Mountain Angel Page 2

  Henry Fraser had stood in for the groom at the ceremony, and the judge had also worn black. When he had pronounced them man and wife Angel had almost giggled, realizing they resembled more of a funeral procession than a wedding when they left the courthouse.

  But she was legally Mrs. Holt Murphy now, as the gleaming gold band on her left hand attested. It was her late mother’s ring, simple but effective as armor. Willard Craddock was furious when he heard Angel was married, and more so when he learned she was leaving Missouri.

  It gave her great delight to saunter past the scowling Craddock one last time before she caught the train west. He didn’t dare say anything crude to a properly married woman, and Angel resisted the urge to blow him a mischievous kiss before she departed.

  Safe at last. Now all she needed to do was secure a quick annulment from Mr. Murphy and claim her share of the Lucky Devil’s profits. Maybe by this time next month she would be setting foot on Belle Montagne land again.

  With a relieved sigh, Angel closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the clickety-clack of the wheels and the rocking motion of the train.

  EVERY JOLT OF THE stagecoach carried Angel closer to her bridegroom. The train service had ended at Denver and she was forced to take the stage, an outdated mode of travel that was uncomfortable at best and outright merciless on the tender portions of one’s anatomy.

  But Angel temporarily forgot the bumps and bruises when she gazed awestruck at a mighty snow-flocked peak soaring up into the fluffy clouds. She had never seen anything so beautiful, and when the coach lurched again, she didn’t even feel her seat mate’s elbow jabbing into her side.

  “It’s purty, ain’t it?” cackled the old woman next to her. “Pritner right next to God, least that’s what I always say.”

  “You mean, that’s what Preacher Murphy says,” corrected a bespectacled man across from them. He gave a disapproving sniff and returned to his paper.

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. “Holt Murphy is a preacher?” she exclaimed.

  The old woman cackled again. “’Course not, child. His brother Neal runs the little parish over in Oro.”

  “Oh.” Angel exhaled with relief. She didn’t think she would make a good preacher’s wife. Not even for one day.

  THE TINY TOWN OF Clear Creek, Colorado, lay snuggled between two peaks in the Sawatch Range, like a jewel set on a lady’s bosom. It had sprung up overnight during the Gold Rush of ’58, and though the boom had long since died, a handful of hangers-on still populated the high mountain town.

  Angel’s first glimpse of the sagging, clapboard buildings and the equally sorry-looking inhabitants wasn’t encouraging. She stared with shock at the obvious desolation of the place; the burned schoolhouse, a churchyard almost returned to dust itself, and a creaky door on an abandoned stable that swung and banged forlornly in the wind. There had obviously been a mistake. Angel expected something primitive, but nothing like this.

  The stage came to a rolling halt in the middle of town, and the passengers disembarked. Angel gathered up her wide skirts and stepped down into the dusty street. Out of respect for Mr. Murphy she had chosen not to don mourning any longer, but wore a deep sapphire-blue silk gown. Her golden hair was coiled neatly under her velvet-trimmed bonnet, tied with matching ribbons. Since it was cool Angel had draped a lace shawl over her shoulders, but at once she felt out of place.

  Within moments Angel sensed the eyes of a passing man assessing her, and she turned in slight distress to search for Mr. Murphy. But the grizzled old prospector weaving along the boardwalk reeked of whiskey and something worse, and she exhaled with relief when he belched and stumbled on by, obviously not there to meet the stage.

  With a little shiver Angel turned around again just as her bags landed in a cloud of dust at her feet. When the stage driver made no move to assist her further she realized she was going to have to forge on by herself.

  She picked up the nearest bag and struggled toward a fading signboard that read Clear Creek Hotel. It looked disreputable, but she had little choice. She only hoped her remaining bags would be safe until she could retrieve them.

  “Excuse me,” Angel panted as she approached the wide-eyed clerk standing behind a dusty desk inside the hotel, “can you tell me where I will find Mr. Murphy?”

  “The preacher?” He gaped at her through grimy spectacles perched on the end of his narrow nose.

  “No, the other one.”

  “I see.” Now the clerk looked more curious. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of Mount Elbert as he peered suspiciously at Angel. “Up at the mine.”

  “Oh, of course.” She nodded with a mixture of relief and worry. How would she get up there to let Mr. Murphy know she’d arrived?

  “I’d like a room, please. Could you send someone outside for my other bags?”

  “Of course.” The clerk rang a bell on the desk, and a seedy-looking porter appeared to take on the task

  “Will you be staying long, miss?” The clerk pushed the registration book towards her. It was ominously blank.

  “I don’t know yet.” Angel signed Mrs. Murphy under the day’s date and handed back the pen.

  Angel noticed the clerk’s pursed lips as he read over her signature. When his gaze rose and narrowed on her, she wondered what he knew that she didn’t.

  ANGEL STROLLED DOWN THE boardwalk, greeting everyone she passed. At best she elicited a grunt from the men, or an outright leer. The few women she saw wouldn’t speak at all. In fact, they pointedly turned their faces aside, and Angel soon gave up trying to make new acquaintances.

  What was wrong? She was here three days now and was no closer to solving her problems than when she was in Missouri. The note she had sent up to the mine had gone unanswered. Was it possible Holt Murphy had left the area for some reason?

  Even if he had, it didn’t explain the townspeople’s reaction to her. She assumed the nosy hotel clerk had spread who she was all over town by now, but it still didn’t excuse their behavior. Angel was being treated like a pariah, and it didn’t make any sense.

  She paused warily on the street corner across from the Prospector Saloon, the only place in Clear Creek that looked busy. A second later shots rang out, and the sound of breaking glass echoed down the alley. She had no chance to flee before the tavern doors burst open, spewing two men into the street.

  One was ugly and scarred and wildly waving a gun. Angel let out a soft screech and ducked behind a tall post, but not before he had seen her.

  “If it ain’t the yeller-haired doxy,” the man crowed drunkenly, drawing attention to Angel.

  Her gaze focused on the second man, who wore buckskin trousers and a fringed shirt. He was lean but muscular, and as he spun around to sure at Angel she noted the feline-like grace of the movement.

  The younger man’s black hair glistened like a raven’s wing under the sun, reflecting bluish highlights. At first Angel thought he was Indian, but when he stared directly at her she saw his eyes were light.

  The gunmetal-gray eyes narrowed, and his square jaw clenched in a savage frown. Angel wondered what she’d done to incur his wrath, but the scarred man unwittingly supplied the answer when he pointed at her.

  “Thas’ the one who calls herself Missus Murphy!” He doubled over in a drunken fit of laughter, all thoughts of a brawl apparently forgotten.

  Angel saw the younger man start toward her, each stride furious. Strapped to his waist, a long Bowie knife flashed ominously in the sunlight, and too late she turned to flee.

  The man caught her by the arm, yanking Angel back hard against his fringed chest. Her bonnet tumbled off into the dust, unfurling a banner of long blond hair. His nostrils flared angrily as he drank in Angel’s face up close, and his silver eyes narrowed.

  “What hell game are you playing?” he growled.

  Angel was shocked for some reason to hear English spill from his lips. And surprised to find herself intrigued by his savage good looks, the proud posture of his powerful body,
his burning steely gaze.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she flared, struggling in vain to free herself.

  “You’re the woman claiming to be Murphy’s wife, aren’t you?” His lips curled back, exposing even white teeth. Cold fury laced his every word. He shook Angel until she answered him.

  “Yes!”

  He set his teeth, obviously enraged by her reply. Then he sent her reeling back from him, and Angel caught the post just in time to avoid falling on the boardwalk

  “How dare you treat a lady this way,” she cried.

  The man stared at her incredulously for a moment, then threw back his head and let out a loud whoop of laughter. “Did you hear that, Jack?” he asked the other fellow, who was still snickering in the street. Then he turned back to Angel and said dryly, “I’ve heard some fancy lines coming from whores in my day, but I reckon that isn’t one of them.”

  Angel let out an outraged screech and flew back at him. He barely avoided the nails slashing dangerously near his face. With a blur of hands he captured her wrists, hauling her up on her tiptoes while Angel twisted about helplessly.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Angel,” she said breathlessly. She got no farther than that when his deep laughter rang out, mocking her from head to toe.

  “Angel, hmm? You still expect me to believe you’re not a lady of the evening?”

  She bristled. “Angel is my real Christian name, I assure you. Mr. Murphy will make you rue the day you called me a trollop.”

  “I doubt it,” the handsome stranger chuckled, slowly lowering her back to her feet. “Arthur Murphy’s dead.”

  Angel shook her head, her outrage momentarily forgotten. “Not Arthur,” she gasped out. “Holt Murphy. I’m his wife.”

  The gray-eyed man stared at her. “Well, you don’t say. What a damned interesting coincidence.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he drawled, “I’m Holt Murphy.”

  Chapter Two

  ANGEL FELT A BRIGHT flush creeping up her cheeks. There had to be some mistake. She couldn’t possibly be married to this ruffian. But as she stared back horrified into his silvery eyes, she remembered the name neatly typed on the legal wedding documents in her trunk.

  Holt Murphy. Not Arthur. There was simply no question about it. She opened her mouth to inform him of it when he suddenly pulled her around the side of the building, flat against the wall.

  “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.

  Holt only shook his head, holding Angel tightly against him until two horses plodded on by, ridden by a pair of hard-looking men scouring the streets.

  After they disappeared around another bend he gradually released her, apparently as surprised as Angel to discover how closely they were standing together.

  “Now,” he demanded, “you’re going to explain what this is all about.”

  “Gladly,” Angel agreed tersely, “if you’ll be so kind as to release my arm.”

  Holt glanced down to see his hand still clamped hard around Angel’s wrist. He saw the pressure of his grip had drained all the color from her fingers. Her delicate bone structure was evident; he could easily circle her wrist twice over. With an oath he let her go.

  She chafed her wrist as she said, “My name is — or rather, was — Angel McCloud. I was recently married by proxy in Missouri to Holt Murphy.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, searching her blue eyes for the slightest hint of treachery. “Not Arthur Murphy?”

  Angel nodded. “I remember thinking Holt was a strong name. I thought it was perfect, because he agreed to help me out.”

  “Who?”

  “Holt. He sent me a letter explaining why it would be wiser for me to be married on the trip west. He offered to wed me by proxy, so I would have safe passage to Clear Creek.”

  Holt frowned, his gray eyes stormy. “I don’t know why you dreamed up this wild story, or who helped you do it, but I’m the only Holt Murphy in Clear Creek. I never agreed to marry anyone purely out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Angel snapped back, “because you haven’t got one. Please stop looking at me as if I’m lying. I’m not. I have the papers to prove it.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “I want you to show me that letter first.”

  She hesitated. “I haven’t got it anymore. I didn’t think it necessary to keep it.”

  “How convenient, Miss McCloud. I suppose it’s also central to your plan that my father has died.”

  “Your father?” Angel seemed genuinely bewildered, and Holt frowned down at her savagely.

  “You’re a good actress, I’ll admit, but it won’t save your hide if you’re lying to me. I intend to escort you back to the hotel where you’re staying so you can show me those documents.”

  Angel matched glares with him. “Certainly, Mr. Murphy. But how did you know I’m staying at the hotel?”

  “Since I came down off the mountain all I’ve heard about is the doxy posing as Mrs. Murphy. I figured it was just another chippie trying to get a cut of the mine.” He paused to give her an insolent up-and-down look. “I’m not so sure I’m wrong.”

  Angel gasped and raised her hand to slap him, but he knocked it aside easily.

  “There’s a regular little she-devil hiding under that sweet little name.” Holt chuckled unexpectedly. “Maybe I’ll keep you after all.”

  “Not for a day,” Angel declared. “I’ll be on the next stage to Denver. There’s obviously been a terrible mistake.”

  “There sure has,” Holt agreed, a devilish sparkle in his gray eyes. “But until it’s all straightened out, I intend to enjoy every minute of your angelic company.”

  LATER ANGEL WATCHED THOSE same gray eyes visibly widen as they scanned the copy of the wedding banns.

  “Now do you believe me?” she asked.

  Holt tossed the paper aside. “It could be forged.” He moved to stalk the confines of her hotel room, the taut male strength evident in every line of his form.

  Angel drank in the sight of him, the fringes of his jacket swaying gently as he moved, the blue-black sheen of his hair under the soft gas lamps.

  Holt Murphy was even more handsome up close, the high cheekbones of his face blending with his square jaw in perfect symmetry. He was clean-shaven; not a faint razor stubble showed on his deeply tanned skin. She studied him thoughtfully, wondering if he was possibly part Indian. But she was afraid to ask. If nothing else, his temper was savage enough to discourage polite conversation.

  When Holt glanced at Angel, sitting there so demurely with her hands folded in her lap, he almost laughed. It seemed incredible now he had mistaken her for a whore. Good breeding always showed, his brother said. Although Neal had meant it disparagingly, of course, for Holt’s benefit.

  “Well?” Angel prompted him. “Do you believe me now?”

  “I believe something happened,” Holt said, “only because it’s impossible for either of us to prove otherwise. But it’s hard for me to believe we are husband and wife, especially without my knowledge or consent.”

  “As far as I knew, it was your idea,” Angel reminded him curtly. She rose to pace the other side of the room, her lavender gown swishing as she moved. Holt noticed the Silk Parma violets artfully arranged in the golden tresses, and was struck anew by how lovely she was. Beautiful and innocent-looking, just like her namesake. Dammit, how come he always got himself in such messes?

  First thing tomorrow, he was putting this particular Angel right back on the stage. The mystery of their supposed marriage would just have to wait.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Angel challenged him as she looked back over her shoulder. Unexpectedly, her tone changed to a soft plea. “I wouldn’t have come all this way just to play a joke on you. I swear it.”

  “Don’t swear,” Holt said huskily, and slanted her a wry smile. “It doesn’t suit a lady.”

  So he believed some of her story, after all. “
Thank you,” Angel murmured.

  “But we still have to figure a way out of this mess. Obviously we’ll have to file for divorce.”

  “Annulment,” she corrected him. “The marriage was never consummated.”

  Holt’s smile transformed into a predatory one. “That could change.”

  Too late Angel read the intent in his smoky gray eyes and took a hasty step backwards. She bumped against a chair and found herself trapped on the other side by the dresser.

  As if he had all the time in the world, Holt sauntered up to Angel and gazed down at her upturned face. He saw her beautiful blue eyes darken with apprehension.

  “Don’t be afraid of me,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Holt’s hands gently gripped her shoulders, drawing her slowly toward him. Angel was mesmerized by his silvery smoldering gaze, the black pupils large in the dim light. She caught the male scent of him, of leather and horses and fresh tobacco. It was not an unpleasant smell, but it made her stomach churn in a disconcerting way.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please what?” Holt murmured. “Kiss you? After all, Mrs. Murphy, if I’m really your husband, then it’s certainly my right, isn’t it?”

  His mouth moved to capture hers, so swiftly Angel was unable to protest. She jerked slightly with the impact, but her lips parted of their own accord and she moaned at the unfamiliar sensations. Holt’s hands tightened on her, and he pressed his hard male body firmly against her while he made leisurely love to her mouth.

  Fire! An image of all-consuming flame blossomed in Angel’s mind. She was burning, engulfed in Holt’s gaze and the long, flame-like strokes of his hands upon her back.

  Angel felt an answering shudder course through his frame when her own hands settled on his narrow hips. Under her fingertips the buttery softness of his buckskin trousers was incredibly sensual.

  A shattered gasp escaped Angel’s lips when he finally withdrew. She pressed a hand to her wildly fluttering heart, and stared up at him with wide eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Holt warned, “or I’ll forget my promise not to take advantage of the situation.”