cut her to the quick because she cared about him.

He stood stock straight and stared at her with dark, accusatory
eyes. "Miss Kennedy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Her brow furrowed and she almost laughed. Her emotions were such a jumble that they were all beginning to run together. "Leave?"

"Leave my father's house. My house. John may have had a weak spot
for whores, but I don't. Not anymore." His tone was so angry and
condemning that it spurred her own fury again.

"You can't make me leave."

"I can. Private property. I can have the sheriff remove you from my house."

Who the hell did this man think he was talking to? Who was he to
judge her? She didn't owe him an explanation for why she was a
prostitute. He didn't deserve an explanation. "Well, you're right about
the private property." She strode toward him with Silver following the
hem of her dress. "You're even right about calling Sheriff Tate." She
stopped directly in front of Fox, her gaze fixed on his face. "What
you're wrong about,
Mr.
MacPhearson is who has the right to have whom removed."

He stared at her blankly. "Pardon?"

She gave a small, triumphant smile. "John MacPhearson's will and
last testament was read and authenticated three days after he passed
away. It's been filed legally in Denver. Here's how it goes according
to John's wishes." She paused and then began to count on her fingers,
pinky first. "I, sir, Celeste Ann Kennedy am the sole owner of this
property at 22 Plum Street in Carrington, Colorado." She bent the next
finger. "I am also owner of Mr. John MacPhearson's bank account." She
touched her middle finger. "And lastly, sir, I am half owner of the old
land claims now known as MacPhearson's Fortune, some one and three
quarters of a mile northwest of this fine town."

Fox stared at her, apparently trying to decide if she was telling
the truth. A flicker of emotion crossed his face. Was he so shocked
that his father had left this little house, a few dollars, and half a
worthless gold mine to a whore who had been kind to him when his own
son wasn't here to comfort him? Fox was already rich beyond her dreams
or those of his father. He didn't need the money or the property.

Was Fox really such a petty person?

No, it wasn't shock that she saw. It was hurt.

Now Celeste was confused. Was this about her or John? She couldn't tell.

"Who did he leave the other half of the land to?" Fox asked quietly.

"You." Then she gave him a smile that mixed sarcasm and a plea for a
truce. "Whether you like it or not, it seems we're partners, Mr.
MacPhearson."

"Son of a bitch," Fox murmured. He sat on the edge of the bed
covered with the white candle-wicked bedspread. "You son of a bitch.
How could you have left a whore my inheritance?" To a cultured whore
with a voice as smooth as honey and lips that are sweeter, he thought.
He propped one elbow on his knee and brushed back the long locks of
dark hair that fell over his forehead.

Rain pattered on the window glass. A gaslight hissed on the wall
beside the bed. The room smelled faintly of wildflowers, of Celeste.
Downstairs he could hear her banging pots, talking to herself or that
mutt of hers.

"Even in death you couldn't do me a good turn, could you, John?" Fox
said aloud. "She welcomed me into your home, her home, drew me like no
woman has ever drawn me before."
And what is she,
he thought
bitterly. A whore. A woman who sold her body, not just to men, but to
his father. His father's whore. A whore like Amber, like…

"Damn it! What have you got to say for yourself now?"

Of course his father didn't answer.

He dropped his head to his hands. "I don't know why I'm expecting
anything out of you now," he muttered. "Learned my lesson long ago,
didn't I?"