Heart on the Line

by Karen Witemeyer

  Helen managed a small smile in return, then she untied the horse’s reins and mounted. Removing her foot from the left stirrup so Claire could mount behind her, Helen reached for the young nurse and helped her gain a seat.

  As best she could figure, her stranger had been shot sometime early this morning, long enough ago to lose a bunch of blood and develop a fever. Which meant this newcomer could be the culprit. But while she didn’t trust this Dunbar fellow more than a wooden nickel, he was still a Pinkerton, and as such, the shooting could have been justified.

  A ribbon of doubt wove through Helen’s heart at the thought of Rachel’s brother being in the wrong, but logic rose to snip the thread. A lawman—an honest lawman—wouldn’t shoot a man and leave him to die, even if the fellow were a criminal. He’d drag his carcass to jail.

  So either this Mr. Dunbar didn’t shoot her stranger, or he was pretending to be something he wasn’t. Either way, Helen needed to put as much space between her and the Pinkerton as possible.

  Touching her heels to the mare’s flanks, she urged the sturdy animal to a canter. Once they reached the cabin, Helen drew the mare to a halt and waited impatiently for Claire to slide down so she could dismount. After Claire retrieved her supplies, Helen led the horse a few paces away to a shaded spot with plenty of grass to forage. She had just turned back to escort Claire into the cabin when the creak of the door hinges warned she was too late.

  “Umm . . . Helen?” Claire’s voice wobbled and pitched upward in obvious distress.

  Helen bounded through the doorway then skidded to a halt, arrested by the same sight that must have frozen Claire where she stood.

  “Have me eyes suddenly opened to the world of the Fey, or is that a verra angry man tied to yer bed?”

  19

  Amos spied two women exiting the clinic and immediately realized who would be walking through the door next. Without taking the time to explain, he grabbed Grace’s hand and dragged her down the road a few yards. When they reached the oak tree that grew between the café and the first of three houses on the edge of town, he twirled her around and pressed her against the oak’s trunk, all while keeping the third house, where the clinic resided, in his peripheral vision.

  “Amos,” Grace gasped, “what are you—?”

  “Shh.” He positioned himself half in front of her, his bent arm casually braced against the tree trunk beside her head. “Gaze up at me as if I’m the most interesting man you’ve ever met.”

  Her cheeks colored slightly, and Amos smiled, partly because it fit with the character he was trying to project, and partly because he just plain liked being the one to pinken her complexion. Much better than the blushes that snake Dunbar elicited.

  Grace blinked at his authoritative tone, but she obeyed. He didn’t normally dictate unilateral decisions, but he could assert command when the situation warranted. And this situation more than warranted. Barking orders might not be the most successful wooing technique, but Grace’s safety was too important to worry about the possibility of hurt feelings.

  When she’d convinced him to help her keep an eye on Dunbar as part of their investigation, he’d almost regretted mentioning the strategy earlier in the day. But he had to admit that sharing this adventure held its own thrilling appeal, and it offered a compelling reason to stay close to her side.

  Grace lifted her chin and looked at him, her eyes soft and thoughtful. “You just might be,” she murmured.

  “Might be what?” he asked, only half-listening to her as his ears picked up a horse nickering a short distance away and heavy footfalls approaching.

  “The most interesting man I’ve ever met.”

  That got his attention. Every one of his five senses honed in on the woman in front of him. He leaned in closer, drawn to her as everything else faded.

  The clean scent of her skin teased him, tempting him to bend down and nuzzle her neck so he could breathe her in more completely. But then his eyes drank in her sweet face, the curve of her cheek, the way the wind blew a few loose strands of hair across her chin until they snagged at the corner of her mouth, and he was captivated anew. She reached a hand up to free the hairs from her mouth and tuck them behind her ear, and suddenly he wished it were his fingers touching her face. To brush across the plump softness of her lower lip, to skim along the edge of her jaw, to caress the delicate shell of her ear. Then her lashes fell and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and a new hunger rose within him. A hunger to taste, to savor, to—

  “You know, Bledsoe,” a dark baritone rumbled behind him, jerking Amos back into reality with a start, “if you’re gonna court a gal, you should do it somewhere a little more private.” A large hand slapped against Amos’s shoulder blade, nearly sending him toppling into Grace. “That way, there’s less chance of being interrupted by a suitor who’s far more handsome and roguishly charming.”

  Amos scowled at Dunbar, not at all surprised to find the Pinkerton blatantly making eyes at Grace right in front of him. The cad. Grace’s cheeks had darkened from pink to scarlet.

  “Fortunately, the lady I’m courting is more concerned with substance than surface,” Amos said, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel into his tone. “But thank you for the advice just the same.”

  Really, he should be grateful that his quickly formulated ruse had worked, convincing Dunbar that he and Grace were simply out for an afternoon stroll, not following the detective around in order to ascertain his motives. Yet the cocky, far-too-handsome Pinkerton left Amos’s nerves raw every time they interacted. Dunbar personified every insecurity Amos possessed. And worse, the detective knew it.

  “Are you out for a walk as well, Mr. Dunbar?” Grace said, her voice breathy and . . . did her lashes just bat?

  “Yep. Getting the layout of the town mapped in my brain.” Dunbar tapped the side of his head and grinned that arrogant, I-can-do-anything-better-than-that-dullard-you’re-with smile that set Amos’s teeth on edge. “Gotta be ready to protect my mission and the lovely lady tied to it should Haversham’s man show his face. I’ve been asking around, too. If anyone sees anything unusual—another man about, or signs of a trail or campsite—I’ll be sure to check it out.” He reached out and touched Grace’s face with the back of his hand. Her face! “Don’t you worry, Miss Mallory. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Amos clenched his fist, bit his tongue, stuffed down the raving beast inside him demanding he take retribution against the scoundrel who’d touched his woman. His woman.

  It helped when Grace stepped away from the Pinkerton, letting his hand fall away from her. But hearing her syrupy sweet tones stroke the man’s already inflated ego made it a challenge not to gag.

  “You’re so good to watch out for me, Mr. Dunbar.” She gave a shiver that actually looked genuine, then rubbed her arms. “I pray this whole ordeal is over soon.”

  That made two of them. Amos was more than ready to send Dunbar packing. Or have him arrested. Whatever method of eradication proved appropriate.

  “As soon as we get those books from your friend, this will all be behind you. I’ll take charge of the documents, give them to Whitmore, and Haversham won’t be able to touch you.” Dunbar absently kicked at an acorn near his boot. “Did you . . . ah . . . hear back from your friend yet? Is she sending the books?”

  “No . . . she hasn’t responded yet.” Grace fidgeted with her sleeve and inched a hair closer to Amos. “But I suspect she will soon.”

  “Then shouldn’t one of you be manning the wire?”

  Grace shot a look at Amos. He sensed her fear and understood it. Dunbar was no idiot. He knew an operator wouldn’t leave his or her post during business hours. Did he suspect they were keeping tabs on him? They’d monitored his comings and goings from the telegraph office, either through the window or via an occasional stroll outside, until he’d headed for the clinic and left their field of view. Grace had insisted they follow him and dashed out of the office without even fetching her shawl. Amos hadn’t
been about to let her go after Dunbar alone, so he’d hied after her, doing his best to keep her enthusiasm in check and her pretty self out of danger.

  Dunbar frowned and shot Amos a hard look. “Maybe the courtship should wait until after Haversham is dealt with. Miss Mallory’s safety must come first. Don’t you agree?”

  Was it Amos’s imagination, or was there a deeper threat beneath that not-so-friendly warning? Admittedly, it was hard to make a proper inference when jealousy tainted his perception. Either way, as much as it galled him to agree, Amos had to admit that Dunbar made a valid point.

  Amos straightened to his full height, which was still a frustrating three or four inches shorter than the Pinkerton. “I assure you, Miss Mallory’s well-being is my chief concern.”

  Dunbar glowered. “Then perhaps you should return to your post to ensure you don’t miss any important messages.”

  Amos tamped down the surprisingly fierce urge to smash his fist into the condescending man’s face. It required significant effort to resist, seeing as his blood was running hot and sloshing through his veins with all the delicacy of a rampaging river, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d lost hold of reason. Fisticuffs wouldn’t curry Grace’s favor. As richly satisfying as it might be to plow his hand into Dunbar’s chin, the retribution that would surely follow would only highlight his deficiencies. Dunbar would pummel Amos into the ground. Probably in a matter of seconds. Not that Grace wasn’t worth being pummeled for, but it wasn’t her honor that had been impugned. Dunbar’s disdain had strictly been aimed at Amos.

  So, forcing his gaze away from the Pinkerton’s jawline—the spot he’d been eyeing as the target for a swift uppercut—Amos turned to Grace and held out his hand. “What do you say, Miss Mallory? Are you ready to return to the telegraph office?”

  She laid her fingers across his palm. Fingers, he noted, that trembled slightly. “I believe I am, Mr. Bledsoe. Thank you.” She dipped her chin slightly toward Dunbar as she stepped away from the tree and moved back into the road. “I’ll send word if I hear from my friend. Oh, that reminds me. Where will you be staying, Mr. Dunbar? I might not get word until later this evening and need to know where to find you.”

  “The marshal’s letting me bunk in the jailhouse.” He grinned and rubbed a hand over his well-trimmed beard. “Not the most glamorous of accommodations, I’ll grant you, but I’ve stayed in worse. Got me a cot, a stove, and probably a cricket or two to sing me to sleep. All the essentials.”

  Grace smiled yet continued edging closer to Amos. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be sure to get a message to you when I learn how soon we can expect the rest of my father’s belongings to arrive.”

  “Excellent.” Dunbar touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll wish you a good day then.”

  “Good day.”

  Amos said nothing, but then, neither of the others seemed to expect him to do so.

  Dunbar took his leave without further question or comment, and Amos escorted Grace back to the office, keeping her hand locked in his the entire way.

  Once the door was secured behind them, Amos ushered her behind the counter and gave her a stern look. “You can’t stay here alone tonight. It’s too dangerous. What if Dunbar suspects you’re stalling and decides to break in and search for your father’s documents himself? You’d be at his mercy.”

  “Not completely.” Now that they were away from the Pinkerton, her pluck had returned, and her voice echoed with a firmness he couldn’t help but admire. She moved a few steps away from him then turned her back and rummaged with her skirts.

  What in the world was she—

  Pivoting to face him again, she held out a small pistol for his inspection. “I’m always armed.”

  Amos stared at the derringer. “Where . . .”

  “I have a garter holster.” She didn’t even blush as she made that announcement, just stated the fact as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe all women walked around with weapons strapped to their garters. How would he know? “Sometimes I carry it in my handbag, but I prefer keeping it closer to hand. A lady never knows when she might have her bag knocked away. At night I keep it on my bedside table, always within reach. Between that and the sturdy locks on my door and window, I’ll be safe enough.”

  Amos didn’t know if he should be awed by her preparedness or cowed by her independence. Truthfully, it was hard to concentrate on either one after she mentioned garters. Visions of shapely legs and bits of lace securing silky stockings kept flashing through his mind, distracting him.

  “At least now we know where he’ll be.” Grace slid into the office chair and leaned an elbow on the desk next to the telegraph. “I imagine Malachi offered the jailhouse so he could keep an eye on him.”

  “Well, if the marshal can see the jail from the station house, that means I can help keep watch as well. I’ll speak to him tonight about taking shifts. If Dunbar starts roaming during the night, I want to know about it.”

  “Mmm.”

  Amos frowned at the distracted sound. Wasn’t she taking this seriously? Had the Pinkerton’s blathering about protecting her from Haversham lulled her into a false sense of security? She needed to be on her guard. Dunbar could be a coldhearted killer. Or at the very least, a money-hungry opportunist. All right, he could also be a legitimate detective, but Amos doubted it. Dunbar was too sly by half.

  Determined to make sure Grace understood the peril of the situation, Amos planted himself directly in front of her. But before he could start his lecture, she glanced up at him and smiled. Not one of her polite smiles or even the shy curvings of her lips that made his heart flip. This grin was full and toothsome and stretched upward toward eyes that danced with mischief and intelligence. The brilliant show stopped Amos in his tracks and drove all thoughts of lecture from his mind.

  “You need to collect Tori’s order,” Grace said.

  Amos usually considered himself a man of astute mind, but in the face of that particular smile and the dramatic turn of topic accompanying it, he found himself at a loss. “What order?”

  “The bicycles. From San Antonio.” Her tawny eyes glowed with barely banked excitement.

  “Right now?”

  She nodded. “Yes. With all due haste.” She launched from her chair and clasped his hand. “I have an idea,” she boasted, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “One that involves bicycles and shipments and me developing a rather speedy friendship with one of your wheelmen compatriots.”

  20

  You won’t find her,” the stranger growled, his eyes feral as he strained against the restraints.

  Helen’s heart tripped over itself. She’d tied him like an animal and then left him. Surely she could have come up with some other way to ensure he didn’t leave. Why hadn’t she—

  “Even if you flay the skin from my back, I won’t tell you.” He glared his defiance at Claire, his mouth drawn in a tight line, his face red from anger and fever. “You might be bigger, but my mind is stronger. You’ll never touch her again.”

  Claire glanced at Helen, the fear that had held her frozen relaxing a little. “The poor man is clearly out of his head,” she whispered. “Whisht!” She chuckled softly and looked down at herself, holding her arms wide at her sides. “He thinks me bigger than himself!”

  Helen smiled a little at the ludicrous idea of the young nurse being anything but diminutive when compared to the long, lean stranger. Yet she couldn’t summon more than a slight upturn of her lips. Not when her heart ached.

  He was speaking of his sister again. Protecting her from a man who would restrain him and whip him to try to gain information.

  Helen strode forward. She had to get him out of those bonds. No doubt they were fueling his fever-induced memories. No one should be locked in such an ugly, cruel past. His body would never heal if his mind stayed focused on the source of his greatest hurt.

  “Wait, Helen.” Claire grabbed for her arm, but Helen sidestepped her. “He could strike ye. A man
in the grip o’ fever is unpredictable. It might be better to leave him tied.”

  “I can’t. It’s hurting him.” She crossed the few steps to the bed and immediately reached for the closest restraint.

  “No, it isna,” Claire said from behind her, making no move to follow. “Ye did a fine job with the cotton. ’Tis barely tight enough to hold him.”

  “It’s not his arms I’m worried about,” she murmured. It was his mind.

  Her stranger continued glaring at Claire, barely paying Helen any heed until she started tugging on the knot at his right wrist.

  He turned his head then, and in a flash his defiance melted under a wave of confusion and fear. “Rachel!” His frantic whisper broke Helen’s heart. “You’ve got to run. Hurry. Before he sees you.” He bucked his hips and increased his struggles against his bindings, tearing the knot from her fingertips. His movements were so violent, she feared he’d damage his leg with all his flailing. “He’s got me tied up again. I won’t be able to stop him this time. Please. You’ve got to run!” His voice broke, and his eyes misted.

  Helen nearly crumpled to the floor. What this man had endured. And some of it was at her hand. Well, no more!

  “Shh,” she pleaded as she reached out to stroke his face. “It’s all right. We’re safe. No one’s going to hurt either of us. It’s just a memory. He can’t hurt us anymore. We’re safe. You kept us safe.”

  She repeated the litany of safety over and over, stroking his stubbled jaw and smoothing the hair from his forehead until he calmed. Her heart hiccupped at the contact. She’d never imagined touching a man so—with tenderness, caring, comfort. Emotions she wasn’t accustomed to feeling flared in her chest, making it hard to breathe, yet she kept up her ministrations, his well-being outweighing her upheaval.