Page 12 of Heart on the Line

Amos couldn’t help it. His lips refused to turn down. He might be about to meet his Maker, but that particular problem paled in comparison to the other, more pertinent piece of information he’d just learned.

Her name was Grace.

5

A groaning hinge followed by a rush of cool air told Grace that someone had opened the door to the telegraph office, but she didn’t look up. She was too busy scribbling down the message coming across the wire.

The telegrams that came in from Emma’s New York broker always demanded her full attention. One missed number or decimal point could drastically change the entire meaning of the financial picture being painted. Thankfully, he always followed up with written correspondence, but sometimes the reports didn’t arrive until after action needed to be taken at the stock market.

The sounder quieted, and Grace finished scrawling the last of the information. She read over what she had written. Everything made sense, but like any good operator, she always sought confirmation.

Lifting her hand to the key, she tapped. Please repeat.

The telegraph clicked away, and Grace followed each word with her pencil on the message blank. She found a word she’d omitted and a misspelling of an investor’s name, but all the numeric information was accurate. She wrote in the corrections, then signed off.

Message received. G at Hs.

Task complete, Grace set aside the message—she’d have to copy it in more legible script before handing it over to Emma—and stood to greet her caller.

The marshal stood in her doorway, his attention on the town outside her office. Grace couldn’t tell if he was looking at something in particular or just scanning for trouble in general. He was certainly exuding vigilance. Gone was the cheerful handyman who made his rounds with a ready grin and an eagerness to assist with whatever the ladies might need. In his place stood a lawman on high alert, expecting trouble. Her trouble. Grace pressed her hand against her abdomen to steady her breathing and her nerves.

“Mr. Shaw.” She forced a smile to her face, hoping it would add a pleasant tone to her voice and disguise her unease.

He turned to regard her, then shut the door and took two long strides toward the small window near the counter. He hunched slightly in order to maintain an unobstructed view of the street, his height being greater than that of the paned glass.

“What does that Haversham fella look like? Can you describe him?” His gaze slashed back to her for a long moment, his intensity cutting through her like a blade.

“I—I don’t know. I never met him. He avoided Denver. Any time he spent in Colorado took place at the mine in Willow Creek, a couple hundred miles southwest of us.”

“Ever meet the father?” Mal asked before swinging his attention back to the window.

Grace attempted to recall Tremont Haversham’s features. She didn’t exactly move in the same circles as the silver tycoon, but she’d seen him from a distance in the hotel a few times. “He was tall, I believe. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. His hair was streaked with gray but dark underneath. He always dressed in the highest fashion and carried a cane with a silver knob on top. But why do you need . . . ?”

“Sons often take after their fathers in looks,” Malachi clipped out.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the ramification of those words soaked into her half-numb mind. “Have . . .” A sudden thickness clogged her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Have you seen someone suspicious?”

Lord have mercy. So soon? She thought she’d have at least a day or two to prepare.

“Yep.” Malachi turned back to face her, his piercing gaze doing nothing to soothe her rioting nerves. “Henry spotted him coming into town and pulled her pistol on him. The scoundrel admitted right to her face that he was lookin’ for you. I locked him up in the new jailhouse.”

Good heavens. Thank the Lord for Aunt Henry and her revolver. Grace’s legs quivered and threatened to give way. She clasped the table edge in front of her and slowly lowered herself into the chair.

“He don’t look much like what you described, though. He’s kind of scrawny with sand-colored hair and spectacles. Not one for fancy clothes, neither. He’s wearin’ a suit, but it’s not tailored. And he rode into town on a mule of all things. Not exactly a wealthy man’s choice of mount.” Malachi rubbed his chin, a frown etching lines into his brow. “’Course, Haversham could have hired someone to take care of business for him. But even then, I would have expected a gunslinger-type, not a fellow who looks like a store clerk. He wasn’t even carrying a weapon.”

“That is odd.” Whoever had shot her father had definitely known his way around guns—rifles, especially—to take down a man in a crowded street from a great enough distance to avoid detection.

The marshal finally abandoned his post at the window and stood across from her desk. He fiddled with the pint-sized canning jar that held the three sharpened pencils she kept on hand for customers. The wooden shafts clinked against the glass as he twisted the jar back and forth.

“He claims to be a friend of yours,” Malachi said as he set about organizing the pencils according to height. “Amos Bledsoe.” He finally met her eyes. “Ever heard of him?”

Grace shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.” All her friends were women. And most lived here in Harper’s Station.

“He said you might say that.”

Grace frowned. “What does that mean? Either I know him or I don’t. How could I be friends with a man whose name I don’t recognize?”

Malachi set the pencil jar aside and leaned an elbow on the counter. “That’s what I figured. Told him the story was cagey, but he insisted I ask you. Said he met you on the wire, whatever that means. Goes by A. And claims to be from Denison, not Colorado.”