Foxfire Bride (42 page)

To end the day, she selected the quietest saloon and ordered the whiskey she'd been thinking about since her last drink in No Name with Barbara Robb. The liquor hit her stomach like an explosion of hot metal, and three glasses later she understood why some drunks cried. Her spirits sank to the sawdust floor.

Peaches was gone. She kept listening for his voice, but he wasn't going to speak up and tell her that she'd had enough whiskey and it was time to go home. Never again. And if he was leaning out of his cloud watching, no doubt he was pissed because she'd spent the day readying herself to dishonor his dying wish.

"Damn it." The man at the bar to her right looked her way, taking in her raggedy hat, old poncho, and travel-stained trousers and boots. She glared him down, half hoping he was spoiling for a fight, but he turned back to his glass.

That was probably a good thing since there was no one to patch her up afterward if she got banged up fighting. There was no one to look out for her. No one who knew where she was now or gave a damn. There was no Peaches, no Tanner.

Thinking about Tanner made her feel lower than dirt and raised an ache in her chest, but she couldn't help herself. Where was he? In some mining camp with his father? Or had he taken a stage that had passed through Idaho Springs while she was sleeping or buying lady clothes? Had he given her a single thought since she had ridden out of his life? What had he told his father about her? And the dumbest question of all, if Tanner saw her all tricked out in her lady clothes, would he laugh or would he think she was beautiful?

Beautiful, ha. What the hell was she thinking.

Before she climbed into bed that night, Fox stiffened her spine, summoned her courage, and made herself look into the cloudy mirror above the bureau dresser.

The reflection wasn't what she'd expected or hoped for, to be more accurate, but then it never was. However, she didn't look as bad as she'd dreaded either. She wasn't sunburned or peeling. Her cheeks weren't raw and chapped and neither were her lips. When she opened her freshly shampooed braid, it flowed through her fingers all shiny with lamplight. Maybe it was just whiskey-thinking, but she decided she'd probably succeed in posing as a respectable woman for however long it took to get close to Hobbs Jennings and kill him.

Curious, she parted her hair in the center and pulled it back from her face. Careful examination led to the conclusion that she was too pink and too freckled to be beautiful. Too cool-eyed and spit-in-your-face stubborn.

But Tanner had seen her as beautiful, and damn, that hurt. One man in the whole fricking world believed she was beautiful and wonderful and had wanted to spend his life with her. And who did he turn out to be? The son of an immoral, thieving, no conscience, conniving, backstabbing, son of a bitch.

She dashed a hand across her eyes, wished she could kill Hobbs Jennings right now, then fell into bed.

In the morning, togged out in her new lady clothes, Fox climbed aboard the stage bound for Denver.

Denver had grown by leaps and bounds. Residents pouring into the area had planted trees along what Fox remembered as bare dusty streets, and there were even city ditches to provide the convenience of nearby water for the new plantings.

The number of large mansions didn't surprise Fox, but the multitudes of smaller homes did. Many were fashioned from brick or stone, built to endure. Leaning from the stage window, she gaped at three-story office buildings, restaurants with awnings shading the doors, shops with polished windows and gold lettering. Denver was a genuine city.

While the stage waited for a herd of rangy cattle to clop down First Avenue, Fox hopped out and purchased a newspaper from a boy on the corner. She glimpsed Hobbs Jennings's name before she folded the paper under her arm and climbed back into the crowded stage.

Soon enough she spilled out of the coach with the other passengers, glad to be finished with squeezing among them and breathing hot sour air. Rolling the cramps out of her shoulders, she took stock of her surroundings, but nothing appeared familiar. She had to ask the man inside the post house for the address of the Jennings Mining and Mercantile Company and then request a recommendation for a modest hotel near those offices.

Happily, she discovered the Alphonse Hotel was situated only a block from what was already being referred to as Denver's business district. In what she took to be a nod from fate, the hotel sat within easy walking distance of Jennings's office.

This time, after looking her over, the hotel clerk assigned her a better room than she had received in Idaho Springs when she'd entered the lobby fresh off the road. This room had wallpaperugly, but more pleasing than bare walls. A pitcher of water stood ready beside the washbasin, and someone had placed silk carnations in a vase before the vanity. The man who carried up her tapestry bag opened both windows to the smell of dust and cow dung, but the breeze was welcome.

Then he asked if she wanted a bath sent to the room, carefully looking aside as he put the question. Such an idea had never entered Fox's mind, that she could have a bath in her room.

Also looking aside and stupidly blushing, she allowed that she would indeed like a bath. "And a beef steak with fried potatoes," she added, waiting for him to say that was not possible. But he only nodded. So she added, "And coffee with sugar. And cake! It should have thick frosting."

She could learn to love hotels, she decided, setting out her new comb and old brush alongside extra hairpins. This kind of luxury was worth the extra money. Of course, in the past, she'd never had extra money. But now she had a pocketful from the sale of the mustang and her rifle, and a limited time to spend it.

Only one cigar remained from her stash and she smoked it while soaking in the tub and reading the newspaper.

Hobbs Jennings's disappearance was solved, the newspaper announced in large headlines. Accompanied by his son, Matthew Jennings, Mr. Jennings had returned to Denver yesterday afternoon following a harrowing ordeal with kidnappers. The amount of the ransom was hinted but not revealed. Officials predicted they would soon have the kidnappers in custody.

Fox rolled her eyes and thought of Jubal Brown, then read that Mr. Jennings was exhausted and weak but basically unharmed. Hobbs Jennings predicted he would be in his office by Tuesday at the latest and assured the public that Jennings Mining and Mercantile would resume business as usual.

Fox flung the newspaper across the room then leaned back in the tub and drew on her cigar. The bastard led a charmed life. He'd drawn three kidnappers who were such novices they had treated Jennings like a prince instead of killing him as more experienced thugs would have done. If Fox had been running that show, at the very least Jennings would have needed more than a few days to recuperate.

Tuesday. Narrowing her eyes, she formulated a plan. She'd give him until Friday afternoon to deal with well-wishers and business associates and whoever else might crowd into his office after a three-month absence. Then his charmed life would end.

Not until the tub and service tray had been removed did Fox remember that she had promised Tanner she would wait two weeks before she put her neck on the line for a noose. But that had been before he knew his father was the man she intended to kill. She doubted there was a chance in hell that Tanner would leave Denver knowing she was going after his father. Besides, if she was going to defy Peaches's death wish, what did a promise to Tanner matter? It wasn't like she was trying to reserve a spot in heaven. That wouldn't happen. And Tanner wasn't going to say, "Yes, you murdered my father, but it's all right because you kept your promise to wait two weeks before you did it."

Now that she'd worked out her plans, Fox had expected to drop off to sleep without a qualm. Instead, she lay in bed staring at the windows and thinking about Tanner. His face rose in her memory, his saddle brown eyes soft with a smile. There were so many memories of the surprise and joy he'd given her. But the image that broke her heart was the tender expression he'd worn when he'd looked in her eyes and talked softly about a man's wife growing radishes if she had a mind to.

Fox pushed her face into the pillow trying to smother the images that reeled through her thoughts. Tanner, face tight with concentration, leading a string of mules across the creek. Tanner, looking into her eyes as he made love to her. Tanner, taking his turn at the fire, flipping flapjacks. The look and feel of his hard body, the sound of his deep voice in her ear. "Oh Tanner," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It isn't fair. You should have been another man's son."

It drove him wild. Tanner knew she was in Denver, but he couldn't find her. He'd checked all the public stables, searching for the mustang and then he'd hired a dozen men to canvass private stables owned by the hotels. The last two days had driven him to the desperation of riding the streets looking for a faded poncho and a long red braid.

He'd posted guards around his father's mansion, armed with her description, and he'd assigned a couple of men to watch the doors of the company offices.

After signaling the waiter in his club to bring another drink, he raked his fingers through his hair. She couldn't just vanish. Denver had a few thousand residents, but the city wasn't so large that a woman as striking and memorable as Fox would fade into the population without someone taking note.

She was here somewhere, he could feel her.

He loved her and, damn it, she loved him. If she would just agree to sit down with him and with his father, surely they would find an answer that could give them a future.

Dropping his head on the back cushion of the club chair, Tanner closed his eyes. Until the moment he had questioned his father about the past, he had continued to hope there was a mistake, a set of unlikely coincidences that had led Fox to believe Hobbs Jennings was her stepfather and that he'd stolen her inheritance.

But everything Fox had claimed was true. During the course of a night-long conversation intensely painful for them both, his father had admitted the long ago crime. And so many puzzles had been solved. Finally he understood the pain and flashes of torment in his father's eyes. And he understood that nothing Fox could do would punish his father as deeply as his father had punished himself. That punishment changed nothing. But maybe if Fox knew the price his father had paid in self-hatred and recrimination, maybe it would be enough. She wouldn't forgive any more than Tanner could forgive. But maybe it would be enough.

He had to find her before revenge destroyed the two people he loved most. If she would just talk to his father, if she could bring herself to do that much, just maybe they could get through this.

Staring into space, he listened to the clubhouse clock ticking down the minutes. Whatever would happen was going to happen soon.

"Good afternoon," Fox said pleasantly, modestly dropping her gaze away from the young man at the desk. "Is Mr. Jennings in?"

"Do you have an appointment?" The name on a brass plate said Claude Piper.

"No, but I was assured Mr. Jennings would see me. I'm soliciting donations from businessmen in support of children without mothers."

Mr. Piper put down his pen and studied her as thoroughly as Fox had ever been studied. Face flaming, she wondered if her Colt was outlined by the fabric of the bag looped over her wrist. As his examination continued during what seemed like an eon of silence, Fox fidgeted and tried to decide what she would do if she couldn't get past the obstacle presented by Claude Piper.

"And your name is?"

She felt positive that he stared at her bag. "It will be sufficient if you inform Mr. Jennings that I represent the Motherless Children's Society." She forced her lips into a wooden smile and questioned the wisdom of presenting herself as a respectable young lady even if doing so was certain to garner newspaper attention and the public exposure of Jennings's crime. If she'd chosen to come here as herself, the moment would have been easier. She would have kicked Piper aside and pushed into Jennings's office. By now the bastard would have been standing at the gates of hell.

Mr. Piper rose behind his desk. "I'll only be a moment."

Having waited twenty years, she decided another minute or two didn't matter. It was surprising, however, that Jennings had hired only two men to guard his building, and that she had walked right past them. Tanner would certainly have informed his father that she was coming. Did Jennings believe the threat was idle? That she lacked the nerve to actually kill him? Her gaze turned stony. If so, that would be his last mistake.

Immediately she wished she hadn't thought of Tanner. Not now. He would be devastated by what she was about to do. Whatever else Jennings was, he was still Tanner's father and Tanner cared deeply about him. Fox wished that didn't disturb her so much.

"Follow me, please." Mr. Piper stood beside the entrance to a short hallway paneled in honey-colored pine.

Fox squared her shoulders and pressed her lips into a thin line. Her pulse increased and her skin tingled with electricity. She had waited so long for this moment.

Smiling tightly, she followed Piper down the hallway and into a commodious office crowded with bookshelves, paintings, and rugs in muted colors of burgundy and blue.

"Mr. Jennings will be with you shortly." Mr. Piper gave her a long stare, then shut the door behind him.

Irritated at having to wait, Fox walked to the windows and scanned the mountains she had so recently crossed. Snow hung on the distant peaks, reminding her that she wouldn't live to see another winter. She'd never cared for winter anyway.

Turning slowly, she glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel, then examined Jennings's large mahogany desk. And jerked backward in shock. Two framed portraits faced Jennings's desk chair. One depicted Tanner as a boy, and the other was unmistakably Fox. Reaching a gloved hand, she held the portrait to the window light, her mouth dry.

This was the child's face she expected to see in the mirror, slightly mischievous and smiling on the verge of laughter. Clear blue gray eyes and a smiling rosy mouth beneath a tumble of red curls. She didn't recall sitting for this portrait, but she remembered the white pinafore and the little string of pearls.