The Outlaw's Secret. Stacy Henrie

up the brim of his hat. “Hold on a minute there, cowboy. We might be lookin’ at a real nice ransom if we bring her along. I heard the Vanderfairs have more money than Rockefeller. And I’m sure they’d pay handsomely for the safe return of one of their own.” He turned to Essie as he added, “But only after you get your interviews.”

      “So you’d kidnap her?” The Texan crossed his arms and glared at their leader.

      Fletcher glowered right back. “What are you, the law? Besides, it ain’t kidnapping. Not if she comes of her own volition.”

      “And I do.” Essie traversed the train steps with purpose, her chin high. “I assure you, gentlemen, I will not be a burden.”

      She heard a snort above her, but she ignored the Texan. Her appeals were best directed toward the group’s true leader.

      “I will make your robberies famous, Mr. Fletcher. I’ll share your tales of danger and riches to the world. Without using your actual names, of course.”

      He tipped his hat in acquiescence. “Of course,” he echoed, his smile more sly than affable. He thought he had the upper hand, but he’d underestimated the skills she’d picked up over the years, both on the ranch and as a novelist. Which was fine by her—she preferred to be underestimated by everyone except her publisher.

      “Does that mean I may come along?”

      “Don’t see why not.”

      “Fletcher,” the Texan said, the name a warning.

      But the robber leader waved Essie toward the horses. “We need to meet up at camp by dark.”

      She pushed out the breath she’d been holding and hugged her valise. She’d done it—she’d convinced them, and now she would be the victor instead of Victor Daley. An astonished laugh bubbled out of her. “What is our final destination, Mr. Fletcher?”

      “Our hideout. And that’s where you can interview me, Miss Vanderfair.”

      * * *

      Tate Beckett’s jaw was clenched so tight he thought it might snap. Of all the rotten misfortune. He had to run into a nosy busybody like Miss Essie Vanderfair on his first job with Fletcher’s gang. If he wasn’t careful, this woman, with all her probing questions, would figure out he wasn’t the Texas Titan after all. Then his covert work, posing as his outlaw twin brother, would be finished.

      No, he thought, his teeth grinding in resolve. He wouldn’t let her ruin his plans. Not when he was on the most important case of his career as a Pinkerton detective.

      “If she comes,” Tate announced, stalking down the steps, “she rides with me.”

      Fletcher shrugged. “Fine. Jude and I will head east, then cut back west to the campsite. The three of you will head in the opposite direction and then veer east. Silas and Clem know the way to the camp.”

      Without a backward glance, Fletcher and Jude charged off at a gallop.

      “Why are you splitting up?” Essie asked him, her gaze following the other two men.

      Releasing a soft grunt of impatience, Tate climbed into the saddle of his horse. “Because no one will suspect two or three men riding together, when they’re looking for five.”

      “Ah. Very clever.”

      He reached a hand down to help her up. The wide-eyed look she gave him as she placed her palm in his resurrected the churning frustration in his gut. Now his focus would have to be divided between paying attention to the trail on the way to the gang’s hideout and playing nursemaid to this young lady so she didn’t get hurt.

      “Thank you,” she said brightly as he pulled her onto the horse. As if he were taking her for a Sunday buggy ride instead of bringing her to the hideout of a gang of wanted outlaws.

      Tate rolled his eyes. As she situated herself behind him, she managed to jab him in the back with the handle of her valise—twice. It was going to be a long ride.

      Urging his horse forward, he allowed Silas and Clem to take the lead as the three of them rode across the Wyoming plain. Low hills were visible in the distance.

      “Do you know what you’re doing?” The question escaped Tate’s mouth before he’d even finished thinking it.

      “Riding a horse? Yes.” She joined her hands around his waist as if to prove her point. “I’ve done this countless times.”

      He shook his head. Not just at her words but to dismiss how nice it felt to ride with a woman again—something he hadn’t done in years. Not since Ravena. Tate pushed thoughts of the dark-haired girl back to the deepest recesses of his mind, a place where they’d stayed put for the last eight years. Right beside the regret and guilt he still harbored for Tex, his twin brother.

      “I mean coming with us, Miss Vanderfair.” He didn’t bother disguising the irritation in his voice.

      “As I said earlier, I want to interview you.” She shifted her weight, poking him with her valise again. He ground his teeth over a growl.

      “Why?” he countered, eager to riddle out her true motives. After all, that was his job as a detective.

      “Because I’m an authoress of dime novels. I pen stories of romance and adventure.” Her tone held a touch of pride.

      “A fine occupation but—”

      An amused sniff sounded at his back and interrupted his interrogation. “I’m perfectly aware of what others, especially men, think of my profession, Mr. Tex. You don’t have to feign interest. I can assure you I’ve heard every ill sentiment there is regarding dime novels and their creators. Nothing you can say would surprise me.”

      A bit of a smile worked at his mouth at her challenge. He was never one to back down from a challenge. “I’m not feigning anything, Miss Vanderfair. I think writing novels would be hard, whether you’re a man or a woman.” He cleared his throat before adding, though he wasn’t sure why, “My mother wrote poetry up until she died, and I would’ve been honored to see her work published.”

      The ensuing silence proved that he’d been right about surprising her. Tate’s smile rose to a grin.

      “Still,” he continued, “what does writing dime novels have to do with you accompanying us?”

      Her answer came swiftly. “I’d like to write a novel about train robbers, and naturally the best research is firsthand.” He could easily imagine her chin tipped high as she spoke, her pert little nose in the air. “I saw an opportunity and I took it. I suspect that’s something you and I have in common.”

      He couldn’t argue with that. But who courted trouble in the name of “research”? If nothing else, his job of the last eight years had shown him what happened when seemingly good people went looking for trouble. They always found it.

      Removing his hat, he wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. Though it was mid-September, temperatures the last few days had been overly warm. That, or it was his irritation toward the woman seated behind him.

      “There’s a scar behind your ear.” A featherlight touch skated his marred skin. “How come the Wanted posters don’t mention it?”

      Icy panic drove any thoughts of heat from Tate’s mind. Clapping his hat back on, he gripped the reins tighter as he answered matter-of-factly, “Don’t know. Maybe whoever made up the poster didn’t know about it—I don’t usually have someone right behind me when my hat’s off.”

      Inside, though, he was reeling. Essie Vanderfair, with her doe-eyed determination, had just identified the most prominent visible difference between him and his identical twin brother.

      Thankfully, Essie didn’t seem to notice his now-rigid posture or tense shoulders. She began prattling about some of the more famous crimes of his brother’s. Tate tried to ignore her, concentrating instead on the hilly landscape. But with each tale she shared,