Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (17 page)

“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.

Anna felt a headache coming on.

The sun felt glorious and warm on Anna’s face, and she longed to shed her bonnet despite the impropriety involved in such an action. She fidgeted with the ribbons at her neck and gave the idea serious thought as Isak, Daniel’s driver, urged the carriage away from the heart of the city.

Edwin’s invitation for a morning carriage ride, arriving as it had on her breakfast tray, was a welcome distraction from her disappointment at learning the letter to Mr. Holliday had not reached its intended recipient before the man left Leadville.

Anna took a deep breath of spring air, pleased to be in decidedly non-Pinkerton company. But as the gates closed behind them and Edwin Beck slid a glance in her direction, the pleasure faded. While the Pinkerton caused her no end of aggravation, Daniel’s very handsome brother reduced her to babbling schoolgirl silliness.

Neither was preferable, but she’d made her choice. Rather than open her mouth and say something foolish, Anna looked away from Edwin.

“I’m pleased your father thought to send me back to Denver early,” her companion said. “He was concerned you might be suffering from lack of attention.”

“I see,” Anna said. That Papa felt any sort of concern over the attention she received, or didn’t, was beyond absurd. Unless it had to do with finding her a husband. She closed her eyes.

“Miss Finch, have I upset you?”

She opened her eyes and found Edwin staring. “No, that would be the Pinkerton’s job.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.”

When Edwin Beck seemed to read her earlier thoughts and tugged on the length of green satin trailing from her bonnet, Anna gasped. His look of innocence belied the fact that he held her bonnet strings in his hand.

“Release my ribbons,” Anna said, proud at the modicum of words she’d managed.

“I should,” he admitted. “It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Indeed it would.”

The carriage veered to the right and began ascending the bridge spanning Jackrabbit Creek.

“And while our driver is no doubt a circumspect fellow,” Edwin continued, “Isak would likely take offense to my familiarity with you.”

Daniel’s longtime employee did not respond, but Anna could feel his disapproval.

“And so, Miss Finch, while this bonnet is of glorious construction—no doubt the handiwork of some French milliner—I must submit that the curls beneath are the work of a much more talented hand.”

“I don’t follow,” she said. “Are you toying with me or merely supposing a theory?”

It was utter nonsense, this talk, and yet when Anna braved a look at the younger Beck brother, she saw far too much of Daniel there.

“Perhaps it’s time for the jest to end.” She gave the ribbon a tug, but he refused to release it. “Mr. Beck, surely you can’t find any good reason to continue this.”

“The truth, I fear.”

Her smile was quick if not steady. “Thank you for understanding. It would be quite the scandal should I be seen riding about town bareheaded.”

“I do agree.”

“Good.”

He whipped her brand-new bonnet off her head and tossed it beneath the rolling wheels of the carriage.

“Mr. Beck!” She looked around wildly for any potential witnesses. While Anna saw no onlookers, she did watch a stiff breeze lift her bonnet and propel it over the bridge to land at the edge of the creek.

“Thank goodness it didn’t land in the water. Isak, can you stop so I can retrieve it?”

Isak pulled on the reins, and the carriage slowed to a halt midway across the bridge. “I can fetch it.” As he climbed down, the driver’s glare was unmistakable.