Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (5 page)

“That’s true,” Annie said. “We used to have telephone boys in Chicago but they left their posts to play in the snow and were replaced by girls.”

“Are you from Chicago?” Aunt Bessie asked.

“Yes,” Annie said, though she was actually from Peoria. It was essential to stay close to the truth without giving too much away. In any case, it wasn’t always easy to hide the nasally vowels and dropped letters of her native Illinois dialect.

Bessie’s sister opened her mouth to say something but was distracted by a man waving for them to stop. News had traveled fast and already a crowd lined the street and clamored for details of the town’s latest robbery.

Lula-Belle glowered as she tried to steer around the mob but
Bessie appeared to be in her glory and broke into a buttery smile. The sudden attention didn’t make her look younger than her sixty-some years but certainly more spry.

She answered questions left and right. “Yes, there were three of them,” she yelled.

“Never saw any of them before in my life,” she shouted at a woman in a poke bonnet.

“Yes, of course I feared for my life.”

“Her name is Annie Beckman and she’s Miss Walker’s latest heiress.”

Annie smiled and waved. People back home were much more circumspect. At least they didn’t shout one’s business out in public. Aunt Bessie showed no qualms in telling one and all everything she knew and a few things she didn’t. She was, in essence, an operative’s best friend.

A tall, skinny man with a thin mustache ran up to the wagon.

“’Xcuse me, ma’am. Name’s Stretch. I’m headin’ for the Last Chance now. If you’d like a ride, I’d be happy to take you there.”

It was an offer too good to pass up. “Thank you,” Annie said. “I’d be most grateful.”

“Now isn’t that nice?” Bessie’s head bobbed up and down with approval. She slanted a blue-lidded gaze at the ranch hand. “See that Miss Walker doesn’t give her a hard time.”

Stretch lifted his hat and raked a hand over his black curly hair. “The boss lady will give her a hard time, all right. Ain’t nothin’ I can do ’bout that.”

Moments later Annie was seated in a buckboard behind a black gelding next to the man named Stretch. She glanced in the back of
the wagon. It was filled with what looked like newly purchased supplies, including cans of kerosene, boxes of leather soap, and a roll of barbed wire.

“Help yourself to some water,” Stretch said, indicating the canteen on the seat between them.

Annie removed the canteen cork, wiped off the opening, and took a long sip.

She pushed the cork back in place. “Is it always so hot here?” It was only March but already it felt like summer.

“It’s hot here, all right. Some say God uses this as a backup for below.” He chuckled. “Think I’m kiddin’, eh? Tell that to the soldier who died out here and was sent below to atone for his sins.”

The man evidently liked to talk and for an undercover detective that was a good thing. “So what happened?” she asked, playing along.

Stretch glanced at her sideways before delivering the answer. “He sent back for his blanket.”

Annie laughed, mostly to be polite. She needed information—not jokes. “How long have you worked at the ranch?” she asked as they drove out of town.

“Four years,” Stretch replied. “Before that, I worked on a ranch in the Panhandle.”

“Tell me about Miss Walker.”

Stretch shrugged his bony shoulders. “They ain’t no words to describe the boss lady,” he said. “’Cept to say she’s a tough old bird. Has to be, to run a ranch. Many have tried to run a successful ranch out here and failed, but the boss lady just keeps goin’. I reckon she’ll outlive us all.”

He then launched into another tall tale and then another, each one more outrageous than the one before. Annie finally managed to steer him back to talking about the ranch.

“We’ve got two thousand of the finest beeves in the west,” he said, with more than a little pride.

The number was consistent with the Pinkerton report. She squinted against the glare of the sun. “But it’s nothing but desert.”

“I guess that’s what you call a blessing,” Stretch said. “It keeps most, though not all, competition away. Like I said, many have tried to ranch out here but only a few make it.” He slapped the reins against the horse’s back and they picked up speed.

She fanned herself with a kid glove. “Who else works at the ranch?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s Ruckus and Wishbone and Michael. He’s our blacksmith and Bessie’s nephew. Then there’s O.T., short for Old Timer, Brodie our horse trainer, Mexican Pete, and Feedbag.”

It appeared that most of the ranch hands went by assumed or “summer” names, which meant they were probably running from something, most likely the law. Though this was not unusual, it made her job more challenging.

“There she is, ma’am,” he said at last, pointing ahead. “The Last Chance Ranch. And for some of us, it really is the last chance.”

The note of seriousness creeping into his voice made Annie take a closer look at his hollow-cheeked face. Everyone hid behind something and Stretch hid behind tall tales, jokes, and laughter. Could he be the leader of the Phantom gang? Or was his presence in town during the train robbery simply a coincidence?

She gazed at the ranch house. Nothing in the Pinkerton report prepared her for the size of it. “It’s so . . . large.” It was by far the largest building she’d seen since arriving in Cactus Patch.

“The boss lady had to rebuild after the ’87 earthquake. It’s even got inside plumbing.”

That was a luxury Annie hadn’t counted on. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Think nothing of it. Enjoyed the company.” He jumped from the wagon, reached for her carpetbag, and set it on the ground. “You sure do travel light, ma’am. You should see how much baggage some of the other heiresses brought.”

He held out his hand to help her down. She lifted her skirt to just above her ankles and stepped to the ground.

“Thank you. I can handle it from here,” she said.

He swept off his hat and bowed. “Good luck, ma’am.”

She thanked him again. He slapped his hat on top of his head and climbed into the seat. Taking hold of the reins, he drove away in a cloud of dust.

With a combination of excitement and nervousness, she turned to face the two-story ranch house. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for. Her first significant assignment.

A balcony ran the length of the second story, providing shade for the veranda below. The red tile roof shimmered beneath the blazing afternoon sun.

Across the way, the barn and outbuildings were guarded by a tall windmill, all in pristine condition. The sails turned slowly in the unrelenting hot breeze. Horses grazed in the pastures and from the distance came the low mooing of cattle and baying of dogs.

Picking up her carpetbag, she walked through the little courtyard and up the steps to the veranda dotted with wicker chairs. Even the carved oak door looked intimidating.

Annoyed by the tremor in her stomach, she threw back her shoulders and gave the rope a determined tug. A bell sounded inside, seeming to echo through what she imagined were large rooms and a maze of hallways. She waited a moment before giving the rope another yank but still no one answered.

She knocked and the door sprang open a crack, bidding her to
enter. She glanced around and, seeing no one, stepped into the dim, cool entry. It felt good to be out of the heat but it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

“Hello. Anyone here?” She closed the door behind her and called again.

Her voice bounced from wall to wall and was met with silence. She set her carpetbag in a corner out of the way and glanced around, taking careful note of doors, windows, and room layout to familiarize herself with the environment.

She crossed the red tile floor to the large parlor. A stone fireplace commanded one wall, a stuffed steer head guarding the mantel with ferocity. Two walls were lined with bookshelves, each volume lined up with perfect precision. Turquoise and red Indian rugs added bright splashes of color to the otherwise plain adobe walls. A stiff-backed leather couch faced a low dark table and was flanked by two matching chairs.

Annie could tell a lot about a homeowner by how a room was furnished. This particular room with its rigid order and daunting furniture confirmed every negative thing she’d heard about Miss Walker.

One wall opened up to a dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve. A pitcher of water surrounded by several clean drinking glasses was centered on the sideboard. She poured herself a glass and drank, the cool water soothing her parched throat as it quenched her thirst.

A half-open door revealed an office with an oversized desk, more bookshelves, and an Acme safe. Setting her empty glass on a tray, she wandered back to the entry hall.

She glanced up the stairs. She longed to freshen up and use the facilities but didn’t want to appear rude or forward.

She waited and when no one arrived after twenty minutes, she decided her need took precedence over good manners. She collected her carpetbag and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

A hall ran the length of the house. Some doors were closed but others stood ajar, revealing empty bedrooms. Only one room seemed to be occupied and she guessed it was the ranch owner’s room.

The upstairs furnishings were plain but adequate and offered a pleasing contrast to the over-furnished rooms in Illinois. She glanced around before darting inside the lavatory and closing the door.

Sunlight streamed through an open window and was greeted by whirling dust motes. The room had a sink, toilet, and portable bathtub. She gazed longingly at the tub but didn’t dare avail herself of such luxury until gaining permission from the ranch owner.

After answering nature’s call, she washed her hands and face in the sink and opened her purse. Surprised to find her money still intact, she counted her bank notes and palmed the gold coins. The bandit had taken her watch but hadn’t bothered with her money. How odd.

The marshal claimed that the train robbers belonged to the Phantom gang. Hard to believe. Shrugging, she dumped the coins back into her purse and tightened the drawstring. She still couldn’t get over the feeling that she’d missed something and there was more to the tall bandit than she knew.

She retied the ribbon on her shirtwaist and worked a wayward strand of hair into the bun at the back of her neck. If she held her carpetbag just so, no one would notice the travel stains on her skirt.

Feeling refreshed and more like herself, she cracked the door open and listened. Dead silence. Used to city sounds, she’d never known such quiet. The ranch would take some getting used to on many levels.

Carpetbag in hand, she retraced her way along the hall and decided to wait for Miss Walker in the large room downstairs.

She turned the corner just as a man reached the landing. Startled, Annie gasped and the man jumped, his face twisted in surprise. Much to Annie’s horror, he reared back and tumbled down the stairs.

“Oh no!” Annie dropped her carpetbag. She didn’t wait for the man to hit bottom before racing down the stairs after him.

He hit the floor with a sickening thump and Annie fell to her knees by his side. “Sir? Are you all right?” She shook him. “Sir?”

Trained to stay calm during emergencies, she quickly worked the string loose from his chin and removed his hat. Staring at the leathery face, she sat back on her heels. A groan confirmed what her horrified eyes had already told her. It was a woman. An older woman dressed in men’s clothing.

Please, God, don’t let it be true. Please don’t let this be her.
But it was—she knew it was. The woman lying flat on her back had to be none other than Miss Walker herself. The owner of the Last Chance Ranch.

This was clearly the time to panic. Annie jumped to her feet, rushed to the front door and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody! I need help!”

Chapter 4

Sign outside private detective’s door:
In God we trust; all others will be treated as suspects.

B
essie Adams had seen a lot of changes in her sixty-plus years, some good, some bad, some both good
and
bad. She remembered life before the Singer sewing and ice-making
machines, and it was no picnic. Had to sew everything by hand and
drink warm lemonade.

She still hadn’t made up her mind about the train and telegraph. It wasn’t natural to travel at such high speeds and it took three people to put her on the train to Kansas. Telegrams didn’t begin to take the place of
real
letters written with pen and ink on fine linen stationery. But nothing amazed her as much as the telephone, not even the doctor’s horseless carriage.

When Dr. Fairbanks opened his medical dispensary, he suggested that Cactus Patch have its very own telephone company. At first, people laughed at him. For what possible reason would anyone wish to talk over a wire? But then poor Mrs. Miller died before the doctor could get to her and people saw the benefit of fast communication.

Bessie’s nephew Luke helped raise poles and string wires until all that was needed was an operator, popularly called a “hello girl.” At the ripe age of sixty-something, it didn’t hurt Bessie one bit to be called a girl. That alone made turning her dining room into a central switchboard worthwhile, but it wasn’t the only reason she insisted she was the right person for the job. Who but she could be trusted to listen in to other people’s conversations without blabbing all over town?