An Agent for Rosalie (The Pinkerton Matchmaker Series Book 26) Page 5

  Dropping down, Rosalie pushed the messenger up against the metal bar, intending to use him as a shield, and laid on her stomach. She grabbed the shotgun, rested it on top of the body, and pressed it into the crook of her shoulder to minimize the recoil from the blast. Then, she took aim at one of the road agents and fired. She missed.

  She cocked the shotgun, keeping the robber in her line of sight, and fired. This time she hit her target, and the force of the blast caused him to be knocked off his horse. Two down. Four to go.

  A shot rang out from beneath her and another criminal fell off his horse. Three down. We are halfway there, she thought. The three remaining road agents were nearly at the back of the coach, and she could now make out the blue bandanas covering the bottom half of their faces.

  Taking aim, she fired again, hitting one of the robbers in his left arm, but it wasn’t enough for him to lose his seat in the saddle. The road agent took the gun in his right arm and fired at her, hitting the barrel of the shotgun, propelling it out of her hands.

  Twisting onto her back, Rosalie cradled her right hand against her, waiting for the jolting sensation to go away. It was pure luck that the bullet hit the shotgun and not her hand. A string of shots came from the coach, and she glanced up to see that Paden had disposed of another road agent. Now there were only two robbers left.

  One of the robbers pointed at the window of the coach and started firing at random. The other road agent rode past his partner and took aim at the driver. He fired, and the stagecoach jerked to the side. Before he had a chance to fire again, Rosie shook out her right hand, then reached for the derringer in her corset. She rolled onto her side, took aim and shot the robber.

  Turning her sights to the lone road agent, the man’s steely gaze latched onto her, and she felt her heart stop. It was Bill Garrett! He winked at her, and she could practically see the sinister sneer beneath his bandana. She started to point her pistol at him when he veered his horse off into a section of pine trees.

  “No!” she shouted. He was gone!

  The stagecoach weaved from side to side, forcing her to grab the metal bar to brace herself. She held on tight as she rose to her knees and saw that the driver was hunched over on the driver’s box. Moving quickly, she dropped down next to him and grabbed the reins out of his hands.

  Making no effort to take the reins back, the driver shouted in pain, “Have you ever driven a stagecoach before?”

  “No!” she yelled back. “Trial by fire!”

  “Here. You need to wear gloves,” he grunted as he removed his thick gloves and shoved them toward her. “Keep the lines taunt or the team won’t give you any heed. We are only a few miles out of town. Just follow the...” He stopped and hissed in pain.

  Despite the jangle of trace chains, the pounding hooves, and the rattle of the bouncing stagecoach, Rosalie somehow managed to barely make out Paden’s voice from behind her. “Let me steer the team!”

  “Do you know how to drive a stagecoach?” she questioned, not daring to turn her head to look at him.

  “No, but I am a fast learner.”

  The driver humphed next to her, clearly displeased by their conversation.

  “I can handle the team. You stand guard,” she ordered.

  A long moment passed before she heard him say, “All right, I can do that.”

  For what felt like hours, Rosalie strained to hear the driver issuing commands through clenched teeth. Finally, up ahead, she saw the unmistakable shape of a town taking form. They were going to make it! Then a terrifying thought hit her… she had no idea how to stop a stagecoach!

  Paden gripped the metal bar atop the coach as it jerked to a stop way past the sheriff’s office in the main part of town. In the history of stopping a stagecoach, this had to be one of the worst attempts, he thought.

  Poor Rosalie had attempted to stop the stagecoach on at least three other occasions, including in front of the station, but the team wouldn’t follow her prompts. The driver offered advice, but the team was taking advantage of Rosalie’s inexperience. A group of people started descending out of the buildings and two men ran up and secured the bridles of the lead horses.

  Taking charge, Paden shouted as he climbed down from the stagecoach, “Road agents attempted to rob the stagecoach and shot the driver. He needs a doctor.”

  A loud, collective gasp rippled through the group.

  “I’m a doctor,” a man stated, making his way through the crowd. He stepped off the boardwalk and walked around to the driver’s box. “Can you walk?”

  “No,” the driver grunted.

  Turning toward the group, the doctor asked, “Who will help me carry this man to my clinic?”

  A few men jumped to do the doctor’s bidding while Paden went to assist Rosalie from the driver’s bench, but she was busy assisting the driver as he attempted to step down to the men on the ground. Instead, Paden opened the stagecoach door and assisted the passengers out.

  After Mrs. Weipert and her granddaughter exited the coach, she handed him Rosalie’s skirt. “I thought your wife might want this returned.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled as he accepted the skirt.

  “What is going on here?” a man shouted from behind him.

  Turning around, the first thing that Paden saw was the silver badge pinned onto his grey jacket, informing everyone that this man was the sheriff. The lawman was brawny, with a short beard and bushy black eyebrows.

  Mrs. Weipert approached the sheriff. “The stagecoach was ambushed by road agents, but this man,” she pointed at Paden, “and his wife saved us all.”

  “Is that so?” the sheriff asked, his hands resting on his gun belt. “How many people were killed?”

  Rosalie appeared next to him. “We killed five members of Bill Garrett’s gang, but that was only after they killed the shotgun messenger.”

  The sheriff’s disapproving eyes roamed the length of Rosalie’s body, stopping at the revolver strapped to her right leg. “It would be best if we continued this conversation in private,” he said, waving them toward his office.

  Paden reached out and grabbed Rosalie’s arm, turning her to face him. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse was ripped, and she had dried blood on her right cheek.

  “You’re hurt,” he murmured, bringing his hand up to wipe the blood away.

  “I don’t think that’s my blood,” she said. “I used the shotgun messenger’s body as a shield from the bullets.”

  Paden frowned. That had been a smart thing to do, but he didn’t like the fact that she had put her life on the line. “Are you injured anywhere?” His eyes roamed her face, neck and shoulders.

  Rosalie rotated her right shoulder. “My shoulder is sore from the shotgun’s recoil.”

  He pointed at a large blood spot that had saturated her shirt on her left arm. “What happened there?”

  “I don’t recall,” she murmured, following his gaze.

  Now that they had arrived in one piece, Paden felt anger stirring inside of him, and it was all because of his new wife. How could she not recall? What had she been thinking? He attempted to keep his anger under control, but he felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

  “What were you thinking back there?” he shouted at her, right there on the boardwalk, surrounded by people milling about.

  Rosalie looked up at him in confusion, which seemed to fuel his anger even more. He stepped closer to her and continued his assault. “Are you insane? You put your life at risk with your acrobatics on top of the stagecoach.”

  Her eyes darted toward the people stopping to watch them. “I did what needed to be done,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “They killed the messenger, and I knew we needed a sharpshooter on the roof of the stagecoach.”

  “You should have let me go.”

  A line between her brows appeared. “I just reacted. I hadn’t realized you intended to go up top.”

  Shifting his gaze away from her, Paden reluctantly acknowledged that he hadn’t even formulated a plan when he saw Rosalie go out the window and hoist herself up onto the roof of the stagecoach. A thought occurred to him. Did it bother him more that she was quicker on her feet than he was, or that she put herself at greater risk by riding up top?

  He shoved the skirt toward her. “You should put this back on.”

  “Why?” she asked, accepting the skirt and holding it close to her body.

  The sheriff’s voice broke through their personal interlude. “I don’t have all day!” he shouted from the doorway of his office.

  Paden placed his hand out, indicating she should go first. He saw her press her lips together as she walked ahead of him toward the sheriff’s office. He should never have yelled at her. It wasn’t fair of him to treat her that way. But he couldn’t seem to make sense of his wife. Growing up, she had always carefully considered both sides of an argument before making an informed decision. She had never just reacted. That was not his Rosie. She was cool, methodical… not wild and reckless. What had happened?

  Rosalie was already seated when he stepped into the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was sitting behind his desk, and a young deputy was leaning back against the wall. Paden moved to sit next to Rosalie, but she didn’t give him much heed.

  The sheriff spoke up. “My name is Sheriff Jack Walton, and that,” he pointed at the other lawman, “is Deputy Charlie. I’m guessing it wasn’t a coincidence that you were riding along on the day the stagecoach was carrying a gold shipment for our bank.”

  “No, sir. We are Pinkerton agents,” Paden replied, ignoring the scoff that came out of the deputy’s lips. “The Barlow Dispatch & Grizzly’s Peak Express hired us after the third time the stagecoach was ambushed and the gold was taken.”

  “You both are Pinkerton agents?” Sh
eriff Walton asked, his eyes shifting between them.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  When the sheriff raised an eyebrow, he added, “We are married.”

  “Married Pinkerton agents!” The Sheriff guffawed. “I never thought I would see the day.”

  Glancing over at Rosalie, Paden expected her to be riled up by the lawman’s attitude, but her eyes were focused out the window as if she was bored with this conversation.

  She brought her gaze back toward the lawmaker. “Did you have a good laugh at our expense?” she asked dryly. “I would be more concerned that Bill Garrett is killing people right under your nose. Frankly, if I were you, I wouldn’t insult the people that will fix your problem.”

  The deputy straightened from the wall, his eyes narrowing at Rosalie. “Maybe we should kick you out of our town?” he asked in an annoyed drawl. “We don’t need to cooperate with the Pinks.”

  Rosalie shrugged. “Fine. It won’t stop our investigation, and we will pass along the information to the press that the sheriff of Shelbrook doesn’t give a darn about protecting his town.”

  “Then we will arrest…” the deputy started.

  Sheriff Walton cut him off. “Charlie. Stop. She’s right,” he declared, earning a surprised look from his deputy. “We need all the help we can get, assuming the leader of this gang is Bill Garrett.”

  “It is,” Rosalie assured him. “When I was riding atop the coach…”

  “On top of the coach?” Sheriff Walton questioned, glancing over at Paden in disbelief. He shrugged in response.

  Rosalie nodded. “Yes, I assure you that it was him. Bill Garrett looked directly at me, and I saw his cold, vacant eyes. Furthermore, I saw the tip of the scar that runs down from his left temple to his chin.”

  Leaning back in his seat, the sheriff asked, “May I ask how you are so acquainted with Bill Garrett?”

  “Garrett and his gang ambushed my father in the middle of town, killing innocent women and children in the process,” Rosalie responded without a hint of hesitation in her voice.

  “May I ask who your father was?” Sheriff Walton’s expression was curious.

  Tilting her chin up, she replied, “Sheriff Addis of Waterglen, Colorado.”

  “Your father was Sherriff Addis?” the deputy asked with newfound respect in his voice.

  Sheriff Walton leaned forward and started rifling through the papers on his desk. “I don’t suppose you are Rosalie Addis, the bounty hunter? The one that has been rounding up the now-disbanded members of Garrett’s gang.”

  “I am,” she confirmed.

  Picking up a piece of paper, the sheriff said, “I assume your marriage is recent, because I just got a report that listed the men you had rounded up last month.”

  “We were married this morning,” Paden shared.

  Sheriff Walton let out a huff in amusement. “You got married and then rode out to work a case. That is romantic.” He directed his next question to Rosalie. “When did you become a Lady Pinkerton?”

  “This morning as well,” she replied.

  Walking over to the edge of his desk, Deputy Charlie leaned back against it, and was now only a few feet from Rosalie. “How did you capture all those criminals?” he asked eagerly.

  Clenching the balled-up skirt in her lap, Rosalie answered, “Criminals are predictable. They like women, alcohol, and cards. I would set a trap depending on their habits.”

  “I heard you dressed up as a saloon girl, and you enchanted David Strong into turning himself in,” the deputy stated.

  Rosalie laughed, a light, airy laugh that greatly bothered him. “I kept bringing him drinks until he passed out at the table.”

  “Was it true that you worked in a brothel to capture some of the men?” Deputy Charlie pressed, appearing enamored by Rosalie.

  “I did,” she confirmed.

  Paden gave her a concerned look. “How far did you have to take your act?”

  Rosalie’s eyes grew wide and fiery, and he immediately wished he could take back his words. “How dare you! I am a bounty hunter, not a woman of loose morals.”

  “I wasn’t implying that…” he attempted.

  “How could you even ask that?” she asked, her voice filled with hurt and disappointment.

  Paden let out a loud, deep sigh. “Rosie… I didn’t mean it like that. I swear.”

  With guarded eyes, she turned her attention back toward the sheriff. “Can we expect your cooperation on this case?”

  Sheriff Walton nodded. “Yes. My deputy and I have interviewed everyone that was given knowledge of the gold shipments beforehand, but we haven’t been able to find a suspect.”

  “Who knew about the shipments?” Paden asked.

  “James Murray, the station keeper, Mr. Tuttle, the banker, and Mr. Holmes, his assistant,” Deputy Charlie listed. “We interviewed the drivers and guards of the stagecoach, but we have ruled them out as suspects, since they have started turning up dead.”

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Tuttle and Mr. Holmes?” Rosalie inquired, her posture still rigid.

  Sheriff Walton ran a hand through his dark hair. “Mr. Tuttle has worked at the bank for almost ten years, and Mr. Holmes moved out here about three years ago. Both are fine, outstanding men in the community. It can’t be one of them.”

  Paden refrained from commenting since he knew criminals often appeared as pillars of the community until the truth came out. “Then that leaves us with James Murray.”

  “No, it’s not James,” Deputy Charlie asserted, wiping a hand over his chin. “He worked his way up from mucking the stalls. He even allows some of the boys in town to earn extra money by taking care of the horses and changing the teams. He wouldn’t throw that all away.”

  Rosalie rose suddenly, causing all the men to awkwardly arise. “Thank you for your time. It appears that we have our work cut out for us. We’ll start tomorrow.” She directed her next question to Sheriff Walton. “Can you point me in the direction of the hotel?”

  “Yes, just head east on the boardwalk. You can’t miss it,” he answered. “It’s a white-washed building.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured before shooting Paden an icy glare. “I will meet you at the hotel. I find I need a moment alone.”

  Paden went to touch her sleeve but thought better of it, dropping his hand. “I will go check us in and have your trunk brought up to our room.”

  Rosalie frowned her acknowledgement, then swiftly walked out the door. He watched her retreating figure, knowing he was deserving of her ire.

  Sheriff Walton cleared his throat awkwardly. “A word of advice, son. I would tread lightly around your wife. She seems irritated by you, and from the stories I have been told about her, I am confident that she could kill you without blinking an eye.”

  Turning to face the sheriff and deputy, he admitted, “When the shotgun messenger was shot, my wife scurried out the window, lifted herself up to the roof of the coach, grabbed the shotgun and started taking aim at the robbers. She then led the team into town after the driver had been shot. She’s a formidable woman.”

  “I have heard stories about Rosalie Addis, the bounty hunter, but I didn’t believe them. After all, at the end of the day she is a woman, right?” Deputy Charlie remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. “But after meeting her, I don’t know what to think.”

  “She’s Rosalie Brooks now,” Paden corrected. “She is my wife.”

  “And partner,” Sheriff Walton reminded him with amusement in his tone. “I wish you luck with that.”

  Exiting the office, Paden felt each step slow as he approached the hotel, his heart filling with dread. How was he going to make this right with Rosalie? And did he want to?

  Chapter 6

  Rosalie stepped out of the sheriff’s office, her anger growing with each step. How dare Paden think she would resort to seducing a suspect in order to collect a bounty! She had wanted him to believe she had changed, but it hurt that he thought she was a strumpet.

  As she passed by the alley next to the sheriff’s office, she heard a noise coming from the shadows. Treading lightly, she walked further into the muddy alley which smelled suspiciously like an outhouse. She stopped when she saw a boy, no older than ten, standing on a crate and peering into the sheriff’s small, square, open window. She remained against the wall, hiding herself from him, as she listened to Paden inside the office summarize the events on the stagecoach.