Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Brownley, Margaret

  “Was it something he ate? I told him not to eat any beef but mine.” Miss Walker’s voice held its usual sharp edge and only the tremor and coldness of her hands gave her away.

  “It wasn’t beef.” Annie hesitated. “Dr. Fairbanks believes it was arsenic.”

  “Arsenic!” Miss Walker pulled her hands away. “That means it was no accident.”

  Annie nodded. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means.”

  Miss Walker made a funny choking sound. “But who in heaven’s name would want to poison Robert?”

  It was a good question and Annie had no answer. Never had she felt so inadequate. “We don’t know, but the marshal is doing everything possible to find out.”

  Miss Walker sniffed. “That old tin badge couldn’t catch a wolf in a chicken coop.” She would never admit it but she was obviously shaken. Still, Annie had a job to do and there was no time to waste.

  “Does Mr. Stackman have any enemies?”

  “Of course he has enemies,” Miss Walker snapped with an impatient wave. “He’s a banker.”

  Annie debated on how little or how much to say. “I wonder if there’s a connection between what happened to Mr. Stackman and what’s been happening on the ranch.”

  Miss Walker’s thin brows rose. “Certainly you don’t mean the fire and poisoned water?”

  “I do. And don’t forget someone attacked Mr. Branch.” She made no mention of the dead Wells Fargo detective. “Everything that’s happened recently, including Mr. Stackman’s poisoning, could be the work of a single person.”

  “But that makes no sense,” Miss Walker sputtered. “Robert has no connection to the ranch.”

  “Except through you,” Annie said. “Someone may be trying to get to you through him.”

  The older woman seemed to shrink before Annie’s eyes, as if someone had taken the stuffing out of her. “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.” That very question had been burning in Annie’s mind since Robert collapsed. She and Taggert had discussed it at great length while waiting for the doctor to finish examining the banker. “I have a feeling that once we figure it out we’ll have the answer to all our questions.”

  “Take me to him.” Miss Walker reached for her crutches but Annie stayed her.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him. He’s in good hands and he’s resting.” She searched for something to say, for something to do that would put Miss Walker’s mind at ease.

  “Would you . . . like to pray with me?”

  Miss Walker didn’t say anything, but she didn’t resist when Annie took her hands a second time. “God the Father, please comfort and heal Mr. Stackman . . .”

  “And tell Him to put an end to all the nonsense that’s been going on at the ranch,” Miss Walker interjected.

  Annie peered at Miss Walker through lowered lashes. “Would you like to tell God that yourself?”

  “Why would I want to do that? You’re doing just fine.” She clamped her mouth shut. After a moment she added, “What are you waiting for? Go on, tell Him.”

  Annie resumed her prayer. “And please, God, help”—she almost said me—“the marshal catch the . . . culprit who’s been causing all the trouble at the ranch.”

  “And tell Him to get on the stick.”

  Annie opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. Talking to God through a third person was better than not talking to Him at all. She finished her prayer and released the older woman’s hands.

  Miss Walker sank back, eyes closed. She claimed that nothing meant as much to her as the ranch, but Annie had seen beyond the rigid exterior. The poisoned cattle and fire hardly fazed her, but she still grieved the loss of her daughter and was clearly shaken by her banker friend’s near brush with death.

  “If anything happens to Robert . . .” Miss Walker didn’t finish; it wasn’t necessary.

  “I’ll have Able make us some tea,” Annie said, standing.

  The old lady’s eyes flew open and the piercing gaze seemed to bore a hole through Annie. “Before you go, answer me one question. Who are you, really?”

  Taggert wrapped the reins of his horse around the hitching post in front of the bank. Stackman’s medical emergency had postponed their meeting, which meant having to conduct his investigation during bank hours.

  Annie was nowhere to be seen. Professionally, he was relieved. Personally? That was another matter. He missed her when she wasn’t around and worried about her safety, but nothing he said convinced her to leave the ranch. She was determined to see the job through to the end. Stubborn woman.

  Stackman greeted him the moment he entered the bank. He still looked a bit peaked around the eyes, but otherwise appeared to have recovered from his ordeal.

  Taggert shook the banker’s offered hand. “It appears that Miss Beckman won’t be joining us.”

  “Nonsense. She’s been here for ages.” Stackman turned and led the way through the bank. “Checked out all our customers’ shoes.”

  Taggert winced inwardly. He should have known she would want to get a head start on the investigation. Were his personal feelings making him careless?

  “Did you say shoes?”

  “Yes. Miss Beckman explained that bank robbers often wear low-heeled shoes so as not to get caught on the metal bar leading to the vault. Did you know that?”

  “Can’t say that I did.” Taggert didn’t like having another detective show him up, even one as competent as Annie.

  “I’m happy to tell you that all today’s customers are well-heeled.” Stackman laughed at his own joke and a couple of bank employees looked up to stare from behind the bars of the teller cages.

  Stackman ushered Taggert into his office where Annie sat waiting. She quickly closed her notepad and dropped it into her handbag along with her pencil.

  Taggert would give anything to see what she’d written. He abandoned his cowboy swagger and donned his efficient detective persona, matching Annie’s. It was easier to concentrate that way. He sat in the chair next to hers, careful not to get too close.

  “I didn’t see your rig,” he said.

  She afforded him a slanted glance that hid more than it revealed. “I didn’t think it wise to let anyone know we were at the bank together.”

  It never failed to amaze him how her mind worked, but that didn’t make him any less concerned for her safety. If only she would listen to him.

  Stackman sat on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. “As I was telling Miss Beckman before you arrived, we didn’t even know we’d been robbed until we counted the money after closing.”

  “Even so, I don’t believe it’s an inside job,” Annie added.

  “We can’t rule it out,” Taggert said, though he suspected Annie was right; most dishonest bank clerks targeted customers, not the bank. It was a simple matter to shortchange a distracted client either at the teller booth or counting table. “Show us where the robbery occurred.”

  “This way.” Stackman slid off the desk and opened a second door.

  They followed him down a hall to the bank vault behind the cashier cages. It was an older vault with concrete walls, typical of the kind prevalent in most western towns. Eastern banks had newer vaults with combination locks and cast-iron doors that, unlike the cheaper metal doors, were torch-proof.

  Without such modern amenities, this particular strong room offered better protection against fires than thievery.

  “This is the day door,” Stackman explained. “After hours we set the night door.”

  Taggert examined the lock. “Who has access?”

  “Each teller has a key.” He pulled out his own key and opened the door. “As you can see, the door has a spring lock. It locks by itself.” He swung the door shut to demonstrate.

  Taggert put his hand out to Annie. “Quick, give me your hair clasp,” he said beneath his breath.

  Without question or argument, Annie reached for the wooden barrette holding her bun and handed i
t to him. Her fingers brushed his and their gazes caught. Her hair stayed in place, but the memory of lush dark tresses falling to her shoulders flashed through his mind, along with the kiss that had followed.

  Forcing the memory away, Taggert turned to Stackman. “Pretend you’re a teller. Go to the vault. Show us how it’s done.”

  Stackman inserted the key into the keyhole and unlocked the door. The tall heel of his shoe caught on the iron bar as he stepped inside. Taggert glanced at Annie but said nothing.

  The door swung shut and locked. After a moment, Stackman opened the door and emerged. Before it locked, Taggert quickly inserted Annie’s hair clasp in the casing. This he did with such finesse that Stackman didn’t seem to notice—but Annie did.

  Taggert would have missed the quick upturn of her mouth had he not been looking straight at her.

  “So what do you think?” Stackman asked.

  Before Taggert could reply, a bespectacled young man dressed in dark trousers, vest, and bow tie called to Stackman. “Sir, I need your signature.”

  “Excuse me,” Stackman said and walked away.

  Taggert pushed the vault door open. Annie’s hair clip fell to the floor and he scooped it up with one quick move and slid it into his vest pocket. He then took Annie’s hand and pulled her inside the concrete vault. He closed the door but didn’t shut it all the way. A stream of light filtered through the crack.

  In such close quarters, he could smell her sweet lavender fragrance.

  “Very clever of you,” she said softly.

  “An old trick,” he said without the least bit of modesty.

  “Do you think this was the work of the Phantom?” Only half of her face was visible in the vault’s dim light, but it was enough to know that she had not dropped her professional air.

  He narrowed his eyes. He ached to reach beyond her studied expression. Longed for those dark eyes of hers to gaze at the man and not the detective.

  “Maybe,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Maybe not.”

  She gazed up at him through a fringe of dark lashes. “How can you be so sure?” she teased.

  His grin was rewarded with a smile that practically turned his heart inside out. He felt himself sink into the velvet softness of her eyes and everything went out of his head but her nearness.

  “If I kiss you, will you still accuse me of having ulterior motives?” he asked.

  “Probably,” she whispered and in a stronger voice added, “Yes.”

  Then she did something totally unexpected. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fully on the mouth.

  He crushed her in his embrace and her hat went flying. Hands pressed against her back, he smothered her lips with an urgency that left them both breathless.

  He pulled his mouth away but only to brush kisses across her silky smooth forehead. “Who are you?” he whispered, burying his face in her sweet-scented hair.

  “What kind of question is that?” With her arms still around his neck, her expression seemed to beckon for more. “You know who I am.”

  He kissed her again before answering. “You know my real name, but I don’t know yours.” It suddenly seemed imperative that he know everything about her.

  She hesitated and he knew why. An undercover agent could never be too careful.

  “Miranda,” she whispered.

  At that moment he knew that she trusted him, not only with her name but with her life. No one had ever given him a greater gift. “Miranda,” he lipped silently to show he would never betray that trust by saying her name aloud. He pulled her closer still and could feel her heart beat next to his.

  She nestled her head against his chest. “Hunt. Miranda Hunt.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than he felt like the ground had caved beneath his feet. Had she suddenly stabbed him with a knife the pain wouldn’t have been more intense.

  He pulled back and stared at her. “Hunt?”

  She nodded. “It’s a good name for an operative, don’t you think?”

  It can’t be. God, don’t do this to me. “Your father . . . ?”

  “My father’s name was Charles Hunt.” She tilted her head and her smile died. She said something more, but his mind was a blank. “Is . . . something wrong?”

  He worked a finger along his collar but he still couldn’t breathe. Feeling as if the walls of the safe were closing in, he tore open the door and staggered out of the vault.

  Stackman’s mouth dropped open. “How did you get in there?”

  Taggert moved as far away as possible from Annie. He needed air. He needed to think. “An old t-trick,” he stammered.

  “It would seem Mr. Taggert is full of tricks,” Annie said, her face suffused with confusion and hurt.

  Stackman’s gaze swung from Annie back to Branch as if he sensed the strain between them. “I’ll instruct my tellers to make certain that the door is closed and locked before they leave.”

  “The Phantom seldom uses the same M.O. twice,” Annie said. The banker didn’t seem to notice the tremor in her voice but Taggert did. “That’s what makes him so difficult to catch.”

  “M.O.?”

  “Sorry.” She took in a deep breath as if trying to brace herself. “Modus operandi. It’s a method of operation. Like a calling card. We’re all creatures of habit, and that includes criminals. But in this case, no one modus operandi has been established. Salt, fire, and arsenic hardly sound like the workings of one man.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “It means that if this is the work of a single man, he’s extremely clever,” she explained. “Or there’s a pattern we’ve yet to identify.”

  While Annie and Stackman talked, Taggert’s thoughts shot back in time three years to that fateful day that made him question himself and God’s purpose for him. He had been dispatched to the Wells Fargo bank in Chicago. He worked the case for two weeks before finally catching one of the bank clerks stealing notes from an unsuspecting customer. His name was Sam Vander.

  Taggert had stepped in front of Vander, badge in hand. The man panicked and ran. Taggert chased after him. Vander dashed outside the bank just as a band of union picketers walked by.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Taggert yelled.

  Vander pulled out a gun, and in the scuffle that followed, a shot was fired and what turned out to be a Pinkerton undercover operative fell to the ground. Taggert now knew that man was Annie’s father.

  The death of an innocent man took a toll on him and reminded him in the worst possible way of his own father’s death. He’d joined the agency to protect people like his father, who was shot down for no reason; instead he caused an innocent man’s death. For two years he refused to accept an assignment, choosing instead to work at a desk.

  “Branch?”

  Startled, Taggert looked up to find Annie and Stackman staring at him. “I’m sorry—”

  “I was just asking what we should do to increase security,” Stackman said.

  “Uh . . .” Taggert cleared his throat. “Just stay alert. It might be a good idea to post someone by the door to keep watch.”

  Two lines of worry filled the space between Stackman’s eyebrows. “I’ll be sure to keep my guard up. You too. Both of you. I don’t want to lose another detective.”

  Annie drove the wagon back to the ranch. Her heart still raced with the memory of Taggert’s kiss. So what happened?

  After their meeting with Stackman, he refused to look her in the eyes. Even more puzzling, he took off without so much as a good-bye.

  She went over every word exchanged in the bank vault, every look, every nuance. Something had triggered a strong reaction in him, but what? Certainly not their kiss.

  “If I kiss you, would you still accuse me of having ulterior motives?” Her pulse skittered.

  A sudden thought made her yank on the reins to slow the horse. Had he figured out who the Phantom was? That would certainly explain his haste in leaving the bank and why he refused to look at her
. The thought nearly crushed her. Was all that business of working together just a ruse?

  He wanted to catch the Phantom and evidently would do anything to reach that goal—even if it meant using her. To think otherwise was just plain foolish.

  Taggert wasn’t a drinker. No detective could afford to take a liking to alcohol, but today he was tempted. Something had to dull the pain that seared through him like a piercing bullet.

  Miranda Hunt. He couldn’t believe it.

  The saloon was crowded, a lively game of faro in progress. He bellied up to the bar and the bartender placed a shot of whiskey in front of him. Taggert picked up the glass but memories of Annie were reflected in the amber liquid.

  She would never forgive him. How could she? Her father was cut down in the prime of life, because of him.

  The image of Charlie Hunt lying on the ground in a pool of blood would forever be engraved on his mind. At the time, he thought the dead man was another rioting union worker. He didn’t find out he was an undercover Pinkerton operative until much later.

  He had wanted to quit then and there, but his boss talked him out of it. “You’re a good detective. We need you.”

  “Good detectives don’t get innocent people killed,” he’d argued, but in the end he stayed. Instead of field work he settled for an office job. He handled stagecoach holdup reports and dispatched detectives as needed. He also sent out wanted posters and issued reward checks.

  He’d asked for God’s forgiveness and through God’s grace had learned to live with his guilt . . . more or less. Nothing he did could justify an innocent man’s death, but upon learning of his friend’s disappearance he pledged himself anew to physically fighting crime. His days of hiding behind a desk were over.

  It was a decision he now regretted. Learning the dead man’s identity was horrific enough, but nothing compared to finding out that Annie was the man’s daughter. Had Hunt reached from the grave to seek revenge, he couldn’t have exerted worse torture.

  Taggert shook the glass and the amber liquid whirled around. Annie . . .