Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (19 page)

Somehow the morning passed and the afternoon dwindled nearly to evening. Anna pushed away from her desk to stretch. While the unpleasantness with Edwin had sent her hurrying to her bedchamber, the thick packet of letters kept her there.

Most were of the hard-to-believe variety, while a few were tributes to individuals whose names meant nothing. Letters of both kinds were easily culled and returned to the packet, leaving half a dozen choice leads that might make sensational stories.

Four gave addresses to which she could respond, an endeavor that had kept Anna busy until well past lunchtime. Then came the writing of tomorrow’s column, an essay on a fellow known to locals by the name of Soapy.

Perhaps, Anna thought as she folded the pages and prepared them for delivery to Mr. Smith at the
Times
, the story’s subject might wish to refute her firsthand informants with a personal interview of his own. For that, she’d certainly write a follow-up piece.

Anna rested her elbows on the desk, then cracked her knuckles, a horrid habit that, when she was a child, earned a swift reprimand. A knock at the door drew Anna’s attention. A maid reminded her to dress for dinner.

“Dinner?” She gathered up the packet and held it behind her, then opened the door a crack. “Whatever for?”

The maid shrugged. “I’m sorry, miss, but your parents insist.”

“My parents? My mother perhaps, but Papa’s in Leadville until Thursday.” Anna shook her head. “Surely Mother’s much too tired from her journey to sit through dinner. Tell her she’s not required to do so by me.”

The maid gave another timid shrug followed by a curtsy. “Your father has returned. He said I should tell both you and your mother half past eight.”

Anna covered her surprise. “Half past eight it is.”

She closed the door and returned to her work. By the time she washed for dinner, true to her promise to Mr. Smith, Anna had managed to plan enough regular features to fill a month’s worth of twice-weekly columns. Each would be added to the stories carefully clipped and resting atop the pile of Mae Winslow novels hiding in a locked trunk in the attic.

It all seemed so silly and clandestine, especially given her age and credentials. With the funds still languishing in the bank in Boston, she could live a quiet life elsewhere without any concern for what her parents thought. More than once she’d considered doing just that, finding some peaceful hamlet and focusing on her journalistic career without caring who knew.

For tonight, she was a daughter who would love nothing better than to speak with her father about the men who’d troubled her today. She wouldn’t, of course, not in front of her mother. Later, perhaps, when Papa went to his library.

Anna greeted her parents as she entered the dining room and took her seat at the table. The meal was quiet, so quiet that Anna could hear occasional laughter from the kitchen, which told her the Pinkerton was on the premises.

“So, Papa, you’ve returned early.”

Her father let the statement hang between them while he studied her mother. “Finished my business,” he said. “Came home. Nothing else to tell.”

A look passed between her parents, though Anna couldn’t identify it.

“So, dear,” her mother said, “did your father and I miss any social events? Anything you’ve done in our absence that warrants discussion?”

Become a well-received journalist? Exchanged letters with Doc Holliday? Threatened a British nobleman with a Derringer, perhaps?

“No,” Anna said sweetly. “Nothing of any consequence.”

This time the look was disappointment, and both her parents wore it. “No gentlemen callers?” her mother asked.

“Your Pinkerton tells me you took a carriage ride with Beck’s brother.”

Anna blinked, surprised her father had mentioned her hired gun. Mr. Sanders must have told him that she was aware of his presence and purpose. “Yes, a brief one,” she admitted.

Mama exhaled a long breath. “Well, now,” she said to Papa, “isn’t that wonderful?” She lifted the bell. “Anna and I will take coffee in the parlor. Dear, will you join us?”

Her father waved away any response as he shoved back from the table and disappeared into the hall leading to the library. Anna considered joining him but instead dutifully followed her mother into the parlor, though what she might do to keep her eyes open and sleep at bay, she didn’t know.

And then Mr. McMinn appeared at the parlor door carrying a large packet of what she knew must be yet another delivery of mail from the
Times
. Anna’s heart sank. What was he doing? Always before the envelopes had been discreetly deposited on her desk. It was almost as if the driver wished her caught.

“Might I borrow your daughter, Mrs. Finch?” he asked.

“Of course.”

If Mother was suspicious, she gave no indication. She went back to her embroidery work without further comment.

Anna followed Mr. McMinn through the kitchen, where she noted that the Pinkerton was nowhere to be found, and out to the stables.

“You’ll want to be more careful with this.” He handed the thick packet to her. “Not everyone’s happy about this A. Bird fellow.”

Grasping the envelope to her chest, Anna debated whether to respond at all. “Actually, I think the reporter is doing a fine job of making people aware of the injustice all around us.”

Mr. McMinn shook his head. “I suppose.” He turned his attention to the package in her hands. “But if I were you, I’d give some consideration as to how this Bird fellow gets his mail.”

“I—that is, well …”

“Miss Finch,” he said gently, “I won’t ask how you know this reporter.” He pointed to the envelope. “But might I suggest you stop this?”

“If I knew what you were talking about,” she said slowly, “then I would have to tell you that A. Bird doesn’t intend to stop.”

“He’s told you that, has he?” the driver asked with the beginnings of a grin.

“In a fashion, he has,” she said.

“Well, might I offer some advice?” When she nodded, he continued. “I had this friend once with a similar situation. Important correspondence that needed to be kept strictly confidential.”

“What did he do?”

Mr. McMinn held up his hand. “I’ll show you.”

He disappeared into a stall, then came back with a carpetbag, which he handed to Anna. She looked inside and found a slip of paper resting on a stack of boys’ clothing.

Anna moved the paper, which had an address written on it, and pulled out a men’s shirt of plain fabric. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s a post office in Garrison. You know where that is?”

She did. The tiny town was practically on Denver’s doorstep and an easy half-hour’s ride away.

He shrugged. “I don’t suppose you got any friends there.”

“No,” Anna said. “Why?”

“Easier for a stranger to ride in and out,” he said. “Might not attract so much attention.”

Anna grinned. “Mr. McMinn, you’re brilliant.” She looked around before leaning toward the driver. “How soon might this be arranged?”

It was Mr. McMinn’s turn to grin. “Already done it,” he said. “Figured you’d need another plan once I saw how many post office trips I’d have to explain to the boss.”

“So my mail …” Anna paused. “That is, A. Bird’s mail is already being collected in Garrison?”

“Should be.” He rocked back on his heels. “You gonna need Maisie come daybreak on Monday?”

“Better make it at least an hour before,” she said. “I figure I’ll have to get up pretty early in the morning to slip away without the Pinkerton suspecting anything.”

“Yes’m,” he said with a tip of his hat. “I’ll see to it.”

True to Mr. McMinn’s word, the horse was ready and waiting when Anna slipped into the stables that morning. Though she’d been provided garments for the ride, Anna elected to wear her own riding clothes. Somehow she felt better not intentionally appearing to deceive.

As the first orange rays lit the prairie, Anna allowed Maisie to set her own pace, heedless of her flying skirts. Soon the outline of the tiny hamlet of Garrison appeared on the horizon.

With the sun barely up, Anna realized she’d arrived far too early to do any business at the post office. Next time she would arrange her arrival to coincide with the proper hours, but today she found an open door at the lone eating establishment on the street and settled at a table with her saddlebag and the best cup of coffee she’d had in ages.

After taking a sip, she set the mug aside and hauled her saddlebag into her lap. Beneath the Smith & Wesson, which she prayed never to have to use again, lay her stack of mail to be sent out. Some were notes of thanks to sources who didn’t mind hearing from her, and others were letters of inquiry asking about subjects for future stories. All received some sort of clipping, either one in which they had participated or one she wished them to see to prove her skills as a writer.

Anna sometimes wondered why Mr. McMinn didn’t go to her father with all he knew, but she tried not to dwell on the question. She preferred to believe that the driver shared her concern for the truth and didn’t mind playing his part by fetching home each day more newspapers than the average citizen of Denver read in a week.

From the activity outside, it appeared the citizens of Garrison had finally decided to awaken and begin the day. She finished her coffee and hastened to the post office, where she found the postmaster sorting mail from a bag at his feet.

He looked up and offered a grin filled with more enthusiasm than teeth. “Might I help you, miss?”

Handing over the letters, she returned his grin. “Would you post these for me, please? And then I’ll need to pick up my mail.”

It took him only a moment to handle the outgoing pieces. “What’s the name you’re looking for?” he asked as he went to a back table filled with an assortment of mail in what appeared to be no particular order.

“Bird,” she said, hoping the single name would be enough to achieve her purpose without drawing unwanted attention.

He gave her an appraising look from across the room. “Did you say Bird?”

Anna nodded.

The old man turned to face her. “First initial?”

“A.”

“Is that so?” He shuffled back to the desk. “Well, it ain’t gonna be back there, then.”

Disappointment nudged her. “Perhaps next week.” Anna cradled her saddlebag and turned to leave. At least she’d had a pleasant ride. Next time she’d leave after sunrise and likely not even need an overcoat.

“Miss,” the postmaster called, “ain’t you gonna take your mail?” He lifted the bag that had been at his feet. “Don’t know what makes you so popular,” he said, “but you sure do get a heap of letters.”

Jeb watched Anna Finch step out of the Garrison post office with a saddlebag on one arm and a bag of mail on the other. Of all the women in Colorado, why had he been paid to protect this one?

A sombrero resting low on his head and a false mustache itching beneath his nose, Jeb pretended to worry himself with the reins to the borrowed wagon he’d brought along as cover. Any observers would think he’d arrived in Garrison for business purposes.

When his charge walked out of the post office, he’d been contemplating going in after her. Now he didn’t have to, as her predicament offered ample opportunity for a knight in shining armor—or, rather, a dusty undercover Pinkerton turned Mexican wagon driver in a serape and hat courtesy of Mr. McMinn—to reveal himself and save her.

Anna Finch was nicely turned out in a dress fit for travel, and he
wondered why she hadn’t donned the boyish style she’d been wearing the last time she rode that heathen horse. It certainly would have been more appropriate for what she was attempting.

He climbed out of the wagon and moved toward her. “ ’Scuse me, señorita,” he called as he got within speaking distance, careful to keep his hat low and his voice disguised. “You look like you’ve got a problem. Your horse, he don’t fit your bag.”

She didn’t spare him a look. “To say the least,” she responded, focused on her task.

Miss Finch wasn’t much bigger than the bag she was hoisting, but she didn’t appear to notice. It couldn’t be heavy, or she’d have landed on her backside after trying to swing it across the saddle. As it was, she overshot her aim, and the bag landed on the street on the other side of her horse.