Diane T. Ashley (2 page)

An image sprang to David’s mind. A girl with coal black hair, violet eyes, and a complexion as fair as a bowl of milk. “I’m not interested in finding a wife or in staying in Sandwich.”

“Woo-hoo, I’d like me one of them gals.” Tall-and-toothless stood with his face pressed between the bars of the cell.

“Mind your own business.” Mr. Winthrop sneered at the man. “I wasn’t talking to the likes of you or your partner.”

The front door swung open, and two men brought Cole Hardy in on a stretcher.

One of them looked to Winthrop. “Where should we put him?”

As Winthrop sputtered, David slipped past the men with the stretcher, feeling Cole Hardy’s angry stare all the way out the door. Turning right, he walked down the street to the hotel, the only two-story building in Sandwich.

The sun would set soon. He couldn’t get back to Chicago tonight, so he decided he could get that bath, eat some supper, and retire early. Tomorrow he would get an early start. The people of Sandwich could handle the Whiskey Kid and his followers. David had done what he was hired to do.

Breathing a sigh of relief to enter the relative coolness of the hotel, David tossed a couple of coins on the front counter and asked for bathwater to be delivered to his room.

“I’d be happy to bring it myself.” The girl at the counter was the daughter of the proprietor—single and dangerous. She was rather pretty, if a man liked his women with wheat-colored hair and glittering blue eyes. He was more fond of dark-haired women.

Besides, like he’d told Mr. Winthrop, David had no intention of finding himself a wife here. “That’s all right. If you don’t have a servant to carry the water, I can go to the barbershop.” He ran a hand over his chin. “I need a shave anyway.”

She pushed out her red lips in a pout. “Pa can bring the water.”

“That’s okay.” The hair on the back of his neck rose in response to the predatory look in her eyes. He would also ask the barber if he could get a decent meal at any other place in town. David had plans for his future, plans that had nothing to do with being caught by a man-hungry female in Sandwich.

Chicago

P
INKERTON CODE:

A
CCEPT NO BRIBES

N
EVER COMPROMISE WITH CRIMINALS

P
ARTNER WITH LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENCIES

R
EFUSE DIVORCE CASES OR CASES THAT INITIATE SCANDALS
OF CLIENTS

T
URN DOWN REWARD MONEY

N
EVER RAISE FEES WITHOUT THE CLIENT
’
S PRE-KNOWLEDGE

A
PPRISE CLIENTS ON AN ONGOING BASIS

David could recite by memory the words stitched on the framed handwork hanging on his supervisor’s wall. They had been drilled into his head when he joined the agency. They were the first thing he was taught, along with the methods for catching criminals.

Homer Bastrup glared at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses for a moment before nodding. His bulldog face relaxed into a smile. Removing the glasses, he carefully folded the legs and placed them in a leather case.

“Good job.” The large man’s voice boomed through the suite of offices located on the second floor of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Several of the detectives whose desks were stationed outside his door raised their heads. “This is the kind of report I wish all my men would turn in.”

The heads dropped again, and David thought he could hear the scratch of pens on paper in the sudden silence. “Thank you, sir.” The approval on his supervisor’s face brought home the importance of his recent success. It made his hard work worth the effort.

“Mr. Winthrop was very complimentary. He sent a letter saying you did an excellent job in protecting the citizens while addressing the problem.” Mr. Bastrup tapped a sheet of stationery with a beefy finger. “He even asked if you might be willing to return to Sandwich as their sheriff.”

“That’s very kind of Mr. Winthrop. He made my job easier by holding a weapon on the gang members after I shot their leader.”

“Are you interested in returning to Sandwich?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I like living here in Chicago.” David hoped to make a career for himself with the Pinkerton agency. Chasing down criminals and making sure they were put in prison was a noble occupation, and one he seemed to have some aptitude for.

He was proud to be a Pinkerton detective. The agency had the largest collection of information anywhere about crimes and criminals in the United States. Thanks to their efforts, America was a safer place for law-abiding citizens. “We never sleep”—the motto of the Pinkerton agency—was proven true over and over as murderers, thieves, and anarchists were arrested in ever-growing numbers.

The older man reached for a fountain pen, scratching his name at the bottom of the final page of David’s report with a flourish. “Those men who held up your stagecoach last fall got quite a surprise. Your story is much like Allan’s. He got involved in detective work when he helped the Kane County sheriff capture a gang of counterfeiters.”

David was familiar with the story of how Mr. Pinkerton had become a deputy sheriff before forming the agency with his brother Robert. The three-story building that housed their agency was a testament to their hard work and success. “As they say, ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ ”

The trip back from San Francisco had been difficult even before the incident Mr. Bastrup mentioned. David had traveled out there to reconcile with his father. That was a mistake that had cost him both time and money. On the long trip back, a pair of masked riders held up the mail coach. All the passengers were ordered out of the coach and told to empty their purses and pockets. Waiting for the right opportunity, he managed to pull his weapon, wound one of the robbers, and capture the other.

“How would you feel about a trip to New Orleans?”

The question caught David off guard. Most of the cases he’d worked were much closer to home. “Sir?”

Mr. Bastrup’s wise brown eyes seemed to see right through him. “You’re familiar with that part of the world, aren’t you?”

Memories flooded David. The flavor of fresh fish; the smell of burning coal; warm, lazy days watching the splash of a paddlewheel … “I grew up in the South.”

“You still talk like your mouth is full of cotton.”

David had heard that complaint often since making Chicago his home. “The people back there say I sound like a Yankee.”

A hint of a smile lighted Mr. Bastrup’s face as he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a thick folder. “You may remember hearing about a rash of bank robberies in Chicago last year. Just about the time our agency was hired, before we could find out if the robberies were connected to each other, they stopped.”

David watched the older man’s face as frustration and anger replaced his moment of humor. Mr. Bastrup was dedicated to his job. For him it was a personal insult for someone to get away with a crime. As tenacious as a snapping turtle, he rarely failed.

“Now the same thing is happening in New Orleans. One of the bank officers wants to hire our agency. They need help getting their money back, and it seems the police force down there isn’t having much luck. When I talked to Mr. Pinkerton about this assignment, I told him I think there may be a connection between the robbery there and what happened here. He agreed and told me about another incident in Vidalia, Louisiana, across the Mississippi River from Natchez. Isn’t that where you’re from?”

David didn’t want to nod. He had no desire to discuss Natchez or even think about the people there. But Mr. Bastrup knew the answer. He tilted his head.

“I thought so.” Bastrup slammed a fist on his desk for emphasis, making David’s shoulder even more tense. “The robbers take their time and hit the banks when they are most vulnerable. We have to stop them. Let people know their money is safe. I want an agent down there who can put them in jail where they belong.”

An odd mix of feelings assailed David as he listened to his supervisor. He was equally anxious to catch the bank robbers, but he wasn’t certain if he wanted to return to the South. He had come to Chicago for many reasons, not the least of which was to start a new life. He no longer had any family ties. He was free to go anywhere, even to Europe if he wanted. Was going back to the area where he’d grown up a good idea? His heart said yes; his mind, no. “Do you need an answer now?”

A frown drew Mr. Bastrup’s eyebrows together. “Most of the detectives out there would jump at the chance I’m offering you. I thought you were a man of ambition. Do you really want to become a manager here, or are you satisfied working small cases in remote areas?”

When his supervisor laid out the options, David realized he didn’t have much choice. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Mr. Bastrup handed him the folder. “Here’s all the information we gathered in Chicago. Maybe you’ll see something we missed. And you should probably check out that bank that was robbed in Vidalia. They might have some new lead. If nothing else, it’ll give you an opportunity to visit your family in Natchez before you continue on to New Orleans.”

David started to correct him about his family situation, but he simply said, “Thank you for trusting me.” He stood and tucked the folder under his arm. “I’ll do my best.”

Bastrup grunted. “I expect good things from you. If you want more responsibility, you’ll have to earn it. Mr. Pinkerton demands it from himself and from his agents.”

As he walked from the room, David wondered at the irony. He had thought he could break free of his past. Unresolved questions returned to his mind. Would the people in Natchez treat him differently now that he was a full-fledged detective? His life had taken so many turns that it made him dizzy to consider all the twists and turns. Where would this venture take him?

M
y dance card is full.” Jasmine Anderson snapped together the spines of her fan so David wouldn’t see that several of them had no partner written on them. Why had Camellia decided to order fans instead of using the traditional dance cards that could be more easily hidden? Dangling from her wrist, its weight seemed to chide her for being untruthful. She wished she could use the silly thing to cool her cheeks. Why was the room so warm when the month of May had barely begun?

Jasmine set her jaw and glared up at him. She would not yield to temptation. David had no right to expect her to swoon with excitement because he had shown up at the last minute. At one time she might have considered a proposal from him—a temporary bout of madness, no doubt. She had been foolish enough to listen to his plans and dream of a future together. But no more. She was done pining for him.

A slight smile emerged from the corner of his lips but did not continue up to his eyes, eyes as green as maidenhair ferns. Eyes that held a hint of sadness. Why should he be sad? He was the one who had gone adventuring and left her to molder here in the backwaters.

Something had changed in him since he decided to move to Chicago and become a detective. And she didn’t like it at all. In spite of her determination to remain at arm’s length from him, she wished David could remain the staunch friend and ally he’d been. She was the same, after all. What had happened to the boy who had known her better than anyone else? Was he still inside there somewhere? Or had he ceased to be her David the moment he left town?

No matter the answers to all those questions, he should not have appeared so suddenly tonight. He should have had the decency to call on her yesterday or at least earlier this afternoon—before the ball started—like her other dance partners. Did he think he should get special consideration because of a handful of empty promises?

If that’s what he thought, she would disabuse him of the notion right now. “I’m sorry, David. If I’d known you would be here …” She let the words trail off.

“Of course. I understand.” His voice was steady and his smile widened, but his green eyes stayed sober. He bowed briefly. “I apologize for my presumption.”

She was saved from further conversation with him by the appearance of William Smalley, her next dance partner. She welcomed his arrival with a determined smile. She refused to compare him to David. A proper gentleman, Mr. Smalley had called on her several days ago and secured her hand for this dance. Never mind that he was not as tall or broad shouldered as David. He was a very nice man, and she was looking forward to their dance.

“I believe our quadrille is beginning.” Although William held out his right hand in invitation, his uncertain brown gaze darted from her face to David’s.

“Of course.” Jasmine put her hand on his arm and allowed herself to be swept onto the dance floor as the music began.

“You are looking exceptionally lovely this evening, Miss Anderson.” William’s smile was much more flattering and genuine than David’s had been. It soothed her ruffled nerves.

Jasmine curtsied to him before turning to the gentleman on her right and curtsying again as the dance required. “Thank you, Mr. Smalley.”

The orchestra’s music could not quite drown out the conversations in the crowded ballroom, but at least out here they had room to breathe. Waiting for their turn to cross the square, she pulled at the cuff of her elbow-length glove. What was wrong with her? She should not be so nervous. It wasn’t like this was her first ball. Since the end of the war she had attended dozens of similar affairs with her sister Camellia. At the age of twenty some would consider her an old maid, but Jasmine was determined to take her time before selecting a husband. Or she might decide to remain single. No law demanded that she marry, after all.