Page 4 of Love and Order

CHAPTER 4

Saturday, June 21, 1873

Wagon wheels churned. Voices shouted. Horses whinnied.

Calliope froze, trembling, as she searched for a way out of the mayhem.

She screamed, sobbing again.

Pounding hooves rushed up, and someone grabbed her, wrenching her arm as he plucked her from the mud. In a heartbeat, a burly, bearded man hauled her into his saddle. She clung to him, panting. His horse dodged and swerved, finally galloping free of the pandemonium. At the street’s edge, the man slowed to a stop.

“Are you all right, child?” His voice was thick with a strange accent.

Shaking, she couldn’t answer.

He turned and motioned toward the wagon she’d jumped from — now stopped in the middle of the street.

“Is that your family?” He indicated the couple gawping in horror from the wagon seat, along with the five boys staring her way from the wagon’s bed.

She shook her head. “They took me from the train. I belong with Orion and Andromeda Braddock.”

“Those are your parents?”

Again, she shook her head, sniffling. “My big brother and sister. Mama and Papa are dead.”

Callie roused from the dream as homesickness stole her breath. It had been fifteen years. Would she ever find her brother and sister? She’d tried. But the dozens of letters she’d written to the orphanage that had put them on the train met with only an occasional apologetic response, stating they couldn’t help.

However, after Mr. Pinkerton hired her, he’d sent her to New York on a brief job, and once she’d wrapped that business up, he’d encouraged her to track down her brother’s and sister’s whereabouts. Days of searching through a damp and musty basement had unearthed an adoption agreement for Andromeda. She’d been chosen in St. Louis by a childless couple, Mr. and Mrs. Michael McGovern. She’d found no paperwork on Orion’s adoption, but by God’s grace, a longtime employee of the orphanage had been on that train and recalled her, Andromeda, and Orion. He’d kept a journal of the trip’s happenings and wrote that her brother had been taken in by a farmer, along with a couple of other boys from the train, only a couple of days’ travel from Cambria Springs.

That was why Mr. Pinkerton had sent her west a year ago—to search for her brother in between official agency jobs. And when Mrs. Cantor was called away from this multiple-murder case, Mr. Pinkerton had called her in. She was the nearest female operative. After months of seeking her brother, she was no nearer to finding him than the Pinkertons were to finding the murderer of seven women.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts, and she snapped her eyes open. Sunlight poured through her window as Callie stretched and groaned, body aching. At nearly the same moment, Mrs. Ingram pushed her door open and entered with a tray.

“Thank goodness, you’re awake. Good morning, dear girl.”

She stifled a yawn. “Good morning.”

“That’s the second night in a row you’ve given us a terrible fright. Promise me we won’t have a third.”

A fright. Yes … she supposed it had been, though when she’d briefly awakened and spoken to Mrs. Ingram the previous evening, the frail woman had been rock-steady, ordering Hattie and the other boarders to fetch this or hand her that as they’d checked her for injuries.

“I’m so sorry.” She attempted to push herself up.

“Whoa, now.” Mrs. Ingram set the tray down, then assisted her. “Go slowly. You’re bruised.”

Yes—from shoulder to hip, from the feel of it.

With help, Callie leaned into the pillows Mrs. Ingram fluffed behind her.

“There, now. How do you feel?”

The movement pained her, but … “I’ll live.”

Her broad smile warmed Callie. “I brought you a light breakfast. If you manage this well, I’ll bring you something more substantial.” A dainty, flowered teacup and saucer and two pieces of bread with jam filled the tray.

“It looks delicious. Thank you, Mrs. Ingram.”

The woman grinned. “There’s a handsome young gentleman asking to see you. Are you up to a visit from Mr. Nesbitt?”

Warmth flooded her cheeks at the idea of Joe Trenamen seeing her still abed, but … they needed time alone to talk, and it seemed Mrs. Ingram was willing to allow it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll send him up.” She left. Minutes later, heavy footsteps clomped up the steps and down the hall toward her door. When Joe appeared, his features were drawn and eyes rimmed with dark circles.

He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw. “You’re a welcome sight.” His voice was huskier than normal. “How are you feeling?”

She put the bread down. “Given the circumstances, I should probably feel a whole lot worse.” Callie nodded toward the chair. “Please, come in. Sit.”

Looking uncomfortable, he dragged the chair nearer, though still some distance away—she assumed for propriety’s sake. “You’re sure you’re well enough?”

“I am.” Her room was situated at the end of the hallway, though all she could see of the hall was the wall facing her door. She dropped her voice. “Are we alone?”

“Everyone’s downstairs.”

Good. “Did you and the sheriff find anything more inside the cabin?”

He shook his head. “That horse and rider interrupted things before I got to look myself.”

“You could’ve looked while I was sketching.”

“I should have.”

She shrugged, instantly regretting the painful movement. “Why didn’t you?”

He rubbed his forehead. “I was watchin’ you work—recalling that brand-new, green operative from three years back.”

“I’m not near so green now.”

“No, you’re not.”

His words and his appreciative smile warmed her.

“I’ll ride out there again today, since I know you’re not in a dire circumstance.”

“I would’ve liked more time there. Maybe I can pull myself together and ride with—”

“No.” He shot her a stern look. “You need to rest.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I suppose.”

He scrubbed his jaw. “You said you’d show me your drawings later.”

“Right. Where’s my bag?” She motioned across her body, imitating where the satchel had hung.

At the same moment, they both spotted it lying on the vanity on the far side of the room. He retrieved it while she gently set the tray aside, and once he passed it to her, she removed the contents.

“I drew these of the cabin’s interior.” She passed him the sketches, then held up another page. “And this is the distinctive boot track I saw around the blood pool.”

“There were lots of tracks around there.” Skepticism settled in his gaze.

“Yes, but other tracks made from this boot had partially been wiped out by animal tracks and other boot prints, so it had to have been made before animals came on the scene, and before anyone found the victim.”

Joe’s brows arched. “Who taught you that?”

She narrowed a look at him. “I told you … I’ve learned a lot in three years.”

He agreed with a nod.

“But it’s sound reason, isn’t it? If I step in the mud and you step in the same place right after me”—she held out one hand, then placed her other on top of it, slightly askew — “then your boot will wipe out this part of my track, showing that mine was in place first.”

He grinned. “That’s right.”

“So, because many of these tracks were obscured by others, we can assume they were there before the victim was found.” She recalled the other things she’d tucked in her bag. “And—” She leafed through her papers until she found the two paper pouches. “Strands of the victim’s hair and fabric that was stuck on an exposed nail not far from the window.” She opened the pouch and shook the scrap into her hand, taking a closer look. “The fabric may or may not have anything to do with the murder.”

Callie cocked her head. “It looks to me like shirting material.”

He rose and looked at the scrap. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“So you think these are related?”

“The fabric could just as easily be the old hermit’s as something connected to this case. But you’ve a fine eye for detail.” He released her hand.

“I am a Pinkerton, you know …”

Yes. Yes, she was. And she’d become a good one. When they’d worked together years ago, she’d had a general understanding of investigative work with natural skill. But Kate Warne she wasn’t. That was then. The petite young woman had grown confident, stepping right into the improvisation he’d asked of her, even before he’d set the stage with a cover story, which proved her quick mind and ability to think on her feet.

“I am aware. You don’t have to keep proving yourself to me.” The woman had sand.

He paced back to the chair as she sipped her tea. “After I brought you here last night, I went to the livery to care for our horses, and—”

She set the teacup down a little too quickly. “Is Lady safe?”

“She was when I left her.”

Relief washed over her features. “Thank you. I appreciate you caring for her. She was a gift from my parents.”

He paused. “So you do have family.”

“Oh, yes. Mother, father, and five brothers.”

“They must love you to give you such a fine mare.”

“Mama and Papa do. My brothers are another story entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

She released a sarcastic laugh then sighed. “I was the only adopted child. Papa had all five boys with his first wife, lost her to illness, and married Mama a couple years later. She wanted a girl to dote on. Me. The boys saw me as an interloper, and very spoiled.”

Adopted … He’d not imagined that. “What happened to your original family?”

She dabbed at her eyes. “I was very young, so I don’t recall, exactly. I just know they died.”

“I’m real sorry. Should’ve kept my mouth shut …” He’d never have wished such a thing on her, but at least she’d had a second chance at a family. He never had …

“Anyway, my brothers would pretend to let me come along on their adventures but would often abandon me, sometimes miles from home. More than once, Papa had to come find me. I once spent two nights in a cornfield until he came.”

His gut roiled with anger. “Didn’t your pa do anything?”

“Tanned their hides repeatedly, and eventually, he sent the oldest two off to boarding school, with the threat that the others would follow if they didn’t act right. I learned not to trust any of them—but I sometimes followed at a distance and learned some tracking, hunting, and fishing. Of course, when I announced my dreams of working as a Pinkerton, they laughed. But I have them partly to thank. I wasn’t going to let their nay-saying deter me.”

So that’s why such a young woman would leave home to become a Pinkerton—she was determined to prove herself to the contemptuous brothers who’d dismissed her dreams.

And she would. Especially if he had anything to do with it.

“Thank you for fillin’ me in. As I was telling you, after taking care of Rusty and Lady, I stopped by to talk to Sheriff Downing. If he suspected you were an operative, he didn’t let on.”

“That’s good.” She took a dainty bite of the jam-slathered bread.

“Downing told me the victim’s name was Sarah Jacobs, and she was …” He hung his head. “She was a …”

“Prostitute?”

His face turned feverishly hot. “Yeah.”

“You needn’t choose your words. I’m a Pinkerton first, a lady second.”

Oh, Lord God Almighty … He blew out a breath.

He’d had more than one direct conversation with Mrs. Cantor before she left the case, and it was only mildly uncomfortable. But Mrs. Cantor had been a married woman and understood the subtleties of men and women. Callie was young, delicate, beautiful, and unmarried. She ought not know anything about such relations yet. It felt like he was the one blushing while speaking so frankly about the lives of soiled doves. It was unsettling.

He rubbed at the ache forming in his head. This would take some getting used to. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“What else did you learn?”

“She, uh … worked … two nights before her body was found, and apparently, there was a fella waiting for her. Real shortly before the brothel closed, she took a fella to her room and didn’t come out, although someone said they heard her yelling about wasting her time.” He cleared his throat. “Come morning, she and the man were nowhere to be found.”

“She was abducted, then?”

“Abducted, or she went with him willingly. No one’s sure, nor does anyone recall much about the man. It was a busy night.”

“Not even a general description?”

“Supposedly, the man kept to himself, waiting on Serafina; but in general … big, dark hair, and they think a beard.”

A derisive chuckle escaped her lips. “That could be half the men in the territory. Sheriff Downing, for example.”

He settled his elbows on his knees. “Yeah. This is exactly what we’ve dealt with for the last five years. We’ve found no connection between the murdered women. Seven women from different walks of life, in different locations. And seldom do we find anyone who can offer anything helpful. Just a general description of a big man with dark hair and a beard. Some say the man is big but of a lean build. Others say he has a thicker, stockier frame.”

Miss Wilson stared from over her slice of bread. “Do you have notes on the murders? Witness accounts? Anything?”

“Of course I do.” Meticulous notes, on every single murder, just as Mr. Pinkerton asked.

“May I see them? Perhaps I’ll see something you’ve missed.”

Had no one given her a thorough explanation of the case before sending her to assist? “You haven’t read the copies of my files yet?”

“I assume those are in Chicago. I came directly from my last case—around Denver.”

He was a fool. He knew she was coming from somewhere much nearer. Why hadn’t he realized she would need to see his documentation? “I apologize. I’ll bring everything upstairs before I head to the cabin.”

She turned those expressive brown eyes his way and smiled. “Thank you, Joe. Maybe now I can get somewhere.”