Ellie stepped out on the wooden platform. Jim followed her. She had so much she wanted to say to him, but instead only offered her hand. “I’ll be going now. Straight to the Rocky Mountain News.”
He took her hand, and held on to it. “I don’t like the idea of you wandering through this city alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I . . . ” she trailed off. Last chance to say something meaningful. “I will miss you, Agent West. Thank you for letting me help. Thank you for an adventure worthy of Nellie Bly.”
He squeezed her hand a little tighter. “My pleasure. All of it. Look me up sometime if you ever make it to San Francisco.”
“I will.” Still their hands stayed intertwined. “I wish things were different.” It was the most courageous thing she could manage.
“So do I.”
Slowly, she pulled her hand from his. He let it go, but not easily.
“Miss Blair, I assume ye’ve got O’Dea in there?”
“Mr. O’Toole?” Ellie spun at the sound of the man’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
The investigator from Boston sauntered up the walk toward them, a grin on his round face. Beside her, she sensed a tension in Jim.
“I’ve come to make sure ye’ve the right man. Did ye identify O’Dea by the scar?”
Behind her in the car, Reynolds was whispering something in a desperate tone. Jim hadn’t had a moment to release him from the shackles yet.
“Uh, yes. Mr. O’Toole,” she said, trying to drown out the man. For some reason she wasn’t comfortable with O’Toole’s unexpected appearance. She motioned to Jim. “Please allow me to introduce—”
“Hoyt. Clegg Hoyt.” Jim said.
What?
“Nice try, Agent West.”
“You know who I am?”
“We’ve known for some time. We learned of yer charade through a former associate who is in jail in Denver. Where he met the real Clegg Hoyt. Once we became aware you had followed a trail to Reynolds at Whiskey Creek, we decided to perpetrate a charade of our own. That is where you came in, Miss Blair. And ye’ve been quite helpful. A pair of eyes on our behalf. Thank ye, lass.”
“I don’t understand.” She ricocheted her gaze from O’Toole to Jim.
Jim’s jaw tightened like he was chomping on iron. “He’s working for Murphy.”
Ellie gasped. “You lied?” The realization made her feel stupid. “You don’t work for the government? You work for the Murphy Gang?”
“Aye,” the man nodded. “Now, if ye’ll be so kind as to hand over O’Dea.” Three other men ambled up the walk and flanked Mr. O’Toole. “I’ve some boys here in town who would like to speak with him.”
Jim stepped over to stand beside Ellie and slipped something into her hand. “You know I can’t.” The key to Reynolds’ handcuffs. “That door is closed.” He flicked his eyes at Ellie. He had a plan but she couldn’t see it. Her heart was thundering in her chest. What was she missing? “We’ll have to hurry on to our appointment now.” Before she could ponder his meaning, Jim thrust Ellie back inside the freight car. Gun drawn, he grabbed the door and jerked it closed behind him as the men outside scrambled for their guns. “Unlock Reynolds,” he ordered.
Ellie leaped to do his bidding. A hail of bullets hit the cattle car just then, sending splinters flying. Jim fired back through the slats in the wall as she tried to tame her trembling fingers and free Reynolds.
“Let’s go,” Jim ordered, grabbing his prisoner and flinging open the door on the other side of the car. He threw Reynolds out, grabbed Ellie’s hand, and they both leaped to the ground together. Reynolds rose and started to run. Still grasping Ellie’s hand, Jim snatched the man back by the collar. “We stick together.”
The three bolted across several pairs of tracks, gun shots and shouts peppering the air behind them. Dirt flew up from the ground around them.
Oh, God, protect us, Ellie pleaded. Fear had lodged in her throat and she couldn’t speak. Please, she added in desperation.
The trio cut underneath two unhitched cars and then dove into a corral full of nervous, mooing cattle. Confused shouts and curses from O’Toole and his men detailed their pursuit. Jim, Ellie, and Reynolds hunkered down amidst the cattle, using the animals as cover, and made their way to the edge of the livestock office, then slipped around the corner into its shadows.
“Ye’re going to get me killed, West,” Reynolds panted, collapsing on the ground. His chest rose and fell like he’d run a hundred miles. Ellie was out of breath, as well, but couldn’t see how whining about their predicament was going to help things.
Jim peered around the edge of the building, but pulled back suddenly. “They’re coming.” He sounded odd, a little hoarse, but not out of breath. He raised the revolver and cocked it. Ellie saw the blood then, pouring down his arm, coating his fingers.
16
Fear galvanized Ellie and she darted to Jim’s side. “You’re shot.”
She pawed at his shoulder trying to see his injury, but he pushed her hand away. “Ellie, you’ve got to get your story to the newspaper. Get it filed. You’re right. It’s important.”
“Say, what about me? I’m important.” Reynolds was suddenly refreshed. “If ye’re thinkin’ about standing your ground, ye’ll get us both killed.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could trust you to turn yourself in while I discourage them?”
“Shore. And I’ll give up whiskey, too.”
True terror squeezed Ellie’s heart. She wasn’t afraid for herself. Jim might be dying. She couldn’t fathom the loss . . . or her grief. “We have to get you to a doctor.”
“Ellie, listen to me,” Jim turned somber, dark eyes on her. “If I can’t get him out of this alive, your story may be the only thing that brings justice for the Murphy Gang . . . and me. I wired we were coming in this morning, but I don’t know if help will get here in time. You have to go. I’ll cover for you.”
Yes, the story was important. Truly important. But a living witness was more important. For so long she’d put her own selfish ambition ahead of everything, ahead of family, friends, even God. She knew this moment was her chance to prove she hadn’t lost her soul. She couldn’t protect Jim, but she could sacrifice her story to help him.
“I’ll take him,” Ellie said. “I’ll turn Reynolds in.”
Jim shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. Besides, Reese might try to beat you to the newspaper. You can’ let him win. It’s all you’ve cared about.”
No, it wasn’t all she cared about. “All I care about is right here.” Jim’s eyebrows rose and Ellie rushed on. “Getting Reynolds—O’Dea—whoever he is, to the Treasury Department is more important than a byline. I’ll get the story filed. I just might not get the scoop.”
Jim looked at Reynolds. “I’ll buy you some time. Skip out on her, don’t show up at the Treasury office, and you’ll be worrying about a lot more than Murphy’s boys.”
“Ye think ye’ll make it out of this?”
Jim pulled a derringer out of his boot and handed it to Ellie. “Shoot him and drag him to the Treasury Department if you have to, but get him there.”
She took the gun and smiled at him, but her lips were cold. “Please don’t die. I’ll be praying for you.”
He started to touch her cheek, but the bloody hand stopped him. “I’ll do my best.”
She kissed him, hard and quick, then waved the derringer at Reynolds.
“Wait.” Plucking cartridges from his gun belt, Jim lowered himself to the ground. “The Treasury building is on the corner of Sixteenth and Market streets.” He started loading his revolver. “Three blocks down, turn left. You can’t miss it. Now go.”
He peered around the corner again and fired. More gunfire greeted the shot as Ellie and Reynolds ran from the stockyard.
They fled like scalded cats, flinching and ducking at the sound of gunfire. The battle, however, raged behind them. Would Jim be all right? How was he going to hold off four—or more�
�men?
The popping and snapping of gunfire followed them out of the stockyards. It sounded to Ellie like far more than five men exchanging fire. Jim was so badly outnumbered and she prayed harder for him.
Finally, a block away, Reynolds slipped into the shadows of a closed drug store to catch his breath. Ellie was in quite good shape and didn’t feel the need to stop, but allowed the man a moment.
Bent over, hands on his knees, he sucked wind for several minutes before finally getting close to something like normal breathing. Ellie kept her distance from him all the while, agreeing with Jim about blarney and criminals.
“Let’s go,” she urged him with the derringer. “Let’s get this over with.”
Reynolds took one last deep breath, but didn’t look up. “I’ve enjoyed yer company, little girl. But it’s time for me to move on.” He struck out like a snake, reaching for the revolver.
Ellie didn’t think, merely reacted. She sidestepped him and fired into the air. Reynolds spun on her, but wisely threw his hands into the air when he saw the black hole of the derringer’s barrel pointing at him and Ellie’s thumb pulling the hammer back. She knew her eyes were wide with fear, but she hoped Reynolds could see her determination as well.
“Ye’ve only one bullet left, girly.”
“I’ve got six. I’ll share with her.”
Ellie and Reynolds started at the sound of a new voice. Bill Reese stepped under the awning with them, his .32 revolver aimed at Reynolds.
She could have kissed him. “Reese, what are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to the Rocky Mountain News. To file a story about an organized crime gang counterfeiting coins, killing policemen, and corrupting politicians . . . unless you need some help here.”
Ellie was moved by Reese’s unexpected flash of humanity. “Here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her story. “I’ll trade you my story for your handgun.”
His eyes rounded like full moons. “You expect me to turn in your story and not steal it? Not put my name on it?”
“I don’t care what you do with it. Just make sure it gets on the wire. Lives are depending on it.” She smashed the papers into his chest. “Go. File my story.”
Mouth agape, Reese pressed his hand over the papers and gave her his revolver, letting it spin on his finger. Ellie snatched it from him before she had time to re-think her choice. “Let’s go, Reynolds.”
With two guns trained on him, he nodded in defeat. “Aye. I guess we will.”
Ellie drummed her fingers softly on the end of Jim’s metal hospital bed. He was drawn and pale, but would be all right. Lost some blood, was all.
After relinquishing Reynolds to the custody of the Treasury department—an act which necessitated an astonishing amount of paperwork—she’d been told the details regarding the shootout down in the stockyard. Several agents had convened on the scene. The Murphy and O’Toole men had put up a good fight, but were captured in less than an hour. Jim had been brought to the hospital with two minor gunshot wounds. He was expected to make a full recovery.
An agent had told Ellie the department would get in touch with her in Boston to have her give her deposition. Most likely, she would not be called to testify in the case.
So, her heart drifted somewhere between despair and relief. At least Jim was alive, but she would never see him again, and that was as it should be. It was the only way she could heal from . . . the loss of her heart.
She already knew he had changed her. Her burning desire to be the next Nellie Bly had cooled into a dying ember. But what she did want, well, Agent West wasn’t up for that kind of story.
Therefore, Ellie would go back to Boston. To her job of fighting to make the front page, of putting up with the jabs and jokes from her male counterparts. She would head home every night to her small closet of an apartment. Eventually, Jim West would be a bittersweet memory, one that would fade a little every year but never completely die.
“God, I want to forget him . . . and I want to remember him the rest of my life. Please, just make it not hurt so much.”
She stared at him a moment longer, remembering his kisses, the peace and passion she’d felt in his arms, and had to blink back tears. Surprised at herself, wondering if Nellie Bly ever cried, Ellie Blair turned and walked away.
17
“God, I want to forget him . . . and I want to remember him the rest of my life. Please, just make it not hurt so much.”
Jim was swimming to consciousness, but when he heard her voice, her prayer, he forced his eyes to stay closed. He didn’t know what he would say to her. Her words cut him deeply.
Because he felt exactly the same way. He wanted to walk away from her . . . and never let her go.
When her steps had faded, he opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the cross hanging on the wall opposite him. He stared at it for a long time, feeling the yearning to reach out to Him to ask for help. He couldn’t solve this dilemma with his heart—with Ellie—on his own.
Merely acknowledging that seemed to loosen something inside of him, like rusty gears breaking free.
After a while, peace settled on him and he knew. He could talk to God and He would hear him. The only thing was, Jim didn’t know quite what to say.
“I don’t want to lose her,” he whispered. “But if it hurts her—”
He heard approaching footsteps and was surprised to see the reporter—Reese, was it?—enter his room. He had come to steal Ellie’s story. Jim’s mood darkened. “What are you doing here?”
Reese’s eyes widened. Perhaps the man had expected a warmer welcome. Not from Jim. He owed Ellie that much.
Reese shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged contritely. “Thought I might salvage something from this mess. Maybe get some kind of exclusive from you.”
“Not likely. You stole her story. Doesn’t seem like you reporters are much of an honorable group.”
Reese smirked and tried to hide it by placing a hand over his mouth. “Mostly you’re right.” He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what came over me. I could have put my name on her story.”
Jim perked up. “You’re saying you didn’t?”
The man pounded his fist lightly on the footboard. “I had a moment of . . . chivalry, I guess you could say. She wouldn’t have stolen my story. Thought I’d cut her a break. Not that I’ll make a habit of it, mind you.”
“No, you wouldn’t want to do that. Be a gentleman or anything.”
“Right. There’s no way to make a living as a reporter if you’re not ready to stab a few backs, step over some bodies.”
And Ellie wanted to go into that profession? Jim hoped it didn’t jade her. Turn her into something like, well, like Reese here. Though Jim did appreciate the flash of humanity from the man.
Reese pulled a small notepad and a pencil from his pocket. “So, is there anything you’re willing to tell me that maybe our little star reporter doesn’t know?”
An idea lifted the corner of Jim’s mouth. “Yeah. I think there is.”
For nearly a week, the accolades from her peers and the appreciative comments from Mr. Taylor almost brought back Ellie’s previous enthusiasm for her job.
Almost.
She drifted her fingers over the newfangled typewriter he’d presented her with at her desk. A coveted reward for any reporter. But Jim haunted her thoughts and her dreams.
She glanced out over the newsroom. Jack Conway sat alone at the conference table scribbling notes. Several of the other reporters were at their desks, writing stories and proofing pages. Henry Smithers was on the wall telephone at the far end of the room yelling into the receiver, trying to get the answer to some question about fraud charges against the police chief.
Ellie sighed and picked up the newspaper. The headlines screamed her success. Murphy Gang in Chaos Over Counterfeiting Charges. Dies Stolen from San Fran Mint Recovered. Reporter Ellie Blair Instrumental in Bringing Justice to Irish Gang.
She folded the pape
r and pushed it away, not even interested in framing it. Time. Just give it time, right, Lord? In a week I won’t remember his face. In a year, I won’t remember his name. Please help me forget him and remember why I loved this job so much.
“Miss Blair.”
She turned half-way in her chair to Harvey, the copyboy. “Good morning, Harvey.”
“Good morning. Nice to have you back.” The boy blushed beet red.
Ellie smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“Um,” he cleared his throat. “Mr. Taylor would like to see you in his office.”
“All right.”
He nodded, still blushing, and hurried off through the busy newsroom.
Without much enthusiasm, Ellie trudged over to Mr. Taylor’s office. About to knock, he saw her first and waved her in, a giant cigar smoking in his hand. “Ellie, I just got this story from Bill Reese.” He tapped the typed pages in front of him and grinned like a raccoon. “You’re going to want to hear this.”
Ellie sat, puzzling over what Bill’s story could have to do with her and why Mr. Taylor seemed so amused about it. “I didn’t know he was back from Denver.” Must have a nice wrap-up for the Murphy story. She certainly owed him a big hug for turning her story in under her name.
“Last night. Got in last night.” Mr. Taylor crushed out his cigar, picked up the pages, and began reading. “With the arrests of several members of the Murphy Gang for counterfeiting, a two-year investigation by the Treasury Department’s Special Agent Jim West has come to an end. He is quite gratified that his hard work and diligence have paid off.
“Dies for the United States twenty-dollar coin were stolen from the San Francisco mint in March of 1888. Since then, West said unregulated coins showed up in Boston, New York, Atlanta, and Denver. ‘The trail led everywhere and I was hitting dead ends until Wyoming,’ the agent told this reporter.
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