by Jill Gregory
Now she narrowed her eyes, swept across the carpet, and pushed her employer’s door wide.
“I’m still here, Mr. Stevenson, because I would like to speak to you,” she blurted out before she could lose her nerve.
Stevenson, already enthroned again behind his desk, stared at the cinnamon-haired, slender young woman as though she had lost her mind. Then his heavy brows swooped together suspiciously and he lifted a firm, hairy hand.
“No raises, Miss Brannigan,” he declared sternly. “I can’t afford it. Not that your work isn’t excellent, young lady—it is—but ask me again next year when things have picked up a bit and—”
“This isn’t about a raise, sir—at least, not exactly,” Annabel interrupted and glided farther into the room before he could order her out. “Mr. Stevenson, I’ve been working for your detective agency for six months now and I believe that I’m ready for a promotion.”
“A promotion?” Stevenson watched her slip without invitation into the chair opposite his desk—the good wing chair usually reserved for clients. He regarded her with the same look of wonder he might have worn if she’d told him she’d swallowed her typewriter. “Miss Brannigan,” he said slowly, distinctly, as if speaking to a dim-witted child. “You are a clerk. A first-rate clerk, I’ll grant you that, but a clerk nonetheless. There is no room here for promotion. The only other position available in this firm is that of an operative and you certainly can’t mean—”
“Oh, yes, sir, I certainly can.” She nodded with as much coolness as she could muster. “I do. I wish to become the Stevenson Detective Agency’s first female investigator.”
Everett Stevenson regarded her in amazement for a good twenty seconds. He then ran a hand through his hair. “Go home, Miss Brannigan. Go home to your embroidery and your beaus and your comfortable rocker by the fire. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I do.” Annabel leaned forward earnestly, her sensitive face taut with determination. “And I won’t leave until you’ve seriously considered my request—sir.”
“Your request,” he said between clenched teeth, “is impossible. We don’t hire women as investigators. I told you that when you started working here.”
“But—”
“The matter is settled.” He glanced down at the mountains of papers piled across his desk, and then returned his gaze to the delicate young woman across from him. Neat as a pin she was in her crisp white shirtwaist and brown serge skirt, her hair smoothed perfectly back from her fine-boned face, wound tightly in a faultlessly businesslike chignon, even at the very end of the working day. She was disciplined, this Annabel Brannigan. And sensible. And sweet, beneath all that crisp competence. Damnation, why hadn’t some whippersnapper married her already and ensconced her in a kitchen with a parcel of bawling babies, leaving no space in her life for such a ridiculous notion? A female investigator, indeed!
He waved a weary hand in dismissal. “Go home, Miss Brannigan,” he repeated. “Stop wasting my time.”
Annabel moved not a muscle. She stayed glued to her chair, her sensibly booted feet planted on the floor, and stared him down.
Then she began to speak slowly, clearly, distinctly, matching his clipped, businesslike tone syllable for syllable.
“Mr. Stevenson, you are a brilliant man, and a shrewd businessman—and that is why you are going to hear me out. Because you know deep down inside of you that I would make an excellent investigator for the Stevenson Agency, and you know that I would be an asset to this company. You know that I’m efficient, clever, and I learn very quickly. And,” she added, a sharper note entering her soft, musical voice, “I know something about you. Your goal is to surpass the Pinkerton agency in name and reputation. But you will never do so if you don’t consider what I’m about to say.”
Despite himself, Everett Stevenson found himself riveted by his clerk’s firm words. From the moment she had started working for him, Annabel Brannigan had shown herself to possess an intriguing combination of charming femininity and quicksilver intelligence. Despite all his bluster, he liked her. There was no question that she was the most competent clerk he’d ever employed: she was industrious and serious in her work, she kept the office running smoothly, and she got along well with both his clients and his other employees. She was invaluable. In fact, she had become so much a fixture in the office that he’d almost forgotten her initial goal six months ago of coming to work for him as a private investigator. But obviously she had not forgotten it at all.
Too bad, Stevenson thought. If only she were a man, I would certainly give her a chance. It would be interesting to see what she could accomplish ...
“Go on,” he heard himself saying, to his own surprise.
Annabel’s face brightened. A flicker of hope licked through her. He’s listening. Stay calm and professional, don’t let on what is really at stake ... She rose and moved closer. “People who move ahead take chances, Mr. Stevenson,” she said, marveling at the calmness of her voice. “They rely upon their instincts, they make use of every opportunity afforded them. I am giving you an opportunity, sir. An opportunity to employ an operative with as keen an investigative mind as your own, someone with unfailing instincts and a genius for solving puzzles, someone who wants to succeed in this field every bit as much as you do.”
Annabel placed her hands on his desk, leaned forward, and spoke with firm authority.
“Consider this: My mother was a Union spy during the War Between the States. She received her orders from Pinkerton himself and earned a certificate of honor from President Grant. So you see that a talent for handling danger and intrigue and for retaining composure under pressure comes naturally to me. It’s in my blood.” She rushed on before he could interrupt. “Not to mention the fact that after working in this office for six months I’ve learned a great deal—from you and from the agents assigned to your cases. I’ve watched and I’ve listened. Mr. Stevenson, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m ready. All I’m asking for is a chance.”
“I’ll admit that you’re bright, Miss Brannigan,” he exclaimed, “the brightest woman I’ve ever met, matter of fact, but—”
“There is another reason you should hire me at this time, sir,” she interrupted, locking her eyes on his the way she’d seen him do with others a thousand times.
“That being?”
She tossed her pièce de résistance at him the way Andrew Carnegie might fling his groom a coin of gold. “The McCallum case. Mr. Stevenson,” she said in a tone of smooth self-assurance, “I can find Brett McCallum.”
Chapter 2
There. She’d said it.
Annabel fought back a surge of excitement. Even the incredulity on Everett Stevenson’s face didn’t discourage her now, for she had spoken those all-important words, and deep down she knew them to be true.
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he barked and waved his hand dismissively in the air. But she had sounded so positive, and looked so confident, that he eyed her with a particle of doubt, and a fraction of interest. “The McCallum case is one of the most important and most challenging to come along in a month of Sundays. Even if I were inclined to give you a chance to prove yourself—which I’m not—I would never start you off with a case like this one—”
“I know Brett McCallum.”
Now she had his full attention. Her words seemed to echo in the silence of the office.
Stay calm, Annabel told herself, as a creaking wagon clattered noisily along the street three stories below. Don’t start chattering like a monkey, the way you do when you’re nervous. Don’t let him see how important this is to you. She forced herself to nod coolly, and waited a moment, letting her words sink in, watching the shock and then the interest settle over his face.
“I know Brett McCallum as well as or better than his own father,” she continued silkily. “I can find him. Quicker, quieter, and cleaner than anyone else in the country.”
Annabel held her breath.
“Tell me more,�
�� Stevenson said slowly. “Exactly how does my efficient little office clerk happen to know a wealthy young gadabout like Mr. Brett McCallum?”
She draped herself back into the wing chair. “I’ll be happy to explain.”
It was an uncomplicated story, though an intensely personal one. Annabel took care to keep her emotions out of it, and to hide from him her feelings toward Brett. Mr. Stevenson would never entrust her with this assignment if he knew how much Brett meant to her. He would say that her emotions would get in the way of clear thinking, and he would use the fact that she was a woman to deny her the chance to search for Brett. So she kept all those feelings locked inside of her heart, and concentrated on telling him only the facts: about how she had gone as a child to live with Aunt Gertie when her mother had died, how Aunt Gertie had been the McCallum family cook, how she had grown up in the same household with Brett, who was two years older than she.
“We were tutored together by old Mr. Rappaport, we rode horses together, climbed trees in the park, played soldiers, ate our meals together—except for the times his father summoned him to formal family dinners with guests,” she explained. “Brett always hated that, he said he felt like a piece of bric-a-brac set out on a mantel for display.... At any rate,” Annabel went on, hurriedly redirecting her thoughts as Everett Stevenson rolled his eyes, “Brett and I were very close. We were best friends. I know how he thinks, how he feels, what he likes to do. Once when he was twelve he had a terrible argument with his father, about whether or not Brett could ride a certain horse, something silly like that—and Brett ran away. He disappeared. The whole household was in an uproar because his older brother had run away from home years before and never come back and ... well, never mind. The point is, no one could find him. No one. But I did. I went to the swimming hole and I found him lying under a walnut tree and we talked and after a little while I convinced him to go back home and face his father.”
“He isn’t twelve years old anymore,” Stevenson remarked, frowning. “You won’t find him at a swimming hole.”
“No, but I will find him.” Annabel’s eyes flashed with determination. “I suggest you follow your instincts, Mr. Stevenson. You know that I’m right. You know I’m familiar with every case that’s come through this office in the past six months, you know I study them and can discuss every single one at length, and you know I’d make an excellent investigator. Give me a chance.”
There was a long silence. Everett Stevenson II studied her, examining her from the top of her delicately slim eyebrows to the bottom of her black kid lace-up boots.
Annabel hardly dared to breathe. It took all of her self-control to keep from quivering with excitement. Watching her employer, she guessed she had won. She could tell by the way Stevenson’s eyes were lighting up with a dawning hopefulness, by the tension in his jowls, by the way he leaned back decisively in his chair and let out his breath in a long whoosh.
“Very well, Miss Brannigan, I can’t deny that you make sense, as always, and I am nothing if not a sensible man. I’m going to take a chance on you, and you’d best not disappoint me.”
“No, sir, never!”
He gritted his teeth at the breathless happiness suffusing her face. This girl was green as spring buds. Damn, he hoped he was making the right decision. But the McCallum case was the biggest one to come his way in some time, and Annabel Brannigan’s personal knowledge of Brett McCallum could prove the key to finding him. “I’ll give you a month,” he said, fingering the late-day stubble on his jaw. “But if I don’t see some real progress by then I’ll assign Hix to the case.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Stevenson. I’ll find Brett before then.”
“Hmmm. We’ll see. Take the McCallum file with you tonight, review it, and get started at once. I expect you to set out for the Arizona territory tomorrow—young McCallum sent his father a letter from some little town called Justice, so that’s where you start. The letter is in the file along with every other scrap of information Ross McCallum was able to provide me during our interview last night. But remember, Mr. McCallum expects regular reports, so you keep me informed.”
“Of course, sir, and may I say you’ve made a brilliant decision.” Her eager smile lit every shadowy corner of the room. She jumped up before he could change his mind. “I promise I won’t disappoint you. And don’t worry about the office—Maggie will do a splendid job for you, I’ve trained her quite thoroughly, and ... oh, by the way, may I assume that my pay and bonuses will be the same as the other operatives?”
“You may not assume any such thing. You are a beginner, Miss Brannigan. And a woman. You can hardly expect—”
“Very well. I’ll accept the same wages as Lester Hodding when he began working for you—a three month trial period and then full pay like all the other agents ...”
“Done, done,” Stevenson growled. He waved her off. As she turned away wearing a wide triumphant smile, and nearly skipped toward the door, he spoke again.
“Miss Brannigan.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever been to the Arizona territory ... or anywhere farther west than Jefferson City?”
“No, sir.”
His brows drew together. “Then what in blazes makes you think you can handle the hardships and dangers of an untamed wilderness? Conditions are primitive, why, they’re downright perilous as a matter of fact—”
“No need to talk me into it, Mr. Stevenson,” she called out cheerily, and put a hand on the doorknob. “I’ve already committed myself to this assignment, and I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you now.”
She was gone with a rustle of skirts.
But by the time she had made her way down the narrow steps and out of the building, with the McCallum file clutched tightly in her hands, a knot of doubt was beginning to unravel inside of her. She wasn’t concerned about traveling out West or about the rugged, possibly dangerous conditions she might find there—Annabel had reconciled herself to that earlier this morning, when she’d made the decision to go after Brett. No, she was worried about what would happen when she found him—if she found him at all.
You will. You must.
And what then? Would he see her in a new light, not merely as the childhood friend whose braids he had pulled, whose knees had been skinned along with his own when they’d fallen together out of the maple tree? Would he at last see her as a woman—a desirable woman, one he could love?
Annabel knew that none of the other boarders at Mrs. Stoller’s boardinghouse could understand why she had turned down three heartfelt proposals of marriage. Everyone at Mrs. Stoller’s knew everything about everyone else, and the three young men who had made offers for Annabel Brannigan were no exception. But the one thing everyone didn’t know was that since childhood her heart had belonged to a man she thought she would never have.
Maybe Brett and I won’t work out everything between us just as I wish—maybe we’ll remain only friends, but either way, I have to find him. He’s in trouble. He needs me. She walked briskly along the six long blocks toward the boardinghouse, pondering the strangeness of the situation. Brett needs me. Me! Not those airy, beautifully frilly society creatures he’s been squiring about for the past few years, but me, because I can find him and discover why he ran away. I can help him solve the trouble, whatever it is, and help him set things right ... and maybe, at last, I can make him fall in love with me....
Annabel stopped short and took a deep breath. No, this wouldn’t do. She was getting ahead of herself, as usual. That would serve no purpose. The important thing was to find Brett, to help him—and Mr. McCallum. And in the process, to prove herself to Everett Stevenson.
One thing at a time, she warned herself as her footsteps echoed softly along the dusky deserted street. You haven’t even seen Brett in two years—unless you count spotting him in the park with that heiress Elizabeth Rainsford that time he never even knew you were there.
Brett had always liked her just fine—he’d liked pulling her
braids, and throwing snowballs at her in the winter, and trying to beat her at chess (succeeding only on rare occasions)—but he had never fallen in love with her and during her growing up years Annabel would rather have swallowed a live frog than let him see her true feelings.
But now maybe it’s time, she thought, hurrying past the neat rows of houses, all the while thinking, planning. She was impatient to study the file clutched in her hands, to glean from it whatever clues would aid her in her search. And as the early spring breeze fluttered past her light as daisies and the lavender dusk deepened toward amethyst, Annabel was quietly aware of the hope glowing deep within her heart.
Was she a fool to feel this way? Was there really a chance for her with Brett? Why, he had never even kissed her. Not even once.
But he will, before this is all over, she vowed to herself. She grinned sheepishly as she turned onto Grove Street, where the boardinghouse loomed at the corner. She didn’t care about pay or bonuses or anything of that sort—one kiss, one touch, one loving word from Brett would more than compensate her for whatever lay ahead.
She could only be glad that Mr. Stevenson didn’t know that beneath the cold, professional demeanor of his newest investigative agent beat a hopelessly romantic heart.
A heart which had given itself over years ago to a dark-haired young man with laughing eyes and a gentle soul.
You’ll be seeing him soon, she whispered to herself, running lightly up the steps toward the brightness of the boardinghouse. And you’d best make the most of this opportunity to find and win him. Because as far as love and happiness go, Annabel Brannigan, this could be your last chance.
* * *
“This could be your last chance, Mr. McCallum.”