Page 64 of Heart on the Line

Grace’s heart seized. “No!” Her neck muscles tightened in a vain attempt to halt the downward motion. “Please . . .” Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

The pressure eased slightly. “Where are the documents, Grace?”

“I—I don’t know. I couldn’t find them.”

The pressure resumed, forcing her face closer to the water. Her chin broke the surface.

“Then where are the books?” Lockhart insisted. “The real books. The ones your father took from Haversham’s library?”

Grace wept. She wanted to tell him, God help her. She wanted this torture to end. But telling him wouldn’t spare her life. Lockhart would surely kill her as soon as he had what he needed. And then he’d go after Emma.

“Where are the books?” His deep voice boomed like thunder next to her ear.

“I . . . can’t.”

He shoved her down. This time she didn’t fight. Not until her lungs pinched and instinct took over. Then she thrashed against his hold, not that it did any good. His weight pressed her down so deep that her forehead scraped the bottom of the barrel.

Then all at once his hold vanished. Her head flew up. Streaming hair whipped against her back as she threw her chin toward the ceiling and sucked in the air she craved. It took her a moment to realize her captor was striding away. Even longer to register the banging on the barn door.

Escape her only thought, Grace used her bound hands to tug herself onto shaking legs. Stumbling forward, she ran in the opposite direction. Away from the water barrel. Away from Lockhart.

Her derringer! Grace grabbed the fabric of her skirt and drew it upward as she ran. She should be able to extract it from the holster, but with her wrists bound, getting a proper grip on it would prove difficult. She only had one shot. If she fumbled it—missed—any advantage would be lost.

As she staggered deeper into the barn, her petticoats at half-mast, her toe collided with something metal hidden in the straw. She glanced down. A small pair of pruning shears. Dropped. Forgotten. An answer to the prayer she hadn’t even uttered. Grace dove to her knees and snatched up the handles. The shears were stiff and rusty, but if she could pry them open . . .

“ . . . man you warned me about, the telegraph operator. He’s here!”

Grace froze. Amos?

Irene Gladstone’s excited voice bounced through the rafters. “I caught him sneaking around the barn when I stopped to check on the stock in the paddock. He was peeping through a knothole then pulled a gun. I remembered what you said about your prisoner’s crazy brother. I couldn’t let him shoot you! So I extinguished the lantern, crept up behind him, and bashed him over the head with it.”

“Where is he?” Lockhart’s clipped tones contrasted sharply with Miss Gladstone’s animated recounting.

“Just around the corner. I’ll show you.”

“I have to secure my prisoner first.”

Footsteps echoed. Closer.

Grace fumbled the shears. She had to hide them.

Dragging her bound wrists across her body, she searched for the opening to her skirt pocket, but the slit eluded her. She whimpered. Please. Oh, please. She strained against the bindings, her right elbow poking out at a painful angle, but finally the tips of the shears found the opening. Thank you, God!

Grace jostled them all the way in a heartbeat before a vise closed around her protruding right arm.

“Come, Miss Mallory. No more hiding.” Lockhart jerked her forward and dragged her back to where she’d first awoken, on the lopsided pile of straw outside the first stall.

“Good heavens!” Miss Gladstone declared. “What happened?”

Lockhart exuded a beleaguered sigh as he tossed Grace down on the straw and wrapped a leather strap around her middle, pinning her arms down atop her belly in the process. He pulled her back to her feet, cinched the strap so tight behind her back that it pinched her ribs, then fastened the remaining length to a metal hoop anchored in the wall behind her.

“I thought she might like to wash her face and clean up a bit after the long day, so I dragged the water barrel out here for her to make use of. Unfortunately, when I went to find the carriage lights you mentioned, she tried to drown herself.” He wagged his head as he turned to consider Grace’s sodden clothes and stringy hair. “The guilt is too much for her, I’m afraid. It’s rotted what is left of her mind.”

“Thank heavens you got to her in time.” Miss Gladstone placed a hand to her throat. “I certainly feel no love for the pitiful creature, but I wouldn’t want her to do herself in. Not in Papa’s barn.” She shivered at the grisly thought.

Grace considered arguing but decided to save her breath. Heaven knew she needed it.

“Well, my good timing was surpassed by your own, Irene. Subduing an intruder with only a lantern for a weapon? Such a courageous, resourceful woman. I’m overcome with admiration.” He took the woman’s arm and steered her toward the entrance as she beamed up at him. “I best see to him quickly, though. I would hate for him to escape only to return and seek revenge. If one hair on your lovely head were harmed, I’d . . . well, I’d never forgive myself.”