Petticoat Detective (32 page)

“Yes,” she shouted back. Then she did something completely unexpected; she fainted dead away. It was a miracle that he was able to catch her before she hit the ground.

Alarmed, he lifted her into his arms. She was hot, dangerously hot.

“Clint! Take care of the lady’s horse,” he called.

“Will do, Boss.”

Anxious to get her out of the blistering sun, Tom carried her into the ranch house and to his bed.

Jennifer opened her eyes and moaned. Battling through the fog, she tried making sense of her surroundings.
Where am I?

A voice sounded from a distance, but she couldn’t make out the words. She blinked and gradually her vision cleared. A face … She inhaled. “Tom?”

“Well look a there, sleeping beauty is finally awake.”

Was that really him or was she dreaming? “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in Texas.”

Texas. A whirlwind of disconnected thoughts spun in her head before the cotton disappeared completely. “What … happened?”

“Looks like the heat got you.” He reached for a glass on the bedside table. “Here, drink this.” He slid an arm under her head and raised the glass to her lips. The water tasted cool and sweet.

He pulled the glass away and set it on the table.

She tried saying “thank you,” but her parched lips wouldn’t cooperate.

He stood by the side of the bed, looking down on her. She couldn’t tell by his expression whether he was still angry, but he sure didn’t look like himself.

“So what do I call you?” he asked. “Jennifer or Amy?”

“My name is Jennifer,” she said.

He repeated her name after her as if trying it on for size. “I brought your carpetbag in from your rig in case you want to change. Your shirt’s all wet from when I tried to cool you down.”

She struggled to sit up.

“Take it easy.” His hand on her shoulder made her heart leap even in her weakened condition. Surprised by the unexpected jolt, she swayed before falling back onto the pillow.

“Are you all right?” he asked, a shadow of alarm on his face.

She nodded. “Just a bit woozy.”

He waited for her dizziness to pass before straddling a chair by her side.

She felt an overwhelming need to touch him to see if he was real, to push the wayward strand of hair from his forehead, to run a finger over the intriguing cleft on his chin. Fearing she might still be dreaming, she looked away to see if the world around them was real.

The room was small. Furnished with a single bunk, wardrobe, and chair, it had Tom’s partiality for simplicity written all over it. “Your room?”

He looked around as if seeing it for the first time. Or maybe he was simply seeing it through her eyes. “Yep, it’s mine. So, what brings you way out here? Other than to chew me out, I mean.”

Now she remembered. She’d been so overwhelmed at seeing him, all the frustrations, disappointments, and loneliness of the past few weeks spurted out of her like flames of fire.

“Way out here is right.” A wan smile was all her parched mouth would allow, but it seemed to be enough to soften the worry lines on his face. “They told me your ranch was only a mile or two out of town.”

“That’s Texas miles. If you want to go by how a crow flies, it’s closer to ten.”

She made a face. “It felt like twenty.” It was hard to know what was worse: the heat, humidity, dust, or horse-sized bugs.

She moistened her dry lips. So much had happened since she last saw him. She had so much to say, but between her parched throat and lightheadedness, she couldn’t get the words out.

Feeling a sudden urgency, she struggled to get out of bed. So much to do …

“Whoa,” he said, hands on her shoulders. “First things first. You’ll never make it back to town before dark. That’s for sure and certain. Better spend the night here.”

She looked down at the bed,
his
bed.

As if to guess her thoughts, he added, “I’ll sleep in the bunkhouse.” He hesitated. “I wish I could offer you better accommodations, but I’m not used to having guests.”

“Thank God for that.”

It took him a moment to grasp her meaning. The corners of his mouth turned upward. It was hardly the smile she’d come to expect from him, but it was enough.

“Ah, yes. Miss Lillian and her ‘guests.’ ”

She studied him. “Are … are you still angry that I lied to you about who I was?”

“You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you aren’t a … you know.”

“Sporting lady?”

He ran his hand across his chin. “So what brings you to these parts?”

You
.
You bring me to these parts
. Aloud she said, “I have news.” She cleared her voice and started again, this time louder. “The Gunnysack Bandit is still alive.”

His expression grew tight as did his voice. “What are you talking about? My brother—”

“No!” She moved her hand toward him but fell short of touching him. “Your brother tried to stop him. That’s what he was doing in Hampton.”

He stared at her, his mouth in a straight line. “That makes no sense. The list of holdups, the banknotes—”

“Planted to make him look guilty. Just as the handwriting on the holdup note was made to look like your brother’s work.”

“If this is true …” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Then who? Why?”

“I don’t have all the answers yet. What I do know is that your brother didn’t do the things they said. You have to believe that.”

A shadow of doubt hovered on his forehead. “How do you know all this?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “You won’t believe this, but it was the birds.”

His forehead creased. “I better send one of the boys to fetch the doctor. The heat rattled your think box.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with my thinking. I’m serious. Did it ever occur to you why Rose went to so much trouble to hide her journal beneath the floorboards? A journal about birds?”

His gaze remained on her face. “Go on.”

“She was keeping track of everything that happened at the parlor house using birds as a code.” As a Pinkerton detective, she’d worked with many codes, though never one using birds.

She gave him a moment to process this information before continuing. “Your brother was right; Rose figured out the identity of the Gunnysack Bandit.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t she go to the marshal?”

“You said it yourself. Who would believe one of Miss Lillian’s girls? She told your brother instead. He then decided to follow the bandit to Hampton to gather proof. That’s when Buttercup heard the two of them arguing. I think Rose was against his getting involved.”

The doubt began to fade from Tom’s face. “But he went anyway.”

She nodded. “I think he got the proof he was looking for but was unaware that the Gunnysack Bandit was onto him.”

“So he made it look like Dave had robbed the bank and killed the guard.”

“Exactly. Dave didn’t know that his cover was blown, of course, and had no clue that the real bandit followed him back to town. I think Dave had the proof he needed to put Gunny behind bars. But after things turned violent and the guard was shot, he was worried about Rose’s safety.”

“So instead of going to the sheriff in Hampton, he rushed back to Goodman.”

She nodded. “I think once he knew that Rose was safe he would have gone straight to Flood.”

“But he never got the chance.” Tom gave his head a shake, an incredulous look on his face. “And you base all this on a bunch of birds?”

“Actually, it was the hummingbird. Rose wrote that there was a hummingbird in her room.”

“So?”

“The journal entry was dated December 20th.”

He shrugged and splayed his hands. “And?”

“When’s the last time you saw a hummingbird in December?”

He shook his head. “I’m a rancher, not a bird-watcher.”

“For your information, hummingbirds fly to Mexico for the winter.”

He thought for a moment. “Okay, so what was she really saying?”

“Someone was in her room, perhaps going through her things, the person she called Hummingbird. Her name for Georgia was Canary because she liked to sing. Buttercup can’t pass a mirror without gazing in it, just like the magpie that lives behind the parlor house.”

“Magpies look in mirrors?”

“Windows.” She wasn’t able to figure out the rest. Who was the loon? Who was the mockingbird? Most important of all, who was Hummingbird?

He scratched his head. “What does any of this have to do with the Gunnysack Bandit?”

“Why, he’s the waxwing, of course.”

“What?”

“Cedar waxwings are called bandit birds because of their black masks. If you recall, she wrote that the waxwing accosted her in the yard.”

“And the waxwing is?”

“Who else but Monahan?”

He thought a moment. “I don’t know. If what you say is true, how do you explain the lack of robberies since Dave’s death?”

“That puzzles me, too. Maybe it’s because Monahan almost got caught during the last holdup and is running scared. Think about it. If the marshal and Pinkerton agency believe the Gunnysack Bandit dead, then he has nothing to worry about. The dogs are off his trail.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a pretty big if.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But the pieces fit.” Or at least some of them did. “Don’t forget, the reason I was sent to Goodman was because of stolen banknotes deposited in Rose’s account.” It was actually Allan Pinkerton who talked banks throughout Kansas into marking notes. He figured that eventually one of the marked notes would lead to the Gunnysack Bandit, but Dave beat him to the punch.

“Maybe the money found on your brother came from Rose.” She paused for a moment. “If Monahan knew that Dave suspected him that would be motivation enough to kill him. Rose, too.”

Tom sat on the bed and covered her hand with his own. “I’m much obliged for what you’re doing. But something about this whole affair doesn’t sit right. How did Monahan know my brother was onto him?”

“He may have spotted him in Hampton during the holdup. Maybe your brother confronted him.”

He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “It’s possible. I don’t know….”

She gazed up at him. “Tom, I’m right about your brother. I know I am. He was not the Gunnysack Bandit.”

He studied her for a moment. “What about Flood? What does he think?”

“I haven’t notified ole Tin … the marshal. I haven’t even told my bosses.”

He frowned. “If you’re right about Monahan, he’s dangerous. He’s already killed three people and could kill again.”

She lifted her chin. “You don’t think I know that?”

He drew his hand away. “Now, don’t go getting all riled up. I’d say the same if you were a man.”

She doubted it, but she didn’t want to argue. “I thought you might like to be there when we clear your brother’s name.”

He gazed at her long and hard. “How sure are you about this?”

“Sure enough to bet your boots.”

He arched a brow. “That’s sure and certain, eh?”

She smiled. In truth, all she had was a theory, and that wasn’t worth a plugged nickel in a court of law. It wasn’t worth much as far as the agency was concerned, either. Allan Pinkerton demanded proof, not conjecture.

“So what do you say?” she asked. “Are you game?”

Game? Colton didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to think about it. He’d been wrong too many times about his brother.

More than anything he was worried about Jennifer’s safety. Yes, it bothered him that she had such a dangerous job. So shoot him. Just her size alone put her at a disadvantage. She hardly came up to his shoulders, and a good wind would probably blow her away.

He had nothing against women in the workforce, not like some men he knew who thought a women’s place was in front of a cookstove. But chasing down outlaws was not a job for a woman. There had been times in the past when he’d wondered if it was even a job for a man.

She laid a hand on his arm, and if that wasn’t enough, she locked him in her green-eyed gaze. “We can do this,” she said, and something stirred inside him. “Will you work with me?”

What he wanted to say was no. What he wanted was to keep her in Texas where she would be safe. Knowing how she felt about her job, he’d have a better chance of talking the hide off a mule.