6

Grace willed her hand not to tremble as she fit the hairpin over her finger. A difficult task when her insides were jumping about as if she’d swallowed a family of crickets.

The man in the cell reminded her a bit of her father. His sack suit was walnut brown with a thin pinstripe, and while the buttons were all neatly done up, wrinkles creased the fabric. Her father had never given his clothing much thought. He’d just thrown on whatever had been at hand, preferring to expend mental energy on his academic pursuits. The man in front of her, however, seemed more conscious of his appearance. His shirt cuffs had been tugged down to show just a hair below the edge of his coat sleeves, as fashion dictated. His collar points were starched, and the knot of his tie hung perfectly straight. What an odd mixture of fastidious care and rumpled mayhem.

And what was that smell? Grace struggled not to wrinkle her nose. She’d never noticed the marshal’s office smelling like a livery before. The odor seemed to grow stronger the closer she came to the man in the cell.

But no matter. She wasn’t here for a social call. She was here to determine this stranger’s identity. She peered up into the man’s face, past his spectacles, and into his eyes.

They were blue, his eyes. And earnest. And just a tad unsettling.

Breaking the contact, Grace straightened her shoulders and took a step forward, intent on tapping out a message on the cell’s crossbar. But a hand grabbed her arm and tugged her backward.

“Don’t get too close, Miss Mallory,” the marshal instructed as he gently steered her away. “You can do your talkin’ from back here.”

Actually, she couldn’t, but Malachi didn’t know that. And why would he? He wasn’t an operator. She glanced around the office, her gaze zeroing in on the desk. A tin cup rested on its surface. That would work nicely.

Smiling at the marshal, she stepped away from his hold and moved toward the desk. “May I?” she asked, indicating the chair.

Malachi looked at her oddly but nodded. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” She swept her skirt aside and settled herself on the seat before reaching for the coffee cup. She peered inside and frowned. Still half full. She glanced around for a place to dispose of the beverage, but there were no potted plants or conveniently located knotholes in any of the nearby floorboards.

Without giving herself time to think better of it, she lifted the cup to her lips and chugged down the cold, bitter brew in one long gulp. She grimaced and nearly choked on the awful stuff, but she got it down.

“You . . . ah . . . want a fresh cup?” Malachi asked, the shock on his face rather comical. “I got a pot on the stove in the corner.”

“No, thank you.” Her reply emerged more as a rasp than actual words. How did he drink that swill? It tasted like boiled shoe leather. “I just need the cup.”

She promptly turned the tin cup on its side and hovered her hairpin-covered finger above it. She glanced past the befuddled marshal to the man waiting expectantly in the jail cell. He was gripping the edge of his jacket, holding it away from his body. He’d fitted the bottom button between the first two fingers of his right hand and held it an inch above the iron crossbar.

Grace turned away and bit the inside of her cheek to contain the smile trying to edge its way onto her face.

He knew exactly what she was about and was ready to respond.

Focusing on the silver cup in front of her, Grace began the test.

Call me like you would on the wire.

A series of dull raps came from across the room, the cloth-covered button muffling the sharpness of the reply. Dn calling Hs. The sound might be off, but the rhythm wasn’t. It only took the first few clicks for Grace to recognize the sender’s unique style. To an untrained ear, one tapping pattern might sound like any other, but to an operator, the rhythm, tempo, and phrasing combined to form an auditory signature.

Mr. A’s signature.

But even if Amos Bledsoe was indeed her Mr. A, he still had some explaining to do, and Grace wasn’t about to let the opportunity to quiz him pass her by.

Who’s filling in for you at Dn?

Dorinda Mansfield, came the immediate reply. No hesitation. No unsteadiness to interrupt the rhythm. She worked the telegraph at the railroad depot until she married two years ago. Her husband agreed to let her cover my shifts.

The quickness of his response and the assured way he tapped it out gave the impression of honesty. And she had to admit, she liked the fact that he trusted a female operator to cover his post. Even though the field of telegraphy employed more women than nearly any other, male operators tended to believe themselves superior. Probably because they received larger wages for the same work, an inequity that Henrietta Chandler railed against on a regular basis. Thankfully, Amos Bledsoe didn’t seem to share that supercilious view.

The practice of paying women less for the same work was unfair, but if the telegraph companies couldn’t hire women at a smaller wage and thereby increase their profits, they probably wouldn’t hire females at all. The cheaper rate opened doors that Grace needed if she was to support herself.

Describe your family to me, she tapped out on the tin cup, continuing the interrogation.

He named them all and gave a brief description of each in that tongue-in-cheek style of his that was so endearing. He gave details she recognized from previous conversations, and when he was finished, he’d successfully removed all doubt that he was anyone other than her Mr. A from across the wire.

The tapping faded and a throat cleared. Grace started at the non-rhythmic sound and jerked her head up. The marshal stood in front of the desk, his shoulder propped against the wall to his left, his forehead etched with lines of confusion.

Poor man. It was rude to carry on a conversation in a language others in the room couldn’t follow, but it was the only way for her to confirm Mr. Bledsoe’s identity.

“You two done . . . talking?” He tipped his head toward the man in the cell, but his eyes remained fixed on Grace.

She really should continue the rest of this interview in spoken English. But she had one more question she wanted answered. A personal question that she’d rather Malachi not be privy to, yet one that would play a significant role in deciding what action she took once Mr. Bledsoe was released.

“Almost,” she hedged as she stole a glance at the man in the cell.

He met her gaze straight on. His lips twitched a bit, hinting at some inner nervousness, but he didn’t shy away from her, and that forthrightness stirred her admiration. He didn’t rail at the injustice of being thrown in jail when he’d committed no crime. He didn’t demand release or threaten retaliation. Not even in his coded communication, which the marshal clearly didn’t understand. He simply stood on the other side of the bars with calm dignity, ready to give her whatever answers she required. This was a man of integrity and courage.

A man whose motives she needed to excavate just a little further.

Amos held Miss Mallory’s gaze despite the clenching of uncertainty in his abdomen. Did she believe him? Would she welcome his help? Or had he made a complete fool of himself by jumping on that train this morning?

He’d arrogantly assumed Miss G to be alone and in need of his protection. He’d thought to woo her gentle heart with a valiant rescue. But the Harper’s Station women’s colony apparently had a lawman—who was actually a man and seemed to know his way around firearms, judging by the holster slung low on his hip and the gun case in the corner with an assortment of rifles and shotguns at the ready—and at least one gun-toting she-wolf on the prowl to keep its residents safe.

Miss Mallory didn’t need his protection.

Yet as he looked at her, he couldn’t manufacture the desire to leave. He wanted to be her champion, yes, but more than that, he simply wanted to be with her, to explore who she was beneath that lovely exterior. To discover who they might be together.

She looked away, dipping her chin back toward the desk. Then she started tapping, and as he decoded the soft percussion into words, his heart thumped a more forceful cadence in his chest.

Why did you come? she asked. What do you hope to gain?

Amos swallowed and took a moment to wipe the clamminess from his hand before answering. How much should he divulge? They barely knew each other. Until today, their acquaintance had only existed over the wire, where anonymity created an illusion of safety, of comradery.

He sensed his response would dictate the future of their relationship. There would be no going back. It would either move forward, or it would die. And the woman seated across the room from him would dictate the direction it took. The same woman who had revealed nothing of her own feelings or thoughts beyond what little he could read on her face.

The woman who was in danger and didn’t know who she could trust.

Amos squared his shoulders and reclaimed his grip on his suit coat button. He was going to have to crack his chest open and expose his secrets to her. Nothing else would suffice for gaining her trust. She might still send him away, but at least he’d know that he’d done all he could.

Holding the button over the bar, he carefully tapped out his reply.

I came because I care about you. After that cryptic message last night, I was worried you were in danger. That you might need my help. He gazed at the desk, willing Grace to look at him.

As if she felt his silent plea, she raised her head and turned until her eyes finally met his.

I see now that you have friends and protectors here, but I’m not ready to leave yet. You mean something to me, G.

Her eyes widened slightly, and he feared he’d said too much. Then again, maybe he’d not said enough.

I’ve felt friendship grow between us, he continued, a friendship that left me wondering if there could possibly be more. I’ve wanted to meet you for several weeks, but until last night I was too afraid to suggest a meeting. Too afraid I’d disappoint you, and you’d end our evening discussions. Or that you’d turn out to be a fifty-year-old grandmother who only chatted with me because she had trouble sleeping.

A burst of laughter escaped Miss Mallory before she could raise a hand to cover her mouth and contain it. The soft, throaty sound warmed his insides and gave him hope that perhaps not all was lost.

The marshal frowned and looked from her to Amos and back again, but thankfully he didn’t interrupt or demand explanations.

I want a chance to get to know you, Miss Mallory. To see if perhaps we can get along as well in person as we do over the wire. And to offer whatever assistance I can to aid you in your current predicament.

She twisted away from him again, hiding her face as she quietly straightened the marshal’s desk. She placed the coffee cup right side up, removed the hairpin from her finger, and rubbed the spot that had surely been pinched the last quarter hour. Then she slid the pin back into her hair, smoothed her hands over the blotter on the marshal’s desktop, and slowly—gracefully—pushed to her feet.

“What do you want me to do with him?” the lawman asked as he shoved away from the wall and moved to meet her in the center of the small room.

Amos released his jacket button and stepped back from the bars, trying to maintain as much dignity as possible.

“I’m convinced he is who he claims to be,” she said.

Amos desperately wanted to scratch the suddenly violent itch that flared around his collar. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

“But I think we should leave him here until I have a chance to address the ladies at the town meeting tonight. You know how some of them get when unknown men roam the streets. I think it would be better if I warn them about him before turning him loose.”

She was going to leave him locked up? Amos tried not to be offended, but he was a law-abiding citizen whose only crime was wanting to help a lady in distress. A lady who had plumbed his depths without offering him an ounce of insight into her own state of mind.

Miss Mallory glided to the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. Not at Amos, but at the marshal. “I’ll stop by the café and ask them to send dinner over for him.”

Then she left. Without a single glance in Amos’s direction. With no word to him. Not even a hint as to her reaction to all he had shared.

The marshal strode up to the bars. Amos expected a scowl or a series of threats about leaving Miss Mallory alone, but Mr. Shaw surprised him. The smile he offered felt almost conciliatory.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The meeting’s in less than an hour. You won’t have to wait long.” He tipped his hat back on his forehead and leaned his shoulder against the barred door. “The women around here run a strict democracy,” he explained. “Everyone gets a say about what goes on in town. Grace is playing things safe by having you cool your heels here until she can explain your presence to the others—some of whom ain’t too fond of our kind, I’ll warn you—but she’s the cautious sort. And not without cause.” He aimed a pointed look in Amos’s direction.

Amos nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Grace Mallory had endured hardship, the kind that changed a person. He’d have to be patient if he hoped to woo her.

Mr. Shaw knocked a knuckle against the bar. “Might as well get comfortable.” He tilted his head toward the cot against the outside wall. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee so you don’t have to drink yesterday’s leftover sludge with your dinner.” He chuckled and shook his head as he walked toward the small wood-burning stove in the corner. “I still can’t believe she drank that stuff. I know it was vile. I only drink it because I hate wasting anything edible.”

As the lawman’s friendly rambling dwindled, Amos tried to get comfortable on the cot. He rested his head against the wall and let out a heavy sigh.

Then he heard it. A gentle rap from the other side of the wall as if someone were knocking on the brick. Knocking in a discernible pattern.

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I’m glad you came.

Amos smiled, the weight pressing down on his chest lessening considerably at the four small words echoing through the wall at his back. He stretched his hands casually over his shoulders as if to pillow his head, but before he laced his fingers together, his knuckle rapped out a quick reply.

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Me too.