36

Grace waved farewell to her new friend early the following morning. After the men had caught a few hours of sleep in the livery, they’d been up at dawn, readying the horses for the trip back to Harper’s Station. Not that Grace could blame them. She was more than eager to be home. Lockhart might no longer be a threat, but Chaucer Haversham could send another henchman. She had to end this matter for good.

The men surrounded her as they rode, the marshal on her left and Amos on her right. Porter rode behind. Their protectiveness eased her mind and made her smile, as did their efforts to keep the conversation light.

“Tabor said Miss Gladstone nearly shot his toes off when he dared to imply that Lockhart had been less than honest in representing himself to her.” Malachi grinned and shook his head. “Gotta appreciate the woman’s dedication. She’s got spunk.”

Amos rubbed the back of his head. “A little too much spunk, if you ask me. She brained me with a lantern.”

Grace winced, recalling how limp he’d been when Lockhart dragged his semi-conscious body into the barn. “Make sure you get Maybelle to take a look at that when we get back.”

He shrugged. “It’s just a knot and a few scrapes, nothing requiring stitches.”

“Still . . .” Grace stared at him.

The marshal chuckled. “Better do what the little woman wants, Bledsoe. Trust me, it’ll go a lot easier on you that way.”

“I have a mother and a sister,” Amos quipped as he tossed a teasing glance at Grace, throwing in a wink for good measure. “I know all about the words that buy a man’s peace.”

All three men looked at each other then said in near perfect unison, “‘Yes, ma’am.’”

Grace rolled her eyes but smiled, unable to resist their amusement. It felt good to laugh. To smile. To . . . relax.

But when they reached Harper’s Station, relaxation gave way to intentionality. It wouldn’t take long for Haversham to learn of Lockhart’s demise, and the best way to protect herself and those she cared about was to find the documents her father had hidden.

So while Amos visited the clinic and Malachi sought out Lee Dunbar, the true Pinkerton, Grace retrieved her father’s books from Emma’s vault and invited everyone involved in the affair to join her at the telegraph office. The time for secrets had passed. The more minds they had working on the problem, the more likely they were to find a solution.

Within twenty minutes, her small office nearly overflowed with occupants. Helen hovered over a man with a thick mustache, who sat in the blue-striped chair along the wall, his leg propped up on the crate her false shipment of books had arrived in. Malachi Shaw and Ben Porter moved her desk and telegraph equipment against the back wall to create more open space by the window, while Emma and Tori helped Grace tidy the books Lockhart had scattered over her floor and work area. Amos arrived last with a scowling Claire traipsing behind him.

“Daft man saw ye all gatherin’ and decided he’d had enough doctorin’, but I aim to finish the job I started.” The redhead marched Amos straight to the office chair and directed him to sit with a point of her finger.

Amos chanced a quick glance at the marshal as he walked past then turned back to Claire. “Yes, ma’am.”

Malachi and Ben snickered, earning glares from their women.

Grace ignored them all and came up beside Claire. “How is he?”

The young healer waited for Amos to seat himself then pointed to a wet spot on the back of his head. Grace winced at the size of the knot showing through his flattened hair.

“That lump will pain him fer a wee while,” Claire said, “but I’ve cleaned the cuts and brought along an unguent of St. John’s Wort that’ll speed the healin’. As long as he keeps the area clean, the sun will shine on him.”

Grace placed a hand on Amos’s shoulder, needing to touch him, to comfort, thank, and somehow convey how much he meant to her. His own hand came up to cover hers.

Amos craned his neck around and smiled at her. “See? I told you there was nothing to worry about.” The teasing left his eyes as his attention drifted to the edge of the table, where her father’s books lay. “At least regarding my health. Haversham, on the other hand, is a different matter.” He glanced at Grace, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand as he tilted his head toward the books. “May I?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He released her hand and pulled away from her hold on his shoulder in order to lean over the edge of the table where the books sat.

Malachi strode away from the window, his eyes locked on Amos. “Did you figure out where those papers are hiding?”

Amos met the marshal’s stare, then looked at each man in turn—Porter first, then Dunbar. However, when Amos gave his answer, his attention focused solely on Grace. “A suspicion has been gnawing at me since the day we last examined them. However, I wasn’t able to test my theory while Lockhart was snooping around.”

“We need those documents to build a case against Chaucer Haversham.” Dunbar’s jaw ticked as he sat forward and rubbed a spot on his leg. Helen placed a gentle hand on his arm, and the tightness in his neck seemed to ease.

The sight of Helen voluntarily touching a man, and in such an affectionate manner, distracted Grace from the seriousness of the discussion, but as the Pinkerton continued, her focus sharpened.

“Lockhart was smart,” Dunbar said. “He kept no evidence on his person linking him to Haversham. Shaw searched his body last night, and we both went through his saddlebags this morning. Nothing turned up to connect him to Haversham beyond a leather pouch filled with silver nuggets that, while circumstantial with Haversham owning a silver mine, offers no definitive connection of payment for services rendered.”

Dunbar sighed as he released his leg and leaned back against the cushioned chair. “I can testify that Lockhart worked for Haversham and that the two were often found in each other’s company, but I cannot swear under oath that the two were colluding. All Haversham has to say is that he was unaware of Lockhart’s activities, and he’d be exonerated.”

“I could testify against him,” Grace said, her voice trembling as much as her legs at the thought of facing down the man who’d ordered her father’s murder. But she’d do it if it meant bringing a killer to justice. “When Lockhart had me in that barn, he admitted to murdering my father and shooting Mr. Dunbar in order to steal his credentials.”

Dunbar shook his head. “Sorry. As awful as that is, it doesn’t tie Lockhart to Haversham.”

“But Haversham is the one who gained from my father’s death, not Lockhart.” The fire of injustice heated her belly. She paced toward the Pinkerton, spitting words at him like bullets. “Lockhart said that Chaucer knew about the books, told him which ones to look for, and how to find his father’s library stamp inside the front cover. That has to prove collusion.”

Malachi came alongside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not enough, Grace. Haversham’s lawyer would simply say the two had been talking about the library and a pair of missing books—which your father was technically guilty of stealing.”

Dunbar stroked his thumb and forefinger over his mustache, his eyes sympathetic. “Don’t go givin’ up just yet, though.” He tipped his head toward Amos. “If Bledsoe finds those papers, we can cripple Haversham. Take away his inheritance, and you steal his power, not to mention his reason to come after you. We might not be able to convict him of murder, but we can ruin him financially.”

“And who’s to say something won’t turn up later in the investigation?” Helen added, her chin jutting forward. “Lee said that the new will would establish motive, and if they can find a suspicious payment in one of Haversham’s account books, it could be enough for a conviction.”

Dunbar smiled at Helen, his mustache stretching as he beamed. “There ain’t no guarantees, but I’ll sure give it my best effort.”

“As will I.” Amos drew Grace’s attention as he opened the front cover of the top volume, Oliver Twist, then reached into his trouser pocket and extracted a small knife.

No one spoke as Amos slowly unfolded the blade. Grace held her breath, her heart pumping in a wild rhythm as Amos slid the tip of the knife along the inner edge of the cover. It seemed to take days for him to slit the cover from bottom to top. After he reached the top corner, he paused to push his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose then went back to work, his face a mask of concentration.

As he started along the top edge, the truth clicked into place in Grace’s mind. He wasn’t cutting away the cover. He was separating it from the endpaper—the glued-down sheet that gave the book its finished look. A sheet that could hide fraying cloth edges or uneven cover folds . . . or secret papers.

“Are they there?” she breathed, pressing close, her shadow blocking his light.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he set down the knife, despite the fact that he was only halfway across the top, and began tugging on the corner of the brown endpaper. The soft tearing sound made Grace cringe even as it sent her pulse into a gallop.

There, beneath the brown paper. Something else, ivory in color. Was it just the back of the cover, or . . . ?

Amos released the endpaper and grasped the ivory sheet secreted beneath. He tugged gently, then more firmly when it didn’t pull free. “It might have been glued in accidentally when your father hid it.”

“Just yank off the endpaper.” She couldn’t stand the slowness. She needed to know. Had they found the will?

Amos ignored her demand and took up his knife again, carefully separating the endpaper from its moorings. Finally, the brown paper was freed from the three outer edges. Amos peeled it back and plucked the folded ivory paper from its hiding place with a sharp tug. He didn’t open it, simply handed the sheet to her.

She looked at him then accepted the paper, her insides rioting with nerves. Her father had dealt with books all the time, appraising rare volumes for collectors, recommending acquisitions to buyers. It made sense that he would know how they were put together. How to repair or restore a damaged copy. How to secrete an important document in a place few would think to look.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper then had to place one hand on the edge of the table to support her suddenly limp knees as she read Last Will and Testament inscribed in fancy script along the top of the page.

“You did it,” Grace whispered as she set the first page of the will onto the table top. Glancing down into the face of the man she loved, she beamed. “You did it!” With a happy squeal, she threw her arms around Amos’s neck and pressed her lips to his cheek, uncaring that she had an audience.

“How marvelous,” Emma enthused. “To think the documents were there all this time and we never realized. How did you ever puzzle it out?”

Grace released her hold on the hero of the hour and stepped aside, eager to hear his answer. Amos’s blue eyes glowed with joy and love as he grinned at Grace before turning to Emma and the others.

“Mr. Mallory died protecting these books. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d removed the documents and stored them elsewhere, so I knew the will and the Pinkerton report had to be in the books themselves somehow. We all examined the pages, the bindings, and found nothing. The only option left was to look inside the cover. If the documents hadn’t been beneath the endpapers, I would have pulled the cloth from the pressboard next, then unsewn the binding.” His gaze found Grace’s. “Whatever it took.”

“Good work, Bledsoe.” Detective Dunbar eased his injured leg down from the crate and made to stand. “Think there’s another page or two under the back cover?”

“Don’t you be gettin’ out of that chair, Leander Dunbar,” Helen scolded. “I’ll fetch the paper for you.”

She made it two steps before Lee grumbled, “I’m fully capable of fetching the paper myself, woman.”

“Wrong answer,” Ben Porter remarked in a stage whisper. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

Tori swatted his arm, but the big man gave no indication that he felt it, just shared an amused glance with Malachi. Grace ignored their antics, much more concerned with what Amos was doing.

Working meticulously, Amos separated the endpapers from both books and extracted all three pages of Haversham’s will along with a single-sheet report from Detective Whitmore regarding the identity of Tremont’s daughter.

“Margaret Flanders of Worcester, Massachusetts.” The name felt surreal slipping from Grace’s tongue. How many times had she read the letters between Tremont Haversham and his seamstress bride, Deborah, and tried to picture their daughter? “Raised by Horace Pierce, a machinist, and his wife, Ann. Their only child. Margaret married Owen Flanders, an employee of Crompton Loom Works, in 1891.” She glanced up from the report. “Can you imagine how this woman’s life is about to change? The money. Ownership of a mine in Colorado. All the people, the responsibility. It’s bound to overwhelm her.”

“Worcester women are strong,” Emma said.

Grace’s brow scrunched. “How can you possibly know that?”

Emma grinned. “Worcester hosted the first two National Women’s Rights Conventions in 1850 and 1851. Strong, forward-thinking women make up the backbone of that place. She’ll be fine.”

“Don’t forget she’s got a husband to help her deal with all the changes, as well,” the marshal added, giving his wife a telling look.

Helen snorted. “Unless he turns out to be a weasel and steals everything out from under her, leaving her high and dry.”

Detective Dunbar, safely seated back in his chair, reached for Helen’s hand. “Not all men are scoundrels.”

She ducked her head. “I know. But more are than ain’t.”

Dunbar smiled and brought the back of her hand to his lips. The gallant gesture seemed to flummox Helen and turned her cheeks bright pink, but she didn’t tug away or flay him with the sharp side of her tongue.

“I’ll investigate her husband’s work history and reputation before I deliver the news,” Dunbar promised, “to avoid any surprises.” Without releasing Helen’s hand, he shuffled the papers lying in his lap, grasped the second page of the will, and scanned the contents. “Though it might not matter. Haversham’s will stipulates that the money belongs to Margaret Pierce Flanders in her own right. The only way her husband will be able to access the funds is with her permission.”

A dark thought tripped through Grace’s mind. “You don’t think Chaucer Haversham will try to harm his half-sister in order to reclaim his inheritance, do you?”

The Pinkerton shook his head. “No. The will stipulates that the monies will pass to Margaret’s children in the event of her death. If she has no children, the funds will be disbursed among several Philadelphia charities supported by Tremont’s first wife. Margaret should be in no danger.”

Grace nodded, relief trickling through her. She wouldn’t want any woman to go through what she had this last year. “I guess all that’s left for me to do is turn over Tremont Haversham’s letters to you, then, so you can be on your way.”

Grace expected the Pinkerton to readily agree—after all, he’d been pursuing these answers as long as she had. Surely he was eager to bring his case to a close. Yet his face went oddly blank at her words, and his grip on Helen’s hand tightened.

Regretting her careless words, Grace moved toward Helen, trying to think of something reassuring to say, but the tapping of an incoming message from the telegraph made her reverse course.

Amos scrambled to get out of her seat so she could respond to the call. Grace smiled her thanks, reached for a telegraph blank and pencil, then sat and tapped out the code signifying that she was ready to receive.

“The message is for you, Marshal.” Grace glanced quickly at Malachi, her pencil continuing its stilted scribbling as she deciphered the incoming code. “From Bart Porter.”

“Bart?” The freighter’s questioning tone hushed the room. “We just left his place this morning. What could he possibly—?”

Amos’s sharp pivot toward Grace cut off Ben’s words. The sounder continued tapping out code, but Grace had stopped transcribing. She looked up, met Amos’s eyes, and saw her own shock reflected there.

“Bart Porter just spotted a man in a fancy suit with a silver-headed walking stick leaving the undertaker’s building,” she reported, breaking Western Union’s confidentiality policy for the first time in her career. “It appears he’s rented a horse from Stranton’s Livery and is planning a visit to Harper’s Station.”

Lee Dunbar shot to his feet, a grimace the only evidence of his pain. “Wire Sheriff Tabor to gather some men and meet us here,” he ordered through clenched teeth. He shoved the will at Grace and pointed to Emma. “Lock the documents back in the safe and spread the word to the ladies to keep off the street.” His penetrating stare moved from one man to the next in the room. “Looks like Chaucer Haversham is paying us a visit.”