Page 38 of Heart on the Line

Claire shot a nervous glance Helen’s way, one the far-too-perceptive Pinkerton no doubt picked up on. The girl’s face displayed her emotions like a shop window showed off the latest bonnet styles.

“I asked him to leave.” Helen jumped in before Claire could give anything away. “We have a commitment that we’re already running late for.” She directed her comment to the detective, praying that Claire understood the need to be vague about their errand. “If you have questions, I suggest you visit with Emma Shaw. She runs this town and knows everything that goes on here.”

Emma might know everything that went on in town, but thankfully she was ignorant of happenings out by the pecan grove.

“I’ve already visited with Mr. and Mrs. Shaw,” Dunbar said, shooting a frown at Helen before turning a smile on the more susceptible Claire. “And while they were helpful, I’m sure they don’t know everything. In my experience,” he murmured in that panther purr Helen despised while sidling closer to the redhead, “it’s the quiet observers who notice the most pertinent details, especially ones with the intelligence to process what they see and make meaningful conclusions. And you”—he pointed his hat toward Claire—“are exactly that kind of person. I can see it in your eyes. You’re clever, kind, and—”

“Late for our appointment.” Helen lunged forward and physically inserted herself between the detective and Claire. “Sorry, Pinkerton, but we’ve got to go. There are people waiting on us.” She grabbed Claire’s hand and started tugging her toward the front door. “This town is full of smart, kind women,” Helen tossed out over her shoulder. “Go pester one of the others with your questions. Start at the boardinghouse for the largest selection.”

Helen didn’t stop until she had Claire out on the porch, but once there, the younger girl stood fast.

“I can’t be leavin’ him inside, Helen,” she whispered in an urgent undertone. Then she raised her voice to carry to the snail-paced detective still in the parlor. “If ye’ll kindly exit the clinic, Mr. Dunbar, sir. I be needin’ to lock up afore we set out.”

The irritating man moved as fast as a tortoise stuck in molasses. Finally his boots cleared the threshold, and Helen yanked the door closed behind him, enjoying the little jolt of annoyance that flashed through his eyes when the wood smacked him in the rear.

He fit his hat back on his head and nodded to Claire. Helen, he ignored. “I’ll call again tomorrow, Miss Nevin, when you’re less . . . occupied.”

He was still going to be here tomorrow? Helen clenched her teeth. Not only were the men multiplying in Harper’s Station, but their quality was deteriorating rapidly. And the one person she’d chosen to share her secret with now had a date with the man who was probably responsible for her stranger’s injuries.

“I can’t imagine what help I’d be to ye,” Claire said, and Helen’s hope began a cautious glide upward at her friend’s evasion, “but if our paths cross, I suppose I could find time to answer a question or two.”

And just like that, hope dropped out of the sky like a duck peppered with birdshot.

Dunbar sketched a bow. “I’ll look forward to crossing your lovely path tomorrow then, Miss Nevin.” He barely flicked his gaze toward Helen before tipping his hat to Claire. “Good day, ladies.”

And finally—finally—he strode away.

“Good riddance,” Helen muttered under her breath. Then she turned to Claire. “You can’t tell him anything about what you see today. Promise me.”

“I’ll do me best to keep mum, but he’s a lawman. I can’t be lyin’ to the law.”

Helen grabbed her friend by the arm and steered her toward the waiting horse. “He’s not the law, Claire. Malachi’s the law. He’s just a detective snooping around where he don’t belong.” They passed through the gate, and Claire twisted to pull it closed behind them. “There ain’t no law that says you have to answer his questions.”

“But don’t ye suppose refusin’ to answer makes us look a mite suspicious? He might not be the law, but I’m thinkin’ he’s got a nose that can sniff out secrets. If ye don’t want him sniffin’ too close, ye gotta throw him off the scent with something sweet enough to satisfy him.”

Helen paused in stuffing the milk jug into her saddlebag. “You might have a point.” She shot a stern glance over her shoulder. “But you’ve got to be careful with that one. I saw the way your eyes went all dewy when he turned the force of his charm on you. He’s dangerous.”

“Aye, he’s bonny, all right, but I got more sense than to let a fine-lookin’ lad turn me head into a mush pot.” Claire reached up to loop the leather handles of her carpetbag around the saddle horn. “Ye can trust me, Helen. If ye say our errand today must be kept secret, I’ll not tell a soul.” She smiled, and her blue eyes twinkled. “With seven younger sisters at home, I’ve had me share of secret-keepin’ experience.”

Helen managed a small smile in return, then she untied the horse’s reins and mounted. Removing her foot from the left stirrup so Claire could mount behind her, Helen reached for the young nurse and helped her gain a seat.

As best she could figure, her stranger had been shot sometime early this morning, long enough ago to lose a bunch of blood and develop a fever. Which meant this newcomer could be the culprit. But while she didn’t trust this Dunbar fellow more than a wooden nickel, he was still a Pinkerton, and as such, the shooting could have been justified.

A ribbon of doubt wove through Helen’s heart at the thought of Rachel’s brother being in the wrong, but logic rose to snip the thread. A lawman—an honest lawman—wouldn’t shoot a man and leave him to die, even if the fellow were a criminal. He’d drag his carcass to jail.

So either this Mr. Dunbar didn’t shoot her stranger, or he was pretending to be something he wasn’t. Either way, Helen needed to put as much space between her and the Pinkerton as possible.

Touching her heels to the mare’s flanks, she urged the sturdy animal to a canter. Once they reached the cabin, Helen drew the mare to a halt and waited impatiently for Claire to slide down so she could dismount. After Claire retrieved her supplies, Helen led the horse a few paces away to a shaded spot with plenty of grass to forage. She had just turned back to escort Claire into the cabin when the creak of the door hinges warned she was too late.

“Umm . . . Helen?” Claire’s voice wobbled and pitched upward in obvious distress.

Helen bounded through the doorway then skidded to a halt, arrested by the same sight that must have frozen Claire where she stood.

“Have me eyes suddenly opened to the world of the Fey, or is that a verra angry man tied to yer bed?”

19

Amos spied two women exiting the clinic and immediately realized who would be walking through the door next. Without taking the time to explain, he grabbed Grace’s hand and dragged her down the road a few yards. When they reached the oak tree that grew between the café and the first of three houses on the edge of town, he twirled her around and pressed her against the oak’s trunk, all while keeping the third house, where the clinic resided, in his peripheral vision.