Read Online Anna Finch and the Hired Gun by Kathleen Y'Barbo - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen Y'Barbo
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And then he would put Doc Holliday in the grave he’d earned long ago.
A flash of blue caught his attention, and he knew he’d found the next fugitive on his list: the woman who’d put a bullet in him. Jeb headed her direction.
What he’d do with her when he caught up to her was another question entirely. As he recalled, she still had one more bullet in that gun of hers.
He would no sooner be out of one scrape before he was in another …
—
Bat Masterson, regarding Doc Holliday,
from Gunfighters of the Western Frontier, 1907
Anna walked out of the Windsor Hotel’s dining room with a story and no idea what to do with it.
My readers
. Had she actually said that? She’d had no readers since the last time Mae saddled up, but she aspired to reaching a whole new audience.
She tucked the pages under her arm and descended the stairs. It was a heady assignment, this righting of the wrong against the Earp name. Even Mae’s story paled in comparison to the reality of the life of Wyatt Earp.
There had to be a way to gain the attention of the press. But how?
Papa had friends at both the
Denver Times
and the
Rocky Mountain News
, but neither would likely publish a story written by a nobody like her. Besides, Papa would never stand for any female bearing his good name giving the appearance of being employed. Especially in the mood he’d been in of late.
His good name
. Anna stopped in the middle of the staircase. That was it. She just needed a new name.
Anything but Finch.
She’d not had to make this decision when writing the Mae Winslow books. All of them had Anonymous listed as the author, which was fine by her, but a factual piece would never be printed without some kind of credit.
Anna began to run through names in her mind.
“My favorite little birdie!” called the familiar and despised voice of Winston Mitchell as Anna reached the lobby. “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Finch. I wondered if you might tell me what’s going on at your neighbor’s house, though I’m willing to listen to anything you might want to tell me about your lunch as well.”
From the top of his bowler hat to the tips of his freshly shined shoes, Winston Mitchell was a study in fashion. His jacket matched his cravat, which coordinated with his vest and likely his undershirt and socks. Were he not as well known for his ability at fisticuffs, the middle-aged journalist might have been considered too unmanly to survive in a town such as Denver. Despite his popular gossip column “Perish the Thought” at the
Denver Times
, Mitchell’s British accent was the object of much speculation. Some said he only affected the accent to hide his true background, while others said he was a lost or wandering nobleman who came to Denver to keep from being found.
Anna didn’t really care where he’d come from. She just wished he’d go back there. Over the last few years, he’d made her his favorite subject, documenting in embarrassing detail her failed attempts atsecuring a husband. It was hard enough dodging all the men her father threw at her without having Winston Mitchell mock her every move.
Little bird
. That’s what he called her in print as a thinly veiled attempt at keeping her identity secret while making sure she and most others who counted knew exactly to whom he referred. Just this week, he’d mentioned her in a column she’d been unable to forget.
What little bird refuses to leave her finely feathered nest despite her longsuffering parents’ best efforts? This reporter knows all too well the travail associated with the lengthy process of sending the fifth and final hatchling forth, as he has reported on many of the events created for this very purpose. Perhaps, as Papa Bird was overheard suggesting, the little one’s wings have grown weak from flapping. Oh, perish the thought!
Biting her lip against the words she longed to speak, Anna put on a smile. She’d learned the hard way that angering Mitchell was never a good
A flash of blue caught his attention, and he knew he’d found the next fugitive on his list: the woman who’d put a bullet in him. Jeb headed her direction.
What he’d do with her when he caught up to her was another question entirely. As he recalled, she still had one more bullet in that gun of hers.
He would no sooner be out of one scrape before he was in another …
—
Bat Masterson, regarding Doc Holliday,
from Gunfighters of the Western Frontier, 1907
Anna walked out of the Windsor Hotel’s dining room with a story and no idea what to do with it.
My readers
. Had she actually said that? She’d had no readers since the last time Mae saddled up, but she aspired to reaching a whole new audience.
She tucked the pages under her arm and descended the stairs. It was a heady assignment, this righting of the wrong against the Earp name. Even Mae’s story paled in comparison to the reality of the life of Wyatt Earp.
There had to be a way to gain the attention of the press. But how?
Papa had friends at both the
Denver Times
and the
Rocky Mountain News
, but neither would likely publish a story written by a nobody like her. Besides, Papa would never stand for any female bearing his good name giving the appearance of being employed. Especially in the mood he’d been in of late.
His good name
. Anna stopped in the middle of the staircase. That was it. She just needed a new name.
Anything but Finch.
She’d not had to make this decision when writing the Mae Winslow books. All of them had Anonymous listed as the author, which was fine by her, but a factual piece would never be printed without some kind of credit.
Anna began to run through names in her mind.
“My favorite little birdie!” called the familiar and despised voice of Winston Mitchell as Anna reached the lobby. “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Finch. I wondered if you might tell me what’s going on at your neighbor’s house, though I’m willing to listen to anything you might want to tell me about your lunch as well.”
From the top of his bowler hat to the tips of his freshly shined shoes, Winston Mitchell was a study in fashion. His jacket matched his cravat, which coordinated with his vest and likely his undershirt and socks. Were he not as well known for his ability at fisticuffs, the middle-aged journalist might have been considered too unmanly to survive in a town such as Denver. Despite his popular gossip column “Perish the Thought” at the
Denver Times
, Mitchell’s British accent was the object of much speculation. Some said he only affected the accent to hide his true background, while others said he was a lost or wandering nobleman who came to Denver to keep from being found.
Anna didn’t really care where he’d come from. She just wished he’d go back there. Over the last few years, he’d made her his favorite subject, documenting in embarrassing detail her failed attempts atsecuring a husband. It was hard enough dodging all the men her father threw at her without having Winston Mitchell mock her every move.
Little bird
. That’s what he called her in print as a thinly veiled attempt at keeping her identity secret while making sure she and most others who counted knew exactly to whom he referred. Just this week, he’d mentioned her in a column she’d been unable to forget.
What little bird refuses to leave her finely feathered nest despite her longsuffering parents’ best efforts? This reporter knows all too well the travail associated with the lengthy process of sending the fifth and final hatchling forth, as he has reported on many of the events created for this very purpose. Perhaps, as Papa Bird was overheard suggesting, the little one’s wings have grown weak from flapping. Oh, perish the thought!
Biting her lip against the words she longed to speak, Anna put on a smile. She’d learned the hard way that angering Mitchell was never a good
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