Dreams of Gold (10 page)

Especially following the first time she’d used his given name.

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Six

Quinn disappeared from her sight at the same moment the door burst open and strident voices called out.

Blood still pounding in her ears, Ciara tried to figure out what had just happened. One minute she was drowning in the handsome man’s kisses, head swimming with the scent of night air and the spiciness of bay rum. The next she was locked in a small cell by a callous sheriff.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry but I couldn’t stop them,” a muffled voice said.

“I understand, Bud.” Quinn’s words were clipped. “I’ll handle this.”

Lips still tingling, Ciara scooted to one side of the open space and peeked through the doorway into the office. Several people gathered in the middle of the room. Surely, her arrest should have satisfied the men. Her fingers tightened on the bars and her stomach clenched into a ball. Was this some sort of vigilante action?

Footsteps approached, and the faces of a burly man and a dark-haired woman appeared in the space. “See, Ann Marie, that’s what happens when you speak your mind. You best remember that.”

Inside, Ciara wanted to move away from his vehemence, but instead she lifted her chin in defiance.

“What’s the ruckus, lass?”

The voice beside her made her jump. She jerked away from the bars and stared at the man in the next cell.

He propped himself up on one elbow on the cot against the far wall.

“I have been arrested.”

“A fine lass like yerself? What’s the world coming to?” The man stretched and stood, extending a hand through the bars. “Me name’s Patrick O’Malley. And what be yours?”

Another Irishman? The accented tone was like a balm to her nerves. Maybe he knew her father. She shot a glance at the group of people arguing in the office and accepted the man’s handshake. “I go by Ciara Morrissey, but I was born a Mulcahy. Perhaps you know the man I seek.”

“Be he Shamus Mulcahy? Aye, I’ve sat across a poker table from the man.” Patrick scratched his whiskered chin. “Folks around here are nary too fond of the likes of him.”

His words reminded her of her discussion with the sheriff. She sighed. The dratted mining business. “So I have learned.”

“But that’s the way of the blasted Black Irish, excusing my language, miss.” He straightened to a sitting position.

“Black? What do you mean?”

“Why the scalawag’s coloring, of course. Not to mention his thieving soul.”

Her heart beat faster. Just as she thought—there
were
two men. Her blue-eyed, sandy-haired father was innocent of the town’s ill will. Eager to share the news with Quinn, she turned back toward the office. The sight of his broad, solid form—arms crossed and legs braced in a squared-off stance as he faced the crowd—dashed her hopes. After what he’d done, the sheriff was not to be trusted. A shiver raced through her, and she hugged both arms around her stomach.

“Toss the blanket around yer shoulders, missy. The night air carries a bit of a nip.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Malley.” How ironic to be thankful for the kindness of a man on the wrong side of iron bars. She grabbed the scratchy wool blanket and sank down onto the cot. Mama would have been proud of her speech, and that she’d stood up for women’s rights. Sadness at the lack of someone to share this triumph with grabbed her throat, and she fought the burning at the back of her eyes.

She really was alone in the world. Beloved grandparents and mother dead, stranger father nowhere nearby. Better get used to the situation.

Raised voices from the office brought her back to her feet. Several women gathered around Quinn’s desk, blocking her view of the sheriff. “Can you hear what’s happening?”

“No, missy, but a body gets used to that.” O’Malley crawled onto his cot and stretched out.

Not likely. Anxiety spurring her moves, she paced to the end of her cell and back. Being stuck here would not get her any closer to finding her father. Nor out into the exciting, wide world to explore new places and have new experiences.

“Ciara.”

At the sound of Quinn’s deep voice, she whirled. Pulse racing, she studied his expression, her body still aware of the intimacy they’d just shared.

Metal clinked against metal, and he swung open the cell door. “Your bail’s been paid. I’ll escort you back to the boarding house.”

She hoped to see a bit of regret for his actions. But his body was stiff, and his dark eyes unyielding. Maybe kisses didn’t mean much to him. Heat flamed in her cheeks. She grabbed her reticule and marched past him, sliding her back against the bars of the metal opening to avoid touching him. “I know the way.” A woman alone needed to stand on her own two feet. The same two feet that tried to move her across the expanse of the office floor with haste.

Stomping footsteps shook the floorboards. “Don’t you understand? By arresting you, I was keeping you safe.”

At his words, she tossed her head and turned, hand on a hip. “From what? Or whom? I have spoken before more hostile crowds than that.” Only after she’d spoken did the fervent tone of his declaration sink in. Had he truly acted out of a wish to protect?

“When? Where?” Brows drawn low, he closed the distance and reached out a hand.

No
. If he touched her, she’d give in to the wild sensations he caused. With a shake of her head, she stepped back but fought against reacting to the caring she saw in his dark eyes. “At rallies for women’s rights before Mama…” She swallowed against a too-tight throat. “Several years ago, in Massachusetts.”

“Tell me about that.” His gaze held hers. “I want to know more.”

Her heart rate fluttered at the intensity of his dark look. The memory of his mouth on hers was still new, and she fought against raising a hand to her tender lips. “Quinn, I—”

The door banged open and a lean man strode in. “Sheriff, you gotta hear… Oh, sorry, ma’am. Should I come back?”

With a last look at Quinn’s dear face, Ciara shook her head and turned to the man with a star pinned to his pocket. “Not at all, sir. I was just leaving.” This time, she escaped the office, and half-trotting and half-sliding, made her way down the earthen rise.

“Ciara.”

She ignored the command in his voice and kept walking, not daring to glance over her shoulder. If she did, she’d be lost.

****

Her stiff back soon disappeared around the corner of the barber shop, and Quinn slammed a hand against the door jamb. “Damn stubborn woman.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Sheriff.”

Regret over his botched explanation filled his thoughts. Couldn’t she see what his statement meant? Quinn dragged a hand down his face and glanced at his deputy. “What’s this about, Bud?”

“Mulcahy’s back at the gold digs.”

“How do you know?” His thoughts reeled. His whole reason for taking this job was to settle this exact matter.

“Don told me about a drifter at the Red-Eye who complained about his poor luck. Sounded downright envious of the Irishman with fancy equipment who was mining sizable nuggets.” Bud clapped his hands together. “That’s gotta to be Mulcahy, right?”

“Sounds like.” He stared in the direction of the boarding house, tightness spreading through his chest. His allegiance to avenging his parents warred with wanting to protect Ciara from facing the truth about her father. “Bud, do me a favor? Make sure Miss Morrissey reached Belle’s safely. Then come back and we’ll figure out our next step.”

Ciara Morrissey might not accept his escort, but he’d be damned sure the woman was safe. When Bud’s footfalls disappeared along the boardwalk, Quinn turned and strode to the storage room to grab down his saddlebags. If luck was on his side, within a few days, he’d have the swindler Mulcahy in custody, and U.S. Marshals would arrive to investigate the stage robbery and judge’s disappearance.

****

Even though she knew Quinn was out of town, Ciara still looked for his familiar figure every time she walked through Bull City. Since her arrest three days earlier, she’d had plenty of offers of employment. The women had taken her message from the rally to heart. In addition to conducting tarot readings and providing instructions about medicinal infusions, she was finishing two hat orders, and Mr. Stanton at the
Mountain Gazette
was reviewing her proposal for a series of fashion articles.

None of her welcomed tasks took the place of being in Quinn’s company, even if their time together was spent sparring and arguing. She walked along the boardwalk, a bundle of large cards tied with a ribbon clasped to her chest. With one last glance up the hill toward the jail, she turned into Millie’s Café and spotted the young girl heading into the kitchen. “Morning, Betsy. Is Millie back there?”

“Morning, miss. She sure is.”

Ciara moved in that direction, nodding at several townspeople she recognized as she passed. Their responding acknowledgements lightened her step. At the last set of tables, she paused to allow Betsy, who balanced a large tray of laden plates, to pass.

“You hear Mulcahy’s back?” A gruff voice nearby spoke low.

Ciara stilled, the back of her neck tingling. Her father was here? In Bull City?

“He’d be a fool to come back to this town.”

“Grew a droopy moustache and dyed his hair brown, but it’s him. Been running a table at the saloon for the last two nights.”

Was this her father or the man who shared the name? Not wanting to miss any information the men might divulge, she moved closer and set the packet on a nearby table. “Here, Betsy. Let me help.” Bracing her stance, she held the tray while Betsy served the three men who’d stopped their conversation at the arrival of the food.

Ciara noted each man’s appearance, searching for individual details that might help Quinn. Funny how her thoughts shifted in that direction almost on their own. But Quinn was away, and she needed a plan she could carry out.

Would tonight finally be her chance to fulfill her promise to Mama?

****

The sun shot its last golden rays from the back side of the mountain when Quinn reined in at the jail and dismounted. Muscles strained and pulled in his tired body. He tied off Pepper and moved to the trailing horse. “Lean this way, Mulcahy.” With a grunt, he eased the bound man to the ground and steadied him. “Up the hill and inside the jail with you.”

“Don’t suppose you’d listen again to my explanation?”

“Nope. I’d just repeat the same thing, Save it for the judge.”

He led the prisoner through the door and glanced around. Bud must be making rounds. Good, maybe he could catch a few winks. Three days of riding had taken their toll more than he’d expected. Or maybe because he hadn’t rested well, worrying about Ciara and how she fared in Bull City. He turned toward the back door. “In here.”

They shuffled through the doorway and he guided the older man into the far cell. “O’Malley, I brought you a countryman. Patrick O’Malley, meet Shamus Mulcahy.” He closed the door with a loud clank.

O’Malley sat up, scratched at his curly hair. “Ah, sheriff, yer mistaken.”

“What do you mean?” Those were not the words Quinn wanted to hear after the trek he’d just endured through the rugged territory..

“This is not Shamus Mulcahy.” O’Malley jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ll be knowin’ me own name, sir.” The prisoner grabbed onto the bars, shaking his head.

“Then this is not the man who ran the crooked poker game. That man had black hair and dark eyes.”

“Precisely what I’ve been telling this man for the past day and a half.” His hand waved in the air. “Same as I’ve been saying about the mining company. I’m thinking yer seeking my ex-partner, Sean Muldoon. Should never have trusted that shifty man.”

Doubt stilled Quinn’s hands on the metal door. Hadn’t Ciara mentioned this possibility? Could he have been wrong? But, this was the man he’d found at the end of Crazy Woman Creek. The man was in possession of mining equipment and had answered to the right name.

Fatigue pulled at his shoulders. He’d sort it out after he cleaned up a bit. Long strides took him into the storage room where he stripped off his dusty shirt and ran fingers through his hair. The trail back had seemed longer this time.

He reached for the pitcher of water and half-filled the washbowl. A quick sponge down would have to last him until he got back to Belle’s. The first splash of cool water on his face and neck brought instant relief. He reached for the bar of soap and lathered it across his chest, nostrils ticking with the scent of tropical spices. Amazing how a bit of soap and water made a person feel almost human again.

The door knob rattled and footsteps scraped on the floor. “Sheriff, you back?”

Swiping a towel across his torso, he stepped to the doorway. “Yeah, Bud. Just returned with a prisoner. Any news around town?”

“Been quiet. If you don’t need me, I’ll surprise Catherine by eating supper at home tonight.”

“Of course, Bud. Thanks for your hard work.” The picture of a hot meal on the stove and a woman waiting in a parlor appeared in his mind. The woman wasn’t blonde like Bud’s wife, but red-haired like Ciara. Not as strange a thought as it would have been a week ago. With a shake of his head, he ran the towel over his hair. “I’ll be out on the streets within ten minutes.”