Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (2 page)

The man’s gaze met hers and she gave her fan a coquettish flick and smiled. Confident enough to think she was flirting, he smiled back. The scene was set.

A rush of excitement raced through her as it always did whenever
she was about to nab a suspect.
You
should
see
me
now, Papa. Maybe then
you wouldn’t have been so against me becoming a detective
. She moved across the room, but the deceased’s widow reached his side first.

“I’m Mrs. Stanton,” she said. “And you are . . . ?”

“Harry Benson. Your husband and I were business acquaintances. I apologize for being late.”

A rehearsed response if Miranda ever heard one. He lowered his head and said something more, but his voice failed to reach her straining ear.

The widow blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Benson. That’s very kind of you to say.” She gestured toward the enormous table of delicacies. “Do help yourself.”

With a swish of her black taffeta skirts, Mrs. Stanton walked away. A snap of her fingers sent servants scampering to the kitchen for more plates of pâté and caviar. Had the woman realized that Mr. Benson had taken her quite literally and helped himself to her diamond brooch, she might have been less inclined to worry about his appetite.

Miranda quickly moved toward her prey. “Mr. Benson,” she said by way of greeting. “I’m Mrs. Kincaid. Perhaps you know my husband?”

“I’m afraid not.” Raking her over, his gaze settled for a split second on her diamond necklace before belatedly meeting her eyes. The necklace had been borrowed from a local jeweler and the Pinkerton agency would have to pay quite handsomely should it disappear. Miranda meant to see that it didn’t.

“Would you care for some refreshments, Mrs. Kincaid?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Allow me.” The nature of the crime required a pickpocket to make physical contact with his target, so it was no surprise when Mr. Benson, or whatever his name was, offered his bent elbow.

Since a detective needed to get as close as possible to a perpetrator, she slid her arm through the crook of his.

They strolled like two old friends to the refreshment table. A pickpocket’s second order of business was to distract his intended victim. Mr. Benson did this by “accidentally” spilling cider on her dress.

“Oh, forgive me.” He drew out his handkerchief and quickly dabbed at her skirt. Like any good victim, Miranda allowed him to do so.

“How clumsy of me,” he murmured. “I do apologize.”

In the blink of an eye, he had expertly relieved her of her jewels—a true professional if she ever saw one. Any pickpocket worth his salt took pride in his work and would never be so inelegant as to cut a lady’s dress or a gentleman’s apparel. While he pocketed the necklace with one hand, Miranda just as efficiently matched his professional pride by slipping a handcuff on his other.

His mouth dropped open but it was the gun that turned him pale as the corpse.

“It w-was an accident,” he stammered. He cast a nervous glance around the room but no one paid them any heed. “I’ll be happy to make compensation for the d-dress.”

“This old thing?” She smiled. “You needn’t worry about it, but you might be a tad bit concerned about your pockets.”

One eye twitched and sweat dotted his forehead. “Who . . . who are you?”

“A thief’s worst nightmare,” she replied, raising a palm to reveal her Pinkerton badge. “It might interest you to know that the police are waiting for my call.”

Before Miranda could clamp the second cuff around his wrist, a female servant dropped a tray and screamed, “She’s got a gun!”

A collective gasp rose from the mourners but before anyone had a chance to move, the pickpocket grabbed for Miranda’s weapon.

“Stop,” she hissed.

They struggled and the derringer arched back and forth between them, the loose handcuff swinging from his arm. The gun went off with a deafening bang. Overhead, the crystal chandelier shattered and glass sprayed down like silver rain.

Guests scrambled beneath the buffet table. Others dived behind sofas and chairs. One robust woman fainted dead away.

The weapon went off a second time.

The pickpocket was good at his craft but was no match for Miranda. With a well-placed knee and a perfectly aimed blow, she gained control of the gun. Doubled over in pain, the thief could do nothing to prevent her from snapping the second steel bracelet around his wrist.

Her derringer in one hand, she pulled an array of watches, bracelets, and necklaces from his pocket with the other and dumped them on the buffet table. The palm nippers used to snip jewelry free from an unsuspecting neck or ear, she kept. One never knew when such a tool might come in handy.

“Calm down, everyone.” Miranda held her badge over her head for everyone to see. It was now just a matter of calling the police. “Everything’s under control.”

“Not everything,” the widow cried. She had thrown herself across the coffin and her feet flopped about like newly caught fish. “You shot my husband!”

Miranda’s stomach churned as she hurried down Fifth Street to the three-story building housing the Chicago headquarters of the
Pinkerton Detective Agency. One hand tucked in her muff and the other holding on to her hat, she kept her head down. The icy wind blowing off Lake Michigan sliced through her gray woolen skirt and chilled her to the bone.

Summoned to the office posthaste, she dreaded her meeting with Mr. William Pinkerton. She was definitely in trouble. A large black-and-white eye on the face of the building seemed to confirm it. Today the firm’s logo appeared to glare down at her.

She battled the heavy door leading to the lobby. It was still early, which meant that none of the other operatives or secretaries had arrived yet. She alone had to face the principal.

Inside the building, she straightened her hat, wiggling the hat pin in place. She then held her chin high, ready to explain and, if necessary, defend her actions. Thus braced, she took the elevator to the top floor and marched right past the detective room and into the principal’s wood-paneled office.

William Pinkerton greeted her with a curt nod and waited for her to be seated. He then paced back and forth in front of her, hands clasped behind his back.

He shook his head, his heavy jowls jiggling and his walrus mustache drooping. “You shouldn’t have shot the dead man.”

“Yes, that was most . . . unfortunate. But as I explained to the widow, except for the hole in his head and dislodgement of coins at his eyes, her husband’s . . . uh . . . condition remained unchanged.”

Pinkerton regarded her from beneath slanted brows. “The last thing the agency needs is more bad press and now Mrs. Stanton threatens to bring about a lawsuit.”

She grimaced. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. The man was dead when I got there and dead when I left.”

“You should never have tried to restrain the thief yourself.
Your instructions were to identify him and then call the police. That was all.”

“If I had called the police first, we would have lost him. I caught the Society Thief and that’s more than Stands or Masters did.” The two operatives had worked on the case for six months without success.

Pinkerton stopped pacing. “Many believe that a woman has no business fighting crime.”

“Including your brother,” she said. She’d heard the two arguing over that very subject not long ago.

He nodded. “Including Robert. But unlike my brother, I believe women have an advantage over men when working undercover.” Pinkerton sat on the edge of his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. “I promised Charles to watch out for you, but I can’t do that if you continue to take unnecessary risks.”

A dark cloud entered the room at the mention of her father. If it hadn’t been for a careless Wells Fargo detective, her father might still be alive. “Papa was one of your best operatives. He taught me everything I know about detective work.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Pinkerton said. “Your father took his share of unreasonable chances.”

Miranda tightened her fingers around her fur muff. She still hadn’t gotten over her father’s death three years earlier. Her only consolation was carrying on the work he loved so much.

“My father might have taken unreasonable chances, as you call them, but he captured more criminals than all your other operatives put together.” She leaned forward. “I want to be treated like every other agent. If I were a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Pinkerton blew out his breath. “You’re your father’s daughter through and through.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Miranda chewed on her lip. “You aren’t thinking of letting me
go, are you?” She feared that more than anything in the world. To be relieved of her duties would be an affront to the memory of her father. It would also break her heart to give up the work she loved.

“On the contrary. The governor of Arizona Territory has asked for our help. He wants to hire us to track down a man who has terrorized the county for more than a year. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Phantom.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You want
me
to track down the Phantom?”

“Normally this would be handled by the Denver office, but they lack relevant personnel,” he said. “If you’re successful, it would put a shine on our tarnished reputation.”

She frowned.
Relevant
personnel
seemed like an odd term to use and she had no idea what it meant. “But the law—” Pinkerton agents were accused of employing bullying tactics during the union riots and using undue force. That led to Congress passing a law preventing the government from hiring private detective firms. The law had cut into the agency’s work, but so had the increase in competition.

“The Anti-Pinkerton law prevents the U.S. government from hiring us. It says nothing about territories.” He stood and walked over to a map pinned to the wall. Arizona Territory was riddled with black Xs.

He jabbed the map with his finger. “All the robberies committed in the last year are marked.”

Miranda joined him. Doing a quick count, she stopped at twelve. Even the James gang in their glory days hadn’t been that active.

“As you can see, the robberies are centered in the southeast portion of the territory—in Cochise County, to be exact. They tend to be centered around . . . here.” He pointed to a blank space between Tombstone and a little town called Cactus Patch.

She squinted at the tiny dot that marked the town. “Doesn’t look like there’s much there but desert.”

“That’s why the governor asked for help. The long-range man-hunt is taxing local authorities.” His finger made a circle on the map. “This is a cattle ranch called the Last Chance. As you can see, it’s the most centrally located to the robberies. Unless I miss my guess, that’s where we’ll find the leader of the gang. And even if he’s not hiding out at the ranch, he’s got to be somewhere nearby.” He plucked a newspaper clipping from his desk.

“It gets even more interesting,” he continued. “The ranch is owned by an old lady named Eleanor Walker. I believe she’s a bit soft in the head.” He read the piece aloud. “Heiress Wanted.” He chuckled and stroked his mustache. “Now I ask you. Does it sound normal for someone to advertise for an heiress?”

“It does sound odd,” she agreed.

“Yes, but also fortunate.” He read the rest. Not only was the “heiress” expected to learn the cattle business, but she also had to promise to forgo marriage. “So how do you feel about cattle ranching?”

He didn’t have to ask how she felt about forgoing marriage. No man would be so foolish as to marry a Pinkerton operative. “I think ranching is a dirty business but someone’s got to do it.”

“Yes, and as it turns out, that someone is you.”

She gaped at him. “You want me to answer that advertisement?”

“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t look happy about it. “Miss Walker might be fey, but I’m sure she would notice if a male operative showed up wanting to be her heiress.”

Aha!
Relevant
personnel
meant female. For once her gender worked for and not against her. She forced herself to breathe. It was the assignment of a lifetime. It was what she wanted, had prayed for, and worked so hard to achieve. Still, there was a big difference
between tracking down criminals in a city like Chicago, Boston, or New Orleans and hunting for them in the Wild West. Every horror story she’d ever heard from other operatives came back to taunt her.

“But . . . but I know nothing about cattle or even ranching.”

“The advertisement clearly states that the ranch owner is looking for someone willing to learn. While you’re learning, you will track down Mr. Phantom, whoever he might be.” He gave her a stern look. “That’s all you will do. Track him down. Once you identify him, you will then notify local law enforcement. You are not to go after him yourself. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

He reached across his desk for a thick portfolio. “Here is a complete dossier on Miss Walker and the ranch and what little we know about the gang leader. You’ll also find your train tickets and expense money in here.” He put the thick binder in her hands. “The ranch owner has been notified and is expecting a Miss Annie Beckman, which, of course, is you. As usual, you will send daily reports on your progress to the name and post office box listed in your dossier, in cipher. Any questions?”