Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (12 page)

Trained to have an explanation handy for just such an occasion, she quickly explained her presence. “Miss Walker is in need of a new housekeeper and asked me to check to see how much work was needed.”

Wishbone’s steer-horn mustache twitched. “No housekeeper ever set foot in here,” he said with a worried glance around.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I can believe that.”

He slid his knife down the length of his wood. “I’ve worked my share of ranches and I ain’t never known a housekeeper to step foot in the ranch hands’ livin’ quarters.”

She forced a smile. “I reckon there’s a first for everything.”

His brows slanted downward. “I don’t think the boys will cotton to someone rearranging their stuff.”

She couldn’t decide if that was a warning or a general statement against housekeepers. “Then perhaps it would be best if the housekeeper’s job is confined to the main house.”

“Maybe so.” He looked relieved. “Maybe so.”

“I’ll suggest that to Miss Walker.” She tossed a nod at the stick in his hand. “What are you making?”

“Makin’?” He held the stick up. “I’m not makin’ anything. The point of whittlin’ is to enjoy the journey and not worry about the dest’nation.” He looked at her with squinty eyes. “You ought to give it a try sometime. The way you zip around, you’d think there was a hangman on your tail. A little whittlin’ would do you a world of good.”

“Maybe I’ll try it sometime.” It was hard to imagine doing something just for the sake of doing it. She had always been goal oriented, even as a child. Everything was done with a purpose in mind, mostly in an attempt to gain her father’s approval.

Following an awkward silence, she started for the door. “I’d better go. It’s time for Miss Walker’s breakfast.”

She brushed past him and he didn’t try to stop her. Outside she filled her lungs with morning air. Could Wishbone be the Phantom? She glanced over her shoulder but the ranch hand was nowhere in sight, no doubt still enjoying his journey to nowhere.

Able greeted Annie that afternoon with less than his usual exuberance. His honor had been questioned and he took it hard. He wasn’t the only one. None of the ranch hands liked being suspected of being the Phantom.

“Hmm. Something smells good,” she said.

“Gingerbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh out of the oven.”

She helped herself to one and sank her teeth into the still-warm confection. It tasted every bit as delicious as it smelled.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asked between bites. She had never tasted so many delicious desserts. The ranch was a sweet tooth’s paradise.

“I grew up on a farm with three brothers. After my ma died, we drew straws to see who would take over as cook.”

“And you won.”

“At the time I thought I’d lost.” He shrugged. “I left home at eighteen, came west, and landed a job as a chuck wagon cook.” He paused, his face lit with a wistful expression. “That was the life. My wages were twice what the cowpunchers earned and everyone knew to treat me right, even the wagon boss. I was the king of the range.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“What happened?” His eyebrows disappeared beneath the band of his hat. “I’ll tell you what happened. The train!” He practically spit out the words. “It’s now cheaper to send cattle to market by train than herd them there. Now I’m nothing but a kitchen lackey.”

“That’s not true.” She helped herself to another cookie. “I think if you asked any of the ranch hands they would say you’re still king.”

He shook his head. “Nah. These men don’t ’preciate good cooking. As for Miss Walker, all she wants is beef, beef, and more beef!” He shook his head.

He obviously objected to being confined to such a limited menu.
Perhaps that explained why he put so much culinary energy into his desserts. It was the one area where he was given free rein.

She finished the last of her cookie and brushed the crumbs off her hands. “Have you met the new ranch hand?”

“Branch? Yep. He likes his meat cooked medium. You can tell a lot about a man by how he eats his meat.”

It was an interesting thought. The Pinkerton brothers preached the importance of details but never asked how a suspect liked his meat cooked. “And what does that tell you about Mr. Branch?”

“It tells me he’s a nonviolent man.”

Interesting if true. “What about Wishbone?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“How does he like his meat?”

“He don’t eat meat at all,” Able said.

“Like Shelley,” she said.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Able read dime novels but she doubted he had much use for poetry. “It’s hard to believe that someone can work on a cattle ranch and not eat meat.”

Able shrugged. “Probably why he looks like he’s on a horse even when he ain’t.”

She giggled. “How long has Wishbone worked on the ranch?”

“Awhile. He was here long before me. At least five years.”

“Hmm.” She reached for another cookie. “I think I’ll take some to Miss Walker, along with a pot of lovely tea.”

Able made a face but he put water on the stove to boil. “Gingerbread and tea,” he muttered. “That’s like mixing sheep and cattle.”

“You’d better not let O.T. hear you mention sheep in the same sentence as cattle.” After arranging a cup and saucer on a tray, she put several cookies on a plate and brewed the tea.

She was halfway out of the kitchen when he called to her. “I almost forgot. Happy All Fools’ Day.”

She glanced at the Hood’s Sarsaparilla calendar on the wall next to the icebox. Was it April already?

Able glanced at the calendar too. “Time sure does fly.”

“Yes, indeed it does.” In little more than two weeks it would be Easter. Time was whizzing by and she had yet to figure out a way to send daily reports back to the home office. Mr. Pinkerton would have her head.

“Do you have a small candle?” she asked.

He pointed to the china cabinet. “In the middle drawer.”

Annie set the tray on the counter and opened the drawer he’d indicated. She pulled out a thin candle and stuck it into a cookie’s soft dough. She then pocketed a box of safety matches.

Able shook his head. “If it’s her birthday, you best not mention it. Women can be mighty touchy about their ages. Miz Walker ain’t no different.”

She lifted the tray. “It’s not her birthday. It’s her daughter’s. I always light a candle on each of my parents’ birthdays and I find it very comforting. I hope this comforts Miss Walker.”

His freckles seemed to fade beneath his doubtful expression. “Miss Walker don’t like to think about the past. What’s gone is gone and that includes people.”

Annie hadn’t been able to get the little grave on the hill out of her mind. She thought about her dear mama’s grave. Her papa’s. The past wasn’t something you could remember or forget at will; it stayed with you, was part of you. Unless she guessed wrong, it was part of Miss Walker too.

The old lady was reading when Annie walked into her room. “It’s about time.” She laid her book facedown on the bed. “What is that?”

Holding her hand around the lit candle to protect the flame, Annie set the tray on the bedside table. “Tea time.” She crossed to the window to adjust the draperies against the hot afternoon sun.

Miss Walker slumped back against the pillow and rolled her eyes. “Dishwater time, more like it.” She regarded the lit candle as one might eye a coming storm. “So what are we celebrating? Your birthday?”

“My birthday is in October.” Annie turned from the window. “It’s a memorial candle.”

Miss Walker grimaced. “And what are we memorializing?”

“It’s April first,” Annie said quietly. She waited and when Miss Walker showed no reaction, she wondered if perhaps Able had been right.

“It’s your daughter’s birthday.”

Miss Walker’s eyes bored into Annie like two burning coals. “How dare you!” she sputtered. “What gives you the right to poke your nose into my business?”

“Please don’t be angry. I happened to come across the little grave and—”

“Get out!” Miss Walker pointed at the door. Veins stuck out from her neck and her face turned an alarming red.

Annie held her hands up, palms out, in an effort to calm the ranch owner, but the woman only grew more agitated.

“Get out and don’t come back! And take your dishwater with you!”

Not wanting to upset her any more than she already had, Annie fled the room without the tray.
What
have
I
done, God? Oh, what have
I done?

Chapter 10

Suspicion ain’t proof unless you’re married.

A
nnie rushed down the hall to her room, biting back tears. Now she’d done it.

The assignment of a lifetime; her chance to prove that she could do a man’s job and honor her father’s memory, and she’d failed. Miserably.

First she caused Miss Walker’s accident and now this. The ranch owner had every reason to throw her out on her ear.

Even worse, she had let William Pinkerton down. He had trusted and believed in her when no one else would. Wait till he heard what a mess she’d made of things. The thought cut through her like a knife. Odd as it seemed, she also felt like she’d let her father down. Not even death had severed the need to try to please him.

She reached for the door handle and just as quickly pulled her hand away. It was no time to get careless. Since finding the watch on her bureau, she never left the room without first inserting a thread between the door and casing. It was a trick from her father.

She ran her hand down the length of the crack but could find no
thread. She checked again to make certain but there was no mistake. The thread was gone and that could only mean one thing. Someone had entered her room during her absence.

Hand in her false skirt pocket, she curled her fingers around the gun. She pressed her ear to her bedroom door but heard nothing. Whoever had entered her room was probably long gone, but she couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.

She placed her hand on the brass handle, silently counted to three, and threw the door open.

Branch looked up from her desk. “Ah, Miss Beckman.” He looked so relaxed it was almost as if he belonged there or, at the very least, was invited.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her GTF file was open in front of him and her cheeks flared. She rushed to the desk. “What gives you the right to go through my private papers?”

He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead he closed the file. “You went through my things and I was simply returning the favor.”

She studied him with wary regard. She had taken special care to leave everything exactly as she found it in the bunkhouse.

He grinned. “You might have fooled Wishbone with all that nonsense about a housekeeper but you didn’t fool me. You were nosing through my things. Admit it.”

She lifted her chin. “Why would I be interested in anything of yours?”

“Why indeed? Unless, of course, our leader put you up to it. Ah!” He pointed his finger at her and practically yelped with certainty. “He did, didn’t he?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

He gave a nod of satisfaction. “I’ll do that.”

“Good!” And make it soon! The only chance she had of redeeming herself after the fiasco with Miss Walker was if Branch led her to the Phantom. “Now if you would kindly leave my room—”

“Not until I’m ready.” He tapped his finger on the manila folder. “GTF? Give to Phantom?”

“You really ought to work on your spelling,” she said.

He shrugged. “I get by. So what does GTF stand for?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I might be a poor speller, but I know
business
starts with a
b
.”

She grabbed the file but he stayed her hand with his own. Pressing her palm against the desk, he rose from his chair, his nose practically in her face. He stared at her with bold regard and a fiery charge shot up her spine.

“Why is it coded?” he demanded. He was so close she could feel his warm breath. He smelled of bay rum, leather, and hot desert sands. The heady fragrance complemented his strength and power.

“So that people like you can’t read it,” she retorted.