The Engagement Bargain

by Sherri Shackelford

Victoria Bishop had marched into the school, her heels click-clacking along the marble floors. Anna had waited outside the office, her buttoned leather boots swinging to and fro, while her mother told Miss Spence exactly what she thought of Anna’s expulsion.

  A succession of tutors proficient in various subjects had followed. A more focused education, if a touch lonely. Training for solitude had served her well. Despite all the women she met in her travels, most of her time was spent alone. Traveling. Writing letters. Organizing the many separate chapters into a united front.

  Proving herself worthy of her mother’s legacy.

  “You’ll be there as my friend,” Jo said. “A friend who had an accident and needs some quiet.”

  “It could work.” The detective spoke. “Remember, though, if you show up out of the blue with someone they ain’t never heard of before, people will talk. You gotta give them something to talk about or else they’ll make up the missing pieces on their own.”

  Anna’s side was on fire, and she wasn’t opposed to resting. After her near-failed attempt at dressing herself this morning, she’d admitted the gravity of her wound. She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Though she’d never admit her weakness, she was still grappling with the realization that someone wanted her dead.

  Dead.

  Jo planted one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers on the dressing table. “The last page of the Crofton County Gazette has a listing of visitors with each edition. You know the stuff, ‘Mrs. Bertrand’s two grandchildren are visiting from St. Louis. The Millers have gone to Wichita for the wedding of their niece.’ That sort of thing. How would we print Anna’s visit in the paper? That should give us some ideas.”

  Caleb reached into the side pocket of his bag. “You’re brilliant, Jo. I’ve got a copy right here.”

  Anna surveyed their enthusiasm with a jaded eye. A small town was simply Miss Spence’s School for Girls all over again. She’d be a pariah once the townspeople uncovered her true identity. Already, too many people knew their secret, and the McCoys didn’t strike her as proficient in subterfuge. Sooner or later someone was bound to discover the truth.

  While she didn’t think the townspeople would stalk her with pitchforks and torches like the beast in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, there was bound to be awkwardness. Most small communities she’d frequented had narrower rules of propriety than larger cities.

  Flipping over the paper, Caleb frowned at the last page, his eyes scanning the columns. “It’s all family visits. We’re too well known. If we dig up another McCoy cousin, they’ll figure out we’re lying soon enough. What about Garrett? Could she pretend to be a relative of his?”

  “No,” Jo spoke emphatically. “Garrett’s family is quite off-limits.”

  The sorrow in her voice gave Anna pause.

  Caleb didn’t seem to notice. “All right then, let’s see what else.” A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Here’s something interesting. ‘JoBeth Cain and her brother, Caleb McCoy, will attend the suffragist rally in Kansas City calling for an additional amendment to the constitution allowing for the women’s vote. Daughter of the renowned suffragist, Victoria Bishop, is set to give the keynote speech. Garrett Cain is escorting a prisoner to Wichita.’” Caleb shook his head. “I guess we did make the news.”

  “It’s a small town.” Jo shrugged. “Everyone makes the newspaper.”

  Mr. McCoy folded the paper and squinted. “Well, I’ll be, here’s something I didn’t know. ‘Mr. Frank Lancaster has brought his fiancée, Miss Vera Nelson, for an extended visit with his family. A mail-order bride advertisement was recently listed in The Kansas Post by a woman with the name of Miss Vera Nelson. Mr. Lancaster declined to comment on the happenstance.’” Caleb rubbed his chin. “I spoke with him two weeks ago when his dog had the mange. I had no idea he was considering taking a wife.”

  “I suppose if you sent away for a bride like a pair of shoes from the Montgomery Ward wish book,” Jo said, “you wouldn’t want that to be common knowledge.”

  Mrs. Franklin crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with doing what needs to be done. I’m sure the girl had her reasons. For a woman, sometimes marriage is the only answer.”

  “Wait,” Jo snapped her fingers. “That’s perfect. Marriage is our answer, as well. Anna can come to visit as your fiancée.”

  “My fiancée.” Caleb’s eyes widened.

  Anna started. “What?”

  “You two can pretend to be engaged.”

  Shocked silence filled the room. Anna recalled the scores of letters her mother had received over the years from desperate women. All of them had one thing in common—they had pinned their hopes on a man.

  “No!” Anna and Caleb replied in unison.

  Chapter Four

  Anna leaned more heavily on her left arm. “Absolutely not. I mean no disrespect, Mr. McCoy, but I will not hide. I’m not going to change my name or pretend to be something I’m not. That goes against everything I stand for.”

  She wasn’t relinquishing her independence. Killer or no killer. If the shooting had been caused by the opposition, then such a concession meant they’d won.

  Jo’s arms flopped to her sides. “We can say you had a whirlwind romance.”

  Caleb laughed harshly. “No one would believe it.”

  “You’re right.” Jo appeared crestfallen. “Of course you’re right.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Caleb said. “No one would ever look for anyone in Cimarron Springs. She might as well wear a banner and parade down Main Street.”

  “True enough. Remember Elizabeth Elder’s first husband? The bank robber? He hid all his loot in a cave by Hackberry Creek. No one ever suspected a thing. You didn’t suspect him, did you, Caleb?”

  “He didn’t treat his livestock very well.”

  “Or his wife.” Jo’s voice strangled. “This may have escaped your notice, but people are just as important as animals.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “People are more important than livestock.”

  “I was making a point. There were obvious signs of bad character.”

  Caught up in the tale of the loot hidden by the creek, Anna made a noise of frustration at the sudden change of subject. “What happened to the bank robber and his poor wife?”

  “He’s dead now, God rest his soul.” Jo’s voice was stripped of remorse. “Elizabeth remarried and she’s doing fine. She’s living in Paris now.”

  “France?”

  “Texas.”

  “I see,” Anna said. “At least I think I understand.”

  A little dazed by the turn of the conversation, Anna considered Mr. McCoy’s earlier denial. Why would no one believe they were engaged? The idea didn’t seem far-fetched enough to incite laughter. Disbelief, certainly. Skepticism, perhaps. But outright mocking laughter?

  She studied the fidgety detective and knitted her forehead. “All we have are rumors and speculation. For all we know, they’ve captured the man responsible, and this conversation is all for naught.”

  Reinhart’s continued presence, especially considering his fierce demand for payment if he provided information, struck her as suspect. What had he said before? Something about cataloguing everything he saw and heard. Why the sudden interest in an injured suffragist if no one had offered him compensation? She had the distinct impression the detective never made a move without an ulterior motive. He certainly hadn’t moved from his chair during the entire conversation.

  “This isn’t your case, Mr. Reinhart,” she prompted. “You indicated that a moment before. Why are you here?”

  “Because it suits me.”

  He shot her a look of such naked disgust that Anna inhaled a sharp breath. The sudden effort sent a shaft of agony tearing through her side.

  She’d seen that reaction before, a
curious mixture of disdain and resentment. “You’re not an admirer of the women’s movement, are you?”

  “A woman’s place is in the home. Not squawking out in public and making a spectacle of herself. Women are too emotional for politics.”

  Izetta gasped. “How dare you!”

  Mr. McCoy pushed away from the door frame, plumping up like a gathering thundercloud. Anna gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The Bishop women were not victims.

  They did not need to be saved like milquetoast princesses from a Grimm’s fairy tale. “A woman’s place is wherever she chooses.”

  The detective made a great show of rolling his eyes. “If the woman wears the pants, what’s the man supposed to wear?”

  “Short pants,” Izetta declared. “Especially if they insist on acting like children.”

  “Say now!”

  “That’s enough,” Caleb growled. “You’re not here for your opinion.”

  “I don’t work for you.” The detective rested his fisted knuckles on his thighs, elbows out, one bony protrusion jutting through a hole in his sleeve. “Either way, you got a problem, Miss Bishop. A big one. This wasn’t a warning. Whoever took that shot meant to leave you dead.”

  Stomach churning, Anna shifted to the edge of her seat. She’d underestimated the limits of her endurance, but she wasn’t about to let that infuriating little man witness her frailty.

  Mr. McCoy’s sharp gaze rested on her ashen face. He motioned toward the detective. “You’ve had your say. If you hear anything else, let us know.”

  “For a price.”

  Widening his stance, Mr. McCoy fisted his hands beneath his biceps. The posture was uniquely male, a declaration of his authority.

  He might be a quiet man, but she doubted anyone who knew Mr. McCoy well would readily cross him.

  He leaned toward Reinhart. “For a fellow who says he’s not very smart, you seem to do all right.”

  Mr. McCoy was far too perceptive by half. Hadn’t Anna thought the same thing only moments before?

  Reinhart stood and tugged his ill-fitting jacket over his rounded stomach. He tipped back his head since Mr. McCoy was a good foot taller, and waved his bowed and skeletal index finger. “You know my rate. Pay or don’t. Don’t make me no never mind.”

  Once he’d exited the room, Anna’s flagging reserve of strength finally deserted her. Desperate to alleviate her discomfort, she pushed off from the chair and stumbled. Mr. McCoy was at her side in an instant. He hooked his arm beneath her shoulder, carefully avoiding her injury.

  “I’m quite well,” she said, and yet she found herself leaning into the bolstering support he offered.

  Her stomach fluttered. This was what her mother had warned her about. Victoria Bishop had declared men the ruin of women, turning perfectly sensible ladies into churning masses of emotions—robbing them of the ability to make sensible decisions. Sheltered from even the most banal interactions with gentlemen her own age, Anna had inwardly scoffed at the exaggerated tales.

  Occasionally older men had flirted with her over the years. Once in a while, a stray husband of one of their acquaintances decided that charming a suffragist was a sign of virility. She’d been singularly unmoved by the obvious ploy. Their honeyed words had sluiced off her like raindrops off a slicker.

  With Mr. McCoy near, a whole new understanding dawned. This wasn’t the forced regard she usually deflected. His touch made her restless for more. There was an unexpected tenderness within him, a compassion that drew her nearer, tugging at the edges of her resolve.

  “You’re not well at all.” He gingerly assisted her to the bed. “You’re exhausted. We’ve overdone it. I’ll fetch the doctor.”

  “No,” Anna said, crumpling onto the mattress, too tired to care about detectives and gunshots and unassuming veterinarians who surprised her with their fierce protectiveness. “I simply need to rest.”

  To her immense relief, no one argued. Instead, in a flurry of pitying looks and murmured orders to repose, Izetta and Jo reluctantly exited the room.

  Only Mr. McCoy lingered, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other on the wall, as though propelling himself from the room.

  Was he that eager to be free of her?

  He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Rest. We can discuss what needs to be done later.”

  At least the change in position had temporarily alleviated the worst of her pain. If only her troubled thoughts were calmed as easily.

  She desperately searched her memory for the events preceding the rally. A little girl had handed her a bouquet of flowers. Yellow flowers. Anna had recalled the color matched the child’s dress.

  My mama says you’re a hero.

  Anna was no hero. She was hiding in her room. Once she stepped out the door, she’d have to face reality. Just the idea sent a wave of fatigue shuddering through her.

  You two can pretend to be engaged.

  How did one simple sentence cast her emotions spinning? Disparate feelings pummeled her senses faster than she could sort them all out. She should have been more outraged by the suggestion. Her injury had obviously sapped her strength. For all her uncharacteristically mild response, she knew she should have felt as horrified as Mr. McCoy had appeared.

  A lowering realization. She might be a suffragist, but she was also a woman. Not a bad-looking woman either. Anyone would have believed they were engaged. He could do worse. Anna wrinkled her nose. His opinion was of absolutely no concern.

  Or was she reading him all wrong? Was he uncertain of his own appeal? No. That couldn’t possibly be the case. Certainly there were plenty of ladies in Cimarron Springs eager for the attentions of the handsome veterinarian. While she may have been relatively isolated from the normal courting and machinations of men and women, she was not completely ignorant. If she trailed him through the crowded lobby, no doubt she’d observe more than one lady casting him a second glance. Which meant he couldn’t possibly believe the problem rested with him.

  Why on earth was she debating with herself?

  She was wasting all sorts of time and energy on an absolutely worthless endeavor. None of her speculations mattered. The only way to navigate this mess was with facts—identify the difficulty and solve the problem. Mr. McCoy wasn’t a problem. He was simply a diversion.

  A diversion who’d soon be out of her life.

  Another thought sent her stomach lurching. “How did he find me, anyway? The detective. Could someone else do the same?”

  “He saw me. The day of the rally, carrying you. You’re listed in the hotel register as my...as my guest.”

  Long after he was gone, Anna stared at the closed door. Something about how he’d said guest piqued her curiosity.

  Mr. McCoy was hiding something.

  * * *

  Caleb caught up with his sister and blocked her exit. “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  “Fine.” She sniffed. “I saw the register. You’re already listed as her fiancée. The engagement seemed like an excellent idea.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  What if Anna discovered his deception in the guest registry, as well? With Jo spouting off about fiancées and his own collusion with the hotel, she’d never believe the two occurrences were not connected.

  What would she think? He didn’t even want to contemplate the answer.

  “At least everyone would quit assuming you’re mooning over Mary Louise,” Jo said.

  While that idea did hold some appeal, he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “Stop pushing, Jo. This is Anna’s decision.”

  “Anna?”

  “Miss Bishop is an intelligent, independent woman. She will make her own decisions regarding her li
fe. If she wants help, she’ll ask.”

  He kept thinking about her trunk. The week before, when they’d switched rooms, he’d carried the trunk himself. While he trusted the hotel staff, the fewer people who knew her whereabouts, the better.

  The trunk had been expensive. A sturdy wooden affair with brass buckles and leather straps. Even the stack of books she’d plunked on her side table were leather bound. Her clothes were exquisitely tailored, there was nothing ready-made about Anna Bishop. Nothing at all. He’d traveled far enough away from Cimarron Springs, and he understood that even in the United States, a land built on equality, a class system prevailed. The McCoys had always been a hardworking lot who eked out a humble existence.

  Judging from her wardrobe and her luggage, Anna had probably never cooked a meal for herself. He’d read the newspaper clippings Jo collected. Anna’s mother was not just Victoria Bishop; she’d been nicknamed “the heiress.” He might not know much about women, but he didn’t figure an heiress would cotton to the kind of living in Cimarron Springs.

  She was above his touch, both in wealth and in her ideology. And while his brain understood the implications, he feared his heart was not as wise.

  Jo rubbed her thumbnail along her lower teeth, a sure sign she was worried about something. “Did you think Anna looked pale?”

  He’d thought she was stunning. His heart picked up its rhythm, and he absently rubbed his chest. The first few days he’d corralled his wayward thoughts. When he caught himself staring at her lips, he closed his eyes and pictured the day of the rally. He pictured the blood staining his shirt and his hands. Anything that prevented him from thinking of her in a romantic fashion.

  With her sitting up and dressed, her hair swept up in a tumble of curls, smelling like cherry blossoms, her lips rosy, he’d found himself staring at those lips once more. Wondering if she’d ever been kissed. While the detective had been talking, he’d been aching to run his hand over the soft skin at the nape of her exposed neck.

  Jo pinched him back to attention. “I said, didn’t you think she looked a little pale?”

  Come to think of it, he’d noticed the lines around her mouth had deepened and the skin beneath her eyes had taken on the bruised look of fatigue.