Denver (13 page)

Early the next morning Dan stopped to see Dulcie. “I finally got around to calling on Mary O’Malley to give her the money.”

“Well, it took you long enough!” Dulcie said. She sat in a chair facing him and her heart beat swiftly. He had come rushing in from the cold and he looked so
handsome. His face was flushed, his hair tangled, and the thick sheepskin coat emphasized his broad shoulders. She wished she had known he was coming, and worn something more revealing. She ached for him, and with a painful twist remembered Louisa Shumacher, who was cold and unfriendly.

Dulcie had known all along that someday a woman would come along and catch his fancy, but now that it had happened, it hurt badly. He paced up and down the room, and it was difficult to resist going to him and putting her arms around him.

“I thought she’d be overjoyed.” He whirled around. “Wouldn’t you be overjoyed?”

“Of course I would, sweetie,” she answered dryly. “If a man gave me fifteen thousand dollars, I’d be delighted.”

“Then why isn’t she? She ripped up the bank papers.”

For the first time Dulcie began to pay attention to what he was saying instead of to Dan himself. “She what?”

“I’ve been telling you, Dulcie, she tore up the papers and threw them at me.”

“I’ll be damned!” Dulcie threw back her head and laughed.

“It isn’t funny either.”

Instantly she sobered. “I know it’s not. Just momentarily, the vision of her flinging all that money in your face astounded me.” Silently she praised Mary O’Malley for having enough spunk to defy both Silas and Dan.

“She needs the money. Silas wants her to have it.”

“Doesn’t that fool Silas realize this girl wants his love, not his money?”

“I tried to tell him that. But she can still want him while she uses the money he gave her. If she marries him, he’ll spend it on her anyway.”

“I met her. She looks young.”

“She looks fifteen years old, but sometimes she acts as if she’s one hundred. Dammit, I could just shake her!”

“So now what will you do?” Dulcie asked coolly, enjoying the situation.

“I don’t know, dammit. If she didn’t need it so badly, I’d forget all about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Dulcie said softly. “You’re too softhearted to forget it when it concerns Silas or her.”

“She wears patched dresses, and the boardinghouse looks as if it will fall down on her head. She is the most stubborn little snippet—” He ran his hands through his hair, and Dulcie bit back a smile. It was seldom that a woman had Dan tied in knots. So far she couldn’t think of any since the fabulous Melissa Hatfield.

“And what’s worse,” he said, pausing suddenly in front of her, “I think she loves him and she’s hurt by the money. I swear I think she tried her damnedest to fight tears. That Silas! I’ll knock him flat when I see him again, for getting me into the middle of this.”

“The money will keep. Just forget it, Dan.”

“I want to forget it, but then I think about Silas wanting her to have it so badly that he would risk life and limb, and I look at her needing it so badly…Dulcie, would you—?”

“No. I know exactly what you’re thinking, but ladies in town don’t talk to me. And frankly, darling, if there is a woman on earth that you can’t persuade to do something, she isn’t going to listen to me.”

He laughed, and a momentary smile crossed his face. Dulcie knew she wasn’t in his thoughts at all except as a friend to hear his worries.

“I met Mary O’Malley,” she said. “I slipped on the ice and she helped me up. She’s nice, Dan.”

“She’s a fiery-tempered baggage!”

Dulcie wanted to cry out that she had been nicer than Louisa Shumacher, who wouldn’t even stay in the same store with her, who wouldn’t have helped her in her fall if she had broken her arms and legs. Instead, she was afraid to speak out against Louisa, afraid it would send Dan away, and she realized how vulnerable
she was. She had let her heart grow warm by loving Dan. Now she would pay for it.

“I’ll try again,” he said with another long sigh. “Dammit, she’s difficult! She looks as if the first big wind would blow her right through town, but she can handle bull-whackers and renegades as well as a man.”

“If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I’m going to work, Dulcie. I’ll be back later,” he said casually, brushing her cheek with a kiss. But she knew he probably wouldn’t return for several days.

“You work too hard, Dan,” she said, sliding her fingers along his shoulder. “Your crew won’t be at work for another two hours.”

“I want to make a place for myself here, and hard work will eventually give me what I want.”

It was still early in the February morning, an hour before most people would be stirring. Snow crunched beneath Dan’s feet, and as he strode down the street, he thought about the town and his future. Denver had a population of over five thousand people now, and it seemed to be growing daily. Dan’s home, the one for Lester Potter, and Dulcie’s wouldn’t catch the attention of the men in town who could afford the type of house Dan longed to build. But Benjamin Corning had contacted him, asking him to draw up plans. A six-bedroom house, it would be one of the fanciest in Denver when finished, and Dan prayed he got the contract.

A man and woman hurried across the road ahead of him. With a perfunctory greeting, the couple passed him and hurried away, but for an instant Dan thought of his mother, Hattie. It had been weeks since her last letter, and he wondered if she would ever reconsider returning home to the ranch in New Mexico Territory. His thoughts went back to his childhood, and he could remember the countless times he had seen Javier, his father, return home and swing Hattie up in his arms. She would laugh, her hands on Javier’s shoulders as
he set her down and kissed her. A wave of sadness overcame him momentarily, because Dan hated to think of Javier alone. He was a man meant to have a woman at his side, a man deeply in love with his wife. Yet Dan could understand the rage and hurt Hattie had felt when she discovered Javier had given away Hattie’s daughter so many years ago. Dan frowned as he thought about the pain his family had experienced, April’s years of growing up without her family, Javier’s regrets and guilt, and Hattie’s fury. There was no way to undo the past. And Dan prayed his was buried forever.

Dan squared his shoulders, his stride lengthening as he thought about the house his men were completing. He wanted it to be the best possible. He had no patience with slipshod methods. He had discussed the matter with each man he hired, making sure they had some experience, and checking their work to see if it met with his standards.

He rounded the corner and studied the carriage in front of the Potter house. Dan quickened his step, wondering who had stopped and why. He took the front steps two at a time and stomped snow off his feet before opening the door and entering. A man stood in the front parlor, his back to Dan, but he turned at the sound of footsteps. His tall beaver hat was dusted with snow.

“Good morning,” Dan said, offering his hand. “I’m Dan Castle.”

“Mr. Castle. I’m Edward Ringwood. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to look at your work.”

“I don’t mind at all. Can I show you around?”

“I’ve already looked around,” he said, turning to study the Victorian Gothic mantel. “Very nice touches. I like your mantelshelf,” he said, running his hand along dentils in the bed molding, the decorative pilasters and turned woodwork. He looked around the room, glancing up at the coved ceiling and the wide polished mahogany both above and at the base.

“That’s nice wood. Very good job,” he observed.

“It came from Santo Domingo. I order some of my wood from a company in South Carolina.”

Edward Ringwood’s black eyes finally focused on Dan. “We share the same liking. I have a preference for Victorian. It’s eye-catching. Thank you for your time, Mr. Castle.”

“Yes, sir. Anytime you want to come look, feel free to do so,” Dan said, shedding his coat.

“You work early.”

“I’m shorthanded. I get more done if I start early.”

“There are plenty of men for hire in town.”

“I’m particular when it comes to my houses,” Dan said. His pulse raced. He wanted to grasp Edward Ringwood’s arm and show him every inch of the house, the high ceilings and ample fireplaces, the Vermont slate used in building the fireplaces, but he resisted the impulse.

“How many houses have you built, Mr. Castle?”

“Two others here in Denver, and I’m presenting plans to Benjamin Corning. I’ve also worked on houses in California.”

Ringwood nodded. “Good day, sir.” He left, striding out to his carriage, where a coachman sat quietly waiting. Dan watched him drive away, wishing he would come back and ask Dan to build him a house. Edward Ringwood had made a fortune in silver before he settled in Denver. He had opened a smelter, and he was just the type of man Dan hoped to acquire as a customer. Young, wealthy, married with two small children, Ringwood could afford a fancy mansion.

Dan gathered up his tools and went to the hall, and his thoughts of Ringwood vanished as he concentrated on his task.

Two hours later his men worked in two rooms while Dan nailed cove molding in place beneath the tread on a riser on the stairway. In spite of the pounding of hammers, the shattering of a loud blast was heard and all hammering stopped. Dan ran out on the porch, glancing up and down the street.

A column of smoke rose above roofs near the center of town.

“Fire!” Dan yelled.

His men ran outside. Only one man had his horse, which was tethered at a rail. “Come on, Dan, I’ll give you a ride,” Hiram Veck said. Dan swung up behind him while Willie North waved them to go ahead. They could follow the rising cloud of smoke to the fire. The town’s two-thousand-pound bell began clanging; a fire brought all able-bodied people. Dan knew Denver had burned in the spring of 1863, and people were acutely conscious of the hazards of fire.

As they rounded a corner, Dan’s eyes narrowed and he swore. It was the O’Malley boardinghouse. One corner was ripped away, and flames and smoke billowed out. Mary O’Malley was pumping water furiously, and a bucket brigade had already formed, winding from the pump around the corner of the house to the fire. Denver Hook and Ladder Company was only a few blocks away on Lawrence Street, so the hook-and-ladder crew was already at the boardinghouse when Dan arrived. Men pumped vigorously as they poured a stream of water on the fire. Dan jumped off the horse and ran to Mary. He pushed her away from the pump, taking the handle to pump faster. “I’ll do this.” As he talked, he shed his coat. “Put on my coat.”

“I’ve got to help,” she said, starting toward the line. Dan grabbed her arm, throwing his coat around her shoulders.

“Put on my coat,” he snapped, and she slid her arms into the sleeves. As he pumped, Mary called to one of the men to move the horses. In addition to the bucket brigade, men on the porch had wet gunnysacks to beat at the flames. Mary ran toward the porch, and Dan swore. “Jed, man this pump!” he called, running to catch up with Mary. He yanked the gunnysack from her hands as she beat at flames.

“Get back where it’s safe,” he ordered.

“Mr. Castle, it’s my house!”

“Dammit, Irish, get back there or I’ll carry you and hold you, and two of us won’t be any help!”

“Mary, where’s Pa?” Brian asked. Mary and Dan turned to face Brian. “I can’t find him.”

Mary looked at the burning house. “Holy saints preserve us.”

Dan stepped in front of her as her brother ran ahead. “Get off the porch, Mary. Let the men do this. I’ll go with Brian.”

Brian and Dan raced inside the house, Dan winding his handkerchief over the lower part of his face and following Brian upstairs. The fire burned in the front parlor, a gaping hole torn in the wall, and Dan wondered how the hell this had happened, but then his mind was on the O’Malleys.

Paddy O’Malley sat on the top step, bottles clutched in his arms. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, and he smiled at them.

“Brian, I must take care of my bottles.”

“Pa, the house is on fire. Get out.” Brian and Dan each took Paddy’s arms and led him down the steps. He coughed violently, tears streaming from his eyes. Dan’s eyes burned and he felt as if he were suffocating as they tried to hurry Paddy O’Malley along.

“Careful, boys, the bottles.”

“Pa, come on.” Brian coughed, his voice a rasp.

“Boys, we have to go. The blasting powder is in the front parlor,” Paddy warned.

“Pa, it blew out the side of the house.”

“Brian, only one bag blew a hole in the house.”

They reached the foot of the stairs. Brian gave Dan a horror-struck look of shock. “Pa, there’s more?”

“Yes, my boy. There were two bags,” he said carefully, his words slurred in spite of his efforts to pronounce them distinctly.

“Let’s go!” Dan snapped, and they rushed Paddy out. “Get off the porch!” Dan shouted. “Blasting powder! Fire in the hole!” he yelled, knowing every miner would understand. He grabbed Mary around the waist, scooping her up while Brian pulled Paddy along. Men dropped buckets and ran.

“The fire—” Mary protested, pulling back.

Dan tightened his grip as he ran, while she clung to
his neck. The blast shook the ground, and Dan dropped down over Mary, trying to protect her from flying boards. Something hit him across the shoulders.

Silence came, and in spite of all the turmoil, the fire, and the explosion, he was aware of Mary’s soft body beneath his. He turned his head to look directly into her wide green eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked, noticing that her skin was beautiful and as smooth as porcelain.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” There was one long heartbeat of time when neither moved. He rolled over and stood up, pulling her to her feet. Black smoke rolled and billowed skyward. Men were getting up all across the yard and street, but no one seemed seriously injured.

“It blew out the damned fire,” Dan said, looking at what was left of the boardinghouse. Only two-thirds of it remained. The front corner of the structure was missing. Rubble was strewn across the yard. Men stood in shock as they stared at the house. A small flame flickered beneath the floor, and Dan yelled, “Get the pumper going! We can control it now.”