Page 14 of Heart on the Line

Amos frowned, then immediately brightened as he saw her stretch the u-shaped wire over the first finger of her right hand.

Not only was his lady lovelier than he’d let himself imagine, she was clever as well.

6

Grace willed her hand not to tremble as she fit the hairpin over her finger. A difficult task when her insides were jumping about as if she’d swallowed a family of crickets.

The man in the cell reminded her a bit of her father. His sack suit was walnut brown with a thin pinstripe, and while the buttons were all neatly done up, wrinkles creased the fabric. Her father had never given his clothing much thought. He’d just thrown on whatever had been at hand, preferring to expend mental energy on his academic pursuits. The man in front of her, however, seemed more conscious of his appearance. His shirt cuffs had been tugged down to show just a hair below the edge of his coat sleeves, as fashion dictated. His collar points were starched, and the knot of his tie hung perfectly straight. What an odd mixture of fastidious care and rumpled mayhem.

And what was that smell? Grace struggled not to wrinkle her nose. She’d never noticed the marshal’s office smelling like a livery before. The odor seemed to grow stronger the closer she came to the man in the cell.

But no matter. She wasn’t here for a social call. She was here to determine this stranger’s identity. She peered up into the man’s face, past his spectacles, and into his eyes.

They were blue, his eyes. And earnest. And just a tad unsettling.

Breaking the contact, Grace straightened her shoulders and took a step forward, intent on tapping out a message on the cell’s crossbar. But a hand grabbed her arm and tugged her backward.

“Don’t get too close, Miss Mallory,” the marshal instructed as he gently steered her away. “You can do your talkin’ from back here.”

Actually, she couldn’t, but Malachi didn’t know that. And why would he? He wasn’t an operator. She glanced around the office, her gaze zeroing in on the desk. A tin cup rested on its surface. That would work nicely.

Smiling at the marshal, she stepped away from his hold and moved toward the desk. “May I?” she asked, indicating the chair.

Malachi looked at her oddly but nodded. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” She swept her skirt aside and settled herself on the seat before reaching for the coffee cup. She peered inside and frowned. Still half full. She glanced around for a place to dispose of the beverage, but there were no potted plants or conveniently located knotholes in any of the nearby floorboards.

Without giving herself time to think better of it, she lifted the cup to her lips and chugged down the cold, bitter brew in one long gulp. She grimaced and nearly choked on the awful stuff, but she got it down.

“You . . . ah . . . want a fresh cup?” Malachi asked, the shock on his face rather comical. “I got a pot on the stove in the corner.”

“No, thank you.” Her reply emerged more as a rasp than actual words. How did he drink that swill? It tasted like boiled shoe leather. “I just need the cup.”

She promptly turned the tin cup on its side and hovered her hairpin-covered finger above it. She glanced past the befuddled marshal to the man waiting expectantly in the jail cell. He was gripping the edge of his jacket, holding it away from his body. He’d fitted the bottom button between the first two fingers of his right hand and held it an inch above the iron crossbar.

Grace turned away and bit the inside of her cheek to contain the smile trying to edge its way onto her face.

He knew exactly what she was about and was ready to respond.

Focusing on the silver cup in front of her, Grace began the test.

Call me like you would on the wire.

A series of dull raps came from across the room, the cloth-covered button muffling the sharpness of the reply. Dn calling Hs. The sound might be off, but the rhythm wasn’t. It only took the first few clicks for Grace to recognize the sender’s unique style. To an untrained ear, one tapping pattern might sound like any other, but to an operator, the rhythm, tempo, and phrasing combined to form an auditory signature.

Mr. A’s signature.

But even if Amos Bledsoe was indeed her Mr. A, he still had some explaining to do, and Grace wasn’t about to let the opportunity to quiz him pass her by.

Who’s filling in for you at Dn?

Dorinda Mansfield, came the immediate reply. No hesitation. No unsteadiness to interrupt the rhythm. She worked the telegraph at the railroad depot until she married two years ago. Her husband agreed to let her cover my shifts.

The quickness of his response and the assured way he tapped it out gave the impression of honesty. And she had to admit, she liked the fact that he trusted a female operator to cover his post. Even though the field of telegraphy employed more women than nearly any other, male operators tended to believe themselves superior. Probably because they received larger wages for the same work, an inequity that Henrietta Chandler railed against on a regular basis. Thankfully, Amos Bledsoe didn’t seem to share that supercilious view.

The practice of paying women less for the same work was unfair, but if the telegraph companies couldn’t hire women at a smaller wage and thereby increase their profits, they probably wouldn’t hire females at all. The cheaper rate opened doors that Grace needed if she was to support herself.

Describe your family to me, she tapped out on the tin cup, continuing the interrogation.