Page 42 of Heart on the Line

“Leg’s the worst. Feels like it’s on fire. Head smarts, too. Makes it hard to focus. Think the fellow pistol-whipped me.” He reached for the back of his skull as he tried to raise up off the bed a little, then hissed in a breath and grimaced.

Helen rushed to help support his shoulders. “Don’t try to move.” She gingerly ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his head until she encountered a large bump. “There’s a goose egg back here.” She slowly drew her fingers away. Evidence of blood long dried dusted her knuckles and fingertips, but she encountered nothing wet. “I think it’s already clotted, though. No fresh blood.”

“Hot.” Her stranger tugged at his shirt as if trying to remove it.

Helen snatched up the half-empty glass of water she’d left beside the bed earlier in the day and held it to his lips with her right hand as she wedged her left beneath his shoulders to lift him. He didn’t notice the offering at first, and she grew alarmed at the growing lack of focus in his gaze.

“Here. Drink something. It will help.” She tipped the cup enough to send a tiny stream of water onto his mouth. After that, he drank greedily.

“Not too much,” Claire warned as she moved closer to inspect the wound on his thigh. “It might upset his stomach.”

Helen reluctantly moved the glass away and lowered her stranger’s head back to the mattress.

Peripherally, Helen was aware of Claire lifting his leg and examining both the entrance and exit wounds. Helen was more concerned with his fever, however, so she skirted around the nurse and crossed to the washstand, where she wet a small towel. By the time she returned to the bed, her stranger’s eyes were closed, and he was grunting softly as Claire prodded him.

His pain made Helen’s chest ache. Lord, please don’t let him die. She gently laid the cool rag on his forehead and crooned to him as she combed his hair away from his face with her fingers.

“Shh, now. You’re safe. Claire and I are gonna take real good care of you. You’ll be back to Rachel before you know it.”

At the mention of his sister, his lashes parted. “Helen?”

Her hands stilled. “Yes?”

He blinked a few times as if trying to clear the fever’s fog from his brain. “If I don’t . . .” He swallowed. “If I don’t make it . . . tell Rachel . . . I’m sorry. She’s in . . . Missouri. Carthage. Married name’s . . . West. Give her my Bible . . . in my saddlebag.”

Hearing him voice the same fears she been working so hard to banish made her stomach turn. No way was she going to tell him he had no saddlebags. She couldn’t steal his hope. Heaven knew the scoundrel who had shot him had stolen enough from him already. Her hand trembled, and Helen fisted her fingers to stop the show of weakness. She gritted her teeth. Enough of this soft stuff. There’d be no surrender on her watch.

“Don’t you be giving up on me, mister.” Helen grabbed his chin like a mother taking a recalcitrant child to task and refused to let him turn away. “Rachel doesn’t want your Bible. She wants you. And I—” Good grief. She’d nearly blurted that she wanted him too. “I . . . I still have questions for you.”

The corners of his mustache lifted a fraction. Was he smiling at her while she railed at him like a cranky fishwife?

“What questions?” His voice wobbled, growing weaker, but she could still make it out.

She should ask him about his purpose. See if he knew anything about Grace or the man hunting her. Or get him to describe the man who attacked him. But none of those sensible questions popped out of her mouth. Her heart beat her head to the punch.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes slid the rest of the way closed, but the smile curving his lips stayed in place. “Friends call me . . . Lee.”

His face went lax. Helen released his chin but lingered to stroke his hair again, not quite ready to cease touching him. Her stranger wasn’t a stranger any longer. He was a friend.

“Lee,” she whispered, enjoying the feel of the simple syllable on her tongue. She brushed his hair back a final time then ran her fingertips along the line of his jaw and down to his shoulder. She closed her hand around the well-muscled joint and squeezed, wanting him to hear her even through his unconsciousness.

She bent down until her mouth hovered a bare inch above his ear. “Fight, Lee. Fight with everything you’ve got. I’m not finished with you yet.”

21

Grace spent the remainder of the afternoon burning up the telegraph wires, shuffling the pieces on her imaginary chessboard until they lined up to her satisfaction. Thanks to a cycling enthusiast with a spinster sister on friendly terms with every bookseller in San Antonio, Grace now had a crate of tomes shipping to Harper’s Station with her name on it. Tomes that just happened to include copies of Oliver Twist and Guy Mannering.

“Do you think it will work?” Amos asked after she closed the circuit for the final time and leaned back in her office chair.

Grace blew out a breath, the excitement that had driven her the past three hours fading now that her course was set and she could no longer turn back. “I don’t know. But it seemed like a risk worth taking. If Detective Dunbar falls for the ruse, he’ll take the books and leave, giving me time to make a run for Philadelphia without him being aware.”

Having come to the conclusion that she was never going to trust Elliott Dunbar with her father’s documents, there’d been only one recourse: travel to Philadelphia and place the items in Detective Whitmore’s hands personally. The trip would be expensive, requiring a loan from Emma on top of clearing out most of Grace’s meager savings, but it wasn’t the money that had her worried. Haversham knew her whereabouts and could be lying in wait even now. If she left the safety of the town, she painted a target on her back. Yet she saw no other resolution, and it was past time to bring this matter to a close.

Amos rose from the striped chair and tugged at the bottom of his brown worsted vest, drawing Grace out of her troublesome thoughts. He was so fastidious. Barely a wrinkle marred his clothes, even after a vigorous day of spying and plot contriving. His matching suit coat hung on the wall hook. The rest of his apparel remained formal—shirt buttoned to the chin, tie neat and unloosened. When Amos stood, straightened his shoulders, and cleared his throat, Grace felt a bit as if her old schoolmaster was about to address the class. It was adorable, really. Amos fidgeting yet formal all at the same time.

“It would be my honor to escort you on your journey, Miss Mallory.” A slight reddening of his neck and ears accompanied the pronouncement. “It is not proper for a young woman to travel such a distance unescorted. Nor is it safe, in your current situation.” His light blue gaze glimmered with sincerity and concern. “I realize I’m not a family member”—his ears darkened another shade—“yet I hope you consider me a close enough friend to accept my offer.”