Page 4 of Heart on the Line

“Bicycles are quite safe, I assure you,” Amos countered, determined to continue on the path of higher ground. “Even young women ride them. They’re quite the rage back east. Haven’t you seen the pictures in Harper’s Bazar?” All right, so perhaps he’d hit a divot in his higher-ground travels. He couldn’t resist prodding her a little. “My sister said a bicycle costume from Paris was featured on Harper’s cover back in April.” He nodded toward the dressmaker’s shop. “I’m sure if you haven’t seen it, Mrs. Ludlow could let you peruse her copy.”

He’d never thought it would come in handy to have a sister dedicated to keeping up with the latest fashion trends, but seeing Harriet Dexter flounder for a reply suddenly made all the dull evenings spent in Mother’s parlor, listening to female dither about fabric and patterns, well worth the torture.

“Really, Amos!” Harriet sputtered. “How vulgar you are to speak of . . . of split skirts and . . . bloomers in mixed company. Why, I’m appalled. Simply appalled.” She sniffed and immediately set off down the boardwalk in the opposite direction. “Come, girls. I see a gentleman more worthy of our time. Oh, Roy!”

She waved, and a cowboy standing outside Yeidel’s Beer Hall touched the brim of his hat. Right before spitting a juicy wad of tobacco over the railing to mix with the mud of the street.

Definitely a fine specimen of gentleman-hood. How could Amos possibly hope to compete?

Taking refuge in mental sarcasm usually removed the worst of rejection’s sting, but a prick or two remained. It always did. Even after years of practice.

Amos shrugged and remounted his bicycle. He pedaled with more vigor than usual, eager to increase the distance between himself and his latest female failure. Today’s episode shouldn’t bother him. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted Harriet Dexter’s attention. The woman was a shrew of the first order. It was a matter of pride, he supposed. No one liked to be perceived as lacking. Or constantly passed over in favor of a version of manhood he’d never achieve.

A block past Main and Austin, traffic lessened considerably. Shops gave way to schools, churches, and finally dwellings. Lucy’s home was another three blocks down on Morton Street, which gave him far too much time to ponder the vagaries of the feminine mind before dinner.

If these were still prehistoric times, when the breadth of a man’s shoulders directly corresponded to one’s likelihood of survival, he could understand a woman preferring a cowpuncher like Roy Edmundson over him, despite the man’s tobacco habit and bent toward liquor. But this was the modern age, a time of scientific discovery and industrial advancement. Yet women still flocked toward the largest muscles and deepest bank accounts available, completely overlooking the benefits of intellect and integrity.

All right, not all women. There were a few out there with sense enough to see past a fellow’s appearance and status. Lucy. His mother. Amos shifted his grip on the handlebars as he maneuvered around a particularly bumpy section of road. Surely there were others. He pictured the ladies at church who were always ready with a smile for him and a kind word. Gems, every one. Of course, they were all over fifty.

Amos quirked his mouth into a wry grin. Apparently it took a certain level of maturity and wisdom to appreciate his masculine attributes.

His smile faded. Surely Miss G didn’t fall into that category. Not that she wasn’t mature or wise. She seemed to be everything a man of intellect would want in a woman. Unless she were old enough to be his mother.

That utterly depressing thought brought Amos up short, and he nearly rode into the shade tree outside his sister’s house. He corrected at the last second to avoid the collision and vigorously applied the brakes.

How many months had he pinned his hopes for future happiness on the mysterious Miss G? The lady of sparkle and wit who entertained him with stories of outlaw attacks, quilting fiascos, and a budding romance between a reluctant shop owner and the freighter who carted her goods. He’d been following that tale with particular interest, his own hopes lifting at the prospect of a man’s persistence paying dividends in winning a maiden’s heart. But what if the delightful Miss G was a matronly, grandmotherly figure and not the young woman he’d always pictured? Such a turn of events would be devastating, for he was already more than a little in love with the operator from Harper’s Station.

That was the peril of being a telegraph operator: one could strike up a conversation or a friendship—or something more—with someone dozens of miles away, a person one had never seen. How easy it would be for this person to misrepresent themselves, to claim to be a young, unmarried beauty when in fact she was a middle-aged mother of five with poor hygiene and a twisted sense of humor. He’d even heard tales of male operators impersonating females to play pranks on their comrades. Amos had worried about falling victim to just such a joke when he’d first stumbled upon Miss G on the lines after hours a few months ago. She’d been so sweetly reluctant to start up a conversation with him, however, that he couldn’t cast her in the role of malevolent trickster.

He had done some investigating, however. Her station abbreviation, Hs, stood for Harper’s Station, a town he’d never heard of. This initially raised his suspicions, until he put his best sleuth on the case—his mother. She had relatives and gossip contacts all over the state. Within a week, he’d learned that Harper’s Station was some sort of women’s colony started up by a lady banker and her maiden aunts. Which assured him of Miss G’s gender, at least.

Her age remained a mystery since he’d never be so gauche as to ask. He’d gathered hints, however. For example, she hadn’t mentioned a husband during the course of their conversations, nor children. The only reference to family he could recall was that her mother had taught her telegraphy when she was a child, which left the impression that she was still a young woman. And though she’d never specified, he inferred from her omissions as well as her choice to dwell in a women’s colony that her parents were no longer part of her life. Dead, perhaps, or estranged? He could only speculate.

The one thing he knew for sure was that she was possessed of a superbly pleasant nature and made him feel as if she looked forward to conversing with him as much as he did with her. Which was a considerable amount. So considerable, in fact, that he spent nearly every evening listening to her tapping on the sounder and responding in kind. Never had he enjoyed another’s company so much.

But what if Miss G was nothing like the image he had built up in his mind? He didn’t expect a great beauty, didn’t really even want one. Just a woman of somewhat youthful age and passable features, but who could brighten a man’s world with her smile. Whose quiet demeanor would soothe a man’s spirit at the end of a long day. Whose witty observations of life would entertain and banish boredom. She’d already proven to be proficient at the latter two qualities. It was fear of her failing on the former two that kept him from pursuing a personal meeting.

Reality rarely bore up well when compared to a beloved fantasy. On the other hand, one couldn’t make a life with an idealized figment.

“You planning on loitering out here until the sun goes down,” a familiar female voice prodded, “or are you going to come join us for dinner?”

“Bossy as ever, I see,” Amos teased. His sister might be three years younger, but she’d never shied from ordering him around. He grinned, stepped over his bicycle’s crossbar, and pushed the vehicle up to Lucy’s front porch. “I don’t know how Robert puts up with you.”

“Same way you do,” she sassed, tossing the dish towel she held at his head.

He dodged with a chuckle and snagged the cloth out of the air. She was right. Both he and Robert loved her to distraction. Amos never would have given Robert permission to marry her if he didn’t.

“Mama’s already inside,” Lucy announced as Amos ascended the front steps, snapping the dish towel at her skirt. She gave a little squeal and grabbed for the towel. “You beast. Stop that.”

He let her take it from him then swooped in to kiss her cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

“Fish entrails and monkey brains.”

Amos faced the open door and breathed deeply. “Mmm. Amazing how such exotic fare smells just like sausage and onions.”

Lucy pushed at his shoulder. The effort was easy enough to withstand, thanks to the balance and fitness he’d gained from cycling, but he made a show of staggering sideways to please her.

“It’s not as if you would notice what we’re eating anyway, as far as your mind was from here a few minutes ago. You should just go see her, you know, instead of tormenting yourself with questions you can’t answer.”