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The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4)

By Vikki Kestell

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April 24, 1909
Edmund O’Dell, Pinkerton agent, squinted in the early light as he studied the remains of Corinth Mountain Lodge. At his feet embers steamed under the morning sun. He gingerly toed what might have been a silver tea tray, now a twisted and blackened lump.

His brow furrowed. He’d seen a tea service on the lodge’s ornate side board, hadn’t he? The sideboard itself had been massive, constructed from solid wood, intricately carved, oiled, and polished to a fare-thee-well.

No doubt it had burned splendidly, he snarled to himself. He whipped off his bowler and ran a hand through his dark hair, stopping to rub at the dull headache throbbing at the back of his neck.

He’d been a “guest” at the lodge a little more than four months. Yes, he had been working an active case, but in that short time he had begun to feel . . . at home. More at home than anywhere he’d laid his head since he’d left childhood behind. At one point he’d allowed himself to wonder, to almost hope that somehow, someway, he might have a future connected with—

He pulled himself up short, stopped himself from following that thought further. It could only lead to a dark hole, one with no bottom.

It was clear to him now that he had deceived himself. He had allowed himself to forget his real role in Corinth. And what he had witnessed in the first light of this new day had stamped “paid” to the dream and jerked him back to harsh reality.

He rubbed his weary, smoke-stung eyes. Like the others who had lived at the lodge, O’Dell had been up most of the night. He clenched an unlit cigar between his teeth as he again relived the events of a few hours past.

The lodge’s residents had awakened when Banner’s men had thrown their fiery brands through the lodge’s front windows to force them out. Once the household members had safely escaped the burning building, they had been backed up against its blazing timbers, outnumbered and outgunned.

Banner’s gang had nearly won last night. Sheriff Wyndom and his deputies had arrived scarcely in time to stop what would have been sure disaster.

Worse than disaster. A slaughter, O’Dell mused with a grimace.

Wyndom had marched both the gang and the lodge’s residents through the dark to Corinth’s little town plaza. A crowd of disquieted town residents, wakened by bells tolling news of the fire, had gathered there.

O’Dell mentally replayed the confrontation in the plaza: Joy Thoresen—no, Joy Michaels—had delivered a stunning indictment against Dean Morgan, Banner’s boss and the figurehead who owned the two houses of unspeakable evil in little Corinth.

O’Dell had watched and listened, mouth open, as spellbound as the crowd had been. Joy had been magnificent; even, perhaps, inspired.

By torchlight, the impact of the butt of Banner’s shotgun stamped on her face, her long, blonde hair tumbling down around her shoulders, Joy Michaels had bested Morgan. She had publicly laid bare his secrets and plots. And, doing so, she had turned the people of Corinth against him.

O’Dell shuddered and turned to let the sunlight warm his face. Things had been dicey for a few minutes after that. Morgan’s thugs had overcome Wyndom and his men and had nearly taken Joy by force. But then federal marshals and O’Dell’s fellow Pinkerton agents had stormed the plaza, surrounding Morgan and his men.
In a desperate move, Morgan and his bodyguard had used Joy’s mother, Rose, as a shield for their escape—and had almost succeeded. Almost. The men were safely in custody now, headed down the mountain on a train that would take them to the county jail.

When Morgan’s bodyguard, Su-Chong, had released Rose, O’Dell had seen Joy sag and nearly collapse. She had taken a beating that night. He had seen her pain and exhaustion and had wanted to go to her, but her cousins and friends had come to her aid first.

So he had backed away and done his duty, assisting in the identification of those being arrested and the charges to be laid against them.

O’Dell slapped his derby against his thigh. He could still see her, could not get the image to leave his mind. Her hair had hung about her slender shoulders like a cloud filled with moonlight.

After he had finished with the marshals, he had returned to the plaza, hoping to speak to her. O’Dell shook his head and ground his teeth. He didn’t want to remember what he had witnessed then, but he was powerless not to.
Night was slowly giving way as morning crept over the mountains. Out of the waning shadows had stepped a man, a man O’Dell knew well, an honorable man he considered a friend. A man he had promised he would help.

As the shadowed figure approached Joy and her cousin Arnie, O’Dell had seen the hesitant, unbelieving recognition. He’d witnessed the sweet, gentle touching and tearful embraces of a husband and wife reunited.

He shuddered. So then it was over. For him, in any case.

It wouldn’t have worked anyway, he told himself, and not for the first time. He swore aloud in frustration. He and Joy were far too different, she with her living, breathing faith and he set in his cynical, pragmatic ways.

And yet it hadn’t seemed to matter that they were so very different. His heart had just kept hoping.

Yer a fool, O’Dell, he charged himself. He seethed with self-recrimination.

He released a laugh, harsh and discordant, and crushed the stogie between his teeth. He needed to get out of Corinth and away from the people here. Quickly.
Get out? It won’t be hard and shouldn’t take long, he fumed. It’s not as though I have bags to pack.

In fact, he had nothing left in this place but the clothes on his back. Everything he’d had—hopes and dreams included—swirled around him in the ashes and smoke.

I only need a little cash to get down the mountain to the Denver Pinkerton office and a nearby bank, he planned. Groman, head of the Omaha Pinkerton office, was still in Corinth helping with the investigation. Groman will stake me for my train fare.

Yes. He needed to be on the next train, away from Corinth. He had his investigations to complete and young women to, hopefully, locate and reunite with their families.

His next step would be to question Gretl Plüff, one of those missing girls. She had been found in one of Corinth’s two “elite” houses of ill-repute. With her help he hoped to track down a few more of the girls whose disappearances had brought him to Colorado in the first place.

If Morgan’s crew had sold the missing girls to other brothels, they were likely in nearby Denver. He would find them, wind up the investigations as quickly possible, and leave Denver to return to his Chicago home office. He couldn’t be done here in Colorado fast enough.

O’Dell spit pieces of tobacco. He had ground through the cigar until it had fallen apart in his mouth. Throwing the remaining stub down and grinding it with his boot, O’Dell turned his back on the cooling embers of the lodge.

He turned resolutely from a hope that could never be realized.

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