Page 30 of Heart on the Line

After one stride, his leg gave out.

He groaned and collapsed against her. Helen nearly crumpled beneath the weight. A cry tore from her lips as she staggered.

Her cry must have galvanized him, for he strained to regain his footing, releasing a primal growl that sent chills over her as he forced himself upward. Tears came to her eyes that had nothing to do with the throbbing in her shoulders as he used her body as a crutch. Her eyes misted for the man who gave everything he had to protect her. He protected her from an enemy of the past and from the burden of his weight in the present, and whispered promises of a future where they would be free.

She had no doubt this man would kill himself trying to spare her, and the certainty of it split her heart wide open. All the hatred, fear, and distrust she’d harbored for so long leaked out, leaving her raw and aching. Yet strength rushed in to fill the emptiness, like nothing she’d ever felt before.

She no longer cared who the stranger was or what he’d been doing out here. She didn’t even care if he was the Haversham fellow Grace had warned them about. He was Rachel’s brother. A protective, selfless man who didn’t deserve to die. And Helen aimed to do some protecting of her own.

“Hold on, mister,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “This ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Helen tightened her grip on the man’s waist and lurched forward. His leg couldn’t take the jostling, but she’d anticipated that. She bent over, taking his weight onto her back as much as possible as she dragged him one step closer to the bed.

Her vision tunneled until all she saw was the narrow wood bedframe and the patchwork quilt she’d made from flour sacks last winter.

One.

She gritted her teeth and scraped her right foot along the floorboards.

More.

The man went lax, his full weight coming down on her. Helen’s knees threatened to buckle, but she refused to give in. She leaned forward, her focus zeroed in on the bed.

Step.

Feeling the stranger toppling and knowing she could do nothing to stop it, Helen tumbled with him, her only goal to control the location of his landing.

They fell awkwardly atop the bed, his head knocking slightly against the wall and her chin digging into his sternum. Their legs were a tangled mess, and her right arm was pinned beneath his back, but they’d made it.

Elation gushed upward through Helen’s chest and erupted in quiet laughter. Praise God! They’d made it.

As she caught her breath, it occurred to her what she must look like, and a second burst of laughter bubbled out of her.

If Katie could see her now, her friend would faint dead away. Helen Potter in bed with a man. And smiling.

The world must surely be coming to an end.

15

Come find me at the jailhouse when you’re done with your visit, Dunbar,” Malachi Shaw said, his voice firm, insistent. Yet his assertion of control did little to calm the panic rising inside Grace as she realized the marshal was going to leave her alone with the Pinkerton. “Male accommodations around here are scarce. We’ll have to make arrangements.”

Mr. Dunbar smiled and nodded. “Sure thing.” Then he opened the café door and motioned for Grace to enter ahead of him. “Miss Mallory?”

She hesitated, finding it incredibly difficult to tear her gaze away from the marshal, who had remained at street level when she and Mr. Dunbar climbed onto the boardwalk. Slowly, she forced her attention away from Malachi and turned to meet the Pinkerton’s dark brown eyes. His smile seemed to deepen as she looked at him, and the hint of a dimple creased his right cheek through the dark whiskers of his closely cropped beard. She immediately dropped her gaze to her feet.

Good heavens, but he was handsome. And the way he looked at her . . . Grace’s stomach danced and whirled, her pulse fluttering in time to the dizzying tempo in her belly. She bit gently on her tongue, injecting just enough discomfort to clear her head. You can do this.

After all, her father had been poised to do this very thing—meet with the Pinkerton agent sent by Mr. Whitmore and hand over their evidence. She would finally be completing the work her father started. Yet, like her father, she intended to be cautious. She wouldn’t hand anything over until she was sure the man in front of her could be trusted. And there was only one way to make that determination—spend time with him.

Lifting her chin, she aimed a smile somewhere in the vicinity of Mr. Dunbar’s throat and entered the café.

Ann Marie hurried toward them across the nearly vacant dining area. The curvy brunette greeted Grace, but her eyes never strayed from the tall man near her elbow. Usually Grace didn’t mind being overlooked—she enjoyed the peacefulness of anonymity. But seeing the obvious interest lighting Ann Marie’s eyes made this particular oversight prick her skin like stinging nettles.

“Let me show you to a table,” Ann Marie offered, moving to Mr. Dunbar’s left side and smiling up at him like a besotted schoolgirl. “Would you prefer one by the window, or a more private area near the back?”

Grace blinked. Usually patrons just sat wherever they found a vacancy. The only other customer in the entire place was Daisy, the elderly lady who liked to sip tea and watch the town happenings from the front window. So why the escort? Did Ann Marie think they’d be overwhelmed by the sheer number of seating options?

The Pinkerton winked at the overeager waitress, and Ann Marie blushed. Question answered.