Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  He tugged hard on the reins, pulling Midnight’s nose to his leg. The gelding moved around in a tight circle until Branch loosened his hold.

  “That’s it,” he shouted over the wind. “You can do it.” He had to repeat the procedure several times before Midnight got the message and stopped trying to buck.

  The closer they got to town the more dust and debris filled the air. Even with the kerchief covering his nose and mouth, he struggled to breathe. Pieces of a wooden fence flew by, along with roof shingles and someone’s wash still attached to the clothesline.

  Horses ran by along with several steer and a goat. Rounding up escaped animals would be a big job.

  By some quirk of nature, the twister changed course before reaching town, and the immediate danger appeared to be over. The funnel was still visible, but at least it was moving away, leaving behind pieces of broken fences, scattered farm equipment, and, inexplicably, an upright piano turned on its side.

  Reaching the brick schoolhouse, he swung from his saddle and tethered his horse to the fence, tail end facing the wind. A tree had toppled, and its white roots crawled along the ground like thick fingers. The yard was littered with debris, but the school building remained intact. Praise the Lord.

  He found the wooden door that led down to the storm shelter and banged on it. “Miss Appleton! It’s Sheriff Whitman. Everything all right down there?”

  The door lifted slightly, and he opened it the rest of the way. Miss Appleton stood on the ladder looking up at him, face pale as a wintry moon.

  He never thought to see a more welcome sight. “Everything okay?” he asked again.

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “Did Andy find you all right?”

  His heart thudded. “Andy? Isn’t he here?”

  Alarm crossed her face. “No. He took off. Said he had to find his pa. I tried to stop him but—”

  The rest of her sentence fell behind as he raced for his horse.

  Chapter 30

  Moments later, Branch ran into the house shouting Andy’s name. He found his housekeeper in the kitchen.

  “He’s not here,” Miss Chloe said, her dark face creased like old parchment. “Isn’t he at school?”

  “No, I checked.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm, and she grabbed hold of the counter as if to steady herself.

  He frowned. “What are you doing here? Your house—”

  “My house is fine. Just making sure yours was, too.”

  “Go home. Andy could show up there.”

  She nodded and grabbed her purse.

  Spinning around, he left the house on the run. He leaped astride his horse and rode like a madman through town.

  People milled in a daze, hugging each other and assessing the damage to properties. The ground was covered with shards of broken glass and missing shingles. A wagon was upside down and part of a windmill had toppled. So far there was no report of injuries or deaths, but neither had anyone seen Andy.

  He rode up one street and down the other, calling Andy’s name. Where are you, Son? Was this God’s punishment for failing to tell Clayborn the truth? God, surely not. You wouldn’t be that cruel, would You? I’m the one to blame. Not Andy.

  He raced his horse across the railroad tracks. Midnight’s hooves pounded the ground as Branch’s heart pounded his ribs. He rode full circle, and now the Harvey House restaurant loomed ahead of him. Maybe someone there had seen his son.

  Katie.

  A previously unnoticed woodshed had collapsed by the side of the road. What if Andy had sought shelter there? He slid out of his saddle and frantically pawed through the debris. The memory of digging through another pile of rubble and finding his wife draped over a stove filled him with unspeakable horror. Not again, Lord. Not again.

  “Andy!” he yelled. “Do you hear me?”

  “Pa!”

  His heart stilled along with his hands. It took a moment to realize Andy’s voice came from behind and not from under the collapsed structure.

  He whirled about just as Andy flew into his arms, practically knocking him over. Hugging his son close, his vision blurred. Thank You, Lord. Thank You…

  “I was scared,” Andy said, head pressed against Branch’s middle.

  “I was scared, too, Son.” Was that Andy trembling or him? “But you’re safe now. We all are.”

  He blinked away the burning sensation in his eyes and noticed Katie standing a short distance away.

  She pushed a wayward strand of red hair behind her ear. “I made him come inside with me until the danger passed.” Her apron, normally spotless, was now smeared with dirt, and her bun had worked free, allowing red tendrils to curl around her face.

  “Thank you.” His voice hoarse, he cleared his throat and thanked her again. If words existed that could convey his gratitude, he had no idea what they were.

  Gazing down at his son’s upturned face, he said, “Come on. Let’s get you home.” There was cleanup work to be done in the town, but judging by the way Andy clung to him, he needed his pa; they needed each other. The rest would have to wait.

  He looked up to say something to Katie, but already she was heading back to the restaurant. “Wait!” he called.

  She stopped and turned.

  “Care to join us?” For some reason he couldn’t explain, he needed her every bit as much as Andy needed him. “My house is just up the road a ways.” When she hesitated he added, “I have it on good authority I make a pretty good pot of coffee.” It was a humble offering, but it was all he had to give at the moment.

  Andy looked up. “Joe, Pa. Coffee is called joe.”

  Katie pursed her lips, and Branch felt something stir inside. “I make a good pot of joe.” When she still hesitated, he persisted, “So how about it? I’m sure your boss will make allowances given the circumstances.”

  “The restaurant is closed for the rest of the day,” she said.

  He frowned. “Did you have much damage?”

  She shook her head. “Just some broken windows. I heard there’s debris on the tracks, so trains have stopped running.”

  “Well, then?” He arched his eyebrow. “The invitation still holds.”

  “Pleeeeeease,” his son said.

  Andy’s plea brought a smile to her face, and Branch was surprised to find himself wishing the smile was for him.

  “Very well,” she said, and this time the smile was for him. His heart leaped with joy. “Count me in for a cup of joe.”

  Chapter 31

  Branch lived in a brick house about a half mile up the road from the restaurant. The house had a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence, parts of which had blown away.

  Recalling his cool demeanor the last time they’d met, Katie was reluctant to accept his invitation. But this time he seemed genuinely grateful to her for protecting Andy, genuinely warm.

  Branch handed the reins of his horse to Andy. “Take care of him, Son.”

  Andy took the reins but hesitated with a glance at the sky.

  Branch placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It’s gone,” he said. “We’re safe now.”

  The trust in Andy’s eyes as he gazed up at his father made Katie’s heart ache. It had been a long time since she’d had that much trust in anyone—if ever.

  The boy took the reins from his father and started for the barn. The horse was skittish but followed Andy with little resistance.

  She followed Branch up to the porch, and he held the front door open for her.

  The parlor was tastefully furnished with a walnut-framed horsehair settee, flanked by two wing chairs. A colorful rag rug graced the wood plank floor in front of the stone fireplace. A polished maple side table held a kerosene lamp.

  Next to a small writing desk, a shelf of books caught her eye, and she longed to run her fingers across the leather spines. Her current assignment didn’t allow for much free time, and she barely had time to read her Bible, let alone a novel.

  Except for a group of photographs arranged on the
top of the upright piano, the room was free of the stifling clutter of homes on the East Coast.

  Branch hung his hat on the wooden hat rack next to the door and combed his mussed hair with his fingers. “You can sit here,” he said amicably. “Or you can watch me make coffee. But I must warn you. Seeing me in the kitchen is not a pretty sight.”

  She laughed. “Since working at the restaurant I’ve come to feel very much at home in the kitchen.” Odd but true. She once avoided the kitchen at all costs, leaving her sisters in charge of meals while she took on more masculine chores around the house.

  “Very well, follow me.” He led her into the next room and pulled out a ladder-back chair next to a wood trestle table and invited her to sit with a wave of his hand.

  “Thank you.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. She wasn’t used to being waited on and had to curb the impulse to jump up and set the table.

  The kitchen was small but efficient. An icebox stood in the corner next to a freestanding cupboard filled with gold-trimmed dishes.

  Branch immediately set to work grinding coffee beans and pumping water into the coffeepot.

  Her skin suddenly prickled with gooseflesh. Crossing her arms in front, she hugged herself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with a look of concern.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Just a delayed reaction.”

  He studied her. “Was that your first tornado?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” And she hoped it was her last.

  “We were lucky.” He set the pot on the stove and lit the flame. “I thought for sure it was heading straight for town.”

  “Thank God it didn’t.”

  He vanished into the other room and returned a moment later with a knitted shawl. He draped it gently over her shoulders, his hand brushing against the nape of her neck. Chills of another kind shot down her spine followed by a wave of warmth.

  “How’s that?” he asked, stepping away from her.

  “Much better, thank you.” It would be better had he not left behind the tantalizing fragrance of bay rum hair tonic.

  He reached for a plate of little cakes and placed them on the table along with two cups, saucers, and plates. She pressed her hands together. Nope, she would not rearrange the dishes to meet Harvey’s standards, no matter how much she was tempted.

  “Don’t tell me you baked these,” she said, helping herself to a cake.

  “Not me. My housekeeper, Miss Chloe, keeps us in baked goods.”

  She bit into the chocolate confection and wiped a crumb off her mouth with her finger. “They’re delicious.”

  He handed her a napkin and sat. “What you did for Andy… I’m mighty obliged.”

  She set the cake on her plate and wiped her fingers on the napkin. “That’s quite a boy you have there.”

  He nodded. “That he is.” A smile of fatherly pride curved the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid he’s driving Miss Chloe crazy with all that restaurant talk you taught him. He won’t touch milk or beans but can’t get enough of moo juice and bullets.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” His smile was as warm as his voice, and suddenly she had no need of the shawl.

  “Never thought I’d be slinging hash,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her reddening face. “With my job there’s no telling what I’ll be doing next.”

  “How long have you worked for Pinkerton?” he asked.

  “Five years.”

  He arched his brows. “Ever meet the founder?”

  “Allan Pinkerton?” She nodded. “And I have to say he’s the most unusual man I’ve ever met.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “He was the first to see the value of hiring female detectives.” She only wished his sons had the same regard for women. Rumor had it that they wanted to disband the women’s detective division. Fortunately, Allan Pinkerton would have none of it.

  “I’m sure my wife would have approved of both of you.”

  She searched his face for signs of grief, but his expression remained as neutral as his voice. This gave her the courage to pursue the subject. “Oh? In what way?”

  “She wanted to be a physician, but when her application to medical school was turned down, she became a midwife instead.”

  Katie felt for his wife. Few women had been allowed to enroll in medical schools. Elizabeth Blackwell had earned a medical degree decades earlier, but the medical establishment was still reluctant to let women enter the field.

  Even as a detective Katie had to constantly prove herself. She’d helped capture some of America’s most wanted criminals but still got less pay than male operatives. Even the new and inexperienced male detectives were compensated more handsomely than she was.

  “I always thought midwifery a fine and noble profession,” she said.

  “Hannah certainly thought so. There was no keeping her away from a woman about to give birth. She said it was God’s work.”

  “I think I would have liked your wife,” she said.

  His gaze met hers. “She would have liked you, too.”

  “Why? Because I’m doing God’s work?”

  His mouth quirked upward. “I don’t know about that, but Hannah would have approved a woman doing a man’s job.”

  “But you don’t.”

  He pursed his lips as if trying to decide how to form his next words. “Yours is a dangerous job for anyone. Men included.”

  She couldn’t argue with him there. “Forgive me for asking, but how did your wife die? I know she died in the tornado, but”—she glanced up at the ceiling—“your house was left intact.” According to a recent article in the newspaper, most of the town had been destroyed, but Branch’s neighborhood had escaped all but some minor damage.

  “She was out that night. Delivering a baby.”

  Katie stared at him, confused. Had she heard him right? “On the same day she gave birth?”

  “What?”

  “Your son was born on the day of the tornado.” The eight-year anniversary of the tornado had even been noted in the newspaper, with no less than three inches of space.

  Color drained from his face, but before he could speak the back door flew open and Andy ran into the kitchen.

  Branch jumped up to check on the coffee, and Katie sensed a change in the air, a change in him. Something like a winter chill had entered the room.

  “Midnight all taken care of?” she asked.

  Andy nodded.

  She lowered her voice. “How would you like a mud brick?” she asked. “That’s restaurant talk for little chocolate cakes.”

  Andy helped himself with a grin. Between bites he talked about everything that had happened to him that day, but even he couldn’t fill the strained silence that stretched between her and his father.

  Branch stared at his son as if he were talking a foreign language. “Dragon Breath?”

  Andy laughed and explained.

  While his father seemed attentive enough, she sensed his mind was elsewhere. He was simply going through the motions.

  As if suddenly remembering his manners, he made every effort to be a good host, but the earlier rapport was now but a memory.

  Taking her cue, she drank her coffee quickly and left. While passing through the parlor she stopped to gaze at the hand-colored daguerreotype on top of the piano.

  Hannah Whitman had been a beautiful woman—no question. Katie couldn’t help but notice the wide-set eyes and delicate features. His wife resembled her older sister Belle, now married to the man Katie once loved. Surprisingly, the usual anger and resentment that rose inside whenever she thought of her sister failed to surface. It felt as if all the pain and grief of the past had happened to someone else.

  Is this what it’s like to be healed, God? Or maybe it’s forgiveness I feel. Certainly she no longer bore ill will toward her sister.

  Puzzled, yet pleased by the welcome discovery, she let herself out of the house. She couldn’t get the conversation with Branch
out of her mind. “She was out that night. Delivering a baby.”

  How was that possible? What woman in her right mind would leave the house during a storm after just giving birth? Even more puzzling was Branch’s response when she questioned him.

  She glanced up at the angry clouds still hovering on the distant horizon and shivered. This time it was neither the cold nor delayed reaction that made her tremble. Instead, she felt a sense of foreboding.

  Chapter 32

  The restaurant was unusually quiet when Katie returned.

  A movement under the table caught her eye. “Spook Cat! How did you get in? Better not let Chef Gassy catch you.”

  The cat meowed but made no movement toward her. The poor thing was trembling.

  She walked into the kitchen. How strange to find the room deserted at this hour. Usually it hummed with activity. Finding a pitcher of milk in the icebox, she poured a few ounces into a dish and carried the bowl to the dining room. No sooner had she set it on the floor than the cat immediately lapped it up.

  Curious as to where everyone was, she took the stairs to the second floor. Experience had taught her that people bonded during a crisis or emergency. Protective barriers broke down when life was at its most fragile.

  A suspect once confessed to a robbery during a blizzard that had paralyzed St. Louis for days. Pinkerton detective Jeff Morley still boasted about a similar experience during the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 when an art forger, thinking the blaze was the wrath of God, confessed.

  If anyone at the Harvey House was sufficiently traumatized enough to confess, gossip, or speculate, Katie wanted to be on hand.

  Recalling that Miss Thatcher’s photograph was still in her pocket, she decided the dorm matron was a good place to start. She knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Katie.” She waited for Miss Thatcher to tell her to go away, and when she didn’t, she reached for the handle.

  Miss Thatcher sat at her desk, the diary open in front of her.

  “You dropped this earlier in the cellar,” Katie said, holding up the photograph.