When The Heart Beckons (3 page)

“I know Brett McCallum as well as or better
than his own father,” she continued silkily. “I can find him.
Quicker, quieter, and cleaner than anyone else in the country.”

Annabel held her breath.

“Tell me more,” Stevenson said slowly.
“Exactly how does my efficient little office clerk happen to know a
wealthy young gadabout like Mr. Brett McCallum?”

She draped herself back into the wing chair.
“I’ll be happy to explain.”

It was an uncomplicated story, though an
intensely personal one. Annabel took care to keep her emotions out
of it, and to hide from him her feelings toward Brett. Mr.
Stevenson would never entrust her with this assignment if he knew
how much Brett meant to her. He would say that her emotions would
get in the way of clear thinking, and he would use the fact that
she was a woman to deny her the chance to search for Brett. So she
kept all those feelings locked inside of her heart, and
concentrated on telling him only the facts: about how she had gone
as a child to live with Aunt Gertie when her mother had died, how
Aunt Gertie had been the McCallum family cook, how she had grown up
in the same household with Brett, who was two years older than
she.

“We were tutored together by old Mr.
Rappaport, we rode horses together, climbed trees in the park,
played soldiers, ate our meals together—except for the times his
father summoned him to formal family dinners with guests,” she
explained. “Brett always hated that, he said he felt like a piece
of bric-a-brac set out on a mantel for display.... At any rate,”
Annabel went on, hurriedly redirecting her thoughts as Everett
Stevenson rolled his eyes, “Brett and I were very close. We were
best friends. I know how he thinks, how he feels, what he likes to
do. Once when he was twelve he had a terrible argument with his
father, about whether or not Brett could ride a certain horse,
something silly like that—and Brett ran away. He disappeared. The
whole household was in an uproar because his older brother had run
away from home years before and never come back and ... well, never
mind. The point is, no one could find him.
No one
. But I
did. I went to the swimming hole and I found him lying under a
walnut tree and we talked and after a little while I convinced him
to go back home and face his father.”

“He isn’t twelve years old anymore,”
Stevenson remarked, frowning. “You won’t find him at a swimming
hole.”

“No, but I will find him.” Annabel’s eyes
flashed with determination. “I suggest you follow your instincts,
Mr. Stevenson. You know that I’m right. You know I’m familiar with
every case that’s come through this office in the past six months,
you know I study them and can discuss every single one at length,
and you know I’d make an excellent investigator. Give me a
chance.”

There was a long silence. Everett Stevenson
II studied her, examining her from the top of her delicately slim
eyebrows to the bottom of her black kid lace-up boots.

Annabel hardly dared to breathe. It took all
of her self-control to keep from quivering with excitement.
Watching her employer, she guessed she had won. She could tell by
the way Stevenson’s eyes were lighting up with a dawning
hopefulness, by the tension in his jowls, by the way he leaned back
decisively in his chair and let out his breath in a long
whoosh.

“Very well, Miss Brannigan, I can’t deny
that you make sense, as always, and I am nothing if not a sensible
man. I’m going to take a chance on you, and you’d best not
disappoint me.”

“No, sir, never!”

He gritted his teeth at the breathless
happiness suffusing her face. This girl was green as spring buds.
Damn, he hoped he was making the right decision. But the McCallum
case was the biggest one to come his way in some time, and Annabel
Brannigan’s personal knowledge of Brett McCallum could prove the
key to finding him. “I’ll give you a month,” he said, fingering the
late-day stubble on his jaw. “But if I don’t see some real progress
by then I’ll assign Hix to the case.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Stevenson.
I’ll find Brett before then.”

“Hmmm. We’ll see. Take the McCallum file
with you tonight, review it, and get started at once. I expect you
to set out for the Arizona territory tomorrow—young McCallum sent
his father a letter from some little town called Justice, so that’s
where you start. The letter is in the file along with every other
scrap of information Ross McCallum was able to provide me during
our interview last night. But remember, Mr. McCallum expects
regular reports, so you keep me informed.”

“Of course, sir, and may I say you’ve made a
brilliant decision.” Her eager smile lit every shadowy corner of
the room. She jumped up before he could change his mind. “I promise
I won’t disappoint you. And don’t worry about the office—Maggie
will do a splendid job for you, I’ve trained her quite thoroughly,
and ... oh, by the way, may I assume that my pay and bonuses will
be the same as the other operatives?”

“You may not assume any such thing. You are
a beginner, Miss Brannigan. And a woman. You can hardly
expect—”

“Very well. I’ll accept the same wages as
Lester Hodding when he began working for you—a three month trial
period and then full pay like all the other agents ...”

“Done, done,” Stevenson growled. He waved
her off. As she turned away wearing a wide triumphant smile, and
nearly skipped toward the door, he spoke again.

“Miss Brannigan.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever been to the Arizona territory
... or anywhere farther west than Jefferson City?”

“No, sir.”

His brows drew together. “Then what in
blazes makes you think you can handle the hardships and dangers of
an untamed wilderness? Conditions are primitive, why, they’re
downright perilous as a matter of fact—”

“No need to talk me into it, Mr. Stevenson,”
she called out cheerily, and put a hand on the doorknob. “I’ve
already committed myself to this assignment, and I wouldn’t dream
of disappointing you now.”

She was gone with a rustle of skirts.

But by the time she had made her way down
the narrow steps and out of the building, with the McCallum file
clutched tightly in her hands, a knot of doubt was beginning to
unravel inside of her. She wasn’t concerned about traveling out
West or about the rugged, possibly dangerous conditions she might
find there—Annabel had reconciled herself to that earlier this
morning, when she’d made the decision to go after Brett. No, she
was worried about what would happen when she found him—if she found
him at all.

You will. You must.

And what then? Would he see her in a new
light, not merely as the childhood friend whose braids he had
pulled, whose knees had been skinned along with his own when they’d
fallen together out of the maple tree? Would he at last see her as
a woman—a desirable woman, one he could love?

Annabel knew that none of the other boarders
at Mrs. Stoller’s boardinghouse could understand why she had turned
down three heartfelt proposals of marriage. Everyone at Mrs.
Stoller’s knew everything about everyone else, and the three young
men who had made offers for Annabel Brannigan were no exception.
But the one thing everyone didn’t know was that since childhood her
heart had belonged to a man she thought she would never have.

Maybe Brett and I won’t work out
everything between us just as I wish—maybe we’ll remain only
friends, but either way, I have to find him. He’s in trouble. He
needs me
. She walked briskly along the six long blocks toward
the boardinghouse, pondering the strangeness of the situation.
Brett needs me. Me! Not those airy, beautifully frilly society
creatures he’s been squiring about for the past few years, but me,
because I can find him and discover why he ran away. I can help him
solve the trouble, whatever it is, and help him set things right
... and maybe, at last, I can make him fall in love with
me....

Annabel stopped short and took a deep
breath. No, this wouldn’t do. She was getting ahead of herself, as
usual. That would serve no purpose. The important thing was to find
Brett, to help him—and Mr. McCallum. And in the process, to prove
herself to Everett Stevenson.

One thing at a time
, she warned
herself as her footsteps echoed softly along the dusky deserted
street.
You haven’t even seen Brett in two years—unless you
count spotting him in the park with that heiress Elizabeth
Rainsford that time he never even knew you were there
.

Brett had always liked her just fine—he’d
liked pulling her braids, and throwing snowballs at her in the
winter, and trying to beat her at chess (succeeding only on rare
occasions)—but he had never fallen in love with her and during her
growing up years Annabel would rather have swallowed a live frog
than let him see her true feelings.

But now maybe it’s time
, she
thought, hurrying past the neat rows of houses, all the while
thinking, planning. She was impatient to study the file clutched in
her hands, to glean from it whatever clues would aid her in her
search. And as the early spring breeze fluttered past her light as
daisies and the lavender dusk deepened toward amethyst, Annabel was
quietly aware of the hope glowing deep within her heart.

Was she a fool to feel this way? Was there
really a chance for her with Brett? Why, he had never even kissed
her. Not even once.

But he will, before this is all
over
, she vowed to herself. She grinned sheepishly as she
turned onto Grove Street, where the boardinghouse loomed at the
corner. She didn’t care about pay or bonuses or anything of that
sort—one kiss, one touch, one loving word from Brett would more
than compensate her for whatever lay ahead.

She could only be glad that Mr. Stevenson
didn’t know that beneath the cold, professional demeanor of his
newest investigative agent beat a hopelessly romantic heart.

A heart which had given itself over years
ago to a dark-haired young man with laughing eyes and a gentle
soul.

You’ll be seeing him soon
, she
whispered to herself, running lightly up the steps toward the
brightness of the boardinghouse.
And you’d best make the most
of this opportunity to find and win him. Because as far as love and
happiness go, Annabel Brannigan, this could be your last
chance.

* * *

“This could be your last chance, Mr.
McCallum.”

The words hung heavily in the tobacco-thick
air of Ross McCallum’s oak-paneled study.

Ross McCallum leaned back in his green
leather chair and glowered at the somber-suited young man standing
opposite him, a foot away from the massive mahogany desk. “Are you
threatening me, son?”

“No! No, sir, of course not. I just mean
...” Charles Derrickson mopped his brow. He took a deep breath and
studied the gray-haired giant behind the desk in trepidation. His
employer was scrutinizing him as if he were a slab of bacon about
to be thoroughly chewed and swallowed. Not a pleasant sensation.
His fingers tightened around the ledger books as he continued.
“It’s only that I’ve gone over and over the figures—all of them—and
the situation is growing serious. Very serious indeed. Your
setbacks in the past six months have been significant. Selling the
Ruby Palace might be your last chance to shore up all the other
enterprises.”

Ross McCallum puffed on his cigar and
studied his earnest young man of business with a slight curl of the
lip. Well-intentioned, yellow-livered young pup, he decided
scornfully. Derrickson had done an admirable job these past four
years, but he lacked backbone and temerity. McCallum’s dark
prune-colored eyes squinted above the plume of his cigar smoke as
he noted Charles Derrickson’s spindly wrists, his thinning
hairline, his soft white hands clutching the heavy ledger books
with the reverence of a preacher holding his Bible. “I like you
Derrickson,” he growled, and stabbed the air with his fragrant
cigar. “You do fine work, and I think you’re sharp as a tack. And
you know nearly as much about business as I do. But, boy, I’m not
planning to sell the Ruby Palace Hotel to Lucas Johnson—or to
anyone else for that matter. I’m not planning to sell anything. Got
that? Not the flour mills, not the bank in Kansas City, not the
railroad stocks, not the boot factories, and not my shares in the
McCallum and Ervin Steel Company. Not now, not ever. Have I made
myself clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.” Derrickson swallowed.
“Believe me, I know how upset you are about your son and how
determined you are to maintain business as usual. I understand that
you don’t want to hear this right now—but, sir, I would be remiss
in my duties if I didn’t emphasize to you that this is a golden
opportunity to bring in some much-needed cash—”

“I said
no
!” McCallum surged to his
feet like a general confronted by an errant sergeant. “Get out now
and put your energies into getting the machinery repaired at the
mills, and posting a reward for the scoundrels who robbed the bank.
Don’t sell anything. Don’t let out a hint that we’re in trouble.
We’ll ride this out and prosper yet. The McCallums always do. We
don’t quit, Derrickson, you got that? McCallums stay, fight, and
win.”

‘Yes, sir. I’ll do just as you say, sir. Of
course you know best, sir.”

The door closed softly behind him as he
slithered out. Ross scowled, stuck the cigar between his lips, and
stalked to the windows overlooking the expansive emerald gardens of
McCallum House. Dusk draped the hedges and the silver pond, shaded
the stone-bordered flower beds, and the gleaming statuary Livinia,
as a young bride, had selected to grace the garden so many years
ago. But Ross McCallum saw neither the amethyst splendor of the
sky, nor the spreading loveliness of the twilit gardens, nor even
the noisy little squirrel perched on the lowest branch of the
sycamore tree outside the window. He saw a young man with dark
brown hair and blazing eyes who stood in the garden and shouted at
him.