of the Sheridan train depot. Mr. Kent was late. That or he’d already changed his mind about employing another detective to solve his case. Maggy’s gloved hand strayed to her collar, and she forced it back down to her side instead of plucking at the scratchy lace for the umpteenth time. The ridiculously small, plumed hat she’d chosen to wear to complete her outfit did little to shade her face from the afternoon sun.
Without knowing what sort of role Edward Kent might want her to play for this mission, she’d chosen the part of a female relation—middle-class and independent—for her journey to Wyoming to visit her distant cousin. But now that she was here, she longed to be free of the smothering, stiff fabric of her traveling suit.
“Where is he?” she muttered to herself as she glanced around the emptying train station. She’d been hoping to convince him that he still needed help, get to his ranch right away, then take stock of the situation, not stand around waiting.
When another ten minutes had crawled by, according to the watch pinned to her lapel, Maggy dragged her trunk into the train’s waiting room. She cajoled the ticket clerk with a pretty smile and a nickel to watch her luggage until she returned. Then she asked for directions to the nearest livery stable. Once there, she requested a horse and buggy.
“How far is it to Big Horn?” she asked the livery owner as he hitched the bay he’d selected to the vehicle. The animal looked a little docile for Maggy’s tastes, making her wish she could saddle up the sleek mare she’d seen inside the building. But she couldn’t risk the talk that would surely follow if she rode astride a horse in her dress.
The owner peered over his shoulder at her. “Big Horn would be ’bout nine miles from here. You visitin’ someone that a ways?”
“Edward Kent.” She smiled demurely. “I’m a distant relation of his.”
“Kent’s place is just seven miles away.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re from England then, are you?”
“Come again?”
“Mr. Kent’s a Brit. Figured you must be, too.”
Maggy inwardly cringed at not knowing such an important detail sooner. Her repertoire of accents didn’t include the most convincing British one. “Actually I hail from the part of the family that immigrated to America a few generations ago. Dear Edward followed in our path. But I’ve only just been able to leave my obligations at home in order to come see him.”
The man took her explanation in stride without even blinking. “Your buggy’s all ready, ma’am. This here horse don’t move as quick as he once did, but he’s real easy to handle.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Maggy accepted the reins from him as she took a seat in the buggy. Once he’d given her directions on how to find the Running W, she clucked to the horse and drove away from the livery. It didn’t take long to collect her trunk from the station—a train porter insisted on carrying it out to the vehicle for her and tying it down with some rope.
She maintained a cordial smile to passersby as she drove through Sheridan. Once she left the stores and homes behind, though, she dropped the friendly, slightly vacant expression as her sharply honed observation skills kicked in.
The green hills and distant mountains reminded Maggy of the Colorado town she’d called home before escaping to Denver. She immediately locked her mind against any thoughts of home, if she could even call it that. Instead she concentrated on paying attention to the landscape she passed and the other ranches in the area.
Before long she reached the lane the livery owner had indicated led to Kent’s ranch. She turned the horse to the left and drove the buggy down the side road. The Big Horn Mountains were closer now, their peaks stretching towards the overcast sky. After crossing a stone bridge that spanned a river, Maggy glimpsed a large house and outbuildings among the trees. Ahead stood an iron archway with the ranch’s brand prominently displayed at the top. She drove beneath the arch, and a feeling of anticipation had her urging the horse faster. This is where she’d spend the next while, where she’d “get her man” and hopefully where she’d secure her promotion as lead female detective for the entire Pinkerton Agency.
Maggy glanced to her right, her gaze snagging on a small cabin beside the river. It had likely been Mr. Kent’s residence prior to the building of the larger house. But that thought barely registered in her mind before her lungs squeezed tight, forcing her to gasp for breath. At the same time, her heart began to pound. Sweat collected beneath her hat brim and along her strangling collar. Her hands trembled so badly she could hardly hold the reins.
Not another attack. Not here. She hadn’t experienced one in months, and yet, the tiny cabin eerily matched the one she’d grown up in and the one she’d shared with Jeb as his wife.
It required all of her strength to stop the horse. Unpinning her hat, Maggy used it to fan her flushed face. She shut her eyes and willed herself to breathe through the pressure in her chest. She was safe—no one was going to harm her ever again. Especially not a man. Detective skills weren’t the only things she’d learned in the last six years; she’d also learned how to take care of herself.
If she’d only learned those skills sooner...
Feeling faint, she lay down on the seat and pressed her cheek to the tufted leather, desperate for something real and solid beneath her. Her pa was dead and so was her husband. Neither of them would ever lift a hand to her again. But the old fear and panic refused to release her from their iron grip. Hot tears burned her face as they slid onto the buggy seat.
“May I help you?” a male voice asked from nearby.
Maggy scrambled up, her heart thrashing for an entirely new reason. Mortification scalded her cheeks at being caught in the middle of one of her episodes. Brushing away her tears, she discovered a man watching her from the seat of his wagon, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He had light brown hair, cut short, beneath his cowboy hat. And his eyes were an interesting shade of gray.
“I’m here to see to Mr. Kent,” she said, hastily poking pins back into her hair where it had fallen from its coif as she’d removed her hat.
His eyebrows shot upward. “I’m Edward Kent. And you are?”
She’d been too flustered to immediately identify the British accent she now plainly heard behind his words. This was her employer. Maggy cleared her throat.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kent.” She straightened her shoulders and pasted on what she hoped resembled a smile. “I’m your new Pinkerton detective.”
“I beg your pardon?” Edward shook his head, certain he hadn’t heard her correctly. There was no way this woman with her messy auburn hair and tear-filled blue eyes could be a Pinkerton detective. Besides, he’d been informed the new operative would be waiting for him at the train station, and probably had been for some time. He’d spent longer than he’d intended watching a group of strangers who’d ridden close to the edge of his property that morning.
The woman’s smile increased, appearing less tremulous and more confident by the second. “I said I’m your new detective. My name’s Maggy.”
“You can’t be the new detective. I was supposed to meet him...”
