Page 27 of Heart on the Line

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 handsome 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.

Besides, Amos couldn’t compete with Dunbar’s packaging. He had accepted that truth about himself long ago. Squaring off with such a physical specimen would only play to his weaknesses. No, if he was to win the war, he had to alter the playing field, set aside the primitive and focus on the sensitive. Instead of pitting himself against his rival, he would discount the man entirely and focus on the person who truly mattered—Grace.

Amos planted himself by Grace’s side and offered silent support as she read through the papers. He’d seen the letter of introduction Detective Whitmore had written for Dunbar, addressed to a Mr. Herschel Mallory. It couldn’t be easy for her to see her father’s name like that, as if he were still alive.

Her hands trembled slightly as she scanned the letter. “Were you there?” She didn’t look up from the letter, but Amos knew who she addressed. “At the café?”

Dunbar dragged his hat off his head and dipped his chin. “Yes’m, I was there. Sittin’ in the café, waitin’ on yer pa. We never suspected . . . The street was crowded with people. It should have been safe. I . . .”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Grace said, still not looking up as she folded the papers back into their creased rectangles.

Amos held out his hand to take them from her, wanting to ease her burden in some way. And to keep as much distance between her and Dunbar as possible.

She handed him the papers, and her gaze finally touched his for the first time since the Pinkerton waltzed into the office. The mix of emotions swirling in the brown depths of her eyes caught Amos off guard. Grief for her father, hope that her troubles might be at an end, and confusion—over the Pinkerton’s sudden appearance, perhaps? Amos had questions about that, too.

Amos’s fingers stroked hers as he took the documents from her hand. Her chin lifted slightly, as if his touch had bolstered her, and her eyes sharpened into the determined focus he was accustomed to seeing.

Good.

Feeling stronger himself, he slid the papers across the counter toward the Pinkerton. Dunbar nodded his thanks and tucked them into his coat pocket, his manner polite. Except for the amusement in his gaze when Amos finally made eye contact with him.

Amos recognized that look. It wasn’t one of good humor or a sunny disposition. It was the look of someone who found it funny that a man like Amos thought he had a chance with a woman like Grace. A look that said Amos was so far beneath him in masculine appeal, it was laughable.

Well, Amos knew how to deal with such looks. He ignored the offended jab in his gut and met Dunbar’s amused gaze straight on. He lifted his left eyebrow just a hair and stared. Not enough to project defiance. That would only deepen the amusement. Amos had come up with a look that incorporated just enough self-assurance to cast doubt into the egotist’s brain.

I’m a man of depth and integrity. Are you?

Dunbar blinked, and some of the amusement faded from his gaze. It was enough. Amos turned back to Grace.

As did Dunbar, apparently. “I understand your father had some documents to turn over to us,” the Pinkerton said, striding down the length of the counter until he stood directly in front of Grace. There’d be no subtly blocking his view now. “Do you have those, miss?”

“I’m afraid they aren’t . . . readily available.”

Interesting. She didn’t mention the books, a fact Amos found immensely encouraging. Dunbar might have stellar good looks and authentic credentials, but he didn’t have Grace’s trust. Not yet.

The Pinkerton frowned. “Well, I, ah . . . don’t aim to frighten you, miss, but there’s reason to believe your possession of those documents has placed you in danger. I’m under strict orders to collect any evidence you have and get it to Whitmore before Chaucer Haversham learns of your location.”