Elizabeth Lane (18 page)

Besides, he had other concerns on his mind. Jamie Trenoweth would be in town tomorrow, and Varina had insisted on inviting the doughty Cornishman to dinner. Afterward, the two men would spend time walking the boundaries of Varina’s claim and collecting ore samples, which Jamie would take to the assayer in Central City.

Donovan had not told his sister the real purpose of Jamie’s visit. If the ore was rich and the claim truly workable, Varina and her family could be secure for life. But the gold, like the rest of Charlie Sutton’s dreams, might just as easily turn out to be a will-o’-the-wisp. Getting Varina’s hopes up, only to have them dashed, would be a cruel blow to a woman who’d already seen a hundred times more disappointment than she deserved.

Donovan lengthened his stride as he passed the church, the tumbledown sheriff’s office and the hardware store with its gaping holes where the windows had been pillaged for their glass. Miner’s Gulch had been a flourishing town in the days of the old boom. It could prosper again if the rockbound ore proved rich enough for milling. People who’d held out for years on their spent placer claims could sell out to the big hard-rock operations and retire in comfort. There’d be new businesses, new people, money for street
improvements, law enforcement, a telegraph office, even a real schoolhouse with a paid teacher.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He was starting to think like mutton-headed Charlie, who’d seen rainbows over every hill. The yellow-flecked quartz that littered Miner’s Gulch could be worthless, for all he knew. What the hell, it probably
was
worthless—just like most of the people in this backward, dying town. If he had any sense, he would torch Varina’s cabin and cart the family back to Kansas where they could have a safe, decent life.

Donovan had reached the top of the street where the trail up the mountain began. On the pretext of catching his breath, he paused to look back on the slumbering townslumbering except for the gaudy lights of the Crimson Belle, which the avaricious Smitty would likely keep burning till the last customer had staggered out the door.

Even at a distance, the place was a tawdry beacon in the spring night, beckoning him where he could not go. He had put Sarah out of his heart and his life. To weaken, to see her again, would be like slashing a hornet’s nest to release a swarm of pain that would never heal.

The sound of the piano, clunking out a tinny rendition of “Lorena,” floated up the street on the dark wind, stirring images in Donovan’s memory. Lydia, laughing behind her mauve lace fan; Sarah, holding Varina’s newborn son to the lamplight. Lydia, flirting roguishly over a crystal wineglass; Sarah, bruised, shorn and feverish, clinging to him in the darkness like a terrified child.

Lydia.

Sarah.

Who was she now?

Donovan’s pulse skipped erratically. He could go back-the lights were still on, and Faye would let him in. This time he would be completely honest with Sarah. He would open his heart, bare his emotions, and maybe this time she would understand. She could join him in Kansas, they could make a new start—

But he was pushing himself over the edge now. There was no hope for anything between Sarah and himself. The past was too close, too devastating for them both. Sarah did not want him. And even if she were willing, it would come to no good in the end. Once the first burst of passion faded, there would be nothing left between them but anger and distrust.

Swallowing the hardness in his throat, Donovan turned and strode up the trail as swiftly as his long legs would carry him. The small-leafed aspens whipped his face as he passed. His boots spat mud and gravel as he willed a wall to rear itself behind him—a wall to shut out the memory of her face, her voice and the baby-soft warmth of her flesh against his own.

A hundred yards shy of the cabin, he paused to calm himself. He could no longer see the lights or hear the piano, but he knew she was back there. He could almost feel her, alone in her sad little room above Smitty’s with Lord knows what going on through the walls. It was no place for a woman like Sarah Parker.

He could only hope that soon she would be strong enough to fly away, leaving them both in peace. And he could only hope that one day, in some distant place, Sarah would find what she was looking for.

The wind from the peaks was sweet and cold. It rippled his hair back from his face, chilling the wetness in his eyes as he lingered facing the gulch.

Goodbye, Sarah,
he thought.
Good luck and Godspeed.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window and wishing for magic eyes to see through the velvet drapes to the sunlit day outside. The wine red darkness that cloaked her days had been bearable enough while she was too weak to do anything but eat and sleep. Now, however, with her strength returning, the little room had become an upstairs dungeon, and she its prisoner.

From the room next door, Greta’s breathy afternoon snores reverberated through the paper-thin wall. Sarah willed her ears to block out the sound. The three women had saved her life, she reminded herself, and they had been more than kind to her. It wasn’t their fault she’d begun to pace and snap like a caged animal. It wasn’t their fault that her life had been reduced to counting the days, hours and minutes until her release. But Sarah had been busy all her life, until now. Here, in this dim little room, the long hours of idleness had become slow torture, and she was beginning to crumble under the strain.

The isolation and the darkness were trying enough. But it was the memories—lost times and faces, crowding in on her mind with nothing to keep them at bay—that were edging her toward the brink. Any unguarded moment would be enough to summon her father, his black brows knotted in a thunderous scowl. Or her mother, a pale shadow who had never spoken her own mind. Or Reginald Buckley, his hat rakishly tilted, his coffee-colored eyes twinkling with cruel, secret jokes.

Sometimes it was Richmond that came back to haunt her. Then she saw the stoic black faces of the servants who had been her comrades. She saw Virgil and all the other spirited young men who had marched off to die.

And she saw Donovan. Donovan most of all.

And almost anything was less painful than thinking about Donovan.

Jerking at the sash of her robe, Sarah pushed herself to her feet and began pacing the length of the mud-stained Persian rug. Yesterday, without raising her voice above a whisper, she had managed to recite all of Ophelia’s lines from
Hamlet.
Today she felt darker, more like Lady Macbeth, or perhaps Medea.

It was urgent that she leave, Sarah realized. She was far from strong, but for everyone’s sake, she needed to get out of this place. Later, when Faye came in with her supper, she would ask again. Maybe this time…

The gilded clock on the dresser caught her passing gaze. Twenty-five minutes to three, according to the little brass hands. Twenty-five minutes until the worst time of the day, when the children finished their classwork and came laughing and skipping up the street, directly under her window.

The discovery that Eudora Cahill had taken charge of her school had stung Sarah like a whiplash. She had tried to convince herself that it was for the best, that at least the children would continue to learn. But from Eudora! It was more than she could stand. And when her former students came trooping up the street after school, their familiar voices floating upward through the faded velvet curtains, Sarah’s heart ached.

A distraction—that was what she needed today. For the first time, Sarah’s restless gaze fell on the wardrobe that had held poor Marie’s clothes. A bit of exploring would pass the time, she thought. Maybe it would even help take her mind off her students.

And Donovan.

The carved doors proved to be locked when she tugged the knobs, but a minute’s rummaging in the dresser drawers produced the key. Sarah felt a refreshing prickle of interest as she turned it in the lock. Marie’s slim, narrowboned stature had been much like her own. If the clothes were still inside, maybe she could liven up her solitary theatrical performances with a costume or two.

The doors stuck for an instant, then swung open, releasing the poignant scent of Marie’s cologne into the room. Lilac and gardenia—Sarah’s throat tightened as the fragrance touched a freshet of bittersweet memories. Tears stung her eyes, and for the space of a heartbeat she resolved to close the doors again and walk away. But Marie was gone, she reminded herself. The clothes had no owner now. And it wasn’t as if she planned to take any of the dresses. She was only going to borrow them.

Steeling herself, Sarah began sliding the padded hangers along the rod, examining one gown, then another. The dresses were in surprisingly good condition. Some of them were expensive, even lavish, with matching shoes tucked into tissue-lined boxes along the back of the wardrobe. Marie had been a beautiful girl before her illness, and it was evident that at least one of her admirers had been wealthy and generous.

On the wardrobe’s overhead shelf, Sarah found an unlocked jewelry chest, but it contained only gaudy trinkets. If Marie had owned any valuable pieces, she had evidently pawned or sold them. That, or the box had been pillaged.

Feeling like a guilty invader, Sarah replaced the velvetcovered box on its shelf. The clothes were of more interest to her in any case, even the shoes, which looked as if they might fit her.

Almost before she knew it, she was pulling dresses out of the wardrobe and flinging them on the bed. In the open, they were even more elegant than she had guessed. Even as Lydia Taggart, she had not owned such lavish gowns.

Her favorite was fashioned of emerald green silk bombazine, edged with bands of matching velvet ribbon that converged in a cascade of ruffles down the back of the skirt. When Sarah stood before the mirror, clasping the dress to her shoulders, she saw that the color brought out the silver in her eyes and lent a subtle glow to her pale, thin face.

She hadn’t really intended to try the dress on. But suddenly she found herself rummaging shamelessly through the drawers in search of underclothes and stockings, all of which she found clean and in good condition. The drawers, camisole and petticoat were of fine spun batiste, delicately made, soft as peach down against her skin.

Only when she was drawing the corset laces did Sarah realize how much weight she had lost. Her waist had always been slim. Now, with little more than a tug, it became hand-span size below the gaunt frame of her rib cage.
Her hipbones jutted beneath the gathered flare of the petticoat—a stranger’s body, almost, in a stranger’s clothes.

The dress came next. Holding her breath, she lifted the rich green silk and worked it over her head. The sensuous fabric enfolded her, sliding like perfumed water over her skin, slipping down the curves of her body to settle effortlessly into place.

As she reached behind her back to work the long row of buttons, Sarah realized her hands were trembling. Something about the gown, about wearing it, was vaguely disturbing, like opening a door into an unfamiliar room.

Fully dressed now, she stepped hesitantly in front of the full-length mirror that was mounted on the inside of one wardrobe door. What she saw brought a startled gasp to her lips.

Sarah had acted out many roles in her stage career, and more than one role in the real world. She knew how to change her hair, her clothes, her makeup, her voice and gestures to fit any part she wished to play.

But reflected in the glass, framed by its cheap gilt border, was a complete stranger, a woman she had never seen before in her life.

Heart skittering nervously, she ventured a step backward to survey the full effect. Zoe had taken a razor to Sarah’s cropped hair to even its scraggly length. The tousled curls that remained outlined her face in elfin spikes, making her eyes look as large and luminous as a cat’s.

The gown itself was cut daringly low at the neck, its tightfitting bodice thrusting the tops of her breasts into plain view. From the shoulders, which were accented by velvet bows, the dress tapered downward to her impossibly tiny waist. The fit was so close, Sarah realized, that if she had tried on the dress before her illness, it would have been too tight.

But it wasn’t the dress, or even the hair that had struck her so sharply. It was what she saw in her own face. She was
as gaunt as a cougar after a hard winter, her mouth hard, her eyes wary, almost feral.

What had become of her? Sarah asked herself. Where was her softness? Where was her innocence? Her trust?

Repelled yet strangely intrigued, she leaned closer to the glass. What would Donovan think if he could see her now? she wondered. What would he say?

But what did it matter? She would never see Donovan again.

Detaching her emotions, she studied the effect of the gown. One thing was missing—jewelry. In Marie’s velvet case, she had noticed a citrine pendant with matching earbobs, not valuable enough to have been pawned or taken, but elegant in their own glittery way. Fishing the baubles out of the box, she held them up to the mirror. Yes, they would do.

She had clasped the thin, gold chain around her throat and was threading the second ear-bob when the door opened and Faye came hurrying into the room.

“My stars, child!” she exclaimed, looking Sarah swiftly up and down. “You could take up whorin’ and make enough money to buy this whole damned stiff-necked town!”

The old Sarah Parker might have blushed at such a plainspoken comment. Now, however, Sarah’s only reaction was to notice that Faye looked drawn and agitated.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Jist heard somethin’.” Faye sank down on the edge of the bed. “Deputy feller’s downstairs in the saloon. Says some galoots robbed the bank in Central City an’ murdered a teller. Three of ‘em. Buzzards took the old mountain road outa town, he says. The sheriff expects they’ll double back and light out for Denver, but there’s a chance they might be headed this way.”

“He came alone?”

“Damn near killed his horse gittin’ up the main road. The sheriff is formin’ up a posse in Central City, but they’ll
be takin’ the Denver road. Just in case they guessed wrong, the sheriff sent this purty young deputy feller up here to warn us. I guess he’s hopin’ to git a bunch of men together and form a second posse.”