She froze, her gun pointed straight at him. “Hello, Taggert.”
They stared at each other like two wily animals meeting at a watering hole.
He drew in his breath. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She was, in fact, the last person he expected to see. The moonlight bounced off her weapon but it was too dark to make out much more than its pocket size. “Plan on shooting anything with that toy?”
“John Wilkes Booth managed and his was a Deringer with one r. This one has two.”
She was right in that regard. The original derringers were spelled differently and had only one shot. Imitations such as hers had two shots. “You might be interested to know that this is a Peacemaker—with one r—and I’ve got a good mind to arrest you. I believe that’s two r’s.”
She surprised him by laughing. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s the correct spelling,” he said.
“You have no authority to arrest anyone.”
He hadn’t expected to blow his cover so soon, but his investigation was going nowhere, fast. He didn’t know how Miss Beckman fit in the scheme of things, but he meant to find out and there was no time like the present.
“I’m working undercover. As you unfortunately know, my name is Taggert. Jeremy Taggert. I’m a Wells Fargo detective.” He held up his badge with his free hand.
Even in the pale moonlight the shock was evident on her face. It took her a full moment to recover or at least lower her weapon.
“Th-that still gives you no authority to arrest me,” she stammered.
She was right, of course, but he had no intention of letting such a small detail deter him. “We can remedy that by a trip to town. The marshal has all the authority we need. Not only are you a nuisance, but your presence here tonight allowed someone, perhaps even the Phantom, to get away. So I suggest you start talking and begin by telling me your real name.”
“Arresting me would be a grave mistake,” she said, “even if you could.”
“Really. Suppose you give me one good reason why.”
She reached into her waistband and held up her palm, revealing a shiny shield. “I’m also working undercover. Pinkerton National Detective agency.”
That was a good reason, all right, but a blow to the head couldn’t have stunned him more. “A Pinkerton?” He could barely get the words out. “You’re kidding, right? But . . . but you’re a woman.”
“Yes, that has been brought to my attention,” she said.
Of all things, a woman detective. Great guns! What an unexpected turn of events. He holstered his weapon. “Okay, I take it back. I won’t arrest you.”
“How considerate of you.” She tilted her head. “So that’s how you escaped jail. Am I right in assuming that the marshal knows your true identity?”
“He does.” The hanging was a setup from the start and it worked like a charm. “And so does the bank president.”
“Mr. Stackman.” She frowned. “It seems like everyone knew your true identity but me.”
“I consider it a compliment to my skills that you didn’t figure it out,” he said. No doubt she was just as annoyed as he for failing to pick out a fellow detective.
“No one told me there was a second undercover agent.”
She sounded angry and he couldn’t blame her. It was imperative that a detective be aware of any other agents in the environment. A lack of such information could result in embarrassment or even tragedy. He knew that from painful experience.
“Did you inform the marshal of your presence?” he asked. Notifying local law enforcement was the first order of business for a Wells Fargo detective. He would be willing to bet Pinkerton operatives were required to follow the same procedure.
“I suspected you and the marshal were in cahoots, but never did I imagine the possibility that you were working on the right side of the law.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You thought Morris was a crook?”
She shrugged. “You were walking around free. What else could I think?”
He blew out his breath. “It seems like we’ve been working at cross-purposes.”
“Yes, haven’t we?”
He still couldn’t believe he’d been so easily fooled by her. “Miss Walker’s accident? That wasn’t planned?”
She gasped. “You don’t think that I—”
He shrugged. “The thought did occur to me.”
“I would never—” She angled her head. “So how did you manage to work your way into the Phantom gang?”
“With a golden tongue and a loose purse. You can talk your way into anything if you ply others with enough drinks.”
“I see. And what exactly are you plying out here in the middle of the night?”
Thumbs hooked onto the belt of his holster, he considered how to use this rather surprising development to his own advantage. “If you’re who you say you are, then you already know the answer to that.”
“You saw the lights too.”
They eyed each other and he noted that she still held her gun. Was that because she didn’t want him to know where she kept it, or did she still not fully trust him?
“Who do you think the Phantom is?” he asked.
“Do you think I would tell you?” She paused a beat. “A Wells Fargo detective?”
Competition between the two agencies led to hard feelings and the Vander affair made relations even more strained, but Taggert suspected another reason for her reticence.
“In other words, you haven’t the vaguest idea.”
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to. If it’ll make you feel any better, I haven’t got a clue either.”
She considered this for a moment. “What makes you think the Phantom is here, at the Last Chance?”
“One of our detectives sent a telegram to the head office telling us he’d tracked the Phantom to the ranch following a holdup. That was the last we heard from him.” It was the disappearance of his colleague and friend that had brought Taggert out of semi-retirement. He tilted his head. “And you? What makes you think he’s here?”
“Mr. Pinkerton mapped out the robberies and this seemed to be the most centralized location.”
“Ah. An admirable deduction.” His mind raced. “What do you say we combine resources?”
“Sorry, not interested.” She turned and quickly walked away. He followed.
“Think about it.” They reached the horses and he prevented her from mounting with a hand on her arm. Her gun was no longer in sight.
“Two heads are better than one. If we help each other, we’ll capture the guy in half the time. Then we can both go home.” He didn’t mind detective work, but working with cattle was pretty near killing him.
She looked up at him. In the soft moonlight her eyes sparkled like stars and her skin looked as smooth as fine silk. He still couldn’t believe she was a Pinkerton.
“And Wells Fargo will take full credit,” she said.
Of course it would, but somehow he had to convince her that the benefits of working together far outweighed the negatives. He lowered his head and her warm, womanly fragrance momentarily made him lose his train of thought.
“That’s negotiable.” Over his dead body. “So what do you say?”
Stars blazed like fire in her eyes. “I say forget it.”
Her voice sounded almost as husky as his. He didn’t need his detective skills to know that she was affected by his nearness. Of course, he’d be in a better position to negotiate if her nearness didn’t muddle his own thoughts as well.
Nevertheless, he moved closer. Mere inches separated his mouth from the soft curve of hers. He inhaled her sweet, warm breath. Her lips trembled and he could sense her quickening pulse.
“We’re both working on the same side of the law.” He kept his voice low, smooth, persuasive.
“What a pity,” she said. “I was so looking forward to turning you in.”
“If that�
�s a no, you’ll regret it, I promise you.”
She flashed a smile. “I don’t think so.” She moved away, breaking the strange spell that held him in its grip.
She mounted her mare with one smooth move and stared down at him. “It’s been most enlightening.”
“Yes, hasn’t it?”
She turned her horse in the opposite direction and trotted away.
“Good luck,” he called after her. “And may the best man—or woman—win.”
Chapter 20
Turning temptation into opportunity is what a thief does best.
Annie returned to the ranch in a daze. A Wells Fargo detective. She still couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t she figured that out before now or at least suspected it?
She knew from the very beginning that Taggert didn’t fit the picture of a criminal, but a lawman? That never even entered her head.
I was blind.
We never see things as they really are, her brother once said. It was his way of explaining why her father was so against her being a detective. “In Pa’s eyes you’ll always be his little girl and in need of protection.”
People didn’t only see what they wanted to see; they saw in others what they needed to see. As long as Taggert was an outlaw in her eyes, he was off limits. She could then more easily control the worrisome feelings his nearness invoked. Now it was going to be a whole lot harder to ignore the way he affected her, if not altogether impossible.
She unsaddled Caper and one by one checked each stalled horse. None were overheated or gave any other indication of having been recently ridden. Odd. She distinctly heard someone ride away while she and Taggert were tracking each other.
Moments later she stood in the courtyard with only the night sky for company and tried to make sense of her ambiguous thoughts. Taggert wasn’t an outlaw but he worked for Wells Fargo, and the very thought made her cringe.
Wells Fargo detectives were Pinkerton’s biggest competitors, but that wasn’t why Annie harbored such contempt for them. Her reasons were far more personal and ran deep as the ocean. It was a Wells Fargo agent who had caused her father’s death.
Shivering against the memory, Annie slipped into the ranch house, surprised to find Miss Walker downstairs on the couch surrounded by thick ledgers.
“What are you doing here?” Annie asked. She had made certain that the ranch owner was settled in her room before leaving. “You didn’t come downstairs by yourself?”
Miss Walker waved away her concern. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to add up the loss of those cattle.” She stared at Annie. “Where were you, and why do you look all flushed?”
Annie flopped in a chair opposite her. “I needed some air.” That part was true at least.
“Hmm.” Miss Walker exchanged one ledger for another. “You now have an inkling what it means to be a ranch owner.”
Only an inkling? Annie drew in her breath at the memory of dead cattle. It had been a strange day on many accounts. “Aren’t you worried that whoever poisoned the water will try again?” she asked.
Miss Walker shrugged. “All we can do is keep checking the water supply and hope we catch the culprit.”
“You don’t suppose it’s the Phantom?” Annie asked.
“What earthly reason would he have for doing such a thing? It makes no sense.” Miss Walker made a notation with a pen. “I hope your unfortunate experience hasn’t discouraged you. Are you still interested in learning the ranching business?”
Annie wanted to tell Miss Walker her real reason for being on the ranch, but that would be grounds for immediate dismissal. Mr. Pinkerton was clear on that. “Of course.”
Miss Walker didn’t pursue the matter, and for that Annie was grateful.
She hated lying, especially to the old lady. God forgive her. It was the thing she hated most about her job.
She was only ten when she attended a Christmas party with her father as he worked undercover. That was when the agency was at its peak. Some of the guests were militant mine workers suspected of being Molly Maguires and her father posed as a sympathizer.
She complained at having to pretend to be something she wasn’t and her father told her that everyone at that party was wearing a false face. The hostess pretended not to notice her husband flirting with a younger woman. The stuffy bank president acted as if he were having a good time. The man drinking too much and laughing too loudly wanted everyone to think he was successful and not about to lose his job.
“The only difference between an operative and the rest of the world is that we get paid to pretend,” her father told her.
Miss Walker worked on her ledgers, making notations, checking bills of sale, and adding figures. Even with her leg in a cast, she looked determined, businesslike, commanding, content. No doubt she was pretending too.
All night long Annie chided herself for missing the boat as far as Taggert was concerned and she didn’t sleep a wink. The time wasted watching him could have been better spent elsewhere. She might have already figured out the identity of the Phantom had it not been for the distraction.
It was still dark when she gave up any hope of putting her troubled mind to rest and catching some shut-eye. Instead she rose and stood on the balcony waiting for the sun to appear. At long last, golden rays of light trickled down the distant hills like warm honey over freshly baked rolls. Sage and some aroma she couldn’t identify seasoned the cool morning air.
From the distance came the crow of a rooster and the barks of dogs waiting for their morning meal. Normally she wasn’t an early riser, but the desert mornings had become her favorite part of the day.
She sighed and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. One by one, she considered each ranch hand.
She was pretty certain Ruckus wasn’t involved. Stretch? She hated to think that might be true. She liked the tall, rather gawky, always affable man. How could she not? Feedbag? Possibly. O.T.? And what about the horse trainer, Brodie, who kept pretty much to himself?
She had no proof that the gang leader was anywhere near the ranch. The principal Pinkerton had simply based his theory on a map and Wells Fargo based theirs on one man’s word. Both agencies could be wrong and that meant she and Taggert might very well be on a wild-goose chase.
That, basically, was what she had written in her latest report. Pinkerton wouldn’t like it but she had to report the truth. Either the evidence was there or it wasn’t.
She was just about to go inside when she spotted Taggert riding away, headed in the same direction as the lights. She should have known he would check out the area at daybreak. “Oh no, you don’t!” she yelled out.
She flew into her room, dressed quickly, and strapped her pistol in place. Not wanting to take the time to twist her hair into its usual bun, she stuffed her flowing tresses into her hat. Pulling the stampede string tight, she left her room and headed for the stairs.
Annie urged her horse along the now-familiar cattle trail. Things looked different in daylight, less menacing, but even so, she stayed alert.
The cool morning air nipped at her cheeks like a playful puppy, but the blazing sun rising over the distant mountains promised another hot day. Prairie dogs popped in and out of holes and grazing cattle lifted broad faces to stare as she raced by.
She had just about given up looking for Taggert when she spotted his black steed hidden in the shadows of the towering rock formation.
After tying her horse to a bush next to his, she followed the same trail taken the night before. This time she noticed something she’d missed: a cave.
She cautiously ducked inside and stood perfectly still. The sound of dripping water echoed from the hollow depths but otherwise all was quiet.
Someone had built a campfire in the center of the main chamber but the ashes were cold. A rusty canteen and an old boot were scattered on the ground along with a book.
Annie picked up the dime novel and recognized the title: Miss Hattie’s Dilemma by K. Mattson. Aunt Bessie’s daughter-in-law and f
ormer “heiress” seemed to have quite a following. Judging by the dog-eared pages, the book had been well read.
She tossed it to the ground and moved to the back of the cave. The ground slanted downward and led to what appeared to be an underground tunnel. Fresh wood shavings dotted the entrance. Wishbone’s? She couldn’t be sure.
A moving light shone in the center of the otherwise dark passageway and she held her breath. Someone was coming this way. She turned, looking for a place to hide. It was probably Taggert but she couldn’t be certain. She scraped the wood shavings away with the toe of her boot. Let Taggert find his own clues.
Her back against a rough rock wall, she slid her hand into her false pocket and wrapped her fingers around her gun.
Taggert stepped out of the passage and she exhaled. “Imagine meeting you here.”
He swung around. If he was surprised to see her, he kept it to himself. Instead he gave her a crooked smile. “Does this mean you’ve decided we’d best pool our resources and work together?”
“Certainly not.” She moved away from the wall. “Find anything?”
He shook his head. “Just some pickaxes and shovels. Looks like our mystery lights belong to a prospector.”
“Would you tell me if you’d found anything else?” she asked.
He laughed and the warm, pleasant sound bounced off the rocky cave walls all around her like a dozen rubber balls. “Would you?”
“You know I wouldn’t,” she said, though oddly enough she felt guilty for hiding the wood chips.
He extinguished the light and hung the lantern on a hook jutting from the rocky wall. Half of his face was in shadow, and even now that she knew his true identity, much of him remained a mystery.
“What made you become a detective?” she asked. Everyone had a reason for doing what they did, and it was usually personal.
It took a moment for him to answer, as if he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. “My father was shot and killed during a bank robbery,” he said at last. “I was fifteen at the time.”
Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 17
