Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (14 page)

Anna Finch had the kind of beauty that grew on a man. The
kind that might make him forget any time he spent with her was in the line of duty.

Miss Finch set off walking again. “So what have you done to Mr. Mitchell, Pinkerton man?” she asked when he caught up. Before he could respond, she once again stopped in his path. She reached out to touch his side before he could step out of the way. “I’ve not yet properly apologized, though I’m uncertain what one says to one’s shooting victim, as I’ve never shot anyone before.”

Was she teasing? Jeb couldn’t tell. He was still trying to catch up with her abrupt change in subject. “You’ve got me there, Miss Finch. I’ve shot my share of men, but conversation afterward was never something I concerned myself with.” He caught her wrist and moved her hand away from his side. “I am glad to hear you don’t make a habit of this.”

She dipped her head in response, and he lifted her chin with his free hand. Lovely, indeed.

Jeb cleared his throat. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I allowed you to stand out here at this hour of the night unattended.” He released his grip. “So if you’ll just cooperate, I think tonight’s mission can be accomplished easily enough.”

“And what mission is that?”

He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face her home, then pressed his palm against her back. “Tonight’s assignment was twofold. The part I can tell you about is getting you home without incident.” He shrugged. “Other than that situation in the library.”

“Which, if I understood you correctly, will not be written about?” she asked.

“If it does, my next encounter with Mr. Mitchell won’t be as civil as the first.” Her back was warm against his palm, and Jeb knew he shouldn’t walk so close.
The better to protect her
, he told himself. And yet it was he who needed the protection, he decided when she glanced up with wide eyes and flashed that dimple at him.

“And the second part of the assignment?” she asked.

His smile came without warning. “That’s not for you to know.” She would find out soon enough that his job only lasted until her father found some poor fool to marry her.

“I see.” Miss Finch studied him a moment longer, then gestured ahead. “That’s my gate. I assure you I’m safe now.”

Jeb watched her until the grand front doors opened and she slipped inside. “I’m not so sure I am,” he whispered.

Anna went to bed with her thoughts a jumbled mess, the memory of the stranger’s palm against her spine still fresh. When she realized sleep would not come, she went to her writing table and tamed her tangled thoughts by writing them down.

The next morning, Anna opened the
Times
and braced herself for whatever the horrible man had written about her. To her surprise, there was no mention of her adventure in Daniel’s library. Nor did anything appear the following day, making Anna think that perhaps her hired gun had achieved what she’d decided was impossible: breaking the poison pen of Winston Mitchell.

And then Papa left for an extended stay in Leadville, and her mother announced a visit to San Francisco. While Anna usually cherished a trip to see her aunt and cousins, she opted to remain home. Once Mama was safely deposited on the train, Anna returned home
to request a plate of fried chicken and a fresh bottle of ink from the stationer’s downtown. Thus supplied, she set to work on her story about Wyatt Earp.

When the article was done, Anna leaned back to savor the moment. All that remained was folding the pages and sealing them so that McMinn could deliver the letter for her.

“Not exactly all,” she whispered as she reached for the pen and dipped it into the inkwell. “First a note of thanks to Mr. Earp for this opportunity.” She paused before touching pen to paper. How ironic that Winston Mitchell had provided her with the perfect pseudonym. “Signed by A. Bird, journalist.”

That done, Anna sealed the pages and summoned Mr. McMinn to dispatch the article to the paper. “Now what?” she said as she rose to stretch.

Unlike with her novels, Anna knew she couldn’t wait for the publication of one article before she began writing another. The only question was whom to write about next.

Anna pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack and dipped her pen in the inkwell. Recalling as much of the conversation as she could, she began to list everything she knew about the man she believed to be Doc Holliday.

She noted his lack of good health, his superior height, and the pale silver white color of his hair. His pistol was nickel plated and unusual in its design and size. More research would be needed to identify it, but she knew it was not a common Smith & Wesson or Colt. This told her he either possessed the weapon through luck or skill, or he had come from money. The cut of his greatcoat and a tailored suit made from fine fabric made her believe the latter.

Remembering his blue eyes, she wrote that down, along with his distinctly southern accent. Then there was the mention of a woman named Kate and the Georgia address on the letters she mailed.

Finished, Anna set aside the notes on Doc Holliday and began another list, this one populated by people she wanted to interview. Poring over newspapers, she stopped to write down every person of interest she came across. Soon she had several pages of potential names.

Now she just had to locate them and secure interviews. Perhaps she should start with those men and women who lived in the Denver area. She noted those, then moved on to the people she could find through addresses provided in the papers, creating a list of people to whom she would write letters of inquiry.

Perhaps once her piece ran, Mr. Earp might give her a reference. Or better yet, he might recommend his friends speak to her. But until that happened, Anna was on her own.

Then, out of the blue, she recalled something. Anna scrambled for the stack of newspapers. Hadn’t she seen Doc Holliday’s picture recently? Something to do with a murder or robbery.

She tore through editions of the
Rocky Mountain News
, the
Denver Times
, and the other newspapers she’d collected until she found what she was looking for.

On the front page of the Tombstone, Arizona, newspaper was a story about Doc Holliday.

Anna set the paper down. “But that’s impossible. He was in Denver.” The man in the photograph accompanying the story was not the same man who sat across the table from Wyatt Earp. “How can that be?”

She retrieved her notes. Placing them next to the newspaper, she went over each detail several times. Then she rang for the maid. “Would you have someone bring the rest of these downstairs to Papa’s study?” she asked, gesturing to the overflowing bin of periodicals.

After carting downstairs all the papers she could carry, Anna settled behind her father’s desk and spread them out, organizing them by date. Then she began to search for the name of the famous gunfighter. After setting those with mentions of Doc Holliday aside, she reached for more and continued the process.

By the time the lamps were lit, Anna had a mountain of discarded papers on the floor and a neat stack of several dozen on the desk. Resting her elbows on the desk’s polished surface, she stared at the newspapers.

All had run stories of crimes committed by Doc Holliday, and if these journalists, who often quoted eyewitnesses, were to be believed, Holliday was a busy man. So busy that he could shoot a sheriff’s deputy in Salt Lake City the same day he robbed a man of his gold watch and his life in Tucson.

Anna could draw only one conclusion. Someone—perhaps more than one individual—was impersonating John Henry “Doc” Holliday. And that meant a story needed to be told. The man Wyatt Earp had so enthusiastically embraced was in no health to commit some, if any, of the crimes the reporters and supposed eyewitnesses claimed.

Anna spent the week working on the story, scanning each day’s
periodicals for further mention of the outlaw. She also looked for her new pen name, hoping to find it under a letter to the editor or, in her wildest dreams, under a byline as a real article.

When she’d all but given up on a journalism career, Anna spied a letter in the
Denver Times
not written
by
her but
to
her.

Anna looked around the dining room, where she’d elected to take her breakfast, then back at the paper to read it again. The editor of the
Denver Times
wanted to talk to her. Her story had obviously been read and appreciated.

“Further endeavors of the journalistic variety,” she echoed in an excited whisper.

Even with her father still away on whatever business kept him in Leadville and Mother happily extending her visit to her sister in San Francisco, Anna couldn’t quite bring herself to say aloud what she’d held inside for so long.

She was a bona fide journalist. A writer of something with lasting importance.

Her breakfast forgotten, she quickly wrote a letter to the editor of the
Times
. In a moment of bravery, she signed her own name. Then, before she could change her mind, Anna sealed it up and sent for Mr. McMinn to deliver it directly to the recipient.

“Should I wait for a response?” he asked as he eyed the envelope.

“Yes, please.” Anna handed over what could very well be the ticket to an arrangement that would change her life.

Which meant the job of delivering it belonged to no one but her.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll take it myself.”

Mr. McMinn gave her a nod. “I’ll ready the buggy.”

An hour later, after changing her outfit three times and her hairstyle twice, Anna stood at the door to the
Denver Times
office and prayed she appeared as serious as the work she intended to do. The office was situated on the corner of Sixteenth and Larimer in an area of Denver called the Tabor Block, and she could see the Windsor from where she stood.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly then looked around for the Pinkerton who was nowhere in sight.
Good
. The Lord had granted her the ability to write, and if this was the outlet He chose for her skills, then He would already be in the editor’s office, waiting to pave the way for her employment.

Anna easily located the paper’s offices and walked into the newsroom, a place of much noise and activity. A sweeping glance of the room assured Anna that she knew none of these people and that the awful Mr. Mitchell wasn’t in residence. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered the possibility of seeing him. So far, it seemed God was on her side.

She snagged the sleeve of a young man as he brushed past her. “Might you point me toward your editor’s office?”

He gestured toward the back of the room. “Behind the door on the left. Watch your step.”

“Thank you,” she said, but the boy had already moved on.

Anna carefully made her way through the maze of people, tables, and equipment to the door and stepped inside a tiny office.
An elderly man sat hunched over a desk littered with papers, leatherbound volumes, and a large dusty globe. A plaque on his desk proclaimed him to be O. A. Smith, Editor in Chief.

He looked up, and his spectacles fell from his brow to his nose. A push with his forefinger set them in place. “May I help you, young lady?”

She closed the door and swallowed hard. “Are you the editor?”

“I am.” He set aside what he’d been reading to peer at Anna. “Who are you?”

Anna clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking. “I’m your letter writer. My name is Anna Finch, but I am also A. Bird.”

“You’re a bird?” He glanced behind her, then returned his attention to her face. “How did you get in here, miss?”

“No,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. “I am A. Bird. The author.”

Mr. Smith sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, but you’re a woman. And Barnaby Finch’s daughter unless I’m mistaken.”

“I am.” She gestured to the chair across from him. “May I?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “Now tell me the truth. Who is the writer? A friend, perhaps?” The editor rested his elbows on his desk. “You can tell me. The story is brilliant, by the way. I’m not sure it’s the truth, but it’s brilliant. Managing to speak to the one and only Wyatt Earp—well, I’m impressed. And a quote from his wife? That just doesn’t happen.”

“Oh, it’s the truth. I have a witness who will attest to the whole thing.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the older man to speak again.

“You understand I have some difficulty believing a woman wrote that letter.” Mr. Smith’s stare was not kind. “It was, well, quite eloquent.”