“At first, they weren’t sure at all. But the last agent’s warning had a note attached that read ‘Viva España,’ which means ‘Long live Spain.’” She paused. “I’m sorry—you already knew what it meant.”
He shrugged. “Go on.”
“These rebels want New Mexico to be returned to Spain—they don’t want to live in a United States territory anymore.”
Agent Harrison shook his head. “The land was purchased by the States a couple of decades ago. What do they plan to do about it now?”
“Hold an uprising, apparently. They’ve been gathering supporters and caching weapons for some time now.”
“And who hired the Pinkertons to assist?”
“That I don’t know. We’ll need to ask.”
Agent Harrison looked thoughtful. “So, with every agent in the office having been identified, they had to send for agents from out of the area. I assume you were sent because you speak Spanish?”
“Yes, and also because firearms are my specialty.”
Agent Harrison looked surprised. “Firearms? That’s curious. How did you become interested in them?”
“My father was a collector. Why is that curious? Haven’t you met a female arms expert before?”
“Yes, actually, but I thought perhaps your specialty was negotiations or diplomacy. Because you like to talk so much.”
She was a bit taken aback by that, which seemed to amuse him all the more, and she didn’t want to amuse him. “I have been useful in a few cases requiring negotiation, but it’s nice to have a variety of skills at one’s disposal,” she said after she collected her thoughts. “Just as I’m sure you don’t want to be known solely as a boxer.”
“I don’t? Why not?”
He was toying with her—that was obvious. Well, she didn’t have to let him. “Because boxers aren’t generally considered to be all that intelligent, are they? Besides, anyone can box—all you have to do is swing your arms around until they connect with something.” She opened her eyes a little wider and gave him a slight smile.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I do. I just swing my arms around. You’d be surprised how effective it is.”
Hmm. He didn’t seem at all bothered by her comment. She’d have to keep trying. Or perhaps she shouldn’t—this game was pointless, really, especially when they had so many other things they should be doing. But oh, how he irritated her. She didn’t know how she was going to endure the remainder of this case.
“When we get there, what’s our plan?” he asked. Good—he wanted to get back on topic.
“We’ll meet up with Agent Bleaker and see what else he’s been able to discover since he wrote my supervisor. He sent the name of the hotel where he wants us to stay, and he’ll be in touch—because his identity has been made known, he’ll need to contact us rather than the other way around. My guess is that we’ll be going undercover as well to see if we can pinpoint the leaders of this organization.”
Agent Harrison shifted in his seat. “I can see where your knowledge of arms will come into play, but I have my concerns.”
“Oh? What might those be?”
“The fact that you’re a woman.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up both hands. “Hear me out. It’s uncommon for a woman to involve herself in business dealings such as these, and it’s even more uncommon in the Mexican culture. They’re going to have natural suspicions because they aren’t used to seeing women in this role. If we’re going to pretend to have an interest in their plan, we’d be much more successful if I ran point.”
That was . . . so frustrating, and so true. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She wanted to argue with him, to give him facts and statistics showing the increasing worth of women in the job field and in the world, but she couldn’t because he was right.
Most annoyingly so.
“I agree,” she said after several long seconds of arguing with herself. “You should be in the forefront whenever we’re in public. When we’re alone, however, I must insist that you defer to me when there are decisions to be made. I’ve done research into this situation, I’ve been in contact with agents who have investigated these rumors in the past—I’ve done my due diligence, and I’m not coming into this blind or naively. I’ll request that you trust my hard work and my instincts on this.”
He nodded. “I respect that, and I’m glad you’ve looked into it like you have. You’re a conscientious agent, Esmerelda, and I look forward to assisting you on this case.”
Once again, she was taken aback. Not only had he called her by the correct name, but he’d paid her a compliment, and it sounded sincere. She fumbled around, trying to come up with an appropriate response, but he’d tilted his head back, tipped his hat over his eyes, and seemed to have fallen asleep immediately. That was rather inconvenient, considering that she still had things to tell him, but if he was tired, it was better for him to get some rest.
It wasn’t until he began to snore that she really became annoyed.
***
“I don’t even know where we are,” Matthew said, stretching his back as he stood on the train platform. “Did you catch what the conductor said?”
“No, but I see a hotel, and that’s good enough for me,” Esmerelda replied.
Matthew was inclined to agree. Pearl’s delicious snack had been consumed hours ago, and he was ready for a hot dinner and a soft bed. He collected their bags from the porter, double-checked the next morning’s departure time, then led the way, glad Esmerelda had insisted that they stop for the night. He knew they were in a hurry to come to their fellow agent’s aid, but they needed to be fresh when they arrived. And hopefully not starving. He could follow clues much better on a full stomach.
When they walked into the lobby of the hotel, Matthew noticed immediately how dark it was. He glanced around, wondering why there weren’t more lights. Someone could sneak up behind him and he wouldn’t even know they were there. His guard immediately went up, all senses on alert. It was a natural reflex, one born of years of training and experience—and a few fistfights in dark alleys as well.
A glance at Esmerelda showed him that she was being cautious too. She glanced over her shoulder as they approached the check-in counter.
“Good evening,” Matthew said. “Do you have a room free? Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Harrison.”
The clerk, a thin man wearing a grease-spotted vest, opened the ledger on the counter and took an overly long time perusing the entries in front of him. “Room four,” he said at last, then reached up and pulled a key from the pegboard behind him.
Matthew was about to refuse the services of a porter, but realized that none had been offered. “Thank you,” he said anyway, taking the key and putting it in his pocket. He then picked up Esmerelda’s bag. She’d been stubborn about carrying it herself, but he could see that she was becoming fatigued, and it really wasn’t any trouble.
As they walked down the hallway to their room, Esmerelda whispered, “This place looks haunted. Did you see any other hotels when we got off the train?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m not even sure this is an official town—more of a railroad waystation.”
She shook her head. “I’m glad for a break from the train, but if we’re murdered in our sleep tonight, I’m sorry for making the suggestion.”
Matthew glanced at her sharply. Had she actually just made a joke? He didn’t want to disturb the miracle of the moment, so instead of replying directly, he said, “Here’s our room.”
The walls were papered with green, burgundy, and brown stripes, and the furniture was more of the heavy dark wood from the lobby. “At least the whole place matches,” he said as he put their bags on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Esmerelda was already moving around the room locating all the lanterns. “That’s better,” she said once every light in the room was glowing. “Maybe now we can see ourselves think.”
Another joke . . . Matthew stifled a grin. He’d have to pay a
ttention and see if this was a pattern. If she let her guard down when she was tired, that gave him a window of opportunity to peer behind the iron grating she kept up and see what she was really hiding.
She sat down on the chair in the corner and studied him. “I’m worried about dinner. Would a place this dark and dismal actually serve a decent meal?”
Instead of answering, Matthew walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers, inspecting the sheets. “It might be dismal, but it’s clean,” he said. “The linens smell like they were washed just this morning.”
“Oh, thank goodness. That’s one thing I always dread about traveling. I try to make do with whatever I’m offered, but there have been some sleepless nights when I’ve been afraid to touch anything in my room.”
They decided to venture to the dining room and get a feel for the place. If anything seemed amiss, they’d just go to bed—neither of them were strangers to missing a meal, and they’d rather do that than eat something that might make them ill and unable to work. But the air smelled pleasant when they walked in, and as they glanced at the other guests’ plates, they thought the food was worth a try.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, this way, please,” the waitress said, leading them across the room to a table by the window. She was an older lady, and Matthew wondered if she was married to the desk clerk. They had the same tired air about them.
Both Matthew and Esmerelda situated their chairs so they were facing the room, and he smirked at that. No, they didn’t look suspicious at all . . . It would just help if the hotel would invest a few more dollars in kerosene.
The chicken and dumplings they ordered was passable, if not delicious, and Matthew was glad to have something hot in his stomach. He noticed that Esmerelda ate just as she did everything else—with precision and exactness, as though she was a military general rather than a rather pretty young woman. That’s what confused him the most, actually. When he’d first seen her in the garden back at the Pinkerton office, he’d been struck by how uncommonly lovely she was in the sunlight. It was such a contrast to her prickly behavior that it made him want to know more. Why was she so filled with contradictions?
“I’m sure this wasn’t the wedding day you’ve always dreamed of,” he said as they walked back to their room.
“I’ve never dreamed of a wedding day,” she replied. “I’ve never had any expectations along those lines.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You’ve never thought about your wedding day? Not even when you were a little girl? That’s all my sister could talk about when she was eleven—she drove us nearly to distraction.”
“No, not even when I was a little girl. You still have the room key, don’t you?”
They’d come to a stop outside their room. He was so distracted by her comment that he hadn’t realized where they were, but now he pulled out the key and let them back in. “So, what did you daydream about?” he asked, loosening his tie.
“I didn’t. I studied hard, got good marks in school, learned how to run a household and embroider a pillow cover—I didn’t have time for daydreaming.”
“And how old were you when you rebelled?”
She looked up from her bag, where she’d been rummaging. “Rebelled? I don’t know what you mean.”
He sat down and began to take off his shoes. “The upbringing you just described doesn’t sound like a future Pinkerton agent.”
She glanced back down again and pursed her lips. “It wasn’t rebellion so much as just wanting to do something different with my life.”
“All right, so it was a quiet rebellion. How old were you?”
This time, she didn’t hesitate. “Fifteen.”
“Your mother or your father?”
“My mother or my father . . . who did what?”
“Who passed away.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed with a thump. “Agent Harrison, really, you astonish me. I’m not under investigation—why are you interrogating me?”
He held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get to know you better. You’re perfectly free to ask me anything you like in return.”
“I’d like to ask you how you got to be so nosy.”
“Practice,” he said with a grin. “Lots and lots of practice.”
“Yes, that’s obvious.” She paused. “My father.”
That was the answer he’d anticipated. “Had he been teaching you about weaponry before that time, or did you study it on your own afterwards?”
“Oh, he’d been teaching me for years. The whole wall of his study was covered with rifles and pistols and swords, and his favorite thing to do on a Saturday afternoon was to take them down and polish them. I’d watch him—I wasn’t allowed to touch—and he’d tell me stories about each and every one of them. Where they were made, what they were used for, how he got them—I don’t have any brothers, and I think he enjoyed having someone to share his interest with, even if it was rather unconventional to have those sorts of conversations with your eight-year-old daughter.” She stood back up and picked up her nightdress. “May I use the changing screen first?”
“Of course,” he replied, intrigued by the idea of a small girl listening to her father go on for hours about his weapons collection instead of playing with dolls or having tea parties. “And what did your mother think of all that?”
“She thought it was highly ridiculous. She said there were much better things I could be doing with my time, and she thought it was all a waste.”
“And that’s why you studied harder—you didn’t want to fall behind so she’d have an excuse to tell you to stop spending so much time with your father.”
Esmerelda came out from behind the screen, now dressed in a conservative white nightdress and holding her traveling outfit. “You certainly have a lot of ideas about my childhood.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Well, no, and I must say, it’s a bit unsettling.” She draped her clothes over the back of a chair. “Quite a shame that they don’t even have hooks to hang our things from.”
“We’ll make do.” He grabbed his own night things and took a turn behind the screen. When he came out, he saw that she’d already commandeered the right side of the bed, and he was about to pull a blanket onto the floor for himself when she spoke.
“I see no reason for us to be embarrassed when it comes to our sleeping arrangements, Agent Harrison. We’re married, and not only that, but we’re mature adults, and I’m quite positive we can manage to share a bed and get a good night’s sleep without any associated awkwardness.” She motioned toward the left side of the bed. “Please lie down and get some sleep.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve just told you about my background in weapons, and I’m carrying a small pistol in my bag as we speak—the bag next to me on the nightstand. If I have any concerns about your moral character, I have sufficient enticement for your good behavior at arms’ reach.”
He grinned. “I like your style, Mrs. Harrison.”
She obviously didn’t care to be called that, but she didn’t reply to it. “Goodnight. I’m sure we’d both enjoy getting some sleep now.”
He dimmed some of the lanterns and extinguished the rest, leaving just enough light so they wouldn’t stub their toes, then climbed into bed. The fresh scent of the linens enveloped him and he inhaled, his muscles relaxing immediately. He disliked train travel for the way it made him feel bunched up inside, but this was nice. “Thank you for sharing the bed,” he mumbled, already half asleep.
“Well, I’m sure this isn’t how you envisioned your wedding day either,” she replied, and he grinned again. Three jokes in one evening. He was pleasantly surprised to learn she was capable of it.
Chapter Four
As the miles crawled by beneath the wheels of the train, Esmerelda found herself growing more fidgety. Their journey had continued on much the same, with so little variation, it felt as though it was never going to end. The co
nductor had said they were now just half an hour from Santa Fe, and she felt as though she could leap out of her skin and run alongside the train, she was so edgy.
“Feeling anxious?” Agent Harrison asked, that same amusement in his voice.
“I’m dreadful at sitting still for any length of time, and I’ve seen the insides of far too many trains over the last week,” she replied. “When I get back home, I might refuse to leave again for a while—I’m sure the office staff would be glad for another set of hands.” She paused. “Your Agent Gordon actually suggested that I stay in Denver and become his new assistant, but I don’t think he meant it. I think he misses Miss Chapman far too much for that.”
“I agree,” Agent Harrison replied. “The two of them . . . well, they certainly do bait each other, but it’s clear to anyone who’s known them more than a few minutes that they’re just hiding their true feelings.”
“Why? What do they have to lose by expressing themselves? That’s the thing I’ve never understood about romance, Agent Harrison, and perhaps you can explain it to me.”
He froze. “You want me to explain something about romance? Why would I have any special knowledge on the subject?”
“I’m not surmising that you do, necessarily, but you must know more than I do. So, here’s my question—why do men and women hide their feelings from each other? Where’s the virtue in loving someone without telling them? I’ve tried a few novels at the suggestion of friends, and I was utterly confused. Is that what’s considered good storytelling—watching men and women purposely avoid the objects of their affections until the very last page, when they suddenly reveal all?”
He chuckled. “You’ve summed it up rather nicely. Yes, that’s popular literature in a nutshell. Other stories do exist, of course, but stories of a romantic nature will always be the ones that are most widely read.”
“Well, I think it does a disservice to the whole human race to teach that we shouldn’t express our feelings. If I were to develop romantic inclinations toward someone, I’d simply tell him. Imagine the time it would save. He could either say that he feels the same way or that he doesn’t, and I could move on without wasting days or even months pining after something I could never have.”
An Agent for Esme Page 3
