Page 70 of Heart on the Line

Hoofbeats pounded on the road. Riders? Amos dug deep, hope of rescue lending him an extra dose of strength. Keeping his knees tight, he dragged his bare feet underneath him and pressed both insteps into opposite sides of the pole. The pads of his feet found a crevice and stopped his descent. Taking a careful breath, Amos tucked his hips and leaned his torso away from the pole, assuming the position he would have used if he’d had proper lineman boots and a climbing belt. The change in leverage relieved the pressure in his arms. As long as his feet held, he just might—

“Bledsoe? That you up there?”

He’d been so focused on not falling, he’d failed to notice the arrival of the horsemen. One of them held a lantern aloft, making it hard to see his face, but Amos had no trouble recognizing his voice.

“Mr. Shaw. Thank heavens. Is that Mr. Porter behind you?”

“Yep, I’m here. What are you doing on that pole?” The second rider urged his massive elephant of a horse past the marshal to get a better view.

“Sending a telegram, of course,” Amos replied, as if it were an everyday occurrence to find a shoeless Western Union man clinging to a telegraph pole in the middle of a country lane. “Though I could use some assistance returning to the ground. Might I make use of your horse?”

“On my way.” Porter clicked his tongue, and his giant black horse walked forward, his thick, steady hooves thumping against the ground with satisfying firmness. Once directly beneath Amos, Porter reined in the beast and patted its neck. “Stand steady, Hermes,” the freighter’s deep voice rumbled in calm, comforting tones. “Stand steady.”

Amos couldn’t see much, since Porter was directly below him, but he heard saddle leather creaking, something thudding against the ground, and a grunt as the big man shifted.

“Careful, Ben,” the marshal warned. “You’re not exactly the acrobatic type.”

Amos chanced a glance under his elbow. Good heavens. Porter was in the process of standing on his horse’s back. Amos caught a glimpse of the freighter’s white feet in the lantern light and nearly laughed aloud. He had discarded his boots. It seemed to be the theme of the night—daring feets. He did chuckle then.

Amos lifted his head and bit back a groan. The strain of gripping the pole must have pickled his brain. He was laughing at his own puns now.

“I’m in position,” the freighter said. “Let go with your legs and stand on my shoulders.”

Amos glanced down again. The big man’s palms and splayed fingers grasped the wood, nearly matching the circumference of the pole. His head bent toward the pillar, exposing his wide shoulders and muscled back.

“I’ve got Hermes’s head,” the marshal assured them. “He won’t shy.”

“Hermes would never shy,” Porter countered. “Would you, boy?”

The horse snorted as if in answer and held his position.

Tightening his arms, Amos slowly released his left leg. He needed to descend a few more feet before he’d be able to reach Porter. He willed his muscles to hold out a little longer and gritted his teeth through the painful descent. Once within range, he hooked his right foot around the pole to keep from dropping all of his weight onto his rescuer at once, then stretched out his left toward Porter’s shoulder. After that foot found purchase, he unhooked the other and brought it down as well. His arms sagged in relief as the weight transferred to his legs. Using his hands to maintain his balance, he bent his knees and walked his palms down the pole until he crouched on Porter’s shoulders. From there, he crawled down the man’s back until his feet made contact with the saddle.

“Here.” Shaw held out a hand.

Amos clasped it and jumped down to the ground. His cramping legs crumpled beneath him as he hit, but the marshal’s grip kept him upright. Amos nodded his thanks and immediately commenced collecting his knife, stockings, and shoes. “God brought you two at just the right time. I don’t think I could have held on for much longer.”

“I’m impressed you got up there in the first place,” Shaw said, respect ringing in his tone. “Not sure I could have.”

Amos sat, yanked one particularly large splinter from his right instep, then shoved his feet into his socks before starting in on the shoes. “You would if your wife’s life depended on it.”

“Nah,” Ben said, dismounting and taking up his own boots. “He’d have just blown the thing out of the ground.”

Malachi chuckled, but Amos didn’t join in. Now that he had himself put back together, they needed to make tracks.

“We have to go after Lockhart.” Amos finished lacing his second shoe and scrambled to his feet. “I can lead you to him, or at least to where he was twenty minutes ago.”

“Near the Gladstone place?” The marshal shared a look with Porter as the two of them remounted their horses.

“How did you . . . ?”

Porter leaned down and extended his arm to Amos. “Dunbar—the real one,” the freighter clarified as he swung Amos up onto the horse behind him, “was waiting for me in town when I returned. Told me about the Gladstone woman.”

“Ben headed out immediately and caught me on the road. Convinced me the Pinkerton was in good enough shape to help guard the women, so I turned around.”

Amos pointed at a spot across the road. “There’s a clearing through there. Grace managed to wound Lockhart and steal his horse, but we can’t take anything for granted. He knows the books are in the bank vault, and beyond that, he’s got a personal vendetta to settle against Grace.” He met the marshal’s quickly hardening gaze with an unyielding stare of his own. “Neither of our women will be safe until that man is behind bars.”

The marshal handed the lantern to Porter and slid his revolver from its holster. “Lead the way.”