Heart on the Line, Page 2

  Movement beneath her window caught her eye. A man approached the street, his fedora as familiar as the gray sack suit covering his shoulders. Grace touched her fingers to the chilled glass, wishing she was there beside him, holding his hand.

  He paused, waiting for a freight wagon to pass by, carefully avoiding the brown, snowy slush that splattered the edge of the boardwalk, then started across the street. At the midway point, a grubby young boy dashed directly in front of her father, causing him to pull up short to avoid a collision. Her father’s hand instinctively dropped down to protect his satchel from the likely pickpocket, but it wasn’t the satchel he should have guarded. In that same moment, a shot rang out. From where, Grace didn’t know, but the muffled pop sliced through her heart like the sharpest blade.

  “Daddy!” She jumped to her feet, her palms pressing desperately against the window. She pounded the glass. “Daddy!”

  He pivoted toward her as he fell, his gaze meeting hers for one brief moment.

  “No!” Her horrified scream echoed through the room as the man she loved more than any other crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his vest.

  Amid the chaos of people screaming and running for cover, the grubby urchin returned to her father’s side, not to help but to snatch the satchel from around his neck. The little devil!

  Grace pushed away from the window. She had to get to her father. But a movement caught her eye before she turned away. Daddy was reaching for something.

  She plastered herself back against the window, needing to understand whatever he was trying to tell her. His awkward movements brought tears to her eyes, but he finally managed to bring his arm up high enough to pull his spectacles from his face.

  Grace’s tears fell in earnest now. She shook her head in silent denial, even as comprehension settled over her. He didn’t have a handkerchief, but with his last breath, Herschel Mallory rubbed one lens of his spectacles, leaving a red smear across the glass.

  The signal was clear.

  Run!

  1

  Late Autumn 1894

  Denison, TX

  Amos Bledsoe! Get out of the street before you run someone over with that infernal contraption!”

  It took a great deal of mental fortitude, but Amos managed not to roll his eyes at the pretty debutante holding court on the boardwalk outside the dressmaker’s shop. His mama had drilled manners into him at an early age, so he chose instead to release the steering handle with one hand and doff his hat to her as he politely slowed his pace.

  “Miss Dexter.” He even offered a smile, though the effort did nothing to soften the indignation on the face of the lady in question. He nodded to her ever-present companions as well. “Miss Berryhill. Miss Watts.”

  “I declare.” Harriet scrunched her nose as she waved a gloved hand in his direction. “If God had meant for mankind to ride upon two-wheeled devices, he wouldn’t have created horses. Just look at you wobbling about. Anyone with half a brain knows that for a vehicle to be sturdy it needs four wheels.”

  “What about a pony cart, Harriet?” Miss Berryhill ventured, her forehead crinkling. “My Aunt Bea rides in one all the time and never has any trouble.”

  “That’s because it’s attached to a pony. A creature with four legs,” Harriet huffed. “The animal keeps the cart steady.”

  Amos had to admit she’d been quick with that rejoinder. As much as he disliked her for so actively disliking him, he couldn’t discount her intelligence. He just wished she’d use it for something other than belittling him in public. It seemed her favorite pastime.

  “Bicycles are quite safe, I assure you,” Amos countered, determined to continue on the path of higher ground. “Even young women ride them. They’re quite the rage back east. Haven’t you seen the pictures in Harper’s Bazar?” All right, so perhaps he’d hit a divot in his higher-ground travels. He couldn’t resist prodding her a little. “My sister said a bicycle costume from Paris was featured on Harper’s cover back in April.” He nodded toward the dressmaker’s shop. “I’m sure if you haven’t seen it, Mrs. Ludlow could let you peruse her copy.”

  He’d never thought it would come in handy to have a sister dedicated to keeping up with the latest fashion trends, but seeing Harriet Dexter flounder for a reply suddenly made all the dull evenings spent in Mother’s parlor, listening to female dither about fabric and patterns, well worth the torture.

  “Really, Amos!” Harriet sputtered. “How vulgar you are to speak of . . . of split skirts and . . . bloomers in mixed company. Why, I’m appalled. Simply appalled.” She sniffed and immediately set off down the boardwalk in the opposite direction. “Come, girls. I see a gentleman more worthy of our time. Oh, Roy!”

  She waved, and a cowboy standing outside Yeidel’s Beer Hall touched the brim of his hat. Right before spitting a juicy wad of tobacco over the railing to mix with the mud of the street.

  Definitely a fine specimen of gentleman-hood. How could Amos possibly hope to compete?

  Taking refuge in mental sarcasm usually removed the worst of rejection’s sting, but a prick or two remained. It always did. Even after years of practice.

  Amos shrugged and remounted his bicycle. He pedaled with more vigor than usual, eager to increase the distance between himself and his latest female failure. Today’s episode shouldn’t bother him. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted Harriet Dexter’s attention. The woman was a shrew of the first order. It was a matter of pride, he supposed. No one liked to be perceived as lacking. Or constantly passed over in favor of a version of manhood he’d never achieve.

  A block past Main and Austin, traffic lessened considerably. Shops gave way to schools, churches, and finally dwellings. Lucy’s home was another three blocks down on Morton Street, which gave him far too much time to ponder the vagaries of the feminine mind before dinner.

  If these were still prehistoric times, when the breadth of a man’s shoulders directly corresponded to one’s likelihood of survival, he could understand a woman preferring a cowpuncher like Roy Edmundson over him, despite the man’s tobacco habit and bent toward liquor. But this was the modern age, a time of scientific discovery and industrial advancement. Yet women still flocked toward the largest muscles and deepest bank accounts available, completely overlooking the benefits of intellect and integrity.

  All right, not all women. There were a few out there with sense enough to see past a fellow’s appearance and status. Lucy. His mother. Amos shifted his grip on the handlebars as he maneuvered around a particularly bumpy section of road. Surely there were others. He pictured the ladies at church who were always ready with a smile for him and a kind word. Gems, every one. Of course, they were all over fifty.

  Amos quirked his mouth into a wry grin. Apparently it took a certain level of maturity and wisdom to appreciate his masculine attributes.

  His smile faded. Surely Miss G didn’t fall into that category. Not that she wasn’t mature or wise. She seemed to be everything a man of intellect would want in a woman. Unless she were old enough to be his mother.

  That utterly depressing thought brought Amos up short, and he nearly rode into the shade tree outside his sister’s house. He corrected at the last second to avoid the collision and vigorously applied the brakes.

  How many months had he pinned his hopes for future happiness on the mysterious Miss G? The lady of sparkle and wit who entertained him with stories of outlaw attacks, quilting fiascos, and a budding romance between a reluctant shop owner and the freighter who carted her goods. He’d been following that tale with particular interest, his own hopes lifting at the prospect of a man’s persistence paying dividends in winning a maiden’s heart. But what if the delightful Miss G was a matronly, grandmotherly figure and not the young woman he’d always pictured? Such a turn of events would be devastating, for he was already more than a little in love with the operator from Harper’s Station.

  That was the peril of being a telegraph operator: one could strike up a conversation or a fr
iendship—or something more—with someone dozens of miles away, a person one had never seen. How easy it would be for this person to misrepresent themselves, to claim to be a young, unmarried beauty when in fact she was a middle-aged mother of five with poor hygiene and a twisted sense of humor. He’d even heard tales of male operators impersonating females to play pranks on their comrades. Amos had worried about falling victim to just such a joke when he’d first stumbled upon Miss G on the lines after hours a few months ago. She’d been so sweetly reluctant to start up a conversation with him, however, that he couldn’t cast her in the role of malevolent trickster.

  He had done some investigating, however. Her station abbreviation, Hs, stood for Harper’s Station, a town he’d never heard of. This initially raised his suspicions, until he put his best sleuth on the case—his mother. She had relatives and gossip contacts all over the state. Within a week, he’d learned that Harper’s Station was some sort of women’s colony started up by a lady banker and her maiden aunts. Which assured him of Miss G’s gender, at least.

  Her age remained a mystery since he’d never be so gauche as to ask. He’d gathered hints, however. For example, she hadn’t mentioned a husband during the course of their conversations, nor children. The only reference to family he could recall was that her mother had taught her telegraphy when she was a child, which left the impression that she was still a young woman. And though she’d never specified, he inferred from her omissions as well as her choice to dwell in a women’s colony that her parents were no longer part of her life. Dead, perhaps, or estranged? He could only speculate.

  The one thing he knew for sure was that she was possessed of a superbly pleasant nature and made him feel as if she looked forward to conversing with him as much as he did with her. Which was a considerable amount. So considerable, in fact, that he spent nearly every evening listening to her tapping on the sounder and responding in kind. Never had he enjoyed another’s company so much.

  But what if Miss G was nothing like the image he had built up in his mind? He didn’t expect a great beauty, didn’t really even want one. Just a woman of somewhat youthful age and passable features, but who could brighten a man’s world with her smile. Whose quiet demeanor would soothe a man’s spirit at the end of a long day. Whose witty observations of life would entertain and banish boredom. She’d already proven to be proficient at the latter two qualities. It was fear of her failing on the former two that kept him from pursuing a personal meeting.

  Reality rarely bore up well when compared to a beloved fantasy. On the other hand, one couldn’t make a life with an idealized figment.

  “You planning on loitering out here until the sun goes down,” a familiar female voice prodded, “or are you going to come join us for dinner?”

  “Bossy as ever, I see,” Amos teased. His sister might be three years younger, but she’d never shied from ordering him around. He grinned, stepped over his bicycle’s crossbar, and pushed the vehicle up to Lucy’s front porch. “I don’t know how Robert puts up with you.”

  “Same way you do,” she sassed, tossing the dish towel she held at his head.

  He dodged with a chuckle and snagged the cloth out of the air. She was right. Both he and Robert loved her to distraction. Amos never would have given Robert permission to marry her if he didn’t.

  “Mama’s already inside,” Lucy announced as Amos ascended the front steps, snapping the dish towel at her skirt. She gave a little squeal and grabbed for the towel. “You beast. Stop that.”

  He let her take it from him then swooped in to kiss her cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Fish entrails and monkey brains.”

  Amos faced the open door and breathed deeply. “Mmm. Amazing how such exotic fare smells just like sausage and onions.”

  Lucy pushed at his shoulder. The effort was easy enough to withstand, thanks to the balance and fitness he’d gained from cycling, but he made a show of staggering sideways to please her.

  “It’s not as if you would notice what we’re eating anyway, as far as your mind was from here a few minutes ago. You should just go see her, you know, instead of tormenting yourself with questions you can’t answer.”

  Amos glared at her. “Mother should never have told you about my inquiry into Harper’s Station.” His sister was far too clever and too much of a matchmaker to let a juicy tidbit like his friendship with a mysterious female telegraph operator go unexplored.

  Lucy shrugged. “I had most of it figured out already. You spending less and less time here after dinner, always needing to swing by the office on your way home. I never expected it to last this long, though.” She elbowed him in the ribs as they walked into the front hall. “Something tells me you’re smitten, big brother.”

  A denial rose to Amos’s lips as warmth crawled up his neck. Thankfully, his nephew saved him from telling a bald-faced lie.

  “Unca ’Mus! Unca ’Mus!” The two-year-old boy ran like a runaway train straight for him, arms outstretched, grin wide.

  Amos’s heart surged with love as he bent down to scoop up the rascal. “Harry! My goodness, but you’re getting heavy.” Pretending to struggle in lifting the tiny sprout off the ground, Amos grunted and groaned. They ran through this routine every night, and it never got old. How could one resist such an enthusiastic welcome?

  Harry, of course, went straight for the glasses as soon as Amos settled him in his arms. Amos had given up trying to avoid the inevitable about six weeks ago and now just let it happen. It was easier that way. Lucy would scold and pry the spectacles out of Harry’s slobbery fingers. Amos would blow a buzz of air against Harry’s neck until the boy giggled uncontrollably and squirmed to get down. Once the little monster ran off, Lucy would hand Amos the glasses. He’d unbend the wire frames, rub the lenses clean, then join the rest of the family in the dining room.

  Tonight, however, his sister held his spectacles for ransom after her son ran off to pester his grandmother. When Amos raised a brow at her, she simply looked at him, all teasing gone from her face.

  “You’d make a great father, you know.”

  “Lucy . . .” Amos shook his head. He didn’t need this tonight. Not after facing down Harriet Dexter and her maids-in-waiting. His sister meant well, but nagging him to marry only made things worse. It wasn’t like he was trying to stay single.

  She touched his arm. “She’s out there, Amos. The right lady for you. And she’ll be a better match than you can even imagine. God will see to that. All you have to do is find her.”

  Amos blew out a breath, a sarcastic laugh escaping with the air. “She’s hiding awfully well, sis.”

  She patted his back then held out his glasses. “Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong places.” She strolled ahead a few steps before swiveling for one last parting shot. “You might try Harper’s Station. I hear there’s a surplus of females there.” Her mouth curved into a smirk. “Might increase your chances with less competition around. I’m sure your friend at the telegraph office could make some recommendations.”

  “Why, you . . .” Amos lurched forward, a growl rumbling in his throat.

  Lucy shrieked and ran off, no doubt straight into her husband’s arms. The perfect refuge for such a disgustingly happy married woman.

  Yet her words lingered, urging Amos to take a risk—to attempt to turn a fantasy into something real and lasting. What was the worst that could happen?

  2

  Harper’s Station, TX

  It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Grace Mallory smiled at the soft comment from Emma Shaw as the two of them slowed their pace on the boardwalk outside the café, not wanting to encroach on the scene playing out in front of the general store.

  “Another prayer answered,” Grace murmured, her joy true and deep at the sight of her friend finally opening herself to the possibility of love. “She deserves to be happy.”

  “Amen to that.” Emma drew to a halt, a smile blossoming across her face.

  Gr
ace stopped as well, her own lips curving at the sight of Victoria Adams—shopkeeper, single mother, and former proponent of the never-trust-a-man-for-any-reason philosophy—standing in the circle of a man’s arms. A very tall, muscular man, whose slouch against the freight wagon at his back did nothing to disguise his massive physique. The complete adoration on his face as he looked down at the woman in his arms, however, made his size completely irrelevant.

  That was what every woman wanted. Evidence of a man’s love, his devotion, his unwavering dedication. Malachi Shaw looked at Emma that way. Grace’s father had looked at her mother that way. And now Mr. Porter looked at Tori in the same manner. Grace’s heart warmed with delight for her friend, yet also panged with a strident chord of envy. Would she ever be the recipient of such a look?

  The vivid image of the last look her father had given her as he lay dying in a cold Colorado street answered her question. Women in hiding didn’t have beaus. Couldn’t have beaus. Not if they wanted to ensure their suitors stayed alive.

  Emma touched her arm. “Grace? Are you all right?”

  Grace immediately smiled to erase any evidence of her melancholy thoughts. “Of course. It’s just that seeing Tori and Ben together reminds me of my parents. My father used to look at my mother that same way.”

  Emma nodded and turned her attention back to the courting couple. “I envy you your memories. The aunts have told me stories about my mother and father’s courtship, and I have the pocket watch my mother gave him with her love note inscribed inside, but I can barely recall their faces, let alone the way they used to look at each other.”