An Agent for Delilah

by Kate Marie Clark

  Delilah relaxed. “More than most.”

  He sighed and dipped his chin. Sunlight flickered across his eyes.

  Delilah sucked in a quick breath. Her partner—no, husband—was handsome. His looks, like the rest of him, were subtle until he stepped into action. And then, like his rounded shoulders and startling height, Jack could summon a presence more devastating than a tsunami. Delilah could only imagine the havoc he was capable of wreaking if she were to allow him an inch of her affection. The result would be catastrophic.

  A whimper from the front of the wagon whipped against the wind.

  Jack craned his neck to the side. “Mr. Wilkins don’t need to know the particulars. Leave the explaining to me.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he continued, “Most proper ladies don’t have a say in such matters.”

  Delilah huffed. Thank goodness she wasn’t proper. A marriage of submission seemed the ultimate prison. Although…

  She took in the sight of her new husband. He was less aggravating than most men; he was different, quiet, and, more than any other man, treated her as equal. Delilah dropped her chin to her chest. What was she doing? First the tingles at his touch moments earlier and now her assessment of his character?

  She wasn’t cut out for marriage. Her father and brothers had teased her for her boyishness. She was small and hadn’t the curves most women possessed; she was rowdy and ornery at times. Delilah swallowed and turned away from Jack. No matter his disposition or attractiveness, he wouldn’t find her desirable; no one had before.

  Chapter 4

  “Davis?” The small woman scratched her chin, and her eyes grew cloudy. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  Jack winced. He’d an older brother South of Denver that had quite the reputation for his large ranch operations. “I’ve family in Colorado, but no one from around these parts.”

  The boardinghouse door was patched with scrap wood, nailed over the chipped-painted entry to their lodgings. Jack tilted his head and squinted, placing his fist at the top patch and tapping his foot against the lower one. What violent turn of events had led a man to break the door?

  “My, my.” Delilah fanned her cheek with a gloved hand. “It seems we’re lucky to have been given a key.”

  “Just so,” Maggie said, smiling widely at Delilah. The hotel owner had to be at least seventy. Maggie was small and wrinkled yet uncommonly energetic. There was a hop in her step, and a knowing gleam in her gray eyes. “Milton thinks he can break through any of my doors. At least the second time he’s done so.”

  Jack lifted his brows.

  “I ain’t kidding. Milton always was a naughty boy. His mother used to throw such a fit whenever she got a visit from the school teacher or sheriff. Anyhow, it took all my efforts to dissuade him from knocking down this door completely. I haven’t replaced the door. Seems a shame to when I can just patch it.”

  “Then it’s true?” He grinned. From the height of the markings on the door, Jack surmised the landlady was half the size of this Milton. “You must have pulled out a card or two to stop a man like that.”

  Maggie laughed. Her voice was raspy and tired, but stubbornly cheerful. “You don’t get to be my age without learning a trick or two.”

  A blonde head peeked out from behind the landlady. The girl was young, perhaps only nine years old, but her light eyes seemed to be filled with a lifetime of pain.

  Maggie sighed. “Milton is after this one, too. When I took Cora in, I never imagined—”

  “The girl is yours?” Delilah asked.

  The elderly woman nodded. “Not technically, but as much mine as this hotel. She don’t talk a lot but count yourself fortunate if you catch her singing. The girl has the voice of a songbird. Milton wants nothing more than to put her on stage at his saloon. Heartless Beast of a man.”

  Jack glanced at the blonde once more. Her hair was wild, with wisps standing in all directions. Her hands gripped Maggie’s apron with the force of a steel trap, and she seemed ready to jump at the smallest of sounds.

  A sliver shot through Jack’s throat. He swallowed. He’d seen too many abandoned children in his travels and work with the agency. Mothers died in childbirth all too often, fathers fell at the hands of Indians or bandits.

  Jack knew firsthand that the world was cruel to children; he had been born the youngest in a family of ranchers. His oldest brother had received the entire inheritance, while Jack had been left without anything except a small allowance for his work on the range. His nephew, only a few years older than the girl at Maggie’s side, would, in turn, inherit the family operation. Even Jack’s sister had been given a chance at a future, though marriage was a high price to pay for fortune.

  Delilah stepped into the room, and her heeled boots clicked against the boarded floor. She had returned to playing her part as an heiress quickly, as if turning the gun on a bandit and sending the man on a frightened animal was only a slip of her composure.

  Jack was known for his ability to read others, and that talent had won him many a case. Yet, Delilah was more puzzle than picture. Jack caught fragments of her thought patterns and glimpses of her opinions, but she held back more often than not, all under the guise of strength and independence.

  Jack glanced from Delilah to Maggie. The elderly woman possessed something of a similar quality. There was courage and strength and impulsivity in both women. But Maggie possessed qualities Delilah did not—assuredness, contentedness, acceptance of her lot in life.

  “Well, will it do?” Maggie asked, smacking her lips together.

  Delilah turned about the room. “Temporarily, but then I must have my husband find us new lodgings. A home perhaps?”

  Maggie chuckled for the third time, placing her hands to her bony hips. “You won’t find many accommodations available. Crooked Creek is a dying town. I reckon I can ask around for you.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” Delilah retuned to Jack’s side. Her blue eyes hinted at laughter, and Jack suspected she enjoyed playing dress-up. “Poor Mr. Wilkins. Seems he got a nasty headache by the hand of those bandits. Shall my husband retrieve the trunks instead?”

  The elderly woman wafted a hand toward Delilah. “Don’t you waste a moment worrying about ol’ Terrance. He’s been in more blunders than any man in town, but that’s to be expected when you’ll do just about anything for a dime. Gravedigging, cow-skinning, scat-scooping man that he is.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “I haven’t had a decent sleep in forty-eight hours.”

  Maggie nodded, biting her lower lip. She pulled the small girl out the door, poking her head in the crack to add one final bit before shutting the door. “I’ll be at the desk downstairs if you need me.”

  Delilah sat on the bed, bouncing against the creaky springs. She tossed her hat to the side, revealing stacks of red curls atop her head. Her lips puckered, and a shy blush overtook her features. “The bed isn’t nearly big enough for the both of us.”

  Jack’s shoulders shook with laughter. The bed was barely wide enough for Jack alone, but he was shocked she thought he’d even consider such a thing. Did Delilah have such a low opinion of him? “You can rest your mind at ease. I’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders curved forward, and the tension in her face disappeared. “Well, now what?”

  She was awfully pretty when she looked up at him like that—curious and trusting and gentle. Delilah was the type of woman from fairytales, part fairy and part witch. Her innocent eyes lured Jack closer, yet her red hair warded him away like flames to a fire. She was unpredictable, impossibly difficult.

  But Jack had a notion Delilah was softer than she strived to appear. The demands and debating were more disguise than any mask or wig in the trunk in the back of Terrance’s wagon.

  “Well?” she asked, widening her gaze.

  He folded his arms. “The trunks. I’ll get the trunks and see what I can find out about the bandits. I wouldn’t be surprised if those two men were in lea
gue with Gunner Brooks.”

  “And what about me? You expect me to sit in this room, awaiting your direction?” Delilah stood and stepped within a foot of him. Her brows knit together. “You promised to train me as an agent. I expect you’ll teach me each step along the way. I won’t stand to be treated as a simpleton.”

  Jack could almost feel the smoke from her anger. He put his hands to her shoulders. “Hold on a second…”

  She flinched, and her eyelids lowered.

  His breath caught. She was so much smaller than him. He could have easily scooped her up in his arms. “I’m not saying anything of that sort. I need some time to think. I don’t plan each case hour by hour. Most of the work I do is on the spot—wherever the clues takes me.”

  “And where are they taking you?” Delilah asked, craning her neck to meet his glance.

  For a moment, Jack forgot about everything but her. Was it her nearness that played tricks on his senses, or was there meaning behind his rapid heartbeat and sweaty palms? Marrying, even for a case, might prove catastrophic, if he were to fall in love with the woman before him. He had little hope of her returning any bit of affection, not if her constant flinching at his touch was any indication.

  “That bad?”

  Jack dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. He rubbed his hand at the back of his neck. “Not at all. I’ll start with Milton and Terrance. Between the two of them, we might have some leads. If you’re determined to do your part, why don’t you parade around the dress shop and the like? Make an impression on Crooked Creek, and wear one of the necklaces we packed—a real flashy one.”

  Delilah grinned and picked up her hat from the bed. Her face took on a characteristic blankness, and Jack almost thought he saw confidence shining from behind the façade. “I am becoming quite good at playing my part as a proper lady. Shall we meet for dinner at the café two doors down?”

  “If you’d like.” Jack repressed a smile. He didn’t mind meeting her one bit.

  Terrance Wilkins downed the second glass of beer in less than four swallows. His eyes were bloodshot, and his three-day beard was crusted from his earlier dinner. He grinned at Jack. “I’m an impartial man, Mr. Davis. I don’t much care who I work for, or what I do, long as I make a dime or two. So I keep company with the best and worst kind of fold in Crooked Creek. And I’ll keep company with you, if you can afford me.”

  The saloon was filled to capacity, but most of the noise revolved around a heated poker game in the center of the room. The table was encompassed with bystanders, some placing their own bets on which of the final two men would take the jackpot.

  Jack flicked his chin toward the crowd. Working with a man like Terrance was dangerous, but not in the physical sense. Terrance was skin and bones, with the strength of a child. But the man was dicey. Jack set his glass on the table and sighed. “Tell me about those men in the poker game.”

  “What’s it to you?” Terrance asked.

  Jack flicked a coin in the man’s direction. “I want to know the good and bad of Crooked Creek. My wife determined this town to be our new home—thanks to the words of a fortune-teller we ran into in Denver. But me? I’m not so convinced.”

  Terrance’s bushy brows wiggled up and down. “A fortune-teller? I’ve heard about them witches. I wouldn’t pay them mind.” He stretched out his legs, hoisting them up on the chair across from him, the chair that rested beside Jack.

  A repulsive odor emanated from Terrance’s feet, and Jack scooted away. “And what of the town, Mr. Wilkins?”

  Terrance’s mouth opened as he seemed to contemplate. “Now, Crooked Creek is a good enough town. I won’t say it’s the type for your wife, though. If you ain’t careful, Mr. Davis, you’re liable to be shot, if only to free up your woman. Diamonds of the first water don’t often travel through. We don’t see money like hers very much either. In fact, the men at the table yonder are the type in search of money like that.”

  Jack nodded. “Most are. What are the names of those fellows?”

  The taller of the two was busy pushing his entire pile of chips into the center of the table. His eyes were shielded in the shade of a hat, but he didn’t seem the least rattled by the wager. The other man was short and slender, with a handlebar mustache that rivaled Jack’s own.

  “The big ‘uns Milton. And the second? Don’t know.”

  Jack scowled and took the coin out of Terrance’s stringy fingers. “I don’t pay for nothing.”

  “Hold on,” the man said, nearly falling over the table to take the money back. “I ain’t finished.”

  “No?” Jack dangled the coin in front of Terrance like a pocket watch. “Tell me what you know, and then I’ll decide if it’s worth my dime or time.”

  Terrance shifted his weight and scratched at his beard. “The smaller one, and the man to his right, don’t tell their names to no one. Only just came to town two weeks ago. They mostly stick to the saloon. I gather they made friends with Milton, but I heard Sheriff talking to his deputy, something about an outlaw gang…but it wasn’t my business to pry.”

  The timing lined up with the Gunner Brook’s flight from Denver, but Jack needed more to go on. He moved the coin back to his pocket. “Is that all you’ve got? Half the west is made of nameless outlaws.”

  A momentary silence ensued, and Terrance tapped his boots together in seeming contemplation. “I don’t much reckon this makes any difference, but I seen their wagon three days ago when I buried Mag’s cat. Darn animal got herself runned over by my wagon. I buried the cat free of charge, mind you.”

  Jack lifted a brow, ignoring Terrance’s talk of the dead cat. “Anything in the wagon stand out to you?”

  Terrance swallowed. “Those men eat like bears. They packed up enough jerky and taters to feed themselves for a month—and that’s the second time I seen them do that.”

  That much food could only mean one thing; the men had set up camp and likely were bringing food for an entire posse. Jack leaned back in his chair and turned to look at the men once more.

  Milton was large and formidable and had the look of an overgrown child—impulsive, impatient, and ready to throw a tantrum if he lost his chips. He grunted each time his opponent looked at his cards.

  The other man was quiet and the type that kept a hand near his holster at all times. Considering Milton’s threatening glance, the smaller man appeared calm—perhaps even bored. A man from across the room flashed a mirror at a lantern, reflecting the light on the ceiling above the table. The man opposite Milton set down his hand.

  Four of a kind.

  Milton’s eyes bulged, and he thumped his hand down on the table. “Think you can beat me in my own saloon with a grouping of tens?”

  Jack turned his chair and rolled up his sleeves. Things would turn interesting real fast, if Milton had his way. The holes in the doors at Maggie’s boardinghouse were proof of Milton’s temper.

  Trouble was an interesting thing; sometimes, Jack found it served a purpose—mostly in making an impression. And Jack had set out for the saloon that night for two reasons only; to milk every bit of information out of Terrance Wilkins he could and to make an impression on the men in Crooked Creek.

  Terrance had already spilled, and now, Jack had an opportunity to make an impression.

  “Seems my drinks are on you too,” said the winning player, pulling the chips toward his side of the table. “Another game tomorrow night?”

  Milton’s face turned dark, and he spit to the side of the table. “I don’t serve anything for free, including victory.”

  The surrounding voices trailed into silence.

  Milton stared down the man opposite him. “If you aim to step foot in here again, you’ll apologize.”

  “For winning?” the man asked, twirling the edge of his mustache on one finger. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever apologized for such a thing.”

  Jack stood and strode to the table. Now was as good a time as any. He was either a genius
or set for a fist fight—possibly worse. “I reckon you’ve never been caught cheating neither.”

  The slender man stood and turned to Jack. His right hand trembled above his holster. “Milton, tell your man to back down from that claim.”

  Jack’s eyes lowered to the man’s hand at his holster. His right index finger was disfigured. Jack’s mind raced; he remembered reading about a similar finger on the right hand of Gunner Brooks.

  Milton’s black eyes turned to Jack, sweeping over him with sudden interest. “I don’t know this man, but we’ll hear what he’s got to say. Sir?”

  Jack straightened to his full height, towering over both men. He hadn’t expected to kill two birds with one stone—make an impression on one of Brooks’s men, and gain Milton’s trust in the same moment—but Jack was happy to oblige. A debt of someone like Milton could come in handy. Jack placed his hands on his hips and sighed. “I hate to make an enemy on my first day in Crooked Creek, but morality isn’t constrained by schedules. Milton, your opponent cheated. I witnessed it fair and square.”

  “How?” Milton said, folding his arms. His cheeks had returned to their normal color, and his lips twitched in seeming amusement. Tell me how Les cheated.”

  Les—Jack didn’t remember seeing that name in the list of Brooks’s gang of outlaws. But the fact that Charles ended with “les” was encouraging. In fact, the man in front of Jack looked nothing like an outlaw—short, slender, groomed. Yet, there was something about Les’s disaffected act; no one was that relaxed in a game of cards unless they were guaranteed a win.

  “Yes, tell me,” Les said, shaking his head. He lifted his hands in the air and signaled to the man next to him to search him. “Cheating is quite the allegation. Tell me how you think I did it.”

  Jack shrugged and pointed to the man in the back of the crowd. “I saw your man with the mirror, shining the light at the ceiling as signal. I don’t claim to know how you did it, but I know you set your cards down at the sight.”

  At that, Milton whistled, and his men searched the bystander. They lifted a pocket mirror in the air. Les and his friends were thrown from the establishment instantly, with less courtesy than Jack imagined Terrance gave to Maggie’s dead cat.