Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Brownley, Margaret

  Unable to make up her mind whether the doctor was serious or not, Annie pulled her hands away from her face.

  He dug in his black bag and handed her a brown vial. “I gave her something to help her sleep. This is for pain. Give it to her in the morning if she’s uncomfortable. She should eat something light at first and curtail visitors, at least for a couple of days. The most important thing is to keep her calm. Don’t let her get upset.”

  It seemed a bit late to worry about upsetting her but Annie glanced at the closed door and said nothing. All was quiet, at least for now.

  Dr. Fairbanks stalked down the hall toward the stairs and Annie chased after him.

  “Wait!”

  He turned.

  “You want me to take care of her?” She was trained to hunt down criminals, not play nursemaid.

  “Someone has to. Since her housekeepers have returned to Mexico, there’s no one else to care for her but you.”

  Annie struggled to find her voice. “Surely one of the ranch hands—”

  “Miss Walker won’t hear of it and probably for good reason. The only way a ranch hand knows to deal with a broken leg is to shoot the unfortunate victim. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

  “No, but . . . but what if something happens? What if she’s in a lot of pain or . . . How do I get hold of you?”

  “Send someone into town to fetch me. It’s a pity the telephone line hasn’t yet reached the ranch but they’re working on it. Meanwhile, get some sleep while you can. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.” He donned his hat and started down the stairs. “Good luck.”

  It was the second time that day someone had wished her luck.

  He paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced up at her. “One more thing,” he called. “When you enter her room, be sure to duck.”

  Chapter 5

  An undercover agent is only as good as his (or her) disguise.

  Annie’s body ached from exhaustion but she still couldn’t sleep. Closing her eyes meant having to relive the horror of watching Miss Walker tumble down the stairs time and time again. The deadly sound of the woman’s body hitting the ground floor seemed to rise from the very pillow at her head. No matter how much she twisted and turned, she couldn’t make the memory go away.

  By the time the rising sun turned the desert sands red, she’d been sitting in a chair for hours, a manila folder marked GTF in her lap. Operatives, or Pinks as they were commonly called, were taught to keep detailed records. Every fact had to be recorded with utmost accuracy; every question duly noted, every action scrupulously documented. Notes were to be written on small pieces of paper and attached to reports.

  The strict training not only helped professionally, it also impacted her personal life. Some people kept diaries; Annie kept dossiers.

  Reverend Jones, the pastor of her church back home, once accused her of treating God like a suspect. She continually bombarded the pastor with questions that even he, with all his seminary training, couldn’t answer. It was an odd thing for him to say since he had no idea she was a Pinkerton. Telling anyone, even her pastor, what she did for a living would mean immediate dismissal from the company. The Pinkerton guidelines were clear on that.

  “God is bigger than our minds can comprehend,” Reverend Jones said on more than one occasion. “Even if we knew all the answers, we wouldn’t understand them.”

  Questions without answers were called enigmas and nothing disturbed a detective more. For that reason, she kept jotting notes in her GTF folder, writing questions, underlining and crossing out words. Today she wrote, Miss Walker? Why did something so awful have to happen, God?

  She was so well versed in writing in cryptic that it came naturally to her, even when she wrote something meant to be seen by her eyes only.

  She closed the folder with a sigh and put it aside. GTF—for God the Father.

  As usual, He offered no answers, only more questions.

  Her body stiff, she stood and stretched her arms over her head, then bent to touch her toes.

  Anxious to check on the old lady and nervous about meeting her face-to-face, Annie hurried through her morning ablutions and dressed in a dark blue skirt and white linen shirtwaist.

  The last thing she did was lift her skirt and strap her leather gun holster around her thigh. The derringer was a gift from her brother Travis, following the successful fulfillment of her first assignment. It was his way of saying she was an operative in every sense of the word, even if their father didn’t agree.

  At the moment, she didn’t much feel like one. This was her first time outside the States and never before had she been required to work in such a remote location. The cattle ranch was nothing like the cities or large towns that offered endless resources for catching criminals.

  Even if by some miracle Miss Walker didn’t throw her off the ranch, there was still the problem of how to submit the mandatory daily reports to the main office. Annie didn’t even know how to contact the marshal in a hurry and she felt very much alone.

  She straightened her skirts and could almost hear her father’s stern voice: “You wanted a challenge, Miranda, and now you have one. So quit your complaining.”

  Shaking the thought away, she held her head high and shoulders back. With outward confidence and inner doubt, she followed the smell of bacon and coffee downstairs to the kitchen. The man standing in front of the stove had introduced himself the previous night but she couldn’t remember his name.

  “Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, wielding a spatula. A crooked-teeth smile flashed against his freckled skin and ginger hair curled from beneath a wilted white hat. His smile made her relax. At least his was a friendly face.

  Annie responded in kind. “I’m sorry, you told me your name but—”

  “Everyone calls me Able. Got the name when I was a chuck wagon cook.” A note of pride crept into his voice. “No cowboy ever went hungry with me around. Wind, rain, snow—you name it—and I was able to whip up a fine meal.” He emphasized his words with a nod of the head.

  “Sounds like Miss Walker is lucky to have you,” Annie said.

  He scoffed. “Cooks don’t get the same respect they used to.” He turned to the cookstove and in a voice barely audible added, “There was a time when being a cook meant something, but those days are long gone.”

  Not knowing how to respond or even if she was expected to, she glanced around. The kitchen was furnished with the most modern equipment and even had running water. The cooking range was equipped with several burners, a large oven, and a high shelf. On the opposite side of the room, a dry-air refrigerator stood nearly eight feet high.

  “Do you want to take up her breakfast or do you want me to do it?” he asked.

  She’d rather not face Miss Walker so soon but putting it off wouldn’t make it any easier. “I’ll take it up to her.” She may as well face the music and get it over with. “I feel terrible about what happened.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “If you ask me, Miz Walker was an accident waitin’ for a happenin’. No woman her age should carry on like she does. She can outride and outrope any man and she ain’t slowin’ down for nothin’ or nobody.” He flashed his teeth, his smile as ready as his opinion. “Except for maybe a broken leg.”

  He turned back to the stove and scooped a hotcake from the skillet. With a flick of his wrist, he added it to a plate already piled high with food.

  “Her breakfast is ready.”

  The plate held enough food to feed a family of four. As if guessing her thoughts, Able chuckled. “Four scrambled eggs, a quarter pound of bacon, a stack of hotcakes, and coffee strong enough to picket a wild horse. Just as Miz Walker likes.”

  Annie studied the tray. “Perhaps this morning she would prefer something a bit lighter.” The doctor had sedated her and it was doubtful that she’d recovered from either her fall or the medication enough to enjoy such a grand feast.

  He sniffed and it was obvious by his frown that he took her request as crit
icism. “That is a light breakfast.”

  “And a very fine breakfast it is. But I’m afraid it’s better suited for a cowpuncher than a convalescent. I think some soft-boiled eggs and tea would do quite nicely. Perhaps some dry toast.”

  Able looked like he’d been punched in the stomach and his freckles seemed to turn yellow. “Boiled eggs. Dry toast?”

  “Yes. And tea. Not too strong.”

  He shook his head. “This is a cattle ranch, not a tea parlor. We don’t even have tea leaves.”

  “Never mind. We’ll use mine.” She shot out of the kitchen and upstairs to the room she’d claimed as her own. Having learned the healing powers of tea from her grandmother, she never traveled without a good supply, all serving a different purpose. White willow was good for pain, calamus for indigestion, and horsetail for bone-knitting. For good measure, she also selected a packet of chamomile. She decided to leave the gunpowder tea for another occasion. Thus armed, she hastened back downstairs.

  Able looked even more dubious than before. “Miz Walker ain’t gonna take kindly to someone messin’ with her coffee.”

  “I’m not messing with her coffee. I’m simply substituting it with a more favorable beverage. At least while she’s convalescing.”

  His face suffused with doubt, he wiped his hands on his stained white apron. “The only tea I know how to make is Southern sweet tea, and Miss Walker’s got no patience for that.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll make it. First I need hot water.”

  “Hot water I can do.” He picked up a kettle and carried it over to the sink.

  Annie glanced around the kitchen. “Where would I find a teapot?”

  Able looked blank. “If we have one, it will be in one of the cupboards.”

  Annie opened the cabinets one by one. She found a teapot so covered in grime she doubted it had ever been used. Satisfied that she had solved her immediate problem, she scrubbed it clean and dried it. She couldn’t find a tea strainer but the cheesecloth found in a drawer would do quite nicely.

  She snipped the cheesecloth into little squares with scissors. “How long have you worked here, Able?”

  “Almost two years.”

  While waiting for the water to boil, she picked up a dime novel from the kitchen table and thumbed through it. The rather lurid cover read Miss Hattie’s Dilemma. Able glanced at her and his face, already red from the heat of the stove, turned another shade darker.

  “Yours?” she asked.

  He nodded. “That was given to me by the lady writer. She was an heiress just like you. Her name is Kate.”

  “Really?” She set the book down. “How interesting. What happened to her?”

  “She married the blacksmith. Far as Miz Walker’s concerned, that’s like a hangin’ offense.” He cut the bread and placed a single slice on the griddle. “Miz Walker won’t allow no married woman to inherit her ranch.”

  Annie, of course, knew the requirements of the job but she let the cook talk. In short order she had a complete rundown on all the women who had tried to be Miss Walker’s heiress and failed. It wasn’t encouraging. Even without causing the ranch owner’s accident, her chance of staying on the ranch long enough to track down the Phantom didn’t look good.

  “The water’s boiling,” he said after a while.

  “The water must be hot enough to cook a lobster,” she said.

  “I reckon that water’s hot enough to cook a whole rack of ’em.” Protecting his hand with a flour sack towel, Able lifted the kettle off the stove.

  “You must always start by heating the pot,” she explained. He poured a dollop of water into the pot and she swished it around and dumped it out. She then carefully measured out tea leaves and signaled for more water.

  “That’s it,” she said. Curling steam tickled her nose with the smell of tea. Horsetail tea tended to be bitter but a little honey would take care of that. She turned the pot around slowly three times. Something else her grandmother had taught her. “One for the Father, two for the Son, and three for the Holy Ghost,” she explained.

  “You better add a fourth one for protection,” Able said, looking even more dubious. “’Cause you’re gonna need all you can get when Miz Walker takes a sip of that.”

  Dreading the thought of having to come face-to-face with the ranch owner, Annie shuddered. “Is there anyone we can summon to take care of Miss Walker until her leg is healed?” The doctor insisted that no one was available but she had to make certain. “A friend or relative, perhaps?” According to the dossier, Miss Walker’s only relative was an estranged brother whom she hadn’t seen in three decades.

  Able shook his head. “Miss Walker ain’t got no relatives. Least none that anyone knows. She’s not big on friends much either, not the kind you’re talking ’bout.” He picked up a large spoon, scooped the boiled eggs out of a pan, and turned them into a small bowl.

  Annie arranged the teapot and cup and saucer on the tray with trembling hands, along with the plate of food, linen napkin, and spoon. Spotting a cowbell on the counter, she added it to the tray as well.

  Able grunted. “I want you to know I’m doing this under protest.” He arranged two slices of toasted bread on a plate. “Yes-siree, under protest.”

  Tray in hand, she faced the doorway. The cold knot in the pit of her stomach doubled in size. “That makes two of us.”

  Annie stood outside Miss Walker’s bedroom door. Knock or just walk in? She couldn’t make up her mind so she decided to do both.

  Juggling the tray the best she could with one hand, she rapped a knuckle against the door. Nothing. Was Miss Walker asleep or . . .

  Recalling the doctor’s dire statistics for femur breaks, she felt beads of perspiration break out on her forehead. Please, please, please don’t let her be . . . dead.

  Heart pounding, she threw open the door and stared at the bed. Heavy draperies kept out all but the dimmest light.

  Miss Walker lay flat on her back with her leg suspended in mid-air. Annie walked to the bed on what seemed like wooden limbs. The gentle rise and fall of the older woman’s chest told Annie her worst fears had not been realized. Praise God!

  An apparatus the shape of a large wooden horse loomed over the bed. The sight took her breath away. Now all the lumber delivered to the room, followed by incessant hammering, made sense. If she didn’t already feel guilty for having caused the accident, she now felt downright mortified.

  “Well? Are you going to stand there all day?” Miss Walker’s strident voice made Annie jump and the bone china cup and saucer rattled on the tea tray.

  “I thought”—Annie cleared her throat—“I thought you were asleep.”

  “How am I supposed to sleep with my leg in a noose?”

  Annie glanced at the cumbersome splint contraption. A good question indeed.

  She set the tray on the bedside table, her gaze lighting on the shotgun next to the bed, butt end down.

  The old woman squinted as if trying to see more clearly. Annie walked around the bed and ripped open the draperies. Streams of sunlight poured through the squares of the leaded glass door. The desert that had looked so forlorn and dreary from the train now resembled a master painting in the early morning light. She opened the door and a slight breeze cooled her heated cheeks.

  If only she hadn’t turned her head toward the eastern sky. The sun’s red eye glared down in silent accusation, much like the Pinkerton eye stared at her whenever she was called on the carpet. Even now, three years after her father’s death, his blame persisted. Her mother had delivered five bouncing boys and remained in robust health, but delivering one scrawny baby girl had sent her in a downward spiral from which she never recovered. Her father never outwardly blamed her, of course. He was too much of a gentleman for that. It was the elephant in the family that was only mentioned in whispers.

  Today the whispers of the past got louder. Annie had put yet another life at risk. Leaving the door ajar, she turned to the bed to find Miss Walker’s rigid gaz
e still on her.

  “You!”

  Miss Walker didn’t appear the least bit fey or soft in the head as Mr. Pinkerton had suggested. Indeed, she looked as bright and alert as a rattler about to strike.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I . . . I—”

  “Sorry!” Crevice-like lines deepened on Miss Walker’s forehead. Her sun-baked skin appeared more ash-colored than tan. The studied gaze offered a contrast to the gray hair falling across her pillow in wild abandon. Had it not been for the vivid blue of her eyes, she would have looked every bit her sixty-five-plus years.

  “You near scared the life out of me. Who are you and what were you doing sneaking around my house?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. My name is Annie Beckman. I believe you were expecting me.”

  A shadow flitted across Miss Walker’s face as if she was trying to place the name. “That gives you no right to walk into my house uninvited.”

  “I apologize, but there was no one here when I arrived.” The woman’s eyes narrowed and she looked about to argue, but Annie continued, “I had a difficult journey. Just before we arrived in Cactus Patch, the train was robbed.” When this news brought no reaction, she added, “I needed to use the facilities. I meant no harm. Certainly I never meant to harm you.”

  “You cause me serious injury and yet you have the audacity to march in here this morning as if you have every right.” Miss Walker’s nostrils flared and her voice quivered with fury.

  Annie hardly marched into the room but she wasn’t about to argue semantics. Somehow she needed to get the woman on her side. “The doctor said there was no one else to take care of you.”

  The older woman’s eyes glittered. “So you took on the task yourself.”

  “It’s the least I can do after . . .” Annie glanced at the upraised leg and grimaced. Anxious to fill in the strained silence, she turned to the bedside table. “I brought you breakfast and a bell. If you need anything, just ring.”