Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) by Margaret Brownley Read Free Book Online Page A

and handed her a brown vial. “I gave her something to help her sleep. This is for pain. Give it to her in the morning if she’s uncomfortable. She should eat something light at first and curtail visitors, at least for a couple of days. The most important thing is to keep her calm. Don’t let her get upset.”
    It seemed a bit late to worry about upsetting her but Annie glanced at the closed door and said nothing. All was quiet, at least for now.
    Dr. Fairbanks stalked down the hall toward the stairs and Annie chased after him.
    “Wait!”
    He turned.
    “You want me to take care of her?” She was trained to hunt down criminals, not play nursemaid.
    “Someone has to. Since her housekeepers have returned to Mexico, there’s no one else to care for her but you.”
    Annie struggled to find her voice. “Surely one of the ranch hands—”
    “Miss Walker won’t hear of it and probably for good reason. The only way a ranch hand knows to deal with a broken leg is to shoot the unfortunate victim. We can’t have that, now, can we?”
    “No, but . . . but what if something happens? What if she’s in a lot of pain or . . . How do I get hold of you?”
    “Send someone into town to fetch me. It’s a pity the telephone line hasn’t yet reached the ranch but they’re working on it. Meanwhile, get some sleep while you can. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.” He donned his hat and started down the stairs. “Good luck.”
    It was the second time that day someone had wished her luck.
    He paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced up at her. “One more thing,” he called. “When you enter her room, be sure to duck.”

Chapter 5
    An undercover agent is only as good as his (or her) disguise.
    A nnie’s body ached from exhaustion but she still couldn’t sleep. Closing her eyes meant having to relive the horror of watching Miss Walker tumble down the stairs time and time again. The deadly sound of the woman’s body hitting the ground floor seemed to rise from the very pillow at her head. No matter how much she twisted and turned, she couldn’t make the memory go away.
    By the time the rising sun turned the desert sands red, she’d been sitting in a chair for hours, a manila folder marked GTF in her lap. Operatives, or Pinks as they were commonly called, were taught to keep detailed records. Every fact had to be recorded with utmost accuracy; every question duly noted, every action scrupulously documented. Notes were to be written on small pieces of paper and attached to reports.
    The strict training not only helped professionally, it also impacted her personal life. Some people kept diaries; Annie kept dossiers.

    Reverend Jones, the pastor of her church back home, once accused her of treating God like a suspect. She continually bombarded the pastor with questions that even he, with all his seminary training, couldn’t answer. It was an odd thing for him to say since he had no idea she was a Pinkerton. Telling anyone, even her pastor, what she did for a living would mean immediate dismissal from the company. The Pinkerton guidelines were clear on that.
    “God is bigger than our minds can comprehend,” Reverend Jones said on more than one occasion. “Even if we knew all the answers, we wouldn’t understand them.”
    Questions without answers were called enigmas and nothing disturbed a detective more. For that reason, she kept jotting notes in her GTF folder, writing questions, underlining and crossing out words. Today she wrote, Miss Walker? Why did something so awful have to happen, God?
    She was so well versed in writing in cryptic that it came naturally to her, even when she wrote something meant to be seen by her eyes only.
    She closed the folder with a sigh and put it aside. GTF—for God the Father.
    As usual, He offered no answers, only more questions.
    Her body stiff, she stood and stretched her arms over her head, then bent to touch her toes.
    Anxious to check on the old lady and nervous about