Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Brownley, Margaret

Following an awkward silence, she started for the door. “I’d better go. It’s time for Miss Walker’s breakfast.”

  She brushed past him and he didn’t try to stop her. Outside she filled her lungs with morning air. Could Wishbone be the Phantom? She glanced over her shoulder but the ranch hand was nowhere in sight, no doubt still enjoying his journey to nowhere.

  Able greeted Annie that afternoon with less than his usual exuberance. His honor had been questioned and he took it hard. He wasn’t the only one. None of the ranch hands liked being suspected of being the Phantom.

  “Hmm. Something smells good,” she said.

  “Gingerbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh out of the oven.”

  She helped herself to one and sank her teeth into the still-warm confection. It tasted every bit as delicious as it smelled.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asked between bites. She had never tasted so many delicious desserts. The ranch was a sweet tooth’s paradise.

  “I grew up on a farm with three brothers. After my ma died, we drew straws to see who would take over as cook.”

  “And you won.”

  “At the time I thought I’d lost.” He shrugged. “I left home at eighteen, came west, and landed a job as a chuck wagon cook.” He paused, his face lit with a wistful expression. “That was the life. My wages were twice what the cowpunchers earned and everyone knew to treat me right, even the wagon boss. I was the king of the range.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “What happened?” His eyebrows disappeared beneath the band of his hat. “I’ll tell you what happened. The train!” He practically spit out the words. “It’s now cheaper to send cattle to market by train than herd them there. Now I’m nothing but a kitchen lackey.”

  “That’s not true.” She helped herself to another cookie. “I think if you asked any of the ranch hands they would say you’re still king.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. These men don’t ’preciate good cooking. As for Miss Walker, all she wants is beef, beef, and more beef!” He shook his head.

  He obviously objected to being confined to such a limited menu. Perhaps that explained why he put so much culinary energy into his desserts. It was the one area where he was given free rein.

  She finished the last of her cookie and brushed the crumbs off her hands. “Have you met the new ranch hand?”

  “Branch? Yep. He likes his meat cooked medium. You can tell a lot about a man by how he eats his meat.”

  It was an interesting thought. The Pinkerton brothers preached the importance of details but never asked how a suspect liked his meat cooked. “And what does that tell you about Mr. Branch?”

  “It tells me he’s a nonviolent man.”

  Interesting if true. “What about Wishbone?” she asked.

  “What about him?”

  “How does he like his meat?”

  “He don’t eat meat at all,” Able said.

  “Like Shelley,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” Able read dime novels but she doubted he had much use for poetry. “It’s hard to believe that someone can work on a cattle ranch and not eat meat.”

  Able shrugged. “Probably why he looks like he’s on a horse even when he ain’t.”

  She giggled. “How long has Wishbone worked on the ranch?”

  “Awhile. He was here long before me. At least five years.”

  “Hmm.” She reached for another cookie. “I think I’ll take some to Miss Walker, along with a pot of lovely tea.”

  Able made a face but he put water on the stove to boil. “Gingerbread and tea,” he muttered. “That’s like mixing sheep and cattle.”

  “You’d better not let O.T. hear you mention sheep in the same sentence as cattle.” After arranging a cup and saucer on a tray, she put several cookies on a plate and brewed the tea.

  She was halfway out of the kitchen when he called to her. “I almost forgot. Happy All Fools’ Day.”

  She glanced at the Hood’s Sarsaparilla calendar on the wall next to the icebox. Was it April already?

  Able glanced at the calendar too. “Time sure does fly.”

  “Yes, indeed it does.” In little more than two weeks it would be Easter. Time was whizzing by and she had yet to figure out a way to send daily reports back to the home office. Mr. Pinkerton would have her head.

  “Do you have a small candle?” she asked.

  He pointed to the china cabinet. “In the middle drawer.”

  Annie set the tray on the counter and opened the drawer he’d indicated. She pulled out a thin candle and stuck it into a cookie’s soft dough. She then pocketed a box of safety matches.

  Able shook his head. “If it’s her birthday, you best not mention it. Women can be mighty touchy about their ages. Miz Walker ain’t no different.”

  She lifted the tray. “It’s not her birthday. It’s her daughter’s. I always light a candle on each of my parents’ birthdays and I find it very comforting. I hope this comforts Miss Walker.”

  His freckles seemed to fade beneath his doubtful expression. “Miss Walker don’t like to think about the past. What’s gone is gone and that includes people.”

  Annie hadn’t been able to get the little grave on the hill out of her mind. She thought about her dear mama’s grave. Her papa’s. The past wasn’t something you could remember or forget at will; it stayed with you, was part of you. Unless she guessed wrong, it was part of Miss Walker too.

  The old lady was reading when Annie walked into her room. “It’s about time.” She laid her book facedown on the bed. “What is that?”

  Holding her hand around the lit candle to protect the flame, Annie set the tray on the bedside table. “Tea time.” She crossed to the window to adjust the draperies against the hot afternoon sun.

  Miss Walker slumped back against the pillow and rolled her eyes. “Dishwater time, more like it.” She regarded the lit candle as one might eye a coming storm. “So what are we celebrating? Your birthday?”

  “My birthday is in October.” Annie turned from the window. “It’s a memorial candle.”

  Miss Walker grimaced. “And what are we memorializing?”

  “It’s April first,” Annie said quietly. She waited and when Miss Walker showed no reaction, she wondered if perhaps Able had been right.

  “It’s your daughter’s birthday.”

  Miss Walker’s eyes bored into Annie like two burning coals. “How dare you!” she sputtered. “What gives you the right to poke your nose into my business?”

  “Please don’t be angry. I happened to come across the little grave and—”

  “Get out!” Miss Walker pointed at the door. Veins stuck out from her neck and her face turned an alarming red.

  Annie held her hands up, palms out, in an effort to calm the ranch owner, but the woman only grew more agitated.

  “Get out and don’t come back! And take your dishwater with you!”

  Not wanting to upset her any more than she already had, Annie fled the room without the tray. What have I done, God? Oh, what have I done?

  Chapter 10

  Suspicion ain’t proof unless you’re married.

  Annie rushed down the hall to her room, biting back tears. Now she’d done it.

  The assignment of a lifetime; her chance to prove that she could do a man’s job and honor her father’s memory, and she’d failed. Miserably.

  First she caused Miss Walker’s accident and now this. The ranch owner had every reason to throw her out on her ear.

  Even worse, she had let William Pinkerton down. He had trusted and believed in her when no one else would. Wait till he heard what a mess she’d made of things. The thought cut through her like a knife. Odd as it seemed, she also felt like she’d let her father down. Not even death had severed the need to try to please him.

  She reached for the door handle and just as quickly pulled her hand away. It was no time to get careless. Since finding the watch on her bureau, she never
left the room without first inserting a thread between the door and casing. It was a trick from her father.

  She ran her hand down the length of the crack but could find no thread. She checked again to make certain but there was no mistake. The thread was gone and that could only mean one thing. Someone had entered her room during her absence.

  Hand in her false skirt pocket, she curled her fingers around the gun. She pressed her ear to her bedroom door but heard nothing. Whoever had entered her room was probably long gone, but she couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.

  She placed her hand on the brass handle, silently counted to three, and threw the door open.

  Branch looked up from her desk. “Ah, Miss Beckman.” He looked so relaxed it was almost as if he belonged there or, at the very least, was invited.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her GTF file was open in front of him and her cheeks flared. She rushed to the desk. “What gives you the right to go through my private papers?”

  He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead he closed the file. “You went through my things and I was simply returning the favor.”

  She studied him with wary regard. She had taken special care to leave everything exactly as she found it in the bunkhouse.

  He grinned. “You might have fooled Wishbone with all that nonsense about a housekeeper but you didn’t fool me. You were nosing through my things. Admit it.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why would I be interested in anything of yours?”

  “Why indeed? Unless, of course, our leader put you up to it. Ah!” He pointed his finger at her and practically yelped with certainty. “He did, didn’t he?”

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  He gave a nod of satisfaction. “I’ll do that.”

  “Good!” And make it soon! The only chance she had of redeeming herself after the fiasco with Miss Walker was if Branch led her to the Phantom. “Now if you would kindly leave my room—”

  “Not until I’m ready.” He tapped his finger on the manila folder. “GTF? Give to Phantom?”

  “You really ought to work on your spelling,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I get by. So what does GTF stand for?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “I might be a poor speller, but I know business starts with a b.”

  She grabbed the file but he stayed her hand with his own. Pressing her palm against the desk, he rose from his chair, his nose practically in her face. He stared at her with bold regard and a fiery charge shot up her spine.

  “Why is it coded?” he demanded. He was so close she could feel his warm breath. He smelled of bay rum, leather, and hot desert sands. The heady fragrance complemented his strength and power.

  “So that people like you can’t read it,” she retorted.

  “You’re lying, Miss Beckman.”

  She returned his stare with equal boldness. “So are you, Mr. Branch.” It looked like neither of them would back down. Certainly she had no intention of doing so.

  He finally released her hand. “Stay away from my things.”

  She stepped back, but the disturbing memory of his touch remained. “And of course you’ll show me the same courtesy.”

  For several moments he held her gaze and she would have given anything to know what thoughts went through his head. Finally, he touched the brim of his hat in a one-finger salute. “Always a pleasure,” he said and headed for the door.

  “The pleasure is all yours,” she called after him.

  A grin flashed across his face before he left the room.

  Shaken by the worrisome power he held over her, she paced the floor. Why had he gone through her things? What could he possibly be looking for? But those weren’t the only questions on her mind.

  The feeling that something about him didn’t register refused to go away. If only she could figure out what it was. Perhaps then she would be better able to fight the worrisome hold he had on her.

  He was a puzzle in more ways than one. Most criminals breaking out of jail took off quicker than a hound with a tail afire but Branch stayed. Except for cutting off his mustache and availing himself of a haircut, he didn’t even bother disguising himself. It was hard not to admire a man that sure of himself, that bold. Was that what had turned her head? Surely not.

  “He’s a sneak and a thief,” she said out loud.

  He was also the most pleasing-looking man she’d ever set eyes on, if not the most arrogant.

  “He’s nothing but a crook and a liar.”

  Still, there was definitely an attraction. Not that such a thing was all that unusual; some Pinkerton operatives did forge a bond with criminals. Even the agency’s founder befriended criminals he’d once pursued and had been known to loan money to some who promised to toe the straight and narrow.

  The trouble was, Branch hadn’t shown the least inclination to change his reprehensible ways. She had no business being attracted to such a man—God forgive her—none.

  It was late that afternoon by the time Annie braced herself enough to enter Miss Walker’s room again. The tray was still on the bedside table where she’d left it. The candle had burned to the nub and the cookies and tea had not been touched.

  Thinking Miss Walker was asleep, she tiptoed into the room and picked up the tray. She was wrong. One cookie was missing on the plate but she wouldn’t have noticed had she not counted. Even more surprising, the cup wasn’t quite as full. Smiling, she turned and traced her way back to the door.

  Miss Walker’s voice stopped her. “No one ever remembered my daughter’s birthday.” After a moment she added, “Only you.” The normally strong, strident voice had been replaced by a hoarse whisper.

  Annie turned. She could handle the woman’s wrath and biting tongue. Could manage Miss Walker’s obstinate ways but this . . . this was something altogether different. This was the voice of a grieving mother. Had Annie known the depth of the woman’s pain, she never would have lit that candle.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I lost my mother and father. I always light a candle on their birthdays.”

  The ranch owner said nothing; she only stared into space as if looking at something that only she could see.

  Annie guessed that something was a pretty little girl with light-colored hair.

  The day Annie lit the memorial candle for Miss Walker’s daughter marked a change in the old lady’s demeanor. The ranch owner was still her usual demanding and difficult self, but without the same critical air or harshness. Or maybe Annie simply had grown used to the ranch owner’s ways.

  Miss Walker made no mention of that day and neither did Annie. But it was as if the candle still burned, binding them together in an invisible glow. Never was this more evident than during afternoon tea.

  Today Miss Walker greeted Annie with her usual snide remark. “What poison do you have planned this time?”

  “Darjeeling,” Annie replied. “From India.”

  Annie had just finished pouring their tea when the peaceful quiet was interrupted by angry voices.

  “What in the world?” Miss Walker turned her head to stare at the open door leading to the balcony.

  After setting the teapot down, Annie hurried outside and leaned over the railing. Wishbone and the man she recognized as Feedbag stood practically nose to nose. Feedbag’s square-cut beard did indeed look like a nose bag worn over a horse’s muzzle.

  “When I get through with you, you’ll be scratchin’ the back of your neck with your front teeth,” Wishbone yelled.

  “And I’m gonna turn your Adam’s apple into cider,” Feedbag shouted.

  Wishbone stepped back and rolled up his sleeves. Head down, arms windmilling, he barreled into Feedbag’s middle.

  “Oomph!” Feedbag tried to fight him off and the two men fell to the ground and rolled.

  Annie shook her head in disgust and stepped inside. “It’s Wishbone and Feedbag.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Miss Wal
ker’s face. “Well, don’t just stand there. Make them stop at once! I will not have my men fighting.”

  Annie left the room and rushed down the hall to the stairs. Having grown up in an all-male house, she’d done her share of making peace. But the sibling blackmail that had worked so well on her brothers would have no effect on the cowhands.

  By the time she reached the courtyard, more men had entered the fray and the sickening sound of pounding fists made her flinch. Stretch swung his arm in a wide arc and his fist just missed the man wearing a black leather apron. No doubt he was the blacksmith, Michael, who also happened to be Bessie Adams’s nephew.

  One man fell backward and another jumped on top of him.

  “Stop it!” she yelled. “Please, please stop it.”

  Branch walked up from behind and held out his Peacemaker. “Politeness is more effective when combined with a gun.” His voice in her ear was as smooth as silk, and chills slithered down her spine.

  She pushed his gun away. “Don’t tempt me.”

  The sharp report of a shotgun split the air and Annie jumped. The men on the ground froze and all heads turned in the direction of Miss Walker’s balcony.

  A grayish-brown prairie falcon fell to the ground, dead.

  “Well I’ll be a beaver’s uncle.” Still flat on his back, Stretch stared at the bird, which was mere inches from his head. He stood and brushed himself off. “The boss lady still is the best shot in the terr’tory.”

  Branch holstered his gun, his gaze still on the balcony. “Miss Walker did that? But isn’t she still confined to her bed?”

  Annie couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, but she keeps her shotgun by her side.” Anyone who thought the old lady helpless would be sadly mistaken.

  The blast brought Ruckus and O.T. running and even Able rushed outside to see what all the racket was about.

  “What’s going on?” O.T. demanded.

  Wishbone held his jaw. “Feedbag accused me of being the Phantom.”

  “I did no such thing,” Feedbag said. “I said you looked like him.” He pulled a circular out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up for all to see. The word WANTED was written in bold letters across the top of the handbill. “These are posted all over town.”