Undercover Bride (37 page)

Dear Garrett,
she wrote.

She wrote about her father’s horrific crime spree, his death, and her determination to make up to society for all the damage he’d done. She wrote about her years in the orphanage and her mother’s abandonment. She admitted lying about her family’s farm and included the check he’d written with the letter.

The paragraph that contained her misgivings about his guilt and the pain at finding the money stashed in the tree house was so smeared it was hard to read.

Tears had fallen as she’d written those words, just as his own eyes began to mist as he read them.

It appeared to be a normal day at the train station. A dozen people, mostly peddlers, were lined up in front of the ticket booth. A black porter whistled to himself as he piled baggage onto a cart. The idling train hissed and snorted like a bull anxious to leave its pen.

Maggie sat on a bench dressed in her traveling suit, her trunk at her foot. On the outside she looked like an average passenger waiting to board the train; inside she was a quivering mass of nerves.

Was it only four weeks ago that she met Garrett at this very station? So much had happened since. Attempting to push the memories away, she clenched her hands tight and tried to focus on the milling crowd around her. It was no use. A vision of Garrett’s blue eyes and devastating smile—even the sound of his voice—were now part of her, and nothing she did relieved the pain.

Her chest tightened, and the suffocating sensation in her throat threatened to cut off her breathing. Can’t think of that now. Can’t think of Garrett. If they had any hope of trapping Panhandle, she had to be sharp and on top of her game. Success depended on it.

After they nabbed Panhandle, she would take the first train out of town. But there would be no leaving, not completely, for part of her would always remain here in Furnace Creek with Garrett and his two adorable children.

An old woman shuffled over to the bench, back bent, and flopped down next to her. She wore a bright floral print dress and a floppy bonnet.

“Ready?” she asked in a high-pitched tone.

“I’m sorry—” Maggie glanced at her and blinked. “Rikker?”

“Shh.” She—he—grinned. “What do you think?” This time he spoke in his normal voice.

She looked him up and down and laughed. “You said your days of dressing as a woman were over.”

“Yeah, well, anyone tries to get too friendly with me this time will end up full of lead.”

“Trust me. You have nothing to worry about. For one thing, your… eh… bosoms are uneven.”

“That’s part of my charm.”

Now that Rikker was here, she felt considerably better. “I still wish we told Garrett what we were doing. He has the right to know that his employee is under suspicion.” If Garrett ever again trusted anyone, it would be a miracle.

“The fewer people who know, the better. It’s bad enough I had to tell the sheriff.”

“How did he take it?” Summerhay’s dislike of Pinkerton detectives had only gotten worse after the Cotton affair. He didn’t like strangers coming in and cleaning up his town.

“Like a man about to be hung.” He chuckled. “Not to worry. He’s up for reelection and wants to look good. He’ll do anything for votes, even if it means working with us
bullying
Pinks.”

She sighed. “Nothing better go wrong.”

“You worry too much, Duffy. You deal with Panhandle, and I’ll take care of the rest. With a little luck we’ll be on our way to New Orleans in no time.”

Their new assignment required him to pose as a rich banker with only a few months to live and in need of someone to handle his daughter’s finances when he was gone. She, of course, would pose as his daughter. It sounded relatively easy, and after the emotional highs and lows of these past couple of weeks, she needed something simple—something with no complications.

“I hope that means you’ll handle the boss.” They were supposed to be in New Orleans by now. When the principal found out they were still in Furnace Creek, he’d have a fit. Nothing he hated more than having his operatives take matters into their own hands.

“Not to worry.” Rikker sniffled and pulled out a dainty lace handkerchief. “So how do you feel about playing the part of my daughter?”

Changing the subject was his way of quieting her nerves. It irritated her on some level that she never had to return the favor. He was always calm and confident as the nighttime sky.

“I’ll live with it,” she said. She’d pretended to be his daughter enough that it seemed almost second nature to her. “I just hope nothing goes wrong today.” There were too many people at the station for her peace of mind.

“Relax.” Rikker blew his nose in an unladylike way and tucked his handkerchief in his handbag. “You might be interested to know that Panhandle’s actual name is James Madison Walker. His family’s wagon train was attacked by Apaches. He was only eight years old and the lone survivor. No one knows what happened to him after he was found by the cavalry. Or later, after his arrest. Headquarters checked with the railroads, and no one has a record of anyone by his name working for them.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could have worked under an assumed name,” she said.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Rikker said. “What we do know is that he has good reason to wear that ridiculous cap.”

Maggie cringed. “You don’t mean he was—” She couldn’t even say it. Nothing seemed more barbaric than scalping, and it was hard not to feel sorry for what Panhandle had gone through at such a tender age. Traumatic childhoods seemed to be the norm for many criminals. It was a pattern she was all too familiar with, not only in her work but in her personal life as well.

Her father had witnessed the brutal murder of his own parents when he was six. It didn’t excuse what he did, of course, but it did make her wonder if there was a better way to make up for her father’s grisly deeds.

What if there was a way to help children at risk like Linc? Help them follow a godly path like that kindly minister had helped her? Garrett had once likened life to the game of chess, and he was right. Both needed a guiding hand.

Rikker nudged her arm and slanted his head toward the horse and wagon that had just driven up to the station. “There he is now.”

“It’s about time.” She could hardly wait to see Panhandle’s face when he realized the jig was up. Earlier she’d noticed the sheriff hidden behind a stack of crates. After delivering the boogeyman to him, her job would be done.

“You better get started, Duffy.” As an afterthought, he said, “And good luck.” Keeping his head bent, he rose and lumbered toward the ticket booth.

She said a quick prayer before leaving the bench and threading her way through the crowd. No one had been allowed to board the train, and all around her indignant passengers grumbled and complained.

“What’s going on?” someone asked.

“The engineer was taken ill,” a middle-aged woman answered.

Maggie walked down the platform steps, watching Panhandle from the corner of her eye. It was important not to be caught staring at him.

Rikker had checked to see that Garrett expected the delivery of supplies on today’s train. He did. As usual, it was Panhandle’s job to pick up any packages that arrived at the station.

She timed herself so that it would look like she had accidently “bumped” into him just before he reached the platform.

“Morning, Miss Taylor,” he said. “Heard you were leaving town today.”

“I was,” she said, feigning a sigh of annoyance.

Right on cue, a woman’s scream rose from the knot of passengers waiting to board the train. The sheriff had sounded the alarm as planned, and the platform shook with the pounding of running feet.

Panhandle shaded his eyes against the bright sun. “What’s going on? Why is everyone running?”

“I’m afraid there’s a problem.” She placed her hand on her chest. “The engineer is ill and there’s another train heading this way. If they don’t clear the tracks—” She shuddered.

He lowered his hand. “Another train, you say? Why don’t they just back this train onto the other track?”

“No one else knows how to move it,” she said.

He stared at her in disbelief. “That’s nonsense. There’s always someone else. The brakeman—”

She shook her head. “He’s new on the job and says he’s not qualified.”

“That’s… that’s just plain dumb.” He hesitated. “Maybe I can help.”

“Oh, if only you could. That would make you… a hero.”

He got all red in the face. “Don’t know about that, but if that freight train crashes into this one…” He shook his head. “Wish me luck.” Without another word he bounded across the street faster than she had ever seen him move and stepped onto the station platform.

“Oh, I do.” Maggie held her hands together in a silent prayer. “I do.”

By the time Panhandle reached the train, the station was deserted. She watched him board the engine with the ease of a spider climbing a wall. The man knew what he was doing.

Moments later, the train gave a long, low whistle. Smoke spiraled from the stack and steam shot out from the sides. The rods moved and the wheels turned with a clatter. The train slowly slithered backward like a metallic snake and made a gradual turn onto the second track.

Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Panhandle knew how to operate a train—no question. Still, that didn’t prove he was Cotton’s partner, but it was a start.

The crowd gathered on the street across from the station burst into applause. Some people started forward, but the dark-skinned porter held them back.

Panhandle joined her moments later on the still-deserted platform, grinning like a schoolboy.

“Excellent work,” Maggie said. “I didn’t know you were an experienced engineer.”

His grin grew broader and then suddenly died.

“Mr. James Walker,” the sheriff called as he advanced toward them, gun drawn. “Put your hands up.”

Panhandle’s eyes bulged. “What the—”

“We know you’re Cotton’s partner,” Maggie said.

An innocent man would have stood his ground, but Panhandle did exactly what they’d hoped; he panicked.

He took a flying leap off the platform and ran. Shouting for him to stop, the sheriff aimed his gun but didn’t fire. Panhandle had disappeared into the crowd.

“Stop that man!” Summerhay shouted.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and people quickly backed away. A horse hitched to a wagon whinnied and tried to pull free from its traces.

Only two people remained in the middle of the street: Panhandle and Aunt Hetty. A glint of steel sent a ripple of fear down Maggie’s spine.

Panhandle held the muzzle of his gun at Aunt Hetty’s neck.

S
tay back,” Panhandle yelled. “All of you.”

The color drained from Aunt Hetty’s face and her lips quivered. “B—be careful of my neck,” she pleaded.

“Oh, sorry,” Panhandle said. He adjusted his hold, but the gun stayed in place. “Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Drop your weapon,” the sheriff shouted, his gun still aimed.

“Drop yours,” Panhandle called back. “Or Aunt Hetty’s neck will be the least of her worries.”

Aunt Hetty let out a funny sobbing sound, and he apologized again. “Sorry, but it’s either you or me.”

The sheriff laid his weapon down.

“That’s one,” Panhandle said, staring at Maggie.

“I’m not armed,” Maggie said.

“A detective without a gun, Miss Cartwright? Surely you jest.”

Grimacing she slipped her hand into her fake pocket and pulled the derringer from her leg holster. Now that her real identity had been revealed, she was at a disadvantage. She set her gun on the platform.

“You won’t get away with this,” Summerhay said.

“You’re wrong, Sheriff. Thanks to your thoughtfulness, I have an entire train at my disposal.” Dragging Aunt Hetty along with him, Panhandle worked his way toward the engine on the second track.

Still dressed as a woman, Rikker emerged from the crowd, hands up, and spoke in a crinkly high-pitched voice. “Leave Aunt Hetty here, and take me instead.” He looked and sounded every bit the old woman he purported to be.

“Stay back,” Panhandle warned, but Rikker kept advancing.

Rikker persisted. “She could die just like that. Her heart, you know.”

While Rikker kept up a litany of Aunt Hetty’s known ailments, Maggie inched sideways in an effort to position herself in such a way as to retrieve her gun. Who would have thought that Aunt Hetty’s tiresome health issues would one day come in handy?

“If you don’t want your hostage to drop dead, you better take me,” Rikker continued in his thin, feminine voice.

Panhandle gestured impatiently. “All right, then.” He glanced around. “But don’t try any funny business.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Rikker said. Head bent, he lumbered slowly toward Panhandle, purse swinging from his wrist.

“Hurry up!” Panhandle yelled. “And you!” He glared at Maggie. “Step away from your gun. I said move!”