Diane T. Ashley

by Jasmine

  © 2013 by Diane T. Ashley and Aaron McCarver

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-544-1

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-61626-999-9

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-61626-998-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover credit: Studio Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com

  For more information about Diane T. Ashley and Aaron McCarver, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.dianeashleybooks.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Dedication

  Diane—It is funny how things turn out sometimes. I wrote this dedication to be used in Camellia before deciding to save it for the final novel in the series. It breaks my heart that you died before you ever saw it. Rest in peace, darling, until we are reunited in heaven. For Edward Gene Ashley, April 15, 1952–November 28, 2012:

  For Gene—the man who holds my heart. If I had looked the world over, I could not have found a spouse better than you. You enrich my life beyond anything I could have imagined when I was single. It took a long time for God to bring us together, but I cannot regret those years because I know He was molding each of us to become what the other needed. Thanks for forgiving my shortcomings, overlooking my faults, and encouraging me to pursue this dream of writing novels. Each day I get to spend with you is a treasure. We may not always see eye-to-eye, but that does not matter because we love and respect each other. You have taught me so much about patience, peace, and how wonderful love can be between a man and a woman. No one gets me like you do. No one else sees my warts with quite so much clarity. Yet you still love me. You are my hero. If I started today and filled up every hour telling you all the reasons I love being your wife, I would never get to the end of the list. I hope we get to spend many more years loving each other. I love you…more.

  Aaron—I honor my friend who fully supported his wife’s writing in a partnership. Thank you, Gene.

  Acknowledgments

  We would like to thank Becky Germany, Becky Fish, and the team at Barbour for believing in us and our journeys along the Mississippi River. We also thank our agent and friend, Steve Laube, for helping to make our writing dreams come true. For our support group, the Bards of Faith, God put you in our lives for many reasons beyond writing. Thank you for being His instruments. And for our readers, we thank you so, so, so much. We do it for Him, but we have you in mind always.

  Chapter One

  Sandwich, Illinois

  April 15, 1870

  Ducking behind a horse trough, David Foster pulled out his weapon and aimed it toward the opposite side of the street. A bullet dug a hole in the dirt a bare inch from his foot. David narrowed his eyes against the dust it kicked up and pulled his body in tight. “Put down your weapon and raise your hands.”

  He could see Cole Hardy’s face peeking past the curled brim of a hat—a lady’s hat with posies tucked into the headband. The poor woman wearing the incongruous headpiece was an innocent passerby Cole had grabbed when David first tried to arrest him. The outlaw brandished his pistol and laughed. “You’re not going to take me alive, Pinkerton.”

  Even though it wasn’t his name, David had grown used to the title in the past weeks. The others employed by the famous private detective agency said it was a part of the job.

  David looked around the end of the trough to judge the distance between him and Hardy. “Let the woman go, Cole. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “My name’s the Whiskey Kid.” The man’s voice held a plaintive note.

  A grin slid across David’s face in spite of the dangerous situation. Criminals could be so childish. As if their development had ended at age five even though their bodies continued to mature. Perhaps by appealing to the outlaw’s ego, he could diffuse the situation. “How did you get that name, Whiskey?”

  The woman he held whimpered, a sound combined of fear and pain.

  “Shut up,” Cole hissed at his hostage.

  From his limited view of the pair, David could see her face pale even further as the outlaw tightened his hold. While he waited for an answer to his question, David considered how to protect her. If he shot at Cole, he might hit her instead. His best option was to get the man talking. “If I’m going to call you something other than the name your ma gave you, I want to know why.”

  “It’s because I kin drink more than anyone else around and still keep my wits about me.”

  “Is that right?” David wondered if the man was drunk right now. If he was, his aim would be shaky. Of course his temper would be on a short fuse. “And I guess your skill has gotten you a lot of admiration over the years.”

  David risked leaning out a few inches farther and studied what he could see of his opponent. The kid looked only fifteen years old, but he was probably about twenty-one, the same age as David. The leader of a local gang of outlaws terrorizing the area, Cole Hardy had shot down the former sheriff and two of his deputies to establish control. He might be young, but he was still a murderer.

  The day the town of Sandwich buried their law enforcement officers, a telegram from the local bank president arrived at the Pinkerton National Detective Agency—a plea for help that David had been selected to answer.

  “Come on out here, Pinkerton, and I’ll show you my real skills.”

  Another bullet struck the ground and made David duck for cover. At least the bullet had missed him again. Sweat trickled down his face, mixing with the dust. He would need a bath when this was over. Wiping his face with his free hand, David pushed his hat back. It was time to see if he couldn’t push Cole a little harder—see if he could get the lady free. “Where I come from, real men don’t hide behind women’s skirts. Why don’t you let her go, and you and I can discuss the matter man-to-man.”

  The only response to his taunt was silence. He leaned forward again, hoping Cole wasn’t smart or sober enough to be waiting for his face to show once more.

  Something had happened to draw Cole’s attention away from the trough where David hid. He was looking over his shoulder, maintaining the barest grasp on the back of the woman’s neck.


  David waved a hand to make sure she could see him and gestured with a jerk of his head to run. Fear entered her eyes, gleaming through a sheen of tears. He smiled for encouragement and received a whisper of a nod from her. He held his breath as she pulled away with a sudden jerk and went running down the street.

  Cole Hardy whipped his head back around, cursed, and pointed his weapon at David. In the split second before the outlaw fired, David squeezed his trigger. The other man spun in the opposite direction as the bullet tore through his thigh. His shot went wild. David was up and running toward him as the outlaw hit the dusty road.

  “You shot me.” Pain twisted Cole’s face, and he curled up into a ball, his spent weapon forgotten. “It hurts.”

  David picked up the gun and shoved it into his belt. He holstered his own weapon, looking to see what had taken Cole’s attention away from his captive in the moments before she had escaped. ILLINOIS BANK was painted on the plate glass window, but no one stood there.

  With a mental shrug, David bent to inspect Cole’s wound. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the heart. You’ll live to face a judge for the murders you committed.”

  A door creaked open, bringing David’s attention back to the bank. Two men, their hands raised high, stepped across the threshold, followed by a grim-faced man who held an ancient-looking shotgun in his hands. “Git on out there so the Pinkerton man can escort all you to jail.”

  David stood and settled his bowler on his head more firmly. “I’ll take those men off your hands, but the doctor will have to sew this one up before he gets carted off to jail.” He pointed his pistol at the two uninjured outlaws and marched them toward the end of the main street to the sheriff’s office.

  People stepped outside and watched them move past the various businesses of Sandwich. Their faces showed varying degrees of relief, shame, and hope. A young boy dashed past, shouting for his pa to come look. Ladies stood in little groups of two or three, their bonnets shading their faces but not obscuring their admiring glances.

  He reached the jailhouse without mishap and herded the two men inside. An empty desk and two barred rooms greeted them. Where was the sheriff? Or whoever represented the law since the sheriff was murdered.

  “Both of you can get in that cell.” He closed the door behind them and walked to the desk, opening the drawer and fishing out a ring of keys.

  By the time he had them secure, the grim man who had held his shotgun on the two gang members entered the sheriff’s office. He looked different now—more jovial and relaxed. David assumed he was the banker who had sent a wire to the agency.

  “Now our law-abiding citizens won’t have to hide themselves anymore.” The man held out his left hand. “I’m Mr. Morton Winthrop at your service. I don’t suppose you’d consider staying here in Sandwich for a spell? We need a new sheriff.”

  David waited for Mr. Winthrop to pause before introducing himself. “Where is your sheriff?”

  “Dead.” One of the prisoners answered him with a cackle, exposing a number of broken or missing teeth. “Cole done kilt him last week.”

  The other gang member, shorter and meaner looking, nodded. “And yer next.”

  Mr. Winthrop shook his head. “You can see why we’re having a bit of a problem choosing a new sheriff … but a man like you can handle himself. And Sandwich has a fine collection of pretty young misses, any of whom would make you a good wife.”

  An image sprang to David’s mind. A girl with coal black hair, violet eyes, and a complexion as fair as a bowl of milk. “I’m not interested in finding a wife or in staying in Sandwich.”

  “Woo-hoo, I’d like me one of them gals.” Tall-and-toothless stood with his face pressed between the bars of the cell.

  “Mind your own business.” Mr. Winthrop sneered at the man. “I wasn’t talking to the likes of you or your partner.”

  The front door swung open, and two men brought Cole Hardy in on a stretcher.

  One of them looked to Winthrop. “Where should we put him?”

  As Winthrop sputtered, David slipped past the men with the stretcher, feeling Cole Hardy’s angry stare all the way out the door. Turning right, he walked down the street to the hotel, the only two-story building in Sandwich.

  The sun would set soon. He couldn’t get back to Chicago tonight, so he decided he could get that bath, eat some supper, and retire early. Tomorrow he would get an early start. The people of Sandwich could handle the Whiskey Kid and his followers. David had done what he was hired to do.

  Breathing a sigh of relief to enter the relative coolness of the hotel, David tossed a couple of coins on the front counter and asked for bathwater to be delivered to his room.

  “I’d be happy to bring it myself.” The girl at the counter was the daughter of the proprietor—single and dangerous. She was rather pretty, if a man liked his women with wheat-colored hair and glittering blue eyes. He was more fond of dark-haired women.

  Besides, like he’d told Mr. Winthrop, David had no intention of finding himself a wife here. “That’s all right. If you don’t have a servant to carry the water, I can go to the barbershop.” He ran a hand over his chin. “I need a shave anyway.”

  She pushed out her red lips in a pout. “Pa can bring the water.”

  “That’s okay.” The hair on the back of his neck rose in response to the predatory look in her eyes. He would also ask the barber if he could get a decent meal at any other place in town. David had plans for his future, plans that had nothing to do with being caught by a man-hungry female in Sandwich.

  Chicago

  PINKERTON CODE:

  ACCEPT NO BRIBES

  NEVER COMPROMISE WITH CRIMINALS

  PARTNER WITH LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENCIES

  REFUSE DIVORCE CASES OR CASES THAT INITIATE SCANDALS

  OF CLIENTS

  TURN DOWN REWARD MONEY

  NEVER RAISE FEES WITHOUT THE CLIENT’S PRE-KNOWLEDGE

  APPRISE CLIENTS ON AN ONGOING BASIS

  David could recite by memory the words stitched on the framed handwork hanging on his supervisor’s wall. They had been drilled into his head when he joined the agency. They were the first thing he was taught, along with the methods for catching criminals.

  Homer Bastrup glared at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses for a moment before nodding. His bulldog face relaxed into a smile. Removing the glasses, he carefully folded the legs and placed them in a leather case.

  “Good job.” The large man’s voice boomed through the suite of offices located on the second floor of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Several of the detectives whose desks were stationed outside his door raised their heads. “This is the kind of report I wish all my men would turn in.”

  The heads dropped again, and David thought he could hear the scratch of pens on paper in the sudden silence. “Thank you, sir.” The approval on his supervisor’s face brought home the importance of his recent success. It made his hard work worth the effort.

  “Mr. Winthrop was very complimentary. He sent a letter saying you did an excellent job in protecting the citizens while addressing the problem.” Mr. Bastrup tapped a sheet of stationery with a beefy finger. “He even asked if you might be willing to return to Sandwich as their sheriff.”

  “That’s very kind of Mr. Winthrop. He made my job easier by holding a weapon on the gang members after I shot their leader.”

  “Are you interested in returning to Sandwich?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I like living here in Chicago.” David hoped to make a career for himself with the Pinkerton agency. Chasing down criminals and making sure they were put in prison was a noble occupation, and one he seemed to have some aptitude for.

  He was proud to be a Pinkerton detective. The agency had the largest collection of information anywhere about crimes and criminals in the United States. Thanks to their efforts, America was a safer place for law-abiding citizens. “We never sleep”—the motto of the Pinkerton agency—was
proven true over and over as murderers, thieves, and anarchists were arrested in ever-growing numbers.

  The older man reached for a fountain pen, scratching his name at the bottom of the final page of David’s report with a flourish. “Those men who held up your stagecoach last fall got quite a surprise. Your story is much like Allan’s. He got involved in detective work when he helped the Kane County sheriff capture a gang of counterfeiters.”

  David was familiar with the story of how Mr. Pinkerton had become a deputy sheriff before forming the agency with his brother Robert. The three-story building that housed their agency was a testament to their hard work and success. “As they say, ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ ”

  The trip back from San Francisco had been difficult even before the incident Mr. Bastrup mentioned. David had traveled out there to reconcile with his father. That was a mistake that had cost him both time and money. On the long trip back, a pair of masked riders held up the mail coach. All the passengers were ordered out of the coach and told to empty their purses and pockets. Waiting for the right opportunity, he managed to pull his weapon, wound one of the robbers, and capture the other.

  “How would you feel about a trip to New Orleans?”

  The question caught David off guard. Most of the cases he’d worked were much closer to home. “Sir?”

  Mr. Bastrup’s wise brown eyes seemed to see right through him. “You’re familiar with that part of the world, aren’t you?”

  Memories flooded David. The flavor of fresh fish; the smell of burning coal; warm, lazy days watching the splash of a paddlewheel … “I grew up in the South.”

  “You still talk like your mouth is full of cotton.”

  David had heard that complaint often since making Chicago his home. “The people back there say I sound like a Yankee.”

  A hint of a smile lighted Mr. Bastrup’s face as he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a thick folder. “You may remember hearing about a rash of bank robberies in Chicago last year. Just about the time our agency was hired, before we could find out if the robberies were connected to each other, they stopped.”