on the table. He’d been so busy overseeing the breaking-in of a horse yesterday that when he’d finally returned to the house, he hadn’t bothered to do much more than grab a late supper and head to bed.
He carried the mail to the dining room. On the top of the stack, he found a letter from his mother, no doubt asking when he planned to visit. Edward wished he could convince her to come here instead. He wanted to show that, although he wasn’t an earl and the estate heir as his oldest brother had been these last five years, that he’d worked hard at creating a good, successful life here.
Though a bit of a lonely one, his conscience prodded.
Edward ignored the thought. He’d discovered early on that the daughters of Sheridan’s wealthy ranchers weren’t so different from their English counterparts. In both countries, he was the sum of his bank account and supposed good looks, with little thought to his character or integrity—and no consideration at all to their own. He’d never loved the idea of money or appearances being the basis of a marriage. Living alone, in his opinion, was far more tolerable than entering into a marriage that wasn’t founded on mutual affection and respect. It was something his younger sister had helped instill in him.
“Just remember to be true to who you are, Eddie,” Liza had often reminded. “You are of worth, most especially to me and to God.”
Though one year his junior, his sister had exemplified wisdom and vision beyond her years. Perhaps that was the reason she’d left this world too soon, at the tender age of fourteen. Edward missed her still and hoped she knew that he’d tried to live true to himself in the fifteen years since her death.
Taking a seat at the polished mahogany table, he started sifting through the rest of the mail. There was a newspaper and some sort of penny dreadful—or dime novel as he’d heard them called here in America—for Mrs. Harvey.
As though she knew what “treasure” awaited her, Mrs. Harvey bustled into the dining room, a tray in hand. “Here you are, sir. Nice and warm once more.”
“Thank you for accommodating my erratic schedule of late, Mrs. Harvey.” Edward scooted aside the mail to make room for his breakfast. The poached egg, crumpets and hot tea made his mouth water. “Looks splendid as usual.”
The older woman’s round cheeks pinked with pleasure. “Best eat up before it goes cold—again.”
After laying his napkin across his knees, he extended the dime novel toward her. “I do believe this is yours, madam.”
Her face went from pink to red as she snatched the thin book from him. “Thank you, sir.”
“What is this one about?” he asked as he lifted his fork.
Mrs. Harvey’s brown eyes lit with excitement. “It’s about a detective in disguise—a real Pinkerton agent, no less. I’m hoping it’s as good as one I read by E. Vanderfair about five years ago.”
“Ah. Sounds intriguing.”
“I’ll see that you’re hooked on them before too long, sir.” She wagged a finger at him. “Just you wait and see.”
Edward shook his head with amusement as his housekeeper left him to his meal. The fifty-year-old woman had been the family’s cook for years at their London residence. Edward had always liked her and her food, so when he’d concocted the idea of coming to America, he’d asked if she might be interested in joining him as a housekeeper and cook. Mrs. Harvey, a widow with no children of her own, had readily agreed. She could be doting at times or downright cheeky, but they got on as well here as they always had. She was still the creator of the finest food he’d ever sampled, and she hadn’t lost her propensity for sensationalized stories, either.
As for himself, he didn’t see the appeal of those overblown bits of nonsense. His reading tastes had changed since leaving England, consisting of mostly equestrian books and the newspaper. Facts, reality, knowledge, those were his forte—not melodrama.
After offering a blessing over his food, as well as his ranch and staff, Edward began to eat. He decided to read his mother’s letter later, since hers had the potential to spoil his appetite. The address and English postmark on the other letter he found in the stack of mail set his heart beating double time as he opened the envelope. This must be an answer to his inquiry, at last.
He read the words through carefully. By the time he reached the end, he was grinning. His father’s contact in the British Cavalry had come through after all. They were, indeed, interested in securing a large quantity of horses from his region.
A rush of satisfaction rose within him as Edward dug heartily into his breakfast once more. All of his hard work would be worth it if he could secure a contract with the British Cavalry. Then his mother and brothers would surely have to acknowledge that, in spite of not being the heir or the spare to his family’s wealth and title, he’d done quite well. Soon the name and ranch of Edward Kent would mean something, far beyond his small corner of the world.
He couldn’t wait to tell McCall the good news. Thoughts of his foreman brought the memory of the trampled fence and escaped horses to mind and doused his excitement like water against hot coals. He couldn’t afford any more mishaps, not if he wanted to supply the Cavalry with needed horses.
No longer hungry, he set aside his fork. He needed to stop whoever wanted him gone. But that meant finding out who was behind the disruptions. Pushing his dishes out of the way, Edward rested his elbows against the tabletop. Who in the area might hold a vendetta against him? He could think of no one. His staff treated him with the same respect he showed them, and the other ranchers he associated with at the Sheridan Inn were uniformly friendly to him.
He climbed to his feet, fresh frustration chewing at him as hunger had earlier. He stacked his dishes on the tray and carried it into the kitchen. “Here you are, Mrs. Harvey,” he said, setting the tray on the center table. “Thank you again.”
She glanced up from the dough she was kneading. “Didn’t know you were done, sir, or I would’ve collected the dishes myself.”
“Not to worry.”
His gaze fell on the dime novel that lay open before her, giving him a sudden idea. Perhaps this might be an answer to his anxious prayers over the last four weeks. “How efficient are these Pinkerton detectives?” He motioned to the novel. “In real life, I mean.”
“Quite, sir.” Her expression conveyed her confusion at his question. “They always get their man.”
Edward clapped his hands. “Excellent. If you need me, Mrs. Harvey, I’ll be in my study.” He had a letter to write.
“Yes, sir.”
He exited the kitchen, feeling a return of his good mood. He would employ the Pinkerton’s finest, most reliable man for his case, and soon life would resume to normal at the Running W once more.
Denver, Colorado, one month later
Maggy Worthing yanked the maid’s cap off her head, causing her straight auburn hair to tumble around her shoulders. “The counterfeiter is sitting behind bars as we speak,” she announced with triumph as she propped her boots on the edge of her supervisor’s desk.
“Well done, Maggy.” James McParland, superintendent of the Pinkerton Agency’s Denver office, leaned back in his chair and peered at her through his round spectacles, his chestnut-colored mustache twitching. “You do make a rather convincing maid in that getup, minus the arrogant look.”
“Ha.” She loosened the top collar button of her borrowed uniform. Once she’d finished talking with James, she could return to her boardinghouse room and change back into her regular, more comfortable clothes—a well-worn button shirt and men’s trousers. “I make a rather convincing detective, maid getup or no.”
James inclined his head. “Touché. And that is why I have some news for one of my best detectives.”
A frisson of excitement, similar to what she felt each time she knew she’d nabbed her man,