Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  An owl flew overhead, the flapping wings breaking the silence that had settled between them.

  “It must have been hard. Raising a child by yourself.” She remembered how difficult it had been for her father to raise his daughters after her mother’s death. That’s when he’d started drinking.

  “It was hard. The town was in ruins. My wife was gone. My transport business thrived for as long as it took people to leave town and then died.” His voice broke. “Andy kept me going. I couldn’t love him more if he were my own flesh and blood.”

  “Does Clayborn suspect Andy is his?” People didn’t always recognize themselves in others, and he might not have noticed the family resemblance.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did he come back?”

  “He wants me to sign a statement that his child died with his mother.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Dorothy’s father left a substantial amount of money for his grandchild, and it’s never been claimed.”

  “And your signature will help him claim the money.”

  “Andy’s money,” he said.

  What a mess. She couldn’t help but sympathize. “What do you think Clayborn would do if he knew his son was alive?”

  “No doubt he’d want to claim him but only because of the money. As Andy’s father, he’d have full control.”

  “Have you talked to a lawyer?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I never legally adopted Andy. Never saw the need. That means I don’t have much ground to stand on. The court almost always rules for the real parent.”

  “You are the real parent,” she said. “I don’t care what the court says.”

  “Thank you for that.” He covered her hand with his own. “I didn’t mean to get you involved.”

  “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

  The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “There aren’t too many people I can talk to about this.”

  She moistened her lips. “You can talk to God.” Through all the trials and tribulations of the past, God had been the one constant in her life.

  He nodded. “Believe me, I have. So far He hasn’t given me any answers.”

  “He will,” she whispered. God had been oddly silent of late in her own life. Usually when working on a case she felt Him leading her, but not this time. His lack of help left her feeling adrift.

  “You sound like Reverend Bushwell. He told me I just have to trust the Lord.”

  “Sounds like good advice.”

  He studied her. “Would you?” he asked. “Trust God if Andy were your son?”

  She thought for a moment. “I’d like to think I would.”

  He tilted his head. “But?”

  She breathed a sigh. “You never really know how strong your faith is until it’s tested.” Hers had been tested through the years but never like Branch’s.

  He moved his hand from hers, and for a moment neither of them spoke, both in their own private thoughts.

  She ached to wipe away the frown at his forehead. Instead she smiled up at him. “You’ll do the right thing,” she said.

  His eyebrow lifted. “How do you know I will?”

  “I have faith in human nature,” she said. I have faith in you.

  He laughed. “Do you now?”

  “Yes and—”

  He hushed her with a finger to his mouth and directed her attention to the alley.

  It sounded like a door closing. “Do you suppose that’s Miss Thatcher?” she whispered.

  Shrugging, he left the bench and peered around the corner of the building. After a moment he gestured for her to join him in the alley.

  Like two mischievous children, they ran between the buildings. Spotting Miss Thatcher, they stopped. Tonight she floated ghostlike along the deserted street, her white nightgown billowing around her.

  She had already crossed the tracks by the time they reached the protective cover of the cottonwood. The dorm matron’s body swayed, pivoted, and twisted beneath the diamond-studded sky and soft, waning moon.

  “Holy smokes,” Branch murmured, his voice low in her ear. “If I hadn’t seen her with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “I feel sorry for her in a way,” Katie whispered. “She’s a prisoner of the past.” Miss Thatcher had caught Chef Gassy’s eye but hadn’t even noticed. “It’s hard to reach for the future when you’re still carrying the past in your hands.”

  “Is that what you think she’s doing?” he asked.

  “Maybe that’s what we’re all doing,” she said. “To a certain extent.”

  “The past has a way of grabbing hold of you when you least expect it,” he said after a while. “Mine certainly has. I didn’t even know Clayborn was alive. It feels like I’ve been ambushed by a ghost.”

  She gazed up at his profile. Even the dim light couldn’t hide his anguished look. If only she could think of something to say to ease his pain.

  After a few moments, Miss Thatcher stopped dancing and drifted away like a lone cloud. Katie started to follow, but Branch stopped her with a hand to her wrist.

  “Don’t go.” The low rumble in her ear made her pulse quicken. He swung her around, and just that quickly she was locked in the circle of his arms. “May I have this dance?”

  A tingle of excitement rushed through her. “Here?”

  “I have it on good authority that it’s the perfect place to dance,” he said.

  “I–I’d like that.” Suddenly she was having trouble breathing.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her to the open field. He pulled her close and pressed one hand against the small of her back. The light that had seemed too bright for trailing the dorm matron now seemed woefully dim. His face was clear enough, but the depths of his eyes remained hidden.

  He led her in a slow, graceful waltz. Around and around they danced, the tall grass brushing against the hem of her skirt.

  For such a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. At first she followed his lead like a puppet on a stick, gradually relaxing until his every movement—even his breathing—became her own.

  Their heartbeats provided the tempo as they danced beneath a canopy of twinkling stars. The past, the future—none of it existed. She closed her eyes and willed the present to last forever.

  Steps quickening, he whirled her about until at last they were both out of breath and forced to stop. Even then he didn’t release her. Instead he held her close, both hands at her waist, his touch creating a circle of warmth that radiated upward.

  “I wish you could see what the stars look like in your hair.”

  Her heart sank. No one ever said anything nice about her hair.

  “Don’t talk about my hair,” she said.

  He tilted his head. “Why not?”

  “Because I hate it and… never mind. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  His head drew back slightly, but his hands remained at her waist. “You hate your hair?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Anyone would.”

  “Not everyone,” he said. Lifting a hand, he fingered her braid as if it were as precious as a baby bird. “Do you know what your hair makes me think of?”

  “A red barn?”

  “The roses that grew at my grandparents’ farm,” he said softly.

  Her mouth parted, and something tugged at her heart. “Roses?”

  He nodded. “I spent some of the happiest days of my childhood on that farm.”

  His words crashed over her like ocean waves, washing away every hurtful thing that had ever been said to her. A lump formed in her throat.

  She pulled away from his touch but only to control the emotions inside. “You’re the first person who ever said anything like that to me. Said anything nice about my hair…”

  “Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  She nodded. “Really. As for my freckles…”

  “I like freckles,” he said. “I like counting them. I especially like counting
yours. You have exactly eleven on your nose and twenty-eight altogether.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He made her sound special. Beautiful, even. The knot of pain that she had carried inside for far too long melted away like the wax of a candle.

  His hands slipped up her arms, and a shiver of awareness ripped through her. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  She was crying? Oh, for the love of Kansas, she was crying. Over freckles and hair, no less. In the light of his problems, hers seemed silly. Childish, even.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, swiping away a tear.

  “I was kind of hoping it was.”

  Her eyes widened. “You wanted to make me cry?”

  “Not cry exactly.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and very gently dabbed at her tears. “But you must know it’s hard to get to know a woman who masquerades as a Harvey girl one minute and a detective the next. I never really know for sure which one I’m with.”

  “Right now I just want to be your friend,” she said. His loneliness was almost as tangible to her as the gaping hole inside she could never seem to fill.

  He replaced his handkerchief, his gaze never leaving hers. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”

  She wasn’t much for answering personal questions, but her curiosity got the best of her. “If it’s about my hair—”

  “Have you ever been kissed?”

  Had he punched her in the stomach she wouldn’t have been more surprised. Of course she’d been kissed, not that she went around bragging about it. “W–what kind of question is that?” she stammered.

  “A relevant one.”

  “Relevant how?”

  Instead of answering, he pulled her all the way into his arms. Startled, she pushed against his chest with both hands, but this only made him tighten his hold.

  “Don’t pull away,” he whispered. “I need you tonight. I need this. And I think you do, too.” Crushing her in his arms, he brushed his mouth against her forehead before swooping down to capture her lips and even more of her heart.

  Never had she felt so beautiful and desirable as she felt at that moment. Never had she felt so wanted. She now knew that no matter how many times she’d been in another’s arms in the past, she had never truly been held. Nor had she truly been kissed.

  Chapter 35

  Katie stood behind the restaurant counter the next day struggling with confused feelings. One moment she was happy—thrilled, really—that Branch had kissed her; the next moment appalled. If her Pinkerton bosses so much as suspected she’d acted so unprofessional she’d be fired on the spot.

  She spent most of last night and all of this morning trying to banish Branch from her thoughts, but it was no use. His kisses had burned into the depths of her soul like a branding iron, leaving his mark.

  Land alive! A man complimented her hair and what did she do? She melted in his arms, that was what.

  On the other hand, how could she not? The poor man was half out of his mind with worry. With the thought came a flash of understanding. Of course, that was it. She was just being kind and considerate. A true friend. Only a cold, heartless person would turn down a man’s kisses under such circumstances.

  If she could relieve his mind for a few minutes, what did it hurt? Except to make her want more… Not that anything more could happen between them. If she didn’t come up with a suspect soon, her Pinkerton boss would pull her off the case and she’d be on the next eastbound train. Simple as that.

  The thought sent her spirits spiraling downward. Funny how she had grown attached to the Harvey House in such short order. Odd as it seemed, there was a certain satisfaction in caring for weary travelers and sending them on their way with full tummies and happy smiles.

  In contrast, tracking down bad guys made her feel more depressed than happy, but none more than her current assignment. Her next report to headquarters would be sadly lacking, indeed, but no more so than the last few reports.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Culpepper, who walked into the room and promptly had a sneezing spell.

  “Bless you,” she called.

  His hay fever, as he called it, was always worse in the morning. Today his eyes were red as beets, and he made a funny hissing sound when he breathed.

  He settled behind the reception desk by the door to prepare for the arrival of the first customers.

  She took him a cup of coffee. “Maybe this will help.”

  “Thank you,” he said and sneezed into his handkerchief.

  As she set the cup on the desk, she couldn’t help but notice the calluses on his hands. How did a man sitting behind a desk all day end up with the hands of a laborer?

  Miss Thatcher had mentioned a possible lover’s quarrel between Culpepper and Priscilla. If true, that raised more questions than answers. What would a young, beautiful woman see in a man like him? And how did Ginger fit into the picture?

  She had queried him at length about both victims, but he gave no indication of a romantic attachment. She was just about to bring up Priscilla’s name again when the chef interrupted her.

  “Pssst.” Chef Gassy motioned to her from the kitchen pass-through.

  She was tempted to ignore him, but something in his manner suggested it was important. She left Culpepper and took her place behind the counter.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering through the glassless window.

  For answer he slipped a handbill through the opening. Big, bold letters heralded a May dance. She lifted her gaze to find the chef watching her. He’d acted like her best friend since the pea soup episode, but surely he wasn’t asking her to a dance.

  “Uh…” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but neither did she want to encourage him.

  “Do you zink she go vith me?” he asked.

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “Miz Zathcher.”

  “Oh!” Relief flooded through her. “Have you asked her?”

  He held a finger to his mouth as he glanced over her shoulder at Culpepper. “You ask her.”

  Katie lowered her voice to a whisper. “You want me to ask her for you?”

  He grinned. “Merci beaucoup.” He bowed. Thank you very much.

  “Wait. I didn’t say I would.”

  He nodded. “Oui, oui.” He moved away from the wall that separated them.

  “I didn’t say yes,” she repeated, this time louder.

  He did a little jig in the middle of the kitchen, and she couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes shone like two black gems, and he pranced around as freely as a schoolboy. His toque flopped back and forth as if it couldn’t make up its mind which way to fall.

  She drew back and sighed. If this was what love did to a person, then she wanted some of it. Falling in love in the past had caused her more pain than happiness. Worse, she ended up berating God for not making her more lovable, like her sisters.

  Blinking back a burning sensation in her eyes, she studied the handbill. The dance would be held Saturday night. That was only a couple of days away. How in heaven’s name was she supposed to persuade a stubborn dorm matron to go out with a temperamental chef? What an odd combination. If God meant for those two to be together, He sure did have a funny sense of humor.

  “You owe me,” she called.

  He puckered his lips and threw her a kiss. She shook her head. Only a Frenchman could get away with such a bold gesture.

  A Frenchman and maybe even a certain handsome sheriff.

  That Saturday evening after the train had left and chores were completed, Katie met Mary-Lou, Tully, and Abigail in the hallway in front of Miss Thatcher’s room.

  Mary-Lou held a pretty blue gown over her arm. The dress had been borrowed from the daughter of one of their regular customers. Katie hoped it would fit, but it was hard to know for sure.

  As the designated hair person, Tully carried a heated curling iron. Over her arm hung a muslin sack containing brush, comb, and a wide selection of clips and ribbons. Harvey girls
weren’t allowed to wear jewelry, but Abigail contributed a cameo on a blue velvet ribbon and a pair of seed pearl drop earbobs belonging to her grandmother.

  Tully shook her head. “This isn’t going to work,” she whispered.

  “We won’t know till we try,” Mary-Lou whispered back.

  “We could all be fired,” Tully argued.

  “If it works, maybe we’ll get a bonus,” Abigail said.

  Tully rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and maybe one day women will get to vote and run for office.”

  “Shh.” Katie pressed her ear to the door. Tully had every reason to be wary. When Katie told Miss Thatcher about the chef’s invitation, the dorm matron made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him or the dance. But Chef Gassy pleaded with Katie not to give up. The poor man looked so heartbroken Katie couldn’t say no.

  “All right. On the count of three. One, two, three—”

  Katie flung the door open with such force that Miss Thatcher let out a cry of alarm. “Surprise,” Katie said, advancing toward her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Miss Thatcher rose from her desk, shaking with indignation. “I told you I’m not going to a dance.”

  Ignoring her protests, the four of them closed in on all sides like the drawstrings of a money bag and quickly got to work.

  “We just want to see how you look in this dress,” Katie said.

  While Katie unhooked her skirt Mary-Lou started on the mother-of-pearl buttons on her shirtwaist. No sooner had the skirt fallen in a fabric puddle on the floor than the real battle began.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Miss Thatcher squawked. She whacked at Mary-Lou’s hands. “Leave me alone this minute!”

  “You agreed to try it on,” Katie said.

  Miss Thatcher gave her head an indignant toss. “I agreed to no such thing!”

  “Really?” Katie feigned a look of innocence. “I would have sworn…”

  Miss Thatcher glared at her. “Just wait till Mr. Harvey hears about this. You’ll all be fired. Do you hear me? Fired!”

  While Katie and the dorm mother argued, Mary-Lou and Abigail worked quickly. Between the two of them, they managed to pull the dress over Miss Thatcher’s head, and it slithered down the length of her, miraculously in one piece. The frock couldn’t have fit more perfectly had it been made for her. Even the royal blue was flattering, the color turning Miss Thatcher’s normally sallow skin to a lovely peach tone.