Page 58 of Heart on the Line

Dunbar chuckled. “Aha. Now we’re making progress. Just had to find the right currency.” He stroked a single finger along her hairline, past her temple, over the curve of her ear.

She grimaced at his touch but refused to let him cow her again. God had given her strength, and she would not forfeit that advantage, no matter what he did. She just had to stay focused.

“It’s obvious to me that the documents are hidden somewhere in Harper’s Station.”

Focus, Grace. Don’t let him see your reaction.

“And they’re not in your rooms.” His finger passed beneath her earlobe and drew a line down her neck. “I know because I searched them last Sunday after good old Amos collected you for church.”

Grace blinked. He’d been in her room? Touching her things? A shiver ran over her skin. How had she not noticed? Was he really so good that he’d left no trace, or had she been so distracted by her own scheming that she’d failed to see the signs? Now that she thought about it, he had been late for the service, sneaking into the back sometime after the singing had begun.

“And if they aren’t in your rooms, that means they’re somewhere else. In someone else’s rooms.” His finger traced her collarbone through the fabric of her blouse. “Perhaps with the shopkeeper. Or stashed at the clinic.” His hand crept up to her neck, his fingers gently cupping her throat. “Or maybe they’re with that banker lady who’s always sticking her nose into everyone’s business.”

His fingers tightened. Not enough to truly choke her, but enough to let her know he could. Easily.

Grace lifted her quivering chin and forced herself to keep breathing.

Slowly he slid his hand away. “How badly do you want to protect your friends, Grace? Enough to give me what I want?” He moved his hand to the back of her neck and tugged her close as if he wanted to kiss her.

She pulled away, not that it did any good. His strength dwarfed hers.

He lowered his face, his eyes locking on hers, his mouth inches away from her own. “I have friends, too, Grace,” he said, so close she could feel the words more than hear them. “Friends who would be more than happy to sweep into Harper’s Station and help me look for those missing documents. Friends with guns and low moral character who might get a bit distracted by all the unprotected females running about the place. We would come in the dead of night when only one man stood in our way. A man who sleeps in a second-story room on the west side of the station house and could be taken out with a well-aimed bullet.” Dunbar inched closer, until she could feel the rasp of his beard against her chin. “So you see, it’s up to you. Tell me where the documents are, and I’ll sneak back to town tonight and retrieve them with minimal disruption to the people you care about. Or don’t tell me, and I’ll call in the cavalry to help me . . . look.”

A devil’s bargain. One with no good outcome. If she told him about the books in the bank vault, he’d head there straightaway while Malachi and the other men were out searching for her. Emma—beautiful, stubborn Emma—wouldn’t cooperate. She and the aunts would probably try to take Dunbar out themselves. No telling how many ladies would end up injured or dead.

Holding her tongue wasn’t much better. She’d buy a little time, but the results could be even more catastrophic. Harper’s Station would be annihilated.

Lord, what am I to do?

“Oh, and just to give you one more thing to think about,” Dunbar continued, finally leaning away from her and allowing her to catch a clean breath, “if I have to go hunting with my friends, I promise to personally take out Bledsoe. What do you think? A bullet to the heart, so it’s over nice and quick, seems like the most humane way to go.”

Grace’s heart stopped. She lunged toward her captor, the hook pulling her up short. “You can’t!”

“I’ve done it before.” He smirked. “Oh, that’s right. I haven’t told you my secret yet, have I?”

He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I’m not really a Pinkerton. Not even a dishonest one.” He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “Name’s not even Dunbar. It’s Milton Lockhart.” He winked at her. “You can call me Milt.” He watched her like a mean-spirited boy about to tear the wings from a butterfly. “I shot the real Dunbar and left him for dead after helping myself to his badge and papers.”

Grace flinched at the complete lack of remorse in his tone.

“Kid followed me from Colorado, so I had to get rid of him. But stealing his identity? Well, now, that was just downright fun. Fooled that imbecile marshal of yours—shoot, the entire town.”

He rocked back on his heels, his chest puffing up as if he were actually proud of himself.

“But you know what was even more fun?”

Grace closed her eyes. Stop listening.

“What I enjoyed most was sitting atop the bank building in Denver . . .”

Grace squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Stop listening. A tear formed behind her lids and leaked from the corner of her lashes. Stop listening!

“ . . . aiming my rifle . . .”

She whimpered, then hummed in her throat as if the noise would block out what was coming.

“ . . . and shooting your father right in the chest.”

No! She struggled anew against her bonds, uncaring that the rope cut deeper into her wrists. She saw her daddy fall. Saw the blood. Remembered the helplessness. The anger. The abject grief. And the beast responsible stood in front of her. Chuckling.