Trevor would make sure the only chance they got was to meet an unofficial noose.
That was Striker’s job, after all. He chased down criminals that the higher-ups didn’t have the time or knowledge to find, apprehending them and bringing them in. As the investigator beneath Lou, Trevor both reported to him and received cases from him. Lou was a senior investigator who’d been with the bureau since its formation beneath Chief Examiner Finch.
Bringing in Mendez was Trevor’s longest-running case but he’d determined to do it this year. Based on what he’d seen on the train, Mendez was getting loony. In the last year, Mendez had ramped up his efforts to find Striker. Sending henchmen to scour the countryside for Mary, wanting to use her to find the man who’d rescued her and foiled his kidnapping.
Mary had been Mendez’s first victim. A spontaneous deal that started an illegal thousand-dollar enterprise the government was still working to shut down. Quietly, of course.
But Trevor wanted to be done with all that.
The land called to him. It was time to settle down, own a ranch. No woman deserved the baggage he carried, though. Could he be content on his own? He’d been alone too many years to count. Maybe since he’d been a boy, even. His parents hadn’t offered any kind of protection or companionship, had never given him a reason to want a relationship with anyone, but the urge for a family niggled at him.
He pushed the feeling to the side. With a past like his, he didn’t deserve a wife. His mouth relaxed as he watched Mary go into the house. A short career, one he excelled at but didn’t love, would end with this assignment, even if the guilt didn’t.
And he’d get the one thing he longed for more than a home.
No more blood on his hands.
* * *
Gracie awoke to warm light streaming through large, arched windows into a spacious bedroom. She stretched her arms above her head, yawned and absorbed her new surroundings with all the famed curiosity of a cat.
Simplicity made the small room lovely. A bright, multicolored rug covered the honey-hued oak floor. A gilt mirror hung over a large wooden dresser in front of the bed. The bed had four large posts and the ivory quilt that draped it was warm and soft.
She swung her legs out of the bed and then began tidying up. Her jewels went into a far corner of the closet, shadowed by angles. They’d come in handy should she need to travel across the country in pursuit of Striker. Better yet, if she procured an interview and the Woman’s Liberator sent her on assignment, she’d be financially sound. She’d brought only some of her valuables; a few for sentiment, a few for wear and a few for hocking, should the need arise.
After they were stowed safely away, she unpacked her clothes into the heavy dresser, and then set about trying to make the bed, a chore usually taken care of by maids at home. But this is a new place, she reminded herself. Her fingers tucked the sheets beneath the mattress. There were still wrinkles in the middle of the bed.
She tugged on the sheet.
More wrinkles.
In the end, she contented herself with straightening the covers across the mattress as best she could. She’d just dressed in an olive-green blouse and matching skirt when a knock sounded.
“Coming.” She pulled the door open.
The Indian servant she’d seen last night stood in the hallway, holding a pile of linens. “May I come in?”
Gracie nodded and the woman glided into the room, more graceful than a monarch butterfly. Dozens of questions sprang to Gracie’s mind but she bit her lip and waited for the servant to speak first.
“I’m Mary, the housekeeper.” She rolled the R in her name, her sentence ending with a charming lilt. Dark brown eyes rested on Gracie. “I’ve brought you some clean linens, and breakfast is waiting downstairs. I hope you like omelets. Lou didn’t tell me anything about you so I just mixed up something quick.”
“Omelets sound wonderful. You have a darling accent.”
Mary stepped forward, holding up the pile of linens. “Where would you like these?”
“Wherever you wish. Don’t let me get in the way. Are you Indian? You sound Irish. You dress just like me.” Gracie frowned down at her own subdued clothing. “But you’re much more beautiful. How many languages do you speak?”
Mary looked a bit taken aback, her mouth rounding into a soft O. Gracie flushed and bit hard on her lip to hold in any more nosy questions.
“Three languages,” Mary finally said, regaining her soft smile. “I’m Paiute and Irish. Do you want help unpacking?” She walked to the dresser and started straightening Gracie’s clothes. “I hope you brought some wool underclothes. It gets cold here. Biting cold.”
Gracie’s stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet room and she grimaced. Mother often found her appetite a source of embarrassment. “I apologize. Perhaps you can tell I need my food.”
“Nonsense,” Mary said briskly, as if she saw Gracie’s discomfort and sought to comfort her. “I’m hungry, too. Follow me.”
They walked to the dining room on the first floor and sat at an exquisite mahogany table loaded with dishes.
“I thought you made only eggs,” Gracie said.
“Oh, that’s the main meal. Lou, Trevor and James eat quite a bit. I’ve got to make plenty of biscuits and pancakes to go with the omelets.”
While Gracie admired Mary’s glossy black hair and exotic eyes, the men shuffled in and sat. Her impressions last night had been accurate. James looked just as grizzled as ever, offsetting Uncle Lou’s handsome features and Mr. Cruz’s dark ones. She wished belatedly that she’d taken more care with her appearance. She felt large and frumpy, especially sitting near the luminous Mary.
The men grumbled their greetings. Mary rose and bustled around the table, filling cups with coffee and orange juice. Gracie wanted to help, but had no idea how. She had never served anything more than tea. She also didn’t want Mr. Cruz’s attention on her. In the light of day he looked more appealing than ever, and the last thing she wanted was for him to notice her plain attire.
The men began devouring forkfuls of food, and Gracie stared in horrified amazement. All thoughts of remaining inconspicuous deserted her.
“Is anyone going to pray?”
Quiet descended. Forks stopped in midair and four pairs of eyes turned her way. Uncle Lou spoke first.
“We don’t put much stock in prayer here, Gracie. You’re welcome to, of course, silently. Morning, by the way. Like your dress.” He resumed eating, and so did the others, while Gracie sat paralyzed with shock. She wanted to mind her own business, she really did, and her polite upbringing struggled valiantly for several seconds before it surrendered to her emotions.
“Are you jesting, Uncle Lou?” she asked carefully.
“He’s not jesting, missy. Life is harsh. If’n there’s a God, He’s a cruel one and not who we’d like to follow.”
Gracie didn’t know whether to weep with pity or laugh outright at James’s response. She stared down at her plate, silently entreating God to give her some words, some hope for these people. She looked up at last only to find everyone eating and conversing, all thoughts of God shoved to the back of their minds.
“Tell me about your business, Uncle Lou,” she said when she had regained her composure. For the rest of breakfast they monopolized the conversation with talk of business, politics and the suffrage movement. Uncle Lou, it turned out, was in favor of women getting the vote. “1912,” he said, pride swelling his voice. “We gave women that right years ago.”
“Gracie here’s a fan of jazz.” Trevor pointed his fork at her. She flushed. He’d remembered.