The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (63 page)

Anna watched the Pinkerton toss the mailbag into the back of a wagon across the dusty street. Then he leaned toward Maisie and patted her on the muzzle before offering her something from his pocket. An apple, perhaps? Or a carrot? Anna couldn’t tell from this distance, but the traitorous horse was eating it—and the attention—up.

While Anna fumed, her hired gun led the skittish mare to the back of the wagon and knotted the reins around a plank of wood. With a grin, he loped across the street, his long strides kicking up dust on the thoroughfare.

“I’m going to Denver,” he said. “I figure you are too.”

“And if I’m not?” she asked without sparing him a glance.

“Oh,” he said slowly, “you are.”

Anna stood her ground. This man might be in the employ of her father, but she wouldn’t take orders from him. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m taking your saddlebag to the wagon.” He took the bag from her arms and slung it over his shoulder. His gaze swept the length of her. “Do I need to get you there the same way?”

Anna regretted her sharp intake of breath the moment it happened. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said.

“Miss Finch,” he said in his false Mexican accent. “You do not want to test me on this.” Mr. Sanders returned her icy stare, then had the nerve to offer her his free hand.

“I can manage, thank you.” She stepped off the curb and followed him to the wagon where Maisie reached to nuzzle her. “Traitor,” Anna said to the horse.

While Anna watched, the saddlebag joined the mail sack in the back of the wagon. Then Mr. Sanders turned to her. “Here, let me help you.”

Arguing would serve no purpose, so Anna merely looked away while the lawman lifted her by the waist and settled her into the wagon seat. With a chuckle, he trotted around to the other side, climbed in, and took the reins of the most miserable pair of mules Anna had seen in ages.

“Where’d you find those two?” she asked. “Isn’t my father paying you well enough to secure some decent horseflesh?”

“I figure it takes a mule to catch one,” Mr. Sanders said. He glanced backward at Maisie and then slapped the reins to set the mule team in motion. “You being twice as mulish as most, I decided I’d need two.”

Anna ignored the comment and slid him a sideways glance. “Must you continue with the ridiculous disguise?”

He shrugged and toyed with the mustache. “Didn’t seem so ridiculous when you had no idea who I was.”

Several responses came to mind. Anna kept them to herself.

They rode in silence for a few minutes. “Miss Finch, want to tell me why you’re getting your mail in Garrison now?”

She ignored him.

He shrugged. “If you don’t want to answer my questions, that’s fine. You can answer your father’s.”

“You’re not going to tell him about this,” Anna said, trying not to plead.

The Pinkerton looked at her. “That’s my job. Unless you want to tell me yourself …”

The wagon hit a rut, and Anna grasped the edge of the seat. “Watch where you’re going, Mr. Sanders.”

His only response was silence. Anna decided she much preferred silence to speaking.

The wagon clattered along until Garrison was behind them and nothing but prairie loomed ahead. The Pinkerton seemed absorbed in thought, so Anna gave up trying to keep her irritation going. Instead, she considered her next story. That thought led to whether Doc Holliday would ever give in to her request for an interview. Anna decided to give the outlaw two weeks to write before she began her own investigative piece without his input.

She’d begin by listing all the places Doc had supposedly been, including the one time she knew his whereabouts from personal knowledge. She decided that that fortuitous meeting at the Windsor would start the piece. Personal experience generally made for a stronger lead.

Anna gave her companion a sideways glance, caught him staring at her, and lost her train of thought. Planning her article would take
more concentration than she could manage with the Pinkerton sitting beside her.

The sun’s warmth basked her shoulders and gave Anna incentive to shed her overcoat. At their slow pace, it would take much longer to return to Denver than it took to make her trip this morning.

A look back at Maisie told her the horse’s irritation level was rising along with her own. “Sorry, girl,” she said to the mare. “No galloping on this trip.” She turned to her companion. “Unless you can figure out how to make these animals pick up the pace.”

“Believe me,” he said, “if I could, I would. Only suggestion I can make is that you sit back and enjoy the ride. This is the nicest weather I’ve seen since last fall. You don’t want to miss it while you’re complaining.”

“I have legitimate concerns about your threat to speak to my father, Mr. Sanders,” she said. “What do you expect?”

He lifted the brim of his sombrero to scratch his head, then tossed it into the wagon bed and reached beneath the seat for his Stetson. “I owe Barnaby an explanation for your trip to Garrison today, seeing as I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble.”

“How did you know where I’d be?” She shook her head. “Mr. McMinn told you, didn’t he?”

The Pinkerton laughed. “A man never shares his sources.” He gestured to the sky. “If I were you, I’d go ahead and get started on enjoying this day. Won’t be much longer before we see Denver and you have to start pretending again.”

She lifted a brow as she turned to look at her companion. “Pretending?”

“That you enjoy city life.” He shook his head. “No one who rides a horse like you belongs in a gilded cage.”

“You’re funny,” she said, “but that’s not the first time I’ve heard the joke.”

“I was serious,” he said. “So get on about the business of enjoying the ride, and I’ll see what I can do about getting us back safely.”

Anna settled against the seat. Much as she hated to admit it, the hired gun was right. “It is lovely out today,” she said as she closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. “God does such wonderful work, doesn’t He?”

Mr. Sanders chuckled. When she opened her eyes, Anna found him looking directly at her. “Yes, He does,” he said.

“How long have you been a believer, Mr. Sanders?” she asked, surprising herself.

The question didn’t seem to take Mr. Sanders aback, however. “I have been for a few years. Wasn’t always, but the way I look at it, you’ve got to start somewhere. God, He doesn’t stick a stopwatch on you, then change His mind when He thinks He’s waited long enough.” Mr. Sanders shrugged. “Leastwise that’s my opinion on the matter.”

“I think that’s an interesting opinion. A good one,” she added with haste. “I suppose we—”

Maisie let out an awful squeal. Anna turned in time to see the horse jerk backward and wrestle herself free of the wagon. In an instant she had broken into a gallop and headed at an angle away from them.

“Maisie!” Anna called, but the stubborn horse ignored her. “Maisie, come back here!” Maisie swished her tail and picked up her pace.

Mr. Sanders yanked on the reins and urged the mules off the road in the direction of Maisie’s dust trail.

“You’ll never catch her,” Anna said. “She’s impossible!”

He pulled back on the reins and watched the mare disappear. “She got a favorite watering hole?”

“Remember that place due southeast of here where you took a nap behind a log?”

The Pinkerton gave her a look. “You serious?”

“I am,” she said.

He nodded and urged the reluctant animals forward once again. Without the smooth trail beneath them, the mules’ pace was even slower. At times, Anna thought she might have to get out and push.

Finally she saw the stand of trees that marked the spring. “Over there,” Anna said as Mr. Sanders urged the mules over yet another rocky patch of ground. She noticed the bouncing caused him to wince more than once.

“Where I shot you,” she said, “it still pains you, doesn’t it?”

“I’m fine,” was his clipped response. He winced again.

“I’m sorry Maisie’s such trouble.”

“As much my fault as any,” he said with a shrug. “I’m the one who did the tying.”

She sighed. “Yes, but I’m the one who spoiled her rotten. Now Maisie thinks she can have anything she wants. She’s like a willful child.”

“Or a woman.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said with more than a little outrage. “What a thing to say.”

His reaction was fast, his grin broad. For the first time, she noticed he had the loveliest dimples. “Come on now, Miss Finch,” he said in a slow drawl that marked him for a southern man. “I’m trying to lighten the mood. Surely some man’s spoiled you at some point.”

My father
, she thought. “Watch where you’re going,” she said.

Mr. Sanders gave her a long look before returning his attention to the ornery mules. “Well, in my opinion, you’re definitely the kind of woman who ought to be spoiled.” He yanked on the reins and looked at her. “And regularly.”

“Oh my,” she said under her breath.

He went back to the difficult task of convincing a pair of city mules that prairie grass was perfectly fine to trudge through. It worked until they reached a rutted path where neither animal seemed inclined to tread. The mule on the right stopped short, and the mule on the left stopped a half pace later.

“Get on,” Mr. Sanders said. “Come on, mule.”

Evidently neither spoke English, for they merely stood in place and stared straight ahead. Meanwhile, the spring was so close Anna could see the stand of trees swaying in what was suddenly quite a breeze. She glanced back at her companion.

“The wind’s kicking up,” he said, “which means we need to get this contraption off the prairie.” He thrust the reins toward her. “Take hold of these and don’t let go. I’m going to see if I can’t convince these two which of us is boss.”

Anna did as he instructed and held tight to the reins, but the mules ignored any attempt at coercion. Finally, Mr. Sanders threw his
hat down and stormed away, taking long strides and no doubt biting his tongue in an effort to control his anger.

This sparked an interest in the mule on the right, who inched forward to sniff at the Stetson. The corresponding motion caused the wagon to roll forward.

“Mr. Sanders,” Anna called.

He ceased his pacing and turned to look her direction. “What?”

“We’ve moved,” she said.

“Now is not the time to joke.”

“It isn’t a joke,” she said. “If you’ll just come and fetch your hat, I’ll demonstrate.”

Retracing his steps, Mr. Sanders reached for his Stetson. “Now what?”

She gestured to a spot a few yards ahead, keeping her fingers firmly wrapped around the reins. “Throw it that way.”

His skeptical look irritated her.

“If you’d like, I can do it, though you’ll have to sit in the wagon.” She adjusted her own hat, which had come loose in the breeze. “Either is fine by me, but I’d prefer not to argue about it.”

After another long look, he gave the hat a toss. Both mules lurched forward. Before they could reach the hat, Mr. Sanders snatched it up and stuck it on his head. “Well, I’ll be,” he said.

“I told you.”

Her long-legged companion easily climbed back into the wagon. She offered him the reins. “No, you go right on ahead,” he said as he kicked back against the seat. “See if you can do anything with them.”

“Get going, mules,” she said. To her surprise, the mules complied. The wagon moved at a decent pace. “Good girls.”

Mr. Sanders propped his boots on the buckboard and grinned, then crossed his arms over his midsection. His dimples really were quite nice.

“You’ve got a way with mules,” he said.

“I find they’re a lot like men.” She noticed a suspicious-looking cloud in the westernmost edge of the sky.

He spared her a lazy glance. “Is that so?”

“It is.” The animals in question halted again. “Your hat, please,” she said.

Mr. Sanders shook his head. “I’ll do it.” He jumped to the ground and stood in front of the mules. “Tell me, how can you compare these ornery souls to men?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “You see what you’re doing?”

He shrugged. “I’m showing them my hat.”

“Waving something interesting in front of them to get their attention,” she corrected.

“I suppose I am.” He waved the hat and walked a few paces, but the mules refused to follow. “So what do you make of this, oh philosopher? I’m trying to give them what they want, but they won’t take the bait.” As if to prove his point, Mr. Sanders held out his hat and danced a jig in front of the mules. While they seemed completely unaffected, Anna nearly fell off the wagon laughing. A stronger reaction than she’d expected of herself.

“You can’t just give a man—I mean, a mule—what he wants,” she said. “That’s far too simple. Throw the hat and let’s get on with it.”

He did, and the mules followed just as they had before. This time, Mr. Sanders had to jump on the wagon as it rolled past.

Landing askew, his knee brushed hers as he righted himself. “That was interesting,” he said, “but you’ve not yet proven your point. If you have to get a man’s attention by showing him what he wants but you can’t just give it to him, then how does that all work?”

The wagon lurched over the edge of a dry creek bed. Mr. Sanders caught her before she slid to the floor.

“Watch out,” he said. “When these mules are motivated, they don’t see anything but moving forward. Give them a reason and they’ll go every time.”

“And that, Mr. Sanders,” she said as she returned to her proper spot, “is exactly what I’ve been telling you.” She paused for effect, eying their destination just ahead. “Just like a man.”

“Is that so?” He leaned close. “Tell me, Miss Finch—that horse of yours. She’s a mare, right?” He moved another notch closer. “A
female.”

“Well, yes, but …” Anna found his eyes, and the witty response she’d planned evaporated into a cloud of confused sensation.

“Thus, it was a woman who got us into this.” He stood, bracing his boot on the buckboard. “And a man who will get us out.”

Then Maisie bolted toward them, spooking the mules. The wagon shot forward, sending her protector tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon. They hurtled toward the creek.