Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (16 page)

Anna Finch knew much more than she was telling.

And he was just the man to find out her secrets.

This bravado carried him all the way up the long drive to the Finch home. He stalked to the door, certain he would leave with everything he needed to put Doc Holliday away for life. Maybe even get a rope or a firing squad.

“Hello, Pinkerton man,” he heard before the door swung fully open. “What took you so long?”

“Pinkerton man?” the man repeated with a slow grin.

Anna forced a smile. It had taken her until this morning to figure out the combination, but the wall safe behind the portrait of the Finch sisters had provided the man’s full name and the scope of his employment. Her feelings of betrayal at Papa’s choice to hire a Pinkerton were made worse by the fact he’d hidden it from her.

But Mr. John Edward Baker Sanders did not need to know that. Nor did he need to know how difficult his job would prove to be.

Anna stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in?” she asked as sweetly as she could.

The Pinkerton followed her inside and obediently settled himself on the most uncomfortable chair in Mama’s frilly and completely female formal parlor. Exuberant use of pink, her mother’s favorite color, had caused Papa to vow never to set foot inside what he called the Spider’s Web.

It was a gentle jest between a couple long married. Today, however, Anna hoped it would be the spot where this Pinkerton man met his match.

She’d intended the exercise as a test of the lawman’s endurance, but Anna was completely unprepared for her reaction to the sight of a ruggedly male Pinkerton, even one costumed as a man of wealth, seated amongst the frill and fluff of her mother’s flower-strewn tapestries and outrageously trimmed pillows.

Mr. Sanders reached behind him to remove two of the flounced offenders and tossed them onto the fur rug without apology. When he shifted positions, his suit coat opened slightly to reveal a badge that glinted silver in the light of the crystal lamp.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I came calling,” he said.

“You’ve come calling?” Anna asked innocently as she continued to study him. Objectively, of course. As an author might study a character. “Socially?” she added when he didn’t seem to understand her jest. She punctuated the question with a look intended to fluster him. The attempt failed miserably.

Instead, Mr. Sanders leaned back and regarded her amusement. “Trust me, Miss Finch. I’m not on that list.”

“List?”

A maid bearing tea and coffee interrupted, and Anna beckoned her in. While the refreshments were served, Anna made use of the distraction to contemplate her next move. Dare she use her rusty—if not completely untried—feminine wiles? Or perhaps battling him with intellect might succeed.

In either case, she needed this Pinkerton to either leave her alone or help her. And from the look of him and the wording on the documents Papa had signed, neither would be easily accomplished.

The parlor door closed behind the retreating maid, leaving Anna
to watch while her guest spooned a heaping amount of sugar into his coffee. He lifted the cup, delicate and almost comical in his hands, to his lips.

“Sweet enough?” she asked when Mr. Sanders caught her staring.

A grin began as his gaze swept across her. She straightened her spine and pretended his impudence had no effect even as she melted inside.

“Plenty sweet,” the rogue said.

Anna looked away, but his voice called her attention back again.

“Miss Finch.” His sweet-as-honey tone wrapped around her name and released it slowly. “If you know I’m a Pinkerton, it’s likely you know the nature of my employment.” Another look slid down the length of her. “And I know something’s wrong when a woman as beautiful as you sits at home for ten nights in a row.”

Beautiful?
She forced a neutral look onto her face. “Perhaps I’m not given to socializing.”

“You haven’t ridden that horse of yours either,” he said evenly. “And don’t try to tell me you’re not given to stealing some stable hand’s clothing and giving that mare of yours a run.” He paused. “I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

If there was a witty response to be given, it failed her. Despite her best intentions, the backhanded compliment on her appearance had reached its target. Anna rubbed her palms against her skirt and reached for the teapot. A mistake, she realized, when the liquid sloshed against the cup and spilled onto the saucer and across the tray.

“Need some help with that?” he asked, though both his demeanor and his position in the chair told her he was firmly committed to watching, not lifting a finger to assist her.

“Thank you, but no.” She affected a smile and sat back without bothering to complete the task.

The rogue smirked. He knew exactly what his presence was doing to her. Ire replaced whatever errant feelings the Pinkerton’s overtures had caused.

“Now, about that list,” she said as firmly as she could.

His deep chuckle might have disarmed her if she hadn’t been prepared. “The list? Miss Finch, are you truly ignorant to your father’s intentions, or are you toying with me?”

“I gave up toys when I left the nursery, Mr. Sanders.”

“But not playing games.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Instinctively, Anna pressed back against the settee’s ample cushions. “Case in point, you know my name, and I’ve not yet told it to you. Wonder how that is?”

“You’re a Pinkerton,” she said. “You figure it out.”

“I assure you I will lie awake at night pondering that great mystery,” he continued. “However, what I’d really like to know is how you came to know so much about Wyatt Earp.”

Anna opened her mouth, but he held up his hand to stop her.

“And before you try to deny it, as you recall, I was at the Windsor and saw you sharing a cozy meal with him and the missus. And Doc Holliday. Who seemed quite taken with you.” He paused. “So maybe there’s just one question I should ask.”

“What is that?” she managed, grateful she’d not been required to confirm or deny her relationship to either man.

“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”

She took his empty coffee cup and set it on the tray. “The ‘A’?”

“I understand the Bird part. That’s obvious, little bird. Isn’t that what Mr. Mitchell down at the
Times
calls you? Or maybe you earned that name cozying up to Earp and Holliday. I hear women of your quality aren’t so keen on having their names revealed when they’re keeping company with men their fathers would have shot.”

Anna studied the dizzying floral pattern on the carpet.

“You don’t have to answer, Miss Finch. As you said, I’m a Pinkerton. I’ll figure it out.”

Anna’s heart jolted. “Mr. Sanders, what are you insinuating?”

“Miss Finch, I don’t insinuate.” He paused. “You ride better than most boys and your skill with a Colt—”

“Smith & Wesson.”

“I stand corrected.” Was that a gleam in his eye? “The proof of your skill with a Smith & Wesson is healing nicely.”

She looked away so she could think her way out of this conversation. To her surprise, the Pinkerton stood abruptly and reached for her hand, pulling her upright. His grip was firm but gentle, his stance as steady as his gaze.

“Miss Finch, do me the favor of not underestimating me.”

Despite her best efforts, Anna felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I ask the same of you, Mr. Sanders.”

“Then perhaps we should begin our association on level ground.” The Pinkerton lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “Jeb Sanders, Pinkerton agent and your hired gun until such time as you manage to trick some poor man into marrying you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Anna yanked her hand away. “You are truly insufferable, Mr. Sanders, and I wish you to leave my parlor immediately.”

His chuckle was at once impudent and without humor. “Gladly, Miss Finch. All the flowers and flounces make a man dizzy.” He glanced past her to the door. “Give my best to your parents when they return. I understand your mother had a lovely visit with her sister Violet in San Francisco.”

“How did you know that my mother was—”

“I’m good at what I do.” He adjusted his hat, stepped over the pillows, and headed toward the door. “If you need me, I’ll be in the stables.”

“The stables?” She started after him, then thought better of it and sat back down. “What on earth are you doing in our stables?”

“I’ve been sleeping there since the reception.” He blinked innocently at her. “Didn’t you know? I thought a reporter like you would have sniffed that out by now.”

This time she did stand. “Wait just a minute, Mr. Sanders. If my father found out you were staying here with me unaccompanied, why, he’d …” Words failed her as the image of her father’s wrath rose.

“He’d be thankful I was doing my job.” He turned to go, then glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m bunking with the hired help, not sleeping in the house.” He grinned. “Surely you don’t mean to compromise my reputation.”

Anna groaned and waved him away. Anything further could be handled by persons more able to tolerate the obnoxious hired gun. “Mr. Mitchell will have a grand time with this news,” she muttered as she rested her head in her hands.

The Pinkerton paused in the doorway to turn and face her. “I assure you he’ll not interfere in a Pinkerton investigation. He’s already been made aware of the consequences of that.”

“Are you sure?” she asked weakly. “Because that man’s interfered in almost every aspect of my life since he took up writing for the
Times.”

“Oh, I assure you,” he said with a wink. “The job of interfering is now mine. Have someone fetch me when dinner’s ready. And don’t forget to let your cook know I like my steaks rare and my bread well buttered.”

“You know, Mr. Sanders,” she said as she crossed her arms, “if marrying meant I was no longer plagued by your presence, I would accept the first proposal that came my way.”

With a laugh, he turned and strode out of the room.

Anna fell back against the cushions. “Now what, Lord?” she muttered as she listened to boot heels crossing the marble floor of the entryway.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the odious man called. “I’ll see myself out.”

Anna grabbed the nearest pillow, held it over her mouth, and screamed. When she was done, she tossed the pillow against the opposite wall and stormed into her father’s library, slamming the door and turning the lock.

She had an article to write, and even that awful Pinkerton’s presence wouldn’t stop her.

“Excuse me,” McMinn called from down the hall some time later. “Miss Finch?”

“In here,” Anna called, hopping up to unlock the door.

When she opened it, McMinn handed her one of the brown envelopes from the newspaper. “This came for you.”

“Thank you.” Anna took the package, relocked the door, and hurried to the desk. She ripped open the envelope and began flipping through the letters it contained. When she saw the third envelope, she forgot about the rest and about the obnoxious Pinkerton apparently living in her stables.

The letter was from Mr. Bonney, and was postmarked Leadville, Colorado.

Anna sank onto the chair and cleared a spot on the cluttered desk. With care, she opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of stationery from the Clarendon Hotel on Harrison Avenue, Leadville.

Written just a few days after the article on Wyatt Earp appeared in the
Times
, the letter was brief, its message clear.

Anna pushed back from the desk and turned her attention to the Rockies, already fading to deep purple in the afternoon shade. Her fingers found the edge of the letter and lifted it.

“As yet unwilling,” Anna read again. As yet.

She smiled and reached for pen and paper. Perhaps she could convince Mr. Bonney that now was
exactly
the time.

After penning a cordial but professional greeting, Anna paused only a second before making her case as succinctly as she could.

Anna paused. What else? She smiled.

She signed the letter, then hastily sealed it and addressed it to Mr. Bonney at the address on the Clarendon’s letterhead.

Now to get it mailed. Or better yet, sent via private messenger.

In less than five minutes she’d found Mr. McMinn mucking a stall.

“Can you spare someone to run an errand for me?” she asked.

“Of course I can.” He spied the letter. “I can take that myself.”