Almost a Lady Page 3

  And he couldn't believe he'd walked out of her room.

  Not after smelling the rose scent of her sweet perfume, touching the velvety softness of her lips.

  Not after being close enough to feel her breasts against his chest, her taut nipples burning his skin. Hearing her breathy whisper. Looks like you've already tangled with one wildcat tonight. I'd hate to do you any more damage. He could just imagine the kind of wildcat she'd be in bed. All sharp claws and purring moans.

  Not after feeling her hair brush over his arm more softly than the satin of that blasted red robe. And he was damned sure she hadn't been wearing anything underneath. The thought of red satin brushing seductively over Willow's slim, lithe form sent another bolt of desire through him. Christ, he had to find himself a willing woman—and soon!

  Two weeks later

  Willow hurried back from the post office, the letter from Robert tucked securely within the folds of her blouse so no one would see it. She hurried through the empty saloon and upstairs to her room.

  With her thumb, she broke the seal on the envelope and with careful fingers she removed the folded paper.

  My dearest daughter, Willow,

  I am very upset to hear that you lost Grandfather's pocket watch. You know how much the piece was worth and how much it meant to me. I think it would be best if you returned home now. Send word as to when you will be arriving so that I may meet you at the railroad station.

  Signed,

  Your loving father

  Uh-oh; Robert was not happy. She could always tell when he was upset, even in his letters. The order for her to return home rather than track down Sammy the Snake meant that Robert was practically livid.

  Willow moved to the wardrobe to change clothes. She put on a burgundy taffeta traveling gown and comfortable button-up boots, then opened her faded carpet bag and began searching every nook and cranny of the room for her belongings.

  An hour later, she was on a train bound for New York City.

  Chapter Four

  Willow smoothed a pair of black satin gloves over her fingers and readjusted the long pin in her bonnet as the Union Pacific pulled into Grand Central Station. She was back in New York City, and back to dressing like a lady rather than a dance hall girl. The part came easily to her, as did all of her different guises. Sometimes she wondered how anybody could live with only one personality when role playing was oh-so-much fun.

  The car lurched to a stop, disturbing the feathered black hat she had just pinned in place. As she stood to stretch her legs and neck, a familiar face near the vestibule area caught her attention. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the man's features through a crowd bustling to collect their things and depart the train.

  The man closed the door between carriage cars and moved closer. She noticed that he seemed distracted, perhaps even nervous, glancing over his shoulder every other step.

  "Charlie?” she called quietly as he passed.

  He stopped in his tracks, looking at her with wide eyes.

  "Charlie Barker, I thought that was you."

  "Willow.” It was a breath of relief. He shifted his position so that he stood next to her, facing the direction from which he'd just come. “How've you been?” he asked, fingers fumbling in his coat pocket.

  "Fine. And you?” Something was wrong. It didn't take a professional sleuth to figure that out. Charlie was more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. And in their line of business, nervousness spelled trouble. Big trouble.

  "What is it, Charlie?” She put her hand on his arm and felt the skin jump.

  "Nothing,” he said, almost too quickly. Then he smiled, a gesture meant to reassure her. “It's nothing. Just a case I've been working on. Great seeing you again,” he said distractedly as he moved away.

  She opened her mouth to stop him, but he'd already headed down the aisle, and as she took a step after him, her taffeta skirts caught on the corner of the cushioned seat. She yanked the burgundy material free, but when she turned back, Charlie was gone. Muttering under her breath about mule-headed men and company secrets, she gathered her things.

  With carpetbag in one hand and burgundy-and-black, fringed parasol in the other, she took her place in the slow-moving line of departing passengers.

  Her eyes scanned the dusty windowpanes, hoping to find Robert waiting for her on the platform outside. He was meeting her at the station—no doubt to chew her out for fouling up with Sammy.

  She thought she saw him and raised a hand to tap the glass when a woman's scream rent the air. Followed by another and another, until the train filled with the shrill wails of female hysterics.

  Willow dropped her bag and parasol, pushing her way to the front of the crowd.

  She spotted him immediately, lying on the floor of the passenger car in a pool of blood. His hands clutched at his side, where red ooze poured from his body.

  "Charlie!” she cried, sinking to her knees beside him. She gathered the thick folds of her skirt and pressed them to his wound, hoping to staunch me flow of blood. Her eyes darted around for some sign of the culprit. A suspicious passenger, a depraved lunatic standing in the foreground watching the results of his task. But no one stood out.

  "Someone find a doctor. Hurry!” she screamed at the people behind her. “Hold on, Charlie. Help is on the way.” But she didn't know if it was, and the color was leaving his face faster than steam from a boiling teapot.

  She pressed more firmly on her skirts. He winced. Then his hand came up to grasp her arm, his fingers ice cold against her skin. He shoved a small square of paper into her hand.

  "He's . . . the one.” The words were garbled, loud enough for only Willow to hear. A fit of coughing overtook him and blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “Careful. Be . . . careful.” His eyes shone hard as steel for the flicker of a moment before his body went limp, his head lolling to the side.

  "No. Charlie, wake up.” She pounded on his chest, trying to revive him by sheer force of will. “Dammit, Charlie, you can't die on me."

  Someone stepped forward from behind her, coming to one knee beside Charlie Barker's prone form to check for a pulse. “I'm sorry, miss, but he's gone."

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she shook her head in denial. She hadn't watched anyone die since her mother, and that had been more than ten years before. Thankfully, her father had simply walked away one day. And, not surprisingly, in a matter of weeks he had been found lying dead in a gutter with a broken neck, stinking to high heaven of rotgut whiskey and unwashed flesh.

  "Blast and damn,” Willow heard from somewhere over her left shoulder. She swung around to see Robert Pinkerton, dressed in a fine gray wool Mackintosh overcoat and black galoshes, standing not three feet behind her. He cocked back the rim of his bowler hat with one finger.

  "That's Charles Barker, isn't it?"

  Willow nodded, then launched herself into his arms. He held her close, patting her back with brotherly concern.

  "Did you see who did it?” he asked.

  She lifted her head, embarrassed by her rare show of female waterworks. But it did give her an opportunity to hide the paper Charlie had given her. From her sleeve, she pulled a white lace handkerchief—at the same time stuffing the square of paper far enough into her cuff that it wouldn't accidentally fall out—and dabbed at her eyes.

  It wasn't that she didn't trust Robert with whatever information the note held. Quite the opposite, actually; she trusted Robert with her life. But the idea of turning over evidence, perhaps a piece of crucial information, before she herself had a chance to look it over didn't appeal to her. Not in the least.

  And if it turned out to be nothing, or if she didn't understand whatever clues rested within the folds of that paper, then she would give it to Robert and claim that in the confusion of the moment she had forgotten all about it.

  "Sequester everyone still on this car,” Robert told the nearest conductor, showing the man his identification and Pinkerton badge. “And
don't let anyone near the crime scene until the police arrive."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Pinkerton."

  Robert retrieved Willow's valise and parasol, then put his arm around her shoulders to guide her to the nearest exit.

  "With respect, sir,” the conductor began, inclining his head in Willow's direction, “this young lady was a passenger on the car as well."

  "She is also a close acquaintance of mine. Though I'm sure she had nothing to do with this, I'll question her myself. And she'll be at my office should the police wish to talk to her. The Pinkerton Agency always cooperates with the authorities,” Robert informed him. “When they show up, allow them to do their job without interference. Just be sure to request that my people be allowed to look things over before anyone leaves."

  The conductor nodded, then turned to give orders to another railroad employee, while blocking the front exit with his body so panicked passengers couldn't escape.

  Just as Robert and Willow stepped down from the train, two uniformed police officers came into view, racing along the platform toward the crowded railroad car. Robert stopped them before they could board the train.

  Again he showed his identification as he filled the officers in on what had happened. “The victim is one of my men,” he said, a thread of anger and pain evident in his voice. “Though this young lady was present during the incident, she also works for me, and I'd like to get her back to my office, so I'm turning the investigation over to you. I'll want to be closely involved, mind you, and should you need to speak with her"—he inclined his head in Willow's direction—"contact my office and she'll make herself available. I'd also like to send my people to question the passengers and search for evidence, if you don't mind."

  Brandt flexed his fingers about the handle of the valise in his hand. Grand Central Station bustled all around him, the crowd shuffling past and bumping into him more than once. He forced a smile and acknowledged such collisions with no more than a polite nod.

  He didn't particularly like this city. Too many people in too much of a hurry. He preferred the slower, more relaxed pace of Boston, where the Union Pacific kept their headquarters. Luckily, he had taken care of the piece of business that had brought him to New York and was now on the way back home to Boston.

  Rounding another support post in the center of the station platform, Brandt lifted his bag over the head of a little girl whose gaze was fastened on a spot other than the path ahead. The train to his right was letting off passengers. One of them, a tall, bald gentleman, nearly knocked him down in his hurry to depart the station. Brandt muttered a curse and doubled his efforts to reach his train before he was overrun by the throng of people.

  The first scream sounded natural enough, like some young lady happy to see a relative after a long separation. The second scream didn't sound quite so common. Even though he ran the risk of being trampled, Brandt stopped, cocking his ear to listen more closely.

  Like a row of dominoes, the entire train burst into a panic. He crouched down, trying to see through the small, smudged windows lining the passenger car. All he could make out was a gathering of people crammed together near the front of the compartment.

  In one long stride, he pulled himself onto the back of the car, but try as he might, he couldn't get through the crowd or make sense of the conversations buzzing around his head. After several minutes of trying to understand the situation, he settled, instead, for leaning over the railing and looking around the other side of the cab.

  He recognized her immediately. With her head tucked against the shoulder of a well-dressed gentleman, Willow Hastings made her way across the platform, away from Brandt. Even dressed to the nines, Brandt knew it was the same woman he'd encountered at the Silver Spur in Missouri.

  But what was she doing in New York?

  He called her name, but she either didn't hear or chose to ignore him, for she never slowed her pace. Planning to follow her, he turned around, but curious onlookers had piled on behind him, blocking his only exit.

  "Damn!” he swore, pounding a fist on the metal rail.

  What was Willow doing here, he wondered, when she'd seemed so adamant about staying in Jefferson City until she found her brother?

  News filtered back through the crowd and one word caught Brandt's attention. Murder.

  Someone had been murdered on a Union Pacific train. And Willow had been right in the thick of things. Why didn't that surprise him?

  If a murder had occurred on a Union Pacific train, a UP officer would have to investigate. And as he was Head of Security and already at the scene of the crime, he was obligated to take the case whether he wanted it or not

  He let out a tortured sigh and made his way slowly back to the platform. It didn't look like he'd be leaving for Boston after all.

  Chapter Five

  With Robert's arm around her stooped shoulders, they moved quickly through crowded Grand Central Station, hailing a hackney cab to take them to his office at 66 Exchange Place

  .

  As Willow passed beneath the Pinkerton symbol, an unblinking eye and the words WE NEVER SLEEP, she thought of Allan Pinkerton, the company's founder. She had known him briefly, before his death in July of 1884. In that short time, she had decided that he was one of the greatest men ever to walk the earth.

  It was because of the elder Pinkerton that she now had a job with the Agency. Allan had taken her under his wing, convincing his son to train her and put her to work for the Agency's New York branch.

  But she would be the first to admit that her job was in danger. Since Allan's death, the number of female detectives in the company had dwindled. Many supervisors didn't want women working for them, didn't trust a woman to do the job of a man. And so, slowly but surely, female operatives were being pushed out.

  Willow had been lucky thus far. And she knew it was primarily because of Robert. Like his father, he had taken a special interest in her, assigning her simple tasks, guiding her through more difficult ones, until she was ready to go it alone.

  He had taught her to dress and act like a man so she could disguise herself. To fight so that she could protect herself against even the most fearsome enemy. She smiled, remembering the moment student had surpassed teacher—and the limp Robert had suffered for more than a week.

  But even Robert couldn't protect her position with the Agency if his superiors decided to fire her—or assign her so few cases that she would have no choice but to quit. He might be Allan Pinkerton's son, in charge of the eastern and southern sections of the United States, but he answered to. Superintendent Warner the same as she.

  And losing Sammy the Snake did not bode well for her. It wasn't a life-threatening case, or even one that particularly mattered in the scheme of things. But it would be a blemish in her otherwise flawless career file. An easy excuse to have her terminated.

  They stopped to speak to Robert's personal secretary, a pleasant, vibrant older woman, who helped to keep the busy Agency organized.

  "Mrs, Girard, Charlie Barker was killed this afternoon.” Robert broke the news in a matter-of-fact voice.

  The woman gasped.

  Robert nodded solemnly and went on to give her a list of tasks. “Please find five available agents and send them to Grand Central. Then have an arrangement of flowers sent with our condolences tomorrow afternoon. After I talk to Willow, I'll pay a visit to his wife to break the news, if the police haven't already. She needs to know we will do all we can to support and help her."

  They passed into the privacy of his office. He set Willow's valise aside, took her wrap, and hung it on a row of hooks behind the door. His overcoat soon followed.

  "Have a seat,” he said, rounding the large, mahogany desk.

  Not the least worried about her appearance in front of her old friend, she plopped down on the nearest chair, sinking into its cushioned depths.

  "I see you've gotten yourself into another fine pickle,” Robert observed.

  "I wouldn't call it a pickle, really,” Willow ans
wered. “I'd say it's more of a full-blown cucumber."

  He threw her a quelling glance. “I'm in no mood for your wit, Willow. This is serious."

  "How well I know.” She looked down at the stiff, stained folds of her skirt. Blood. Charlie's blood. Soaked through to her shift, no doubt. It took all of her willpower not to rip the clothes from her body just to rid herself of the metallic smell, the sticky feel of it.

  "Are you all right?” he asked, brows drawn, regarding her closely.

  "I'm fine,” she said. She wasn't really, but it would do no one—including Charlie—any good for her to break down. She took a deep breath to steel her nerves. “Why do you ask?"

  "Because a man died in your arms today, Willow. It's all right to show sorrow over that. It's all right to be afraid and to cry."

  Willow noticed the slight shake in Robert's hands and realized he was far from unaffected himself. “I'll be fine, Robert. Truly. Please don't worry about me. I'd rather you put your energies into finding the man who murdered Charlie."

  "Oh, we will, don't worry about that,” he vowed, seemingly letting the topic of her well-being drop. But Willow knew better. He would keep an eye on her for a while to see that she really was holding up as well as she claimed.

  "I suppose that's one of ours,” Robert stated, looking pointedly at the hem of her dress.

  Willow looked down at her marred gown and recognized Robert's attempt to change the subject. Talking about the high cost of fashion was a far sight better than thinking about the sight of Charlie's body, lying supine on the floor of that railroad car, and Willow was more than willing to play along. “Bought for the express purpose of infiltrating St. Louis high society,” she told him.

  "Cost a pretty penny, too, I'm sure.” He relaxed into the soft black leather of his chair. “The Agency will replace the gown,” he said. “Damned women operatives cost us an arm and a leg."