Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (13 page)

Through the glaze of alcohol coating his eyes, which suddenly widened in recognition, the teamster stammered, "No offense, Mr. Limey. No offense." He backed away, stumbling over his own feet and crashing in a tangle against two of his companions, who shoved him away and guffawed as they swilled more whiskey.

The proprietor of the establishment descended the stairs overlooking the bar, calling out, "Well, boyo, not dead yet, I see, but still drawin' trouble like nectar brings bees." The Irishman wore an austere black suit, but his diamond shirt studs, rings and a large diamond stickpin in his crimson cravat winked beneath the bright lights of the crystal chandeliers overhead. "It's that glad I am to see your pretty limey face."

Max walked over to the stairs and they shook hands, slapping each other on the back in male camaraderie. "You haven't changed your ways either, Blackie. Still wearing enough jewelry to make Queen Victoria salivate with envy."

"Me sworn duty, as a good Irishman," the little man said, bouncing forward on the balls of his feet as he chuckled, and flexing his fingers so the large diamond rings flashed brilliantly. Drago stood barely five foot five and did not affect heels on his shoes. The dapper little man sported a neat mustache and a thick head of hair, the ebony color well flecked with gray.

"How long has it been, three years now?" Max asked.

"And we're both still alive," Blackie said with an amazed chuckle. "I'd been hopin' you'd quit the manhuntin' business, but when you sent that wire, I knew better. A smart fellow like yerself could find another line of work, boyo." His gravelly voice held a note of concern.

"Your hopes aren't entirely in vain, Mr. Drago," Sky said, coming up behind Max. "My husband has a new line of work—if you can call it that. He's in the m'lord business since becoming a baron."

Max rounded on Sky. "Dammit, woman, do you number a town crier among your antecedents?"

Drago threw back his head and burst into laughter. "So, it's a bloody baron ye are now, boyo—and married to boot! You don't deserve the likes of this beautiful lady."

Max quickly regained his composure and tilted his head to gaze at her. "Nothing could be truer," he replied gravely. "Blackie Drago, may I present my wife, Sky. Sky, this is my old friend Blackie. Nothing happens in this fair city without his knowing of it."

Waving away Max's compliment, Blackie observed Sky with interest and appreciation. "You've the divil's own luck, boyo." He stepped forward and extended his right hand to salute hers with a kiss.

Forgetting the Winchester, she reached her right hand out, then flushed in embarrassment.
I'm an idiot!

With his left hand, the little Irishman gently took the rifle by its stock and set it aside. Then with his right hand, he raised hers and kissed it gallantly.

"It's honored I am to meet you, m'lady." He then returned the Yellow Boy to her as if it were merely a glove.

Sky felt her cheeks heat and without looking at Max, could feel his gloating delight at her gaffe. "My husband speaks most highly of you, Blackie. I hope we can be friends in spite of this awkward beginning. Max does have a way of drawing trouble like a lame deer draws wolves."

"Yers is the more apt way of describin' his problem," Blackie said with a twinkle.

"I've managed to stay alive for over thirty years without aid from anyone," Max replied smoothly as his eyes fixed on Sky.

Blackie quickly covered the tension by saying, "Let us adjourn to me office for a hearty lunch, not to mention some dacent liquor. I'm thinking the two of you will have quite an interestin' tale to tell."

"I hope you have some information for us in exchange," Max replied, not relishing the prospect of explaining his marriage to anyone, even an old friend.

* * * *

"How soon do you think Blackie will find out what rock Deuce has crawled under?" Sky asked Max as they entered the sitting room of their hotel suite.

He shrugged, frustrated that his old friend did not already have a solid lead for them, but there was no sense in striking out blindly when Blackie might well be able to furnish a direct link. In a few days a freighter who drank with Deuce was due to return to Denver The two men had departed together. The teamster owed Drago a gambling debt. Blackie would collect it in information. "This Longerman chap's wagons are scheduled to return any day."

"In the meanwhile, we just wait," she said, pacing like a caged cat.

"Much as you wish our agreement terminated, I fear you'll just have to be patient, Sky."

She looked up, meeting his disturbing gaze. What went on behind those hard green eyes? Did he actually care for her? She bit her tongue to keep from asking. No, he merely desired her, as she did him. Scarcely the stuff upon which to build a real marriage.

But she had spurned him, saying cruel things she had not intended to say, did not mean. He was, in spite of everything, an honorable man. "I...I said some things after we...after..." she stammered, flushing.

"After we consummated our vows," he provided helpfully, then stood very still, waiting for her to continue.

"I said things I didn't mean...things you didn't deserve. I was wrong, Max. And I apologize." She stood, mute with misery, too confused by her stumbling confession to reveal any more.

He walked slowly across the carpet and lifted her chin in his hand, studying her eyes, as if trying to read her mind. "Apology accepted, love. Do you think—"

A sharp rap on the door interrupted whatever he was going to ask. Max dropped his hand, muttering in frustration. Sky stepped back, her heart suddenly racing. She desperately wanted to hear him out, but a voice from the other side of the door broke the spell. "I know you're in there, Max, so you might as well answer."

"Loring, you have the most abominable timing of any man alive," Max said, but a grin split his face when he opened the door.

A tall slim man, about Max's height, stepped inside. Sky studied him as he and her husband greeted each other warmly. He wore a perfectly tailored suit as if born to wealth and had patrician features with a thin white scar across one cheek adding a dramatic effect. His hair was a sun-streaked light brown faintly flecked with gray, and his skin was almost as dark as Max's, indicating he spent a good deal of time outdoors. Eyes of golden brown studied her with keen interest. So this was the mysterious Steve Loring with the bullwhip-wielding wife.

"We owe you thanks for providing us with the beautiful private railcar, Mr. Loring," she said, offering her hand. If the elegantly attired man was put off by her buckskin breeches and gun belt, he gave no indication. After all, his own wife carried a whip, Sky thought.

Smiling broadly, he shook hands with her. "I understand congratulations are in order, Mrs. Stanhope, or should I address you as 'm'lady'?"

"Please call me Sky. Neither Max nor I have any interest in titles."

"As a mere baron, the title isn't even used in formal address in England," Max said dismissively. "How are Cass and the children?"

"Kylie's in charge of the inventory at the main office, Billy's finally grown enough to ride that buckskin you gave him and Padrick's at the age where all he does is ask questions." Steve paused, filled with fatherly pride, then said, "And Cassie has just presented me with another little Loring."

"Well, congratulations are in order all about the place, old chap," Max said delightedly. "Did you get the daughter you were hoping for this time?"

Steve nodded. "We named her Victoria—after Rhys' wife, not your Queen. And speaking of my imperious wife, she demands that you and your bride come for dinner tonight. No excuses accepted."

Max looked at Sky, then said, "We'd be delighted, but are you certain Cass is up to it if she's just given birth?"

"You know how Cassie is when she wants something, and she's dying to meet the woman who finally captured a lobo wolf like you. She's up and about. Couldn't keep her down unless I tied her to our bed," Loring said with a rueful chuckle, then turned to Sky and sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak crudely in front of a lady, Sky."

She smiled, liking the man instinctively, as she gestured to the trail gear she was wearing. "I may officially be a titled lady, but I'm really a fake. No apology required."

"Then you and my wife will be fast friends," he said, laughing. "We'll see you at seven."

* * * *

The Loring family owned a large brick mansion just outside the city. A breathtaking view of the Rockies served as a backdrop with a glorious sunset gilding the windows so they sparkled in welcome. Sky fretted about yet another masquerade, deceiving Max's friends just as they'd deceived her family. In spite of that, she had to admit she was curious about the woman who had run a freighting empire since the age of seventeen.

In spite of having had a baby a scant week before, Cass Loring looked radiant and vibrantly energetic. She was tall and slim with pale copper hair and unfashionably sun-darkened skin that complemented her wide-set amber eyes. Cass' beauty was not conventional either. Her features, though delicate, were strong, as befitted a woman of business. Cass wore a vivid green silk gown and had her gleaming hair piled in a tumble of curls atop her head.

Sky was glad she'd chosen the sapphire blue velvet and taken the time to plait her hair in a crown of braids. This appeared to be a formal evening.

But Cass walked down the front steps and greeted Max with an affectionate hug. Then she turned to Sky with a wide grin. "At last! A woman has tamed our lone wolf. I'm so happy to meet you, Sky," she said warmly.

Sky felt a strange, sudden longing to be the woman who had tamed the Limey. Under different circumstances, she and Cass might have been friends, but once the truth about her marriage came out, that would be impossible. Would her quest for justice over Will's death cost her everything? She wondered how Clint and Delilah would feel as well. "Thank you for your kind hospitality. I'm always happy to meet my husband's good friends."

"Then you'll be glad to know Blackie's coming to dinner, too," Cass said. "It usually takes some arm-twisting to pry him away from his saloon, but he really likes you, Sky"

Max had mentioned that Cass did business with Drago, but considering the Lorings' social position in Denver, she was surprised to learn Blackie was a visitor in their home. Most proper people would never allow the owner of a sporting house to darken their door. Of course, neither would they invite a woman of mixed blood to table, but she sensed no hesitation when Steve had issued the invitation, or from Cass as they met.

* * * *

This time, the gathering was somewhat more relaxed than the meal they'd shared with her family in St. Louis. The children asked no embarrassing questions of her as Rob had of Max. No one objected to the way Max had chosen to earn his living, although it was evident that Steve and Cass, like Blackie, worried about his safety. Now everyone seemed reassured that he'd "settled down."

Sky felt like a fraud.

But her feelings of guilt and deceit evaporated as lively conversation around the table held her attention. At fifteen, Kylie was a younger replica of her mother, and just as business minded. Billy, going on twelve, and his seven-year-old brother Pat hero-worshipped the English gunman. Both boys peppered Max with questions about where he'd been, what bad men he'd captured of late and what it was like being an English nobleman.

Again, Sky was struck by how he enjoyed children, teasing them, even joining Blackie to charm Kylie, eliciting blushes and giggles over a young clerk at the office who was smitten with her.
What kind of a father would Max be?
Instinctively, she knew he'd be a very good one...if he wanted to settle down. A big "if." She wondered again what he had intended to say when Steve had interrupted earlier at the hotel.

No use worrying about what it might be. If he asked her to stay, what would she answer? Sky felt torn in two. Dismissing her troubling thoughts when she noticed Cass studying her, Sky turned her attention to the discussion at the table. Blackie had diverted his hostess with a question about a shipment for his saloon, due to arrive any day.

"Those teamsters and miners split up chairs and tables like kindling wood, they do. I can't be turnin' me back for more than an hour without a fight breakin' out."

"According to my invoices, the new furniture is hard maple. I expect it'll withstand quite a lot of punishment."

Blackie snorted. "Would you be knowin' how hard miners' heads are?"

"Cass changed factories last month," Steve said. "She had other complaints about soft pine and miners' heads."

"I went with a new company that only uses hardwoods. They have maple, walnut and oak kiln dried back East, then shipped by rail to Omaha, where their workshop is located," Cass said.

"Shipped by a rail line Steve owns, no doubt," Blackie said with a chuckle.

Cass looked at her husband fondly. "Of course. That way, we both get the best rates."

"It won't be long until the rails put horses and wagons out of business," Steve said. "Then Cassie'll be cracking her whip over the boiler of a locomotive."

Cass let out an inelegant snort. "There will always be places where rails can't be laid and wagons will be needed to haul in goods, but I've been reading about some French and German scientists who're experimenting with small engines to fit carriages. Petroleum will run them."