Elizabeth Lane (4 page)

Sarah drew herself up with an air that would have done credit to Queen Victoria. “Do your worst, then, Mr. Cole,” she said crisply. “But your allowing me the week won’t make any difference. Miner’s Gulch is my home. No matter what you might say or do, I have no intention of leaving.”

Surprise flickered across Donovan’s face, but he was quick to recover. “Then heaven help you, Sarah Parker Buckley!” he snapped. “At least you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning. Remember that after it’s too late to change your mind!”

Sarah did not reply. She stood like stone as Donovan turned his back on her and stalked outside, slamming the door brusquely behind him.

Only when the echo of his boots on the wooden stairs had died away did Sarah allow herself to react. Her throat constricted as if squeezed by an invisible fist. Her knees went liquid. She sank onto a bench, her heart pounding a tattoo of fear against her ribs.

It was not too late, she reminded herself. Donovan had given her a week to be gone. She could take her time—invent some pretty story about a new position or an unexpected inheritance back East. She could pack at her leisure
and hire a wagon to drive her to Central City, where she could catch the stage for Denver.

And then what? Another masquerade someplace else, with more lies and the inevitable discovery? A retreat to the safety of New England, where nothing could follow her except those black, tormenting dreams?

No, Sarah concluded, gulping back her fear. Running was not the answer. She had worked too hard at building a life here, with the Southern children she taught and the Southern women who had come to depend on her. In recent months, she’d even experienced some nights of restful sleep, when the nightmares did not come.

Her only hope of peace lay here, helping the people she had betrayed—and had come to love.

Resolutely she rose, brushed the chalk dust from her skirt and began tidying up the classroom for tomorrow’s lessons. She would go on as if nothing had happened—as if Donovan Cole had never come to her with his threats. She would show him what Sarah Parker was made of. She would show them all.

Squaring her shoulders, she chalked the new sums across the board in an order that began with the simplest problems and progressed to the most complex. Maybe nothing would happen, she speculated, trying to be cheerful. Maybe Donovan’s threat to expose her had been an empty bluff.

But no, she knew better. Donovan was no bluffer. He was as blunt and honest as nature itself. Whatever intent he stated, he would carry out as surely as winter followed autumn.

The chalk slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor, shattering as it struck. Sarah let the pieces lie where they had fallen. She clutched at her arms, trembling as if an icy wind had blown into the room.

Walking to the window, she gazed down at the passersby in the muddy street. The people of Miner’s Gulch were her friends now, but the war had touched almost all of them. Many had lost friends and relatives. More than a few
had lost property. They had forgiven her for being a Yankee, but how could they forgive her for being a spy?

If she’d been caught back in Richmond, she would have been tried and summarily hanged. What would happen to her here, in an angry little town with no law?

Closing her eyes, Sarah pressed her forehead against the rough-sawed frame of the window. Only moments ago she had convinced herself she was strong enough to face the past. But now she felt her courage slipping away, leaving her weak, frightened, and more alone than she had ever been in her life.

Donovan’s long-legged strides ate up the ground. Mud spattered beneath his boots as he drove his energy into putting as much distance as possible between himself and Sarah Parker Buckley.

She had not even denied it, he fumed as he stalked past the boarded-up assayer’s office. She had played Juliet, she said, and Ophelia, and Lady Macbeth—and oh, yes, Lydia Taggart, the belle of Richmond! Lord, she’d almost seemed proud of it! She’d admitted to everything, even the part about not loving Virgil.

Donovan fed the fire of his anger as he mounted the trail. Sarah Parker was a woman without a conscience. She deserved to be ridden out of town on a timber. She deserved to be tarred and feathered, even hanged. Back in Richmond, in fact, she
would
have been hanged. The gallows had been standard punishment for spies during the war.

Donovan’s breath eased out in a ragged sigh. In truth, he had no stomach for that sort of violence, especially where females were concerned. That was why he’d allowed Sarah time to make a clean getaway. Some people might not view it as right, letting her go like that. But surely it was what Virgil, in his gentle, forgiving way, would have wanted.

As for Sarah, she might be stubborn, but she was no fool. Given a few days to think things over, she was bound
to take the sensible way out. There’d be no need to go through the ugliness of exposing her past.

But if she refused to leave on her own—Donovan’s jaw clenched with the force of his resolve. He would do whatever it took to get Sarah out of Miner’s Gulch. And if that meant laying her treachery bare to the whole town-His breath stopped for an instant as he remembered the sight of her face, tilting toward him like a proud flower. His mind retraced the quietly defiant eyes, the determined thrust of her dimpled chin, the silkily parted lips that seemed to be made for a man’s kiss…

Damn her! Lydia Taggart was still working her cursed magic, and he had already learned that he was not immune. If he wavered, even for an instant, he would be vulnerable. He could not afford to let that happen.

He walked faster, charging up the trail as if the devil were pursuing him with the most enticing bundle of torments ever devised. He would stay away from Sarah, he resolved. Varina’s cabin needed plenty of work, more than enough work to keep him busy for the rest of the week. He would return to town only when the time limit was up. By then, if she had any sense, the woman would be gone.

But if she chose to remain—yes, he would be strong enough to make her pay. Sarah Parker Buckley would get no second chance.

Ahead, through the screen of aspens, Donovan could see the bright, bobbing patches of his nieces’ coats. Anxious for the distraction of their company, he lengthened his stride to catch up. A smile tugged his lips as he remembered the coins he’d given them to buy peppermint sticks at the store. Varina, he knew, didn’t have the money for such indulgences, but all youngsters deserved a treat now and then. He could only hope that, in the days ahead, Varina’s staunch independence would allow him to provide more than candy.

As he came abreast of the girls, Katy glanced up at him with a hesitant smile. Annie, however, seemed to avoid his
eyes. Donovan swiftly saw why. Against her coat, she clutched a ten-pound sack of flour. They had not bought candy at all.

“Please don’t be mad, Uncle Donovan,” Annie said in a firm little voice that echoed her mother’s. “We like candy. We like it a lot. But we
need
this flour. Ma’s bin is almost empty, and I have to make bread this afternoon.”

Donovan swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat. “That’s fine, Annie,” he said, feeling frustrated and foolish. “But you should have told me you needed flour. I’d have bought a big sack of it, and some candy, too.”

“Oh, no!” Annie protested. “You’re our guest! Ma said we weren’t to ask you for anything!”

“In that case, I need to have a talk with your mother.” Donovan cursed Varina’s pride. The idea that her family was on the brink of starvation, and the woman would not even ask her own brother for help-But anger wouldn’t accomplish anything, he reminded himself. He had to find some other way to aid Varina. Something she would not reject as charity.

There was the mine—she had offered him a partnership. But the thought of grubbing away his days on Charlie Sutton’s worthless diggings was enough to crush his soul.

There had to be another answer, another possibility, lurking just out of reach. Something in the land, perhaps, or even in himself. He would give the matter some serious consideration. In the next few days, when he wasn’t working on the cabin, he would investigate Varina’s mining claim and the terrain surrounding it. He would keep himself fully occupied, leaving no room in his thoughts for the likes of Sarah Parker Buckley.

But even as he made his plans, Sarah’s image burst into his mind. His face blazed, recalling the sting of her slap on his skin. His body quivered with the memory of last night-her body straining against him, the silken feel of her hair, tumbling over his hand. Something clenched inside him—a
hunger so raw and fierce that it almost buckled his knees. He stumbled, damning his own weakness.

“Hurry, Uncle Donovan! We’re almost home!” Annie called, and Donovan suddenly realized that the girls had left him behind. He hurried to catch up, breathing hard to clear his mind. He was thirty-six years old, he reminded himself, old enough to know that the woman who called herself Sarah Parker was pure poison. She’d deceived trusting friends and neighbors in Richmond. She’d betrayed Virgil, who had loved her with all the passion of his youth. And for all her virtuous demeanor here in Miner’s Gulch, Donovan knew better than to believe she’d changed. Beneath Sarah’s prim facade, Lydia Taggart was alive and well. She was his enemy. He would see her vanquished once and for all.

The Crimson Belle Saloon had seen better days. Its porches sagged where the unseasoned lumber had warped. Its paint, once a brazen red, was weathered and peeling. The men who drifted in and out of the double doors tended to have a whipped look, as if any spirit they’d ever possessed had been beaten away by the hard years. Even the piano sounded tired.

Not that Sarah was listening. The piano’s tinny, thunking tone had filled her ears for so many seasons that she scarcely heard it anymore. Besides, this evening her mind was on other matters.

Lifting her skirts above the mud, she rounded the corner of the saloon and slipped through the shadows toward the back entrance. Her free hand clutched the canvas valise that served as her medical kit. Her spectacles were in place once more, perched firmly on her narrow nose.

The rear of the Crimson Belle was expressly designed for discreet comings and goings. A cluster of bushy blue spruce trees screened the entry, which opened into a dim hallway with a narrow, inside staircase leading to the second floor. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but Sarah’s
knock—three precise taps, a pause, then two moretouched off a scurry of footsteps on the other side. The bolt rattled and, seconds later, the door swung inward to reveal a frowsy blond woman in a faded mauve silk wrapper. Her husky shoulders sagged as Sarah stepped out of the shadows.

“Ach,
thank goodness it is you!” She spoke in a rough cello voice, heavily accented with German. “Marie is worse—the coughing, the blood—”

“Take me to her, Greta.” Sarah clutched her valise and followed the woman down the carpeted hallway, her eyes avoiding the closed door that indicated one of the girls had a customer. She had long since lost count of her visits to these rooms above the saloon, but all the same, she never quite got used to things here. The lamps in the hallway cast a hellish glow through their rose glass chimneys. The air swam with incense, its sickly-sweet aroma mingling with tobacco smoke. From downstairs, the muffled tinkle of the piano did not quite drown out the lustful grunts and whimpers that emanated through the walls of the locked room.

“Here.” Greta opened the second-to-last door to reveal, in the dimly lit space, a thin, dark figure lying on a wide bed. Sarah walked slowly toward her, weighted by a sense of helplessness. She could deliver babies, apply poultices and administer concoctions of whiskey, quinine and camphor, but in this case, there was nothing she could do. Marie, tragically young and no longer pretty, was dying of consumption.

Marie’s weightless hand fluttered like a leaf on the stained brocade coverlet as Sarah approached. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “I wanted the chance to tell you before—” She broke off, overcome by a spasm of tearing coughs. The kerchief that Greta pressed to Marie’s mouth came away flecked with blood.

“Don’t try to talk,” Sarah murmured, her eyes welling with emotion. “Just rest. I brought more of that chamomile
tea you like. The girls can brew it for you—” She fumbled in her valise for the packet, her vision blurred by tears. Marie belonged in a hospital, with real doctors and nurses, or in some warm, dry climate where her lungs could heal. Here, in this wretched place, there was no hope for her.

“She ain’t slept all day. Ain’t done nothin’ but cough, poor lamb.” Another woman, near forty, with gentle eyes and garishly dyed red hair, had stepped out of the shadows to take the chamomile. “I’ll start some water. Maybe this’ll soothe her some.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said softly. “You’ve been good to her, Faye.”

“We got to do for each other. Ain’t nobody else’ll do it for us—’ceptin’ you, o’ course, Miss Sarah. You been a real angel to us all.”

“Ach, ja,”
Greta agreed. “But listen, we been fighting with that bastard Smitty again. He says that if Marie is too sick to work the customers, he can’t afford to give her room and board.”

“Not again!” Sarah sighed wearily, remembering the confrontations she’d had with the Crimson Belle’s miserly owner. Smitty treated his girls like livestock, with no regard for their welfare. They’d lived in the most abject dread of him until last year, when Sarah had stepped in. Conditions were somewhat better now, but the old man’s curmudgeonly heart was as hard as ever.

Sadly Sarah gazed down at Marie’s pale face. It was Marie, she recalled, who had triggered her first visit to these upstairs rooms. The poor girl had miscarried and was near death when a desperate Faye had come pounding on Sarah’s door in the middle of the night. Sarah had saved Marie’s life that time. But there was nothing she could do now. She had no skill, no potion, to turn back the ravages of consumption.

Marie’s skin was so transparent that the delicate blue tracery of her veins showed through at the temples. Her
cheeks flamed like two garish red carnations against the white oval of her face. Her eyes had sunk into hollows. It wasn’t fair, Sarah reflected bitterly. Marie was sweet and kind and had never willed harm to anyone. She should have had a different life—a home, children, the love of a good man. Now, even the brief, sad life she’d had was nearly over.