Read Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Online
Authors: Margaret Brownley
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Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)
Acclaim for Margaret Brownley
“Margaret Brownley’s
Dawn
Comes
Early
was an absolute delight. I spent the whole book reading with a grin on my face. She found wonderful characters and made them real to me and made a bleak desert landscape alive and beautiful. It’s been a long time since I had this much pure fun reading a book.”
—M
ARY
C
ONNEALY
,
BEST-SELLING
AUTHOR
OF
O
UT
OF
C
ONTROL
AND
P
ETTICOAT
R
ANCH
“Margaret Brownley draws vivid characters that are sparkling and endearing. They drew me into their lives and I don’t want to let them go. Thank goodness
Dawn
Comes
Early
is the first in her Last Chance Ranch stories. Like me, you’ll be glad this isn’t our last chance to visit!”
—D
EBRA
C
LOPTON
,
AUTHOR
OF
THE
BEST-SELLING
M
ULE
H
OLLOW
M
ATCHMAKERS
SERIES
“. . . Brownley has a way with words that keeps the reader interested until the last page.”
—
R
OMANTIC
T
IMES
REVIEW
OF
A
S
UITOR
FOR
J
ENNY
“I’ve known for years that Margaret Brownley is a great writer but I think
A
Lady
Like
Sarah
is Margaret at her peak. A perfect blend of romance, the Old West, and characters that steal your heart, along with writing that sings. A fabulous read. I laughed and cried and wished I could pick up the sequel immediately. Write faster, Margaret.”
—L
AURAINE
S
NELLING
,
AUTHOR
OF
T
HE
R
ED
R
IVER
OF
THE
N
ORTH
SERIES
“Margaret Brownley has created two wonderful, unforgettable characters in Sarah and Justin. Their story held my interest from the start, and I couldn’t wait to find out if or how their love would overcome the obstacles set before them.
A
Lady
Like
Sarah
is one of my favorite reads of this year.”
—R
OBIN
L
EE
H
ATCHER
,
BEST-SELLING
AUTHOR
OF
F
IT
TO
B
E
T
IED
AND
H
EART
OF
G
OLD
“Margaret Brownley brings the Old West to life through her humor, drama, and memorable characters.
A
Lady
Like
Sarah
is completely enjoyable from beginning to end.”
—J
ILL
M
ARIE
L
ANDIS
,
AUTHOR
OF
H
EART
OF
S
TONE
G
UNPOWDER
Tea
Other Novels by Margaret Brownley
The Brides of Last Chance Ranch
Dawn
Comes
Early
Waiting
for
Morning
Gunpowder
Tea
The Rocky Creek Romance Series
A
Lady
Like
Sarah
A
Suitor
for
Jenny
A
Vision
of
Lucy
And
Then
Came
Spring
novella included in
A
Bride
for
All
Seasons
Snow
Angel
novella included in
A
Log
Cabin
Christmas
Collection
© 2013 by Margaret Brownley
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brownley, Margaret.
Gunpowder tea / Margaret Brownley.
pages cm. -- (The brides of Last Chance Ranch series ; 3)
ISBN 978-1-59554-972-3 (trade paper)
I. Title.
PS3602.R745G86 2013
813’.6--dc23
2013015574
Printed in the United States of America
13 14 15 16 17 RRD 5 4 3 2 1
To GTF
Who makes all things possible
Contents
H
EIRESS
W
ANTED
Looking for hardworking, professional woman
of good character and pleasant disposition
willing to learn the ranching business in Arizona Territory.
Must be single and prepared to remain
so now and forevermore.
Pinkerton National Detective Agency: We never sleep.
N
EW
O
RLEANS
, 1897
M
iranda Hunt drew a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her black mourning frock and dabbed the corner of her eye. Only the most discerning person would spot
the foot tapping impatiently beneath the hem of her skirt. Or guess
that her respectfully lowered head hid a watchful gaze.
As far as anyone knew, she was exactly who she purported to be: Mrs. James Kincaid the Third, friend of the deceased.
“Such a modest man,” one of the mourners, a middle-aged woman, lamented, looking straight at Miranda. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Kincaid?”
“Most definitely,” Miranda replied. From what she knew of Mr. Stanton, he had much to be modest about.
Everything in the stately mansion from the polished marble floors to the gold filigree ceilings was due to Mr. Stanton’s marriage to the heiress of a flypaper empire. The rich knew how to live, and
judging by the carved oak coffin edged in gold and lined in silk, they also knew how to die.
An elderly gray-haired man approached her chair and put up his monocle. “Would you care to pay your last respects, Mrs. Kincaid?” He was stoop-shouldered and spoke with a lisp.
Miranda stood with a solemn nod and crossed the elegantly furnished parlor to an alcove near the grand piano. Tall palms stood like sentries guarding the open coffin. The deceased was perfectly laid out in a fine tailored suit, his white mustache and hair neatly trimmed. Had it not been for the silver coins concealing his eyes, one might think him merely asleep.
The last few petals of Miranda’s rose fluttered to the floor but she dutifully laid the wilted stem by the dead man’s side. She allowed a ladylike sob to escape and drew a handkerchief to her cheek—all for the benefit of the monocle-eyed man.
Like all operatives of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Miranda was an expert in disguises. Blending in was the key to nabbing an unsuspecting criminal and that took a certain amount of concentration, attention to detail, and, of course, acting ability.
Today, it took considerably more. It took a steadfast stomach to eat the Russian fish eggs and liver paste that the rich called food.
Returning to her seat, she strained to hear three young women whisper among themselves. A private detective had to listen to an amazing amount of gossip, which went against Miranda’s Christian upbringing. But between the “he dids” and “you won’t believes” was where an operative often gleaned the most useful information. Certainly God made allowances for those fighting for law and order. At least Miranda hoped He did.
The hands on the longcase clock swept away another hour and Miranda’s spirits sank, but her vigilance remained. So far this week
she had attended two weddings, three funerals, and a baptism without a sign of the man known as the Society Thief.
Though he excelled at what he did, he was considerably more than just a criminal; he was her stepping-stone to bigger and better assignments.
He had been a bane to the city’s upper class for more than a year. No jewel was safe from his sleight of hand; no wealthy man’s corpse immune to his pilfering fingers. Catching him red-handed would prove to the Pinkerton brothers once and for all that she was ready for more than the jobs no other operative wanted. At the age of twenty-four, she was ready for a real challenge.
She had just about decided that this funeral was a waste of time when she spotted the straw boater. It was always the details that tripped up a person and today it was the hat. Senses alert, she studied the latecomer. The fact that he’d failed to give his head-covering to one of the servants like the other male guests made him suspect. There was always the possibility that he planned on using his hat to conceal a dastardly deed. Or perhaps he simply kept it so as to make a quick escape.
Slender of build, he had short black hair and a pointed beard. He was immaculately dressed in a black sack coat over gray trousers and vest. A short turnover collar showed above a floppy bow tie.
The other male guests wore silk suits and linen shirts, appropriate attire for a warm spring-like day, but this man wore wool—the fabric of choice for pickpockets. Wool didn’t rustle like other fabrics, allowing the wearer to move without detection.
