Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5) Read online

  Martha Palmer frowned and her wrinkled face folded into deeper lines. “I don’t agree with allowing sleeping dogs to lie, Mr. O’Dell, proverbial or otherwise. In my experience sleeping dogs tend to wake up and bite when least expected.”

  O’Dell stared back at her with perfect understanding. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Well? What are we to do, then?”

  O’Dell shifted and rose to his feet, wincing as his hip complained. He leaned the weight of the throbbing leg on his cane.

  “As I mentioned, I will be leaving for Chicago soon, possibly tomorrow.” He nodded, as though confirming the departure date to himself. “When I finish there and return to Seattle, Minister Liáng and I will talk further on this. More importantly, we will pray. God will guide us.”

  He reached for the derby that was perched on the arm of his chair. “I know you care for Mei-Xing. I know you care about the women of Palmer House and the important work they do. In them we share a common bond and a common concern.”

  Martha Palmer nodded.

  O’Dell’s eyes were serious. “I also know you have the resources to protect them, whereas I . . .”

  She nodded again, once. “I take your point. I will make arrangements immediately. However, the few men the Pinkerton Agency provided last fall proved insufficient. Will you advise me?”

  “Thank you,” O’Dell answered quietly. “I would be happy to recommend a reliable party, someone whose experience and character I trust. He will employ a number of men sufficient for the job.”

  “That would be most welcome. Please keep in touch, Mr. O’Dell.”

  Martha Palmer did not stand but she offered him her hand. As he took it, she grasped hold and would not let go until he leaned close to her.

  “That girl’s well-being is of utmost importance to me, Mr. O’Dell.” Her voice caught. “If, when you return to Seattle, you hear anything concerning her safety, I would be much obliged if you would act in her interests. I promise you, I will spare no expense.”

  O’Dell squeezed her hand. “Then I will count on you to watch over her and Palmer House here, and you may depend on me to act when needed.”

  As O’Dell maneuvered his painful hip down Mrs. Palmer’s front steps, he thought on the other reason he needed to leave Denver soon: Cal Judd. Judd had served half of his meager one-year sentence and O’Dell was already hearing rumors of an early release from Groves, Denver’s police chief.

  I must plan to be far from Denver when Judd walks out of prison, O’Dell warned himself, not for the first time. As he limped to the car Mrs. Palmer had called for him, he added, Judd has had months to plan how he will make me pay for interfering with his business—and worse, for helping Esther to escape from him.

  He scowled. If my body weren’t so deucedly weak I would stay and settle with the scoundrel once and for all.

  O’Dell wasn’t accustomed to running for cover—and he didn’t much like it. It smacked of cowardice and, just as Martha Palmer had said, sleeping dogs left to their own devices usually did awake and bite when least expected.

  He reached into his breast pocket for a cigar, but his pocket was empty. O’Dell chuckled at the power of habit. For some reason, he hadn’t felt right about replenishing his cigar supply; the need for them had started to fall away, even if his old habits still occasionally surprised him.

  O’Dell frowned as his thoughts again turned to Cal Judd. I would rather finish this business with Judd and never again worry about leading him to those living at Palmer House, he fretted.

  Then his thoughts turned toward the little house on the outskirts of Seattle where Bao Shin Xang still hid from Fang-Hua Chen. O’Dell didn’t blame Bao for hiding—Fang-Hua, rich, powerful, and without conscience, was actively seeking to destroy him. Bao had once been Fang-Hua’s trusted instrument but, since his defection, he was a hunted man.

  At least I need no longer worry about Dean Morgan. Bao’s sources inside Fang-Hua’s house had assured them that Morgan had fled Seattle for parts unknown. Morgan hoped to never encounter Fang-Hua Chen again.

  O’Dell had his own experience with Fang-Hua to reflect on. It was she who had ordered her thugs to thrash O’Dell and leave him to die.

  I should have died, O’Dell vividly recalled, I would have died, but for God himself sparing my life.

  O’Dell had spent weeks in the hospital and weeks recovering in the little house Minister Liáng had rented to hide O’Dell from Fang-Hua. Now it was Bao who hid there from Fang-Hua, but he was not alone: The same nurse who had cared for O’Dell when he was released from the hospital was Bao’s companion.

  Darla.

  When O’Dell had left Seattle two weeks ago, Darla had asked if he would write to her. He had agreed—but he had not done so as yet. He had sent only a short and cryptic wire to Minister Liáng: Luke 15:6. O’Dell knew Liáng would understand when he looked for and read the verse,

  And when he cometh home,

  he calleth together his friends and neighbours,

  saying unto them, Rejoice with me;

  for I have found my sheep which was lost.

  The newspapers were carrying the news that Su-Chong, an escapee from the Denver jail, was dead as the result of being shot during the commission of a burglary—but the papers carried nothing of Mei-Xing.

  O’Dell’s influence with Chief Groves had seen to that: Mei-Xing had been removed from the apartment where Su-Chong had hidden her—and where he had bled to death—without local reporters being the wiser. Liáng would read the wire and work out that O’Dell had found Mei-Xing and that she was safe.

  However, Liáng would not know the whole story until O’Dell provided him with it. He would not know that Mei-Xing was carrying Fang-Hua’s grandchild until O’Dell returned to Seattle.

  O’Dell shivered. Minister Liáng, Bao, and Miss Greenbow deserved to know the details—details that could not be trusted to a letter. But first O’Dell had orders to report to the Chicago Pinkerton office. He would wire Liáng again to say his return to Seattle would be delayed.

  O’Dell stepped into his hotel room, scrawled the contents of the wire to Liáng, and began to pack his bag.

  Two uniformed policemen delivered the news of Su-Chong’s death to his parents. Su-Chong’s father, Wei Lin Chen, displayed no emotion as the officers described where Su-Chong’s body had been discovered and how he had died. Fang-Hua also remained silent and implacable, but the strength left her legs and she sank to the floor.

  Servants rushed to assist her; Wei Lin gave little attention to her distress.

  Su-Chong had died a bad death.

  He was unmarried. He had no children to prepare the funeral for him. He was worthy of no respect—and the manner of his death was a further disgrace to his family.

  His body would not be brought into the Chen’s house or courtyard. No white cloth would hang over the front doorway to the Chen’s home proclaiming their loss. No gong would stand to the left of their doorway. Friends and relatives would not visit or gather to mourn.

  His body would be kept at a funeral home and his parents would not publicly grieve him. The funeral would be short, small, and silent.

  Fang-Hua twisted her face into a mask that betrayed no emotion, and yet the emotions roiled within. My son! My son is dead! Her pain slammed inside her chest with each thudding beat of her heart.

  Later, Fang-Hua and Wei Lin read the newspaper reports of Su-Chong’s death without speaking. They read how he had been shot while stealing.

  A bad death indeed.

  Anger flared in Fang-Hua’s breast—anger toward the chit of a girl who had cast off Su-Chong’s affections, causing him to leave his home and family in the first place. Anger toward the man she called Reggie for taking Su-Chong into his service, making Su-Chong vulnerable to arrest. Even anger toward her son for forsaking his familial duty, for his obsession with a woman—an inconsequential girl—not worthy of him.

  The newspapers made no mention of Mei-Xing Li, and Fang-H
ua’s eyes narrowed. To where had the little whore disappeared? Fang-Hua’s men had searched all of Denver for months and had discovered no trace of Mei-Xing.

  She toyed with the possibility that Su-Chong had killed Mei-Xing and hidden her body where it would never be found. The idea did not sit right with her. No, somehow the girl had escaped—and that thought only served to incense Fang-Hua more.

  Where has the little chit hidden herself all this time? she raged. Why were my men unable to find her?

  The days after Su-Chong’s body was delivered to the funeral home were no different from any ordinary days. His burial was accomplished with no fanfare, no publicity, no ceremonial respect. Afterward, Wei Lin went to his office and Fang-Hua attended to her duties.

  Outwardly Fang-Hua was cool and composed, but inwardly she screamed in pain and frustration. And unease.

  She watched Wei Lin warily. Her husband had to be considering the deeper implications of Su-Chong’s death on his own lineage and the Chen family line. Those implications terrified Fang-Hua.

  The fact was, Wei Lin required another son, and Fang-Hua could not give him one.

  The one son Fang-Hua had borne and the financial power she wielded in her own right had been all that had kept Wei Lin attached to her. But now Su-Chong was gone. Wei Lin could—would likely—divorce Fang-Hua and marry a young woman capable of giving him many sons.

  A servant interrupted to announce unexpected visitors: Jinhai and Ting-Xiu Li.

  What? The little whore’s parents? The rage burning within Fang-Hua tore at her belly. With great self-control she tamped it down.

  I can give nothing away, she whispered to herself. I must speak and show nothing to make them or Wei Lin suspicious of me.

  She no longer had to fear her son exposing her secrets to her husband. That danger, at least, was past. Only Bao Shin Xang and Mei-Xing Li—a living Mei-Xing who should be dead!—posed threats.

  Prudence required Fang-Hua to remain unperturbed and gracious to the Lis, thanking them for their visit, though it was unwarranted—even inappropriate!—given the circumstances of Su-Chong’s death.

  The servant ushered Jinhai and Ting-Xiu Li into the room. They were dressed in formal black, the only color suitable for an unmarried son’s death. Jinhai bowed and his wife followed suit.

  How I hate them! Fang-Hua sneered within herself. Oh, if only Jinhai knew what I know, how I have defiled their daughter, she gloated. But, of course, she and Wei Lin were “close family friends” with the Lis. Fang-Hua would be forced to accept their condolences—uncalled for as they were—most graciously.

  What was this? She had not been following the conversation and now Jinhai was babbling about something . . . something unsuitably sincere for the occasion.

  “. . . and so we grieved as you must be grieving, behind closed doors, not even able to mourn her publicly,” Jinhai murmured, his eyes downcast. “We were cut to our cores, and nothing could console us. Until we met with a Christian minister. He showed us from the Christian Bible how to have a relationship with the living God, the Creator of all things.

  “Such peace we now have in our souls!” he exclaimed. “Such happiness in our hearts. And so we have come, humbly, to offer our sympathy and to also offer to share what we have found in Jesus, the Christian Savior. We—”

  “Thank you . . .” Fang-Hua interrupted, drawling her words, “for your concern for us. Your friendship with our family has always been and will always remain a great . . . honor.”

  Although her words were spoken in a soft and silky voice and her face remained placid, her eyes sought out Jinhai’s and hardened.

  You should know that I hate you and yours, Fang-Hua told him with her eyes. With my words I honor you, but look into my soul, Jinhai Li. Look deeply and see how I despise you.

  Jinhai stammered to a stop, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking and rising. Fang-Hua’s gleaming eyes belied the sweet words she mouthed. The ill will emanating from her was palpable.

  Disturbed and shaken, Jinhai bowed deeply; his wife, although confused, followed suit. “Please call on us if we can assist you in any way,” Jinhai murmured, his words soft. He backed away, pulling his wife with him, and left the Chen home.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 2

  O’Dell stepped off the train in Chicago’s Union Station. The late afternoon air was thick with steam and smoke, the platforms bustling and crowded. O’Dell wound his way through the throng until he reached the street entrance on Canal. There he caught a cab to the Pinkerton offices.

  With a flourish, O’Dell tossed his derby onto the hat rack in Parson’s office and grinned. Parsons scowled in return.

  “Took your time reporting in, O’Dell,” Parsons growled. He eyed the cane O’Dell used to maneuver himself into the single chair before Parson’s desk.

  “Don’t mind the cane; my mind is functioning at full throttle,” O’Dell remarked. He looked about Parson’s office. Not much had changed in O’Dell’s absence—except O’Dell. He wondered if Parsons could see that change in him.

  “Well. Good work on tracking Su-Chong Chen and recovering Miss Li. The Denver powers-that-be have sung your praises to the heavens.”

  O’Dell shrugged.

  “Yeah, well I regret to tell you, we have had no paying clients sing your praises in months,” Parsons growled. “Management, while happy for Pinkerton to garner recognition and glory, breaks out in a rash when its top missing-persons detective continues to draw a salary but hasn’t brought in a dime—in how long?”

  Parsons made a show of consulting papers on his desk. “Oh. Yes. More than six months!”

  “Reporting for duty, sir,” O’Dell smiled. Perhaps now is not the best time to bring up my return to Seattle.

  Parsons studied him. “Jackson is leaving.”

  O’Dell understood at once. Management of the Denver office was on the table. Again.

  “Jackson wasn’t in charge long. He get a better offer somewhere?”

  “His wife is ill. He’s taking her to drier climates. Arizona, I heard.”

  O’Dell nodded but said nothing.

  “Chief Groves and Marshal Pounder have both petitioned Pinkerton management to assign you there. They say you work well with law enforcement. They trust you, and trust is in short supply in Colorado.”

  O’Dell snorted. “Denver is not, shall we say, a hospitable environment for me at present.”

  “Cal Judd?”

  “Uh-huh.” O’Dell studied his fingernails.

  Parsons knew the offer was declined. “I want all of your reports regarding Su-Chong Chen and Miss Li written and filed in two days.” He handed O’Dell a sizable folder. “We’ll meet again then. Familiarize yourself with the details of the three cases in this folder. Since you’ve demonstrated an oversized penchant for pro bono work, management insists that I assign your next cases and oversee them.”

  So I won’t be returning to Seattle right away after all—I will have to send further regrets to Liáng. O’Dell sighed but kept the frustration off his face.

  “No problem. I’ll get started on the reports. Same desk?”

  Mr. Wheatley shuffled down the hall to answer the ringing of the front doorbell of Palmer House. “Good morning, Mrs. Palmer!” He greeted the old woman with real affection. She leaned heavily on the arm of her driver, Benton, and on her cane.

  “Good morn’ t’ ye, Mr. Wheatley! I would see Mrs. Thoresen if she is at home.” Without waiting for an answer, Martha Palmer tottered over the threshold and hobbled into the parlor off the left hand side of the hallway.

  “Yes, ma’am; I will let her know you are here.” But Mr. Wheatley did not move away from the door—away from the sight of nine sturdy men lingering on the porch. “I, uh—” He left the door open and hastened after Mrs. Palmer.

  “Mrs. Palmer, shall I ask the, uh, gentlemen on the porch to join you?”

  “Not just yet, if you please.”

  He shuffled back to the entry. “I beg yo
ur pardon,” he muttered. He closed the door on the men and went in search of Miss Rose. He found her in the kitchen near the back of the house going over the menus with Marit.

  “Miss Rose, Mrs. Palmer to see you. She is waiting in the parlor.”

  “Goodness!” Rose jumped up, straightened her skirt and collar, and patted her hair. She walked briskly to the front of the house and into the parlor.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Palmer! It is a pleasure to see you this morning.”

  “Good day t’ ye, Mrs. Thoresen. Do you have a few minutes to spare for me?”

  “Certainly. Would you care for tea? Perhaps one of Marit’s baked treats?”

  “I would indeed,” Martha Palmer replied, her eyes gleaming.

  “Would you like Mei-Xing to join us?”

  But Mrs. Palmer pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head. “No, thank you. Not at present, if you please.”

  “I see.” Rose didn’t see, but knew Mrs. Palmer would have a reason behind her visit and would soon tell it to her. “Let me just speak to Marit. I believe she has a nice almond cake this morning.”

  When they were settled and Rose had passed a steaming cup to Mrs. Palmer, the elderly woman began. “I asked Mr. O’Dell to visit me before he left.”

  “Yes?”

  “He and I agree on a topic of some importance.”

  Rose set her cup on the little table near her chair and waited.

  “I will be quite frank with you, Mrs. Thoresen. Even though she has come back to us, Mei-Xing is not safe, and neither is her child. Our Mr. O’Dell has told me a great deal about the man who abducted her and his mother—that witch-woman in Seattle.

  “Mr. O’Dell says that all the while Mei-Xing was held prisoner by Su-Chong, his mother was seeking to find and destroy her! Now that Mei-Xing has been recovered, Mr. O’Dell fears this woman will again look for Mei-Xing both to do away with her and possibly to take her child.”

  Rose sighed and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “I have reason to believe that Mei-Xing herself is worried on the same account—that Su-Chong’s mother will hear she has a grandchild and attempt to take him.”