Page 3 of Heart on the Line

Grace nodded. “Forehead, you’ll bring him here. Glasses, I’m to take the box and head for the carriage.”

He grinned. “That’s my girl.” He reached for the door handle and let himself into the hall.

Grace moved to close the door behind him, but he stuck his head back through the opening. “Whatever happens, Gracie,” he said, “God will see us through.”

Her throat grew tight.

“I love you, girl.” His gaze held hers for a heartbeat, then he spun away and marched down the hall.

“I love you, too, Daddy,” she whispered as she closed the door with a quiet click. It would take him a few minutes to descend the boardinghouse stairs and exit to the street, but Grace rushed to the window anyway, her gaze darting between the street below and the café window across the way. Pedestrians meandered along the boardwalks, a few dashing between wagons and men on horseback to cross to the other side. The bustling scene matched that of any other Thursday morning, but Grace’s pulse throbbed a ragged rhythm anyway.

Please watch over him, Lord.

As determined as Herschel Mallory was to turn the documents over to the Pinkertons, he was still approaching this meeting with caution by not taking the actual books with him. His satchel carried old literature tomes from his personal library. The Haversham books rested in a pink-and-white hatbox pilfered from Grace’s closet, a disguise they’d decided most men would overlook.

Her father had reserved a table next to the large plate-glass window at the front of the café. If the agent showed adequate proof that he’d been sent by Whitmore, her father would remove his hat and use his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, signaling Grace that all was well. If, on the other hand, the agent roused suspicion, her father would instead use his handkerchief to clean the lenses of his glasses. That was the signal for Grace to collect the bags they’d packed that morning along with the all-important hatbox and exit through the alley, where they’d paid a driver to hold a carriage for them. She was to purchase a train ticket to Colorado Springs and wait for her father there.

Movement beneath her window caught her eye. A man approached the street, his fedora as familiar as the gray sack suit covering his shoulders. Grace touched her fingers to the chilled glass, wishing she was there beside him, holding his hand.

He paused, waiting for a freight wagon to pass by, carefully avoiding the brown, snowy slush that splattered the edge of the boardwalk, then started across the street. At the midway point, a grubby young boy dashed directly in front of her father, causing him to pull up short to avoid a collision. Her father’s hand instinctively dropped down to protect his satchel from the likely pickpocket, but it wasn’t the satchel he should have guarded. In that same moment, a shot rang out. From where, Grace didn’t know, but the muffled pop sliced through her heart like the sharpest blade.

“Daddy!” She jumped to her feet, her palms pressing desperately against the window. She pounded the glass. “Daddy!”

He pivoted toward her as he fell, his gaze meeting hers for one brief moment.

“No!” Her horrified scream echoed through the room as the man she loved more than any other crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his vest.

Amid the chaos of people screaming and running for cover, the grubby urchin returned to her father’s side, not to help but to snatch the satchel from around his neck. The little devil!

Grace pushed away from the window. She had to get to her father. But a movement caught her eye before she turned away. Daddy was reaching for something.

She plastered herself back against the window, needing to understand whatever he was trying to tell her. His awkward movements brought tears to her eyes, but he finally managed to bring his arm up high enough to pull his spectacles from his face.

Grace’s tears fell in earnest now. She shook her head in silent denial, even as comprehension settled over her. He didn’t have a handkerchief, but with his last breath, Herschel Mallory rubbed one lens of his spectacles, leaving a red smear across the glass.

The signal was clear.

Run!

1

Late Autumn 1894

Denison, TX

Amos Bledsoe! Get out of the street before you run someone over with that infernal contraption!”

It took a great deal of mental fortitude, but Amos managed not to roll his eyes at the pretty debutante holding court on the boardwalk outside the dressmaker’s shop. His mama had drilled manners into him at an early age, so he chose instead to release the steering handle with one hand and doff his hat to her as he politely slowed his pace.

“Miss Dexter.” He even offered a smile, though the effort did nothing to soften the indignation on the face of the lady in question. He nodded to her ever-present companions as well. “Miss Berryhill. Miss Watts.”

“I declare.” Harriet scrunched her nose as she waved a gloved hand in his direction. “If God had meant for mankind to ride upon two-wheeled devices, he wouldn’t have created horses. Just look at you wobbling about. Anyone with half a brain knows that for a vehicle to be sturdy it needs four wheels.”

“What about a pony cart, Harriet?” Miss Berryhill ventured, her forehead crinkling. “My Aunt Bea rides in one all the time and never has any trouble.”

“That’s because it’s attached to a pony. A creature with four legs,” Harriet huffed. “The animal keeps the cart steady.”

Amos had to admit she’d been quick with that rejoinder. As much as he disliked her for so actively disliking him, he couldn’t discount her intelligence. He just wished she’d use it for something other than belittling him in public. It seemed her favorite pastime.