Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  Okie-Sam shrugged and turned his attention to Katie. “I’ll have what the sheriff’s having.”

  No sooner did she serve Okie-Sam his pie than the rest of the local regulars arrived, including Long-Shot.

  But even as Katie served the others she couldn’t shake the feeling that Branch was sitting on a keg of dynamite about ready to explode. Maybe they both were.

  Chapter 28

  Branch felt bad for pushing Katie away emotionally if not physically, but it was for her own good as well as his. Holding her in his arms—watching her sleep—made him realize how easily he could fall in love with her. He wouldn’t allow himself to go that route. It would be disastrous.

  She was used to excitement and adventure. A town like this would bore her to tears. Just like it had bored Hannah.

  That’s why his wife kept working even though he’d begged her to quit. How he’d hated her leaving the house at night, but she’d refused to let him accompany her. “No sense us both staying up all night,” she’d say.

  He’d had good reason to worry. Predatory Indian bands still roamed Kansas back in the early seventies. The town had not been attacked, but that didn’t stop him from worrying.

  Once she’d been robbed. Another time she’d been chased in horse and buggy by a gang of hoodlums, and still she refused to quit. It was the one thing they’d argued about. Her job had been a thorn that pricked holes into an otherwise perfect marriage.

  He was no less worried about Katie’s habit of leaving the Harvey House at night, but that was the least of it. Hannah had dealt mainly with expectant mothers and nervous fathers. Katie’s job required her to rub noses with murderers, robbers, and other social misfits.

  If anything happened to her…

  Nope. Wasn’t traveling down that road again. Not with Katie. Not with any woman.

  Still, there was no denying that Katie was a distraction, and that was the last thing he needed. Not with Clayborn watching him like a vulture.

  Did Clayborn suspect something? Hard to know. For certain he couldn’t be put off much longer. Nor, apparently, did he intend to leave town without getting what he came for. Branch had already warned his housekeeper to keep Andy away from Clayborn, though he didn’t explain why.

  He considered all his options and always came back to the same thing: Clayborn understood money. That’s about all he understood.

  Branch did a mental check of his assets and grimaced. He couldn’t afford to pay off a church mouse, let alone a money-hungry mongrel like Clayborn.

  The tornado had wiped him out business-wise, and it had taken years to get back on his feet. Not till the last year could the town afford to pay him a decent wage.

  A bank loan? He discounted the idea as soon as he thought it. His house was already mortgaged to the hilt. It was the money he’d lived on while the town was being rebuilt.

  It would have been easier had he left like the others, but that would have meant leaving Hannah, and that he could never do. Her grave held him to the town like the roots of a tree.

  But staying to rebuild Calico had been a mistake. Not only had it taken a toll physically, emotionally, and financially, but had he moved elsewhere he might never have come face-to-face with Clayborn.

  He grimaced. No sense thinking about what he should and shouldn’t have done. Concentrate on the present. That’s what he had to do. Figure out how to handle Clayborn.

  One thing was certain; he was quickly running out of time. How he knew that he couldn’t say. It was just something he felt in his bones, as if some inner clock were ticking.

  As for Katie, he best stay away from her while he still could.

  Pen and paper in hand, Katie slipped outside through the main restaurant entrance. She left the other girls eating lunch in the employee dining area off the kitchen. Employees had only a thirty-minute lunch break, and she meant to make the most of hers.

  The weather had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Earlier the air had seemed almost too heavy to breathe. Now a brisk wind tugged at her skirt and cut through her shirtwaist, bringing with it the smell of rain. Clouds gathered on the distant horizon dark as thick smoke. Flashes of lightning zigzagged downward followed by the mutter of thunder.

  Tornado weather, Mary-Lou had announced over breakfast. Katie had never experienced an actual tornado, but recalling the aftermath of a twister that hit a Nebraska town days before she’d arrived on assignment, a shiver coursed through her.

  Mrs. Bracegirdle’s words echoed in her head: “Ripped this town in two and killed almost a dozen people, including Branch’s wife.”

  Now, as always, whenever Branch came to mind she lingered over the thought like a mother over a newborn. What an awful thing to lose a wife in such a horrible way. He was lucky his son survived, but it couldn’t be easy raising a youngster alone.

  Maybe that’s why he had been so protective of Andy. He certainly looked ready to fight off an army when Clayborn asked to join his table. Not that she could blame him, of course, knowing what she now knew of the man. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to the story. A whole lot more.

  The memory of Branch’s expression when she told him what she knew about Clayborn puzzled her. Even as he sought information from her it felt like he was slamming a door in her face.

  Not that it mattered. Okay, maybe a little, but that was all she was willing to concede. Actually, he’d done her a favor by forcing a distance between them. His efforts had served as a reminder that her real purpose was to find a killer. Losing her heart along the way was not an option.

  With a determined nod, she glanced around for a place to sit. She should have brought a wrap, but not wanting to waste time going to her room, she headed for the bench outside the railroad baggage room. The building at her back helped shield her from the wind.

  Ignoring both the clouds on the horizon and the ones in her heart, she pulled her notebook out of her purse along with a nib pen and bottle of ink. She set her writing supplies on the bench by her side.

  Finding the time to write the daily reports required by the Pinkerton agency was always a challenge, but this particular assignment made the task even more difficult. Just being seen with pen and paper brought Pickens flying to her side to demand the reason.

  Pinkerton procedures required all communications be sent in cipher. Timelines had to be accurate and dialogue written exactly as spoken.

  It worried her that she didn’t have a tangible new lead or clue to add to today’s report. No matter how many times she went over the facts in the case, she always came up empty.

  There were many reasons that someone might resort to murder. Unless they were dealing with an insane killer or in this case, sleepwalker, one of them would surely apply. Greed and money topped the list, but neither victim had anything of value. Murder was often a crime of passion, but nothing suggested love or obsession was involved.

  Protecting something or someone was another motive for murder. Did Ginger and Priscilla know something that put them in harm’s way? A secret of some sort?

  The wind suddenly grew stronger, rustling the pages of her notebook and lifting her skirt above her ankles. Just as she closed the writing tablet, a gust of wind ripped it out of her hands. Oh no!

  Jumping to her feet, she chased after it. Her notes were written in code, but still, she couldn’t take the chance on someone finding them.

  Hopping off the platform, she ran along the train tracks, the wind at her back. The notebook blew against the water tower where she was able to retrieve it, but by then most of the pages had been ripped away.

  Just as she turned toward the Harvey House, she noticed a young boy chasing his hat. Something was vaguely familiar about him. She brushed her hair away from her face and narrowed her eyes.

  “Andy?” she called, the wind carrying her voice away. “Andy! Is that you?” This time she waved her arms to attract his attention.

  The boy stopped running and waved back. By now the wind was blowing so ha
rd he was having a hard time remaining on his feet.

  The clouds had taken on a greenish tint, and without warning, hailstones fell, hitting the ground like locusts.

  “Come!” she yelled, gesturing wildly. “Come with me.”

  The boy turned away, presumably to look for his hat, but it was gone. He started toward her, but the stinging wind knocked him to the ground.

  A gale-force rush of air roared in her ears and pushed her forward. “Hold on!” The words were snatched out of her mouth. Blinded by dust and debris and battered by hail, she was lucky to find the small, huddled body.

  She lifted him into her arms and held him close. Fortunately, he was slightly built, but even so, she struggled to walk with the added weight. Arms around her neck, he buried his head against her chest, his slight frame shaking. His hair blew in her face, mingling with her own.

  Body bent, she moved forward, using the railroad tracks as her guide. Her eyes watered, blurring what little vision was left.

  A thunderous sound filled the air and shook the ground. No train was due, so what could it be? She stared at the dark wall ahead and froze. Much to her horror a herd of stampeding cattle headed their way.

  Branch tethered his horse to the railing in front of the deserted cabin. It used to be the Connor place, but old man Connor died two years ago and it had been deserted ever since.

  Or maybe not. That’s what he was here to find out. One of the local farmers stopped by his office that morning to report seeing lights in the old place. He’d asked Branch to check it out.

  The wind had picked up quite a bit in the last few minutes, beating against him like angry fists. A gust blew so hard that the prairie grass lay flat as a carpet and the nearby cottonwoods threatened to break in two. A storm was definitely brewing. He just hoped it wouldn’t turn into a tornado. This was the time of year for them.

  Anxious to get back to town, he took the steps leading up to the porch two at a time and pounded on the weathered wood door. Nothing.

  The door sprang open with only a slight turn of the knob, thanks to the wind. “Hello! Anyone here?”

  He stepped inside. The windows were covered with oil cloth, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The cabin smelled of chimney smoke and dust and, strangely enough, something else: danger.

  A quick glance around soon convinced him that the latter was merely a figment of his imagination. Or maybe it was simply the brewing storm that kept him on edge.

  The cabin was lightly furnished with a scarred wooden table, chairs, sagging sofa, and woodstove.

  A bedroll was spread out on the wood plank floor next to a lantern and box of safety matches. He checked the kitchen. The counters were empty except for a rotting apple and ashtray full of cigar butts. In the sink was a tin cup.

  Someone had been here, all right. Since the arrival of the train, it wasn’t all that unusual for vagrants to make themselves at home in vacant cabins. Only last year Jeff Parker arrived home following a trip out of town only to find his house had been taken over by a family of drifters.

  A distant roar made him stiffen. No train was due at this hour, and it was too loud for thunder. God, no! He reached for the door, and it almost ripped out of his hands as he opened it. Squinting against the wind and the dust, his worst fears were confirmed: a dark spiral had touched the ground in the distance and was heading straight for town.

  Fear twisted inside him like the blade of a knife, and the blood in his veins turned to ice. Andy!

  Bending his body against the wind and fighting off the pelting hail, he ran for his horse.

  Chapter 29

  Katie miraculously reached the safety of the restaurant before the panicked cattle overtook them. She huddled next to the building, protecting Andy with her body, and waited for the frenzied herd to pass. Even the wind couldn’t drown out the sound of clashing horns and pounding hooves.

  The moment she thought it safe, she hustled Andy to the restaurant door.

  The door flew open with only a slight twist of the handle, and she almost tripped as the wind pushed her inside.

  Heavy gusts blew through the open door, lifting napkins off the table and knocking over vases of flowers. Overhead, the chandelier swung back and forth, the prisms dancing like hollow bones.

  Andy clutched at her arm, his fingers white with pressure. “Help me close the door,” she shouted over the wind.

  Reluctantly, he released his hold but stayed glued to her side. Together they battled the door shut.

  It had grown noticeably darker, and the windows rattled with pounding hail and unrelenting wind.

  Her breath escaped in short pants, and it took a great deal of effort to find her voice. “What were you doing out there? Where’s your pa?”

  “I don’t know.” Andy looked close to tears. “I couldn’t find him. He’s not in his office. I think he’s at home.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?” Surely the schoolhouse had a storm shelter.

  “Our teacher t–told us to go into the c–cellar, but I was worried about Pa.”

  The boy was visibly shaken. They both were. Hand on his shoulder, she forced a smile. “Your pa will be fine.” Dear God, make it so.

  Something banged against the outside of the building, and Andy flew into her arms. “Let’s get away from old Dragon Breath.” Hugging him tight, she moved as far away from the windows as possible.

  “That’s not a dragon,” he said. “That’s the wind.”

  “Shh. Don’t let the dragon hear you say that. He gets very upset if people don’t give him his due.”

  Pickens popped his head into the dining room. “Quick!” he called, motioning frantically with his arm. “In the cellar!”

  She grabbed Andy by the hand, and together they raced out of the dining room.

  A musty smell greeted Katie’s nose as she tried coaxing Andy down the stairs. Standing on the top tread, she held out her hand, but he refused to take it.

  “I’m scared of the dark.”

  “What?” She feigned surprise. Reasoning with him hadn’t worked. It was time for a little make-believe. “Afraid of muddy air?”

  An uncertain look crossed his face. “And spiders, too.”

  “You’re afraid of eight legs on the hoof?”

  His eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Spiders don’t have hooves.”

  “They most certainly do. And I’ll tell you something else. They don’t like muddy air.”

  Andy glanced down the cellar stairs. “They don’t?”

  “Nope. Can’t see to spin their webs. So hurry before the dragon catches us.” This time Andy took her offered hand. Casting a worried glance over his shoulder, he followed her down the stairs.

  A single candle provided the only light in the cellar, but it was enough to illuminate the pale faces of the other employees.

  “Praise the Lord,” Mary-Lou said. “I was so worried. No one knew where you were.”

  Katie sat Andy on a food crate and drew a wooden barrel next to him.

  “And who is this?” Tully asked.

  “This is Andy. He’s the sheriff’s son.”

  Tully exchanged a meaningful glance with Abigail but said nothing.

  Mary-Lou smiled. “I remember now. You just celebrated your birthday, right?”

  Andy nodded. “I’m eight.”

  Chef Gassy leaned toward him, holding out a paper bag. “Have some bonbons. All the vey from France.”

  Andy stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a foil-covered confection. Since the pea soup episode, Chef Gassy had gone out of his way to be pleasant to Katie. After offering her one as well, he turned to Miss Thatcher, who sat opposite him.

  “Vould you care for one?”

  “No, thank you,” Miss Thatcher said, clutching a book in her hands. Katie recognized the leather cover as the diary she’d found in the trunk with the wedding gown. Even in the dim light it looked like the spinster’s face had turned a shade darker. Mayb
e she wasn’t as oblivious to Chef Gassy’s admiring glances as she led everyone to believe.

  Gassy’s interest in Miss Thatcher obviously didn’t escape Tully’s notice, either, and she whispered something in Abigail’s ear. The two giggled, drawing a disapproving look from the dorm matron.

  The air was rife with meaningful glances and stilted conversation. Buzz and Tully made an effort not to look at each other, but anyone with half a brain knew that something of an amorous nature passed between the two of them.

  Off to the side sat Culpepper, wheezing like a cat with a hair ball.

  Pickens told about a tornado back in his home state of Nebraska. “Plucked the feathers clear off the chickens,” he said.

  Behind him the two cooks sat on either side of a whiskey barrel, playing cards while Howie Howard looked on.

  After Pickens finished telling his story, he climbed the stairs, cautiously opened the door leading to the kitchen, and vanished. A moment later he called the all clear sign and, one by one, they left the cellar.

  Something fell out of Miss Thatcher’s book, and Katie stooped to pick it up. It was a daguerreotype of a young man in an army uniform. He had a full, round face, dark hair, and sideburns. The seriousness of his dark sack coat and forage hat provided a striking contrast to the impish gaze he afforded the camera.

  By the time Katie and Andy reached the top of the stairs, Miss Thatcher was nowhere in sight.

  “Gid-up!” Branch shouted to his horse. He covered his mouth with a kerchief to keep from breathing in dust. His hat blew off, but the stampede string kept it from flying away. Instead it bobbed against his back like a loose shutter, the leather cord tugging at his neck.

  Wind usually didn’t bother Midnight, but then, the horse had never confronted a storm quite like this.

  Sensing danger, Midnight crow-hopped. “Come on, boy. Come on!” Branch forced the horse in the direction of town. But even then his gait was choppy. A wooden crate blew across the road, pieces of wood flying in every direction. The horse bucked, and Branch held on with sheer willpower, but he was badly jolted.