Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Read online

  Acclaim for Margaret Brownley

  “Margaret Brownley’s Dawn Comes Early was an absolute delight. I spent the whole book reading with a grin on my face. She found wonderful characters and made them real to me and made a bleak desert landscape alive and beautiful. It’s been a long time since I had this much pure fun reading a book.”

  —MARY CONNEALY, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

  OF OUT OF CONTROL AND PETTICOAT RANCH

  “Margaret Brownley draws vivid characters that are sparkling and endearing. They drew me into their lives and I don’t want to let them go. Thank goodness Dawn Comes Early is the first in her Last Chance Ranch stories. Like me, you’ll be glad this isn’t our last chance to visit!”

  —DEBRA CLOPTON, AUTHOR OF THE BEST-SELLING

  MULE HOLLOW MATCHMAKERS SERIES

  “. . . Brownley has a way with words that keeps the reader interested until the last page.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEW

  OF A SUITOR FOR JENNY

  “I’ve known for years that Margaret Brownley is a great writer but I think A Lady Like Sarah is Margaret at her peak. A perfect blend of romance, the Old West, and characters that steal your heart, along with writing that sings. A fabulous read. I laughed and cried and wished I could pick up the sequel immediately. Write faster, Margaret.”

  —LAURAINE SNELLING, AUTHOR OF

  THE RED RIVER OF THE NORTH SERIES

  “Margaret Brownley has created two wonderful, unforgettable characters in Sarah and Justin. Their story held my interest from the start, and I couldn’t wait to find out if or how their love would overcome the obstacles set before them. A Lady Like Sarah is one of my favorite reads of this year.”

  —ROBIN LEE HATCHER, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

  OF FIT TO BE TIED AND HEART OF GOLD

  “Margaret Brownley brings the Old West to life through her humor, drama, and memorable characters. A Lady Like Sarah is completely enjoyable from beginning to end.”

  —JILL MARIE LANDIS,

  AUTHOR OF HEART OF STONE

  GUNPOWDER

  Tea

  Other Novels by Margaret Brownley

  The Brides of Last Chance Ranch

  Dawn Comes Early

  Waiting for Morning

  Gunpowder Tea

  The Rocky Creek Romance Series

  A Lady Like Sarah

  A Suitor for Jenny

  A Vision of Lucy

  And Then Came Spring novella included in A Bride for All Seasons

  Snow Angel novella included in A Log Cabin Christmas Collection

  © 2013 by Margaret Brownley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brownley, Margaret.

  Gunpowder tea / Margaret Brownley.

  pages cm. -- (The brides of Last Chance Ranch series ; 3)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-972-3 (trade paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3602.R745G86 2013

  813’.6--dc23

  2013015574

  Printed in the United States of America

  13 14 15 16 17 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  To GTF

  Who makes all things possible

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Accidental Detective

  Gunpowder Tea

  Gunpowder Tea Bread

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  HEIRESS

  WANTED

  Looking for hardworking, professional woman of good character and pleasant disposition willing to learn the ranching business in Arizona Territory. Must be single and prepared to remain so now and forevermore.

  Chapter 1

  Pinkerton National Detective Agency: We never sleep.

  NEW ORLEANS, 1897

  Miranda Hunt drew a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her black mourning frock and dabbed the corner of her eye. Only the most discerning person would spot the foot tapping impatiently beneath the hem of her skirt. Or guess that her respectfully lowered head hid a watchful gaze.

  As far as anyone knew, she was exactly who she purported to be: Mrs. James Kincaid the Third, friend of the deceased.

  “Such a modest man,” one of the mourners, a middle-aged woman, lamented, looking straight at Miranda. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Kincaid?”

  “Most definitely,” Miranda replied. From what she knew of Mr. Stanton, he had much to be modest about.

  Everything in the stately mansion from the polished marble floors to the gold filigree ceilings was due to Mr. Stanton’s marriage to the heiress of a flypaper empire. The rich knew how to live, and judging by the carved oak coffin edged in gold and lined in silk, they also knew how to die.

  An elderly gray-haired man approached her chair and put up his monocle. “Would you care to pay your last respects, Mrs. Kincaid?” He was stoop-shouldered and spoke with a lisp.

  Miranda stood with a solemn nod and crossed the elegantly furnished parlor to an alcove near the grand piano. Tall palms stood like sentries guarding the open coffin. The deceased was perfectly laid out in a fine tailored suit, his white mustache and hair neatly trimmed. Had it not been for the silver coins concealing his eyes, one might think him merely asleep.

  The last few petals of Miranda’s rose fluttered to the floor but she dutifully laid the wilted stem by the dead man’s side. She allowed a ladylike sob to escape and drew a handkerchief to her cheek—all for the benefit of the monocle-eyed man.

  Like all operatives of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Miranda was an expert in disguises. Blending in was the key to nabbing an unsuspecting criminal and that took a certain amount of concentration, attention to detail, and, of course, acting ability.

  Today, it took considerably more. It took a steadfast stomach to eat the Russian fish eggs and liver paste that the r
ich called food.

  Returning to her seat, she strained to hear three young women whisper among themselves. A private detective had to listen to an amazing amount of gossip, which went against Miranda’s Christian upbringing. But between the “he dids” and “you won’t believes” was where an operative often gleaned the most useful information. Certainly God made allowances for those fighting for law and order. At least Miranda hoped He did.

  The hands on the longcase clock swept away another hour and Miranda’s spirits sank, but her vigilance remained. So far this week she had attended two weddings, three funerals, and a baptism without a sign of the man known as the Society Thief.

  Though he excelled at what he did, he was considerably more than just a criminal; he was her stepping-stone to bigger and better assignments.

  He had been a bane to the city’s upper class for more than a year. No jewel was safe from his sleight of hand; no wealthy man’s corpse immune to his pilfering fingers. Catching him red-handed would prove to the Pinkerton brothers once and for all that she was ready for more than the jobs no other operative wanted. At the age of twenty-four, she was ready for a real challenge.

  She had just about decided that this funeral was a waste of time when she spotted the straw boater. It was always the details that tripped up a person and today it was the hat. Senses alert, she studied the latecomer. The fact that he’d failed to give his head-covering to one of the servants like the other male guests made him suspect. There was always the possibility that he planned on using his hat to conceal a dastardly deed. Or perhaps he simply kept it so as to make a quick escape.

  Slender of build, he had short black hair and a pointed beard. He was immaculately dressed in a black sack coat over gray trousers and vest. A short turnover collar showed above a floppy bow tie.

  The other male guests wore silk suits and linen shirts, appropriate attire for a warm spring-like day, but this man wore wool—the fabric of choice for pickpockets. Wool didn’t rustle like other fabrics, allowing the wearer to move without detection.

  The man’s gaze met hers and she gave her fan a coquettish flick and smiled. Confident enough to think she was flirting, he smiled back. The scene was set.

  A rush of excitement raced through her as it always did whenever she was about to nab a suspect. You should see me now, Papa. Maybe then you wouldn’t have been so against me becoming a detective. She moved across the room, but the deceased’s widow reached his side first.

  “I’m Mrs. Stanton,” she said. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Harry Benson. Your husband and I were business acquaintances. I apologize for being late.”

  A rehearsed response if Miranda ever heard one. He lowered his head and said something more, but his voice failed to reach her straining ear.

  The widow blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Benson. That’s very kind of you to say.” She gestured toward the enormous table of delicacies. “Do help yourself.”

  With a swish of her black taffeta skirts, Mrs. Stanton walked away. A snap of her fingers sent servants scampering to the kitchen for more plates of pâté and caviar. Had the woman realized that Mr. Benson had taken her quite literally and helped himself to her diamond brooch, she might have been less inclined to worry about his appetite.

  Miranda quickly moved toward her prey. “Mr. Benson,” she said by way of greeting. “I’m Mrs. Kincaid. Perhaps you know my husband?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Raking her over, his gaze settled for a split second on her diamond necklace before belatedly meeting her eyes. The necklace had been borrowed from a local jeweler and the Pinkerton agency would have to pay quite handsomely should it disappear. Miranda meant to see that it didn’t.

  “Would you care for some refreshments, Mrs. Kincaid?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Allow me.” The nature of the crime required a pickpocket to make physical contact with his target, so it was no surprise when Mr. Benson, or whatever his name was, offered his bent elbow.

  Since a detective needed to get as close as possible to a perpetrator, she slid her arm through the crook of his.

  They strolled like two old friends to the refreshment table. A pickpocket’s second order of business was to distract his intended victim. Mr. Benson did this by “accidentally” spilling cider on her dress.

  “Oh, forgive me.” He drew out his handkerchief and quickly dabbed at her skirt. Like any good victim, Miranda allowed him to do so.

  “How clumsy of me,” he murmured. “I do apologize.”

  In the blink of an eye, he had expertly relieved her of her jewels—a true professional if she ever saw one. Any pickpocket worth his salt took pride in his work and would never be so inelegant as to cut a lady’s dress or a gentleman’s apparel. While he pocketed the necklace with one hand, Miranda just as efficiently matched his professional pride by slipping a handcuff on his other.

  His mouth dropped open but it was the gun that turned him pale as the corpse.

  “It w-was an accident,” he stammered. He cast a nervous glance around the room but no one paid them any heed. “I’ll be happy to make compensation for the d-dress.”

  “This old thing?” She smiled. “You needn’t worry about it, but you might be a tad bit concerned about your pockets.”

  One eye twitched and sweat dotted his forehead. “Who . . . who are you?”

  “A thief’s worst nightmare,” she replied, raising a palm to reveal her Pinkerton badge. “It might interest you to know that the police are waiting for my call.”

  Before Miranda could clamp the second cuff around his wrist, a female servant dropped a tray and screamed, “She’s got a gun!”

  A collective gasp rose from the mourners but before anyone had a chance to move, the pickpocket grabbed for Miranda’s weapon.

  “Stop,” she hissed.

  They struggled and the derringer arched back and forth between them, the loose handcuff swinging from his arm. The gun went off with a deafening bang. Overhead, the crystal chandelier shattered and glass sprayed down like silver rain.

  Guests scrambled beneath the buffet table. Others dived behind sofas and chairs. One robust woman fainted dead away.

  The weapon went off a second time.

  The pickpocket was good at his craft but was no match for Miranda. With a well-placed knee and a perfectly aimed blow, she gained control of the gun. Doubled over in pain, the thief could do nothing to prevent her from snapping the second steel bracelet around his wrist.

  Her derringer in one hand, she pulled an array of watches, bracelets, and necklaces from his pocket with the other and dumped them on the buffet table. The palm nippers used to snip jewelry free from an unsuspecting neck or ear, she kept. One never knew when such a tool might come in handy.

  “Calm down, everyone.” Miranda held her badge over her head for everyone to see. It was now just a matter of calling the police. “Everything’s under control.”

  “Not everything,” the widow cried. She had thrown herself across the coffin and her feet flopped about like newly caught fish. “You shot my husband!”

  Miranda’s stomach churned as she hurried down Fifth Street to the three-story building housing the Chicago headquarters of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. One hand tucked in her muff and the other holding on to her hat, she kept her head down. The icy wind blowing off Lake Michigan sliced through her gray woolen skirt and chilled her to the bone.

  Summoned to the office posthaste, she dreaded her meeting with Mr. William Pinkerton. She was definitely in trouble. A large black-and-white eye on the face of the building seemed to confirm it. Today the firm’s logo appeared to glare down at her.

  She battled the heavy door leading to the lobby. It was still early, which meant that none of the other operatives or secretaries had arrived yet. She alone had to face the principal.

  Inside the building, she straightened her hat, wiggling the hat pin in place. She then held her chin high, ready to explain and, if necessary, defend her actions. Th
us braced, she took the elevator to the top floor and marched right past the detective room and into the principal’s wood-paneled office.

  William Pinkerton greeted her with a curt nod and waited for her to be seated. He then paced back and forth in front of her, hands clasped behind his back.

  He shook his head, his heavy jowls jiggling and his walrus mustache drooping. “You shouldn’t have shot the dead man.”

  “Yes, that was most . . . unfortunate. But as I explained to the widow, except for the hole in his head and dislodgement of coins at his eyes, her husband’s . . . uh . . . condition remained unchanged.”

  Pinkerton regarded her from beneath slanted brows. “The last thing the agency needs is more bad press and now Mrs. Stanton threatens to bring about a lawsuit.”

  She grimaced. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. The man was dead when I got there and dead when I left.”

  “You should never have tried to restrain the thief yourself. Your instructions were to identify him and then call the police. That was all.”

  “If I had called the police first, we would have lost him. I caught the Society Thief and that’s more than Stands or Masters did.” The two operatives had worked on the case for six months without success.

  Pinkerton stopped pacing. “Many believe that a woman has no business fighting crime.”

  “Including your brother,” she said. She’d heard the two arguing over that very subject not long ago.

  He nodded. “Including Robert. But unlike my brother, I believe women have an advantage over men when working undercover.” Pinkerton sat on the edge of his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. “I promised Charles to watch out for you, but I can’t do that if you continue to take unnecessary risks.”

  A dark cloud entered the room at the mention of her father. If it hadn’t been for a careless Wells Fargo detective, her father might still be alive. “Papa was one of your best operatives. He taught me everything I know about detective work.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Pinkerton said. “Your father took his share of unreasonable chances.”