An Agent for Delilah: Pinkerton Matchmakers, #14

By Katie Marie Clark

A seasoned agent, dreading the prospect of marrying to keep his job, and a feisty woman determined to make her own way in life. Will they learn to trust each other and find their own happy ending? 

 

Delilah Fulmer is bent on escaping the rowdy home of her childhood. With little to recommend herself besides scrappiness and grit, she answers an ad to become a Pinkerton agent. But after she arrives at the Denver office, Delilah finds out a rare stipulation for her employment—she must marry her trainer. And not just any trainer, but the man she bested in a friendly wager. 

 

Jack Davis takes the news of marrying a female agent like most of the other men employed by the Denver Pinkerton Office—with complete dread. However, when a feisty and particularly lovely woman shows up a day early, Jack begins to warm to the idea. 

But when so much is on the line, including their very lives as they try to catch a dangerous gang of outlaws, will Delilah and Jack be able to put away foolish pride for a chance at lasting happiness? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barr26 Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Nov 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223687436

Book preview

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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