Page 48 of Heart on the Line

Just as she stiffened her spine, he cleared his throat and rubbed his mustache. “If you can help me sit up and swing around a little so my legs hang off the bed, I should be able to . . . handle the rest on my own.”

Oh, thank heavens.

“Here.” She slid a supporting arm behind his back as he started to lift away from the pillow. He winced and hissed in a breath but made no other sound.

She leaned in close for better leverage, and her cheek pressed against his temple.

Cool. His head was blessedly, wonderfully cool.

Helen smiled and sent a heartfelt thank you heavenward.

Lee’s hair might be sweat-slicked from battling fever, his jaw thick with stubble, and his personal aroma drifting toward sour milk thanks to the poultice mixture she’d dribbled on him over and over, but he was still the best thing she’d ever had the pleasure of holding in her arms.

The worst had passed. Her man was on the mend.

Her man? Listen to her putting the cart before the horse. He barely knew her. His only truly conscious moments had occurred when she’d been in her black crow’s dress, or now, when she was so weary from tending him that her eyes surely sported dark circles and bloodshot streaks. Not exactly her most attractive moments.

Still, she couldn’t stop the possessiveness from swelling inside her as she held him close and gently scooted his injured leg to the side of the bed. As he shifted with her, his good leg jostled the bedside table. Already unsteady due to age and uneven legs, the table wobbled. Fearing the half-full glass of water would spill on Lee’s Bible, Helen made a grab for the glass with her free hand. She caught the glass, but in her haste, her forearm knocked the very item she’d been trying to save to the floor.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” She gently extricated her arm from his injured leg and bent to retrieve the fallen book.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lee grunted as he braced his arms against the cot’s frame. He huffed out a heavy breath. “That Bible’s seen worse and survived. A little tumble won’t hurt it.”

Helen still felt bad about it, though. The book had landed open—spine up, pages down. The pages had been pushed under and bent at the corners. She dusted off the cover with her sleeve then set about unfolding the worst of the bent pages. Most had been squished in a large chunk, so they unbent easily, but the pages at the front sported more definite creases. As she smoothed one of the front pages, she noticed the handwriting at the top of the page. To Lee, with love. Rachel. Her hand slowed and a smile began to build. No wonder this Bible was so important to him. It had been a gift from his sister.

She scanned the rest of the page as her hand moved down the genealogy list. As her fingers passed over the top line of record, however, her smile vanished. Her chest throbbed as if an unseen band had suddenly compressed her ribs.

“Lee? What is this?” She held the opened page in front of him then slowly turned her face toward his.

His breath came in heavy pants and his face looked ashy beneath his scruff of a beard, but for the first time in a long while, his health was a secondary concern. She needed an answer. And she needed it now.

“Right here.” She pointed to the top line of the family record.

His forehead scrunched, and his green eyes regarded her with confusion as he tilted his head back to look at her. “My name. Why?”

“Because if that is your name, my friend is in an awful lot of trouble.”

Helen’s trembling fingers traced the name scripted in Rachel’s handwriting.

Elliott Leander Dunbar.

She clenched her hand into a fist and scowled at the man who had made her mind go soft, who had made her forget where her true loyalties resided. “Tell me what you know about Grace Mallory,” she demanded as she flung the Bible away from her and onto the bed. “Now!”

Grace swallowed as Detective Dunbar stared down at her. For a fleeting moment, she considered making a run for the door, to find shelter among the throng of ladies just a few yards away, but the Pinkerton stood too close. She’d never make it. And if she bolted, he’d be certain of her suspicions and would never trust the books in the crate. Better to play along. Act as if she weren’t scared out of her wits to be alone with him.

Using her indignation over his siege of her office to mask her fear, Grace scowled up at him. “This is highly irregular, detective. I’ll have to report this incident to the Western Union home office.”

“Do what you gotta do, lady. What I’ve gotta do is complete my mission and get those documents back to Whitmore. I’ve wasted enough time in this petticoat prison already.” Dunbar grasped the lip of the wooden crate’s lid, and with a single yank, pulled the small nails from their moorings and ripped the cover away.

Grace flinched at the raw display of strength but held her ground. When he turned the crate upside down and dumped the nearly two dozen books onto her work table, she lurched forward and grabbed his arm.

“Be careful! You’ll damage my—”

“Your daddy’s books will survive.” He shook her fingers from his arm with a light flick of his elbow, like a horse shooing an annoying fly with its tail. “Leave me be.”

She’d been about to warn him against damaging her equipment, not the books, being more concerned about the telegraph machinery than the random volumes of poetry and prose that held no sentimental value to her whatsoever. Thankfully, his rude interruption kept her from exposing herself.

He tossed books left and right, obviously looking for specific titles. Apparently, he didn’t just know there were books missing from Tremont Haversham’s library, he knew which books.