Haversham sighed. “I can see that you’ve already painted me guilty by association. Understandable, given the situation. But in truth, I followed Milton Lockhart to Seymour in order to stop him from doing anything . . . untoward. Milton could get rather fixated on things, you see, and when he realized how upset I was about the theft of a pair of books from my library, he took it upon himself to get them back. I insisted that we wait to get a court order, but he wouldn’t hear of it. As soon as he learned of Miss Mallory’s location, he set out to retrieve my property.”
The way he emphasized the words my property set off alarm bells in Amos’s head.
“And now, I really must insist on seeing Miss Mallory.” Haversham dismounted and strode forward until he stood directly in front of Amos. “She may meet me of her own accord, or I can have the sheriff drag her out and throw her in jail, if that is her preference.”
The marshal pushed his way through the deputies to flank Haversham from the rear. “Tabor? What’s he talking about?”
Sheriff Tabor dismounted as well, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a paper folded in half. “He’s got a writ. Signed by a judge. It compels Grace Mallory to produce two novels marked with Tremont Haversham’s seal.” Tabor unfolded the paper and held it up to his face. “Oliver Twist and Guy Mannering,” he read. “She’s to return them to their rightful owner, Mr. Chaucer Haversham, or face arrest on charges of theft.” He handed the paper to Malachi. “I got no choice, Shaw. The law’s the law. Best if she just hands over them books. Then we can send this jackanapes on his way.”
“That jackanapes shouldn’t be sent on his way. He should be arrested for murder.” A feminine voice laced with steel echoed behind Amos.
Grace! Amos wanted to shout at her to get back inside, to stay as far from Haversham as possible. He’d nearly lost her yesterday. He couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to her today.
But Haversham couldn’t harm her. At least not physically. He was only one man, unarmed by all appearances, and surrounded by no less than seven men who’d not hesitate to put him down should the occasion call for it.
“Ah, the lovely Miss Mallory.” Chaucer Haversham removed his hat with a flourish and sketched a gallant bow. “What a delight to finally meet you in person. Let me say—”
“No. I won’t let you say.”
Amos nearly choked at the startled look on Haversham’s face as Grace marched past Amos and planted herself directly in front of her nemesis. Shy, quiet Grace Mallory had not only interrupted a conversation, but she’d placed herself directly in the center of attention. Every eye was locked on her, and she held herself like an avenging angel ready to pronounce judgment.
Clutching the books Haversham sought against her chest with folded arms, Grace raised her chin and stabbed him with an icy stare. “You killed my father.”
Haversham darted a glance toward Sheriff Tabor as he straightened and replaced his hat on his head. “I assure you, I did no such thing.”
“You might not have pulled the trigger yourself, but you ordered it done.”
He shook his head, a condescending smile sneaking onto his face. Amos wanted to smash it with his rifle butt. “My dear girl, I fear you’re laboring under some misguided notions.”
“I’m not your dear anything,” Grace ground out, “and everyone here knows you are guilty.”
Haversham made a tsk sound. “Miss Mallory, perhaps you are unaware, but in this country a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” He opened his arms and gestured to the men encircling him. “And since none of these fine, upstanding lawmen are rushing forward to take me into custody, I must assume that proof of my guilt does not exist. However, proof of your guilt does.” He nodded toward the books she held. “I believe those belong to me.”
Not for long. Satisfaction filled Amos at the thought of the arrogant rogue finally getting his comeuppance.
Grace thrust the books at Haversham, but as he closed his hands around them, she kept a grip on her end. “God knows the truth,” she said in a low voice that only those standing closest could hear. “And if justice does not find you in this life, Chaucer Haversham, it will find you in the next.”
With those words hanging like sharpened swords in the air, Grace released her hold on the books, turned around, and walked back toward her office.
Such courage and conviction. Amos grinned at her as she came alongside him. She was extraordinary.
“Oh, Miss Mallory?” Haversham called to her retreating back.
Grace slowly pivoted to face him.
“It seems the books have been damaged.” He ran his finger along the inside cover then held the volume up for her inspection.
Amos had helped her glue the endpapers back into place earlier, but the paste had not had time to dry completely, nor was there any way to hide the slit that Amos had cut along both spines.
Nonplussed, Grace met the man’s stare. “Yes. I believe my father intended to restore them, but he died before he could finish the job. I’m afraid you’ll have to be satisfied with my efforts.”
Haversham’s eyes narrowed, his gentlemanly veneer slipping. “Did you remove anything from the books, Miss Mallory?” His voice tightened to fit though his clenched jaw. “The court order specifies the books and any foreign contents contained therein are to be turned over to me.”
Sheriff Tabor nodded. “That’s true.” He looked at Grace. “You remove any foreign contents from them there books, Miss Grace?”
A slow smile spread over Grace’s face. “No, sir. I never removed anything from those books of a foreign nature. Everything I saw inside the book was written in English.”
“Good enough for me. Take yer books and skedaddle, mister.”
Haversham lunged forward and grabbed Grace’s arm. “You conniving—”
The sound of seven guns being cocked simultaneously cut off the rest of his words. In a flash, Malachi had Haversham’s arms pinned behind his back. The instant Grace was free of the man’s grip, Amos pulled her into his side, leaving the sheriff to collect the books that had fallen to the ground in the scuffle.
“You see that, Tabor?” Shaw asked as he fastened a leather strap around Haversham’s wrists.
“Unhand me, you cretin!”
“Yep,” the sheriff replied, completely ignoring Haversham’s protests. “Assault on a female. I’ll charge him and keep him locked up until the judge comes to town.”
Haversham struggled against his bindings until Ben Porter laid his big hands on the man’s shoulders and forced him to be still.
“This is outrageous!” Haversham cried. “I barely touched her. No judge will find me guilty.”
“Maybe not.” Lee Dunbar limped into the circle, revolver in one hand, crutch in the other. “But the judge won’t even hear your case for . . . what, Tabor, a week?”
The sheriff rubbed his chin. “More like ten days, I’d say. Circuit judge only comes once a month.”
“Plenty of time for me to return to Philadelphia and make my report to Whitmore, then,” Dunbar said. “Excellent.”
Haversham paled as the truth finally sank into his brain.
He had lost.
38
The next morning, Helen stood in front of the station house, watching helplessly as Lee checked the ties on his saddlebags. Maybe it wasn’t too late to tie him up again in her cottage and keep him from leaving. She’d hoped the difficulty of finding and capturing Lee’s horse would postpone his departure, but Ben Porter, drat his hide, was apparently the pied piper of mustangs. In less than two hours, he and the marshal had the horse caught, saddled, and ready to carry Lee away.
“I packed you a cold supper for the train,” she said as she held out a small sack that she’d stuffed with enough food to feed him and probably half of the other passengers as well. “I tucked extra bandages and salve into your satchel, too. Claire says infection can set in even after healing has begun, so you’ll need to change the dressing regularly.”
“I’m still not sure you’re healed enough to ride,” she interrupted. She didn’t want to hear him say good-bye, to politely thank her for nursing him, then ride out of her life. “And on the train, you should keep your leg elevated. Claim a bench for yourself and don’t let anyone crowd you out of the extra space. It’s a long trip to Philadelphia.”
“Helen.” His voice echoed a little louder, a little more insistent.
Yet she rambled on, determined to delay the inevitable. “With Haversham locked up in Seymour, he won’t be able to interfere with you getting the documents to Whitmore, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others in his employ who could cause trouble. Keep your eyes peeled. Since Mrs. Flanders’s identity is still a secret, she should be safe from—oomph.”
Soft, warm, determined lips pressed against hers. Helen jerked in surprise, her eyes popping wide. Lee’s hands came up to cup her cheeks and his crutch clattered to the ground. Helen wrapped her arms around his waist, worried he might take a tumble, but his muscles felt like iron. So strong, so sure. In a heartbeat her grip changed from trying to hold him up to reveling in the vitality of the man she cared about.
All right, maybe more than cared. There was no point in lying to herself about it. And if he wanted to kiss her good-bye, she wasn’t about to argue. Her hands slid up his back, her lashes dropping closed as she immersed herself in sensation. His mustache tickled in the most delightful way. His thumbs caressed her cheekbones as he held her close, gentle yet firm at the same time. It was the most perfect moment of her life. Because for this one moment, Lee belonged to her. She savored the wonder of his kiss and seared the memory into her heart for the lonely days to come.
All too soon, he pulled away.
Lee peered down at her, his gaze heated, his breath a little labored. Yet a disgruntled frown wrinkled his brow. “Are you gonna let me talk now?”
Helen swallowed and gave a shaky nod. She couldn’t speak now if she wanted to, anyway. Too many emotions whirled in her stomach.
Lee’s hands gently skimmed down her cheeks, along her neck, and came to rest atop her shoulders. “I have feelings for you, Helen. Stronger feelings than I’ve ever experienced.” He squeezed her collarbone and raised an eyebrow at her as if warning her not to interrupt. “And it’s not just gratitude for saving my life either, so don’t think you can just explain it away.”
As if she would. Not when he was saying exactly what she’d dreamed of hearing from him. Her pulse fluttered wildly, joy swarming like hungry grasshoppers inside her chest.
He grabbed the nape of his neck. “I am grateful. Don’t think I’m not, but there’s more to it than that. There’s a . . . a connection between us. I feel it. And I think you do, too.”
He paused, his gaze searching her face.
Helen bit her lip, dug deep inside herself—past the fear of being hurt, past the mistrust, past the bad experiences of her youth—and leaped. “I do,” she whispered. “I feel it, too. But you’re leaving, Lee. You’re leaving.”
“Not forever.” His voice softened, his gorgeous green eyes glimmering with promises she wanted so much to believe. “Only long enough to finish this job.” He took her hands in his. Inhaled. Exhaled. “Can I write to you, Helen?”
Her pulse stuttered. This wasn’t simply an offer of friendly correspondence. Not with the way he was looking at her. This was more. This was courtship.
“Yes.” Her voice scratched, so she cleared her throat and answered again. “Yes, Lee. Please write to me.”
He smiled and lifted one of her hands to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss to the back of her knuckles then cradled her hand against his chest, where she felt the thumping of his heart.
“Ready for a leg up?” The deep tones of Ben Porter rang out behind them, and Helen felt her cheeks flush.
Lee hesitated, holding her hand a few heartbeats longer before nodding to the freighter and releasing his hold on her.
Blinking to keep the annoying moisture collecting behind her eyes from forming tears, Helen stooped to retrieve his fallen crutch.
“Be careful with that left leg,” she warned as Mr. Porter hefted Lee into the saddle.
Thankfully the two managed the mount without much more than a pair of grunts and a clenched jaw from Lee.
He looked down at her, his eyes soft and full of promises. “Be watching for my letters, Helen.”
She gave a jerky nod and sniffed, far too close to losing her composure. “I will,” she rasped, reaching up to pat the horse’s flank near Lee’s leg.
Her heart throbbed with both doubt and hope, each battling for dominion. Meeting Lee’s earnest gaze, Helen chose hope.
I’m trusting you, Lee. Please don’t let me down.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take your bicycle?” Grace walked side by side with Amos as he led his mount out of the station house paddock. “I could ask Mr. Porter to take it in the wagon for you.”
Amos smiled, his blue eyes shining behind his spectacles in a way that made Grace’s stomach flip. “No. I’ll leave it here so I have something to ride when I visit. I still owe Revolver Granny some cycling lessons, after all. Got to come back for that.”
Grace stifled a giggle at the nickname he’d given Henrietta Chandler. She slipped her arm through his and leaned close. “Is that the only reason you’ll be visiting?”
Amos gazed up at the sky and feigned great thought. “Well, I should probably check on that telegraph line I cut. Make sure it’s repaired properly.” Then he dipped his chin to face her, his features serious. “Oh, and then there’s the matter of Western Union relations.”
Grace scrunched her forehead. “Western Union relations?”
He nodded sagely. “Yes. It seems there is a great need to enhance relations between personnel from various Western Union offices in the area. I thought for sure you’d heard about this new measure. It’s a mandate intended to boost morale.”
Catching on, Grace fought back a smile. “I see,” she replied, trying to match his thoughtful tone. “I suppose I should plan a trip to Seymour to visit with Elmer Donaldson then. He’s the closest operator to my station, and he’s always been pleasant on the line. I suppose meeting him could boost my morale.”
Amos frowned. “Elmer Donaldson? No. As I recall, Harper’s Station has been assigned to Denison for morale-boosting meetings.”
“You’re sure?” Grace tried to tame her smile, but she couldn’t quite manage it.
“Positive.” Amos nodded sharply, his own eyes twinkling with humor.
Grace hugged his arm and looked up into his face. “Good. I tend to prefer Denison operators to the ones from Seymour, anyhow.”
Amos pulled his mount to a halt a few feet from where the others waited. He turned to Grace and stroked her cheek. His gaze captured hers with such sweet intensity that her pulse skipped a beat. “I’ll be on the wire tonight after hours if you want to get an early start on nurturing those relations.”
“I’ll be listening for you.” Grace turned to face him more fully, slid her hands up to his coat lapels, and smoothed them flat against his chest. Not because he needed the grooming, but simply because she wanted to touch him. To feel his heart beating beneath her fingertips. “Be safe,” she whispered.
“You, too.” He bent and kissed the top of her head.
Her eyes slid closed at the contact. Heavens, she was going to miss him.
She opened her eyes and spotted Helen—someone who would have to wait much longer to be reunited with her man.
As Amos mounted the horse Bart Porter had loaned them after Lockhart’s attack, Grace walked over to Helen and wrapped an arm around the other woman’s waist. They stood together quietly as their men met up and waved their final good-byes.
“They’re good men, Helen,” Grace said, squeezing her friend close as much to offer comfort as to gain it for herself. She lifted her hand in fa
rewell then watched as Amos and Lee turned their horses and set off down the path to Seymour. “They’ll be back.”
Helen leaned her head onto Grace’s shoulder. “I pray you’re right.”
Epilogue
Three months later
A February chill stung Grace’s nose and cheeks. Wind buffeted her face as she raced down the slope. Dual wheels bumped over the hard-packed earth, and her arms absorbed the shock as she steered the velocipede onto the straightaway. Laughing with delight, she pumped the pedals faster and faster, determined to catch the fine figure of a man who rode a few feet in front of her. No longer a novice rider, she kept up with Amos quite well these days on their little jaunts around Harper’s Station.
She’d spent the last few months attempting to train Flora Johnson to take her place at the telegraph office. Flora could use the funds such a position would provide, and Grace could use a capable substitute to cover the wire whenever Amos came to visit. Unfortunately, Flora struggled to distinguish the dots and dashes, but her son Ned had a real ear for code. He wasn’t yet old enough to apply for a position himself, but with additional training, he would have a marketable skill to provide for himself and his mother one day. Recognizing that fact, he’d gladly volunteered to mind the wire for her while she and Amos took their ride.
Amos slowed his bicycle and raised an arm to point to something colorful on the ground a few yards from the east bank of the Wichita River. “Let’s stop over there,” he called over the noise of the wind and wheels.
Taking advantage of his slowing pace, Grace grinned and pedaled past him. “Last one there forfeits a favor!”
“You’re on!”
Amos rose to the challenge, as she knew he would. He loved a good race. Of course, that was probably because he always won. The man had a competitive streak and insisted that he respected her too much to let her win simply because she was female. As if she would want to win in such an underhanded way.
However, getting a head start when the competition was distracted was another matter entirely. That was simply using one’s wits. A perfectly acceptable advantage. All was fair in love and cycling.
Heart on the Line Page 28