Love in Disguise

By Barbara Baldwin

It’s a game of hidden identities, high stakes poker and murder. The biggest gamble? That love will be the winning hand.

Maxwell Grant, federal investigator and master of disguise, feels it’s his duty to look after the fairer sex. His resolve is severely tested when he runs into independent Abigail O’Brien while searching for a scar-faced thief and killer. Ordinarily he wouldn’t give the feisty Harvey House waitress a second thought. But she’s wearing a pocket watch on a chain around her neck; a watch she won in a poker game with a scar-faced man. A watch that belongs to Max’s missing brother.

Abigail O’Brien is greatly inspired by writings of popular suffragettes in 1876. She has no trouble vocalizing her beliefs, which gets her into no end of trouble from which Max must rescue her

When Max realizes she can identify the man he is after, he proposes she come with him on his mission. He thinks to protect her, but she insists they be equal partners or nothing.

Max and Abby pursue their quarry from town to town, heating up the poker tables, and burning for each other. It’s a gamble that could pay off – with justice and for the heart.

Editorial Reviews

5 Heart Review by The Romance Studio!
Ms. Baldwin has done an incredible job with this book. There are so many characters and so much activity that it should be easy to get confused. The manner in which it was written precludes that. The story is ...hard to put down and I couldn’t believe some of the surprises. The ending definitely was unexpected...This book was well written and easy to read. The story was fresh and interesting. I highly recommend this book to anyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773624273

Barbara Baldwin

Barb loves to travel and explore new places and each of her novels is set in a different locale. She has written practically all her life, beginning with journals of family vacations. She is now published in poetry, short stories, essays, magazine articles, teacher resource materials, and full-length fiction. She also wrote and co-produced a documentary on Kansas history that won state and national awards. She has an MA in Communication, has taught at the college level and has made over 100 presentations at state and national conferences.Barb can be reached at [e-mail] or through her website at www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin.

Book preview

Love In Disguise

By Barbara Baldwin

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-427-3

Kindle 978-1-77362-428-0

WEB 978-1-77362-429-7

Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77362-430-3

Copyright 2017 by Barbara Baldwin

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

Chapter One

Boston, 1876

Suicide, Michael Grant stated in a flat voice as he stared at the cold body on the warehouse floor.

I doubt it, Father. Look around you. Everything’s been cleared out.

Max squatted on his heels beside Jerome Smith, the family bookkeeper. Ignoring the gun that lay conveniently near Smith’s right hand, he touched a finger to the hole in the man’s shirt, then sniffed. Gunpowder residue. Whoever shot Jerome stood very close when he fired the weapon, wanting it to look like Smith shot himself. Max knew better.

A cursory glance around the warehouse proved his suspicions that whoever did this was a real pro. A few small crates of insignificant housewares were left behind, but the high dollar, untraceable goods—whiskey, fine cigars, perishables and textiles— had all been taken. He stepped aside when the local undertaker and his assistant came in with a stretcher.

They lifted the lifeless body, and Max’s gaze slid again to Jerome, a mild-mannered man who never raised his voice in all the years Max knew him. And Max did know him well. For example, he knew that Jerome was left-handed, just like Max, and the man helped him when others labeled him backward as a child. That was just one of the reasons Max knew Jerome didn’t committed suicide. He pushed aside the memories to concentrate on the matters at hand.

Jerome was deathly afraid of guns. I tried countless times to get him to keep one in the desk for just this kind…

His voice trailed off. Abruptly his father turned away.

Makes no difference now. Nothing can help him, but you can help your brother and you can find my merchandise.

Max didn’t care for his father’s callous attitude, but the mention of his twin, Monty, twisted his gut, and his father knew it. Monty’s name, not Jerome Smith’s, was on the missive his father’s servant delivered to Max’s office. While he would have come regardless, his father knew just exactly what would bring Max to his doorstep with the most speed.

Montgomery became quite agitated recently, his father said, but I couldn’t put my finger on the problem and he wouldn’t tell me what concerned him.

But— Max prompted when his father paused. He hated the interrogation process, always had. He wanted the action of tracking and apprehending felons and murderers. He would gladly leave the questions to his superiors once they were captured.

I didn’t discover Smith until an hour ago when I came to the office. Montgomery never came home last night. I fear he knows something about who robbed me and killed Jerome. What if he decided to go after them?

"Damn,"

Max swore under his breath. What was his brother thinking to leave town in the middle of the night without notice?

You must go after him, his father demanded, but Max heard the desperation in his voice.

He’s not used to life outside the city. After all, Boston is civilized. He’s never even handled a gun and has no idea of the seedy lowlifes he’ll encounter. Not like—

Like me, Father?

As one of the top government investigators in the country, Max spent his time tracking criminals of all manner. And he couldn’t deny he had killed his share. Buttoning his coat, he turned to leave.

Jessica insists on seeing you.

Max didn’t even turn around.

And will you allow me into your lily white, socially acceptable parlor to say hello to my stepmother?

She doesn’t know what you do, his father shouted when Max retreated toward the warehouse door.

Heaven forbid she or your sisters ever find out the atrocities you’ve committed. It would break their hearts.

Enough!

Max’s father didn’t think Max was much better than the scum he tracked.

His father felt proper men spent their days in boardrooms and their nights at civilized social gatherings. He always reviled what Max did for a living, which was the same as condemning Max. He glared at his father, a tall, lean man with piercing blue eyes and a dominating stance. The man looked exactly like Monty and himself, if not for the gray at his temples. How could they be so alike and yet so different? He clutched his fists at his sides, wanting to strike back.

I work for our president, and whatever he commands me to do, I will do or die trying. I’m no different than you were when the country was at war.

That was different. The Rebs were our enemy.

And the criminals I track are not?

He turned a frosty glare on his father.

"Regardless of what you think of me, it’s all right to summon me this time, isn’t it? This time they took your property, not that of some faceless citizen you don’t even know."

Disgusted with the conversation, he turned and flung open the warehouse door.

Will you do this?

Max laughed unpleasantly.

Galls the hell out of you to ask, doesn’t it?

Silence met his question.

Max took a deep breath of damp, morning air. There really wasn’t any question. He would go to the ends of the earth for Monty, whether his father asked it or not.

I will find Jerome’s killer and bring Monty home. As to your precious property, Father, I would wish it gone forever and you destitute if not for what that would mean to my sisters and Jessica.

* * *

Max breathed easier as the train gently rocked him. Too much time had already elapsed since Monty left town, but Max refused to leave until he’d talked to Jessica and Monty’s wife, Sarah. An inevitable delay. He wouldn’t have made it at all without his secretary making arrangements for the Pullman to be brought up from Washington on an earlier train. Barnaby then met him with his clothes and packet of documents.

He stared out the window into the night. Though they’d left the fog of Boston behind, the sky was overcast and neither moon nor stars shed any light on the passing countryside. Being a federal investigator at least gave him the comfort of traveling in style, using the Pullman car whenever necessary. And while he was alone in the car, he was too restless to settle for the night on the comfortable bed. Only one lamp remained lit, its light reflecting eerily off the window. He sighed, recalling his visit with his sister-in-law, Sarah, and his stepmother earlier in the day. Sarah was distraught over Monty’s disappearance, and Jessica was distraught over Sarah, worrying about the effect all this would have on her unborn babe.

Regardless of Max’s relationship with his father, he loved his family dearly and spent many weekends with Monty and Sarah. His stepsisters were included in his visits whenever his father left town on business, for Michael Grant thought Max a poor influence on their impressionable young minds.

He shook his head to clear away the lingering remorse over what might have been. He smiled when he recalled his all-too-brief encounter with the four Blue Jays, his pet name for his half-sisters. Janice, Josephine, Jacqueline and Jillian, each vying for his attention, were all as pretty as their mother with blonde hair and blue eyes. Max had no trouble understanding why his father married Jessica

Why she married him was the true mystery. No matter how hard he tried, Max couldn’t convince his father that he worked so hard to make the world a safer place, especially for his sisters. He was much older than they were and every protective instinct in his body surged whenever he thought they might be in trouble. No matter where his assignments took him, his network of associates kept him informed about the social circle in which the girls moved. The men knew without his saying that if trouble occurred, they were to rescue his sisters then fade out of sight. His difficulties with his father made it hard on everyone if he showed up at the house, so he watched over them by other means. Though he maintained an office in Boston, he spent most of his time in Washington among the intrigue of government and tried not to miss the things Monty took for granted—a loving wife, children and their father’s love.

* * *

Here comes the train!

Tess Maguire was always the lookout for the girls, even though the engineer used the whistle to signal ahead. Abby O’Brien smoothed the white apron over her stomach and hips. After two weeks working at the Harvey House in Topeka, Kansas, she still got the jitters when a train full of hungry passengers arrived. Looking back, she wondered sometimes how she managed, for until she’d arrived on the train, hungry and nearly out of money, she’d never worked a day in her life. Well, there were those nights in Chicago dealing poker at Mr. Faro’s saloon, but she didn’t consider that a real job—one you would care for anyone to know about, that was. Besides, it only lasted until that investigator spotted her. That was another reason for her nervousness.

Every train brought the worry that another investigator would step onto the platform. She knew her parents wanted her at home. If only her mother wasn’t so insistent that she marry right away, especially not to some high-in-the-instep, money-is-all-important, social-climbing man. She didn’t plan to marry at all, but if it should happen, it would only be for love. In the meantime, the Harvey House was the best place for a girl like her to work. She laughed at that thought as the train passengers pushed and shoved through the restaurant door and began yelling for service. Abby reminded herself that if she ever returned to Boston, she would have more consideration for servants. Even though the trains now allowed more time for meals, some passengers were rude, and the Harvey Girls learned to move quickly to make sure everyone was fed and happy before the boarding whistle blew.

What’s your name, lass?

A man reached for her, but Abby quickly stepped out of range. She managed to set his glass on the table without getting captured by his large hand.

Are you Irish, sir? she asked just to make conversation while she poured his water.

Aye, and that must make us soul mates, you and me, for I hear a touch of the brogue in you, too.

His smile, what she saw beneath his mustache, was quite nice, and his blue eyes twinkled with devilment. However, Irishmen with hair as red as his usually had freckles. And this one didn’t have any—not a single freckle on his face or his hands.

I think you’re full of blarney, sir, she said, but with a smile, for Mr. Harvey emphasized that his waitresses were always to be polite. She turned away to fetch the dinners and heard his soft laughter behind her. A nice smile and laugh--it was definitely a good thing he was just passing through.

Regardless of her desire not to marry at her mother’s whim, she still liked a gentleman’s attention. In fact, while she liked her work at the Harvey House, she did miss the busy whirl of dances, teas and soirees that comprised her social life of Boston. Here in Topeka, there was no social life to speak of for Harvey Girls. Oh, they were allowed a ten o’clock curfew, and there was a formal visiting parlor that was strictly chaperoned. But the type of man who usually asked permission to visit was not the type she would normally acknowledge. They were not men seeking a lasting relationship. Therefore, most generally she spent her evenings composing her music and studying the writings of feminists like Susan B. Anthony and Margaret Fuller. Someday she hoped to write her own book, which would surely help other young women find their place in the world.

* * *

The same redheaded Irishman was back the next morning, and Abby noted he chose a seat in her section. What was there about him that piqued her interest and at the same time made her leery? A shiver raised goose bumps on her arms and she hoped it was due to the brisk morning air. Grabbing a glass of water and silverware, she took a fortifying breath and walked his way. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard, always on the lookout for men thinking they could return her to Boston and collect a reward from her parents. Yet this man made her want to find out more about him. Why was that?

Good morning, sir, welcome to Harvey House.

She would be nothing more than polite.

Ah, and a good morning to you, too, miss.

He boomed his greeting across the table. Abby was sure Cook heard it in the back room.

We don’t see most of our customers for more than one meal, since this is a train stop for the Santa Fe. She told herself it was just conversation, not a quest for information.

As I said yesterday, since we’re kinsmen, I can’t leave without at least knowing your name.

His eyes twinkled, and Abby knew he teased. Still, a warning bell went off.

My name is Faith, sir. Would you like breakfast before you leave town?

She’d learned in Chicago not to use her real name, not after that horrid man had chased her down and practically dragged her out of the saloon before Mr. Faro intervened. Instead of being insulted by her comment about his imminent departure, the man laughed, heads turned, and Miss Taylor, the manager, stomped directly toward them.

Oh, dear, now you’ve gone and done it,

Abby whispered while pretending to straighten the tablecloth.

If I lose this job because of you, I’ll—

Don’t you have other customers, Miss O’Brien?

Miss Taylor asked, but Abby knew she didn’t mean it as a question. Back stiff, hands clasped at her waist, Miss Taylor stood with pinched lips, glaring at her. There were rules about spending too much time with any one customer. While Harvey House service was excellent, they did want the customers to eat and leave so more could be served.

"I apologize for monopolizing Miss O’Brien’s time, but I must confess with two of the loveliest ladies in all of Kansas now standing before me, this is truly becoming a beauteous day."

The man stood and bowed.

The name’s Donal O’Flagherty, ma’am.

He had the audacity to wink, smiling clear up to his eyeballs. Miss Taylor simpered.

Abby rolled her eyes.

Very well, then. Carry on. Waving a hand at Abby, Miss Taylor returned to her station near the door.

You are so full of blarney, Abby hissed when Miss Taylor moved away.

Aye, that may be, but it served a purpose, did it not? When is your workday through? Will you take a walk with me this afternoon?

She stepped back, cautious. This man seemed entirely too interested in her. Was he another investigator sent by her mother to spirit her back to Boston? I think not, Mr. O’Flagherty.

Call me Donal.

As I said, Mr. O’Flagherty, I think not.

She left to get the breakfast plates, determined to put the handsome Irishman out of her mind.

* * *

Monty’s trail led Max from Boston to Topeka, then dead-ended. Now he could do nothing but wait for his contacts to report. When he returned to the Pullman car after breakfast, he carefully removed the disguise of Donal O’Flagherty. He didn’t intend to go anywhere the rest of the day, and the red wig was hot and the mustache tickled his nose. He wondered how men…actually he wondered how women liked kissing a man with a mustache. He looked at his reflection and grinned, thinking perhaps he should try it out on Faith O’Brien.

She was a feisty young woman, and if Max had time to linger in Topeka, he might even consider pursuing her. He’d heard that Fred Harvey’s Harvey House girls were well-bred and stayed in dormitories that not even the most lovesick cowboy was allowed to breech. Apparently the girls were so well-bred and so well thought of, proposals came at them faster than lunch orders. Just that morning at breakfast, a cowboy spouted the most horrendous poetry and a proposal to one of the petite waitresses. But Max didn’t have time to linger. Whenever he received word, he would be traveling again. He just didn’t know in which direction.

He stripped off the ugly plaid jacket, one of several he wore when disguised as the rogue Irishman and tossed it to a chair then removed his tie and loosened the buttons on his shirt. Donal O’Flagherty was just one of the disguises Max wore when on a case. Until he knew exactly who he pursued and what he was up against, he rarely went without a disguise. In this case, it was a necessary precaution since he didn’t know what the killer looked like, but the killer might very well know Monty. Given that he and his brother were identical twins, someone intent on killing possible witnesses wouldn’t notice the nuances that distinguished them.

He lay on the bed, letting the breeze from an open window cool him. Spring in Kansas already proved hotter than Washington, yet it wasn’t the weather that set him on edge. Waiting for information always drove him mad, but he needed to let his men do their jobs. That’s why he paid them top dollar, and it got him results. He tracked better than most men who worked with him for the government but his contacts knew a particular region of the country and that cut a lot of time when on the trail of a felon. So here he lingered, thinking about a cinnamon-haired minx hiding behind a Harvey House menu. Drowsy, he closed his eyes, recalling her sassy attitude and ready smile, and wondered what it would be like to kiss her pink lips.

* * *

Well, I think he’s handsome, and I know he likes you. Tess continued the argument they’d been having since leaving their shift at the Harvey House. Abby only half listened, lifting her face to the sun, closing her eyes briefly and letting the warmth soak in. She missed Boston, but the warm rays of the prairie sun soothed her in a way the sea breeze never had. And she’d much rather think of the weather than Mr. Donal O’Flagherty. Tess slipped her arm through Abby’s, making her shift her purchase.

After work, they’d stopped at the mercantile where Abby bought more paper. Counting pennies of her tip money, she wondered if she would ever get ahead. At the same time, she needed the paper if she wanted to complete her composition.

Faith, I don’t think you’re listening.

Tess pulled her to a stop by a low wood fence.

Tess Maguire had befriended her the moment she got off the train. In fact, she’d helped Abby get the Harvey Girl position. Abby liked to think they were friends. But real friends wouldn’t keep secrets, would they? Every time Tess called her Faith, Abby thought to correct her. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Faith was her middle name. But still, it wasn’t the truth.

Yes, Tess, I do hear you. You think Mr. O’Flagherty is one fine specimen of man and you would be willing to marry him if he asked.

She grinned at her friend. Predictably, Tess’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Abby burst into laughter, and Tess joined her. One fine specimen of man was an expression the girls used at work to refer to the wide variety of male customers more intent on wooing them than ordering a meal. While Mr. O’Flagherty wasn’t exactly wooing her, he was at the restaurant every day she worked. He always sat in her section, even if he had to wait when there were openings in other sections. But like her? Abby couldn’t see why, for she’d given him no encouragement.

Go on with you. You know I have no intentions of marrying, ever, Tess sobered long enough to say. "You, on the other hand, have proposals from the lowliest cowboy clear up to the sheriff. And you know Miss Taylor is just fit to be tied. Sheriff Bellows is the one whose eye she is trying to catch."

They broke into giggles again at the thought of dour-faced Miss Taylor attracting anyone’s notice.

She’s probably never even been kissed, Tess said.

It isn’t as if you have so much experience in that department, Tess Maguire, Abby retorted.

Tess sighed. I know. Don’t you think about it, though—some man kissing you and making you feel all gooey inside?

Gooey? That doesn’t sound appealing at all.

Say what you want, but someday a man will kiss you and your toes will curl right up.

They both laughed harder at Tess’s prediction.

Actually, Abby said, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, I’m not going to marry, either. I have grand plans, you know.

She twirled around in a circle, holding her skirt to both sides. It felt good to be carefree, if only for a few minutes.

And what grand plans might they be? Tess asked, eyes wide and curious.

Abby stopped dancing and came over to the rail fence, crossing her arms upon the top and laying her head sideways.

Can you keep a secret?

Oh, of course.

Tess mimicked Abby’s stance.

You know the ink and paper I purchase? At Tess’s nod, she continued. Well, I am composing.

Tess looked confused.

Composing what—a letter? You’ve purchased paper more than once. It must be an extremely long letter.

No, silly. I’m composing a concerto—a musical composition for an orchestra to play. It is my fondest wish to perform professionally with a full symphony.

Why is this a great, dark secret? Tess’s voice dropped to a whisper, even though no one came along the dirt road. I’d always thought ladies of your standing were taught music from a very young age.

Tess didn’t know everything about her reasons for leaving Boston, but her friend knew some of her background.

Aye, up to a point. My mother even hired private tutors for me so there were lessons spilling out my ears. But recently, I found she only cultivated my musical ability in hopes it would make me more marketable for a marriage she would arrange.

Oh my, that’s terrible! Why, people quit arranging marriages years ago. Tess was clearly outraged on Abby’s behalf. Didn’t they?

Even if they didn’t, everyone’s not suited for marriage. I prefer to think of myself on a concert stage, accepting accolades from huge audiences for my concertos. If there ever is to be a husband, he shall stand docilely off stage, dreamy-eyed over my success and willing to give up his life for me and my accomplishments. Abby had never spoken her dreams aloud. In doing so, she realized they sounded rather cold-hearted.

That sounds, well, a little selfish, if you don’t mind me saying so. What about love?

Abby shrugged.

"Mary Wollstonecraft wrote that ‘love as an heroic passion, like genius, appears but once in an age’. Be that the case, I doubt seriously that love will find me here in the wilds of Kansas. It would surely appear in a form other than a drunken cowboy." She giggled, lightening the mood. Tess shook her head.

You are far better read than me, for you are always quoting someone or the other. I assume this Mary person is another of your feminists?

Abby nodded, scanning the green pasture beyond the fence. She had only begun to speak of her views recently and still felt somewhat shy espousing her thoughts on the subject of feminism. She certainly wasn’t as outspoken as Susan B. Anthony. She decided to change the subject.

It is truly too fair a day to return to that dreary dormitory.

"You know what will happen if we don’t appear at the stroke of six for our supper.

Rules are rules."

Tess mimicked Miss Parker, the matron in charge of the Harvey Dormitory for Women.

I have it. She snapped her fingers. I know how we can settle whether we’re to marry or not. Let’s see what the daisy has to say.

Tess pushed open a narrow gate, pointing to a pool of flowers sprouting beneath a tall tree. Tess tended to get stuck on a notion and worry it to death before she was done.

I don’t know, Tess. This fence was probably made to keep people out. Besides, how is a flower going to foretell our futures?

She looked at her friend, with her short brown hair and laughing brown eyes. Tess knew so much about life and she told the most wonderful stories from her childhood. Abby was her senior by six years but some days felt so much younger. Tess knew about the world in a way that Abby’s study of Renaissance poets and world-renowned musicians could never match.

Faith, where have you been all your life? She inched through the opening. You simply close your eyes and grasp for a bunch of daisies. The number you pick is the number of years left before you marry.

Tess hiked up her skirts and ran the distance to the daisies, bent to pick some and, quick as a wink, she was back through the gate, holding open her hand and gasping to catch her breath.

There, see? I picked five and a half, if you count this little, smashed one. That’s almost six years—a future so distant as to not even count.

Most certainly. And let’s see, by that time you would be the very old age of twenty-four. Certainly a spinster.

I will not be old, Tess protested.

Abby just laughed.

Now it’s your turn.

I really don’t think a flower—

Are you afraid of finding out that perhaps Mr. O’Flagherty, right here in Topeka, might end up being more than a whistle-stop?

It was a dare, impossible to ignore.

"I shall remember this day, Tess Maguire. When I do not marry in however many years your daisies say, I shall find you, wherever you are, and gloat."

She strolled across the pasture, head down as she picked her way past the odorous cow chips deposited here and there.

Faith!

I’m going, I’m going.

She waved her hand without turning around, afraid of stepping where she most definitely shouldn’t. Reaching the tree, Abby surveyed the bed of flowers, trying to find a generous patch before she actually closed her eyes.

Oh, Faith, hurry! Ignoring her friend’s repeated shouts, Abby closed her eyes, mentally visualizing the area that overflowed with daisies. What she failed to notice was how close she stood to the tree, and when she bent over, she cracked her head on the rough trunk and went down in a heap.

Oh, dear God, save her!

Tess’s tearful cries reached her through the ringing in her ears. She lifted a hand, feeling the lump already forming on her forehead. She shouted at Tess to be quiet. Then she heard a snort. She turned in the direction of yet another, much louder snort. Her words stuck in her throat. Off to her left, at a distance too almighty close, stood a gentleman cow of the largest proportions. Abby scrambled to her feet, never taking her eyes off the animal. The beast snorted and pawed the earth. Then it lowered its head before taking a step, then another, straight at her.

Chapter Two

Run! Tess hollered from the other side of the fence.

No, don’t run. It will make him charge you.