Page 11 of Heart on the Line

Amos whispered a prayer of heartfelt thanks and vowed not to complain about the slow pace. As long as he kept moving forward, he might just make it to Miss G’s telegraph office before sundown.

Ten minutes later, the first buildings of the town came into view. Amos straightened in the saddle, his heart suddenly thumping against his ribs.

He’d made it.

She was there. Somewhere. His Miss G. Waiting for him.

Well, perhaps not waiting for him, as she didn’t know he was coming, but still. She was there. In one of those buildings. Alone. Frightened. In need of a brave young knight to rescue her. And while his steed might be a sorry excuse for a mule, and his armor might be a bit dusty and aromatic, his quest couldn’t be more pure, his intentions more noble. As soon as he found the fair maiden, he’d offer his protection and perhaps his name if she turned out to be even half of what he’d imagined.

As he passed a large house and corral, he spied telegraph wires strung on poles. He traced the wires with his gaze and quickly spotted the small wooden building that served as the termination point. The telegraph office.

With a gentle tug on the reins, Amos steered Willful to the right. He was still fifty yards away, his imagination churning with possibilities—was her hair brown or blonde; did she have blue eyes or green; was her figure tall and slender or short and curvy—when the mule balked. Amos frowned.

“Not now, Willful,” he grumbled, so full of anticipation over the meeting about to take place that he nearly missed the meeting being thrust upon him.

By a gray-haired woman with steely eyes and a Colt revolver aimed at the side of his head.

Amos turned his face toward her, raising his hands at the same time. “I mean no harm,” he said as he got his first full glimpse of the woman. Correction—women. There were two of them, though the second looked about as frightening as a grandmother with a plate of cookies. Probably because she did have a plate of cookies. Much less threatening than the Colt.

“Get off of that there mule, stranger, and state your business,” the taller one ordered. “I don’t like the looks of you.” She wrinkled her nose. “The smell of you, neither.”

Amos’s neck heated. “Sorry. I had a bit of a mishap on the journey—”

“I don’t care about your journey,” the virago interrupted. “I care about your destination. And why you thought coming here was a good idea. Now get off that mule. And keep your hands where I can see them.” She pulled back the hammer on the revolver and eyed him like a seasoned soldier taking aim at an enemy.

“Yes, ma’am.” Moving slowly so as not to spook her, Amos dismounted as best he could with his arms still raised. His left foot got hung up in the stirrup for a nerve-wracking moment, but with a couple hops and a lean into Willful’s side for balance, Amos managed to tug his boot free and plant both feet safely on the ground. He turned slowly to face his welcoming committee.

“What’s your name, dear?” the grandmotherly one asked, scooting closer to examine him, curiosity lighting her eyes. Curiosity and a healthy dose of wariness. None of the outright hostility of her companion, though, thank heavens.

“Amos Bledsoe.” He tentatively tipped his hat, casting a hasty glance at Revolver Granny as he did so to make sure he didn’t need to duck a bullet. His eyes widened slightly. Were those bloomers she was wearing?

“And your business?” Revolver Granny demanded. Bloomers or not, she had a steady hand with that gun. Not a single tremor. He wished he could say the same about his knees.

Cookie Granny frowned. “Really, Henry, must you be so brusque? He’s not even carrying a weapon.”

“Not that we can see.” Revolver Granny—Henry?—eyed him up and down, no doubt searching for any suspicious bulges. “He could be hiding one under that coat.”

“I’m not, I swear to you,” he assured them, taking hold of the edges of his jacket and lifting outward to prove it.

“Hands away from the coat, mister!” Revolver Granny thrust her weapon an inch farther into the rapidly shrinking space between him and the barrel of her pistol.

Amos immediately released his jacket.

“Now, state your business.”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine.” He swallowed. A friend whose name he didn’t even know. Not exactly a mark in his favor. “The local telegraph operator.”

Cookie Granny shook her head. “Oh, dear. That’s unfortunate.”

Unfortunate? Why? Had something happened to Miss G already?

“I told you he was a ruffian, Bert.”

Cookie Granny’s name was Bert? Had he hit his head when he fell off the mule? That would explain a lot. Willful’s sudden good temper. The strange old ladies with men’s names and bloomers and . . . cookies.

“I’ll go fetch Malachi before dropping off the cookies at the café,” the one called Bert announced as she turned to leave.

“I’ll keep him covered until Mal gets here.” Henry grinned as she adjusted her grip on her weapon. “Won’t be long, if I know that boy. We protect our own around here, mister. When my nephew gets through with you, you’re gonna rue the day you ever set out to find Grace Mallory. You hear me? . . . Why’re you smiling?”