Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (26 page)

She let herself out of the gate just as several frantic horses thundered past her. The roof of the barn and stables collapsed amid shouts and men scrambling out of the way.

Hands to her bosom, she prayed,
God, don’t let anyone be hurt.
Taggert
. . .

Smoke burned her eyes and her watery gaze flitted from man to man. Stretch, Wishbone, and Able were still tossing buckets of water onto the flames while Mexican Pete and Ruckus put out nearby fires with shovels. Brodie battled to hold on to a rope around the neck of a frenzied stallion.

The men frantically worked to keep the fire away from the ranch and bunkhouse.

Taggert was nowhere in sight and icy fear twisted her heart. Spotting Stretch by the windmill, she raced to his side. “Where’s Branch?” she cried.

Stretch, face black with ashes, dipped his bucket into the water before answering. “Why, he’s right there, Miz Annie.”

She whirled about just as Taggert looked up from hauling bales of hay away from the flames. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed in long johns and was suddenly conscious of her own state of undress. But it was Taggert all right, blackened face and all. She would recognize that quick, arrogant smile anywhere.

She found Taggert digging in the still-hot ashes the next morning. Nothing of the barn remained except for pieces of charred metal and
a scorched leather saddle. Fortunately, no one had been injured and every last horse was saved. The men had also managed to haul out most of the saddles and harnesses in time.

Taggert glanced up as she approached. For a brief moment, she imagined herself back in his arms. Judging by his grim face, no such pleasant memories drifted through his mind, only the stark reality of the ashes at his feet.

She picked her way through the smoldering rubble. Tendrils of smoke curled upward and the acrid smell of ashes scorched her throat and stung her eyes.

The sun had yet to rise but the silvery light of dawn slowly uncovered the extent of the damage. Except for a quick glance in her direction, Taggert kept his head lowered. He seemed focused and efficient—every bit the detective.

Following his lead, she picked up a stick of her own. If he could act like nothing had happened between them, so could she. At least she could try.

“Arson,” she said in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. She could never understand the power that some people derived from setting fires. Never having worked an arson case, she nonetheless knew what to look for. Black smoke indicated a fuel accelerant, but her assumption was also based on how quickly the fire had spread.

He responded with a grunt and continued to poke around with his stick. After a while, he lifted a piece of blackened fabric out of the ashes. He pulled the cloth off the stick with thumb and forefinger, sniffed it, and tossed it aside.

“But why?” she asked. “What reason would anyone have for burning down the barn and stables?” It made no sense, but then, neither did poisoning cattle.

“There are only two reasons for arson.” He paused for a moment before locking eyes with hers. “To hide something or gain something.” He stood the stick on end. “Let’s start with the gain.”

“If you’re thinking insurance fraud, you can forget it,” she said. She’d seen the ledgers, and though the ranch barely made a profit during the last year, it was still in the black. “I don’t think Miss Walker even carries insurance.” Few people outside the city did. “And even if she had insurance, she’d have a hard time setting a fire while on crutches.”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Unless she paid someone to do it.”

She shook her head. “She wouldn’t do that. This ranch means everything to her.” Her gaze traveled beyond the horse pasture to the little cemetery on the hill. It wasn’t just the old lady’s roots that went deep, it was her heartstrings.

“She won’t even consider selling the property and has turned down two offers that I know of,” she added.

Taggert poked at a tin can with his stick and pushed it aside. “Does she have any enemies?”

She knew what he was thinking. Arson was often a crime of revenge. “Most definitely,” she said. “Miss Walker can be brusque and brutally frank. Such traits could make foes out of choir boys.”

“That makes it easy, then. There’s nothing more exasperating than a victim who claims to have no enemies.”

She stepped over a charred beam. “Do you think there’s a connection between the poisoned cattle and the fire?”

“I sincerely hope so,” he said. “I’d hate to think we have two crazies running around intent on ruining the ranch.”

Her thoughts exactly. She studied him. “Do you think it’s the Phantom?”

Taggert poked at the pile of ashes at his feet. “What would be his motivation?”

Good question. If the Phantom was indeed hiding here, why would he want to draw attention to himself? It made no sense.

“I don’t know.” Once they knew the motivation, finding the culprit should be easy. “We can’t discount the possibility.”

“I’m not discounting anything,” he said. He stabbed at something with his stick.

Thinking he’d found something more in the ashes, she moved closer. “What is it?”

“Nothing . . . I was thinking.” He looked straight at her. “You said Miss Walker turned down some recent offers. What if someone was trying to force Miss Walker to sell?”

It was something she hadn’t considered. “Anyone who thinks poisoning cattle and burning down the barn will get Miss Walker to sell doesn’t know her very well.”

“Maybe not, but we don’t know what the person will do next.”

The thought made her shudder. “It’s hard to imagine anyone destroying property they wish to purchase.”

“There’s got to be some sort of connection,” he said. “The timing is too coincidental. Do you know who made the offers?”

“Someone back east. Your boss would know.”

“Stackman?”

“He’s the one handling the offers,” she explained.

He took a moment to consider this. “I’ll ride into town and talk to him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

He stared at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Only the light in his eyes gave him away. “Do you realize we’re actually working together?”

He caught her by surprise. They had fallen into such easy rapport she’d momentarily forgotten that he was a competitor and not a Pinkerton colleague with whom she might readily exchange theories.

“We’re discussing a fire,” she said with a toss of her head. She welcomed the reminder because as long as they remained competitors, there was little danger of repeating what happened in the cave. “Nothing more.”

She tried her best to maintain a serious demeanor, but there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to be done about her flip-flopping heart.

Annie stood at the counter of the telegraph office and printed her message in code. She and Taggert had parted company the moment they reached town, agreeing to meet at the bank at two.

Since code could easily be misinterpreted, it was necessary to print so the operator did not send the wrong message. In cryptic she wrote:
Fire
at
the
ranch; arson suspected.

Taggert sidled up to the counter and she glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected to run into him so soon. He arched his neck and tried to read what she wrote.

Since her note was written in cipher, it wouldn’t do him any good. Nevertheless, she moved away from him, sliding her note along the polished wood counter.

He reached for a sheet of paper of his own and began to write. Keeping her head lowered, she cast a sideways glance in his direction. The bold strokes of his hand were followed by the scratching sound of his pen, but she was too far away to see what he wrote. No doubt his message to his home office was similar to her own.

After finishing her report, she handed it to the telegraph operator at the same time Taggert handed over his.

“Ladies first,” she said.

“That’s true only for sinking ships,” Taggert said. He slapped a gold coin on the counter and the youth’s eyes widened.

Not to be outdone, Annie reached into her purse and pulled out two gold coins.

“I . . . I have some telegrams ready to send ahead of yours,” the youth stammered.

A third gold coin did the trick. “Send it collect,” she said. The youth snatched the paper out of her hands and sat down on his stool.

She turned to face Taggert. “You did it again,” she said. She tapped her chest to indicate his pocket. “You stole the fountain pen.”

He drew the writing implement out of his pocket and stuck it in the penholder. He then slapped two coins on the counter in front of her.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“It seems only fair that I share investigation expenses.”

“We’re
not
working together.” She pushed his money toward him. “I agreed to join you to talk with Mr. Stackman, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

He stayed her hand with his own, sending waves of warmth up her arm. “You have no idea what you’re missing. Two heads are better than one, and the same can be said for private eyes.”

“Sorry, but this eye prefers to work alone.”

He released her hand. “What a pity.” For one brief moment it seemed as if they were no longer talking about the Phantom or the fire or even mystery buyers from the East, but rather something far more personal, and her mouth went dry.

Chapter 22

You can learn a lot from a stakeout, mainly what bad
company you are.

L
ess than twenty minutes later, Mr. Stackman hustled Annie and Taggert into his paneled office. The mere mention of a problem with Miss Walker seemed to unsettle the otherwise businesslike banker.

“Have a seat.”

Stackman sat behind a conservative oak desk, hands folded. The desk was equipped with fountain pen, inkwell, and rocking ink blotter but was otherwise bare.

“What is this about? Is Eleanor all right?” The banker’s expression was suffused with concern.

Taggert pushed his hat back. “Miss Walker is fine. There was a fire at the ranch last night.”

Stackman frowned. “The house?”

Taggert shook his head. “Just the barn and stables.”

Stackman started to say something and stopped. He glanced from Taggert to Annie.

“You can speak freely,” Taggert assured him. “Miss Beckman is a Pinkerton operative.”

Stackman sat back in his chair and blinked. “You can’t be serious. A Pinkerton?”

Annie leaned forward. “It’s essential that no one else knows my true identity,” she said. “And that includes Miss Walker.”

“Yes, of course, of course. I won’t breathe a word, but . . . Eleanor . . . Miss Walker will kill me if she finds out I’ve been keeping something like this from her.” He sighed. “So what can I do for you?”

“We want to know the name of the person who made an offer on the ranch,” Annie said.

“Ah, don’t we all? I tried to find out but the attorney refused to tell me. He cited client/attorney privilege or some such thing.”

Annie thought about this for a moment. “Why would a prospective buyer not wish to have his identity known?”

“It’s not as unusual as you might think,” Stackman explained. “Some people wish to keep their assets hidden. Then, too, speculators are snapping up property left and right. They hope value will increase should Arizona become a state. If word got out, it could start a land rush and that’s the last thing these land grabbers want.”

Annie glanced at Taggert. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe someone is trying to force Miss Walker off her ranch.”

Stackman frowned. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“For one thing, the fire was no accident,” Taggert said. “And someone poisoned the water, causing the loss of more than a dozen cattle.”

“Good heavens!” Stackman’s gaze flitted back and forth between Annie and Taggert. “And you think the buyer has something to do with it?”

“Right now we don’t know what to think,” Taggert said. “But we have to consider every possibility.”

Stackman rubbed his temples. “What does any of this have to do with the Phantom?”

“That we don’t know,” Annie said. “Maybe nothing.”

“Or maybe everything,” Taggert added.