Eden's Sin, page 2
“Well, then I need you to ask her again if she can write down any more details about the man. Anything will be helpful.”
“All right.”
“Where can I find you?”
“Excuse me?” A roar started in her head. She couldn’t tell him where. He’d never help her.
His eyes narrowed. “In case I make progress or have questions.”
Eden sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, um, I … I'd rather you give me a few days with Mary then I'll come back here and tell you if I find out anything else.”
The major leaned back, his eyes narrowed even more, studying her. She forced herself not to look away. Breathe slowly. If he pressed, she'd have to tell the truth. But then he'd wad up that paper and throw it and her out to the street.
“As you wish,” he finally relented.
But his expression screamed suspicion. Her reprieve wouldn't last long.
“Thank you.” The words came out in an embarrassing whoosh. She had to get away from him before he started asking more questions. She stood and turned to the tent opening, then stopped. “I appreciate your help. I had all but given up hope.”
He strode to her side and took her hand in a quick goodbye—but not quick enough. A shiver tickled down her spine at the feel of his warm, callused hand.
“Never give up on anything, Miz Gabrielli. Believe me, I don't.”
Was that warning?—or was she just feeling guilty? Either way the warm feeling of his touch was gone, replaced by a chill of foreboding.
Eden nodded, forced a smile and hurried down the street.
Why, why didn't she just tell him to come to the saloon? Ladore was too small a place to hide. A day or two at most then Major Bradford would find out who – what – she was. And he would cause a ruckus, one big enough the senator could find out she had been to see the major.
Panic crawled up her throat and frustrated tears filled her eyes. What was she going to do?
If the major was as smart as she thought, maybe a couple of days would give him enough time to gather information about the rapist. She could avoid being out front of the saloon. She could do the cooking and let Alice and the girls serve and bartend. He wouldn’t find out who she was and the senator wouldn’t be the wiser.
Everything would be fine. It would be. It had to be.
Why then, did his parting words skitter down her spine like a warning?
Chapter Two
Sinclair Bradford watched the woman scurry down the street and round the corner of the mercantile, a slip in her gait as if she was trying to conceal a limp. She was hiding something – something more than a bad leg. Hedging, withholding information. Not even saying where she lived. She was no lady of leisure, that was certain. Her hands were every bit as rough as his own, and her dress though clean, was threadbare. And she'd become uncomfortable with his simple questions. Why was she lying?
What was she hiding?
He ducked back into the tent. A puzzle always intrigued him, always. But one wrapped in a beautiful package, well, that was more than he could ignore. And this time, more than he wanted to ignore. Spending time with her would be no hardship.
If only she hadn’t hurried away so fast. She was real easy to look at, and truth be told, he was tired of being alone. Seven years was a long time. What he’d thought would be time well spent healing from a marriage full of lies had simply turned into seven long, miserable, lonely years.
Shaking his head he looked around at his tent, his life, such as it was. Maybe it was time to forget what Coreena had done, let himself be with someone other than a whore whose name he wouldn’t remember. Warm the bed with a woman he could wake up with. One who might mean something to him, one who wouldn’t lie with every breath – if such a woman even existed. And he wasn’t betting on it.
Damn it. He hated that his ability to trust had been stolen, hated that he’d become a cynical ass. Hated that most of all. But it was better this way. Really. Safer. He could concentrate on his job.
Two jobs now.
He turned and grabbed a crate to finish unpacking, imagining Father’s expression if he found out Sinclair was investigating the rape of someone as unimportant as a laundress. No one crossed Judge Wilson Bradford. He would be furious if Sinclair spent time investigating anything but his secret assignment. Not that Father had been happy since the war, nor would ever be happy that Sinclair hadn't been the son to die at Gettysburg.
Theodore died, Sinclair lived. And Father would never forgive him for that.
He hefted two more crates, trying to erase the memories.
Hell. He hadn’t thought about the war in awhile now. But now he could smell the choking gunpowder, feel it burning his eyes. Hear the moans of injured men. Hear Theodore’s dying words…
Why did Father have to contact him? Why couldn't he just leave him alone? The past had been in the past. Christ, now it burned and throbbed like a fresh wound.
Maybe it would have been better if he had been the one to die at Gettysburg. Not the first time that thought had crossed his mind, but the first time in a long time.
Sinclair ran his fingers through his hair. Best to complete his hidden agenda. Figure out who was trying to sabotage the Katy then get his ass back to Fort Hayes.
He pulled his father's letter from the envelope hidden at the bottom of the satchel and skimmed the bold handwriting. How was it possible for disappointment and condescension to burst from ink and paper?
He growled and fisted the letter into a tight ball. He hated the self-doubt this letter stirred. He was a damned major in the United States Army. He served under General George Armstrong Custer for Christ's sake. Things were fine until Father forced this assignment on him. But Judge Bradford would have his way, come Hell or high water. No matter who he had to step on to get what he wanted.
Sinclair blew another long breath, flattened the letter onto his desk and began to re-read his instructions. A senator had accused Parsons of mis-directing investor’s funds—Father being one of those investors. Since Father trusted no one, he had started investigating the senator, finding the man was dually invested, some money in Parsons’ venture and even more money in the Joy Line. To Father’s way of thinking, that screamed of conflict of interests, begging the question, just how intent was this senator on seeing Parsons lose?
Sinclair wadded up the paper and threw it across the room. Damned politics.
“Major?”
Sinclair waved Corporal Ballard inside the tent. “Let's finish unpacking. Then I have to pay a visit to Parsons. I'll see what I can find out, but I don't expect the cagey bastard to be much help. He is after all, a politician.” And that touched just a little too close to home. “I'll let you know how we will proceed.” He sighed. “We've also been given another investigation to pursue.” He handed the young man a crate. “The rape of a girl.”
***
A few hours later, Sinclair trudged out of the tent and headed down the street. Ladore was like any other Kansas town. Raw, rough. Lawless. But he loved the challenge and freedom the West offered. A man could lose himself out here. Forget the war, the pain . . .or at least try.
God knows I’ve tried.
Judge Parsons’ private railcar sat on a sidetrack. Sinclair climbed the narrow car steps and rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
Sinclair stepped inside. Judge Parsons obviously spared no luxury on his offices. Velvet, silk, Mahogany, Teak. The wasteful excess chewed Sinclair’s gut like cheap whiskey. He thought he'd managed to separate himself from this life of superfluity and the memories that came with it. Now, the past charged at him as if in full battle cry.
“You must be Major Bradford.” A tall man stepped forward and extended his hand. The thin smile lifting his mouth wasn't overly genuine, but Sinclair would bet the silk of his waistcoat was. “I'm Henry Stevens, Chief of Operations. Judge Parsons has been waiting.” The last line was pronounced like a verdict of guilt.
“I'm sure the judge wasn't aware of the deluge we rode through to get here.” Sinclair looked around. “Hard to see much outside these velvet curtained windows.”
Stevens faltered just a step, but recovered, strode to the back of the car, then cleared his throat. “Judge, the major is finally here.”
“About time. Send him back.” Parsons’ voice held that edge of superiority that set Sinclair’s teeth on edge. “And Henry, join us with the notes you have.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stevens had summed up his position in those two words. He was Parsons' yes-man. Father had mentioned the judge had a patsy.
“Follow me.” Stevens nodded toward the back.
Parsons sat at a carved cherry wood desk, a cigar in one hand, a pen in the other. He waved him into a chair.
“Major, you're late.” Parsons didn't look up.
“Judge Parsons. Glad to meet you too.”
Parsons harrumphed and stubbed out his cigar. “Well, you won't be once I explain the trouble we've been having here. Trouble I expect you and your men to put a stop to. We are losing time and miles each day something goes wrong. That means we're losing money.”
“Yes, sir. Some of it my father's.” Might as well get right to the point.
Parsons frowned, then enlightenment lifted his brows. “Bradford? You're Wilson Bradford's son.”
Not a question, and strangely, Parsons didn't sound worried. Relieved was more like it. Wouldn't a man hiding funds and cheating his investors sound worried?
“Yes. Father wanted me to personally come help you.”
“Thank God.” Parsons reached for his cigar and a Lucifer stick.
“Sir?”
“Well, I'd much rather have someone who stands to lose as much as I. Your father is heavily invested. If the Katy fails, your family stands to lose its fortune.”
A sick wave rolled through Sinclair. Father had never mentioned that kind of money.
Parsons took a long draw from the cigar. “I can tell by your pallor you didn't know the extent of his investments.” A slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “More incentive for you to find out who is sabotaging my railroad.”
Worry twisted in his gut. Christ, what had Father been thinking?
Sinclair pulled a small leaflet of paper from his pocket. “I'll need details.”
“Come.” Parsons stood and strolled to a long oak table with maps spread across. “Here is our problem. Or the main one. We have 70 miles to reach Indian Territory before Joy does. So far we've had payroll robberies, and several barrels of spikes came up missing. And accidents. Too many and too coincidental. At this rate, we will not win the race.” He slammed his palm against the map.
“So just what is it you want me to do?” Hell, Father had put him in a spot. If the Katy failed, Wilson Bradford would blame Sinclair for ruining the family.
Just as he blamed him for Theodore's death.
“First, put guards on the payroll box. At all times. Second, put guards on the supplies. Third, you must stop the Joy Line from stealing my workers.”
“Judge, I cannot order men to work for you if they choose to work elsewhere. We just fought a war to offer all men freedom.”
Stevens gave a thin smile. “Well, Major, if we don't gain miles by the end of this week, perhaps your own men could pitch in to lay track.”
Sinclair turned and narrowed his eyes. “Forgive me, Stevens, but the US Government has better things for soldiers to do than build your railroad. I will indeed place the guards you've asked for – I'll have my men ride out to meet the supply trains. And I will investigate the robberies. Does the payroll come same time each week?”
“At first it did. After the first couple of payroll thefts, we changed the delivery date to a rotating schedule.”
“Then Judge Parsons, you have a spy.” The fool should have already figured that out.
“A spy?” He stomped back to his desk. “The people who know the schedules are trustworthy.”
“Who would these people be?”
“Just Henry, Kate and myself.”
“Who’s Kate?”
“My daughter.”
“Do you trust her?”
“Now see here!” Stevens stiffened. “Kate is above suspicion.”
Hmmm. Easy to see how Stevens intended to move up in business. He’d marry the heiress.
Parsons smiled as if dealing with a simpleton. “Major, why would Kate jeopardize her future? The success of this railroad is all she has. She’s too homely to marry well and too stubborn to attract the right kind of man. And she is after all a mere woman, hardly smart enough to plan robberies. So you can remove any doubt you have about her.”
Sinclair nodded. “Fine.” He'd do some checking on Miss Kate Parsons all the same. Of course Parsons wouldn’t implicate his own flesh and blood. Though a man would think the judge would defend her in a more respectful manner. He all but called her ugly and stupid. “Then who else has access to the office—who could overhear your information?”
“No one.” Parsons frowned.
“There’s Floyd.” Stevens looked up from his papers. “Though I doubt he’s smart enough to sell secrets. The man is a drunken half-wit. I don’t think he can even read.”
“Now, Henry,” Parsons scolded, “Floyd keeps the office meticulously clean, my shirt collars pressed stiff, and he pours a perfect brandy. Besides, it's the little people in this world who help lift men like us to power. Remember that.”
The words could've come straight from Father's mouth. Sinclair, I did not send you to West Point so you could become a common soldier. West Point is simply a small step on your path to a prestigious political career.
Sinclair blocked out the past and folded his notes. “All right. I think I'll start by talking to the workmen. Who's your man in charge of the crews?”
“Cormac McGrady. He should be in from the cut soon,” Henry interjected, then looked to Parsons like a puppy waiting for the approving pat on the head.
“Working in this weather?” Sinclair nodded outside.
“Mr. McGrady's Gang is the best damn group of men I have. If all these bastards worked as hard as those Irish fools, the railway would be built already. McGrady could get a dead man to drive a spike.” Parsons sighed, then dropped into his seat and picked up his pen. “Henry, you'll introduce Major Bradford to the men.”
“Yes, sir. McGrady will be at the saloon. The men always have a drink there.”
Parsons nodded. “Fine. Major, you can start your investigation there.”
The dismissal made Sinclair grit his teeth.
“Judge, we're not quite done talking.”
Parsons looked up, his expression clear he didn't like Sinclair's tone of voice.
“What else?” He tapped his fingers on the blotter.
“I think you should know I've heard about the rape, and I intend for that to be part of my investigations.”
“Rape? What are you—” Parsons stopped and waved his hand as if rape were a pesky fly buzzing his head. “Oh, you mean that whore outside town?”
The way he said whore grated down Sinclair's back like the screech of train brakes. He nodded and searched his notes.
“I have her name as Mary Rose. Fifteen years old. And from what I was told, she was a cook and laundress. Not a whore. “
Parsons scowled. “Same difference as far as the men around here are concerned. And a whore is the absolute least of my concern. Or yours. That is not why you were sent.”
“I don't think—”
“Damn it, Major,” Parsons slapped the ink blotter, “there will be no arrests. I can't afford to lose the man power.”
Sinclair leaned over the desk. “There will be an arrest, if I can find the guilty man. The deadline of this railroad's completion doesn't negate the law.”
Parsons' face reddened. “Are you telling me you think a common prostitute is as important as what we're trying to accomplish here?”
“I'm telling you right is right and wrong is wrong. I don't prescribe to the theory that progress somehow voids that truth.”
“Perhaps I should telegram Washington and have you replaced for this job.”
Sinclair grinned. “Perhaps.” He turned for the door. “You do what you have to do, and so
will I.”
Damn that man. He slammed out of the railcar and loped down the steps. He'd traveled thousands of miles from Washington and politics and greed, yet here he was right back in the middle of one of Father's games.
“Hold up there, Major.” Stevens splash-slomped down the mud-puddled street behind him. “You have to go meet McGrady.”
“Fine.” But he didn't have to converse with Stevens on the walk to the saloon. He increased his stride, leaving the man a few steps behind. Damn but he wished he could saddle Lincoln and ride back to Fort Hayes. Surely there was an assignment in the farthest, most remote point of Wyoming or Montana, some place he could avoid doing his father's favors, some place he could thwart his family's political expectations. Some place he could forget the past. Forget whose son he was.
“…and this is where you'll find the men, if they're not working.” Stevens was talking.
Sinclair slowed his pace until the man walked beside him, then stopped to look at the building Stevens pointed to.
“Devil's Gate, huh? Is this the only saloon in town?” Sinclair peeked through the dimly lit windows.
“No, but it's the one the men frequent. You see, upstairs is Garden of Eden, the brothel. As I said, if the men aren't working, they're here for one reason or another.”
“Or both.” The men at Fort Hayes spent most all of their money at the local brothels.
Stevens nodded. “Shall we?” He opened the wooden door.
Sinclair stepped into a room thick with cigar smoke, the sights, sounds and smells just like every other bar room west of the Mississippi. Raucous laughter bounced off the pine walls, intertwined with female squeals and giggles. Tinny piano music split the air along with the swoosh of petticoats as a girl danced atop the bar. Glasses clinked, cards shuffled. The smell of smoke, sweat, and sex tinted the air. Lanterns hung from nails on the walls and set in the middle of the tables, a soft hue hiding a harsh reality.
