Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (4 page)

"Papa," she said gently, "these are nothing but country rocks."

He squinted, holding a particularly plain piece of granite to the window. "'Course they are, daughter. They're spiritkeepers."

"Spiritkeepers?" she repeated dubiously.

He nodded, his blue eyes twinkling above his salt-and-pepper beard. "Yep. Cellie says we need a whole barrel full so we can choose the best ones for the séance."

"Séance!" Silver nearly choked in an effort to bite back her oath.
Ooh, that woman and her cockamamie schemes.
"Papa, why on earth would you want to hold a séance?"

"'Cause I want to talk to that dead Injun and make him quit spooking our miners." Chucking the first rock back on the table, Papa reached for a second and shook it, hopefully, next to his ear. "Hmm. Nothing," he muttered. "I wonder how you're supposed to tell which ones the spirits live in?"

Silver almost groaned aloud. When she glanced at her butler, his stony, straight-ahead gaze was belied by his dry smile.

"Uh, Benson, would you be kind enough to close the parlor doors when you leave?"

"Of course, madam." Once again the model of imperturbability, Benson bowed and backed into the hall.

The cherrywood panels closed with a
snick,
and Silver turned to her father. He was fishing inside his coat pockets for something, most likely his ever-present magnifying glass. As she watched his crumpled vest strain across his well-fed belly, a feeling of such profound tenderness washed over her that for an instant, she was moved to tears.

Just five short years ago, when he'd finally made good on a lifetime of promises and sent for her to come live with him beside his "mother lode," he'd been bonier than a half-starved sparrow. Maximillian Nichols had sustained himself on dreams for forty-four years, sacrificing his own needs to send her and Aunt Agatha what little money he could scrape together to help keep them off the streets.

Now, hale and hearty and wealthier than even he had ever imagined, Maximillian Nichols was still living on dreams. She understood that it wasn't the pot of gold but rather the rainbow- chasing that made him happy. And she wanted him to be happy. Her papa was her whole world. If he needed to believe in some silly ghost and the mythical treasure he'd hired Celestia to help him find, then Silver was willing to pretend she believed in them, too.

However, she was not willing to stand by and watch her papa be made a public laughingstock because he was too kindhearted to conceive that Celestia Cooper might prey upon his fantasies by turning the old Indian legend of the Medicine Man, Nahele, to her advantage.

"Papa," Silver said, "I'm sure we can find a way to avert a miner's strike without holding a séance. We don't want to fuel the men's fear of Nahele."

"Not to worry, daughter." He opened the eye he'd squeezed closed to peer at his rocks. "We'll keep it small. You, me, the Union leaders, and maybe Brady from the
Times.
'Course, there's no telling how many
spirits'll
show up around here, if you know what I mean."

She smiled weakly. To her discomfort, she knew exactly what he meant. That's why she'd never told him about her nightmares. The last thing she wanted was for Papa to decide Nahele was haunting her boudoir and then enlist Celestia to perform some sort of exorcism rite on her bed. Silver could just imagine the snide editorial Brady Buckholtz would pen for the
Aspen Times
about "the Sterling Spinster," as he'd dubbed her.

Shrugging out of his coat, Papa rolled up his shirtsleeves and rummaged once more through his rocks. "It turned out to be a fine day, eh, daughter? A fine day for hunting treasure. Cellie says I'm on the right trail now. That cache ol' Nahele extorted from the citizens of Cibola ain't but another blast or two away. Say, you want to ride to the mine? I'll show you where Cellie and me are gonna dig next."

Silver's heart cringed. She didn't know what was worse, watching her father's face light up when he mentioned that dreadful woman's name, or imagining what else might "light up" if Celestia got her hands on a stick of dynamite.

"Uh, thanks, Papa. But there really isn't enough time."

"Hmm." He squinted at his pocket watch. "I reckon you're right. Dang, I gotta get me into some dungarees. Can't very well go digging in broadcloth, eh?" He winked cheerfully. "Leastways, that's what you always tell me."

For a moment, Silver was too stunned to do anything but blink. Did Papa mean to imply he wasn't going to Leadville?

"Well, gotta hurry," he said, sweeping his rocks back inside the satchels and slinging the packs over his back. "Burning daylight and all that. Cellie's waiting for me to come back to her hotel room."

"Wait a minute!" Silver grabbed his arm, indignation overcoming her shock. "What do you mean, Cellie's waiting for you to come back?"

He gazed at her as if she'd gone daft. "Didn't you hear me? Cellie says I'm on the right trail. Shoot, if our luck holds out, we might even find a clue that'll lead us to Cibola!"

Silver gaped. She didn't know whether to be outraged by his change of plans or scandalized by the notion that her sainted Papa was wearing last night's suit because that horrible woman had
seduced
him in a hotel!

"Papa," she sputtered, "surely Cibola can wait. We're scheduled to leave for Leadville in twenty minutes."

His brow furrowed. When he continued to look baffled, she added, "The directors' meeting. At the Mining Exchange, remember?"

"Oh." His ruddy face fell. "That's today?"

"It's tonight. But you know we'll need most of the afternoon just to ride across the pass and get dressed for dinner. It's going to be quite a formal affair."

His good humor returned. "Well, you go ahead then, daughter. I never did care for formal affairs. You know more about stocks and dividends anyway, and you've always been better at hobnobbing with investors. That's why I made you my partner."

"But Papa," she protested, unable to take pleasure in what she would normally have considered high praise. "I was going to give the speech tonight."

"And a splendid speech it will be. I have every confidence in you, daughter."

Wounded to her core, Silver could only stare at the man she'd worshipped for twenty-three years. Her papa had been her knight in shining armor, the only bright spot in a childhood made dreary by "Aunt Hagatha," as Papa was fond of calling her, and a maternal grandfather who didn't know the meaning of affection.

Only after Maximillian Nichols had struck the mother lode that he'd named in her honor had Silver been permanently reunited with her papa. She'd vowed then they would make up for all the time they'd lost. Didn't he understand how much their weekend meant to her?

"But I had other plans for us too," she said, petulance creeping into her voice. "I bought tickets for the new Shakespearean production at that fabulous Tabor Opera House. And I was hoping we could eat dinner at Charley's Restaurant and then take a stroll afterward to look at the constellations just like we used to do before—" her chin jutted, quivering the tiniest bit "—before
she
came along."

"Now, daughter." Papa's face was growing redder the longer his packs weighed him down. "You know I'm a
Grand Anvil Chorus
kind of a fella. Give me a mug of beer and a cheek to pinch, and I couldn't be happier.

"'Sides," he patted her arm consolingly, "you don't need me in Leadville like Cellie needs me here. You know all the things that can go wrong when you're digging underground. Cellie says Nahele won't give up his treasure without a fight. That's why the men keep hearing moaning."

So that's what Cellie says, eh? Well, what would Cellie know?

Silver blew out her breath. Anyone with a modicum of scientific knowledge would understand that settling timbers groan. The miners were hearing the shifting beams above their heads, not the moaning of ghosts. How dare that pestilential nuisance spread rumors that Silver's Mine was haunted?

Obviously Celestia didn't have the slightest concept of what a strike would do to production—not to mention the fortune she was plotting to marry. The hardrock stiffs were already grumbling about their three-dollar wage, saying the miners at the Comstock Lode were getting paid four dollars a day.

Of course, the miners in Nevada were also working under unbearable conditions, Silver thought a tad righteously. She, on the other hand, had done her very best to protect her men from the gruesome accidents and tragic deaths that had made the Comstock infamous.

But that was another matter entirely. Damn Celestia Cooper. The woman knew very well how much this day—this outing—meant to Silver. The quack also knew how hard Silver was trying to get rid of her. Celestia had concocted the whole ghost melodrama, of course, so Silver couldn't get Papa alone long enough to bend his ear with the mounting evidence against her.

And in the polite vernacular, that meant war.

"Papa, I am deeply concerned about this dig you're undertaking."
No doubt Celestia is using it as an excuse to poke around our richest vein.

However, Silver knew better than to point this fact out. Papa would get that glazed look in his eye, nod politely, and not hear a blessed word she said. Over the last six months, he'd resisted every reasonable entreaty to unburden himself of his fiancée. Maximillian Nichols was the kind of man who saw a rose long after the bloom had withered. His refusal to recognize failings in any person, place, or thing was one of his most endearing—and most vexing—characteristics.

And right now, Silver was vexed.

"In light of recent information I've received," she continued briskly, "I'm not sure you would be safe underground."

Already looking longingly toward the door, Papa swiveled his head back toward her. She was gratified to know she could still capture enough of his attention to keep him from walking out of her life.

"Safe?" he echoed, the miner in him no doubt pricking up his ears.

"Yes, Papa. Whether or not there really is a king's ransom worth of buried treasure—"

"Oh, but there is, daughter. Cellie stakes her reputation on it."

Silver swallowed a less than gracious retort. Papa was obsessed with Nahele's treasure because he hoped it would lead to the so-called City of Gold. Recently, treasure seemed to be the only thing he cared about. That and Celestia, of course.

"Yes, well—" Silver cleared her throat "—I must strongly advise you to rethink your plan to dynamite anything."

"What do you mean?"

Silver squared her shoulders, ignoring a momentary pang of remorse. What she knew about Celestia's past was going to hurt him. "Papa," she began again, choosing her words as judiciously as her own hurt would allow, "Celestia is not the best companion you could have on a mining expedition. The danger to yourself and to others would be prohibitive."

"Well..." His brows knitted. "It's true she isn't as knowledgeable about mining safety as you are but—"

"Papa—" Silver struggled with her impatience.
Would he never open his eyes?
"Celestia is an arsonist."

He blinked owl-like at her.

In the eternity of silence that dragged by, guilt had plenty of time to needle her. She blushed. She fidgeted. She decided she should never have been so blunt.
God forgive me, why did I have to bludgeon him with the news? Now look at him. My dearest papa, and I've broken his heart—

"Arsonist?" he interrupted her thoughts, still looking bemused.

"Er, yes." She cleared her throat. "There was a church. In Kentucky. The preacher raised a public outcry about Celestia's fortune-telling. He called her a witch, and when the marshal tried to run her out of town—"

Papa began laughing so hard that his mound of a belly actually jiggled.

Silver's ears burned. "What's so funny?"

"You, thinking Cellie would set fire to a church."

"You mean you
knew?"

"Sure. Cellie told me weeks ago. She was all torn up about it, too. That church burning down was a terrible thing, but it wasn't Cellie's fault."

"Papa! You can't possibly know that—"

"Sure I can. I know Cellie." He grinned, a flash of pure impishness in his beard. "Well, gotta go, love. These packs aren't getting any lighter, if you know what I mean. Have a safe trip to Leadville. And hurry home so you can tell me all about it."

"Papa, wait—"

"Now, don't you worry, daughter. I won't let Cellie play with any dynamite." His chuckle floated back to her from the hall. "At least, not the kind of dynamite you're thinking of."

The parlor doors slid closed behind him.

"Ooh!" Silver stomped her foot. She wasn't sure which upset her more, the fact that her bomb had exploded and still missed its mark, or that her father had chosen Celestia's company over hers. Angry, humiliated, and close to tears, she thought about canceling her speech to spite Celestia. After all, the woman had torched a church. Maybe she was dangerous,
really
dangerous, not just eccentric and conniving.

Silver, don't be a goose
,
Common Sense counseled sternly.
Go to Leadville. The better you get at managing your father's affairs, the more he'll value you over someone as useless to him as Celestia.