A telegram waited for her. As always, it was coded and signed “Octavo at Napthia,” cipher for the Pinkerton principal. It was too soon to expect a report back on the list of suspects she’d sent. Nevertheless, the tersely worded dispatch telling her to keep investigating was disappointing. How was she supposed to do that without information?
She folded the telegram and slipped it into her cloth pocketbook. She then headed for Harry’s Gun and Bakery Shoppe. The owner, Harry Piker, was a regular at Miss Lillian’s. He was also one of the men on Amy’s list of suspects.
An odd, though no less pleasant, smell greeted her as she entered the tiny shop. It was a combination of baked bread and pastry with just a hint of molten steel. An impressive assortment of rifles and shotguns was displayed on polished wood wall racks.
At the sound of jingling door bells, a stout man hobbled from the back room. Wiping his hands on a grimy apron, he grimaced with each step he took.
A fringe of gray hair circled a glaring bald spot. Somewhere in his early fifties, his excessive weight and flaring gout suggested an insatiable sweet tooth. His age, shape, and thin hair reminded her of Sallie Wiseman, the notorious female bank robber. Amy had shadowed her for a month before they had enough evidence to put her behind bars.
Standing behind the counter, Piker tossed an anxious glance at the door before shifting his gaze in her direction. “What can I do for you?”
Guns were scattered on top of the glass counter in no particular order. She moved a Colt aside to get a better view of the pastries displayed on the shelves below.
“Are you the baker?” she asked, perusing the variety of cakes, pies, and cookies.
“No, I’m the gunsmith. The wife handles the bakery. She stepped out for a moment.”
“I’ll take one of those,” she said, pointing to a cherry-filled tart.
He slid the glass door open on his side of the counter and reached between the glass shelves. “You new around here?” he asked.
“Yes. I work for Miss Lillian.” When he failed to meet her gaze she added, “I understand you’re a regular client.” She found him disgusting. He availed himself of Miss Lillian’s “hospitality” and sold her five weapons but couldn’t look Amy in the eye.
His jaw hardened and a vein stood out in his neck. “Don’t know whatcha talking about.”
“My mistake.” The man was a liar, but his appearance and poor health exonerated him; clearly he wasn’t the Gunnysack Bandit.
He placed the pastry in a small box. “That will be fifteen cents.”
Anxious to take her leave, she counted out the correct change, thanked him, and turned, package in hand. She reached the door just as it flew open, revealing a matronly woman wearing a shapeless floral dress.
She took one look at Amy and her face contorted into a hateful expression. She had a long, thin face with thick black eyebrows—just like the outlaw known as Horse Face Freddie.
“What are you doing here?” She addressed Amy but glared at Harry. “I warned you to stay away from those horrible women!” She made no effort to lower her voice, and passersby stopped to stare through the open doorway.
His face drained of color, Harry’s mouth flapped open and shut like a dying fish before he was able to get his words out. “She … she was only buying pastries, my love.”
Amy glared at him. He deserved his wife’s wrath but, not wanting to make matters worse, she held up her purchase. “That’s all I was doing.”
Harry’s wife snatched the box out of her hand and tossed it to the floor. “Get out!”
The woman shoved her on the shoulder and pushed her out the door. “I won’t have the likes of you eating my pastries!” The small crowd gathered in front stepped back to let Amy pass.
Face flaring, Amy hurried away, but this only seemed to incite the woman more. A string of obscenities followed her up the street. Amy had done nothing wrong, but her face burned in embarrassment.
A beggar pawed her arm as she raced past him. Ignoring him, she hurried along the boardwalk, weaving around a baby carriage and barely avoiding the crates stacked in front of Max’s General Mercantile and Flower Shoppe.
Spotting the three church ladies passing out handbills ahead, she ducked into the hotel lobby and ran straight into a wall. It was only when the wall moved that she realized her mistake.
“Whoa!” Colton steadied her with hands to her shoulders. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry? You came barreling in here like a cat with his tail afire.”
She lifted her gaze upward, and his compelling eyes riveted her to the spot.
“I’m sorry … I …” Surprised to find herself shaking, she glanced back, but no one had followed. She stepped away to gain her composure and put up her guard.
He dropped his hands to his sides and studied her with a look of concern. “Are you all right, Amy?”
“I’m fine,” she said. His worried frown remained, and so she smiled. “Just trying to dodge a bullet.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.” He glanced over her head at the door. “Come and sit for a spell. Looks like you might could use some refreshment.” Ignoring the disapproving glance from the desk clerk, he took her by the arm and led her into the dining room.
He released her arm to pull out a chair for her. Pretending not to notice the polite gesture, she chose the opposite one. Even in public a detective couldn’t afford to let his or her guard down. That meant sitting where she could keep an eye on the entrance.
He sat on the chair originally meant for her without comment but tossed a glance over his shoulder before picking up the bill of fare. Was he, too, worried about the proximity of the door to his back? If so, that made him either a criminal or lawman, although he didn’t seem to fit in either shoe.
Why was that?
It was too early for the noon meal, but several tables were already occupied. Amy never sat in a public place without analyzing the people around her. Today, it took every bit of willpower she possessed to pull her gaze from Colton and focus on the other diners.
Two older men were having a serious conversation at a corner table. Judging by the way one stabbed the air with his fork, they were either discussing politics or religion. Few other subjects elicited such passion.
At another table, a young couple appeared to be having a lover’s quarrel. The man looked cornered and on the defensive. That could only mean one thing: the woman was the wronged party.
A man in an unfortunate checkered suit had followed them inside and was now seated at a corner table, facing the door. He obviously didn’t belong in these parts; he was probably a salesman, but she hoped for his sake he wasn’t selling men’s suits.
“What would you like?” Colton asked.
She met his gaze and tried to ignore her quickening pulse. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
He closed his menu and studied her. “There’s always room for ice cream. Let me guess … coffee, right?”
“What?”
“That’s your favorite ice cream. Coffee.”
She leaned back and regarded him with curiosity. “How did you know?” She loved coffee ice cream, but not every restaurant or ice cream parlor carried it.
He rubbed his jaw. “I figured a woman with an iron-fist punch like yours wasn’t the vanilla or strawberry type.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “You figured right,” she said, though she didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed by his ability to discern her preference in ice cream. “Most men might have guessed chocolate.”
He shook his head. “Too conventional.”
She was still trying to decide if he meant that as a compliment when a waiter appeared at their table. Colton ordered two dishes of coffee ice cream.
He then removed his hat and set it on an empty chair. A strand of brown hair fell across his forehead, giving him a boyish look. Wondering how it would feel to push the wayward strand back in place—and run her fingers
through his hair—she twisted her fingers around the napkin on her lap.
Elbow on the table, Colton studied her over clasped hands. Feeling certain he could see through her disguise, she drew her gaze away from the intriguing cleft on his chin and rearranged the silverware.
“Do you always get it right?” Head lowered, she peered at him through the fringe of her lashes. “About the ice cream, I mean.”
“Most times.” He inclined his head toward a pinched-face woman complaining to the waiter in a loud voice. “Lemon,” he said. “Definitely lemon.”
Amy covered her mouth to hide a giggle. “What about him over there?” She indicated the man in the checkered suit.
“Neapolitan,” Colton said without hesitation.
This time she laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. He laughed, too, a deep chuckle that lit up his face with warm humor.
All too soon the light moment faded away, and his expression turned serious. “What brings you to town?” he asked.
“I needed to make a few purchases.”
“And?”
She hesitated. God, please don’t let him be the Gunnysack Bandit. A man who loves coffee ice cream and has such an attractive smile has to be one of the good guys.
“I have information that Rose … was with child.”
He arched an eyebrow and sat back. Clearly that was news to him.
She gave him a moment to digest this before asking, “Do you think your brother was the father?”
He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How did he meet Rose?” she asked.
“Probably the same way most men meet … ladies like you.”
Ladies like you. Normally, she would have been flattered by his remark. It meant she played her role if not perfect at least well enough to get the job done. Today, however, the words stabbed at her heart, as did the disapproval in his voice. She bit her lip to keep from telling him who she really was. Why it mattered what he thought of her she didn’t know. She only knew that it did.
“What about the list of Miss Lillian’s clients?” he asked. “Any luck there?”
“I’m working on it.” She wasn’t about to turn anything over to him until headquarters either confirmed or denied his story. “Tell me about your brother,” she said, breaking the sudden strained silence.
A shadow fleeted across his face, but after a moment he began. “Dave was what you might call a maverick. His wild ways got worse after Pa died.”
Dave’s troubles started early with petty crime and that didn’t surprise her. The Pinkerton detective agency found that most criminals started on the road to crime early in life, some as young as eight or nine.
Nothing, it seemed, was safe from Dave’s pilfering hand, even the offering plate at church. Colton’s disapproval of his brother’s illegal activities alleviated her fears that he was the Gunnysack Bandit, and though questions remained, she felt profound relief.
“He gradually progressed to more lucrative hauls.” He fell silent for a moment before adding, “He was mad at the world. Nothing anyone said or did could get through to him.”
Knowing all too well how it felt to fail a sibling, she sympathized. “It must have been difficult for you.”
“Yes, it was, but nowhere near as difficult as the day I learned of his death. I arranged to have his body returned home by train, but my grandpappy refused to let me bury him in the family plot because of his criminal activities. Said Dave brought shame to the family name.”
Commiserating with a nod, she thought of Rose buried with society’s outcasts.
“There’s another reason why I want to prove Dave had changed his ways.” He heaved a sigh. “Dave has a son. He’s eleven now, and I don’t want him growing up thinking ill of his pa.”
“I see.” She tried to think of something to say that would ease his pained expression, something comforting, but God’s words, not hers, came to mind. Voicing them would only blow her cover.
As if to guess her thoughts, he continued. “He said he’d found the Lord. I prayed it wasn’t just another one of his lies to get me to help him. Looks like maybe it was.” After a moment he added, “Nothing I hate worse than lies.”
He was talking about his brother, of course, but a surge of guilt rushed through her. She was only doing her job, and lying was part of it. So why did it suddenly feel so wrong?
The waiter appeared and placed two bowls of ice cream on the table. During the interruption, she noticed the man in the checkered suit peering at them from behind his newspaper. His interest meant he probably wasn’t a salesman.
Then who? Another Pinkerton operative? None of the communications from headquarters mentioned reinforcements. If Mr. Pinkerton thought there was something to be gained, however, he wouldn’t hesitate to send another detective or two.
Only one way to find out. Operatives had been taught to communicate with one another nonverbally. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, kept for just such a purpose. She waited for the man’s head to pop out from behind his newspaper again. With a flip of her left wrist, she waved the handkerchief and waited. No answering signal.
He wasn’t a Pinkerton operative, that much was certain. Perhaps he was just curious as to why a man would choose to entertain a harlot in public. That was a good question, and she swung her gaze back to her table companion.
“After you,” he said.
She smiled, tucked her handkerchief back in her sleeve, and picked up her spoon. The last ice cream she’d tasted was in New Orleans. Unfortunately, hay used to insulate the ice had found its way into the frozen dessert, making it unpalatable. She proceeded with caution as she dug her spoon into the smooth round mound in her bowl and lifted it to her mouth. The sweet cool cream melted in her mouth with no bits of hay to spoil the flavor.
“Mmm. This is soooooo good.”
Looking pleased, Colton picked up his own spoon. They ate in silence for a few moments before he asked, “Have any siblings?”
“Several,” she said in a tone she hoped would discourage further questions.
He studied her a moment but, apparently taking the hint, he returned to the subject of Dave. “One of the hardest days of my life was the day I arrested him. My own brother …”
Her hand froze and she nearly dropped her spoon. “You arrested him?”
“As a Texas Ranger, I had no choice.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re a Texas Ranger?”
“Was,” he said, his voice taut.
That explained his military bearing. “I pegged you as a rancher.”
“Actually, you hit the peg on the head.” He sat back and studied her. “I left the Rangers and started my own ranch. A small one by Texas standards.”
“A horse ranch,” she said.
“Cattle.”
“Really? I would have sworn you were into horses.”
His eyebrows rose. “What makes you say that?”
The way he handled his horse was one clue, but she didn’t want to let on that she had watched him from her bedroom window, not just once but twice. “Your hands,” she said.
He opened his hands and stared at his palms. They were large hands, strong, each finger long and tapered.
“Cowhands have rough hands,” she explained. “Horse wranglers wear gloves, which leave hands callus-free.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “You have me there. I got me some pretty good cattlemen to do the heavy lifting. Me? You’re right. I’m more of a horse guy.” He dropped his hands. “Very observant. You should be a detective.”
Her bowl now empty, she set her spoon down. Now look what she’d done, almost given herself away. Just being around him made her want to be more like herself and less like someone else, and that was a worry.
“I don’t imagine being a detective pays as well as my current job,” she said. Her ploy worked; his face grew tight and his eyes flat. As if suddenly reminded of who she was, he seemed anxious to distance himself. He reached into his vest pocke
t for his money clip to pay the tab.
She slipped her cloth bag over her wrist. Oddly, she hated to see their time together come to an end. “Thank you for the ice cream.”
Colton nodded but failed to meet her gaze. “My pleasure.”
She sighed. Always the gentleman, even in the company of a woman he considered to be anything but a lady.
He pulled out his money clip. “If you learn anything—”
Standing, she nodded. “Hotel, room fourteen.”
He lifted his gaze and she smiled, but it was halfhearted at best. His “ladies like you” comment still stung.
He failed to return her smile, and her spirits dropped yet another notch. Puzzled by the way he affected her, she walked away, but with no less vigilance.
She ventured a quick glance at the man in the checkered suit. Surprise, surprise, his ice cream of choice was Neapolitan.
Chapter 17
That Sunday morning Amy sat alone in her room. She’d hardly slept the night before, and exhaustion hung heavy in her limbs. Strange sounds woke her, and once she even thought she heard someone crying.
She rubbed her pounding temples. Of all the assignments she’d had through the years, this one was the toughest, and the strain was playing havoc with her nerves.
Not only was she expected to act and dress in a way that went against her Christian beliefs, living at the bordello posed an endless set of challenges with no time off for church.
Most criminals worked at night and slept late. So even on shadow duty she could usually sneak away for an hour or two to attend Sunday morning worship. But with Coral watching her every move, she couldn’t take the chance. Then, too, there was always the possibility that even dressed in her own clothes someone in church would recognize her.
Sighing, she reached for her Bible and thumbed through the dog-eared pages. No sooner had she settled down to read than the door flew open. She hid the Bible in the folds of her skirt.
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