by P. Creeden
Slowly, her removed the star from his chest and placed it on the sheriff’s desk.
“What’s this?” the sheriff asked, glaring at Sam.
“I resign. Effective immediately. I do not want to be the one who has to lie to Deputy Cobb’s wife when she is told about her husband’s death in the line of duty. I do not want to be a part of palm-greasing and turning a blind eye.”
The sheriff huffed. “Then maybe you should go back to being a Pinkerton.”
Turning on his heel and heading for the door, Sam dipped his head slightly in deference out of habit before exiting the room. Then he answered, “Maybe I should.”
That afternoon, Sam Shelby stood on a pier overlooking the San Francisco bay. Seagulls cried overhead, drowning out much of the noise of the city behind him. Salt air washed against his face so that when he licked his lips, he tasted the sea. With a deep breath, he released a sigh. He’d given up riding shotgun on stagecoaches and protecting railroad payrolls so that he could have what he thought was going to be an easier, more stable life. He’d traded dusty trails for salty sea air… and harsh winters in Wyoming Territory for the pleasant Californian weather. But was it all a mistake? It had been a little over two years since he’d left the agency, and he’d had yet to meet the right woman for him to settle down with. The women in San Francisco were too modern for him. Maybe he’d have been better off making a home in the East, but he’d also wanted to live in a growing, booming community.
Another sigh escaped him as hunger stirred in his stomach. He’d not eaten all day. There was the stakeout he and Deputy Cobb had been on since early morning, then the chase, then Ray’s death. And since the moment when that fatal shot was fired, it had been a whirlwind of collusion and disillusion that didn’t sit well with Sam. What was he going to do now? Hop on a train and head back to Denver to see if Archie Gordon would let him serve as a Pinkerton again? Maybe he should consider going with another agency headquarters.
No. That wasn’t right. He didn’t know the other agents or the agent in charge at another headquarters. At least in Denver, he had a chance of running into old friends. At least he knew that the people in Denver were honest and lived by the Pinkerton code—no matter whose son the criminal was. His heart squeezed in his chest when he thought about Deputy Ray Cobb’s family. He pushed off his position on the pier. The cold metal wrapped around the handrail sucked the heat from his fingers. One foot in front of the other, he started to make his way back down the pier to shore. If nothing else, he wanted to pay his respects to the widow and family. If possible, he would let them know that Deputy Cobb was an honorable man and that he was not at fault in the situation, if Sam could do that somehow, delicately. Then he would put in his notice with his landlord and head to the telegraph office.
No.
Maybe it would be better to see Archie in person rather than send a telegram. Sam could explain things better, seeing Archie face to face, read the man’s expression and maybe even change course if he had to. He drew in a deep breath. It was a gamble. If he was going to do this, if he was going to hop on the next possible train to Denver and drop into the office of the Pinkerton Agency without notice, then it was better to do it while he was feeling the need pressing against him. If he sat too long to think about it, Sam knew that he might change his mind and talk himself out of it. Maybe he’d even end up giving in and returning to the sheriff’s office.
The thought of that made him spit to the side. He would not return to the sheriff’s office, no matter what. He wasn’t that prone to compromise or making amends. At least with the Pinkerton Agency he would be making amends with good, honorable men who lived by a code instead of what might work best for a council or a voter. His hands fisted at his side as he quickened his step. Clouds gathered overhead. A storm was coming. Even though storms were always short-lived in San Francisco, Sam would rather not get caught in one. He wanted to be well on his way to the Cobb family’s house before then. As he looked up the steep hill of Jackson Street, Sam thanked the Lord that someone had decided to start the trolley system and that there was now an electric car to take him up the hill. A bell rang, signaling that it had just stopped to pick up passengers. His timing couldn’t have been better. He began to think that maybe this was a sign that he was heading the right direction. Of course going to the Cobb house was a good and right decision, but he was still unsure about Denver.
As he took hold of the rail and hopped into the trolley, he sent up a prayer of gratitude and asked the Lord for guidance as well.
Chapter 3
Hazel hated waiting. She sat at the piano playing a tune she knew entirely by heart, because her mother had requested it in order to calm her nerves. Even though Hazel’s fingers moved across the keyboard skillfully, not one thought was spent considering which key to play next. Her hands already knew exactly where they needed to be. And this allowed her mind to wander in directions that maybe she shouldn’t have allowed. What if Ruby was dead? Or harmed? Would Mr. Brown hurt her like that? Surely not. But what if Ruby wasn’t there? What if she was somewhere else? Where would Mr. Brown have taken her.
Her mind reeled as she went through all of the possibilities.
Regardless, Hazel hated the fact that she and her mother were asked to wait at the house while the men took care of business. Her mother was dealing with things the way that she always did, in the kitchen. She had prepared the roast and began baking. It was what her mother always did when she was nervous or needed time to think. When Hazel did little more than pace the kitchen, Mother had asked her to play the piano. It was what Hazel had always been good at. Playing the piano was second nature to her. If she heard a song once she knew exactly what the pitch was and practically saw the notes in her head. After playing the song twice on her keys, Hazel could mindlessly play, as she was doing now, without notes or even thinking of where her fingers should be. Normally, she imagined worlds that she could create where her music took her. She escaped through music much the same way that Savannah had escaped through novels.
But today, Hazel had an entirely different, entirely real world in her mind. She thought of their own hometown of Meriden, Connecticut. The streets of her town were like her music, easily remembered, easily dismissed. In her mind she saw her father and John Mark Lee heading toward Mr. Brown’s house by coach. They’d almost be there by now. Timewise, it would be about right. What would they find when they got there? A frown tugged at Hazel’s lips as her pinky slipped to the wrong key and the sour note struck. However, Hazel didn’t hesitate, but continued the song. A long time ago, she realized that if she continued as though nothing was wrong, layman would never notice the missed note. Those musicians who noticed had greater respect for her if she continued on. There used to be a time when a sour note stopped her and frustrated her and made her want to begin the whole piece over again. But those times were long gone. Hazel had outgrown such childish fits.
Or so she thought.
Then she realized that perhaps Mr. Brown wouldn’t be at his house at all. And if he wasn’t there, where would he have taken Ruby? An idea formed in her mind.
The minute the piece ended, Hazel drew to her feet. Her mother and Mrs. Gardner, a neighbor who stopped in, sat at the kitchen table with cups of tea, talking with one another. They hadn’t seemed to notice that Hazel had stopped playing. Atop the piano sat a wooden music box. Hazel set it to play song after song in her absence, as the clockwork was already wound to its maximum, and the music box held twelve songs. It would be enough to give the two ladies background noise in Hazel’s absence. And once she was certain that no one was paying her attention, she slipped out the front door and out of the house. She rushed up the street as quickly as she could, her feet rushing in short steps like a staccato. When she hit the main street, she looked both ways and then quickly crossed, holding her skirts up to keep her feet free of the hem. Then she spotted what she’d hoped. A hansom cab came her way and she flagged him down with a wave of her kerchief.
> The hack driver jumped down and opened the door to the carriage, offering her a hand to help her in. Once seated, she leaned forward and told the gentleman the address of the house she intended to rush to. Her father and the others had gone to Mr. Brown’s house in the hopes of finding Ruby there. And if they did, then it would be wonderful, but Hazel didn’t believe for a minute Mr. Brown would be so foolish. Chances were that he wasn’t even present in his home. Instead, he was more likely to go somewhere else and take Ruby with him. Not many people would help a man kidnap a woman and force her to marry him. But Hazel knew that there was one person in Meriden who might actually be willing to help the deranged man. His sister. The widow, Mrs. Lincoln, lived in a private house with a yard and a wall. Her home was large enough that Ruby’s cries for help could fall on deaf ears. If Mrs. Lincoln was helping Mr. Brown, that was one thing, but it was just as possible that he could sneak Ruby away to a portion of the house where even his sister would not know what he was doing.
Hazel pulled out a pen and parchment from her pocket and wrote a quick note. Her stomach twisted at the thought that Ruby could be harmed by Mr. Brown. As they pulled up to the house, Hazel mathematically figured where her father might be and when, and how long it would take for the hackney to return to her home as well. When the cab stopped, Hazel offered the driver a little more than twice the fare. “Could you please go to this address and make sure this message is delivered to Mr. Lockwood? And then get the sheriff and tell him to meet us here at this address.”
The man’s brows furrowed. “We’re not a message service, Miss.”
“It’s an emergency, sir. I must insist. And if you wait there at the Lockwood residence, chances are that you will gain an additional fare to this location as well.”
Though the man’s lips were thinned, he nodded once and took both the money and the note from her fingers. Then he hopped down as he shoved the items into his pocket. Once on his feet, he opened the cab’s door and helped her dismount. Hazel looked up at the wrought iron gate that stood before her and took a deep breath. She shoved her hands in the pockets that her mother had sewn into her skirts. She had one piece of parchment left. A pen. And in the other pocket, she had her derringer. The moment she realized where she was going, she decided to get it and made sure that it was loaded before shoving it into her pocket and making her way out the door of the house.
This was it. She stepped up to the wrought iron gate and pushed on it, happy that it gave and opened in her hands with a long squeal. The house looked imposing with its size and stately nature. But it didn’t matter. If Ruby was in there, as Hazel suspected, she needed to get there as quickly as possible. Immediately she rushed forward, holding up the hem of her skirts again. Her breath came in small pants so that she had to stop in front of the door and take a moment to catch it. Then she stood up, took hold of the solid brass knocker and banged it twice against the door.
As she waited, she listened to the silent house but heard nothing. The curtain to the window at the side of the door moved slightly but by the time Hazel glanced that direction, the person had already left. The door handle turned. A tall, imposing man stood before her with a frown and drooping eyes. “What can I help you with, Miss?”
She swallowed hard, unsure of how to answer.
“Hazel Lockwood! Is that you?” a small feminine voice called from behind the man.
“Mrs. Lincoln!” Ruby called back in as cheery a voice as she could muster. She plastered a smile upon her lips and entered the home, pushing past the butler who still stood frowning in the doorway.
Mrs. Lincoln was an odd woman, slight of build and always squinting her eyes for her poor eyesight. The woman could have worn spectacles, but had always refused to for vanity purposes, Hazel supposed. They had sat with one another on Sundays at church while Mr. Brown was attempting to court Ruby and had developed an acquaintance akin to friendship. Hazel intended fully to capitalize on the relationship that they had built. Mrs. Lincoln smiled as they grasped each other’s hands. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I happened to be at this end of town and wondered if you were attending my sister’s wedding today as well?” Hazel kept as much cheerfulness as possible in her voice. She’d not been as much of an actress as her sister Ruby, but she often played small roles while her sister played major ones while they were at Vassar together. For this role, Hazel needed to dig deep within herself and draw from that experience.
A puzzled expression flickered across Mrs. Lincoln’s features, and then she nodded slightly. “I thought the wedding was tomorrow.”
Relief struck Hazel fully. Thank the Lord! They still had time to rescue Ruby. “Oh! That’s what I meant. Tomorrow. Of course—tomorrow. Will you be attending?”
Confusion still kept furrows between Mrs. Lincoln’s brow as she nodded and squeezed Ruby’s hands. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. After all, Elliot is my only brother.”
“Of course. How foolish of me to even ask.” Hazel lifted a brow and waited expectantly.
After shaking her head as thought just realizing that she had company, Mrs. Lincoln smiled once more and asked, “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely,” Hazel said, calculating in her head that it would still be another ten or fifteen minutes before the hansom cab she’d sent back to her house would deliver the message to her father. She needed to stall... and maybe find out as much information as possible from Mrs. Lincoln. Grabbing hold of her hat pin, she pulled it and released the bonnet from her head. “Will it just be the two of us?”
“Yes! My brother is out getting last minute supplies and such needed for tomorrow and Ruby is much too tired to join us. I believe that the train ride back from wherever she was must have worn the poor thing out. She’s been sleeping most of the afternoon.”
Hazel’s breath hitched. She was here. Ruby was in the house, just as Hazel hand expected. But why would she be sleeping. Hazel’s stomach twisted as she came up with the only likely answer—she’d been drugged. Her hands fisted at her sides as her anger rose up. How could Mrs. Lincoln be so nonchalant about Ruby being drugged somewhere in her manse? Hazel would have thought better of the woman, but then, who would have suspected that Mr. Brown would be such a cad as to kidnap Ruby and force her to marry him. Instead of rushing through the house in a mad search for her sister, Hazel calmly sat at the small table in the parlor with Mrs. Lincoln and waited for the maid to return with the tea service. “When did Ruby arrive?”
Mrs. Lincoln tilted her head. “You know, my brother had said that none of the Lockwood family would be coming to the wedding. That you all were too busy and that Ruby had not even wanted to tell the family to allow it to be a surprise.”
Clenching her teeth a moment, Hazel forced a smile to her lips. “Well, Ruby has never been any good at keeping secrets. I found out about it through the milliner’s daughter and relayed the information to my parents. They are on their way presently.”
The wrinkles on Mrs. Lincoln’s brow appeared again. “But the wedding is not until tomorrow.”
“Right. But what bride wouldn’t want her mother and sister to help her prepare?”
Immediately the wrinkles smoothed out and Mrs. Lincoln nodded her head as the maid returned with the tea. The older maid with a stoic expression poured two cups and set them in front of each of them. Picking up her cup, Mrs. Lincoln said, “I’m so glad that you’ve come to join us, Hazel. I was about to pull my hair out with all that needed be done to prepare for tomorrow.”
“I’m happy to—”
But Hazel didn’t get to finish her statement as the brass knocker on the door banged against it again. Quickly she did the timing in her head. The note should have barely made it to her father in that short of a time. Was it possible that the cab driver had met her father on the way to their house? Or perhaps her father had remembered Mrs. Lincoln himself and come directly here after not finding Mr. Brown at his own home. Her heart raced in her chest as the sound of hea
vy feet followed the butler into the parlor.
Then Mr. Brown turned the corner and met eyes with Hazel, and Hazel’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.
Chapter 4
When Sam first set foot off of the train in Denver, his stomach clenched. Even the air smelled different there in Colorado Territory. Drier. Less salty and more… sandy. He drew in a deep breath and sighed as he made his way to the baggage car to retrieve his steamer trunk. Even though he’d been in San Francisco for nearly two years, he’d hardly unpacked his trunk, he hadn’t gained any new possessions that he’d wanted to keep, and it had only taken him minutes to prepare his belongings for the journey. Perhaps it was because he’d grown used to traveling on short notice while working as a Pinkerton agent in the past. Or perhaps he’d always known that no matter how permanent he’d wanted the position in San Francisco to be, it was temporary. After making arrangements with the stagecoach to have his belongings sent to the hotel, Sam opted for walking through the city.
He’d not realized how much he’d missed Denver until he began the stroll through town and through the park there. Birds sang here. Not that they didn’t sing in San Francisco—they did, but they were different birds. Mostly seagulls and other birds that preferred to live by the sea and didn’t mind the number of people who had encroached in on the hilly city. Even though there were mountains clearly visible in the distance, the land was flatter in Denver. When he stopped, he realized that his feet had taken him to the exact place that he’d always strolled to, the Pinkerton compound. He’d not intended to go there until the morning, as the late afternoon sun was just beginning to make it’s way to the horizon, and he didn’t want to arrive so late. But here he was. As he debated whether to enter the gate or not, the front door to the building opened.