Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (34 page)

She continued hacking at the cord behind her back.
Please, please
help us!
She glanced at the ranch owner.
And, God, please get on the stick.

Miss Walker studied her. “Are you all right?”

Annie clenched her mouth tight. “I. Will. Be.”

“I still can’t believe that Able—” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know all this?”

“I’m a Pinkerton operative. I was sent here to work undercover.”

Miss Walker stared speechless while Annie explained how Kate
Adams’s dime novel helped solve the mystery. The cord gave way and in her haste to work her hands free, she dropped the clippers and they fell on the rug by her chair.

“I don’t know what surprises me more,” Miss Walker lamented. “To find out that my cook is the Phantom or my heiress is a detective.” She shook her head. “What I don’t understand is how Kate knew about the gold.”

With one eye on the office and the other on the clippers in plain sight, Annie unraveled the rest of the cord. “I don’t believe she did. She wrote the book before coming to Arizona. The cave she described in her novel just happened to match one on your ranch. After reading the book, Able decided to do some digging. He got lucky.”

The cord fell away, but before she could reach for the clippers, Able walked into the room. Annie froze and Miss Walker clamped her mouth shut.

The palm-sized clippers on the floor seemed to stand out like a blaze of light. How could he not see them?

Behind her back she rubbed the rope burns on her wrists and tried to think. Her hands were free but her feet were still tied. Pinkerton operatives were taught how to avoid such situations, not how to escape them.

Able barely glanced her way before turning his attention to Miss Walker. “I don’t know what it is about this place, but someone keeps walking off with the pens. Do you ladies know where I can find something to write with?”

Miss Walker threw back her head and let go a string of curses that could fry bacon. “What do you want a pen for?”

He thrust a paper in the ranch owner’s face. “So you can sign this bill of sale giving me full ownership of the ranch.”

Miss Walker clenched her jaw. “Over my dead body.”

Able straightened. “First things first. You sign.” He pointed his gun at her. “Then we’ll discuss the rest.”

Considering her dire situation, Miss Walker continued to keep her calm demeanor. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“Oh, I think I will. After Mr. Stackman was taken ill, you decided there were other things in life besides cattle. So you finally agreed to sell your ranch, and then when you realized what you’d done, you decided to end it all.” He looked straight at Annie. “You tried to take the gun away from Miss Walker but—oops!—it went off and you both ended up knockin’ on the pearly gates.” An evil smile followed his words. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve been reading too many dime novels,” Annie said.
Got
to
keep
him
talking.
“No one would believe such a story.” Certainly Taggert wouldn’t.

“Of course they’ll believe it. Everyone knows how much this ranch means to the boss lady.”

“That’s why no one will believe she sold it,” Annie said.

Able faked a sad face. “And she never would have, had Mr. Stackman not visited death’s doorstep.”

Annie blew out her breath. The man’s brain fairly dripped with dime novel phrases, but the plan was clearly his own.

“You forgot one thing,” she said. “People might wonder how you could afford to purchase the ranch on a cook’s salary.”

“Oh dear. That
is
a problem.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? My uncle recently died. The war affected his mind . . . yes, that works. Everyone thought him dirt-poor but he left piles of money hidden under the mattress. Old war wounds make people do the strangest things.”

Annie’s spirits plummeted. He just might get away with his crazy plan.

“All right, ladies, let’s start again. Where can I find a pen?”

Annie’s mind raced. “There’s one upstairs. On the desk in my room.” If she could get him to leave the room for even a few moments, she might be able to free her legs. Taggert’s habit of stealing pens might be a lifesaver.

Able’s gaze shifted back and forth between them. “Don’t go anywhere, you hear?”

He shoved his gun in his waistband and left the room.

“You’ve got to forget . . .”

Taggert turned over in bed. Annie’s voice kept repeating in his head. Something . . .

“You’ve got to forget . . .”

It seemed like a strange thing to say to a Wells Fargo agent, whose very motto is
never
to forget. He flopped over again, the cot squeaking beneath his weight. Even if he hadn’t been indoctrinated with company policy, he could never forget Annie. Didn’t want to forget her.

He frowned.
Got
to
forget
. . . got to forget . . . got—

He sat up.
Got
. . . To . . . Forget: GTF!

“Is he the big man?”
he’d asked Annie, referring to the manila folder he found on her desk.

“Most definitely,”
she’d replied.

He jumped up off his cot and stubbed his toe. Hopping around on one foot, he reached for his trousers. “Stretch. Wishbone, Feedbag, Michael, wake up!”

Annie retrieved the clippers and frantically hacked at the cords around her ankles.

“He’s coming,” Miss Walker said, keeping her voice low.

Annie quickly straightened and flung her hands behind the back of her chair. Her heart pounded and beads of sweat rolled down the sides of her face.

Able walked into the room waving a pen. His face looked flushed and his reddish hair stood up on end. “Success!” he announced. “Now we can get down to business.” He pulled out a knife and worked on the cords at Miss Walker’s wrists.

A pounding on the door was followed by Taggert’s voice. “Annie!” He pounded again.

Able dropped his knife and reached for his firearm.

Fearing that Taggert was about to break down the door, Annie screamed, “Watch out! He’s got a gun!”

Swinging his body around, the cook glanced about the room, eyes darting.

The banging increased. “Open up!”

Able slammed his back flat against the wall. He held his gun with both hands, the barrel pointing upward.

“You’d best give yourself up,” Annie said. “You’ll never get away now.”

“Shut up!” He stuck his gun in his waistband and pulled a second knife from his boot. He started toward her and she drew in her breath.

Taggert’s hammering fists now caused the windows to rattle and a wall hanging crashed to the floor. Eyes filled with panic, Able hesitated for a moment, knife posed, then spun around and dashed from the room.

While Stretch and the others covered the front of the house, Taggert raced around the side to the back. A door opened and someone stepped out.

“Put your hands up!” Taggert yelled.

The man fired a shot before disappearing inside. Bent at the waist, Taggert raced to the door and grabbed the knob; it held tight. He hadn’t been able to identify the gunman in the dark, but it had to be either the cook or Ruckus. All the other men had been in the bunkhouse with him.

He kicked an imaginary rock and a silent cry rose from his depths.
Not
again, God, not again.
He’d caused Charlie Hunt’s death, but he had no intention of letting anything happen to the man’s daughter.

“Psst. Is that you, Branch?” The hushed voice belonged to Michael.

“It’s me.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Taggert said.
As
okay
as
possible
under
the
circumstances.
“Stay here and keep watch. I’m going in.”

He holstered his gun and patted his shirt pockets, hoping to find a pen. Instead he found Annie’s barrette—the one he could never bring himself to return. It was just what he needed. He straightened the clip and, working blindly in the dark, finally managed to fit the pin into the lock. It took some jiggling but the tumblers clicked and the door sprang open. He shoved the barrette back into his pocket and pulled out his gun.

Walking on the balls of his feet, he stalked quietly through the dark kitchen and down the hall. The big room was lit and light spilled into the entry. He paused, his body alert. Only the sound of his pounding heart broke the silence. Where was she?
God, let her be
all right.

Sweat trickled on his forehead. He crept past the stairs.

The telephone receiver dangled from its cord. He stopped to pick up Annie’s gun and stuffed it in his waistband. He stepped over Miss Walker’s crutches.

His back against the wall separating the big room from the entry, he held his Peacemaker in both hands. He waited a beat, then whirled his body into the doorway. Both women were tied to chairs but he only had eyes for one.

“Annie!”

She greeted him with a smile. “It’s about time you got here, partner.”

Never could he think to see a more welcome sight. He glanced around. “Where?” he mouthed.

She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

He stuffed his firearm in his holster and set to work. Dropping on one knee in front of her, he drew a knife from his boot and cut the cord away from her ankles.

She practically threw herself in his arms. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t understand my cryptic message.” Her voice was hoarse and he could feel her tremble.

Holding her tight, he buried his nose into the sweet fragrance of her hair and cursed himself for not understanding sooner. “Thank God you’re all right. But . . . who . . . ?”

“Able.”

He drew back. “But how—?”

Speaking in a whisper, she quickly filled in the details.

He shook his head. Hard to believe. To think that his friend’s killer had been under his very nose all these weeks. Still, it made some sort of crazy sense. “But why did he poison Stackman?” he asked, his voice low.

“Everyone knows that Miss Walker refuses to marry him because of the ranch.”

His mind raced. “But if she thought she’d almost lost him for good—”

“Exactly. She would sell the ranch and marry him. At least that’s what Able hoped.” Her gaze softened. “I thought I’d never see you again . . .”

He grimaced. “If he had hurt one hair on your head . . .”

Miss Walker’s strident voice cut through their hushed whispers. “Now that we’ve established that you two are glad to see each other, would you mind giving an old lady a hand?”

Annie inhaled and pulled out of his arms.

“Here.” He put Annie’s gun in her hands. “You might need this.” As an afterthought he added, “Partner.”

He hurried over to Miss Walker and cut through the cords on her hands and feet. She rubbed her good ankle. “Don’t tell me you’re a Pinkerton detective too.”

“Wells Fargo,” he said.

Miss Walker groaned. “Next you’ll be telling me that my cattle are really sheep.”

He slipped his knife in his boot and pulled out his gun. He checked the entry before walking out to fetch her crutches.

A moment later he was by Annie’s side.

“You okay?” he asked.