Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Brownley, Margaret

  “Four years,” Stretch replied. “Before that, I worked on a ranch in the Panhandle.”

  “Tell me about Miss Walker.”

  Stretch shrugged his bony shoulders. “They ain’t no words to describe the boss lady,” he said. “’Cept to say she’s a tough old bird. Has to be, to run a ranch. Many have tried to run a successful ranch out here and failed, but the boss lady just keeps goin’. I reckon she’ll outlive us all.”

  He then launched into another tall tale and then another, each one more outrageous than the one before. Annie finally managed to steer him back to talking about the ranch.

  “We’ve got two thousand of the finest beeves in the west,” he said, with more than a little pride.

  The number was consistent with the Pinkerton report. She squinted against the glare of the sun. “But it’s nothing but desert.”

  “I guess that’s what you call a blessing,” Stretch said. “It keeps most, though not all, competition away. Like I said, many have tried to ranch out here but only a few make it.” He slapped the reins against the horse’s back and they picked up speed.

  She fanned herself with a kid glove. “Who else works at the ranch?”

  “Well, let’s see. There’s Ruckus and Wishbone and Michael. He’s our blacksmith and Bessie’s nephew. Then there’s O.T., short for Old Timer, Brodie our horse trainer, Mexican Pete, and Feedbag.”

  It appeared that most of the ranch hands went by assumed or “summer” names, which meant they were probably running from something, most likely the law. Though this was not unusual, it made her job more challenging.

  “There she is, ma’am,” he said at last, pointing ahead. “The Last Chance Ranch. And for some of us, it really is the last chance.”

  The note of seriousness creeping into his voice made Annie take a closer look at his hollow-cheeked face. Everyone hid behind something and Stretch hid behind tall tales, jokes, and laughter. Could he be the leader of the Phantom gang? Or was his presence in town during the train robbery simply a coincidence?

  She gazed at the ranch house. Nothing in the Pinkerton report prepared her for the size of it. “It’s so . . . large.” It was by far the largest building she’d seen since arriving in Cactus Patch.

  “The boss lady had to rebuild after the ’87 earthquake. It’s even got inside plumbing.”

  That was a luxury Annie hadn’t counted on. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “Think nothing of it. Enjoyed the company.” He jumped from the wagon, reached for her carpetbag, and set it on the ground. “You sure do travel light, ma’am. You should see how much baggage some of the other heiresses brought.”

  He held out his hand to help her down. She lifted her skirt to just above her ankles and stepped to the ground.

  “Thank you. I can handle it from here,” she said.

  He swept off his hat and bowed. “Good luck, ma’am.”

  She thanked him again. He slapped his hat on top of his head and climbed into the seat. Taking hold of the reins, he drove away in a cloud of dust.

  With a combination of excitement and nervousness, she turned to face the two-story ranch house. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for. Her first significant assignment.

  A balcony ran the length of the second story, providing shade for the veranda below. The red tile roof shimmered beneath the blazing afternoon sun.

  Across the way, the barn and outbuildings were guarded by a tall windmill, all in pristine condition. The sails turned slowly in the unrelenting hot breeze. Horses grazed in the pastures and from the distance came the low mooing of cattle and baying of dogs.

  Picking up her carpetbag, she walked through the little courtyard and up the steps to the veranda dotted with wicker chairs. Even the carved oak door looked intimidating.

  Annoyed by the tremor in her stomach, she threw back her shoulders and gave the rope a determined tug. A bell sounded inside, seeming to echo through what she imagined were large rooms and a maze of hallways. She waited a moment before giving the rope another yank but still no one answered.

  She knocked and the door sprang open a crack, bidding her to enter. She glanced around and, seeing no one, stepped into the dim, cool entry. It felt good to be out of the heat but it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” She closed the door behind her and called again.

  Her voice bounced from wall to wall and was met with silence. She set her carpetbag in a corner out of the way and glanced around, taking careful note of doors, windows, and room layout to familiarize herself with the environment.

  She crossed the red tile floor to the large parlor. A stone fireplace commanded one wall, a stuffed steer head guarding the mantel with ferocity. Two walls were lined with bookshelves, each volume lined up with perfect precision. Turquoise and red Indian rugs added bright splashes of color to the otherwise plain adobe walls. A stiff-backed leather couch faced a low dark table and was flanked by two matching chairs.

  Annie could tell a lot about a homeowner by how a room was furnished. This particular room with its rigid order and daunting furniture confirmed every negative thing she’d heard about Miss Walker.

  One wall opened up to a dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve. A pitcher of water surrounded by several clean drinking glasses was centered on the sideboard. She poured herself a glass and drank, the cool water soothing her parched throat as it quenched her thirst.

  A half-open door revealed an office with an oversized desk, more bookshelves, and an Acme safe. Setting her empty glass on a tray, she wandered back to the entry hall.

  She glanced up the stairs. She longed to freshen up and use the facilities but didn’t want to appear rude or forward.

  She waited and when no one arrived after twenty minutes, she decided her need took precedence over good manners. She collected her carpetbag and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  A hall ran the length of the house. Some doors were closed but others stood ajar, revealing empty bedrooms. Only one room seemed to be occupied and she guessed it was the ranch owner’s room.

  The upstairs furnishings were plain but adequate and offered a pleasing contrast to the over-furnished rooms in Illinois. She glanced around before darting inside the lavatory and closing the door.

  Sunlight streamed through an open window and was greeted by whirling dust motes. The room had a sink, toilet, and portable bathtub. She gazed longingly at the tub but didn’t dare avail herself of such luxury until gaining permission from the ranch owner.

  After answering nature’s call, she washed her hands and face in the sink and opened her purse. Surprised to find her money still intact, she counted her bank notes and palmed the gold coins. The bandit had taken her watch but hadn’t bothered with her money. How odd.

  The marshal claimed that the train robbers belonged to the Phantom gang. Hard to believe. Shrugging, she dumped the coins back into her purse and tightened the drawstring. She still couldn’t get over the feeling that she’d missed something and there was more to the tall bandit than she knew.

  She retied the ribbon on her shirtwaist and worked a wayward strand of hair into the bun at the back of her neck. If she held her carpetbag just so, no one would notice the travel stains on her skirt.

  Feeling refreshed and more like herself, she cracked the door open and listened. Dead silence. Used to city sounds, she’d never known such quiet. The ranch would take some getting used to on many levels.

  Carpetbag in hand, she retraced her way along the hall and decided to wait for Miss Walker in the large room downstairs.

  She turned the corner just as a man reached the landing. Startled, Annie gasped and the man jumped, his face twisted in surprise. Much to Annie’s horror, he reared back and tumbled down the stairs.

  “Oh no!” Annie dropped her carpetbag. She didn’t wait for the man to hit bottom before racing down the stairs after him.

  He hit the floor with a sickening thump and Annie fell to her knees by his side. �
��Sir? Are you all right?” She shook him. “Sir?”

  Trained to stay calm during emergencies, she quickly worked the string loose from his chin and removed his hat. Staring at the leathery face, she sat back on her heels. A groan confirmed what her horrified eyes had already told her. It was a woman. An older woman dressed in men’s clothing.

  Please, God, don’t let it be true. Please don’t let this be her. But it was—she knew it was. The woman lying flat on her back had to be none other than Miss Walker herself. The owner of the Last Chance Ranch.

  This was clearly the time to panic. Annie jumped to her feet, rushed to the front door and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody! I need help!”

  Chapter 4

  Sign outside private detective’s door:

  In God we trust; all others will be treated as suspects.

  Bessie Adams had seen a lot of changes in her sixty-plus years, some good, some bad, some both good and bad. She remembered life before the Singer sewing and ice-making machines, and it was no picnic. Had to sew everything by hand and drink warm lemonade.

  She still hadn’t made up her mind about the train and telegraph. It wasn’t natural to travel at such high speeds and it took three people to put her on the train to Kansas. Telegrams didn’t begin to take the place of real letters written with pen and ink on fine linen stationery. But nothing amazed her as much as the telephone, not even the doctor’s horseless carriage.

  When Dr. Fairbanks opened his medical dispensary, he suggested that Cactus Patch have its very own telephone company. At first, people laughed at him. For what possible reason would anyone wish to talk over a wire? But then poor Mrs. Miller died before the doctor could get to her and people saw the benefit of fast communication.

  Bessie’s nephew Luke helped raise poles and string wires until all that was needed was an operator, popularly called a “hello girl.” At the ripe age of sixty-something, it didn’t hurt Bessie one bit to be called a girl. That alone made turning her dining room into a central switchboard worthwhile, but it wasn’t the only reason she insisted she was the right person for the job. Who but she could be trusted to listen in to other people’s conversations without blabbing all over town?

  It’s true that at times she lost her patience; not that anyone could blame her. People who wouldn’t think of being rude if they saw you on the street thought nothing of being obnoxious and demanding on the telephone. After one such occasion, Bessie gave the offending party a thorough tongue-lashing. This made the man so mad he pulled out all the wires from the telephone pole in front of his house.

  After that, her nephew insisted she travel to Kansas for training while he took over in her absence.

  The trip was a waste of time. The city manager of the Kansas City telephone exchange insisted that each call be answered “What number?” in a pleasant voice with rising inflection. He made Bessie practice numerous times until she could practically do it in her sleep. He then carried on at great length about the importance of saying “Who is this?” as opposed to the more strident “Who are you?”

  He also lectured on ways to turn away wrath with a gentle answer. Ha! Some people didn’t know a gentle answer from a turnip.

  Knowing her nephew, he probably let people get away with murder during her absence. Calling all hours of the day and night . . . making more than their share of calls in a single day . . . tying up the lines . . . calling to ask the time . . .

  As if to confirm her thoughts, the battery-operated light on number sixteen lit up. She plugged the answering cord into the jack, threw the back key forward, and switched her headset into the circuit. “What num-BER?” She spoke into her mouthpiece with her most pleasant and inflected voice.

  Jimmy Drake’s deep baritone practically blasted her out of her seat. Why did people insist upon yelling into the phone? “Give me Cynthia Noble.”

  It was all Bessie could do to remain civil. “What do you want with Miss Noble?”

  “It’s none of your business what I want. Now connect me.”

  “You are a married man,” Bessie scolded, “and have no right to call another woman.” Politeness and inflection were all well and good but some callers needed to be put in their places.

  “I have business with her and—”

  “You can take your business elsewhere!” With that Bessie pulled the wire, disconnecting Jimmy midsentence. “Harrumph!”

  Bessie gave a self-righteous nod. Not only was she the town operator, she was also a fine Christian woman. That made her an authority on proper behavior and good moral standards. As long as she was in charge, the telephone would not be used for reprehensible, unprincipled, or illegal purposes. Proper inflection indeed!

  Number thirteen lit up. Now what did that annoying Mrs. White want this time?

  “What num-BER?”

  “Connect me with Mabel.”

  “You talked with her not an hour ago.”

  “So what business is it of yours when I last talked to her?”

  Bessie heaved a sigh. What she had to go through. “The telephone is for emergency purposes.”

  “This is an emergency,” Mrs. White insisted. “I can’t remember how much butter to put in the recipe she gave me.”

  “Then why don’t you go next door like a civilized human being and ask her to her face?” Bessie snatched the wire, disconnecting Mrs. White.

  Almost immediately the entire switchboard lit up. “Now what?” she muttered, connecting a line at random.

  “What num-BER?” And then, “This better be important, Millicent,” she added. “This is the third call you’ve made today!”

  Millicent’s excited voice screeched into her ear. “Did you hear about Miss Walker?”

  Annie paced outside the closed bedroom door and alternated between wringing her hands and fighting exhaustion. The doctor had been with Miss Walker for hours and it was almost midnight. She paused beneath a softly hissing wall sconce.

  Ohhhhhhh. Just wait till Mr. Pinkerton heard what she did this time! Annie’s stomach knotted just thinking about it. Causing an old lady serious injury was far worse than shooting a dead man. Not only did she feel terrible, she also felt doomed, her future career as a Pinkerton operative hopelessly in peril. Worse, should Miss Walker file a lawsuit, it could well bring financial ruin to the entire agency.

  Miss Walker’s angry voice cut through Annie’s thoughts. “Doctor, I demand that you leave at once!”

  Annie whirled about to stare at the closed door. If the ranch owner suffered pain or shock, it was not evident in her vocal cords.

  The doctor’s murmurs were steady and calm but too low for Annie to make out his words. She marveled at his patience. As bad as she felt for causing Miss Walker to fall, she felt worse for the doctor.

  It took three men to hold the old lady down just so the doctor could stabilize her leg. Never had Annie seen such a commotion. Everything she’d ever heard about Miss Walker turned out to be true.

  Something crashed against the door and Annie jumped back. Miss Walker’s voice snapped through the air. “How am I supposed to run a ranch with my leg in the air?”

  “You’re lucky a broken leg is all you have,” the doctor said. “A woman your age—”

  Another crash. “My age, my age. You make me sound like a fossil.”

  The door suddenly flew open and the doctor glanced at Annie before looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. Now get some sleep.”

  He stepped from the room and greeted Annie with a weary nod. He held his hat and black leather case in one hand and closed the door with the other.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk earlier. I’m Dr. Fairbanks.” Even in the soft yellow light he looked young for a doctor, probably in his early thirties. Despite having to deal with a wildcat patient and the lateness of the hour, his demeanor was calm; only his appearance was ruffled. His ruddy brown hair stood on end and exhaustion showed in his watery red eyes. A stubble beard shadowed a firm, stro
ng jaw and his shirtsleeve was torn.

  “That’s quite all right, Doctor.”

  “And your name is . . . ?” he asked.

  “Annie . . . Annie Beckman.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Beckman.” Something banged against the door and the doctor shook his head. “I should have been a veterinarian.”

  Another thud made Annie jump but the doctor only shrugged.

  “Will Miss Walker be all right?” she asked.

  “It’s a femur break,” he said as if that were answer enough. “Did you know that the femur is the longest and strongest bone in the body?”

  “No, I didn’t—”

  Despite the lateness of the hour, he went on at great lengths about the marvels of the femur bone. Annie was exhausted and in dire danger of falling asleep on her feet. She nevertheless forced herself to listen politely.

  Miss Walker would be well within her right to order Annie off the property. If not, then Mr. Pinkerton would probably summon her back to Chicago the moment he heard how she caused the ranch owner’s accident. Either way, her days on the ranch, and maybe even hours, were numbered.

  Still, she couldn’t stop thinking like an operative. For that reason, she was determined to cultivate a friendship with the doctor. If by some miracle she was allowed to stay, anyone who talked as much as the doctor might very well come in handy.

  “The femur is perfectly engineered,” the doctor continued. “It’s also the last bone you want to break. It does, after all, make up a quarter of a person’s height.”

  “Th-then it’s serious?”

  “Serious enough,” he conceded. “Eighty percent of broken femurs result in a patient’s demise.”

  Annie’s jaw dropped. Covering her open mouth with both hands, she peered at the doctor over her fingertips. “You mean—”

  “Not Miss Walker. She’s too stubborn to die. I should specialize in stubborn patients. They’re a pain in the gluteus maximus but they seldom die, which does wonders for a doctor’s reputation.”