by Lisa Bingham
“Yes, Sister.”
Alma marched down the scarred planks with her usual efficiency of stride, causing Amelia to adopt a near gallop. Once at the door to the office, she stepped inside, shouldering her way through a gaggle of ill-clad, ill-washed men and making her way to the front counter. Somewhere along the way, she lost her younger sister, but she was not about to be dissuaded. Fiery determination filled her veins. She had a mission to perform.
“My good man.” She slapped the counter with her parasol, drawing upon her age and her sex, which awarded her certain allowances in a male-dominated environment. One of those was taking her position at the front of the line regardless of the number of people who’d been waiting far longer than she.
The gentleman behind the counter glanced up from his books, his mouth gaping when he saw the elderly woman who waited for his help.
“I wish to buy a stick of dynamite.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Have you a problem with your hearing? I wish … to buy … a stick … of dynamite. ”Each word was punctuated with the rapping of her parasol against the wood.
“Ma’am?”
She plunked her reticule onto the table. “How much?”
“But I can’t… I mean…”
She smiled disarmingly, assuming a congenial tone. “You see, my boy, I am from the country outside of Brandenburg. I’ll only be staying in Chicago for a few short days.”
“Oh?”
“At home I have a garden.”
“Garden?”
“Yes. The thing is infested with gophers.”
His eyes widened.
“I intend to blast them out!” Her statement was followed by the smack of her parasol, causing the man to jump.
“But ma’am, that would level the place.”
“Exactly.”
“But—”
“One stick, please,” she ordered, withdrawing her coin purse.
“I can’t!” he blurted.
She glared at him over her spectacles. “Whyever not?”
“Rules of the management. They won’t let you buy the stuff as if it were a beeswax candle.”
Alma sighed in genuine irritation. “I can’t?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then give me the forms. I’ll fill them out now.”
“But then there’s a waiting period.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
She leaned forward. “That is far too long. The gophers will have dined upon all my petunias.”
The man didn’t point out that a blast of dynamite would eradicate all evidence of the flowers as well, but Alma knew he wouldn’t dare mention such a thing. One of the benefits of old age. Good manners dictated that the elderly should not have their idiotic ideas criticized in their presence.
Huffing in irritation at the formalities that would completely undermine her plans, Alma snatched up the papers and wove through the press of interested onlookers to the outer door. She spotted her sister and motioned for her to follow.
“Impertinent fool,” she stated, marching into the heat.
“He was only following the rules.”
“Idiotic rules, which will hamper our goals!”
“Will this help?”
Alma paused when her sister puffed and held up a huge canvas sack.
“What is it?”
“One of the miners left it by the door.”
Alma lifted the flap, then slapped a hand on her breast in pure delight. “Oh, Amelia!” she breathed. “You’ve done it.” She caressed one of the cool hard sticks. “You’ve gotten our dynamite.”
Darby Kensington knocked on the door to Krupp’s latest hideaway. He felt a twinge of fear as the door cracked open and one gray eye peered out at him.
He wasn’t questioned. No one talked to him at all as he walked into the main room. Although it was crowded with men, none of them spoke. Instead, they stared at him in a way that made his skin crawl.
“Leave us.”
The low command eased into the gloom. One by one, the vigilantes, ex-convicts, and drifters rose to their feet and filed out. They left only one man: their leader, Judge Krupp.
Kensington stood at near ramrod attention, glaring at the tall, gray-haired gentleman. How he hated Krupp, had grown to hate him more and more with each breath he took. Yet there was a guarded respect as well—for all the man had done, the economic revolt he’d caused with his counterfeiting schemes.
“So, Kensington. You’ve come for your final instructions.”
Kensington noted the silent censure, the scorn, but he steeled himself to it.
“I did what I was told.”
“The train—”
“Yes, dammit! I booked passage, bought your supplies, and arranged a half-dozen card games!” He threw his hands into the air. “I’m getting tired of having you and your associates checking up on me like I was an imbecile.” Kensington stalked toward him. “I’ve been your stooge for months now. I’ve endangered my freedom and my reputation in order to scatter your counterfeit money around the state. But this is the last time I do your work, do you hear me?”
“You… will do as you’re told.”
When Kensington would have argued, Krupp pinned him with a powerful stare. “You act so greatly put upon, but if you will remember, I was the one who located you in that foundling house. I was the one who sent you to boarding school, taught you how to keep books, then set you up in your gambling. Without me, you would have been living in the gutter.”
Kensington’s hands clenched in silent rage, all the pent-up anger he’d harbored for years bubbling inside him. “If you hadn’t—”
“If I hadn’t what?” Krupp’s voice lowered to a menacing tone. “Be careful where you tread, Darby Kensington. Don’t forget who I am. Don’t forget what I know. Don’t forget that with one wrong word, one anonymous tip to the authorities, you could be swinging from the end of a rope as an accomplice to the Star Council of Justice.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“But will they believe you?”
Kensington eased himself to his full height. His body trembled with rage, but there was nothing he could do to fight against this man. They both knew it.
He whirled toward the door, but Krupp stopped him when he would have stepped outside. “I will have men searching for you at the railway station tomorrow morning. You will do as you’re told, board the train, lose heavily, and spend my money. Then, when you are finished, if you have pleased me with your efforts… I will let you go.”
Kensington’s hand clenched around the knob and he cursed the day he’d awakened in the orphanage to see a tall, slender gentleman waiting to take him away. He should have run then. He should have made an attempt.
“Do we have an understanding?”
Kensington looked up, into the eyes that were so much like his own. “Yes, Father. I think we understand each other very well.”
“How are you feeling?”
Fiona blinked, wondering why a heavy pressure had invaded her chest, her body, making even the simplest movement an effort.
Turning her head, she saw that Jacob had pulled a chair next to the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees, a stance that should have been casual and relaxed, but it only underscored an attitude of waiting.
The memory of all that had occurred that morning flooded into her consciousness slowly, ever so slowly, like ripples on a lake. She shuddered, but allowed no other outward reactions, not wanting him to see her so weak.
“I still feel a little tired.”
“That’s understandable.”
The silence settled around them, awkward in its intensity.
“The governor sends his condolences. Rusty spoke to his aide.”
Fiona knew that Jacob expected a spirited remark of some sort, but she just couldn’t summon the energy necessary and nodded instead.
“What will y
ou do now?”
She shrugged. “I suppose I could try and get my job at the laundry. As long as you’ve continued with the rent as promised, I’ve got my room at the Honeycomb.”
“Fiona—”
She held up a hand. “No. Please.” She hated the way her voice became husky. “Don’t say… anything.”
He leaned back in his chair, watching her as if he feared that she would fly to pieces. Fiona took great care to appear as calm as she was able.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Is there anything I can—”
She silenced him with a glance. Several minutes passed, then he sighed and said, “I know this is a bad time. I know I’m a bastard for even bringing this up. But I need to know what you plan to do tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The tourist train.”
She placed a hand to her head. She’d forgotten entirely why she and Jacob were together, in this room, this period of time.
“I—”
A knock interrupted them, and Rusty poked his head around the door. Upon seeing Fiona awake and at least coming to terms with her emotions, he smiled tentatively. “Hello, Fiona.”
“Rusty.”
He stepped hesitantly into the room, mauling his hatbrim in his hands. “I can go away if I’m disturbing you.”
Since she’d been put to bed completely dressed except for her shoes, Fiona saw no reason to bar him from entering. Waving her hand, she motioned for him to enter.
Rusty glanced at Jacob, then at her. In the dim evening light, his freckles became more pronounced, his hair an even more fiery red.
“I’m sorry about your father, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, a stinging pricking at her eyes.
“We took him to a real nice parlor… and…” He cleared his throat, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground. “Here.” Thrusting his hand out, he said, “We found this clenched in his fist. He must have grabbed it when he fell. We figured you’d want it.”
Fiona frowned when Rusty dropped a heavy gold watch fob into her palm.
“I don’t—”
The words lodged in her mouth as she examined the piece. Hinged like a locket, it would have hung on a man’s chain, suspended in the center of his stomach.
Fiona snapped open the casing to stare inside. There was a tiny, blurry photograph of a boy, and inside the lid had been engraved the words: To Darby. From your father. Below that, as if it had been crudely carved with the tip of a knife, was a faint, eight-pointed star labeled with the initials SCJ. Something about the symbol pricked her consciousness, but she couldn’t think what it could mean.
Darby.
Her brow furrowed. Darby. As far as she was aware, her father knew no one by the name of Dar—
A coldness gripped her heart. Her stomach clenched. Kensington? Kensington? Was he responsible? The moment the thought appeared, she shook it away. It wasn’t possible. Kensington was trailed night and day by a host of lawmen. He wouldn’t have been able to sneeze without their knowing. The moment he’d made any move toward the Liberty Hotel, Jacob would have been alerted. There was no possible way they would have allowed him to kill two of their own deputies as well as Mickaleen McFee—a man he’d never known, never met.
And yet, he was connected somehow. In some way. Nausea churned in her breast and her breath locked in her body. An uneasiness settled into her very bones. Her father’s death had dropped a riddle in the middle of her lap, and the fob was the only piece to the puzzle. Ultimately, she had to confront the man who owned it.
She glanced at Jacob, seeing his concern, knowing instinctively that if he were to see this bit of evidence, he would call off the plan to trap Kensington—he was probably ready to do such a thing anyway, given the state of her emotions. But she couldn’t let him. She had to be on the train. She had to meet with Darby Kensington on her own terms.
Her fingers clenched, slamming the lid closed with such pressure the snap of the catch could be heard for several feet.
“Fiona?” Jacob leaned forward, examining her in concern.
“Thank you, Rusty,” she said slowly. “Thank you for bringing this to me.” He nodded awkwardly.
Her thumb stroked the warm gold. “Jacob, you may tell the governor that I will keep our bargain. I will be on that train.”
“But—”
“The McFees keep their word.” She stared sternly in his direction. “I won’t be the first to make an exception.”
Jacob opened his mouth to question her motives, but an explosion rocked the evening quiet. It was immediately followed by another and another.
“What the hell?”
Jacob rushed toward the window, whipping the draperies aside and peering out. When he saw what appeared like the entire horizon on fire, he swore.
Fiona rose, pushing away the covers and rushing to his side, barely able to believe her eyes. “Sweet Mary and all the Saints,” she whispered beside him. “What in heaven’s name has happened?”
“The railway station. It’s coming from the railway station.”
Her mouth gaped ever so slightly. “You can’t be serious. But—”
Jacob stared at his deputy. “Only hours ago we were bemoaning the fact that we needed another day. Well, someone has seen to it that we have our extra time.”
A pounding began on the main door, and Jacob dodged into the sitting room. Fiona and Rusty followed, in time to see him opening the portal to the young deputy who had served as Fiona’s guard.
“Jacob! The train sta—”
“I saw. What in the hell happened?”
“It’s too soon to tell, but it appears like an entire section of track has been blown to smithereens, as well as a half-dozen boxcars filled with kerosene barrels. It will take at least forty-eight hours for the mess to be cleaned and repaired.”
“Great bloody hell.” Jacob gathered his hat and revolver. He was on his way into the corridor when a horrible thought crept into his brain. No. They wouldn’t. Would they?
Pausing in his tracks, he slowly turned, surveying the room. “Where are the Beasleys?”
Fiona gestured to the suite across the hall. “They usually take a nap prior to supper.”
He took a key from his vest, stormed toward the door, and flung it open. The Beasleys’ beds were neatly made, empty.
“I suppose they stepped out for a minute,” Fiona stated next to his shoulder.
Jacob barely heard her as he and Rusty exchanged suspicious glances.
“You don’t think they’re responsible?” Rusty breathed. “Do you?”
“No.” The word was firm. Two women in their seventies couldn’t possibly cause such utter devastation.
Could they?
Chapter 15
“Ladies.”
The Beasleys started when Jacob spoke. He’d been waiting for nearly an hour, alternating between pacing the narrow hotel chamber and sitting in the single chair, drumming his fingers. In all that time, he’d used every argument he could manufacture to reassure himself that the Beasleys had spent the afternoon shopping. One peek at their soot-blackened faces, however, was all the evidence he needed to the contrary.
“What have you done?” he demanded, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees.
The women shifted from foot to foot like naughty schoolchildren, their gazes bouncing guiltily.
“Done?”
“The truth.”
The room fairly pounded with an uncomfortable silence.
“Now.”
Amelia was the first to break, her confession bursting free: “We only meant to bend a little track!” Alma frowned in disappointment. “Amelia!”
Amelia’s face crumpled. “We may as well tell him, Alma. He’ll know sooner or later.”
“Very true,” Jacob concurred. “What happened?”
“Well, first…”
“We put a
stick of dynamite in a burning trash drum and rolled it under one of the cars,” Alma proclaimed proudly.
“Dynamite?”
“We would have used just the dynamite alone—the nice man down at the armory told us how to do it—but we couldn’t make it light. Therefore we were forced to develop our own procedure.”
Jacob was snagged by the first portion of their explanation. “You asked how to detonate it?”
Amelia made a disparaging sound. “We didn’t ask right out.”
“We’re not fools.”
“We merely embroiled the man in a bit of reminiscing. We thought we could take advantage of what he told us.”
“But the fool wasn’t quite in touch with reality.”
Jacob’s hands clenched as he fought for control. “Where did you get the dynamite?”
The two women hesitated.
“We’d rather not say.”
“Why did you use it?”
Alma sniffed and stepped around him to lay her reticule on the bed, patting his shoulder as she passed. “Now, now, Jacob. There’s no need to snap. We shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but we did. You needed help, a little more time. We felt duty-bound to offer our assistance.”
“By blowing up the whole train?”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. We damaged—what, Alma?—three cars?”
“Six.”
Jacob stared at them in amazement. “You blew up six cars? You?”
“As I said, we really only intended to bend a little track.”
“But the trash drum—”
“—actually, it was an emptied barrel of some sort—”
“—rolled beneath one of the boxcars.”
“One filled with kerosene.”
“It lit up like fireworks.”
“Which set the cars on either side on fire.”
“Also of kerosene.”
“Which in turn burned two more cars and a caboose.”
“Those were grain cars, however.”
“True.”
Jacob’s mouth dropped. He couldn’t help it. How could the Beasleys have caused so much trouble? All under the guise of trying to help?”
“Please don’t chide us, Jacob,” Amelia whispered nervously. “We know we went a little too far.”
