She turned and moved away from him, heading toward the door, but he grasped her elbow, stopping her. She looked up into his handsome face and dreamy eyes.
“Miss Carlton –”
“Call me Frances, please.”
He nodded. “Frances, before you leave, I have a few questions for you.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is this an interrogation?”
He shrugged. “Call it whatever you like.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Would you like to sit?”
She didn’t really want to, only because she could be closer to him if they were standing, but apparently, he acted as if this might take a while. She went to the chair and sat. And just as she suspected, he moved around his desk and sat on his chair. He steepled his hands on the desk and stared at her.
“How long have you been in Bonham?”
“My parents died six months ago. I had returned right before their deaths.”
Nodding, he shifted in his chair. “So, I speculate you’ve been here close to seven months?”
“Almost, yes.”
“Frances, did you know that I’ve been here seven months myself?”
She held her breath. Oh, dear... How could she tell him that she’d been watching him from afar, and when they crossed each other in town, she had always lowered her head so he didn’t look directly at her face? There was no way he could know she’d follow him to the ends of the earth if possible, just to see him smile, hear his laugh, and watch him walk. He even looked good riding his horse.
She swallowed hard. “Actually, I had seen you in town a few times.”
“And you never thought to come talk to me?”
As she studied his expression, he appeared to look hurt. Her heart fluttered, and she hoped she had read him correctly. “You were always busy, and I... well, I was in mourning.”
“All right. I’ll accept that answer.”
After a few silent moments passed, she said, “Is that all you want to ask me?”
“Why? Are you in a hurry to leave?” He tapped a finger on his temple. “Oh, that’s right. Now that your parents are gone, you are the one running the family business, correct? I think that’s what you told me while we were watching the bank early this morning.”
Oh, dear... She swallowed hard again as her mind spun to think of what she could tell him that was believable. She shouldn’t have lied to him about that.
She chuckled, feeling very uncomfortable. “Well, you see the family business is –”
Suddenly, a loud blast ripped through the air louder than a cannon blast, shaking the ground. She gasped and held onto the desk as she glanced out the window. Gray smoke filled that section of town. Vincent jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. Once the ringing in her ears disappeared, she heard cries and screams coming from outside.
Her heart dropped. What in tarnation just happened?
Vincent darted for the door, and she knew she had to go help him. After all, wasn’t that what good Pinkerton agents do?
FOUR
VINCE’S HEARTBEAT HAMMERED in a panicked rhythm. He hadn’t heard that type of blast since the war. However, it wasn’t a cannon. It was explosives.
He darted out of his office and scoped the town. A handful of people were running from the puff of gray smoke still clinging to the air, but most of the town headed toward the commotion. There would be injuries, he was sure of it.
He quickly mounted his horse and took off toward the east side of town. The closer he came to what he knew would be a disaster, his gut twisted. He didn’t have to see the bank to know that it had been the building blown up.
After dismounting, he whipped out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the lower half of his face, blocking his nose and mouth. The dynamite stench stung his eyes and burned his throat.
Screams still rent the air, growing worse the closer he came to the bank. Bloody bodies lay in his path, and thankfully, they were still moving.
The light breeze helped assist the smoke away from the explosion. The back half of the bank was in crumbles. Immediately, he wondered if Walter Shipp had been injured – or killed – but then another thought jumped into Vince’s head. Walter Shipp was probably responsible for the blast. After all, the man probably suspected what the good sheriff of Bonham was doing sneaking around at all hours of the night. And yet... would Walter want whatever was in the cellar destroyed?
Vince’s first point of business would be to check that cellar. He was willing to bet the place had been cleared.
His mind wandered back to when he’d followed Frances to the bank not so long ago. Vince had peeked around the back. Several wagons were in the field, and it appeared as if families were playing games and eating. He’d bet good money that they were part of the transfer, especially when the air continued to clear, he couldn’t see any traces of the wagons now.
Several of the townsfolk had stopped to help those injured outside of the bank. Even Doctor Porter was moving from patient to patient, checking on their injuries. Vince wouldn’t worry about them now. He needed to find out what had been taken inside the bank.
The dynamite scent was stronger now, but Vince forged closer to the crumbled wall. The safe had kept together during the blast, thankfully. Of course, that told him that whoever was responsible for the blast wasn’t after any money.
Carefully, he stepped inside, looking for dead bodies. Surprisingly enough, there weren’t any. Nobody was in the bank? How could that be?
Slowly, Vince walked around inside, moving broken boards and crushed bricks with his boots. The more he studied everything on the floor, the more suspicious he became. Vince had been here not more than fifteen minutes ago. So had Frances. Had the place emptied of patrons within that time? Two people had been standing in line. One person entered the bank just as Frances left.
Vince shook his head. Things were not adding up... which to him, meant only one thing. The bank’s destruction had been planned.
He stepped back to the safe and gently kicked the side of it with the toe of his boot. Immediately, the door swung open. Vince hitched a breath. The money was gone!
He coughed a few times, realizing he needed to leave the debris and move out into some fresher air. He was sure this heavy dynamited air wasn’t good for his lungs.
He moved back toward the blasted back wall and peered out onto the grassy knoll. He combed his gaze over the ground, trying to locate the hidden door. His mind played back what he’d overheard in the very early morning hours while he and Frances listened through the door. The words the men had said could have also been related to today’s dynamiting.
Whatever was going on, one thing was certain – this had all been planned by Walter Shipp.
As he snapped his attention back to the wreckage, a woman moved on the ground near what had been the hidden cellar door. She held a white handkerchief over her nose and mouth as her gaze moved over the rubble.
Frances pointed to the broken bricks and looked up at him. “The blast came from underneath the bank.”
Vince shook his head, not quite understanding what she was mumbling about. “Pardon me?”
“The bricks,” she pointed closer to those on what used to be the lawn. “They have fallen away from the building, which as you know, proves that the blast came from inside the bank, and because of the huge hole that you’re standing near, I’m sure the dynamite was there.”
Vince studied the area closer and realized that she had been correct. Why hadn’t he noticed that yet? Although, he was sure it would have eventually hit him.
“Yes, you’re right, Frances.” He maneuvered around the hole in the floor and to the opening in the wall leading outside.
“Do you think that’s what the men had in their gunny sacks when they entered the cellar?”
“I certainly do.”
“Should one of us go down there and look around?”
He grasped her arm. “No, Frances. It’s too soon after the blast. The ground needs to sett
le, and the building needs to stop breaking apart.”
Her wide eyes met his from over her handkerchief that she still held to her nose and mouth, and she nodded.
“But what I’d really like to find out,” he said, lowering his voice and moving closer to her in case anyone heard him, “is where are those wagons that were here earlier?”
Her head swung toward the field and within seconds, she met his gaze again. “They were here with their families.”
“Or so they wanted us to believe.” He nodded toward the field again. “Did you recognize anyone in this party?”
“Nobody.”
“Neither did I, and I’ve been in this town long enough to at least recognize people.”
“Do you think they were driving by and needed a rest?”
He shrugged. “Possibly, but why behind the bank? There are other fields in this town bigger and better to have a picnic lunch and play games.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I agree. So... here is what we’ll do. You check up on the wagons, and I’ll ask around and see what happened to Mr. Shipp.”
Vince opened his mouth to agree before he suddenly remembered that she was not his partner. And he wouldn’t put her in danger.
“Go home, Frances. I’ll do this. I’m the sheriff.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can help you, Vincent. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Yes, I’m stubborn, now go home.”
Without giving her time to answer him, he marched away from her, heading toward the field to check for more clues. He couldn’t continue to stare into her pretty eyes before feeling like he was softening. No matter what, he would not let her sway him in any way.
He didn’t need her.
He never would.
FRANCES MARCHED AWAY from Vincent, passing the injured people who were now being lifted onto the wagons to take to Doctor Porter’s office. It didn’t matter that Vincent had told her not to help him, she still looked for Walter Shipp.
Vincent was right about one thing. This explosion was too coincidental. There should have been some dead bodies inside the bank, and if the wagons and their occupants had been in the field when the dynamite went off, she would have seen bloody bodies and broken wagons. But it was empty.
How long had she been in the sheriff’s office talking to Vincent? It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. That would have given those in the field enough time to load everything in their wagons and drive away. But were they there for diversion purposes only?
Expelling a frustrated breath, Frances slowed her steps. Tomorrow, she’d talk to Mrs. Rosie Shumway. The older woman was the town’s busybody. That woman would know something about everyone... and she’d know if those wagons drove through town mere minutes before the explosion.
Frances hurried to her family’s home – a place that was occupied by just her and her brother now. Of course, her brother was never around since he’d joined up with Shipp’s rebel friends. Jeremy wasn’t even her full brother. His father had married Ma and Frances was born nine months later. Growing up, Jeremy never looked at Frances as a sister... more like a hindrance. He had always blamed the northerners for all of his problems. Frances wasn’t surprised when she’d heard he joined the southern rebels.
Stopping at the front door, she dug through her wrist purse to pull out the key to open the door. As she stared at the sign hanging on the door, her heart sank. Pop’s Barbershop – closed for business.
Since Jeremy didn’t want to take care of the house – or her – she would be selling the house soon. The money she’d received after her parents had died was nearly depleted.
Frances walked inside. The front of the house had always been her pa’s shop. During the day, men would walk inside as the bell on the front door announced them. They’d pay her father to give them a close shave or haircut since Pa was the best around. Ma kept herself busy by keeping the blades sharp, cleaning the towels, and sweeping the floor. Their family was not rich, but Pa brought in enough money to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads.
During the war, Pa had enlisted with his southern comrades, but he was injured and sent home a year later, leaving him with a severe limp. The family blamed the war, however, Frances didn’t agree with either side – unlike her rebel brother.
She sighed and closed the door, locking it behind her as she slowly moved toward the kitchen. Ma had always taken pride in her kitchen as she loved to bake cookies for those visiting their shop.
In these past six and a half months that she’d been back, she tried to bake as her mother had, but Frances’ heart was very giving, and she didn’t charge people for her treats. Some paid, but most didn’t.
She leaned against the stove and frowned. Perhaps she’d have to return to South Carolina and pick up her old job as being Claudia’s personal maid. There was really nothing to do here in Bonham, especially since Vincent wouldn’t let her be a Pinkerton agent.
Suddenly, there was a noise in the back room. It sounded like something had crashed to the floor. Frances grasped a knife and slowly tip-toed toward the sound. The closer she came to the back room, she heard men’s voices.
Fear shook through her, but she couldn’t let the emotion take over her right now. She had a house to protect. She silently prayed that God would assist her since there was nobody else who would.
FIVE
FRANCES FOLLOWED THE voices, leading her toward Jeremy’s room. The door was ajar, and so she peeked inside the best she could. The first thing she noticed was bloody bandages strewn on the chair by the bed, and then she saw some bandages on the bedside table. But the blood hadn’t belonged to her brother because he was pacing the floor. She tried to see who was on the bed, but the door blocked her view.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Jeremy said in a raised voice as he walked to the window. “Someone is trying to kill us.”
“Would you hush?” the other man snapped. “I don’t want anyone to hear.”
“Nobody is going to hear.” Jeremy motioned toward the window. “The whole town is down by the bank, assisting the injured.”
“What about your sister? I thought she lived here.”
“She does, but she spends a lot of time out of the house.” Jeremy moved back to the bed. “You need to keep your leg elevated, Walter, or you’re going to bleed to death.”
She sucked in a surprised gasp and quickly covered her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want them to hear her. Not yet. If this was Walter Shipp in her house and injured, getting information was most crucial.
Taking soft steps, she moved away from the door and up against the other wall. She’d show Vincent that she’d make a great detective.
“Well, since my leg is badly injured,” Walter said, “you’ll need to ask around and see what happened. The explosives weren’t supposed to go off that soon.”
“I know. I’m just relieved the wagons made it out of the clearing on time... but they were cutting it close.”
“Jenkins was in charge of the detonator. Find him and bring him to me,” Walter snapped. “If that man is betraying us, he’s going to wish he’d never heard of me.”
Jenkins... The only man in town with that last name was Tom Jenkins. He was the preacher’s son. Inwardly, she groaned. Of all the people in this town that she considered rebellious, Tom was not one of them.
“If he is behind this,” Jeremy growled, “then I hope he was killed in the blast. It would serve him right for going against our men.”
Frances frowned. Why was Jeremy talking as though he was the main person in Walter Shipp’s gang? Then again, maybe he was.
Shame washed over her, thinking her brother would be involved in something like this. And yet, Jeremy was always in trouble – or starting some kind of mayhem. And now that his pa was dead, there was nobody around who could stop Jeremy.
“One of my men has an itchy trigger finger.” Walter’s voice seemed weaker this time. “And that’s not good to have in ou
r situation. Everyone needs to follow the rules. I don’t want another situation like what happened four years ago. It nearly got us all hanged.”
“What happened four years ago?”
Frances listened closer since their voices had grown softer. She, too, wanted to hear what had almost gotten them hanged.
“Let’s just say, it was the wrong house and the wrong woman who’d gotten killed, just because one of my men thought he knew what he was doing. Everyone must understand that there needs to be a leader in order to keep things running smoothly.”
“Yes. I couldn’t agree more,” Jeremy said.
The floor creaked as Jeremy’s boot-steps moved closer to the door. Frances’ heartbeat pounded against her ribs. She was going to get caught if she didn’t get out of here. But then he’d certainly hear her running into the next room.
Going with her gut feeling, there was only one thing to do. She moved away from the wall and swung the door open as she stepped into the room. Jeremy’s eyes were wide, and in an instant, his face reddened in anger.
“Oh, Jeremy!” she cried out, rushing toward him. “Did you hear what happened?” She clasped his arm. “There was an explosion at the bank. Several people were injured and maybe even killed.” She blinked, trying to make herself cry, but the most she could do on such short notice was to gather tears in her eyes. “I’m in complete shock. I was there not too long ago. It could have been me lying on the street, injured.”
Adding more drama to her scene, she sniffed and wiped her eyes before pressing her head against his arm. “I was so scared, Jeremy. I thought the war had started again. I thought...” She stopped as she moved her gaze around the room, stopping on Walter. She snapped upright and gasped. “Mr. Shipp? Oh, good heavens! You’ve been hurt.”
She hurried to him, touching his shoulder. That black powder from the explosion covered his face and some of his arm. His bare chest was bound with bandages that were slowly staining with blood, and the bandages around his leg looked worse. The wound was bleeding badly.
An Agent for Frances Page 3