Angel in My Arms (17 page)

Celeste sat on the train seat, her leather satchel clutched in her
lap. She stared out the window at the darkness as they pulled into
Denver, wishing she could see the glorious mountains or the lush green
grass and tall timber.

It had been hours since she'd left Carrington by stagecoach and
caught a train in Odenburg, and she still couldn't stop shaking.
Fox.
It was his fault she felt this way. This was all his fault. He had made her care about him. Worse, he had made her
feel.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her nerves on edge. She wished fervently
for the comforting numbness she had known for so many years; but no
matter how hard she prayed for it, it would not come. In the past, it
was in that numbness she'd found sanctuary, if not happiness. The
numbness had protected her from the men at Kate's. It had protected her
from her past— a wound that was suddenly fresh and bleeding again.

Once before she had cared for a man. She had allowed herself to
feel. What a fool she'd been, seventeen years old and full of herself
and her womanhood. How she had enjoyed those stolen kisses and the few
bold caresses through the layers of her ruffled, starched clothing. He
had been young and handsome, so refined. The son of a bitch.

She opened her eyes and set her jaw. Only one good thing had come out of that nightmare.

"Next stop, Den-verrrrr," called the conductor as he swayed down the
aisle with the motion of the train. The train exhaled in a great
whoosh
of steam. "Den-verrrr."

Denver.
She'd had to come. It was the only way to get her
feet planted firmly on the floor again. Here in Denver she could gain
control of her frazzled emotions and figure out how the hell she was
going to get Fox MacPhearson out of her life.

Against her will, she recalled the taste of his mouth on hers. Hot
and so utterly masculine. He had desired her, truly wanted her. It had
been as if she were a virgin again, anticipating every brush of his
lips, every caress of his hands. Just thinking about lying in his arms
made her stomach flutter, her breasts tingle, and her cheeks grow warm.
She patted her flushed face with a handkerchief and glanced around to
see if any of the passengers were looking at her.

Everyone was gathering their belongings. Women yawned, patted their
coiffures, and smoothed their wrinkled traveling suits. Men stretched
and slipped into their coats and fumbled for their bags. It was nearly
midnight.

Celeste sighed. What she couldn't understand, what frightened her,
was why Fox had made her feel so good. How had he been able to break
through the wall she had so carefully built stone by stone, man by man?
How had he been able to make her feel anything? Why him?

She'd been having sex with men so long that she'd thought herself
beyond feeling. Even with John, with whom the act had at least been
pleasant, she'd never actually felt anything profound. The act of
intercourse had never been sexual for her. It had just been… work.

"Den-verrr," the conductor called again.

The train slowed and the wheels squealed against the track as the
passengers were pushed forward and then back against their leather
seats by the braking motion. The train came to a stop and passengers
rose and filed down the aisle. Celeste peered out the window, but it
was dark outside but for bright lanterns, and she couldn't see anything
but a jumble of people moving on the station platform.

She rose and hurried down the aisle and craned her neck to see over
a woman's large hat with a peacock plume. She still couldn't see Adam,
but she knew he was there, waiting for her. Self-consciously, Celeste
smoothed her gown. Miss Higgens would be with him here, so Celeste had
a certain image she had to maintain. One hand on her satchel, she
nervously checked her hat pin. Once she saw Adam, she would feel
better. All that had happened between her and Fox would make more
sense. She would know what to do.

Celeste stepped off the train onto the wooden platform and spotted
him at once. She broke into a proud smile that, against her will,
threatened to become teary. "Adam," she called, taking care to
pronounce his name carefully so that he could read her lips.

Adam grinned, raised a small hand, and signed. "Mama!"

All afternoon Fox paced the shadowy kitchen. When he thought he'd
worn down the floorboards sufficiently, he tried out the carpet in the
hallway. Then the parlor. He even ventured into the dining room that
had never been furnished.

"I can't believe she'd just run off like that again," he told the
dog who had given up pacing with him hours ago. Instead of his anger
abating, it grew stronger with every hour. He was damned pissed.

Silver sat in the doorway, lazily scratching.

"You would think that after"—he glanced at the dog— "after what
happened upstairs, she'd at least have stuck around to say something. I
mean personally, I thought it was pretty nice." Just thinking about
Celeste in his arms made him break out in a sweat. "Damned nice," he
amended. "Not like the others. I mean, with them I could always go
through the motions, but I never felt anything. Really felt it." Even
though he'd not found his own physical satisfaction in Celeste's arms,
he'd still felt a sense of completion that he couldn't explain.

Silver cocked his head.

"Hell, I don't know what came over me. When I carried her up those
steps I fully intended to make love to her, have my own pleasure. It's
what I should have done. It was what she expected. What she offered."

Fox paced more furiously. "But somehow it didn't seem right," he
agonized aloud. "She was so vulnerable. It's not that I didn't want
her. Hell, the desire was there. I wanted her more I think, than, I've
ever wanted any woman. I just didn't want to hurt her. I didn't want
her to think I'd changed my mind… about her. Us."

He yanked a red handkerchief from his denim pants and wiped his damp
brow. "She probably thought I'd lost my mind. Women like her, they
probably laugh when a man doesn't… well, you know. Perform."

Silver's tongue lolled and he panted. "This is going to sound
stupid." Fox paced faster. "But I wanted her to care about me. Just a
little. Of course, if she'd cared about me, if I'd been something more
than a little morning indulgence, she would have stayed, wouldn't she?
Before she ran off to that man—whoever he is—she'd have stuck around
long enough to share a cup of tea and a biscuit."

Fox groaned and struck the wall with his palm. "Hell. I'm losing
what little sense I have left—talking to a dog about my sexual
escapades."

Silver whined, slumped to the floor, and closed his eyes as if he couldn't stand another minute more of Fox's rambling.

Fox halted in the center of the empty dining room. "I know. I'm
boring the dog bones out of you." He ran his hand through his hair.
Even talking to the dog seemed to relieve some of his anger and
frustration. "What's say we pack up our tool bag and head down to
Sal's, eh?" He tapped his thigh.

The dog bounded up.

A short time later Fox and Silver walked into Sal's Saloon through
the back door. Being Sunday the saloon was closed for regular business.
Fox took the stool that had become his own since he'd repaired it the
week he'd come to Carrington. This was where he and Silver spent time
when Celeste was busy with her friends. On Sundays, when she was
attending her poker games at Kate's, he and Sal and the mutt even
passed a few hours playing cards themselves.

"Hey, Sal," Fox called.

Sal crossed the saloon pushing a broom.

Sal nodded his head in greeting. "Hear about Pearl?"

Fox dropped his tool bag on the bar. "That the girl that was murdered?"

"Kate said it wouldn't happen in her place." Sal spat into a brass
spittoon as he passed the bar. "Said Mealy Margaret was my fault. Guess
she didn't know what she was talkin' about, did she?"

Fox watched Sal sweep. There was no dirt on the floor. He swept out of boredom. "Tate think it was the same guy?"

"Sounds like it. He's keepin' his lips pretty tight, but word is,
the killer left some kind of writin' in blood on the wall over her bed."

Fox grimaced. He wasn't weak-stomached, but the thought made him queasy. "So it wasn't just a drifter?"

Sal shrugged his thin shoulders. "Still could be. We got enough
small towns scattered through the hills around us that 'e could be
comin' in at night, doin' his dirty business, and hightailin' it home.
There's plenty of men that come to Kate's outta Odenburg—could be any
one of 'em." He passed the spittoon again and spat a stream of brown
tobacco.

Fox leaned both elbows on the bar. "What about someone in town?"

"Reckon it's possible. There's about two hundred of us left here. We got a few shady characters."

Someone pounded on the back door and Fox heard it open. Sal looked up apprehensively, seemingly put on edge by their discussion.

Sheriff Tate appeared in the back hall doorway. "Evenin', Sal."

Sal began his track across the saloon floor again, pushing his broom. "Hey, Tate. Help yourself."

The sheriff walked behind the bar and poured himself a double, eyeing Fox. "Been lookin' for you."

Fox didn't glance at him. "That right."

"Went by your father's house. You weren't there."

Fox glanced over his shoulder. He didn't like Tate. The man was
cocky, and with a woman-killer roaming his streets, he had little
reason to be. "I guess because I was here."

Tate slurped his whiskey. "Didn't run into you on the street."

"Silver and I took the long way around. Rain stopped. The dog needed a walk."

Tate came around the bar to stand in front of Fox. Sal pushed his broom around him and back on course.

"That right?" Tate took another sip of the amber drink.

Fox frowned. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

Tate flashed a cool grin. "Just trying to be friendly-like."

Fox gave an unamused laugh. "What makes me think that's not your intention?"

"Don't know. Maybe you're nervous."

Fox didn't appreciate the direction this conversation was taking.
Tate was out to get him. He had been since the day he came into
Carrington. "You said you came by the house. What do you want?"

"Miss Kennedy seemed to be in quite a hurry. She had Clyde Perkins hold the coach so's she could get on it."

Fox didn't say anything.

"The girls at Kate's said they didn't know nothing about her makin'
one of her trips to Denver. Said she just went a couple of weeks ago.
You say something or do somethin' to scare her?"

Fox ground his teeth. "Such as kill a whore?" He lifted a dark eyebrow.

"I didn't say that."

Fox slid off the bar stool. "So what the hell is your point, Tate?
You want to take me in for questioning? Take me in. Otherwise, leave me
the hell alone." He grabbed his bag off the bar. "I'll be back
tomorrow, Sal, when the company's improved. Tell Emmy Mae I'll fix that
hinge on her door then, all right?"

Sal stood near the front where he'd been watching the exchange
between Fox and the sheriff. "I'll do that. You take care walkin' home.
You never know, with that bastard roamin' our streets."

Fox pulled his wool hat down over his ears; the dog followed him
toward the back door. "You kidding? I'll be fine with my trusty
killer-dog, here. 'Night."

Fox didn't look back as he left the saloon through the back door. He
knew Tate was watching him. He could feel his beady eyes on his back,
and they made him just a little nervous.

Three days later Celeste returned to Carrington on the 4:30 train.
She'd had a wonderful visit with Adam. He was progressing so well in
school, not just according to her son, but according to the
headmistress, Miss Higgens.

Not only did Adam excel in his academic lessons, but he made friends
easily and was popular among the students and staff. He missed his
mother, as did all the young ladies and gentlemen, Miss Higgens
explained, but he had adjusted well to boarding school. There in the
pleasant surroundings of brick buildings, hills, and trees of the
exclusive school, Adam had not only taken well to his lessons, but was
learning to live deaf in a speaking world. He had even learned to speak
a few words, and had delighted Celeste by saying them over and over
again.

The three days with Adam had done wonders for Celeste. She was so
happy to see her son happy that no problem seemed insurmountable, not
even her problem with Fox.

Celeste stood outside her dark house, staring up at the windows that
reflected the waning moonlight. Putting off the inevitable
confrontation with Fox, she'd spent the late afternoon and evening at
the dance hall. Remaining in the back so as not to encounter customers,
she passed the hours with Kate and whichever girls were not occupied in
their rooms upstairs.

Celeste learned from Kate that Tall Pearl had died the same way
Mealy Margaret had. Sheriff Tate confirmed that the killer had used the
same or a similar knife, and that the murders had been identical,
except that Pearl's had been even more brutal. The truly chilling thing
about the latest murder was that the killer had left a message in
Pearl's own blood. The sheriff refused to reveal what the message had
said, but he had implied that it had been righteous in nature. Sheriff
Tate was conducting numerous interviews in Carrington as well as the
surrounding towns. So far, he had no clues.

Celeste took a deep breath and walked up the steps and onto the
porch of the house. She wondered why the windows were so dark. Had Fox
left? She couldn't blame him after the way she had run off. It would be
the best thing for both of them.

She placed her hand on the door.
Please let him still be here,
she thought, even at the same instant realizing how ridiculous the wish was.