“We’re discussing a fire,” she said with a toss of her head. She welcomed the reminder because as long as they remained competitors, there was little danger of repeating what happened in the cave. “Nothing more.”
She tried her best to maintain a serious demeanor, but there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to be done about her flip-flopping heart.
Annie stood at the counter of the telegraph office and printed her message in code. She and Taggert had parted company the moment they reached town, agreeing to meet at the bank at two.
Since code could easily be misinterpreted, it was necessary to print so the operator did not send the wrong message. In cryptic she wrote: Fire at the ranch; arson suspected.
Taggert sidled up to the counter and she glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected to run into him so soon. He arched his neck and tried to read what she wrote.
Since her note was written in cipher, it wouldn’t do him any good. Nevertheless, she moved away from him, sliding her note along the polished wood counter.
He reached for a sheet of paper of his own and began to write. Keeping her head lowered, she cast a sideways glance in his direction. The bold strokes of his hand were followed by the scratching sound of his pen, but she was too far away to see what he wrote. No doubt his message to his home office was similar to her own.
After finishing her report, she handed it to the telegraph operator at the same time Taggert handed over his.
“Ladies first,” she said.
“That’s true only for sinking ships,” Taggert said. He slapped a gold coin on the counter and the youth’s eyes widened.
Not to be outdone, Annie reached into her purse and pulled out two gold coins.
“I . . . I have some telegrams ready to send ahead of yours,” the youth stammered.
A third gold coin did the trick. “Send it collect,” she said. The youth snatched the paper out of her hands and sat down on his stool.
She turned to face Taggert. “You did it again,” she said. She tapped her chest to indicate his pocket. “You stole the fountain pen.”
He drew the writing implement out of his pocket and stuck it in the penholder. He then slapped two coins on the counter in front of her.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“It seems only fair that I share investigation expenses.”
“We’re not working together.” She pushed his money toward him. “I agreed to join you to talk with Mr. Stackman, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”
He stayed her hand with his own, sending waves of warmth up her arm. “You have no idea what you’re missing. Two heads are better than one, and the same can be said for private eyes.”
“Sorry, but this eye prefers to work alone.”
He released her hand. “What a pity.” For one brief moment it seemed as if they were no longer talking about the Phantom or the fire or even mystery buyers from the East, but rather something far more personal, and her mouth went dry.
Chapter 22
You can learn a lot from a stakeout, mainly what bad company you are.
Less than twenty minutes later, Mr. Stackman hustled Annie and Taggert into his paneled office. The mere mention of a problem with Miss Walker seemed to unsettle the otherwise businesslike banker.
“Have a seat.”
Stackman sat behind a conservative oak desk, hands folded. The desk was equipped with fountain pen, inkwell, and rocking ink blotter but was otherwise bare.
“What is this about? Is Eleanor all right?” The banker’s expression was suffused with concern.
Taggert pushed his hat back. “Miss Walker is fine. There was a fire at the ranch last night.”
Stackman frowned. “The house?”
Taggert shook his head. “Just the barn and stables.”
Stackman started to say something and stopped. He glanced from Taggert to Annie.
“You can speak freely,” Taggert assured him. “Miss Beckman is a Pinkerton operative.”
Stackman sat back in his chair and blinked. “You can’t be serious. A Pinkerton?”
Annie leaned forward. “It’s essential that no one else knows my true identity,” she said. “And that includes Miss Walker.”
“Yes, of course, of course. I won’t breathe a word, but . . . Eleanor . . . Miss Walker will kill me if she finds out I’ve been keeping something like this from her.” He sighed. “So what can I do for you?”
“We want to know the name of the person who made an offer on the ranch,” Annie said.
“Ah, don’t we all? I tried to find out but the attorney refused to tell me. He cited client/attorney privilege or some such thing.”
Annie thought about this for a moment. “Why would a prospective buyer not wish to have his identity known?”
“It’s not as unusual as you might think,” Stackman explained. “Some people wish to keep their assets hidden. Then, too, speculators are snapping up property left and right. They hope value will increase should Arizona become a state. If word got out, it could start a land rush and that’s the last thing these land grabbers want.”
Annie glanced at Taggert. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe someone is trying to force Miss Walker off her ranch.”
Stackman frowned. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“For one thing, the fire was no accident,” Taggert said. “And someone poisoned the water, causing the loss of more than a dozen cattle.”
“Good heavens!” Stackman’s gaze flitted back and forth between Annie and Taggert. “And you think the buyer has something to do with it?”
“Right now we don’t know what to think,” Taggert said. “But we have to consider every possibility.”
Stackman rubbed his temples. “What does any of this have to do with the Phantom?”
“That we don’t know,” Annie said. “Maybe nothing.”
“Or maybe everything,” Taggert added.
Annie glanced at him. Did he know something she didn’t? She wouldn’t put it past him.
Stackman wagged his head. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more service.” He hesitated. “My main concern is Eleanor’s safety. Is there a chance that she might be in any sort of danger?”
“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Taggert promised, meeting Annie’s gaze.
“Yes, we will,” she said. But she sent a visual message that said, That’s all we’ll do together.
As if to read her thoughts, Taggert frowned before turning his gaze back to the banker. “We won’t take up any more of your time.” He slapped both hands on his thighs and stood.
Annie stood too, as did Mr. Stackman.
“I’ll see if I can speed up the telephone work,” Stackman said. “I’ll feel a whole lot better when the telephone is installed at the ranch.”
Taggert checked his watch. “That would be a great help.”
Annie offered the banker her hand and he took it. “A Pinkerton, eh. I never would have guessed it.”
If the astonishment on Marshal Morris’s face was any indication, he obviously hadn’t guessed Annie’s profession either.
“Well, I’ll be a skunk’s uncle.” He lowered himself on the chair behind his desk, his eyes wide beneath his craggy brows. “I should have known something was up that day you came in here and started asking all those questions.”
“She thought you and I were in cahoots,” Taggert said and laughed.
“Which of course you were,” Annie said, “but not how I imagined.”
The marshal shook his head. “If we can’t figure out the good guys, how in tarnation will we ever figure out the bad?” He stared at her like he still couldn’t believe it. “What would make a woman decide to be a Pink?”
“My father was an operative.”
“I guess that explains it, then.”
“Nothing on this end, eh?” Taggert asked.
The marshal clasped his hands. “No clues as to who the Phantom might be, but I’m afraid I do have some bad news. I checked out the deserted c
abins north of town and I found a corpse. We were able to identify the body as the missing Wells Fargo detective.”
Taggert sat forward and the blood drained from his face. “How did he die?” His voice was ragged and sounded unlike him.
“Blow to the head.”
Taggert sucked in his breath.
Annie frowned. “Do you think the Phantom had something to do with it?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.” The marshal’s gaze traveled between the two of them. “And if so, that means we’re not just dealing with a thief, but a killer as well.” His horseshoe mustache twitched. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll watch your backs. Both of you.”
Taggert shot out of the marshal’s office like cannon fire. He’d suspected his friend was dead, but that hadn’t made the news any easier to bear.
“Branch!” He stopped at the sound of Annie’s voice but didn’t turn around. He wanted—needed—to be alone.
She caught up to him and the concern in her eyes pierced the heaviness of his heart. “He was a friend, wasn’t he? The Wells Fargo agent was your friend.”
“Yeah.” Forcing the word out was like pushing a boulder up a mountain. He swallowed and tried again. “He was a friend.” Not only was Paul Lester his best friend, Taggert had talked him into becoming a Wells Fargo detective.
Her face darkened with emotion and her thick lashes lowered as if in prayer. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. After a moment she touched his arm. “We’ll find who did this.”
We. She said we. A short time ago he wanted to work with her, but not now. With one undercover agent dead, the stakes were now a whole lot higher.
He touched a hand to her cheek and nudged away a tiny strand of hair from the side of her face with his fingertip. “You must leave the ranch,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s too dangerous.”
She pushed his hand away and he could almost see a determined streak race across her face. “I know it’s dangerous.”
“No, you don’t know.” He grabbed her roughly by the arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Go home, Annie. This is no job for a lady.”
Anger flashed in her eyes and she pulled away. “I’m every bit as capable as a man.”
“Which means you’re also capable of getting yourself killed.” The thought of anything happening to her nearly crushed him. “Annie, please . . .”
She lifted her chin. “I’m staying.” She whirled about and stormed away.
“Have it your way,” he yelled after her. He pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. Fool, stubborn woman!
That afternoon Annie walked into the parlor, tray in hand. Miss Walker looked up from her writing tablet and grimaced. She looked every bit the ranch owner in her divided skirt, masculine shirt, single booted foot, and wide-brim hat. Even her plastered leg didn’t take away from her cool, efficient appearance.
“What poison do you have planned for me this afternoon?” she asked.
Annie set the tray on the low table in front of the sofa. “Jasmine. It has a lovely aroma that should help take away the awful smell.” She’d kept the windows and doors tightly shut and candles lit but the smell of ashes permeated the house.
Miss Walker set her pencil and notebook next to the tea tray.
Annie reached for the pad. The page was filled with lines and boxes. It was a simple drawing, almost childish in nature. “What’s this?”
“My new barn and stables,” Miss Walker replied.
Annie stared at the sketch, her detective mind spinning like the works of a clock. The ashes weren’t even cold and already Miss Walker had drawn up plans, but that didn’t mean she had instigated the fire. The woman had somehow managed to turn every setback of the past into an advantage. Evidently she intended to do so now. It was one of the things Annie most admired about her.
“It looks enormous.” There were at least twice as many horse stalls.
“Of course it does,” Miss Walker assured her. “What good is a fire if something bigger and better doesn’t come out of it?”
Annie set the sketch down and picked up the teapot. “Branch . . . believes that it was arson,” she said carefully.
Miss Walker didn’t look the least bit surprised or even disturbed. “Hmm. An arsonist.” She shrugged. “Then I owe him my most profound gratitude. I wanted to rebuild and now I shall.”
Miss Walker’s casual attitude would normally be cause for suspicion, but unless there was insurance money involved, there would be no need to resort to such tactics. Had she wanted to rebuild that badly, Miss Walker would have simply done so.
“Does the ranch have fire insurance?” Annie thought she knew the answer, but she had to make sure.
Just as she suspected, Miss Walker shook her head no. “Insurance for what? Stucco and sand? An old wooden barn that should have been replaced when I built the ranch house?”
Annie poured the tea and handed a cup of the steaming brew to Miss Walker. She tried to think how best to phrase the next question but then decided to come right out with it. “Do you by chance have any enemies?”
Miss Walker’s eyes shone with a wry but indulgent glint. “Of course I have enemies. Making enemies is so much easier than making friends, and they’re far less trouble to maintain.”
Her answer was just what Annie had come to expect from her. She filled her own cup and sat in the chair opposite. “Is there anyone in particular who might wish to see you harmed?”
“No, but I daresay many would gladly dance on my grave.” She laughed at Annie’s expression. “Some people say to forgive your enemies. My plan is to simply outlive them.” Miss Walker took a sip of tea and grimaced. “That is, if you don’t poison me first.”
Chapter 23
Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but to a forger it’s also the quickest route to riches.
Annie had just finished serving Miss Walker her breakfast in the dining room when shouts sounded from outside.
Miss Walker’s fork stilled. “Don’t tell me my men are fighting again.”
“I’ll go and see.” Annie hurried from the room and stepped onto the veranda. A group of men was gathered in front of the bunkhouse. Wishbone, already on his horse, flew by the ranch house, kicking up dirt in his wake.
She strained to get a better view and Miss Walker joined her on crutches.
“It looks like someone’s hurt,” Annie said.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Miss Walker snapped. “Go and see who it is.”
Moments later Annie broke through the ring of men circling the injured man. It was Taggert. She covered her mouth and watched in mute wretchedness as the men struggled to lift him off the ground.
Stretch held Taggert under the arms and Feedbag held him by the feet. He was breathing but unconscious.
“What happened?” she managed.
“Thrown from his horse,” Ruckus said. “Looks like he’s got himself one of them there concussions. Wishbone’s on his way to town to fetch the doctor.”
She turned to the black steed tethered to the hitching post in front of the bunkhouse. Her detective skills dulled by the fog of worry, her instincts nonetheless remained sharp. Frowning, she ran her hand along the horse’s slick neck.
“Wait,” she called, stopping the two men. “Take Branch to the main house. He can stay in one of the guest rooms.”
Stretch and Feedbag exchanged looks.
O.T. stepped forward, his craggy face all serious. “I don’t know that the boss lady will like a cowhand staying in her house like he’s a guest or somethin’.”
“He’s injured,” Annie said in a tone that forbade further discussion. She didn’t want to tell them that she feared for Taggert’s safety.
O.T. shrugged and tossed a nod toward the ranch house. Stretch and Feedbag reversed directions and Annie led the way.
The two men carried Taggert up the stairs and placed him in the room next to Annie’s. They didn’t bother to undress him except for his bo
ots and holster. The bed seemed too small for Taggert’s large form and his feet hung off the edge of the mattress.
“Would you ask Able to bring me some ice?” she asked.
“Sure thing,” Stretch said. The two men left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Moments later Able entered wearing a flour-covered apron and carrying a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel. It looked like he’d been working over a hot stove and his face was almost as red as his hair. “Is he going to be all right?”
She took the ice from him. “I think so. Would you let the doctor in when he arrives?”
Able nodded. “I’ll make gumbo soup,” he said, and she smiled. Gumbo soup was Able’s cure-all for everything. “And I’ll put on a kettle for tea.” He glanced at Taggert. “For when he’s conscious. Any special kind?”
“Gunpowder tea,” she said. “And make it strong.” That will wake him up.
“Just let me know when you want it.”
“Thank you, Able.”
After the cook left, she leaned over the bed.
“Say something,” she urged. Taggert’s eyes fluttered open for an instant, but only enough to let her see the whites of his eyes.
She shook him gently but he didn’t respond. Her eyes blurred and a tear trickled down her cheek. Already she missed his crooked smile. If anything happened to him . . .
The last words she said to him were spoken in anger and she regretted that more than she regretted anything.
She leaned over and pressed her lips on his forehead. “Say something. Speak to me. Please.”
Taggert didn’t move. She pulled back and wrung her hands. Where was the doctor? What was taking so long?
Needing something to do, she filled a basin from the pitcher on the dry sink and wet a washcloth. Ever so gently she cleansed the wound on his head and then arranged the pillows so the ice pack covered the worrisome lump.
Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 19
