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At Marietta’s gentle touch, Cole felt a quick rush of sexual excitement. He brushed her hand away and turned his back on her.
“Sing some more, Marietta,” he said, knowing that her singing would quickly dampen his desire. “I do so like to hear you sing.”
“Really?” she asked, eyes shining.
“You have no idea,” he said as he picked up his chambray shirt.
Marietta was thrilled. Her singing had had the desired effect. She would use it as her chief tool to tempt him. And once she had seduced him, had given herself to him, he would surely fall in love with her. So much in love he would not force her to go to Galveston to her grandfather. He would take her wherever she wanted to go. And she wanted to go back to Central City and the opera!
Marietta inwardly shuddered at the prospect of allowing Cole to actually make love to her. She didn’t really know what to expect. Wasn’t sure she would know what she was supposed to do when the time came.
She was worried. But she had no other choice. If she was ever to be free of him, then she would have to let Cole make love to her. It would, she knew, be quite a sacrifice on her part.
But it would be worth it.
Also by Nan Ryan
THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
CHIEFTAIN
Naughty Marietta
Nan Ryan
www.mirabooks.co.uk
For seven of my favorite writers
who are also valued friends
Marsha Canham
Lori Copeland
Heather Graham
Virginia Henley
Kat Martin
Meryl Sawyer
Christina Skye
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
One
June 1872
Midnight in Galveston, Texas, a Southern coastal city still under the occupation of federal reconstruction troops seven long years after the end of the War Between the States.
A man who had given the ultimate for the Confederacy’s cause—his only son’s life—sat alone in the paneled library of his spacious seaside mansion. He was grimacing in agony, his teeth were clenched, his eyes closed.
Seventy-eight-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Maxwell Lacey—crippled in a fall from a horse years ago—was suffering. The increased dosage of laudanum failed to kill the pain. The disease that was slowly ravaging his frail body was incurable; he would not recover. Nor, he realized, would his passing be an easy, peaceful one.
The pain refused to go away. It was unbearable. He could stand it no longer. He would stand it no longer.
Maxwell Lacey opened his eyes, gripped the arms of his chair and anxiously wheeled himself across the room and around behind his massive mahogany desk. Grimacing in misery, he opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the old Colt revolver he had carried as a young man. Perspiration dotting his pale, drawn face, he calmly loaded the weapon, raised it and placed the cold steel barrel directly against his right temple.
His finger on the trigger, he glanced across the room. His watery eyes fell on the poster advertising Marietta’s starring role in her most recent opera. Maxwell Lacey swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision. Focusing on the diva, he gritted his teeth against the worsening pain and slowly lowered the revolver.
Shaking his gray head, he laid the weapon atop his desk. He folded his age-spotted hands together, placed them beneath his quivering chin and sat quietly for a long moment, staring fixedly at the poster. Lost in the mists of memory, he was tormented with anguish and regret.
He thought back over the years to when he was young and the mansion was filled with children’s sweet voices and his wife’s throaty laughter. Now the big house was silent and lonely, had been for a long, long time. All were dead: his son, Jacob, his daughter, Charlotte, his devoted wife, Annabelle.
Maxwell stared at the poster as tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. And he came to a decision. He would attempt to right some of the terrible wrong he had done.
Suddenly, for the first time in days, the pain eased.
Maxwell Lacey sat in the shadowy library of his opulent home all night, patiently waiting for the summer dawn. Come morning, he sent a servant to summon his attorney to the mansion.
Upon his arrival, Marcus Weathers was immediately shown into the library. Puzzled, the attorney stepped inside and greeted his client.
Turning his wheelchair around and without so much as a “good morning,” Maxwell instructed Weathers, “Draw up my last will and testament!”
The lawyer frowned, his eyebrows knitting. “You already have a will, Maxwell. Don’t you recall, you made it several years ago.”
“I’m changing it, so get out your pen and start writing,” Maxwell bellowed.
“Why the urgency?” asked Weathers as he took a seat facing Maxwell’s desk. “Has something happened? Are you…?”
“Yes,” Maxwell Lacey interrupted. “Doc LeDette was here last evening. The prognosis is not good. I haven’t long to live and I want to…I have decided that I am going to…. Damnation! What is that infernal hammering?”
The steady, rhythmic hammering just outside the steel-barred window elicited no curiosity from the darkly bearded prisoner whose cold blue eyes stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.
In the shadowy cell at the rear of the Galveston city jail, Confederate war veteran and condemned prisoner Cole Heflin lay on his bunk with his hands folded beneath his dark head and his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Cole Heflin knew what the hammering meant. A gallows was being constructed. A hanging was to take place at noon. And he, Cole Heflin, was the man who would be hanged. He had been charged with burning Hadleyville—a Northern munitions-supply station—during the war. The Northern press had dubbed him “the man who burned Hadleyville.” Secretary of War Stanton had declared the act a crime against the Union. A crime for which he would hang.
Cole did not fear death. He had faced it many times in the bloody four-year struggle in which most of his friends had perished.
Reflecting on his thirty-four years on earth as he calmly awaited the fast-approaching hour of his death, Cole realized with little regret that he would be leaving no one behind to mourn his passing. His mother and father had long since gone to their final reward and the pretty young woman who had promised to be his faithful sweetheart and wait for him until he came home from the war hadn’t. She had waited only a few short months before running away with a wealthy New Orleans cotton broker.
There would be no tears shed over his passing, including his own. But he did have regrets and remorse that he had not kept his pledge to Keller Longley.
Cole’s eyes clouded as his thoughts turned back to that hot summer day in 1864 when his best friend, Keller Longley, died in his arms on the battlefield atop Lookout Mountain.
When the war began, Cole and Keller—friends since their Texas childhood—made a solemn vow. Should one survive and the other die, the survivor would take care of his deceased comrade’s family.
Cole swallowed hard as he recalled that terrible moment just before Keller died. “You’ll look after Ma and little Leslie, won’t you, Cole?” Keller had managed to say weakly, clutching Cole’s shirtfront as his lifeblood flowed out of him.
“You know I will,” Cole assured him as he cradled Keller in his arms and cried like a baby.
Now Cole ground his teeth in frustration. He hadn’t kept his promise to Keller. He had failed his friend, hadn’t been able to look after Keller’s widowed mother and baby sister. Cole closed his eyes and grimaced, a muscle clenching in his lean jaw.
Before the war Cole had been a young, struggling attorney. But he couldn’t practice law when the war ended. A fugitive with a price on his head, he’d had to lie low. Had to constantly keep on the move in an effort to elude the occupation troops and avoid being caught and hanged for burning Hadleyville.
Finally, in desperation, he had attempted a bank robbery to get money to help Keller’s mother and sister. He had been caught. An alert captain on the provost marshall’s staff had matched the captured felon’s face to the old federal death warrant.
What would have been five years in Huntsville State Prison for the failed bank robbery became a federal death sentence. He would hang for the burning of Hadleyville and the destitute Longley women would be left to struggle on alone.
The hammer of the ancient clock in the town square struck the hour. The jailer’s booming voice drew the reclining prisoner from his painful reverie.
“It’s time, Heflin,” the jailer said as the heavy cell door swung open and he held out a pair of silver handcuffs.
Cole slowly turned his head, nodded and agilely rolled up and off his bunk. Rising to his full, imposing height of six foot two inches, he extended his wrists and said, “Crowd forming?”
“A big one,” said the burly jailer with a broad smile.
“Well, let’s go give them what they came here for,” said Cole calmly.
Flanked by two armed federal marshals, Cole Heflin walked out of the Galveston City Jail and into the sun-splashed square where the newly built gallows dominated the cloudless blue skyline.
“Here he comes!” The excited declaration swiftly swept through the gathering as the throng parted to let the prisoner through.
“The bastard’s getting what he deserves!” exclaimed a well-dressed, transplanted Easterner who spat contemptuously at him as Cole passed.
The expression on Cole’s face never changed.
“I don’t care what he’s done, he’s too handsome to die!” shouted a brazen young woman and, elbowing her way through the crowd, she stepped right up to Cole and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly.
A mixture of whistles and boos rose from the shocked spectators. Other less forward young ladies threw bouquets at the tall, dark Southerner, while a majority of the men, Confederate veterans who considered Cole a hero, shouted admiringly, “Hurrah for the brave Johnny Reb! The man who burned Hadleyville!”
Cole climbed the gallows’ steps to the wooden platform where a new rope hung down in an ominous loop from the sturdy overhead beam. There stood an old robed padre and the hangman, dressed all in black.
The jailer cautiously uncuffed Cole. Cole gave him no trouble. Instead, he stepped into place directly below the looped lariat and atop the trapdoor.
The rope was lowered, the loop slipped down around Cole’s neck. The hangman produced a black hood. Cole declined.
The hangman asked, “Any last words, Heflin?”
“No,” said Cole as the priest stepped closer and began to read passages of scripture.
The hangman was tightening the noose around Cole’s neck when an out-of-breath gentleman, soon identified as Marcus Weathers, forced his way through the crowd, shouting, “Stop! Don’t do it! I have signed orders from Colonel Patten of the Federal Occupation Forces for you to cease and desist!”
The shout drew everyone’s attention to the well-known attorney. In his raised hand was a blue legal document. Marcus Weathers rushed up onto the platform and handed the papers to the executioner. The document was read and then, frowning, the executioner announced, “Take the rope from the prisoner’s neck. The hanging’s off!”
Two
A low moan went through the crowd.
Amid rising jeers and cheers, Cole stood stunned and totally still as the jailer roughly removed the noose from around his neck.
“You’re free to go, Heflin,” the big lawman said, clearly disappointed.
Marcus Weathers stepped forward, smiled at Cole and said, “Come with me, Mr. Heflin. The carriage is waiting.”
“Where are we going?” Cole asked.
“You’ll see,” replied Weathers as he took Cole’s arm and slowly guided him down the gallows steps, through the buzzing mob and toward the black carriage.
Cole was driven a short distance to the city’s waterfront. The carriage soon turned into a long palm-bordered avenue that led to an opulent seaside mansion. The white two-story building was located at the center of a great expanse of well-manicured acreage. It gleamed in the late-morning sun and Cole quickly realized its inhabitants were afforded an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico.
Cole was ushered into the imposing mansion and immediately directed to a large, darkly paneled library where an old man sat in a wheelchair.
Maxwell Lacey smiled when Cole entered the room and said, “Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Heflin. Won’t you have a seat.”
Cole continued to stand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”
“I usually do. Or, at least, I try to,” Maxwell Lacey said with a chuckle.
Cole didn’t share his amusement. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”
“You’ll know soon enough what it’s about, Mr. Heflin. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maxwell Lacey. You may have heard of me.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No matter. Would you like a drink?”
Cole accepted. An unobtrusive servant immediately handed him a bourbon. Cole turned the heavy shot glass up to his lips and drank thirstily.
Maxwell Lacey dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand and said, “Please, sit down, Mr. Heflin. Let’s have a little talk.”
Cole drained the glass, set it aside and folded his long body down onto a comfortable sofa. Lacey wheeled his chair out from behind his desk and moved closer. He continued to smile as he sized up the lean, darkly bearded man.
The man he had chosen to do his bidding.
Maxwell laced his fingers together in his robe covered lap, leaned forward and said, “I know all about you, Heflin. You’re the man who singlehandedly burned Hadleyville during the war and—”
“Ancient history,” Cole interrupted with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Not ancient history to the occupying federal forces,” Maxwell Lacey reminded him. His eyes flashed when he added, “You were tried and convicted in absentia years ago and sentenced to hang! Took them seven years to catch you.”
Cole shrugged his wide shoulders. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“Everything, Heflin. I saved your life. Had the federal commander order you taken down from the gallows. I am a very powerful man in Galveston. And a rich one. I greased the necessary palms, pulled the necessary strings to have your life spared.”
Cole raised one well-arched eyebrow, looked Maxwell Lacey in the eye and said, “My sincere thanks. But again, why?”
With an ominous laugh, the old man ignored Cole’s question and stated, “I expect to be repaid for your deliverance. You will do exactly as I ask, Mr. Heflin.”
“And why would I ever do that?”
A sharp pain pressed Maxwell’s spine. He paled, but continued as though Cole had not spoken. “There is a special young woman, a Miss Marietta Stone, an opera singer in Central City, Colorado.” He pointed across the room to the poster featuring Marietta. “She is my granddaughter and my only living relative.” He paused.
“Go on,” Cole said.
“I am dying—I have only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, to live. My granddaughter must be brought to Galveston before I pass away.”
“And you’ve chosen me to go get her, bring her here.”
“Exactly.”
Cole looked thoughtful, as if he was considering the proposition. But when finally he spoke, he said, “No, I don’t think so. Find somebody else.”
Maxwell’s wrinkled face instantly turned scarlet with anger. He thundered, “Damnation! If just anyone could bring her back from Central City, you’d be swinging from the gallows this very minute! I saved your life. You owe me, young man!”
“True,” Cole admitted, pausing briefly. “I’ll go,” he finally answered. “But here are my terms. Before I leave for Colorado, you’ll pay me ten thousand dollars cash.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Why, this grand house didn’t cost much more than that. You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll give you that kind of money.”
Cole sat calmly, said nothing.
“That’s highway robbery! You’re in no position to demand anything,” barked Maxwell Lacey. “Let me remind you again, I saved your life. You will go after my granddaughter or you’ll go right back to the gallows and be hanged.”
Still, Cole didn’t budge. “Ten thousand or your precious granddaughter stays in Central City.”
Maxwell Lacey was not a man used to being bested. His first inclination was to order this arrogant upstart out of his house. Send him back to the gallows. Let the ungrateful bastard swing. But time was short. Running out. His days were numbered.
“Very well,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll pay you the ten thousand.”
Cole smiled for the first time since entering the mansion. He said in a low, level voice, “You will have your attorney deposit the money in the Gulf Shores State Bank this afternoon. I’ll leave for Colorado in the morning.”
“Agreed,” said Maxwell and he, too, was smiling. His attorney had, by telegraph, queried both Union officers and fellow Confederate officers and all had agreed that Cole Heflin’s word was as good as his bond. “Weathers is waiting in the parlor. He will accompany you to the bank.”
Cole nodded, rose, shook the old man’s hand and then turned to leave the library.
But he stopped abruptly when Maxwell Lacey said, “Ah, one last little thing I didn’t mention, Heflin.”
Cole turned. “Which is?”
Maxwell looked sheepish when he admitted, “Marietta may not want to come with you.”
Cole frowned. “Jesus, are you telling me I’m supposed to bring this woman back against her will?”
Maxwell nodded his head. “Absolutely! I’m certain she’ll refuse to come. It’s a long, complicated tale and of no concern to you. Your orders are to bring my granddaughter safely back here to me.”
Cole made a face. “Just how am I supposed to persuade this woman to—”
Lacey interrupted, “If you can’t convince her to come peacefully—which I fully doubt will happen—snatch her right off the stage! Kidnap her! Use force if necessary. Do whatever you have to do, but bring her back. You understand me?”
“I don’t like this,” Cole said.
“Why, Heflin, what’s kidnapping to an arsonist, a bank robber?” Cole gave no reply. Lacey continued, “You don’t have to like it, just do it. I’ll give you the ten thousand you’ve demanded and fully finance your trip.” He lifted a hand and indicated the soiled jail garb Cole wore. “Buy yourself some decent clothes, travel in style and stay at the best hotels.” He paused then, looked hopefully at Cole.
Cole said, “How do you know I won’t take your money and disappear?”
Lacey replied, “I don’t. But I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’d bet everything against it.”
“I’ll bring your wandering granddaughter home to you, Mr. Lacey. Count on it.”
Central City, Colorado
“No, no, you must start over!”
“Not again!”
“You heard me,” said Madam Sophia.
Marietta made a face, sighed heavily, but cleared her throat and began anew.
It was early afternoon. Marietta Stone, a twenty-five-year-old, red-haired opera singer, was practicing her roulades and glissandos under the tutelage of her two-hundred-and-fifty-pound voice coach, Madam Sophia.
Teacher and pupil were ensconced in Marietta’s private quarters, a luxurious five-room suite above the Tivoli Opera House. In a few short days, Marietta would debut at the grand opera house in a production of Verdi’s La Traviata.
She was the star.
The young singer took her voice lessons seriously. She was determined to become a famous soprano in the glamorous and exciting world of opera. She never doubted that she would achieve the fame she sought.
Marietta was a woman as obstinate as she was beautiful. She believed that she could change, if not the world, her world. As indeed, she had. Endowed with intelligence, determination and great beauty, she had been successful in the dogged pursuit of her goals.
“No! No! No!” scolded the frustrated Italian voice coach as Marietta reached for a high note and went a trifle flat. Marietta immediately fell silent. Madam Sophia, shaking her head, said, “Try again and remember to breathe properly as I have shown you. You must learn to enunciate and strengthen your vocal cords.”
Marietta was not stung by the reprimand. She trusted her voice coach completely. The acclaimed—and well-paid—Madam Sophia was an expert in the physiology of voice production and control. Marietta felt fortunate to have such a talented teacher. And, she was pleased that she was Madam Sophia’s only pupil.
“You will begin once more,” instructed Madam Sophia, “and practice breathing properly so that you can reach those high notes without going flat!” Madam Sophia paused. “You must be better before dress rehearsal.”
Marietta nodded, took a deep, slow breath. She began the musical scales, but was momentarily interrupted by a knock on the suite’s door. Marietta stopped her exercises. The rotund voice coach frowned.
“That will be Maltese,” said Marietta.
Madam Sophia exhaled with annoyance. “Must he come here while we are practicing?”
“He won’t stay long,” assured Marietta.
Madam Sophia held her tongue, said no more. She couldn’t object too fiercely. Taylor Maltese paid her handsomely to tutor Marietta.
Marietta hurried to the mirror to examine herself. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, drew the feathered lapels of her pink satin dressing gown together. Then turning, she said, “Sophia, let my visitor in, please.”
Muttering to herself in Italian, Madam Sophia opened the door and then hurried out once the dapper, immaculately dressed suitor had entered. A slender man of medium height with silver-gray hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion, Taylor Maltese was an extremely wealthy, middle-aged bachelor. He owned and operated a number of Colorado’s most prosperous gold and silver mines as well as Central City’s newspaper, the Gilpin Hotel and many of the stores and saloons of the thriving mountain hamlet.
He also owned the Tivoli Opera House, which was more of an indulgence for him than a commercial venture. He loved music, opera…and his beautiful leading ladies. Especially his current leading lady, the opera’s star, Marietta.
Maltese had a spacious three-story home high on a bluff above Central City, as well as a huge stone mansion down in Denver, which was his primary residence. His great wealth and position in society made him the target of many hopeful women longing to become Mrs. Maltese. They were wasting their time.
Since the moment he had first seen her, Maltese had been totally smitten with the young, lovely Marietta. His first glimpse of the flame-haired beauty had been a year ago on the stage of his own Tivoli Opera House. He had come to see a production of La Bohème. He hardly noticed the celebrated soprano who was the star. Marietta, in a bit role as a café customer in the chorus immediately caught his eye. He was entranced. And had been ever since.
He so adored Marietta, he was afraid to press her for fear he might lose her. He longed to take her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. He had seen flashes of her fiery temper and didn’t want that anger directed at him. So he contented himself with nothing more intimate than kisses on the cheek and the pleasure of her company.
Now Marietta turned her most dazzling smile on her aging suitor and played the coquette, to his delight.
“What did you bring me, you naughty boy?” she purred, swaying seductively toward him, eyeing the bag in his hand. She moved in close, draped one arm around his neck and playfully tickled him under the chin with her long, painted fingernails.
Maltese beamed with joy. He held the bag behind his back and said, “You have to guess, sugar.”
Marietta toyed with the lapels of his custom cutaway, tilted her head to one side and said, “Mmm, let me think. A hat? Jewelry? A red ball gown?” She put out the tip of her pink tongue, licked her top lip and said in a soft, sultry tone, “No, no, I know what it is. It’s shoes!”
It was a game the two of them frequently played. Marietta knew exactly what he had brought her. Didn’t have to guess. Her bewitched suitor had given her dozens of pairs of shoes. Shoes of every kind and color. Soft leather pumps imported from Italy. Saucy satin slippers from Paris. Even a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.
Now as he laughed merrily, Marietta continued to play her part. She reached around behind him, took the bag, drew it up and peeked inside.
“Would you…put the shoes on for me, sugar?” asked the hopeful Maltese.
“Why, of course, Maltese,” said Marietta. She took a seat on an armless velvet chair and made a big production of trying on the dainty new dancing slippers.
Her enchanted admirer sank onto a sofa nearby and watched as if she were totally disrobing. Marietta, cleverly allowing her long dressing gown to part just enough to give him a fleeting glimpse of a shapely, stockinged knee, winked at the heavily breathing Maltese.
She stretched her long right leg out straight and turned her foot one way then the other, as if she was carefully inspecting the new slipper. From beneath veiled lashes she stole a quick glance at her admirer. Beside himself with sexual excitement, Maltese tugged at his choking cravat. The pulse in his throat beat rapidly.
He’d had enough, Marietta quickly decided. Didn’t want him having a heart attack.
She modestly pulled her robe together, rose to her feet and said sweetly, “It’s such a warm day, isn’t it. Shall we have a glass of icy lemonade? Cool off a bit?”
“Yes,” Maltese managed to say weakly. He drew a clean white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and nervously blotted his shiny forehead. “Oh, yes, sugar, that would be nice.”
Three
Cole Heflin arrived in Denver, Colorado, on a warm, still evening near the end of June. Tired and stiff, he stepped down off the train and took a moment to stretch and unwind. He raised his arms skyward, groaned and lowered them. Ignoring curious stares, he bent forward and touched his toes several times. He straightened, leaned back from the waist and twisted one way then the other.
Once he’d worked the kinks out of his legs and back, he made his way through the crowded train depot and out onto the busy street. Cole walked the short distance to the corner of Larimer and Eighteenth, and the Windsor Hotel. A well-heeled fellow traveler had assured him that the British-built hotel was the very best accommodations Denver had to offer.
Cole stepped into the Windsor’s vast lobby and looked around. His fellow traveler had been right. The Windsor was an oasis on the frontier. Elegant parqueted floors, sixty-foot mahogany bar and full-length diamond-dust mirrors.
The uniformed clerk raised a disdainful eyebrow when the bearded, shabbily dressed Cole stepped up to the marble desk. Cole was unbothered by the man’s high-handed attitude.
“Have a corner suite available?” he asked the scornful clerk.
“Sir, our suites are quite expensive and I—”
“Answer the question,” said Cole with a smile. “Any suites available?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Good. Top floor. Front corner suite will do.” He reached for the register, turned it around and signed it as the snooty young man went to get the key.
“Suite 518,” said the desk clerk and reluctantly handed the key to Cole.
Key in hand, Cole said, “I noticed a haberdasher across the street.”
“Why, yes,” said the clerk, “Miller and Son is one of the oldest—”
“Fine,” said Cole as he took a bill out of his pants pocket and laid it on the marble ledge. “Have someone from Miller and Son bring several suits—size forty-two long—to my suite so I can choose one. Also a white shirt, underwear and pair of black leather shoes, size eleven. And, have a barber sent up. I need a haircut. Think you can manage that?”
The clerk looked anxiously around, then eased the bill off the marble desk and nodded. “Half an hour. Will that be acceptable?”
“Perfect,” said Cole who turned away just as a small group of expensively dressed ladies swept through the lobby on their way to the dining room.
One, an attractive brunette who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty, glanced at Cole, nodded and smiled. Cole winked at her. She blushed and hurried to catch up with her friends.
Cole stood and watched her walk away, liking what he saw, wishing he could get to know her better. She went out of sight and he dismissed her. Eagerly he headed for his suite, taking everything in, admiring the fine furnishings of the stately hotel. The Windsor, with its grand staircases, was built to resemble Windsor Castle.
It looked like a castle to Cole.
Once in his luxurious suite, he admired the elegant furniture, oversize bed and gold-plated bathtub. Cole promptly made himself at home. He stripped off his soiled clothes, flipped the tub’s gold faucets and marveled as running water flowed swiftly into the tub.
After a shave and haircut, a hot bath, a couple of shots of bourbon and a fine cigar, Cole dressed in the new suit of clothes he’d purchased from Miller and Son.
The transformation was dramatic. He hardly recognized himself. His tanned face was smoothly shaven and his shaggy black hair neatly trimmed. The new apparel, a well-fitting suit of lightweight navy flannel, pristine white shirt and maroon cravat, made him look like a gentleman.
Cole laughed at the idea. He was no gentleman.
And he’d like to meet a woman who wasn’t a lady. Perhaps later in the evening he’d stroll down to Holladay Street and visit the famous Mattie Silks.
But first he’d have dinner. He was starving.
Cole went down to the dining room and was shown to a table on the wall. Once seated, he casually looked around. His attention was immediately drawn to a round table where the laughing ladies he’d seen in the lobby were enjoying a leisurely meal.
The attractive dark-haired woman that he had winked at began glancing boldly at him. She smiled seductively then lowered her lashes. Cole leaned back in his chair and returned her gaze. The flirtation continued as he ordered dinner.
When the ladies finished their meal and rose to leave, the shapely brunette hung back and pointedly looked his way.
Without sound, Cole mouthed the words, “Suite 518.”
She flushed, turned and hurried away with her friends.
Cole chuckled.
Dinner arrived—a thick juicy steak, fried potatoes, hot bread and butter—and he forgot the brazen brunette. When he’d finished his meal and left the dining room, he debated the visit to Mattie’s. He decided against it. He was too tired. A night’s sleep was what he needed most.
A half hour later, back in his suite, Cole was naked and ready to crawl wearily into bed. But just as he pulled the top sheet down and put a knee on the mattress, there was a knock on the door. Cole frowned. He wrapped a towel around his waist, tied a loose knot atop his hip and crossed the room to open the door.
Before him stood the bold brunette.
“I…I am not in the habit of doing this sort of thing,” she promptly assured him.
Cole grinned lazily. “Why, no, of course not,” he said as he reached out and gently took her arm. He drew the woman inside and closed the door behind her.
For a moment they stood there face-to-face, neither speaking. Cole towered over the woman. She pressed her back against the solid door and gazed at his wide, sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, the white towel covering him. Her breath was now coming in shallow, anxious little gulps. Her heart was beating rapidly, the swell of her full, pale bosom rising and falling above the low-cut bodice of her snugly fitted suit jacket.
Cole raised a hand, cupped the side of her throat. “I’m glad you made an exception for me.”
“Yes, well, I…I can’t stay long,” she said. “My…my husband is expecting me home by ten.”
“I see,” mused Cole, letting his hand slip down to the buttons of her bodice. “Then we’d better waste no more time.”
He dropped his towel to the carpeted floor and swiftly unbuttoned her jacket. He pushed the opened jacket apart, slipped his long fingers inside her lace trimmed camisole, and eased the slick satin garment down to release a full, creamy breast. She drew a quick breath as if surprised, but made no move to cover herself. And she exhaled heavily when Cole licked his forefinger and circled her stiffening nipple with his wet fingertip.
The brunette’s soft hands fluttered along his slim hips before seeking his already straining masculinity. Cole took his cue from her. Without so much as a kiss, he shoved her full skirts up and, with her help, deftly relieved her of her underwear. Looking into her flashing eyes, he swept a warm hand across her flat stomach, then slipped his fingers between her legs. She swooned and tilted her pelvis upward, eagerly pressing against his exploring hand. Cole was amazed. She was as hot, wet and ready as if he had spent an hour arousing her. He took his hand away, pushed her skirts higher up, around her waist.
“Want to tell me your name, darlin’,” he asked and cupped the twin cheeks of her bottom, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel his firm erection throb against her bare belly.
“No,” she quickly responded. “And I don’t want to know yours. Just put it in. Hurry.”
Cole didn’t hesitate. The brunette winced, then sighed with pleasure when he lifted her a little and guided his hard flesh up inside her. She clung tightly to his neck, lifted her stockinged legs and wrapped them around him.
They stayed right where they were, making hot, impersonal love. Cole pumped and thrust and slammed her rhythmically against the heavy door. The brunette bucked and lunged and egged him on, digging her sharp nails into his shoulders. Two total strangers, out of control, mating like lusty animals. Kissing and licking and biting. Grunting and panting and growling.
But only for a few short moments.
Soon the brunette began experiencing a deep, wrenching climax. Cole joined her in the release.
She cried out in her ecstasy and viciously bit Cole’s bare shoulder.
But the second her climax had passed, she lowered her weak legs, took her arms from around his neck and pushed Cole back. She anxiously reached for her pantalets, turning away to put her underwear on before dropping and smoothing her skirts. She whirled around to face Cole as she pushed her exposed breast back inside her camisole and buttoned her bodice.
“I must go,” she said.
“Thanks for visiting,” he replied.
“My pleasure,” she said with an impish smile, clearly giving his statement a double meaning. He laughed and so did she. She lifted slender shoulders in a shrug and said, “Now I really must go.”
But before she left, she reached out and cupped his now-flaccid flesh. She licked her lips, sighed and said, “I wish I could take this with me and have it whenever I want it.”
Grinning easily, he teased, “Don’t you have one like it at home?”
“Hardly!” The smile left her face and a clouded expression came into her dark eyes. “Not like this. Nothing like this.”
She reluctantly released him, turned, opened the door and rushed away without saying goodbye.
For a moment Cole stood naked in the open doorway, shaking his head. Then he shrugged, closed the door and yawned. It wasn’t the first such encounter he’d had with a stranger and it probably wouldn’t be his last.
He’d lose no sleep over her or any of the others. Women, so long as they were easy on the eye, were all pretty much the same to Cole Heflin. They all behaved alike. Hard to tell one from another.
He smiled.
God, it was good to be alive.
Cole crossed the silent room, blew out the lamp and fell sleepily into bed.
Late the next afternoon the narrow-gauge train chugged its way higher and higher through the winding and steep-sided Clear Creek Canyon. The newly built railway ended at the mining and smelting town of Blackhawk, more than eight thousand feet up in the mountains.
Cole stepped off the train at Blackhawk and, swinging his suitcases, walked the mile up the steep hill to Central City. The high altitude and thin mountain air made him feel short of breath and slightly light-headed. He stopped outside the Gilpin Hotel and considered checking in. He leaned against the building, took a minute to catch his breath, then moved on.
As he strolled unhurriedly up Eureka Street, he noticed the posters advertising Verdi’s opera, La Traviata, and it’s young star, Marietta Stone.
Cole paused before one of the posters, studied the likeness of Marietta. He exhaled heavily. Here she was, the toast of Central City, a content, fulfilled young woman. And he had come to take her away from it all. He hated to do it, but he had no choice. He’d promised Maxwell Lacey he would bring the woman to Galveston and he would, whether she wanted to go or not.
The summer sun had completely slipped below the Front Range. In the gathering twilight, Cole walked up the street to the newly opened Teller House Hotel. The four-story hotel’s wide entrance opened onto a floor of solid-silver bars. He checked into a top-floor room with furnishings of exquisite walnut and damask and a fine Brussels carpet.
Cole looked around, shrugged out of his suit jacket and stretched out on the soft bed. He folded his hands beneath his head and gazed up at the crystal chandelier at the room’s center.
How should he go about getting the pretty opera star out of Central City and back to Galveston? He had the sinking feeling that it was not going to be easy.
He wouldn’t worry about it. He’d take it one step at a time.
First on the agenda was tonight’s performance of La Traviata at the Tivoli Opera House.
Four
Full darkness had fallen and there was a definite chill in the mountain air when Cole, dressed in dark evening attire, left the Teller House Hotel that evening.
Eureka Street was crowded. Laughing people spilled out of restaurants and saloons. Others milled about leisurely, stopping before glass-fronted shops. Many, like him, were headed to the Tivoli Opera House for the debut performance of La Traviata.
In minutes Cole reached the imposing opera house, which was built out of stone, brick and iron. The main entrance was wide; swinging doors afforded passage into a spacious corridor.
On the ground floor, at the back of the roomy foyer, was a large gambling club. Cole instinctively moved closer, pausing just outside the crowded, smoked-filled casino. He was sorely tempted. It had been ages since he’d sat in on a good poker game.
He thought about the ten thousand dollars in the Gulf Shores State Bank. Ten thousand that belonged to him. His to do with as he pleased. His expense money—a thick roll of bills—was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket. With effort, he resisted the strong lure.
He turned away and moved with the growing crowd up a flight of stairs to the theater. The grand stairway divided two spacious sections of the theater. The ornate and elaborate audience room was large, and the dress circle, where Cole was to sit, was reached by a second set of stairs. The circle extended, horseshoe shaped, around the room.
Opera chairs with adjustable seats were of ornate cast and upholstered in scarlet plush. Cole found his and sat down in the comfortable chair. White-and-gold hand-turned balusters formed balustrades around the horseshoe circle. The railing was covered with scarlet plush.
Cole looked around with interest. On the right side of the stage, high up on the wall, was a large private box, mirrored and upholstered in scarlet like the dress circle. Lambrequins and lace curtains gave the private box a degree of privacy. The box was presently empty.
Cole’s attention returned to the main floor of the grand theater. The wide aisles were beautifully carpeted in red, the walls were painted in brilliant colors, the ceilings handsomely frescoed. Everything was red, gold and white, and revealed by brightly burning gas jets.
Just below the scarlet-curtained stage, a fifteen-piece orchestra was seated in a circular box. They played an overture as the auditorium began to fill with patrons.
Cole had patronized few opera houses, but he felt certain this one was as grand a theater as could be found anywhere in America. Cole lifted and studied his program.
La Traviata
by Giuseppe Verdi
Characters
Violetta Valéry, a courtesan…………………Soprano
Dr. Grenvil, Violetta’s physician……………Bass
Alfredo Germont, lover of Violetta…………Tenor
Cole glanced through the rest of the cast, then read the brief summary of the opera’s story at the bottom of the page.
A tale of the tragic romance of Violetta Valéry, a beautiful courtesan of Paris, and Alfredo Germont, a sincere and poetic young man of a respectable provincial family.
Cole finished reading and lowered the program.
The theater had quickly filled to capacity. Every seat in the house was taken. While there was a scattering of handsomely dressed couples, the majority of the first-nighters were men. Men who were not handsomely dressed. A rough-hewn, sunburned lot in work clothes looking sorely out of place in this palatial amphitheater.
Cole wondered briefly if it was the opera’s celebrated star, Marietta, who had attracted such an unlikely mix.
Impatient for the curtain to go up, Cole again glanced at the private box high up on the wall near the stage.
It was no longer empty. A silver-haired, impeccably dressed gentleman sat in the plush box, a look of eager anticipation on his face. Something moved behind the gentleman. Cole’s attention was drawn to the back of the box.
Beneath a sway of lace curtains, half hidden in shadow, stood a tall, spare man with shifty eyes and a nasty-looking scar on his cheek.
The conductor rapped his baton.
The noisy crowd quieted.
Cole quickly turned his attention to the stage. The scarlet curtain rose. The opera began. Act 1 opened on the richly furnished drawing room of Violetta Valéry in Paris. A party was under way. Several bit players sang their parts.
Cole quickly grew restless.
He had no interest in the supporting cast. He had come to see Marietta.
At last the star appeared onstage amidst deafening cheers from the appreciative patrons. Cole blinked, then stared, feeling as if he’d just been struck in the solar plexus.
Marietta was so incredibly beautiful he couldn’t believe his eyes. Cole drew a quick intake of air and felt his heart lurch in his chest.
Flaming red-gold hair framed a perfect face with flawless apricot skin, large, dazzling eyes, a small upturned nose and a ripe, red mouth fashioned for kissing. Tall and slender with soft feminine curves, she wore a luxurious ball gown of shimmering turquoise silk adorned with thousands of tiny semiprecious stones.
Marietta’s character, Violetta Valéry, was determined to ignore the precarious state of her health in a ceaseless round of enjoyment. Marietta looked anything but sick. She was young and healthy. Fantastically vital, alive and vivacious. And she was so breathtakingly lovely, so ethereally beautiful, she might well have been an angel come down to earth. Cole gazed at the vision in turquoise, totally mesmerized.
The flame-haired beauty took a step forward, smiled and bowed to her admirers, giving the adoring throng a fleeting glimpse of her soft, pale bosom. Amidst whistles, catcalls and cheers, she straightened, pressed her lips to her fingertips and tossed a kiss to the audience.
At once she had them all—including Cole—in the palm of her hand.
But then she began to sing.
Cole’s jaw dropped.
He frowned.
He stared in stunned disbelief at the gorgeous Marietta, wondering if the discordant sounds he was hearing were actually coming from her.
They were.
Marietta’s mouth was open wide and she was singing at the top of her lungs. She did not have a beautiful voice. Far from it. It was a slightly shrill singing voice that went displeasingly flat when she reached for the high notes.
Bless her heart, she had everything else. She was young, beautiful, a good actress, had great stage presence and wore the elegant costume as no one else could. She was captivating to watch. Graceful. Commanding. Sure of herself.
Still, Cole shook his head with incredulity, wondering how on earth such an untalented singer was allowed to grace the stage of this or any other opera house. The woman simply could not sing.
Puzzled, Cole glanced around. He caught the expressions on some of the weathered faces of the men in the audience. They were smiling, yet looked as if they were in a small degree of pain. Apparently he was not the only one who found Marietta’s singing voice somewhat jarring.
But if that were so, why had they come to hear her? Why the full house? Why would anyone come to hear a singer with a decidedly displeasing voice? How could this untalented woman, lovely though she was, be an opera star?
Cole’s gaze returned to the well-dressed, silver-haired gentleman seated alone in the box. The man was beaming down at Marietta as if he had never heard a sweeter voice.
“Oh, holy Christ,” Cole muttered under his breath, knowing instinctively that the gentleman was no doubt the starry-eyed suitor of the tone-deaf singer.
Cole sat there and endured the cacophony for several long minutes, then finally could stand it no longer. Opera was tough enough to take when the performers had beautiful voices.
“Excuse me,” he whispered, rose, and made his way out to the wide, carpeted aisle, bumping knees as he went.
Resisting the temptation to put his hands over his ears, he eagerly exited the theater. But he didn’t leave the building. He went down the grand staircase to the first floor and into the gaming room. Tables of green baize rested beneath crystal chandeliers. The shuffle of cards, the click of the dice, the spin of the roulette wheel were seductive. Cole, his heartbeat quickening, loosened his black silk cravat. But he did not succumb to his strong desire to gamble.
A long polished bar stretched the length of the back wall. He headed directly for that bar and for a stiff drink.
A bald, rotund man stood behind the bar, wiping glasses on a clean white cloth. He looked up, smiled and asked, “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Bourbon,” said Cole. “And hopefully a bit of information.”
The fat man smiled and said, “Try me. I know just about everything that goes on in Central City.”
“Then you’re my man,” Cole said with a smile before he downed his bourbon in one long swallow and shoved his glass across the polished bar. The barkeep poured him another. Cole said, “And your name?”
“Harry,” he said with a grin, rubbed his gleaming bald pate and added, “Not that kind of hairy.”
Cole smiled, reached a hand across the bar. “Cole Heflin, Harry. I was just upstairs at the opera.”
“I figured,” said Harry, firmly shaking Cole’s hand.
“The star of the opera can’t sing, Harry.”
The barkeep laughed heartily, jowls and belly shaking. “You noticed, did you?”
“I noticed. I also noticed a prosperous, silver-haired gentleman seated in a private box who appeared to be taken with the opera’s lovely young star, Marietta.”
Nodding, the barkeep looked around, then leaned across the bar. “He’s absolutely mad about that red-haired singer.”
“I assumed as much. Who is he?”
“Taylor Maltese,” said Harry as if Cole should recognize the name.
“I’m a Texan,” Cole explained.
“Then you don’t know who he is?”
Cole shook his head.
Harry said, “He’s Taylor Maltese, owner of the Maltese Mining empire. Rich as old Jay Gould. Owns silver mines all over these mountains as well as many other lucrative enterprises.”
“And this Marietta, she’s his…?”
“Yes, she sure is.” The barkeep laughed and confided, “I’ve never seen a man as smitten with a woman as Taylor Maltese is with that gorgeous redhead. He’s like a puppy dog, always following her around, nipping at her heels, begging her to toss him a bone.”
“And does she?” Harry just grinned and gave no reply. Cole pressed on. “I noticed a rather evil-looking character standing at the back of Maltese’s private box. Scar face and all. Bodyguard?”
“He’s called Lightnin’,” the barkeep said, nodding.
“Lightnin’,” Cole repeated.
“That’s how fast he is on the draw.”
“I see,” Cole said thoughtfully. “Lightnin’ the only bodyguard?”
“No, there are a couple of big, burly brothers, the Burnett boys. They shadow Marietta.”
That was bad news for Cole, but he didn’t let on. He sipped his second bourbon and said, “You know, I can understand this wealthy man’s infatuation with Marietta. She’s sure a pretty thing, isn’t she?”
“Looks like an angel,” agreed the barkeep.
“But there’s something I can’t understand,” said Cole. “She can’t really sing very well, so how is it she’s the star of an opera.”
The barkeep roared with laughter. “How do you think? Maltese owns the Tivoli Opera House.”
Cole laughed. “That explains it.”
“Maltese is so in love with that luscious singer, he pays his miners hazard pay to fill the opera seats every evening to cheer and praise his darling!”
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