Heart on the Line (Ladies of Harper's Station Book #2)

by Karen Witemeyer

  Message received. G at Hs.

  Task complete, Grace set aside the message—she’d have to copy it in more legible script before handing it over to Emma—and stood to greet her caller.

  The marshal stood in her doorway, his attention on the town outside her office. Grace couldn’t tell if he was looking at something in particular or just scanning for trouble in general. He was certainly exuding vigilance. Gone was the cheerful handyman who made his rounds with a ready grin and an eagerness to assist with whatever the ladies might need. In his place stood a lawman on high alert, expecting trouble. Her trouble. Grace pressed her hand against her abdomen to steady her breathing and her nerves.

  “Mr. Shaw.” She forced a smile to her face, hoping it would add a pleasant tone to her voice and disguise her unease.

  He turned to regard her, then shut the door and took two long strides toward the small window near the counter. He hunched slightly in order to maintain an unobstructed view of the street, his height being greater than that of the paned glass.

  “What does that Haversham fella look like? Can you describe him?” His gaze slashed back to her for a long moment, his intensity cutting through her like a blade.

  “I—I don’t know. I never met him. He avoided Denver. Any time he spent in Colorado took place at the mine in Willow Creek, a couple hundred miles southwest of us.”

  “Ever meet the father?” Mal asked before swinging his attention back to the window.

  Grace attempted to recall Tremont Haversham’s features. She didn’t exactly move in the same circles as the silver tycoon, but she’d seen him from a distance in the hotel a few times. “He was tall, I believe. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. His hair was streaked with gray but dark underneath. He always dressed in the highest fashion and carried a cane with a silver knob on top. But why do you need . . . ?”

  “Sons often take after their fathers in looks,” Malachi clipped out.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as the ramification of those words soaked into her half-numb mind. “Have . . .” A sudden thickness clogged her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Have you seen someone suspicious?”

  Lord have mercy. So soon? She thought she’d have at least a day or two to prepare.

  “Yep.” Malachi turned back to face her, his piercing gaze doing nothing to soothe her rioting nerves. “Henry spotted him coming into town and pulled her pistol on him. The scoundrel admitted right to her face that he was lookin’ for you. I locked him up in the new jailhouse.”

  Good heavens. Thank the Lord for Aunt Henry and her revolver. Grace’s legs quivered and threatened to give way. She clasped the table edge in front of her and slowly lowered herself into the chair.

  “He don’t look much like what you described, though. He’s kind of scrawny with sand-colored hair and spectacles. Not one for fancy clothes, neither. He’s wearin’ a suit, but it’s not tailored. And he rode into town on a mule of all things. Not exactly a wealthy man’s choice of mount.” Malachi rubbed his chin, a frown etching lines into his brow. “’Course, Haversham could have hired someone to take care of business for him. But even then, I would have expected a gunslinger-type, not a fellow who looks like a store clerk. He wasn’t even carrying a weapon.”

  “That is odd.” Whoever had shot her father had definitely known his way around guns—rifles, especially—to take down a man in a crowded street from a great enough distance to avoid detection.

  The marshal finally abandoned his post at the window and stood across from her desk. He fiddled with the pint-sized canning jar that held the three sharpened pencils she kept on hand for customers. The wooden shafts clinked against the glass as he twisted the jar back and forth.

  “He claims to be a friend of yours,” Malachi said as he set about organizing the pencils according to height. “Amos Bledsoe.” He finally met her eyes. “Ever heard of him?”

  Grace shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.” All her friends were women. And most lived here in Harper’s Station.

  “He said you might say that.”

  Grace frowned. “What does that mean? Either I know him or I don’t. How could I be friends with a man whose name I don’t recognize?”

  Malachi set the pencil jar aside and leaned an elbow on the counter. “That’s what I figured. Told him the story was cagey, but he insisted I ask you. Said he met you on the wire, whatever that means. Goes by A. And claims to be from Denison, not Colorado.”

  “Denison?” Her voice trembled.

  The marshal shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  Mr. A? Here, in Harper’s Station.

  Grace slowly pushed to her feet, so many emotions swirling through her that she felt a mite dizzy, but the thought of her mysterious Mr. A being in Harper’s Station, a few short yards away . . . well, she just couldn’t sit.

  Last night he’d hinted at the possibility of a meeting, but then the message from the Colorado Springs office had arrived and cut their conversation short. Cut their relationship short too, or so she’d thought.

  Could this Amos Bledsoe actually be her Mr. A? The man who made her laugh and eased her loneliness on long evenings. Who had a wonderfully interfering mother, a teasing sister, a down-to-earth brother-in-law, and an adorable, glasses-grabbing nephew, all of whom she’d secretly adopted, at least in her imagination, to fill the aching void of family in her life.

  How had he gotten here so quickly? He would’ve had to take the train first thing this morning, and they’d just spoken last night.

  Could he be an imposter? Had Haversham learned of her friendship with Mr. A and sought to use that to his advantage? To trick her into giving up her information?

  The idea was farfetched. Only local area operators would be able to listen in on her nightly conversations, not operators from as far away as Colorado. But if Haversham had gotten to Rosie, her mother’s old telegraph colleague in Colorado Springs—the only person in Colorado Grace had stayed in contact with—he could get to others. Coerce them into helping him.

  Rosie wouldn’t have given up Grace’s location unless Haversham had left her no choice. He must have threatened her family. Grace had made Rosie promise to give Haversham whatever he asked if that happened. She wasn’t about to let him destroy another woman’s family as he had hers. The fact that Rosie still found a way to get a message of warning to Grace last night proved her loyalty.

  “You all right, Miss Mallory?” Malachi straightened and started moving toward the half door at the end of the counter that separated her inner office from the waiting area. “You look a little shaky there.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” In truth her insides were spinning like a weathervane in a tornado, but the marshal didn’t need to know that. “I’m just a little surprised. I have corresponded with a telegraph operator in Denison, and his call sign is an A, which could stand for Amos.” She moved toward the connecting door herself, grabbing her shawl from the back of her chair as she went. “Perhaps I should take a look at this Mr. Bledsoe. See if I can verify his claim.”

  Malachi met her at the end of the counter, his face still schooled in serious lines, but his eyes danced with a touch of humor that didn’t quite fit the lawman persona he’d been projecting moments earlier. “I’d be happy to escort you, ma’am.” He offered his arm.

  Normally, Grace would have pretended not to notice the gesture. Such attention embarrassed her, made her feel far too visible when out in public. Yet at this particular moment, she doubted she could make it to the jailhouse under her own power. As wobbly as her legs were, she’d likely hit a divot in the ground and end up sprawled in the middle of the road. Better to be seen on a married man’s arm than on her face in the dirt.

  Besides, if it truly was her Mr. A waiting in the marshal’s jail cell, she’d certainly not want to meet him with a torn hem and dust smudging her cheeks. A first impression could only be made once.

  At the sound of the outer door opening, Amos jumped
off the cot and hurried toward the bars at the front of the cell. He hooked a finger around the edge of his collar and tugged at the suddenly too-tight band. He stretched his neck above the starched tourniquet and inhaled a lungful of stale air.

  Steady, man. Steady.

  The marshal pulled the door wide, then stepped aside to allow a woman to enter ahead of him. Amos caught his breath and tugged his derby from his head.

  She was dainty, barely over five feet, he would guess, with a tiny nip of a waist. She dressed as if wanting to avoid notice, her black skirt free of any trim or adornment except for a thin silver buckle that held a black belt in place at her waist. She wore a pleated blouse with thin, dark green stripes and a simple black bow tied at her neck. A pale gray shawl slipped down her shoulders to rest in the crook of her elbows as she moved into the room, closer to the bars separating him from her.

  Thick brown hair framed her pale face, curled back in some kind of twist that, while simple, also flattered her delicate features. A spattering of freckles danced across the bridge of a nose that sloped gently and turned up just a tad at the end.

  But her most arresting features were her eyes. Large in her face, like those of a doe in the forest, their deep brown color drew him in. Soft. Gentle. A little afraid. Yet a fire burned there, too. He’d seen the same depth in his sister’s eyes, hidden behind the teasing light she usually showed the world. If someone were to hurt a member of her family or someone she cared about, all evidence of the affable Lucy would vanish in a flash, leaving the tigress to take over. His gut told him Miss Mallory would act much the same.

  The tiny woman said nothing, just stared at him through the bars, taking his measure. Suddenly Amos recalled his sorry state of repair. The stench of mule manure from his boot, though faded now, seemed to strengthen and rise around him in a cloud. He’d dusted most of the dirt from his clothes, but he knew he still looked rumpled and unkempt. At least his hair was in decent shape. He’d just had it trimmed last week. It wasn’t much to recommend him in the appearance department, but then, he’d never expected to win a lady’s heart with his looks.

  “So.” The marshal cleared his throat, reminding Amos of his presence. “This the fella you’ve been corresponding with, Miss Mallory?”

  She took a step closer, her face moving between two bars, leaving his view of her completely unobstructed. She blinked, a slow fluttering of lashes that made his gut tighten. When his gaze met hers, a rosy glow spread across her cheeks. She ducked away from his regard as if embarrassed, then slowly raised her head again, resuming her scrutiny.

  Yep. Inner strength. She’d not be one to shy away from what needed to be done.

  “Miss Mallory?” the marshal repeated.

  She tilted her head. “I won’t know until I talk to him.”

  Amos tugged on his jacket and raised his chin, offering her the most winsome smile in his limited arsenal. “Miss Mallory. I’m Amos Bledsoe, Western Union operator from Denison, Texas. We spoke just yesterday—”

  She shook her head, cutting off his introduction. “Not that kind of talking,” she said as she reached into her hair and extracted a black pin.

  Amos frowned, then immediately brightened as he saw her stretch the u-shaped wire over the first finger of her right hand.

  Not only was his lady lovelier than he’d let himself imagine, she was clever as well.

  6

  Grace willed her hand not to tremble as she fit the hairpin over her finger. A difficult task when her insides were jumping about as if she’d swallowed a family of crickets.

  The man in the cell reminded her a bit of her father. His sack suit was walnut brown with a thin pinstripe, and while the buttons were all neatly done up, wrinkles creased the fabric. Her father had never given his clothing much thought. He’d just thrown on whatever had been at hand, preferring to expend mental energy on his academic pursuits. The man in front of her, however, seemed more conscious of his appearance. His shirt cuffs had been tugged down to show just a hair below the edge of his coat sleeves, as fashion dictated. His collar points were starched, and the knot of his tie hung perfectly straight. What an odd mixture of fastidious care and rumpled mayhem.

  And what was that smell? Grace struggled not to wrinkle her nose. She’d never noticed the marshal’s office smelling like a livery before. The odor seemed to grow stronger the closer she came to the man in the cell.

  But no matter. She wasn’t here for a social call. She was here to determine this stranger’s identity. She peered up into the man’s face, past his spectacles, and into his eyes.

  They were blue, his eyes. And earnest. And just a tad unsettling.

  Breaking the contact, Grace straightened her shoulders and took a step forward, intent on tapping out a message on the cell’s crossbar. But a hand grabbed her arm and tugged her backward.

  “Don’t get too close, Miss Mallory,” the marshal instructed as he gently steered her away. “You can do your talkin’ from back here.”

  Actually, she couldn’t, but Malachi didn’t know that. And why would he? He wasn’t an operator. She glanced around the office, her gaze zeroing in on the desk. A tin cup rested on its surface. That would work nicely.

  Smiling at the marshal, she stepped away from his hold and moved toward the desk. “May I?” she asked, indicating the chair.

  Malachi looked at her oddly but nodded. “Be my guest.”

  “Thank you.” She swept her skirt aside and settled herself on the seat before reaching for the coffee cup. She peered inside and frowned. Still half full. She glanced around for a place to dispose of the beverage, but there were no potted plants or conveniently located knotholes in any of the nearby floorboards.

  Without giving herself time to think better of it, she lifted the cup to her lips and chugged down the cold, bitter brew in one long gulp. She grimaced and nearly choked on the awful stuff, but she got it down.

  “You . . . ah . . . want a fresh cup?” Malachi asked, the shock on his face rather comical. “I got a pot on the stove in the corner.”

  “No, thank you.” Her reply emerged more as a rasp than actual words. How did he drink that swill? It tasted like boiled shoe leather. “I just need the cup.”

  She promptly turned the tin cup on its side and hovered her hairpin-covered finger above it. She glanced past the befuddled marshal to the man waiting expectantly in the jail cell. He was gripping the edge of his jacket, holding it away from his body. He’d fitted the bottom button between the first two fingers of his right hand and held it an inch above the iron crossbar.

  Grace turned away and bit the inside of her cheek to contain the smile trying to edge its way onto her face.

  He knew exactly what she was about and was ready to respond.

  Focusing on the silver cup in front of her, Grace began the test.

  Call me like you would on the wire.

  A series of dull raps came from across the room, the cloth-covered button muffling the sharpness of the reply. Dn calling Hs. The sound might be off, but the rhythm wasn’t. It only took the first few clicks for Grace to recognize the sender’s unique style. To an untrained ear, one tapping pattern might sound like any other, but to an operator, the rhythm, tempo, and phrasing combined to form an auditory signature.

  Mr. A’s signature.

  But even if Amos Bledsoe was indeed her Mr. A, he still had some explaining to do, and Grace wasn’t about to let the opportunity to quiz him pass her by.

  Who’s filling in for you at Dn?

  Dorinda Mansfield, came the immediate reply. No hesitation. No unsteadiness to interrupt the rhythm. She worked the telegraph at the railroad depot until she married two years ago. Her husband agreed to let her cover my shifts.

  The quickness of his response and the assured way he tapped it out gave the impression of honesty. And she had to admit, she liked the fact that he trusted a female operator to cover his post. Even though the field of telegraphy employed more women than nearly any other, male operators tended to be
lieve themselves superior. Probably because they received larger wages for the same work, an inequity that Henrietta Chandler railed against on a regular basis. Thankfully, Amos Bledsoe didn’t seem to share that supercilious view.

  The practice of paying women less for the same work was unfair, but if the telegraph companies couldn’t hire women at a smaller wage and thereby increase their profits, they probably wouldn’t hire females at all. The cheaper rate opened doors that Grace needed if she was to support herself.

  Describe your family to me, she tapped out on the tin cup, continuing the interrogation.

  He named them all and gave a brief description of each in that tongue-in-cheek style of his that was so endearing. He gave details she recognized from previous conversations, and when he was finished, he’d successfully removed all doubt that he was anyone other than her Mr. A from across the wire.

  The tapping faded and a throat cleared. Grace started at the non-rhythmic sound and jerked her head up. The marshal stood in front of the desk, his shoulder propped against the wall to his left, his forehead etched with lines of confusion.

  Poor man. It was rude to carry on a conversation in a language others in the room couldn’t follow, but it was the only way for her to confirm Mr. Bledsoe’s identity.

  “You two done . . . talking?” He tipped his head toward the man in the cell, but his eyes remained fixed on Grace.

  She really should continue the rest of this interview in spoken English. But she had one more question she wanted answered. A personal question that she’d rather Malachi not be privy to, yet one that would play a significant role in deciding what action she took once Mr. Bledsoe was released.

  “Almost,” she hedged as she stole a glance at the man in the cell.

  He met her gaze straight on. His lips twitched a bit, hinting at some inner nervousness, but he didn’t shy away from her, and that forthrightness stirred her admiration. He didn’t rail at the injustice of being thrown in jail when he’d committed no crime. He didn’t demand release or threaten retaliation. Not even in his coded communication, which the marshal clearly didn’t understand. He simply stood on the other side of the bars with calm dignity, ready to give her whatever answers she required. This was a man of integrity and courage.