Copper Fire Page 2

  Momentarily her hand fluttered to her throat, then dropped away. “She’s my daughter.”

  “And she’s my half sister, God help me.”

  “Sloan – ”

  He pushed away from his desk and stood up. “Not now, Emily. I’m not feeling very well. I think it’s time for me to retire.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  His eyes held a glint of surprise, but his voice carried a great weariness. “I just told you. I’m going to bed.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What are you going to do about Cally?”

  “Cally? Why not a damn thing. Good night, Emily.”

  A week to the day later, at ten o’clock in the evening, there was a knock on the door of Sloan’s study.

  Timidly, Emily entered at his bidding and made her way across the room to stand in front of his desk.

  Sloan tossed down the paper he was reading and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Emily? Would you care to sit down?”

  He hadn’t spoken to her since the night she had found Cally with him. He rarely took meals with the family, so it wasn’t as though he had been avoiding her. He supposed he liked Emily as much as he liked anyone. His father had married her when Sloan was eleven, and she had made them a good home. He better than anyone knew what a hard life she had had with his father.

  “I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

  He inclined his head. “All right.”

  Emily cleared her throat. She found it so difficult to talk to Sloan. He was such a formidable man, and there was such a darkness in him, although she could remember that it hadn’t always been so. “Sloan” – nervously, her hand went to the cameo pinned at the center of her high-necked blouse – “there’s something I must say to you.”

  “If this is about Cally, there’s no need. I’m leaving tomorrow, you know.”

  “I – I know, and that’s why I must tell you – ”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t, Emily. After tomorrow I’ll be out of your lives.”

  “That’s just it. You shouldn’t leave.” Emily wrung her hands together. If only she didn’t get so tongue-tied around Sloan. If only years ago she hadn’t buried this secret so deep inside her that now it was almost impossible to get out. “Sloan … Cally is not your sister.” She dared a look at him, but he remained impassive, silent, and she had no choice but to continue. “Years ago there was a man. Oh, it didn’t last long, but … ” Her voice threatened to break.

  “You don’t have to tell me this.”

  “Yes, I do,” she cried with more passion than Sloan had thought her capable. “What Cally has become is all my fault. You see, there was never any doubt in my mind whose child Cally was. Your father didn’t … well – ”

  “Emily, please don’t put yourself through this.”

  “I must. All these years I’ve had such guilt, and that guilt caused me to push Cally away most of her life. She knew something was wrong. She must have. A child senses when they’re not loved. Your father and her father are not the same. It – it’s only these last few months, since she’s been home from school, that I’ve understood what I’ve done to her. It’s time I faced up to my responsibilities for my daughter. I’m praying it’s not too late. But even if it is, you don’t have to worry about her. She won’t bother you again.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Oh, Sloan, I simply can't stand the thought that Cally is driving you away. This is your home. After the war, when you moved to New York, you didn’t have to offer us a place here, but you did. And now if anyone should leave, it should be us.”

  Sloan stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. Leaning back against it, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t distress yourself, Emily. Cally isn’t driving me away. I’m leaving because I’m too tired to stay here anymore.”

  “Tired? But of what?”

  “Of life, I think. I’ve known for a long time that my life is empty and dissipated. Now I know that I’m empty.”

  “You frighten me when you talk like this. I remember when you were a boy. You were so open to life, so giving.”

  “I’ve come a long way from that young boy who left East Texas with his head full of dreams.”

  “Maybe not so far. Even now you haven't judged me.”

  “How can I judge you, Emily, when my own sins weigh me down? Look at what almost happened with Cally! My God, what a disgrace – she’s my sister in all but blood.”

  “Maybe you can find that small boy again, the one who laughed so easily.”

  He snorted in self-disgust. “I don’t think there’s any of him left. He died a long time ago with his brother.”

  Chapter 2

  Chango, Colorado Territory

  Sloan awoke instantly, not immediately sure why. All senses alert, he reached for his gun and scanned his hotel room. No one was there. But something had awakened him, of that much he was sure. Cocking his head, he listened. There was quiet. Then laughter, light and carefree, with an unusual musical quality.

  His gaze slew toward the open window, the direction from which the laughter had come. His second-story room faced the back of the hotel, and the mean-looking gray sky beyond the window told him that although the rain had stopped, it wasn’t over.

  The laughter came again.

  With fluid grace Sloan rolled off the bed and strode to the window. Below him, in the middle of a muddy corral, a young woman with red hair sat bareback astride a stocking-legged sorrel. She was dressed in a white blouse that was open at the neck and tucked into a dark brown riding skirt that skimmed over her boots and ended above her ankles. Her hair was woven into a thick red plait that fell to just above her waist, a bright blue ribbon tied the shining ends.

  Glittering at her throat was a thin chain of gold. Something tiny and delicate dangled from it.

  “Darn it, Patrick, wipe that grin off your face. I’m going to do it!”

  “Sure you will,” the man she had called Patrick drawled in a tone even Sloan could tell was deliberately provoking. His long body was perched with careless elegance on the top rail of the corral.

  “That was a dare, wasn’t it?” the young woman asked.

  Gun still firmly grasped in his hand, Sloan leaned against the side of the window to watch.

  “I know better than to dare you, Brianne.”

  Brianne. Sloan idly turned the name over in his mind. Interesting name. Irish, he decided. It explained her red hair that even on a cloudy day seemed to blaze like the sun at high noon.

  “That was a dare,” she said, glaring at Patrick. Reaching forward, she patted the horse’s neck. “We’ll show him, won’t we, Dancer?” The horse swished his tail in response, apparently ready to agree with anything his young mistress asked of him. She threw one leg over his back until she was sitting with both legs on one side of the patient horse. Still with a narrowed gaze on the grinning Patrick, she raised a foot, skinned off a boot, and hurled it with unerring accuracy. Just in time, Patrick ducked. A sock followed the path the boot had taken, then the other boot and sock. Patrick managed to dodge all three.

  Brianne threw her leg over so that she was sitting astride and urged the horse into a lope over the rain- soaked ground of the corral. “Come on, Dancer.” To Patrick she yelled, “You’ve got my money. Every time I make a circle, you match a dollar of my money with a dollar of your money. If I can make it around fifty times, I get all the money.”

  “And if you don’t, of course, I’ll be fifty dollars richer.”

  “I wouldn’t go spending that money just yet, Patrick.”

  With her hands on the horse’s back, she leaned forward, paused to get her weight under her and get into the motion of the horse, then carefully stood.

  Sloan could see that Brianne was obviously an excellent rider, and he guessed that, normally, circling a small area, standing on the back of a horse, wouldn’t have given her that much of a problem. But because of the rain, the ground was thi
ck and sloshy with mud and it was the mud that challenged her. Her horse was already having trouble with his footing, making a smooth gait impossible.

  With her hands out for balance, her face a study in concentration, her bare feet on the horse’s rump, Brianne circled the corral.

  Patrick was sitting between two upright fence posts. On one he had placed his hat, bottom up, on the other he had a stack of dollar bills, and in his hand, he held more money.

  As Brianne passed Patrick, she called out, “That’s one dollar!” Without commenting, Patrick took a dollar out of his hand and one from the stack on the fence post and deposited both in his hat.

  When she passed again, he did the same thing, and she called out gaily, “This is going to be for a new hat!”

  Patrick remained silent, and from Sloan’s vantage point it appeared that Patrick’s refusal to respond to her feat was irritating Brianne. His theory proved correct when on the next go-around, she began elaborating on what kind of hat she wanted.

  “With feathers!”

  “And a blue satin ribbon to tie under my chin!”

  Dutifully Patrick kept depositing money in his hat.

  “And a bird on top!”

  “Good idea, Brianne,” Patrick said mildly. “I could use some target practice.”

  Up in the hotel window, Sloan found himself smiling at their game. Their energy and humor were entertaining. In particular, Brianne kept his attention. With time to study her, he had discovered she was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. She seemed so alive, he thought, then wondered why he had chosen that word.

  The damp air was pressing her clothes against her, delineating high, full breasts, a narrow waist, and slim hips. Showing beneath her riding skirt were a pair of bare feet with shapely ankles. Then suddenly a single ray of sun pierced through the sullen clouds and turned her hair to fiery copper.

  A stirring in his loins took him unawares. He had always been careful to target a more mature type of woman for his attentions. In his experience they were much safer and infinitely more stimulating. But he supposed the brief heat he was feeling for the beautiful young woman below was understandable. After all, it had been several weeks since he had had a woman.

  “That’s fifteen, isn’t it?” Brianne called to Patrick.

  “Nope. That’s ten.”

  “That’s fifteen and you know it!”

  “You never did learn to count.”

  “Patrick Delaney, you’re a liar!” In her indignation, Brianne lost her concentration and had to wildly windmill her arms in order to regain her balance. When she had reestablished her footing, she shook her fist. “Damn you, Patrick. Damn you!”

  “Tut, tut, what kind of language is that out of my baby sister’s mouth.”

  “I’m only five and a half minutes younger than you, as you very well know.”

  Patrick shrugged and tossed two more dollars into his hat as she passed again.

  So they were brother and sister, and twins to boot. Interesting, Sloan thought.

  As he watched, Brianne came even with Patrick again and held up a finger indicating another idea. “A new dress!”

  As before, on each successive pass she added a detail. With a big smile she called out, “A red one!”

  “A man would go color blind seeing a red dress on you, Bri.”

  “Who cares! It’ll be silk!”

  “With pearls and lace!”

  “Like the fancy ladies in Hell’s Bluff wear!”

  Patrick waited until she had nearly completed the circle again, then spoke in a drawl that was definitely calculated. “As a matter of fact, my fancy ladies don’t wear anything at all.”

  Brianne's gaze went to him in surprise. She started to say something, but just then the horse lost his footing and as a result Brianne lost her balance. To Sloan it appeared that she must have been trained to fall, because she tried to manage her body so that she would land on her feet. In this instance, however, she failed. Instead of feet-first, she landed bottom-first with a splat, causing mud to fly all over her clothes, her face, and her hair.

  Up in his room, Sloan waited for the anger he was sure would come. But after only a moment Brianne began to laugh with that clear, light, musical laughter that had first awakened him. Patrick’s laughter joined hers, and soon both brother and sister were doubled over with unrestrained mirth.

  Looking on, Sloan listened and tried to remember the last time he had heard such uninhibited, joyous laughter. Certainly there was never any laughter heard in the house that served as his home in New York City. The effect of David’s death had been to peel away his father’s will to live until he had become a bitter shell of a man. It hadn’t been enough for him that Sloan had been saved by a passing rider and brought back to him alive. His father's indifference had hurt, but it had been the last thing that had ever hurt him.

  And as for the brittle, forced laughter of the women he kept company with – No, he finally concluded, he couldn’t remember the last time he had heard joyful laughter.

  He turned away from the window and returned to the bed, where he’d been taking a nap. He placed the gun on the bedside table within easy reach, then lay back and remembered.

  If nothing else, the incident with Cally had provoked him to action. It had taken him a week of twenty-hour days to put his affairs in order. During that time he had dictated detailed instructions to cover any eventuality, including his own death.

  Then he had set out on horseback, heading west with one destination in mind – Chango, this town in the southeastern corner of the territory of Colorado – and with one objective in mind – revenge on Wes McCord.

  He could have made the trip easier on himself by taking the train as far as he could. But he had deliberately chosen to ride the entire distance on the big black horse he called Demon. Over the years he had maintained top form by frequenting Gentleman Jim’s boxing emporium. Trips to his estate in New Jersey for extended periods of shooting and hunting had honed his skills with all types of guns and had kept him lithe in the saddle. The journey from New York City to Chango had added a new layer of toughness.

  He had arrived in Chango late in the night during a driving spring rainstorm. Riding in from the south, past the church and the schoolhouse, his first impres- sion of Chango had been that it was no different from any of a dozen small western towns he had ridden through.

  Most of the businesses were located on one wide main street. Boxlike one and two-story buildings lined the street, most with false fronts. On the east side of the town, behind the businesses, cabins and small houses had been erected. And behind them were rows of tents.

  On the west side of the street, square in the middle of town, stood a big three-story building with a sign that read DUKE HOTEL. With a wraparound porch and many cupolas to distinguish it, the building had obviously once been a fine mansion.

  On the opposite side of the street from the hotel and about six buildings down stood the office of McCord Enterprises. Because of the Duke Hotel’s strategic location, Sloan decided to make it his headquarters. Satisfied that Wes’s office would be easy to keep an eye on, he had walked Demon to the livery stable. Then he had rented the room and fallen into a deep sleep. But he had been up and out early, walking the streets of Chango, familiarizing himself with its layout and its people. And most important, asking questions. He had found out only that Wes was out of town, but was expected back any day.

  The people of Chango were strangely silent on the subject of Wes McCord, but Sloan had learned patience in the last fifteen years, and he could afford to wait. He was utterly confident that his quest for revenge would soon be satisfied, and then his hell would finally be at an end.

  For he had come to Chango to die … and to take Wes McCord with him.

  Mrs. Potter, the proprietress of the Duke Hotel, had made a point of telling Brianne that the bedroom she would be using for the two nights she and Patrick would be staying in Chango was a special room reserved for ladies. Brianne could
understand why. The apple green of the velvet covering the medallion-back sofa matched the apple green of the batiste elaborately swagging the bed. Across the room was a rosewood dressing bureau with mirror, and a matching armoire was set against the wall facing the windows. The fireplace was inset with blue and green cloisonné. A Japanese folding screen stood in a corner.

  The room was at the back of the hotel, and as she gazed out the lace-curtained window, she could see the corral where she’d taken that ignominious fall. She smiled. But what fun it had been! And well worth it despite all the mud.

  The arguments she had had to engage in to get her grandmother and grandfather to agree to this trip to St. Louis by horseback, alone with Patrick, had also been worth it. She had argued that she would miss too much if even a small part of the trip was by ill-smelling coaches or fast-moving trains. On her first trip east, she had told them, she couldn’t abide being enclosed in any form of conveyance. Patrick had backed her up, being of the same mind as she, eager for the opportunity to spend precious time with his twin.

  Over the years she and Patrick had shared much, running with carefree abandon over Killara and tumbling into trouble that kept their uncles and grandparents busy. They had been constant companions.

  But three years ago, when Patrick had returned from the ancient lost city of Kantalan, he had been wealthy beyond anyone’s dream. He had also become guardian of Rising Star’s newborn baby, Kevin and their explosive, stormy cousin, Silver Dove, now a schoolgirl of eighteen.

  Brianne gave a brief chuckle at the thought of Silver. One of the reasons they were making this trip was that Silver had gotten herself into yet another scrap at school, and as her guardian, Patrick would have to get her out of it.

  Patrick had responsibilities that few twenty-one-year-old young men had. He was away from Killara more and more, leaving Brianne feeling restless and bereft. And when he came home, there were still ventures to oversee, new projects to start, old projects to finish.

  Brianne was proud of the man Patrick had become, but she resented the preoccupations that seemed to prompt fewer and fewer smiles from her brother. With the idea of helping him, she had started keeping the accounts of his investments and made sure that his correspondence stayed up-to-date. Both were duties that Patrick detested.