Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (42 page)

M
y cup runneth over with far too many blessings to list here, so I will name but a few: I’m especially grateful to Chelley Kitzmiller and Have a Heart Humane Society
for sponsoring the “Your Dog in My Book” contest. A big thank-you
goes to the winner, Reverend Diane Ryder, for letting me use her darling dog in my book. My only hope is that I did Magic justice.

Also thanks to Andrew James Winch who kindly answered my questions about lumbar spine injuries. Any errors are solely mine.

My heart is filled with gratitude for my amazing agent Natasha Kern and her constant support, encouragement, and wisdom.

I’m eternally grateful to my editor Natalie Hanemann who shared my vision for this series and whose insightful comments and guidance help make any story stronger, and this one even more so. Also special thanks to Rachelle Gardner whose eye for details has saved this author’s hide more times than I care to enumerate.

A great big thank-you to all the readers who entered the “Daily Reasons to Smile” contest. I’m especially grateful to Katie Bond for spearheading the contest and babysitting the potted cacti that made up some of the prizes. Thanks also to Gaylene Murphy, Kim Miller, and Nancy Berland.

As always I thank God for instilling in me a love of words and the opportunity to do what I most love to do—make up characters and create stories. I appreciate the love and support of my family, especially my husband, George, who has taken on the unenviable task of being this writer’s assistant.

Thank you to all my readers for your kind letters—and especially to the readers who suggested that Lucy’s brother, Caleb, from
A Vision of Lucy
needed his own book. Keep those ideas coming! You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, or my website.

Until next time,

Margaret

An excerpt from Gunpowder Tea

Pinkerton National Detective Agency: We never sleep.

N
EW
O
RLEANS
1897

M
iranda Hunt drew a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her black mourning frock and dabbed the corner of one 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,” 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 marrying the heiress of a fly paper 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 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 National Pinkerton 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 rich 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 long case 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 from 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 that 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 late-comer. The fact that he’d failed to give his head cover 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 bowtie.

The other male guests wore silk suits and linen shirts, appropriate attire for a warm spring day, but this man wore wool—the fabric of choice for pickpockets. Wool didn’t rustle like other fabrics, allowing a 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.

The story continues in
Gunpowder Tea
, available everywhere October 2013.

About the Author

N
ew York Times
best-selling author Margaret Brownley has penned more than twenty-five historical and contemporary novels. Her books have won numerous awards, including
Reader’s Choice. She has published the Rocky Creek series, and
A Lady Like Sarah
was a Romance Writers of America RITA finalist. Happily married to her real-life hero, Margaret and her husband have three grown children and live in Southern California.

Visit
MargaretBrownley.com
for more information