Page 8 of Heart on the Line

The wire crackled, and tapping ensued.

Hs? Is there a reply?

Amos bent forward in his seat, circling both arms around the telegraph as if he could comfort his lady through his posture. All of his energy centered on listening for Miss G’s reply.

Hs? the sender repeated after several seconds ticked by with no response.

Message received. No reply. Hs off.

“No,” Amos groaned. “Don’t sign off. Not yet.”

He waited for the other operator to sign off. Then waited another painstaking, time-crawling minute to ensure privacy on the line.

G? Are you there? he tapped.

“Please be there,” he begged under his breath. “I need to know you’re all right. Don’t shut me out.”

He fingered the key again. Please. I want to help.

He sat there for twenty minutes, waiting for a reply that never came.

She was gone. Just like that. The very moment he’d found the courage to open himself up to the possibility of a meeting, another man swooped in and plucked her from his loose-fingered grasp.

Amos flopped backward in his chair, suddenly more drained than if he’d ridden his bicycle along the MKT rail line all the way to Wichita Falls.

The perfect woman. One who actually enjoyed conversing with him, who made him laugh, who brightened his evenings. One who was younger than he . . . and single. A woman—not a relative or aged church member—who made him feel like he wasn’t a mistake, like he had value, purpose.

Amos straightened. Planted both feet on the floor.

Purpose.

What if God had not been taunting him with what he could never have? What if God had directed his evening at Lucy’s to run later than usual for a specific reason? To ensure that he was on the wire when that emergency message came through. What if God had allowed him to feel closer to Miss G than ever before right as that message hit the wire so that he’d be invested?

Invested enough to take action.

Amos surged to his feet. He set his chin, then grabbed his coat and locked up his office. He had a bag to pack, a replacement operator to find, and a family to say farewell to, all before the first train left in the morning.

Grace ignored the siren call of the telegraph. Please. I want to help.

If only it were that easy. But Mr. A didn’t know what helping her would mean. A vision of her father falling in the mud-riddled street, a red stain spreading over his chest, filled her mind. She couldn’t drag her new friend into this danger. Nor could she risk the safety of her current friends. She had to warn Emma.

Stomach swirling, Grace retrieved her shawl, slid her palm down the side of her skirt to ensure the derringer she always carried in the garter holster on her right thigh was still in place, then stepped out into the night.

The cold wind stung her face and flapped her skirt, but she bent into the force of it and lengthened her stride. Time was of the essence.

She trudged toward the old stagecoach station that Emma had converted into a home for herself and her two maiden aunts, Henrietta and Alberta Chandler. After Emma and Malachi married, they chose to stay in the station house with the aunts until they could build a home of their own. Mal had an area cleared in the empty field across from the church and had started framing out the walls, but with all his other duties, it would likely be a few months before he finished it.

Having the Shaws still close at hand would be a blessing tonight. Grace tightened her grip on her shawl and marched on. Once she reached the station house, she climbed the front porch steps, paused to take a deep breath, then knocked. A kind-faced woman with a loose bun of graying hair at her nape opened the door.

“Miss Mallory. What brings you out at such a late hour, dear?” Alberta Chandler ushered Grace inside. “Is there trouble at the telegraph office?”

“I’m afraid a matter of some urgency has come up. Is Malachi . . . ?” The question dissolved, having become irrelevant. A tall man with fierce eyes stepped into the parlor, his boot heels clunking against the floorboards as he approached from the hall.

“Grace?” His gaze darted to the front window behind her as he reached for the gun belt hanging on a nearby wall hook. “You need help?”

Her stomach danced with nerves. She hated being the center of attention—especially when that attention came from a man with his hand wrapped around a weapon—but there was nothing for it. Trouble was on its way, and the marshal of Harper’s Station needed to be prepared.

She gave a jerky nod, shame making her chest ache. Her secret had put these people in danger. Friends who had blindly taken her in, never guessing what price their kindness might demand. Yet these same friends had successfully ousted a murderous outlaw and overcome a businessman’s scheme to ruin the town’s commerce. If anyone could stand strong in the face of difficulty, the ladies—and the rare occasional gentleman—of Harper’s Station could.