Heart on the Line (Ladies of Harper's Station Book #2) Page 16

  His forehead singed her fingers. Fever raged inside him. Yet as she reached for the knot at his wrist once again, his gaze followed the movement, and some of the fogginess cleared from his eyes.

  “Helen?”

  He remembered her! She nodded, a tremulous smile twitching her lips. “Yes, I’m here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I brought help. This is Claire. She’s a nurse.”

  “I told you not to tell anyone.” He scowled at her, the expression transitioning into one of confusion as if he were trying to hold onto thoughts that kept slipping away from him. “There are . . . lives at risk.”

  Helen frowned right back at him. “I know. And one of those lives is yours, fool man. You’ve got a hole in your leg, your veins are nearly empty, and you’ve got an infection driving you into delirium. You need more help than I know how to give.”

  He grumbled something under his breath about contrary females, but Helen ignored it as she freed the first knot. She unwrapped his wrist and threw the offending scrap of petticoat to the ground. The chafing marks were light but still stabbed guilt into her heart. For a crazy moment, she considered lifting the man’s arm to her mouth so she could kiss away the soreness. Thankfully, her wits sharpened in time to check the ridiculous impulse. But not quickly enough to keep her from holding onto his wrist longer than a sufficiently detached person would have.

  Which he noticed.

  At least she assumed that was the reason his gaze locked with hers and something . . . personal passed between them. An awareness. A pleasant awareness. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually experienced pleasant sensations during an interaction with a man. A few males had developed neutral sensations—the marshal and Benjamin Porter came to mind. They’d proven trustworthy, thereby dulling her negative reaction thanks to increased exposure.

  But these tiny tingles dancing along her nape and the lightheadedness that made her feel as if she were floating an inch above the floorboards? That was new. And disturbing. Yet . . . enticing.

  “Claire can be trusted,” she blurted, desperate to break the charged moment. “She’s vowed to keep our secret.” She stretched across him to untie the second arm.

  “Can you be trusted?” The soft words drew her eyes back to him. “You tied me up.”

  Helen’s hands fumbled with the knot. Shame made her voice quiver. “I’m sorry.”

  She ducked her head away from his accusing eyes and yanked on the cotton strip until it finally gave way and pulled free. She straightened, gaining some much needed distance from this man who seemed able to pluck her emotions with the ease of a child plucking the petals from a daisy.

  She cleared her throat as she lifted her chin. “You’re a stranger,” she reminded him, while the intimate pull between them belied her words. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d slip away while I was gone and hurt someone I care about.” She made herself hold his gaze. “I have people to protect, too.”

  “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I swear.” His green eyes bored into her, and the well-honed instincts she’d developed from years of watching her hypocrite of a father smooth-talk everyone he met failed to detect even a hint of insincerity.

  “I believe you,” she whispered. She tossed the second binding into the corner next to the first. “I won’t tie you again.”

  She stood there, staring at him, until Claire moved up alongside the bed and entered Helen’s field of vision.

  “While he’s coherent,” Claire murmured, “you might ask him if he has any injuries besides the gunshot to the leg. Even a small wound, if overlooked, can hinder the healing process.”

  Helen nodded, but before she could ask, her stranger responded.

  “Leg’s the worst. Feels like it’s on fire. Head smarts, too. Makes it hard to focus. Think the fellow pistol-whipped me.” He reached for the back of his skull as he tried to raise up off the bed a little, then hissed in a breath and grimaced.

  Helen rushed to help support his shoulders. “Don’t try to move.” She gingerly ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his head until she encountered a large bump. “There’s a goose egg back here.” She slowly drew her fingers away. Evidence of blood long dried dusted her knuckles and fingertips, but she encountered nothing wet. “I think it’s already clotted, though. No fresh blood.”

  “Hot.” Her stranger tugged at his shirt as if trying to remove it.

  Helen snatched up the half-empty glass of water she’d left beside the bed earlier in the day and held it to his lips with her right hand as she wedged her left beneath his shoulders to lift him. He didn’t notice the offering at first, and she grew alarmed at the growing lack of focus in his gaze.

  “Here. Drink something. It will help.” She tipped the cup enough to send a tiny stream of water onto his mouth. After that, he drank greedily.

  “Not too much,” Claire warned as she moved closer to inspect the wound on his thigh. “It might upset his stomach.”

  Helen reluctantly moved the glass away and lowered her stranger’s head back to the mattress.

  Peripherally, Helen was aware of Claire lifting his leg and examining both the entrance and exit wounds. Helen was more concerned with his fever, however, so she skirted around the nurse and crossed to the washstand, where she wet a small towel. By the time she returned to the bed, her stranger’s eyes were closed, and he was grunting softly as Claire prodded him.

  His pain made Helen’s chest ache. Lord, please don’t let him die. She gently laid the cool rag on his forehead and crooned to him as she combed his hair away from his face with her fingers.

  “Shh, now. You’re safe. Claire and I are gonna take real good care of you. You’ll be back to Rachel before you know it.”

  At the mention of his sister, his lashes parted. “Helen?”

  Her hands stilled. “Yes?”

  He blinked a few times as if trying to clear the fever’s fog from his brain. “If I don’t . . .” He swallowed. “If I don’t make it . . . tell Rachel . . . I’m sorry. She’s in . . . Missouri. Carthage. Married name’s . . . West. Give her my Bible . . . in my saddlebag.”

  Hearing him voice the same fears she been working so hard to banish made her stomach turn. No way was she going to tell him he had no saddlebags. She couldn’t steal his hope. Heaven knew the scoundrel who had shot him had stolen enough from him already. Her hand trembled, and Helen fisted her fingers to stop the show of weakness. She gritted her teeth. Enough of this soft stuff. There’d be no surrender on her watch.

  “Don’t you be giving up on me, mister.” Helen grabbed his chin like a mother taking a recalcitrant child to task and refused to let him turn away. “Rachel doesn’t want your Bible. She wants you. And I—” Good grief. She’d nearly blurted that she wanted him too. “I . . . I still have questions for you.”

  The corners of his mustache lifted a fraction. Was he smiling at her while she railed at him like a cranky fishwife?

  “What questions?” His voice wobbled, growing weaker, but she could still make it out.

  She should ask him about his purpose. See if he knew anything about Grace or the man hunting her. Or get him to describe the man who attacked him. But none of those sensible questions popped out of her mouth. Her heart beat her head to the punch.

  “What’s your name?”

  His eyes slid the rest of the way closed, but the smile curving his lips stayed in place. “Friends call me . . . Lee.”

  His face went lax. Helen released his chin but lingered to stroke his hair again, not quite ready to cease touching him. Her stranger wasn’t a stranger any longer. He was a friend.

  “Lee,” she whispered, enjoying the feel of the simple syllable on her tongue. She brushed his hair back a final time then ran her fingertips along the line of his jaw and down to his shoulder. She closed her hand around the well-muscled joint and squeezed, wanting him to hear her even through his unconsciousness.

  She bent down until her mouth h
overed a bare inch above his ear. “Fight, Lee. Fight with everything you’ve got. I’m not finished with you yet.”

  21

  Grace spent the remainder of the afternoon burning up the telegraph wires, shuffling the pieces on her imaginary chessboard until they lined up to her satisfaction. Thanks to a cycling enthusiast with a spinster sister on friendly terms with every bookseller in San Antonio, Grace now had a crate of tomes shipping to Harper’s Station with her name on it. Tomes that just happened to include copies of Oliver Twist and Guy Mannering.

  “Do you think it will work?” Amos asked after she closed the circuit for the final time and leaned back in her office chair.

  Grace blew out a breath, the excitement that had driven her the past three hours fading now that her course was set and she could no longer turn back. “I don’t know. But it seemed like a risk worth taking. If Detective Dunbar falls for the ruse, he’ll take the books and leave, giving me time to make a run for Philadelphia without him being aware.”

  Having come to the conclusion that she was never going to trust Elliott Dunbar with her father’s documents, there’d been only one recourse: travel to Philadelphia and place the items in Detective Whitmore’s hands personally. The trip would be expensive, requiring a loan from Emma on top of clearing out most of Grace’s meager savings, but it wasn’t the money that had her worried. Haversham knew her whereabouts and could be lying in wait even now. If she left the safety of the town, she painted a target on her back. Yet she saw no other resolution, and it was past time to bring this matter to a close.

  Amos rose from the striped chair and tugged at the bottom of his brown worsted vest, drawing Grace out of her troublesome thoughts. He was so fastidious. Barely a wrinkle marred his clothes, even after a vigorous day of spying and plot contriving. His matching suit coat hung on the wall hook. The rest of his apparel remained formal—shirt buttoned to the chin, tie neat and unloosened. When Amos stood, straightened his shoulders, and cleared his throat, Grace felt a bit as if her old schoolmaster was about to address the class. It was adorable, really. Amos fidgeting yet formal all at the same time.

  “It would be my honor to escort you on your journey, Miss Mallory.” A slight reddening of his neck and ears accompanied the pronouncement. “It is not proper for a young woman to travel such a distance unescorted. Nor is it safe, in your current situation.” His light blue gaze glimmered with sincerity and concern. “I realize I’m not a family member”—his ears darkened another shade—“yet I hope you consider me a close enough friend to accept my offer.”

  Grace’s mind spun at a dizzying speed. Good heavens. She’d never considered . . . Did he feel obligated? His company would be a boon for sure, yet there’d be ramifications for him. “Amos,” she sputtered, trying to find the words, “the fare to Philadelphia is so expensive. I had to arrange a loan with Emma just to cover my cost. I couldn’t ask you to—”

  “You’re not asking me. I’m offering.” He strode over to her with all the purpose and confidence of a band leader on parade. He halted in front of her chair and extended his hand.

  Grace slowly fit her palm to his. He pulled, bringing her to her feet. The sweet, nervous Amos was endearing and comfortable to be around, but this more masterful version? He made her toes tingle.

  The same sensation had washed over her earlier when he’d grabbed her arm and pressed her against that tree. For a heart-stopping moment, she’d thought he was going to kiss her, and oh, how she’d wanted him to. But that had been for show. Now they were alone, with no need for pretense or subterfuge. Yet here they stood, her hand in his, light blue eyes gazing down at her with such tenderness and determination that her pulse fluttered like a hummingbird’s wing.

  Rarely did a person sense a life-changing moment before it occurred. Usually only hindsight revealed its significance. Grace had experienced such a premonition once before, in the moment she watched her father step into that Denver street. She felt it again now. A weight of importance. A buzz of excitement. An anticipation that shallowed her breath.

  “Grace.” Amos rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I came to Harper’s Station for you. Not because I overheard your friend’s warning, although that did expedite my arrival, but because I had started falling in love with you over the wire. I had already made up my mind to arrange a meeting before we started talking that evening. I wanted—no, I needed to meet you in person, to determine if we might be compatible in more than simply wire chatter.”

  Grace’s mouth grew so dry, she feared she’d be unable to speak. Not that her mind was functioning properly enough to form a coherent sentence anyway, but such a soul-baring speech merited some kind of response.

  “Amos . . . ,” she managed, though she had no idea what would follow his name.

  He shook his head. “No, let me finish.”

  Oh, thank heavens. His finishing meant she could delay beginning. She needed all the time she could get to scrape together the remnants of her scattered wits. Not to mention the fact that she really, really liked hearing what he was saying.

  “I don’t know what will come of this situation with Dunbar and your father’s missing documents, but I do know that your safety means more to me than my own life. More than my worldly goods. I may not be a rich man, but I have enough to support a mother, and before Lucy married, a sister as well, while still squirreling away funds for a rainy day. If that rainy day arrives because the woman I . . . I care for needs my assistance, then I will gladly reach for an umbrella to shelter the two of us as we move forward together.”

  Grace smiled. Well, it started as a smile, then it stretched into a full-out beam of a grin. An umbrella? Oh, Amos. Delightfully gawky when it came to romance but so wonderfully sweet.

  He hadn’t changed. He was still the friend who made her laugh, the man who wore spectacles and tapped the sounder like a regimented woodpecker, the unconventional sportsman who preferred a bicycle to a horse. However, seeing this new side of him made it clear that he was also a man a woman could depend on when life’s burdens grew too heavy to carry alone. A man unafraid to step forward and take the lead. Not with bullying swagger or excessive posturing, but with decency and gentle authority. He was a man worthy of respect. A man who made her feel stronger just by holding his hand.

  “I have feelings for you, Grace,” he said, shifting slightly and raising his free hand to adjust the perch of his spectacles on his nose even though they were already straight. “Feelings that have only grown stronger during the time we’ve spent together the past few days. I’d like . . .” He paused, glanced down at his feet and swallowed, then lifted his gaze to hers again. His bright, unapologetic, incredibly courageous gaze.

  How brave he was to speak such words. She might have thought along similar lines, but saying such things aloud? So bold and forthright after such a short acquaintance? She’d be a trembling, stammering, tomato-red mess. Admiration swelled in her breast as she held her breath, waiting for whatever came next.

  “I’d like to pay court to you, Grace. Officially. With the intention of asking for your hand if the idea proves amenable after a sufficient wooing period.”

  The smile that had faded to respectable lines when his proposal began fought to break free again, but she restrained it. Some women might consider his intellectual recitation dry and lacking passion, but they would be wrong. Grace could see the depth of emotion glittering in his eyes and recognized his formality as a tribute to the importance he placed on the occasion. She would respond in kind.

  Forcing her eyes to maintain their connection with his despite the nearly overpowering urge to glance away, she gave a slight nod. “I accept your suit, Amos Bledsoe. And I accept your generous offer of escort, as well.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Grace loosened the reins on her smile, allowing it to welcome his suit, his affection, his . . .

  Kiss?

  Amos fit his hand to her cheek, cupping her face so tenderly, so intimately that Grace’s hear
t stumbled in its rhythm. The gentle pressure of his hand tilted her face upward, and the sweet curve of his lips as he gazed at her made her feel beautiful and treasured and horrendously nervous all at once.

  She’d never kissed a man before. Well, none except her father, and those cheek pecks surely didn’t count. What if she did it wrong? She couldn’t bear being a disappointment to Amos, not after all those wonderful pledges of devotion he had given her. Yet she couldn’t escape either. Pulling away at this juncture would only hurt and confuse the man she’d just accepted as suitor. The man she was quickly coming to admire above all others.

  So she held fast, her focus dropping from his heavy-lidded eyes to the lips that hovered a scant inch above hers.

  “May I kiss you, Miss Mallory?” His husky whisper sent shivers dancing across her skin.

  Land sakes! Did he actually expect her to verbalize an answer? Simply keeping her legs beneath her required every spare faculty at the moment. Somehow she managed a slight dip of her chin, and Amos—possessed of considerably more of his faculties, apparently—astutely recognized the minuscule motion as assent.

  When his lips touched hers, the gentle contact soothed her fears even as it lured her in for more. He brushed his mouth over hers once, twice. On the third pass, he lingered, his fingers on her face drawing her closer as they caressed her skin with the lightest touch.

  She tried to stay still, to let him direct things, since he seemed to have an inkling of how to accomplish this particular feat. However, when he let go of her hand in order to wrap his arm around her waist and drag her against his chest, she could no more hold back her response than she could hold back avalanching snow.

  She lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed him back, praying she didn’t do something gauche and embarrass them both. He didn’t thrust her away, which she took as a good sign, but neither did he react. It was as if her sudden participation shocked him into paralysis. Until she tentatively reached out and laid her palm over the place she imagined his heart to be. Then, as if a jolt of lightning had passed through her fingertips into his chest, he clenched his arms and tightened his hold on her, his lips pressing deeper, tasting her more fully.