Petticoat Detective (2 page)

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Jennifer Layne, working undercover as Amy Gardner, glanced frantically at the row of closed doors and darted through the nearest one. She was in luck; the room was empty. Hands clutched to her chest to still her pounding heart, she pressed her back against the door, or at least as much as her bustle allowed.
God, what did I get myself into this time?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she waited, praying that the person in the hall wasn’t a john. The sound of a floorboard signaled someone outside the door. She held her breath until the footsteps faded away. Her shoulders slumped, and her breath escaped in a single gasp of relief. That was close.
Too
close.

She strained her ears. A man’s laughter sounded from one of the other rooms, but otherwise all was quiet. For now.

She moved away from the door. Catching sight of herself in the gilded framed mirror, her mouth dropped open. Frowning, she stuck out her tongue. It was her, all right, but with all that face paint it was hard to tell.

Turning, she viewed herself from all angles.
Ugh!
She looked worse than she’d thought. Her bustle forced the skirt almost horizontal from the waist. Sideways, she looked like the front part of a horse, but it was the top of her dress that caused the most alarm. Covering her exposed neckline with crossed hands, she glanced about the room for a shawl, a cape, a newspaper—anything with which to cover herself. Except for a brass bed, upholstered chair, desk, and more mirrors than a carnival, the room offered no help for modesty. She resisted the urge to pull a sheet off the bed and wrap herself in it.

As a Pinkerton operative, she’d worked undercover as a Southern belle, a heartbroken widow, a jilted schoolteacher, and even a secretary (though with terrible typing skills). But never before had she worked in a bordello or had to wear face paint. Her only hope was that she would get what she came for without having to defend her virtue.

She’d arrived at the brothel that afternoon, hoping to convince the proprietress that she was Rose’s long-lost cousin. She never had a chance to share her well-rehearsed story. Thinking she was seeking work as a “fancy lady,” Miss Lillian took one look at her plain skirt and prudish white shirtwaist and dragged her into the house.

“What do you think I’m running here? A nunnery?” the madam demanded.

Quick to see the advantage of approaching the woman named Rose as a colleague, Jennifer-slash-Amy decided to play along, indeed, considered it fortunate to have fallen into what at the time seemed like the perfect disguise.

She would conduct her business and leave posthaste; at least that was the plan. Not once did she consider what such a pretext would entail until Miss Lillian ordered two women in corsets and bloomers to “make her look decent.”

Decent, indeed! Her boss, Mr. Pinkerton, should see her now. On second thought, no he shouldn’t! She prayed that no man would.

Wringing her hands, she paced the floor. The horrid corset felt like steel around her middle, and she could hardly manage an honest breath.
Think, think
. She was almost certain the room directly across from this one was Rose’s. She would simply knock on the door. With a little luck, Rose would be alone and, if all went as planned, tell what she knew.

She could do this, had to do it. After botching her last assignment, she couldn’t afford another failure. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency wouldn’t stand for it. Mr. William Pinkerton, head of the western division, had been very clear on that account.

This time she would get it right if it killed her. After months of investigation, the trail to one of the most notorious criminals in the West led to this establishment. Guilty of fraud, theft, and murder, the Gunnysack Bandit had a hefty price on his head. He also had a gift for evading every lawman, bounty hunter, and detective on his trail.

We’ll see how good you are at dodging a
female
detective, Mr. Gunny
. The thought made her smile. For once her gender worked for and not against her. The room was proof that a female operative could go where angels—and male counterparts—feared to tread.

She lifted a foot onto a trunk and gathered up miles of taffeta fabric to check the derringer holstered to her thigh. The voluptuous skirt would prevent anything resembling a fast draw, but unless she bumped into a persistent male, her chances of needing a weapon were low. Probably. Hopefully.

Certainly, the woman named Rose had no reason to pose a threat. Unless, of course, she was in cahoots with the bandit.

Amy tightened the buckle of her holster attached to a silk-stockinged thigh just as the door flew open. Much to her horror, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, square-jawed man in a wide-brim hat. If his height wasn’t bad enough, the determined look on his face was worse. This was a man who wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

T
om Colton caught a glance of a shapely leg before the woman named Rose dropped her voluminous skirts. Rounded green eyes met his and her red-rouged lips formed a perfect O followed by an audible gasp.

He closed the door behind him. “I apologize for startling you.” He should have knocked, but Miss Lillian told him that Rose was expecting him and to just walk in.

Rose crossed her arms in front, an act that surprised him. How odd that a woman in her profession would worry about bare shoulders. Her attempt at modesty—if that’s what it was—couldn’t have been more misplaced. No amount of cover could hide her appeal or the intriguing way her gown molded against her slim feminine form.

The scarlet gown would look garish on most women, but it gave Rose’s complexion a pearly pink glow. Honey-blond hair cascaded down her back in a riot of ringlets and long dark lashes ringed the eyes staring back at him.

His brother had made more bad choices than could be found on a ruffled shirt, but he knew how to pick his women, that’s for certain and sure, at least appearance-wise.

Rose’s mouth closed but the dismay in her eyes remained. It didn’t seem possible, but the lady looked downright … what? Scared? Terrified?

Of him?

He was tall and he was strong and many were the outlaws who had once feared him, but never had he known a woman to feel threatened by his presence. Perhaps she saw a family resemblance. She certainly looked like she saw a ghost. Except the only things he and Dave had in common were the same parents and similar height.

“Howdy-do, ma’am. My name is Tom. Tom Colton.”

Not so much as a shadow of recognition flickered across her painted face at mention of his name, but her crossed arms stayed stubbornly in place. Maybe clients were expected to follow a certain protocol.

Having no knowledge of the etiquette that such an establishment required, he clarified.

“I’m Dave Colton’s brother.”

Still no response.

Considering the amorous tone of her letter to Dave, her lack of emotion struck him as odd. When the silence continued to stretch between them, he looked around. The only chair in the room was piled high with enough feminine under-riggings to make the most jaded man blush. That left only one place to sit.

She followed his gaze to the neatly made bed. “Oh!”

He frowned. She looked like she was having trouble breathing. Hand out, he stepped forward, but she backed away quicker than chain lightning. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She gave a slow nod as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether she was or wasn’t. “It’s just that I’m not working tonight, Mr. Colton.” She looked like she was trying to put up a brave front. “If … if you would kindly leave …?”

Not working? His gaze traveled down her shiny taffeta gown before he zeroed in on her red-rouged lips. She could have fooled him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he detected a spark of combat in their sea-green depths. “And why is that?”

“I paid Miss Lillian ten dollars, and I mean to get my money’s worth.”

Her eyes widened. “There are other women—”

“But you’re the one I came to see.” The madam had assured him that Rose agreed to talk, if that’s what he wanted, so why was she making it so difficult? What kind of game was she playing?

She glanced past him to the closed door as if measuring its distance. “I want you to leave.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Now!”

“Not till you tell me what you know about the Gunnysack Bandit.” Surprise crossed her face at mention of the outlaw, followed by a look of curiosity. Ah, now they were getting somewhere.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

“I have no knowledge of the man.”

An out-and-out lie if he’d ever heard one. Frustration built up inside, and he punched a fist into his palm to relieve it.

She shrank clear back to the mirrored wall. Much to his dismay, he realized how his thoughtless action could be misinterpreted. He began again, this time in a gentler tone.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

She studied him much as a cat studied a mouse. “You didn’t alarm me, Mr. Colton. Now if you would be so kind as to let yourself out—”

He pulled off his Stetson and raked his fingers through his hair. Things weren’t going as he hoped, but he’d come too far to give up. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.” He replaced his hat and hung his thumbs from his holster. “Not till you tell me what you know.”

The stubbornness on her face matched the hands placed firmly on the deep valley of her neckline. “I know nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You do know that my brother is dead.”

She looked genuinely confused, or maybe that was an act, too. “I’m sorry about your brother, but—”

“Sorry? That’s all you can say?” Anger erupted in him like a blown cork. His brother loved this woman, and she was as cold and heartless as a fish. “I’m not leaving, lady. Not till I get what I paid for.”

Fury darkened her face. “I’m warning you, Mr. Colton. If you don’t leave, you’ll be sorry!”

Was that a threat? He stared at her, but she turned slightly sideways, and, keeping one hand firmly on her chest, she dropped the other hand to her side. Had it not been for the mirror on the wall behind her, he wouldn’t have given her strange behavior another thought. But the reflection showed her bunching up the fabric of her skirt. A nervous habit?

He pretended not to notice—until the hem of her skirt raised high enough to reveal his second glimpse of her leg. Suddenly he had trouble recalling his purpose for being there.

He drew his gaze away from the mirror and cleared his throat. One moment she wanted him to leave. Now she was apparently trying to seduce him.

In no mood for such tactics, he decided to show her he meant business. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for and paid for,” he said, his voice gruff. “Now, either we do this civilly or not. Your choice.” When she failed to respond he added, “Let me know when you’re ready.”

For a moment neither spoke, but the lady’s skirt kept inching upward. “I’m ready,” she replied.

He nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The hem of her skirt fell to the floor, and suddenly he was on the serious side of a double-barrel derringer. Blast it all!

Berating himself for not suspecting she was armed, he drew in his breath. “You better put that toy away before someone gets hurt.”

The corners of her mouth tipped upward in a half smile. “Make no mistake, Mr. Colton. I know how to use this gun, and I seldom miss.”

It was amazing what a little iron in hand could do to one’s self-confidence. All that remained of the reserved, modest woman he found when he walked in the room was the hand still strategically placed on her bodice.

There were perhaps a dozen ways to disarm someone with a gun. If Rose were a man, he wouldn’t hesitate to use full force. Disarming a woman was a bit trickier because he didn’t want to cause unnecessary harm or discomfort.

Still, he was in no mood to let the woman get the best of him—not when he’d traveled this far and had so much at stake. His mind made up, he stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. Her hand left her chest and caught him on the jaw so hard that his head snapped back.

For such a small package, she packed a good wallop. Still, she was no match for him. Okay, maybe a little.

Clenching her arm tight, he grabbed the barrel of the gun with his other hand. With a flick of his wrist, her derringer fell to the carpet. That alone might take the wind out of most people’s sails, but not hers.

She dived for the gun, but he grabbed her around the waist and spun her in his arms. Fighting like a wildcat, she pounded on his chest with her fists.

“Hey! Stop that,” he commanded. Never did he see a woman so fired up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

A high-pitched scream filled the room. Rose stilled in his arms, and that was when he realized the scream hadn’t come from her.

He released her, and in a flash, she scooped up her derringer and darted to the door. Together they ran into the hall where a couple of scantily clad women peered into a room. Nearby, a thin bald man hopped around, trying to put on his trousers. One woman slumped against a wall, sobbing.

Next to her, a comatose Miss Lillian sprawled on the floor like a marlin on a ship’s deck. Two women were trying to revive her with smelling salts.

“What’s wrong?” a redheaded woman clad in only a petticoat asked.

“It’s … it’s … Rose,” a dark-skinned woman squeaked out.

Tom stared at her. Rose? Did he hear right? He pushed past the female residents and into the room on the other side of the hall. A woman in a blue gown lay on the floor. He didn’t have to look twice to know she was past saving.

If this was Rose, then who in the name of Sam Hill was the green-eyed beauty with the iron-like fist?