Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  “I’d be happy to help you.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind, but I won’t be staying in St. Louis for much longer.”

  Charity glanced at her mother. “I should probably put her to bed.”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t keep you.” She placed her glass on the tray. “Is he a good man?” she asked. “Your fiancé? Is he a Christian?” Will he love you and cherish you and always be true? Or will he satisfy his needs in another woman’s bed like so many men do?

  “Oh yes,” Charity said, and there was no question that she believed it with her whole heart and soul. “He’s a minister and one day plans to build his own church.”

  Jennifer envied her sister’s faith in her fiancé and prayed that it wasn’t misplaced. “I wish you every happiness,” she said, bringing a smile to Charity’s face.

  All through her teens, Jennifer thought that finding her sister would fix her family’s problems—that her father would stop drinking and her mother stop mourning and her brothers stop running wild. Maybe it would have made a difference at one time, but not now. It was too late to save her parents. Her mother and father were both dead. As for her brothers, they were now married with families of their own, their wild days a distant memory.

  Charity walked her to the door. “You said you knew my mother in Illinois.”

  Feeling more numbed than angry, Jennifer gazed past her to the woman in the chair. Vacant eyes stared from a face as round and still as the moon.

  “I … was mistaken. I never knew your mother at all.”

  Outside the world looked different, somehow. Losing her sister had been her personal north guiding her every move. Knowing that her sister was safe and happy freed her from the chains locking her into the past.

  Was that God’s plan all along? Was that the reason she ended up at Miss Lillian’s? Not to solve the mystery of the Gunnysack Bandit but to unlock the mystery of her own past?

  The ruby-throated hummingbird flitting around a red carnation seemed to think so. She would have sworn the bird nodded his shiny green head. The pastor of her church liked to say that God works in mysterious ways.

  That was true, of course, but lately His ways seemed even more mysterious. She only hoped God had something more up His heavenly sleeve because she had no idea where to go from there.

  After turning down the Colorado assignment in order to track down her sister, she wasn’t even certain she had a job left. Then there was Tom. Weeks had passed since she’d last seen him, but her misery was no less potent today than it had been when he left. She sighed. Her life was a complete mess.

  The sun hung just above the horizon like a crystal ball shooting arrows of red and yellow across the sky. The hummingbird continued to flit from blossom to blossom. With its whirring green wings and ruby throat, it looked like a rainbow in flight.

  “You’re getting married?” How was that possible? Her baby sister?

  “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

  Two thoughts churned in her head. They seemed totally unrelated but in some strange way connected. A sense of uneasiness came over her, but she couldn’t define the source.

  “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

  The hummingbird hovered over a red blossom.

  “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

  She drove the rented horse and buggy back to town, the thought persisting. Something churned just outside her memory, but she couldn’t for the life of her bring it to the forefront.

  “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

  Hummingbird.

  Chapter 34

  Texas

  Jennifer tugged on the reins and muttered, “Where is it?” The wagon rolled to a stop and the dapple gray horse nickered and flicked his tail as if protesting the delay.

  The man at the stables told her to follow the road and it would lead straight to the Colton ranch. “You can’t miss it.”

  So far the land revealed nothing but sagebrush, dry ground, and an occasional cattle skull. If there was a ranch anywhere to be found out here, she would be inclined to eat her hat.

  She mopped her damp forehead with a handkerchief. Though she’d passed mesquite trees at the start of her journey, she hadn’t seen a spot of shade since. If the buzzards overhead and bright scorching sun weren’t bad enough, the humid air weighed upon her like a wet blanket and her clothes stuck to her like glue.

  Feeling hot and tired and more than a bit lightheaded, she reached for the canteen. The few precious drops that remained did nothing to ease her thirst, and she tossed the flask aside.

  If only it hadn’t taken her all this time to figure out that Rose’s journal wasn’t about birds. Instead, it held the clue to the identity of the Gunnysack Bandit—and it wasn’t Tom’s brother. Of that she was certain.

  The incongruity of it amazed her. She had gone to St. Louis to find her sister and ended up solving not just one mystery but two.

  Anxious to reach Tom, she picked up the reins and, with a glance at the still circling vultures, urged the horse forward. Please, God, just let me live long enough to tell him the good news.

  Tom stood by the fence, hands over the top railing, watching the black mustang circle the corral. It was June but felt like August. Last night’s rainstorm left a blanket of hot, sticky air behind.

  The steed with its thundering hooves, flying mane, and fiery breath looked no less wild today than when he was first brought to the ranch three months earlier.

  Twice already that morning, the animal tried clearing the fence. The first time he fell on his side, mouth open, eyes frantic, body arching until he was finally back on all fours.

  The next time he looked about to jump, the horse trainer, Clint, snapped his whip down hard on the ground, and the mustang thought better of it.

  Sure-footed as a mule, Clint Saunders moved fast and talked slow. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were but a man of few words. Unfortunately, he liked to talk almost as much as he liked horses. Once he got going on one of his long-winded tales, all the glazed eyes and yawning in the world couldn’t stop him.

  Now he sauntered over to Tom, his white hair held down by a floppy brimmed hat and tied at his neck with a piece of rawhide. “I don’t know, Tom. I’ve tamed my share of wild horses, but this one …” He shook his head. “This one’s off his mental reservation. Never thought I’d say this about a horse, but he’s an outlaw. Reminds me of the time—”

  “Let him go.”

  Clint pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He pressed his hat back on, gray eyes narrowed. “Never thought I’d hear those words come outta your mouth.”

  “Let him go.”

  Tom pulled away from the fence and started for the barn. It had been more than a month since he’d returned to the ranch, and he still didn’t want to believe the things said about his brother.

  Even now, the thought sickened him. His brother the outlaw, his brother the killer.

  The signs had all been there, but Tom hadn’t wanted to believe them. He wanted to think there was a simple explanation for the stolen banknotes found in his brother’s pocket and the neatly typed list of holdups. He wanted to believe what Reverend Matthews said was true, but that was only wishful thinking on his part. On the preacher’s part, too, probably.

  Perhaps the most damaging evidence of all was the lack of holdups since his brother’s death. His brother was a criminal, and it was time to let him go.

  The problem was how to break the news to his young nephew. He couldn’t hold back the truth much longer.

  He lengthened his stride. Since returning home, he’d brushed off his nephew’s questions with vague answers. That had to change.

  Like it or not, it was time to sit down with the boy and tell him the truth about his pa. He expected honesty from his nephew and the boy deserved the same consideration in return. Maybe then they could put this whole episode behind them and start afresh. God, don’t let me fail my nephew like I failed Dave.

  What didn�
��t make sense was the way he kept thinking of the woman he now knew had tricked him. God, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I sleep? Eat? Why does everything remind me of her, even a wild horse that stubbornly refuses to be tamed?

  To make matters worse, he imagined seeing her at that very moment as he walked toward the stables. Imagined seeing her wave, seeing those big beautiful eyes of hers that lit up a room as they lit up his heart. He blinked, but the vision stubbornly remained behind the shimmering heat. It was like looking at her through a dream. He stopped in his tracks. Or was it?

  Amy? Jennifer?

  Was it really her or were his eyes playing tricks again? His legs carried him forward without hesitation. This time the vision didn’t fade away as it had so often in the past.

  He ran to her and would have taken her in his arms had she not lashed into him.

  “Tom Colton, you had no right blaming me for anything that happened. You know I couldn’t reveal my real identity and …” On and on she went, emphasizing her displeasure with finger pokes to his chest. “You were a Texas Ranger. You have to know what it’s like to work undercover.” Green fire shot from her eyes. “Furthermore …”

  At last she ran out of words, or maybe she just needed to take a breath. “Are you finished?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she shouted back. Then she did something completely unexpected; she fainted dead away. It was a miracle that he was able to catch her before she hit the ground.

  Alarmed, he lifted her into his arms. She was hot, dangerously hot.

  “Clint! Take care of the lady’s horse,” he called.

  “Will do, Boss.”

  Anxious to get her out of the blistering sun, Tom carried her into the ranch house and to his bed.

  Jennifer opened her eyes and moaned. Battling through the fog, she tried making sense of her surroundings. Where am I?

  A voice sounded from a distance, but she couldn’t make out the words. She blinked and gradually her vision cleared. A face … She inhaled. “Tom?”

  “Well look a there, sleeping beauty is finally awake.”

  Was that really him or was she dreaming? “Where … where am I?”

  “You’re in Texas.”

  Texas. A whirlwind of disconnected thoughts spun in her head before the cotton disappeared completely. “What … happened?”

  “Looks like the heat got you.” He reached for a glass on the bedside table. “Here, drink this.” He slid an arm under her head and raised the glass to her lips. The water tasted cool and sweet.

  He pulled the glass away and set it on the table.

  She tried saying “thank you,” but her parched lips wouldn’t cooperate.

  He stood by the side of the bed, looking down on her. She couldn’t tell by his expression whether he was still angry, but he sure didn’t look like himself.

  “So what do I call you?” he asked. “Jennifer or Amy?”

  “My name is Jennifer,” she said.

  He repeated her name after her as if trying it on for size. “I brought your carpetbag in from your rig in case you want to change. Your shirt’s all wet from when I tried to cool you down.”

  She struggled to sit up.

  “Take it easy.” His hand on her shoulder made her heart leap even in her weakened condition. Surprised by the unexpected jolt, she swayed before falling back onto the pillow.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, a shadow of alarm on his face.

  She nodded. “Just a bit woozy.”

  He waited for her dizziness to pass before straddling a chair by her side.

  She felt an overwhelming need to touch him to see if he was real, to push the wayward strand of hair from his forehead, to run a finger over the intriguing cleft on his chin. Fearing she might still be dreaming, she looked away to see if the world around them was real.

  The room was small. Furnished with a single bunk, wardrobe, and chair, it had Tom’s partiality for simplicity written all over it. “Your room?”

  He looked around as if seeing it for the first time. Or maybe he was simply seeing it through her eyes. “Yep, it’s mine. So, what brings you way out here? Other than to chew me out, I mean.”

  Now she remembered. She’d been so overwhelmed at seeing him, all the frustrations, disappointments, and loneliness of the past few weeks spurted out of her like flames of fire.

  “Way out here is right.” A wan smile was all her parched mouth would allow, but it seemed to be enough to soften the worry lines on his face. “They told me your ranch was only a mile or two out of town.”

  “That’s Texas miles. If you want to go by how a crow flies, it’s closer to ten.”

  She made a face. “It felt like twenty.” It was hard to know what was worse: the heat, humidity, dust, or horse-sized bugs.

  She moistened her dry lips. So much had happened since she last saw him. She had so much to say, but between her parched throat and lightheadedness, she couldn’t get the words out.

  Feeling a sudden urgency, she struggled to get out of bed. So much to do …

  “Whoa,” he said, hands on her shoulders. “First things first. You’ll never make it back to town before dark. That’s for sure and certain. Better spend the night here.”

  She looked down at the bed, his bed.

  As if to guess her thoughts, he added, “I’ll sleep in the bunkhouse.” He hesitated. “I wish I could offer you better accommodations, but I’m not used to having guests.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  It took him a moment to grasp her meaning. The corners of his mouth turned upward. It was hardly the smile she’d come to expect from him, but it was enough.

  “Ah, yes. Miss Lillian and her ‘guests.’ ”

  She studied him. “Are … are you still angry that I lied to you about who I was?”

  “You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you aren’t a … you know.”

  “Sporting lady?”

  He ran his hand across his chin. “So what brings you to these parts?”

  You. You bring me to these parts. Aloud she said, “I have news.” She cleared her voice and started again, this time louder. “The Gunnysack Bandit is still alive.”

  His expression grew tight as did his voice. “What are you talking about? My brother—”

  “No!” She moved her hand toward him but fell short of touching him. “Your brother tried to stop him. That’s what he was doing in Hampton.”

  He stared at her, his mouth in a straight line. “That makes no sense. The list of holdups, the banknotes—”

  “Planted to make him look guilty. Just as the handwriting on the holdup note was made to look like your brother’s work.”

  “If this is true …” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Then who? Why?”

  “I don’t have all the answers yet. What I do know is that your brother didn’t do the things they said. You have to believe that.”

  A shadow of doubt hovered on his forehead. “How do you know all this?”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “You won’t believe this, but it was the birds.”

  His forehead creased. “I better send one of the boys to fetch the doctor. The heat rattled your think box.”

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with my thinking. I’m serious. Did it ever occur to you why Rose went to so much trouble to hide her journal beneath the floorboards? A journal about birds?”

  His gaze remained on her face. “Go on.”

  “She was keeping track of everything that happened at the parlor house using birds as a code.” As a Pinkerton detective, she’d worked with many codes, though never one using birds.

  She gave him a moment to process this information before continuing. “Your brother was right; Rose figured out the identity of the Gunnysack Bandit.”

  “If that’s true, why didn’t she go to the marshal?”

  “You said it yourself. Who would believe one of Miss Lillian’s girls? She told your brother instead. He then decided to follow the
bandit to Hampton to gather proof. That’s when Buttercup heard the two of them arguing. I think Rose was against his getting involved.”

  The doubt began to fade from Tom’s face. “But he went anyway.”

  She nodded. “I think he got the proof he was looking for but was unaware that the Gunnysack Bandit was onto him.”

  “So he made it look like Dave had robbed the bank and killed the guard.”

  “Exactly. Dave didn’t know that his cover was blown, of course, and had no clue that the real bandit followed him back to town. I think Dave had the proof he needed to put Gunny behind bars. But after things turned violent and the guard was shot, he was worried about Rose’s safety.”

  “So instead of going to the sheriff in Hampton, he rushed back to Goodman.”

  She nodded. “I think once he knew that Rose was safe he would have gone straight to Flood.”

  “But he never got the chance.” Tom gave his head a shake, an incredulous look on his face. “And you base all this on a bunch of birds?”

  “Actually, it was the hummingbird. Rose wrote that there was a hummingbird in her room.”

  “So?”

  “The journal entry was dated December 20th.”

  He shrugged and splayed his hands. “And?”

  “When’s the last time you saw a hummingbird in December?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a rancher, not a bird-watcher.”

  “For your information, hummingbirds fly to Mexico for the winter.”

  He thought for a moment. “Okay, so what was she really saying?”

  “Someone was in her room, perhaps going through her things, the person she called Hummingbird. Her name for Georgia was Canary because she liked to sing. Buttercup can’t pass a mirror without gazing in it, just like the magpie that lives behind the parlor house.”

  “Magpies look in mirrors?”

  “Windows.” She wasn’t able to figure out the rest. Who was the loon? Who was the mockingbird? Most important of all, who was Hummingbird?

  He scratched his head. “What does any of this have to do with the Gunnysack Bandit?”