Special Delivery

by Gini Rifkin

  She dipped her fingers into the bodice of her dress, eased the note free, and surrendered it to him. It was still warm from the heat of her body and smelled faintly of honeysuckle. He fingered the edge of the paper before breaking the seal on the envelope.

  “It’s marked special delivery,” she gasped. “Should you really be doing that?”

  “Hard to tell what it says if I don’t.”

  Using the light of the full moon, he read the content, at least part of it. Some was in English, some in French.

  “You know any foreign languages?” he asked optimistically.

  “A little Latin,” she beamed and eased closer to look over his shoulder.

  “Anything more useful?”

  “A command of Latin is quite useful in the medical profession,” she defended. “It’s positively a necessity for a good doctor or midwife. Why, just the other day—”

  He held up his hand to stem the flow of words. “It was just a question, not an accusation.”

  “Well what does it say?” She tried to snatch the letter from his hand.

  He dangled it beyond her reach. “What happened to Oh dear maybe we shouldn’t read it?” he mocked.

  “Too late for that now,” she fired back.

  Jumping up to retrieve the note, she fell forward against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her to keep her on her feet and realized too late her lack of balance was just a ploy. Wiggling free, she grabbed the letter and ran around to the other side of the wagon.

  “His name is Mortimer Underhill,” she read aloud. Then her eyes widened in surprise. “He was an inspector with Scotland Yard.”

  Chapter Two

  Mariah hurried to catch up as Virgil strode across the hotel lobby. They had left Mr. Underhill’s body with the barber/undertaker. After that, the marshal had strongly encouraged her to go home. But it was a free country, and she wasn’t about to miss the excitement of finding out why this stranger had come to Clover City, and why he’d gotten himself shot.

  While standing at the registration desk, the glare of the gas lamps brought her world back to glaring reality. Although everything had happened so fast and in the dark of night, this wasn’t a dream. She had watched a human being die tonight—saw him give up his final breath. And worse yet, she hadn’t been able to help him. Maybe if she’d gotten there sooner or if she’d known more what to do.

  Virgil pounded on the little brass bell sitting atop the hotel desk. She winced at the piercing sound and shoved aside her regrets. In her heart, she knew there wasn’t anything more she could have done for the man.

  Befuddled with sleep and wearing only a nightshirt, Harry Whitcomb stumbled through a door behind the counter and came to a crashing halt.

  “Holy hell, Virgil, what in tarnation is going on? Somebody dying or somethin’.”

  “More like already dead,” Virgil said. “Sorry to interrupt your sleep, Whitcomb. I need to know if an Englishman recently registered.”

  “An Englishman?”

  “Yeah, you know, a person from England or there abouts.”

  Harry grumbled back an unintelligible retort and slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “I know what you mean,” he fussed, paging through the hotel register. He stabbed a finger at one particular entry. “Here it is. Edward Honeycutt. Checked in late yesterday.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Virgil shook his head and glowered at her so she held her tongue. Why had the man used a false name? Or maybe there were two foreigners roaming the town.

  “What did he look like?” Virgil asked.

  Harry scratched his head in thought. “About forty years old, give or take. Around five-foot-ten, with a pencil thin mustache.”

  That sure sounded like Mr. Underhill.

  “You sure he’s dead?” Harry questioned, coming out of his sleep-induced confusion. “Before I went to bed, I thought I heard somebody moving around up there.”

  “I’m sure, and I need the key to his room.”

  “I knew I should have gotten full payment in advance,” Harry grumbled.

  Keeping on Virgil’s heels, Mariah followed him to the first landing. He paused and turned to face her. “Go home, Miss McAllister. It’s very late, and you have no authority to be poking around in this man’s room or his affairs.”

  “This is 1888, Marshal,” she began, trying not to climb too high onto her soapbox. “And women are now allowed many of the same rights as men. Why, in Wyoming they can even vote.” This rhetoric usually got her what she wanted when confronted with an obstinate male ego, but this time it didn’t work. The marshal just pinned her in place with an unwavering stare.

  “If you don’t let me come along,” she added, “I’ll tell Harry the man’s real name.”

  That did the trick.

  Virgil compressed his lovely mouth into a frown, shook his head in defeat, and stomped off to room number 106. A key hadn’t been necessary, the door stood open a crack.

  “Stay back,” he growled. “I mean it.”

  He eased the door open with his left hand and freed his gun with the right. As he pressed forward, she peeked around his solid frame. The room was in shambles, but there was no one inside.

  “You don’t listen very well,” he griped over his shoulder and holstered his weapon.

  “I listen,” she said sweetly, adding her most charming smile. “I just don’t always obey.”

  “Obviously. Come in and shut the door,” he ordered.

  Fearing to aggravate the man beyond his tolerance limit, she did as she was told but hung back.

  Virgil methodically checked the closet, the desk, the open suitcase sitting on the foot of the bed, and even the bed itself.

  “Whoever got here first made sure there was nothing incriminating left behind.”

  He seemed to be speaking to himself as if he had forgotten she was there. Then he took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair in what seemed a mark of frustration.

  Given another golden opportunity, she studied the marshal up close. Over six feet tall, he made her five-foot-seven height seem less gawky and awkward. And he was built for action, long and lean with broad shoulders—she hankered to hold onto—and with narrow hips—hips she could easily envision pressed up against her own.

  And then there were his eyes. Gray as the sky in winter, full of secrets—revealing nothing. Virgil had been the town marshal for nearly three years, yet no one knew where he’d come from, or how long he intended to stay. What would it take to light a fire in those eyes and put settling down in his thoughts?

  Her gaze drifted lower and latched onto the front of his trousers. A picture of what he might look like naked skittered across her mind, and her cheeks grew hot at the imagining.

  “You done lookin’?”

  Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and the heat of humiliation replaced the lustful warmth.

  “Yes,” she babbled, “there doesn’t seem to be anything of interest here.”

  “Really?” he challenged with a cocky grin and a raised brow.

  He stepped closer and stood so near she could smell the man scent of him as she tried to ratchet her breathing down to a more normal rate.

  “You’re a very unusual woman, Miss McAllister.”

  “Is that good or bad?” she dared to ask.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  As if he were a magnet, and her body molten iron, she was unintentionally drawn to him. She stared up at his face, and her gaze caught and held on his mouth. He reached out and skimmed one finger along the edge of her left cheek. An involuntary sigh escaped her as she closed her eyes, willing him to take her in his arms, willing him to kiss her long and hard.

  “I’d better get you back to your father,” he said softly, “before something happens here you hadn’t planned on.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. It was too late. Something had already happened. She’d gone from simply hankering for the town marshal, to wanting him madly.

  ****

&nbs
p; In the wee small hours of the morning, Virgil kicked the covers loose, rolled from his bed, and paced about his room. His body was tired, but his mind was running a race.

  It sure was strange business, this Englishman showing up sporting two different names. What little information deduced from the confounded letter indicated Mr. Underhill worked for Scotland Yard in London, and he was looking for something or someone here. Supposedly he was working on a case, but Clover City seemed an odd place for worldwide goings on.

  Come true morning, he’d telegraph England care of Arthur P. Wentworth, the other name mentioned in the note. No use trying to do so at this hour. It would cause too much curiosity, and waiting wouldn’t make any difference to Mr. Underhill.

  Since the body had been found on the turn-off to Morgan Blackwell’s ranch, maybe there was a connection there. Morgan was an annoying son of a gun, and a sore loser when it came playing poker, but murder was another matter altogether. On the other hand, the man had a penchant for exotic objects, and he had frequent dealings with foreign lands. The doors to his ranch house were imported from France, his furniture from Spain. Hell, even his cattle were those strange British Whites. Another connection to England? Possibly.

  Morgan was also a collector of colorful objects—like gold and silver and red headed women such as Molly. Had his greed and taste for the unusual gotten out of hand? Maybe he’d become mixed up in something dirty, something underhanded. When a man had that much money, it was hard telling what he might get around to spending it on.

  With a groan, he flopped back down on his bed and crossed one arm over his eyes. It blocked out the predawn light, but not the image of Mariah McAllister. He’d almost kissed her in the dead man’s room. What a bizarre scenario. An unbidden grin teased his mouth. She was a bossy little thing but hadn’t balked at loading Mr. Underhill onto the buckboard. She’d be a good woman to have at your side in an emergency, or beside you in bed at your leisure. And she’d acted as if she wouldn’t have taken offense at being kissed either. But she didn’t seem the kind to cotton to a one-night stand, and he didn’t know if he was ready to offer more.

  Ever since Juliet had run out on him six years ago, he’d kept a pretty tight rein, if not on his pants, at least on his heart. She’d tricked him good and taken off with the ill-gotten gains, leaving him holding the empty bag. He’d been bedazzled by her, blind stupid in love, or at least as in love as a nineteen-year-old boy could be. Now it was hard to think about a future, and near impossible to hope he’d find someone who would forgive him for his past.

  ****

  The sun was barely up, but Mariah busied herself in the kitchen, going through the familiar motions while her mind was miles away—thinking of the dead man, the letter they’d found, and the way Virgil had touched her cheek.

  “You came in mighty late last night,” her father called from his room. “Mrs. Newsome doing all right?”

  “Yes, Dad, everything is fine,” she reassured over her shoulder. “False labor, just as you thought. Now go back to sleep. It’s only dawn.”

  “That’s a special delivery,” he mumbled.

  Her heart tripped forward double-time, and she spun around to face his room. What did he mean by that? How did he know about the letter?

  “I’ve a feeling she’s going to have twins,” he added.

  Twins, that’s what he meant. Her heart slowed then sped up again. Twins. That really was special. How exciting. She’d never seen a multiple birth. She prayed all this calamity with the murder would be cleared up by the time Mrs. Newsome went into real labor.

  The bed creaked as her father sat up. “If it was just false labor,” he pressed, “why were you gone so long?”

  Seeing there was no way around it, she made peppermint tea for the both of them, sat by his bed, and told all. Well, almost all. She left out the part about the dead man’s letter, and wanting to kiss the marshal. Virgil had demanded she keep mum about the missive— including not telling her father. And of course she’d do anything for Virgil.

  “I can’t even allow you to drive to the neighbor’s without you getting into trouble,” her father said with a shake of his head.

  She didn’t respond, knowing the remark was half-kidding and half-fatherly concern. Or overly concern, as was usually the case. Without the guidance of a mother, the road to becoming a grown woman had been a long and bumpy one. And although Dad was trying to let her spread her wings, turning her loose was not easy for him. What would happen if she ever did find a husband and start a family of her own?

  A remembered rush of need streaked through her. Simply thinking of Virgil Kincaid set her body to tingling and her hands to sweating. She wished he’d thrown her down on the hotel bed and had his way with her. He acted as if he was interested, at least a little bit. But although it had been an innocent interlude, if Dad ever found out what had happened in that room, he’d cross-fence and hobble her for sure.

  “I said, what did the marshal think was the reason for the shooting?’

  “What? Oh, I don’t know. So far it’s a flat out mystery.”

  She felt bad lying to her father, but the marshal said for the safety of everyone concerned, the details should be kept secret for a while. The dead man’s letter was causing turmoil in her life, making her say and do things contrary to her nature. But the letter was also something no one else shared with Virgil. It was their secret, and she wanted to protect the special connection for as long as possible.

  “Are you faring any better, Dad? You sound less croupy.”

  “I’m feeling a might improved. Which is a good thing, as I reckon the marshal will want me to perform an autopsy on our out-of-town guest.”

  “I can assist you,” she reassured.

  Seeing the insides of a person, ghastly as it might be, was the key to knowing how to fix them from the outside. And after she’d gotten over the initial horror of the procedure, she could now help without vomiting or fainting. It was just so darn fascinating. All right, it was weird, especially for a woman to be interested in something so gruesome. But what of those nurses she’d read about in the Civil War and the Crimean War? They must have seen horrible sights, making a nice orderly autopsy seem like a Sunday walk in the park.

  “I guess you’ll have to help.” Her father eased back against the pillows. “I’m not quite as strong as I thought I was.”

  Chapter Three

  Morgan Blackwell stood on the veranda of his ranch house and surveyed his kingdom. For as far as the eye could see, in every damn direction, he owned the land. He could buy and sell every clod-busting yahoo in Weld County, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

  He’d been born with an insatiable need to acquire. It didn’t necessarily matter what was up for bid, if somebody else wanted it, so did he. In most cases, this obsessive characteristic had served him well. It had gotten him where he was today. But it preyed upon him with a grip as mighty as whiskey or laudanum. Still, it was a habit he didn’t care to break.

  He spat over the railing and paced back and forth. Today, what he wanted most was to get even with Virgil Kincaid. Get even with him for making him look like a fool Saturday night at the poker game. Get even with him for being younger and stronger and more attractive to the ladies. That bitch, Molly Malloy, had been his piece of fiery fluff until the marshal had hit town. Marshal my ass. The man was a gone-straight two-bit gunslinger if ever there was one. And the man read poetry for God sake. He’d caught him doing just that one day when he stopped by the marshal’s office to lodge a complaint about rustlers in the area.

  He quit pacing, took a deep breath to calm his agitation, and studied the herd of British White cattle dotting the nearby rolling hills. They were a pretty sight and a balm to the senses. Otherwise pure as the driven snow, the breed sported black ears, eyes, muzzle, teats, and feet. They were different, they were special, they were his. And he wasn’t going to give a single one of them back. He didn’t care who they might have belonged to once.


  Shifting his glance to Long’s Peak, a part of the Rocky Mountains rising up defiant and unyielding, he wondered if it was possible for a man to buy a mountain. He’d have to look into that. The Great Divide never ceased to amaze him. It was harsh beauty, the kind that could kill a man who dared cross it unprepared.

  The morning sun struck the mountains, setting them ablaze. Then the color transformed from brilliant purple to the hue of the ocean so far away. The wind streaked and howled over the cold distant peaks, and like white smoke, a ribbon of snow fanned out across a sky so blue it nearly hurt his eyes to look at it. Yes, he’d like to own a mountain or two.

  At present, keeping what he already had came first. This morning, one of his ranch hands had returned from town full of gossip about a dead stranger found near his property. It was too close for comfort. It stirred the embers of suspicion, and he was already haunted by circumstances surrounding his last acquisition. Was it worth all the subterfuge and danger? Damn straight.

  ****

  London, England

  Arthur Porter Wentworth read the cablegram for the third time.

  Mortimer Underhill was dead. Or so stated the marshal in some place called Clover City, Colorado. He’d only recently made Underhill’s acquaintance and had been assigned as his contact. The man was a veteran held in the highest esteem, and he’d been envious when Underhill had been chosen to travel to America to follow up on an important lead. Unless the case was truly significant, Scotland Yard didn’t send operatives out on foreign assignment. Now the man was dead. Wentworth shook his head and thanked his lucky stars—it could have been him.

  The competitive feeling he once harbored for his fellow detective was replaced with a mixture of grief and relief, overshadowed by concern. Now he was to follow on the heels of Underhill—hopefully not too closely. America, the Wild West, it sounded exciting, maybe too exciting. He was new with the Yard, working hard to climb up the ranks. Had he garnered this opportunity because they recognized he was qualified, or because after what had happened, he was expendable?

  Folding the yellow cablegram, he slipped it into his breast pocket and continued to pack his portmanteau. Whatever the reason, he swore a silent oath to find the man responsible for Underhill’s demise—band of brothers, etcetera. Being a Scotland Yard detective had been a lifelong dream. This was his chance to show them what he could do.