Love in Disguise

by Barbara Baldwin

  “I want to help solve this problem, but I think it’s time you tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  Here was this little mite of a woman, just over five feet tall and light enough to lift with one arm, and she thought—Max started to shake his head.

  “Abby—”

  “Don’t interrupt,” she said, reaching out to place her hand on his arm. Her grip was firm, her voice steady, and he knew she was in deadly earnest.

  “You hired me because I know what this man looks like who gambled with your brother, or who we believe gambled with Monty. Yet you’ve never told me why we’re looking for either man. It’s not a crime to gamble, so I can only assume there’s some other reason Monty would have been in Chicago. Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to send him home like you did me. Even if he is younger, surely he can’t be so much so that you boss him around, too?”

  “I don’t boss.” Max defended himself, but at the look on her face, he smiled. He supposed he did tend to tell others what to do. He briefly closed his eyes, seeing Jerome Smith’s lifeless body.

  “Someone broke into my father’s warehouse and took everything. They killed Jerome, the bookkeeper and someone I considered a friend. Father told me Monty disappeared the same night. I can only assume Monty knows something about either the robbery or the murder.”

  “And by some coincidence, you think Monty gambled at Mr. Faro’s saloon in Chicago.”

  “I know he did, otherwise you wouldn’t have his watch. I have to believe someone else at that table is significant in this mystery. That is why Monty used the watch to leverage his bet. It’s one of only two in the world, and it’s distinctive in design so people tend to notice it. I believe Monty may have assumed he could track the person because others would remember seeing the watch if they were questioned.”

  “But I have the watch now so neither of you can do that.”

  “Right. I figure Monty is pursuing some clue only he knows right now. I am assuming the scar-faced man you won the watch from is the same one to whom Monty lost it. So he’s the one we’re looking for.”

  Max took a sip of wine.

  “After supper, would you care to take a stroll through the passenger cars?”

  “I would be delighted. Did you get a good enough look at him to be able to point him out?”

  Max nodded.

  “By the way, with whom will I be strolling?”

  Lately while they traveled, he didn’t don a disguise. Since there was someone new on board, he wouldn’t take a chance that he might be recognized.

  “Since most traveling preachers aren’t accompanied by so pretty and elegant a lady, I think it best if Donal O’Flagherty makes another appearance.”

  He downed his wine and stood.

  “If you’ll excuse me, it takes some time to get that blasted wig and mustache straight, and we need to see what we can see before it’s too late in the evening.”

  Abby puttered about the dining area, stacking the plates even though she knew Connors would be back to clear away their supper setting. Perhaps she should get her jacket; but no, Max was changing clothes in the state room. Plates clattered back on the table and she stood there, wringing her hands. The thought of Max in any state of undress caused her to, well, to act beside herself. He confused her senses and she continually wanted more of his kisses. Yet even more dangerous were her recent thoughts of marriage and a family. Kate Nye-Starr and the others would not be happy.

  “Ready?”

  Abby whirled to face him. Dressed in the gaudy plaid jacket and red wig and mustache of the rogue Irishman, his humor surfaced. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth tilted in a grin. Considering his various poses, she thought she liked Donal the best. He was an outrageous flirt and always full of good humor. Max, on the other hand, tended to hold himself in the strictest control. She found herself curious if it would tickle to be kissed by Donal O’Flagherty since he wore a mustache. That thought made her giggle.

  “And what might be tickling your funny bone this evening, lass?”

  Abby answered in a similar lilting Irish brogue. “It would put a blush to your cheeks if I told.”

  He laughed.

  “It would take more than the innocent thoughts of a lass such as yourself to put the blush to Donal O’Flagherty.”

  He opened the door for her.

  “I doubt that.”

  She walked past him, close enough that her shoulder accidentally brushed his chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath. She may be innocent, but she recognized the spark between them that Max was trying very hard to ignore.

  Max breathed in Abby’s fragrance. By now, there was nowhere in the Pullman that her scent didn’t linger. He’d tried very hard to ignore her effect on him, but it had become quite a test of endurance. She tantalized his senses in every way, from the sheen of her fiery red hair to her throaty laughter and innocent comments. It was her touch, however, that was quickly eroding his defenses. The few kisses they’d shared fired his imagination and made him ache for much more. He closed the door and locked it, following her across the small space to the next car.

  His gaze followed the gentle sway of her hips with the movement of the train. Despite the heavy black skirt and high-necked starched blouse she wore, he envisioned her silky skin and curves beneath the cloth—a vision he’d carried with him since the day she’d appeared at the dining table in her nightgown. The light from the windows had outlined her body beneath the thin linen of her gown, and it had almost been more than Max could take. He prided himself on his self-control in all manner of dangerous circumstances, but that morning he’d come very close to cracking.

  “Do you see him?”

  Abby’s whisper brought him from his musings. He would much rather daydream of Abby in a state of semi-nakedness than look for a stranger among the passengers. He should be happy they would reach Denver shortly, allowing him to put more distance between them than the length of the Pullman. He looked around the dining section, not seeing the man who’d boarded. He shook his head.

  “Shall we sit and have coffee, anyway?”

  She looked at him for guidance.

  He inclined his head.

  “Perhaps he’ll walk through from another car.”

  After several cups of coffee and even a dessert cake served with heavy sweet cream, there was still no sign of the newcomer. Max motioned for the waiter to take care of the fare when he saw J. O. Brinkenhoff enter the dining car.

  “Excuse me just a moment.”

  He moved between tables to have a word with the conductor. In a minute he had what he needed and returned to the table.

  “Our man is in the smoking car playing poker. I’ll return you to the Pullman then pay him a visit.”

  “But I have to go with you,” Abby protested as he guided her from the dining area.

  He snorted.

  “There are some places women are not allowed, regardless of how independent they think they are.”

  He walked her through the remainder of the passenger cars, many of them now being converted into sleeping berths for the night. It left little room to maneuver and only limited walking space, but he didn’t need to be beside her to tell she was angry about his orders. Her back was arrow straight and she looked neither right nor left. He would hear about this, he thought, wondering when he’d begun worrying about what Abby thought. After all, he was in charge. She was supposed to take orders from him, not the other way around. The minute they entered the Pullman, she launched her attack.

  “Just how do you expect me to identify a man when you won’t let me see him?”

  She placed her hands on her hips, glaring across the small space. Max tossed his key on the table, keeping his gaze fixed on a spot beyond her shoulder. If he looked directly at her, he knew his resolve would weaken, for she looked beautiful when angry.

  “You can’t go into that train car and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Says who?”

 
“It’s a gentlemen’s domain where they can smoke and drink and play poker without interference.”

  “I know how to play poker.”

  “Abby, you’re not going near that car, so just forget it. This train doesn’t stop again until First View, and the man isn’t going anywhere we aren’t. You’ll have another opportunity to see him. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on him and see if he matches your description.”

  When Max returned to the room after getting money from the safe, he found her pouting in the window seat in the corner. There was nothing left to say, for she didn’t seem to understand his need to protect her. He straightened his coat and opened the door to leave.

  “Lock the door behind me and don’t let anyone in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She gave him an insolent salute from where she remained seated.

  “I mean it, Abby.”

  She glared at him across the distance.

  * * *

  Abby waited a full half hour after Max closed the door. If he thought she was going to just sit by and let him do all the work—especially when he’d hired her to help identify the scar-faced man—well, let him think again. Besides, he’d instructed her not to let anyone in, not out of the car. She hurried along the hall and dug through her meager store of clothes, finding a dark blouse. She quickly changed, then twisted her hair into a tight bun. She replaced her heels with a sturdier pair of walking shoes, checked her appearance in the mirror, then left the stateroom.

  She hesitated on the outside balcony, feeling the movement of the train beneath her soles. Night had fully descended and it was blacker than pitch. Since the passengers were bedding down for the night, no light came from the next car. She would have to feel her way along. She bumped into only one porter as she made her way through the cars. Farther on, the waiters were cleaning the dining car, and although they looked at her curiously, no one stopped her from passing.

  She actually didn’t know where the smoking car was. Since they hadn’t passed it on any of their trips to the dining car, she assumed it was farther toward the front of the train. It became readily apparent the minute she left the dining car, for light spilled from every window on the next section, although a heavy haze of smoke muted the figures within. She used the shadows for cover but needn’t have worried. Everyone seemed intent on the games they played at the various tables. Cautiously, she made her way across the platform between train sections.

  The wind caught her skirt and it snagged on something rough, catching her off guard and jerking her sideways when the train swayed. She grabbed the low railing with both hands, steadying herself. Closing her eyes, she counted to five, exhaling slowly. She said a silent prayer for their speedy delivery to their destination. She wanted to be able to walk without the world swaying beneath her feet. Straightening, she edged closer to the back windows that framed the door.

  It took a minute to locate Max. The bold jacket he wore as O’Flagherty didn’t even set him apart, for it seemed that was the fashion of the day. Assuming he would choose to play cards with the stranger, she studied each man at the table where he sat. There was a nervous little bald man to his left and a dark-skinned man with a wide-brimmed hat sitting to his right. Even from the back, she instinctively felt he was too large to be the gambler she remembered from Chicago. Two other men occupied spots across from Max, and she gasped when she glanced from one to the other. She sensed the evil emanating from one of the men. His weathered face had dark, slashing brows and hard eyes. He frowned as he stared at his cards, but it was the scar across his face that captured her attention. The red, jagged line ran from eyebrow to jaw line, just as she remembered. The man fingered his cards before tossing a coin on the pile in the middle of the table.

  She watched play continue, each man either raising or folding, until it came to Max. She saw his shoulders flex. Apparently he raised the bet, because the bald-headed man tossed in his cards with a shake of his head. The scar-faced man didn’t even check his cards. He tossed another coin, calling Max’s bet. Both players to his left folded, and the play returned to Max. Something wasn’t quite right. She leaned closer to the window, studying the man still in the game. At that moment, he glanced up from the table and stared straight at her. Abby gasped, fear welling in her at his expression. He scraped back his chair, his hands hovering above the table, his cards face down before him. Max turned and his eyes narrowed. His lips moved and she knew he was swearing.

  He stood, an angry frown marring his features. A flash just beyond Max’s shoulder captured her attention. The other man had a revolver pointed straight at him.

  She screamed, “Max, he’s got a gun,” and jerked open the door. Pandemonium erupted, men falling to the floor to hide beneath the tables. Successive gun shots created a deafening noise. Abby raced toward Max, who’d already turned around, a gun in his left hand. A searing pain slammed through her shoulder. Her feet tangled in the legs of an overturned chair and she fell against the wall, her head cracking against a light sconce. When she came to, Max was squatting beside her. She tried to focus on him instead of all the people milling around behind him. Their chaotic movements made her dizzy. She raised her hand to her forehead. Her shoulder burned. She glanced at her arm to see blood on her sleeve, not easily noticed because of the dark color.

  “Oh, dear.” She looked at Max. He was going to be angry. “I think I’ve been shot.”

  “Hell and damnation.”

  Max’s frown deepened when his gaze fell to her shoulder.

  Abby winced as he tore her sleeve to see how badly she was hurt. She thought to tell him she had a knife in her garter, but figured if that didn’t make him even madder, it would embarrass her to death to have him reach for it. It didn’t matter, for the material gave easily beneath his fingers, and then he was gently probing her tender skin.

  “Ouch!”

  “Why didn’t you listen to me?” he growled, frowned and growled again.

  “I was trying to help.”

  “And look what it got you.” He took the napkin one of the men handed him and pressed it against her shoulder. Her stomach lurched, and she thought she might get sick. That would never do. She tried to think of anything except for the burning sensation in her shoulder and the smell of blood and gunpowder.

  “Thank you for taking care of me—again.”

  She gave him a weak smile. Max snorted.

  “I told you that was my job.”

  Abby thought she had never seen his eyes such a beautiful shade of blue.

  “Yes, well, you are certainly my handsome, blue-eyed guardian angel.”

  She slurred the words, her tongue not wanting to work properly and her eyes refusing to focus. She closed them to rest, wondering why Max gave her such a tender, sad smile.

  * * *

  “She’s going to be the death of me yet,” Max grumbled to Connors when he returned to the observation room from the bedroom where he’d checked on Abby. Between the two of them, they’d gotten her back to the Pullman after she’d fainted.

  Connors had proven quite efficient in gathering the necessary supplies for Max to clean and bind her wound, which was superficial, thank God. While Connors cleared away the mess, Max had carried Abby to the bedroom. He removed her bloody blouse, skirt, shoes and stockings and tucked her into bed. He’d managed to get some brandy into her and hoped it was enough to make her sleep all night. Right now, whiskey sounded like a good idea. He poured himself a drink.

  “Did Brinkenhoff capture that maniac?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe he did. In all the commotion, that man only got winged by a stray bullet.”

  Although Connors hadn’t been in the vicinity of the gunfire, word spread quickly throughout the train. Before Max had even lifted Abby from the floor, Connors had been beside him. He was proving to be a valuable asset.

  “Where’d they put him?”

  “They’ve got him with the horses,”

  Connors said with a smile. Max understood the po
rter’s humor since the horse compartment was by far the smelliest and least comfortable place on the train.

  “I’ll talk to Brinkenhoff in the morning and then question the prisoner.”

  He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble of beard scratch his palm. Lord, he was tired. It was enough to worry about his brother’s whereabouts and catching the man who’d shot Jerome Smith. Now, to top it off, Abby had gotten shot and he had to worry about her. He said good night to Connors and locked the door behind him.

  Taking his drink back to the observation room, he stretched out on the sofa. Leaning his head against the arm, he let the motion of the train soothe his nerves. His heart refused to calm. He recalled his shock upon seeing Abby at the window, then the simultaneous gunfire and the panic of not knowing if she was all right. It wasn’t safe for her to be with him on this investigation. She’d been necessary in the beginning, but now that they had the scar-faced man in custody, she needed to go home. When she recovered from her wound, he would contact her father and make arrangements for her return to Boston. Otherwise, he’d be a gray-haired old man before he finished this job—if he succeeded in living that long. How did Monty manage? Having a woman around caused a hell of a lot of trouble.

  * * *

  “It’s not him, I tell you.”

  Abby wiggled to a sitting position on the sofa. Two days after the shooting, she managed to convince Max to let her out of bed, but he would only allow her to walk to the observation room. Though her arm still ached, her legs worked perfectly well. It was unfortunate that his ears didn’t. He now sat across from her in a wing-backed chair, legs stretched out and fingers steepled in front of his chin. He watched her, his brow creased in contemplation. She felt like a bug under glass.

  “You didn’t get a good look at him.”

  He’d made the same argument through breakfast and she was tired of it.

  “Fine, then let me do it now.”