The man’s grasp was floppy and light. “Terrance Wilkins at your service.”
“My wife’s trunks are just right there,” Jack said, pointing to the stack. “And where is your carriage?”
Terrance gestured to a rickety wagon at the front of the line. His sheepish smile overtook his face. “It’s as good as any you’ll find ‘round these parts. Even better, I reckon, with all the room in the bed. Plenty for your woman’s trunks. Why, I once relayed a woman and her companion, and there was plenty of room to spare, even with her five trunks.”
Delilah’s lips fell to a frown. “My husband asked me to pack lightly, but I anxiously wait for the arrival of my other trunks—once we’re settled, you see.”
Jack dipped his chin and grinned. Might as well begin spreading the word. “My wife cannot abide simplicity. I cannot hold a flame to her pretty necklaces and dresses. My father tried to warn me when I offered for her. Once a wealthy heiress, forever tied to belongings.” He inhaled sharply. He leaned closer to the driver, lowering his voice. “Pardon me. I hadn’t meant…My wife detests me speaking of her wealth so openly.”
“Oh?” Terrance licked his lips. “I won’t whisper a word to nobody, Mr. Davis.”
Jack nodded, though he doubted each word. There were a plethora of Terrance Wilkins to be found—the type of men that were willing to do just about anything for anyone, if a dime was involved. Such a quality often accompanied that of a wagging tongue.
“John, please.” Delilah put a hand to his chest, and her voice took on an entirely new sound. Her words transformed to velvet and lace, luxurious and oozing of pretense. “How can I help it if my daddy invested in the railroad those years ago?”
He placed his hand atop hers and kissed the edge of her forehead. “Forgive me, my darling.”
For a split second, her smile flattened, and her heated gaze nearly unraveled Jack’s composure. Was that anger emanating from her light eyes? She pulled her hand away and flicked her chin to her right where her belongings stacked. “My trunks, Mr. Wilkins.”
“Course. You’ll find my wagon at—”
“The front of the line.” Delilah pursed her lips. “My husband will escort me to your conveyance. Now, pay particular attention to the navy trunk. I cannot travel anywhere without my tea set.”
Jack bit his tongue. She was more than playing her part; Delilah had become the part. After Terrance was out of earshot, Jack took her arm and led her toward the wagon. “Well, Mrs. Davis. You’ve surpassed my expectations on account of your marvelous acting abilities. Happen you’ve acted in a play before?”
She glanced over her shoulder before climbing into the rickety contraption, refusing Jack’s outstretched hands. “I’ve had my fair share of scrapes. You don’t survive a household of rowdy boys and not learn a thing or two.”
“You’ve brothers then?” Jack pulled himself up to the bench and scooted to her side.
Delilah gritted her teeth and inched away. “Yes, five brothers to be exact.”
There was that expression again. Jack’s brows lifted. “What’s got your britches tied?”
She shook her head and looked away. “I prefer you keep your distance, Mr. Davis. You may be my husband, but such a technicality doesn’t give you permission to kisses and hands and the like.”
Laughter rolled from his tongue. Jack slid closer once more. “My, I hadn’t pegged you as the shy type—what with all your shooting up my hat at our first meeting.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid to do such a thing again.”
Jack dipped his chin. Delilah was infuriatingly cold and defensive, qualities that made for a successful agent but a poor conversant or wife. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m on the job, and right now that job includes presenting a convincing picture of wedded bliss.” He placed his hand at her back, just as Terrance set the first trunk behind them. Jack leaned closer to Delilah and whispered. “I’ve never seen a happily married man that didn’t exhibit affection of some sort.”
She audibly swallowed, and her porcelain skin flooded with pink.
Seeing her so uncomfortable sparked immense satisfaction. Jack wrestled within himself. He’d been taught better, taught to treat a woman better than he wished to treat Delilah at that moment. But Delilah Davis wasn’t a normal lady. Goodness, she was hardly a lady. Beneath her lace and gentle words lied a wild wolf—snarly, unpredictable, and unarguably fierce.
“If you must make such displays, you must.” Delilah straightened her shoulders, but the movement was rigid and seemingly forced. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I want that Pinkerton badge, Mr. Davis, and so, I’m willing to make certain concessions when necessary.”
“Are you then?” He studied her expression.
Despite his initial irritation, Jack hoped Delilah would make a decent agent. Not only did his reputation depend upon her success (after the shooting incident, the other agents had vocally questioned his ability to put Delilah in her place), but he wanted to prove to himself that he could do more than catch criminals.
Delilah crossed her arms. “You haven’t the slightest idea how important this job is to me. I’ve got nothing back home.”
Terrance set the last of the trunks down with a crash. The wagon bounced with the weight. “That’ll be the last of it. Where’ll I be taking you?”
“The most respectable hotel Crooked Creek has to offer, Mr. Wilkins,” Jack said. He removed his hat and set it to his lap. After Terrance took off, and the noise of the horses and wheels were distraction enough, Jack returned his gaze to Delilah. “Then shall we be making a truce of some sorts?”
Her eyes widened, but then something new and soft lit her features—a smile. She grasped his outstretched hand. “I would like that very much.”
Jack’s stomach lodged in his throat. He dropped his hand from her back and cleared his throat. He’d heard of wolves in sheep’s clothing, but never the opposite. However, Delilah’s gentle smile and unguarded expression hinted at such a possibility. For a moment, she seemed anything but fiery and fierce.
Then her eyes narrowed at the road ahead, and a mask flooded her face again. “Jack. Who are they?”
“We’ve got company.” Jack’s hand flew to his holster.
The two men atop horses came from the opposite direction, sprinting at full speed. The sight of two cowboys wasn’t all that strange. They could have been headed toward any destination. But Delilah’s gut told her otherwise. The way the first rider fixed his sight on their wagon—instinct destroyed all doubt; they were about to be robbed.
Only a day into their case, and already things were about to get messy. Delilah exhaled. Most things in her life amounted that way. Her mother, schooling and upbringing, and relationship with her father, all came to a sad and messy end. So much of her life ended in blunted separation, tattered pieces, and lone fragments of memories, broken promises, and irreparable stains. More often than not, Delilah resorted to using her strengths against others to solve problems. Agility and intellect were easier to employ than that of her heart’s weakness.
Delilah reached for the folds of her skirt—a secret pocket specifically designed to hold her revolver.
But Jack grasped her hand before she was able to retrieve her gun. He shook his head, and his green eyes lit. His mustache ticked on one side. “If you’re to convince anyone in Crooked Creek of your status as a high-bred lady, you can’t draw your gun.”
She grunted. He was right. But protecting herself came naturally. Playing the part of a damsel in distress, on the other hand, was as foreign as the corset she wore beneath her dress. She hadn’t learned to properly restrain herself. She chalked it up to those brothers of hers—or her father. In any case, Delilah struggled to catch her breath. Her biggest fear had always been allowing herself to be at the mercy of someone else.
Delilah closed her eyes, steadying herself against his arm. She took a silk fan from her other pocket instead. “Very well.”
When she opened her eyes, Ja
ck gave her an approving nod. His shoulders were rounded and relaxed—the opposite of what Delilah expected from a man ready to defend the both of them. His lips rested in their usual flat line. He pushed his hat against his head and leaned forward. “Don’t let them know you’re a fighter.”
She racked her mind. How would a lady act under such conditions? The men were only a hundred yards away now. Suddenly, an image sprung across her mind. Miss Elyse Rodgers—the woman three of her brothers pined after.
The first of the riders reached the wagon, and Terrance swerved off the dirt path. The horses halted, and a dust cloud settled along everything in the wagon, including Delilah’s white dress.
She shrieked. Washing out the dirt would take her all evening.
“Stay calm,” the man said, lifting his pistol in the air. His voice was deep and as scratchy as wool socks. The sound grated against her ears. A blue sash covered him from his nose to his chest. “Don’t move.”
Delilah sucked in a breath. Did such reasoning work on anyone—stay calm and quiet and take your beating without resistance? Her fingers curled into a fist, and heat collected at the back of her neck. She’d never taken a beating quietly, at least not willingly.
Jack must have sensed Delilah’s murderous rage. He squeezed her hand, and startling warmth spread to her chest.
Miss Elyse Miller—she was everything feminine and fluttery. Elyse would have cried at the robbers standing in front of them. Delilah caved into Jack’s chest and closed her eyes, whimpering the best she could. The cries came more convincing than she’d imagined, and she inwardly cringed.
“Please,” Jack said, lifting his voice at least an octave. The pathetic effort dripped of desperation. He pulled Delilah into an embrace. “We’re just travelling to Crooked Creek, a simple man and woman.”
Delilah buried her face into his chest, flinching as her hands brushed against Jack’s chest. He was uncommonly strong. The muscles along his neck, clear down to his middle, were rock solid. The heat from his touch threatened to burn through her fingertips. In all her time, surrounded by men, Delilah hadn’t ever been so close to one. She closed her eyes and tried to push away a strange sensation; this was not the time to think of such things.
The leader of the two robbers snickered. He poked the barrel of his gun into Delilah’s arm. “A pretty little thing you’ve got there.”
Jack pulled Delilah closer, and his voice returned to its deep tone. “Leave her alone.”
“Now, now.” Terrance Wilkins lifted his arms in the air. His bony hands shook, and his voice cracked. “I ain’t got nothin’ to interest you boys. Just a rundown wagon and pair of old horses. A transporter ain’t the thing for you.”
The first man crossed his arms and shifted his weight in the saddle. His dark eyes scanned Terrance over with particular consideration, and then, at his signal, the rider on the opposite side of the wagon, a short and stout man, struck Terrance in the head with the butt of a gun, knocking him out cold.
Delilah gasped.
“Now, the valuables on your person.” The end of the barrel nudged her arm once more. “Eric, check the trunks.”
She flinched. The trunks were filled with new dresses, disguises, fake jewelry, files, and instructions—all the things pertaining to the case.
Jack caught her gaze. His green eyes darted to the trunks and the gun at his holster. He stood from the bench and turned to face the man at the back of the wagon. “I wouldn’t touch those if I were you.”
Eric, the short and round man, dismounted and disobediently started sifting through the first trunk. He held up a necklace. The piece was an obvious fake, but the robber didn’t look the least suspicious. “Look’e what we’ve got here. Diamonds and a spooney.”
“Call me what you will, but you’ll be leaving the trunks there.” Jack slid from the side of the wagon and lifted his gun. At full height, he stood almost a foot taller than the other man. “I’ll only warn the two of you once.”
Delilah fumbled through her skirt. Of all the times to have lost track of her gun. She tore off her gloves and found her revolver just as the other man reached her side.
He grasped her arm, digging his nails into her skin, before yanking her off the side of the wagon and onto his horse.
She winced and attempted to gain her balance from across the man’s lap. Her legs dangled over one edge, and her head hung over the other. Anger pulsed through her stomach. She was small; she’d learned that fact repeatedly by the hands of her brothers. They strung her in trees, doused her cheeks in honey, and held her down for the dog to lick. Nothing made her madder than being treated like a ragdoll.
“I say you reconsider defending a trunk, when you’ve got more important merchandise at stake,” the dark-eyed man said. The sash in front of his face flapped with each word he spoke, and Delilah was tempted to snatch it from his face. “Drop the gun and lift your hands in the air, nice and easy.”
“No.” Delilah swallowed. She hadn’t meant to say anything.
The man tightened his grip at her arm, nearly cutting off the blood supply to her left hand. “I wouldn’t say a thing if I were you, little miss.”
Another arrogant and domineering man. Delilah sucked in a slow breath. Like her brothers and father, this man thought he had the upper hand. No one ever suspected a small-framed lady of being capable of anything more than needlework. She gritted her teeth. If only she had poker chips to launch and shoot to bits.
“Now, drop the gun. Nice and easy, as I said,” the voice boomed in Jack’s direction. The man nudged the horse with his spur, directing the animal to the other side of the wagon beside Jack.
Delilah silently pled that her partner wouldn’t conform to such demands. If they were to discover their identities or mission, the bandits might shoot Delilah and Jack on the spot.
“And if I don’t?” Jack asked. He kept his gun directed at the shorter man.
Relief washed over her. Jack wouldn’t give in; he was trained for these exact situations. The horse’s rein whipped against her cheek, and her spirits dropped. Delilah had envisioned her experience as an agent so differently. In none of her imagined scenarios, was she at such a disadvantage…
Or was she? An idea sparked, and she shoved her revolver down the front of her dress. She caught the reins, the ones her captor had so carelessly rested against her, in one hand.
The voice above Delilah shook with laughter. “I’ve got your woman. Shall I shoot her?”
The horse, in perfect timing, turned its head. Delilah unhooked one of the reins, under the very nose of her captor. He wasn’t watching her; he didn’t expect any pushback from her. Few men did.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” Delilah gasped. She arched her back as the rope fell to the dirt undetected. Thank goodness for Miss Elyse Miller and all her feminine ways. Because of her, Delilah let out a mock sob—as convincing as she could have hoped for. “Take the trunks. Do what you must, but please, don’t hurt me.”
Jack’s gun still remained aimed at the other bandit. He flinched at her words, but he refused to look at her.
“Hear that? Your woman is scared stiff. Sure you want to test me?” came the voice above Delilah. “Don’t think I mind hurting her; I don’t much care that she’s pretty.”
Delilah retrieved her revolver. One bullet in his arm, and she would be free, the horse would go mad, and the man would be at the mercy of a wild beast. She braced herself between forced sobs, planning out the safest way to slide from the horse.
Jack cocked his gun and took a step closer to the trunks. “I won’t warn either of you again.”
The man tore off his blue sash. His thin lips spread into a smile. “Only fair you see the face of the man who murders you.”
The bandit’s words were signal enough. Delilah twisted to the side, lifted her revolver and shot her gun. The bullet only grazed his arm, but the mark was enough to catch him off guard. The horse raised its front hooves in an instant, and Delilah was quickly thrown to the g
round. Her ankle twisted in the fall.
“You blasted woman,” the bandit said, clutching his injured limb.
Delilah stood and tried to catch her breath. His gun had fallen to the ground. She staggered forward, bending toward the gun beside the horse.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” he moaned.
“Never underestimate a woman,” Delilah said. She slapped the back of the horse, and a smile snuck across her cheeks as the bandit’s angry screams trailed behind the frightened animal.
Jack cleared his throat.
Goodness. She’d forgotten to act her part as a well-bred lady. Delilah couldn’t look at Jack; she already guessed at his disappointment.
“Well, I reckon you better get,” Jack said to the remaining bandit.
“Whatever you say,” the man said in response, sprinting to his horse. He mounted in a flash, and the horse kicked up clods of mud as it broke into a gallop.
Delilah shuddered at the sudden silence. Her back was still turned to Jack, but she could feel his stare like a thick and heavy hand, ready to push her back to the ground where she’d fallen.
His steps against the dirt were soft. “Well, I s’pose that’s one way to settle the pair.”
“Look,” she said, spinning to meet him. She crossed her arms. “I know you wanted me to let you take this one. You asked me to act my part as a lady, and I’m afraid I failed miserably.”
Jack chewed the inside of his cheek, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You weren’t the least convincing as a gentle woman, but not bad, Mrs. Davis. Not bad.”
Her heart clamored. “But you said—”
“I’m telling you now—not bad.” Jack leaned against his back leg and surveyed her. “I’ve got some things we’ll work on, but I’d say you’ve got a square head on those shoulders. At least a better one than some I’ve seen.”
An Agent for Delilah Page 3