Chapter Nineteen
Cowboy Creek, Kansas June 1869
There was a blindfolded woman in the boardinghouse kitchen.
Adam Halloway’s training kicked in. He reached for his gun out of habit, only to come up empty. His gun belt and Pinkerton detective badge were tucked away in his saddlebags, where they’d stay for the duration of this investigation.
He scanned the spacious room. It looked like an average kitchen with the usual equipment. Sunlight streamed through filmy lace curtains, painting the bulky working table and floorboards in innocent light. No evil villains lurked in the corners.
His narrowed gaze returned to the woman and made a quick assessment of her appearance. Short of stature, brunette, young. How young was impossible to say with part of her face hidden by a swath of black material. Her posture didn’t scream distress.
He finally noticed the twin saucers of unfrosted cake on the table in front of her. Bowls of assorted sizes littered the far end, and baking tins crowded the hulking stove behind her. With one foot in the kitchen and one in the hallway, he watched as she lifted a bite to her mouth and chewed. A pleat furrowed her brow. She cocked her head to the right. Chewed some more.
What on earth was she doing?
The sense of urgency passed, and he did a more thorough inventory. Her hair was clean and shiny, parted in the middle and arranged in neat rolls. A perky purple and yellow flower was nestled above her left ear. The white apron she wore contrasted with her lavender cotton dress. Below the blousy sleeves, her arms were slender and pale, her hands fine-boned and smooth. Those hands spoke of a life of leisure. The delicate gold chain draped around her wrist and the tasteful diamond earrings winking at him couldn’t be acquired on a cook’s salary. Perhaps she had a wealthy husband who indulged his wife’s desire to work? But there was no gold band to indicate she was married.
She was sampling the second cake when he spoke.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for the proprietress, Aunt Mae. Can you tell me where to find her?”
A garbled yelp escaped her. Fumbling to remove the blindfold, she got it off with an impatient tug, slightly mussing the neat strands of her hair. Wide, heavily lashed eyes the hue of polished golden topaz settled on him.
“You’re new.”
“I’m looking for the owner to ask about a room.”
“I meant you’re new to Cowboy Creek.”
He eased farther into the kitchen. “How do you figure? A cattle town such as this one must see its fair share of folks passing through.” A fact that made it easy for a criminal like the one he sought to blend in.
“A man as picture-perfect as you wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.” The second the words were out, she blushed to the roots of her hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. Lucy wouldn’t have given in to the urge.”
“Lucy?”
“My younger sister. She is the definition of proper.”
“Ah.” Adam couldn’t help but be charmed. “I apologize for interrupting your...” He flicked his fingers in the direction of the cake. “Um, what exactly did I interrupt?”
Her hands fluttered, the limp blindfold flapping against her waist. “I was trying to decide whether or not to include ground cayenne pepper in my chocolate cake.”
“Cayenne pepper? In a cake?”
She shrugged. “I like to experiment with different flavors.”
“I’m Adam Draper, by the way.” The false surname left his lips in smooth sincerity. Working for the National Pinkerton Detective Agency since the war’s end four years ago, he’d assumed dozens of personas in his pursuit of criminals. This time, he wasn’t doing it for the Pinkertons. He was here for personal reasons.
She placed her hand in his outstretched one and offered a bright smile. “I’m Deborah, a boarder here. Aunt Mae hired me to bake desserts. I do it in exchange for room and board.”
For long moments, Adam became ensnared by her beauty. Her eyes, almond-shaped and almost too large for her face, sparkled with optimism not readily found in his line of work. She had sleek, dark brown eyebrows that punctuated the lightness of her irises. Her nose was straight, her mouth small and dainty, her teeth white and even. The slight cleft in her rounded chin called for his thumb to rest there.
Her name is Deborah. With a D. The scrap of a note he’d discovered in the last known residence of Zane Ogden, the very note that had led him to Kansas, had been written by someone whose signature began with a D. The rolling script belonged to a woman, he was certain. And this one had failed to offer her last name, an unusual omission.
He ended the handshake more abruptly than he’d intended. “Do you have a last name, Deborah?”
Her smile faltered. “Frazier.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Frazier. Or is it Mrs.?”
She blanched. “I’m not married.”
Why would an innocuous question net
