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

by Karen Witemeyer

  The world must surely be coming to an end.

  15

  Come find me at the jailhouse when you’re done with your visit, Dunbar,” Malachi Shaw said, his voice firm, insistent. Yet his assertion of control did little to calm the panic rising inside Grace as she realized the marshal was going to leave her alone with the Pinkerton. “Male accommodations around here are scarce. We’ll have to make arrangements.”

  Mr. Dunbar smiled and nodded. “Sure thing.” Then he opened the café door and motioned for Grace to enter ahead of him. “Miss Mallory?”

  She hesitated, finding it incredibly difficult to tear her gaze away from the marshal, who had remained at street level when she and Mr. Dunbar climbed onto the boardwalk. Slowly, she forced her attention away from Malachi and turned to meet the Pinkerton’s dark brown eyes. His smile seemed to deepen as she looked at him, and the hint of a dimple creased his right cheek through the dark whiskers of his closely cropped beard. She immediately dropped her gaze to her feet.

  Good heavens, but he was handsome. And the way he looked at her . . . Grace’s stomach danced and whirled, her pulse fluttering in time to the dizzying tempo in her belly. She bit gently on her tongue, injecting just enough discomfort to clear her head. You can do this.

  After all, her father had been poised to do this very thing—meet with the Pinkerton agent sent by Mr. Whitmore and hand over their evidence. She would finally be completing the work her father started. Yet, like her father, she intended to be cautious. She wouldn’t hand anything over until she was sure the man in front of her could be trusted. And there was only one way to make that determination—spend time with him.

  Lifting her chin, she aimed a smile somewhere in the vicinity of Mr. Dunbar’s throat and entered the café.

  Ann Marie hurried toward them across the nearly vacant dining area. The curvy brunette greeted Grace, but her eyes never strayed from the tall man near her elbow. Usually Grace didn’t mind being overlooked—she enjoyed the peacefulness of anonymity. But seeing the obvious interest lighting Ann Marie’s eyes made this particular oversight prick her skin like stinging nettles.

  “Let me show you to a table,” Ann Marie offered, moving to Mr. Dunbar’s left side and smiling up at him like a besotted schoolgirl. “Would you prefer one by the window, or a more private area near the back?”

  Grace blinked. Usually patrons just sat wherever they found a vacancy. The only other customer in the entire place was Daisy, the elderly lady who liked to sip tea and watch the town happenings from the front window. So why the escort? Did Ann Marie think they’d be overwhelmed by the sheer number of seating options?

  The Pinkerton winked at the overeager waitress, and Ann Marie blushed. Question answered.

  “A little privacy would be welcome,” he said, his low voice rich and a tad . . . arrogant? He turned to Grace, and she swore she could feel his gaze touch the skin of her face as if his fingers had stroked her cheek.

  A shiver ran down the back of her neck. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly. It was warm and tingly and made her insides tremble, but it also left her feeling unsettled. Such a look was too intimate between virtual strangers. They’d only met half an hour ago, too soon to have formed any meaningful attachment. Yet it might just be his way of showing attraction. She knew so little about how men courted women. And this man, in particular, seemed more potent than most.

  Still . . . she’d feel better if he demonstrated at least a little nervousness. His abundance of self-assurance was making her lose a grip on her own.

  It was so different from when she was with Amos. Mr. Bledsoe had a way about him that naturally boosted her confidence, made her feel comfortable in her own skin. No pretense, no need to impress. Just acceptance, respect, and honesty.

  Grace suddenly hungered for those steady qualities. Mr. Dunbar, with his burning brown eyes and shiver-inducing smile, felt oddly . . . threatening. Like a sleek panther on the prowl. And the more sheepish she became in his presence, the more apt he’d be to pounce.

  So get rid of the wool and find your gumption.

  “Thank you, Ann Marie,” Grace intoned softly when they reached the corner table. “I’ll take tea and one of those butter cookies you make that are so tasty.”

  She reached for the chair, determined to seat herself like an independent woman, but Mr. Dunbar beat her to it. He slid the chair out, brushing his fingers along her arm as he did so. She jerked her gaze toward him, but he simply smiled politely at her, with nothing untoward in his manner.

  She nodded her thanks as Ann Marie sidled up to the Pinkerton. “I also make an apple turnover that’s light and flaky and goes real well with coffee. I got a few cooling in the back if you’re interested.”

  “Sounds delicious. I’ll take two. Along with that coffee.” Dunbar winked at the waitress again, and Ann Marie nearly tripped over her own feet as she turned to make her way to the kitchen.

  Grace bit back a sigh. Was that how all women reacted to this man? No wonder he exuded confidence. He was like walking whiskey, intoxicating unsuspecting females just by entering their proximity. Time to build up an immunity. Herschel Mallory’s mission deserved nothing less than clearheaded focus and insightful discernment. Not fluttery distraction and a mush-filled mind.

  Mr. Dunbar took the seat across from her and shined the full force of his masculine glory directly at her. Grace ordered her stomach to cease its skipping. When it didn’t, she decided she needed a more assertive approach.

  “How long have you worked with Detective Whitmore?”

  Dunbar’s eyes widened slightly, and his surprise, even as subtle as it was, buoyed her confidence.

  “A few years,” he answered as he leaned back in his chair. “Best mentor a man could ask for. He has a knack for finding people who don’t want to be found.” His eyes met hers, and he slowly leaned forward again, closing the distance between them by resting one forearm on the table near her side. The black sleeve of his coat grazed the white linen of her napkin. “That’s why I was so determined to find you. Didn’t want to let Whitmore down.”

  Grace smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth to give her an excuse to glance down. He was too close. Too . . . intent. But she needed to watch him as he answered her next question, so she didn’t keep her gaze downcast for long. Just a heartbeat or two in order to give herself some relief from his stare. Then she banished the shy mouse inside her and raised her head. “How did you find me?”

  Did his lips tighten just a bit at the corners? Grace peered more closely at his face, but it seemed the Pinkerton preferred to be on the giving end of scrutiny, not the other way around. He straightened away from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Good detective work.”

  Grace waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

  This time, she leaned across the table. She laughed, hoping to hide her determination to excavate details. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  Mr. Dunbar smiled. That swaggering, I-could-kiss-your-garters-off-if-you-let-me smile that brought a warmth to her cheeks she was powerless to stop. “Can’t go giving away trade secrets, darlin’.”

  She might not be able to control her blush, but she had a slightly stronger grasp on her mind. That smile was a decoy. He didn’t want to answer her question. Why?

  Grace offered a smile of her own. One far less practiced yet, she hoped, flirtatious enough to play to his ego. “I won’t tell anyone.” She batted her lashes. She had no idea if such an action would help her cause or simply make her look ridiculous, but she figured it was worth a try. “You must have been quite clever to discover my hiding place after all this time. I thought for sure the trail had gone cold. What gave me away?”

  He shrugged. “When I couldn’t find you, I turned my attention to Haversham. He’s wealthy, has lots of resources. I figured if I couldn’t uncover your hiding place on my own, I’d wait to see if Haversham did. Kept my ear to the ground, used a shared comradery with the Pinkerton agents on the mine payroll to
gain access to inside information. Then, as soon as I heard about the telegraph lady in Colorado Springs giving up your location, I jumped on the first train headed south, praying I’d get to you before he did.”

  “See,” Grace said, turning up the brightness on her false smile, “I knew you were clever.”

  Dunbar preened at the praise, but the instant before his cocky grin returned in full force, the lines at the corners of his mouth relaxed. In relief that he hadn’t been caught in his web of deception.

  For he was lying. Of that, Grace was convinced. She just wasn’t sure if he was lying now or had done so earlier.

  Back in the telegraph office, Mr. Dunbar had seemed surprised when the marshal mentioned Haversham’s knowledge of her location. Yet now he claimed that he’d discovered her hiding place because he gleaned the information from Haversham’s men. Both scenarios could not be true. Had Chaucer Haversham gotten to Dunbar, corrupted him somehow, bribed his loyalty away from Whitmore? Or was the Pinkerton sitting across from her an honorable man who had simply been attempting to spare her worry when they first met, therefore choosing to minimize Haversham’s role?

  Lord, help me discern the truth, Grace prayed as she dropped her attention to her lap.

  “Here we go.” A cheerful voice interrupted Grace’s prayer as Ann Marie arrived at the table with a tray laden with beverages and sweets.

  Mr. Dunbar scooted out his chair and stood. “Let me help you with that.” He reached for the tray.

  “Thank you.” Ann Marie allowed him to clasp the tray but seemed to forget to release her own hold. Grace cleared her throat softly. Ann Marie yanked her hands away, causing the teacups to rattle in their saucers.

  Mr. Dunbar smiled, only making things worse for the poor girl. Ann Marie’s cheeks looked like they were on fire, something to which Grace could easily relate.

  While the Pinkerton held the tray steady, Ann Marie arranged Grace’s tea in front of her with a lacy butter cookie on a small plate beside it. Then she set a second arrangement at Mr. Dunbar’s place, a much stronger aroma wafting from his cup. His pair of apple turnovers dwarfed her cookie by comparison, but then, a man of his size couldn’t be expected to eat like a lady. Although he could apparently be expected to drink like one. Grace hid a grin as Mr. Dunbar frowned at the dainty china teacup his coffee had arrived in.

  As Ann Marie set out the blue sugar bowl and matching cream pitcher, the Pinkerton raised an eyebrow. “You got any real cups? That coffee’ll be gone in two swigs.”

  Ann Marie took the tray back from him and held it close to her chest like a shield. “I’m sorry. We don’t get many men in here. The marshal’s really the only one, and he’s taken to bringing his own mug when he comes in with his wife.” Her gaze followed Mr. Dunbar as he lowered himself back into his chair. She nibbled her lip as a frown continued marring his face. “I made sure not to use the cups with flowers painted on them,” she said, trying to appease. “And I promise to be attentive with your refills. Just catch my eye, and I’ll bring the pot. As often as you need.”

  “I suppose my manhood can withstand a dent or two from drinking out of a lady’s cup.” He grinned up at the waitress, who nodded immediately in agreement.

  “Oh. Yes, sir. You have nothing to worry about there. Nothing could dent your . . . er . . . manliness.” Cheeks flaming once again, Ann Marie started backing away. “I’ll just . . . ah . . . go make sure the coffee’s plenty hot. For when you need a refill.”

  The Pinkerton dipped his chin. Ann Marie spun away and hustled off to the kitchen.

  Grace lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her smile.

  “Sweet girl,” Mr. Dunbar said, no hint of arrogance in his tone, just gentlemanly warmth.

  Grace peered at him over the rim of her cup. He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner, then grasped the teacup handle between his large thumb and first two fingers and lifted it to his mouth. A thin mustache and well-trimmed beard outlined his lips, and Grace had to admit that Ann Marie was right. Drinking from a ladies’ teacup would not dent this man’s masculinity anytime soon. He could probably replace his hat with a garland of woven wildflowers and still project a warrior’s mystique.

  But despite his charmingly roguish demeanor and the attraction that surged through her whenever his dark eyes connected with hers, she didn’t trust him. She wanted to believe him worthy of her father’s secrets, to let him relieve her of the burden that had been weighing her down for so long, but she couldn’t. Not until she quieted the suspicious whispers buzzing in her mind. Too much was at stake to be anything less than certain.

  “So, Miss Mallory,” Mr. Dunbar said as he reached for a turnover, his voice casual, his movements slow and smooth. As he raised the sweet to his mouth, he paused, waited for her to look up, then pierced her with a look that, while friendly, exuded steely insistence. “Where are those documents your father uncovered?”

  16

  Amos paced the length of the far-too-short-to-be-satisfactory telegraph office for the tenth time, ran fingers through his barely-long-enough-to-grab hair for the third time, then flopped into the padded, Grace-should-be-back-and-sitting-here armchair.

  What was taking so long? He pounded the arm of the chair with his fist as his knees bounced with an energy that urged him to do more than sit around and wait like a trained pup. But what could he do? He’d already accomplished the one task Grace had left for him—delivered the books to Mrs. Shaw and watched while she secured them in her bank vault.

  Supervising the lock-up had been a straightforward, simple matter compared to finding the books in the first place. Grace’s chambers were small enough that there hadn’t been too many places to look, but he’d still felt guilty rifling through her personal belongings. Especially her underclothes. Even now, his neck heated at the memory of digging through her unmentionables. When he’d opened that drawer and seen what was inside, he’d quickly shut it. But after looking through the rest of the bureau, he’d realized that the top drawer had been the most disturbed, the most untidy. So he’d gone back and, as respectfully as possible, dug through items he’d only ever seen on clotheslines or in mail-order catalogs until he’d unearthed the two volumes he sought.

  That had been twenty minutes ago. He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and flicked the brass cover open with his thumbnail. Twenty-two minutes. Even worse. He snapped the lid closed with a disgruntled sigh and stuffed the watch back into his pocket.

  As he mentally debated whether to resume pacing or start unraveling his left stocking one thread at a time, a movement outside the small window caught his attention. Grace!

  Amos surged to his feet. He yanked open the half door at the end of the counter and stepped through at the same moment the main door swung inward.

  And there she stood. Staring at him, eyes wide at his unexpected nearness. Her light gray shawl hung draped over one arm, the tiny pink rosebuds that patterned the dark blue of her dress brought out the youthful loveliness of her face, and her slightly wind-mussed hair made his fingers itch to stroke each wayward strand softly back into place.

  He cleared his throat and tried to clear his mind as well. This was not the time for thoughts of hair-stroking or hand-holding or any of the hundred other courting ideas running through his brain at the moment. This was the time to focus on Grace and her mission.

  Though if he were honest, a small portion of his attention would probably remain dedicated to determining how much competition that pretty boy Dunbar presented.

  “How did it go?” Amos asked, finally breaking the charged silence stretching between them.

  Grace’s lashes dropped to shutter her eyes as she tugged the door closed behind her. She said nothing as she moved past him, just quietly hung up her shawl before crossing to the window to peer outside.

  Gazing longingly after the Pinkerton? Or making sure no customers were approaching so they could discuss the situation without interruption? With her back to him, hiding her face as well as the view ou
t the window, Amos couldn’t tell.

  “I evaded him as best I could.”

  The soft-spoken words sent a hard jolt of pleasure through him. He knew she was too smart to fall for a handsome face without searching out what lay beneath. Cloaking his jubilance in an expression of mild curiosity took considerable effort, but he managed. Barely.

  “Did he press you for answers?” Amos’s jubilance faded as he considered how intimidating such a large man could be. If Dunbar had threatened Grace or made her feel uncomfortable, Amos would have to take steps to ensure the two were never left alone together again.

  “He asked several pointed questions that were difficult to sidestep, but he remained a gentleman.” Grace turned, her gaze seeking him out. Amos immediately closed the distance between them, crossing into the main office and halting only when he stood directly in front of her. Taking no time to weigh the wisdom of the action, he reached for her hand. Her fingers were chilled from the autumn wind, and as soon as her skin touched his, all he wanted to do was warm it. He squeezed her hand gently, rubbing the back with his thumb. A slight tremor passed through her, yet she lingered, not pulling away from his touch.

  “I’m here for you, Grace,” he vowed. “Whatever you need.”

  Tiny frown lines sprouted across her brow. “What I need is an unbiased opinion of Mr. Dunbar and his motives.” She tugged her hand free, then sat at the desk and fiddled with the edge of the telegraph machine.

  Amos returned to the blue-striped chair and perched on the edge. “I’m not sure how unbiased my opinion is,” he admitted, since he despised the far-too-handsome Pinkerton, “but I can promise to evaluate everything about him with a healthy dose of skepticism.” She finally turned to look at him, and Amos leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees as he spoke. “I would never tell you what you should do with your father’s books, Grace, but Dunbar’s timing in showing up here makes me wary.”