Page 25 of Heart on the Line

And the unconscious man slowly dying from a nasty gunshot wound to his leg.

12

Grace clutched the books to her chest, her grip tight enough to cramp the muscles in her fingers. Only about fifty steps separated the bank from the telegraph office, but she couldn’t escape the feeling of being exposed. These two books represented hundreds of thousands of dollars. More than that—they represented the price of her father’s life. She hadn’t removed them from the bank since she’d first entrusted them to Emma and her fireproof safe a month after arriving in Harper’s Station.

Perspiration dampened Grace’s hairline as she walked with her head down, gaze focused on any loose stone or bump in the road that could cause her to stumble. The tickle of a sweat droplet running down her temple made her grimace, but thankfully a cool autumn breeze blew against her face, evaporating the evidence of her nervousness.

When she’d shown the books to the marshal that first night after Rosie’s warning came over the wire, they’d just stood in the locked storage closet where Emma kept the safe. Malachi had thumbed through the pages, examined the spine, and even held each one upside down, giving it a good shake. No life-altering documents had fluttered to the floor, however. Not that Grace had expected them to. She’d gone through every page of those volumes on her own, multiple times, with no success. The marshal might be able to shake the books with more vigor, but no one could search between the pages any more painstakingly than she had.

Which was why she was risking removing the books from the safety of the bank. If she and Amos were to find the documents, it was going to take more than a fluttering of the pages. They would need hours. Days, perhaps. And since she was needed at her post at the telegraph machine and she didn’t want to inconvenience Emma after hours, the only way she and Amos could examine them together would be in her office.

And they would examine them together. She trusted Mr. Bledsoe . . . mostly. She trusted the idea of him that she’d built up in her mind based on their interactions over the wire these last months. However, she needed time to get to know the real person, now that he was here, to ensure her impressions of his character were accurate. In the meantime, she wouldn’t be letting these books out of her sight. They were her responsibility. Her legacy. And with danger set to arrive any moment, they were her burden to carry. No one else’s.

Reaching the office, she pried one hand free from her cargo and opened the door. A quiet, precise tapping echoed from behind the counter. Amos sat at her table, bent forward over the telegraph, his face a mask of concentration as he confirmed a message that had something to do with bicycles.

He looked so natural there, working in his shirtsleeves, his dark brown suspenders contrasting sharply with the white of his shirt. His trousers were neatly pressed, lifting just a little as he leaned forward to reveal matching dark brown stockings.

Mr. Bledsoe had taken great care with his appearance the last two days. Grace grinned softly as she reached behind herself to shut the office door. The rumpled, bedraggled specimen she’d first encountered had disappeared, replaced by a fastidious man of business, one she had to admit held a certain appeal. His nose might be a tad long and his build more slender than strapping, but here, in his element, he projected a confidence and intelligence she found quite attractive.

For the first time in months, she actually believed the solution to her mystery lay within her grasp, and Amos was the reason. He was quick-witted, clever, and invested. In her. Grace shook her head as she came around the counter and moved into the inner office. She still had a hard time believing her good fortune. Why would a virtual stranger take such an interest in her troubles? True, they’d struck up a rather intimate acquaintance over the wire, but he owed her no favors. She’d done nothing to deserve his loyalty or admiration. Yet he’d traveled over a hundred and fifty miles to help her and seemed in no hurry to make an escape.

“Thank you for covering the wire for me while I stepped out,” she said when she recognized the pattern of his sign-off code. She slipped her shawl from her shoulders and hung it up on the hook near the door to her private chambers. His coat and hat hung from a nail a few inches away, and for a moment something in her chest ached at the sight of the masculine garments hanging so close to her own. As if they belonged.

“Glad to oblige.” The chair squeaked as Amos straightened to face her. His light blue gaze found hers.

Grace clutched the books a little more tightly to her breast. Eyes that shade should be shooting ice crystals through her veins, but when combined with his smile, the effect was quite the opposite. Her insides had gone warm and gooey, like a cookie fresh from the oven.

“I was trying to help Miss Adams locate some used bicycles to save on cost. She was planning to place an order with Montgomery Ward, but the Hawthorne Ladies’ Safety machine they sell runs $65, more than the ladies here can afford. I told her I’d put out some feelers among some of the wheelmen I know to see if we could locate some used cycles.”

“Sixty-five dollars?” Grace nearly choked on the amount. She flopped rather clumsily onto the armchair she’d opted to leave out in the office. “You could buy a horse for that price.”

“A broken-down nag, maybe.” Amos scowled a bit at her lack of velocipede enthusiasm. “It’s less than half the price of a decent saddle horse. And you don’t have to feed it or pay to have it boarded. All you have to do is grease the chain occasionally and rinse the dirt off the frame. Still . . . I’ll concede that it’s not cheap. I saved up for nearly six months before I bought my top-of-the-line Columbia. Thing runs like a dream, though.” His smile returned, along with a devastating sparkle in his eyes that the lenses of his spectacles seemed to magnify.

“I can’t believe Emma convinced Tori to order five of the things. She’ll never be able to sell them.” Grace laid the books across her lap and leaned against the upholstered chairback. “Emma can probably afford one, but nearly everyone else runs on a tight budget.”

Amos winked at her. “No need to worry. When Miss Adams saw the price listing in her catalog, she called me in for a consultation before placing an order. Cooler heads prevailed, I assure you.” He rested his arm on the table, looking so at home that it was a bit disconcerting. “Now, thanks to a message that just came in from George Walker of the Alamo Wheelmen in San Antonio, I have been promised three women’s style Yukons and one men’s Sterling, all used but in good repair, for a grand total of $100.”

Grace bit back a grin. He looked downright smug. She supposed he had every right to his pride. He’d brokered an impressive deal. She might even be tempted to purchase one of the crazy things herself. Her companion obviously found a great deal of enjoyment in owning one. Perhaps she would, too.

That opinion had absolutely nothing to do with the image that had just popped into her head of his arms wrapping around her as he taught her to balance on two wheels. Nothing at all.

“It seems the Wagner & Chabot store has been looking for a way to reduce their inventory and clear out their less expensive models in order to cater to a more discriminating clientele,” Amos continued, still basking in the glow of his coup. “They can have the machines on the train tomorrow if Miss Adams decides to make the purchase.”

Grace finally granted freedom to the grin she’d been holding back. “How could she not, after finding such a low price? You’ll be touted as quite the hero, I’m sure.”

He shrugged off the praise. “I just sent out a few telegrams. Nothing heroic.” Suddenly he straightened, his posture stiffening. “Telegrams I paid for, I assure you. I wrote up receipts and added the coins to your cash box.”

Grace waved off his explanation. “I trust you.”

He leaned forward, his face set in serious lines. “Do you, Grace?”

She couldn’t bear the intensity of his stare for long, but before ducking her head, she managed to murmur a quiet, “I’m starting to.” She ran her hands over the worn cloth covers of the books in her lap. “I wouldn’t be showing you these otherwise.”

“Those are the books your father found in Haversham’s library?” Keen interest laced Amos’s words, and for the first time since she’d come in, he allowed his gaze to linger on the items in her hands. He didn’t reach for the volumes, though, or even ask for permission to examine them. He seemed to understand the hold they had on her, the memories they evoked, the danger they represented, and was letting her set the pace.

She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but she’d delayed long enough. Lifting her chin, she thrust the books toward him. His eyes widened slightly at her forceful gesture, yet he made no comment, just accepted the books with a level of reverence she’d not expected. The marshal had been all business, shaking things loose to try to find the missing papers, but Amos was different. He took his time. Ran his fingers over the embossed titles on the spines, turned each book over slowly, examined them from every angle.

He turned away from her and laid the books on the work table. Balancing the spine on the tabletop, he simultaneously released the front and back covers. Oliver Twist fell open to a page about two-thirds deep. Amos repeated the action twice more. Each time, the book fell open to nearly the same page. After the third attempt, he left the book open where it had fallen and took up the second volume.