The Engagement Bargain

“Oh, no, Mr. McCoy hasn’t gone. He and his sister have been keeping the vultures at bay.” Mrs. Franklin folded Anna’s discarded nightgown and laid it on her trunk. “It’s been a circus, let me tell you. I don’t know what we would have done without those two.”

Anna’s memories of the past week were hazy at best. The police had questioned her briefly, but she had nothing to offer. She hadn’t seen anything, and despite the ubiquitous protestors from the opposition, she’d never been threatened with bodily harm. Or shot at, for that matter. The police had pressed her for information until Mr. McCoy had ordered them away, but not before demanding they leave a guard at her door.

Mr. McCoy’s soothing voice had been the one constant in a sea of confusion. She’d caught Jo teasing him, ribbing him for treating them all as though they were his four-legged patients, and yet she’d found the deep timbre of his reassuring voice a lifeline in the darkness. She’d been injured and out of sorts, that was all. Surely this curious fascination with the man would fade soon enough. Her fellow suffragists would not approve.

Love will ruin a woman faster than rain will ruin a parade.

Mrs. Franklin paused with her hand on the doorknob. “We kept your room number secret until that reporter grew weary of trying. After you speak with the detective, you’ll have to make some decisions.”

The door swung open, and Anna’s breath caught in her throat. “Mr. McCoy! I was expecting the Pinkerton detective.”

She desperately hoped he attributed the breathless quality of her voice to her recent injury. And surprise. Yes, she was simply surprised.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’d be him.”

Her eyes widened. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the other man was derelict. The detective appeared to be in his late forties with a curiously rounded middle and stick limbs. As though all of his weight had congregated in his belly, starving the fat from his arms and legs. He wore an ill-fitting coat in a nondescript shade of brown which matched the shock of disordered, thinning hair covering his head.

Anna swept her arm in an arc. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough seats for all of you. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mr. McCoy propped his shoulder against the door frame. “I’ll stand.”

How did he manage to pack such a wealth of meaning into so few words?

The detective huffed.

Annoyance radiated from Mr. McCoy’s stiff demeanor. There was obviously no love lost between the two men.

The detective straddled a chair and rested his arms on the back. “The name is Reinhart. I’m here on another case.”

A sharp ache throbbed in her temple, and Anna pressed two fingers against the pain. “I don’t follow.”

“When I’m working on a case, I pay attention to things. To everything. You never know what you might hear.”

“I see,” Anna replied vaguely, though she didn’t see at all.

Reinhart shrugged. “Anyway, I’m from St. Louis. Moved to this office last May.”

Caleb pushed off from the wall. “Just get to the point. Tell her what you told me this morning.”

The detective rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve heard a few things. Mind you, if you want to find the shooter, that’s a separate job. Like I said this morning, that’ll cost you extra.”

Mr. McCoy cleared his throat.

The man glared over his shoulder, his movements twitchy and nervous as a rat. “Anyway, I’ve been doing some digging, and I ain’t found nothing.”

Oddly deflated by his vague speech, Anna tilted her head. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”

“Don’t you get it? No one has claimed responsibility. No one seen nothing. Nothing.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“This is personal. Someone with a grudge against women voting wants his voice heard. He wants attention. Someone with a personal vendetta is going underground. He doesn’t want to get caught. Leastways not until the job is done right.”

While the man’s clothing and grooming might lead one to believe he was not educated, his speech let slip his intellect. Clearly playing the bumbling fool suited his work.

He glanced meaningfully at her side and Anna pressed her hand against the bandages beneath her clothing.

She sat up and winced. “Someone wants me dead. Just me?”

“That’s the way I see it.”

Blood roared in her ears. Somehow she’d pictured the act as random. A lone, crazed shooter with a grudge against women who was bent on causing an uproar. Someone determined to halt the rally.

In the back of her mind, she’d even wondered if the whole thing had been an accident. Years ago, their neighbor in St. Louis had inadvertently discharged a firearm while attempting to clean the weapon. He’d shattered the parlor window and taken a chunk out 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.”