Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (13 page)

“You’re lying, Miss Beckman.”

She returned his stare with equal boldness. “So are you, Mr. Branch.” It looked like neither of them would back down. Certainly she had no intention of doing so.

He finally released her hand. “Stay away from my things.”

She stepped back, but the disturbing memory of his touch remained. “And of course you’ll show me the same courtesy.”

For several moments he held her gaze and she would have given anything to know what thoughts went through his head. Finally, he touched the brim of his hat in a one-finger salute. “Always a pleasure,” he said and headed for the door.

“The pleasure is all yours,” she called after him.

A grin flashed across his face before he left the room.

Shaken by the worrisome power he held over her, she paced the floor. Why had he gone through her things? What could he possibly be looking for? But those weren’t the only questions on her mind.

The feeling that something about him didn’t register refused to go away. If only she could figure out what it was. Perhaps then she would be better able to fight the worrisome hold he had on her.

He was a puzzle in more ways than one. Most criminals breaking out of jail took off quicker than a hound with a tail afire but Branch stayed. Except for cutting off his mustache and availing himself of a haircut, he didn’t even bother disguising himself. It was hard not to admire a man that sure of himself, that bold. Was that what had turned her head? Surely not.

“He’s a sneak and a thief,” she said out loud.

He was also the most pleasing-looking man she’d ever set eyes on, if not the most arrogant.

“He’s nothing but a crook and a liar.”

Still, there was definitely an attraction. Not that such a thing was all that unusual; some Pinkerton operatives did forge a bond with criminals. Even the agency’s founder befriended criminals he’d once pursued and had been known to loan money to some who promised to toe the straight and narrow.

The trouble was, Branch hadn’t shown the least inclination to change his reprehensible ways. She had no business being attracted to such a man—God forgive her—none.

It was late that afternoon by the time Annie braced herself enough to enter Miss Walker’s room again. The tray was still on the bedside
table where she’d left it. The candle had burned to the nub and the cookies and tea had not been touched.

Thinking Miss Walker was asleep, she tiptoed into the room and picked up the tray. She was wrong. One cookie was missing on the plate but she wouldn’t have noticed had she not counted. Even more surprising, the cup wasn’t quite as full. Smiling, she turned and traced her way back to the door.

Miss Walker’s voice stopped her. “No one ever remembered my daughter’s birthday.” After a moment she added, “Only you.” The normally strong, strident voice had been replaced by a hoarse whisper.

Annie turned. She could handle the woman’s wrath and biting tongue. Could manage Miss Walker’s obstinate ways but this . . . this was something altogether different. This was the voice of a grieving mother. Had Annie known the depth of the woman’s pain, she never would have lit that candle.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I lost my mother and father. I always light a candle on their birthdays.”

The ranch owner said nothing; she only stared into space as if looking at something that only she could see.

Annie guessed that something was a pretty little girl with light-colored hair.

The day Annie lit the memorial candle for Miss Walker’s daughter marked a change in the old lady’s demeanor. The ranch owner was still her usual demanding and difficult self, but without the same critical air or harshness. Or maybe Annie simply had grown used to the ranch owner’s ways.

Miss Walker made no mention of that day and neither did Annie. But it was as if the candle still burned, binding them together in an invisible glow. Never was this more evident than during afternoon tea.

Today Miss Walker greeted Annie with her usual snide remark. “What poison do you have planned this time?”

“Darjeeling,” Annie replied. “From India.”

Annie had just finished pouring their tea when the peaceful quiet was interrupted by angry voices.

“What in the world?” Miss Walker turned her head to stare at the open door leading to the balcony.

After setting the teapot down, Annie hurried outside and leaned over the railing. Wishbone and the man she recognized as Feedbag stood practically nose to nose. Feedbag’s square-cut beard did indeed look like a nose bag worn over a horse’s muzzle.

“When I get through with you, you’ll be scratchin’ the back of your neck with your front teeth,” Wishbone yelled.

“And I’m gonna turn your Adam’s apple into cider,” Feedbag shouted.

Wishbone stepped back and rolled up his sleeves. Head down, arms windmilling, he barreled into Feedbag’s middle.

“Oomph!” Feedbag tried to fight him off and the two men fell to the ground and rolled.

Annie shook her head in disgust and stepped inside. “It’s Wishbone and Feedbag.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Miss Walker’s face. “Well, don’t just stand there. Make them stop at once! I will not have my men fighting.”

Annie left the room and rushed down the hall to the stairs. Having grown up in an all-male house, she’d done her share of
making peace. But the sibling blackmail that had worked so well on her brothers would have no effect on the cowhands.

By the time she reached the courtyard, more men had entered the fray and the sickening sound of pounding fists made her flinch. Stretch swung his arm in a wide arc and his fist just missed the man wearing a black leather apron. No doubt he was the blacksmith, Michael, who also happened to be Bessie Adams’s nephew.

One man fell backward and another jumped on top of him.

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Please, please stop it.”

Branch walked up from behind and held out his Peacemaker. “Politeness is more effective when combined with a gun.” His voice in her ear was as smooth as silk, and chills slithered down her spine.

She pushed his gun away. “Don’t tempt me.”

The sharp report of a shotgun split the air and Annie jumped. The men on the ground froze and all heads turned in the direction of Miss Walker’s balcony.

A grayish-brown prairie falcon fell to the ground, dead.

“Well I’ll be a beaver’s uncle.” Still flat on his back, Stretch stared at the bird, which was mere inches from his head. He stood and brushed himself off. “The boss lady still is the best shot in the terr’tory.”

Branch holstered his gun, his gaze still on the balcony. “Miss Walker did that? But isn’t she still confined to her bed?”

Annie couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, but she keeps her shotgun by her side.” Anyone who thought the old lady helpless would be sadly mistaken.

The blast brought Ruckus and O.T. running and even Able rushed outside to see what all the racket was about.

“What’s going on?” O.T. demanded.

Wishbone held his jaw. “Feedbag accused me of being the Phantom.”

“I did no such thing,” Feedbag said. “I said you looked like him.” He pulled a circular out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up for all to see. The word
WANTED
was written in bold letters across the top of the handbill. “These are posted all over town.”

The image was dark and fuzzy. The man pictured might or might not have a mustache and maybe even a beard. It was hard to tell.

Wishbone read out loud, “Twenty-five-hundred-dollar reward for the capture and conviction of the Phantom.”

O.T. whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Does it say how tall he is?” Stretch asked.

Wishbone scanned the paper in his hand. “It says he’s between five foot eight and six foot two.”

Stretch made a face. “Heck, that can be any one of us.”

“Yeah, but you and Branch are the only ones taller than six feet,” Wishbone argued.

Everyone turned to Branch and the air crackled with tension.

He gave a casual shrug. “That makes the odds in our favor.”

Stretch laughed and gave Branch a friendly slap on the back. “You got that right.”

Ruckus held up his hands and his crooked nose twitched. “Enough with the accusations. If a member of the gang worked here, the boss lady would know about it. She don’t miss nothin’. If the good Lord ever needed help keeping track of his flock, Miz Walker would be a good candidate.”

One by one the men wandered away, some limping, some grumbling.

Annie kept her gaze on Branch while he walked to the barn with the others.

Next to her Able said, “What a shame.”

She swung her head around to face him. “What?”

Able tossed a nod at the dead falcon, his white cook’s hat flopping back and forth like a building about to topple. “That bird ain’t good for nothing. Tough as doornails and tasteless as paper. It’s a shame Miz Walker didn’t down a bird we could eat.”

Chapter 11

Old gumshoes never die; they just escape detection.

I
t was early Tuesday morning when Annie stepped out on Miss Walker’s balcony to shake out a feather duster. Her hand froze the moment she set eyes on Branch. Today, instead of riding out
with the men, he and Ruckus stayed behind. Curious as to why, she
stood watching the two of them.

How Branch fit into the scheme of things she didn’t know, but somehow he held the key to the mysterious man behind the train and bank robberies.

He was easy to pick out even at night since he stood taller than all the other ranch hands save Stretch and sat straighter in the saddle. He also walked with long, easy strides, head held high, shoulders back. The long days in the saddle chasing cattle had yet to take their toll as they had on the other cowhands.

As if feeling her gaze, Branch turned his head to look over his shoulder. He smiled and tipped his hat as if they were playing some sort of game. She refused to back down and forced him to break visual contact first.

The Pinkerton eye never slept, but in this case, neither did it see. For no matter how much she tried, no matter how much she asked for God’s guidance, she was no closer to identifying the Phantom than on the day she arrived and her frustration grew daily.

Though she had little to report to the Chicago office, every piece of correspondence from Mr. Pinkerton held the same terse orders: continue investigation.

Easier said than done.

Most of the men were gone all day except for the blacksmith, Michael, and horse trainer, Brodie. The men’s absences didn’t make her job any easier. She needed to get on a horse and ride the range with them. That was the only way she would ever get to know them, but that would mean leaving Miss Walker alone all day.

Branch walked into the stables behind Ruckus. Moments later Branch appeared with his horse in tow. The steed limped slightly and Branch headed toward the blacksmith shop. One mystery solved.

Feeling oddly depressed and out of sorts, she walked back into the bedroom.

Miss Walker was quick to sense her change of mood. “What’s wrong with you? You look like your horse died.”

Denying it wouldn’t do any good, so Annie said what she thought any fledgling heiress would say. “All this talk about the Phantom has upset me.”

“It’s a good thing you weren’t around when renegade Apaches terrorized the area.” Miss Walker got a faraway look in her eyes, as if traveling back in time. “I shot three right from that very balcony.”

Annie shuddered. She had been thoroughly trained to fire a gun but had never shot anyone, other than a man already dead. She hoped she never had to. “Weren’t you scared?”

Miss Walker made a face. “Who has time to be scared? You do what you have to do and get on with it.”

Annie flicked the feather duster across the chiffonier and wash-stand. Earlier, Stretch and Feedbag had lifted Miss Walker off the bed while Annie smoothed clean sheets over the mattress.

“What you need is a housekeeper,” she said. The ranch’s former housekeepers had returned to their native home just prior to Miss Walker’s accident and she didn’t seem in any hurry to replace them. Annie had assumed some of the chores herself, but keeping up a large house and taking care of the old lady cut into time needed for her investigation.