Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (11 page)

Most women would have panicked or fainted dead away upon being confronted by a man perceived to be an outlaw. For the most part the lady remained calm and held her own.

Interesting.

There was something exciting about a woman like that. Enticing, even. Seductive.

One thing was clear: not only did the Phantom know how to hide his identity, but if Miss Beckman was an example, the man also had great taste in women. Such an appreciative eye for the fairer sex could very well lead to the mystery man’s downfall.

Taggert intended to see that it did.

Meanwhile, a slew of questions ran though his mind. What was Miss Beckman doing at the ranch? And was Miss Walker’s fall
really an accident or something more sinister? His guess was the latter, which led to yet another question: For what purpose did the Phantom need the ranch owner incapacitated?

Annie
Beckman
. He would bet that wasn’t her real name but she wasn’t alone in that regard. Most of the ranch hands had assumed “summer” names. The unwritten law of the West was not to ask questions. The past was the past. Whatever a man—or woman—might be guilty of was his or her business and no one else’s. This made Taggert’s task more difficult. Anyone poking around in another’s history could well end up riddled with bullet holes.

Yes, Miss Beckman, or whatever her name was, might very well be his key to success, but he must tread with care. She was a complication he hadn’t counted on—though admittedly a very pretty complication.

Something made him turn toward the house. Miss Beckman stood on the balcony watching him. A woman of her word.

It didn’t seem possible that such a shapely package could contain so much fire. Her raven hair, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes, coupled with her smooth honey skin, gave her an exotic look that was most appealing. No doubt Indian blood ran through her veins. Under normal circumstances, his interest in the lady would be more personal. Fortunately, he knew a deceptive web when he saw it, but that didn’t make the temptation any easier to resist. God help him.

He saluted her and, much to his amusement, she returned the favor. A worthy opponent indeed.

Tugging on the wide brim of his hat, he turned and walked away. If things worked out as planned, the lady would point him straight to her leader.

The hunt for the man had occupied him day and night for the
last several weeks and he fervently hoped that the chase was close to an end. He had no fondness for cattle and the sooner he could track down the Phantom and leave, the better.

He glanced one last time at the Phantom’s woman. Even from this distance he could feel her big, green eyes drawing him in. Ah, but she was a clever one. Cagey. She promised to keep his secret but she would mention him to the Phantom; Taggert would bet on it. That could only make the leader nervous. A nervous criminal made mistakes and that was bound to give him away.

Taggert sucked in his breath. He’d waited this long. He supposed he could wait awhile longer. With this thought, he stomped into the bunkhouse, but not without casting one last look at the pretty woman on the balcony.

Chapter 9

Making accusations without proof
is like throwing a rope without a loop.

T
he encounter with the bandit was very much on Annie’s mind when she escaped the ranch house the following morning. Walking helped her think and she needed time
to plan her next move.

The sky was clear and the sun hot, but after the summer humidity of Chicago, she welcomed the dry heat.

She began her walk just as a gust of wind swept across the desert, carrying with it the smell of sage, cattle, and heated earth. A tumbleweed rolled past and clung to a fence post momentarily before blowing away. The blades of the windmill turned atop the spider-legged tower and the mill rotated as if welcoming a guest.

Horses grazed in a nearby pasture; ears twitched and long tails swished. One mustang lifted its head to gaze at her with soulful brown eyes before burying his nose back into the brown grass.

She followed a trail up a hill behind the horses and came across a little cemetery. Weathered crosses marked four graves. Kneeling
by the smallest cross, she wiped away a layer of sand and read the inscription.

Rebecca
Abbott, beloved daughter. 01 April 1866 – 21 September 1871.

Annie sat back on her heels. The little girl had only been five when she died. That was about the same age as the little girl in the tintype. So who was she? A family member?

Annie stood and examined the other graves.
Mary
and
Harold
Walker
—Miss Walker’s parents. The fourth and newest grave was marked Ralph Abbott, who died two years ago. The little girl’s father, no doubt.

She straightened and turned slowly, surveying the land and buildings that made up the ranch. Miss Walker was a force to be reckoned with but she knew her business. Knew how to run a cattle ranch—no one could deny that. She probably also knew her ranch hands like no one else. Miss Walker dictated business letters and issued orders but she wasn’t given to idle gossip. Getting her to talk was a challenge but Annie had to keep trying.

She started down the hill and stopped. A strange, unsettling sensation came over her, as if she was being watched. But no one was around. Shaking the feeling away, she hurried to the ranch house.

Later that same day she questioned Able about the little grave.

The cook pushed a rolling pin to the edge of the pastry dough spread across the wooden table before replying. “That was way before my time, but I heard talk that Miz Walker lost her daughter to smallpox.”

Annie frowned. “I didn’t know Miss Walker had any children.” Nothing like that had shown up in the Pinkerton file.

He sprinkled flour on the dough and rolled again. As he worked,
his white floppy hat rocked back and forth in a sea of ginger curls. “Far as I know, she just had the one. Her husband’s buried up there too.”

“Miss Walker was married?”

“And divorced,” Able said. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Annie blew out her breath. Divorced. Great Scott! That must have raised some eyebrows. “Stretch said Miss Walker rebuilt after the earthquake.”

“From what I heard, the quake flattened pretty near everythin’ within miles. What was left standing was destroyed by fire, except for the barn and stables. Most people around here left after that, but not Miz Walker.”

“I can’t imagine what she must have gone through.”

Able set his rolling pin aside and reached for a tin biscuit cutter. “She’s a tough old bird, that’s for sure.” He dipped the cutter into flour and pressed it into the dough. “But if she likes you, consider yourself one of the lucky ones. If not, watch out.”

No doubt Able spoke the truth, but given her present predicament, Miss Walker would have a hard time finding another caretaker.

Annie had questions galore but that was all Able knew, or at least, all he was willing to talk about. Obviously there was more to Miss Walker than met the eye.

Less than a week after her confrontation with the train robber who called himself Branch, she stood on the balcony of her room waiting for him to leave with the other cowpunchers. It was just after dawn but Annie was dressed and ready to search the bunkhouse the moment the cowpunchers left for the day.

The horses were saddled and ready to go. The air was perfectly
still. Already it promised to be another hot day and the men were eager to get an early start. They stood in a circle while O.T. laid out the chores for the day.

She could hardly take her gaze off Branch and it had nothing to do with his pleasing looks, although admittedly that made her job more agreeable. No, the reason for such close observation was that something about him kept nagging her. He reminded her of a wolf in sheep’s skin. Careful observation told her he could ride a horse and lasso a steer with the best of them. Then again, he had looked equally confident robbing a train.

His lazy smile and studied gaze belonged on a ranch, but he walked and moved with a city swagger. His clothes were worn in all the right places but hardly seemed to go with his long, lean form. Cowpunchers had a tendency to tilt forward when they walked, but not Branch. Instead he walked tall and straight, as if he had a broom-stick for a spine or perhaps even military training.

Ruckus led the morning prayer. Even Branch took off his hat and looked respectful. Anyone not knowing his true identity could easily mistake him for a man of faith.

She curled her hands at her sides. “You might fool the others, but you can’t fool God,” she muttered.
Or
me.

Ruckus finished the prayer and yelled, “Let’s go!”

The cowpunchers broke away from the circle and hastened to their horses with jingling spurs.

Branch mounted with one fluid move. Instead of taking off with the other men, he lingered behind and glanced at the balcony where she stood. She didn’t bother to duck. He knew she watched him and even seemed to derive perverse pleasure from her doing so.

She couldn’t see his face in the early morning light but she didn’t miss the hand touching the brim of his hat. The simple gesture made
her heart flutter. Never had she known an outlaw so brazen or cocky, or a man who exuded such charm. Like a woman sending her man to war, she returned his salute with a wave. The expression in his eyes was hidden, but not the flash of white teeth. She returned his smile. She couldn’t help herself.

He turned his horse toward the rising sun and galloped off, leaving her bereft and more than a little shaken. Her papa once said that a person had only one important decision to make in life and that was whether or not to follow the Lord; everything else was secondary. Branch had chosen crime and that put them on opposite sides no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

Sighing, she waited until the horsemen were out of sight before leaving the house and walking to the empty bunkhouse. Her heart could flutter all it wanted, but she had a job to do and she’d best not forget it.

The smell of saddle leather, alcohol, adobe, and sweat greeted her as she opened the bunkhouse door. The building was divided into two rooms. One room was for sleeping and the other, judging by the large wooden table, was mainly for eating.

There wasn’t much in the large room except a stack of old newspapers and some dime novels, including
Miss
Hattie’s Dilemma
by the local author. The book made her laugh; who said men didn’t read love stories?

A stuffed steer head hung over the stone fireplace. The skin of a rattlesnake draped from the mantel and saddle blankets were scattered about the floor for rugs.

The second room was furnished with bunk beds. According to Able, only the single men lived here. Married men like Ruckus had their own places. Able, of course, slept in the ranch house in the room next to the kitchen.

Knapsacks hung haphazardly from the backs of chairs or hooks on the wall. She stood in the middle of the room considering each bunk in turn. It was always the details that tripped a person and today it was the bedroll. Only one was rolled military-style and had been placed at the bottom of the bed. No cowpuncher worth his salt would leave such a tidy space. But a military man would.

“Got you, Branch!”

A thorough check of Branch’s mattress, bedroll, and knapsack revealed nothing remotely useful or even personal. No photographs, no letters, no notes, no paper—but lots of pens. The man hoarded pens like a dog hoarded bones.

A quick search of the knapsacks belonging to the other ranch hands revealed nothing of any interest. A couple held photographs of pretty young women. Chips of wood on the floor marked Wishbone’s bed. She never saw the man when he wasn’t whittling.

After rummaging through each man’s belongings, she stood in the center of the room. Hands on her waist, she turned slowly, regarding each man’s space one by one. Had she missed something?

“Kin I help you?”

Startled, Annie spun around. Wishbone stood in the doorway staring at her from beneath a ten-gallon hat. His knees were so far apart a cow could walk between them and turn around. His knife and ever-present piece of wood was in hand. He greeted her with a nod of his head and then resumed whittling, chips of wood falling to his feet.