Sherri Shackelford - The Engagement Bargain

“No!” Anna and Caleb replied in unison.

Chapter Four

Anna leaned more heavily on her left arm. “Absolutely not. I mean no disrespect, Mr. McCoy, but I will not hide. I’m not going to change my name or pretend to be something I’m not. That goes against everything I stand for.”

She wasn’t relinquishing her independence. Killer or no killer. If the shooting had been caused by the opposition, then such a concession meant they’d won.

Jo’s arms flopped to her sides. “We can say you had a whirlwind romance.”

Caleb laughed harshly. “No one would believe it.”

“You’re right.” Jo appeared crestfallen. “Of course you’re right.”

“You’re missing the point,” Caleb said. “No one would ever look for anyone in Cimarron Springs. She might as well wear a banner and parade down Main Street.”

“True enough. Remember Elizabeth Elder’s first husband? The bank robber? He hid all his loot in a cave by Hackberry Creek. No one ever suspected a thing. You didn’t suspect him, did you, Caleb?”

“He didn’t treat his livestock very well.”

“Or his wife.” Jo’s voice strangled. “This may have escaped your notice, but people are just as important as animals.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “People are more important than livestock.”

“I was making a point. There were obvious signs of bad character.”

Caught up in the tale of the loot hidden by the creek, Anna made a noise of frustration at the sudden change of subject. “What happened to the bank robber and his poor wife?”

“He’s dead now, God rest his soul.” Jo’s voice was stripped of remorse. “Elizabeth remarried and she’s doing fine. She’s living in Paris now.”

“France?”

“Texas.”

“I see,” Anna said. “At least I think I understand.”

A little dazed by the turn of the conversation, Anna considered Mr. McCoy’s earlier denial. Why would no one believe they were engaged? The idea didn’t seem far-fetched enough to incite laughter. Disbelief, certainly. Skepticism, perhaps. But outright mocking laughter?

She studied the fidgety detective and knitted her forehead. “All we have are rumors and speculation. For all we know, they’ve captured the man responsible, and this conversation is all for naught.”

Reinhart’s continued presence, especially considering his fierce demand for payment if he provided information, struck her as suspect. What had he said before? Something about cataloguing everything he saw and heard. Why the sudden interest in an injured suffragist if no one had offered him compensation? She had the distinct impression the detective never made a move without an ulterior motive. He certainly hadn’t moved from his chair during the entire conversation.

“This isn’t your case, Mr. Reinhart,” she prompted. “You indicated that a moment before. Why are you here?”

“Because it suits me.”

He shot her a look of such naked disgust that Anna inhaled a sharp breath. The sudden effort sent a shaft of agony tearing through her side.

She’d seen that reaction before, a curious mixture of disdain and resentment. “You’re not an admirer of the women’s movement, are you?”

“A woman’s place is in the home. Not squawking out in public and making a spectacle of herself. Women are too emotional for politics.”

Izetta gasped. “How dare you!”

Mr. McCoy pushed away from the door frame, plumping up like a gathering thundercloud. Anna gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The Bishop women were not victims.

They did not need to be saved like milquetoast princesses from a Grimm’s fairy tale. “A woman’s place is wherever she chooses.”

The detective made a great show of rolling his eyes. “If the woman wears the pants, what’s the man supposed to wear?”

“Short pants,” Izetta declared. “Especially if they insist on acting like children.”

“Say now!”

“That’s enough,” Caleb growled. “You’re not here for your opinion.”

“I don’t work for you.” The detective rested his fisted knuckles on his thighs, elbows out, one bony protrusion jutting through a hole in his sleeve. “Either way, you got a problem, Miss Bishop. A big one. This wasn’t a warning. Whoever took that shot meant to leave you dead.”

Stomach churning, Anna shifted to the edge of her seat. She’d underestimated the limits of her endurance, but she wasn’t about to let that infuriating little man witness her frailty.

Mr. McCoy’s sharp gaze rested on her ashen face. He motioned toward the detective. “You’ve had your say. If you hear anything else, let us know.”

“For a price.”

Widening his stance, Mr. McCoy fisted his hands beneath his biceps. The posture was uniquely male, a declaration of his authority.

He might be a quiet man, but she doubted anyone who knew Mr. McCoy well would readily cross him.

He leaned toward Reinhart. “For a fellow who says he’s not very smart, you seem to do all right.”

Mr. McCoy was far too perceptive by half. Hadn’t Anna thought the same thing only moments before?

Reinhart stood and tugged his ill-fitting jacket over his rounded stomach. He tipped back his head since Mr. McCoy was a good foot taller, and waved his bowed and skeletal index finger. “You know my rate. Pay or don’t. Don’t make me no never mind.”

Once he’d exited the room, Anna’s flagging reserve of strength finally deserted her. Desperate to alleviate her discomfort, she pushed off from the chair and stumbled. Mr. McCoy was at her side in an instant. He hooked his arm beneath her shoulder, carefully avoiding her injury.

“I’m quite well,” she said, and yet she found herself leaning into the bolstering support he offered.

Her stomach fluttered. This was what her mother had warned her about. Victoria Bishop had declared men the ruin of women, turning perfectly sensible ladies into churning masses of emotions—robbing them of the ability to make sensible decisions. Sheltered from even the most banal interactions with gentlemen her own age, Anna had inwardly scoffed at the exaggerated tales.

Occasionally older men had flirted with her over the years. Once in a while, a stray husband of one of their acquaintances decided that charming a suffragist was a sign of virility. She’d been singularly unmoved by the obvious ploy. Their honeyed words had sluiced off her like raindrops off a slicker.

With Mr. McCoy near, a whole new understanding dawned. This wasn’t the forced regard she usually deflected. His touch made her restless for more. There was an unexpected tenderness within him, a compassion that drew her nearer, tugging at the edges of her resolve.

“You’re not well at all.” He gingerly assisted her to the bed. “You’re exhausted. We’ve overdone it. I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“No,” Anna said, crumpling onto the mattress, too tired to care about detectives and gunshots and unassuming veterinarians who surprised her with their fierce protectiveness. “I simply need to rest.”

To her immense relief, no one argued. Instead, in a flurry of pitying looks and murmured orders to repose, Izetta and Jo reluctantly exited the room.

Only Mr. McCoy lingered, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other on the wall, as though propelling himself from the room.

Was he that eager to be free of her?

He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Rest. We can discuss what needs to be done later.”

At least the change in position had temporarily alleviated the worst of her pain. If only her troubled thoughts were calmed as easily.

She desperately searched her memory for the events preceding the rally. A little girl had handed her a bouquet of flowers. Yellow flowers. Anna had recalled the color matched the child’s dress.