Page 37 of Heart on the Line

“But it’s necessary in this instance. It’s also what the patient demanded.” Helen stepped closer, desperation clawing at her insides, urging her to grovel if need be. “If it’s too much to ask, I’ll understand. I don’t want to pressure you to do anything that violates your conscience.” Actually, she did want to pressure her if it meant getting the stranger the help he needed, but not at the cost of Claire spilling the secret later when guilt wore her down. “If you aren’t comfortable keeping this quiet, say so, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings. I might ask for some medical advice, but I promise not to ask you for anything more.”

For a nerve-wracking minute, Claire paced back toward the examination room. “Tell me about the wound,” she finally said, and Helen’s heart thumped with hope.

“It’s in the upper thigh. I’m not sure if the bullet is still inside or not. I cleaned it as best I could, but I’m worried about the pus. I think there’s an infection.”

Claire stared at the medicine cabinet, a thoughtful look on her face. “Does she have the fever?”

“Yes.” Helen didn’t correct her friend on the patient’s gender. She couldn’t afford to until Claire committed to confidentiality. “And is unconscious more than awake.”

“It sounds bad, it does. I better come with ye.” As if that decided matters, she immediately started rummaging through drawers and shelves, collecting various supplies and stuffing them into a small carpet bag she’d dragged out from under the examination cot.

“Does this mean you’ll keep quiet about the situation?” Helen hated to pester, but she needed confirmation.

Claire paused long enough in her packing to meet Helen’s gaze. “Aye. Me conscience would fret more if I did nothin’ and the poor lass died than over keeping a little secret. I’ll hold me tongue.”

Helen coughed in an effort to find her voice in a throat that had suddenly shrunk in on itself. “Thank you.”

Understanding softened Claire’s gaze, but only for a moment before she started calling out orders. “Fetch me the day-old loaf from the kitchen and the jug of milk from the pie safe. Me mam says there be nothin’ better at drawin’ out infection than a good bread and milk poultice. I’ll jot a quick note to Maybelle to let her know I left with ye on a house call so she won’t fret when she finds me gone. Then I’ll meet you out front.”

Helen nodded and dashed to the kitchen to collect the items Claire had requested. She had just walked into the parlor, arms full, when the front door opened and a man she’d never seen before stepped across the threshold.

He pulled his hat from his head and curved his lips in a seductive smile that immediately put Helen on her guard. The Colt that rode his hip as if it were an extension of his body didn’t set well, either.

Never in a hundred years would she picture this man working in a telegraph office and riding bicycles through the streets.

“Miss Nevin, I presume?” His deep voice purred but left her feeling like a cat that had just had its fur stroked against the grain.

Distaste soured Helen’s mouth. It was her usual reaction to men, but the intensity surprised her, perhaps because the sensation hadn’t once afflicted her in all her interactions with the man at the cabin.

“No, sorry. Claire’s in the office.” She tipped her head toward the examination room. “Maybelle handles most of the doctorin’ around here, though. If you’ve got an ailment, you can find her at the boardinghouse down the street.” She mentally shooed him with all her might. She’d left her stranger alone too long as it was. She didn’t need some crazy velocipede-riding fruitcake holding them up longer.

“Oh, I’m not here seeking treatment. Just answers to a few simple questions.” He advanced a step closer, his smile warm and friendly, yet Helen felt about as reassured as a rabbit in the sights of a coyote. “I’m Detective Dunbar,” he said, pulling a badge out of his pocket. “Pinkerton Agency.”

Detective? Pinkerton? Helen froze where she stood, her pulse throbbing. This wasn’t Grace’s harmless bicycle beau. This was a threat. One who wore a gun slung low on his hip and projected enough steel in his bearing to assure her that he knew how to use it.

Perhaps he already had.

Helen swallowed the trepidation softening her insides and instead armed herself with the familiar spikes of animosity that usually sprouted in the presence of swaggering men like this, ones who thought they had the right to interrupt a woman’s schedule with their personal agendas.

“Does Emma Shaw know you’re pestering her citizens?” No way was she going to let this slick newcomer steer her into a corner with questions. “If you don’t need medical assistance, there’s no reason for you to be here, so I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

The detective’s brows rose a fraction, and his smile slipped a bit, but the appendages she cared about most—his feet—remained stubbornly fixed to the floor.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” the Pinkerton said as he pulled his hat from his head—a blatant thumb of his nose to her demand that he depart, “if you’re not Miss Nevin, and you’re not Mrs. Curtis, you aren’t in a position to ask me to go anywhere.”

He wanted to challenge her? Fine. He’d learn she wasn’t one to be intimidated.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mister.” Helen glared up at him. “This is a women’s colony, and we look after each other.” She took a step forward. His expression lost a touch of its smugness. Satisfaction surged inside Helen, making her bolder. She took a second step. “We protect each other from men who think they can barge in and make demands. Pinkerton or not, you and your questions are not welcome.”

“You got something to hide, sweetpea?” He advanced a step. A long, man-sized step that brought his too-large, too-cocky self within about a yard of where she stood.

Helen’s pulse ratcheted up from a canter to a full-out gallop, but she didn’t back away. Her gaze remained locked on the Pinkerton.

“Helen? Is everythin’ all right?” Claire emerged from the examination room, her face a mask of concern as her gaze swept from her friend to the man standing in her parlor.

In a blink, the Pinkerton’s eyes softened from cold stone to warm chocolate as he turned to smile at Claire.

“Ah, you must be Miss Nevin. There’s no reason to be alarmed, I assure you.” He pivoted away from Helen and strode toward Claire, all traces of hostility swept under the rug. “I’m with the Pinkerton Agency. Elliott Dunbar, at your service.” He dipped his head. “I was just stopping by to ask a few questions, if you have a minute to spare before you leave on your”—he glanced from the small carpetbag Claire carried to the bread and milk in Helen’s arms—“outing.”