When she’d shown the books to the marshal that first night after Rosie’s warning came over the wire, they’d just stood in the locked storage closet where Emma kept the safe. Malachi had thumbed through the pages, examined the spine, and even held each one upside down, giving it a good shake. No life-altering documents had fluttered to the floor, however. Not that Grace had expected them to. She’d gone through every page of those volumes on her own, multiple times, with no success. The marshal might be able to shake the books with more vigor, but no one could search between the pages any more painstakingly than she had.
Which was why she was risking removing the books from the safety of the bank. If she and Amos were to find the documents, it was going to take more than a fluttering of the pages. They would need hours. Days, perhaps. And since she was needed at her post at the telegraph machine and she didn’t want to inconvenience Emma after hours, the only way she and Amos could examine them together would be in her office.
And they would examine them together. She trusted Mr. Bledsoe . . . mostly. She trusted the idea of him that she’d built up in her mind based on their interactions over the wire these last months. However, she needed time to get to know the real person, now that he was here, to ensure her impressions of his character were accurate. In the meantime, she wouldn’t be letting these books out of her sight. They were her responsibility. Her legacy. And with danger set to arrive any moment, they were her burden to carry. No one else’s.
Reaching the office, she pried one hand free from her cargo and opened the door. A quiet, precise tapping echoed from behind the counter. Amos sat at her table, bent forward over the telegraph, his face a mask of concentration as he confirmed a message that had something to do with bicycles.
He looked so natural there, working in his shirtsleeves, his dark brown suspenders contrasting sharply with the white of his shirt. His trousers were neatly pressed, lifting just a little as he leaned forward to reveal matching dark brown stockings.
Mr. Bledsoe had taken great care with his appearance the last two days. Grace grinned softly as she reached behind herself to shut the office door. The rumpled, bedraggled specimen she’d first encountered had disappeared, replaced by a fastidious man of business, one she had to admit held a certain appeal. His nose might be a tad long and his build more slender than strapping, but here, in his element, he projected a confidence and intelligence she found quite attractive.
For the first time in months, she actually believed the solution to her mystery lay within her grasp, and Amos was the reason. He was quick-witted, clever, and invested. In her. Grace shook her head as she came around the counter and moved into the inner office. She still had a hard time believing her good fortune. Why would a virtual stranger take such an interest in her troubles? True, they’d struck up a rather intimate acquaintance over the wire, but he owed her no favors. She’d done nothing to deserve his loyalty or admiration. Yet he’d traveled over a hundred and fifty miles to help her and seemed in no hurry to make an escape.
“Thank you for covering the wire for me while I stepped out,” she said when she recognized the pattern of his sign-off code. She slipped her shawl from her shoulders and hung it up on the hook near the door to her private chambers. His coat and hat hung from a nail a few inches away, and for a moment something in her chest ached at the sight of the masculine garments hanging so close to her own. As if they belonged.
“Glad to oblige.” The chair squeaked as Amos straightened to face her. His light blue gaze found hers.
Grace clutched the books a little more tightly to her breast. Eyes that shade should be shooting ice crystals through her veins, but when combined with his smile, the effect was quite the opposite. Her insides had gone warm and gooey, like a cookie fresh from the oven.
“I was trying to help Miss Adams locate some used bicycles to save on cost. She was planning to place an order with Montgomery Ward, but the Hawthorne Ladies’ Safety machine they sell runs $65, more than the ladies here can afford. I told her I’d put out some feelers among some of the wheelmen I know to see if we could locate some used cycles.”
“Sixty-five dollars?” Grace nearly choked on the amount. She flopped rather clumsily onto the armchair she’d opted to leave out in the office. “You could buy a horse for that price.”
“A broken-down nag, maybe.” Amos scowled a bit at her lack of velocipede enthusiasm. “It’s less than half the price of a decent saddle horse. And you don’t have to feed it or pay to have it boarded. All you have to do is grease the chain occasionally and rinse the dirt off the frame. Still . . . I’ll concede that it’s not cheap. I saved up for nearly six months before I bought my top-of-the-line Columbia. Thing runs like a dream, though.” His smile returned, along with a devastating sparkle in his eyes that the lenses of his spectacles seemed to magnify.
“I can’t believe Emma convinced Tori to order five of the things. She’ll never be able to sell them.” Grace laid the books across her lap and leaned against the upholstered chairback. “Emma can probably afford one, but nearly everyone else runs on a tight budget.”
Amos winked at her. “No need to worry. When Miss Adams saw the price listing in her catalog, she called me in for a consultation before placing an order. Cooler heads prevailed, I assure you.” He rested his arm on the table, looking so at home that it was a bit disconcerting. “Now, thanks to a message that just came in from George Walker of the Alamo Wheelmen in San Antonio, I have been promised three women’s style Yukons and one men’s Sterling, all used but in good repair, for a grand total of $100.”
Grace bit back a grin. He looked downright smug. She supposed he had every right to his pride. He’d brokered an impressive deal. She might even be tempted to purchase one of the crazy things herself. Her companion obviously found a great deal of enjoyment in owning one. Perhaps she would, too.
That opinion had absolutely nothing to do with the image that had just popped into her head of his arms wrapping around her as he taught her to balance on two wheels. Nothing at all.
“It seems the Wagner & Chabot store has been looking for a way to reduce their inventory and clear out their less expensive models in order to cater to a more discriminating clientele,” Amos continued, still basking in the glow of his coup. “They can have the machines on the train tomorrow if Miss Adams decides to make the purchase.”
Grace finally granted freedom to the grin she’d been holding back. “How could she not, after finding such a low price? You’ll be touted as quite the hero, I’m sure.”
He shrugged off the praise. “I just sent out a few telegrams. Nothing heroic.” Suddenly he straightened, his posture stiffening. “Telegrams I paid for, I assure you. I wrote up receipts and added the coins to your cash box.”
Grace waved off his explanation. “I trust you.”
He leaned forward, his face set in serious lines. “Do you, Grace?”
She couldn’t bear the intensity of his stare for long, but before ducking her head, she managed to murmur a quiet, “I’m starting to.” She ran her hands over the worn cloth covers of the books in her lap. “I wouldn’t be showing you these otherwise.”
“Those are the books your father found in Haversham’s library?” Keen interest laced Amos’s words, and for the first time since she’d come in, he allowed his gaze to linger on the items in her hands. He didn’t reach for the volumes, though, or even ask for permission to examine them. He seemed to understand the hold they had on her, the memories they evoked, the danger they represented, and was letting her set the pace.
She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but she’d delayed long enough. Lifting her chin, she thrust the books toward him. His eyes widened slightly at her forceful gesture, yet he made no comment, just accepted the books with a level of reverence she’d not expected. The marshal had been all business, shaking things loose to try to find the missing papers, but Amos was different. He took his time. Ran his fingers over the embossed titles on the spines, turned each book over slowly, ex
amined them from every angle.
He turned away from her and laid the books on the work table. Balancing the spine on the tabletop, he simultaneously released the front and back covers. Oliver Twist fell open to a page about two-thirds deep. Amos repeated the action twice more. Each time, the book fell open to nearly the same page. After the third attempt, he left the book open where it had fallen and took up the second volume.
Grace rose from her seat and came to stand behind him. She thought she’d tried every technique imaginable to uncover the books’ secrets, but she’d never thought of this. She ran her fingers along the center binding seam between Oliver Twist’s open pages. “It’s like the book was trained to open here,” she said, slightly awed by the discovery even though she wasn’t sure how it helped their current dilemma.
“When I looked at the pages of the closed book, there were tiny gaps in certain places.” Amos paused in setting up Guy Mannering, his palms still holding the book upright as it balanced on its spine. “The books are older and have obviously been read, so one would expect such gaps to occur. But I wanted to see if any of the gaps were more pronounced than the others.”
He released the covers of the second book, and it fell open near the middle. After resetting it, he released it again. This time the book fell open to a place closer to the front. On the third attempt, the book opened to a section near the middle but slightly deeper than the first occurrence.
“That one was inconsistent.” Grace frowned at the book lying open to a seemingly random page. “What does that tell us?”
Amos leaned back and crossed his arms. “I can’t say with certainty.” His brow furrowed slightly as his gaze moved from one book to the other. “But logic would say that if documents were stashed inside these books, the thicker of the two was stored in the Dickens. It would’ve caused enough of a wedge to bulge the pages away from their natural positions. The binding was strained or even slightly broken due to the internal pressure. Whatever was stored in the Scott novel was much thinner. Perhaps only a single sheet. It caused no long-term damage to the binding.”
“Tremont Haversham’s revised will.” Excitement bubbled up inside Grace. A clue! Her first real clue! “With all his wealth and assets, it would no doubt be several pages long. That must be what my father found in Oliver Twist. The Pinkerton report would have been much more brief. Probably just a name and perhaps a brief explanation of why they believed her to be Tremont’s missing daughter.”
Amos uncrossed his arms and rolled his shoulders a bit. “I know it doesn’t tell us where the documents are now, but perhaps knowing where they once were will help somehow.” He grabbed the edge of his spectacles and resituated them on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how exactly, but it’s a place to start, at least.”
“It’s wonderful. It’s more than I deduced on my own.” Grace clasped his arm in an effort to reassure him, then realized the intimacy of the gesture and blushed. She started to pull away, but Amos covered her hand with his own.
“I’ll not give up the search,” he vowed. “We’ll find those documents, Grace. I swear it.”
She believed him. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she did. Nothing felt impossible anymore. Not with this intelligent man working beside her. A friend to share her load.
Perhaps more than a friend? The thought skittered through her mind at the same moment a figure moved past her window.
The marshal. And another man.
Her heart fluttered in a panicked, frenzied rhythm. The books! She had to hide the books.
Jerking away from Amos’s tender hold, Grace snatched the books from the table, turned, and fled through the doorway into her chambers. She darted around her bed, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and shoved the books beneath her cotton drawers and stockings just as the office door creaked open and masculine voices filtered in.
Slamming the drawer closed, Grace spun around and hurried back to the outer office, willing her breathing to slow despite the tightness in her chest and the pounding of her pulse. Forcing her lips into a polite smile, she slowed her step as she passed through the doorway and prepared to greet her unwanted guests.
“Marshal,” she started, then faltered as her gaze fell on the tall man at Malachi’s side. A man who fulfilled every heroic fantasy she’d ever concocted to pass the lonely nights.
Tall, rugged, muscular. His skin was tanned from the sun. His hair dark, his jaw square. Black leather vest, blue shirt, trousers that outlined long legs and a lean stomach. The gun belt around his waist hung low on his hip, ready for action. And every wave of dark masculinity emanating from this stranger announced that he knew how to use a weapon. This was a man of skill. Of strength. Of undeniable swagger.
His attention zeroed in on her the moment she entered the room and latched on as if nothing else around him mattered. He fingered the brim of his hat as he dipped his chin in a nod of respect, but those dark brown eyes of his refused to release her. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t duck shyly away from his regard as she usually did. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her. It was as if he had a physical hold on her.
“Miss Mallory?” Heavens, even his voice was dark and rich. “I’m Elliott Dunbar of the Pinkerton agency. I’ve been trying to find you since the day your father was gunned down in Denver. You’re a hard lady to run to ground.”
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 han
dsome 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.