Page 11 of Cloaked in Beauty

“I see we’re still traveling the same route.” Elmer Davis scurried up beside him, then matched his stride. “I wonder if we’ll meet up again in Texarkana.”

Man, he hoped not.

Philip kept his eyes glued to the livery and his legs at full stretch. “Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

Davis shuffled his sample case to the opposite hand, then darted in front of Philip, forcing him to pull up short lest he plow the man over.

Philip bit back a groan and tried to skirt around the obnoxious fellow, but the peddler anticipated the move and cut off his escape with a sideways shuffle.

“I suppose if you capture your quarry you might head back before we cross paths again. You hail from Houston, right?”

Philip scowled. He’d never told Davis his business nor where his job had originated.

Davis chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that. It doesn’t take a genius to discern that you’re huntin’ someone. Why else would a Pinkerton be questioning folks up and down the rail line?” Davis leaned close, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Is it a criminal? What’d he do?”

Philip continued to glower, crossing his arms over his chest as an additional clue to his growing displeasure.

“You can tell me,” Davis wheedled. “I fancy myself a bit of an amateur detective. I’ve read both of Doyle’s novels featuring that Sherlock Holmes gent and his collection of short stories. I hear there’s another collection out now, too. I need to get my hands on that one.” His eyes lit. “Perhaps I could assist you in your investigation. If you give me a description of the felon, I can keep an eye out as I travel. Report anything suspicious to the local law.”

Heaven forbid.

“Sorry, friend, Pinkerton business isn’t up for public consumption. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Not waiting for permission, Philip plowed past Davis and into the shaded interior of Johnson’s Livery.

“All right. Well, I’ll be looking for you in Texarkana.” The peddler’s cheerful call rang in Philip’s ears like the off-key clanging of pots and pans.

Still in possession of a few manners, Philip lifted a hand in a wave of farewell, even though he kept his back firmly turned. Jaw clenched, Philip strode into the livery office.

“Carmichael, right?” A slender man with shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows released the rag he’d been using to rub oil into his tack and rose to his feet. “I never forget a face.” He grinned as his thumbs stretched his suspenders out from his chest. “You here to collect your gray?” He winked. “I never forget a horse, neither.”

The man’s good humor loosened the tension in Philip’s neck and brought a smile to his lips. “A handy skill in your line of work.” Philip reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He counted out the agreed-upon boarding fee and handed it to the livery owner. “Buck fifty for the stall and two bits for the feed, right?”

Johnson cupped his hand to accept the coins. “Yes, sir.”

Philip cocked a grin. “I never forget a fee.”

Johnson roared with laughter, and Philip joined in with a chuckle of his own. The man’s amusement was too contagious to resist.

The liveryman pocketed the money, then thumped Philip on the back as he strode past him, still shaking his head and grinning.

He stuck his head out of the office doorway and shouted into the stable area. “Billy! Fetch the gray gelding from stall four and saddle him. His owner’s here to collect.”

“Got it.” The answer echoed from deep within the building. Philip pictured a lad eagerly setting aside a muck-encrusted pitchfork to comply with the new orders.

Johnson stepped back into the office. “Your horse’ll be ready shortly.” He gestured toward a small stove in the corner. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

Philip shook his head. “No, thanks. But I was hoping you might be able to offer some information.”

“Shoot away.” Johnson leaned against the office wall near the door.

“Is there a circuit-riding preacher in these parts? Someone who might be familiar with folks who live outside the town limits?”

“Hmm.” Johnson stroked his chin. “You might try talkin’ to the minister out at Law’s Chapel. They’ve got a building about three miles west of town. They might sponsor a circuit rider. Not sure.”

Mrs. Radcliffe had described her mother as a woman of faith. Someone who had attended church with great devotion all her life. Such habits were hard to abandon, even while in hiding. Philip figured a man of the cloth might be able to offer insight into her location. If he could find one who recognized her.

“I’ll stop by there on the way out of town. Thanks.”

“You bet. Anything else I can help you with?”