An Agent for Cynthia
The Pinkerton Matchmaker
Book Sixty-Nine
by Amelia C. Adams
With thanks to my beta readers—Amanda, Amy, Barbara, Cindy, Dorothy, Joseph, Mary, Renee, Robin, Sandy, Suzy, Teresa, and Theresa.
Cover design by Virginia McKevitt
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
Denver, Colorado
1873
Cynthia Baxter stood on the platform at the station, looking back and forth anxiously. The train was scheduled to depart in fifteen minutes, but her intended groom was nowhere to be seen. She supposed they could take the next train, but Archibald Gordon, head of the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s Denver office, had been very clear that he wanted them to be on their way immediately. If they missed this one, it would be hours until the next, and that just wouldn’t do. Keeping her promises was very important to her.
Another few minutes went by, and her heart was thumping so rapidly, it hurt. Where was he? What was holding him up? He was going to ruin everything, and Agent Gordon would never assign her to another case. Being a Pinkerton was all she’d ever wanted, and now her chance was going to be spoiled because of this man who didn’t know how to tell time.
This man . . . She didn’t even know his name or what he looked like. She only knew that she was right where she was supposed to be, and he . . . well, he wasn’t.
“Miss Baxter?”
She turned to see two men approaching, one young and one definitely not young. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry we’re late,” the younger one said. He set his bag down on the platform and took a deep breath. “I’m Corbin Rawlings, and this is Judge Hotchkiss. He’s agreed to marry us before we board.”
“I hope you can talk fast, Judge,” Cynthia replied, and the man chuckled.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Miss Baxter. I once married a young woman who was in a delicate way and wanted the ceremony finished before the . . . er . . . blessed event. I’m no stranger to weddings on the run.” He chuckled. Cynthia assumed she’d find it amusing later, but at the moment, she did not.
The train whistle blew, and the conductor called out, “Five minutes! Five minutes to board!”
Cynthia turned back to the judge, hoping to spur things on. “Shall we?”
“Yes, we shall.” He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a small black book. “Now, let’s see. Corbin Rawlings and Cynthia Bateman . . .”
“Baxter,” she interrupted.
“Hmm?”
“Baxter. Cynthia Baxter.”
He blinked. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Corbin Rawlings and Cynthia Baxter.”
Cynthia glanced at Mr. Rawlings, wondering why he was doing nothing to hurry this up. Surely he didn’t want to miss this train. If he did, that didn’t speak well for his work ethic, and she didn’t think she could be partnered with someone who didn’t believe as strongly as she did about the importance of staying on top of things.
Thankfully, the judge began the ceremony, flagging down two passersby to be the witnesses. They thought it was a tremendous amount of fun that two lovebirds wanted to tie the knot there on the train platform. Cynthia gave them a tight-lipped smile, not wanting to shatter their illusions.
As soon as the judge pronounced them man and wife, Cynthia and Mr. Rawlings scooped up their bags and ran for the train. Cynthia called “Thank you!” over her shoulder and hoped she would be heard over the sound of the hissing steam coming from the engine. They clambered on board, the conductor giving them a disapproving look even though he was smiling.
“Just couldn’t wait to marry her, eh, son?” he said knowingly. “Go ahead and take your seats, and I’ll stow your bags.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia told him, handing him her larger satchel, but keeping her reticule. Mr. Rawlings handed over his bag as well, and they moved down the aisle. They had just barely sat down when the train began to move.
“Well, now. That was certainly a wedding to remember.” Mr. Rawlings gave her a smile, and she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time. All she’d noticed on the platform was his height, which was around six feet. Now she took note of his smile, which was very pleasant, and his eyes, which were a warm brown and a shade or two lighter than his hair. She wouldn’t have called him handsome, but he was certainly nice-looking. She hadn’t married him for his looks, though—all that was quite immaterial. She was on assignment, her first priority.
“Yes, it was.” She paused, wondering if she should say anything. She didn’t want to start their relationship off on a sour note. However, he needed to know where she stood on important issues such as punctuality and dependability, and it was best that she be honest right from the start. “I was concerned that you might not make it on time.”
“It’s been a very harrowing morning,” he replied, but didn’t elaborate.
What exactly did he mean by that? What was harrowing about packing a bag and coming down to the train station? “And I suppose that getting married was the last thing you expected,” she went on, hoping to elicit some sort of response.
“Archie had told me it might be expected.”
“Archie? Oh, Agent Gordon?” Cynthia nodded. “I admit, I was rather surprised when I went in to apply and was told that all female agents needed to be married to their trainers before taking their first case. I’d heard rumors, but I dismissed them as being a bit too far-fetched.”
Mr. Rawlings didn’t reply. He just returned her nod.
“So, it doesn’t bother you? Marrying me?”
“I imagine we’ll get along all right,” he replied.
And that was the extent of it.
Cynthia looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see as of yet—they were still on the outskirts of Denver. She was looking forward to reaching their destination of Salt Lake City and taking in their new surroundings. That would be an adventure in and of itself, considering that she hadn’t traveled much in her life.
“Perhaps we should discuss the case? I only know the basics—”
At last that got his attention, but not in the way she’d hoped. He fixed her with a look. “Miss Baxter . . . although, I supposed I could call you Mrs. Rawlings now . . . we will discuss this later.”
She blinked. “I only—”
He leaned forward and nearly touched her nose with his. “Do you understand that we’re surrounded by people who could overhear us? Undercover agents do not discuss their cases in public. Now please, have a care and let me get some sleep.”
He straightened, leaned his head against the back of the seat, and closed his eyes.
Cynthia was ashamed. She should have realized this wasn’t the time or place to talk about sensitive things, especially when the noise of the train made it necessary for them to raise their voices even to be heard. She’d only wanted to initiate a conversation, to get him talking about something—anything. She hadn’t thought about the consequences.
But still, he didn’t have to be so rude, and what did he mean by going to sleep? Wasn’t part of his job to protect her? How could he protect her if he was asleep? She could be kidnapped or she could fall off the back of the train—any number of things could happen to her. And she didn’t even know how to shoot a pistol yet! How was she to defend herself if something went wrong?
/> She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She was perfectly capable of seeing to her own safety. If she wasn’t, she never should have applied to be a Pinkerton. And the fact that Mr. Rawlings was sleeping meant that he trusted her to be independent. Either that, or he was the laziest man she’d ever met. Agent Gordon had indicated that he’d be assigning her to a highly skilled trainer, but perhaps he’d only said that to reassure her. Perhaps she’d been pawned off on a complete wastrel.
Well, this wasn’t going to do at all. When they reached their next stop, perhaps she should buy a return ticket to Denver and go tell Agent Gordon what she thought about this arrangement. It was one thing to promise her a skilled trainer and quite another to assign her to someone who wouldn’t even hold a conversation with her.
But she was married now, and that made resigning from her job extremely difficult. Maybe that was the real reason why female agents were supposed to marry their trainers—so they couldn’t turn tail and run when things got hard. She tried not to seethe as she thought about it.
After a time, the train pulled into another station, and the conductor announced a thirty-minute stop. Mr. Rawlings opened his eyes and looked around, then stood. “I see a hotel through the window. We’d best stop and get some real rest.”
“Stop? But . . . we’re supposed to be in Salt Lake City as soon as possible.”
“Yes, I know.” He walked down the aisle and spoke with the conductor, who returned a moment later with their bags. Cynthia fumed as she watched the exchange. He might be her husband, but that didn’t mean that she owed him her unquestioning loyalty. He was doing everything he could to undermine this assignment, and it would reflect badly on her.
They left the train and walked across the platform toward the hotel he’d spotted. At least he had the decency to carry her bag this time. His long legs made it difficult to keep up with him, and she found herself nearly trotting. “I trust we’ll discuss this when we get inside?”
He didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t. That would be entirely out of character for him.
When they reached the hotel, he paid for a night’s stay, and they were shown to an upstairs room. Cynthia didn’t have any qualms about sharing quarters with him—he barely noticed her as it was, so she highly doubted he’d start noticing her now. He set their bags on the bed, then took off his hat and placed it on the bureau in the corner.
The room was nice enough, she supposed. It was clean, and that was the most important thing, even if the blanket on the bed was a bit faded. “What time are we leaving in the morning?” she asked, turning to Mr. Rawlings.
He was hanging his coat on a peg near the door, his back to her, and she gasped. A trickle of red was seeping through his hair and onto his collar.
“You’re . . . you’re bleeding!” She scrambled for her handkerchief. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
He accepted her handkerchief and pressed it to his scalp. “I thought it had scabbed. I didn’t expect it to reopen.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me.” She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him expectantly. “Mr. Rawlings, you and I need to have a talk whether you want to or not.”
“I agree.” He sank onto the chair next to the bureau. “I just have the most beastly headache.”
“I can imagine so. I just wish you’d said something before. I might have been able to help.”
“Oh? And how would you have helped?”
She fished in her reticule again. “Headache powders, for one,” she replied, holding up the container.
He gave her a wry smile. “All right, you could have helped. My lesson is learned.”
She placed the container on the bedside table where he could access them when he was ready. “So, let’s have our little talk. For starters, I’m going to call you Corbin, unless you violently object—we’re married, after all.”
He gave a nod, then winced. “Agreed.”
“And how did you get that wound on your head?”
“Well, I mentioned that it was a harrowing morning.” He took the handkerchief from his head, looked at it, then put it back in place. Cynthia wondered if that was all he was going to say, but then he continued. “I’ve been working on something for weeks, but had reached a dead end, and Archie decided to put a fresh agent on the case and send me to Utah with you instead. When he told me this last night, I didn’t have any objection—I felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere, and maybe a new set of eyes would be just the thing. But as I was walking to the train station, I noticed that the man I’d been following was up ahead, and he was entering a building I knew to belong to the suspect in another case. Two wanted men having a meeting practically under my nose? I couldn’t just let that pass, could I?”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t,” Cynthia said. “What about the new agent assigned to the case? Couldn’t he look into it?”
“I glanced around, but didn’t see anyone following him, and if there was another agent on the street, he would have recognized me and signaled me in some way,” Corbin explained. “I don’t think Archie had the chance to make the assignment yet.”
“What happened then?”
“I waited a full minute, and then I entered the building as well. It was like a warehouse—one large room with a few smaller rooms sectioned off at the far end. I could hear voices coming from one of those rooms, so I crossed the floor as quietly as I could and listened. Sure enough, they were planning to collaborate on something bigger than either of them could have accomplished on their own, and I was in the right place at the right time. They’re both sitting in custody right now.”
“That’s wonderful! But your head . . .?”
He grimaced. “There was a bit of a dustup, but it came out all right in the end. I’m sorry for being late to meet you, though.”
She smiled, feeling a little sheepish. “I admit, I was furious, and I was planning to say all kinds of choice things to you. And then when you wouldn’t even carry on a conversation with me? I was even madder. I believe I’ve been misjudging you all day, and I apologize for that.”
“It’s all right. These haven’t been the best circumstances to get to know each other.” He checked the bleeding again and nodded. “Now, I’m sure we’re both hungry, and I’d like to take some of that headache powder. Let’s get some dinner in the hotel dining room, then come back up here and discuss the case. Will you help me clean up a bit so the other guests aren’t alarmed when they see me?”
“Of course.” Cynthia stood and looked in the pitcher sitting atop the wash basin in the corner. “Good—they filled this for us. You’ll want a clean shirt for sure.”
Corbin opened his bag and pulled out a shirt, then turned his back to change. Cynthia couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t intended to watch him anyway, but the fact that he turned around struck her as endearing. She busied herself with unpacking her hairbrush and setting it near the washbasin to be ready for the next morning. Then she poured some water into the basin and soaked her handkerchief, ready to sponge his wound.
He winced when she first touched it, but then he must have grown used to the feeling because he stopped reacting. After a moment, she’d done all she could, and nothing was visible anymore.
“There,” she said. “How does it feel now?”
“It’s throbbing, but I’ve had worse.” He glanced in the mirror over the basin, but as the wound was in the back, she didn’t know what he expected to see. “Shall we go down?”
“Yes. I’ll need to wash up first.” She washed her hands with some of the rose-scented soap provided next to the basin, hoping the bloody water in the basin wouldn’t give their maid a start, then nodded. “I’m famished. Let’s go.”
It was odd, walking into the dining room on Corbin’s arm as though they were newlyweds. Well, they were newlyweds, but not in the traditional sense. As a young girl, she’d always imagined her honeymoon as being something quite different—stars in her eyes, waving goodbye to h
er friends and family as they cheered, holding hands with the man who had stolen her heart. Now she was being seated across the table from a man she barely knew, wondering what they could possibly have in common aside from this case. Wondering what would become of them at the conclusion of their assignment.
“So, Cynthia,” Corbin said once the waitress moved out of earshot. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
“Are you hoping for something exciting? Because there’s really not much to tell. Our current situation is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Just whatever comes to your mind.” He took a sip of water, then sat back, looking at her expectantly.
She suddenly felt put on the spot. “Well, I’m the youngest of four children, and the only girl. I was born and raised in Denver, and I’m now twenty. I sing a little and I play the piano, and I also speak some French—although to be honest, I’ve never found a use for it, and I’ve often thought my time would have been better spent learning something else. Don’t tell my mother that, though—she believes a woman isn’t truly educated unless she can speak French.”
Corbin smiled. “And what does she think about our current situation?”
Cynthia looked down at the table, then back up. “She doesn’t know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t know? Mrs. Rawlings, did we elope?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, what do you know?” He shook his head. “I’m an affront to society, and I didn’t even know it.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.” She felt terrible.
“No, no—I’m teasing you. Please, go ahead.”
“You’re teasing me?”
“Yes. It’s something I do often—I should have warned you.” The waitress brought their food, and Corbin thanked her. Then he took the container of headache powders from his pocket, stirred some of the contents into his water glass and downed it, then followed it with a bite of bread. “Please, I mean it. Go ahead.”
She’d become distracted by the scent of the roast beef wafting toward her nose. After she took a bite of her own, she continued, “I’ve always enjoyed reading mystery stories, and then I started reading about …” She glanced around, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “About the Pinkertons in the newspaper. It seemed so thrilling, like all those adventure books coming to life. I tried to become interested in other lines of work such as dressmaking or teaching, but I couldn’t put my heart into them, and I finally decided to speak with Agent Gordon about my possibilities.”
An Agent for Cynthia Page 1
