Читать книгу The Engagement Bargain - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 11

Chapter Three

A week following the shooting, Anna staggered from bed and took a few lurching steps, determined to reestablish her independence. Winded, she collapsed onto a chair before the window. She’d considered dressing, but even the simple task of standing had become a tiring battle in her weakened condition.

From this moment on she was taking charge of her life. No more depending on others, no more sleeping the days and nights away. Except her body had refused the call to action.

The bandage wrapped around her side restricted her movements, and the slightest agitation sent a shock of pain through her side. Near tears, she rested her forehead against the chilled windowpane.

A soft knock sounded at the door. She smoothed the front of her dressing gown and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, relieved they’d had her trunk delivered to the room when she and Jo had switched.

“It’s Mrs. Franklin,” a voice called.

Anna sat up as straight as her wound allowed. “Please, come in.”

As the door swung open, she recalled her embroidery and quickly shoved the evidence beneath her pillow. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she kept the feminine hobby to herself.

The older woman took one look at Anna and tsked. “Why didn’t you call for me? I would have helped.”

The past week was a blur of disjointed memories. Between sleeping and waking, she recalled the visits from other suffragists. The room had erupted with flowers like a meadow after a spring rain. They crowded every available surface, perfuming the air.

“I managed well enough,” Anna said. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no trouble.” Mrs. Franklin’s gray eyes clouded over. “It’s the least I can do.”

As she crossed before her, Anna caught her hand. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“You can’t blame me for feeling guilty.” The older woman paused. “Will you at least let me help you dress this morning?”

“That would be lovely. I’m tired of lazing around in my nightclothes.”

While Anna was eager to press her independence, she sensed the other woman’s need to be useful, and remained docile beneath her ministrations. The widow was the opposite of everything Anna had been taught to hold dear. Mrs. Franklin seemed to revel in her role as protector and nurturer—character traits her mother abhorred. Victoria Bishop took great pains to surround herself with the like-minded. No action was ever taken without a purpose. Independence was prized in the Bishop household. Tutors and nannies who had coddled Anna as a child were quickly corrected or dismissed.

You are not here to care for the child, Anna recalled her mother’s oft-repeated order, you are to teach the child how to care for herself.

After Anna donned her simplest outfit, a white cotton shirtwaist and brown plaid skirt, Mrs. Franklin spent several minutes fussing with her hair.

The older woman stood back and surveyed her work. “I’m no lady’s maid, but you’re presentable.”

Having done her own hair for many years, the sensation was odd. Being pampered and cared for was not nearly as repellent as it should have been. In fact, Anna quite liked the relaxing sensation. Unbidden, her mother’s fierce countenance popped into her head. Victoria Bishop had not raised her only daughter to be spoiled.

Anna took the brush from Mrs. Franklin and ran the bristles away from her temple, smoothing the wave created by her impossible curls. “It’s lovely, really. I don’t usually wear it this way.”

The widow had pinned her loose hair in a cascade atop her head. When Anna perched her hat over the arrangements, the curls framed her face. The effect softened her countenance and made her look younger, more approachable.

Mrs. Franklin tugged one of the ringlets free and let it fall against Anna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, I quite like that. You have lovely hair, my dear. If I’d had that hair back in ’45, oh the trouble I could have caused.”

Judging from the twinkle in Mrs. Franklin’s eye, Anna guessed she’d broken more than one heart. “I have a feeling you caused plenty of trouble, no matter your hair.”

“True, my dear. Quite true,” the widow answered with unabashed pride.

Anna couldn’t help but laugh with Mrs. Franklin’s reflection in the mirror. When she turned away, Anna’s smile faded.

Why was accepting assistance such a shameful weakness? If the situations were reversed, if Mrs. Franklin had needed help, Anna would have happily aided her. And yet each time she relinquished even the tiniest bit of her independence, she heard her mother’s stern disapproval. Why was the desire to look attractive such an appalling offense?

If a woman’s sole purpose in life was to attract a mate, then nature would not have given us the superior brain.

Anna patted her hair and recalled her manners. “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin, for your assistance. You’ve been absolutely indispensable. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”

“You must call me Izetta.”

Mrs. Franklin—Izetta—straightened the horsehair brush on the dressing table. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, if you’re up for it.”

“Mr. McCoy?” Anna’s heartbeat tripped. “He’s here?”

“No. A detective. A Pinkerton detective at that. Can you imagine?”

“Well, of course Mr. McCoy will have gone.” Anna held out her hands and studied her blunt fingernails. She mustn’t let her emotions turn at the mere thought of him. “I was only hoping for the chance to thank him properly.”

“Oh, no, Mr. McCoy hasn’t gone. He and his sister have been keeping the vultures at bay.” Mrs. Franklin folded Anna’s discarded nightgown and laid it on her trunk. “It’s been a circus, let me tell you. I don’t know what we would have done without those two.”

Anna’s memories of the past week were hazy at best. The police had questioned her briefly, but she had nothing to offer. She hadn’t seen anything, and despite the ubiquitous protestors from the opposition, she’d never been threatened with bodily harm. Or shot at, for that matter. The police had pressed her for information until Mr. McCoy had ordered them away, but not before demanding they leave a guard at her door.

Mr. McCoy’s soothing voice had been the one constant in a sea of confusion. She’d caught Jo teasing him, ribbing him for treating them all as though they were his four-legged patients, and yet she’d found the deep timbre of his reassuring voice a lifeline in the darkness. She’d been injured and out of sorts, that was all. Surely this curious fascination with the man would fade soon enough. Her fellow suffragists would not approve.

Love will ruin a woman faster than rain will ruin a parade.

Mrs. Franklin paused with her hand on the doorknob. “We kept your room number secret until that reporter grew weary of trying. After you speak with the detective, you’ll have to make some decisions.”

The door swung open, and Anna’s breath caught in her throat. “Mr. McCoy! I was expecting the Pinkerton detective.”

She desperately hoped he attributed the breathless quality of her voice to her recent injury. And surprise. Yes, she was simply surprised.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’d be him.”

Her eyes widened. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the other man was derelict. The detective appeared to be in his late forties with a curiously rounded middle and stick limbs. As though all of his weight had congregated in his belly, starving the fat from his arms and legs. He wore an ill-fitting coat in a nondescript shade of brown which matched the shock of disordered, thinning hair covering his head.

Anna swept her arm in an arc. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough seats for all of you. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mr. McCoy propped his shoulder against the door frame. “I’ll stand.”

How did he manage to pack such a wealth of meaning into so few words?

The detective huffed.

Annoyance radiated from Mr. McCoy’s stiff demeanor. There was obviously no love lost between the two men.

The detective straddled a chair and rested his arms on the back. “The name is Reinhart. I’m here on another case.”

A sharp ache throbbed in her temple, and Anna pressed two fingers against the pain. “I don’t follow.”

“When I’m working on a case, I pay attention to things. To everything. You never know what you might hear.”

“I see,” Anna replied vaguely, though she didn’t see at all.

Reinhart shrugged. “Anyway, I’m from St. Louis. Moved to this office last May.”

Caleb pushed off from the wall. “Just get to the point. Tell her what you told me this morning.”

The detective rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve heard a few things. Mind you, if you want to find the shooter, that’s a separate job. Like I said this morning, that’ll cost you extra.”

Mr. McCoy cleared his throat.

The man glared over his shoulder, his movements twitchy and nervous as a rat. “Anyway, I’ve been doing some digging, and I ain’t found nothing.”

Oddly deflated by his vague speech, Anna tilted her head. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”

“Don’t you get it? No one has claimed responsibility. No one seen nothing. Nothing.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“This is personal. Someone with a grudge against women voting wants his voice heard. He wants attention. Someone with a personal vendetta is going underground. He doesn’t want to get caught. Leastways not until the job is done right.”

While the man’s clothing and grooming might lead one to believe he was not educated, his speech let slip his intellect. Clearly playing the bumbling fool suited his work.

He glanced meaningfully at her side and Anna pressed her hand against the bandages beneath her clothing.

She sat up and winced. “Someone wants me dead. Just me?”

“That’s the way I see it.”

Blood roared in her ears. Somehow she’d pictured the act as random. A lone, crazed shooter with a grudge against women who was bent on causing an uproar. Someone determined to halt the rally.

In the back of her mind, she’d even wondered if the whole thing had been an accident. Years ago, their neighbor in St. Louis had inadvertently discharged a firearm while attempting to clean the weapon. He’d shattered the parlor window and taken a chunk out of the porch railing.

This was no accident.

This was more focused. This was personal.

As the realization sank in, her heart thumped painfully in her chest, leaving her light-headed.

The twitchy man shrugged. “That’s the problem. That’s your problem. My guess is, he’s going to try again.”

Anna searched the expectant faces staring at her. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? She glanced at Izetta who remained at her vigil near the window.

“I’ve asked the others.” The widow offered an apologetic grimace. “There’s been no great trouble with our local chapter. We’ve gotten the usual threats, of course. The occasional brick through the front window and painted slurs. But no one has taken responsibility for the shooting. Perhaps they wanted the notoriety of targeting a suffragist with a large following.”

Though no hint of censure showed in Izetta’s voice, Anna’s ears buzzed. “I’m only well-known because of my mother. I’m hardly worthy of notice otherwise.”

She thought she heard mutterings from Mr. McCoy’s direction, but when she caught his gaze, his face remained impassive.

Jo sidled through the doorway and exchanged a glance with her brother.

Anna welcomed the interruption. “Have you heard anything new?” she asked Jo.

With any luck the criminal had been found and all this conjecture was pointless.

“Nothing. But there’s a telegram from your mother. I’ve been keeping her informed of your progress. I did as you requested, I brushed over the details so she wouldn’t worry. Perhaps I blunted them too much.” Jo glanced at the curious face of the detective and cleared her throat. “Never mind. We can discuss that later. Alone.”

Anna exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts, following Mr. McCoy’s lead by keeping her face bland. Perhaps they had kept the details too blunted. Thus far her mother had been sympathetic, but impersonal. As though she was commiserating with a distant acquaintance instead of her only daughter. Not that Anna expected her to come charging to Kansas City. Victoria Bishop had never been one for nursing the sick. She considered any weakness, even ill health, an inconvenience.

There was no need to involve anyone else in this mess, especially if the shooting was targeted at her. Anna might have been injured, but she was no victim.

Bracing her left hand on the seat, she suppressed a grimace. “Then I shall return home. To St. Louis.”

She’d been sitting upright too long, and the injury in her side had turned from a dull ache into a painful throbbing.

“Nah.” The Pinkerton detective grunted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea either. You’re known. You’re not hard to find. I ain’t that smart. Other people could do the same.”

He was plenty smart, Anna had no doubt of that. Studying the faces turned toward her, she had the distinct sensation they wanted something from her.

That she was the only person in the room who hadn’t been apprised of the predetermined plan. “What do you propose I do?”

Caleb held up his hand, silencing Reinhart. “Come to Cimarron Springs. Stay with Jo.”

A thread of anxiety coiled in her stomach. She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t a victim. She wouldn’t be delivered onto someone’s doorstep like an unwanted package.

“And how will that attract any less attention?” Anna gritted her teeth against her clouding vision. “I do not mean to sound arrogant, Mr. McCoy, but my name is not unknown. I have dealt with reporters before. They are far wilier than one supposes. It won’t take long for them to discover where I am.”

Jo stepped forward. “Not if we give you a new name. You can be Anna Smith or something. Caleb and I will keep in touch with the detective. Cimarron Springs is quiet. You’ll have a chance to recuperate.”

A chilly perspiration beaded on her forehead. Anna couldn’t shake the sensation she was missing something in the exchange. “It’s very kind of you, but I am not unfamiliar with small towns either. Gossip is rampant, and curiosity is lethal to your plan. We’re bound to slip up sooner or later.”

The excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. She’d been a controversial figure since before she was born—the illegitimate daughter of heiress Victoria Bishop. Her mother had been singularly remorseless in her infamy. Senior ladies in their chapter had regaled Anna with stories of her mother’s brazen disregard for convention.

Anna had eventually grown old enough to hear the harsher opinions of her mother’s behavior, and suffer for them. For a time she’d ignored her notoriety. Then the parents with children attending Miss Spence’s Boarding and Day School for Girls had demanded her removal. They didn’t want their daughters’ reputations sullied by association.

Victoria Bishop had marched into the school, her heels click-clacking along the marble floors. Anna had waited outside the office, her buttoned leather boots swinging to and fro, while her mother told Miss Spence exactly what she thought of Anna’s expulsion.

A succession of tutors proficient in various subjects had followed. A more focused education, if a touch lonely. Training for solitude had served her well. Despite all the women she met in her travels, most of her time was spent alone. Traveling. Writing letters. Organizing the many separate chapters into a united front.

Proving herself worthy of her mother’s legacy.

“You’ll be there as my friend,” Jo said. “A friend who had an accident and needs some quiet.”

“It could work.” The detective spoke. “Remember, though, if you show up out of the blue with someone they ain’t never heard of before, people will talk. You gotta give them something to talk about or else they’ll make up the missing pieces on their own.”

Anna’s side was on fire, and she wasn’t opposed to resting. After her near-failed attempt at dressing herself this morning, she’d admitted the gravity of her wound. She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Though she’d never admit her weakness, she was still grappling with the realization that someone wanted her dead.

Dead.

Jo planted one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers on the dressing table. “The last page of the Crofton County Gazette has a listing of visitors with each edition. You know the stuff, ‘Mrs. Bertrand’s two grandchildren are visiting from St. Louis. The Millers have gone to Wichita for the wedding of their niece.’ That sort of thing. How would we print Anna’s visit in the paper? That should give us some ideas.”

Caleb reached into the side pocket of his bag. “You’re brilliant, Jo. I’ve got a copy right here.”

Anna surveyed their enthusiasm with a jaded eye. A small town was simply Miss Spence’s School for Girls all over again. She’d be a pariah once the townspeople uncovered her true identity. Already, too many people knew their secret, and the McCoys didn’t strike her as proficient in subterfuge. Sooner or later someone was bound to discover the truth.

While she didn’t think the townspeople would stalk her with pitchforks and torches like the beast in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, there was bound to be awkwardness. Most small communities she’d frequented had narrower rules of propriety than larger cities.

Flipping over the paper, Caleb frowned at the last page, his eyes scanning the columns. “It’s all family visits. We’re too well known. If we dig up another McCoy cousin, they’ll figure out we’re lying soon enough. What about Garrett? Could she pretend to be a relative of his?”

“No,” Jo spoke emphatically. “Garrett’s family is quite off-limits.”

The sorrow in her voice gave Anna pause.

Caleb didn’t seem to notice. “All right then, let’s see what else.” A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Here’s something interesting. ‘JoBeth Cain and her brother, Caleb McCoy, will attend the suffragist rally in Kansas City calling for an additional amendment to the constitution allowing for the women’s vote. Daughter of the renowned suffragist, Victoria Bishop, is set to give the keynote speech. Garrett Cain is escorting a prisoner to Wichita.’” Caleb shook his head. “I guess we did make the news.”

“It’s a small town.” Jo shrugged. “Everyone makes the newspaper.”

Mr. McCoy folded the paper and squinted. “Well, I’ll be, here’s something I didn’t know. ‘Mr. Frank Lancaster has brought his fiancée, Miss Vera Nelson, for an extended visit with his family. A mail-order bride advertisement was recently listed in The Kansas Post by a woman with the name of Miss Vera Nelson. Mr. Lancaster declined to comment on the happenstance.’” Caleb rubbed his chin. “I spoke with him two weeks ago when his dog had the mange. I had no idea he was considering taking a wife.”

“I suppose if you sent away for a bride like a pair of shoes from the Montgomery Ward wish book,” Jo said, “you wouldn’t want that to be common knowledge.”

Mrs. Franklin crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with doing what needs to be done. I’m sure the girl had her reasons. For a woman, sometimes marriage is the only answer.”

“Wait,” Jo snapped her fingers. “That’s perfect. Marriage is our answer, as well. Anna can come to visit as your fiancée.”

“My fiancée.” Caleb’s eyes widened.

Anna started. “What?”

“You two can pretend to be engaged.”

Shocked silence filled the room. Anna recalled the scores of letters her mother had received over the years from desperate women. All of them had one thing in common—they had pinned their hopes on a man.

“No!” Anna and Caleb replied in unison.