An Agent for Adelaide (The Pinkerton Matchmaker Book 48)
An Agent for Adelaide
The Pinkerton Matchmaker Series
P. Creeden
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Love Western Romance?
An Agent for Josie
An Agent for Opal
A Bride for James
A Bride for Henry
An Agent for Adelaide © 2019 P. Creeden
Cover by Virginia McKevitt
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
August 1872
Adelaide Walsh hated that she wished for her father’s death. It was a terrible thing to feel, but on the nights when he’d come home drunk and lost every penny he’d made in the mines, some part of her had begun to feel that she might have been better off if he wasn’t around. She loved him—of course, she did. But he was a shackle for her. A few months back was the first time she’d consciously wished for it, when her father had started coughing blood. It had never even crossed her mind before. As it became obvious that her father was nearing the end, she began wishing it would come sooner, and she hated herself for it.
On Saturday mornings, that’s when she wished it the hardest.
“Addie!” her father yelled from his bed, right before he leaned over the side of it and vomited.
She prayed that he’d made it to the pail she’d kept beside his bed and didn’t leave a mess for her to clean up.
“I’m coming, Papa,” she called back as she wiped her hands on her apron and rushed toward the sound of her father’s voice. He’d slept most of the morning away, which wasn’t much of a surprise since he’d stayed out until the wee hours of the night before, gambling and drinking in the saloon. Why did he have to do that every Friday night after getting his pay from the mining company?
He burned through every last cent before she could even get a hold of it and pay for food or other necessities. It had gotten to the point where she canned what she could and sold it to the general store after hiking all day in search of berries and other edible things that grew wild along the hills. And when she spotted baneberries, as she often did, she half considered mixing them into a jar of preserves specifically for her Papa. But no, she’d never do that. She couldn’t.
“Addie,” he said as he sat up in his bed with his head in his hands. “Must you bang the side of the pot with your ladle? A man can’t get any sleep around here.”
“It’s nearly noontime, Papa. Don’t you think you should get up anyway?”
He cracked one eye open and narrowed it at her. “What kind of daughter tells her Pa what to do? You’re not so big that I can’t put you over my knee.”
She set her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes back at him. “I’d like to see you try.”
He shook his head and huffed a laugh. “Fine. Fine. I’ll save that for another day. What do you have cooking? Anything for me to eat?”
“Baneberries,” she said, lifting a brow.
He sighed. “If that’s all you’ve got, I guess I’ll take ’em. But make sure you put it on toast, all right?”
Adelaide thanked her lucky stars that her father had made it to the pail as she stepped over and took the offensive utensil and headed for the door. The last thing she needed was for the contents of the pail to continue to stink up the house. With a sigh, she went off to the side of the house where the hole was for her to place natural waste, and then she dumped the bucket. Using the rainwater barrel, she ladled out a bit into the bucket to rinse it out a few times, at least until she couldn’t smell anything more.
With a sigh, she headed back around the front of the house, but froze in her tracks when she found two strange men tying their horses to the porch. One of them was tall and thin, with longer hair, wearing a tanned leather vest. The other wore a the innards of a three-piece suit, without the jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he wore a bowler hat, and he smoked a cigar. They didn’t seem to be coming for a friendly chat. No. Her father rarely had company of any kind, and certainly none he didn’t tell her about.
When they knocked on the front door, Adelaide flinched as she held the pail tight in her grip. She wanted to round the corner and ask the men what they wanted, but somehow she got a bad feeling about them. Maybe it would be better if she decided to head off into the woods and go berry collecting. She frowned and looked down at her hands. First of all, she had the wrong pail for that, and secondly, she still had water boiling on the stove. She’d been in the middle of canning.
After a half minute had passed, they knocked again. The tall, thin man called in, “George! We know you’re in there. We come to collect on that debt you owe. You signed a contract. There’s no use in hiding her now.”
Her? Adelaide’s brow furrowed. There was no way that her father had signed over their milking cow again, was there? She shook her head. He’d promised her he’d never do that again. She had to trust him. But still, she cast a worried glance over toward the field on the other side of the house. If they made a move to collect the cow, Adelaide would do what she could to stop them. But what could she really do? She began chewing her lower lip in frustration.
“Last chance to open up now, George, or we’re coming in anyway.”
She’d left the door unlocked, and to that regard, she felt blessed. At least they wouldn’t be kicking in the door. Even though it was the end of the summer, winter wasn’t so far off that she didn’t need to worry about getting the door fixed. Then she watched as they opened the door and headed inside. Clenching the bucket in her hands harder, she peered around, looking for a weapon, and spied the ax that sat next to their wood pile. Slowly, she backed up toward it, set the pail down as quietly as she could and lifted the ax. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and her ears rang. She breathed in slowly and pushed the exhale out of her mouth. Keeping her back against the house, she snuck to the corner and peered around it again.
The two men had her father by the back of the collar and threw him off the front porch and into the yard. The taller, thin man yelled, “Where is she?”
Without thinking any further, Adelaide rushed around the side of the house, brandishing her ax. “What are you doing? Leave my father alone! If you want the stinking cow, just take her! She’s on the other side of the house!”
“No, Addie! Don’t!” her father yelled.
At the same time
, the gazes of both ruffians fell upon Adelaide and a smile quirked up their lips. The man in the bowler whistled. “She’s even prettier than George had said.”
The tall, thin man smiled wide and smacked the other man on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “She sure is. Get her.”
Realization, like a cold bucket of water, fell around Adelaide’s shoulders. It wasn’t the cow they wanted—it was her. Her eyes went wide as the man in the bowler came toward her. She swung the ax wildly at him. “Don’t you take one more step toward me. I’m not afraid to cut you down like a tree.”
The bowler man sneered at her as he jumped back, just out of reach. “Scottie! What do you want me to do?”
Scottie, the tall thin man with longer hair, frowned, stepped forward and grabbed her father by the back of the collar again. He pulled a pistol from the holster on his side and pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of her father’s head. “Put down the ax and come with us peaceably, or your father will have to pay for his debt with his life.”
The blood drained from Adelaide’s head and she suddenly felt a bit dizzy. Her father looked up at her with pleading eyes as he said, “Just run, Addie. Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”
Her heart sunk in her chest. No, she’d never wanted her father dead. It had all been a lie she’d told herself. Her chest ached with the love she felt for him. She shook her head. She couldn’t just let him die. A small, exasperated squeal escaped her lips as she threw down the ax. The man with the bowler hat chuckled and strode over toward her, taking her chin between his fingers and lifting it up so he could peer in her eyes. “You surely are going to be the most popular girl in the saloon. I’m sure of it.”
The smell of tobacco struck her hard enough to make bile rise up. Clamping her jaw down, she glared at him and knocked his hand from her face. “I don’t know what you want or what you’re talking about, but I’m not going to any saloon with you.”
“You will,” Scottie said with a laugh. “Or we’ll take out the debt on your father, like I said.”
“Debt? What debt?” Savannah asked, leveling her glare on the other man.
The man with a bowler put his cigar back to his lips. “Your father owes Mr. Scottie a debt, see. He gambled beyond his means last night and didn’t have enough to cover his bets. He sold you to Scottie for four hundred dollars. After living expenses and such, working in his saloon for about four years should pay that back. Until then, you’ll do as Mr. Scottie says. Got that, girlie.”
Adelaide’s stomach twisted. “Four hundred dollars.”
How could her father have done that to her? He... sold her for four hundred dollars?
“At least you’re as pretty as everyone said you were. That makes things easier,” Scottie said as he stepped away from her father and put his gun back in its holster. “Come on, girlie. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”
Slowly, Adelaide shook her head and wrung her hands. Leave her father? He couldn’t take care of himself while she was gone. And who knew when the consumption would take him? “I’ve got cans on the stove top. Water boiling. I can’t leave.”
With a sneer, the man in the bowler said, “Take the water off the stove top and put things in order. You’ve got five minutes. Then I’ll carry you out of your house myself.”
She blinked at him, frozen in her spot from the glare he pinned her with.
Then he pushed her shoulder toward her doorway. “Go on. Get it done. You just wasted ten seconds of your time standing there.”
It was what she’d needed to get moving again. As she passed her father, he could barely look at her. She knelt down, took hold of his shoulders and helped him to his feet, whispering, “Papa, are you okay?”
He shook his head and finally met her eyes. “You should have run, Addie. I wish you would have run.”
Chapter 2
Logan Wade didn’t pull his punch, and the man’s jaw cracked under his fist. He took no pleasure in hurting another person. At one time, as a pugilist, he did it for money. Now he only used his fists when defending himself. After the man stumbled to his hands and knees, he looked up at Logan with his jaw askew. His lips moved but his words were nothing more than an unintelligible slur. Bloody red drool dripped from his swollen maw.
“Don’t try to talk,” Logan said as he picked up the pistol the man had brandished a moment before. “It only makes the pain worse and the doctor’s job harder when he has to reset your bones. Best hold your tongue and remain silent. And next time, don’t beat on women and children or things could turn out much worse for you.”
He took the man by his collar and helped him to the sheriff’s office. The Denver office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency had sent Logan on a mission to help a client’s daughter get out of a bad situation with her child and make it home to her father’s house. Unfortunately, the husband who hit her followed and attacked her. But Logan had been there to stop him before he was able to hurt her again. Once at the sheriff’s office, Logan sat the man down while speaking with the sheriff. He set the pistol on the table. “Though there are no laws here in Colorado Territory against a man disciplining his wife, there are states who do not condone wife-beating at all. Tennessee was the first to put a law on the books in 1850, and that is where Mrs. Smith is from. We’re asking that you hold Mr. Smith in custody until the judge can arrive and give him a fair hearing. In the meantime, I will accompany Mrs. Smith back to her father’s house.”
Mr. Smith held his jaw and mumbled, “She can’t leave without my permission. She’s my wife.”
Logan set down a paper upon the table. “This certificate of divorcement says otherwise.”
“I didn’t agree to any divorce.” Mr. Smith narrowed his eyes at Logan.
“You lost your rights as her husband when you beat her, Mr. Smith. The law gives Mrs. Smith the right not to be subject to cruelty or tyranny, even when it comes from her husband.”
The sheriff shrugged as he helped Mr. Smith up by the elbow. “Did you threaten your wife with this gun as Mr. Wade suggests?”
The man didn’t answer, only continued to glare at Logan.
“I will return as a witness to his trial in less than a week. Also I know that the owner of the general store, Mr. Gray, has already said that he would testify as a witness to the man’s threatening Mrs. Smith with a weapon.”
Mr. Smith leapt forward, fighting against the sheriff’s hold and pulling free. “She’s my wife. You can’t take her anywhere.”
Logan formed a fist and lifted his hand as though he might strike the man again. The man flinched in response.
Instead of hitting him, Logan pointed his finger and pressed it against the man’s chest. ”I am not kidnapping her or taking her anywhere against her will. She is returning to her father’s house in Tennessee, and will get a court order that you will be arrested for trespassing if you come within one mile of her residence. I suggest that even if you are not convicted of assault with a deadly weapon and sent to prison, that you keep your distance from your former wife.”
“That’s enough. Let’s go,” the sheriff said as he grabbed the man by the collar and forced him toward the jail cell this time. When he returned, he asked, “Mr. Wade, have you ever considered being a lawyer?”
Lucas shrugged. “I am a lawyer, but I found being a pugilist a better outlet for my fighting spirit, and being a Pinkerton Detective has been much more fulfilling.”
The sheriff shook his head and scratched at his beard. “I never heard of a man doing such a thing as that.”
With a laugh, Lucas said, “And now you have.”
“I suppose so,” the sheriff said, chuckling.
“As I said, I’ll be back within the week. It should give more than enough time for the circuit judge to make his way around to these parts.” Logan replaced his hat.
“It should. I’ll see to Mr. Smith until then.”
“Oh,” Logan said with his hand on the door knob. “And be sure he gets medical care for that j
aw. I’ll pay the expense when I return.”
The sheriff lifted a brow. “That’s not really your responsibility. He threatened you.”
Logan sighed. “Sometimes we take responsibility for things in our hearts, even if our heads tell us we don’t have to.”
The sheriff’s mouth gaped a moment while he studied Logan. “I suppose that’s true.”
Logan tipped his hat and stepped out of the door.
Mrs. Smith stood from the bench out front where she’d been sitting, her hand grasping the hand of the two-year-old boy. “I should see Dan. He might be really mad now that he’s hurt. I don’t want him to think...”
Logan rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “No need. Everything’s been taken care of. You don’t have to answer to that man any more. We’re going to make sure that he never has the chance to hurt you or your son again.”
Tears welled in the bottoms of her eyes as relief relaxed her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered.
After returning to the Smith home to get the rest of her belongings in peace, Lucas escorted her to the train station where they left on the first east-bound train. Though there were times when being a Pinkerton Agent seemed to be a hard, dangerous road, Lucas hadn’t lied when he said it was fulfilling. Later that evening, he watched the two-year-old boy sleep upon his mother’s lap and felt good about the fact the child wouldn’t grow up in the kind of home where a father would raise a hand to his mother. He would learn about manhood from a real man instead of a weak one.
Watching the child lit a desire deep in Logan’s heart. He wanted children—always did. But most women couldn’t see past his crooked nose and rough exterior to give him a chance. Logan knew he looked like a miscreant. He looked like one before he even became a pugilist, since he fell off a horse face-first at the age of eleven. But boxing had given him even more scars.