Page 26 of Heart on the Line

Grace rose from her seat and came to stand behind him. She thought she’d tried every technique imaginable to uncover the books’ secrets, but she’d never thought of this. She ran her fingers along the center binding seam between Oliver Twist’s open pages. “It’s like the book was trained to open here,” she said, slightly awed by the discovery even though she wasn’t sure how it helped their current dilemma.

“When I looked at the pages of the closed book, there were tiny gaps in certain places.” Amos paused in setting up Guy Mannering, his palms still holding the book upright as it balanced on its spine. “The books are older and have obviously been read, so one would expect such gaps to occur. But I wanted to see if any of the gaps were more pronounced than the others.”

He released the covers of the second book, and it fell open near the middle. After resetting it, he released it again. This time the book fell open to a place closer to the front. On the third attempt, the book opened to a section near the middle but slightly deeper than the first occurrence.

“That one was inconsistent.” Grace frowned at the book lying open to a seemingly random page. “What does that tell us?”

Amos leaned back and crossed his arms. “I can’t say with certainty.” His brow furrowed slightly as his gaze moved from one book to the other. “But logic would say that if documents were stashed inside these books, the thicker of the two was stored in the Dickens. It would’ve caused enough of a wedge to bulge the pages away from their natural positions. The binding was strained or even slightly broken due to the internal pressure. Whatever was stored in the Scott novel was much thinner. Perhaps only a single sheet. It caused no long-term damage to the binding.”

“Tremont Haversham’s revised will.” Excitement bubbled up inside Grace. A clue! Her first real clue! “With all his wealth and assets, it would no doubt be several pages long. That must be what my father found in Oliver Twist. The Pinkerton report would have been much more brief. Probably just a name and perhaps a brief explanation of why they believed her to be Tremont’s missing daughter.”

Amos uncrossed his arms and rolled his shoulders a bit. “I know it doesn’t tell us where the documents are now, but perhaps knowing where they once were will help somehow.” He grabbed the edge of his spectacles and resituated them on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how exactly, but it’s a place to start, at least.”

“It’s wonderful. It’s more than I deduced on my own.” Grace clasped his arm in an effort to reassure him, then realized the intimacy of the gesture and blushed. She started to pull away, but Amos covered her hand with his own.

“I’ll not give up the search,” he vowed. “We’ll find those documents, Grace. I swear it.”

She believed him. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she did. Nothing felt impossible anymore. Not with this intelligent man working beside her. A friend to share her load.

Perhaps more than a friend? The thought skittered through her mind at the same moment a figure moved past her window.

The marshal. And another man.

Her heart fluttered in a panicked, frenzied rhythm. The books! She had to hide the books.

Jerking away from Amos’s tender hold, Grace snatched the books from the table, turned, and fled through the doorway into her chambers. She darted around her bed, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and shoved the books beneath her cotton drawers and stockings just as the office door creaked open and masculine voices filtered in.

Slamming the drawer closed, Grace spun around and hurried back to the outer office, willing her breathing to slow despite the tightness in her chest and the pounding of her pulse. Forcing her lips into a polite smile, she slowed her step as she passed through the doorway and prepared to greet her unwanted guests.

“Marshal,” she started, then faltered as her gaze fell on the tall man at Malachi’s side. A man who fulfilled every heroic fantasy she’d ever concocted to pass the lonely nights.

Tall, rugged, muscular. His skin was tanned from the sun. His hair dark, his jaw square. Black leather vest, blue shirt, trousers that outlined long legs and a lean stomach. The gun belt around his waist hung low on his hip, ready for action. And every wave of dark masculinity emanating from this stranger announced that he knew how to use a weapon. This was a man of skill. Of strength. Of undeniable swagger.

His attention zeroed in on her the moment she entered the room and latched on as if nothing else around him mattered. He fingered the brim of his hat as he dipped his chin in a nod of respect, but those dark brown eyes of his refused to release her. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t duck shyly away from his regard as she usually did. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her. It was as if he had a physical hold on her.

“Miss Mallory?” Heavens, even his voice was dark and rich. “I’m Elliott Dunbar of the Pinkerton agency. I’ve been trying to find you since the day your father was gunned down in Denver. You’re a hard lady to run to ground.”

13

Amos instinctively stepped between Grace and the towering stranger with the far too attentive gaze. The man had every desirable physical characteristic Amos lacked. Every one.

And Grace had noticed.

Instead of staring at the floor as she had the first time Amos had met her and several times thereafter, she gazed directly at the stranger’s chiseled features, her golden eyes wide. Rapt. Ensnared.

Amos’s jaw clenched. Great. Just what he needed when he’d finally decided to court a woman: competition. In a women’s colony. He must be cursed.

Taking a deliberate step to the left in order to block the Pinkerton’s direct line of sight to Grace, Amos extended his hand over the counter. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dunbar. I’m Amos Bledsoe.”

Finally, the man removed his gaze from Grace and looked at Amos. He smiled, and while the expression softened the hard lines of his face, it lacked any genuine warmth. Yet he shook Amos’s hand and spoke in a friendly man-to-man way that carried no hint of the derision Amos usually encountered from men of his type, especially when a beautiful lady stood nearby.

“Bledsoe. Good to know you.” Dunbar pumped Amos’s arm up and down, his expression nothing but amiable.

Wonderful. Not only was the leather- and denim-clad Adonis oozing masculinity like a snail did slime, but he was personable too. His kind were supposed to be egotistical oafs. It was one of the few faults lesser mortals like Amos could exploit. But while Dunbar certainly didn’t seem lacking in the confidence department, he wasn’t insufferable with it, either. Doggone it.

“You’re a Pinkerton?” Amos asked, hoping to keep Grace disengaged as long as possible.

“Yep.” Dunbar reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a couple sheets of folded ivory paper along with a silver badge pinned to a piece of worn brown leather.