Page 17 of Heart on the Line

Katie shook her head, a familiar sadness creeping into her expression. “Why must you always expect the worst of people?”

“Not people,” Helen corrected as she twisted in her seat to face forward. “Just men.”

“You know that’s not normal, right?” Katie whispered.

Helen pressed her lips together in a tight line. She wouldn’t have answered anyway, but the fact that Emma Shaw was moving toward the podium gave her the perfect excuse to remain silent.

Normal? Probably not. But smart was better than normal. A smart woman could protect herself, avoid confrontations before they happened, and escape the inescapable. Smart equaled safe. And safe was the pinnacle Helen aspired to achieve.

Katie was so young, so naïve, so unrealistically romantic. If the girl ever left Harper’s Station, she’d end up used and abandoned by some charming rogue in less than a month. She lived on fairy-tale dreams of handsome princes and chivalrous knights in a world of rattlesnakes and coyotes. Helen might only be three years older in age—twenty-five to Katie’s twenty-two—but she was ancient in terms of experience. And her experience told her that if there really was a trouser-clad outsider in Harper’s Station, trouble would be right around the corner.

The room quieted as Emma Shaw ascended the dais and faced the gathering. “Thank you for coming, ladies. We have a matter of some concern to discuss this evening. Someone has threatened one of our own, and we need to apprise you of the situation so that you can be on your guard.”

Helen sat up straighter, her instincts flaring. She’d made a vow when she’d first come to Harper’s Station—they all had—to lend aid without question to any sister in need. This community worked because everyone relied on one another, supported one another, trusted one another. They were family. And this family stood together, no matter what.

“Grace Mallory has asked to address us tonight,” Emma continued. “Please give her your attention.” She stepped away from the podium and nodded to someone seated in the front row. “Grace?”

The telegraph operator stood and climbed the two steps to the stage, then slipped behind the podium, grasping the sides of the wooden stand as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Head down, she locked her gaze on the floor a few feet in front of the first row of pews.

Helen squirmed in sympathy. She knew what it was like to prefer the shadows to the spotlight. Most of her childhood had been spent learning how to avoid notice. How to hide in dark corners and arm herself with invisibility. She’d hidden out of necessity, not temperament, but she understood the feeling of exposure when caught in the light. It took courage for someone as shy and quiet as Grace Mallory to address a group of fifty women, even if they were her friends and peers.

Grace cleared her throat and raised her focus a few inches off the ground. “A man named Chaucer Haversham has been looking for me for nearly a year. Yesterday, I received word that he has discovered my hiding place here in Harper’s Station.” She glanced sideways to Emma. “I offered to leave town, but Emma and Malachi agreed that I’d be safer here.”

“You ain’t going nowhere, Gracie,” Henry Chandler shouted from the front row. Heads throughout the church bobbed in agreement, including Helen’s.

“Thank you,” Grace murmured as her cheeks grew pink. “You are all such dear friends. You have no idea how much your comradery means to me.” She stood a little straighter and finally raised her gaze to eye level with the audience. “But you need to know the danger my staying entails. I have no proof, but I am fully convinced that this man, or someone working under his orders, shot and killed my father.”

Helen gasped. A killer?

Katie reached into Helen’s lap, grabbed her hand, and squeezed. Helen turned and met her friend’s stare, a silent promise flowing between them as Helen squeezed Katie’s hand in return. They’d look out for each other.

“I have something he wants,” Grace explained. “Something that threatens his inheritance, which truly belongs to an older half-sister everyone believed had perished at birth. My father was about to turn the documents over to a Pinkerton agent but was murdered as he crossed the street to keep his appointment.” Grace shifted from side to side, her focus dropping once again to the floor.

Had she seen her father die? Helen bit her lower lip. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. As often as she’d wished her own father dead, she’d never wanted to witness the deed being carried out. Especially not in so sudden and violent a fashion. And if Grace had actually liked her father? It must have been awful.

Grace seemed to gather herself, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. “Haversham owns a mine in Colorado and has Pinkerton agents on his payroll, so I don’t know if the agent my father was scheduled to meet betrayed us or if he would have proven trustworthy. Mr. Shaw is going to help me connect with the head agent in Philadelphia to investigate. In the meantime, I ask that you keep watch and report any sightings of male visitors to Harper’s Station.”

Katie suddenly lurched to her feet, jerking Helen’s arm in its socket before releasing her hand. “What about the man at the jailhouse?”

Grace’s cheeks deepened from pink to a burning red, but she didn’t flinch as she met Katie’s gaze. “His name is Amos Bledsoe. He’s a friend who heard of my trouble and came to help. He might be in town a few days, but he poses no threat.”

Helen stiffened, her shoulder blades bumping uncomfortably against the wooden back of the church pew.

Another man in Harper’s Station. Wonderful. They were multiplying like rabbits.

It was a good thing the farm sat five miles outside of town. She’d make a point not to volunteer for any deliveries during the next week or so. The rabbits hadn’t spread beyond the borders of town yet, and Lord willing, they never would. The two roosters they had strutting around the coops were more than sufficient.

“Mr. Bledsoe is visiting from Denison and has no connection to the Haversham family or the Pinkerton agency,” Grace explained. “He is simply a friend, and I hope that you will welcome him as such.” She glanced around the room, bravely meeting the eyes of the ladies in the audience. “Does anyone have an objection to Mr. Bledsoe being allowed to stay?”

Helen squirmed but said nothing. She didn’t want another man hanging around, but she had no true grounds to object. The fact that the visitor wore trousers didn’t seem like a good enough reason to ban him from town. Well, it was reason enough for her, but most of the ladies in the room weren’t quite so extreme in their views.

Or were they? Helen’s chest thumped as Henrietta Chandler pushed to her feet in the front row.

“Seems a mite suspicious that this fella showed up so quick after your friend sent you that telegram last night. What if he’s working for Haver-what’s-his-name? Maybe he’s the one who told the rich gent where you were hiding.”

Thoughtful murmurs echoed around the room, and Helen held her breath. Please send him away. But Grace shook her head, and Helen’s hope withered.

“I know who revealed my location to Mr. Haversham—a woman who used to work with my mother. She has kept me apprised of the investigation into my father’s shooting as well as any noteworthy items regarding Mr. Haversham’s business over the past nine months. It wouldn’t have taken Haversham long to discover that I worked as a Western Union operator. After that, it would just be a matter of finding local telegraph operators susceptible to bribes and having them listen in on the wires for any clues that might lead to my location.”