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

by Karen Witemeyer

  A man whose motives she needed to excavate just a little further.

  Amos held Miss Mallory’s gaze despite the clenching of uncertainty in his abdomen. Did she believe him? Would she welcome his help? Or had he made a complete fool of himself by jumping on that train this morning?

  He’d arrogantly assumed Miss G to be alone and in need of his protection. He’d thought to woo her gentle heart with a valiant rescue. But the Harper’s Station women’s colony apparently had a lawman—who was actually a man and seemed to know his way around firearms, judging by the holster slung low on his hip and the gun case in the corner with an assortment of rifles and shotguns at the ready—and at least one gun-toting she-wolf on the prowl to keep its residents safe.

  Miss Mallory didn’t need his protection.

  Yet as he looked at her, he couldn’t manufacture the desire to leave. He wanted to be her champion, yes, but more than that, he simply wanted to be with her, to explore who she was beneath that lovely exterior. To discover who they might be together.

  She looked away, dipping her chin back toward the desk. Then she started tapping, and as he decoded the soft percussion into words, his heart thumped a more forceful cadence in his chest.

  Why did you come? she asked. What do you hope to gain?

  Amos swallowed and took a moment to wipe the clamminess from his hand before answering. How much should he divulge? They barely knew each other. Until today, their acquaintance had only existed over the wire, where anonymity created an illusion of safety, of comradery.

  He sensed his response would dictate the future of their relationship. There would be no going back. It would either move forward, or it would die. And the woman seated across the room from him would dictate the direction it took. The same woman who had revealed nothing of her own feelings or thoughts beyond what little he could read on her face.

  The woman who was in danger and didn’t know who she could trust.

  Amos squared his shoulders and reclaimed his grip on his suit coat button. He was going to have to crack his chest open and expose his secrets to her. Nothing else would suffice for gaining her trust. She might still send him away, but at least he’d know that he’d done all he could.

  Holding the button over the bar, he carefully tapped out his reply.

  I came because I care about you. After that cryptic message last night, I was worried you were in danger. That you might need my help. He gazed at the desk, willing Grace to look at him.

  As if she felt his silent plea, she raised her head and turned until her eyes finally met his.

  I see now that you have friends and protectors here, but I’m not ready to leave yet. You mean something to me, G.

  Her eyes widened slightly, and he feared he’d said too much. Then again, maybe he’d not said enough.

  I’ve felt friendship grow between us, he continued, a friendship that left me wondering if there could possibly be more. I’ve wanted to meet you for several weeks, but until last night I was too afraid to suggest a meeting. Too afraid I’d disappoint you, and you’d end our evening discussions. Or that you’d turn out to be a fifty-year-old grandmother who only chatted with me because she had trouble sleeping.

  A burst of laughter escaped Miss Mallory before she could raise a hand to cover her mouth and contain it. The soft, throaty sound warmed his insides and gave him hope that perhaps not all was lost.

  The marshal frowned and looked from her to Amos and back again, but thankfully he didn’t interrupt or demand explanations.

  I want a chance to get to know you, Miss Mallory. To see if perhaps we can get along as well in person as we do over the wire. And to offer whatever assistance I can to aid you in your current predicament.

  She twisted away from him again, hiding her face as she quietly straightened the marshal’s desk. She placed the coffee cup right side up, removed the hairpin from her finger, and rubbed the spot that had surely been pinched the last quarter hour. Then she slid the pin back into her hair, smoothed her hands over the blotter on the marshal’s desktop, and slowly—gracefully—pushed to her feet.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” the lawman asked as he shoved away from the wall and moved to meet her in the center of the small room.

  Amos released his jacket button and stepped back from the bars, trying to maintain as much dignity as possible.

  “I’m convinced he is who he claims to be,” she said.

  Amos desperately wanted to scratch the suddenly violent itch that flared around his collar. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

  “But I think we should leave him here until I have a chance to address the ladies at the town meeting tonight. You know how some of them get when unknown men roam the streets. I think it would be better if I warn them about him before turning him loose.”

  She was going to leave him locked up? Amos tried not to be offended, but he was a law-abiding citizen whose only crime was wanting to help a lady in distress. A lady who had plumbed his depths without offering him an ounce of insight into her own state of mind.

  Miss Mallory glided to the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. Not at Amos, but at the marshal. “I’ll stop by the café and ask them to send dinner over for him.”

  Then she left. Without a single glance in Amos’s direction. With no word to him. Not even a hint as to her reaction to all he had shared.

  The marshal strode up to the bars. Amos expected a scowl or a series of threats about leaving Miss Mallory alone, but Mr. Shaw surprised him. The smile he offered felt almost conciliatory.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The meeting’s in less than an hour. You won’t have to wait long.” He tipped his hat back on his forehead and leaned his shoulder against the barred door. “The women around here run a strict democracy,” he explained. “Everyone gets a say about what goes on in town. Grace is playing things safe by having you cool your heels here until she can explain your presence to the others—some of whom ain’t too fond of our kind, I’ll warn you—but she’s the cautious sort. And not without cause.” He aimed a pointed look in Amos’s direction.

  Amos nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Grace Mallory had endured hardship, the kind that changed a person. He’d have to be patient if he hoped to woo her.

  Mr. Shaw knocked a knuckle against the bar. “Might as well get comfortable.” He tilted his head toward the cot against the outside wall. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee so you don’t have to drink yesterday’s leftover sludge with your dinner.” He chuckled and shook his head as he walked toward the small wood-burning stove in the corner. “I still can’t believe she drank that stuff. I know it was vile. I only drink it because I hate wasting anything edible.”

  As the lawman’s friendly rambling dwindled, Amos tried to get comfortable on the cot. He rested his head against the wall and let out a heavy sigh.

  Then he heard it. A gentle rap from the other side of the wall as if someone were knocking on the brick. Knocking in a discernible pattern.

  . . - - - - . . - . . . - - . . - . - - - - - . . - - . - . . - - - .

  I’m glad you came.

  Amos smiled, the weight pressing down on his chest lessening considerably at the four small words echoing through the wall at his back. He stretched his hands casually over his shoulders as if to pillow his head, but before he laced his fingers together, his knuckle rapped out a quick reply.

  - - . - - - - - - -

  Me too.

  7

  Helen Potter filed into the church with the rest of the ladies who had gathered for the town meeting. She edged into the sanctuary, making a point to keep Betty Cooper, her employer, between her and the marshal, who stood guard at the door. With Betty as a buffer, she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

  Malachi Shaw had proven himself a decent sort, but Helen still didn’t feel comfortable around him. Of course, she’d never felt comfortable around any man. Loathed most of them on sight, as a matter of fact.

  Coming to Harper’s Stati
on a year ago had felt like walking into heaven. No men anywhere. She didn’t care how hard the work was at the chicken farm. No men meant no fear. No worrying about where the next blow would come from. No constant strategizing how to avoid crossing a man’s path. No fretting about the consequences of saying the wrong thing or not enough right things. She’d shovel chicken manure and have henpecked hands for the rest of her days if it meant never laying eyes on a man again.

  But good things tended not to last in her life, and the paradise of Harper’s Station’s male-free environment was no different. The town’s founder, Emma Chandler, had gone and married the fella she’d brought in to help rout the outlaw threatening them several months ago. That meant their colony had a male resident. A permanent resident. A voting resident. And Emma wasn’t the only defector.

  Victoria Adams, one of the staunchest supporters of the male-free life—a successful shopkeeper, mother, and co-founder of the colony—was actually allowing a man to court her. Helen had been devastated when she’d heard the news. She’d long admired Tori’s independence and had held her up as an example of what a woman could achieve without a man at her side. Tori had been Helen’s inspiration. Until she’d turned traitor.

  It felt as if the women she shared a bond of sisterhood with were, one by one, changing before her eyes. Opening themselves to the influence of men. Yes, the men they’d chosen to align themselves with seemed honorable and kind—so far—but it still felt like a betrayal.

  Helen followed Betty into one of the pews several rows from the front. As she took her seat, Katie Clark slid in beside her and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

  “Have you heard about the new man in town?” The gossip bubbled out of Katie like the sticky froth from boiling rice, scalding Helen with the unwelcome news. “I heard Mr. Shaw has him locked up in the jail. I don’t know what he did, but I think it has something to do with Grace. Ann Marie said Grace came into the café and ordered dinner for him. He’s some kind of friend of hers, I think.” A frown marred the young blonde’s smooth forehead. “Not sure why he’s in jail if he’s a friend, but I bet this meeting has something to do with him.”

  Betty had brought the girls into town early so they could deliver eggs before the meeting started, saving them a trip in the morning. Helen had taken a basket to the boardinghouse while Katie had delivered to the café. Then they’d met back up with Betty and the other girls from the farm at Tori’s store and helped unload the rest. Well, Helen had helped unload. Katie hadn’t returned until the work was practically finished. Apparently she’d become entwined in the café’s grapevine of idle chatter.

  Helen gave Katie a disapproving look. “Emma will tell us what we need to know soon enough. We don’t need to speculate.”

  Katie’s bubbles continued frothing, completely unaffected by Helen’s attempt to dampen them. “But aren’t you curious about him and what his relationship is with Grace? She never talks about him. About anyone from her past, actually. He could be an old suitor or a long-lost brother who’s been searching for her for years.”

  “Or he could be a confidence man using his relationship with Grace to talk his way into our midst so he can empty our pocketbooks and leave us destitute,” Helen snapped.

  Katie shook her head, a familiar sadness creeping into her expression. “Why must you always expect the worst of people?”

  “Not people,” Helen corrected as she twisted in her seat to face forward. “Just men.”

  “You know that’s not normal, right?” Katie whispered.

  Helen pressed her lips together in a tight line. She wouldn’t have answered anyway, but the fact that Emma Shaw was moving toward the podium gave her the perfect excuse to remain silent.

  Normal? Probably not. But smart was better than normal. A smart woman could protect herself, avoid confrontations before they happened, and escape the inescapable. Smart equaled safe. And safe was the pinnacle Helen aspired to achieve.

  Katie was so young, so naïve, so unrealistically romantic. If the girl ever left Harper’s Station, she’d end up used and abandoned by some charming rogue in less than a month. She lived on fairy-tale dreams of handsome princes and chivalrous knights in a world of rattlesnakes and coyotes. Helen might only be three years older in age—twenty-five to Katie’s twenty-two—but she was ancient in terms of experience. And her experience told her that if there really was a trouser-clad outsider in Harper’s Station, trouble would be right around the corner.

  The room quieted as Emma Shaw ascended the dais and faced the gathering. “Thank you for coming, ladies. We have a matter of some concern to discuss this evening. Someone has threatened one of our own, and we need to apprise you of the situation so that you can be on your guard.”

  Helen sat up straighter, her instincts flaring. She’d made a vow when she’d first come to Harper’s Station—they all had—to lend aid without question to any sister in need. This community worked because everyone relied on one another, supported one another, trusted one another. They were family. And this family stood together, no matter what.

  “Grace Mallory has asked to address us tonight,” Emma continued. “Please give her your attention.” She stepped away from the podium and nodded to someone seated in the front row. “Grace?”

  The telegraph operator stood and climbed the two steps to the stage, then slipped behind the podium, grasping the sides of the wooden stand as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Head down, she locked her gaze on the floor a few feet in front of the first row of pews.

  Helen squirmed in sympathy. She knew what it was like to prefer the shadows to the spotlight. Most of her childhood had been spent learning how to avoid notice. How to hide in dark corners and arm herself with invisibility. She’d hidden out of necessity, not temperament, but she understood the feeling of exposure when caught in the light. It took courage for someone as shy and quiet as Grace Mallory to address a group of fifty women, even if they were her friends and peers.

  Grace cleared her throat and raised her focus a few inches off the ground. “A man named Chaucer Haversham has been looking for me for nearly a year. Yesterday, I received word that he has discovered my hiding place here in Harper’s Station.” She glanced sideways to Emma. “I offered to leave town, but Emma and Malachi agreed that I’d be safer here.”

  “You ain’t going nowhere, Gracie,” Henry Chandler shouted from the front row. Heads throughout the church bobbed in agreement, including Helen’s.

  “Thank you,” Grace murmured as her cheeks grew pink. “You are all such dear friends. You have no idea how much your comradery means to me.” She stood a little straighter and finally raised her gaze to eye level with the audience. “But you need to know the danger my staying entails. I have no proof, but I am fully convinced that this man, or someone working under his orders, shot and killed my father.”

  Helen gasped. A killer?

  Katie reached into Helen’s lap, grabbed her hand, and squeezed. Helen turned and met her friend’s stare, a silent promise flowing between them as Helen squeezed Katie’s hand in return. They’d look out for each other.

  “I have something he wants,” Grace explained. “Something that threatens his inheritance, which truly belongs to an older half-sister everyone believed had perished at birth. My father was about to turn the documents over to a Pinkerton agent but was murdered as he crossed the street to keep his appointment.” Grace shifted from side to side, her focus dropping once again to the floor.

  Had she seen her father die? Helen bit her lower lip. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. As often as she’d wished her own father dead, she’d never wanted to witness the deed being carried out. Especially not in so sudden and violent a fashion. And if Grace had actually liked her father? It must have been awful.

  Grace seemed to gather herself, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. “Haversham owns a mine in Colorado and has Pinkerton agents on his payroll, so I don’t know if the agent my father was scheduled to meet betrayed us or
if he would have proven trustworthy. Mr. Shaw is going to help me connect with the head agent in Philadelphia to investigate. In the meantime, I ask that you keep watch and report any sightings of male visitors to Harper’s Station.”

  Katie suddenly lurched to her feet, jerking Helen’s arm in its socket before releasing her hand. “What about the man at the jailhouse?”

  Grace’s cheeks deepened from pink to a burning red, but she didn’t flinch as she met Katie’s gaze. “His name is Amos Bledsoe. He’s a friend who heard of my trouble and came to help. He might be in town a few days, but he poses no threat.”

  Helen stiffened, her shoulder blades bumping uncomfortably against the wooden back of the church pew.

  Another man in Harper’s Station. Wonderful. They were multiplying like rabbits.

  It was a good thing the farm sat five miles outside of town. She’d make a point not to volunteer for any deliveries during the next week or so. The rabbits hadn’t spread beyond the borders of town yet, and Lord willing, they never would. The two roosters they had strutting around the coops were more than sufficient.

  “Mr. Bledsoe is visiting from Denison and has no connection to the Haversham family or the Pinkerton agency,” Grace explained. “He is simply a friend, and I hope that you will welcome him as such.” She glanced around the room, bravely meeting the eyes of the ladies in the audience. “Does anyone have an objection to Mr. Bledsoe being allowed to stay?”

  Helen squirmed but said nothing. She didn’t want another man hanging around, but she had no true grounds to object. The fact that the visitor wore trousers didn’t seem like a good enough reason to ban him from town. Well, it was reason enough for her, but most of the ladies in the room weren’t quite so extreme in their views.