Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy) (22 page)

“Might you post this for me, please?” she said.

“Certainly,” he said with a nod. “It will go out this afternoon.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

“Here’s your key,” he said, holding it up for her to see, then setting it on the low table beside a settee. “Supper is served in the dining room downstairs, beginning at six. Would you like me to make a reservation for you?”

“No, thank you. Might you simply send up a bowl of soup and bread?”

“Certainly. Now or later?”

“Hmm, if you could send up maids to fill my bath, then I’d like my supper an hour or so after that.”

“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”

With that he exited. She followed behind and, after peering down the hall to make certain it was empty, locked the door. It was a far sturdier door than the one on the train. Here, after a bath and a meal, she could get a good night’s sleep. She was desperate for it suddenly, the rush of adrenaline that had been flowing through her veins on the train depleted like water leaking out of a broken bottle.

She opened the curtains and stared out of her fifth-floor room to the vast Central Park, spreading in a huge rectangle before her. It was a beautiful view, but she found herself remembering the last time she had been in this city, staying in Gavin’s apartment, falling for his charms. She had entered the city a virgin; she left as his lover.

What might have happened had she been able to resist him? Refused him? What if she had swallowed her pride and returned to Odessa and Bryce instead? She turned to the mirror above the dresser and slowly unwrapped her veil to study her reflection. Her hair was growing longer now. There was still a patch over her ear where it might never grow again, the burns leaving her skin wrinkled, raw, and angry. But in time, the hair above it would grow long enough to cover it. Perhaps she could even wear it in curls and down over her shoulder as she had when she was a girl. Then it’d cover the burns on her neck as well. Or perhaps she’d always wear her veils. She was becoming comfortable in them, finding a layer of security when they were wrapped about her head and neck.

Her eyelashes and eyebrows were growing back, enhancing the St. Clair eyes that all three siblings had inherited. Her nose was long and straight, her lips full. If something could be done about her hair … a wig. Her eyes opened wide. When she’d thought of a wig before, she’d given up on it immediately. Westcliffe had no selection; she would have had to special order it, and the humiliation of going through that process in front of the proprietor at the mercantile would have been too much to bear. But here in the city, where no one knew her, she wouldn’t have that embarrassment. What was to stop her?

It would be no different than donning a wig as a character in an opera. A slow smile spread across her face and she arched a brow. She always favored red wigs. “Heavens, Moira,” one of her directors had once said. “That auburn makes your eyes scream at me like sirens to a sailor. We’re going to put it on you every moment possible.”

Auburn, hmm
. After a night’s rest, she’d set out for the wigmaker’s shop. With luck, she might have it in hand before the Knapps summoned her to come and meet them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Moira entered the grand breakfast room, which was elegantly appointed and filled with guests seated at tiny, round, white-cloth-covered tables. She made her way to the concierge in the corner.

“Two today, madam?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder with one arched brow.

“No, a table for one, please,” she said, staring right into his eyes, daring him to be anything but polite. “My name is Miss St. Clair.”

“Right away, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a sniff, writing something down on his tablet. He moved off and she followed him through a sea of fine dresses and suits, feeling the sly glances and stares as she passed. Even here in New York, it was rare to see a young woman unescorted.

The concierge pulled out a chair for her, and once she sat down, helped her push it in. He then took her napkin from the table, unfolded it with a snap, and carefully laid it across her lap. Moira looked down with some chagrin. The way her skirts had settled, the bump of her belly was clearly visible. She picked up the small menu, carefully avoiding looking into the concierge’s eyes. He dipped his head, then left for the front.

Moira stared at the words on the menu, not reading them, only pretending, unable to concentrate under the weight of the room’s stares and wondering who else might have seen the curve of her pregnancy.

A waiter arrived with coffee and orange juice. How long had it been since she had orange juice? Since … the last time she was here. With Gavin, dining with Gavin.

“Ready to order, Miss St. Clair?” the waiter said.

She glanced up in some surprise at the use of her name. But that was common in a hotel as fine as this. “A soft-boiled egg and toast will be adequate,” she said, handing him the menu, still unread.

“Would you like bacon with that?”

“No, thank you.” The way she was feeling, it would take everything in her to get her simple order down her gullet.

“I’ll have that for you right away, Miss St. Clair.”

The slim man moved off, and Moira reached for her orange juice. She lifted the small glass to her lips, staring straight ahead, and nearly spit out the mouthful of sweet, pulpy liquid.

Four tables away, a man immediately moved his eyes to a newspaper spread before him.

But Moira had seen him before.
On the train.

She swallowed hard and dared to look again. Tall and broad shouldered. Brown hair and murky eyes. He was turned slightly away from her now, apparently engaged in his paper. Or was he pretending as she had with her menu? A muscle twitched in his cheek, as if he were clenching his jaw.

She knew he had been on the train.
You’re making too much of it, Moira. Leaping to conclusions.

On a train full of well-to-do people bound for New York, it would not be odd to run into a good portion of the passengers here in this hotel, a day after arrival. But she knew him from somewhere else too. Where? One of the mining camps? She wracked her mind, trying to place him.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes from his paper and met her stare. A hint of a smile lifted his lips, and Moira immediately broke her gaze. What was she doing? If he was not the interloper, he’d consider her brazen stare as flirtation. And if he was the man who had been following her on the train, trying to get into her room—

The waiter returned, with a steward beside him, blocking her view.

She hadn’t seen that man on the train after she followed him, after she met Benjamin Bonser and let her identity be known. She was certain of it.

“Your egg, miss,” the waiter said, setting down the soft-boiled egg in an elegant china stand. “And your toast,” he added, setting down a second plate. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head, willing the waiter and steward to stand aside, but not wanting them to go at the same time.

“A letter and a telegram have arrived for you, Miss St. Clair,” said the steward, stepping forward. He held out a tray and Moira took the two pieces from him.

“Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

“Is there anything else you need at the moment, Miss St. Clair?” the waiter asked again.

“Well, I … no. Not right this instant,” she said.

The two frowned at her, glanced at each other, and then left. Once they were gone, Moira dared to drag her eyes back to the table four away from hers.

But the brown-haired man was gone.

o

Four days after the shooting, the doctor insisted Nic stay where he could keep a close eye on him, but let him leave with Sabine for short walks. Today they were to meet with Michael McManus and Mr. Avery—both now fully healed from their own misadventures in the Vaughn mine and the aftermath that ensued—and sign the deal for transfer of ownership. Sheriff Nelson would join them as well.

They walked slowly with Sheriff Nelson and Everett down the street to the attorney’s office and let the lawman enter without them. “Give us a minute, will you, Sheriff?”

“Sure, sure.”

Nic tried to shake off the bad memories of the last time they had walked in … the Dolly Mae men’s offer, and what occurred when they declined. He glanced down at Sabine, who held lightly to his arm. “You all right?”

She nodded.

Then he looked at Everett. “You okay too, Ev?”

He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “You sure you’re good with this? Us selling your dad’s property?”

Everett looked Nic in the eyes. “I trust you, Nic.”

“Thanks for that, Ev. I’ll do my best to never betray that trust.” He lifted his brows. “You’re about to be one of the richest kids in Colorado.”

The boy smiled and his eyes widened. “Can I buy my own rifle?”

Nic smiled. “I think we might be able to manage that.” He reached for the door and opened it for his wife-to-be and boy to enter, then followed behind. The lawyer, Sheriff Nelson, Mr. McManus, and Mr. Avery stood, and shook Nic’s hand in turn, each nodding toward Sabine. The sheriff gestured for Sabine to take a seat, pulled up a chair for Everett, and then they all sat down.

“We’re certainly glad to see you and the sheriff are recovering so well, Nic,” Mr. McManus said.

“No more than I.”

“Yes, well,” he said, barely covering a smile that he shot toward Mr. Avery. “The good thing about our travails is that we were able to ascertain how deep and long that gold vein really is.”

Nic nodded, saying nothing, waiting for them to go on, but his mind was back in that cold black chamber, remembering the way the gold sparkled when the sheriff lit the match.

“There’s a wealth down there, for sure,” Mr. Avery put in, leaning over in excitement. “And we have an adventure story we can tell our grandkids someday to boot.” He paused as he glanced at Sabine. “We owe you two our lives. Without you, and Sheriff Nelson, I’m not certain we would’ve made it out at all.”

“I’ve come to believe that it was the hand of God,” Nic said, leaning back a little. “But I’m glad we all did what we could.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Mr. McManus said, opening a portfolio with papers inside and sliding them across the table, one set before Sabine, the other in front of Nic. “And it is our honor to make you this offer. Given the amount of gold up on your property, we’d like to offer you one hundred thousand dollars, for each of your properties.” His glance turned to Sabine. “In addition, we shall grant you points that would continue to accrue after we pull out more than two hundred thousand dollars in gold. One point for the next hundred thousand, two for next, and three points beyond that.”

Nic fought to keep his facial expression controlled. He’d played enough poker in his time to know he couldn’t afford to tip his hand yet. He stared at the papers as if reading, but the words and numbers blurred before him. This was more than enough to begin their life together and assure Everett that he could take as much schooling as he wished—or launch a business when he came of age, for that matter. “It’s a strong offer, gentlemen,” Nic said. “Would you mind if we took a moment to confer?” He gestured toward Sabine and Everett.

“Not at all, not at all,” Mr. McManus said. “You three stay here. We’ll step outside.”

They rose and departed, clearly hopeful as they bustled out the door. Sabine turned to him, her smile making her brown eyes dance. “A hundred thousand dollars? Each?” she whispered.

“We can put ninety in for Ev, divided up among several different banks for safety. He can have it when he’s older. That still leaves us plenty to buy property and get settled anywhere you wish.” He lowered his voice. “And I can buy you a proper wedding ring.”

Sabine smiled and looked down at her lap for a moment, then back to him. “So? Shall we accept?”

“We will. But I’m going to edge our friends up a bit higher yet. Just sit tight, all right?” He rose, went to the door, and looked down the boardwalk, gesturing to the men who stood chatting a few paces away. They all returned to the table.

“Well?” Mr. McManus said. “Do we have a deal?”

“Can you take it up to one hundred and twenty each?” Nic said, carefully keeping his expression neutral.

Mr. McManus blinked twice and then looked at his partner and the attorney, then back to Nic. “We can’t do one hundred and twenty, but we could do one hundred and five.”

“One hundred and ten and you have a deal.”

Mr. McManus smiled. “One hundred and ten,” he said, reaching out a hand.

Grinning, Nic stood to shake it.

o

They left the attorney’s office with several hundred dollars in “good-will money.”

Nic wrapped an arm around Everett and offered his other to Sabine. It was getting late to accomplish all he wished to do. If they hurried, they could get down to Alpine and find some wedding clothes, as well as a ring.

“Nic! Hold up a sec.”

Nic looked over his shoulder and pulled Sabine and Everett to a stop. They turned to face Sheriff Nelson, who was standing with a messenger boy and an open telegram in his hands. With one look, Nic realized the sheriff wanted to speak only to him and Sabine.

“Hey, Ev, why don’t you go see if there’s a rifle at the Merc that catches your fancy.”

Everett’s eyes widened in excitement. “All right!”

“We’ll come and find you at the Merc. Stay there, okay?”

The boy did not wait for another word. He tore down the boardwalk as if a fire-breathing dragon were on his heels.

Nic smiled and looked back to the sheriff, who was moving closer to them. His smile faded.

Drew stopped in front of them. His color was better today, but his face was grim. “We just received a telegram from Westcliffe. Sheriff down there thinks he has our man—the man who killed Peter Vaughn.”