An Agent for Delilah Read online

  An Agent for Delilah

  Kate Mark Clark

  Copyright © 2018 Kate Marie Clark.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover design by Steven Novak

  Edited by Jolene Perry

  Printed by Kate Marie Clark, in the United States of America.

  First printing edition 2018.

  [email protected]

  www.katemarieclark.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  For a complete list of Kate Marie Clark’s books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit katemarieclark.com

  Chapter 1

  October 1871

  Delilah Fulmer dropped her carpet bag to the gravel road. The sign hanging from the Victorian house-turned-headquarters read The National Pinkerton Detective Agency, 427 Chain Bridge Road, Denver, Colorado Territories. For the past month—ever since she’d first seen the clipping in her daddy’s paper—she’d imagined the possibilities. A future, a chance to rise from her beginnings, an opportunity to chase her dreams of adventure.

  There was no turning back; her daddy had made that much clear. He didn’t want no daughter of his leaving home to traipse around the country after criminals. He expected better, more, from an only daughter. Never mind that Delilah’s home in Massachusetts was a circus, no less than a den of rowdy boys on the brink of becoming criminals themselves. Delilah pulled the folded paper from her pocket and read the Pinkerton advertisement once more.

  She was more than qualified—daring yet careful, observant yet quick, small yet surprisingly scrappy. Her brothers, all five of them, had served as training for this exact vocation. Unknowingly, they’d armed her with more than her fair share of skillsets—roping and tying knots, fist-fighting and shooting, debate, warring of words, swiping, and—most importantly—escaping undetected. At least her brothers’ unruliness had been good for something. A lifetime of their pulling her braids, and stringing her up in trees, was more than any girl should have to endure.

  The only trouble she’d have, would be convincing Archibald Gordon that she was woman enough. Delilah ran her fingers down the front of her dress; she’d spent all her savings on the new attire. The layered-lace bodice and full skirt, not to mention the white fabric, was unlike anything Delilah had owned. She hardly knew how to act in such a dress. Trousers and hand-offs from her brothers were her usual attire.

  Life without a mother had its drawbacks, but after seeing her reflection on the train, Delilah was convinced of her success. Her hair, the color of copper-tinged flames, fell neatly in curls down her back. The curlers weren’t any more challenging to work through than her brother Broderick’s disastrous attempts at knots. She took her new parasol in one hand, her bag in the other, and crossed the street.

  She hammered a gloved hand against the front door and stepped back to wait.

  After a few minutes, she knocked again—again without an answer.

  “What the devil?” she mumbled underneath her breath.

  A soft humming of voices caught her ears, and she followed the noise to the back of the building. The sound grew brassier, until the familiar sound of men’s laughter grated against Delilah’s ears. The Agency employed men; she expected that much. But irritation pricked against the back of her neck when she saw them. They appeared no more refined than her brothers.

  They sat on the grass, huddled above a pile of cards and coins.

  “You bluffed,” one man said in an Irish twang, pulling the pile of spoils toward him. His brown hair resembled a sheepskin—matted and covered in a greasy film. He—or those around him—smelled heavily of cigar and sweat.

  “Ah, Richard. Not again,” another man said from below a cowboy hat.

  “Excuse me,” Delilah responded, tilting her parasol to the side. She hoped her womanly efforts would catch their attention—many a man on the train had turned their head her way.

  Yet, not one man could be disturbed; they refused her the courtesy of a simple nod or glance. They continued their game, speaking as though Delilah was invisible.

  Anger stabbed at her. She shrugged off the sensation and stepped closer, until the hem of her skirt hung over one man’s cards on the grass. She closed her parasol and pushed its bladed end against an ace and lifted it in the air (she’d spent the majority of the train ride fashioning a knife into the point of her umbrella).

  “Pardon me, boys, but I’m hoping you can direct me to Mr. Archibald Gordon?”

  “Not here.” A striking smile—more of a sneer—was her only greeting. The blond stranger turned his attention back to the game. “If you’re here to apply, you’re early. In fact, might as well turn back to your mother.”

  The men laughed in response, and the Irish man spoke once more. “Tucker’s right. Seems a pity Archie’s sent for another batch of women. The first set did enough damage—stealing away some of our best men—Warren, Sam, Nate.”

  “Don’t forget Mav,” a man with thick mutton chops said. He sucked on his cigar and blew the smoke in Delilah’s direction. “He might still be an agent, but Victoria has him wrapped around her finger. Poor fool.”

  The smoke billowed into her lungs, and Delilah covered her mouth to cough. Vileness at its finest—matching it might be her only chance at stealing their attention. She retrieved her pistol from her pocket. Umbrella in one hand, pistol in the other—she decided to show these dim-witted men what she was made of. She flicked two poker chips high above them and shot each one to pieces.

  The debris fell to silence.

  “I’ll only ask once more. Where can I find Archibald Gordon?” Delilah placed her pistol back into her pocket and fanned out the parasol. She forced a pretentious smile and fluttered her lashes. “I’d really like to speak to him before I turn back to that mama of mine.”

  “Porter Shaw at your service,” a devilishly handsome man said, standing. His blue eyes, paired with his cheeky grin, were more weapon than the gun in her hand. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “Come now, Porter,” Tucker said. “Lucky shots. She could never do that again, and she certainly couldn’t take on any of us in target practice. Why, Jack hasn’t ever lost to any of us. Only Warren held a candle to him—a real shame Rockwell left the agency. Jack, what do you say? Want to teach this woman her place?”

  Delilah wanted to scream. “Will you please stop speaking as if I’m not here?” She put a hand on her hip. “I shoot as well as the lot of you, and if it takes shooting up this hole, I won’t protest. Now, will you or won’t you take me to Mr. Gordon?”

  The mutton-chop man stood beside Porter. His bowler cap cast a shadow over his eyes. “Well, now. No need for a lady to speak such things. It’s not becoming.”

  Richard laughed. “Big talk from one so small,” he said in his Irish twang. “I’ve felt more threatened by a tree squirrel than the likes of her.”

  These men were quite possibly worse than her brothers
. They were arrogant and idle, disrespectful and stinky. Certainly the agency could do better.

  Delilah straightened her shoulders. “I’d gladly participate in any game of aims you care to throw at me, and with whomever you deem the best—Jack or Rockwell, or whatever the devil his name is.”

  “Would you now?” The man across from her stood, and she caught a glimpse of him beneath his brimmed hat. He was over a foot taller than her, and his shoulders were the size of boulders. His eyes caught the afternoon light—green, a swirl of jade and emerald. “The name’s Jack Davis. And you are?”

  “Miss Delilah Fulmer.” She lifted her chin. “And if I beat you at your own game, Mr. Davis, will you please take me to Mr. Gordon as I’ve so kindly asked?”

  Jack chewed the inside of his cheek, seeming to size her up. His jaw was like the rest of him—large and chiseled like a stone statue. “And if you lose?”

  Her lips tugged. “Then I’ll return tomorrow with the lot of other women.”

  Richard clapped his hands together. “She don’t know what she’s getting into, I tell you.”

  “She doesn’t know much of anything,” Tucker replied between chuckles.

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Davis?” Delilah asked. Her lips tugged, but she repressed the smile. She always liked surprising people—especially men like her brothers, men who hadn’t a slice of respect for women.

  Jack brushed his fingers over his mustache. He gestured to the dormitory. Atop the roof, from the highest chimney, was strung a hat. “That’s one of my hats. Top shooters put their hat up there, and it stays until knocked down. Trick is, you can only shoot at it once a week. So either you hit the stick propping it to knock it down, or you only put a hole through the hat. Last man to have his hung was Warren Rockwell. But he’s been gone six months.”

  She squinted in the sunlight. “From where do I shoot?”

  A broad grin spread across his cheeks, and his white teeth contrasted nicely against his tanned and weathered skin. “We take our aim from the office back porch.”

  She surveyed the distance. The porch and dormitory were only twenty yards away—the task was not difficult at all. She nodded. “Then I’ll be taking my shot right now.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.” Jack’s voice cracked. “You got to retrieve the hat, after you shoot it down, to win the wager.”

  Delilah froze in her tracks and balked. She wasn’t scared of scaling the angled roof but doing so in trousers was one thing. Her current dress was her only outfit befitting a lady. “You expect me to climb to the roof in this dress and boots?”

  Jack removed his hat and shrugged. His black, cowlicked hair—like his mustache—was coarse with peppered gray that shimmered in the sunlight. “You do if you want to beat me at my own game, as you said. Don’t matter to me. I’d just as well leave my mark for another six months.”

  The circle of men laughed. They each stood now, waiting in anticipation.

  Tucker placed an arm over Richard’s shoulder. “Miss Fulmer most likely won’t be returning tomorrow.”

  Delilah’s blood simmered in response, and she pressed her lips together. Speaking another word to these fools would be futile. She took to the porch and kneeled on one knee. Her hand held steady—as it always did—and she squinted one eye closed.

  The dormitory, only two stories high, was slightly angled from the office. If she could tip the hat just at the stick, she might not have to climb at all. With any luck, the wind would carry the hat to the ground for her.

  “Ain’t no shame in walking away,” one of the men shouted.

  Her lips tugged. Arrogant fools—the lot of them. Delilah cocked the gun, and she took in a slow breath. Fate had brought her here, and fate would carry her bullet. She pulled the trigger, and the shot rang out.

  The hat spun around the stick like a tornado, and, coupled with the wind, lifted from its position. It fell to the rain gutter—and, utter silence.

  Delilah growled. She’d so hoped to avoid climbing the roof. She marched toward the building without a single glance to the pack of agents. The two-story dormitory was well above her head, and not even a lattice-makeshift-ladder adorned the brick exterior.

  The tree would have to do.

  Delilah tied her skirt in a knot between her legs and removed her shoes and stockings. She threw herself against the bark. Her fingers dug against the jaggedness; her feet bounced from branch to branch. By the time she landed on the ground, hat in hand, she was clean out of breath.

  She loosened the knotted skirt and grinned. Not a single smudge of dirt on the white fabric was to be found. Delilah dusted off her hands. “Well, Mr. Davis, I reckon this is my hat now.”

  Tucker’s mouth hung as long as a horse; Richard rubbed at his eyes; Porter grinned widely and winked.

  Mutton-chopped man tossed his cigar to the ground. “I need a drink.”

  Jack Davis stood still, seemingly unimpressed, with his arms folded tightly at his chest. He exhaled and shook his head. “Come now. I s’pose I’ll be taking you to Archie. And that’s still my hat.”

  Jack wanted to curse. He hated scaling the dormitory, and now he’d have to do it again once Miss Fulmer was gone. He turned to make sure the girl—she was hardly taller than a child—followed him; she walked much too quietly.

  “Archie doesn’t take well to interruptions. You’d do better to return tomorrow with the rest of the female applicants,” Jack said, daring a glance at her fiery head of hair. Seemed red hair always made for his trouble—Marianne, Victoria, and now this Miss Fulmer. He’d yet to meet a red-haired woman with less fire than her hair. “Are you sure you want me to take you to him right now?”

  Delilah bit the top of her bottom lip, and a dimple manifested itself in the edge of her cheek. “I don’t mind interrupting him. He’ll want to see this,” she said, twirling the hat on one of her fingers.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Very well, but you should know—you never bested anybody. You only shot my hat.”

  “I won the wager, a feat none of you boys thought possible. I’ll take that as a win.” One auburn brow lifted, and her blue eyes sparked. “I’ll also consider that besting you.”

  She made as much sense as a domesticated skunk. She appeared to be just as pesky, and he wanted to be rid of her. Jack knocked his heavy hand against Archie’s door.

  “Go away,” Archie muttered from the other side. “I’m not to be bothered, unless it’s Marianne. I’ll remind you that I’m in charge of this—” The door opened, and Jack almost backed into Delilah in an effort to avoid the swing of the door.

  Jack lifted his hands. “Only me, boss.”

  “Jack.” Archie’s expression relaxed. His hair had grown long again, and he desperately needed a beard trim. “I told you I needed a day of peace and quiet before the applicants arrive. The last bunch nearly did me in, my sister most of all.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “I’m supposing right now wouldn’t be the moment to introduce you to one of them applicants then?”

  “Right now?” A flicker of understanding lit Archie’s gaze. “Where is she?”

  Delilah stepped out from behind Jack’s shade. Her shoulders were drawn back, and her chin lifted to meet the face of Archie. She held out a gloved hand like a true lady.

  Jack knew better; he’d seen the woman scale a tree in a dress. He bit back a smile. Come to think of it, he’d hardly seen a more amusing sight. A little lady hopping in the treetop like a jackrabbit was nothing short of comical, despite the impressiveness.

  “Miss Delilah Fulmer at your service, Mr. Gordon.” She smiled.

  A long pause and scowl proceeded Archie’s response. He stuck his hand in his suit pocket. “And what makes you think arriving a day early will work to your favor, Miss Fulmer?”

  She extended Jack’s shot-up hat as evidence. “I just bested your top shot, Mr. Gordon.” She flicked the hat into the room, landing it on the corner of a chair. “I hoped that’d mean something to you.”

  “Ja
ck, is this true?” Archie’s brows drew up in question. He surveyed the woman up and down, disbelief etching more and more into his sour expression.

  Jack winced. The matter sounded so much worse the way she put it. He stole a glance at the woman. She looked more fairy than human with her delicate features. Her porcelain skin and blue eyes were straight from a fairytale. He swallowed. He hadn’t realized how pretty the woman was. “Bested is a stretch. But if you’re wanting confirmation, Miss Fulmer shot the hat and retrieved it, sir.”

  Archie chuckled and stepped aside, gesturing to his office. “Take a seat, Miss Fulmer. And Jack,” he said, flicking his chin at the door. “I wouldn’t tell anyone a woman has replaced you as top shot—doesn’t sound the least flattering.”

  Jack sighed. “She hasn’t replaced nothing.”

  “Then shall we settle it?” Delilah sat, and her skirt hung in a fan all around the chair.

  “That’d be grand,” Archie said, chuckling once more. “I’d like to see that—after your wedding.”

  Delilah’s mouth dropped. “My…? What did you say?”

  Jack bit back a smile. Miss Delilah Fulmer was awfully pretty when she blushed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and entered the room. If there was one way he could best this woman—other than shooting—it’d be in unravelling her resolve to join the agency. “Seems a fine way to start a marriage.”

  Archie nodded. “Might as well get the fighting out to begin with. Now, Miss Fulmer. I’m willing to hire you on the spot. Once I speak to Marianne, my secretary, you’d have a place to board until your first case. Thing is, there’s one part of the deal I failed to mention in the advertisement. You’ll be needing training from a senior agent. What better way to train you, then to pair you up by—”