Elizabeth Lane (11 page)

“You’ve never approved of Lydia and me! I’ve always wondered why, but now I know! You want her for yourself!”

“Now, Virgil—”

“Don’t deny it! I’ve seen the way you look at her! You’re in love with her, too!”

“Be sensible, boy!” Donovan had seized his brother’s arm, but Virgil had wrenched away from him and lunged to his feet.

“I’m no boy!” he flared. “And you keep away from me, Donovan Cole! From this moment on, you’re no brother of mine!”

He had plunged out of the hollow and started to runnot back toward the camp, but uphill, onto the exposed ridge.

“Virgil!” Donovan had yelled desperately. “Virgil, get back down here!” But his words were lost in a hellish blast of fire and sound that seized Virgil’s slim, young body and flung it, shattered and bleeding, almost at Donovan’s feet.

Virgil…Virgil…

Donovan was running hard now, his lungs burning in the thin Colorado air. Thunder echoed behind him, indistinguishable now from the roar in his mind.

Virgil…

Upward he plunged, heedless of the rocks that twisted his ankles and the brambles that clawed his skin. Even when the rain began to fall, he paid it no heed. He was running now, through the foggy bottomland of Antietam. He was running toward the enemy, no longer caring whether he lived or died.

S
arah lifted the edge of the sheet. Drained beyond tears, she drew it upward to cover the lifeless face of Marie Cecile LeClerq. “It’s over,” she murmured to the hovering Faye. “She’s at peace now.”

Heartrending sobs rose from a dim corner of the room, where the distraught Greta hunched in a maroon velvet armchair, giving full vent to her grief. Faye wiped her eyes with a yellowed lace hankie. Her garish vermilion curls hung lank and untended around her tired face.

“I hope there’s a heaven for whores,” she said. “Marie was one of the sweetest little gals I ever knew. She deserves to be someplace nice.”

“I’m sure she is.” Sarah smoothed the sheet, fussing needlessly with the hem. “You and the other girls were good to her, Faye. At least Marie died among people who cared about her.” She forced herself to turn away from the bed. “I’ll go downstairs and tell Smitty she’s gone. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. After that, I’ll be back up to help you lay her out.”

She turned, only to be blocked by Faye’s cushiony bulk. “Ain’t no need for your goin’ down there, Miss Sarah. Smitty’ll find out soon enough, the old buzzard. An’ we can take care of fixin’ up poor Marie ourselves. You go on home, now. You been sittin’ with her most o’ the day. You look plumb tuckered out.”
“Faye’s right, Miss Sarah, you mustn’t go downstairs.” The sable-skinned woman who’d spoken from the doorway was a few years younger than Faye and Greta. Her sultry features were marred by a thumb-size chocolate birthmark that lay along the left side of her nose. She was from an island off New Orleans, and her father had sailed with Jean Lafitte. Her name was Zoe.

“I was down there ‘bout half an hour ago,” she said. “There’s a whole lot of talk goin’ on about what happened at the church this mornin’. Not good talk, if you get my meanin’. You’d best stay out of sight, Miss Sarah. This town’s a dangerous place for you right now.”

“You’re welcome to hide out right here till things blow over,” Faye interjected. “What you done in the war don’t make no difference to us. By our book, you’re still the finest lady in the whole Colorado Territory.”

“Thank you,” Sarah murmured, touched by the irony of it—that only these outcast women remained her friends. “But I can’t put you to that kind of trouble—”

“You mean Smitty?” Fay snorted. “Hell, that skinny old rattlesnake don’t even have to know you’re here! We could-”

“No, it’s not that,” Sarah countered, realizing the truth of her words only as she spoke. “I can’t depend on anyone, not even you, to protect me. I’ve got to face up to the people in this town. They have to know that I’m not afraid to defend what’s mine!”

She glanced back toward the bed, where Marie’s emaciated form barely raised the coverlet. The air in the stuffy room smelled of rose water and death. It pressed around her, suddenly too warm, too close.

“You don’t look real pert, Miss Sarah.” Zoe was beside her, gently supporting her arm. “Why don’t you come with me and lie down. Nobody’s usin’ my bed just now.”

“I’m all right,” Sarah protested, ignoring her own rubbery knees. “Here, someone fetch me some water and a
comb—and choose one of Marie’s pretty dresses from the wardrobe. She would have wanted to look nice—”

“Child, you’ll be on the floor in another minute!” Faye had her other arm now and was guiding her firmly out of the room. “What you need is some fresh air and rest. Greta and Zoe and me, we can do for Marie. We even pooled our change and bought the poor lamb a casket last week. It’s down in the cellar right now, ready and waitin’….”

Too tired to argue, Sarah allowed Faye to steer her down the hallway toward the back entrance. She was numb to the marrow of her bones, as if Marie’s death, on the heels of her own ordeal in church that morning, had drained her of all feeling.

“You go on home and rest, honey.” Faye paused at the door that opened at the foot of the back stairs. “Been rainin’ cats and dogs all afternoon, so you ought to be safe in your room. Ain’t nobody riled up enough to bother you in weather like this.” She opened the door a crack and squinted out at the dark, drizzling sky. “I reckon we’ll be buryin’ Marie in the mornin’. That is, if the undertaker can get his rig through the mud.”

“I’ll be there,” Sarah murmured.

“Don’t be a fool, child.” Faye spun Sarah toward her, gripping both her arms. “You’re in enough trouble already. Showin’ up at a whore’s funeral can’t help but make things look worse. You stay away, hear? Marie will understand, poor lamb. So will the rest of us. Now you get on home, afore you topple right over.”

Glancing out to make sure the coast was clear, she thrust the passive Sarah outside and closed the door behind her.

The fresh, cold air startled Sarah back to her senses. She stood under the eaves for a moment, gathering her meager strength for the sprint across the alley. Rain poured off the roof, forming a drab, gray curtain where it fell. The daylight was fading fast. Soon it would be night, she realized with a shock. In the thickly curtained room, tending to Marie, she had lost all sense of time.

She plunged into the downpour, her mind flashing back to the cloak she’d left at Varina’s cabin. By now, Donovan would have told his sister everything. Varina, once the most steadfast of her friends, would be as bitter and hateful as the others. The loss pierced Sarah like a shaft of ice.

She had reached the foot of her own stairway when a sudden fear knifed her soul.

Her classroom.

She had been absent all afternoon. There would have been plenty of time for someone to break in and wreak total havoc. Everything could be destroyed.

Heart in her throat, she gripped the railing and mounted the rain-slicked wooden stairs. The door at the top was closed—she could see that much, at least. But what would she find inside? Utter destruction, or worse, someone waiting to finish the job
on her?

Stop it!
Sarah admonished herself as she climbed higher. In her struggle to make Miner’s Gulch her home, her one real enemy was fear. Conquer that, and there was nothing mere mortals could do to defeat her. She would be invincible!

Brave thoughts. Sarah filled her head with them, pumping herself full of courage. All the same, by the time she reached the top step, her heart was jumping against her rib cage like a trapped rabbit. Her hand shook as she fumbled for the key. That was when she noticed a bundle, wrapped in tattered oilcloth, stuffed into a corner between the threshold and the door.

The rain was coming down hard. Catching up the bundle, she thrust the key into the lock and turned it. As the door creaked inward, she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of what she might see. Her hands clutched the bundle against her chest. Its thickness muffled her heartbeats.

Holding her breath, Sarah stepped across the threshold and willed her eyes to open.

The little classroom lay peacefully untouched in the slanting gray light. Her anxious gaze found nothing amiss.
Her ears caught no sound except the measured tick of the clock, the patter of raindrops on the glass, and the strained gasp of her own breathing.

Forcing herself to relax, she locked the door behind her, carried the bundle into the bedroom and put a match to the lamp. The warm, yellow glow confirmed that she was safely alone.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, half-afraid to open the mysterious package in her lap. The dash through the rain had soaked her to the skin. Shivering in the drafty, unheated room, she plucked at the string that held the bundle together. The water-swollen knots were stubborn, her fingers numb with cold. After a few seconds of effort, Sarah’s teeth were chattering like Spanish castanets.

This would not do, she resolved, laying the bundle aside and unbuttoning her wet shirtwaist. At a time like this, the last thing she needed was a bad chill. When she was dry and warm, then she would open the package.

Trembling with cold, she peeled off her clothes, pausing to hang each damp piece where it would have a chance to dry by morning. Her white cotton nightdress lay rolled under her pillow. Sarah tugged it over her head. The fabric was soft, light and dry against her bare skin. She flung her warm blue flannel wrapper over it and cinched in the tie at the waist. Only then, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet with her bare feet tucked under her for warmth, did she take up the bundle again.

This time the knots yielded more readily. The worn oilcloth fell aside to reveal her own carefully folded wool cloak, the one she had left at Varina’s cabin when she’d fled Donovan’s bitter embrace. Even now, when she remembered that moment and the feel of his rough, angry mouth, Sarah’s face flamed like a torch. She should never have let him get so close. She should never have let him know how vulnerable she was.

She thought of him again, in church that very morning, leaping to his feet to protect a woman he despised. Dear
Donovan was as forthright as she was secretive, as passionate as she was self-contained.

What would it be like to be loved by such a man?

Forcing the thought aside, she lifted the cloak in her hands. Who could have left it? she wondered. Had Varina sent it down the mountain with Annie? Or could it have been-A faint crackle, deep in the folded cloth, scattered Sarah’s thoughts. When she shook the cloak, a single sheet of paper tumbled loose, fluttered to the floor, and, blown by a stray air gust, skittered under the bed.

With a little huff of impatience, Sarah clambered down to retrieve it. She was crouched awkwardly on the floorboards, just reaching under the edge of the coverlet, when a loud knock at the door stopped her breath like a hard jab to the ribs.

Sarah froze, her pulse slamming. She knew that knock well. She had heard it before, less than a week ago.

Donovan.

Again it came—an impatient staccato series of raps like the fire-burst of a Gatling gun. He would not go away, she knew. He had seen her light—maybe even been watching for it. He would know she was here.

“I’m coming!” she called, forcing the words from a throat that was ropy with tension. Whatever Donovan had to say to her, Sarah knew it would not be pleasant.

She scrambled to her feet, legs tangling in the loose, thin fabric of her nightgown. Tendrils of hair had escaped their confining pins to dangle around her face in dark, wet strings. A glance in the mirror showed shadow-rimmed eyes, red with exhaustion. She looked awful. But what did her appearance matter? She could not be sure why Donovan was outside her door, but one thing was certain. He had not come courting.

The rain was pelting down even harder than before. It lashed against the dark windows, beating a wild tattoo on the glass as Sarah crossed the schoolroom. Oh, she knew
what to expect from Donovan Cole. More threats. More demands. But he would not intimidate her. She would be stone in the face of his bluster, steel against his determination to see her gone.

Jerking her wrapper sash tight, Sarah strode resolutely toward the door. Her shaking hands released the latch. She stepped back into the schoolroom as the hinges creaked inward.

Donovan’s dark bulk loomed in the doorframe. He was hatless, coatless, his hair and clothes drizzling rain. A prickle of concern softened Sarah’s resolve, but it swiftly vanished, washed away by fear as a flash of lightning illuminated his face.

His rigid mouth and grimly set jaw were off-putting enough. But it was Donovan’s eyes that struck Sarah with cold terror. They lay like hell pits below the dripping crags of his eyebrows, their expression as savage and desperate as a wounded timber wolf’s.

He looked like a man gone mad.

Braced in the doorway, Donovan stared down at Sarah. She looked delicate, almost fragile, he thought. The white lace collar of her nightgown was bunched at her throat, framing her fine, pale features like a moonflower in the darkness. Her shadowed eyes gleamed large and soft. Her moist, satiny lips were as full as a child’s.

The Angel of Miner’s Gulch!
Looking at her, a man could almost believe it. He could almost forget what a treacherous little liar she was!

“What do you want, Donovan?” Her voice was a strained whisper. Was she afraid of him? He hoped to hell the answer was yes. He wanted her to be afraid. He wanted her to be sorry when he told her exactly how Virgil had died.

“I want to talk,” he growled. “Let me in, and don’t worry about your reputation or your precious virtue! Your standing in this town couldn’t get any lower than it already
is! As for whatever’s left of your honor, Sarah Parker, I wouldn’t lay a hand on your sanctified hide! Not even if you begged me!”

Sarah gasped as the impact of his words sank in. He was braced for her to slap him. Instead, she spun behind the door and shoved it hard in his face. The door would have slammed shut, but Donovan deftly blocked it with his foot, then countered with his own greater weight to push his way inside.

He expected to find Sarah sputtering like a doused barn owl. Instead, his eyes met a calm, icy glare. “I think the reputation that’s at stake here is your own,” she said, turning away from him and walking toward the window.

Donovan followed her with his eyes, trying not to notice the way her shapely little buttocks flowed beneath the tightly belted robe. That wasn’t why he’d come, he reminded himself angrily. What he needed from Sarah tonight had nothing to do with sex.

“You’re wet and chilled,” she said in a voice that would have frostbitten the devil’s own ears. “I can brew some fresh coffee, if you’d like.”

“Save it,” Donovan muttered, locking the door behind him. Hot coffee would have been heaven right now, but he wanted nothing that would ease his temper. He wanted to hang on to his misery, his frustration, his rage until he had finished with the woman.

“Sit down!” he ordered roughly.

“I’ll stand, thank you.” Sarah remained where she was, gazing calmly through the curtains at the rain-swept darkness outside.

Donovan stood fuming in the pale shaft of lantern light that fell through the open bedroom door. His hair, clothes and boots puddled water on the floor. He had been wandering for hours in the wild mountain storm, tormented to a frenzy by the memory of Virgil’s death. He had run, climbed, plunged through the lashing darkness, fleeing demons that would not let him rest. Only when he was near
dead from exhaustion, had the idea come to him that Sarah was his one hope. He had to confront her, had to get everything out in the open. Once and for all, he had to purge himself of Lydia Taggart.