Page 1 of Love and Order

CHAPTER 1

Cambria Springs, Colorado Territory Thursday, June 19, 1873

Cradled in the strange woman’s arms as the wagon rumbled through the crowded Chicago streets, six-year-old Calliope wailed. The primal, guttural sound rose in body-racking sobs, and she clawed and wrestled to free herself.

She had to get back to the train platform.

“Stop, child. Please!” The woman’s tight grasp faltered, and Calliope squirmed free. Her feet found purchase, and she launched herself—straight from the wagon into the mire. She landed but tumbled forward, mud engulfing her. Inches away, an oncoming team shied violently, the nearest horse rearing then driving its mate toward the nearest storefront. Another driver, heading in the same direction she’d been going, drew back hard on the reins.

She tried to pull free of the cold, sucking mud and—

Callie jerked awake as a scream lodged in her throat.

“Miss Jarrett?” A startling staccato of knuckles on wood punctuated the silence.

Miss Jarrett …? No. She was Callie Wilson—formerly Calliope Braddock.

Her heart pounded, and she fought to free herself from the mud of her dream.

“Are you all right, miss?”

She stared at her surroundings. A room … bathed in the bluish hue of moonlight.

Not a busy Chicago street in broad daylight.

“Miss Jarrett, answer me now, or I’ll break down this door!”

The knob rattled, and a fist pounded.

As she lurched upright, the bed linens loosened, making her suddenly aware of where—and who—she was.

“Miss Jarrett?” Joe Trenamen rattled the door on its hinges.

Only she mustn’t call him Mr. Trenamen—just as he shouldn’t call her Callie Wilson. Those weren’t the names they were known by in Cambria Springs.

“I’m fine, Mr. Nesbitt,” she hollered as she fought to untangle herself from her clammy bedclothes. Lord, help me, please! The prayer bubbled in her thoughts as other voices—both male and female—joined his outside her door.

“No disrespect intended, miss, but I’d feel a whole heap better if I could see that for myself.”

She froze.

He wanted to see her … in her sweat-drenched nightclothes, and probably with her hair disheveled after her dream?

Callie fought free. “I think not, sir.”

“Then show yourself to me, Miss Jarrett,” sweet Mrs. Ingram, the aged boardinghouse owner and widow of the town’s previous pastor, called, “so I might assure everyone you’re fine and we can all try to sleep.”

“All right.” Callie rose, untwisted her nightgown from around her, and lit a lamp. “Give me a moment.”

She retrieved the petite derringer pistol from her bedside table and stashed it in its drawer. Turning, she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror, and her eyes rounded. Her damp hair barely held to its braid … and her fair skin was paler than normal. She wrapped herself in a shawl and unlocked the door.

“Enter, Mrs. Ingram.”

The older woman slipped inside, looking to be certain they were alone.

“My goodness, with all that’s happened of late, you gave us a fright. It sounded as if someone was murdering you.”

“I’m so sorry.” She cleared her achy throat—dry and scratchy from crying out in her sleep. “It was a nightmare, ma’am.” But so much more than just a nightmare. The recurring images from her childhood had been coming more often of late—several times a month. “I’ll be fine.”

The white-haired woman motioned to the rumpled bedsheets. “Those will need a change.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Please don’t go to any trouble. I’m fine.”

Mrs. Ingram looked less than convinced. “All right, then. Good night.” Before leaving, she checked the pitcher beside the door. “You haven’t any water to wash up. Shall I ask Mr. Nesbitt to fetch some?”

“I heard my name,” he called from outside the door. “Can I be of service?”

Before Callie could protest, Mrs. Ingram shoved the pitcher out the door. “Would you fill this for Miss Jarrett?”

“Happy to.”

As he received the pitcher, Callie caught sight of him over Mrs. Ingram’s head. Her heart gave a thrill. His dark locks, mussed from sleep, fell across his forehead and gave him a wild, boyish look that drew the eye.

He ducked out of sight. “Are you well, Miss Jarrett?” he called.

Her cheeks heated even more. “I am. Sorry to have bothered everyone. I was dreaming.”

“Glad that’s all it was,” one of the other female boarders called.

Someone yawned. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll return shortly with your water, Miss Jarrett.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.” She pushed the door closed. “And thank you, Mrs. Ingram, but I’m plenty capable of drawing my own water.”

“Yes, you are, young lady—but as we all know, there’s a killer loose ’round these parts. Until he’s caught, it’s not safe for a woman to traipse outside alone after dark—even to draw water or use the privy.”

She hung her head. “Of course. I must still be addled after my dream.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to change those damp sheets, dear? I fear you’ll be uncomfortable.”

“Go back to bed. I’ll fend for myself.”

With a soft farewell, Mrs. Ingram exited. Callie dug a clean nightgown from her trunk and changed, then undid her braid. As she picked up her hairbrush, a soft knock came at the door.

“Miss Jarrett?” Mrs. Ingram’s spinster daughter, Hattie, called. “I brought you fresh sheets, in case, Miss.”

She hurried to the door. “Thank you, Hattie. You and your mother are very thoughtful.”

The woman leaned heavily against the wall, a pained smile gracing her lips. “Do you need help remaking the bed?”

“No. Please—try to sleep.”

“All right. Good night, Miss.” She hobbled away on unsteady legs, her slow gait stilted and difficult.

“Good night. Thank you.” Callie shut the door again, set the folded sheets on the trunk lid, and brushed her hair. Once she’d rebraided it, she dimmed the lamp and peeked into the yard below.

Somewhere out there, a killer walked free. One who’d murdered more than once—in more than one locale.

And she planned to catch him.

With Callie Wilson’s panicked cries still ringing in his ears, Joe Trenamen’s skin crawled as he stepped from the boardinghouse’s back door. In the eerie silence, an unexpected scuffing sounded and sent his heart and senses into a panic. Loosening the Colt Peacemaker he’d strapped to his hip in its holster, he eyed the shadows. Where had the sound come from? It was close … yet nothing moved on the porch or in the yard. Inhaling, he eased left—and again, the scuffing sounded.

From under his own feet.

His breath whooshed out in a groan, and with it, all his tension. He wilted against the doorjamb. It was his own boot soles rubbing on the porch planks.

“Breathe, you numbskull …”

He set the pitcher down and inhaled the cool, damp air. That did nothing to remove the lingering memories her terrified cries had dredged up. He’d heard such on the battlefield years ago—or in the hospital tent after he’d been shot. He recognized the fright right away. Knowing the sounds he’d heard tonight came from Callie Wilson unsettled him.

A wispy fog wrapped the moonlit yard like smoke on the battlefields where he’d once stood. He shook his head. This wasn’t the war.

He’d followed his older brother—his only living relative—into that conflict at the tender age of twelve because Jesse itched to give it back to those who’d murdered their parents. Too young to be a soldier, Joe had served as a drummer—and he’d stayed on after Jesse died at Wilson’s Creek. But more than once, he’d picked up a gun and proved himself a better-than-average shot. By the end of those four years, he’d rushed into battle alongside men twice his age and held his own. That was long ago—eight years since Lee surrendered and he’d limped home. Alone …

Lord God Almighty, these thoughts’ll lead nowhere good. Please take ‘em. He blew out another breath and tried to dislodge the dark images.

What could make the innocent Callie Wilson cry out like she was in mortal danger? She was no more than twenty or twenty-one. What had she seen in her young life? Hopefully nothing so traumatic as he had.

The facts that Allan Pinkerton had hired her and that the woman who headed the Female Detective Bureau had given the young woman her approval said a lot. In his experience, both chose skilled and capable people. And based on a simple case of robbery they’d worked together three years ago just after she’d been hired, she did seem to be an accomplished detective. One he’d enjoyed working with—maybe too much. There’d been a palpable spark and attraction between them from the start, and her open, teachable heart had made him happy to take her under his wing and show her small tricks of the trade. Coupled with the natural interest she showed in his war stories, it had led to a strong attraction.

But that case was easily solved in a few weeks, and they’d each moved on—him back to this ongoing murder case he’d worked for five years and her to other robberies. He hadn’t expected to see her again. However, when the female operative he’d been working with had been called away for a family emergency, Mr. Pinkerton sent Callie, who was already out west working on another case—something of a personal nature. Could she handle tracking a murderer?

Someone who’d killed seven times .

Seven women. Pretty ones.

Durn it all. Her small stature, porcelain features, and infectious laugh made him want to protect her, when he needed to be focused on putting away the murderer.

“Stop viewing her as a woman to be protected. She’s a Pinkerton.”

But … why was that so hard?

Joe locked the door from the outside. With two young women killed in this community already—one three months back and one found only two days ago—he wouldn’t take a chance in leaving the boardinghouse vulnerable, even if he was only stepping away to pump water and return.

Before completing his task, he circled the house’s wide, wraparound porch, studying the shadows for anything out of order. At the front, he paced to the fence bordering the street and looked up and down the lightly fogged thoroughfare. Far down the street, a ghostlike figure on horseback moved through the mist but disappeared into what he knew to be the livery stable. No other movement marred the stillness. Pacing back, he completed his circuit, filled the pitcher, and let himself back inside. With the door locked again, he replaced the key and climbed to the third floor.

“Miss Jarrett?” He knocked more calmly than before. “I have your water.”

“Just a moment.”

Eventually, she opened the door, her brown eyes meeting his. Clad in a nightgown with a heavy shawl clutched around her shoulders, she had her golden-brown hair in a tight braid against one shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt. Sorry I troubled you.” She waved toward the washstand. “Please, put it there.”

He set it down then backed into the hall. “You’re sure you’re well?”

“Yes. Just a nightmare. The images don’t linger once I wake up.”

“You’re fortunate.” His nightmares lived for hours, sometimes days, after. “Do you need anything else, Miss?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until morning. Thank you. See you at breakfast, Mr. Nesbitt.”

They had plans to ride out to the most recent murder scene the following day, but such a young, impressionable woman hardly needed to see that place. Could he deter her?

Should he?

A question to ponder as he tried to get back to sleep.

“See you in a few hours.”