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of
the dead woman out of his head, forcing himself to think of something
more pleasant. Or someone.
    Celeste.
    He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. He studied the bedroom,
sensing it had been his father's. When he sat still like this and
closed his eyes, he could smell the scent of John's dusty miner's
clothes. He could hear his voice as smooth as whiskey. "Hell, John," he
murmured, "I've made a mess of things, haven't I? I never lived up to
what you expected… what you thought I was." He shook his head. "I
should take the money and go. I know you brought me here to Celeste for
a reason, but you don't really know me or the things I've done. I
should just get out of her life before… before…" He couldn't bring
himself to say it aloud. But he thought it.
    Before I kill her, too.
     
    Sometime in the night Celeste stirred. She heard a sound. A door, but not her door.
    Silver lifted his head off the end of the bed where he slept and stared at the closed, locked door.
    "Just John getting up," she said sleepily as she rolled over and pulled the quilt over her shoulder. "Go back to sleep, mutt."
    The footsteps sounded down the hall, past her room, down the stairs.
    She drifted off to sleep again to the steady patter of rain.
     
    "Rice flapjacks with molasses?" Celeste asked Fox as he entered the kitchen.
    "Coffee," he said sleepily. His dark hair was damp and combed
straight back over his head, his chin freshly shaved. His face had a
boyish look, fresh, innocent.
    She noticed that he had dressed in the same sharp, pinstriped pants
and waistcoat he'd worn yesterday, though he wore a clean, starched
shirt and a fresh cravat.
    He hadn't brought much in the way of luggage. Obviously he didn't
plan on staying long. A part of her was saddened by the thought. She'd
been lonely since John died, and Fox's company had been good for her.
But it was just as well that he was going. She had to return to her job
at Kate's, and he had to return to his rich life in California.
    "Coffee's on the stove." She walked around him and set a platter of
steaming flapjacks on the table between the two place settings.
    "Can I get you some?" He poured himself a cup of coffee.
    "No, thank you." She waited until he joined her at the table, and
then she closed her eyes and bent her head to silently say grace.
Opening her eyes, she glanced up to find him watching her.
    "I want to apologize again for last night."
    She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. She'd dressed
carefully this morning in one of her Denver dresses. It was a very
elegant sapphire blue with a rounded collar and vertical rows of velvet
trim. She wore her grandmother's pearl earrings in her ears. It had
been a long time since she'd worn them, since she'd felt worthy. Clean.
    "You sorry you kissed me?" she asked pointedly.
    He met her gaze and held it. "No, I'm not sorry I kissed you last
night. I'm only sorry I made a buffoon out of myself afterward."
    She smiled and reached for the flapjacks. "It's all right. I reacted
childishly." She placed the three largest cakes on his plate, then two
smaller ones on her own. It was so nice to speak civilly with a man. To
actually hold a pleasant conversation. "It's forgotten. We weren't
ourselves last night. Grief does that."
    "Listen to me," he said passionately. "I know we've only known each
other less than a day, but I don't want to lose you. I feel as if my
soul depends upon it." He set down his fork with a groan. "Now, I've
made a fool of myself again."
    Tell him,
she thought.
Tell him the truth. Don't lead him on like this. But once again, the words wouldn't form on the tip of her tongue.
    "You haven't made a fool of yourself." She smiled hesitantly. "I'm
flattered. It's… it's been a long time since someone showed me this
kind of attention."
And look where that got you,
she warned herself.
    "I find that hard to believe." He took a bite of the flapjacks and
nodded approvingly. "Apparently John knew what a special woman you
were. He