13

Amos instinctively stepped between Grace and the towering stranger with the far too attentive gaze. The man had every desirable physical characteristic Amos lacked. Every one.

And Grace had noticed.

Instead of staring at the floor as she had the first time Amos had met her and several times thereafter, she gazed directly at the stranger’s chiseled features, her golden eyes wide. Rapt. Ensnared.

Amos’s jaw clenched. Great. Just what he needed when he’d finally decided to court a woman: competition. In a women’s colony. He must be cursed.

Taking a deliberate step to the left in order to block the Pinkerton’s direct line of sight to Grace, Amos extended his hand over the counter. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dunbar. I’m Amos Bledsoe.”

Finally, the man removed his gaze from Grace and looked at Amos. He smiled, and while the expression softened the hard lines of his face, it lacked any genuine warmth. Yet he shook Amos’s hand and spoke in a friendly man-to-man way that carried no hint of the derision Amos usually encountered from men of his type, especially when a beautiful lady stood nearby.

“Bledsoe. Good to know you.” Dunbar pumped Amos’s arm up and down, his expression nothing but amiable.

Wonderful. Not only was the leather- and denim-clad Adonis oozing masculinity like a snail did slime, but he was personable too. His kind were supposed to be egotistical oafs. It was one of the few faults lesser mortals like Amos could exploit. But while Dunbar certainly didn’t seem lacking in the confidence department, he wasn’t insufferable with it, either. Doggone it.

“You’re a Pinkerton?” Amos asked, hoping to keep Grace disengaged as long as possible.

“Yep.” Dunbar reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a couple sheets of folded ivory paper along with a silver badge pinned to a piece of worn brown leather.

Amos fingered the badge. Heavy. The engraving of good quality. Pinkerton National Detective Agency. It looked authentic. He glanced over at the marshal. Shaw gave a small, confirming nod. Amos reached for the papers next. As he opened them, Dunbar confirmed the contents.

“Detective Whitmore sent me.” He stepped sideways, no doubt in search of Grace again. “I’m right sorry about what happened to yer pa, miss. There ain’t a day that’s gone by since then that I haven’t wished I could go back and change what happened. Prevented it somehow.”

“Th-thank you.” Grace’s voice came out whisper-thin behind Amos.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder to check on her, then immediately wished he hadn’t. She had the look. The soft, wooly look that came over unattached females when a man of handsome face and ideal form paid attention to them. He’d seen it on his sister’s face when she’d first met Robert, and on a handful of others when that cowpuncher Roy Edmundson showed up at a church social. He’d never seen it directed at him. But then, who wanted it? Wool made him itch, and a woman under the influence of the look could barely string two words together in a coherent sentence. Case in point, the incredibly intelligent telegrapher behind him tripping over a standard conversational nicety as if it were a complex mathematical formula.

Someone needed to snap her out of it before her sensible nature suffered permanent damage.

“Miss Mallory,” he said as he moved toward her, purposely blocking her view of the Pinkerton again and seeking out a connection with her eyes, “would you like to examine Mr. Dunbar’s papers?”

She hesitated, blinking.

“I already looked through his documents,” the marshal announced. “Everything appears to be in order.”

Amos gave the marshal a nod. “I’m sure you’re right, but since this matter concerns Miss Mallory, I think she should be afforded the opportunity to inspect the paperwork herself.”

“Yes.” Grace cleared her throat, and when Amos pivoted to face her, he was relieved to find the wooly look quickly fading from her eyes. The sharp intelligence he so admired reasserted itself as she reached for the documents. “Thank you, Mr. Bledsoe.”

“Of course.” He curved his arm around her and placed his left hand against the small of her back as he handed her the papers with his right. She startled a bit at his touch, her eyebrows raising just a fraction, but she made no comment. Nor did she lurch away from him. Both encouraging signs.

He fought the primitive urge to stare Dunbar down, to announce his claim in a language all males understood. He knew better than to lay down such a gauntlet, however. Men like Dunbar tended to view such claims as an invitation to prove their prowess. Nothing tempted like the forbidden.

Besides, Amos couldn’t compete with Dunbar’s packaging. He had accepted that truth about himself long ago. Squaring off with such a physical specimen would only play to his weaknesses. No, if he was to win the war, he had to alter the playing field, set aside the primitive and focus on the sensitive. Instead of pitting himself against his rival, he would discount the man entirely and focus on the person who truly mattered—Grace.

Amos planted himself by Grace’s side and offered silent support as she read through the papers. He’d seen the letter of introduction Detective Whitmore had written for Dunbar, addressed to a Mr. Herschel Mallory. It couldn’t be easy for her to see her father’s name like that, as if he were still alive.

Her hands trembled slightly as she scanned the letter. “Were you there?” She didn’t look up from the letter, but Amos knew who she addressed. “At the café?”

Dunbar dragged his hat off his head and dipped his chin. “Yes’m, I was there. Sittin’ in the café, waitin’ on yer pa. We never suspected . . . The street was crowded with people. It should have been safe. I . . .”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Grace said, still not looking up as she folded the papers back into their creased rectangles.

Amos held out his hand to take them from her, wanting to ease her burden in some way. And to keep as much distance between her and Dunbar as possible.

She handed him the papers, and her gaze finally touched his for the first time since the Pinkerton waltzed into the office. The mix of emotions swirling in the brown depths of her eyes caught Amos off guard. Grief for her father, hope that her troubles might be at an end, and confusion—over the Pinkerton’s sudden appearance, perhaps? Amos had questions about that, too.

Amos’s fingers stroked hers as he took the documents from her hand. Her chin lifted slightly, as if his touch had bolstered her, and her eyes sharpened into the determined focus he was accustomed to seeing.

Good.

Feeling stronger himself, he slid the papers across the counter toward the Pinkerton. Dunbar nodded his thanks and tucked them into his coat pocket, his manner polite. Except for the amusement in his gaze when Amos finally made eye contact with him.

Amos recognized that look. It wasn’t one of good humor or a sunny disposition. It was the look of someone who found it funny that a man like Amos thought he had a chance with a woman like Grace. A look that said Amos was so far beneath him in masculine appeal, it was laughable.

Well, Amos knew how to deal with such looks. He ignored the offended jab in his gut and met Dunbar’s amused gaze straight on. He lifted his left eyebrow just a hair and stared. Not enough to project defiance. That would only deepen the amusement. Amos had come up with a look that incorporated just enough self-assurance to cast doubt into the egotist’s brain.

I’m a man of depth and integrity. Are you?

Dunbar blinked, and some of the amusement faded from his gaze. It was enough. Amos turned back to Grace.

As did Dunbar, apparently. “I understand your father had some documents to turn over to us,” the Pinkerton said, striding down the length of the counter until he stood directly in front of Grace. There’d be no subtly blocking his view now. “Do you have those, miss?”

“I’m afraid they aren’t . . . readily available.”

Interesting. She didn’t mention the books, a fact Amos found immensely encouraging. Dunbar might have stellar good looks and authentic credentials, but he didn’t have Grace’s trust. Not yet.

The Pinkerton frowned. “Well, I, ah . . . don’t aim to frighten you, miss, but there’s reason to believe your possession of those documents has placed you in danger. I’m under strict orders to collect any evidence you have and get it to Whitmore before Chaucer Haversham learns of your location.”

“He already has.” That grim pronouncement came from the marshal.

Dunbar glanced at the lawman beside him then aimed an unrelenting stare at Grace. “If that’s the case, we ain’t got time to spare. Why don’t you and I step over to the café, get some coffee, and discuss how best to get those documents?”

Grace’s gaze flew to Amos, then to the marshal before finally resting on Dunbar. “All . . . right. If Mr. Bledsoe doesn’t mind tending the office while I’m away.”

Of course I mind! Amos wanted to refuse, but he held his tongue and gave a tight nod of assent instead.

The café was a public establishment. She wouldn’t be alone with the Pinkerton. But for all intents and purposes, she’d be alone with him. Private conversation. Cozied up at a corner table. Dunbar’s long limbs crowding her space, giving him an excuse to accidentally bump her thigh with his knee or brush his hand along her arm. He’d no doubt fire a barrage of masculine machinations at her to find out what she knew. And as much as Amos would like to believe that Grace was too clever to fall for the detective’s ploys, she’d already shown a wooly-eyed susceptibility.

She stepped over to the hook on the wall and collected her shawl. “I just need to send one quick telegram before I leave. It will only take a minute.”

Dunbar nodded.

Amos frowned. What telegram? Nothing had come in except that note from the Alamo Wheelmen. He hadn’t seen any completed telegram blanks lying around.

Nevertheless, she walked straight to the office table and delicately perched on the edge of the seat he had vacated when their guests arrived.

She reached for the key, but she didn’t open the circuit. Did Dunbar have her so rattled that she’d forgotten the basic operations of the telegraph? Amos was about to step close and whisper the oversight into her ear when he recognized his call sign at the beginning of her message.

It took a great deal of control not to let his surprise or growing delight show. He busied himself with straightening the stack of extra telegraph blanks in the box on the near side of the table so it would appear as if he was paying Grace no particular mind.

A—When D and I are at café, take items back to E. Lock in vault. Let no one see. Will follow my father’s example.

Amos instantly recalled the story she’d told about the hatbox and her father’s insistence on hiding the documents until meeting with the Pinkerton to ascertain his motives.

Grace pushed back from her chair and stood. “I won’t be long,” she said, her eyes meeting Amos’s for no more than a heartbeat, but he understood the message. He wasn’t to dawdle.

“I’ll take care of things, Miss Mallory.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Bledsoe.”

Then she left. On the arm of a man who threatened everything Amos hoped to gain. Yet it wasn’t Dunbar who Grace trusted with her father’s books. It was Amos. The spectacle-wearing, bicycle-riding telegraph operator who listened to her secret messages and took them to heart.

He just prayed Dunbar didn’t switch her loyalties.