Petticoat Detective Read online

  © 2014 by Margaret Brownley

  Print ISBN 978-1-62836-626-6

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-060-5

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-061-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net

  Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Dear Readers

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For all the good men in my life, George, Darin Keith, Daniel, Warren, Danny, and Brian

  Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the LORD IS IN THIS PLACE; AND I KNEW IT NOT.

  GENESIS 28:16

  Chapter 1

  1883

  Goodman, Kansas

  Whoa!”

  Former Texas Ranger Tom Colton reined in his horse and stared at the sign hanging from the roof of the two-story brick structure: MISS LILLIAN’S PARLOR HOUSE AND FINE BOOTS. In the faint glow of a full moon the building stood tall, solid, and proper as an old church. Only the red light shimmering in a downstairs window suggested otherwise.

  He fingered the letter in his vest pocket. Addressed to his brother Dave and signed simply “Rose,” the letter had brought him to this very address searching for answers.

  The red light gave him pause. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake, but he’d traveled too far to turn back now. He hesitated for several moments before dismounting. Securing his horse to the hitching post, he stomped up the wooden steps to the porch. For once, God, let me be wrong about my brother.

  The door opened to his knock, and a stout-figured woman peered at him from a painted face. Designed for a woman half her size, the bright blue gown and exaggerated bustle did her no favors, nor did hair piled on top of her head like frothy red frosting.

  Her appearance quelled any doubt as to the nature of the establishment, and his spirits dropped yet another notch. Dave, oh, Dave …

  “Are you going to stand there all night, cowboy? Or are you going to tell me what you want?” Her lilting Southern drawl seemed at odds with her sharp-eyed gaze.

  He pulled off his wide-brim hat. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Name’s Tom, Tom Colton. I came to see Rose.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around these parts.”

  “I’m new in town.”

  The woman’s gaze traveled the length of his six-foot frame like a worried mother scrutinizing a daughter’s suitor. The gun belt sagging from his waist made her hesitate. She then glanced at his gelding tied out front next to one other.

  Apparently his horse, Thunder, gave him a good recommendation because the woman stepped aside to let him in.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Colton. I’m Miss Lillian.”

  He wasn’t especially pleased to meet her, but he gave a polite nod and glanced around the entry. Many were the times he’d stepped into a house of ill repute on official business back in his Ranger days. Even so, he’d never seen anything like this. Men’s boots, women’s boots, and boots that no rational person should ever have occasion to wear were arranged on every possible surface, from shelves to tables and even the floor. What’s more, they were all for sale.

  “You want to see Rose, eh?” The proprietor closed and locked the door, her taffeta skirt rustling like autumn leaves. “That’ll be five dollars, but you’ll have to wait.”

  He held his hat in his hand and shifted from one foot to the other. “I only want to talk to her.”

  “Then it’ll cost you ten. More if you’re a lawman.”

  He hoped she was simply stating the rules of the house and not making a guess based on appearances. He’d left the Texas Rangers three years ago but still thought like one, and some even said, talked like one—a blessing and curse on both accounts.

  “That’s a lot of money.” He rubbed his chin. Whoever said talk was cheap hadn’t met Miss Lillian.

  She shrugged. “Jawing is a lot of work.”

  The woman showed no curiosity as to his business with Rose. If anything, she seemed more interested in his scuffed boots.

  Slapping his hat on his head, he pulled his money clip from his vest pocket and peeled away a single bill. “She knew my brother. His name was Dave Colton.”

  The madam stuffed the banknote into the shiny cloth purse at her waist. If the number of bulges was an indication, the woman had enough greenbacks in her purse to burn a wet barn.

  “Sorry, but we don’t make allowances for family members. Everyone pays the same.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not asking for favors. I just want to ask her about my brother.”

  She tilted her head, and suspicion bled through her face paint. “Are you sure you’re not a lawman?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Not that it matters, mind you. I run a respectable business here.”

  He glanced at a purple leather boot. “I can see that, ma’am.”

  “I also insist that my girls protect our guests’ privacy. You won’t get much information out of Rose.” She sniffed. “Or anyone else for that matter.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “See that you do.” She lowered her gaze to his feet. “Got yourself some good-sized ant mashers there. Looks like you could use some new leather.”

  He followed her gaze downward. His dusty boots sure did look out of place on the red floral carpet. “I’m rather partial to the boots I’m wearing, ma’am.”

  “Partiality killed the cat.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was curiosity,” he said.

  She smiled. “So aren’t you at least a little curious as to how your foot would feel in one of these?” She picked a brown leather boot off a nearby counter and thrust it into his hands. “It’s amazi
ng what a man with a hammer and a mouthful of wood pegs can do,” she said. “Had the Southern army worn boots like that, they might have won the war.”

  “Now there’s a thought.” He turned the boot over. It had a wide square toe and well-angled heel. He found no fault with the construction; his objection was with the effeminate red rose hand-tooled on the crown. Folks back home in Texas didn’t cotton to people walking around duded out like a fancy barbed-wire drummer.

  He handed the boot back to her. “If I ever have occasion to go to war, I’ll be sure to stop here first.”

  “You do that, Mr. Colton.”

  She set the boot upright on a shelf before leading him through the high-ceiling entryway to the parlor. A log burned in the fireplace, and orange flames lazily climbed the chimney. An upright piano commanded one corner of the room, and a hand-printed sign on the instrument read SINGING LESSONS, ONE FIFTY. He couldn’t imagine anyone coming here for singing lessons, but then he wouldn’t have thought to come here for footwear, either.

  In the opposite corner stood a barber chair and a tray of shaving cream and brushes. A sign listed the cost of a shave and haircut. He pulled his hat down a notch to hide his collar-length hair. He didn’t want Miss Lillian coming at him with scissors or razor.

  He backed away from the barber chair and almost knocked a crystal ball off a small table in a darkened alcove. Not only was the room heavily furnished with upholstered hassocks, brocaded settees, and all manner of fuss and feathers, it was also booby-trapped.

  Miss Lillian watched him set the glass sphere on its wooden stand. “Would you like me to read your fortune while you’re waiting? I’ll only charge you half price.”

  He drew his hand away. The woman was a regular jack-of-all-trades. “If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I prefer not to know what the future holds. I like to be surprised.”

  “Very well.” She pointed to a red settee. With a sweep of her gown, she stooped to pick up a black-and-white cat curled on a red upholstered hammock. Stroking the cat as she carried him in her arms, she paused beneath the archway and stared over one bare shoulder. “Be careful, Mr. Colton. I see danger ahead for you.”

  “There goes my surprise,” he said.

  Accepting his sales resistance with good grace, she shrugged and left the room.

  He sat and a sickly sweet whiff of perfume rose from the faded upholstery. At least Miss Lillian didn’t charge him to sit—so far as he knew.

  The clock on the marble mantel struck nine. It was a weeknight, which probably accounted for the quiet. He balanced his forearms on his knees and rubbed his hands together. Anxious to finish his business with Rose and return to his hotel room, he waited with growing impatience.

  The crystal ball seemed to stare at him like a large, unblinking eye. Good thing he didn’t believe in fortune-telling. Didn’t worry much about danger, either.

  Okay, maybe a little …

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  Jennifer Layne, working undercover as Amy Gardner, glanced frantically at the row of closed doors and darted through the nearest one. She was in luck; the room was empty. Hands clutched to her chest to still her pounding heart, she pressed her back against the door, or at least as much as her bustle allowed. God, what did I get myself into this time?

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she waited, praying that the person in the hall wasn’t a john. The sound of a floorboard signaled someone outside the door. She held her breath until the footsteps faded away. Her shoulders slumped, and her breath escaped in a single gasp of relief. That was close. Too close.

  She strained her ears. A man’s laughter sounded from one of the other rooms, but otherwise all was quiet. For now.

  She moved away from the door. Catching sight of herself in the gilded framed mirror, her mouth dropped open. Frowning, she stuck out her tongue. It was her, all right, but with all that face paint it was hard to tell.

  Turning, she viewed herself from all angles. Ugh! She looked worse than she’d thought. Her bustle forced the skirt almost horizontal from the waist. Sideways, she looked like the front part of a horse, but it was the top of her dress that caused the most alarm. Covering her exposed neckline with crossed hands, she glanced about the room for a shawl, a cape, a newspaper—anything with which to cover herself. Except for a brass bed, upholstered chair, desk, and more mirrors than a carnival, the room offered no help for modesty. She resisted the urge to pull a sheet off the bed and wrap herself in it.

  As a Pinkerton operative, she’d worked undercover as a Southern belle, a heartbroken widow, a jilted schoolteacher, and even a secretary (though with terrible typing skills). But never before had she worked in a bordello or had to wear face paint. Her only hope was that she would get what she came for without having to defend her virtue.

  She’d arrived at the brothel that afternoon, hoping to convince the proprietress that she was Rose’s long-lost cousin. She never had a chance to share her well-rehearsed story. Thinking she was seeking work as a “fancy lady,” Miss Lillian took one look at her plain skirt and prudish white shirtwaist and dragged her into the house.

  “What do you think I’m running here? A nunnery?” the madam demanded.

  Quick to see the advantage of approaching the woman named Rose as a colleague, Jennifer-slash-Amy decided to play along, indeed, considered it fortunate to have fallen into what at the time seemed like the perfect disguise.

  She would conduct her business and leave posthaste; at least that was the plan. Not once did she consider what such a pretext would entail until Miss Lillian ordered two women in corsets and bloomers to “make her look decent.”

  Decent, indeed! Her boss, Mr. Pinkerton, should see her now. On second thought, no he shouldn’t! She prayed that no man would.

  Wringing her hands, she paced the floor. The horrid corset felt like steel around her middle, and she could hardly manage an honest breath. Think, think. She was almost certain the room directly across from this one was Rose’s. She would simply knock on the door. With a little luck, Rose would be alone and, if all went as planned, tell what she knew.

  She could do this, had to do it. After botching her last assignment, she couldn’t afford another failure. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency wouldn’t stand for it. Mr. William Pinkerton, head of the western division, had been very clear on that account.

  This time she would get it right if it killed her. After months of investigation, the trail to one of the most notorious criminals in the West led to this establishment. Guilty of fraud, theft, and murder, the Gunnysack Bandit had a hefty price on his head. He also had a gift for evading every lawman, bounty hunter, and detective on his trail.

  We’ll see how good you are at dodging a female detective, Mr. Gunny. The thought made her smile. For once her gender worked for and not against her. The room was proof that a female operative could go where angels—and male counterparts—feared to tread.

  She lifted a foot onto a trunk and gathered up miles of taffeta fabric to check the derringer holstered to her thigh. The voluptuous skirt would prevent anything resembling a fast draw, but unless she bumped into a persistent male, her chances of needing a weapon were low. Probably. Hopefully.

  Certainly, the woman named Rose had no reason to pose a threat. Unless, of course, she was in cahoots with the bandit.

  Amy tightened the buckle of her holster attached to a silk-stockinged thigh just as the door flew open. Much to her horror, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, square-jawed man in a wide-brim hat. If his height wasn’t bad enough, the determined look on his face was worse. This was a man who wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

  Chapter 2

  Tom Colton caught a glance of a shapely leg before the woman named Rose dropped her voluminous skirts. Rounded green eyes met his and her red-rouged lips formed a perfect O followed by an audible gasp.

  He closed the door behind him. “I apologize for startling you.” He should have knocked, but Miss Lillian told him that Rose wa
s expecting him and to just walk in.

  Rose crossed her arms in front, an act that surprised him. How odd that a woman in her profession would worry about bare shoulders. Her attempt at modesty—if that’s what it was—couldn’t have been more misplaced. No amount of cover could hide her appeal or the intriguing way her gown molded against her slim feminine form.

  The scarlet gown would look garish on most women, but it gave Rose’s complexion a pearly pink glow. Honey-blond hair cascaded down her back in a riot of ringlets and long dark lashes ringed the eyes staring back at him.

  His brother had made more bad choices than could be found on a ruffled shirt, but he knew how to pick his women, that’s for certain and sure, at least appearance-wise.

  Rose’s mouth closed but the dismay in her eyes remained. It didn’t seem possible, but the lady looked downright … what? Scared? Terrified?

  Of him?

  He was tall and he was strong and many were the outlaws who had once feared him, but never had he known a woman to feel threatened by his presence. Perhaps she saw a family resemblance. She certainly looked like she saw a ghost. Except the only things he and Dave had in common were the same parents and similar height.

  “Howdy-do, ma’am. My name is Tom. Tom Colton.”

  Not so much as a shadow of recognition flickered across her painted face at mention of his name, but her crossed arms stayed stubbornly in place. Maybe clients were expected to follow a certain protocol.

  Having no knowledge of the etiquette that such an establishment required, he clarified.

  “I’m Dave Colton’s brother.”

  Still no response.

  Considering the amorous tone of her letter to Dave, her lack of emotion struck him as odd. When the silence continued to stretch between them, he looked around. The only chair in the room was piled high with enough feminine under-riggings to make the most jaded man blush. That left only one place to sit.

  She followed his gaze to the neatly made bed. “Oh!”

  He frowned. She looked like she was having trouble breathing. Hand out, he stepped forward, but she backed away quicker than chain lightning. “Are you all right, ma’am?”