Holliday seemed to be absolutely unable to keep out of trouble for any great length of time.
—Bat Masterson
“Pinkerton man?” the man repeated with a slow grin.
Anna forced a smile. It had taken her until this morning to figure out the combination, but the wall safe behind the portrait of the Finch sisters had provided the man’s full name and the scope of his employment. Her feelings of betrayal at Papa’s choice to hire a Pinkerton were made worse by the fact he’d hidden it from her.
But Mr. John Edward Baker Sanders did not need to know that. Nor did he need to know how difficult his job would prove to be.
Anna stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in?” she asked as sweetly as she could.
The Pinkerton followed her inside and obediently settled himself on the most uncomfortable chair in Mama’s frilly and completely female formal parlor. Exuberant use of pink, her mother’s favorite color, had caused Papa to vow never to set foot inside what he called the Spider’s Web.
It was a gentle jest between a couple long married. Today, however, Anna hoped it would be the spot where this Pinkerton man met his match.
She’d intended the exercise as a test of the lawman’s endurance, but Anna was completely unprepared for her reaction to the sight of a ruggedly male Pinkerton, even one costumed as a man of wealth, seated amongst the frill and fluff of her mother’s flower-strewn tapestries and outrageously trimmed pillows.
Mr. Sanders reached behind him to remove two of the flounced offenders and tossed them onto the fur rug without apology. When he shifted positions, his suit coat opened slightly to reveal a badge that glinted silver in the light of the crystal lamp.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I came calling,” he said.
“You’ve come calling?” Anna asked innocently as she continued to study him. Objectively, of course. As an author might study a character. “Socially?” she added when he didn’t seem to understand her jest. She punctuated the question with a look intended to fluster him. The attempt failed miserably.
Instead, Mr. Sanders leaned back and regarded her amusement. “Trust me, Miss Finch. I’m not on that list.”
“List?”
A maid bearing tea and coffee interrupted, and Anna beckoned her in. While the refreshments were served, Anna made use of the distraction to contemplate her next move. Dare she use her rusty—if not completely untried—feminine wiles? Or perhaps battling him with intellect might succeed.
In either case, she needed this Pinkerton to either leave her alone or help her. And from the look of him and the wording on the documents Papa had signed, neither would be easily accomplished.
The parlor door closed behind the retreating maid, leaving Anna to watch while her guest spooned a heaping amount of sugar into his coffee. He lifted the cup, delicate and almost comical in his hands, to his lips.
“Sweet enough?” she asked when Mr. Sanders caught her staring.
A grin began as his gaze swept across her. She straightened her spine and pretended his impudence had no effect even as she melted inside.
“Plenty sweet,” the rogue said.
Anna looked away, but his voice called her attention back again.
“Miss Finch.” His sweet-as-honey tone wrapped around her name and released it slowly. “If you know I’m a Pinkerton, it’s likely you know the nature of my employment.” Another look slid down the length of her. “And I know something’s wrong when a woman as beautiful as you sits at home for ten nights in a row.”
Beautiful? She forced a neutral look onto her face. “Perhaps I’m not given to socializing.”
“You haven’t ridden that horse of yours either,” he said evenly. “And don’t try to tell me you’re not given to stealing some stable hand’s clothing and giving that mare of yours a run.” He paused. “I’m not a man to be trifled with.”
If there was a witty response to be given, it failed her. Despite her best intentions, the backhanded compliment on her appearance had reached its target. Anna rubbed her palms against her skirt and reached for the teapot. A mistake, she realized, when the liquid sloshed against the cup and spilled onto the saucer and across the tray.
“Need some help with that?” he asked, though both his demeanor and his position in the chair told her he was firmly committed to watching, not lifting a finger to assist her.
“Thank you, but no.” She affected a smile and sat back without bothering to complete the task.
The rogue smirked. He knew exactly what his presence was doing to her. Ire replaced whatever errant feelings the Pinkerton’s overtures had caused.
“Now, about that list,” she said as firmly as she could.
His deep chuckle might have disarmed her if she hadn’t been prepared. “The list? Miss Finch, are you truly ignorant to your father’s intentions, or are you toying with me?”
“I gave up toys when I left the nursery, Mr. Sanders.”
“But not playing games.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Instinctively, Anna pressed back against the settee’s ample cushions. “Case in point, you know my name, and I’ve not yet told it to you. Wonder how that is?”
“You’re a Pinkerton,” she said. “You figure it out.”
“I assure you I will lie awake at night pondering that great mystery,” he continued. “However, what I’d really like to know is how you came to know so much about Wyatt Earp.”
Anna opened her mouth, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“And before you try to deny it, as you recall, I was at the Windsor and saw you sharing a cozy meal with him and the missus. And Doc Holliday. Who seemed quite taken with you.” He paused. “So maybe there’s just one question I should ask.”
“What is that?” she managed, grateful she’d not been required to confirm or deny her relationship to either man.
“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”
She took his empty coffee cup and set it on the tray. “The ‘A’?”
“I understand the Bird part. That’s obvious, little bird. Isn’t that what Mr. Mitchell down at the Times calls you? Or maybe you earned that name cozying up to Earp and Holliday. I hear women of your quality aren’t so keen on having their names revealed when they’re keeping company with men their fathers would have shot.”
Anna studied the dizzying floral pattern on the carpet.
“You don’t have to answer, Miss Finch. As you said, I’m a Pinkerton. I’ll figure it out.”
Anna’s heart jolted. “Mr. Sanders, what are you insinuating?”
“Miss Finch, I don’t insinuate.” He paused. “You ride better than most boys and your skill with a Colt—”
“Smith & Wesson.”
“I stand corrected.” Was that a gleam in his eye? “The proof of your skill with a Smith & Wesson is healing nicely.”
She looked away so she could think her way out of this conversation. To her surprise, the Pinkerton stood abruptly and reached for her hand, pulling her upright. His grip was firm but gentle, his stance as steady as his gaze.
“Miss Finch, do me the favor of not underestimating me.”
Despite her best efforts, Anna felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I ask the same of you, Mr. Sanders.”
“Then perhaps we should begin our association on level ground.” The Pinkerton lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “Jeb Sanders, Pinkerton agent and your hired gun until such time as you manage to trick some poor man into marrying you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Anna yanked her hand away. “You are truly insufferable, Mr. Sanders, and I wish you to leave my parlor immediately.”
His chuckle was at once impudent and without humor. “Gladly, Miss Finch. All the flowers and flounces make a man dizzy.” He glanced past her to the door. “Give my best to your parents when they return. I understand your mother had a lovely visit with her sister Violet in San Francisco.”
“How did you know that my mother was—”
“I’m good at what I do.” He adjusted his hat, stepped over the pillows, and headed toward the door. “If you need me, I’ll be in the stables.”
“The stables?” She started after him, then thought better of it and sat back down. “What on earth are you doing in our stables?”
“I’ve been sleeping there since the reception.” He blinked innocently at her. “Didn’t you know? I thought a reporter like you would have sniffed that out by now.”
This time she did stand. “Wait just a minute, Mr. Sanders. If my father found out you were staying here with me unaccompanied, why, he’d …” Words failed her as the image of her father’s wrath rose.
“He’d be thankful I was doing my job.” He turned to go, then glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m bunking with the hired help, not sleeping in the house.” He grinned. “Surely you don’t mean to compromise my reputation.”
Anna groaned and waved him away. Anything further could be handled by persons more able to tolerate the obnoxious hired gun. “Mr. Mitchell will have a grand time with this news,” she muttered as she rested her head in her hands.
The Pinkerton paused in the doorway to turn and face her. “I assure you he’ll not interfere in a Pinkerton investigation. He’s already been made aware of the consequences of that.”
“Are you sure?” she asked weakly. “Because that man’s interfered in almost every aspect of my life since he took up writing for the Times.”
“Oh, I assure you,” he said with a wink. “The job of interfering is now mine. Have someone fetch me when dinner’s ready. And don’t forget to let your cook know I like my steaks rare and my bread well buttered.”
“You know, Mr. Sanders,” she said as she crossed her arms, “if marrying meant I was no longer plagued by your presence, I would accept the first proposal that came my way.”
With a laugh, he turned and strode out of the room.
Anna fell back against the cushions. “Now what, Lord?” she muttered as she listened to boot heels crossing the marble floor of the entryway.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” the odious man called. “I’ll see myself out.”
Anna grabbed the nearest pillow, held it over her mouth, and screamed. When she was done, she tossed the pillow against the opposite wall and stormed into her father’s library, slamming the door and turning the lock.
She had an article to write, and even that awful Pinkerton’s presence wouldn’t stop her.
“Excuse me,” McMinn called from down the hall some time later. “Miss Finch?”
“In here,” Anna called, hopping up to unlock the door.
When she opened it, McMinn handed her one of the brown envelopes from the newspaper. “This came for you.”
“Thank you.” Anna took the package, relocked the door, and hurried to the desk. She ripped open the envelope and began flipping through the letters it contained. When she saw the third envelope, she forgot about the rest and about the obnoxious Pinkerton apparently living in her stables.
The letter was from Mr. Bonney, and was postmarked Leadville, Colorado.
Anna sank onto the chair and cleared a spot on the cluttered desk. With care, she opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of stationery from the Clarendon Hotel on Harrison Avenue, Leadville.
Written just a few days after the article on Wyatt Earp appeared in the Times, the letter was brief, its message clear.
While I remain your devoted servant, I’m as yet unwilling to tell my tale. At least not all at once, as my esteemed colleague has done.
Anna pushed back from the desk and turned her attention to the Rockies, already fading to deep purple in the afternoon shade. Her fingers found the edge of the letter and lifted it.
“As yet unwilling,” Anna read again. As yet.
She smiled and reached for pen and paper. Perhaps she could convince Mr. Bonney that now was exactly the time.
After penning a cordial but professional greeting, Anna paused only a second before making her case as succinctly as she could.
While you are as yet unwilling, I submit that the research I’ve done will prove your innocence in some, if not all, of the cases charged against you. All that lacks is for you, Mr. Bonney, to fill in the details.
Anna paused. What else? She smiled.
Should you require it, I am amenable to traveling to meet you, though understandably this arrangement would have to be a private matter between us.
She signed the letter, then hastily sealed it and addressed it to Mr. Bonney at the address on the Clarendon’s letterhead.
Now to get it mailed. Or better yet, sent via private messenger.
In less than five minutes she’d found Mr. McMinn mucking a stall.
“Can you spare someone to run an errand for me?” she asked.
“Of course I can.” He spied the letter. “I can take that myself.”
“Actually, it’s not going to be posted.” She paused. “I need someone trustworthy to rush this to Leadville.”
“To your pa?”
“Not exactly,” Anna said.
Mr. McMinn leaned against the stall and gave her a stern look. “This business?”
“Yes, absolutely. It is definitely business, which is why the errand needs to be done quickly and discreetly.” Anna paused. “You have my word on that, Mr. McMinn. I would consider it a personal favor if you would do this for me.”
“Yes’m,” he said slowly. “I’ll see someone’s at the station with this first thing tomorrow morning.”
“No,” Anna said. “This can’t wait for tomorrow. Unless the schedule’s changed, there’s an evening train. He needs to be on it.”
“I see.” He removed his hat to scratch his head. “I reckon I can spare a man. Gonna be a big rain tonight for sure, so we’ll all be indoors anyway.” He paused. “You got train fare and a little something for him to eat and sleep on?”
Anna reached into her pocket and handed him twice the price of a round-trip ticket from Denver to Leadville. “Whatever remains can be considered a bonus.”
He nodded. “Should I have him wait for a response?”
“Of course,” Anna said, “though I’m uncertain as to whether one will be offered. There is also a slight chance my friend will have already left the hotel.”
“I’ll be sure and mention that to whichever of the fellas ends up going.” The driver paused. “Anything else, Miss Finch?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I’d prefer if Mr. Sanders didn’t know about this.”
McMinn considered a moment. “I’ll do my best, miss.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
Determined to get rid of the Pinkerton and with an idea how to do it, Anna arrived downstairs promptly at half past eight expecting the dining table to be set and the usual evening meal waiting. Instead, she found the room empty.
And yet something smelled wonderful. She followed the scent into the kitchen.
“Cook, what’s that lovely—” Anna froze at the sight of the Pinkerton standing at the stove. “You’re not Cook.”
He tossed a grin over his shoulder, then went back to stirring whatever was in the pot. “Gave her the night off.”
It took a moment for the scene before her to register. A man whose gun and badge were still in full view would be her chef tonight?
Anna released her grip on the door and let it close behind her. “But that’s impossible.”
“No, Miss Finch. It’s quite possible. The woman needed the evening off, and I offered to take her place. I think you’ll find I’m a decent substitute.” Mr. Sanders set the spoon aside and reached for a towel to mop his brow. “Gets warm in here,” he said. “Now where’s your bowls?”
“Bowls?” Anna glanced around, then shrugged. “I don’t know where she keeps them. I could look.”
“How long have you lived here, Miss Finch, and you can’t find a bowl?” He turned his back to open the oven door. “No wonder you’re having trouble finding a man. Any woman of mine would need to know her way around a kitchen.”
“Yes, well,” Anna said as she let out a long breath and tried to hang on to her temper. “I suppose it’s to both our benefits that I’ll never be your woman.”
He looked up and grinned. “I suppose so. Counting my blessings right now with that at the top of the list.”
Anna found the bowls in the third place she looked, on the topmost shelf of a cabinet in the far corner of the room. Retrieving them would be impossible without some sort of stool. She found a chair and pushed it over to climb up within reach. As she extended her hand to grab the first bowl, she was lifted off the chair.
“I’ll do that.” The Pinkerton’s voice was as firm as his grip around her waist. Setting her on the floor, Mr. Sanders nudged away the chair and retrieved two bowls from the shelf. “Think you can find a couple of spoons?” he asked as he handed her the bowls. “And maybe a napkin or two. My trail stew’s been known to need a little cleanup.”
“Trail stew?” She frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Bring the bowls over here, and then sit yourself down.”
Despite the urge to protest, Anna did as she was told. From her vantage point, she watched the lawman stir in spices from Cook’s collection, then reach for a spoon to taste his concoction.
“Enjoying the show?” he asked when he glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring.
“Fascinating,” she said with what she hoped was evident sarcasm.
“Like a maestro conducting an orchestra,” he said as he reached for the ladle and filled the bowls. “Just the right amount of each part makes for a perfect symphony.” He turned to check her reaction, then began to laugh. “You are far too serious, Miss Finch.”
“Perhaps it’s the company I keep.”
He set a bowl in front of her and settled himself across the table. Anna offered him a napkin, which he tucked into the front of his shirt.
With her spoon, Anna poked at the ingredients of the meal before her. Something akin to beef. Definitely potatoes. A gravy of some sort.
“Where I come from, we say grace first.”
Anna jerked her attention away from the food. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Here too. That is, Papa always does. Would you mind?”
She tried not to peek as the Pinkerton gave thanks. Yet there was just something about a man who could shoot a gun, haul in a bad guy, and still hold a conversation with God on a first-name basis.
“Amen.” He lifted his head. “Next time close your eyes, Miss Finch.”
“I did,” she protested, albeit weakly.
“Right.” He lifted his spoon and took a taste. “Oh, this is good,” he said with a groan. “I’ve outdone myself.”
Gingerly, she touched the tip of the spoon to the brownish concoction. “What is it you call this again?”
“Trail stew.” He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the napkin. “Ingredients vary depending on what I’ve caught that day and what’s left in the saddlebags to throw into the pot.”
Anna continued to study the contents of her spoon. “Dare I ask what you caught today?”
His laughter was the only answer she got. “Dine or go hungry.” He set down his spoon and gave her an “I-dare-you” look.
Under the Pinkerton’s steady gaze, Anna lifted the spoon to her lips. It wasn’t bad. In fact, the gravy was quite good. She met his stare.
“Well?”
She braved another spoonful, this time with a smattering of the other ingredients included. “It’s actually quite delicious.”
“Doesn’t need anything? Salt, a little cayenne, maybe?”
“No.” She tried to ignore the way the lamplight slanted over features far too handsome to belong to such an irritating man. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect. A man can’t ask for more than that.”
He went back to his meal, and the room settled into silence. Anna almost reached the bottom of the bowl before recalling she had a mission in coming downstairs tonight.
She swallowed her fear and regarded the Pinkerton with an even stare. “Mr. Sanders, I know what my father’s paying you.”
He paused, spoon midway between the bowl and his mouth. For a moment she thought he might ignore her. Then he placed the spoon back in the bowl and gave her a sideways look.
“And?”
“And I am prepared to double it.” There, she’d said it. Anna lowered her gaze to study the trim on her sleeve.
“I see.”
His chair scraped against the floor as he rose. She looked up to see him carrying both bowls to the sink. For a moment, he remained with his back to her, a dark broad-shouldered silhouette against a window, lit by the lamps on either side.
When Mr. Sanders finally turned to face her, Anna’s hopes rose. His expression, while neutral, did not seem to offer any resistance to the idea.
Slowly he crossed his arms over his chest. A casual passerby might have seen a man loitering in the kitchen. Anna saw a man studying her with what she knew must be a skilled eye.
Thus, she too rose and moved to the window to stand beside him. From her spot at the sink, Anna could see a lone lamp burning in the bunkhouse behind the stable. When the wind blew the climbing roses, the light disappeared, replaced by a zigzag of lightning that illuminated the lawn in hues of silver and gray. Soon the branches would be filled with roses, the kitchen overwhelmed with their sweet scent. Now, however, the spindly limbs were bare, the night beyond them dark and heavy with the promise of rain.
Anna pressed her thoughts back toward the carefully formed argument she’d practiced this afternoon. In profile the Pinkerton was less daunting, but only slightly.
“You’ve not answered, Mr. Sanders.”
Outside the rose branches scratched against the window as the low rumble of thunder shook the glass. The mantel clock struck nine.
Slowly the hired gun turned to face her, one hip leaning against the edge of the sink. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You think I put this badge on for the money? Do I look like the kind of man who can be bought?”
“Yes, well, I mean, no. I just assumed—”
“You assumed,” he echoed, his jaw clenched, “wrong.”
He turned and stomped toward the door, pausing just long enough to jam his hat onto his head.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said. “I never meant to offend. Only to strike a deal that might be beneficial to both of us.”
Mr. Sanders wrenched open the door and stepped out into the wind and rain. “The only thing beneficial to either of us right now is me leaving this room before I say something I regret.”
The door slammed behind him, and he was gone.