The Engagement Bargain. Sherri Shackelford
communities she’d frequented had narrower rules of propriety than larger cities.
Flipping over the paper, Caleb frowned at the last page, his eyes scanning the columns. “It’s all family visits. We’re too well known. If we dig up another McCoy cousin, they’ll figure out we’re lying soon enough. What about Garrett? Could she pretend to be a relative of his?”
“No,” Jo spoke emphatically. “Garrett’s family is quite off-limits.”
The sorrow in her voice gave Anna pause.
Caleb didn’t seem to notice. “All right then, let’s see what else.” A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Here’s something interesting. ‘JoBeth Cain and her brother, Caleb McCoy, will attend the suffragist rally in Kansas City calling for an additional amendment to the constitution allowing for the women’s vote. Daughter of the renowned suffragist, Victoria Bishop, is set to give the keynote speech. Garrett Cain is escorting a prisoner to Wichita.’” Caleb shook his head. “I guess we did make the news.”
“It’s a small town.” Jo shrugged. “Everyone makes the newspaper.”
Mr. McCoy folded the paper and squinted. “Well, I’ll be, here’s something I didn’t know. ‘Mr. Frank Lancaster has brought his fiancée, Miss Vera Nelson, for an extended visit with his family. A mail-order bride advertisement was recently listed in The Kansas Post by a woman with the name of Miss Vera Nelson. Mr. Lancaster declined to comment on the happenstance.’” Caleb rubbed his chin. “I spoke with him two weeks ago when his dog had the mange. I had no idea he was considering taking a wife.”
“I suppose if you sent away for a bride like a pair of shoes from the Montgomery Ward wish book,” Jo said, “you wouldn’t want that to be common knowledge.”
Mrs. Franklin crossed her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with doing what needs to be done. I’m sure the girl had her reasons. For a woman, sometimes marriage is the only answer.”
“Wait,” Jo snapped her fingers. “That’s perfect. Marriage is our answer, as well. Anna can come to visit as your fiancée.”
“My fiancée.” Caleb’s eyes widened.
Anna started. “What?”
“You two can pretend to be engaged.”
Shocked silence filled the room. Anna recalled the scores of letters her mother had received over the years from desperate women. All of them had one thing in common—they had pinned their hopes on a man.
“No!” Anna and Caleb replied in unison.
Anna leaned more heavily on her left arm. “Absolutely not. I mean no disrespect, Mr. McCoy, but I will not hide. I’m not going to change my name or pretend to be something I’m not. That goes against everything I stand for.”
She wasn’t relinquishing her independence. Killer or no killer. If the shooting had been caused by the opposition, then such a concession meant they’d won.
Jo’s arms flopped to her sides. “We can say you had a whirlwind romance.”
Caleb laughed harshly. “No one would believe it.”
“You’re right.” Jo appeared crestfallen. “Of course you’re right.”
“You’re missing the point,” Caleb said. “No one would ever look for anyone in Cimarron Springs. She might as well wear a banner and parade down Main Street.”
“True enough. Remember Elizabeth Elder’s first husband? The bank robber? He hid all his loot in a cave by Hackberry Creek. No one ever suspected a thing. You didn’t suspect him, did you, Caleb?”
“He didn’t treat his livestock very well.”
“Or his wife.” Jo’s voice strangled. “This may have escaped your notice, but people are just as important as animals.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “People are more important than livestock.”
“I was making a point. There were obvious signs of bad character.”
Caught up in the tale of the loot hidden by the creek, Anna made a noise of frustration at the sudden change of subject. “What happened to the bank robber and his poor wife?”
“He’s dead now, God rest his soul.” Jo’s voice was stripped of remorse. “Elizabeth remarried and she’s doing fine. She’s living in Paris now.”
“France?”
“Texas.”
“I see,” Anna said. “At least I think I understand.”
A little dazed by the turn of the conversation, Anna considered Mr. McCoy’s earlier denial. Why would no one believe they were engaged? The idea didn’t seem far-fetched enough to incite laughter. Disbelief, certainly. Skepticism, perhaps. But outright mocking laughter?
She studied the fidgety detective and knitted her forehead. “All we have are rumors and speculation. For all we know, they’ve captured the man responsible, and this conversation is all for naught.”
Reinhart’s continued presence, especially considering his fierce demand for payment if he provided information, struck her as suspect. What had he said before? Something about cataloguing everything he saw and heard. Why the sudden interest in an injured suffragist if no one had offered him compensation? She had the distinct impression the detective never made a move without an ulterior motive. He certainly hadn’t moved from his chair during the entire conversation.
“This isn’t your case, Mr. Reinhart,” she prompted. “You indicated that a moment before. Why are you here?”
“Because it suits me.”
He shot her a look of such naked disgust that Anna inhaled a sharp breath. The sudden effort sent a shaft of agony tearing through her side.
She’d seen that reaction before, a curious mixture of disdain and resentment. “You’re not an admirer of the women’s movement, are you?”
“A woman’s place is in the home. Not squawking out in public and making a spectacle of herself. Women are too emotional for politics.”
Izetta gasped. “How dare you!”
Mr. McCoy pushed away from the door frame, plumping up like a gathering thundercloud. Anna gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The Bishop women were not victims.
They did not need to be saved like milquetoast princesses from a Grimm’s fairy tale. “A woman’s place is wherever she chooses.”
The detective made a great show of rolling his eyes. “If the woman wears the pants, what’s the man supposed to wear?”
“Short pants,” Izetta declared. “Especially if they insist on acting like children.”
“Say now!”
“That’s enough,” Caleb growled. “You’re not here for your opinion.”
“I don’t work for you.” The detective rested his fisted knuckles on his thighs, elbows out, one bony protrusion jutting through a hole in his sleeve. “Either way, you got a problem, Miss Bishop. A big one. This wasn’t a warning. Whoever took that shot meant to leave you dead.”
Stomach churning, Anna shifted to the edge of her seat. She’d underestimated the limits of her endurance, but she wasn’t about to let that infuriating little man witness her frailty.
Mr. McCoy’s sharp gaze rested on her ashen face. He motioned toward the detective. “You’ve had your say. If you hear anything else, let us know.”
“For a price.”
Widening his stance, Mr. McCoy fisted his hands beneath his biceps.