Page 7 of Heart on the Line

That sounds dire, indeed. Did you call a physician?

No point. There is only one cure to their ailment. And apparently I must administer the healing dose.

Then you should do so at once, Grace replied, grinning as she reached for her tea. Mr. A never failed to entertain.

I would, of course, he said, but I find the key ingredient in the required elixir to be frustratingly elusive.

Can you not simply visit a druggist?

I’m afraid not. You see, the item I must find in order to cure this plague of interference is . . . a wife.

The tea Grace had just sipped spewed from her mouth to splatter over the table in front of her. Coughs spasmed in her throat.

A wife?

A strange fluttery sensation danced through her belly. He wasn’t married. Why did that knowledge please her so well? Her hand trembled as she reached for the key. She had to make some kind of response. But what should she say?

I’m sure they only have your best interests at heart.

They do. But a twenty-eight-year-old man doesn’t want his personal life dictated by his female relations.

Twenty-eight. A man in his prime. A man who was suddenly sharing more personal details with her than he ever had before.

Grace dabbed at the spilled tea with a handkerchief, her mind spinning. Was he fishing for details in return? She wanted to reciprocate. It was what a friend would do. Yet she couldn’t afford to say too much.

I can’t claim as many years of experience dealing with meddling relations as you can, but a couple friends of mine recently decided that marriage is not without its advantages. Thankfully, they have so far avoided seeing me as a matchmaking prospect.

Grace yanked her hand from the telegraph key and made a fist, her heart pumping in a wild rhythm. Details cloaked in vagueness. Would he understand what she’d just revealed? The wire remained silent for an eternally long moment.

Count your blessings, he finally sent, his usually metronome-like precision stuttering slightly. Perhaps we could meet sometime to commiserate. I would—

Clear the line, a brash staccato tapping interrupted. I need to break in. This is an emergency.

Grace nearly jumped from her chair at the pounding intrusion. It exploded across the wire like cannon fire in a still forest.

Proceed, came the answer from Mr. A. Immediate. Meticulous. All hint of personal vulnerability gone.

Grace replied in kind, though she feared her touch on the key had yet to reassert its professional tone.

Hs. Cs station has a message to relay. Are you on the wire?

A message from the Colorado Springs station? Grace shivered as she lurched forward to answer. Yes. This is Hs station. G on the wire. Go ahead.

Message relayed from R as follows: He knows where you are. Coming for you. Sorry.

Everything in Grace stilled. Numbness spread from her mind to her limbs and finally to her heart. Her day of reckoning had arrived.

Chaucer Haversham had found her.

3

Amos stared at the telegraph that had fallen eerily silent. What was happening on the other end? Was Miss G in trouble? And how should he respond? It was his sworn duty not to speak of anything he learned via the wire. All communication was confidential. But he couldn’t just ignore what he’d heard. It was too ominous.

If Miss G fled, how would he ever find her again? And if she didn’t and the mysterious he caught up with her? Amos’s hands clenched into tight fists. He had to do something. Had to help her somehow.

He glared at the wires leading from the telegraph, up the wall, and outside. If only he could travel via those same wires to Miss G’s side. To hold her, comfort her, protect her from whatever villain threatened.

Why now, God? Why are you snatching her away from me at the very moment we started to connect on a more personal level? Is this your way of telling me I’m destined to be alone?