Heart on the Line, Page 3

  Grace squeezed Emma’s hand, thankful for the reminder that she wasn’t the only one who had experienced loss and hardship. “I imagine they looked at each other in much the same way you and Malachi do now.”

  Emma’s cheeks grew rosy, but her smile shone even more brightly. She squeezed Grace’s hand in return. “I hope you’re right. Because when Mal looks at me with love in his eyes, I feel like I can accomplish any task, endure any hardship, and overcome any obstacle, as long as he’s by my side.”

  “I think you’ve proven that in the last few months,” Grace said with a soft chuckle.

  Emma joined in the laughter. “Yes. Too much proof, as far as I’m concerned. Hopefully we won’t put the theory to such an extensive test again anytime soon.”

  Remembering the life-threatening attacks against Harper’s Station a few months ago, Grace heartily agreed.

  “Thanks again for joining me for dinner tonight.” Emma slipped her hand free and rubbed her arms against the brisk wind that swept over them. “Betty always insists on feeding Malachi on the days he works for her. Thankfully the new coop is nearly complete. Once the laying hens move in, I’ll be able to claim my husband for evening meals again.”

  Grace smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  Ever since her marriage, Emma had gone out of her way to assure the ladies of Harper’s Station that her new status as a wife in no way affected her dedication to their community. If it hadn’t been dinner at the café tonight, Grace was certain Emma would have arranged another time for the two of them to chat. And not just about telegraph business. Emma might be a banker and the town manager, but first and foremost, she was a friend. The kind who welcomed a runaway, grief-stricken girl with open arms and gave her not only a job but also a home.

  The wind picked up, causing the temperature to dip as the sun plunged toward the horizon. A shiver coursed over Grace, urging her to make a quick dash back to her rooms at the telegraph office and the stove that waited for her there.

  It wasn’t just the stove she was eager to return to. She cast another glance at Tori and Ben, warmth infusing her cheeks as he leaned close and brushed a kiss across the shopkeeper’s cheek. Grace might not have a man to hold her, to stand by her side, or to kiss her good night, but she did have a particular friend. One who corresponded with her nearly every evening and who might, even now, be calling her on the wire.

  She glanced toward the small clapboard building on the outskirts of town. Anticipation surged inside her, despite her attempts to stifle it.

  This was too ridiculous. For all she knew, Mr. A was a middle-aged dandy who wore a girdle to contain his generous belly and doused himself in suffocating amounts of strong cologne. She could probably overlook the girth, but the cologne? She never could abide the artificial smell of toilet water. Especially since men who opted to wear such scents tended to do so in place of bathing. Having a hundred miles between them was probably a good thing.

  So why was she stepping down from the boardwalk and lifting a hand to wave farewell to Emma?

  “I’m going to get out of this wind,” she heard herself say. “Give Malachi my regards.”

  Emma nodded. “I will.” Only a slight wrinkle in her brow hinted at her curiosity over Grace’s eagerness to depart. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too.” Reinforcing her excuse, Grace tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and jogged toward her rooms.

  When she pushed open the door, the heat from her stove washed over her in gentle welcome. She slipped off her shawl, folded it over her arm, then turned to click the lock into place. Even in a town full of women she trusted with her life, Grace never retired without locking the front door and checking all the windows. She made her rounds hurriedly tonight but still inspected every latch to make sure it was secure.

  The sounder in the office was quiet. No tapping coming through the wire yet. Mentally insisting she was not disappointed, Grace hung up her shawl, exchanged her less comfortable heeled button boots for a pair of soft kid leather slippers, and put on a kettle for tea.

  By the time she had a steaming cup in hand, the first tappings echoed though the office doorway. Her silly heart leapt at the sound, but she forced her feet to move at a sedate pace from her private chamber, which served as bedroom, kitchen, and sitting room, into the office.

  She always kept the doorway open at night, in case an emergency message came through, but Western Union operators were not required to work after hours. They were, however, given the privilege of conversing with one another when not on the clock. Many stayed late or arrived early to do so. Very few conversed as late in the evening as this, though. Most were home with their families by now, so there was a greater chance of privacy. That was one of the reasons she allowed herself to indulge in these nightly chats with Mr. A. The late hour didn’t bother her, since she lived in the same building where the telegraph was housed, but what about her companion?

  He spoke often of his mother and sister, his nephew. He had family, people who cared about him. So why did he spend his evenings conversing with her over the telegraph wires? Could he be as lonely as she was?

  Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Three unit pause. Dot. Dot. Dot. Seven unit pause. Dash. Dash. Dot. Seven unit pause.

  . - . - . . - . - - - - - . . - - . . . . . . - . .

  Hs. G. Are you there?

  It was Mr. A. She’d recognize his quick touch at the key anywhere. So crisp and precise. A metronome couldn’t create spaces any more rhythmic. She’d long admired his deft hand at the key. Setting her tea on the table, Grace slid into her office chair, a giddy tickle in her stomach despite her best efforts to maintain a sense of detachment.

  Yes, Station Dn. I’m here.

  Excellent! I worried I had waited too long to call. Dinner at my sister’s took longer than expected.

  I hope you didn’t rush away on my account, Grace tapped. She touched the key, intending to reassure him that she could answer his call anytime, since her personal chambers were only a couple steps away from the office, but such a detail seemed too intimate to share, even with someone she’d corresponded with for several months. She settled for a more generalized reply. Family ranks higher than friendship.

  Not when they insist on driving one to distraction. I was eager to escape. Believe me.

  What dastardly plague did they set upon you? Grace grinned as she tapped out the words. Mr. A always seemed to have a humorous story to tell about his family, his life so wonderfully normal that whenever she listened to him, she managed to forget all about danger and unseen foes. For a few blessed minutes, she was simply a girl talking to a young man, no worries in sight.

  I dare not tell you, for fear of spreading the contagion. It seems to strike the women around me with alarming regularity.

  Intrigued, Grace leaned forward. Surely the distance between us will serve as adequate protection.

  My mother and sister have both been afflicted for some time, I’m sorry to say, but tonight their symptoms worsened.

  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 int
erests 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?

  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.

  Grace straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I need to have a word with you and Emma. If she’s available.”

  “I’m right here, Grace.” Emma str
ode into the parlor from the kitchen. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her ink-stained fingers suggested she’d been tallying household accounts. A long tress of dark hair had fallen loose from its pins and hung across her forehead. Emma tucked it behind her ear as she stepped into the room. Her hand grazed Malachi’s arm as she moved past him, the movement natural and affectionate, yet her compassionate eyes never left Grace’s face. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”

  Henrietta Chandler followed on Emma’s heels, her sleeves also rolled up. She held a dinner plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other. Her face glowed with righteous purpose. “Should I get my bloomers?”

  Grace couldn’t help but smile just a bit. Lord love Aunt Henry. She was always ready to battle the forces of intellectual darkness for the cause of women’s rights, her famous bloomers being her armor of choice. “I don’t think the bloomers will be necessary tonight, Henry. I just need to talk.”

  One brow rose on the eldest Chandler sister’s forehead. “If it’s serious enough to summon Malachi, it’s serious enough for bloomers. I’ll fetch ’em as soon as I finish the dishes.” Which she set to immediately, spinning about in a swish of skirts to march back into the kitchen.

  Bertie Chandler’s amused gaze met Grace’s. “Henry’s been complaining that things have been dull around here lately. You know how she loves a good crusade. She’s been itching for an excuse to don those awful pantaloons for weeks.” Bertie shuddered, eliciting a chuckle from Grace, no doubt Bertie’s intent from the beginning. She had a gift for putting people at ease.

  And it worked. Emma joined in the quiet laughter, and even a bit of the vehemence dimmed from Malachi’s expression when he smiled along with them.

  Grace’s nerves hadn’t completely abated, but the release gained by laughing, even for the briefest of moments, slowed the frantic pace of her swirling stomach.

  “Come,” Emma said as she took Grace’s arm and led her toward the parlor’s sofa. “Sit down and tell us what happened. It must be a new development, since you didn’t say anything at dinner.”