Katie Rose (13 page)

Thomas recovered from this madness first, for as he lifted his head and saw her, the pure innocence of her awakening desire, the soft fluttering of her black-edged lashes against her milky skin, and the round O of her mouth, reality finally penetrated. He realized he was very close to doing the same mischief the cowboy had intended, and he was shocked at himself. He’d meant to teach her a lesson, yet instead
he’d learned that he’d never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted the one in his arms. It took every ounce of gentlemanly training to realize he had to release her before he disgraced her and himself. With an oath, he pulled the scandalous dress up to cover the beautifully formed breast with its wet pink nipple, then he withdrew from her embrace.

“Thomas?” Her beautiful silver eyes widened and she leaned against the door once more to regain her balance. Her expression was one he would never forget: flushed with pleasure and sexual awakening, she looked like a rose, gently unfolding before his eyes.

Thomas groaned. Dear God, how had he gotten himself into this mess?

“Emily, I’m sorry. I’m sure you agree this shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean to take advantage of you. You just have a way of … pushing me beyond rational thinking.”

“I do?” She seemed to sort through this, and Thomas didn’t like the logical path her mind was sure to take. The last thing he needed was for her to think he had a weakness where she was concerned. Good God, the woman ran him ragged enough already with her propensity for trouble.

“I just meant to show you what can happen when you … tempt a man too far. To parade around in a dress like that indicates that such attentions might not be unwelcome.”

That came out badly and he knew it. Most women would have slapped his face at that point and called him a liar. But not Emily. Her brows knotted together,
as if working out a puzzle, and her gray eyes were unfathomable silver pools.

“I see. Then you think simply my choice of dress indicates a propensity for sexual attention? That’s rather curious, isn’t it? Do you suspect it’s the satin, or the lace? Perhaps the feathers …” Emily glanced into the mirror, and seemed shocked at what she saw. Her hair had fallen around her shoulders in a charming tumble, and her rouge was smudged. Yet after a moment her eyes narrowed as if she had returned to trying to make sense of what he was saying.

“Emily!” Thomas said in frustration. “I meant that you seemed unaware of what could have happened. I was just trying to help you understand.…”

“The lesson was well received,” Emily said, as if discussing the latest scientific theorem. Her finger tapped against her cheek in a meditative way. She turned back to him, her head cocked to one side like a particularly bright student eager to engage the teacher. “I especially enjoyed the kissing part, and have no objection if you wish to continue the lesson. I thought it most informative.”

“That’s it.” Thomas turned on his heel and pushed past her to the door. Emily Potter was a curse, he decided, a curse sent especially to visit him.

Emily sank down into a chair, still breathless from her encounter with Thomas. Good Lord, the man nearly made her faint, and it wasn’t from her tight laces! She fanned herself, wondering what Holmes would have done in such interesting circumstances,
but she reminded herself that as a man, Sherlock probably didn’t run into these problems. At least, not in quite that way.…

“Whew, honey! That looked like a hot little session you two had going!”

A ghostly whistle caught Emily off guard. It was her! Jumping out of the chair, Emily raced upstairs to the mirror. There, once again, was the vision she’d tried so hard to convince herself wasn’t real. Sprawled in a sitting position with a nail file, Rosie’s ghost rolled her eyes appreciatively and gave Emily a broad smile.

“Looks like my dress still has what it takes. You had that man positively eating out of your hand, honey. Lord, you’d have made a fortune working for me.”

“Why do I keep imagining you?” Emily touched the glass again. It was as solid as any mirror she had ever encountered. Logic seemed to mean nothing, for once; she was seeing a ghost, one that had apparently witnessed her intimacy with Thomas. Her cheeks got even redder under the already scandalously dark rouge.

As if sensing her thoughts, Rosie chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey, I closed my eyes after he started kissing you. But the sparks in that room were enough to set a house afire. He wants you all right, and he doesn’t like it one bit.”

Emily frowned, her nose crinkling. In spite of her disbelief, she couldn’t help being drawn into the conversation. “Why wouldn’t he like it? Isn’t it … pleasurable for men as well?”

Rosie hooted so loudly that Emily was sure the
whole town could hear her. When she could finally speak, she wiped her eyes and gazed at Emily as if she were nothing more than a precocious child. “Of course men like it, sweetie, why do you think they pay for it? It’s just that they like to think they’re in control of the whole situation. When a man tries to kiss a woman into submission and finds himself seduced instead, he doesn’t know quite how to handle it. That’s what happened with your preacher man.”

Emily pondered this. The very feminine, very secret part of her was pleased at Rosie’s words, especially given the way Thomas had stalked out. Still, her smile quickly changed to a frown as her mind shifted thoughts. “I still don’t understand how you can be here at all, Rosie. I saw the official report of your death!”

“Oh, did you visit Willard Johnson?” Rosie asked with some amusement. “Nice little man, isn’t he? Always paid well, too. He was sweet on Lilly Belle, one of my prettiest girls. Saw her every Friday.”

“Lilly Belle?” Emily repeated stupidly. “You mean old Doc Johnson was one of your—”

“How did you put it?” Rosie cut in brightly. “Consorts? Why, yes, he was a regular.”

Sinking onto the bed, Emily stared at the reflection before her, for once at a loss for words.

“So what
is
your relationship with the handsome preacher man?” Rosie asked, not seeming to notice that anything was amiss with Emily. “It seems the two of you are in the thick of something here.”

“Not in the least,” Emily answered defensively, finding her voice. She wasn’t quite willing to accept
Rosie’s existence, much less use her fathers dead mistress as a romantic confidante! “Mr. Hall is under investigation. I am trying to learn everything I can about him. He is a suspect in my case. That’s all.”

“I see.” Rosie’s eyes twinkled. “That’s an approach I don’t think we ever used. Did you learn anything by throwing yourself into his arms?”

“He had a gun,” Emily said, ignoring the ghost’s mocking tone. “I felt it when he … kissed me.”

“My, you are a cool hand. I don’t think his gun is what I’d have been feeling in that man’s arms,” Rosie said in admiration. “Are you sure that’s what it was?”

Emily’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as Rosie’s meaning became clear. “I don’t care to continue this conversation,” she said firmly. “You are, after all, simply a figment of my overanxious nerves. I shall just ignore you and—”

Every chandelier in the house shook. Emily’s mouth dropped as the player piano downstairs belted out a bawdy tune, the windows open and shut by themselves, and the curtains flapped like flags in the wind. Nothing she was seeing could be explained by any logic, and certainly not by an attack of nerves, unless Emily was willing to concede that she had gone mad. Slowly the noises stopped, the curtains settled back into place, and Rosie faded from view.

“I’m real, sweetie, and the sooner you accept that, the better.”

“Rosie!” Emily cried, but the mirror was just a mirror again. Her own reflection, looking frightened and wan, stared back at her. Reaching out, she
touched the glass, ready to pull her hand back quickly. But Rosie was gone.

Shivering, Emily leaped into bed and pulled the covers over her, her mind in a whirl. The house was haunted! There was no question remaining in her mind, for as Thomas had so smugly reminded her, when you eliminate everything that cannot be fact, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true. She gazed at the mirror, but it remained a silvery flatness.

Suddenly lonely, Emily’s mind went unwillingly to that heated kiss with Thomas. In spite of her uncertainty about him, she’d felt safe in his arms. A need welled inside of her, one that before she’d met him, she hadn’t known existed. It was as if she’d unlocked a door, and now that it was open, things would never be the same again.

As she tried to sleep, she left the light on and hugged a pillow, determined to quell the emptiness inside her. It was a hell of a thing, sharing the house with the ghost. And it looked as though she’d better get used to it.

The next morning, Emily boarded the stagecoach for Boulder. The few men traveling with her scarcely paid her any attention, dressed as she was in her usual subdued clothing with her hair pulled back into a prim knot. Her spectacles slid down her nose as she read and reread the old news clippings regarding the crime, hoping there was something she’d missed in the drab reports.

But there was nothing. In disgust, she flung them carelessly into her case, earning a hiss from Watson. Forcing her thoughts from the frustrating lack of evidence, she tried to focus on the scenery. Visions of Thomas crept into her mind unbidden. Once they were there she had no choice but to entertain them, of course. A delicious warmth bubbled inside her as she thought of their kiss, and she had to fight to keep from squirming in her seat at the strange restlessness
that came over her. Rosie’s words came back to her and she couldn’t help the little tingle of pleasure she felt at the thought of arousing Thomas’s passions beyond his control.

Emily shuddered as she recalled the ghost’s appearance the previous night. She could no longer excuse what she’d seen as being a case of nerves. Rosie the ghost was real, no matter how much reason argued against it.

The coach finally pulled up beside a narrow boardwalk where a sign flapping overhead announced that they had entered the town of Boulder. It was a mining town, filled with tents boasting the sale of pickaxes, pans, shovels, and whiskey. Emily disembarked slowly, taking all of this in, and then stopped to stare in amazement at the mountains overshadowing everything. They seemed like giants shouldering their way out of the earth. Yet, as beautiful as it was, Boulder seemed like a lonely place compared to Denver, and Emily wondered why Lizzie would want to live here.

Lizzie Wakefield of Boulder. That was really all she had to go on, and, from what she could see, Boulder was a sizable town. There was a church, a saloon that was twice its size, a restaurant, a bank, a hotel, a dry goods store, and a barbershop. She started for the store, but when a woman came out of the restaurant to polish the front of its glass window, Emily approached her instead.

“Hello, I’m looking for someone in town. Could you help me?”

The woman glanced up from her task and frowned,
taking in Emily’s plain dress and odd manner. “Who are you looking for?”

“Lizzie Wakefield. I hear she lives in town.”

“She sure does. If you go down Main Street, make a left by the church, head on down the dirt road until you come to the first street, make a right, then a hard left, you’ll find her.”

Emily sighed. She’d have to confess the truth, no matter how embarrassing. “I’m sorry, but I have a problem with directions. I just know I’ll get lost.”

The woman started to chuckle, then straightened, placing her hands on her hips. “It’s like that, is it? I know what you mean. I get lost anywhere outside a three-block square. A boy picks up her laundry Monday mornings. If you’ll wait a few minutes, you can follow him right back to her house. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee? I made some apple pie as well. You look like you could use a little food, if you don’t mind my saying so. By the way, I’m Sally.”

“Emily.” Emily returned her smile. The woman’s tone was warm, and her invitation so enticing that Emily couldn’t resist. Taking up her case, she went into the restaurant with the woman and ordered the pie and coffee, painfully aware that her coins were dwindling at a rapid rate. She’d have to start her millinery shop soon, Emily thought, accepting the cup the woman handed her. The pie was as wonderful as promised, tart and still warm, and the coffee was aromatic. Sally continued cleaning, even though the place was spotless, and talked constantly.

“Lizzie a friend of yours?” She barely waited
for Emily to nod yes before she continued. “Pretty woman. She’s been here awhile. Since that ruckus at Shangri-La, anyway. She lives quietly, comes into town once in a while. She must be more popular than I thought, though.”

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked, discreetly pouring some of her milk into a saucer for Watson.

“There was a man here earlier inquiring about her. Good-looking, too, with dark blue eyes … Preacher man, he was.”

“A preacher?” Emily tried to hide her astonishment. “He was here? Asking about Lizzie?”

“Yes. In fact, you might run into him. You won’t forget him if you do see him, that’s for sure. Downright handsome, if I
do
say so myself. Why, there’s the laundry boy now.”