He walked out of the room and closed the door.
Shrugging away the loneliness that followed his departure, Eleanor reached for the bottle of medicine and rang the cowbell. Where was that annoying girl?
Chapter 7
Warning: Peering through a keyhole can give you a private eyeful!
Report #1: Miss Walker is not at all fey or even shy of tongue. She is a formidable woman with a will of iron, the temperament of a mule, and the aim of a charging bull.
Annie looked over what she had written. She would, of course, have to include every detail of Miss Walker’s accident, including her own unfortunate role.
The Pinkerton General Order book gave explicit instructions on how to write a report. The reports had to be written in ink or indelible pencil. Descriptions must include all physical traits, clothes, jewelry, and habits. Conversations had to be recorded verbatim with detailed information as to time and locations. All arrivals and departures had to be accurately noted.
The cowbell rang and Annie tossed down her pen. Now what did Miss Walker want? At this rate she would never get her report written, let alone accomplish what Pinkerton had sent her to do.
During the next week, Miss Walker ran Annie ragged. It was hard to imagine that one old lady could require so much care. Annie hardly had time to think about the investigation and her frustration grew with each passing day.
Worse, she had yet to figure out a way to send daily reports back to the main office. Not that she had anything of value to report, but Mr. Pinkerton insisted upon daily updates regardless. He would not be satisfied with the occasional letter Stretch or the doctor mailed for her. She also needed to identify herself to the marshal and collect her watch, but going to town seemed unlikely until Miss Walker had somewhat recovered from her injuries. None of the ranch hands or Able was willing to take care of Miss Walker, even for a few hours.
Adding to her frustration was the constant ringing of the cowbell. Miss Walker insisted upon meeting each ranch hand regular as clockwork and, with the doctor’s approval, Annie relented. One by one, she ushered each cowboy into the house and up the stairs.
Each man walked into the ranch owner’s bedroom, hat in hand, as if expecting to be hung. Each man came out looking as if he had been.
Even Able had lost his good humor after being closeted with Miss Walker for the better part of an hour. Annie followed him into the kitchen.
“Able, what’s going on?”
He slammed a skillet onto the stove top. “Miss Walker thinks that the leader of the Phantom gang is one of us.”
Annie was careful not to react. “I don’t understand. Who is this gang?”
“They’re the ones who robbed the train and bank last week. They’ve been terrorizing the county for nearly a year.”
Annie widened her eyes to feign surprise. “And she thinks that one of the thieves works here? On the ranch?”
“That’s what she said. Heard it loud and clear with my own ears.”
“Do you think it’s possible?” Annie asked.
Able shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. But I know all the ranch hands. I know that Stretch likes his meat cooked all the way through and Ruckus likes his rare. I know that O.T. has a sweet tooth and Feedbag is seriously prejudiced against veg’tables. Wouldn’t you think I’d know if one of them was him?”
“I don’t know if it’s possible to completely know another, Able.” She couldn’t count the times she heard a family express shock and disbelief over a loved one’s arrest. “Do you think Miss Walker is in any danger?”
Able’s eyes twitched. “Why would you think that?”
“She’s an old lady. There’s not much she can do, now that she’s flat on her back.”
“I don’t see why anybody would want to do her harm.” He frowned. “If so, they’ll have to deal with me first.”
The ringing bell brought their conversation to an end. Able glanced upward before dipping a measuring cup into a sack of flour. “You better go see what Miz Walker wants this time.”
After taking Miss Walker her noon meal, Annie escaped to her room to add to the fast-growing file that included detailed information on each ranch hand. Most of the men went by assumed names, making background checks difficult. Identifying someone solely by physical description was tough, but the agency had successfully done it in the past and she hoped would do so again.
Having learned from Able that the ranch hand going by the name of Ruckus was married with two children, she neatly printed the information on his file. His wife’s name was Sylvia. His daughter was married to a rancher and his son attended seminary back east. It was hardly the kind of family one would expect of an outlaw but she wasn’t ready to rule him out. He seemed sincere enough and led the others in prayer each morning before starting work, but such religious fervency could be a ruse.
She tossed her pencil down with a sigh and closed her files. She then left her room and hid her files in a vacant bedroom two doors away, where no one would think to look. It was a trick learned from her father and one that had served her well through the years.
Returning to her room, she checked to make certain she hadn’t left anything that could provoke suspicion. Something shiny caught her eye and she crossed to the bureau to see what it was.
Her father’s pocket watch lay on top of the dresser next to her hairbrush. How odd. She glanced around. The timepiece hadn’t been there that morning, which meant the marshal must have dropped it off sometime between breakfast and the noontime meal.
She picked up the watch and lifted it to her ear. The marshal even thought to wind it.
It bothered her that the lawman appeared at the ranch house without announcing himself. Even worse, he had walked into her bedroom.
She tucked the watch into the top drawer and hastened downstairs and out the front door. No carriage or even a horse was in sight, save the wild mustangs in the corral across the way. Some of the ranch hands had left early that morning and hadn’t been seen since.
She walked around the house to where Able tended the vegetable garden. Several small service buildings were located in back. The icehouse and laundry were closest to the main house, the granary and smokehouse a distance away. Next to what appeared to be an unused barn stood an old springboard wagon.
A vegetable garden spread between the buildings, a scarecrow rising from its midst. The soil was kept moist by irrigation ditches.
As she approached, Able looked up and tossed a bunch of carrots into a wicker basket. His freckles looked like orange polka dots in the afternoon sun. “Thought I’d make some gumbo soup,” he said. “It’s the only dish Miz Walker will eat that’s not made with beef.”
“Sounds good,” Annie said, though it seemed too hot for soup. She watched him pull a bunch of carrots from the soil. Carrots? Already? In Chicago the ground was still frozen.
“Did you happen to see the marshal today?”
Able glanced up. “Marshal Morris? Nah. Is there a problem?”
“Just wondering. I . . . was curious to know what happened to the train robbers.”
Able shook dirt away from the carrots. “I reckon they’ll spend the rest of their born days behind bars.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She hesitated. “Anyone else at the house today? Other than Dr. Fairbanks, I mean.”
“Just Ruckus and O.T. Why?”
“No reason.” She left him and walked around to the front.
She let herself in the house just as Miss Walker’s foreman, O.T., descended the stairs. A wiry man with restless, and some might even say shifty, eyes, his sun-baked face placed him in his late forties. He’d removed his spurs before entering the house to comply with house rules but his gun remained and the holster sagged on his hip.
O.T. afforded her a look of pity. “I don’t envy your job, ma’am. The boss lady is loaded to the muzzle and ready to shoot.”
“I guess we can’t blame her,” she said. She never meant the old lady harm and
felt sorry for her. It must be frustrating, lying in bed day after day, especially for one apparently as active as Miss Walker.
“O.T., something was taken from me during the train holdup—a watch.” She studied him as she spoke. If he had placed her watch on the bureau, she didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but neither did she want men walking into her room.
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am. You better talk to the marshal about it.”
“The watch has been returned,” she said. “I just found it on my bureau.”
Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. “Good to hear.”
“I was wondering if you happened to see the marshal.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“If he’s still here at the ranch, I want to thank him for returning my watch,” she said.
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re lookin’ for him. Anything else I can do for you, let me know. Soon as the boss lady’s on her feet, we’ll start learning you the ropes.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He tugged on his hat. “If you’re gonna be the new heiress, you gotta know how to work a ranch. You ride, right?”
She nodded. Actually, she was a good rider, thanks to her brother’s patient tutoring.
“That’s something, I guess. You’d be amazed how many women come to this ranch not knowing the front end of a horse from its tail.” He narrowed his eyes. “Know anything about cattle?”
“No, but I did stay at a sheep ranch once.”
He reared back with a look of disdain. “Well, if you know what’s good fer you, you’ll tuck that news under your hat and keep it there.” He hastened to the door as if she were still carrying the stench of sheep with her.
“Scares me to think what kind of heiress will turn up next,” he muttered. With that he left the house.
Annie had no idea whether or not he was the Phantom, but either way, O.T. was a strange one.
She went to secure the door after him but there was no lock. That meant that anyone could walk in day or night. With an uneasy feeling, she headed for the stairs.
Chapter 8
A detective without a clue is like a cowboy without a horse; both are in for a lot of footwork.
Annie walked into the bedroom the following morning to help Miss Walker with her usual morning ablutions. The day before, Stretch had ridden into town to fetch the mail and the bed was piled high with correspondence. He also mailed two letters for Annie.
“Time for your bath,” Annie said cheerfully.
“Well, get on with it, then.” Miss Walker continued to rip through the wax seals one after another with a letter opener. After perusing each letter, she scribbled notes onto the margins with a pencil, presumably to remind herself how she wished to respond.
After giving Miss Walker a sponge bath and helping her into a clean nightgown, Annie reached for the hairbrush. The best way to contain Miss Walker’s long gray hair was to work it into a single plait.
As she interwove the strands, she planned her day. She still hadn’t talked to all the ranch hands; the blacksmith, Michael, was first on her list. If he was half as talkative as his aunt, he might have something useful to say.
“Why, the nerve!” Miss Walker’s body shook and the bed springs groaned. “That’s the second time in two years the county’s tried to raise my taxes and I won’t have it.”
Accustomed to the woman’s outbursts while reading her mail, Annie paid little heed as she quickly contained each silvery strand. Reaching for a blue ribbon, she tightly wound it around the feathery-tipped braid.
Annie was about to leave the room when Miss Walker stopped her. “Go to my office and fetch paper and pen. I need you to write letters. And hurry. I haven’t got all day.”
All day was exactly what Miss Walker had but Annie wasn’t about to contradict her. Instead she hastened downstairs to the office.
Able had left earlier to go into town for supplies and she missed the cheerful sound of pots and pans, along with his merry whistling.
Annie walked through the large room but something made her stop. She distinctly remembered leaving the door to Miss Walker’s office open and now it was closed. Strange. Ear against the wood, she listened. Nothing. Out of habit, she reached into the false pocket of her skirt to feel for her weapon.
She turned the knob and flung the door open. Curtains fluttered at the window. The wind had evidently caused the door to close. Mystery solved, she headed straight for the desk. The penholder was empty. She knew she had replaced the fountain pen the previous day.
She opened the top drawer, hoping to find a writing implement, but instead found a tintype of a young girl. Odd. The photograph wasn’t there when she did a previous search of the office looking for personnel files.
She lifted the image out of the drawer and held it to the light. The picture was dark and faded but not enough to hide the child’s pretty face. She turned it over but the back was blank. She discounted the idea that it was a photograph of Miss Walker as a child; tintypes weren’t available until the late 1850s.
Annie replaced the photo and checked the other drawers for a pen. Except for the photograph, nothing else seemed out of order. Still, she had the strangest feeling that someone had searched the desk. The question was why.
A soft scraping sound startled her. “Who’s there?”
A man emerged from behind the door and Annie shrank back in her chair. He elbowed the door shut, trapping them both inside the small office.
He poked at the brim of his Stetson and pushed it upward. Cobalt eyes met hers and it was all she could do to catch her breath. She would know those eyes anywhere.
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
No question about it; this was the outlaw who stole her watch on the train. The thief caught her unawares, which gave him the upper hand, but she would relieve him of his advantage as quickly as possible. Surreptitiously, she slid her hand into her false pocket.
Finger to his mouth, he motioned her to stay quiet. “Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She squeezed the grip of her derringer. He didn’t know it, but it was his own skin in danger, not hers.
“It’s Miss Beckman, right? Miss Annie Beckman.”
Under normal circumstances she might have been flattered that he remembered her name, but today she felt no such pleasure. “Why aren’t you in jail?”
The man flashed a smile, revealing perfect white teeth. He looked different somehow and it took her a moment to figure out why. The last time she saw him, he had a mustache and whiskers. Today he was clean-shaven. His lack of facial hair revealed a previously unnoticed cleft on his fine chiseled jaw and made his eyes look even bluer, if that was possible.
“You’re not alone in wanting to see me there,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It’s where you belong.” Her legs trembled and that was not a good sign. An operative couldn’t afford to be nervous or anxious during a confrontation. To remind herself that she had everything under control, she squeezed the grip of her gun tight.
He narrowed his eyes and studied her. Imagining that most women in her spot would look for an escape or, at the very least, a weapon, she let her gaze fly to the paperweight on the desk.
His gaze followed hers. “Ah, a lady willing to defend herself. I like that.” He gave another smile and her heart skipped a beat. The dimple on his right cheek matched the soft impression on his chin. With very little effort, he could probably charm the hide off a steer.
“But you needn’t bother,” he continued. “If you do as I say, neither of us will get hurt.” He moved closer and tossed a pen on the desk. “I believe you were looking for that. A bad habit of mine, I’m afraid. I tend to keep every pen I lay my hands on.”
“One of many bad habits, I would think,” she said, determined not to let his charming ways or pleasing looks distract her. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”
“I’m the new r
anch hand. If we should happen to bump into one another, you are to act like you don’t know me.”
The nerve of the man. Who did he think he was, coming here and giving her orders? “You’re out of your mind.”
He arched a brow. “That is neither here nor there. Do we have an understanding?”
The man’s audacity might have been amusing under other circumstances but today it was plain unbelievable. “Why would I do the bidding of an outlaw?”
“I believe the lady has a few secrets of her own that she would prefer not to have known.”
She studied him. He couldn’t possibly know she was a Pinkerton detective. So what did he think he had over her? She decided to call his bluff. “I have no secrets.”
He arched an eyebrow. “None?” He feigned a look of disappointment. “A woman without secrets is like a rose without fragrance.”
She smiled; she couldn’t seem to help herself. “We can now add bad poetry to your list of crimes.”
“And we can add evasiveness to yours. I saw you handing one of our gang members an envelope on the train.” He studied her as if measuring her reaction. “So I know you’re a member of the Phantom gang too. I’m sure our mutual boss would frown on you turning me in—a member of your own family, so to speak.”
Annie’s mind spun. He accused her of belonging to the Phantom gang? It wasn’t just absurd, it was downright laughable. Only her considerable acting skills allowed her to keep a straight face. Still, if she played her cards right this might work in her favor. What better way to pump information from him than to let him think she was one of them.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said.
“You know I am.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
Lord forgive her for thinking it, but he was a handsome, devilish rogue. Had she met him under any other circumstances, well, who knows what might have happened? Dismayed by the thought—and even a little ashamed—she gave herself a mental kick and clenched her jaw. It wasn’t like her to let her mind wander when working a case.
Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 7
