Heart on the Line

by Karen Witemeyer

  “Let me go!” She struggled against his grip as he pulled her toward the wall, but he paid her as much heed as a buffalo would a fly. So she screamed, loud and long.

  Dunbar shot her an impatient glance, then spun her around and shoved her against the wall, pinning her arms above her head with one hand. “No one’s going to come, Grace. They think you’re deranged, remember?”

  She did. She remembered how Dunbar had told Irene to ignore any screams she heard, which meant he expected her to scream. Because he was going to hurt her.

  The dull sense of danger that had weighed on her since he’d barged into her office that morning sharpened into a fine point, swiftly honed by the terrifying images springing to mind of blood and bruises and death.

  Dear heavens. What was he going to do to her?

  Her fear must have pleased him, for he smiled, his cold eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now you’re starting to understand, my dear.” He ran a finger along the edge of her face in a calculated caress that made her weak stomach lurch. She jerked her head away from the touch, but her defiance failed to deter him. His hand cupped the inside of her exposed upper right arm where it bent near her ear and slid upwards, straightening her arms overhead, the rough wood of the wall catching on her sleeves. By the time his left hand met the right at the rope around her wrists, her arms were fully extended.

  “Here we go.” And with a flex of his biceps, he lifted her slightly to the right and snagged her bindings on a vacant hook. He stepped back to inspect his handiwork and gave a nod of approval.

  Her feet still touched the floor—barely—and the wall offered a bit of support, but the hook kept her arms immobilized.

  So much for reaching her derringer.

  “Now, Miss Mallory, let’s get down to business, shall we?” He stripped out of his coat, hung it neatly on a second hook about two feet to her left, then rolled up his sleeves.

  While he fiddled with his clothes, Grace fiddled with her ropes. She raised up on her tiptoes to try to unhook herself, but her arms were already too extended. The inch she gained made no difference. She tugged downward, testing the strength of the hook, but it was anchored to the wall. It didn’t so much as wiggle.

  “Writhing around like that will only tire you, Grace. If you want down, all you have to do is answer my question. Where are the documents?”

  She ceased her struggling, realizing he was right. Even if she somehow managed to get herself free of the hook, she’d not get any farther, not with him less than three feet away. “I already told you that I don’t know. Nothing has changed.” She eyed him warily. “Torturing me won’t work, because I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  His hand flew up to cover his heart, and he staggered back a mocking step. “You wound me, Grace. Torture? How uncivilized. I’m a businessman, not a monster. We’re simply here to negotiate a deal. You have the books—the real books—that your father removed from my employer’s library. I wish to acquire them.”

  He extracted a very long, very pointed hunting knife from a sheath at his belt. He stepped close to her, lifted the blade between their faces, and ran his thumb along the sharpened edge. Then his left hand came toward her face. She cringed, tried to pull away, but he didn’t touch her skin. Instead he captured a piece of hair that had fallen free of its pins. He stretched the tress out in front of her, lifted the knife, and sliced off a lock with a single twist of his wrist. He held the severed hair between his thumb and forefinger, then rubbed it until it scattered strand by strand onto the floor.

  He lifted his icy gaze to hers, that smug smile still curving his lips. “You’ll give me what I want, Grace. There’s no question about that. All we have left to haggle over is the price to be paid.” He lifted the knife again, examined the blade, then pointed the tip at the tender spot beneath her chin.

  Grace’s pulse thundered in her veins. She lifted her chin away from the sharp point and blinked terrified tears from her eyes. He couldn’t kill her, not if he wanted the information she held. Yet as a warm droplet of what could only be blood ran slowly down the front of her throat, she found little comfort in that logic.

  “The price is up to you, sweetheart,” her captor taunted, his grip on the blade steady. Inescapable. “The longer you hold out, the higher the cost.”

  28

  Amos sat atop his borrowed horse, a borrowed gun belt around his waist, and a borrowed revolver in a holster that made his thigh itch. He’d never carried a gun. In Denison there’d been no need. In fact, the businessmen of the community frowned upon such behavior and bemoaned the presence of uncivilized ranch hands who insisted on riding into town armed. Amos had supported the ordinance banning weapons within the city limits and felt a bit hypocritical wearing one now. But this wasn’t Denison, and with Grace in Lockhart’s hands, civility was the last thing on Amos’s mind.

  “Well?” Amos tossed out as soon as Malachi Shaw rode within shouting distance, though the frown on the marshal’s face boded ill.

  Shaw reined in his dun gelding and leaned forward in the saddle. “No clear path. An equal number of tracks lead north and south. I looked for deeper prints, knowing they’d be riding double, but the ground is so hard, all the markings look the same. If I were to guess, I’d say south toward Seymour. It’s smaller than Wichita Falls and closer to Harper’s Station, but he could have just as easily taken the road north. I can’t be sure.”

  “Then we need to split up.” Amos knew the marshal wouldn’t like it, but it was the best option. He wasn’t about to trust Grace’s safety to guesswork or gut instinct. “I’ll head south.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Shaw gave him a hard look, promising retribution if Amos argued.

  Amos gave a single, hard nod.

  “Good.” Shaw eyed the large man at the rear of the party seated on a black elephant. Well, in truth it was a horse, but the massive creature looked like it carried a healthy dose of pachyderm blood in its veins. “Ben, you go north,” the marshal delegated.

  The freighter nudged his monster horse forward and pulled a pair of folded papers from his front pocket. After unfolding each one and giving them a quick glance, he handed the top one to Shaw. “Tori gave me the lists she keeps of all the farmers and ranchers in the area whom we’ve approached about our delivery service. I’ve put stars by the names of the folks I think Lockhart would be most likely to target. Bachelor residences and smaller families with unmarried daughters or discontented wives who might prove susceptible to Lockhart’s charm.”

  “Thanks.” Shaw scanned the list then refolded it and stuffed it inside his vest. “A narrowed search will save valuable time.”

  But it could also cause them to miss Grace entirely if their assumptions about Lockhart’s patterns were inaccurate. Amos would rather leave no stone unturned, but the more time he wasted looking in the wrong places, the more time Grace spent at Lockhart’s mercy. And Lockhart had no mercy.

  Amos nudged the dappled mare Shaw’s wife had loaned him and trotted to the junction site. He turned the horse south, then urged her into a canter, trusting the marshal to catch up.

  He tried to comfort himself with the fact that they were tackling the problem intelligently. Culling their search options, like striking unnecessary words from a long telegram. Smart. Efficient.

  But if they cut the wrong name from the list, Grace would pay a hefty price.

  “Arms sore?”

  Grace glared at Dunbar. He sat in front of her on the milking stool, enjoying a plate of roasted chicken, carrots, greens, and cornbread slathered with butter. He’d offered the second plate to her in exchange for the information he sought. She’d refused, of course, which led to him dumping the contents onto the barn floor in front of her and grinding the delicious-smelling food into the straw with the heel of his boot.

  He pointed a fork toward the hook above her head. “I can let you down whenever you’re ready. Just say the word.”

  The temptation was growing harder to combat. Her shoulders scr
eamed for relief from their unnatural position. She’d lost feeling in her hands thirty minutes ago, about the time her lower back started throbbing.

  “All you have to do is answer my question, Grace, and the pain will stop.”

  She couldn’t. It would put Emma in danger. She just had to hold on until help arrived.

  If it arrived.

  No. When it arrived.

  Amos would have noticed her disappearance. He would have informed the marshal, and the two of them would be searching for her.

  But would they get here in time?

  Please, Lord. Help them find me.

  Because as much as Dunbar enjoyed playing the nonchalant businessman, he was running out of time, and he knew it. His cocky smiles had grown ragged around the edges, his questioning more frequent and pointed. When he’d first snagged her wrists on the hook, he’d seemed content to let gravity and her imagination do the convincing for him. Every time she moaned and shifted her weight to a different leg or rolled her neck in an effort to stretch her aching muscles, he’d offer to let her down, just as he was doing now.

  And like all the previous offers, Grace refused this one as well, with a shake of her head and pressing her lips into an uncompromising line.

  The way his eyes narrowed in response worried her as he dragged his last piece of cornbread through the chicken grease on his plate and shoved it into his mouth. His patience was thinning.

  Yet it was the thinning of her resolve that truly had her concerned. The weakness in her body was wearing on her mind.

  All at once, Dunbar lurched up from his seat and hurled his plate against the wall, mere inches from her head. Grace yelped and twisted away from the shattering stoneware, closing her eyes against the shards that peppered her face.

  Rough fingers grabbed her cheeks and jerked her head forward. Her eyes flew open. Dunbar glared down at her, his painful grip tightening to the point that her teeth ached. “Where are the documents, Grace?”

  She said nothing.

  “Tell me!” Still gripping her cheeks, he slammed her head back against the wall. Grace cried out as pain ripped through her skull. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held her silence. Dunbar cursed and released her, tossing her head backward as he did so. It bounced off the wall a second time, and Grace whimpered.

  She could last a little longer. She had to. For Emma. For her father.

  Give me strength, she begged. At the same moment the prayer lifted from her heart, a promise from scripture settled in her mind.

  “‘Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them.’” The words fell from her lips of their own volition. “‘Because greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.’”

  Dunbar scowled. “What?”

  Grace lifted her head from where it lolled against her chest and spoke again. Louder. “‘Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them: because greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.’”

  Dunbar turned away from her and stalked toward the milking stool. “I guess we don’t have to pretend anymore, do we?” he scoffed. “You’ve gone mad for real.”

  She smiled, feeling more powerful in that moment than she had ever felt in her life. The fact that she was bound, bruised, and fettered to a barn wall didn’t signify. She had a weapon. A sword. The Word of God. And the Lord had just unsheathed it for her.

  “‘The foolishness of God is wiser than men,’” she quoted, “‘and the weakness of God is stronger than men.’”

  Dunbar gave a dismissive wave. “Keep telling yourself that, honey.”

  Oh, she planned to. Over and over.

  “‘In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.’”

  “You should be,” Dunbar growled. “I can do quite a lot unto you. None of it pleasant.”

  He reached for the knife sheathed at his waist, but when his hand closed around the hilt, he hesitated. Then he smiled, his arrogance surging back to life as he lifted his hand away from the blade and stalked back toward her like a jungle cat ready to toy with its prey.

  “Not only can I do unto you,” he purred, “but I can do unto those you care about.”

  Grace flinched before she could stop herself.

  Dunbar chuckled. “Aha. Now we’re making progress. Just had to find the right currency.” He stroked a single finger along her hairline, past her temple, over the curve of her ear.

  She grimaced at his touch but refused to let him cow her again. God had given her strength, and she would not forfeit that advantage, no matter what he did. She just had to stay focused.

  “It’s obvious to me that the documents are hidden somewhere in Harper’s Station.”

  Focus, Grace. Don’t let him see your reaction.

  “And they’re not in your rooms.” His finger passed beneath her earlobe and drew a line down her neck. “I know because I searched them last Sunday after good old Amos collected you for church.”

  Grace blinked. He’d been in her room? Touching her things? A shiver ran over her skin. How had she not noticed? Was he really so good that he’d left no trace, or had she been so distracted by her own scheming that she’d failed to see the signs? Now that she thought about it, he had been late for the service, sneaking into the back sometime after the singing had begun.

  “And if they aren’t in your rooms, that means they’re somewhere else. In someone else’s rooms.” His finger traced her collarbone through the fabric of her blouse. “Perhaps with the shopkeeper. Or stashed at the clinic.” His hand crept up to her neck, his fingers gently cupping her throat. “Or maybe they’re with that banker lady who’s always sticking her nose into everyone’s business.”

  His fingers tightened. Not enough to truly choke her, but enough to let her know he could. Easily.

  Grace lifted her quivering chin and forced herself to keep breathing.

  Slowly he slid his hand away. “How badly do you want to protect your friends, Grace? Enough to give me what I want?” He moved his hand to the back of her neck and tugged her close as if he wanted to kiss her.

  She pulled away, not that it did any good. His strength dwarfed hers.

  He lowered his face, his eyes locking on hers, his mouth inches away from her own. “I have friends, too, Grace,” he said, so close she could feel the words more than hear them. “Friends who would be more than happy to sweep into Harper’s Station and help me look for those missing documents. Friends with guns and low moral character who might get a bit distracted by all the unprotected females running about the place. We would come in the dead of night when only one man stood in our way. A man who sleeps in a second-story room on the west side of the station house and could be taken out with a well-aimed bullet.” Dunbar inched closer, until she could feel the rasp of his beard against her chin. “So you see, it’s up to you. Tell me where the documents are, and I’ll sneak back to town tonight and retrieve them with minimal disruption to the people you care about. Or don’t tell me, and I’ll call in the cavalry to help me . . . look.”

  A devil’s bargain. One with no good outcome. If she told him about the books in the bank vault, he’d head there straightaway while Malachi and the other men were out searching for her. Emma—beautiful, stubborn Emma—wouldn’t cooperate. She and the aunts would probably try to take Dunbar out themselves. No telling how many ladies would end up injured or dead.

  Holding her tongue wasn’t much better. She’d buy a little time, but the results could be even more catastrophic. Harper’s Station would be annihilated.

  Lord, what am I to do?

  “Oh, and just to give you one more thing to think about,” Dunbar continued, finally leaning away from her and allowing her to catch a clean breath, “if I have to go hunting with my friends, I promise to personally take out Bledsoe. What do you think? A bullet to the heart, so it’s over nice and quick, seems like the most humane way to go.”

  Grace’s heart stopped. She lunged toward her captor, the hook pulling her up short
. “You can’t!”

  “I’ve done it before.” He smirked. “Oh, that’s right. I haven’t told you my secret yet, have I?”

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I’m not really a Pinkerton. Not even a dishonest one.” He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “Name’s not even Dunbar. It’s Milton Lockhart.” He winked at her. “You can call me Milt.” He watched her like a mean-spirited boy about to tear the wings from a butterfly. “I shot the real Dunbar and left him for dead after helping myself to his badge and papers.”

  Grace flinched at the complete lack of remorse in his tone.

  “Kid followed me from Colorado, so I had to get rid of him. But stealing his identity? Well, now, that was just downright fun. Fooled that imbecile marshal of yours—shoot, the entire town.”

  He rocked back on his heels, his chest puffing up as if he were actually proud of himself.

  “But you know what was even more fun?”

  Grace closed her eyes. Stop listening.

  “What I enjoyed most was sitting atop the bank building in Denver . . .”

  Grace squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Stop listening. A tear formed behind her lids and leaked from the corner of her lashes. Stop listening!

  “ . . . aiming my rifle . . .”

  She whimpered, then hummed in her throat as if the noise would block out what was coming.

  “ . . . and shooting your father right in the chest.”

  No! She struggled anew against her bonds, uncaring that the rope cut deeper into her wrists. She saw her daddy fall. Saw the blood. Remembered the helplessness. The anger. The abject grief. And the beast responsible stood in front of her. Chuckling.

  “I lingered, you know. Watched him fall. Watched the crowd scatter. Watched for you. But you didn’t show. Just let your father bleed all over the street. Alone.”