The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  Conviction almost stopped her in her tracks. No, there was never a reason to sling insults. Bless those who curse you, pray for those who spitefully use you.

  Clenching her teeth, she prayed for forgiveness and knocked on Mr. Taylor’s glass door.

  A handsome man in his early fifties, a little gray salting his dark brown hair, he dropped the notepad he was holding and waved her in. “Ellie, have a seat.” He half-rose from his own, motioning to the chair opposite him.

  “Thank you. Harvey said you wanted to see me.”

  They both sat and Mr. Taylor picked up the notepad, but didn’t look at it. “I got a call today from the O’Toole Private Detective Agency. The owner, Michael O’Toole, would like to meet with you regarding an investigation.”

  That sounded promising. “Does he have a tip for me?”

  Mr. Taylor jiggled the notepad. “I think he may. Listen,” he dropped the pad again and leaned back in his chair, as if to get a better look at her. “That piece you did on corruption in the alderman’s office was as sharp and clean as they come. You’ve got a real future in journalism, even if you are a female.”

  Ellie’s eyebrow twitched at the backhanded compliment.

  “So, I would give you two pieces of advice.” He plucked a cigar from his breast pocket and sniffed it. “Trust is the most important thing a reporter can bring to an investigation.” He pointed the smoke at her. “Build trust and a source will sing the National Anthem for you. But I think you’ve got that one down.”

  “And the second?”

  He took his time rummaging his desk for a match, lighting his smoke, enjoying a long puff. Slowly, he exhaled, smoke swirling around his head. “I know you flirted a little to get that clerk in the alderman’s office to open up to you.” Heat rose to Ellie’s cheeks and Mr. Taylor laughed. “Relax, kid, I’m not gonna bust your chops for that. My second little nugget is, use all the tools in your bag to get your story. Those are the reporters who make it in this business, the ones who pull out all the stops.”

  Good advice, of course, but Ellie had a second twinge of guilt. Had manipulating a person, the way she had that clerk, really been the only way to get the story?

  “That said, Ellie Blair, you be careful dealing with Michael O’Toole.”

  The warning redirected her thoughts to the matter at hand. “I was under the impression the O’Toole Agency is a respected investigation firm.”

  “The company is legitimate. Loaded with good detectives. It’s O’Toole you gotta watch. Whatever he wants to see you about,” he waved the cigar in the air, “be skeptical. Rely on your instincts, kid. You got good ones.”

  “He didn’t say what this was about?”

  “Only that he had something a good reporter would drool over.”

  “But why me? Why didn’t he ask for Jack or Bill?”

  “He said they just wouldn’t do.”

  “So, you offered them? Because they’re men?”

  Mr. Taylor’s mouth lifted in one corner and he took another casual puff. “I offered them because they have fifty years’ experience combined. You’ve got two.” Her indignation must have shown. He leaned forward and crushed the cigar in his ashtray. “He wants a woman with a spirit of adventure for this potential scoop of his. Now Jack and Bill are pretty adventurous, but I don’t think I could pay either of them enough to slip into a skirt.” Ellie pressed her fingers to her lips to hide the smile. Mr. Taylor chuckled. “You’re one up there on my veteran reporters, Ellie. So, go see if O’Toole has a story you can sink your teeth into.”

  Why had this Michael O’Toole asked for her? Ellie wasn’t the only female reporter in the city of Boston, though the pool was small.

  She paused with her hand on the O’Toole Detective Agency’s door. The excitement of the unexpected invitation wearing off, she took a moment to ponder the reasons behind it. Only two of her stories had made the World’s front page, after months and months of trying. Ellie had indeed used every tool at her disposal to get the scoop on corruption in Alderman Sicario’s office. She’d even lifted her skirt and shown a little ankle. Oh, she wasn’t proud of that, but a petite figure, blonde hair, blue eyes, and long eyelashes had put some sugar on her inquisitive questions.

  One man, a clerk, hadn’t been able to resist Ellie’s sweetness.

  Frankly, she had been shocked how far she’d gotten with a few flirtatious remarks and the flash of ankle. And today, that willingness to pull out all the stops put her one up on her male counterparts.

  The power was a bit intoxicating. Her star was on the rise. If a soft tone of voice, cinching her corset a bit tighter, or a playful comment opened a door only a woman could walk through, there was nothing wrong with that. Sometimes a man’s gender opened doors for them. Ellie didn’t see much difference.

  Admitting she might be a touch full of herself but eager to tackle a new assignment, she let herself into a disappointingly spartan waiting room empty of clients. The desk where she assumed the secretary sat was also vacant. The church-like quiet had her wondering if she’d come over too quickly.

  The soft shuffle of papers from behind a door marked PRIVATE allayed her concern. She strode to the door, concentrating on keeping the thud of her heels quiet on the wood floor. The swishing of her skirt, however, seemed inordinately loud. Tugging on her shirtwaist, she rotated a shoulder, then knocked gently. “Hello. I’m the reporter from the World Daily News. I believe someone is expecting me.”

  “Yes, come in,” a man said. Ellie heard a chair roll as she opened the door. A balding, middle-aged man with a round face rose to greet her, shoving his watch into his pocket as he stood. “Miss Blair?”

  “Yes.”

  They shook hands across his desk. “Glad to know ya. I’m Michael O’Toole, head of the agency.” His Irish accent capped his words as thickly as the foam on a dark ale. “Fine of ye to come down and meet with me.” He motioned to the corner where she was startled to see another man rising from a chair. Big, brawny, and brooding, he was rather frightening. “This is my lead detective Mr. Hanlon. Mr. Hanlon, Miss Blair.”

  Ellie was astonished at how small her fragile hand looked and felt in this man’s paw. He did not release even a hint of a smile, but only jerked his chin slightly to acknowledge her, then returned to his chair.

  “Please take a seat,” Mr. O’Toole said, retaking his.

  Ellie settled on the edge, her bustle not allowing any more of the seat. “My editor said you wanted a female reporter specifically. How can I help you, Mr. O’Toole?”

  “Well, young missus, I’ve a predicament and I hear tell,” he pointed at her for emphasis, “you are the duchess who can help me out.” He grinned, not in a charming way, more like a snake—if a snake could grin—and leaned back in his squeaking banker’s chair. “I hear you get information when others can’t.”

  Ellie prayed her cheeks would stop their warming as she fought the rising pride. “I have scooped two other papers on a construction company with illicit ties to Alderman Sicario’s office.”

  O’Toole’s grin spread. “Aye, I heard. That was an impressive bit of sleuthing, young lady, and I want you to do more of it. For me.”

  Ellie cocked her head to one side. “I don’t understand. Are you offering me a job as a detective?”

  “Not a job. At least, not one that would require you to leave the newspaper. More like an assignment. Ye see, I currently only employ male investigators and I’ve a situation in which yer,” his gray eyes drifted down her frame and then back up, “yer gentler qualities may be of tremendous benefit. And if you get the information I need, ye will have another scoop.” He paused for the effect. “A scoop that could put the Murphy Gang away for the next century.”

  Ellie tightened her jaw to keep it from falling open. A scoop regarding the most powerful criminal gang on the East Coast would seal her future in journalism. A story like that would get her a job at any newspaper in the country, and for top pay. Best of all, no one would confuse Ellie Bla
ir with that publicity hound Nellie Bly ever again. Oh, God, thank You.

  “Are ye interested, Miss Blair?”

  “I’m all ears, Mr. O’Toole. All ears.”

  He winked. “Good girl. Ye’ve the pluck and spirit of Nellie Bly, eh?”

  Ellie allowed a tiny, exasperated sigh. “More, I think.”

  He slapped the desk. “Then I’ll lay it out for ye.” He reached into his middle desk drawer and withdrew a stack of letters. “A man named Sean O’Dea is said to have stolen quite a large sum of money from the Shamrock mob. We’ve been asked by the federal government to assist in locating the man before the Irish lads do. The government would like him to testify and if the gang finds him first—well, there won’t be anything left of Mr. O’Dea.” He paused slightly here, drumming his fingers on the letters. “We think we tracked him to a ranch he worked on back in the summer of ’82, before he came East. Now the thing is, we don’t want to spook him until we can locate the loot. Which is where ye come in.”

  He slid the letters over to her. Getting a go-ahead nod, Ellie picked up the stack and flipped through them. All from someone named Clegg Hoyt to a Millie Swank here in Boston.

  “We intercepted some mail on its way from the ranch, trying to see, ye know, if O’Dea was reaching out to anybody or vice versa. We found Millie Swank there.” He grinned like a bear eyeing the honey pot. “Aye, a real stroke of luck, that. She’s been corresponding with the Hoyt fella. Apparently he’s in the market for a mail-order bride to help him settle into his new job . . . at the same ranch where we believe Sean O’Dea has landed.”

  “My, that was fortunate.”

  “I’d like to say it was me masterful investigating skills, but sometimes—” he shrugged humbly, “well, they don’t call it the luck o’ the Irish for nothing. Anyhow, we’ve convinced Miss Swank to allow ye to pretend to be her and go to this ranch. Snoop. Find O’Dea and the money, or at least confirm that he’s there.”

  Ellie shifted, wishing she could lean back in the chair. This was quite a lot of information to take in. “The idea is brilliant,” she said more to herself than Mr. O’Toole. “No one would suspect a mail-order bride.”

  “Shore, that’s exactly what we thought.”

  “I assume Mr. Hoyt and Miss Swank have never met and I match her description? At least somewhat?”

  “Ye are close enough. We will pay all your expenses, and yer editor has agreed to loan ye to the agency.”

  She glanced again at the stack of mail. “These are the letters he wrote. How do I know what she wrote to him? I wouldn’t want to get tripped up on something simple.”

  Mr. O’Toole nodded in admiration. “Ye are a sharp-witted girl. I see now why the newspaper racket suits ye. Ye’re a fast-thinker. Well, worry not. Ye’ll have a dossier to travel with. It will contain as much information as the young lady can recall sharing, as well as what we know about Sean O’Dea and this Clegg Hoyt, which is, honestly, very little, outside those letters.”

  “And the story is mine exclusively?”

  “Sell it to every bleedin’ newspaper in the country if it suits ye. We want O’Dea and the money. Period.”

  Ellie chewed on her bottom lip, wondering what Nellie Bly would do. Well, she knew what Nellie would do, of course. “I have just one question then.”

  Mr. O’Toole raised his brow, waiting.

  “Where am I going exactly?”

  The corner of his mouth tilted slightly. “A ranch just outside Evergreen, Wyoming.”

  2

  Ellie had thought she would not be nervous, until the train’s whistle announced their approach to Evergreen. Then she felt like ants were running over her skin. She’d had days to prepare for this meeting, to plan what she would say to Mr. Hoyt, to choose her words ahead of time. Now, nothing she’d thought of seemed right. She opened the folder on her lap and again read the letter, one of several. This one, however, was her favorite.

  “Dear Miss Swank, I long to ride with you across the golden prairie, down into the green valleys, and to the tops of the ancient buttes. To stand beside you as the oranges and reds of a summer sunset turn the mountain peaks to flames. To stop and let you listen to the pristine silence. To walk arm-in-arm with you, gazing up at the shimmering tapestry of the night sky. After so many letters, I feel I know you heart and soul.

  “I am on my way to my new position as foreman at the Whiskey Creek Ranch. The owner says it is a pleasant place. Though the work will be hard, hours long, and the weather fickle, she advised me the ranch sits in a beautiful valley full of clear, cold streams and thick, waist-high grass. I will scout a suitable parcel out for my cabin within the first few days. I hope to find a spot with a view of the mountains, or a creek nearby. I plan to have it built by mid-August or so. You must come to Wyoming after that, if you are still so inclined. As for me, I know that if you love the wild, rugged beauty of the West as much as I do, then my search for a bride has not been in vain. Please answer as to if and when you will be arriving. I anxiously await your response. With affection, Clegg.”

  Ellie let out a long, slow breath. Mr. Hoyt sounded like the most decent sort of man and the way she was going to toy with him had seemed harmless back in Boston. After all, there was a greater good at stake. But now, here, perhaps only moments away from meeting him, she feared she had taken this assignment too lightly.

  A criminal was on the loose, however, and this arguably was the best way to find him. His capture could well put an end to a violent, murderous criminal gang. Lives could be saved. She had to consider the greater good.

  Lord, I don’t want to hurt Mr. Hoyt. Please help me handle this assignment quickly and cleanly and be back in Boston as soon as possible so that he can build a life with the real Millie Swank.

  The train whistled again and started slowing down for its entry into the station.

  . . . and I can get back to mine. Amen.

  Jim West absently noted the distant whistle announcing the train, but kept his mind on the telegram. Tapping the pencil lead on the paper, he read his words again. NEW HAND DAVE REYNOLDS FROM BAR Z BAR. TX. NEED BACKGROUND INFORMATION.

  That would do it. He slid the note across the counter to ol’ Moseby, the telegraph operator. Tall, skinny, gaunt as a corpse, rumor had it he’d been running this office for thirty years and was known for his uncompromising discretion. While Evergreen was not a hotbed of crime, business deals and mistresses’ names were safely hidden with Moseby.

  Jim fished the coins from his pocket and laid them on the counter. “You’ll send that today?”

  “Before two,” the man said, sliding the money into the palm of his hand. “Want me to hold the reply or dispatch it?”

  “Send it out to the ranch soon as you hear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tipping his hat, Jim slipped out of the Western Union office and meandered down a busy boardwalk, lost in thought. Nearly a week of nosing around the ranch hadn’t turned up anything, then this Dave Reynolds had applied for a job. Jim had hired him specifically because of some inconsistencies in the man’s appearance and work history. After another few days, the inconsistencies had only gotten more pronounced.

  Mentally, Jim ticked off the list of things that bothered him about the new hire. Reynolds had said he had just come up from working on a ranch in Texas. Yet, the man’s horse wasn’t trail-weary. The animal looked as if he’d ridden the train. His saddle and gear weren’t new, but neither had they been used daily for six months to chase longhorns through tough Texas mesquite. Reynolds didn’t have the face of a cowboy either. Only slight weathering around his eyes betrayed a vocation that did not take him outdoors every day. So—

  Absorbed in his questions, Jim did not see the pretty little blonde standing on the boardwalk, stuffing a folder into a valise.

  “Oh,” she squealed as he bumped into her petite frame. Her hat flopped into her face as her feminine curves pressed against his chest. He quickly clutched at dainty shoulders to keep her from falling
, but the folder slipped from her hand and papers scattered in a whirlwind to the muddy walk.

  “Oh, pardon me, ma’am—”

  “Oh, no,” she cried, righting her hat and shoving Jim off her like he was a wet dog. She started scampering around after the documents moving faster than a panicked rabbit.

  “Ma’am, my apologies.” Jim crouched down to help, the papers drifting and scattering away from him as if out of meanness.

  “No, no, I’ve got this,” she said curtly. She swiped papers up in a frenzy, she and her skirt spinning like a pinwheel. The hat went sideways again, its single feather flopping madly, and a rush of golden blonde hair spilled down her back. “How did you not see me? I was standing in the middle of the boardwalk.”

  “Exactly. Most people are walking while they’re on the boardwalk.”

  The woman shoved the papers gruffly back into the folder, making a mess of them. Some askew, most wrinkled, a few muddy. Caring only that she stopped them from blowing away.

  Jim was a little insulted by her uppity tone but when a letter fluttered past his foot, he obligingly stopped it with the toe of his boot.

  He reached down for the letter but she snatched it out of his hand before he could stand upright. Their eyes locked and for an instant he saw colors of blue and green that reminded him of the San Francisco bay on a sunny afternoon.

  She blinked and backed away. “You’re saying it’s my fault you ran into me?”

  “What? No.” What had he said exactly? “I was a little distracted and didn’t expect to walk into a pole—”

  “A pole?” Her voice shot up.

  “That’s not what I meant either.” He patted the air, trying to get Little Miss Huffy to calm down.

  She shoved the folder back into her valise. “Perhaps you could just tell me where the Western Union office is?”

  Pretty, but snippy. Jim shrugged mentally. No more gals like this for him. San Francisco society had ruined him on emotional, fragile women. Besides, he shouldn’t be looking anyway. Not like he was staying in Wyoming long. At least he hoped not. “You’re almost at it.” He pointed with his thumb. “Other side of the bank.”