Chapter 4

4

A TLANTA , T EXAS

Philip stepped down from the T&P Depot, jaw set against the discouragement that threatened to seep between the cracks of his resolve. Three weeks. More than half of his search time spent, and he was no closer to finding the Radcliffe heiress than when he’d started. His Pinkerton credentials had allowed him to question all depot personnel at each stop along the route to Little Rock. Methodically working his way north from Houston, he’d questioned railroad staff, store clerks, land office employees, anyone who might have interacted with Flora Anderson or her granddaughter. He’d been optimistic that the photographs Mrs. Radcliffe had provided would give him an advantage Harper hadn’t had three years ago, but so far, he’d come up just as empty as the detectives who’d come before him.

Hoping to allay the fears of anyone sympathetic to Mrs. Anderson’s plight, Philip told each person he interviewed that he’d been hired by Mrs. Leah Radcliffe, not Drake Radcliffe. Yet he wasn’t so na?ve to think a verbal assurance was enough. The person aiding Mrs. Anderson had proven to be clever and was unlikely to take the word of a Pinkerton at face value. So Philip had watched for any hint of deception, such as pursed lips, lines in the forehead, or a change in breathing when the subject viewed the daguerreotype. In all of the forty-nine towns he’d visited, however, no one had demonstrated anything other than impatience. He hadn’t expected much from the stations close to Houston, but the more distance he traveled, the more success he’d anticipated. Only ten stops remained before he hit the state line in Texarkana. If Mrs. Radcliffe was correct and her mother had stayed in Texas, his search area would soon collapse in on itself.

Blowing out a breath, Philip strode past the cotton platform and headed for the livery where he’d stabled his horse when he got into town last night. Not wanting to wait on the train schedule, he’d been riding between stops along the route. Most towns were less than ten miles apart. Many were less than five. Made it possible to visit two to three places per day, though the monotonous repetition of asking the same questions and getting the same negative responses had worn some of the shine off his optimism.

Philip shook the slump out of his posture and lifted his chin as he crossed the road, the midmorning sun warm on his back. Focus, Carmichael. God rewards perseverance, not slackin’ off. He’d felt the Lord’s call to this mission the moment he’d met Leah Radcliffe. She was depending on him to find her daughter. Counting on him to keep the young woman safe. He didn’t have the luxury of giving in to weariness or discouragement. God didn’t call a man to a task only to stand back and let him fail. He’d provide what was needed when the time was right. Philip just had to keep walking and working until that time came.

A man carrying a peddler’s case exited the general store next to the livery and held up a hand in greeting.

“We meet again, Pinkerton.”

Philip avoided eye contact but waved to the overly affable fellow he’d crossed paths with more than once over the last fortnight. “Davis.” He kept walking, having learned the hard way how the salesman loved to chatter.

The paunchy fellow with wire spectacles and overgrown sideburns had waylaid him back in Lufkin for nearly half an hour, trying to sell him a shaving brush and pestering him with annoyingly personal questions. Philip finally surrendered to the onslaught and overpaid for a lather brush he could have gotten at the mercantile for half the price.

“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?”

Philip started to shake his head, then paused, the man’s bragging about never forgetting a face nudging him in the gut. It was a long shot, but he reached into the lining pocket of his coat and pulled out the hinged frame that held the daguerreotype.

He unfolded the frame and held it out for Johnson to inspect. “You ever seen the woman before? Her daughter hired me to find her. She’s much older now. Around sixty. Graying hair. Plumper figure.” Or at least that was how Mrs. Radcliffe had described her appearance from fifteen years ago.

Johnson moved over to the office window and angled the photograph toward the light. “There’s something familiar about her. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me. I never—”

“Forget a face.” Philip finished for him, a grin in his voice. “I know. That’s why I asked.”

Johnson’s gaze roved over the beams in the ceiling. His mouth moved silently as if he were scouring the pages of a mail-order catalog in his brain, searching for a match.

The quiet thump of horseshoes on hard-packed dirt moved Philip’s attention from Johnson to the stableboy leading Steele to the front of the livery.

“Here’s yer horse, mister.”

Philip stepped out to meet the lad and flipped him a coin. “Thanks.”

The kid grabbed it out of the air, a smile stretching across his face as he handed over the reins.

A clap echoed from the office. “I got it!” The booming voice caused Steele to toss his head, but Philip patted his neck, and the animal settled.

Johnson strode through the doorway, tapping the glass on the frame in triumph. “Iris Hood. I knew I’d seen that face before. She bought a horse from me about seven or eight years ago. Real particular she was, too. Wanted a gentle mount that would be good for a novice rider yet one that was young enough to have some spirit. Sold her a three-year-old black filly with a sweet disposition. Perfect for a young lady. I’d been plannin’ to take that filly to auction and sell to the highest bidder, but Miz Hood offered top dollar. No sense draggin’ the horse to market if I had a buyer willing to pay my askin’ price here at home.”

Philip’s pulse kicked into a trot as he reached for the frame. His first real lead!

“Does she live around these parts?”

Johnson shrugged. “Don’t think so. Leastwise, I don’t recall ever seein’ her after that day.”

Still, he had a name, very likely the alias Flora had been living under since she left Houston. He could search with more than just an outdated photograph now.

“Sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Philip regarded the man before him, almost expecting to see a halo glowing above his dusty work hat. “You helped a great deal. Thank you.”

He tucked the daguerreotype into his coat pocket, shook Johnson’s hand, then climbed into the saddle with a prayer of gratitude in his heart—not only for a man with a memory for faces but for the Lord who led him to this livery.

Continue directing my steps , he prayed as he nudged Steele into a trot and headed west to Law’s Chapel. Twenty minutes later, he dismounted in front of a small brick church that boasted a white steeple. A black buggy parked on the side of the building gave Philip hope that he might find someone inside.

He knocked on the dark wood door, then tried the handle. It opened easily. “Hello?” Philip stepped inside, raising a hand to remove his hat as he did so. “Anybody here?”

The shutters on the windows stood open, letting the morning sunlight dance across the polished shine on the dark wood of the pews and floorboards.

“Parson?” The click of Philip’s boots echoed loudly in the empty sanctuary as he walked down the aisle.

Walls painted white drew his attention upward, where a large cross hung on the wall behind the pulpit. A movement outside the window to his left grabbed his attention, and he turned. A man in a wide-brimmed hat worked among the tombstones in the adjacent cemetery, hoeing weeds from around the gravesites.

Philip hurried outside, slapping his hat back on his head as he made his way to the graveyard.

When he neared the man, he called out to alert him of his presence. “Excuse me, sir? I’m looking for the parson.”

The man stopped his work and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead before he responded. When he met Philip’s gaze, though, a smile of welcome spread across his face. “You found him. What can I do for you, young man?”

The preacher looked to be middle-aged—not many lines in his face but a few streaks of gray in his beard.

“I was wondering if you might know of any circuit-riding preachers in these parts.”

“Young Arlo Carlson took over my route five years ago when I accepted the position of full-time minister here at Law’s Chapel. He won’t be back in town for another two weeks, though, I’m afraid. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe so.” Especially if he used to ride the circuit himself. Philip pulled the daguerreotype from his pocket, unfolded the frame, and handed the likeness to the minister. “I’m looking for this woman. Her daughter is seeking a reunion and hired me to locate her. I have reason to believe that she lives somewhere in this area. You might know her as Iris Hood.”

The furrows that had formed across the minister’s brow cleared the moment Philip said the name.

“Mrs. Hood. Of course! I didn’t recognize her at first. She’s changed a good deal since this photograph was taken.”

“You know her?” Philip’s pulse kicked into a gallop.

The man nodded. “Indeed. I saw her every third week when I traveled to Queen City.” His brow scrunched. “She was a rather unusual woman. Met me every Lord’s Day at the steps of the church, a good hour before services began. Gave me her tithe and asked me to pray for the protection of her and her kin. Then she’d leave. I got the impression that she hungered for worship and community with God’s people, but no matter how many times I invited her to stay for services, she always refused. Said she was needed elsewhere.” He shrugged. “I thought she might be tending to an invalid relative who couldn’t be left alone for any significant length of time. I honored her wishes and prayed for her and her kin regularly. I still do on occasion, whenever the Lord lays her on my heart.”

“Did you ever visit her at her home?” Please, Lord.

The parson shook his head. “No. I did ask for her direction, offering to pay a call on her after services, but she just smiled and told me the Lord knew where she was and that was enough.” He shook his head, a slightly bemused gleam in his eye. “Her faith was certainly unconventional, but I could tell it was real.”

Philip glanced back to where he left his horse, suddenly eager to be on his way. “Queen City?”

“Yes. Take the north road out of Atlanta and follow the rail lines. It’s only about three miles.”

Philip pumped the man’s hand. “You might have just saved a life today, Parson. Thank you!”

The man chuckled. “I don’t know about that. But I do think it would be good for Mrs. Hood to reunite with her daughter.” He drew himself into a more pious pose. “As Paul taught in his second letter to the Corinthians, we’ve all been given the ministry of reconciliation. May the Lord bless your efforts in that regard.”

“Doors are startin’ to open, Parson. I can only trust that he will continue leading me in the way that I should go.”

“I pray he will, son.”

“Thank you. With the road I have ahead of me, I’m gonna need all the prayer I can get.”