Worth the Wait
Page 11
Emma touched her arm. “Grace? Are you all right?”
Grace immediately smiled to erase any evidence of her melancholic thoughts. “Of course. It’s just that seeing Tori and Ben together reminds me of my parents. My father used to look at my mother the same way.”
Emma nodded and turned her attention back to the courting couple. “I envy you your memories. The aunts have told me stories about my mother and father’s courtship, and I have the pocket watch my mother gave him with her love message inscribed in the lid, but I can barely recall their faces, let alone the way they used to look at each other.”
Grace took Emma’s hand and gave it a squeeze, thankful for the reminder that she wasn’t the only one who had experienced loss and hardship. “I imagine they looked at each other in much the same way as you and Malachi do now.”
Emma’s cheeks grew rosy, but her smile shone even more brightly. She squeezed Grace’s hand in return. “I hope you’re right. Because when Mal looks at me with love in his eyes, I feel like I can accomplish any task, endure any hardship, and overcome any obstacle as long as he is by my side.”
“I think you’ve proven that statement true in the last few months,” Grace said with a soft chuckle.
Emma joined in the laughter. “Yes. Too much proof, as far as I’m concerned. Hopefully we won’t be putting the theory to such an extensive test again anytime soon.”
Remembering the life-threatening attacks against Harper’s Station a few months ago, Grace heartily agreed.
“Thanks again for joining me for dinner tonight,” Emma said as she slipped her hand free and rubbed her arms against the brisk wind that swept over them. “Betty always insists on feeding Malachi on the days he works for her. Thankfully the new coop is nearly completed. Once the laying hens move in, I’ll be able to claim my husband for evening meals again.”
Grace smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
Ever since her marriage, Emma had gone out of her way to ensure the ladies of Harper’s Station that her new wifely status in no way affected her dedication to their community. If it hadn’t been dinner at the café tonight, Grace was certain Emma would have arranged another time for the two of them to chat. And not just to check on telegraph business. No, Emma might be a banker and the town manager, but first and foremost, she was a friend. The kind who welcomed a runaway, grief-stricken girl with open arms and gave her not only a job but a home.
The wind picked up its pace, causing the temperature to dip as the sun plunged toward the horizon. A shiver coursed over Grace, urging her to make a quick dash back to her rooms at the telegraph office and the stove that waited for her there.
Well, it wasn’t just the stove she was eager to return to. She cast another glance at Tori and Ben, warmth infusing her cheeks as Mr. Porter leaned close and brushed a kiss across the shopkeeper’s cheek. Grace might not have a man to hold her, to stand by her side, or to kiss her goodnight, but she did have a particular friend. One who corresponded with her nearly every evening. One who might, even now, be calling her on the wire.
She glanced toward the small clapboard building on the outskirts of town. Anticipation surged inside her. An anticipation she tried to stifle. Without much luck.
This was too ridiculous. For all she knew, Mr. A was a middle-aged dandy who wore a girdle to contain his generous girth and doused himself in suffocating amounts of strong cologne. She could probably overlook the girth, but the cologne? She never could abide the artificial smell of toilet water. Especially since men who opted to wear such scents tended to do so in place of bathing. Having a hundred miles between them was probably a good thing.
So why was she stepping down from the boardwalk and lifting a hand to wave farewell to Emma?
“I’m going to get out of this wind,” she heard herself say. “Give Malachi my regards.”
Emma nodded, apparently blind to Grace’s rather obvious subterfuge. Or at least, choosing not to comment upon it. She was good about things like that. Not pressing her ladies for answers they weren’t ready to give.
“I will,” Emma said, all innocence. Only a slight wrinkle in her brow gave any hint to her curiosity over Grace’s eagerness to depart company. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.” Grace waved a final time then, reinforcing her excuse, tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and jogged toward her rooms.
When she pushed open the door, the heat from her stove washed over her in gentle welcome. The wind had been chilly. She slipped the shawl off, folded it over her arm, then turned to click the lock into place. Even in a town full of women she trusted with her life, Grace never retired without locking the front door and checking all the windows. She made her rounds hurriedly tonight but still inspected every latch to make sure it was secure.
The sounder in the office was quiet. No tapping coming through the wire yet. Mentally insisting she was not disappointed by such an occurrence, she set about hanging up her shawl, exchanging her less comfortable, heeled button boots for the a pair of soft kid leather slippers, and putting on a kettle for tea.
By the time she had a steaming cup in hand, the first tappings echoed though the open office doorway. Her silly heart leapt at the sound, but she forced her feet to move at a sedate pace from her private chamber that served as bedroom, kitchen, and sitting room into the office.
She always kept the doorway open at night, just in case an emergency message came through, but Western Union operators were not required to work after hours. They were, however, given the privilege of conversing with one another when not on the clock. Many stayed late or arrived early to do so. Very few conversed as late in the evening as this, though. Most were home with their families by now. That was one of the reasons she allowed herself to indulge in these nightly chats with Mr. A. After sundown, there was a greater chance of privacy. The late hour didn’t bother her since she lived in the same building where the telegraph was housed. But her companion?
He spoke often of his mother and sister, his nephew. He had family. People who cared about him. So why did he spend his evenings conversing with her over the telegraph wires? Could he be as lonely as she?
Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Three unit pause. Dot. Dot. Dot. Seven unit pause. Dash. Dash. Dot. Seven unit pause. .- .-. . -.-- --- ..- - .... . .-. .
Hs. G. Are you there?
It was him. Mr. A. She’d recognize his quick touch at the key anywhere. So crisp and precise. A metronome couldn’t create spaces any more rhythmic. She’d long admired his deft hand at the key. Setting her tea on the table, Grace slid into her office chair, a giddy tickle in her stomach despite her best efforts to maintain a sense of detachment.
Yes, Station Dn. I’m here.
Excellent! I worried I had waited too long to call. Dinner at my sister’s took longer than expected.
I hope you didn’t rush away on my account, Grace tapped. She touched the key, intending to reassure him that she could answer his call any time since her personal chambers were only a couple steps away from the office, but such a detail seemed too intimate to share. Even with someone she’d corresponded with for several months. So she settled for a more generalized reply. Family ranks higher than friendship.
Not when they insist on driving one to distraction. I was eager to escape. Believe me.
What dastardly plague did they set upon you? Grace grinned as she tapped out the words. Mr. A always seemed to have a humorous story to tell about his family, his life so wonderfully normal that whenever she listened to him, she managed to forget all about danger and unseen foes. For a few blessed minutes, she was simply a girl talking to a young man, no worries in sight.
I dare not tell you, for fear of spreading the contagion. It seems to strike the women around me with alarming regularity.
Intrigued, Grace leaned forward. Surely the distance between us will serve as adequate protection.
My mother and sister have both been afflicted for some time, I’m sorry to say, but tonight their symptoms worsened.
No point. There is only one cure to their ailment. And apparently I am the one who must distribute the healing dose.
Then you should do so at once, Grace replied, grinning as she reached for her tea. Mr. A never failed to entertain.
I would, of course, he said, but I find the key ingredient in the required elixir to be frustratingly elusive.
Can you not simply visit a druggist?
I’m afraid not. You see, the item I must find in order to cure this plague of interference is . . . a wife.
The tea Grace had just sipped spewed from her mouth to splatter over the table in front of her. Coughs spasmed in her throat.
A wife?
A strange fluttery sensation danced through her belly. So he wasn’t married. Why did that particular piece of knowledge please her so well? Her hand trembled as she reached for the key. She had to make some kind of response to that. But what exactly should she say?
I’m sure they only have your best interests at heart.
They do. But a twenty-eight-year-old man doesn’t really want his personal life dictated by his female relations.
Twenty-eight. A man in his prime. A man who was suddenly sharing more personal details with her than he ever had before.
Grace dabbed at the spilled tea with a handkerchief fetched from her skirt pocket, her mind spinning. Was he fishing for details in return? She wanted to reciprocate. It was what a friend would do. Yet she couldn’t afford to say too much.
I can’t claim as many years of experience dealing with meddling relations as you can, but a couple friends of mine have recently decided that marriage is not without its advantages. Thankfully, they have as yet avoided seeing me as a matchmaking prospect.
Grace yanked her hand from the telegraph key and made a fist, her heart pumping in a wild rhythm. Details cloaked in vagueness. Would he understand what she’d just revealed? The wire remained silent for an eternally long moment.
Count your blessings, he finally sent, his usually metronome-like precision stuttering slightly. Perhaps we could meet sometime to commiserate. I would—
Clear the line, a brash staccato tapping interrupted. I need to break in. This is an emergency.
Grace nearly jumped from her chair at the pounding intrusion. It exploded across the wire like cannon fire in a still forest.
Proceed, came the answer from Mr. A. Immediate. Meticulous. All hint of personal vulnerability gone.
Grace replied in kind, though she feared her touch on the key had yet to reassert its professional tone.
Hs. Dv station has a message to relay. Are you on the wire?
A message from the Denver station? Grace shivered even as she lurched forward to answer. Yes. This is Hs station. G on the wire. Go ahead.
Message relayed from R as follows: He knows where you are. Coming for you. Sorry.
Everything in Grace stilled. Numbness spread from her mind to her limbs and finally to her heart. Her day of reckoning had arrived. Chaucer Haversham had found her.
CHAPTER
3
Amos stared at the telegraph machine that had fallen eerily silent. What was happening on the other end? Was Miss G in trouble? And how should he respond? It was his sworn duty not to speak of anything he learned via the wire. All communication was confidential. But he couldn’t just ignore what he’d heard. It was too ominous. Too dangerous.
If Miss G fled, how would he ever find her again? And if she didn’t . . . and the mysterious he caught up with her? Amos’s fingers clenched into tight fists. He had to do something. Had to help her somehow.
He glared at the wires leading from the telegraph, up the wall, and outside. If only he could travel via those same wires to Miss G’s side. To hold her, comfort her, protect her from whatever villain threatened.
Why now, God? Why are you snatching her away from me at the very moment we started to connect on a more personal level? Is this your way of telling me I’m destined to be alone?
The wire crackled, and tapping ensued.
Hs? Is there a reply?
Amos bent forward in his seat, pressing both arms into the tabletop, circling them around the telegraph as if he could comfort his lady through his posture. All of his energy centered on listening for Miss G’s reply. A reply that was very slow in coming.
Hs? the sender repeated.
Message received. No reply. Hs off.
“No,” Amos groaned. “Don’t sign off. Not yet.”
He waited for the other operator to sign off. Then waited another painstaking, time-crawling minute to ensure privacy on the line.
G? Are you there? He tapped.
“Please be there,” he begged under his breath. “I need to know you’re all right. Don’t shut me out.”
He fingered the key again. Please. I want to help.
Nothing. He sat there for twenty minutes, waiting for a reply that never came.
She was gone. Just like that. The very moment he’d found the courage to open himself up to the possibility of a meeting, another man swooped in and plucked her from his loose-fingered grasp.
Amos flopped backward in his chair, suddenly more drained than if he’d ridden his bicycle along the MKT rail line all the way to Wichita Falls.
The perfect woman. One who actually enjoyed conversing with him. One who made him laugh. Who brightened his evenings. One who was younger than he . . . and single. A woman—not a relative or aged church member—who made him feel like he wasn’t a mistake, like he had value, purpose.
Purpose.
Amos straightened. Planted both feet flat on the floor.
Purpose.
What if God had not been taunting him with what he could never have? What if God had directed his evening at Lucy’s to run later than usual for a specific reason? To ensure that he was on the wire when that emergency message came through.
What if God had allowed him to feel closer to Miss G than ever right before that message hit the wire so that he’d be invested? Invested enough to take action.
Amos surged to his feet. He set his chin, then grabbed his coat and locked up his office. He had a bag to pack, a replacement operator to find, and a family to say farewell to all before the first train left in the morning.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this special sample of Heart on the Line by Karen Witemeyer. For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.
About the Author
Christy Award finalist and winner of the ACFW Carol Award, HOLT Medallion, and Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award, bestselling author Karen Witemeyer writes historical romances because she believes the world needs more happily-ever-afters. She is an avid cross-stitcher and shower singer, and she bakes a mean apple cobbler. Karen makes her home in Abilene, Texas, with her husband and three children.
To learn more about Karen and her books and to sign up for her free newsletter featuring special giveaways and behind-the-scenes information, please visit www.karenwitemeyer.com.
Books by Karen Witemeyer
A Tailor-Made Bride
Head in the Clouds
To Win Her Heart
Short-Straw Bride
Stealing the Preacher
Full Steam Ahead
A Worthy Pursuit
No Other Will Do
Worth the Wait (e-novella only)
A Cowboy Unmatched from A Match Made in Texas: A Novella Collection
The Husband Maneuver from With This Ring: A Novella Collection
Love on the Mend from With All My Heart Romance Collection
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