of the porch railing.
This was no accident.
This was more focused. This was personal.
As the realization sank in, her heart thumped painfully in her chest, leaving her light-headed.
The twitchy man shrugged. “That’s the problem. That’s your problem. My guess is, he’s going to try again.”
Anna searched the expectant faces staring at her. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? She glanced at Izetta who remained at her vigil near the window.
“I’ve asked the others.” The widow offered an apologetic grimace. “There’s been no great trouble with our local chapter. We’ve gotten the usual threats, of course. The occasional brick through the front window and painted slurs. But no one has taken responsibility for the shooting. Perhaps they wanted the notoriety of targeting a suffragist with a large following.”
Though no hint of censure showed in Izetta’s voice, Anna’s ears buzzed. “I’m only well-known because of my mother. I’m hardly worthy of notice otherwise.”
She thought she heard mutterings from Mr. McCoy’s direction, but when she caught his gaze, his face remained impassive.
Jo sidled through the doorway and exchanged a glance with her brother.
Anna welcomed the interruption. “Have you heard anything new?” she asked Jo.
With any luck the criminal had been found and all this conjecture was pointless.
“Nothing. But there’s a telegram from your mother. I’ve been keeping her informed of your progress. I did as you requested, I brushed over the details so she wouldn’t worry. Perhaps I blunted them too much.” Jo glanced at the curious face of the detective and cleared her throat. “Never mind. We can discuss that later. Alone.”
Anna exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts, following Mr. McCoy’s lead by keeping her face bland. Perhaps they had kept the details too blunted. Thus far her mother had been sympathetic, but impersonal. As though she was commiserating with a distant acquaintance instead of her only daughter. Not that Anna expected her to come charging to Kansas City. Victoria Bishop had never been one for nursing the sick. She considered any weakness, even ill health, an inconvenience.
There was no need to involve anyone else in this mess, especially if the shooting was targeted at her. Anna might have been injured, but she was no victim.
Bracing her left hand on the seat, she suppressed a grimace. “Then I shall return home. To St. Louis.”
She’d been sitting upright too long, and the injury in her side had turned from a dull ache into a painful throbbing.
“Nah.” The Pinkerton detective grunted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea either. You’re known. You’re not hard to find. I ain’t that smart. Other people could do the same.”
He was plenty smart, Anna had no doubt of that. Studying the faces turned toward her, she had the distinct sensation they wanted something from her.
That she was the only person in the room who hadn’t been apprised of the predetermined plan. “What do you propose I do?”
Caleb held up his hand, silencing Reinhart. “Come to Cimarron Springs. Stay with Jo.”
A thread of anxiety coiled in her stomach. She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t a victim. She wouldn’t be delivered onto someone’s doorstep like an unwanted package.
“And how will that attract any less attention?” Anna gritted her teeth against her clouding vision. “I do not mean to sound arrogant, Mr. McCoy, but my name is not unknown. I have dealt with reporters before. They are far wilier than one supposes. It won’t take long for them to discover where I am.”
Jo stepped forward. “Not if we give you a new name. You can be Anna Smith or something. Caleb and I will keep in touch with the detective. Cimarron Springs is quiet. You’ll have a chance to recuperate.”
A chilly perspiration beaded on her forehead. Anna couldn’t shake the sensation she was missing something in the exchange. “It’s very kind of you, but I am not unfamiliar with small towns either. Gossip is rampant, and curiosity is lethal to your plan. We’re bound to slip up sooner or later.”
The excuse sounded weak even to her own ears. She’d been a controversial figure since before she was born—the illegitimate daughter of heiress Victoria Bishop. Her mother had been singularly remorseless in her infamy. Senior ladies in their chapter had regaled Anna with stories of her mother’s brazen disregard for convention.
Anna had eventually grown old enough to hear the harsher opinions of her mother’s behavior, and suffer for them. For a time she’d ignored her notoriety. Then the parents with children attending Miss Spence’s Boarding and Day School for Girls had demanded her removal. They didn’t want their daughters’ reputations sullied by association.
Victoria Bishop had marched into the school, her heels click-clacking along the marble floors. Anna had waited outside the office, her buttoned leather boots swinging to and fro, while her mother told Miss Spence exactly what she thought of Anna’s expulsion.
A succession of tutors proficient in various subjects had followed. A more focused education, if a touch lonely. Training for solitude had served her well. Despite all the women she met in her travels, most of her time was spent alone. Traveling. Writing letters. Organizing the many separate chapters into a united front.
Proving herself worthy of her mother’s legacy.
“You’ll be there as my friend,” Jo said. “A friend who had an accident and needs some quiet.”
“It could work.” The detective spoke. “Remember, though, if you show up out of the blue with someone they ain’t never heard of before, people will talk. You gotta give them something to talk about or else they’ll make up the missing pieces on their own.”
Anna’s side was on fire, and she wasn’t opposed to resting. After her near-failed attempt at dressing herself this morning, she’d admitted the gravity of her wound. She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Though she’d never admit her weakness, she was still grappling with the realization that someone wanted her dead.
Dead.
Jo planted one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers on the dressing table. “The last page of the Crofton County Gazette has a listing of visitors with each edition. You know the stuff, ‘Mrs. Bertrand’s two grandchildren are visiting from St. Louis. The Millers have gone to Wichita for the wedding of their niece.’ That sort of thing. How would we print Anna’s visit in the paper? That should give us some ideas.”
Caleb reached into the side pocket of his bag. “You’re brilliant, Jo. I’ve got a copy right here.”
Anna surveyed their enthusiasm with a jaded eye. A small town was simply Miss Spence’s School for Girls all over again. She’d be a pariah once the townspeople uncovered her true identity. Already, too many people knew their secret, and the McCoys didn’t strike her as proficient in subterfuge. Sooner or later someone was bound to discover the truth.
While she didn’t think the townspeople would stalk her with pitchforks
