Something Borrowed

  That was the problem, she told herself over and over. They didn't love each other. That was why she was plagued with uneasy feelings and doubts. She was about to exchange her safe, secure, well-loved existence and walk into the unknown with a man she hardly knew. And not for love—but for the sake of her cowardice and his convenience. Mary bit her bottom lip and stared at her reflection. Marriage was a lifelong pledge, and suddenly Mary wasn't completely sure she wanted to tie herself to Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III for even a day—much less the rest of her life.

  She sighed. Her daydreams of marriage had been so much more pleasant than the reality. In her daydreams, she fell in love and married a man who loved her—one who also loved the ranch as much as she did. In her daydreams, her husband moved into her cabin with her and they lived and loved and worked and raised their family on the Trail T. But her intended had other plans. He wanted to live in Cheyenne, and soon Mary would be legally and spiritually bound to follow him into the city—leaving behind her job, her family home, her parents, grandparents, brothers, cousins, nieces and nephews, and everyone else who lived on the ranch.

  Mary frowned at her image in the silvered glass as she thought of all the upcoming changes. She would miss her loved ones, and the familiar confines of her cabin, but she would miss her job as schoolmistress to the ranch's children most of all. Pelham didn't want her to work, and had flatly refused to discuss the possibility of her riding the five miles out to the ranch every day to continue teaching. Nor would he consider allowing her to teach in Cheyenne. Mary sighed. So Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III was a bit rigid and set in his ways. So what? He was punctual, reliable, and hardworking. He would go far with the Cheyenne Stockholders' Bank. So what if his kisses didn't set her heart racing? Mary reached up and thoughtfully traced the line of her bottom lip with one finger. Hadn't Pelham told her that the reason he didn't want her to continue teaching was that he wanted to start a family right away? Soon she would have children of her own to teach, and wasn't that what she really wanted? She should count herself lucky that Pelham was, in his words, willing to overlook her unfortunate lineage. If only she could convince herself of that before the wedding.

  "Are you sure this is what you want?"

  Mary looked around and caught Tessa's worried expression. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

  "Maybe because you don't look very happy," Tessa Alexander answered bluntly.

  Mary turned back to the mirror. "What gives you that idea? I think the dress is splendid. Mrs. Russo has outdone herself." She fingered the white lace and satin folds of her wedding dress, twisting this way and that, viewing the gown from different angles. "It's turned out very well. I'm pleased with my choice."

  Tessa took a deep breath. At times Mary reacted just like her older brother, David, hiding her feelings with meaningless conversation. But in the four months since she had married Mary's brother, Tessa had learned to get straight to the heart of David's concerns, and she was equally confident she could do the same with Mary. "We're not questioning your taste in clothes," she said. "We're questioning your choice of a husband."

  "We?"

  "Yes."

  Mary whirled around at the sound of another voice answering and came face to face with Faith. "You too?"

  Faith nodded. She had come west as Reese Jordan's bride nearly four years ago and now made her home with Reese and the girls—Faith's eight-year-old sister Joy. and their three-year-old daughter, Hope—on the Trail T Ranch. Although the ranch was technically owned by the Jordans, Reese's father had followed Cherokee tradition and welcomed his wife's family onto his land and the Trail T had become home to all the members of the Jordan-Alexander clan.

  Tessa Roarke had joined the family just four months ago when she married David Alexander, and Faith and Tessa had become the sisters Mary had never had-—her dearest friends, staunchest supporters, and closest allies… until now.

  Faith spoke up first. "I'm sorry, Mary, we don't mean to hurt you, but somebody had to come out and say what we've all been thinking." She watched as Mary gave Tessa an accusatory glance. "There's no call for you to be upset with Tessa. She speaks for all of us. We love you."

  "I see," Mary replied dryly. "You question my judgment because you love me."

  "Yes," Faith answered. "Because we're worried about you."

  "Are you?" Mary arched an eyebrow and turned to Tessa.

  Tessa recognized the gesture. She'd seen David raise his eyebrow that way at witnesses in the courtroom when he doubted their sincerity. "You know we are. Why shouldn't we be worried? This is all so sudden. How long have you known Pelham Cosgrove III?"

  "Long enough."

  "How long?" Tessa demanded. "Two weeks? Three?"

  "Longer than you knew David before you married him," Mary countered.

  "Our situation was different," Tessa protested.

  Mary arched her eyebrow once again. "Was it?"

  "You know it was," Tessa answered gently. "David and I married because we loved each other." She met Mary's brown-eyed gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "I don't think you can say the same about you and Mr. Cosgrove."

  "Stop right there," Mary warned as a rush of tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to overflow. She looked to Faith for support.

  "Tell us you love him," Faith whispered.

  Mary looked at Faith and Tessa and saw the concern in Faith's solemn gray eyes and Tessa's bright green ones, and the identical worry lines wrinkling their foreheads. "You two are the sisters I never had. Why can't you trust me? Why can't you and David," Mary glanced at Tessa, then focused her attention on Faith, "and you and Reese just wish me well?"

  "We do, Mary." Faith was merciless. "That's the problem. We do wish you well. We want you to be loved and to be happy."

  "I am."

  "Then reassure us," Tessa probbed. "Tell us you love the man you're going to marry. Tell us he loves you."

  Mary bit her lip as the tears she had been struggling to hold in check suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. "I can't."

  Tessa stepped closer, put her arms around her, and hugged her tightly. "Then help us, Mary. Please. Help us to understand why you are so determined to tie yourself to a man you don't love."

  Faith produced a delicate lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her housedress and reached up to wipe away Mary's tears. "It's all right," Faith said, patting Mary on the shoulder as she choked back another sob. "Take your time."

  Mary took the handkerchief from Faith and dried her eyes. "There isn't much to tell," she said. "It's very simple. I agreed to marry Pelham Cosgrove because he feels it's time he started a family. And I met his requirements for a wife."

  "His requirements?" Faith bristled. "What requirements?"

  "Looks, education, fine manners, and a certain amount of breeding." Mary smiled sadly.

  "A certain amount of breeding? What does that mean?" Tessa demanded.

  "It means he's the first gentleman I've met who has looked me in the eye, took note of my obvious Indian heritage, and still considered me enough of a lady to offer marriage instead of an affair."

  "Oh, Mary, I can't believe your Cherokee blood makes any difference," Faith said. "He must really care for you."

  "He really cares about our family's bank account," Mary told her.

  "And you're willing to settle for that?" Tessa couldn't believe her ears.

  "Yes," Mary answered fiercely. "I'm a twenty-eight-year-old spinster schoolteacher, and a half-breed to boot. Yes, I'm willing to settle for a husband, a home, and children of my own. I know the price is high, but I'm willing to pay it."

  "But Mary…" Faith began.

  "Look at me," Mary ordered, "and listen carefully. I need to marry Pelham. And although I'll miss it, I need to get away from the ranch. I need to get out from under Mother's wing and your shadows. I need to start living my own life. I love the two of you like sisters. I love your children and I enjoy teaching them, but I envy you. I want what you have. I want a family of my own. I feel
as if I'm missing so much. And every day I seem to die a little bit inside. I'm afraid that if I wait too long, I won't have anything to offer a husband. I'll be too old and too set in my ways and too bitter— always thinking about what might have been. I can't be a hanger-on anymore." Mary caught her breath as she began to cry once again. "1 don't like what it does to me. Don't you see? I'm afraid of what I'll become. I have to seize this opportunity."

  "But Pelham Cosgrove…" Tessa protested.

  "Please," Mary struggled to maintain her dignity, "try to understand. I know he's not what you wanted for me. He's not what I planned for me either, but"—she managed a wry smile—"as a half-breed Cherokee woman, I'm not likely to be overwhelmed by marriage offers, no matter how attractive or educated I am." She shrugged her shoulders. "Whether I like it or not, I'm too Indian for most white men, and too white for most Cherokee. I've discovered that life—at least my life— isn't like a fairy tale. Prince Charming isn't going to ride up on a white horse and sweep me off my feet." But even as she said it, an unbidden image sprang to mind—that of a blond-haired rogue with sparkling gray eyes, a voice that could melt butter, and a thick blond mustache that framed a most intriguing mouth. A blond-haired rogue who had, during each of their brief encounters, made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

  Mary closed her eyes in an attempt to blank out the picture in her mind, and when her feeble effort failed, she tried a different tack. Fixing her gaze on the heavy pearl-encrusted ring on her left hand, she began to methodically replace her mental image of her Prince Charming, feature for feature, with a picture of Pelham Everhardt Cosgrove III, and prayed it would last a lifetime.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Chicago, Illinois April 1873

  Lately it seemed to Lee Kincaid that even his most meticulous plans had been derailed by unexpected events. And what was worse, he decided as he finished slapping the soot and cinders from his hat and stepped through the front door of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency on Washington Street, was that there didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do about it.

  He dropped his leather satchel on the floor and looked up to find Allan Pinkerton's oldest son, William, sitting behind his desk. Lee took a deep breath, then let it out, and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing out the place where his hatband had molded it to his forehead. His trip to Washington had been plagued with problems, including the suicide of Senator Millen—the man he had gone to investigate. His scheduled return had been delayed by the state funeral.

  Lee muttered a curse beneath his breath. His holiday would just have to wait a little longer. If he had learned one thing after twelve years of working for the Pinkertons— first with Allan, and now with his sons, William and Robert—Lee Kincaid knew the Agency would demand an immediate recounting of the status of the Millen case. He knew he wouldn't be allowed a respite until the Agency was satisfied with his report, but he hadn't expected William to be waiting in his office to get it firsthand.

  "It's about time you got back," William greeted him.

  "I just stepped off the train from Washington."

  "You were expected back three days ago."

  Lee shrugged out of his long canvas duster and draped it across the wrought iron hat and umbrella stand beside the door. Such was the life of a Pinkerton detective; always on the road traveling from one place to another, and always with unexpected delays and daily reports to file. He tossed his hat atop the duster. "I stayed for Senator Millen's funeral."

  "I heard," William told him. "The death of a United States senator usually means problems—especially when it's rumored that he died of unnatural causes."

  Lee snorted.

  "Was it a suicide?"

  "Mrs. Millen is saying her husband died of heart failure. That's the official story."

  "What's your story?"

  "If he had a heart." Lee hooked the toe of his boot under the rung of a chair, pulled it to him, and straddled it. He propped his arms on the back of the chair and fingered one corner of his mustache. "I'd say it stopped beating after he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger." He folded his arms across the back of the chair.

  "You think it had anything to do with Tessa Alexander hiring you to locate the senator's illegitimate granddaughter?"

  Lee met his boss's intense gaze. "I don't think that my asking questions about the senator's personal life or his business dealings helped the situation. Senator Warner Millen definitely had family skeletons in his closet. But if you're asking whether I personally had anything to do with the senator's death, rest assured that the Agency isn't responsible." Lee smiled. "I might have wanted to put a gun to the old bastard's head, but I didn't."

  Pinkerton nodded once. "That's what I wanted to hear." He managed a grim smile. "Any luck?"

  "Not yet. But there's going to be a senate investigation and I'm pretty sure they'll find that Millen was being blackmailed by his former clerk."

  "Reason?"

  Lee grinned and his gray eyes sparkled. "Now that's where my investigation comes in. The senator's former clerk knew the whole story of how Senator Millen railroaded David Alexander out of Washington for refusing to marry his daughter—of how the old man falsely accused David of seducing and abandoning Caroline Millen, leaving her alone and in the family way. And it seems"—Lee paused for effect—"that the senator's clerk also knew that Senator Millen, a man who prided himself on his loyalty to his family and friends, disowned Caroline when her daughter, Lily Catherine, was born. He sent the infant to live with strangers when Caroline died just hours after giving birth. The clerk apparently demanded money for his silence, and the senator had no choice but to pay."

  William shook his head. "Nasty business, blackmail. Have you located the clerk?"

  "Not yet," Lee told him. "But we will. I left Willis working on it. I couldn't telegraph a report that included the blackmail of a U.S. senator, so I figured you would want me to come back and report to you in person."

  "It's a good thing you did."

  "Why?" Lee asked. "What's up?"

  "I'm not sure," William admitted. "But you've got a stack of telegrams waiting for you and all of them are marked urgent." William picked up the small pile of papers and thumbed through the messages. "There's four from Tessa Roarke Alexander in Cheyenne and"—he counted—"one, two, three from McLeary."

  Lee reached for the telegrams. "Who's McLeary?"

  "Tom McLeary," William explained as he handed them over. "He's the man who took your place in Denver."

  "Denver?" Lee frowned. "I don't know McLeary and I haven't been to Denver in"—he thought for a moment— "over three years. Not since—" He broke off abruptly. "What business could your man in Denver have with me?" He quickly scanned the three telegrams from Tom McLeary. "He says someone has left something for me there and he wants me to come and claim it. He says it's urgent."

  William nodded.

  "Any idea what it is?" Lee asked.

  "None. But McLeary's not a man to exaggerate. If he says there's an urgent situation waiting for you in Denver, then I think you should take care of it. Immediately."

  Knowing William Pinkerton had already read all the telegrams, Lee asked, "What about Tessa? What does she want?"

  "She's ordering you to report to the Trail T ranch." William smiled his first genuine smile of the afternoon. "As soon as possible. She says it's very important."

  Lee scratched his chin. "She knew I was going to be in Washington," he told Pinkerton. "She's probably eager to find out what I learned there."

  "That's my conclusion as well," William agreed.

  "And?"

  "Go pack another bag," William said, "I'll send someone down to purchase your tickets and to telegraph McLeary that Mr.—" He paused, glanced over at Lee, then asked, "Smith or Jones?"

  "Jones," Lee answered, a flash of amusement lighting the depths of his gray eyes. Assumed names were another part of detective life. "I was Smith on the last trip."

&
nbsp; "Mr. Jones is on his way." "Do I have time to shave and change shirts?" Pinkerton glanced down at the copy of the train schedule spread out across his desk. "If you hurry. The next Chicago and North Western train leaves in forty-five minutes."

  Detective Liam Kincaid arrived at Union Station in Denver some thirty hours later, exhausted, bone-weary, and heartily sick of traveling. He stretched his tired muscles as he stepped from the train onto the platform, eyed the hired hacks waiting at the depot, and decided to walk the few blocks up Sixteenth Street to Larimer. Pausing at the corner of Sixteenth and Larimer, Lee set his satchel on the ground beside him. He reached in his jacket pocket and took out a slip of paper with Tom McLeary's address. He scanned the signs painted on the false-fronted buildings and hanging from signposts until he located the Talbotton Hotel, across the street and four doors down. Lee stuffed the address back into his pocket and picked up his satchel once again.

  "I'm looking for Mr. McLeary," Lee said as soon as he stepped through the etched glass door of the hotel. "I'm supposed to meet him here."

  The desk clerk, a slight balding man, responded immediately. "Yes, sir. Mr. McLeary's been expecting you. He's in the Silver Suite. Up the stairs, last door on the right. Here's your room key. Now, if you'll please sign the register." The clerk turned the guest book around to face Lee and offered him a pen and a key on a silver chain.

  Lee frowned. "I didn't ask for a room."

  "Mr. McLeary booked the Silver Suite for you, sir, and your guests," the man explained.

  "My guests?"

  "They arrived a week ago, sir. They're waiting upstairs in your suite. Now, if you'll please sign."

  Lee took the pen. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, forcing his weary mind to function, then scrawled a name across two lines of the book in bold, black letters. L. K. Jones. Lee shoved the pen and the register back across the polished surface, grabbed the key in one hand, picked up his bag in the other, and took the stairs two at a time.