Angel in My Arms (6 page)

Celeste inhaled sharply, but felt as if she were suffocating. It
wasn't that she'd never been proposed to. Customers were always asking
her to marry them. John had made that request at least once a week for
the last three months of his life. But somehow this was different. It
cut into her heart and bled her. It made her want to cry, not just
tears, but torrents. She wanted to cry for all that was lost, all she
would never have.

Celeste pushed Fox away and jumped up from the swing, almost tripping as she made her escape.

"I'm sorry," he called after her. He made a move to rise from the
swing, then settled back as if realizing how brittle her emotions were
at this moment. "I shouldn't have said that." He sounded perfectly
sincere as he brushed back the hair off his forehead.

Now that he was no longer so close, Celeste could think more
clearly. She patted back the loose strands of hair that had fallen from
her neat chignon. She had always hated her hair. Red as sin, her father
had called it.

She laughed, feeling foolish at her reaction to Fox.
Treat him like a customer,
her survival instincts told her.

"Do you always propose to a woman the first time you kiss her?" she
asked, hoping that he didn't hear the tremor in her voice. A woman
could protect herself from a man as long as he thought she didn't care…
didn't feel anything for him.

"No. No, I don't." His voice held a serious tone, as if this had not
been a boyish attempt to woo her into bed or at least to gain a peek
beneath her petticoat. "I… I've never."

"Never what?" She felt better now. More confident. She could breathe once more.
Celeste, The Heavenly Body
of Kate's Dance Hall could handle far more than little Celeste Kennedy,
the Denver socialite. "Never kissed a woman?" She couldn't resist
brushing her fingertips across her lips. "I find that hard to believe."

"Never asked a woman to marry me." He rose from the swing.

She took a step back. "I find that equally hard to believe, Mr. MacPhearson."

"So now it's Mr. MacPhearson again?" He extended his hand. "Look, I
said I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that I'm very…
taken with you. My father was right when he said you were very special.
I've never met a woman so beautiful, inside and out."

Celeste watched him in the darkness. Now was the time to tell him
what she was. What would he have to say of her inner beauty, then?

She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't form the words. Suddenly
she was afraid, more afraid than she'd ever been in her life. For some
reason she wanted Fox to accept her; she needed him to accept her. It
was almost as if her soul depended on it.

"Celeste… it wasn't a seduction line," he continued. "Perhaps a
little premature, but… I'm very attracted to you, and I know you share
the same attraction. I see it in your eyes."

Celeste tried to speak, to blurt it out, but again her voice failed
her. Somehow his eyes that seemed to reflect equal measures of hope and
desperation tangled the words on her tongue.

"I've made so many mistakes in my life," Fox said. "Lost so many
chances at happiness. I just think that if there's a possibility for
something between us, we should pursue it."

"It's late," Celeste said shakily as she walked to the front door.
"It's been a long day. I think I'll retire." Somehow the thought that
Fox might turn away in disgust seemed unacceptable tonight. For tonight
she needed to savor the illusion that she was a respectable woman. She
needed to relish the hope that flamed from his attraction to her.

"I really am sorry. I don't know what came over me. I'll get my bag and go, but tomorrow I'd like—"

"Get your bag and go where?" She was feeling more steady, her old, practical self again.

"A hotel, of course."

She paused, wondering if she should just let him stay. It would be
easier that way. Safer. "This was your father's house. There are spare
bedrooms. I expected you to stay here."

He shook his head. "I couldn't. I wouldn't want to give the town gossips reason to question your virtue."

Celeste nearly laughed aloud, her nerves were so raw. Her
virtue?
Her virtue had been gone eight years, gone since that beautiful summer
evening in Denver. But she didn't laugh because she was touched. How
considerate of him to think of her, rather than his own comfort.

She pushed open the door that led into the front foyer. She felt
weary to the bone. "Fox, there's not a hotel in town. They've all
burned or been boarded up. I told you most everything has closed." She
held open the door for him. "So unless you intend to spend the night in
a bordello, I suggest you come inside before I lock the door for the
night."

He hesitated.

"It's all right," she said with tired exasperation. "No one will think badly of either of us."

He passed her in the doorway. "I don't want to be a bother."

She walked away, headed for the sanctuary of her bedroom. "Then lock up." She tapped her thigh. "Come, Silver. Come, boy."

The yellow mutt bounded from the shadows of the parlor and followed her up the steps.

"Take the room at the end of the hall." She ran her hand along the
smooth, rosewood banister as she made her ascent. "There are clean
linens in the armoire. You can make a bed, can't you?"

"Tightest corners in San Francisco."

She turned away, headed up the stairs. His face was too handsome. He
was too kind. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. Fox MacPhearson was
trouble.

Fox paced the bedroom in the darkness, listening to the boom of
thunder and the patter of rain on the tin roof. Occasionally a bolt of
lightning lit the room in eerie brilliance before enfolding him in
darkness once again.

Fox removed his coat, but made no further attempt to undress. He was
tired, but knew he couldn't sleep. He wished desperately that he had a
cigar, but he'd given up that vice with the drink.

"I can't believe I asked her to marry me," he said aloud and thumped
himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Idiot. I find the
perfect woman, and then I make an imbecile out of myself in front of
her."

He sighed as he walked to the window and drew back the lace curtain
to peer into the darkness. Lightning lit up the sky, and Fox caught a
glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass. He didn't like what
he saw.

"A place to begin again," he whispered. "A new beginning. A second
chance." He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the cold glass
windowpane. He couldn't sleep because he couldn't close his eyes. He
couldn't close his eyes because when he did, he saw
her.
Dead. Wide-eyed, yet unseeing.

Guilt washed over Fox as he clenched a fist at his side.
"A new beginning,"
he whispered. He turned away from the window and pushed the thoughts of
the dead woman out of his head, forcing himself to think of something
more pleasant. Or someone.

Celeste.

He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. He studied the bedroom,
sensing it had been his father's. When he sat still like this and
closed his eyes, he could smell the scent of John's dusty miner's
clothes. He could hear his voice as smooth as whiskey. "Hell, John," he
murmured, "I've made a mess of things, haven't I? I never lived up to
what you expected… what you thought I was." He shook his head. "I
should take the money and go. I know you brought me here to Celeste for
a reason, but you don't really know me or the things I've done. I
should just get out of her life before… before…" He couldn't bring
himself to say it aloud. But he thought it.

Before I kill her, too.

Sometime in the night Celeste stirred. She heard a sound. A door, but not her door.

Silver lifted his head off the end of the bed where he slept and stared at the closed, locked door.

"Just John getting up," she said sleepily as she rolled over and pulled the quilt over her shoulder. "Go back to sleep, mutt."

The footsteps sounded down the hall, past her room, down the stairs.

She drifted off to sleep again to the steady patter of rain.

"Rice flapjacks with molasses?" Celeste asked Fox as he entered the kitchen.

"Coffee," he said sleepily. His dark hair was damp and combed
straight back over his head, his chin freshly shaved. His face had a
boyish look, fresh, innocent.

She noticed that he had dressed in the same sharp, pinstriped pants
and waistcoat he'd worn yesterday, though he wore a clean, starched
shirt and a fresh cravat.

He hadn't brought much in the way of luggage. Obviously he didn't
plan on staying long. A part of her was saddened by the thought. She'd
been lonely since John died, and Fox's company had been good for her.
But it was just as well that he was going. She had to return to her job
at Kate's, and he had to return to his rich life in California.

"Coffee's on the stove." She walked around him and set a platter of
steaming flapjacks on the table between the two place settings.

"Can I get you some?" He poured himself a cup of coffee.

"No, thank you." She waited until he joined her at the table, and
then she closed her eyes and bent her head to silently say grace.
Opening her eyes, she glanced up to find him watching her.

"I want to apologize again for last night."

She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. She'd dressed
carefully this morning in one of her Denver dresses. It was a very
elegant sapphire blue with a rounded collar and vertical rows of velvet
trim. She wore her grandmother's pearl earrings in her ears. It had
been a long time since she'd worn them, since she'd felt worthy. Clean.

"You sorry you kissed me?" she asked pointedly.

He met her gaze and held it. "No, I'm not sorry I kissed you last
night. I'm only sorry I made a buffoon out of myself afterward."

She smiled and reached for the flapjacks. "It's all right. I reacted
childishly." She placed the three largest cakes on his plate, then two
smaller ones on her own. It was so nice to speak civilly with a man. To
actually hold a pleasant conversation. "It's forgotten. We weren't
ourselves last night. Grief does that."

"Listen to me," he said passionately. "I know we've only known each
other less than a day, but I don't want to lose you. I feel as if my
soul depends upon it." He set down his fork with a groan. "Now, I've
made a fool of myself again."

Tell him,
she thought.
Tell him the truth. Don't lead him on like this. But once again, the words wouldn't form on the tip of her tongue.

"You haven't made a fool of yourself." She smiled hesitantly. "I'm
flattered. It's… it's been a long time since someone showed me this
kind of attention."
And look where that got you,
she warned herself.

"I find that hard to believe." He took a bite of the flapjacks and
nodded approvingly. "Apparently John knew what a special woman you
were. He told me so in the letter."

"He did?" She wanted to ask what else John had said in the letter,
but she didn't. "John was a good man. He saw promise in everyone, even
when it wasn't there."

"He certainly saw promise in you, and he was right." Fox took
another bite. "So tell me about yourself, Celeste. What brought you to
this town?"

Celeste nearly choked on her flapjack. She hadn't been prepared for his question.

"Nursing?" he probed.

She froze. What did she say now? Did she just blurt out the truth or did she—

Silver leaped up from the kitchen floor and raced down the hall. A moment later a knock sounded at the door.

"Excuse me." Celeste wiped her mouth with her napkin as she rose
from her chair. She'd never been so thankful for an interruption in her
life.

The knock came again, faster, more urgent.

"Coming!" Celeste called.

"Celeste! Celeste!" Big Nose Kate called from the other side of the
door as she pounded with a heavy fist. "Celeste, we need you."

Celeste fumbled with the lock. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
She'd never heard Kate so upset. "Just a minute," she called.

The brass lock finally relinquished its hold and Celeste threw open the door. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Kate wore a three-tiered, red velvet cape thrown over her sleeping
gown. Her hair was twisted in rag rollers, her face, splotchy red and
devoid of any makeup. Without her cream and paint she appeared far
older than her thirty-five years—a fact that frightened Celeste. Was
this to be her fate, too?

"What's wrong, Kate?" Celeste repeated.

"There's been a murder." Kate panted, trying to catch her breath, as
she steeled herself in the doorway. Her cloak fell open and her large
breasts heaved up and down above the neckline of her red and black
satin nightgown.

"A murder?" Celeste took Kate by the arm. "Come in, sit down. You're
winded." Kate was breathing so hard that Celeste feared her heart would
give.

"No." Kate shook her head furiously. "You have to come. The girls are in such a fit, I don't know what to do."

"Who was murdered, Kate?"

"Mealy Margaret," Kate puffed.

"Margaret? Little Margaret?" The picture of a petite face and wispy,
blond hair immediately came to Celeste's mind. Mealy Margaret was a
working girl who plied her trade down the street from Kate's at Sal's
Saloon. Celeste didn't know her well, except for the few times she had
met her at Kate's on Sunday afternoons when they played poker.

"Oh." Celeste lifted her hand to her cheek, feeling oddly numb. "Not
little Margaret. She'd nearly saved up enough money for her train
ticket. She was going to Oregon to her aunt's farm."

"You have to come to the dance hall, Celeste." Kate wrung her
swollen hands. "The girls are in such a way. I can't get them to stop
wailing."

All the girls at Kate's had known Margaret, but none of them had
been close with her. Unfortunately, like many of the young women who
came to Carrington, she was just another lost soul passing through. It
was a tragedy when any human lost his or her life, but Celeste knew
that women like herself quickly hardened themselves to life's
tragedies. It was the way they survived.