Page 32 of Heart on the Line

“Thank you.” Ann Marie allowed him to clasp the tray but seemed to forget to release her own hold. Grace cleared her throat softly. Ann Marie yanked her hands away, causing the teacups to rattle in their saucers.

Mr. Dunbar smiled, only making things worse for the poor girl. Ann Marie’s cheeks looked like they were on fire, something to which Grace could easily relate.

While the Pinkerton held the tray steady, Ann Marie arranged Grace’s tea in front of her with a lacy butter cookie on a small plate beside it. Then she set a second arrangement at Mr. Dunbar’s place, a much stronger aroma wafting from his cup. His pair of apple turnovers dwarfed her cookie by comparison, but then, a man of his size couldn’t be expected to eat like a lady. Although he could apparently be expected to drink like one. Grace hid a grin as Mr. Dunbar frowned at the dainty china teacup his coffee had arrived in.

As Ann Marie set out the blue sugar bowl and matching cream pitcher, the Pinkerton raised an eyebrow. “You got any real cups? That coffee’ll be gone in two swigs.”

Ann Marie took the tray back from him and held it close to her chest like a shield. “I’m sorry. We don’t get many men in here. The marshal’s really the only one, and he’s taken to bringing his own mug when he comes in with his wife.” Her gaze followed Mr. Dunbar as he lowered himself back into his chair. She nibbled her lip as a frown continued marring his face. “I made sure not to use the cups with flowers painted on them,” she said, trying to appease. “And I promise to be attentive with your refills. Just catch my eye, and I’ll bring the pot. As often as you need.”

“I suppose my manhood can withstand a dent or two from drinking out of a lady’s cup.” He grinned up at the waitress, who nodded immediately in agreement.

“Oh. Yes, sir. You have nothing to worry about there. Nothing could dent your . . . er . . . manliness.” Cheeks flaming once again, Ann Marie started backing away. “I’ll just . . . ah . . . go make sure the coffee’s plenty hot. For when you need a refill.”

The Pinkerton dipped his chin. Ann Marie spun away and hustled off to the kitchen.

Grace lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her smile.

“Sweet girl,” Mr. Dunbar said, no hint of arrogance in his tone, just gentlemanly warmth.

Grace peered at him over the rim of her cup. He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner, then grasped the teacup handle between his large thumb and first two fingers and lifted it to his mouth. A thin mustache and well-trimmed beard outlined his lips, and Grace had to admit that Ann Marie was right. Drinking from a ladies’ teacup would not dent this man’s masculinity anytime soon. He could probably replace his hat with a garland of woven wildflowers and still project a warrior’s mystique.

But despite his charmingly roguish demeanor and the attraction that surged through her whenever his dark eyes connected with hers, she didn’t trust him. She wanted to believe him worthy of her father’s secrets, to let him relieve her of the burden that had been weighing her down for so long, but she couldn’t. Not until she quieted the suspicious whispers buzzing in her mind. Too much was at stake to be anything less than certain.

“So, Miss Mallory,” Mr. Dunbar said as he reached for a turnover, his voice casual, his movements slow and smooth. As he raised the sweet to his mouth, he paused, waited for her to look up, then pierced her with a look that, while friendly, exuded steely insistence. “Where are those documents your father uncovered?”

16

Amos paced the length of the far-too-short-to-be-satisfactory telegraph office for the tenth time, ran fingers through his barely-long-enough-to-grab hair for the third time, then flopped into the padded, Grace-should-be-back-and-sitting-here armchair.

What was taking so long? He pounded the arm of the chair with his fist as his knees bounced with an energy that urged him to do more than sit around and wait like a trained pup. But what could he do? He’d already accomplished the one task Grace had left for him—delivered the books to Mrs. Shaw and watched while she secured them in her bank vault.

Supervising the lock-up had been a straightforward, simple matter compared to finding the books in the first place. Grace’s chambers were small enough that there hadn’t been too many places to look, but he’d still felt guilty rifling through her personal belongings. Especially her underclothes. Even now, his neck heated at the memory of digging through her unmentionables. When he’d opened that drawer and seen what was inside, he’d quickly shut it. But after looking through the rest of the bureau, he’d realized that the top drawer had been the most disturbed, the most untidy. So he’d gone back and, as respectfully as possible, dug through items he’d only ever seen on clotheslines or in mail-order catalogs until he’d unearthed the two volumes he sought.

That had been twenty minutes ago. He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and flicked the brass cover open with his thumbnail. Twenty-two minutes. Even worse. He snapped the lid closed with a disgruntled sigh and stuffed the watch back into his pocket.

As he mentally debated whether to resume pacing or start unraveling his left stocking one thread at a time, a movement outside the small window caught his attention. Grace!

Amos surged to his feet. He yanked open the half door at the end of the counter and stepped through at the same moment the main door swung inward.

And there she stood. Staring at him, eyes wide at his unexpected nearness. Her light gray shawl hung draped over one arm, the tiny pink rosebuds that patterned the dark blue of her dress brought out the youthful loveliness of her face, and her slightly wind-mussed hair made his fingers itch to stroke each wayward strand softly back into place.

He cleared his throat and tried to clear his mind as well. This was not the time for thoughts of hair-stroking or hand-holding or any of the hundred other courting ideas running through his brain at the moment. This was the time to focus on Grace and her mission.

Though if he were honest, a small portion of his attention would probably remain dedicated to determining how much competition that pretty boy Dunbar presented.

“How did it go?” Amos asked, finally breaking the charged silence stretching between them.

Grace’s lashes dropped to shutter her eyes as she tugged the door closed behind her. She said nothing as she moved past him, just quietly hung up her shawl before crossing to the window to peer outside.

Gazing longingly after the Pinkerton? Or making sure no customers were approaching so they could discuss the situation without interruption? With her back to him, hiding her face as well as the view out the window, Amos couldn’t tell.

“I evaded him as best I could.”

The soft-spoken words sent a hard jolt of pleasure through him. He knew she was too smart to fall for a handsome face without searching out what lay beneath. Cloaking his jubilance in an expression of mild curiosity took considerable effort, but he managed. Barely.

“Did he press you for answers?” Amos’s jubilance faded as he considered how intimidating such a large man could be. If Dunbar had threatened Grace or made her feel uncomfortable, Amos would have to take steps to ensure the two were never left alone together again.

“He asked several pointed questions that were difficult to sidestep, but he remained a gentleman.” Grace turned, her gaze seeking him out. Amos immediately closed the distance between them, crossing into the main office and halting only when he stood directly in front of her. Taking no time to weigh the wisdom of the action, he reached for her hand. Her fingers were chilled from the autumn wind, and as soon as her skin touched his, all he wanted to do was warm it. He squeezed her hand gently, rubbing the back with his thumb. A slight tremor passed through her, yet she lingered, not pulling away from his touch.