Katie Rose (3 page)

Emily rummaged in her pocket for her glasses, excitement coursing through her at the thought of seeing her new home for the first time. But when she put on her spectacles, she gasped in astonishment at the sight of Denver.

It was a bawdy place, she could tell that immediately. The saloon was twice the size of the church, and the boardinghouse had the prosperous look of a booming business. The street thronged with life, cowboys and farmers, shopkeepers and miners. There was a dressmaker’s shop, a shoemaker, a stable and a blacksmith. Emily sighed in relief as she observed that there was no milliner’s shop, at least not on the main road. She was used to competition, but the less of it, the better. Even this consideration didn’t distract her much. She was overwhelmed by the sights,
smells, and noises of a real western town, and didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

It was everything she’d expected. Whereas Boston was settled and dignified, Denver was alive, bustling and frenetic, filled, like herself, with exuberance. Joyfully, she snatched up her carpetbag, unaware of the snubs of the women with her or the calculating survey of the cowboy who was just leaving the coach.

“Miss Emily, I’d like to go with you to see the house, just to make sure you get there safely,” the preacher volunteered. “Do you mind?”

“I ain’t sure that’s proper,” the cowboy interrupted. He spat on the ground, the wet tobacco hitting the dirt with a tar-colored splat. He gave Emily a charming smile. “After all, the place has a reputation, and as a preacher, you need to keep that in mind. Ma’am, I’m Jake and I’d be more than happy to provide an escort to your new home.”

Emily was about to respond, when the preacher cut in. “But the mission is close by, and I have to go right past the house.” He grinned at her winningly. “I must insist.”

Emily smiled uncertainly. The cowboy seemed nice, but his spitting bothered her. Logically, she realized that tobacco had to be expelled, but her feminine sensibility was still offended. Besides, there was something about this preacher that alerted her sleuthish instincts. “Well,” she said to Thomas, “if you insist.”

Thomas looked at the cowboy with a sharp glance. The cowboy shrugged and headed off in the direction of the saloon. Emily was careful to hide her suspicions
as the preacher took her bag, then indicated the wooden boardwalk ahead.

“It’s on the outskirts of town, if I understand right.” He gave her a reassuring nod. “Let’s try this way.”

Emily followed obediently, glad now that he was there to help. As Thomas walked in front of her, she noticed once again how different he was from any other preacher she’d ever known. There was a catlike grace to his walk, a sureness to his step. More than that, there was a presence about him that she wouldn’t have expected. He tipped his hat in response to the nods that came his way, but she had a feeling that he would have gotten the same respect even without the collar.

The boardwalk ended, replaced by a well-worn path that led them behind the saloon. Emily’s eyes grew wider as they approached what looked like a southern mansion: A beautiful white house rose up like a castle in a dream, complete with graciously curved windows, green shutters, and gardens on both sides. As they approached the door with its bold brass knocker, Emily turned to the preacher in astonishment.

“This is it?”

“Try the door,” he suggested.

Emily experienced a brief pang when she found it was locked—until she remembered the key that had come with Ewert Smith’s letter. Gingerly, she fished it out and slid it into the lock, more astonished than ever as the tumblers clicked and the door swung open. This
really was the place. Thomas lit the gas, then turned up the flame, throwing the room into plain view. Emily polished her glasses, then put them back on, certain what she was seeing could not be real.

The house had been ransacked. Yet even in this dismal state, she could sense the opulence of the room, the scarlet and gilt decadence. Emily gasped as she took in the bar, the crimson chairs, the player piano, and the portrait of a woman dressed in silk and feathers overlooking everything. On the ceiling were more paintings, pictures like she had never seen before, scenes of men and women doing things she couldn’t even imagine.…

“My God!” she whispered, turning to the preacher in horror. “What—what was this place?”

“A house of sin,” Thomas said, stifling his chuckles with obvious effort. Emily studied him more closely. She was not mistaken. There was a glimmer in his eye, and a grin playing around his mouth. Odd for a preacher, she thought, making another mental note. He indicated the portrait above the fireplace. “That must be Rosie.”

Nodding her agreement, Emily stared at the picture of her father’s “female companion.” The woman wasn’t one she would call stunning, but she was attractive. Dark eyes stared out of the frame, almost twinkling with life. A naughty dimple had been cleverly captured by the artist, along with the full curve of a seductive mouth. An uncomfortable feeling swelled inside Emily as she thought of her father cavorting with this woman while he was still married to her mother. She turned back to the preacher.

“I can’t believe this—” she began.

Thomas nodded, as if understanding her thoughts. “I don’t know your father, but he probably never thought you’d come out here. Most women would have sold the property rather than face the dangers of the West. I guess he underestimated you.”

“How incredible.” The initial shock had passed and left curiosity in its wake. Like most young women, Emily knew little about the dark side of men, the things whispered about between women, always in disapproving tones. She stared at the ceiling in fascination. The paintings were unbelievable. Was it really possible for men and women to?… Suddenly she remembered her companion. A fleeting thought went through her mind, one that caused her terrible embarrassment. Would Thomas Hall be like that with a woman? Tearing her gaze away from the paintings in shame, she composed herself and looked purposefully at the ruined furniture once more.

“Why would someone do this?” She wondered aloud. “Do you think it was vandals?”

“Possibly.” Thomas shrugged. “Or someone who was looking for something. Something of value.” He gave Emily a dark, piercing look.

“like what?” Emily glanced up at him in confusion.

“I don’t know. Didn’t your father tell you anything about this place, or how he got his money? Maybe he left some indication in his will, or some other documentation?”

There was something about the way he was questioning her that made her uneasy. Emily sank down onto one of the least damaged chairs. She focused on
the portrait hanging on the wall. “I know my father had secrets. He was very evasive in his letters home about what he did for a living and who his friends were. My mother couldn’t tolerate the idea of living on the frontier, so he went west to provide for us in the best way he could. She never said much about him, but never indicated that anything was wrong. I don’t think she ever imagined this!” Emily’s gaze was once more glued to the bordello paintings.

“Then it seems you didn’t know much about John Potter.”

The preacher sounded disappointed, as if he were expecting some other answer. Emily shrugged. “It appears that there is more than one mystery here. But it is a capital mistake to theorize without data. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get started investigating.” She rummaged through her carpetbag and withdrew the magnifying glass, then dropped to her knees on the floor.

Thomas stared in amazement as Emily, oblivious to his presence, began to examine every inch of the room. She crawled over the rug, grunting when she saw something that held meaning for her, frowning when she realized the trampled condition of the room might have destroyed a clue. Scooping up some ash near the fireplace, she put it carefully away in an envelope that had been in her bag, then scraped some threads from the carpet. At one point she withdrew a tape from her bag and measured some marks on the floor. Calculating several figures, she jotted notes in her book. By the time she stood
up, her hat askew, her nose smudged with dust, she looked as wretched as the room.

“Miss Potter, what are you doing?” The preacher asked finally, astonished at her behavior.

“Collecting data,” Emily replied, as if he were a fool. Then she sighed in disappointment. “Unfortunately, many people have been here since the murder. If only I had gotten here when the trail was fresh! I would have had him!”

The preacher’s expression changed from amused to thunderous. “Miss Emily, stay out of this. Whoever killed your father and Rosie has never been caught. The murderer is still out there. And still dangerous.”

“I know.” Emily smiled at him, but saw no response in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I’ve read a hundred of these stories, and they all work the same way. Now I’ll have to meet with the sheriff and the coroner, read the papers, interview suspects, and find out everything I can about my father and the girl—”

“Emily!” This time he shook her, cutting off her words. The magnifying glass bounced to the floor and Emily’s jaw dropped in stunned surprise. “This isn’t a story we’re talking about! This is real life! Whoever vandalized this place was looking for something, and they won’t let a woman stop them! The very best thing you can do is get back on that stagecoach and go home.”

Emily squirmed, uncomfortably aware that she was pressed right up against him, his trouser-clad leg
between her own and his black cloth jacket rubbing against her blouse. Odd sensations started somewhere within her and she frowned, wondering what was wrong with her. She saw his gaze lower and settle on her mouth, seemingly fascinated by something there. For the silliest moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he released her as quickly as if she were a scorpion that had climbed into his hand. Emily smoothed her dress, trying to make sense of everything. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? He was a preacher! Clearing her throat, she managed to speak coherently—at least, she thought she did.

“I’m sorry, but like my great-aunt Esther, I have to follow my destiny. I have to discover who killed my father. In the meantime, I plan to stay here and make this a good home again. As a preacher, you should applaud that. I’m going to fix up this house, meet other people, and have company. I’m going to church on Sundays, and maybe attend a dance. And I’m going to investigate. And no one is going to stop me.”

Thomas walked toward the boardinghouse, fighting the urge to fling his prayer book at the closest possible target.

How the hell did this happen? He had intended to question her, get her to admit she knew something—and then she looked at him with those clear gray eyes, and he seemed to forget all logic.

What was wrong with her, anyway? What decent woman would want to live in a bordello, let alone investigate
a murder there? And didn’t she understand the kind of danger she was in? The house had been ransacked, and she had to know why. How much did Emily know? And what were her real intentions?

He stopped for a moment on the path, watching her shadow pass in the window of the notorious house. Nothing about the woman seemed to add up. He had to admit that her careful investigation of the room, while astonishing, made sense. No one—not even the sheriff—had done such an examination, he’d bet his life on that. And if they had, could they have found clues to the killer’s identity? Could Emily?

So she was bright—yes—and naive—incredibly. The incident with the cowboy had proven that. If he hadn’t intervened, the man would have taken Emily home and probably to bed. But she obviously hadn’t understood his intentions, nor what conclusions he’d jumped to upon hearing that she owned Shangri-La. No, Emily was odd, but she didn’t seem to be sexually sophisticated, unless she was an excellent actress.…

Thomas frowned as he recalled the way she’d felt when he’d shaken her in exasperation. Up close, he’d noticed that her eyes were remarkable, a strange, haunted silver that seemed to look right through him. And her mouth was so pink and moist, so very kissable. For a brief moment, something had passed between them, something that could cause enormous complications, something he wouldn’t even allow himself to think about.

Emily Potter was a factor, nothing more. Thomas
turned around and started back toward town, the thought a stern refrain in his mind.

It had taken an additional hour of investigating before she felt satisfied that she had learned everything the parlor would yield. Now Emily slumped onto a gilt chair, feeling completely drained, and more than a little disconcerted.

The floor had revealed very little. She felt as frustrated as Holmes would have been to realize that dozens of people had trod over the rug since the murders, obliterating any trace of the killer. Still, she was able to fathom a few facts, and what she could deduce only confused her further.

There were foot prints she assumed had been made by her father, since she’d found a pair of round-toed boots in his closet. The evidence showed he had stood facing the fireplace, smoking a good Cuban cigar. He had turned, and was extending a glass of whiskey to someone when the shots came. Emily could see where he’d fallen, the splashes of liquor and the broken glass, the bloodstains that someone had tried to wipe up, and the nub of the cigar where it had rolled to a stop beside the grate. She shuddered when she thought of the blood, but forced the horror from her mind. This was a case, and Holmes would never let such feminine considerations stop him. Besides, she barely remembered the man. Her father.