Grace finished sending the message, confirmed the content, then signed off. She moved back to the counter and collected the coins Tori had set out for her. “I’m sure he enjoys helping Lewis with his puppy, but he comes for you, Tori. Everyone knows that.”
“Ben is a good man.” Tori jutted her chin slightly, ready to rush to her man’s defense.
Grace immediately reached across the counter to touch her friend’s arm. “I meant no criticism. Mr. Porter is a fine man. One of the best I know. I’m thrilled that the two of you are finally courting. The man adores you, Tori. Lewis, too. And with your similar business interests? Well, I’d say you two make a perfect match.”
“And what about your visitor?” Tori’s eyes sparkled as she neatly turned the conversation around on Grace. “A man with similar business interests and an attention to your welfare that goes well beyond that of a casual acquaintance.”
Grace blushed, and not the delicate touch of pink that Tori had displayed earlier. Grace’s cheeks ignited with instant inferno-level heat. It didn’t help that talk of courtship had already brought Amos to mind. Amos and that kiss the two of them had shared. In this very room. It was all Grace could do not to turn and stare at the area behind her desk where he had held her in his arms and swept her away with unexpected passion. Who knew a bespectacled, gawky cycling enthusiast could steal her breath so completely?
“Aha!” Tori smirked. “There is something between you two.”
Grace withdrew her arm and retreated behind the half-wall separating them, a wall that suddenly felt far too short. Not that this stopped her friend from following. Tori just leaned over the counter, making it clear there would be no escape.
It was time to put her shyness aside and stand tall for the man whose name she hoped to share one day. Straightening her shoulders, Grace forced herself to meet Tori’s gaze. “Mr. Bledsoe asked to court me, and I accepted.”
The shopkeeper’s teasing challenge dissolved into an expression of sweet joy. Had Emma been here, she probably would have squealed and dashed around the counter to sweep Grace up in a hug, but calm, unflappable Tori simply smiled. Yet that smile somehow filled the room with such warm acceptance that all Grace’s nervousness drained away.
“That’s wonderful.” Tori’s smile dimmed slightly as her gaze roamed to the open doorway and scanned the street. She turned back and lowered her voice slightly. “After seeing you and Mr. Dunbar in the café a few days ago, I worried you might be developing feelings for the handsome Pinkerton agent.”
Grace’s attention sharpened. “Is there something about Mr. Dunbar you dislike?”
Tori had never been terribly fond of men in general, but she was as close to an objective third party as Grace and Amos were likely to get without giving away their suspicions.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Nothing I can put my finger on. He’s always polite, and I suppose the questions he asks are just part of his detective work, but sometimes . . . I don’t know. His eyes go cold.” She rubbed her arms. “Yesterday after church, I stopped him from questioning Lewis about the runaway horse he and Ben saw, because I could tell his pressing was making my son uneasy. Lewis kept ducking behind my skirts as if trying to escape. Something angry and almost mean flashed in Mr. Dunbar’s eyes. It only lingered for a second before Ben stepped in and offered to answer all of his questions, but it left my heart pounding. I’ll be glad for him to leave.”
“Me, too,” Grace concurred. “He shouldn’t be here much longer. He might even leave today.”
If he took her bait.
“Oh?” Tori’s eyebrows lifted.
“A package should be arriving for me with the shipment of bicycles from San Antonio. Hopefully the contents will satisfy Mr. Dunbar’s curiosity and send him on his way.”
A jangling harness sounded outside, and Tori’s head jerked toward the door. Her eyes lit up. “That will be Ben with my supplies. And those crazy bicycles, no doubt. He was going to meet the train to collect them this morning before heading out.”
Grace came around the counter and followed Tori outside. Sure enough, Mr. Porter’s large freight wagon was rolling toward the store. But he wasn’t alone. Nearly every lady in Harper’s Station had come out to welcome him, buzzing with curiosity. Henrietta Chandler pushed through them all, shouting at Mr. Porter to stop already so she could get a gander at her new velocipede.
“Oh, dear.” Tori shared a laughing look with Grace. “I better lend a hand before the swarm drags him down.”
Grace grinned. Then she spotted a familiar figure joining the crowd, one whose tidy suit and bespectacled features made her pulse flicker. She pointed his direction. “There’s Amos. He’ll distract the hordes long enough for you to extricate Mr. Porter.”
Tori took several steps into the street, her smile bright as she glanced back at Grace. “Your Mr. Bledsoe might be the one who ends up needing to be rescued. Better keep an eye out.”
Grace laughed as she waved to her friend. “I will.”
Knowing how busy her Monday mornings always were, Grace had shooed Amos away from the telegraph office. He’d volunteered to keep tabs on Detective Dunbar while she worked, so the Pinkerton was probably close by as well. Not that she had expected anything else. He’d be as eager to examine the freighter’s load as anyone, waiting for her shipment. Though at the moment, the ladies appeared to be taking over.
Grace smiled as Ben handed down the first women’s Yukon to Amos from the back of the wagon. Females engulfed the poor man before the tires even touched the ground. Henry and Emma clambered around in the heart of the fray, taking hold of the handlebars and pushing at the pedals with the toes of their shoes.
It seemed Amos was about to get roped into cycling lessons. Grace wished she could join the others and watch her man in action, but work came first. Emma’s broker needed the financial report before noon.
With a last fond look at the wheelman in the eye of a calico whirlwind, Grace headed back inside.
After deciphering the final line of the report, Grace set her pencil down and lifted the completely filled telegraph blank to review. She wanted to scan it for errors one last time before sending and cross out as many unnecessary words as possible in order to save her friend the extra expense. She’d just crossed out her third and when the office door banged open, startling her so badly she jumped.
“Sorry about that,” Detective Dunbar said as he stepped into the office carrying a large crate. “My hands are full.” He smiled and lifted the box a few inches higher to emphasize the truth of his words—and the breadth of his biceps. As if such a manly display excused his kicking her door in. The peacock.
Amos would have set the crate down and opened the door like a regular human being. Because Amos cared about protecting her property and not scaring her out of her wits.
Grace did not return the Pinkerton’s smile, but she did rise from her chair and walk toward the counter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Dunbar?”
“It’s what I can do for you, Miss Mallory.” He thumped the crate down on her counter, the loud bang making her wince. Then he patted the top of the box and winked. “I believe this is the package we’ve been waiting for.”
Personally, Grace would have preferred waiting a little longer. And having a different deliveryman. Amos or the marshal, for instance.
“From San Antonio? My, that was fast.” She forced a small smile to her lips as she stepped closer and pretended to examine the address on the box. Dunbar loomed over her, close enough that she could feel his breath on the top of her head. Too close. Too . . . unsettling.
Grace stepped back and cleared her throat. “Thank you for delivering this. I should have time to sort through the contents later this afternoon. I’ll send word—”
His palm slapped the wood of the crate. Grace flinched. “Why wait?” Dunbar winked at her again as if he were laughing at her puny efforts to shoo him away. He flung the outer door closed with a flick of his wrist, then strode down the counter to th
e half-door that separated her office from the customer area. He reached over the top, unlatched the small bolt that held it closed, and pushed through, crossing bold as brass into her inner sanctum.
“Mr. Dunbar!” Grace protested. “Customers are not allowed in this part of the office. Western Union officers only.”
“Aw, who’s gonna know?” He marched over to where the crate sat and hefted it up off the counter as if the box of books weighed little more than a crate of goose down.
Grace scuttled backward.
“Besides, I’ve seen Bledsoe back here with you. If it ain’t off limits for him, it ain’t off limits for me.” He swept past her and dropped the box onto her desk. On top of the message she’d just copied for Emma.
That put some starch in her spine. Grace marched over to the desk, grabbed the corner of the document she’d been working on, then tried to lift the edge of the box enough to slip the paper out. The box didn’t budge. Not until Dunbar, drat his too-muscled hide, lifted it back up for her. His smirk sparked her indignation even higher as she yanked the page out from under the box and tucked it under her logbook to keep the contents confidential.
“I’ll have you know that Mr. Bledsoe is a Western Union agent, as well,” she pronounced. “From Denison. He has privileges that you do not.”
Dunbar leaned an elbow on the crate and ran his gaze over her. “Oh, I think we all know about his privileges.”
Grace bristled. “How dare you make such ugly insinuations. I insist you leave. At once.”
“You want me gone?” He shrugged as if her desires were really of no consequence to him. Which they weren’t, obviously. “Then I suggest we open this box and retrieve the items you promised me.”
He leaned closer, his eyes losing their teasing light.
Tori had been right. His eyes were cold. And hard.
“Once I have what I came for,” he said in a menacing tone that sent shivers of alarm shooting down her spine, “I’ll be on my way.”
24
Helen woke from her doze with a start. Her neck, stiff after falling asleep in the least comfortable chair known to man, sent a sharp jolt of protest through the muscles at the base of her skull as she jerked her head around to check on her patient.
“Sorry,” Lee mumbled with a grimace as he reached for his injured thigh. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Helen lurched forward, grabbing the Bible in her lap at the last second before it slid to the floor. Carefully, she set the book next to a glass of water on the small table near the head of the bed, then stood and checked his injury. “Is it paining you?”
What a stupid question. He had a hole in his thigh. Of course it was paining him.
“Not too bad.” He glanced at her, a guilty, little-boy-caught-red-handed look on his face. “Until I try to move.”
“Well, don’t move then,” she scolded.
Good grief. She’d finally found a man she wanted to impress, and here she was dousing him with vinegar instead of honey.
He chuckled, though, and the sound muted her self-recriminations. Perhaps this one actually preferred tart to sweet. What a boon that would be. Tart was her specialty.
Lee shifted a bit on the mattress. “I . . . uh . . .”—his gaze dodged hers—“got to make use . . . of the chamber pot.”
“Oh!” Helen snapped upright. “Um . . . do you . . . need help?”
She and Claire had cut away his denims to make sure there weren’t any hidden wounds, so all he wore were his drawers. The quilt covered his lower extremities, though, exposing only his thigh so she could change the bandage or apply a new poultice.
Still, the man was injured. He needed a nurse, not a shy female nervous about seeing a man in his underclothes. If he required assistance, she’d do what needed to be done.
Just as she stiffened her spine, he cleared his throat and rubbed his mustache. “If you can help me sit up and swing around a little so my legs hang off the bed, I should be able to . . . handle the rest on my own.”
Oh, thank heavens.
“Here.” She slid a supporting arm behind his back as he started to lift away from the pillow. He winced and hissed in a breath but made no other sound.
She leaned in close for better leverage, and her cheek pressed against his temple.
Cool. His head was blessedly, wonderfully cool.
Helen smiled and sent a heartfelt thank you heavenward.
Lee’s hair might be sweat-slicked from battling fever, his jaw thick with stubble, and his personal aroma drifting toward sour milk thanks to the poultice mixture she’d dribbled on him over and over, but he was still the best thing she’d ever had the pleasure of holding in her arms.
The worst had passed. Her man was on the mend.
Her man? Listen to her putting the cart before the horse. He barely knew her. His only truly conscious moments had occurred when she’d been in her black crow’s dress, or now, when she was so weary from tending him that her eyes surely sported dark circles and bloodshot streaks. Not exactly her most attractive moments.
Still, she couldn’t stop the possessiveness from swelling inside her as she held him close and gently scooted his injured leg to the side of the bed. As he shifted with her, his good leg jostled the bedside table. Already unsteady due to age and uneven legs, the table wobbled. Fearing the half-full glass of water would spill on Lee’s Bible, Helen made a grab for the glass with her free hand. She caught the glass, but in her haste, her forearm knocked the very item she’d been trying to save to the floor.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.” She gently extricated her arm from his injured leg and bent to retrieve the fallen book.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lee grunted as he braced his arms against the cot’s frame. He huffed out a heavy breath. “That Bible’s seen worse and survived. A little tumble won’t hurt it.”
Helen still felt bad about it, though. The book had landed open—spine up, pages down. The pages had been pushed under and bent at the corners. She dusted off the cover with her sleeve then set about unfolding the worst of the bent pages. Most had been squished in a large chunk, so they unbent easily, but the pages at the front sported more definite creases. As she smoothed one of the front pages, she noticed the handwriting at the top of the page. To Lee, with love. Rachel. Her hand slowed and a smile began to build. No wonder this Bible was so important to him. It had been a gift from his sister.
She scanned the rest of the page as her hand moved down the genealogy list. As her fingers passed over the top line of record, however, her smile vanished. Her chest throbbed as if an unseen band had suddenly compressed her ribs.
“Lee? What is this?” She held the opened page in front of him then slowly turned her face toward his.
His breath came in heavy pants and his face looked ashy beneath his scruff of a beard, but for the first time in a long while, his health was a secondary concern. She needed an answer. And she needed it now.
“Right here.” She pointed to the top line of the family record.
His forehead scrunched, and his green eyes regarded her with confusion as he tilted his head back to look at her. “My name. Why?”
“Because if that is your name, my friend is in an awful lot of trouble.”
Helen’s trembling fingers traced the name scripted in Rachel’s handwriting.
Elliott Leander Dunbar.
She clenched her hand into a fist and scowled at the man who had made her mind go soft, who had made her forget where her true loyalties resided. “Tell me what you know about Grace Mallory,” she demanded as she flung the Bible away from her and onto the bed. “Now!”
Grace swallowed as Detective Dunbar stared down at her. For a fleeting moment, she considered making a run for the door, to find shelter among the throng of ladies just a few yards away, but the Pinkerton stood too close. She’d never make it. And if she bolted, he’d be certain of her suspicions and would never trust the books in the crate. Better to play along. Act as if she weren’t scared out of her wi
ts to be alone with him.
Using her indignation over his siege of her office to mask her fear, Grace scowled up at him. “This is highly irregular, detective. I’ll have to report this incident to the Western Union home office.”
“Do what you gotta do, lady. What I’ve gotta do is complete my mission and get those documents back to Whitmore. I’ve wasted enough time in this petticoat prison already.” Dunbar grasped the lip of the wooden crate’s lid, and with a single yank, pulled the small nails from their moorings and ripped the cover away.
Grace flinched at the raw display of strength but held her ground. When he turned the crate upside down and dumped the nearly two dozen books onto her work table, she lurched forward and grabbed his arm.
“Be careful! You’ll damage my—”
“Your daddy’s books will survive.” He shook her fingers from his arm with a light flick of his elbow, like a horse shooing an annoying fly with its tail. “Leave me be.”
She’d been about to warn him against damaging her equipment, not the books, being more concerned about the telegraph machinery than the random volumes of poetry and prose that held no sentimental value to her whatsoever. Thankfully, his rude interruption kept her from exposing herself.
He tossed books left and right, obviously looking for specific titles. Apparently, he didn’t just know there were books missing from Tremont Haversham’s library, he knew which books.
The knot in her belly tightened a notch.
He checked the spine of a thick, red, cloth-covered book then gave a little grunt of satisfaction before tucking it under his arm. Judging by the size of the book, it must have been Oliver Twist. Two tossed-aside books later, he latched onto a dark green hardback with a gilt title line that blazed Guy Mannering in bold fashion.
Grace took a single step back, anxious to put some space between her and the large man siphoning all the air out of her tiny office space. He had the books, now she just needed to get him to leave. “I searched my father’s collection for the documents after he died,” she told him, thankful that her voice sounded relatively steady, “but I never found them. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
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