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.

Grace 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.”

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 interests 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.