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their headquarters. Luckily, he had taken care of the piece of business that had brought him to
New York
and was now on the way back home to Boston.
    Rounding another support post in the center of the station platform, Brandt lifted his bag over the head of a little girl whose gaze was fastened on a spot other than the path ahead. The train to his right was letting off passengers. One of them, a tall, bald gentleman, nearly knocked him down in his hurry to depart the station. Brandt muttered a curse and doubled his efforts to reach his train before he was overrun by the throng of people.
    The first scream sounded natural enough, like some young lady happy to see a relative after a long separation. The second scream didn't sound quite so common. Even though he ran the risk of being trampled, Brandt stopped, cocking his ear to listen more closely.
    Like a row of dominoes, the entire train burst into a panic. He crouched down, trying to see through the small, smudged windows lining the passenger car. All he could make out was a gathering of people crammed together near the front of the compartment.
    In one long stride, he pulled himself onto the back of the car, but try as he might, he couldn't get through the crowd or make sense of the conversations buzzing around his head. After several minutes of trying to understand the situation, he settled, instead, for leaning over the railing and looking around the other side of the cab.
    He recognized her immediately. With her head tucked against the shoulder of a well-dressed gentleman, Willow Hastings made her way across the platform, away from Brandt. Even dressed to the nines, Brandt knew it was the same woman he'd encountered at the Silver Spur in
Missouri
.
    But what was she doing in
New York
?
    He called her name, but she either didn't hear or chose to ignore him, for she never slowed her pace. Planning to follow her, he turned around, but curious onlookers had piled on behind him, blocking his only exit.
    "Damn!” he swore, pounding a fist on the metal rail.
    What was Willow doing here, he wondered, when she'd seemed so adamant about staying in Jefferson City until she found her brother?
    News filtered back through the crowd and one word caught Brandt's attention. Murder.
    Someone had been murdered on a Union Pacific train. And Willow had been right in the thick of things. Why didn't that surprise him?
    If a murder had occurred on a Union Pacific train, a UP officer would have to investigate. And as he was Head of Security and already at the scene of the crime, he was obligated to take the case whether he wanted it or not
    He let out a tortured sigh and made his way slowly back to the platform. It didn't look like he'd be leaving for Boston after all.

Chapter Five

    With Robert's arm around her stooped shoulders, they moved quickly through crowded Grand Central Station, hailing a hackney cab to take them to his office at
66 Exchange Place
.
    As Willow passed beneath the Pinkerton symbol, an unblinking eye and the words WE NEVER SLEEP, she thought of Allan Pinkerton, the company's founder. She had known him briefly, before his death in July of 1884. In that short time, she had decided that he was one of the greatest men ever to walk the earth.
    It was because of the elder Pinkerton that she now had a job with the Agency. Allan had taken her under his wing, convincing his son to train her and put her to work for the Agency's
New York
branch.
    But she would be the first to admit that her job was in danger. Since Allan's death, the number of female detectives in the company had dwindled. Many supervisors didn't want women working for them, didn't trust a woman to do the job of a man. And so, slowly but surely, female operatives were being pushed out.
    Willow had been lucky thus far. And she knew it was primarily because of Robert. Like his father, he had taken a special interest in her, assigning her simple tasks, guiding her through more difficult ones, until she was ready to go