Dang. Tate had been so uptight about Jeanette not meeting them, it totally slipped his mind that Thad had no idea what they were up against. He twisted around in the chair to face his best friend and gently tipped back, the wooden joints squeaking in displeasure at the abuse.
“We’re supposed to infiltrate an outlaw gang, supposedly run by a man named John Sutton. Allan said he arrived in Alta with a suitcase filled with money and took over a local silver mine and saloon.”
“Nothing special about that. Towns like that are a dime a dozen. Sutton, too, for that matter. You know better than anyone how many places begin the very same way when money’s to be had.”
“Yeah, I do. This one’s a bit different because people are disappearing or showing up dead, and the trail leads back to Sutton or the men under him.”
Thad’s lip curled up in disgust. “Well, that changes things. And where’s Welder? Wasn’t he supposed to be here too?”
“While you were checking on the horses earlier, I received a telegram. He’s going to meet us in Alta.”
His friend’s eyes narrowed, and Tate knew Thad’s doubts mirrored his own. Over the past year, Welder had been disappearing more and more, always with an excuse, of course. What he did outside of Tate’s command, however, was his own business, but Tate couldn’t help but worry what his old friend was getting himself into.
A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he dropped the chair to the floor with a few more cracks. Swinging the door open, he found the hotel owner’s wife standing in the hallway. She held out a piece of paper. Once he took it, she turned without uttering a word and walked down the hall toward the staircase. Tate noticed the word Telegram written in bold letters at the top of the missive and closed the door behind him with a soft click of the latch.
He unfolded the sheet and read the missive and clenched his jaws. He threw the paper toward Thad who had to fold his lean body in half to reach it near the end of the bed.
“Well, that answers that.” Tate ran agitated fingers through his hair as frustration formed knots in his upset stomach. “The female agent’s not coming. She can’t break away from whatever case she’s working. Allan says we’re on our own.”
Tate waited while Thad read the missive. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
Thad folded the crumpled paper and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Sit down and quit working yourself all worked up. Tell me Allan’s original plan. Maybe we can still salvage it.”
“Other than the three of us meeting up with his female agent, he didn’t have one,” Tate muttered and leaned against the window frame, his back against the wall.
“He didn’t have a plan? That’s not like him at all. Why send a Pink?”
“He seemed to think Sutton’s recent purchase of the bank was to show the town he’s respectable—even has a woman hanging around. Don’t know if it’s his wife or mistress. According to whoever Allan has sending him information, she just appeared one day. That’s why Ms. Price was joining us—we were supposed to pretend to be married—something about me being a respectable gentleman, or some such nonsense. Someone with respectability, although you and I both know even the most disreputable men find women willing to marry them.”
Thad choked, and his face turned pink as he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.
“You? Married?” Laughter burst from him like a cannon shot.
Tate ignored him, letting Thad get it out of his system as the workings of another plan began to form.
“Why can’t we just ride into town like everyone else and set up camp? We could say we were there to prospect. No one would be the wiser. In fact, that story’s more likely to work than me having a wife.”
He rolled his eyes at the thought. He wasn’t looking to settle down any time soon. Maybe one day...then again, maybe not. He liked his job, which involved a lot of traveling. Hell, the longest he’d ever stayed in one town was just shy of a month. In the last ten years, he hadn’t been close enough to a woman to even remember what one smelled like.
The moment that thought popped into his head, he knew it was a lie as one of the few memories he allowed himself filled his head. Emerald green eyes, fair skin, and beautiful red-gold hair surrounding the cutest little face. The moment he saw her, he was spellbound. Seven years later, he could still smell the wondrous scent of roses, reminding him of the plantation owner’s very young and feisty daughter.
Thad’s expression was thoughtful as he mulled over the idea. If anyone could find a chink in the plan, it would be Thad. Finally, he slowly nodded.
“That just might work. Gives us a reason to be there, and we can come and go under the pretense of mining while we look for clues as to what’s really going on.”
Tate pulled the only item he had of his father’s, a silver watch, from his vest pocket and popped open the lid.
“It’s just now eleven. If we gather up supplies and leave within the hour, we should be able to make Alta by nightfall, if it hasn’t snowed at the higher elevation.”
“Why don’t we just go by rail?” Thad suggested. “It would be faster, and we wouldn’t have to worry about the weather.”
“I don’t want to be beholden’ to a train schedule if we need to make a quick getaway. Besides, there isn’t a line from Sandy to Alta, which means taking a wagon, and that takes longer.” Tate pulled his saddlebags out from beneath the bed and packed the few things he laid out earlier and secured the bag.
“Besides, I like my horse and don’t want to spend the money stabling him here when I might need him there.”
Thad swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and jerked on his boots. “At least we got to stay a couple of nights in a fine hotel for once instead of sleeping on the hard ground or in a dilapidated shack not even fit for an animal.”
“Right you are.” Tate chuckled. “Allan must have been feeling particularly guilty for asking us to take this job.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and opened the door. Stepping into the hall, he stopped and turned around, meeting Thad’s questioning glance.
“I’ll go pay up at the livery. Meet me at the general store in five minutes. We’ll be traveling light.”
Five minutes later, Thad walked in to the store and began pulling a few items from the shelves. The small pile grew until Tate wasn’t sure they could carry everything. Turning to Thad, he picked up the second loaf of bread and raised one brow.
“What happened to traveling light?”
Thad shrugged, bending his arms at the elbow, palms facing up.
“What? I’ve told you many times. I hate beans. Well, hate is a strong word. Maybe sick of beans is better. That’s all you eat. Beans and rice. At least add something like bread, or cornbread. Biscuits even. Something other than a bowl of beans!”
Tate fought the smile threatening to appear. He, too, was tired of beans, but seeing Thad’s reaction every time he saw what was cooking in the pot was too good to pass up. He placed the bread back down on the countertop and gave a terse nod to the clerk, who stood staring at them with an impatient look on his sour face. “Total this up—”
“Wait,” Thad said and reached for the ammunition. He grabbed six boxes and placed them on the counter as well.
“One can never be too careful,” he muttered.
Fifteen minutes later, they were packed and leaving town. Tate pulled his hat lower over his forehead as the midday sun blinded him. Taking a deep breath, he drew in the fresh scent of pine and clean air. There was nothing better than listening to the steady thump of the horses’ hooves against the ground, birds chirping in the trees with the occasional bark or growl of an unknown animal, and the creaking of his worn leather saddle. Who needed a clapboard house and a spot of land to build it on? This was home.
Chapter 3
Alta, Utah
Cat never slept past seven, but when she glanced at the small clock hanging on the wall, she was surprised to see the hour was closer to eleven. She must have been more tired t
han she realized. The journey here had been difficult, especially after her father’s death, but she thought she’d handled it well. As well as she could have anyway.
She focused her energy on repacking then absently tucked a long, stray strand of red-gold hair back underneath her straw hat. Smoothing the slightly wrinkled cotton of her navy traveling skirt, she picked up the bag and left the room. Once downstairs, she walked across the crowded saloon and stopped in front of the same bartender she recognized from the night before, but after the way he was unable to form an answer, much less a single word, to her questions then, mustering hope now was fruitless, but she didn’t know who else to ask.
She cleared her throat and placed the bag on the chair in front of her.
“Excuse me?”
The bartender never looked up from whatever he was doing behind the counter. She tried again.
“Excuse me, sir? I need to find Mr. Monty Adams. Can you help me?”
That got his attention. The drink in his hand fell to the floor with a loud crash, and the sounds of breaking glass echoed like a gunshot. Silence filled the room for a moment. Realizing no one had fired a weapon, the men and women lingering around the tables began talking and laughing again. Cat preferred the silence to the din filling her ears. A slight ache soon throbbed at each temple.
“Who did you say again?” the bartender asked, his bushy brows pushed together in the middle of his prominent brow.
“Monty Adams. I’m here at his request. We’re supposed to be married.”
The older man’s face blanched then turned ruddy as he muttered something under his breath. He swiped nonexistent sweat from his forehead with a dirty towel. Looking at the food stains on the front of his shirt and the dark discolorations under his arms, she pressed her lips together in disgust. Cleanliness was definitely not his strong suit, and the rag in his hands was probably the same one he used last night. She made a mental note to never eat or drink anything in this establishment.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Monty Adams is dead.”
Cat’s eyes cracked opened. The room was bright and the window had been pushed up a couple of inches, letting in a cold breeze that swayed against the bottoms of the yellow curtains hanging on either side. She turned her head and frowned. She sat up and the room spun for a second then stilled. On the far wall stood a small dressing table with a pretty round mirror and a small tufted stool. Against the adjacent wall was a matching dresser. This was much better than her room last night.
Her fingers picked at the pale green quilt covering her legs. Was she still in the saloon? She remembered going downstairs and talking to the bartender...the bartender. She reached up with one hand and covered her forehead with the palm of her hand.
Dead. Monty Adams was dead.
A fluttering sensation started in her chest. She dropped her arm, her hand now in a tight fist, and pressed it between her breasts, willing the uncomfortable feeling to go away. Minutes passed as her breathing evened out and the vice around her lungs loosened. Not completely, but enough for her to relax a bit more.
“What am I going to do now?” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. Two small wet spots appeared on the quilt then widened as she continued to cry, something she hadn’t allowed herself to do since her papa’s death. Her thoughts turned to her father and all their dreams, now gone.
All gone.
“I wish you were here, Papa. I don’t know what to do.”
How could everything turn out so wrong?
Her father had practically danced her around the small living area in the two-room quarters where they lived when she told him about Mr. Adams mail-order bride request. The letter and subsequent money he wired for their travel and accommodations had answered their prayers, since they could no longer stay in the temporary lodging for free.
Traveling frugally before reaching the Mississippi River had allowed for a bit of extra money, so her father had chosen to take a riverboat then board a train as soon as they reached the other side. Unfortunately, her father never made it and died in her arms before leaving the boat. She had no proof, but from the cuts and bruises on his face and hands, she was positive he’d been beaten. Her father had been one of the strongest people she’d ever known, both in strength and character. But, after his war injury then the loss of his wife… No, she believed he simply lost the will to live without her mother.
The soft snick of the bedroom door pulled her attention from the past, and she glanced up just as a dark-skinned woman entered the room. With a wide smile on the woman’s pretty face, Cat immediately relaxed and pushed away the sad thoughts of her father and all she had lost. The woman crossed to the window, easing it down, then closed the cheerful curtains.
For the first time since waking, Cat realized the sky outside was darker than it should have been.
“What happened? How long was I asleep?”
The woman’s smile never faltered as she fluffed the pillows behind Cat’s back then stood staring down at her, her head tilted to one side.
“It is the middle of the afternoon. My name is Ayana Browning.”
Cat smiled.
“What a pretty name! Does it mean something?”
“Ayana means beautiful blossom in my native tongue.”
“I don’t have my father’s heavy Scottish brogue, but I was the first generation born here. My parents met on the boat after leaving Scotland.”
“I, too, was born in this country,” Ayana said. “My mother was a slave on a small plantation in Georgia before the war. She used to tell me such wonderful stories of her home back in Africa.”
“And your father?”
Ayana’s expression drew guarded, and she leaned over and fussed with the quilt.
Cat laid her hand over the woman’s, liking the contrast between hers and Ayana’s darker coloring.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Forget I even asked.”
Ayana’s smile returned, but her eyes continued to stare at Cat’s hand, which was still wrapped around hers. Finally, she let out a small chuckle and, half sighing, sat on the edge of the bed.
“I am not upset that you asked...surprised is all. No one ever asks about me or my family. You are refreshing, Miss.”
“Call me, Cat—short for Catriona, which is a mouthful. Besides, my friends call me Cat.”
“I would very much like to be your friend. I don’t have many here.” Ayana patted the top of Cat’s hand with her other one.
“The number of friends you have doesn’t matter—it’s the quality of the friend that counts.”
“You are, indeed, wise, Miss Cat.”
Cat shook her head.
“No, not Miss Cat, just plain ol’ Cat.”
“All right. To answer your question, Mr. Browning, the owner of the plantation where my mother worked took a liking to her, and she died birthing me. The owner’s wife took me into the main house and raised me with her own three daughters. She taught me to be a lady, which is more than I could ever ask for.”
“Where are they now? Why aren’t you still with them?”
“The girls married and have families of their own. Mr. Browning passed a few years back, and Mrs. Browning gave me some money and told me to follow my own dreams.”
She ducked her head. “I’ve always dreamed of living in the West and here I am.”
“I’m so happy for you, Ayana.”
“Now, tell me your story. Why are you here in Alta?”
Cat leaned back, pulling her hand back and folded them in her lap.
“Before the war, I lived with my mother and father in Virginia on a small acreage. Our house wasn’t large like the plantation you’re probably used to, but it was big enough for the three of us. Unfortunately, we were north of town, quite a bit actually, so the Union army decided we were strategically placed for their units, even more so after Manassas fell during the second battle. A few times, the Confederates pushed them back, but they always returned.”
/> She choked back the memory of that day. “By late afternoon, it was so hot and muggy. I remember Papa commenting that it was going to rain… Anyway, the Union leader politely thanked him for allowing them to camp in the yard.” She stared across the room, trying to recall the man’s face, but the harder she tried, the more shadowy he became.
“Just after nightfall, the Rebs arrived and demanded to be housed and fed. There wasn’t room enough for everyone, and the men delegated to the barn turned rowdy. By next midmorning, a messenger arrived with orders to pull back and head south. They didn’t want the Union army to take control of our house again, so they set it on fire.”
“Oh my,” Ayana gasped, her eyes wide.
“By that time in the war, Mama wasn’t in her right mind and refused to leave her home.”
The pain of losing her mother all over again squeezed her heart in its tight grip. The last memory of her mother was her pale, frightened face staring down at them through the bedroom window, her hands splayed beside her face.
“I answered Mr. Adams’ letter for a bride. It was the first time since Mama’s death that Papa laughed.”
“Where is your Papa now?”
“He was killed on the journey here.”
“So you’re all alone? Bennett, the bartender, said he told you about Mr. Adams’ death, which was when you fainted. What are you going to do now?”
“I have no idea. No idea at all. Do you know of anywhere in Alta where I might be able to get a job?” Tears filled her eyes again, and she was swamped by an overwhelming sense of despair.
Cat met her new friend’s concerned gaze. “I don’t even have a place to live. What am I to do?”
“We’ll figure something out, so don’t you worry. Tonight, you will stay here with me. Tomorrow, we will put our heads together and come up with a plan.”
“You don’t mind?”
Ayana smiled and rolled her eyes.
“Isn’t that what friends do for one another? We help.”
“And maybe she doesn’t want your kind of help, Ayana?” A woman’s sultry voice surprised them, pulling their attention toward the door.
The Agent's Mail-Order Bride Page 3