Free Petticoat Detective by Margaret Brownley Page B

comfortable.”
    She shook her head. “If we go to your room, I’ll have to charge you.”
    “I just want to talk,” he said.
    She shrugged. “Miss Lillian’s rules.”
    “Then I’m all for sitting down here. If it’s all the same to you, ma’am.”
    For answer, she lowered herself upon the upholstered chair across from him and occupied herself with what seemed like an excessive arranging of skirt and cape.
    The memory of her tumbling out of a tree and into his arms flashed through his head. It was hard to reconcile this stiff, painted woman with the freewheeling, disheveled spirit seen that moonlit night.
    He sat and waited until he had her full attention. “Now that we’re working together—”
    “Working?” She sat back. “I haven’t given you my answer. It could be no.”
    “No is not an answer. It’s a retreat.” He rubbed his jaw. “I had you pegged as a fighter.”
    “I
am
a fighter, Mr. Colton. But I don’t like fighting other people’s battles.”
    He leaned forward. “The man who killed Rose … He’s still out there. I need your help before he kills again.”
    She studied him with wary regard. “You said Rose was your brother’s fiancée. Miss Lillian was unable to confirm that.”
    “Perhaps Rose didn’t want anyone to know.”
    “Or maybe you made it up.”
    “I’ve never been one for making up things.” He arched his brows. “Don’t know why I’d start now.” He reached inside his vest and drew out the letter addressed to his brother and signed by Rose. “This was found on my brother’s body.”
    Pulling off her gloves, she laid them across her lap all serious-like. Most painted ladies had little or no education, but Amy wasn’t like most. Question was, could she read? He debated whether to read the letter aloud to prevent embarrassment, but she showed no hesitation in taking it from him. The thin paper crackled as she unfolded it.
    While she read, he studied her face, feature by feature. The other women working for Miss Lillian had hard faces and cynical eyes, but Amy’s features still held the softness of youth. Had it not been for the face paint, he would never have guessed her profession.
    Pursing scarlet lips, she refolded the letter and handed it back. “The letter makes no mention of the Gunnysack Bandit.”
    He hadn’t wanted to go into details, but obviously she wasn’t going to work with him unless he came up with appropriate answers.
    “My brother and I weren’t close. In fact, I hadn’t seen or heard from him in more than two years. Not since the day he left prison.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “Your brother was in prison?”
    He gave a curt nod. “He led a gang of stagecoach robbers.” Cooperating with authorities had earned him an early release, and he only served half his time. “He was lucky he didn’t hang.”
    The searing pain in his chest took him by surprise. It still hurt, even now. “Then out of the blue he contacted me and asked for my help. Said that his fiancée, Rose, had accidentally discovered the identity of the Gunnysack Bandit and he lives here in Goodman. According to my brother, Rose feared for her life, and he wanted to bring her to the ranch. Guess he figured she’d be safe in Texas.”
    “Why didn’t she go to the marshal?”
    He scratched his head. The woman was ignorant of her profession in more ways than one. “Do you really think that the marshal would take a sporting lady seriously? Or even afford her protection?”
    She fixed him with a stony gaze, allowing him to peer unfettered into the mesmerizing sea-green depths of her eyes. It wasn’t polite to stare, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
    “He should. Part of his salary depends on the licensing fees and taxes Miss Lillian pays.”
    “The money assures that the marshal will leave the house alone and look the other way,” he said evenly. “Nothing more.”
    She cleared her throat. “Is there any chance your brother misunderstood? About the Gunnysack