Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (25 page)

A moving light shone in the center of the otherwise dark passageway and she held her breath. Someone was coming this way. She turned, looking for a place to hide. It was probably Taggert but she couldn’t be certain. She scraped the wood shavings away with the toe of her boot. Let Taggert find his own clues.

Her back against a rough rock wall, she slid her hand into her false pocket and wrapped her fingers around her gun.

Taggert stepped out of the passage and she exhaled. “Imagine meeting you here.”

He swung around. If he was surprised to see her, he kept it to himself. Instead he gave her a crooked smile. “Does this mean you’ve decided we’d best pool our resources and work together?”

“Certainly not.” She moved away from the wall. “Find anything?”

He shook his head. “Just some pickaxes and shovels. Looks like our mystery lights belong to a prospector.”

“Would you tell me if you’d found anything else?” she asked.

He laughed and the warm, pleasant sound bounced off the rocky cave walls all around her like a dozen rubber balls. “Would you?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” she said, though oddly enough she felt guilty for hiding the wood chips.

He extinguished the light and hung the lantern on a hook jutting from the rocky wall. Half of his face was in shadow, and even now that she knew his true identity, much of him remained a mystery.

“What made you become a detective?” she asked. Everyone had a reason for doing what they did, and it was usually personal.

It took a moment for him to answer, as if he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. “My father was shot and killed during a bank robbery,” he said at last. “I was fifteen at the time.”

“I’m so sorry.” She knew what it was like to lose a father to a violent death and her heart went out to him.

His eyes clouded with visions of the past. “When the police failed to find his killers, I found them myself and brought them to justice. The day the three men sat on trial was the day a Wells Fargo representative offered me a job. I was nineteen.”

“So young.”

He shrugged. “Never thought of myself as young.” He regarded her with a speculative gaze. “What made you become a detective?”

“Operative,” she said. After the word
detective
became synonymous with bullying tactics, the Pinkerton founder had devised a new word.

“Nothing like a new name to erase negative public opinion.” He stared deep into her eyes and for the first time in her life, she felt like someone could see the real Miranda Hunt.

She started to say something but he stopped her. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You followed in a relative’s footsteps. Probably your father’s.” He lifted an eyebrow. “How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad. My father was an operative until he died.”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry. It seems like you and I have more in common than we knew.”

“Except, unlike you, I have no military training.”

He drew back, obviously surprised by her observation. “Does it show that much? The military part?”

“Sometimes,” she said.

He considered this for a moment. “I was sent to military school at the age of twelve to learn discipline.”

“Just as I thought. A delinquent.”

His gaze made a slow sweep over her face as if to memorize every plane. “You were the only girl in the family and so you had to prove you were every bit as good as your brothers.”

He was good, no question, and not to be outdone, she continued the game, keeping her tone light. “Let’s see . . . the way you pronounce certain sounds tells me you’re from the East. Not Boston. Closer to New York, but not the city.”

Like a worthy challenger he didn’t miss a beat. “And the way you speak tells me you’re from Illinois, not Chicago. Closer to the southern border. Probably Peoria. Which means one of your parents, most likely your mother, was Kickapoo. Either your father or his parents were British.” He slanted his head and studied her.

“My father’s mother was born and raised in London,” she said.

“There had to be a reason for all those afternoon teas,” he teased.

“Spying again, no doubt.” When he neither denied nor confirmed the accusation, she changed the subject. “Since you’re so good at reading people, why didn’t you know I was a Pinkerton operative?”

He shrugged. “Why didn’t you know I worked for Wells Fargo?”

“Probably because you looked so utterly believable as a thief.”

His mouth curved in a half smile. “Is it true that Pinkerton operatives never sleep?”

“Of course,” she said. “And Wells Fargo agents never forget, right?”

“Absolutely. Since we’re being honest with one another, how about at least telling me who GTF is?”

Reminded of how she found him going through her things, she lifted her chin. “Most certainly not!” It was a good thing she wrote even her most personal thoughts in cipher. She had been taught well.

“Is GTF the
big
man?” Taggert asked.

She almost burst out laughing. “Most definitely.”

He frowned. “So you
do
know who the big man is.”

“Let’s just say I have an idea,” she said. If only he knew . . .

He pondered this for a moment. “Tell me who hired you.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” It wouldn’t do to let a competitor know a Pinkerton’s business.

“Ah, that must mean you’re working for the governor.”

“It means nothing of the sort,” she snapped.

He laughed. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“You can think all you want,” she said, “and you would be wrong.”

He moved a step closer, effectively blocking her escape. “And what else would I be wrong about?” he asked softly.

She sucked in her breath. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If I said you want me to kiss you, would I be wrong?”

Her heart jolted and her cheeks flared. “Most definitely.” Her voice hoarse, she swallowed hard and began again. “Why would you even think such a thing?”

She lifted her hands to his chest to push him away but he caught her by the wrists. He gazed at her for a moment before gently but firmly pulling her all the way into his arms. Her hat flew off and her hair tumbled to her shoulders and fell down her back.

Lights of approval flared in his eyes. “Call it my powers of deduction.”

He angled his mouth onto hers and everything went blank except for the taste and feel of him. His lips were gentle at first, persuasive, like a musical note starting soft and increasing in volume. Warm sensations flooded through her, filling an aching need, while at the same time creating another. Rising on tiptoes, she thrilled to the way
her body molded neatly to his. Throwing caution to the winds, she flung her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

He lifted his mouth from hers and gazed into her eyes. “Who knew kissing an operative could be so much fun?”

Had he slapped her he couldn’t have hurt her more. Feeling like she’d suddenly been doused with ice water, she pulled out of his arms. “Oh no you don’t!” she stormed.

The Pinkerton Agency frowned upon the use of romantic or sexual favors to gain information, but obviously Wells Fargo detectives had no such qualms. She bent to pick up her hat and rushed past him.

He chased after her. “Annie! What did I do?”

She whirled about to face him and they almost collided. “You’re not using me to gain information.”

He drew back. “Is that what you think I was doing?”

“That’s what I
know
you were doing, but it’s not going to work.”

“Annie, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me. We are
not
working together. Just the fact that you know I’m working undercover goes against Pinkerton policy. I could lose my job.”

“And you don’t think I can’t? We’re both in the same boat and we either row together or sink. It’s your call. But what happened back there . . . that had nothing to do with us professionally.”

“What happened back there . . . can’t happen again.” She turned and hurried to her horse and this time he didn’t follow.

The sun beat mercilessly against her back as she raced her horse back to the ranch house. Tears blurred her vision and ran down her cheeks.

Memories overwhelmed her. Tired of childhood chants from her brothers that she was only a girl, she devoted her teens to proving she was as good as any man. She learned to ride better than her
brothers, shoot better than they, and, should her job as a Pinkerton require it, could even play a mean game of poker and faro.

By the time she was twenty, men looked at her like one of their own. She was never asked out to dances or church socials like the other girls, but that never bothered her. Instead she was invited to target shooting and horse racing and other male endeavors. Until today, that had been enough.

She had her job and that was all she ever wanted—that and her name posted along with Pinkerton’s best. This sudden desire for a man to look at her like a woman surprised her. More than that, it frightened her.

Taggert made her aware of feelings never before acknowledged. She now knew how it felt to be kissed—really kissed—by a man. His kiss accomplished what no amount of sleuthing or following in her father’s footsteps had done; it filled the hole in her heart, if only for a short while.

But the damage was done and things would never be the same. Now she wanted a man to admire her for who she was and not because she could outride or outshoot him. She wanted a man to love and cherish her and to keep her under his protective wing.

And she wanted that man to be Taggert.

Taggert watched her ride away and grimaced. Her accusations still stung. Did she really think he was so shallow as to kiss her to gain information? Nothing had been further from his mind. He kissed her good and he kissed her hard for all the right reasons.

Still, he shouldn’t have done it. Big mistake. Not only professionally, but personally. He blew out his breath. Kissing her sure hadn’t
done much for him physically either, except make him want to kiss her again.

Now that he knew the sweetness of her lips and how neatly she fit in his arms, it would be that much harder to stay away from her. But stay away he must.

The lady wanted what he wanted: to capture the Phantom. Only his reason was more personal; he had to find out what happened to his friend. Only one of them would succeed, and he intended to make sure it was him. And if that meant depriving himself of the pleasure of her company, that’s what he intended to do. God help him.

Chapter 21

Silence is golden except during an interrogation.

A
nnie tossed and turned that night. The burning torch of Taggert’s kiss seemed to sear her very soul. She hated that he tried to use his considerable charm to obtain information. Hated even more that he made her long for things that, for her, didn’t—couldn’t—exist.

Hers was a world of make-believe, filled with pickpockets pretending to be upright citizens and private detectives acting like criminals. Nothing was as it seemed, not even love. No one was real and sometimes she even wondered if GTF was.

Realizing the futility of trying to sleep, she flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling.

Frowning, she lifted her head off the pillow. It was still dark, yet weird-shaped shadows danced across her bedroom wall. From the distance came the tinny, yet urgent, sound of the triangle calling bell.

She was halfway out of bed when she caught a whiff of smoke. She rushed across the room and flung open the balcony door and
gazed in disbelief at the sight that greeted her. The stables and barn were ablaze.

Flames shot upward and battled the sky with fiery swords. A line of men worked a fire brigade and buckets quickly moved from hand to hand between the water tanks and burning buildings. Other cowhands led blindfolded horses out of the stables and away from danger.

Shocked wide-awake, Annie darted inside and grabbed her dressing gown. Shoving her arms in the sleeves as she ran, she raced out of her room. Miss Walker was in the hallway on crutches.

“Stay here,” Annie said, rushing past her and down the stairs.

Miss Walker said something in reply but Annie kept going. She practically collided with Able in the entry hall as they reached the front door at the same time.

“It’s bad, real bad,” he said. He dashed outside ahead of her and stopped to stomp on the glowing embers in the courtyard before running to help the others.

Pillars of thick smoke burned her eyes and her throat closed in protest. The fire sizzled beneath the onslaught of water. Flames crackled and sparks flew in the still-dark sky like fireworks on Independence Day.

Taggert emerged from the stables with a blindfolded horse and she ran to his aid.

“I’ll take him!” she croaked. It was Miss Walker’s horse, Baxter.

Taggert thrust the rope in her hand and dashed into the next stall.

“Be careful,” she called, but her voice was drowned out by the crackling fire, shouts of men, and whinnies of frightened horses.

“You’re all right, boy.” She rubbed her hands along Baxter’s slick neck and then led him to the pasture. He seemed to sense safety inside
the enclosed area and stopped trying to pull away. She removed the rope from his neck and pulled off his blindfold.