Amos shrugged. “Maybe not, but I can still ask questions. Still observe whatever is in the open. If nothing else, I can keep an eye out for Lockhart’s horse.”
“An animal with no distinguishing markings.” The marshal sighed, his frustration palpable, surpassed only by Amos’s own. “Lockhart must have chosen it for its very lack of memorable qualities. A chestnut quarter horse with no socks, no blaze, no fancy tooling on the saddle, nothing to make it stand out from any of a hundred others.”
Amos jutted his chin forward. He refused to be discouraged. He couldn’t afford the luxury. “The man’s clever, but he’s not perfect. One of us will find him. And Grace. I have to believe that. And I have to keep pressing on in the meantime.” He nudged his mount a few steps closer to the marshal. “Go home to your wife, Shaw. Keep her safe. That’s your job. Mine is to find Grace, whatever it takes.”
The marshal nodded and handed over the list they’d been working from. “Seymour’s only about two miles away.” He jerked his head toward the southwest. “If you spot something suspicious, don’t go in on your own. Fetch Sheriff Tabor. He and his deputies have the authority and the experience to handle Lockhart.”
Amos agreed without hesitation. He might be resolute about finding Grace, but he was no fool. Getting himself killed wouldn’t set her free, it would only remove another obstacle from Lockhart’s path. His opponent had captured the queen, but if Amos played a stealthy game, he just might get a pawn far enough across the board to get her back.
“God be with you, Bledsoe.” Shaw tipped his hat.
“And with you,” Amos returned.
As the marshal touched his heels to the flanks of his ugly dun gelding and urged the horse into a canter, Amos studied the list Shaw had handed him. Two homesteads that had not been marked for a visit lay between him and Seymour. About two dozen lay behind him, on the road back to Harper’s Station. Grace could be at any one of them. Logic and laws of probability had already failed. Prayer and faith were still in play, but as much as Amos longed for clear direction from the Lord, he had yet to see a finger from heaven point the way.
“So what am I to do?” he mumbled under his breath. “Which way should I go?”
With the marshal heading north, it seemed illogical to cover the same ground, so Amos reined his mare toward Seymour.
About a quarter mile down the road, a narrow path veered off to the west, not wide enough for a wagon. It was probably a shortcut the area children took on their way to the schoolhouse. Yet when Amos drew nearer, he discovered small arcs cut into the thin line of hard-packed dirt. Hoofprints.
His pulse ratcheted up a level. It could be nothing. After all, he didn’t know the difference between a fresh track and a week-old one. But it could be something.
Riding on instinct and the hope that more than his gut was leading him down the narrow path, he nudged his mare to a trot and scanned the rapidly darkening area for anything out of the ordinary.
There, to the right. A small light bobbing as it moved east.
A lantern?
Pressure built in Amos’s chest until he feared he might explode. He nudged his mount off the path, toward a stand of juniper bushes. The gray of twilight made it difficult to distinguish shapes in the distance, but it also offered cover in a land where flat terrain and few trees did little to hide a man’s approach.
Amos dismounted, his eyes locked on the bobbing light. It disappeared around a dark shadow that must be a building. No light glowed from within, so a barn, perhaps?
Nervous energy flowed through Amos’s veins as renewed hope surged to life in his heart. He looped his horse’s reins over a low-hanging juniper branch, ran his palm over the handle of the Colt he’d borrowed, then crouched to make his height about the same as the scrub brush and slowly made his way toward the barn. After cresting a small rise, a second building came into view to the west. Light glowed around the edges of doorways and windows. A house. Would Lockhart be there instead?
No. The lantern light had moved east.
Carefully withdrawing the Colt from its holster, Amos held it ready as he dodged from bush to bush. Fifty feet. Twenty. Ten.
A female voice drifted toward Amos, freezing him in position. He crouched as low to the ground as he could manage, hiding behind a pitifully thin juniper while he strained to decipher the conversation a few scant feet away.
“ . . . brought you a pot of coffee too, warm from the stove.”
A pause.
“It was no trouble, I assure you. Would you like anything else? A book to help pass the time, perhaps? . . . My father keeps a pair of carriage lanterns in the tack room. I could come in and light them for you, if you like.”
Another pause. Amos tried to make out the second voice, but the low tones were too quiet. Muffled from inside the barn.
“Oh, well, if you’re sure.” The woman sounded disappointed, which speared hope through Amos’s chest. Whoever she was speaking to didn’t want her inside the barn. And it was her barn.
Only someone wielding recognizable authority could commandeer the control of another’s property without an argument. Someone like a Pinkerton agent. Or a man posing as a Pinkerton.
“I know.” The woman sighed. “I appreciate you taking such measures to protect us. You’re a noble man, detective.”
Detective. It had to be Lockhart. It had to be.
But Amos needed to be sure. The sheriff would require more than suspicions to mount an attack. He’d want proof. And Amos needed to see Grace with his own eyes, to confirm she was alive. His stomach churned at the thought of what state she might be in after being alone with Lockhart for so many hours, but he couldn’t allow his mind to settle there. Wounds would heal, and he could love her through any other trauma that lingered. The important thing was that she be alive.
His legs started to cramp from holding their unnatural position for so long, but Amos didn’t move as he waited for the woman with the lantern to return to the house.
“I’ll bring breakfast out at first light,” she said. “I know you want to get an early start.” Something her companion said made her titter. “You’re too kind . . . Well, then, good night.”
The sound of a large wooden door dragging closed rumbled in the night air. At the same time, the lantern bobbed back into view around the corner. The woman carrying it was nearly invisible, dressed all in black, but she was a no-nonsense sort and marched back to the house at a smart clip, leaving Amos a clear path to the barn.
Stretching the kinks out of his legs, Amos stood and cautiously approached. Careful to make as little sound as possible, he crept forward and hid himself in the shadows of the barn wall. Holding his revolver aloft, he inched along the side of the building. When he reached the corner, he hesitated. A drop of perspiration trickled down the side of his face.
He could do this. For Grace.
Amos adjusted his grip on the gun, set his jaw, then slowly stepped away from the side of the barn and craned his neck around the corner.
No one in sight.
The breath he’d been holding whooshed from his lungs as he ducked back to his original position and gently pressed his spine against the wall. He closed his eyes, counted to three in an effort to calm his palpitating heart, inhaled a pair of deep breaths to settle his nerves, then strode around the corner, gun ready.
Only there was nothing to use it on. Which was good, of course, but as he stood back to examine the front of the barn, he realized he had a problem a gun couldn’t solve. There were no open windows or doors. Everything had been shut up tight, and anything he tried to open would draw Lockhart’s attention.
Amos frowned. There had to be something he could use. A loose board, a crack, some way to see inside. He ran his fingers lightly along the wood seams, finding nothing. Then he rounded the far corner, and a small beam of light grabbed his attention.
He hurried forward, weeds and prairie grass muffling his footfalls, until he stood opposite the glowing knothole aimed at his na
vel. In a heartbeat, Amos dropped to his knees and pressed his eye to the hole. What he saw sickened him.
Grace—beautiful, sweet, kind-hearted Grace—was tied to the wall like an animal. Arms above her head, hair falling in straggles around her face. Her head lolled forward, and an angry red mark blazed across her cheek.
Amos’s heart ached at the evidence of exhaustion and abuse. Yet Lockhart was still here, so he must not have broken her spirit. She must still be fighting.
Good girl, Grace. Don’t give up. I’m here. I’ll help you.
Somehow.
The sound of something heavy scraping against the floor made Amos shift so he could look to his right.
Lockhart. Bent at the waist, dragging a half barrel across the barn floor. He grunted and strained against the weight of the makeshift trough, water sloshing over the edges as he moved. When he reached a spot a few feet from where Grace dangled, he halted.
“The price has just gone up again.” Lockhart straightened, strode over to Grace, grabbed her arms near the elbows, and hoisted her down.
She collapsed against him, her legs unable to support her. Amos bit back a moan, the sight causing him physical pain. Lockhart hauled Grace toward the trough and tossed her to the ground in front of it.
Amos tensed. His grip on his gun tightened.
“Where are the documents, Grace?” Lockhart asked as he fisted his hand in the back of her hair and forced her head down toward the water.
Grace’s eyes widened. Her bound hands latched onto the side of the barrel near her chest. “No!” She fought against his hold. “Please. Don’t.”
Lockhart jammed her head down. Splash. Her body jerked and her fists pounded the side of the barrel, but Lockhart held her down. Helpless. All she could do was scream, her underwater gurgles lashing Amos with desperate fury.
He lurched backward, away from the horrifying vision and thrust the end of his pistol into the knothole. Lockhart was drowning her. He had to do something. But shooting blind wasn’t the answer. He might hit Grace.
As he hesitated, something hit him. Hard. Across the back of his head.
Amos crumpled.
31
Terror squeezed Grace’s chest as Lockhart forced her head under the water. She pushed against the side of the wooden tub, trying somehow to gain leverage. Water filled her nose, increasing her panic. She squirmed and writhed, her mouth coming open in a desperate bid for air that didn’t exist.
I don’t want to die!
Her head grew light. Her body went limp. She couldn’t fight anymore. Couldn’t—
Lockhart yanked her hair and pulled her head out of the trough.
Grace coughed and sputtered. Gasped for air. Lockhart released her, leaving her on her knees, heaving. Wet hair draped over her face. She reached her bound hands up to push it away from her mouth, wanting nothing between her and the air. Her lungs burned and spasmed, rasping as they tried to expel the liquid from their depths.
“Feeling more cooperative yet?”
She ignored his question, too consumed with breathing to care about anything else.
When her lungs finally started to relax into a normal rhythm, Lockhart’s hand clasped her head again and pushed her back toward the barrel.
Grace’s heart seized. “No!” Her neck muscles tightened in a vain attempt to halt the downward motion. “Please . . .” Hot tears ran down her cheeks.
The pressure eased slightly. “Where are the documents, Grace?”
“I—I don’t know. I couldn’t find them.”
The pressure resumed, forcing her face closer to the water. Her chin broke the surface.
“Then where are the books?” Lockhart insisted. “The real books. The ones your father took from Haversham’s library?”
Grace wept. She wanted to tell him, God help her. She wanted this torture to end. But telling him wouldn’t spare her life. Lockhart would surely kill her as soon as he had what he needed. And then he’d go after Emma.
“Where are the books?” His deep voice boomed like thunder next to her ear.
“I . . . can’t.”
He shoved her down. This time she didn’t fight. Not until her lungs pinched and instinct took over. Then she thrashed against his hold, not that it did any good. His weight pressed her down so deep that her forehead scraped the bottom of the barrel.
Then all at once his hold vanished. Her head flew up. Streaming hair whipped against her back as she threw her chin toward the ceiling and sucked in the air she craved. It took her a moment to realize her captor was striding away. Even longer to register the banging on the barn door.
Escape her only thought, Grace used her bound hands to tug herself onto shaking legs. Stumbling forward, she ran in the opposite direction. Away from the water barrel. Away from Lockhart.
Her derringer! Grace grabbed the fabric of her skirt and drew it upward as she ran. She should be able to extract it from the holster, but with her wrists bound, getting a proper grip on it would prove difficult. She only had one shot. If she fumbled it—missed—any advantage would be lost.
As she staggered deeper into the barn, her petticoats at half-mast, her toe collided with something metal hidden in the straw. She glanced down. A small pair of pruning shears. Dropped. Forgotten. An answer to the prayer she hadn’t even uttered. Grace dove to her knees and snatched up the handles. The shears were stiff and rusty, but if she could pry them open . . .
“ . . . man you warned me about, the telegraph operator. He’s here!”
Grace froze. Amos?
Irene Gladstone’s excited voice bounced through the rafters. “I caught him sneaking around the barn when I stopped to check on the stock in the paddock. He was peeping through a knothole then pulled a gun. I remembered what you said about your prisoner’s crazy brother. I couldn’t let him shoot you! So I extinguished the lantern, crept up behind him, and bashed him over the head with it.”
“Where is he?” Lockhart’s clipped tones contrasted sharply with Miss Gladstone’s animated recounting.
“Just around the corner. I’ll show you.”
“I have to secure my prisoner first.”
Footsteps echoed. Closer.
Grace fumbled the shears. She had to hide them.
Dragging her bound wrists across her body, she searched for the opening to her skirt pocket, but the slit eluded her. She whimpered. Please. Oh, please. She strained against the bindings, her right elbow poking out at a painful angle, but finally the tips of the shears found the opening. Thank you, God!
Grace jostled them all the way in a heartbeat before a vise closed around her protruding right arm.
“Come, Miss Mallory. No more hiding.” Lockhart jerked her forward and dragged her back to where she’d first awoken, on the lopsided pile of straw outside the first stall.
“Good heavens!” Miss Gladstone declared. “What happened?”
Lockhart exuded a beleaguered sigh as he tossed Grace down on the straw and wrapped a leather strap around her middle, pinning her arms down atop her belly in the process. He pulled her back to her feet, cinched the strap so tight behind her back that it pinched her ribs, then fastened the remaining length to a metal hoop anchored in the wall behind her.
“I thought she might like to wash her face and clean up a bit after the long day, so I dragged the water barrel out here for her to make use of. Unfortunately, when I went to find the carriage lights you mentioned, she tried to drown herself.” He wagged his head as he turned to consider Grace’s sodden clothes and stringy hair. “The guilt is too much for her, I’m afraid. It’s rotted what is left of her mind.”
“Thank heavens you got to her in time.” Miss Gladstone placed a hand to her throat. “I certainly feel no love for the pitiful creature, but I wouldn’t want her to do herself in. Not in Papa’s barn.” She shivered at the grisly thought.
Grace considered arguing but decided to save her breath. Heaven knew she needed it.
“Well, my good timing was surpassed by your own,
Irene. Subduing an intruder with only a lantern for a weapon? Such a courageous, resourceful woman. I’m overcome with admiration.” He took the woman’s arm and steered her toward the entrance as she beamed up at him. “I best see to him quickly, though. I would hate for him to escape only to return and seek revenge. If one hair on your lovely head were harmed, I’d . . . well, I’d never forgive myself.”
The rest of his nauseating claptrap faded from Grace’s hearing as he exited the barn. And as soon as it did, she immediately went to work on retrieving the shears. Only, with the strap pinning her arms down, she couldn’t reach her pocket. She contorted and tugged and bounced, all to no avail. Then she remembered the hoop that served as her hitch and scooted back against the wall.
Bending her knees, she dragged herself down, scraping the bumps of her spine against the metal ring, but the thin strap refused to catch. Her back was too bony. Not enough give. Grace twisted sideways, exposing the fleshy part of her side, yet the stiffness of her corset offered little improvement.
Grace darted a glance at the barn door, her pulse racing. He’d be back any minute. With Amos. An unconscious, defenseless Amos. She had to be ready. Had to get free.
Grace set her jaw. If she couldn’t snag the strap, she’d just catch something else. Lifting up on tiptoes, she jabbed her hip against the wall, digging the metal ring under the lip of her corset until it cut into her waist. The boning at the top of her corset stabbed into her breasts and ribs, drawing a groan from her, but she didn’t back away from the discomfort. She pushed farther into it, determined to win.
She wouldn’t be weak. She wouldn’t relent. God had provided the shears and the privacy. She must supply the heart.
She gritted her teeth and dragged herself downward. The metal ring pushed the corset upward. Whalebone spines jabbed the tender parts under her arm.
An arm she could now lift several inches higher than she could a moment ago.
Grace twisted, folded at the waist, and grabbed for the shears through the fabric of her skirt. Her fingers closed around the metal, and she immediately worked them upward.
Heart on the Line Page 23