Page 23 of Heart on the Line

A movement across the room brought his head around as his hostess made her way back into the office. She’d gone to fetch a shawl to combat the cool air coming through the open door, but that wasn’t all she’d retrieved. She clutched a stack of folded papers tied with a wide length of red ribbon. The letters her father had uncovered.

“I gave you plenty of time to make a run for it,” she said, a hint of a smile playing with the corners of her mouth. “Even left the door open for you.” Her eyes twinkled, and his pulse responded like the tail of a puppy who’d just caught sight of his favorite person, surging from calm to vigorous thumping in a single heartbeat.

He adored this side of her. Lighthearted and playful even in the midst of harsh trial. She hadn’t acted this way with the marshal or even with Emma Shaw, at least not that he’d seen, a fact that pleased him more than it probably should. He wanted to believe he was the only one to draw out this part of her nature, that she reserved it for him alone. Because this was the woman who’d captured his interest on the telegraph, a woman of subtle humor and indomitable spirit. A woman he could imagine spending his evenings with for the rest of his life.

He got to his feet when she entered the room, determined to prove himself a gentleman despite his less than fastidious exterior. “I considered escaping,” he teased in return as she took her seat in the blue-striped chair, “but a second trip on Stranton’s mule was a higher price than I was willing to pay.” He affected an exaggerated shiver. “Nope, you’re stuck with me. At least until the order of bicycles arrives.”

He settled back into his chair, his gaze moving from his companion’s face to the stack of letters she held. As he watched, she extended the papers toward him. He caught her eye, a silent question passing between them. She nodded.

“I thought you might like to read them. There are less than a dozen, so it shouldn’t take long. I wasn’t able to find anything helpful to the situation at hand, but perhaps you’ll catch something I missed.”

He accepted the letters and laid them in his lap. Reaching for the ribbon, his mind raced with possibilities. He’d always loved a good puzzle, yet this was no intellectual exercise. People’s lives were at stake. Grace’s life was at stake.

Amos glanced up. “These are the letters Tremont Haversham’s first wife wrote him during their courtship?”

Miss Mallory’s brown gaze ran over him slow and deep, like chocolate icing melting over a still-warm cake. And he was definitely warm, even with the cool evening breeze blowing through the office door. He probably would be for a while, after that heated stare. Of course, she wasn’t evaluating him as a suitor. Her eyes didn’t flash with sudden attraction or desire. They searched and evaluated him with cautious hope, looking for signs that he would be able to help, that he could offer a new perspective or fresh insight that might lead to a solution.

Help me help her, Lord. He desperately wanted to be Grace’s hero, but more than that, he wanted her to be safe. However that came about.

“Her name was Deborah Linfield,” Grace explained, her soft voice floating through the room like a gentle summer breeze. “The tale I’ve heard is that they met by chance late one afternoon in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia. Haversham and some friends were out riding, and Deborah was walking home after a long day at the dressmaker’s shop. She was an expert in beadwork, highly sought for her talent with a needle, and paid well for her skill. Perhaps too well, for that day, after receiving her wages, she was attacked, the thief waiting for her in a copse of trees before snatching her reticule.

“The story goes that she put up a fight, screaming and clawing at the man until he pulled a knife and cut the purse free of her wrist. Tremont heard the commotion, took in the scene, and rode the thief to ground. He returned the lady’s purse and saw her safely home. They were instantly smitten and began a courtship that culminated in marriage less than a year later. Tremont’s parents did not approve, since Deborah lacked the family pedigree necessary to fit into their exalted circles, but Tremont didn’t care. He married her anyway, and the dress she wore to her wedding made the papers, the beadwork so intricate that she outshone all other society brides that season.”

Amos scanned the first letter’s flowing, feminine script. The prose was rife with effusive gratitude and hero worship for the man who had come to her rescue. A small twinge of envy pricked his hide. “Sounds like quite the romantic tale.”

“When Haversham moved to Denver, the gossip about him ran rampant. Girls sighed over his tragic history—the man who loved so deeply that he defied his family to be with the woman he loved, only to lose her in childbirth. The fact that his second wife considered Colorado a primitive wilderness filled with primitive people did nothing to enamor her to the women of Denver. They loved Tremont but resented Chaucer as the child of the pretentious shrew who thought herself above them. Chaucer knows that if Deborah’s child is indeed alive, the people of Denver will rally behind her.”

Amos unfolded the second letter and ran his fingers along the page. “Perhaps Deborah mentions a friend in one of these letters, someone she might have trusted with the care of her child.”

Grace gathered her shawl more closely around her. “I looked, but I didn’t find any mention of people beyond her employer at the dress shop and one or two of her fellow seamstresses, none of whom sounded like intimate acquaintances. She didn’t mention any towns or cities from her past, either, nor family members. From all accounts she’d been orphaned at a young age and then apprenticed to an embroiderer, where she’d learned her trade. But even if she had family, I don’t think the child would be with them.”

Amos looked up from the letter. “Oh?”

“Deborah was in the Havershams’ home when the baby came. Tremont was gone on business and had not wanted her to be alone so far along in her pregnancy, though he intended to be home before the baby was born. But she went into labor two weeks early. The Havershams summoned a physician, but the man was unable to save Tremont’s wife. He signed a death certificate for both Deborah and her unnamed daughter. With Tremont absent, only the doctor and Tremont’s mother bore witness to the birth. If Mrs. Haversham wanted to rid her son of all traces of an unsuitable wife, she could have bribed the physician to forge the death certificate and dispose of the child. What’s one more anonymous babe left on the steps of a church?”

Amos’s stomach clenched in anger at the coldhearted picture Miss Mallory painted. Could someone truly be so cruel as to abandon a newborn and compound their own child’s grief simply to restore their place in society? “So Tremont never saw his child?” He barely got the words past the disgust clogging his throat.

Miss Mallory met his gaze, her own eyes shimmering. “Only her grave.”

Amos cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “Didn’t you say the missing Pinkerton report was dated 1892? What made Tremont question his daughter’s death and seek out the Pinkertons so many years later?”

“I don’t know for sure.” She dropped her attention to her lap, and her fingers fiddled with the fringe on the edge of her shawl. “I remember the Denver papers speculating on the extra trips he made home around that time, the gossip mill grinding away over whether he was reconciling with his estranged wife. Then there was an obituary notice stating that his mother had passed, and the gossip ground to a halt.” Slowly, Grace lifted her head, her gaze latching onto his. “Perhaps the guilt became too heavy for the aging woman, and she confessed her crime on her deathbed, seeking absolution from the son she’d wronged.”

Amos whistled softly. “That would fit.”

“It’s pure conjecture,” Grace said as she resumed twirling the shawl fringe around her finger. “I have no proof. But after nine months of agonizing over the pieces of this puzzle, this is the only configuration that makes any sense.”

Her finger suddenly stopped twisting, and a new tension seeped into the air around them. She leaned forward in her chair. Amos instinctively stretched to meet her.

“If you’re willing to stay, I’d like you to help me find the missing documents, Amos.”

His name on her lips sped his pulse, but it was the plea in her eyes that captured his heart.

“They exist. They have to. My father wouldn’t have risked his life without solid evidence. Yet in nine months of wrestling with this conundrum, I’m no closer to uncovering the Pinkerton report or the amended will. I need you to find what I missed.”

Amos dropped the letter still loosely clasped in his right hand and reached across the space between them to cover her fingers. They were chilled, whether from the air or the distressing nature of the situation, he couldn’t know. What he did know was that he wanted to warm them, to banish all cold and fear from her life.

“I’m here, Grace.” He gripped her hand and rubbed his thumb in gentle strokes over her knuckles. “And I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”