Page 20 of Heart on the Line

“Bertie’s a good cook,” the marshal continued, as if Amos might need further convincing, “and I’ve already instructed Henry not to draw her weapon on you again.”

Wait. Those names. Was he actually going to be staying with the Revolver and Cookie Grannies?

Some of his shock must have shown on his face, for Shaw laughed before thumping him on the back. “Don’t worry. Emma and I will be there, too. We’ll watch your back.”

He winked, a sure sign he was teasing, but Amos’s muscles knotted back up anyway. He remembered the steely look in Revolver Granny’s eyes. That gaze had practically dared him to give her an excuse to fire her weapon.

Repressing a shudder, Amos stole a quick glance back through the bars. “You know, that cot wasn’t so bad,” he commented, only half joking. “If you left the door unlocked, I could stay here.” Safely away from the crazy grannies.

“Nah. Gotta keep the room available for the real criminals.” Shaw opened the top drawer of his desk and tossed the cell key inside. “Besides, you’ll want the use of the parlor for your visits with Miss Mallory. Can’t woo a lady in a jailhouse.”

Amos speared the marshal with a look. Had he just pretended to be obtuse when Amos and Grace were tapping out their coded, private conversation?

Shaw grinned. “It’s not like you can hide your intentions, Bledsoe. Not here.” He shoved his desk drawer closed then leaned his hip against the corner’s edge. “There’s only one reason a man lingers in Harper’s Station: to win a woman. A particular woman. Only two of us have managed to accomplish the feat so far, but Ben Porter and I are living proof that the impossible can be achieved if you want it badly enough.”

Did he want it badly enough? Enough to sleep under the same roof as Revolver Granny and her giant pistol?

The answer came to him in an instant as the jailhouse door opened and a pair of ladies stepped inside. One walked straight up to Shaw and accepted his arm around her waist as if it were the missing accessory to her dress. But the other? She hesitated at the entrance, the early evening light casting golden highlights on her hair. Amos’s heart skittered to a halt then lunged forward at a gallop.

Oh, yeah. He wanted it badly enough.

Holstered or not, Revolver Granny, I’m moving in.

Amos tugged his hat back off his head and nodded toward the delicate woman hovering just beyond his reach. “Miss Mallory. Good to see you again.”

She dipped her chin in return, her lashes temporarily blocking the warmth of her lovely brown eyes. “Mr. Bledsoe.” Slowly those lashes lifted, and he swore he could feel the temperature in the room escalate a degree or two. “I’m sorry about leaving you here with so little explanation. I hope you can forgive my rudeness.”

“The food you sent over was tasty,” he replied, not quite ready to absolve her completely, at least not aloud. “It helped pass the time.”

She’d left him to stew, no doubt testing his resolve to stay the course. Understandable. She was in the path of an oncoming storm and needed to know whom she could depend on when the waters got rough. Yet he couldn’t let her think he was some pansy who’d let a woman walk all over him, either. She needed a strong man to stand beside her, one she could respect and rely on. He’d been that man for his mother and sister for the past ten years, ever since his father died the summer Amos turned eighteen. He aimed to be that man for Grace Mallory too. If she’d let him.

“Did the denizens agree to let me stay, or should I prepare to battle a mob of skirted zealots bearing pitchforks and torches once the sun goes down?”

Grace’s lips twitched upward in what was sure to be an adorable quirk of amusement when the marshal’s voice broke in and ruined the moment.

“No pitchforks around here, Bledsoe. Our gals pack lead.” He stood to his full height, bringing the lady circled in his arm with him. “Taught ’em myself.”

“Hush, you,” the brunette admonished, elbowing Shaw in the ribs. Not that he seemed to notice. “No intimidating the guest.”

Mrs. Shaw aimed a bright smile at Amos and tried to step out of her husband’s hold. He didn’t let her. She shot a frown at him over her shoulder before turning back to address Amos.

A grin crossed the marshal’s face the instant his wife was no longer facing him. It was all Amos could do not to grin back. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mien serious as Emma Shaw hurried to assure him of his safety.

“You are welcome to stay in Harper’s Station as long as you like, Mr. Bledsoe. Grace considers you a friend. That’s all the recommendation we need.”

Amos shifted his gaze back to Grace. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes met his, and the resulting impact to his chest reverberated down to his toes. She’d vouched for him in front of the entire town. Called him friend. Yet the way her eyes searched him now—peering past his spectacles, past the trail dust, past his disheveled suit—it seemed as if she were still evaluating him. Looking for indicators that he could indeed be trusted.

He had some proving to do. Amos stretched his neck above the starched points of his collar and jutted out his chin. He fully intended to be up to the task. Whatever that task entailed.

“So what happens next?” he asked.

Grace drew in a breath as if about to speak, but Mrs. Shaw jumped in first.

“I’m going to head back to the station house to help the aunts with dinner, and Malachi has his rounds to make, but you are certainly welcome to come get settled in the room Aunt Bertie set up for you. It’s in the basement, but no one can feather a nest like Bertie. She’ll have piles of warm quilts, a wash area, and probably even a plate of oatmeal cookies waiting for you.”

Good old Cookie Granny. Though, the wash area sounded better than the cookies at the moment. He swore he could still smell the faint odor of mule manure wafting up from his shoe. He’d never thought himself vain since he’d never considered himself handsome, but tidy? Yes. And the lovely Miss Mallory had only been introduced to the rumpled, dusty version of Amos Bledsoe. No wonder she held herself back. She was probably worried his disreputable appearance reflected a slovenly character. He’d have to pray that second and third and tenth impressions could eventually outweigh a poor first one.

Amos tipped his head. “I’m sure the accommodations will more than suit my needs. You and your aunts are kind to take me into your home. I would be happy to pay a boarding fee, of course.”