An Undercover Detective's Bride

by Blythe Carver

  Make certain beforehand of the gun being loaded. She had already done that. Each chamber held one bullet, six in all.

  Knowing how to do it and possessing the gumption with which to do it, however, were two entirely different things.

  Once she knew she had no choice but to corner her pursuer and demand he tell her what he had in mind, she’d set her mind to the task of accepting what needed to be done.

  She was saving her own life, even if it meant ending his. For all she knew, she might be saving the lives of her sisters. Who was to say whether this man had come to the house with only herself in mind? He might have arrived with the intention of hurting every one of them.

  She would not know until she found him.

  Though whether or not she could afford to give him that opportunity to explain himself was debatable. That would have to be something she would decide at the moment.

  Had she taken leave of her senses? Was this truly what she had in mind? Threatening a man with a gun, telling him to leave her and her loved ones alone? Did she possess the strength, the fortitude, the brass?

  She would find out when the time came.

  First, would come the matter of tracking him down. There was as of yet only one hotel in town, and that would be the first place to start. After delivering Mr. Grant’s edited articles, of course. Molly had made certain to secure Rachel’s promise that she would deliver the completed work to the man in person rather than relying on the promise of an overworked assistant.

  With that task completed, she would be free to find the Tall Man.

  The idea of approaching Rance with the story had occurred to her. In fact, she had entertained the notion for quite some time during the hours of silent pacing while putting her plan in place. It would make sense to bring the sheriff into a matter of possible importance.

  Yet, even she, with her limited understanding of the law, knew there was nothing he could do. Even if this was the man she had seen in front of the house Baltimore, he had not menaced her. He had not threatened her. Should the sheriff question him as to his arrival in town, he might give one of any number of excuses. None of them need involve her.

  She knew before asking what Rance would say, there was nothing he could do until a crime was committed.

  She had no intention of allowing the man to commit a crime.

  It was midday by the time she rolled down Carson Street, the boardwalks lining both sides even more crowded than they had been upon her departure the day before. It was time for dinner and perhaps a walk afterward before one settled into their afternoon work. On such a fine day there were bound to be plenty of townsfolk who longed for a breath of fresh air.

  She wished she could enjoy herself the way they seemed to, strolling along, greeting each other on their way. Gentlemen from the bank, young men and women who toiled away at the capitol building. A pair of giggling girls walked arm-in-arm, sharing stories which made them blush and burst into gales of ill-concealed laughter.

  She wished she could be like them. So carefree, enrapt in the sorts of things people of their age felt were important. Neither of them suffered nightmares of a threatening presence. Neither of them knew what it meant to steal a pistol with the intent of protecting their own lives.

  She tied the horses off halfway down the block, knowing there was a chance of someone recognizing the buggy if she left it across from the jailhouse. If Rance spotted her, or if Phoebe had chosen that morning to pay her husband a visit while he worked, they would hold her up.

  Enough shillyshallying. Time was not an ally. The longer it took to find him, the more chance he had of finding her, and her family. They might entirely miss one other if she wasn’t careful. He might go on his way down the road which led to the ranch without her knowing it.

  And then what would happen? What would he do?

  Her stomach cramped at the very idea.

  She made quick work of dropping the articles off with Mr. Grant, who thanked her effusively. She only half-heard him, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Where to begin?

  She could go straight to the hotel, but what would she do once she found him? The very notion of being alone with the man from her nightmares made her wish more than she ever had that her mother was still alive. That she might hide behind a voluminous skirt and have her fears smoothed away by a loving hand.

  There was no such rest available to her. Not when her sisters might be in jeopardy.

  If only she hadn’t asked about Langley, and the name E. Byrne. Why had she chosen that man out of all others to ply with questions?

  Because he had been handsome? Because his eyes had been arrestingly blue and warm and kind? Because he’d sent shivers of delight down her spine whenever he favored her with a smile?

  Because she would’ve done anything to hold him in place, anything to give herself a reason to speak with him just a bit more.

  Look where that had gotten her. Carrying a pistol she was sure everyone knew was in her reticule, dangling from her clenched hand. How could they fail to notice its shape in her bag?

  Breathe, Rachel. She drew a deep breath through her nose before letting it out through pursed lips. No one knew she was carrying a pistol. She merely felt guilty, which made it feel as though a light shone directly on her. Telling everyone she passed of her murderous plans.

  They had no way of knowing what was on her mind so long as she was careful to conceal her nervousness.

  She was at the corner, about to cross to the block on which the hotel was located, when a tall figure emerged from the building’s double doors.

  Immediately, she ducked beneath the awning outside the nearest establishment, Ruby’s Restaurant. Was it him? He wore a tan suit, dark brown leather boots. A dark brown hat. His beard as was as thick and full as before, hiding what she remembered as a square chin with a cleft in the middle.

  His eyes were unmistakable, regardless of the spectacles he now wore. They caught the attention of the same giggling young women she’d noticed earlier, still walking with their arms intertwined. They noticed him while crossing Carson Street, the two of them giggling and glancing back over their shoulders to take one more look at him. He smiled slightly, which she knew meant the appearance of dimples in his cheeks.

  She hadn’t understood until then how she’d memorized his face. Every inch of it. What a waste of time that had turned out to be, seeing as he now menaced her.

  Would he come her way? Her heart was barely beating, her knees shaking, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. Would he turn left on reaching the opposite boardwalk? Would he pass her way?

  She could breathe again when he continued straight into Mr. Lawrence’s saloon. Just a man in search of refreshment and perhaps a bit of entertainment. She blushed at the notion.

  An idea sparked, then flickered to life in the back of her mind.

  What if this was her chance? No one would think twice of a shooting in a saloon. What else could one expect in such an establishment? Especially from a stranger, new in town, without a friend to speak on his behalf?

  If she could corner him, her troubles would be over.

  She set off down the street once he disappeared through the swinging door. How was she to approach him? That was going to be a bit tricky. She wasn’t the type accustomed to sashaying into a rough saloon. Molly would have a fit if she heard.

  A giggle bubbled up in the back of her throat, one she attributed to an overwrought mind. As if stepping foot inside a saloon was the most scandalous thing she intended to do with her day.

  Her boots clicked smartly against the wooden boards, her gait resolute. She would lure him away, perhaps, waving to him from outside and signaling for him to join her elsewhere. Behind the building, for instance. Yes, that would do the trick. With any luck, there would be too much noise coming from inside for anyone to hear a gunshot, and his body might lie in the alleyway while she made her escape.

  No one need be the wiser.

  Why, then, did her stomach clench
worse than ever before? A good thing she hadn’t the appetite for breakfast, or else she might have treated those nearby to a view of her meal as it came back up.

  Her steps slowed considerably once she neared the building. What was she thinking? Could she really do this?

  A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her, brought her head around in time to notice a young woman standing between the saloon and the livery beside it. She leaned with her back to the wall, arms crossed over her middle. A weak cough stirred Rachel’s sympathy.

  “Are you in need of help?” she asked, approaching with caution. then, she took note of the young woman’s clothing.

  She was one of the girls who worked inside the saloon. It was the only reason why she’d be wearing such a garish nightmare of a costume. Her low-cut bodice was of the cheapest red satin, trimmed in black lace which also appeared to be of second-rate quality. The full skirt came only halfway down her leg, downright shocking, being able to see from a woman’s ankle all the way up her knee!

  She coughed again, the poor thing, her complexion wan beneath layers of rouge and powder. “Can’t cough in there,” she explained in a weak voice. “Can’t let the men know when you’ve come down with the grippe.”

  “Poor dear.” Rachel looked up and down the passage between the two buildings as a new idea formed in her mind. Did she have the gumption?

  Never mind the gumption. What she didn’t have was a choice. Or time to waste.

  She sized the stranger up. Dark hair like her own, roughly the same height, though the girl was fuller in the bust and hips than she. It might work, nonetheless. She might be able to blend in beneath the shrewd gaze of Mr. Henry Lawrence, the proprietor.

  “How would you like the chance to rest for a bit?” Rachel asked, thinking of the banknotes in her reticule.

  Fifteen minutes later, the act was done. She was now a saloon girl.

  At least, she was dressed like one.

  Her hands shook as she applied more rouge. “Is he still down there?” she asked the girl, Lorna, when she returned.

  “He’s still seated at the bar. You had better hurry.”

  Hurry? She could hardly walk in shoes that were far too large, stuffed with scraps of paper to help them fit. She couldn’t imagine showing so much skin to a group of strangers, shoulders, neck, chest. Her bosom nearly spilled from the tight bodice, even with the difference between her figure and Lorna’s.

  Lorna sank onto the bed, coughing weakly. “Thank you,” she murmured, holding the money which now belonged to her in one fist.

  “Rest and take care of yourself. And hide that money. You wouldn’t want Lawrence finding it. If anyone asks you, tell them… you were asleep. You’re feeling ill and wanted time to rest. I stole this from you. Only please, for the love of everything, don’t tell them my name.”

  “You never told me, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” She peered out the door. Her belongings were in the fourth room from the stairs. Including the pistol. Best to keep them clear of Lorna’s room. She wouldn’t have wanted to get the poor girl into trouble.

  No more time to waste. She smoothed shaking hands over Lorna’s bodice and touched the mass of pinned-up curls perched high on her head.

  It was time to meet the Tall Man.

  7

  Not a terrible place. Not by any stretch.

  He’d seen his share of tawdry, filthy establishments. The sorts of places where men brawled, overturning tables, shooting out the bottles behind the bar.

  Fortunately, he’d never been present for such a brawl. Not that he couldn’t handle himself in a fight, training was part of his job, making certain he could hold his own should an emergency arise, but the notion of dodging bullets fired by drunken fools hardly appealed to him.

  He looked about, wondering who might give him what he needed. The worst mistake he could make would be overplaying his hand. Tipping strangers off to his true purpose in being there.

  Leaving a trail for Liam or one of his associates should they, too, come looking for her.

  Unless he’d missed them. Unless they’d already found her. But would that not have made the news? He’d scoured the paper from front to back, never finding word of a disturbance. An heiress from back East, menaced by brutes, would certainly make news.

  He could only pray his suppositions were correct.

  Perhaps the barkeep, a tall, burly gentleman who Mason suspected might have done double duty as a guard for the half-dressed girls and someone to keep fighting to a minimum, might know something. It stood to reason that much of the town’s gossip would reach his ears at one point or another.

  He opened his mouth, intent on asking, when a somewhat familiar sight came into view on the other side of the room, descending the stairs.

  Her. Rachel. There was no doubt in his mind.

  It was enough of a shock to nearly knock him from his stool. What was she doing here? Half-dressed, among these painted women? Was it possible she had a twin? No, he would’ve read about her. The two older girls were twins, not Rachel.

  Perhaps they all looked that much alike.

  No, the nearer she came, the more evident it was. This was Rachel. And she was headed straight for him, weaving her way through the maze of tables, all of them occupied even in the early afternoon.

  Though it gave him no pleasure, seeing her like this, he breathed a sigh of relief. She was here. She was safe.

  He’d made it in time, though there was no telling how much more time there was to spare. She could have been in danger at that very moment.

  He wished he knew how to proceed from this point. Should he tell her of his motives for crossing the country? How exactly did one break news to a woman that her every move might, at that very moment, be watched by some threatening presence?

  She was unaware of this. To her, he was nothing more than a customer, or was he? Was there familiarity in her eyes? Or had he been correct in his assumption that she had no reason to remember him?

  He snickered to himself. Which would you prefer? He wished he knew.

  “I haven’t seen you in town before.” She looked him up and down in a very obvious way. She was either new to the saloon, or she was desperate. There was a hunger in her eyes.

  She stirred sympathy in him regardless.

  It wasn’t that he had a great deal of experience with this sort of woman. He made it a point to stay away from them, in fact. Too many stories of men getting themselves caught up with women like this. Drunken shootings over a woman who cared for neither of the parties involved half as much as she cared for their money. The women themselves meeting an unhappy end thanks to men who became obsessed with them.

  There simply wasn’t any call to involve himself in that sort of behavior.

  Yet she wasn’t that sort of woman. He remembered the sweet, kind, bright young lady he’d met at the telegraph office. How lovely her smile, how modest her demeanor. How she’d blushed furiously at his invitation for a cup of coffee.

  Not the behavior of someone comfortable with cozying up to a man while wearing what barely passed for undergarments, not to mention a face full of paint which hardly did her justice.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he smiled, leaving distance between them. No sense in encouraging her, though he also needed her to linger. He couldn’t frighten her away or lead her to believe she was wasting her time on a prospective customer.

  “What brings you here, then?” Her eyes darted about in a furtive manner. It wouldn’t be possible for him to ignore her body language, not when he’d spent his entire career reading every move of just about everyone he’d come into contact with.

  Habits could be difficult to break.

  “Business. Just arrived yesterday.”

  “Business? What sort of business?” She tipped her head to the side, smiling. A bit too wide, a bit too hard. No warmth.

  “Nothing that would interest someone as lovely as yourself, I’m certain.”

  S
he lifted one creamy, exposed shoulder in a shrug. “You might be surprised. There is a brain in my head.”

  “Is there? What brings you here, then?”

  “Pardon me?” Her eyes flashed, leaving him uncertain whether to congratulate himself for getting through to her or to fall in love. There was such spirit, such fire. He’d never imagined.

  Concentrate. He drew a deep breath. “I merely wondered how a young woman with a brain in her head would fall upon difficult enough times to wind up here. In a place like this.”

  If this was truly her profession, she was dreadful at it. A saloon girl’s first duty was to accept anything and everything a customer offered with a smile, so as to encourage him to spend more money. On her, on liquor, on a good time.

  She was not supposed to alienate the customers.

  She was not supposed to have an opinion. Conversation was meant to be light, trivial; the sort people engaged in when they were enjoying themselves.

  If she was truly experienced and at all dedicated to earning a living at this, she would laugh off his question and offer to share a whiskey with him.

  Part of him was glad of this. Glad to see her react this way. It meant she was no good as a saloon girl. If she treated him as the other girls in the place treated their men, it would have come as a grave disappointment.

  A greater disappointment than it should have, and he knew it.

  She averted her eyes, tilting her head down until her gaze rested upon her shoes. Ill-fitting shoes, at that. To what bad end had she fallen victim here?

  None of it made sense. Why would she, a young woman on her way to inheriting a sizable ranch, find need to debase herself so? What had gone on between the night she left and this day?

  “There are times in which things simply do not go as we planned.” She glanced up at him, though she would not hold his gaze. “Have you never found this to be true?”

  “Oh, certainly.” He studied her, now that he had the luxury of doing so without her catching his eye. It was much easier to take stock of a person, be they a man or woman, when they did not notice.