Undercover Bride (9781634094573)

by Brownley, Margaret

  He closed the door. “At Aunt Hetty’s.”

  The thought of never seeing them again brought a lump to her throat. But she couldn’t think about that. Not now.

  “Is this official business?” he asked.

  “Partly.” She moistened her lips before continuing. “We still haven’t identified Cotton’s partner.”

  His forehead creased. “Any suspects?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Anyone I know?”

  It was hard to think under his intense scrutiny, and she took a moment to gather her thoughts. He wasn’t going to like this, but then neither did she. “How well do you know Dinwiddie?”

  He looked at her, incredulous. “Don’t tell me that you think he—?”

  “He doesn’t fit the witness description,” she hastened to explain. “But there are some things that make him a suspect.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  She quickly explained.

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong about Dinwiddie.”

  “I hope you’re right. For your aunt’s sake.”

  “Is that why you came here today?” he asked, his voice cold and distant. “To make more false accusations?”

  “I came here because…” Her voice dropped in volume. “I’m leaving town.” That morning she had received a telegram with her next assignment. She would be working with Rikker in New Orleans. The news made her partner postpone his journey for a day so they could travel together and work out their new disguises.

  She studied him, but the reaction she’d hoped for failed to materialize. He accepted her announcement with the same cold stare.

  She wanted to go to him, to throw her arms around him and beg for forgiveness, but something—pride perhaps, maybe even shame—held her in place.

  “I understand your anger.”

  He arched a brow. “Do you?”

  “I never wanted to lie to you.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t just the lies. You wormed your way into my home. Into my children’s affections…”

  She waited for him to say that she’d found her way into his affections as well, but the words she longed to hear never came. “It was my job—”

  “That’s your answer for everything!” He rubbed his forehead and started again, this time in a quieter voice. “No job can justify what you did.”

  “When I accepted the assignment, I honestly thought you were guilty of the things they said. Had I known the kind of man you were, I never would have—” She broke off and struggled for composure. “Tell me how to make this right.”

  “No one can make this right.” He swept his hand over the chessboard, scattering pieces everywhere like shards of her heart. “No one!”

  He sat back but continued staring at the chessboard. Was he remembering the night they played together? The night they danced?

  “I fell in love with a woman who doesn’t exist.”

  Love. He said love. For a moment she couldn’t move. All she could do was hold on to the word like a gift too precious to unwrap. When at last she was able to rise to her feet, she moved toward him but fell short of touching him. Tears sprang to her eyes. For someone who didn’t exist, the wrenching pain sure did feel real.

  “I—I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Since there was nothing more to say, she tossed the stack of letters on the floor at his feet.

  He stared down at them. “What are those?”

  “The letters I would have written had I known the kind of man you are. Read them or not.” Holding herself with as much dignity as she could manage, she added, “As you choose.”

  Turning to the door she stepped on one of the chessmen—a bishop. How easily the name came to her. It was as if her mind scrambled for some level of sanity by zeroing in on meaningless details.

  She stooped to pick the piece up and was bombarded with thoughts of the past.

  “Did you know that chess was once a game of courtship?”

  “I want to get to know you one square at a time.”

  Shaking away the memory, she set the bishop upright on the chessboard. It was then that Elise’s and Toby’s words echoed in her head. “The boogeyman looks like a giant and has big feet. And he wears his hair like Aunt Hetty.”

  She picked the bishop off the board. When held a certain way, the bishop’s headgear did, indeed, resemble Aunt Hetty’s hair.

  She gasped for air as a dozen little pieces fell into place, and they all added up to one thing: boogeyman.

  Aunt Hetty didn’t wait to be invited in. No sooner had Garrett opened the door than she stabbed the doorsill with her cane and barreled past him.

  He stared after her. “The children—”

  “I just dropped them off at school.” Leaning on her cane, his aunt faced him. Her whole body fairly shook with rage. “They’re fine. No thanks to their father.”

  He grimaced. Nothing was worse than seeing Aunt Hetty on the warpath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “First you call off the wedding—”

  “For good reason.”

  “And then you mope around. Panhandle said you haven’t been to work for days.”

  He slammed the door shut and faced his aunt. “She lied to me.”

  “For heaven sakes. Do you hear yourself? The girl had a job to do. She also proved you innocent. You should be thanking her.”

  “Thanking her for what? For accusing me of thievery? Worse? For having me put in jail and standing trial?” For making me feel things I never hoped to feel again?

  “You can hardly blame her. Most people finding stolen money on your property would have jumped to the same conclusion. Lord knows, if I didn’t raise you myself…”

  He drew back in surprise. “Are you saying that even you—?”

  She shrugged but offered no apologies.

  He raked his hair with his fingers. It never occurred to him that even his own aunt might have had doubts about his innocence. Given the evidence, he supposed he could hardly blame her. Still… “Why are you taking her side?”

  “If you weren’t so mule headed, you’d see that it’s your side I’m on. It just so happens to be on the same side as hers.”

  He curled his hands at his side. “I know you’re trying to help, but…”

  Suddenly his aunt’s determined demeanor seemed to desert her, and her shoulders slumped. “I hate seeing you make a mistake you’ll regret.”

  I won’t—”

  “You already have, and once you make up your mind, there’s no changing it.”

  “I change my mind.” Just because he couldn’t think of a specific incident to prove his contention meant nothing. “Sometimes.”

  “Once every fifteen years!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it?” She eyed him sharply. “You refused to go to church because of what happened during the war. And you wouldn’t listen to no one. You wouldn’t even attend your own children’s baptisms.”

  “All right,” he conceded. “I made a mistake about the church.” God forgive him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong about Mag”—he cleared his throat—“about this.”

  “How would you know if you’re right or wrong? You made up your mind without having all the facts.”

  “I don’t need any more facts. Miss Taylor—”

  “Her name is Cartwright, and I’ll wager the one and only healthy bone in my body that it’s the real Maggie you love, not the detective.”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. Now she was reading his mind. “I never said I loved her.” Okay, maybe he’d mentioned as much to Maggie, but certainly not to his aunt.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I may have one foot in the grave, but I’m not dumb. And I’m not blind, either.” She started for the door. “And neither are you. So quit acting like you are, and go and make this right before you lose her for good.”

  Maggie arrived at the train station to find Rikker waiting for her. She was late
, and he didn’t look happy about it. “Where’s your baggage?”

  She didn’t need any baggage. “I know the name of Cotton’s partner.” She’d done some checking around this morning and was certain she was right.

  Rikker dropped his valise on the platform with a thud. “See that train? If this is just another one of your theories, I’ll be on it in exactly sixty seconds. With or without you.” He pulled out his pocket watch.

  She didn’t need sixty seconds. “One, the witness described the suspect as having a scar.”

  “Forty seconds.”

  “Two, when our suspect learned that one of the stolen bills had suddenly shown up, he sent away for Cotton.”

  “Proof. I need proof.”

  “I was wrong about the suspect working at the bank. But the suspect knows someone who does.”

  Rikker’s eyebrow quirked upward. “Twenty-nine seconds.”

  “He’s the one who’s been digging up Garrett’s property. The one the children call boogeyman.” She even suspected someone had entered Garrett’s house in her absence. Like the day she found chess pieces scattered on the floor and blamed Lila.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Aren’t you curious as to who it is?”

  “Not till you give me something tangible that the sheriff can hang a warrant on.”

  Ignoring him, she continued, “It’s Panhandle.”

  He lowered his watch and stared at her. “There’s no scar on Panhandle’s face.”

  “What if there was no scar? What if our witness only thought he saw a scar.”

  Rikker didn’t appear totally convinced, but neither did he look all that skeptical.

  Her hopes lifted until the moment the conductor called, “All aboard,” and Rikker picked up his valise.

  Chapter 43

  Aunt Hetty’s visit had put Garrett in an even worse mood. Yes, he had feelings for Maggie. Blast it all; he still had feelings for her. But was it really love? Or merely infatuation?

  Something inside answered love, but good sense argued for the latter. He’d only known her for a few short weeks. That was hardly enough time to get to know a person, let alone fall in love.

  And yet… He stared at the letters still on the floor where she’d dropped them yesterday. He didn’t want to read them. Why would he? After all the lies and deceit… As far as he was concerned, Maggie was dead to him. Yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot and probably would for a long time. But he’d get over it. Just like he’d gotten over all the other hurts in his life.

  He shook his head. Okay, maybe not. The trouble with playing chess is that it sharpened the mind and improved the memory. Thanks to the hours spent at the chessboard, forgetting Maggie would be a monumental chore.

  At the moment he was having a hard time forgetting even the little things—like the way the sun brought out the golden highlights of her hair. Or the way her laughter sounded like music.

  Forcing the memories away, he gathered up the letters and carried them into the kitchen, intent on throwing them away. The envelopes released a delicate fragrance—her fragrance. It was probably the only thing about her that was real. With the scent came even more memories.

  Dancing with her; holding her. The days and nights she sat with him by Elise’s sickbed. The gentle way she led him back to God through hope and prayer.

  He could almost feel her in his arms as he recalled holding her close. His lips burned with the memory of her sweet kisses.

  With a sigh of defeat he tossed the stack of letters onto the kitchen table. He stared at them long and hard before finally pulling out a chair and sitting. He picked up the first envelope and broke the seal. He hesitated before finally pulling out the delicately scented letter inside and unfolding it.

  The graceful curved script was all too familiar to him. Out of all the letters he’d received from the ad placed in the mail-order-bride catalog, hers stood out because of the handwriting. Given the nature of her job, it was surprisingly feminine. The letters were rounded, open. Honest.

  The last thought almost made him drop the letter, but he didn’t. Instead his eyes followed the words across the page as if his eyes had a mind of their own.

  Dear Garrett, she wrote.

  Rikker taught me that when things go haywire and nothing makes sense, it’s always best to go back to the beginning and start over. I was born in Georgia, and my father’s name was Royce David Cartwright. He’s the reason I chose to become a detective.

  She wrote about her father’s horrific crime spree, his death, and her determination to make up to society for all the damage he’d done. She wrote about her years in the orphanage and her mother’s abandonment. She admitted lying about her family’s farm and included the check he’d written with the letter.

  The paragraph that contained her misgivings about his guilt and the pain at finding the money stashed in the tree house was so smeared it was hard to read.

  Tears had fallen as she’d written those words, just as his own eyes began to mist as he read them.

  It appeared to be a normal day at the train station. A dozen people, mostly peddlers, were lined up in front of the ticket booth. A black porter whistled to himself as he piled baggage onto a cart. The idling train hissed and snorted like a bull anxious to leave its pen.

  Maggie sat on a bench dressed in her traveling suit, her trunk at her foot. On the outside she looked like an average passenger waiting to board the train; inside she was a quivering mass of nerves.

  Was it only four weeks ago that she met Garrett at this very station? So much had happened since. Attempting to push the memories away, she clenched her hands tight and tried to focus on the milling crowd around her. It was no use. A vision of Garrett’s blue eyes and devastating smile—even the sound of his voice—were now part of her, and nothing she did relieved the pain.

  Her chest tightened, and the suffocating sensation in her throat threatened to cut off her breathing. Can’t think of that now. Can’t think of Garrett. If they had any hope of trapping Panhandle, she had to be sharp and on top of her game. Success depended on it.

  After they nabbed Panhandle, she would take the first train out of town. But there would be no leaving, not completely, for part of her would always remain here in Furnace Creek with Garrett and his two adorable children.

  An old woman shuffled over to the bench, back bent, and flopped down next to her. She wore a bright floral print dress and a floppy bonnet.

  “Ready?” she asked in a high-pitched tone.

  “I’m sorry—” Maggie glanced at her and blinked. “Rikker?”

  “Shh.” She—he—grinned. “What do you think?” This time he spoke in his normal voice.

  She looked him up and down and laughed. “You said your days of dressing as a woman were over.”

  “Yeah, well, anyone tries to get too friendly with me this time will end up full of lead.”

  “Trust me. You have nothing to worry about. For one thing, your… eh… bosoms are uneven.”

  “That’s part of my charm.”

  Now that Rikker was here, she felt considerably better. “I still wish we told Garrett what we were doing. He has the right to know that his employee is under suspicion.” If Garrett ever again trusted anyone, it would be a miracle.

  “The fewer people who know, the better. It’s bad enough I had to tell the sheriff.”

  “How did he take it?” Summerhay’s dislike of Pinkerton detectives had only gotten worse after the Cotton affair. He didn’t like strangers coming in and cleaning up his town.

  “Like a man about to be hung.” He chuckled. “Not to worry. He’s up for reelection and wants to look good. He’ll do anything for votes, even if it means working with us bullying Pinks.”

  She sighed. “Nothing better go wrong.”

  “You worry too much, Duffy. You deal with Panhandle, and I’ll take care of the rest. With a little luck we’ll be on our way to New Orleans in no time.”

  Their new assignment required him to pose as a ric
h banker with only a few months to live and in need of someone to handle his daughter’s finances when he was gone. She, of course, would pose as his daughter. It sounded relatively easy, and after the emotional highs and lows of these past couple of weeks, she needed something simple—something with no complications.

  “I hope that means you’ll handle the boss.” They were supposed to be in New Orleans by now. When the principal found out they were still in Furnace Creek, he’d have a fit. Nothing he hated more than having his operatives take matters into their own hands.

  “Not to worry.” Rikker sniffled and pulled out a dainty lace handkerchief. “So how do you feel about playing the part of my daughter?”

  Changing the subject was his way of quieting her nerves. It irritated her on some level that she never had to return the favor. He was always calm and confident as the nighttime sky.

  “I’ll live with it,” she said. She’d pretended to be his daughter enough that it seemed almost second nature to her. “I just hope nothing goes wrong today.” There were too many people at the station for her peace of mind.

  “Relax.” Rikker blew his nose in an unladylike way and tucked his handkerchief in his handbag. “You might be interested to know that Panhandle’s actual name is James Madison Walker. His family’s wagon train was attacked by Apaches. He was only eight years old and the lone survivor. No one knows what happened to him after he was found by the cavalry. Or later, after his arrest. Headquarters checked with the railroads, and no one has a record of anyone by his name working for them.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could have worked under an assumed name,” she said.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Rikker said. “What we do know is that he has good reason to wear that ridiculous cap.”

  Maggie cringed. “You don’t mean he was—” She couldn’t even say it. Nothing seemed more barbaric than scalping, and it was hard not to feel sorry for what Panhandle had gone through at such a tender age. Traumatic childhoods seemed to be the norm for many criminals. It was a pattern she was all too familiar with, not only in her work but in her personal life as well.