When The Heart Beckons (2 page)

This cabin was the only place he would ever
remotely consider anything like a home. He had left his real home
behind for good. But when he occasionally tired of riding and
tracking and killing, when he yearned for escape from his name and
his reputation and his enemies, even for a short spell, it would be
here for him. Hidden. Quiet. Peaceful.

He stopped and listened. Gone. The sobbing
sounds he’d thought he heard were no more.

A woman. Here, in the brakes. The idea of it
was loco.

The rain ceased, and across the meadow his
horse whickered. He pushed the jagged edges of loneliness away and
concentrated his energies on constructing a good, solid cabin. He
was content, he told himself. Perfectly content. There was peace in
solitude, in the raw wild beauty of this secluded valley, and in
the knowledge that he was the only one there.

St. Louis

“G
o ahead—
do
it
,” Annabel Brannigan urged herself silently as pale gray
fingers of dusk brushed the city streets beyond the window. “Don’t
think about it anymore—just march in there and ask him.”

Yet still she hesitated, lingering beside
her spotless cherrywood desk in the outer office of the Stevenson
Detective Agency, the amber glow from the kerosene lamp casting
golden shadows across her face. The fear of failure clamped around
Annabel’s heart like a vise, and her pert, usually lively,
countenance, which men had been known to think uncommonly
beautiful, was masked now in doubt. Annabel’s long fingers
unconsciously smoothed the folds of her brown serge skirt as she
fixed her gaze on her employer’s closed door. While the city noises
hummed outside the third-story window and a dog barked importantly
somewhere down the street, the brass clock on the mantel of the
neat but shabby office ticked off the seconds, and Annabel waged a
battle within herself.

Coward. Just do it.
Annabel’s
gray-green eyes darkened as she steeled herself for the moment to
come. It was unlike her to hesitate over any task, whether pleasant
or unpleasant, but so much weighed upon the result of what she was
about to do that she couldn’t quite bring herself to begin. She was
going to ask Mr. Everett Stevenson the most important question of
her life. And if she failed to persuade him to say “yes” ...

You won’t fail
.

She straightened her shoulders, tightened
her spine, and strode briskly across the floral-carpeted outer
office toward his private sanctum.

Before she’d moved four steps, the door
opened and Mr. Stevenson himself glared out at her. He looked like
a tough, barrel-chested pirate with his thick neck and jowls,
shaggy black hair sprinkled with gray, and stony dark eyes which
glowered out ferociously from beneath furry brows. A rapier
intelligence gleamed in that fierce, seamed face of fifty-odd
years, an intelligence as intimidating as his quick and blunt
temper, yet unlike most of his other employees, Annabel had never
been alarmed by his curt speech or blistering bursts of temper. She
had grown up in the household of a man far more demanding and
austere: compared to Ross McCallum, Everett Stevenson was as
patient and mild-mannered as a Sunday-school teacher. But tonight
she felt a quiver of anxiety as he fixed her with his familiar
scowling stare and his voice boomed across the tiny room.

“What’s this—you still here?”

“Yes, Mr. Stevenson, I—”

“I see the other one is gone,” he
barked.

“Maggie, sir ... yes, she left a few moments
ago ...”

“Well, then,” Everett Stevenson demanded,
“why are you still hanging about? Late finishing up, eh?”

“I’m not, sir. I—”

“That letter to Mr. Doyle of the M and R
Railroad!” he bellowed.

“It’s finished, sir.” Annabel responded
promptly.

“The contracts for the Adler factories
investigation!”

“Finished, sir.”

“The response to Bakersville on that theft
inquiry ...”

“Posted this morning, sir.”

“The summaries of the Rockson case!”

“Filed, sir.”

“And the memo to all our operatives
regarding the new payment schedules and bonuses?”

“Finished, sir.”

Stevenson threw her an incredulous glance
and raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “Well, then, why in
blazes are you still here, Miss Brannigan?” he roared. “Go
home!”

Everett Stevenson II shook his head, stomped
back into his cramped and paper-littered office, and slammed the
door.

Annabel squared her slim shoulders. She gave
her head a shake, loosening not a wisp of her businesslike, tightly
coiled chignon.
Now or never
, she told herself furiously.
Don’t be such a yellow belly
.

But what if he won’t agree?

Consternation caught at her with the
thought, but she pushed it away.
Think about Brett and Mr.
McCallum
, she instructed herself, and took a deep breath.
Brett! Her heartbeat quickened as an image of Brett McCallum’s
heartbreakingly handsome face flashed in her mind. Even after all
these years, her feelings for him were as strong as ever. The
thought that he was in pain, in trouble, that he was alone and on
the run in a strange land filled her with anguish.

And Annabel knew one thing. She had to help
him. And that meant she had to persuade Everett Stevenson to her
point of view.

This morning she had found the McCallum file
on the worktable beside the filing drawers. It had been a shock
seeing that all-too-familiar name here in this office. And when
she’d learned that Ross McCallum had hired the Stevenson Agency—and
why—she’d had to sit down and choke back the anxiety that coursed
through her.

Now she narrowed her eyes, swept across the
carpet, and pushed her employer’s door wide.

“I’m still here, Mr. Stevenson, because I
would like to speak to you,” she blurted out before she could lose
her nerve.

Stevenson, already enthroned again behind
his desk, stared at the cinnamon-haired, slender young woman as
though she had lost her mind. Then his heavy brows swooped together
suspiciously and he lifted a firm, hairy hand.

“No raises, Miss Brannigan,” he declared
sternly. “I can’t afford it. Not that your work isn’t excellent,
young lady—it is—but ask me again next year when things have picked
up a bit and—”

“This isn’t about a raise, sir—at least, not
exactly,” Annabel interrupted and glided farther into the room
before he could order her out. “Mr. Stevenson, I’ve been working
for your detective agency for six months now and I believe that I’m
ready for a promotion.”

“A promotion?” Stevenson watched her slip
without invitation into the chair opposite his desk—the good wing
chair usually reserved for clients. He regarded her with the same
look of wonder he might have worn if she’d told him she’d swallowed
her typewriter. “Miss Brannigan,” he said slowly, distinctly, as if
speaking to a dim-witted child. “You are a clerk. A first-rate
clerk, I’ll grant you that, but a clerk nonetheless. There is no
room here for promotion. The only other position available in this
firm is that of an operative and you certainly can’t mean—”

“Oh, yes, sir, I certainly can.” She nodded
with as much coolness as she could muster. “
I do
. I wish
to become the Stevenson Detective Agency’s first female
investigator.”

Everett Stevenson regarded her in amazement
for a good twenty seconds. He then ran a hand through his hair. “Go
home, Miss Brannigan. Go home to your embroidery and your beaus and
your comfortable rocker by the fire. You don’t know what you’re
saying.”

“But I do.” Annabel leaned forward
earnestly, her sensitive face taut with determination. “And I won’t
leave until you’ve seriously considered my request—sir.”

“Your request,” he said between clenched
teeth, “is impossible. We don’t hire women as investigators. I told
you that when you started working here.”

“But—”

“The matter is settled.” He glanced down at
the mountains of papers piled across his desk, and then returned
his gaze to the delicate young woman across from him. Neat as a pin
she was in her crisp white shirtwaist and brown serge skirt, her
hair smoothed perfectly back from her fine-boned face, wound
tightly in a faultlessly businesslike chignon, even at the very end
of the working day. She was disciplined, this Annabel Brannigan.
And sensible. And sweet, beneath all that crisp competence.
Damnation, why hadn’t some whippersnapper married her already and
ensconced her in a kitchen with a parcel of bawling babies, leaving
no space in her life for such a ridiculous notion? A female
investigator, indeed!

He waved a weary hand in dismissal. “Go
home, Miss Brannigan,” he repeated. “Stop wasting my time.”

Annabel moved not a muscle. She stayed glued
to her chair, her sensibly booted feet planted on the floor, and
stared him down.

Then she began to speak slowly, clearly,
distinctly, matching his clipped, businesslike tone syllable for
syllable.

“Mr. Stevenson, you are a brilliant man, and
a shrewd businessman—and that is why you are going to hear me out.
Because you know deep down inside of you that I would make an
excellent investigator for the Stevenson Agency, and you know that
I would be an asset to this company. You know that I’m efficient,
clever, and I learn very quickly. And,” she added, a sharper note
entering her soft, musical voice, “I know something about you. Your
goal is to surpass the Pinkerton agency in name and reputation. But
you will never do so if you don’t consider what I’m about to
say.”

Despite himself, Everett Stevenson found
himself riveted by his clerk’s firm words. From the moment she had
started working for him, Annabel Brannigan had shown herself to
possess an intriguing combination of charming femininity and
quicksilver intelligence. Despite all his bluster, he liked her.
There was no question that she was the most competent clerk he’d
ever employed: she was industrious and serious in her work, she
kept the office running smoothly, and she got along well with both
his clients and his other employees. She was invaluable. In fact,
she had become so much a fixture in the office that he’d almost
forgotten her initial goal six months ago of coming to work for him
as a private investigator. But obviously she had not forgotten it
at all.

Too bad
, Stevenson thought.
If
only she were a man, I would certainly give her a chance. It would
be interesting to see what she could accomplish
...

“Go on,” he heard himself saying, to his own
surprise.

Annabel’s face brightened. A flicker of hope
licked through her.
He’s listening
.
Stay calm and
professional, don’t let on what is really at stake
... She
rose and moved closer. “People who move ahead take chances, Mr.
Stevenson,” she said, marveling at the calmness of her voice. “They
rely upon their instincts, they make use of every opportunity
afforded them. I am giving you an opportunity, sir. An opportunity
to employ an operative with as keen an investigative mind as your
own, someone with unfailing instincts and a genius for solving
puzzles, someone who wants to succeed in this field every bit as
much as you do.”

Annabel placed her hands on his desk, leaned
forward, and spoke with firm authority.

“Consider this: My mother was a Union spy
during the War Between the States. She received her orders from
Pinkerton himself and earned a certificate of honor from President
Grant. So you see that a talent for handling danger and intrigue
and for retaining composure under pressure comes naturally to me.
It’s in my blood.” She rushed on before he could interrupt. “Not to
mention the fact that after working in this office for six months
I’ve learned a great deal—from you and from the agents assigned to
your cases. I’ve watched and I’ve listened. Mr. Stevenson, there’s
no doubt in my mind that I’m ready. All I’m asking for is a
chance.”

“I’ll admit that you’re bright, Miss
Brannigan,” he exclaimed, “the brightest woman I’ve ever met,
matter of fact, but—”

“There is another reason you should hire me
at this time, sir,” she interrupted, locking her eyes on his the
way she’d seen him do with others a thousand times.

“That being?”

She tossed her
pièce de résistance
at him the way Andrew Carnegie might
fling his groom a coin of gold. “The McCallum case. Mr. Stevenson,”
she said in a tone of smooth self-assurance, “I can find Brett
McCallum.”

T
here. She’d said
it.

Annabel fought back a surge of excitement.
Even the incredulity on Everett Stevenson’s face didn’t discourage
her now, for she had spoken those all-important words, and deep
down she knew them to be true.

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he barked and
waved his hand dismissively in the air. But she had sounded so
positive, and looked so confident, that he eyed her with a particle
of doubt, and a fraction of interest. “The McCallum case is one of
the most important and most challenging to come along in a month of
Sundays. Even if I were inclined to give you a chance to prove
yourself—which I’m not—I would never start you off with a case like
this one—”

“I know Brett McCallum.”

Now she had his full attention. Her words
seemed to echo in the silence of the office.

Stay calm
, Annabel told herself, as
a creaking wagon clattered noisily along the street three stories
below.
Don’t start chattering like a monkey, the way you do
when you’re nervous. Don’t let him see how important this is to
you
. She forced herself to nod coolly, and waited a moment,
letting her words sink in, watching the shock and then the interest
settle over his face.