Page 22 of Heart on the Line

Grace walked silently beside Mr. Bledsoe, thankful that he made no effort to engage her in conversation. It was coming, she knew, but for a few blessed moments, peace reigned. A peace she desperately needed in order to collect her fragmented thoughts.

Mr. Bledsoe must be told about her father, Haversham, the missing documents—everything. But as they walked together, other thoughts intruded, niggling questions that refused to be banished. Why did her belly tighten every time Mr. Bledsoe’s gaze tangled with hers? And what would she do if Emma and Tori were right about him being interested in more than simple friendship? Did she want him to be interested in more?

She bit back a sigh. Things had been so much simpler when they merely conversed over the wire. It was safe. Anonymous. Grace stole a peek at the man at her side. Mr. A was no longer anonymous. He was real, and he was here. For her.

A little thrill coursed through her, leaving the skin on her arms tingling.

Safe might be comfortable, but it wasn’t exciting. Or particularly helpful when trouble struck. Better to have a tangible Amos Bledsoe by her side than an imaginary Mr. A who only existed in a lonely woman’s dreams.

When they reached the telegraph office, Mr. Bledsoe slowed his steps and turned to her. “You live here as well?”

Grace nodded. “There are two small rooms behind the office. It’s not much, but it suits me.” Some might find the small wooden building’s weathered plank siding and lopsided eaves ramshackle, but she preferred to view it as having character. Instead of a shade tree, she had a pole with a mess of black wires atop it in the side yard. The wires might be an eyesore, but she’d not complain. Not when they afforded her a paycheck every month. “I stayed in the boardinghouse for a short time while we had that outlaw trouble,” Grace continued when Mr. Bledsoe made no comment. “Emma didn’t want any of the ladies staying alone. But I found I missed my privacy.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed to admit the shy side of her nature to a man who seemed so gregarious. “As soon as the trouble ended, I moved back here.”

“I know what it’s like to want a place where you can escape people for a while. I love my family, but after a few hours in their company, I’m more than ready to find a quiet place to hide.” He laughed softly, and Grace smiled.

Silence stretched between them, and Grace edged closer to the door, not knowing what else to do. Mr. Bledsoe shifted from foot to foot. His gaze dropped to the ground.

“I don’t want to keep you from your supper,” he blurted, for the first time making her wonder if he could be as nervous as she was. “You must be quite hungry after facing down the masses during the town meeting.”

“Actually,” she said, turning her attention away from the door and back toward him, “my stomach is still knotted so tightly, I doubt I’ll be able to eat anything for quite some time.”

He looked up, something hopeful lighting his eyes.

Grace pressed a hand to her stomach and inhaled a long breath. Words jabbed at her tongue, clamoring for release. It took a moment to dredge up sufficient courage, but eventually they found their way into the air. “Perhaps I could make us some tea, and we could talk for a while?”

Mr. Bledsoe visibly relaxed, and the smile that stretched across his face was bright enough to banish the evening’s shadows. “I’d like that very much.”

How could she not smile in response? He seemed so genuinely pleased by the idea of spending time with her. A rather amazing situation, considering her decided lack of conversational skills.

She hadn’t contributed a single word to the discussion of horses, mules, and liveries back in the jailhouse. And not from lack of trying. She’d longed to say something witty or charming or even halfway intelligent, anything that might prove her to be something other than the shy, bland little mouse she knew herself to be. But each time she thought of something worthwhile to add, Emma or Malachi jumped in ahead of her. Thankfully, she was much better one-on-one. At least when conversing with other women. She’d not had much opportunity to test her skills with men, especially suitors. If that was what Mr. Bledsoe was.

Grace reached into her skirt pocket and retrieved the office key. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said as she let herself in. “If you’ll prop the door open, I’ll bring a second chair out for you, and we can sit in my office.” Between the open door and the window, there should be no perceived impropriety.

Mr. Bledsoe followed her past the customer counter and collected a piece of wood from the firebox she kept near the office stove in the corner. Returning to the entrance, he wedged the kindling scrap beneath the door and propped it open. Then he stuck his head into her personal quarters. “If you’ll show me which chair you want moved, I’ll carry it to the office for you.”

She pointed to a blue-striped armchair she used for reading, then frowned. A small brown stain marred the slightly faded upholstery near the edge of the seat. She didn’t remember that being there. Not that she could do anything about it now, since Mr. Bledsoe was already moving in that direction.

The chair was made of heavy oak, but Mr. Bledsoe lifted it several feet off the ground with no difficulty. He might look like one of her father’s university cronies in his suit and spectacles, but there was nothing frumpish about his muscles.

He busied himself with examining her telegraphy equipment until she brought out the tea tray. After learning he liked sugar as much as she did, she stirred two spoonfuls into his cup, handed the white china to him on a matching plain saucer, and gestured for him to sit.

He’d been so patient and polite, giving her plenty of uninterrupted time to gather her thoughts as she brewed the tea, yet she could not put off what needed to be said any longer.

“It was very kind of you to come all this way to offer your assistance, but I’m afraid the trouble you find me in is more severe than you could have bargained for.” She lowered herself into the blue upholstered chair when he insisted on claiming the less comfortable wooden chair for himself, and after an awkward hesitation to gather her courage, she met his gaze. “Please know that I will not hold you in poor esteem should you decide to return to Denison. In fact, I would recommend that you do so. Your mother and sister would not take kindly to my putting you in harm’s way.”

Amos’s gaze hardened. “I love my mother and sister, but they do not dictate my life. So tell me what we’re up against, and I’ll decide what risks I’m willing to take.”

Grace swallowed. What we’re up against. He’d already included himself. And the way he spoke—so firm and determined—Grace couldn’t help but consider him in a new light. The friendly, bantering Amos Bledsoe had a steel core. A strength, perchance, that a woman might lean upon and find purchase.

Would that strength continue to stand fast after he learned the truth about her situation? Only one way to find out.

Grace sipped her tea then leaned back in her chair, watching his face and gauging his reactions. “I’m afraid the story I have to tell is not a short one.”

Amos sat unmoving in his chair, trying to absorb all that Miss Mallory had told him during the last thirty minutes. Her father had been murdered right before her eyes. He couldn’t even fathom such a thing. To see someone you loved gunned down in the street . . . Amos couldn’t stop himself from thinking of his mother, his sister. His fingers balled into a fist. He clenched his jaw and jerked his gaze toward the window, searching for control, for perspective.

What kind of courage must it have taken for her to start a new life alone? No family, no friends she could turn to without putting their lives at risk. All while the sword of Damocles—or Haversham, in this case—hung over her head.

He’d admired Miss G’s warmth and quick wit over the telegraph line, but the depth of character that the flesh-and-blood woman embodied was nothing short of remarkable.