“Don’t have any left. Last wagonload of people took my last two rooms.”
“Can you please direct me to another hotel then?”
“Ain’t none. This is the nicest hotel in Alta. The only hotel. There are two more being built, but with so many of the men going to the mines, not a lot of work gets done on them. Leastways, not at the moment.”
Cat fought back the rising worry of where she was going to go. Exhaustion took over and her eyes filled with embarrassing tears. She blinked several times and turned her head to face the fire. The poor clerk cleared his throat and nervously moved around behind the counter, fidgeting with this and that.
“Look here. I’m sorry I can’t help you, and I’m almost afraid to mention this, but there’s always the Lucky Silver saloon. The owner, Big John Sutton, sometimes rents out a few rooms. I’m sure he’ll take pity on someone as pretty as you—in your time of need, I mean.”
Cat wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or offended. Sleep above a saloon? Her mother would turn over in her grave if she knew Cat was even considering such a thing. Her options at the moment, though, were few, so she swallowed her pride, which left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“If you’re certain that’s my only option.”
The clerk nodded, but the Cheshire look he gave her didn’t make her feel confident with her decision.
“When you leave, turn to your left and just follow the sidewalk. You can’t miss it.”
Before she could ask him any more questions, he snapped the book shut and walked to the door at the back of the room. Without looking to see if she had left or not, he closed the door behind him, leaving her standing alone in silence. With a loud sigh to the empty room, she walked back outside. Following the clerk’s directions, she passed a Chinese laundry, a lawyer’s office, the bank, and found the saloon.
Lights and sound poured through the wide entryway leading inside the large building. White clapboards lined the outer walls, broken only by two good-sized black-trimmed windows on either side of the open black doors. A roof-slash-balcony overhead ran along the entire front of the building. Cat couldn’t help but think a few hanging plants or chairs would add a homier feel to the stark facade.
Before she lost her nerve, she marched in and stopped a few feet inside the saloon, her mouth hanging open at the sight in front of her. The room was filled with round tables, men at every one. At the far end of the room stood a wooden stage. Four floor-to-ceiling poles graced each corner. Cheerful lanterns hung from hooks near the tops of each one. Sitting in a chair in the center of the dais was a beautiful Mexican woman.
The woman couldn’t have been much older than Cat and wore nothing more than a red camisole and matching short skirt. The toes of her high-heeled black boots moved up and down in time with the music’s rhythm as she sang along. Her voice was husky and melodious in a haunting manner, but it was the emotion in her eyes that pulled at Cat. The woman’s sadness beat at her from across the room. She couldn’t help but wonder who the woman was and why she seemed so sad.
Forcing her gaze away, she walked over to the bar and waited for the bartender to notice her as he filled several glasses with a rich amber liquid then slid them to the other end of the bar.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The bartender glanced at her then picked up a dirty rag and wiped his hands as he made his way toward her. The look in his eyes reminded her of the clerk’s, but she shook the suspicion and smiled.
“I came in on the last wagon, but the hotel was full, so the clerk was nice enough to recommend you might have a room for me here? Is there one available?”
The bartender frowned, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Recommend a what?”
She raised one brow. “A room...for the night?” She over-enunciated each word, thinking the man wasn’t all that smart.
That thought was affirmed when he turned an off-shade of pink, and his face scrunched up like a baby just before throwing a temper tantrum.
“I don’t understand.”
Cat shook her head. “Is your boss around?”
The bartender pointed to a man sitting on the other side of the room, his back against the wall as he played cards with two other men. A woman stood behind him holding a tall glass filled with an amber-colored liquid with a bored expression on her face as she stared at the Mexican girl who walked toward a hallway at the back of the stage.
Cat slowly made her way across the room and stopped beside the table. She cleared her throat, but no one glanced up. She was tired and wanting nothing more than to curl up in a comfortable bed.
“Excuse me, but the bartender told me to speak to you about a room for the night?”
Dark brown eyes met hers, and an oily feeling slithered down her spine. She took a step backward. Like the hotel clerk, he too leered at her, staring a bit too long at her chest. More than uncomfortable, all Cat wanted to do was disappear. When the man pinned his stare on her face, she knew it was too late.
“Mathers did, did he? And why would a nice little lady like you need a room in a saloon?” The man’s voice surprised her.
From his fancy clothing and expensive jewelry, especially the gold pinky ring with a diamond in its center, she would have thought he was cultured like the men she was used to being around back home. Instead, his voice was a bit higher and nasally like he was talking through his nose not his mouth. He wasn’t a large man either, like she initially thought. Rail thin with sallow skin, Cat wondered if he was recovering from some sort of sickness. He didn’t look well at all.
Without waiting for her answer, he dealt another round of cards then studied the cards in his own hand a moment then shoved several coins to the center of the table.
“I’m raisin’ the stakes a might, boys.” The two other men groaned and threw their cards facedown onto the table. With a sneer, the saloon owner laid down his hand, face up, in front of them.
“Read ’em and weep, gentlemen.” His dark gaze pinned the man closest to her first then turned on the other man.
“I’ll expect the deeds in my office first thing in the morning.”
The two men got up without a word and left the saloon.
Cat cleared her throat and explained her situation again.
“I rode into town with the last wagon. By the time I reached the hotel, all of the rooms were taken. I expected my intended to meet me at the train, so this is all a bit of a surprise, and I have nowhere to stay tonight. The clerk suggested you might rent me a room for one night only? I can pay you the going rate of a hotel room.”
The owner leaned over, his shoulder resting against the woman’s skirt. “Didn’t I tell you this very morning, Rose, my luck’s about to change? Now, a beautiful woman just strolls into my saloon.”
His gaze narrowed, following the curve of her body. Cat wanted nothing more than to turn and leave, but she couldn’t. She needed that room.
“Sure thing, honey. I’ll give you a room for the night, and I’m feeling right generous too cuz’ I’m gonna let you stay there free of charge.”
Cat stared at the man’s satisfied smirk, not liking him or the smile at all, but what could she do? She needed a place to sleep. Tomorrow, she would find her bridegroom and, with any hope, would never have to see or talk to this arrogant man again.
“Thank you,” she said, swallowing the retort she wanted to say and, instead, chose a humble-pie approach, which seemed to work.
With a flick of his finger and a quickly whispered word to the short, swarthy man who came running, she found herself following the small man back to the stairwell by the saloon’s entrance. Upstairs, he led her along a narrow hallway where she tried to close her ears to the noises coming from behind the closed doors.
He opened a door at the end of the hall and motioned her inside with his hand.
“My advice to you, señorita,” he said, “lock your door.” With that, he reached over and pulled the door shut.
Glancing around the bare ro
om, the only furniture in it was a single metal-framed bed. She set her bag down and sighed.
“Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.”
Chapter 2
“You’re a man conflicted, Matthew Tate,” Allan Pinkerton said in his soft but determined voice as he leaned back in the worn, leather chair.
His thinning salt and pepper hair was parted on one side and slicked back in his usual style, with only a slight hint of the darker red it used to be in his younger years. Pinkerton’s gray eyes stared into Tate’s soul, making him squirm in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair, which had been strategically placed in front of the large hand-carved desk for the very purpose of causing unease.
Tate liked his boss, but when the man had something on his mind, it always made him nervous. Pinkerton had taken a chance on him five years ago and, as far as Tate was concerned, he owed the man everything. He didn’t want to think about the alternative—what cell he’d be languishing in if the head of the largest investigative agency in the states hadn’t offered him a job. Even after working for two years for the Texas Rangers, the wanderlust and urge to make easy money had clung to him like a second skin. That feeling had disappeared under Pinkerton’s tutelage and faith in him.
“You’re not going to say anything to that?” Allan chuckled. “Must be losing my touch. You’ve never kept your opinions to yourself before.”
Tate pulled the battered hat from his head and draped it over one knee. Reaching up, he scrubbed his face with his hands then in a well-practiced motion, ran agitated fingers through his hair and pushed back the thick strands that continually fell over his eyes.
“I know my own limitations and faults as do you, so there’s no need to argue. What I’m more concerned about is why you’re leading with them. What’s my next job, Allan?”
The cagey man steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips, the tips disappearing beneath his long mustache. Just as Tate was beginning to squirm again, Allan sighed and leaned forward, pressing his elbows onto the desktop.
“I’m afraid I must ask something of you neither of us will like. You know Congress created a new Department of Justice last year; however, the funds appropriated weren’t enough. They contracted with us to find and bring to justice those who break federal laws. In as much as I like the extra money and work, criminals are getting cagier, and now that the transcontinental railroad is up and running, easily finding and apprehending these curmudgeons is nigh impossible. I’m having to assign more and more men to that and the freelance jobs still coming in are languishing.”
“Not exactly new information.”
Tate grinned, liking the irritated glance Allan gave him. Riling his boss was a feat few managed, and he always stood a bit taller when he did just that.
“I need you to return to your old ways and infiltrate an outlaw group running out of Alta, Utah.”
It was Allan Pinkerton’s turn to give Tate a lopsided grin of satisfaction as Tate’s jovial expression disappeared.
“You want me to what?”
Allan shrugged.
“You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever seen. You have the highest record for apprehending outlaw bands out west, more so than any other man I employ. Who better than an ex-outlaw? You understand how they think and, most of the time, what their next move will be.”
Tate shook his head as a heavy clamp surrounded his chest, making it hard to breathe.
“I worked a long time to overcome my past and atone for my sins as an outlaw. How can you sit there and ask me to turn my back on everything now? Not a day goes by that I don’t hear the grumbled slurs from the other agents when I walk by them, so I work twice as hard and am meaner than hell so they will listen when they’re under my command in the field. Truth be told, Thad’s the only one I really trust to have my back.”
“That’s understandable. You ran with Thad. He’s working equally as hard to make amends from his time as an outlaw. What about Welder?”
Tate thought a minute before spitting out his opinion about the third man in his small group. Welder had been in his gang from the beginning, just like Thad. The difference between Thad Carlile and Don Welder is the latter still consorted with outlaws. He would disappear for months on end then return a bit richer than when he left. Tate didn’t want to rat him out to Pinkerton though. If the boss wanted them to infiltrate a known outlaw band, Welder would be the perfect man to get them in.
“Let’s just say I keep my eye on Welder more than I do Thad.”
Tate closed his eyes and let out a sigh of resignation, knowing he would do almost anything Allan asked of him. Including this.
“Fine. What’s the plan?”
Allan rifled through the papers on his desk then pulled one out with a tight-lipped grin. “For this to work, you’ll need to be married.”
Tate’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about? I will not marry—not even for you!”
Allan chuckled and held out the paper.
“Relax, son. I wouldn’t dream of forcing the bonds of matrimony on anyone and, most certainly, not you. I have it on good authority, by someone I trust, that the ringleader is a man by the name of John Sutton—Big John to his friends. About four years ago, he waltzed in to town with a bag full of cash and an attitude. Within the first week, he managed to get hold of the deed to a productive silver mine then fell privy to a popular saloon. None of that would normally raise red flags, except several people have either disappeared or were found dead days later.”
Tate’s eyes narrowed as he focused on lighting his cigarette until a steady stream of white smoke wafted from the end. In silence, he mulled over the information, immediately recognizing that Allan was, indeed, on to something.
“Sounds about right. So, what are you thinking? Why act like I’m married? I have no clue how to pull something like that off.”
He glanced down at the paper in his hands and read the short biography of another Pinkerton agent. Her name was Jeanette Price, and she had recently joined the Lady Pinks, Allan’s bureau of female detectives within the agency.
He chewed on the end of his unlit cigarette then pulled it from his mouth and causally ground it onto the top of an already full copper dish placed near the edge of Allan’s desk, a rough idea forming.
“You might have something here. This Lady Pink might be just the ticket if she’s pretty and can catch the eye of the saloon owner. I could go in posing as a miner, a gentleman miner, looking for an ‘investment’. If Sutton likes the ladies, and Ms. Price is a looker, she can gather her own intelligence without him being the wiser.”
He tossed the paper across the desk, where it crookedly landed on top of the papers in front of Allan.
“How much do you know about John Sutton or the men under his command?”
Allan shook his head. “Not much, which is why I need your help. Tate, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I had any other option.”
“I know, and I have a funny feeling my past is going to come in handy on this job. Still don’t like it, though.”
“Fair enough.”
Allan stood and walked to the large map hanging behind his desk and waited for Tate to join him.
“I made arrangements for you, Thad, and Welder to meet up with Ms. Price in Salt Lake City. Whatever you plan to do from there is your decision.”
Allan grabbed a folder from a large pile in front of him and handed it to Tate.
“There’s a house already rented in town under your name and isn’t far from the saloon. I also established a line of credit at the General Store. You can send telegrams through the post office, under the usual code name, so send me one as soon as you make contact with Sutton. I want a weekly update for your benefit as well as my own.”
Allen placed a heavy hand on Tate’s shoulder and squeezed, his dark eyes piercing as he met Tate’s gaze.
“I know I’m asking you to walk into the proverbial lion’s den, but I, too, a
m taking a risk because in my line of work, our line of work, we’ve seen too many men return to their previous life of crime. I think you’re stronger than most, though, Tate. For what it matters, I believe in you.”
Tate swallowed the lump constricting his throat again, humbled by the largeness of this man and his heart. Allan Pinkerton was a larger-than-life figure, and one Tate was proud to model his own life after.
* * *
Salt Lake City, Utah
“Where in the hell is she?” Tate grumbled as he paced the small hotel room. He ignored Thad’s amused expression as he reclined on the bed, his hands tucked behind his head.
“I don’t see what the fuss is about. So, Jeanette’s running a bit late?”
“We were supposed to be in Alta two days ago. Allan expects a weekly report. How’s it going to look if we haven’t even managed to get to that two-bit mining town?”
“Relax, Matt.”
Thad’s use of his first name soothed some of the anxiety trampling through his stomach. Thad was the only person, other than Allan Pinkerton, who knew his full name and was the only one who called him Matt, other than Tate’s long-dead mother, and never in front of Welder.
In their youth, both had realized to keep as much personal information from him since he had the tendency to use it against people he had a grudge with. The world, especially the outlaw side, only knew him by Tate, which suited him just fine. The less people knew about him and his past, the better.
Tate dropped onto the rickety wood chair shoved to one side of the window and stared down into the busy street below. Salt Lake was gaining in size and population to the metropolis of New York and San Francisco. He preferred the smaller towns, although they weren’t as safe for him and Thad. Growing up on the streets of Dallas had cured him of city life long ago. The metal-framed bed squeaked, and he glanced over to see Thad shove another pillow behind his back.
“Why don’t you fill me in on the plan? I can’t help you figure things out if I don’t know what’s going on in that closed-off mind of yours.” Thad asked.
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