Weeping Angel (11 page)

Amelia wanted to crawl in a hole. He'd seen them. How could he not? He'd probably had to swing the clothes bar toward the window in order to . . . to . . . do whatever. She backed down the stairs, settled her footing on the floor, and held on to the newel post as if her life depended on it. Frank joined her and strode into her light and cheerful parlor.

Both she and her aunt Clara had chosen the furnishings, buying them piece by piece, not in a set. Her comfortable easy chairs and sofas were in pink hues. A light-colored paper of no pronounced pattern lent a rich air to the walls. The wooden mantel above the fireplace was filled with heirlooms placed on either side of a porcelain clock. But it was the oriel that caught his attention, and he walked toward the large bay window filled with vibrant leather ferns, philodendron, herbs, and her prized phalaenopsis orchids.

“Did you grow all these yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. I doubt I could grow weeds.” Frank brought the glass to his lips, and Amelia found herself transfixed on the way his Adam's apple gently bobbed when he swallowed. He looked over the rim at the east wall and she followed his gaze. A waist-high area of wallpaper to the left of her fireplace was noticeably faded. She used to have her Turkish parlor suit situated there, but had moved the silk brocatelle tête-à-tête to make room for the piano. She hadn't gotten around to shifting the small sofa back into its old spot.

She'd been too depressed to even look in that corner of the room at night while she did her mending or reading.

Seeing the eyesore now, she became vexed, her feelings sensitive anew to the bruising Frank Brody had given her when he'd stolen her piano.

“I hope you're satisfied,” she remarked briskly.

“Yeah, the drink tastes good.”

“Not that, Mr. Brody. You know very well what I'm talking about.”

“The damn piano.”

“Refrain from cursing my piano.”

“The piano isn't yours, so I can curse it if I want.” He shoved his empty glass at her and tugged on the brim of his hat. “That New American came to me fair and square, Miss Marshall. I guess you're going to hold it over my head for the rest of my life.”

“I guess.”

He gave her a bitter glare. “I meant what I said. You can give lessons in the saloon for as long as you need. I didn't mean to scare you off, and I give you my word not to bother you anymore while you're practicing. Far be it for me to stand in the way of a woman's busts.” On that, he went to the front door and let himself out.

Amelia stood in the middle of the parlor, watching him through the jungle of plant leaves in her oriel. She saw a glimpse of white leave through her gate, and it reminded her he wasn't wearing his navy vest. She turned to run into the rear yard to fetch it, went only one foot, spun back to look out the window, and stopped.

He was already gone.

It would seem they were both destined to leave articles of clothing at the other's residence. Whatever would the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society think of that, were they to find out?

Shaking off the thought, Amelia deposited the glass on a side table, plucked up her skirts, and bounded up the stairs. She stopped at the water closet doorway. The room didn't seem to be out of order or show any signs of disturbance; but she wasn't looking all that closely at her toilet articles. Her eyes were pinned on the pair of lisle hose, two snowy chemises, and a
corset cover trimmed with Valenciennes lace dangling from her clothes dryer.

He'd folded the hardwood arms back next to the wall in order to use the necessary. She wanted to die. Of course he'd seen her most private attire. How could he miss them? And even more humiliating, twice in one day!

Amelia slumped next to the doorjamb, lowering her gaze with a deflated sigh. It was then she noticed the pull-chain fixture commode. The closet seat was up.

Now why on earth had he done that?

H
ere she comes!” Pap exclaimed from his vigil at the bat-wing doors of the Moon Rock. One side flapped into place as he let go and ran to stand by the piano with a Cheshire cat grin on his face. He'd been hovering around the entry since nine o'clock waiting for Amelia.

Behind the long bar, Frank rubbed a bourbon glass to give it polish. Pap had awakened him hours before he would have on his own, and he was damn tired.

He yawned, shook the sleep from his head, and opened his eyes as wide as they would go. “I'm going to have another key made for this place so you can have yours back, Pap. I could kill you for waking me,” Frank muttered, setting the glass down to take a lengthy swallow of black coffee. His fourth cup, and without a single jitter. He definitely wasn't a man for mornings during a work week.

“Don't kill me now, Frank.” Pap whisked the lint from the lapels of his pincheck coat with his fingertips. “I've got plans.”

“Yeah, so now what?”

“I'm going to charm her.”

“Well, I guess I didn't get up for nothing then.” Frank picked up a chamois and wiped the beads of water from the bar top. “This ought to be a good show.”

One of the swinging doors pivoted inward, and Miss Marshall peered around the edge, key in her extended hand. Seeing Frank, she couldn't hide the disappointed look on her face; then moving her gaze to Pap, she smiled weakly. “Mr. O'Cleary,” she said, stepping inside. “And Mr. Brody.”

Frank didn't like the formal way she enunciated his name, so he figured he owed her just a tiny ribbing.

“ 'Morning, there, sister.”

She let out a disgruntled little sniff but didn't reply.

Frank gave her the once-over. She hadn't paid his commentary about overdressing any attention. She was buttoned up from top to bottom with a hat, parasol, gloves, high shoes, and all. She'd brought back her bulky bag of busts and held it as if it were anchoring her to the floor. He'd grown rather curious about them.

“Come on in, Miss Marshall.” Pap swept his arm over the piano stool. “I've been warming it up for you.”

Amelia deposited the key into the purse dangling on a chain at her waistband, then strode forward. “That wasn't necessary, Mr. O'Cleary. Really.” She gave Pap a quick look, then Frank. “I didn't think anyone would be occupying the premises so early.”

“Oh, I sometimes get up and compose songs.”

Compose?
Frank arched a brow. About the only thing Pap ever composed were the uncouth poems he wrote on the inside walls of the outhouse.

“I see.” Amelia stood still, clearly at odds.

Frank set the chamois down and went for the tin coffeepot he kept on a single oil stove behind him. Clutching the handle with a burnt towel, he warmed
up his coffee. “Would you like a cup?” he asked Amelia. “It's probably not as aromatic as you're used to.”

Pap laughed. “No, ma'am, it ain't. You don't want to drink Frank's coffee. It looks like tobacco juice spit. Tastes damn close to it, too.”

Amelia touched her lacy collar. “No, thank you.”

“Well, now,” Pap exclaimed in an exuberant tone and rubbed his palms together. “Allow me to take your bag, Miss Marshall, so you can set yourself up.” He went to take the petit point carryall from her, and she swiftly brought the handle to her waist.

“That's quite all right.”

“Leave her alone, Pap,” Frank said, holding on to his cup while the steam evaporated from the coffee. “She's got her busts in there. She's particular about them.”

Amelia glared at Frank. “I thought you said you were going to behave, Mr. Brody.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, you're right.” He put his lips together and blew—not necessarily on the coffee. “Ignore me. I'm just going to keep on washing last night's glasses. You won't even know I'm here.”

“Why
are
you here?” she asked.

Frank shot Pap a questionable look. “Why am I here, Pap?”

“Because,” Pap's voice grew exasperated, “because I had to wake you to tell you we was all out of whiskey. You needed to get over to the Wells Fargo office this morning and send an invoice out before the stage left.
Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Hell, he never ran out of whiskey.

“That's strange, Mr. Brody,” Amelia remarked. “I was speaking with Mr. Tindall at the Wells Fargo earlier, and I didn't see you there.”

“I went right when he opened.”

“So did I.”

“Aw, hell.” Frank set his cup down after a hot
swallow. “I don't know what time it was whenever Pap woke me up. I didn't check my watch.”

“I did,” she persisted. “I was speaking with Mr. Tindall at precisely nine thirty-one. And would you like to know the details of our conversation?”

“I would not.” Because he knew damn well what she had to talk to Tindall about.

“I knew you'd be interested.” Amelia walked to the New American and set her bag on the stool. “I was inquiring as to when your piano would arrive in Weeping Angel so I could have it, since you've seen fit to claim mine while yours is still in Boston.”

Frank fished out another glass from the dishpan and let the cold water trickle onto the floor. “I figured that's what you'd say.”

Pap's eyes darted between them before he spoke eagerly. “Miss Marshall, please allow me to help you with your bag.” He went as far as trying to open the catch.

“No!” she replied, and stopped him cold with her harsh tone.

The room went still.

Even Miss Marshall could see she had wounded tough-as-nails Pap O'Cleary's pride. “I'm sorry I was short with you, Mr. O'Cleary. I . . . I'm not myself today. I'm upset because I've lost my . . . my favorite writing pen. I think I left it behind at the Wells Fargo office.” She gave him a soft, apologetic smile. “Would it be very much of a bother for you to see if I did?”

“No bother, Miss Marshall.” Pap tipped his derby. “It's all right if you were crabby with me. A woman's got the right to have her moods.”

Amelia licked her lips. “Yes . . . well.” She seemed a little at odds. “The pen is in a blue steel holder.”

“I'll go check.”

“Thank you.”

“Be back in a minute, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

As soon as Pap was gone, Amelia turned toward Frank.

He frowned. “Did you have to be so hard on him, sweetheart? All he wanted to do was help you unpack your busts.”

“I wouldn't care if that's all that was in my bag, Mr. Brody.”

“You have unmentionables in there today?”

“That's not funny.”

Frank cracked a half smile. “I thought it was.”

“If you must know,” Amelia informed him, opening the clasp, “I have your vest.” She withdrew his navy vest and walked toward the bar. “I couldn't very well explain why I had it in with my personal belongings, could I?”

“I could.”

“Well, I couldn't.”

She came up to the bar and set the garment on the counter.

Frank slid the vest toward him and pitched it underneath the bar on top of his Smith & Wesson.

“I hope I didn't hurt his feelings,” Amelia said with slight dismay in her tone. “It wasn't my intention.”

“It takes a lot to insult Pap.” Frank put a shine on the glass. “Nothing much ever gets him mad. Especially when he likes the person,” Frank added, waiting to see her reaction.

Her facial expression didn't show much. He wondered what she would do if she knew just how much Pap liked her. Was there a chance she would return Pap's affection if she knew he was romancing her? At this point in her life, an unmarried woman Miss Marshall's mature age might accept courting from any man who showed some interest.

For some reason, Frank hoped she was more selective. Not that Pap was a bad sort. Pap was just too anxious and awkward for someone like Miss Marshall.
She needed a man who knew how to flatter a woman slowly. Smoothly. A man who could kiss those pretty lips of hers and get her to kiss him back.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Brody?” Amelia asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “There's a challenge in your gaze. Have you changed your mind about my using the piano?”

Frank cracked a smile, thinking she was good at reading his expression, but not what was on his mind. “I gave you my word.”

“And I gave you my piano.”

Frank set the clean glass down. He kind of liked talking to Amelia. In the few conversations they'd shared, she was good at bantering with him. She had a sense of humor, and that surprised him. He figured her to be as stiff as her clothing but her ability to banter belied that, and the contrast intrigued him.

“Dare I ask,” Frank began, “what did Tindall have to say?”

“Nothing informative.” She affected her put-upon face. “He hasn't received a reply from Boston, yet—as I suspected. To clear this matter up may take weeks.”