Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (14 page)

Miss Walker scoffed. “I don’t need anyone else gawking at me. And I certainly don’t have time to conduct proper interviews.”

“I’ll do it for you, if you like.” She slid the feather duster into the pail of cleaning supplies.

“And what do you know about hiring a housekeeper?” Miss Walker regarded her from beneath a knitted brow. “Have you ever hired one?”

Annie folded an extra blanket and laid it in the oak chest at the foot of the bed. “No, but I don’t imagine it would be that hard.”

Miss Walker narrowed her eyes. “Just exactly what did you do prior to coming here?”

“Do?” Annie fluffed an extra pillow and slid it under Miss Walker’s head.

“To support yourself.”

“I worked in a bakery,” Annie replied.

“A novelist, a dance hall girl, and a woman barber all tried to persuade me that they had what it takes to run a ranch. And now a baker.”

“I didn’t say I was a baker. I said I worked in a bakery.” That part
was true. What she didn’t say was that she was only twelve at the time and the bakery was run by her English grandmother on her father’s side. “That’s where I learned the fine art of tea.”

“Art and tea should never grace the same sentence,” Miss Walker muttered, and Annie laughed.

Odd as it seemed, she had grown quite fond of the old lady and had a sneaking suspicion the feeling was mutual. Normally, the rapport between them would bring her pleasure. Instead it filled her with guilt, and that made her job that much harder. She hated having to lie to the woman about who she was and her reasons for being at the ranch. Hated having to measure every word, every thought, and every action for fear of revealing more than was wise.

“Was your grandmother Indian?” Miss Walker asked.

“No, she was my paternal grandmother.” It was the truth. Her Pinkerton training had taught her to answer as honestly as possible without giving too much away. This made undercover agents sound credible and helped avoid inconsistencies.

“So your mother was Indian. But you said you lived in Chicago.”

Annie nodded. “Her tribe was moved to Indian Territory in the ’70s, but since she was married to a white man she stayed behind.” She didn’t mention Kickapoo. Had Miss Walker pressed for the name of the tribe, Annie would have told her Chickasaw or Shawnee. Sometimes even truths had to be kept vague or wrapped in fabrication.

When Miss Walker made no comment, Annie asked, “Does my being a half-breed bother you?”

“Why should it?”

“It bothers some people.” Actually, it bothered many.

Miss Walker discounted this with a wave of her hand. “So does being divorced.”

Annie appreciated Miss Walker’s open mind but she resented the comparison. A divorce wasn’t noticeable at a glance but her Indian heritage was the first thing people saw. Many didn’t bother looking for anything else.

“Enough idle chatter,” Miss Walker snapped. “Let’s get to work. Bring me my checkbook so I can pay my men, and don’t forget pen and paper.”

Annie welcomed the change of subject. “We’re out of stationery.” That wasn’t entirely true but she needed an excuse to go to town. Not only did she need to telegraph headquarters, but her talk with the marshal was long overdue.

Miss Walker flung up arms. “Well, don’t just stand there. Ride into town and purchase some.”

It was exactly what Annie hoped Miss Walker would say. She hadn’t wanted to leave her, but anyone able to shoot a bird out of the sky from her bed wasn’t as helpless as Annie imagined.

As if to guess her thoughts, Miss Walker added, “While you’re there, tell the marshal to get off the stick and find the Phantom before my men kill each other. And don’t you dare say one thing about my condition. As far as anyone need know, I’m on the mend.”

“Of course you are,” Annie said, gathering the pail of cleaning supplies. “I’ll ask Able to bring your lunch. I’ll be back in time for afternoon tea.”

“Good heavens, I hope not.”

Dressed in a rust-colored skirt and lace-trimmed shirtwaist, Annie donned her white gloves as she walked into the barn and called to Ruckus. “I need to go into town.”

“He’s not here.”

The smooth, easy drawl made her heart flutter even before its owner stepped into view. “They had some problems with one of the windmills.” Branch leaned against the post, arms crossed. “Perhaps I can help.”

“I doubt it,” she said. Turning, she walked out of the barn.

He followed her. “I could drive you to town. In fact, I insist.”

She spun around to face him. “What makes you think I would go anywhere with you?”

He tilted his head. “Since you seem to derive such pleasure in watching my every move, I thought I’d make it easy for you.”

She angled her gaze. Irritated that she had to keep reminding herself that the handsome and yes, even charming, man was in fact an outlaw, she glared at him.

“Aren’t you afraid someone might recognize you in town? Perhaps the marshal?”

“Everyone will be too busy looking at you to pay any heed to me.”

“And why is that?” she asked. Too late she realized she had fallen into his little trap.

“You look mighty fetching today, ma’am. All decked out like that.” He tugged on the brim of his hat as his gaze traveled the length of her. The approval on his face obviously had less to do with her attire than the way the fabric followed the peaks and valleys of her feminine form.

She blushed but nonetheless managed to keep her composure. “I’d be more than happy to call attention to you.”

“Ah, but you won’t. Loyalty to
family
and all that. I’m like a brother.”

She almost laughed in his face. No brother ever affected her the way he did—or made her feel so womanly. “You seem very certain of what I will or will not do.”

He shrugged. “So what’s the big rush to get to town?”

“Miss Walker needs stationery.”

“Ah, so that’s your excuse. For your information, I happen to know that there’s plenty of stationery in Miss Walker’s office.”

“How thoughtful of you to keep track of our office supplies,” she said lightly. “Speaking of which, that wouldn’t happen to be Miss Walker’s pen, would it?”

His hand flew to his vest pocket. “I do believe it is.” He pulled it out and handed it to her. Their fingers barely touched but it was enough to send warm ripples shooting up her arm. Hoping he didn’t notice how he affected her, she took her time tucking the pen into her drawstring purse. Only when she had contained her rampant emotions did she dare lift her head.

His mouth twitched with humor. “I have a tendency to walk off with pens.”

“Among other things,” she said. He lifted an eyebrow, which she took to be acknowledgment.

He shifted his weight. “Now that we’ve established an adequate stationery supply, perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to your real reason for going to town.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation as to my comings and goings.” Too late she realized that the way her eyelashes fluttered could be misinterpreted as perhaps a bit coquettish. It had been purely unintentional, of course, but the knowing look on Branch’s face was not.

“It seems to me that we gang members should stick together,” he said, a smooth, suggestive tone in his voice. “You never know when an unwanted lawman might pop up.”

“I don’t need your help.” She was careful to keep her expression perfectly composed and did not blink or otherwise appear flirtatious
or compliant. The last thing she needed was him looking over her shoulder while she sent a telegram to headquarters.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She walked away.

“Yes, I can see that,” he called after her.

She stopped. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

When he failed to answer, she glanced over her shoulder. He was gone. The way he tended to appear and disappear without notice kept her on her toes, but not as much as her traitorous heart.

Annie got a later start to town than she intended. It was after eleven by the time Ruckus returned and hitched up a wagon. So much for making the journey before it grew unbearably hot.

Her meeting with Branch was still very much on her mind. Nothing disarmed a targeted victim more than good manners and charm, and most criminals had made an art form out of both. But none had mastered charm better than Branch. His smile alone had probably relieved more women of their jewelry than any weapon ever could.

Still, for an escaped criminal, he didn’t seem particularly worried about being caught. Come to think of it, he acted more like a hunter than the hunted. Why else would he search her bedroom or even Miss Walker’s office? Or listen in on private conversations?

When she reached town she planned to send a telegram inquiring as to whether anyone matched Branch’s description. She couldn’t imagine what was taking Pinkerton so long to find a file on him. It had been weeks since she sent full descriptions of Branch and the other ranch hands and she’d received nothing in return.

The sky was clear and the air shimmered with heat. Wiping her
damp forehead with the back of her hand, she shook the reins, forcing the horse to pick up speed. Branch wasn’t the only cause of her frustration. She still didn’t have a clue as to the Phantom’s identity. Her report to headquarters would be mighty sparse indeed.

It was this thought, along with the relentless sun, that kept her company as she drove into town.

Main Street fairly bustled with activity, forcing her to park her wagon several buildings away from her destination. She was positive she hadn’t been followed but even so, she glanced around and carefully weighed each individual before dashing into the marshal’s office.

The marshal looked up and tossed what looked like a wanted poster onto his desk. His crossed feet were perched on the desktop, the worn soles of his boots plainly in sight.

He greeted her with a nod. “Miss Beckman, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Annie replied. It was normal procedure for operatives to identify themselves to local lawmen when on assignment, but something made her proceed with caution. She glanced at the empty jail cell. “I notice the train robbers are gone.”

He dropped his feet to the floor, sat forward, and folded his hands on his desk. “Not to worry. They were safely delivered to Tombstone where they will stand trial.”

“All of them?” she asked.

“Just the train robbers. I still don’t know who robbed the bank.”

Annie studied him. Was it possible that he didn’t know that one prisoner had escaped? She doubted it and, for that reason, decided it best to keep her true identity secret.

“I came to thank you for returning my watch.” His mustache twitched but otherwise he was without expression. “I found it on my bureau,” she said with emphasis.

He pushed his chair back and stood. “That was all that was taken from you, right? Just your watch?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. Obviously he had no intention of volunteering information. “You did say
all
the train robbers were in Tombstone, right?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a relief,” she said.

The marshal rubbed his nose, which meant that he either had an itch or was lying. She guessed the latter. The question was why. She tried another tactic.

“There’s talk that the Phantom himself might be hiding at the Last Chance. I’m sure you can understand my concern.”

“Rest assured that we’re doing everything possible to check out the rumors,” he said.

As far as she knew, neither the marshal nor his deputy had questioned anyone at the ranch, so she doubted he had done
everything
.

He plucked his Stetson off a wooden peg. Donning his hat, he tugged the brim low on his forehead. “Speaking of the Last Chance, how’s the old gal doing?”

“
Miss
Walker
is doing very well, thank you.”

“Be sure to give her my best. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” Moments earlier he hadn’t seemed all that concerned about business, or anything else for that matter. Now he all but hustled her out the door. He couldn’t seem to make his escape fast enough. He untied his horse from the hitching post, mounted, and galloped away.

Annie stood on the boardwalk and watched him with a sense of unease. She could think of only one reason why the marshal would lie: he was involved in some way with the Phantom. Perhaps was even the Phantom himself. It was a good thing she hadn’t revealed her true identity.