© 2015 by Margaret Brownley
Print ISBN 978-1-62836-627-3
eBook Editions:
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Calico Spy sneak peek
About the Author
Where there is no counsel, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.
PROVERBS 11:14
Arizona Territory, 1882
Maggie Taylor spotted the thief the moment she stepped off the Southern Pacific train and onto the open-air platform.
As a Pinkerton operative, she’d dealt with her share of pickpockets through the years, but this one put the profession to shame. He made no attempt at discretion; he simply bumped into a male passenger and walked away with the man’s gold watch.
Normally Maggie wouldn’t hesitate to pursue the culprit, but today she had bigger fish to fry. Chasing after a third-rate thief could jeopardize months of hard work and careful preparation, and she couldn’t take the chance.
That is, until he targeted a young mother with three small children. Maggie changed her mind. He had to be stopped.
Threading her way through the crowd, she reached the woman ahead of the thief and picked up the drawstring handbag she’d carelessly left next to a carpetbag.
“Your purse, ma’am. There are thieves around. Better keep an eye on it.”
The harried mother took the bag from her. She looked no older than nineteen or twenty. “Thank you,” she murmured, as if thieves were the least of her problems.
Satisfied that the pickpocket’s latest attempt at larceny had been thwarted, Maggie pushed him from her mind and swung her gaze over the crowd. Never before had a new assignment filled her with such anxiety. But then again, never had she attempted such a daring venture.
Would she recognize the suspect on sight?
According to Pinkerton files, Garrett Thomas stood six feet tall, was forty-five years of age, and had dark hair and blue eyes. His one outstanding feature was a scar along the side of his face—a war wound. He was also extremely clever. Some said even lucky. A suspected thief and murderer, Thomas had endured the Battle of Gettysburg and a year in the Andersonville rebel prison—an impressive record of survival by anyone’s standards.
Though he was suspected of committing a daring train robbery, his most notable achievement was evading Pinkerton’s best detectives for nearly two years. We’ll see how long your luck holds out this time, Mr. Thomas. Eventually even a cat runs out of lives.
After checking that her feathered hat was angled just right, she pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and smoothed the bun at her nape. Her wardrobe had been chosen with utmost care, and her demeanor meticulously polished.
The goal was to look fashionable but not ostentatious: to act domesticated without appearing dull. At all times she had to be charming, well spoken, and industrious. In matters of politics, religion, and finances she must take care not to express a contrary view as she was often inclined to do. In other words, she had to look and act like a woman that any man would be proud, indeed anxious, to wed.
Given her somewhat opinionated and independent spirit, curtailing her impulsive nature would be her greatest challenge. She couldn’t afford to do or say anything without careful consideration of the consequences. Not this time.
Not only did she have to make a fine impression but one that would throw no suspicion her way. “Dazzle Thomas with your charm and good looks,” Mr. Pinkerton had said. “He won’t suspect a thing.”
In her current state, she’d be lucky to dazzle a horsefly. She was hot and she was hungry and more than anything, travel weary.
Despite the desert heat, she donned her kid gloves and smoothed the wrinkles from her blue velvet-trimmed suit. Steam hissed across the platform, and passengers sidestepped the heated blast.
A barefooted boy of nine or ten raised a folded newspaper in the air and yelled something about a fire. “Readallaboutit!”
A man bumped into her and almost knocked her off her feet. Regaining her balance, she pivoted just in time to see the same thief she’d spotted earlier snatch the paperboy’s money bag and dart into the crowd. The nerve! It wasn’t bad enough trying to steal from a young mother, but a child?
The youth’s face turned red. “That man took my pouch!” His eyes brimmed with tears, though he tried not to let them fall. “Now I gotta pay the money back.”
Maggie hesitated. If only the boy didn’t look so needy. His tattered shirt was a size too small, and his threadbare trousers fell six inches short of his dirty bare feet. “Stay here!” she said and took off after the robber.
The thief moved at a fast clip, but the crowded platform and a limp kept him from altogether running. His long dark coat was more suitable for cold weather, and it made him stand out among a crowd dressed mainly in calico dresses and boiled white shirts.
Something was definitely wrong with his left leg. He dragged it along, toes pointing away from his body. She’d almost caught up to him when a dark-skinned porter pushed a cart of baggage in her path, momentarily blocking her way.
By the time the cart moved, the pickpocket had vanished. She ran to the end of the platform and immediately spotted him lumbering along the railroad tracks. Had he been physically able to run she might have given up the chase, but he looked like an easy mark.
Jumping to the ground, she raised her skirt above her ankles and took off after him. Here I go again, tossing common sense to the wind. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. Not where children were concerned.
Running on the gravel in high-button shoes and a straight skirt wasn’t easy, but she quickly gained on the man. She just hoped he didn’t force her to pull out her pistol.
No more than a couple of yards separated them when the heel of her boot caught on a wooden railroad tie. All at once her feet flew from beneath her. Arms and legs windmilling, she fell facedown on the ground.
The wind knocked out of her, she fought to gather her wits. Now look what she’d done. Grimacing, she ever so slowly pushed to her feet and squinted against the blazing sun. On the left side of the tracks a bleak desert stretched for as far as the eye could see. Since the thief was nowhere in sight, he’d probably ducked through the adobe brickyard that paralleled the tracks on the right.
What kind of town was this anyway that a man could steal from a young boy in plain sight and get away with it?
Gritting her teeth, she stared down at her stylish blue traveling suit now covered in dust.
She brushed herself off with quick angry swipes and straightened her feather hat. When would she ever learn? One impetuous moment could jeopardize six months of careful planning.
The sound of crunching gravel made her whirl about. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood but a few feet away staring at her with eyes the color of a deep blue sea.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?”
Her mouth fell open, and her hand flew to her parted lips. The red scar slicing down the side of his handsome square face told her he could be no other than the suspect Garrett Thomas, the man she had traveled all this distance to wed.
Maggie’s mind scrambled. Normally able to think on her feet, she had a hard time coming up with a plausible explanation for standing on the railroad tracks. God, don’t let me mess up this job. Not like she did the Madison case, which had landed her in jail. This time she would get her man if it killed her. Reminding herself to “dazzle,” she lifted her chin with a brilliant smile.
“I’m quite all right, thank you.” Taller than she’d expected, he towered over her five-foot-seven-inch height by more than six inches. He was clean shaven with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His brown hair, neatly trimmed to just above his collar, was combed from a side part.
“Mr. Thomas, right?” she said, extending a gloved hand. At least the Pinkerton report got the color of his eyes right, though listing the color as merely blue hardly did them justice.
He stared at her for a brief moment before his hand swallowed hers in a firm grip. His wide shoulders filled his boiled shirt and low-cut vest with no room to spare. A large-brim hat shaded his face.
“And you must be Miss Taylor.”
“Yes.” She smiled and lowered her lashes as she imagined a woman meeting her fiancé for the first time might do. Under Allan Pinkerton’s guidance, she had answered this man’s advertisement for a mail-order bride and corresponded with him for nearly six months.
Much to her dismay, he didn’t look particularly dazzled. Instead he frowned. “What are you doing here on the railroad tracks?”
“I was hoping to… convince a thief to return his haul.” Sticking as close to the truth as possible was the key to creating a realistic illusion. She’d worked long and hard to arrange this meeting and would play her role to the hilt.
As if suddenly aware that he still held her hand, he released it. “And how, exactly, did you intend to do that?” His eyes shone with amusement. “Convince him, I mean.”
With a strategically pointed gun, if necessary. Of course she couldn’t say that aloud. “With charm and goodwill,” she said instead.
He hung his thumbs from his vest pockets and grinned. “I don’t know how it is in your hometown, ma’am, but here in Arizona, charm and goodwill won’t get you the time of day.”
So much for the principal’s dazzle theory. “What will?” she asked, feigning a look of innocence.
“A firearm and a good left hook.”
She would have felt a whole lot better had he said it with a smile like the one she’d seen before, but he looked serious. Dead serious. Nevertheless, she maintained her composure. “I didn’t know that Arizona was so… civilized.”
This time he did smile, which only emphasized his nicely shaped mouth. “Oh, we’re civilized all right. We haven’t had a shootout since last Wednesday.” He crooked his arm and inclined his head. “Shall we? My rig’s over there.”
She slipped her arm through his and forced herself to breathe. It hardly seemed fair for a suspected killer to be so attractive, but she wasn’t about to be fooled by his charm or good looks.
She willed the knot in her stomach to go away as they approached his horse and wagon. Her bout of nerves was annoying and totally uncalled for. He had no reason to suspect she was anyone other than who she pretended to be: an innocent farm girl and mail-order bride.
All she had to do was act like the perfect little fiancée until she found the proof to put him away and she’d be home free. It sounded easy enough during the planning stages, but now that she’d met him in person, something told her that nothing about this man would be simple.
Garrett Thomas was surprised to see his Aunt Hetty on his doorstep later that day. Yesterday she was on her deathbed declaring, “This really is the end.” And here she was no more than twenty-four hours later, dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meeting best and looking spry as a young hen.
Normally he would be delighted to see her up and about, but he knew from experience that any time his aunt donned feathers and silk midweek, it was never a good sign. Either this really was her last day on earth or she was about to put her nose where it didn’t belong. The appearance of Reverend Holly could mean either one of his suppositions was correct.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning your funeral again,” Garrett said wryly, bracing himself for her usual long and tiresome list of physical complaints, or what he called her “organ recital.” Her last recitation started at the big toe and worked up from there to the cranium.
But she surprised him. No palpitating heart complaints today. No sciatic grievances. Nor any rheumatism updates. Instead, his aunt pushed past him in a cloud of rustling brown silk and lavender perfume.
“No, but now that you mention it, I do wish to make some changes.” She pulled off her kid gloves as she spoke and gave them an emphatic shake. “I’ll not have that awful Grace Lytton sing at my funeral.” Aunt Hetty was a small, birdlike woman whose sharp tongue had, at one time or other, alienated everyone in town.
The minister splayed his hands and shrugged before following her inside the house with an apologetic air. He was a short, barrel-chested man with a goatee. Red suspenders held up his trousers, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His one concession to formality was his ever-present bow tie with the pointed ends.
His aunt planted herself on the divan as if intending to take root, and the minster took the nearby upholstered chair.
Before Garrett had a chance to find out what was really going on, his five-year-old daughter, Elise, ran into the parlor, her face bright with delight.
“Aunty!” she squealed.
Aunt Hetty wrapped her arms around the child’s small frame, but other than a quick glance at Elise, her attention remained on Garrett. “Be careful of my back, precious, and watch my bad knee. Oh, and we must do something with your hair. We can’t have you looking like a waif for your father’s wedding.”
Garrett stared at his aunt. So that’s what this visit was about. He should have known.
“What’s a waif?” Elise asked.
Garrett kept his irritation in check, as much for his daughter’s sake as for the man of God. He didn’t have much use for the church, but the reverend deserved respect, as did any guest in his household.
“I’ll tell you later. Now run along like a good girl.” She patted Elise on the backside. “I wish to speak to your father.”
And Garrett wished to speak to her.
Aunt Hetty meant well, but he and he alone would decide if and when he married. Miss Taylor’s letters had looked promising; she wrote with intelligence, warmth, and wit. But after meeting her in person, he had grave concerns about her lack of judgment. Chasing after a thief, of all things… She could have gotten herself killed. In the name of Sam Hill, what had she been thinking? And what other character flaws did she possess?
He waited until Elise had left the room. “As I explained the other day, Miss Taylor and I wish to wait until we’ve had time to get to know each other.” Selecting a new wife was not a task to be taken lightly, especially when his two children were involved.
“Wait too long and I might not be around to enjoy your wedding. You know how my back has been acting up and—”
“A bad back is not generally a cause of death,” Garrett argued.
Aunt Hetty stared down her pointed nose. “That’s not all that’s wrong with me and you know it.”
The minister, apparently sensing she was about to run through another shopping list of ailments, interrupted. “Speaking of weddings, when do we get to meet the bride-to-be?”
“Good question.” Aunt Hetty leaned forward, both brown-spotted hands atop her cane. “We stopped at the hotel and the clerk told us there was some sort of mix-up.”
“There was a mix-up all right.” The room he’d reserved for Maggie a month ago had been given to someone else. “No rooms are available.”
“Hmm. How odd.” Aunt Hetty gave him a questioning look. “So where is she staying?”
“Right now she’s staying here.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Then there’s no time to waste. I won’t have you living in sin around my grandniece and grandnephew.”
The reverend mopped his damp forehead with a handkerchief but refrained from comment.
Aunt Hetty sniffed. “It’s a good thing I dragged myself out of a sickbed to come over here. I probably shortened my life by—”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Garrett said.
“Nonsense. I promised your dear mother that I would take care of you.”
“And no one could have done a better job than you.” His widowed mother died when he was six, and his aunt devoted herself to his upbringing at great sacrifice. That’s what made it so difficult to stand his ground now.
“Surely you see the advantage of getting to know my bride first before we tie the knot. Let the children get to know her.”
“Hogwash! There’ll be plenty of chances for the children to get to know her after you’ve made an honest woman of her.”
The reverend tucked his handkerchief in his pocket. “It seems to me that the bride should have something to say about this.”
Garrett inclined his head toward the bedroom where Miss Taylor had been closeted since they’d arrived home. “She’s resting from her journey.”
“Did you tell her about Toby?” his aunt asked.
Garrett inhaled. His eight-year-old son had become a sore subject between them. He wasn’t a bad kid, just curious and adventuresome and far too active for his aunt to handle.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Tell me what?”
All eyes turned toward the young woman standing at the entranceway. Suddenly Garrett had trouble finding his voice. Miss Taylor’s good looks hadn’t escaped his notice, of course, but nothing prepared him for the way she appeared at that moment—all rested and dewy-eyed. If her big blue eyes and wide smile weren’t enough to make a man notice, her auburn hair and delicate features certainly were. He had the sudden need to protect her, not only from his aunt’s critical eye but also from all the ugliness of his past.
Aunt Hetty gave an impatient nod. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Yes, of course.” Surprised to catch himself staring, he motioned Maggie to his side. She barely came up to his shoulders, and her every move released a delicate fragrance that reminded him of spring. Her easy smile seemed at odds with the alert way she carried herself. She had a dainty nose, a wide, curving mouth, resolute chin, and a graceful, long neck. Her slight but shapely form hardly seemed strong enough to contain her indomitable demeanor. A woman of contradictions.
Why would such a pretty and intelligent woman consider being a mail-order bride? His mail-order bride.
“Aunt Hetty, Reverend Holly, it’s my pleasure to introduce Miss Maggie Taylor.”
Maggie smiled as Thomas introduced her. She’d dealt with her share of hard-nosed criminals through the years, but it was hard not to be intimidated by the old woman’s sharp-eyed gaze. The Pinkerton file described Garrett’s aunt as a no-nonsense type and marked her as being perhaps the most difficult to fool. Maggie had hoped to settle in before coming face-to-face with her, but since that was no longer possible, she would simply have to make the best of it.
She greeted the older woman with an extended hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
His aunt had a surprisingly firm grip. After a quick shake, the older woman withdrew her hand. “Never thought you’d marry a Southerner,” she said, surprising Maggie.
She was born in the South, but her family moved north when she was four. That made her a Yankee through and through. No one other than Thomas’s aunt had detected anything in her manner or speech tracing back to her early roots.
Reminding herself to dazzle, Maggie kept a smile plastered on her face. Nothing was wrong with the old lady’s hearing. And the way Thomas’s aunt stared at her, as if seeing right through her, there was nothing wrong with the woman’s eyesight, either.
“What difference does it make, Hetty?” the reverend asked, breaking the brittle silence. “The war’s been over for a good many years.”
Garrett nodded. “Yes, it has been.”
“But the effects linger on,” his aunt said, her gaze boring into her nephew’s scar. He frowned. Taking the hint, she shifted her attention to Maggie. “How old are you?”
“Aunt Hetty!”
Maggie turned to Garrett. “It’s all right. I have nothing to hide.” Much. “I’m twenty-six.” She could have said she was younger and probably gotten away with it, but it was wiser to stick with the truth whenever possible. Less to remember that way. Less chance of getting caught in a lie or fabrication.
Aunt Hetty slanted her head sideways. “That’s rather old for a bride, wouldn’t you say? Why have you waited so long to marry?”
“My family needed me at home,” Maggie replied. Her real name was Maggie Cartwright, and she had no family. Not anymore.
Assuming a new identity was never easy. One of the jobs of an undercover agent was to prepare in advance for every possible question or situation. She couldn’t just pose as a mail-order bride; she had to be a mail-order bride.
Aunt Hetty’s eyes narrowed. “And I take it your family no longer needs you now?”
In her letters to Thomas she’d written at length about her loving family and the Indiana farm where she grew up—fiction, all of it.
“No, but this little family does,” Maggie replied with a quick glance at Thomas. Had she said the right thing? Or had she been too presumptuous? It was hard to tell by his stoic expression.
“Hmm.” The older woman’s face showed reluctant acceptance. “Shall we get on with it, then? Where’s Toby?”
Maggie’s stomach knotted. “Get on with what?”
“Why, your wedding, of course,” his aunt replied.
Maggie felt Garrett stiffen by her side. Obviously he was even less happy to hear this than she was. “I told you we intend to wait,” he snapped.
Maggie glanced at Garrett’s rigid profile. Waiting was one of the stipulations made clear in her letter to him, but his vehemence worried her. Did he suspect something? Had he changed his mind? Not that she would blame him, of course. After that fiasco at the train station, she wouldn’t be surprised if he called the whole thing off.
Aunt Hetty’s brow creased. “Have you any idea how it would look, a man and woman living together without benefit of God’s blessing?” His aunt gave a determined shake of her head. “If Miss Taylor stays here, you’ll both be the talk of the town.”
“I don’t care what people say, and I care even less for God’s blessing.” Belatedly Thomas added, “Sorry, Reverend.”
His aunt refused to be deterred. “If you don’t care about your reputation, then think about the children’s. Miss Taylor can stay with me. In fact, I insist upon it.”
“Oh no!” Maggie’s outburst raised even the preacher’s eyebrows. She cleared her throat and started again, this time in a more ladylike tone of voice. “What I mean to say is, I don’t want you to go to any… bother on my account.”
Aunt Hetty discounted her concern with a wave of her hand. “No bother at all.”
“What about your health, Hetty?” Reverend Holly asked. “Your heart might not be able to stand the strain of having a guest.”
Aunt Hetty sniffed. “A little strain is a small price to pay for saving my nephew’s reputation.”
Garrett opened his mouth to say something, but Maggie laid her hand on his arm and smiled up at him. His aunt had expressed concern for the children. Maggie hoped that was the key to getting the old lady to back down.
“We want the young ones to get to know me first before I become their stepmother. I’m sure you’ll agree that would be in their best interests. Staying here might be”—akin to sitting on a keg of lit dynamite—“a blessing in disguise.”
A shadow of indecision flitted across the older woman’s face, and she glanced at the reverend as if seeking his counsel. “I… I don’t know.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Reverend Holly said. “As long as you and Garrett here conduct yourselves in a”—he cleared his voice and stroked his goatee—“godly manner.”
Since the minister was staring at her hand still on Garrett’s arm, Maggie quickly pulled it away. “Rest assured that we would never do anything to shame the family or harm the children,” she said with schoolmarm primness.
“Then it’s settled.” Reverend Holly slapped his hands on his thighs and stood.
“Not so fast,” Aunt Hetty said, intent upon having the last word. “It’s not settled until we set a date.” She hesitated as if doing a mental check of her calendar. “June’s a lovely time for a wedding, don’t you think? And it’s such a healthy month. Doc Coldwell told me he treated fewer patients that month than any other time of year. What about… the fifteenth?”
A quick calculation told Maggie that was little more than a month away. Five weeks at the most. She glanced at Thomas, hoping he would object, but he remained silent.
“That doesn’t give us much time,” she said. She hoped that was all the time needed to do the job she was sent to do, but things always took longer than planned. “The children—”
“That’s a long time in a child’s life,” Aunt Hetty said in a voice that indicated the matter settled, at least in her own mind. “And if we wait much longer, I might not be around.”
“Are you moving away?” Maggie asked.
The older woman gave her a fish-eyed stare. “I’m dying,” she said in a straightforward tone that one might use to express a matter of less concern.
Maggie drew back, hand on her chest. “I—sI’m sorry,” she stammered. She glanced at Thomas, but he offered no help. If anything, he looked oddly unconcerned about his aunt’s health.
Aunt Hetty put on her gloves and stood. “Maybe this works out for the best. Now we can plan a proper wedding.”
When Thomas’s aunt left with the minister, Maggie let out a sigh of relief.
With her piercing looks and pointed questions, Aunt Hetty would have made a fine detective. Never had Maggie felt more like an insect beneath a microscope. It was a good thing his aunt didn’t know her real reason for being there. That was one foe she’d rather not tackle.
After the two children finished waving good-bye, Thomas shut the door, and she could have sworn she heard him mutter something beneath his breath.
“I apologize for my aunt,” he said.
It seemed like an odd thing to say about a woman whose days were numbered. “She’s just concerned about you. I only hope the wedding isn’t too much for her.”
“Don’t worry about Aunt Hetty.” His eyes were so clear, so blue, so intense as he studied her, she feared he could see right through her disguise and know she was a fraud. “She’ll outlive us all. But she just can’t seem to leave well enough alone.”
She frowned, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you saying your aunt isn’t dying?”
His mouth quirked upward. “Let’s just say she suffers from an embarrassing lack of ailments to go with her pains.”
Laughter bubbled out of her unexpectedly; she couldn’t help herself. So seldom did she get to laugh in her profession. Criminals were not known for their sense of humor.
His eyes warmed to her laughter, but his attention was soon drawn to his young daughter tugging on his arm. Elise’s hair was more gold than blond, and her eyes a lovely pale blue. She probably took after her mother in appearance.
In contrast, eight-year-old Toby was the spitting image of his father. His eyes were the same deep shade of blue, and brown hair fell across his forehead from a single part. He looked like a normal active boy, but Thomas’s aunt had indicated otherwise. So what had Thomas not told her?
“Let’s go outside and give Miss Taylor some privacy,” Thomas said. He opened the door and brushed the children through with a sweep of his arm. “If you need me—”
She smiled. “I’ll know where to find you.” The blood that rushed to her face surprised her. Either she was a better actress than she thought or the desert heat was adversely affecting her.
With a quick smile and slight nod, he turned and followed the children outside.
Grateful for the reprieve, she drew in her breath and wiped her damp hands on her skirt. The hardest part was over—or at least she hoped it was. Now all she had to do was find the seventy thousand dollars stolen during the Whistle-Stop train robbery and leave.
Backing away from the door, her skirt brushed against a chessboard, and several pieces fell over. Not knowing how to play, she had no idea where the pieces belonged. She stood the ivory chessmen upright across the board and hoped for the best.
She walked to the children’s room she now shared with Elise. Toby would bunk across the hall in his father’s room. It was a simple adobe house with two bedrooms, a parlor, and a kitchen. It also had a separate small room furnished with a cast-iron horse trough. Bars of soap and folded towels told her this was a bathing room, a luxury she hadn’t counted on.
Surprised and overjoyed to find such a convenience, she gazed longingly at the tub. What she would give for a hot bath. Later… Closing the door, she moved away.
It appeared that the hall, bedrooms, and bathing room had been added to the original house. Outside there was a privy, barn, well, small corral, and vegetable garden.
Searching a house this size would take no more than a few short hours, and her spirits lifted. With a little luck, she’d find enough incriminating evidence on Garrett Thomas to quickly complete her task. If all went as planned, she could be on her way back to the States in a day or two—a week at the most.
The house was comfortable but needed work. The gingham curtains were faded, the furniture dull, and the carpets looked like they could use a good beating. The house had once been cared for but now looked as forlorn as a child’s outgrown toy.
She finished unpacking her few belongings and glanced around the tiny room. Laughter coaxed her to the window. Thomas and the children were playing a lively game of hide-and-seek. A frisky white dog chased after them, its yippy barks mingling with their happy whoops.
From the window she had a clear view of the desert and the distant mountains. The sun rode low in the sky, casting purple shadows across the stark landscape. Tall, stately cacti seemed to beckon with upraised arms, and she was tempted to answer the call.
The closest neighbor was a good mile away, and she felt completely alone and isolated. An unfamiliar bout of nerves surged through her. It was as if the hot desert air had burned away her usual confidence.
In an effort to reassure herself, she checked the derringer holstered to her thigh. Reaching for it was just a matter of sticking her hand into the false pocket of her skirt. Tomorrow she would travel to town and meet with her colleague.
The Pinkerton principal thought the job too dangerous to send a woman alone and had dispatched another operative to work with her. For that she was grateful.
Most of her assignments had been in large cities like St. Louis, New Orleans, and Boston. This job was unlike any she’d ever known. If something should go wrong… If Thomas came to suspect her real identity…
Shuddering, she said a silent prayer. Placing her worries squarely in God’s hands forced her negative thoughts away.
Thomas ran past the window, and her eyes tracked his long, lean frame around the yard. He bore little resemblance to the stoic man who had driven her home from the station. A playful smile softened his granitelike features, and not even the red scar took away from his good looks. A slight desert breeze rippled through his hair. The strand falling across his forehead gave him a boyish look that was hard to resist.
Elise fell, and he was by her side in an instant, checking her over for injuries and soothing her with hugs.
He appeared to be a doting father, and that was a complication Maggie hadn’t expected. It wasn’t all that unusual for criminals to be good family men, of course. Some, like the head of the McMurphy gang, were downright neighborly and invited friends and family in for gala parties. But the Pinkerton file on Thomas pegged him as possibly psychopathic, and so far nothing about him seemed to fit that description.
She dropped the curtain in place with a sigh and moved away from the window. However much she felt sorry for the children, she had a job to do.
She glanced around the small but tidy room. Two beds occupied opposite walls, separated by a single bureau.
The Pinkerton principal would no doubt object to her staying at Thomas’s house rather than the hotel as planned. The mail-order-bride ruse was dangerous enough without the added risk of staying at the suspect’s house. But she was far more likely to meet with success here than in town. Especially now, for thanks to his aunt, she had only a few short weeks in which to conduct her investigation. Aunt Hetty had accepted the decision to postpone the wedding, but Maggie doubted she would again.
A wall shelf contained a McGuffey’s Reader piled on top of books on civil government and penmanship. A metal locomotive the length of a bread box rested on a second shelf. It was a remarkably accurate model down to the last detail.
The room smelled like peppermint candy, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Walking out into the hall, she paused outside the closed door directly opposite the children’s room. She could hardly wait to search it, but now wasn’t the time. Thomas could enter the house at any moment.
Stomach growling she walked to the kitchen. It was well equipped with an icebox, cookstove, water pump, and coffee grinder. A butcher-block table seated four, and a large window over the sink gave a panorama view of the fast-setting sun over purple mountains.
Thomas had indicated earlier that there was fresh chicken for supper, along with garden vegetables. She’d heard it said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. But it wasn’t Thomas’s heart she was interested in as much as his secrets, and there was nothing like a good meal to loosen the tongue.
One by one she opened cupboards and drawers to get the lay of the land.
Never had she seen so much tinware. Cooking utensils, metal plates, and cups crammed practically every shelf. Some even hung from hooks on the wall. Garrett Thomas was a tinker by profession, and the GT stamped on the bottom of each pot and pan confirmed it.
It was this very stamp that had led to Thomas in the first place. A man fitting his description had emptied the safe of an eastbound train. The train had stopped at the Holbrook station for water and fuel. Passengers, engineer, and trainmen had disembarked for a thirty-minute supper break, leaving only the guard aboard.
Without warning, the train suddenly backed out of the station. Though the engineer and his crew gave chase, the train was soon a distance away. The guard was forced to open the safe, and by the time the crew reached the train, they found the man dead and the thieves long gone, along with seventy thousand dollars. It was the largest heist of its kind.
Train robberies were still relatively rare. Outlaws preferred robbing stagecoaches to trains. Maggie suspected that would change when more track was laid. That’s why Pinkerton put his best people on this case. If this particular robbery went unsolved, it would send the wrong message to any would-be thieves.
It had been a daring robbery, and after a preliminary investigation, the railroad hired the Pinkerton detective agency. Allan’s son, William, had walked the tracks where two men had been seen prior to the holdup. It was during this initial investigation that he found a money clip marked with the initials GT right next to the tracks.
This led to a two-year investigation that had stymied Pinkerton’s best detectives. A witness described one of the men seen boarding the stopped train as having a scarred face. That, along with the money clip, pointed to Thomas, but they still lacked tangible proof. Scarred faces were a dime a dozen in the West, and anyone could have dropped the money clip.
The investigation went nowhere until six months ago when suddenly five one-hundred-dollar bills showed up in Furnace Creek during a school fund-raiser. That was more money than anyone living in a small Arizona town was likely to afford. The fact that the money happened to show up at the school where Garrett Thomas’s children attended was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
Oddly enough, the money appeared around the same time Thomas had placed an ad in a popular mail-order-bride catalog, providing investigators with a daring plan.
It was now Maggie’s job to find enough evidence against him to satisfy a court of law.
Pushing her thoughts aside, she found a woman’s apron in one of the drawers and tied it to her waist.
Her detective work left neither time nor the inclination to improve her culinary skills. Since a mail-order bride would be expected to be well versed in the art of homemaking, Pinkerton arranged for training. Her teacher was a widow named Mrs. Cranston who insisted that oil heated to just the right temperature was the mainstay of life.
“Even manna from heaven tasted like oil,” she’d declared.
Maggie stared at the chicken laid out on the counter waiting to be plucked. She sure did hope Mrs. Cranston was right.
An hour and a half later, the four of them gathered around the butcher-block table that took up half the kitchen. Thomas sat at the head and Maggie took the chair opposite him at the foot. The children sitting on either side cast curious glances at her.
Toby had a strange-looking bowl-shaped hat on his head with coiled pieces of wire sticking out in every direction.
“That’s an interesting hat you’re wearing,” Maggie said.
“That’s his thinking cap,” Elise explained.
“Oh, I see.” Maggie spooned peas onto Elise’s plate. “I dare say, we could all use a thinking cap on occasion.”
Nothing on the table could pass as manna, but the chicken had been fried to a crisp golden brown and the peas cooked to perfection. The potatoes and gravy were almost but not entirely lump-free; hopefully no one would notice.
Thomas and the children dived into their food without benefit of grace. Had Thomas known her inexperience as a cook, he might have been more inclined to ask for the Lord’s blessing.
Maggie said a silent prayer, and when she opened her eyes she found both children staring at her.
“Are you going to take care of us?” Elise asked.
Maggie glanced at the far end of the table. Thomas was smothering his food in salt with the same intent as one might use to put out a fire.
“Yes, I am,” she said and smiled.
She just hoped her domestic responsibilities didn’t interfere with her investigation. Fortunately, both children attended school, so her days should be free.
Elise considered Maggie’s answer with a worried frown. “Are you going to be mean like my teacher?”
“I’m only mean to children who don’t do their chores or schoolwork,” she said.
Thomas set the salt dish down. “Well, it seems that Miss Taylor and I are in accord.”
“What’s accord?” Elise asked.
“It means that they like each other,” Toby said, the metal wires on his head waving back and forth.
Maggie dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Actually, accord means that your father and I are in agreement.”
Elise’s head turned from one to the other. “So does it mean that you don’t like each other?”
“We like each other just fine.” She lifted her lashes to find Thomas watching her, and heat rushed to her face.
She quickly looked away. She needed to keep her wits but for some reason couldn’t seem to even control her breathing. Maybe she was just tired. The trip to Arizona had been long. After a good night’s sleep she was bound to feel like her usual confident self again.
Satisfied that she had solved the mystery of her uncharacteristic behavior, she reached for the neglected plate of corn bread. “Would anyone care for some?” she said a bit too brightly.
Toby glanced at his father. The wires on his thinking cap quivered. “We’re n—not allowed to—”
“Eat the bread,” Thomas said, interrupting his son’s protest.
Toby’s bottom lip stuck out. “You said that corn bread—”
“I said eat it.” Thomas looked up. “Or go to your room.”
Toby regarded the bread with grave suspicion but, prompted by his father’s stern look, reached for the smallest square. He dropped it on his plate and stared at it with downcast eyes.
Maggie sent a glance of inquiry to Thomas. “Is there a problem with the bread?”
“Don’t worry about it. You had no way of knowing.”
“Knowing what?” she persisted.
“We can’t eat corn bread,” Elise said, her eyes round as saucers. “It’s poison.”
“Poison?” Maggie set the plate of bread down and took a piece for herself. Biting into it, she said, “See? It’s perfectly safe.” A bit dry, perhaps, but tasty.
Both children stared in round-eyed horror as if they expected her to topple over at any moment. No one else touched the bread, and they finished their meal in silence.
Later, as she cleared the table, she discovered Toby’s corn bread tucked inside his napkin.
Thomas surprised her after supper by helping clear the table. A widower for two years, he obviously knew his way around the kitchen.
While they waited for the water to heat, he leaned his tall form against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her. His presence seemed to fill the room, and she was extremely conscious of his every move.
“That was a mighty fine meal,” he said, his voice warm with approval. “I didn’t expect you to take over the household chores on your first day here.”
“I don’t mind.” She turned to the iron cookstove just as a funnel of steam rose from the kettle spout.
“Let me get that for you,” he said.
Before she could turn down his offer, he stepped to her side. His elbow brushed against her arm as he easily lifted the kettle off the cast-iron stove and poured the hot water into two basins in the sink. One was for washing, the other for rinsing. Returning the kettle to the stove, he lifted a pail of cold water and poured it into each basin to lower the temperature.
“Thank you,” she said. Oddly aware of his strength, she reached for the stick tied with strips of linen. She swiped the swab against a bar of hard soap and swished it in the hot water until foamy suds bubbled up.
He grabbed a clean flour-sack towel from a hook. “I’ll dry,” he said with quiet authority.
She washed a plate, rinsed it off, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed against hers, and she quickly drew her hand away and plunged it into the warm water.
They worked for several minutes without speaking. Questions she wanted to ask about his past would have to wait until she’d earned his trust, but she felt safe querying about the children.
“I’m confused as to why your children think corn bread is poison.”
The question hung between them a moment before he answered. “I spent a year in the Andersonville prison camp, and all they fed us was corn bread. I’m afraid Elise and Toby have picked up my aversion to it.”
He’d never mentioned his wartime experiences in his many letters to her, and she couldn’t let on that she already knew about his confinement. Instead, she afforded him a sympathetic look.
“I’m so sorry.”
Raw pain glittered in the depth of his eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Surprised by a surge of sympathy, she set to work scrubbing a plate clean. She didn’t want to feel anything for him. Certainly not empathy.
Still, she knew from painful experience that the mere act of putting some things into words was akin to ripping open a wound. That’s why she never talked about her outlaw father.
At the tender age of twelve, she’d watched him hang from the gallows, and the shame never left her. Tracking down criminals was her way of making up to society for her father’s heinous crimes, and right now, Garrett Thomas was on the top of her list.
“I would hope that my corn bread tastes better than what they served in prison,” she said, breaking the awkward silence.
“You’re an excellent cook,” he said.
Hoping he didn’t think she had been fishing for compliments, she glanced at him sideways. “Is that why you dumped an entire salt dish on your food?”
“A bad habit, I’m afraid. Acquired after the war. Salt was a rare commodity then and nonexistent in Andersonville.” He shrugged. “It’s since been my salvation. I can’t stand my own cooking without it.”
She laughed. She didn’t mean to; it just bubbled out of her. A grin inched across his face, and a moment of rapport sprang between them. It was the very thing she had hoped to accomplish. Still, that one unguarded moment worried her. She’d been trained to control her emotions, but at the moment was having a hard time managing even her thoughts.
Turning her attention to the dishwater, she practically scrubbed the painted design off a dinner plate. When she agreed to take on this job, she thought her biggest challenge would be hiding her loathing for him. The opposite appeared to be the case, and that was a problem. Liking a suspected killer was not an option—no matter how blue his eyes or devastating his smile.
“Is there anything else I should know?” she asked, staying focused on the task at hand. “Anything I should avoid besides corn bread?”
“That about covers it. Just don’t let Toby talk you into going to the moon.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m afraid the boy’s imagination runs away with him at times. He’s now working on a contraption to take him to the moon.”
“Oh, I see.” Since he had introduced the topic of his son, she felt confident in pursuing it. “I got the feeling from your aunt that there’s… something I should know about him.”
He took his time answering. “He’s got an inquiring mind,” he said at last. “I’m afraid he was too much for Aunt Hetty to handle. The housekeepers, too, which is why I couldn’t keep one.”
His inability to keep a housekeeper explained the shabby condition of the house but hardly explained the difficulty with Toby. Since that seemed to be all he was willing to concede, she let the matter drop.
“Would you object to my teaching the children to say grace before meals?” If things worked out the way she hoped, she would soon have proof enough to send him to the gallows. Without their earthly pa, Toby and Elise would need their heavenly Father more than ever.
“If you feel you must.” He hesitated. “You should know I have no regard for religion.” This time his voice had a steel-like edge. She’d gathered as much but remained silent. If a suspect wanted to talk, you let him talk.
“I hope you can live with that,” he said. Without another word he tossed down his towel and left the room.
What kind of work was required of a tinker after hours? Maggie couldn’t begin to guess, but that was the excuse Thomas gave for locking himself in his room for the remainder of the evening.
In a way she was grateful. Tonight she was feeling oddly vulnerable and in no condition to deal with him. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Not this time.
After overseeing that both children had washed their faces and brushed their teeth, she settled down on the divan in the parlor, a child on each side of her. Elise read a story from McGuffey’s. She struggled with every word, and the going was slow. Toby’s reading skills were better, but he was far more interested in working on a sketch.
“What are you drawing?” Maggie asked.
He held his paper up so she could see. “A catapult to take me to the moon.”
“The moon is a long way away,” Maggie said.
“That’s why the catapult has to be big.” His eyes grew round. “As big as a mountain.”
“I would imagine so.” It was hard to believe that this was the very same boy who gave his father’s aunt such a bad time. “Why do you want to go to the moon?”
“So I can see everything that’s happening on Earth.”
The thought made her smile. “Just like God.”
Elise looked up from her book. “Is God on the moon?”
Maggie leaned over and tapped Elise’s cute button nose with her finger. “God is everywhere.”
After the children finished reading to her, she stood and yawned. “Okay, pumpkins, time for bed.”
Elise giggled. “We’re not pumpkins.”
“You’re not? Well, you could have fooled me. Come along now. It’s late.”
Actually, it was only a little after eight, but she looked forward to trying out that bathtub, after which she planned on hitting the sack. It had been a long and nerve-racking day.