Page 13 of Heart on the Line

“Denison?” Her voice trembled.

The marshal shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

It couldn’t be. Could it?

Mr. A? Here, in Harper’s Station.

Grace slowly pushed to her feet, so many emotions swirling through her that she felt a mite dizzy, but the thought of her mysterious Mr. A being in Harper’s Station, a few short yards away . . . well, she just couldn’t sit.

Last night he’d hinted at the possibility of a meeting, but then the message from the Colorado Springs office had arrived and cut their conversation short. Cut their relationship short too, or so she’d thought.

Could this Amos Bledsoe actually be her Mr. A? The man who made her laugh and eased her loneliness on long evenings. Who had a wonderfully interfering mother, a teasing sister, a down-to-earth brother-in-law, and an adorable, glasses-grabbing nephew, all of whom she’d secretly adopted, at least in her imagination, to fill the aching void of family in her life.

How had he gotten here so quickly? He would’ve had to take the train first thing this morning, and they’d just spoken last night.

Could he be an imposter? Had Haversham learned of her friendship with Mr. A and sought to use that to his advantage? To trick her into giving up her information?

The idea was farfetched. Only local area operators would be able to listen in on her nightly conversations, not operators from as far away as Colorado. But if Haversham had gotten to Rosie, her mother’s old telegraph colleague in Colorado Springs—the only person in Colorado Grace had stayed in contact with—he could get to others. Coerce them into helping him.

Rosie wouldn’t have given up Grace’s location unless Haversham had left her no choice. He must have threatened her family. Grace had made Rosie promise to give Haversham whatever he asked if that happened. She wasn’t about to let him destroy another woman’s family as he had hers. The fact that Rosie still found a way to get a message of warning to Grace last night proved her loyalty.

“You all right, Miss Mallory?” Malachi straightened and started moving toward the half door at the end of the counter that separated her inner office from the waiting area. “You look a little shaky there.”

“I’m fine. Really.” In truth her insides were spinning like a weathervane in a tornado, but the marshal didn’t need to know that. “I’m just a little surprised. I have corresponded with a telegraph operator in Denison, and his call sign is an A, which could stand for Amos.” She moved toward the connecting door herself, grabbing her shawl from the back of her chair as she went. “Perhaps I should take a look at this Mr. Bledsoe. See if I can verify his claim.”

Malachi met her at the end of the counter, his face still schooled in serious lines, but his eyes danced with a touch of humor that didn’t quite fit the lawman persona he’d been projecting moments earlier. “I’d be happy to escort you, ma’am.” He offered his arm.

Normally, Grace would have pretended not to notice the gesture. Such attention embarrassed her, made her feel far too visible when out in public. Yet at this particular moment, she doubted she could make it to the jailhouse under her own power. As wobbly as her legs were, she’d likely hit a divot in the ground and end up sprawled in the middle of the road. Better to be seen on a married man’s arm than on her face in the dirt.

Besides, if it truly was her Mr. A waiting in the marshal’s jail cell, she’d certainly not want to meet him with a torn hem and dust smudging her cheeks. A first impression could only be made once.

At the sound of the outer door opening, Amos jumped off the cot and hurried toward the bars at the front of the cell. He hooked a finger around the edge of his collar and tugged at the suddenly too-tight band. He stretched his neck above the starched tourniquet and inhaled a lungful of stale air.

Steady, man. Steady.

The marshal pulled the door wide, then stepped aside to allow a woman to enter ahead of him. Amos caught his breath and tugged his derby from his head.

She was dainty, barely over five feet, he would guess, with a tiny nip of a waist. She dressed as if wanting to avoid notice, her black skirt free of any trim or adornment except for a thin silver buckle that held a black belt in place at her waist. She wore a pleated blouse with thin, dark green stripes and a simple black bow tied at her neck. A pale gray shawl slipped down her shoulders to rest in the crook of her elbows as she moved into the room, closer to the bars separating him from her.

Thick brown hair framed her pale face, curled back in some kind of twist that, while simple, also flattered her delicate features. A spattering of freckles danced across the bridge of a nose that sloped gently and turned up just a tad at the end.

But her most arresting features were her eyes. Large in her face, like those of a doe in the forest, their deep brown color drew him in. Soft. Gentle. A little afraid. Yet a fire burned there, too. He’d seen the same depth in his sister’s eyes, hidden behind the teasing light she usually showed the world. If someone were to hurt a member of her family or someone she cared about, all evidence of the affable Lucy would vanish in a flash, leaving the tigress to take over. His gut told him Miss Mallory would act much the same.

The tiny woman said nothing, just stared at him through the bars, taking his measure. Suddenly Amos recalled his sorry state of repair. The stench of mule manure from his boot, though faded now, seemed to strengthen and rise around him in a cloud. He’d dusted most of the dirt from his clothes, but he knew he still looked rumpled and unkempt. At least his hair was in decent shape. He’d just had it trimmed last week. It wasn’t much to recommend him in the appearance department, but then, he’d never expected to win a lady’s heart with his looks.

“So.” The marshal cleared his throat, reminding Amos of his presence. “This the fella you’ve been corresponding with, Miss Mallory?”

She took a step closer, her face moving between two bars, leaving his view of her completely unobstructed. She blinked, a slow fluttering of lashes that made his gut tighten. When his gaze met hers, a rosy glow spread across her cheeks. She ducked away from his regard as if embarrassed, then slowly raised her head again, resuming her scrutiny.

Yep. Inner strength. She’d not be one to shy away from what needed to be done.

“Miss Mallory?” the marshal repeated.

She tilted her head. “I won’t know until I talk to him.”

Amos tugged on his jacket and raised his chin, offering her the most winsome smile in his limited arsenal. “Miss Mallory. I’m Amos Bledsoe, Western Union operator from Denison, Texas. We spoke just yesterday—”

She shook her head, cutting off his introduction. “Not that kind of talking,” she said as she reached into her hair and extracted a black pin.