by C. A. Asbrey
“Sounds possible. Her sister doesn’t seem impressed by Abi, and families don’t tend to like respectable women desertin’ the marriage bed. It fits.”
“They don’t even seem like the same generation,” said Jake. “I guess Abi’s worked through a lot of pain and Madeleine’s younger than her years—protected and spoiled. You can see it in her diary. She’s infatuated with an older man and it’s all physical.” His jaw hardened. “Lucky dog.”
“I hope this David knows what he’s getting into.” Nat stood stretched out his arms in a yawn. “I noticed she can turn her tears on and off when it suits her. That kind of manipulation doesn’t cut it for me. There’s more to a woman than looks.”
“Is there?” Jake snorted. “Well, you should know. Manipulation’s your specialty. He ain’t gettin’ any sympathy from me. Madeleine’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and now I’ve seen how she thinks, I’m wishin’ I’d got there first. She can manipulate me any which way she wants. I’m flexible like that.”
“Like you’d stand a chance.” Nat’s cynical laugh cut through the room. “Anyway, Abi would shoot you. You’d be lucky if she aimed as high as the heart, too.”
“It’d still be worth it. Anyway, I’m turnin’ in, and I’ll be havin’ some of the sweetest dreams I’ve had in a long time.” Jake kicked back his chair as he stood. He paused before he picked up the lascivious diary again, turning it slowly in his hands as a raw smile licked over his face. “Maybe I’ll read myself to sleep? I could learn to enjoy books. I’m startin’ to see why you’re so keen on them.”
♦◊♦
Abigail scowled at the blotches on her report. She was terrible at paperwork and hated writing up the details of her job.
“Ahem.”
She turned her face up to look into the gentle eyes of Tom Bartlett. Her colleague handed her a missive. “Telegram for you.”
She smiled as she ripped it open. “Thanks, Tom.”
Her dark eyes scanned the page and the blood drained from her face.
“Bad news?” asked Tom with a gathering frown.
“My sister. The little fool’s run away from home again.” She crunched the paper into a jagged ball and tossed it into the wire wastepaper basket.
“Surely not. She’s nothing but trouble, that one. Wasn’t she seeing a married man last year?”
Abigail lowered her head into her hands. “Yes. His wife found out. At least she was local and easy to find. Mother sent her out to my aunt in Boston, but she got into trouble there, too. Apparently, she’s been seeing someone my aunt thinks is entirely unsuitable and far too old for her. She’s run off with him because mother told her to come home.”
Tom shook his dark head. “She really doesn’t need to work so hard for male attention with her looks. I remember her well.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “Well, you would. You came home with me when I was released from the hospital. You were my ‘employer’, Dr. Prothero, who was concerned about me after a robbery. Her behavior was outrageous. As soon as she heard you were rich she was all over you.”
“She’s a hard one. If you kicked her in the heart you’d break a leg. Even though I was playing a married man she went straight for me.”
Her downcast gaze echoed her injured voice. “She’s my sister, Tom.”
His eyes glittered with compassion and he leaned over the desk toward her. “She’s not a patch on you, not even on her best day. I’ve never seen her care for anyone but herself.”
Abigail sighed deeply as she looked into his eyes. “She was treated as the baby, and spoiled even more when my father was murdered. That’s not her fault. It’s ours.” She stood and strode to the door. “I need some emergency leave.”
“Do you want me to come along? I’d be happy to help.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, Tom. I feel like I owe you a huge debt, especially since you had saved my life in Everlasting, but—”
He cut her off. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I’m trained to do. Do you need to do this alone?”
“Yes. I do. A man around is only going to confuse things with Maddie. Especially one she’s flirted with. This has to be sister to sister.”
“It strikes me that you never want my help, Abi.”
Abigail shrugged. “I wouldn’t say never, but this is my personal life. My mother would be ashamed of me bringing in an outsider. Scottish mothers can be very protective of the family reputation.”
His brows met in a frown as he reached out and grasped her hand. “I want to help. I can support you in this.”
“I know, but there are just some things families need to deal with by themselves. It won’t take me long to find her, and then we need to have a firm talk. She can’t keep doing this.” Abigail patted the hand encasing hers and pulled back, holding his gaze. “My mother won’t appreciate anyone else being involved. She’s a very private person. It wouldn’t work.”
He arched his brows, and smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, so I remember. She’s quite a powerful personality. If only Maddie was as daunted by your mother as I was, huh?”
“So you see, don’t you? It’s best to leave me to get on with it. Maddie’s actions are very embarrassing, and my mother would be mortified at my boss turning up in the middle of all this.” She shrugged. “I know you’re not really my boss, but you would only complicate things.”
She read the reserved hunger in his eyes and turned away.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.” He walked over to the door. “Any idea where she’s heading?”
“I need to see what I can find out about him. Aunt Mairi said he was originally from San Francisco. I’m going to see what I can find about him in the new record office, right after I visit his home in Boston.”
Chapter 2
Abigail’s heart thumped as she gazed down at the picture from the Pinkerton files. She’d been in the archives for hours now, and the light was starting to fade though the windows, but the full ghastly picture was becoming much clearer. A bespectacled curator and his assistants were lighting lamps and glowering theatrically at the clock to highlight that the end to their shift was approaching. The youngest of the group collected up discarded files and put them in his brass-trimmed trolley. One obstinate wheel squeaked and wobbled as he toured the vast labyrinth of shelves and files to return documents to their allotted place in the echoing basement of the Chicago Headquarters.
What was left of the thin city light still filtered through the casement windows which displayed the ankles and skirts of the people flashing by on the sidewalk outside. The growing hubbub indicated that people were making their way home after a long day’s work.
There was no doubt about it. The photographs proved that Robert Mitchell and David Bartholemew were the same man. She’d liberated a photograph of Bartholemew from his home so she knew what he looked like, but she also found two other identities in the safe. Mitchell had been arrested on suspicion of murder of his wife in New York, but no cause of death could be established and no poisons could be found. He’d then been released and disappeared, never to be seen again—until now. Abigail searched out his mug shot from the records. It looked like he’d changed his name and started again in Boston under the name of Bartholemew—and courted Madeleine.
There was nothing to prove the papers she’d found for an Alan Duffy when she’d broken into Bartholemew’s New York home was another alias, but she suspected it. She couldn’t find anything about him in the records other than a newspaper report of newly-married Mrs. Agnes Duffy being found dead in a similar situation to the late Mrs. Mitchell in a Philadelphian townhouse. That seemed to have passed without comment as the young woman had few relatives, and she had been quietly buried as a sudden death. It didn’t give her husband’s first name.
It had been an obvious start to her investigation to search for anything under her sister’s name. The Pinkertons had only just started a central filing system of newspaper resources that yea
r, and it was already proving to be a valuable tool, especially when she read the report of a train robbery in Wyoming where a young lady had been questioned by gang members during a robbery. The complex system of cross-referencing had thrown up another problem—Nat Quinn had met her little sister. Did he know who Madeleine was? The Innocents had allowed her to proceed unmolested. There wasn’t enough detail in the article to tell her what had been discussed. The piece pandered to the readers of dime novels, but they’d definitely shared more than a few words.
What a mess. She sighed and lowered her weary head into her hands, rubbing her temples.
The curator harrumphed, the guttural growl bouncing off the stone walls and metal shelving with a resounding grumble. “Are you finished with those files, miss? We close soon, and need to get everything in order.”
She handed over the bulk of her manila files, holding back a few documents and photographs. “I’m done with those. I need copies of the pictures and these papers though.”
“The photographs are easy.” The man nodded over to the huge cast iron machine by his desk, topped by an enormous double-handed handle atop a screw which was attached to a metal plate. The plate could be screwed to bear down on whatever document was to be copied. “The documents take a little longer. How urgent are they?”
“Life or death.” Abigail arched a brow.
“Isn’t everything around here?” he shrugged. “If you’ve got authorization from your area commander we can get someone to work on them overnight. If not, it’s twenty-four hours. You know the rules.”
She stood, handing over her stash of documents. “Twenty-four hours is fine. I need to prepare for a trip in any case, and telegraph a couple of doctors. Please prepare them for Abigail MacKay, from the women’s department, based in New York. We report directly to Mr. Pinkerton, but I’ll collect them in person. I may be dressed as a boy.”
“Leave it with us, Miss MacKay. It’ll be late Wednesday or early Thursday.” The man noted her details on a huge reusable envelope and slipped the documents to be copied inside without turning a hair at her proposed garb. “As it’s five minutes to closing we can’t count today as a working day. The deadline will start from tomorrow at opening time.”
“Thursday morning will be perfect.” She collected her reticule and shrugged into her jacket. “Thanks for your help.”
♦◊♦
“Nat, there’s someone out on the plain and they’re headed this way.” Melvin turned his head to the side and spat into the grass. “We just got the word from the lookouts.”
The outlaw leader’s brows met. “To Ghost Canyon on their own? Who?”
“I looked through them bin-o-culars.” The word rolled and elongated around a wad of tobacco. “T’ain’t no more’n a boy. It ain’t nuthin’ to be worried about. We can handle it. We’s just keepin’ you informed.”
Jake frowned. “Out this way? He’s either lost or desperate.”
“Take Hank and head him off,” Nat said. “There’s no point in letting him spend the day riding here to be sent packing. Scare him as much as you want, especially if he’s riding out with the dumb idea of joining us.” His eyes flashed with a warning. “But don’t hurt him.”
“I ain’t gonna hurt a boy, Nat.” Melvin’s asymmetrical eyes welled with hurt. “What do you take me for?”
Nat raised his brows. “Yeah, well. I don’t have time to cover all that right now, Melvin. Just go and see to the lad. Send him off with a flea in his ear. Get rid of him.”
♦◊♦
Abigail’s heart beat furiously against her chest, the rhythmic thump resounding loudly in her ears as she approached ever closer to Ghost Canyon. The sun beat down on the dry plain and she had to squint, but she could see the wavering, shimmering heat cut across the quivering shades rising and falling on their mounts as they rode out to meet her. She backhanded away her dripping sweat and blinked into the silvering haze, trying to decide how many there were. Two? Or one with his own mirage? Was the stultifying heat playing games with her dehydrated mind? No; there were two figures, elongated and flickering in the miasma, approaching in the slow sedate pace one would expect in this climate.
They were still some way away. Time to have a long deep drink. When they got nearer, she wouldn’t be able to reach for anything without risking being shot, and the heat was starting to affect her.
One of the stick figures raised an arm which appeared to break and blink in the iridescent coruscation. She waved back, showing a willingness to be as unthreatening as possible. Nerves still fluttered in her stomach though. Going to see Nat and Jake on their own territory was a desperate and dangerous act. Strangers were most definitely not welcome there and the rest of the gang could drive for a resolution to any incursion which was well beyond their leader’s hands, that is, if she was allowed to get there at all.
She had mentally balanced the best disguise, sure that she needed one as the gang had now seen her twice; once when the train was held up at Hillside Bend and again at the bank in Everlasting. She was sure no one but Quinn and Conroy had related the two women, but she could not risk a third viewing. That was pushing things too far. There was less risk of being shot as a female, but she’d also heard that there were strict rules around women not being allowed at the Ghost Canyon to preserve order and secrecy. Nat and Jake were last men she absolutely knew had spoken to Madeleine when her train had been held up. She had to speak to them.
Abigail was disguised as a teenage boy, wearing exactly the same outfit that she had in Pettigo. Conroy and Quinn would recognize her but none of the gang would, and she could only hope against hope that her slight boyish figure would give her some protection against the guarding outlaws’ bullets.
That hope died when her horse suddenly reared and whinnied as a bullet pounded into the earth in front of her, throwing up a little crescent of dry dirt. She desperately hung on for dear life and fought to bring the animal under control. A harsh voice rang out from somewhere in front of her.
“Stay still. Hands where I can see ’em.”
Her skittish animal pulled back his ears and pranced as she patted his neck gently and calmed him with soothing words.
“I said, hands where I can see ’em. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Abigail lifted her hands quickly. The voice definitely meant business.
Two men approached her, mere black shadows against the low sun which sat behind them.
“This ain’t good country to be ridin’ out in sonny. Turn around and leave. Right now.”
Abigail screwed her face up as she stared into the intensity of the sunlight, flashes of luminescence burning into her retinas. “Please, sir. I need to see Mr. Quinn.”
The taller of the two men gave her a laugh of derision, due in no small part to the weedy, breaking voice they heard drifting over to them from such a poor specimen. “Go home, boy. You ain’t no more’n a pollywog. This ain’t a game. Git while the gittin’s good.”
“Please, sir. He’ll want to see me. I’m a relative. He’s my uncle.”
There was a long pause as the pair came forward, the sun still blinding her. All she could see was that one was smaller than the other. “We heard he ain’t got no kin. What do you want?”
“I got news. Important stuff about someone he thought was dead and gone.”
“Tell us and we’ll tell him.”
Abigail’s voice firmed. “No, sir. I need to tell only him. I can’t trust you.”
“You got a real nerve boy, sayin’ somethin’ like that to me,” the larger of the two silhouettes growled.
“You’re criminals.” Abigail replied. “Why should I trust you? You don’t even trust each other.”
The shorter one cackled. “Yup,” a different voice snorted. “That’s right there is what makes me think he might be a Quinn. He sure got enough cheek. Right colorin’ too. He’s got them dark eyes.”
“I’m sorry sir. I don’t want to do anythin’ except pass on my message. It’s real
important. I gotta speak to Mr. Quinn.”
“Sheesh. We can’t win this. If we let ’im go and he’s on the up’n up, Nat’ll skin us alive. If we take in a stranger, Conroy’ll want answers. Search him, Melvin.”
A vacant-looking man with prominent yellow teeth walked into her field of vision, striding beyond the blinding sun and dragged her roughly from the horse. She had expected to be searched and had ruthlessly bound her body with bandages to try to flatten and conceal her breasts, but the man merely patted down her sides before turning his attentions to her jacket. He pulled out the pistol which had been loosely placed in her pocket and slapped his way down her legs. She was instantly glad she had foregone the Derringer she usually wore at her ankle. A concealed weapon was too risky.
“He’s clean.”
“Well, boy. It seems like you’re gonna get your wish, but if you’ve been messin’ with us and you ain’t Quinn’s kin, you’re gonna regret it. He don’t like to be messed with.”
Abigail felt her arms grabbed as she was roughly turned around and her carefully dirtied hands were bound behind her back, the rope biting deeply into her skin as it was pulled tight. They must have seen her wince as it provoked a chorus of laughter which rang in her ears.
“Looks like this life’s a bit too rough for you, sonny.”
A thick, smelly bag was thrust over her head, obliterating the world, before she was lifted back onto her little colt and she felt herself led off to face the rest of the gang.
♦◊♦
She was close to fainting against the fading heat of the day, her tightly bound chest, and her suffocating, fetid hoodwink by the time she felt her mount brought to a stop. The clamor of voices gathered around the little group and she heard one of the guards yelling for Nat Quinn before she heard his baritone voice. “What the hell? Who’s this, you fuc—”
