The Amber Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 8)

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  “Whatever I do, I don’t want it to reflect on the agency either. Let’s get the son of a bitch.”

  They marched up the street with more purpose than a couple of generals about to go into battle. When they reached the saloon, they split up. Daniel went in the open front door and Connor used the side door. The cool air blowing in from the street did little to alleviate the stench of sweat, the stale smell of tobacco, and the heavy scent of whisky and beer leaking from broken bottles and soaking into the sawdust covered floorboards. Upturned tables were in the process of being righted and busted chairs tossed aside.

  Daniel spotted Hendrix the moment he entered the saloon. He didn’t acknowledge the man, he just kept walking. When he reached the bar, he rested his foot on the footrail. “What the hell happened here?”

  The barkeep dipped a rag into a bucket of soapy water, rinsed it out, and washed another section of the sticky bar top. “The Rio Grande deputized a slew of liquored-up miners to help reclaim its property. Trashed the town and got two men killed.”

  Daniel removed his hat, scratched a thatch of sweat-soaked hair, then clapped it back on his head. No one was supposed to get hurt. The responsibility for the damage to the town and the loss of two lives fell on the sheriff’s shoulders, Weitbrec’s, and the Pinkertons. The agency had been hired to protect the Rio Grande’s property and people, and to keep the lid on a volatile situation. They’d failed. He’d failed. A bad day all around. Was there ever going to be an end to it? Would he ever find the peace he so desperately wanted?

  “Do you want a drink, or are you just going to watch me work?” the barkeep asked.

  “Whisky. And not the cheap stuff,” Daniel said.

  The barkeep opened a cabinet behind the bar, and the tinkle of glass against glass followed as he moved bottles around to find a specific one. He lifted a bottle of Macallan for Daniel to see. Daniel gave him a nod. After pouring a measure of the amber-colored liquor, he slid the glass across the now-clean oak top to Daniel.

  “That good enough?”

  Daniel placed a one-dollar note on the bar and fingered the worn greenback before letting go of it, eyeing the barkeep closely. “Keep the bottle out.” He leaned against the bar and tilted his head back to let the robust liquor slide down his throat. The first sip was to quench his thirst. It burned a clear path through his dusty throat to his stomach. The second was a restorative gulp. The third was for pleasure.

  Without acknowledging Daniel, Connor walked up to the bar and ordered a drink from the same bottle, slapped down a couple of coins, then carried the glass over to a table. He righted a chair and sat with his back to the wall. Daniel watched him for a beat or two, waiting for him to point out the man he believed to be Hendrix.

  The signal came—a look, a nod. Connor downed his drink, and after a minute or two, pushed to his feet, and casually left the saloon.

  It was Hendrix, all right, with his recognizable Van Dyke beard. He didn’t need Connor’s confirmation, but after chasing the wrong guy twice, it was nice to have. Daniel ordered another drink and strode over to the table where Hendrix sat alone, observing every man who plodded into the saloon.

  “Didn’t I see ye at the St. James earlier? Hendrix, right?”

  The man tipped back his bowler hat and looked up at Daniel. “You’re the Pinkerton man. You get the trains running?” Hendrix drew circles with his wet glass on the dark wood table.

  Daniel put his foot on a chair and braced his forearm on his knee, leaning forward. “Trains to Caǹon City will be running tomorrow.”

  Hendrix’s eyes darted about the dimly lit saloon, doubt plain in his expression.

  “Did ye find a room?” Daniel asked.

  “Still looking.”

  “I can tell.” Daniel let his condescension hang in the air for a moment. Then, “Ye’re in luck. I’m checking out of the hotel. I just came here to meet my men to let them know. If ye want the room, it’s all yers. It’s paid for.”

  Hendrix’s eyes popped wide open, as if he’d been half asleep and just woke up. “Mighty kind of you.”

  “The only problem is, ye have to go now. I need to be in Denver early in the morning, so I’m leaving town. The hotel won’t hold the room for ye. They’ll just rent it to someone else and get paid double.” Hendrix looked unconvinced, so Daniel added, “It’s a big room. I even left a half bottle of whisky.”

  The hunger in Hendrix’s face was palpable. He clutched the handle of the valise in his lap, as if it were a Leadville silver mine that had assayed well and was worth staking a claim on. “Can’t believe they’d rent it again. That’s not right. Not fair.”

  “Ye know,” Daniel said, “there’s not much in life that is fair.”

  Hendrix rubbed his face, rearranging the creases, as he looked about the crowded saloon. “Better not leave. Supposed to meet a man here.” He broke eye contact, hawked, and spat on the floor, barely missing Daniel’s boot.

  Daniel itched to yank the asshole out of the chair by his scrawny neck and shake him until it broke right off. “Suit yerself. Just trying to help. Maybe yer new friend can get ye a room at the St. James.” Daniel swirled the remaining liquid in his glass before draining what was left. He glared at the tumbler as if it had betrayed him, then set it down and moved away from the table.

  Hendrix shoved to his feet, the valise nestled under his arm. “Wait. I’ll go. If I don’t take your room, I’ll be sleeping on the street.”

  “My horse is in front of the Victoria,” Daniel said. “How’d ye get here?”

  “Rented a horse. It’s tied up at the rail outside.”

  “Mount up. I’ll be right behind ye.” Daniel walked off the sidewalk into the broad dirt-packed street, like so many others he’d seen in Colorado towns, a quagmire of mud when it rained or snowed and rutted and dangerous when dried. He’d walked across too many and had never seen much improvement from the other side.

  “Didn’t know Pinkertons were so helpful.”

  “I’m not a Pinkerton. I just borrowed the badge.” He seized the reins and swung into the saddle and rode away, trusting Connor to be close by. He caught up with Hendrix and together they headed down Union Avenue.

  “Let’s go this way,” Daniel said. “I’ve ridden across that passenger bridge so many times today, I can’t fight the crowd again. It’s shorter this way.”

  With the afternoon dipping into sunset, they took the same detour he and Connor had taken earlier in the day. The clop-clop of Daniel’s horse echoed along the unusually quiet street. He slapped the reins occasionally to encourage Rambler forward. It had been a long day for his horse, too. He deserved a good brushing and a fresh bucket of oats.

  “I’ve got to take a piss,” Daniel said. “I’m going to stop at that abandoned building over there.”

  Hendrix grumbled. “Hurry it along. I got to get back.”

  As soon as Daniel reined into the empty lot, Connor rode up from another direction, whistling an old Irish sea shanty, one of the songs Rick and Amber had sung in Leadville. Connor stopped when his horse stood nose to nose with Hendrix’s horse. He lifted his hat, wiped the grime from his forehead with a bandanna pulled from his coat pocket, and slapped the hat back on again.

  “I thought that was you, Major. Heard you were leaving town. Sheriff wants to see you before you go.”

  Daniel swung down and tied the reins to a stunted pine that couldn’t decide whether it was a bush or a tree. “Don’t care to see the sheriff tonight. Spent too much time with him today already.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m just passing along the message.”

  Daniel turned his back to Connor and Hendrix, unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself. After rebuttoning his pants, he sidled up next to Hendrix, who was slumping in his saddle. If he could find Amber’s journal without resorting to violence, he would, but something told him the asshole wouldn’t give it up easily.

  Daniel reached up and jerked Hendrix out of the saddle. The man landed with a whuff facedown, t
he valise cocooned between his stomach and the ground. He rolled, carrying the bag with him, and sprang to his feet.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Daniel snatched the valise from him. Hendrix looked around as if he were seeking allies, but Connor only scowled at him, arms crossed over the pommel.

  “Leave my property alone.”

  Connor dismounted. “We’re only looking for something that belongs to a friend.”

  Daniel unbuckled the straps, dumped the contents on the ground, and tossed the valise aside. He stooped and pilfered through shirts and vests, a collar and cuff box, and another small wooden box with shaving gear and hairbrush. No journal.

  Hendrix snatched up the valise, hugging it to his chest, and stepped back.

  Daniel swept through the clothes. “It’s not here.” He opened the collar and cuff box, dumped the contents. Nothing. He emptied the other box and searched it, too. Nothing.

  “Look inside the valise,” Daniel said.

  Connor made a move to grab the case from Hendrix, but he wasn’t going to give it up easily. They twisted and jerked for control, until Connor, taller and heavier, ripped it away. When he did, a Colt Derringer appeared in Hendrix’s hand.

  “Give it back.”

  Connor, ignoring Hendrix’s threat, opened the valise and thumped against the stiff-leather sides. The sound of ripping cloth rent the air. “Oops,” Connor said, lifting out a leather journal. “I sort of tore your fancy bag.” He threw it down but held tightly to the journal.

  Daniel stood and took a step forward.

  “Stay where you are.” Hendrix waved the gun in Daniel’s direction. “Drop your guns. Both of you.” When they didn’t move, Hendrix cocked the Derringer. “Drop them. Now.”

  If Daniel could distract Hendrix, it would give Connor an opening. If Connor could distract him, Daniel would have an opening.

  Daniel and Connor lifted their Colts from their holsters.

  “Set ’em down,” Hendrix said.

  They set the guns on the ground.

  “Now, kick ’em over here,” Hendrix said.

  They gave their guns a little shove with their boots.

  “Give him the journal, Connor. It’s not worth it.” Getting back to Amber and Noah in one piece was more important than returning her notebook. Hendrix could have it. Sell it. Burn it. Daniel didn’t care.

  Connor waved it in the air like a Bible-thumping preacher. “This has all of Amber’s notes for the book she’s writing about dinosaurs. It took her years to create these creatures. It’s all make-believe. It’s original and creative. And I’m not letting Marsh have it.”

  Shocked warred with caution in Hendrix’s face. “You’re lying. The boy told his teacher in Leadville about the Stegosaurus. Told him the Kelly woman had more pictures. I saw ’em in that book.”

  Just as Daniel had his panic spooled up and put away, he stiffened. “What boy?”

  “How much do you want for the book?” Connor did an eyebrow hike. “Whatever you’ve been offered, I’ll double.” He reached toward his pocket.

  “What boy?” Daniel asked again.

  “Leave your hands where I can see them,” Hendrix said.

  “I’ve got plenty of money. How much is Marsh paying you?” Connor asked.

  There was a flash of something in Hendrix’s eyes, as if he was calculating how he could benefit the most.

  Running out of patience, Daniel asked a third time, “What boy?”

  Hendrix gestured toward Daniel with the gun. “Your kid.” Then he swept the gun back to Connor. “You don’t have the kind of money Marsh has.”

  Daniel advanced on Hendrix, his hands curling into fists. “What does Noah have to do with this?” Hendrix swung the gun toward Daniel again, and he backed off.

  “We dogged you all the way from Leadville to Denver and waited for our chance. It came today. Now, give me the journal.”

  “You only have one bullet.” Connor’s tone was both deliberate and cold. “You might get one of us but not both.”

  “I have more than one. I don’t want to shoot either one of you, but I will.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Give me the journal.”

  “Can’t do it,” Connor said. “The sketches aren’t real. Marsh will realize he’s been tricked and will come after us.”

  Daniel calculated the steps he had to take to end the standoff without anyone getting hurt, but before he could make a move…

  Connor lunged.

  Hendrix pulled the trigger.

  Connor went down.

  “No!” Daniel yelled and braced himself, but there was no second shot, only a punch that grazed the point of his jaw, solidly jarring his senses. The second of a one-two punch was a hard right, low in the chest. The wind whooshed from Daniel’s lungs and for a full second, he stood there shocked and paralyzed by the pain in his ribs.

  Hendrix took a step back and cocked his shoulder for another swing, but Daniel blocked it, planted his boots wide and threw a punch, hitting the left side of Hendrix’s jaw with the full weight of his body, causing a bone-crunching snap.

  Teeth and blood spurted out.

  Daniel threw another jab, breaking Hendrix’s nose, then a body shot—like dry wood splintering—landed on the bottom of Hendrix’s rib cage. He fell face down in the slime. In his semi-smothered breathing, he coughed a muffled sob against the stillness of the abandoned lot.

  Daniel thrust his boot, pitched Hendrix onto his back, staring with disgust at the half-conscious man. He stooped over him and jerked the coat open, finding a Navy Colt revolver in a holster at Hendrix’s left armpit. Anger flared anew, and he threw the weapon far out over the empty lot. “Ye goddamn son of a bitch.” The gun landed with a splat.

  He turned quickly to Connor, who was on the ground in a partially sitting position.

  “Remind me to never to piss you off,” Connor said. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

  Daniel, his heart in his throat, patted Connor’s chest. “Where are ye shot?”

  “Got me dead center.”

  Daniel snagged one of Hendrix’s shirts to staunch the bleeding but when he yanked Connor’s coat open, he didn’t see any blood. “Ye aren’t bleeding?”

  Connor made a move to stand. “You sound disappointed? Help me up.”

  “Are ye sure?”

  “No, I’d rather sit here in the muck.”

  Connor picked up the journal and leaned on Daniel, who was stiff and sore, and the flexing of his muscles to help Connor made him wince at his complaining ribs.

  “Damn, it hurts,” Connor said.

  “Where?”

  Connor glanced down at his foot. “My ankle. I’ve got to get my boot off before it swells.”

  Daniel thrust out a breath and allowed himself a semblance of a smile. “Are ye telling me he shot yer ankle?”

  “No, when I lunged, I tripped on a blasted rock, turned my ankle, and went down.”

  “Ye tripped? Ye weren’t shot?”

  “Yes, I was shot. Didn’t you hear it?”

  “But ye’re not bleeding.”

  “That old pea-shooter wouldn’t penetrate my lucky vest.” Connor hobbled toward his horse. “Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle.”

  “A vest stopped the bullet?” Daniel patted his hand down Connor’s chest. “It feels soft on the outside.” Daniel thumped near Connor’s breast bone. “But it sounds hard on the inside. What’s it made of?”

  “A synthetic fiber called Kevlar. And, I need a drink.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “Hell, you can have it, just get me a whisky within the next thirty seconds, and you can sleep in it for the rest of your life.” Connor reached his horse, held on to the pommel, and swung up into the saddle.

  Hendrix groaned, and Daniel shot a look back at the man twitching on the ground. After terrorizing Amber, he wasn’t inclined to help the son of a bitch. He picked up their guns and his hat. He slapped it against his leg to s
hake off the mud, then settled it on his head.

  “I don’t like it when people mess with my friends, and I hate it when they mess with my family. Let’s get out of here,” Connor said.

  Daniel swung up into the saddle, rubbing Rambler’s neck. “I promise ye some oats, boy, just hang on a wee bit longer.”

  The railroad complex was two blocks away, back toward town. They rode off, leaving Hendrix still moaning on the ground. They passed the dispatcher and telegraph offices and kept riding. A well-lit carriage stood off by itself on the other side of the roundhouse. The roller blinds had been pulled down and shadowy outlines of two men and a woman were visible.

  “Looks like Rick, Olivia, and Braham are already there,” Connor said.

  Daniel glanced around for the general’s car. He must have left town before they’d marched on the dispatcher’s office. Tomorrow, Daniel would write his report, turn in his badge, then call on the general. He didn’t intend to burn bridges, but he would let the general know all the mistakes the railroad made today.

  He and Connor dismounted at the car’s rear platform and Daniel helped Connor mount the steps. “I’m going over to the dispatcher’s office and arrange a hookup to take us back to Denver. Pour me a drink.”

  Daniel left his horse tied to the railroad car but took the borrowed horse with him. After arranging the return trip to Denver, he walked outside and whistled. A minute later, the Pinkerton agent he’d left to guard Olivia came out of the shadows.

  “What’d ye find out?” Daniel asked.

  “The lady never left her hotel room until two men showed up ten minutes ago and brought her here.”

  Daniel handed the agent the reins to the borrowed horse. “I appreciate ye watching her. I wasn’t sure how it would shake out. I’ll see ye back in Denver. Oh,” he reached into his pocket and took out a few bills. “Yer duster has a bullet hole. Buy yerself a new one.” They shook hands and Daniel walked slowly back to the carriage.

  Olivia’s innocence, at least as far as the railroad was concerned, had never been an issue, but she and Connor and Rick, and now Braham were hiding something big, and it was time everyone laid their cards on the table.