by C. A. Asbrey
“Who mentioned the cows?” asked Tom with a little too much contrived nonchalance. He was prying. He was suspicious.
“A man in a restaurant. You know those mashers who see a woman on her own and think we must be desperate? He knew nothing about electricity, but he still had to tell me what to think when he saw what I was reading.” She appeared at the door and smiled. “Then he told me about the cows and I had to find out if that could happen or if he was just stringing me along. If cows can die without a mark due to electrical injury, so could another mammal.” She appeared at the door and propped her hands on her hips. “I’m all packed. If you could help me get my trunk across the road to my sister’s house I’ll be grateful.”
“I bet you’re glad to be out of here.” He walked through to the bedroom dragging her trunk across the wooden floorboards. “I’ve seen worse, but it’s pretty basic.”
“It’s been fine. The position couldn’t have been better for my purposes.”
He paused in front of the door. “It’s a good thing you had help, huh? Why didn’t you tell me about Quinn being here, Abi? I expected better of you. I really did.” Tom stared into her eyes watching for the tiniest flicker.
She gathered her brows and gazed right back. “Here? You’re mistaken. They arrested Bartholemew in a case of mistaken identity—but you know that. It wasn’t Quinn.” She tilted her head in query. “You identified him.”
“What about the two men in the coach with you when you went to the races with the Atchinsons? I checked with Frankie Atchinson.”
“Them?” a smile tugged at her lips. “They’re friends of Hortense Atchinson. She pretended they were with me as she didn’t want her father to know she has male friends. She met another there too—a doctor. It’s all in the police report. As it turned out they were worthless too. They disappeared into the crowd and we never saw them again either. She mixes in academic circles and her father believes that her bluestocking tendencies are why she’s unmarried. I think her innate intelligence is why she keeps turning down idiots introduced by her family. Honestly, why would I bring a couple of criminals into this, Tom? You’ve met Maddie. She makes a bee line for the worst possible choice of men—every single time. Can you see Quinn or Conroy turning down a woman as lovely as her?” Abigail shook her head in dismay. “If you don’t believe me you can come with me to ask Hortense Atchinson yourself right now. If they’d been here, someone would have seen them.”
He paused, turning over the snippets of information he had, but there wasn’t enough to press her any further. He forced a smile. “Of course not. I was only testing you to see if you’d break. We all knew Quinn was one of the last people to see Maddie after she disappeared and, well—you two have history. You can’t blame me for trying.”
“Actually I can.” She frowned. “I fail to see why Quinn would know anything about where Maddie was headed. None of the witnesses reported that being disclosed and you know it. As it turned out, we tracked her down from a letter she left behind at my mother’s home,” she lied.
If the Pinkertons suspected she was involved with Nat they’d stay on her trail for a long as it took. She had to throw Tom off track. “The only thing Quinn could do here was get in the way. Why would you accuse me of running off to be with a common criminal when I needed to deal with an urgent family matter?”
Abigail’s downcast eyes cast her lashes in crescents against her skin. “I think you should go.”
Tom stiffened. “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to look out for you. People talk, and I want to be able to face them down with as much information as possible. There are rumors in the agency about you and Quinn.”
“Instead of questioning me on rumors you should be defending me against them. I won’t have to worry about that if I leave, however. You’ve just helped me make that decision. When I go home with Maddie, I’m staying with my family. I’m giving this nonsense up.” She strode over to the door. “Go. Please.”
“Abi—”
She raised her chin. “You have all the information you need. Which train are you leaving on? I’d like to avoid it.”
“No, please. Don’t leave like this. We’ve worked together. We’re colleagues. We’re friends.”
“I’ve never once pried into your private life, Tom. That’s not what disappoints me the most, though.” She held his eyes captive with her scowl. “You insult both my intelligence and my character. In all the time you’ve known me, have you ever known me to fall in with men after such a brief acquaintance?”
“You were special to him. I could tell.” His brow furrowed. “I met him when you got shot. That reaction was more than friendship.”
“Yes. I believe it was. We got on well, but you of all people should know that a friendship does not necessarily lead anywhere else.” Her eyes glittered with unspilled tears. “I know you wanted more than friendship, too, which is why I kept you firmly at arm’s length. It’s what I do. Why would you think Quinn was any different? Not that any of it matters now. I don’t need any of this. I’ll drop off a letter at your hotel for you to take to Mr. Pinkerton and you can stop worrying about me mixing with anyone other than family friends. When do you leave?”
“I—” Tom’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Tomorrow afternoon. I’m leaving at three.”
“Fine. I think you said you’re staying at the Pacific? I’d be obliged if you could take it to him personally. If not, I will post it.”
“Abi, you’ll be a great loss.” Tom sighed. “Not just to the agency, but to me, too. We worked so well together.”
“I’ll miss you, too, but I can’t have this. I have real things to worry about—family matters. I need to prioritize.” She paused. “Besides—you’ve never once probed any of our male colleagues on their relationships with criminals.” She glared pointedly at him. “Or your relationships with criminals. And, yes. Just because I never open my mouth does not mean I don’t know about them.”
“That’s because it’s different for men. They can sow wild oats and get away with it. Women can’t, and you know that as well as I do.”
“Well, I’ll be well away from any oats, wild or otherwise. My mother will see to that.” She held open the door. “Goodbye, Tom.”
“Let me help you with the trunk, at least.”
“No thank you. I manage it on my own everywhere else. I’ll be fine.” She turned her face away, refusing to look him in the eye.
“Abi—”
“Go, Tom. Hasn’t it occurred to you that you have exceeded the limits of friendship? Even if I were seeing every criminal we ever brought in, it’d be none of your damned business, just like it isn’t when almost every man in the agency has dabbled with lowlifes and whores. You’ve done it for heaven’s sake! I think I need a world full of women for a while. I need some quiet amongst the noise. I need to put myself a world away from caring what anyone thinks of me, and live a life where people are pleased to see me.”
“I’m always pleased to see you.” He walked out into the hallway, his chest tight with emotion. “Abi, any time you need me—for anything at all—you know where to find me.”
She nodded, her face stony and impassive. “Thank you. And I’ll be where I can be myself without worrying about other people’s opinions. I won’t be in touch other than to leave you my resignation letter for Mr. Pinkerton.”
♦◊♦
The shrill shriek of the whistle from the departing train cut though the clear air as Jake waited outside the nearby telegraph office under acres of cerulean sky. Only an occasional puffy cloud dotted the heavens other than the smoke from the train which hung in a windless trail until it dissipated into the warm air. The evening sun was low, allowing the pair to throw long dark shadows on the dry, dusty earth in the busy cowtown. Scampering children, rattling wagons, and bustling people filled the streets. Most were on their way home after another day of hard work, others were preparing to make a night of it in the saloons and brothels. The tall man in the brown hat turned to the
other. “Nuthin’? I guess no message waiting for us is good news?”
“Sure is. It’s good to use these stations as a warning system before we head back into Ghost Canyon. I don’t like heading back to trouble without warning. It’s not foolproof, but if the place has been breached, there’s a chance someone got away to warn others.”
“For them who can read, yeah,” murmured Jake. “Are you sure there was nuthin’ in there? Your face is as puckered as wet sheepskin. What’s eatin’ you?”
“I’ve been thinking, Jake.”
The fair-haired man groaned. “I hate it when you do that.”
“What if we got back on the train tomorrow instead of buying horses to head back to Ghost Canyon?”
The blue eyes narrowed and turned toward his nephew. “And go where?”
Nat’s deep sigh expanded to fill the pause. “East?”
“East where?”
“We’ve got a chance to go and see Abi when she’s not working. How often does that happen?”
“’Bout most of the time she’s around, by my reckonin’.” Jake started to count off on his fingers poking through the straps binding the bedroll he carried. “First of all, there was all that time in Bannen. She didn’t need to stay there and find out who killed Bessie and Dora, but she did. She could’ve headed off like most lawmen would’ve.” He raised a second finger. “Then, there was Pettigo. She weren’t workin’ there, leastways, she shouldn’t have been. She was off work recoverin’ from an injury.” A third finger uncurled. “Then there’s this whole mess about her sister. It seems to me she spends more time galavantin’ about the place than doin’ a job of work. With a work ethic like that, she could join our gang.”
“I mean when do we see her when she’s just at home being domestic and all?” Nat persisted.
“Nah, I can’t see that. A man can get an awful lot from a woman like Abi, but wranglin’ beans ain’t one of ’em.” Jake shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t knockin’ it. Neither of us are too tame, neither. That’s the problem. Wild on wild only leads to folks tearin’ one another to pieces. That ain’t good for the children.”
“Your Jess isn’t wild, and that didn’t work. She’s the salt of the earth.”
“Nope.” Jake shrugged. “She had to look after the kids, and put me last. And she was right about that. That’s why she ain’t my Jess no more. It’s one of life’s sick jokes.” Jake paused. “Kinda like you and the law hookin’ up.”
Nat stopped walking. “Are you up for it or not?”
“Go all the way to Brooklyn? We’ve been away from the gang for over two months, now. They’ll be expectin’ us back.”
“Sure.” Nat nodded. “We’ll go back in the autumn and pull a rash of jobs to set us up for the winter, but before then, I want to see her. I need to ask her something.”
Jake tilted his head in question before he spoke through bated breath. “Ask her what?”
“Well, when we spent time at Ghost Canyon we kinda got to talking about what we’d do if we ever did get together—”
The blue eyes flamed up. “I knew it! I said you two were plannin’ on runnin’ off together, and you made out I was mad.”
“We didn’t plan,” Nat said. “We just kinda talked about what we’d do if we did.”
“That’s a plan.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a discussion about how we’d do it if we ever did run off.”
“So? It’s a plan to make a plan.” Jake scowled. “That makes it a plan.”
“Stop saying plan,” snapped Nat. “It was more of a fantasy. We were just fooling. Neither of us was serious.”
“But now you want to see if she would be serious?” asked Jake.
Nat’s brown eyes stared down at the floor. “Kinda. Yeah, I do.”
Jake sucked in a breath. “You want to ask her, don’t’cha?” He watched his nephew nod and put down the bedroll. He felt the need to pull off his hat to run his fingers through his hair. It was a gesture he often used to give himself some thinking time.
The dark earnest eyes examined his uncle for a reaction. “I guess if she says no I can walk away and put it all behind me, but there was something in the way she spoke that night. There was something wishful and hopeful. It stayed with me. I guess I want to find out if she meant any of it.”
“And you?”
“Me, what?” asked Nat.
“You. Did you mean any of it?” The piercing blue eyes cut through Nat’s defenses. He tilted his head and matched his uncle’s intensity.
Nat’s lips hardened into a line. “Yes, dammit. Why else would I be talkin’ about draggin’ my sorry ass all the way to Brooklyn? Are you comin’ or not?”
“You dropped your accent again. You only do that when you let your emotions get the better of you.” The blue ice in Jake’s scrutiny melted and a smile tugged at his lips. “Sure, I’m comin’ with you. Who else is gonna watch your back? You do realize it’s the first place Pinkerton is gonna look for you? You’ll need me.”
“Yeah, that’s why I kept hold of those disguises.” Nat’s cheeks dimpled. “She ain’t gonna be seen anywhere near anyone but a bearded old man.”
“And there’s the gang to think about. Chuck’s been pushin’ you for months. He’s bound to make a bid to take over.”
The dimples deepened. “If we need to go back we’ll let him organize a few jobs. There’s nothing more likely to make the gang appreciate us than one of Chuck’s massive calamities.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” asked Jake.
“Three, maybe four days. It depends on how many nights we’re prepared to spend on the train.”
♦◊♦
The Next Morning - Brooklyn
“Where is that Marta?” Mrs. MacKay harrumphed across the landing bearing an armful of blankets. “Seriously! She’s never around when you need her. Cho dìomhain ri damh san eadar-thràth.”
The statuesque matron’s hair had clearly been a richer tone than Madeleine’s, but the white tresses scattered through her coiffure now robbed it of its tigerish burning amber, mellowing it to a less-fierce pussycat-marmalade. Her high cheekbones and long neck still gave her a fading grace, and the lines etched in her face spoke of a rich vein of experience. The bright blue eyes twinkled with the dynamism of a force of nature, but right now, all her focus was on the missing maid.
“Marta, chan eil feum annad,” Mrs. MacKay bellowed.
“Vot you want?” A skinny woman appeared in a doorway with indignant hands on her hips. She gesticulated wildly “And I tell you before. Eeenglish only. Not your voreign rubbish.” She smacked a fist into her open hand. “Eeenglish! I am American now. I speak Eeenglish. Stop vith these Schottisches.”
Marta thrust out the chin barely protruding from her moon-face and launched into a tirade of German without a trace of irony. It was met every inch of the way by a Gaelic diatribe from the woman forcing the bedding into her servant’s arms and pointing at various bedroom doors. The exchange sounded fiercer than it actually was due to the guttural sounds and speed, but neither appeared to mind—in fact both seemed to thrive on finding another culture willing to communicate in such a forceful manner about their shared attitude to good hard work.
“Enough!” Abigail appeared by a bedroom door holding her fingers to her temple. “What is all the shouting about? You know I have a headache.”
“Shouting?” Her mother and the maid exchanged a look of confusion. “We’re just talking. Aren’t we, Marta?”
“Shoor, Miss Abigail. Ve only talk. Ve always like dis.”
“You’re yelling at one another in languages the other doesn’t speak,” Abigail huffed. “It’s pointless noise.”
“It isn’t pointless,” sniffed her mother. “I’m sure she understands. We’re changing the beds. We’d get it done a lot quicker if you girls helped out, too.”
“I’d love to help, but I’m not feeling too well.” Abigail shook her wan head. “I need some fresh air.”
“You’ve been looking poorly since you came home.” Mrs. MacKay’s eyes narrowed as she examined her daughter. “Cho tinn ris a' chù.” She tilted her head and examined her daughter out of the corner of her eyes. “Doesn’t she look poorly, Marta?”
“Ja. Too pale und too skinny. You need zome vat, Miss Abi. I make you pig feet? Lots of good jelly ven cold.” She arched her brows as though sharing the arcane of the gourmands. “No chewing. Eet melts.”
Abigail’s stomach rolled at the very thought. “No, thank you. I’ve been working too hard and keeping strange hours trying to find Maddie. I need to rest, that’s all.” She arched her brows. “And the last thing I need is any kind of feet in jelly.”
Her mother shook her head. “You need to work. Work will get you through anything.” She tossed a couple of pillow cases at her. “Get to it.”
“Mother, you employ servants. Use them.” Abigail walked over and put the linens back on the pile. “I’m going to get some air. I need to get away from this mad house.”
“Take your sister with you.” Her mother leaned over the banister as Abigail descended the staircase. “Tha Màdaidh 'gam anadachdainn.”
“I know the feeling. No, a Mhamaidh. I dragged her away from that man and brought her clear across the country—just like you wanted, and I did it all on my own. I’ve had my fill of her. She’s your problem now.” Abigail waved a dismissive hand up at her parent. “I need a break from all this. Is e seo an taigh-caothaich.”
She pulled on her jacket and stared at her pale face in the hall mirror. Abigail had missed another menstrual period by now, and at her estimation, she was somewhere in the region of about ten weeks pregnant. There was no longer any doubt. The symptoms were all recognizable—the fuller breasts, the tiredness, the headaches, and that awful empty nausea which did not only happen in the morning.
