Angel in My Arms (12 page)

"How she could do that? Just walk out on us?" Brushing the hair that fell annoyingly over his forehead, Fox paced the kitchen.

Silver sat on his haunches by the stove and watched Fox walk back and forth across the room.

"Without so much as an explanation." He shook his head. "Damned flighty woman."

Silver gave a whine, thumped his tail on the floor, and followed Fox's movement with big brown eyes.

"All right. All right. So she doesn't owe us anything. Me." He
touched his chest."I made it clear I was no longer interested because…
well, you know."

The dog stared as if he didn't know.

"Because she's a… she was my father's…" Fox paced faster, turning
sharply on the imaginary corner. "Women like that, they can't have a…
they can't…" He took a deep breath. "Silver, they just can't love a man
and they can't be trusted. Not as far as you can toss them. If anyone
knows that, I do."

The dog panted.

"But hey, look, just because she left us—you—that doesn't mean
you're stuck here. We're stuck here. We could go out to the claim
ourselves." Fox halted and looked at the dog. "After all, we don't
really need her, do we? We know as much about gold mining as she does."

The dog loped over and sat down beside Fox, resting his body against
Fox's leg. His tongue lolled from his mouth and he looked up in
anticipation of the trip abroad.

"Should I take that as an affirmative?" Fox crouched and scratched
the mutt behind his ears. "Tell me something. Why is it that now she's
gone, you're my best buddy?"

The dog whined and rubbed his head under Fox's hand.

"Were those eggs from breakfast I fed you sufficient bribery?" He
rose. "If so, you're cheap, old boy. Which is good, because I'm just
about broke now that I gave that cash for the whore's funeral."

The dog continued to stare, seemingly unimpressed with Fox's generosity.

"Yeah, just money. I know. Doesn't mean much to either of us these
days, does it?" Fox halted in the kitchen doorway for a moment and
sighed. "So, you with me or not? Want to go for a ride in Kate's wagon
and check out our worthless land?" He patted his leg and the dog leaped
up and bounded toward him.

Hours later Fox rode back down the dusty path he and the dog had
followed earlier in the day. He was tired, but felt a strange, floating
sense of contentment.

Fox had easily located the tract of land he and Celeste had
inherited. Kate's directions had been good and the dog's instincts had
been better. Fox guessed the dog had probably walked the land with John
many times.

As best as Fox could tell, John's land gave no indication of gold
beneath its surface, but neither did it deny it. The river ran with
fresh, cold water directly through the center of the hilly plot. There
were several abandoned mine shafts where John had dug for gold and come
up empty-handed. Truthfully, the land looked barren to Fox, at least
barren of gold ore.

Fox lifted the leather reins in his hands and urged the horse south
toward town. "I don't know about you, boy," he said to the dog, "but
I'm parched. I could use a drink. You?"

Silver sat up on the bench seat beside Fox and stared straight ahead
at the storefronts and buildings that loomed ahead. At the mention of a
drink, the mutt cocked his head inquisitively and thumbed his tail
eagerly.

"I suppose we could stop at Kate's Dance Hall." He looked at the
dog. "No?" He grimaced. "Doesn't sound like a good idea to me either.
How about Sal's? I could get you a big bowl of water and a nice
sarsaparilla for myself. What I really want is a good kick of whiskey,
but I don't imbibe anymore. Got me in too much trouble. Made me too
trusting."

Fox chuckled as the dog licked his arm where he'd pushed up his
dusty sleeve. Surprisingly, he'd enjoyed his day out on his father's
land. It had made him feel closer to him. He had remembered some of the
good times they'd spent together, rather than the feelings of
loneliness and abandonment that he usually associated with John
MacPhearson.

Fox remembered sailing wooden boats with canvas sails on a
stone-lined pond in a Boston park. He remembered riding his first
horse, a palomino, at a livery stable in St. Louis. He remembered his
first whore, a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday. Her name
had been Antoinette and she'd been a redhead. Maybe that was why he was
partial to redheads.

Fox glanced at Silver. Surprisingly, the dog had been good company.
Better than Celeste would have been. The dog was comfortable with him,
and he with the dog. Neither expected anything from the other, so
neither could be disappointed. Celeste made him uncomfortable, not
because she was a tart, but because he knew she was a tart and he was
still insanely attracted to her. Hadn't he learned his lesson with
Amber? Apparently not well enough.

Fox returned the wagon to the livery where Kate Mullen stabled her
horse, and then he and the dog walked down Peach Street, past Kate's
Dance Hall to Sal's. While Kate's was not yet open for business, Sal's
was a saloon and, therefore, always open to a thirsty man with a coin
in his pocket.

Fox entered Sal's through the swinging doors, carrying his coat and
waistcoat on his arm. It had gotten warm out on the claim, and he'd
shed them hours ago. It was the only suit of clothing he owned, and he
knew he had to take care of it. Only a week ago he'd been heartsick at
the loss of all his French suits and German leathers. Today, though,
one suit seemed plenty for any man.

With Silver trailing behind him, Fox walked up to the bar and took a
seat on a cracked wooden stool. It shimmied when he lowered his weight
onto it, and for a moment he wondered if it would hold him or send him
crashing to the floor.

Fox looked up and groaned inwardly at his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the bar.
Sal's Saloon
was written with a flourish in gilded gold paint across the top. Fox
always hated mirrors, hated being forced to look at himself. He glanced
away.

No one sat at the bar or the tables that were scattered in the hall.
The red and gold velvet drapes were pulled shut on the small stage
constructed at one end of the bar. There wasn't a soul in sight. It was
quiet. Too quiet.

"Hello? Anyone here?" Fox's voice echoed off the crumbling plaster walls and high ceiling, sounding tinny.

After a moment a curtain of fringe rustled over a doorway to the far
left behind the bar. A man with a handlebar mustache and a balding head
emerged. "We're closed," he grumbled.

"You don't look closed. Door's open." Fox didn't mean to be
argumentative, but he didn't feel like going back to the house on Plum
Street. It was too strange being alone in his father's house. Too
strange to be there without Celeste.

The man looked up. "I said, we're closed," he barked.

Fox threw up his hands defensively. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't meant to
ruffle your feathers, I just wanted a drink of water for my dog."

The bartender peered over the bar at Silver. "That ain't your dog.
'At's John MacPhearson's." He lifted a pitcher from the bar, poured
water into a large glass, and slid it across the polished but scarred
bartop.

Water sloshed onto Fox's hand as he caught it. "John was my father."
He lowered the glass to the floor and Silver began to lap it up
greedily.

"Still ain't your dog. Now he's Celeste's. You ain't got no right to
claim that dog, same as you ain't got no right to that claim of John's."

Fox frowned. "Who might you be, sir?"

"Sal," the bartender grunted. He pulled a cloth from the strap of
his green suspenders and wiped at a drop of water on the bar top.

"So this is your place." Fox indicated the room. "I heard about the woman who was killed. I'm sorry."

Sal continued to wipe the bar despite the fact that the water was
gone. " 'Bout put an end to my business. Who wants to come drink, play
cards, dance in a place known for dead whores?"

Fox gave a nod of empathy, thinking it ironic that he was the one at the bar doing the listening, rather than the talking.

"Not that it matters," Sal went on. "I'm about ready to close up
anyway, move onto another place where I can make a decent living." He
continued to rub the same dry spot. "I'll miss her, though, little
Margaret. She was right cheeky. Nice girl. Wanted to go to Oregon and
catch herself an apple farmer."

Fox glanced over his shoulder as the hinges of the swinging saloon
door squeaked behind him. A man wearing a ten-gallon hat and a badge in
the shape of a star approached. "Afternoon, Sal," he said in a Texas
drawl.

"Afternoon, Tate."

Sheriff Tate took the stool beside Fox. "A double rye," he ordered.

Sal had said that the saloon was closed, but apparently it was never closed for the town sheriff.

"Afternoon," Fox said. "I'm Fox MacPhearson, John—"

"I know who you are," the sheriff cut in, then accepted his double
whiskey, and threw back half the shot in one gulp. "Already know who
you are, 'cause it's my business to know strangers in town."

Fox glanced uneasily at the sheriff, then back at Sal. The sheriff
was almost too stereotypical to be real. Who did he think he was, a
Texas Ranger? "Well, thanks for the water for the dog. Appreciate it,
Sal." Fox started to rise off the stool, and the sheriff tapped the bar
with one hand.

"Not so fast."

Fox stared at the sheriff, not liking the way Tate looked at him. He didn't like the man's accusatory tone of voice either.

"Have a seat, Mr. MacPhearson. I got a question or two for you."

Fox hesitated for a moment and then settled on the creaky bar stool
again. He didn't know why he was feeling so defensive. If the sheriff
wanted to ask a few questions, he supposed he could answer them. After
all, what could the questions possibly be? Why was he here? When was he
leaving?

The sheriff finished his whiskey and wiped his mouth with his
bulging forearm. Fox wondered if he'd been a blacksmith in a former
lifetime.

"Did you know the girl?" Tate asked. He stared at Fox with pale blue eyes.

"The girl?" Fox cocked his head. "What girl?"

Tate looked at Sal and then back at Fox. "If yer gonna be difficult,
Mister, I can haul your fancy white ass down to the jail and see how
difficult yer feelin' after a few days on Deputy Garner's pork and
beans. Give you gas something ferocious."

Fox would have laughed at the man's ridiculous statement, but he
knew Tate wasn't kidding. He really would throw him behind bars, and
what could Fox do about it? Telegraph his lawyer? How would he pay him?
Hell, he barely had enough cash to pay for the telegraph.

"I've only been in town a few days," Fox said as he looked the man
straight in the eye. "You'll have to clarify whom you speak of."

"Have to clarify whom you speak of,"
Tate mimicked. "The dead girl, that's who the hell I speak of!"

Fox didn't flinch. He'd been to hell and back on more than one
occasion in his lifetime. Men like Tate didn't scare him. "No. I didn't
know the dead girl, though I believe I heard her name was Margaret.
Miss Kennedy knew her."

Tate's eyes narrowed. "You bunked up with the Kennedy hussy, now, are you?"

Fox ground his teeth, suppressing his urge to knock the sheriff off
the bar stool with one well-placed punch. It had been a long time since
Fox had been in a brawl, but not so long that he'd forgotten how to
swing. He knew what Celeste was, but he didn't like hearing it come out
of this jackass's mouth.

"Miss Kennedy has offered the hospitality of her home to me while my father's estate is settled," Fox said icily.

Tate looked away, backing down a notch. "So you didn't know Mealy Margaret?"

"No, sir."

"But you came in on the 4:30 the night she was murdered?"

"Coincidence."

Tate didn't say anything. Fox took that as his opportunity to
depart. He slid off the bar stool that wobbled and picked up the glass
Silver had used. "Thanks, Sal. What do I owe you?"

"For water?"

Fox hooked his thumb toward the bar stool. "You ought to get that thing fixed before someone falls off it."

Sal frowned and leaned his elbows on the bar. "John MacPhearson used
to do the repairin' 'round town. Never charged nothin' but a rye or
two."

Fox nodded and glanced at the stool again. "Well, I may be around a
few days. Might come by and take a look. Once upon a time I was good
with my hands."

For the first time Sal met his gaze and something twinkled in his eye. "That'd be nice of you, Mr. MacPhearson."

"Fox." He tipped his bowler hat and walked out of the saloon with Silver on his heels. "Have a nice day, gentlemen."

Back at the house, Fox and the dog ate what was left of the angel
food cake, bread and jam, and some peas he found in the icebox from the
night before. Silver wouldn't eat the peas, so Fox gave the mutt the
last slice of his bread. Their meal finished, they went into the parlor
as twilight settled. It was too early to go to bed, but Fox didn't know
what to do with himself.

He missed Celeste's light footsteps, the delicious smells that came from the kitchen, her voice.

He sat in a chair with a newspaper on his lap and scratched Silver
behind the ears. Fox had never had a dog, not even as a child. He had
never thought himself the kind of man who would like a pet, but
honestly, he enjoyed the dog's company.

"So who do you think is in Denver?" Fox contemplated as he stared at
the gas lamp that flickered and cast shaky shadows on the floor and far
wall. "A man? A client?"

The dog licked Fox's fingers.

"She doesn't seem the type to be in a place like Kate's. Maybe she's
working on her own, trying to build business in Denver. Or maybe…" He
stared without seeing. "Maybe she has a wealthy, married man. He
beckons; she runs to him."