Page 49 of Heart on the Line

The knot in her belly tightened a notch.

He checked the spine of a thick, red, cloth-covered book then gave a little grunt of satisfaction before tucking it under his arm. Judging by the size of the book, it must have been Oliver Twist. Two tossed-aside books later, he latched onto a dark green hardback with a gilt title line that blazed Guy Mannering in bold fashion.

Grace took a single step back, anxious to put some space between her and the large man siphoning all the air out of her tiny office space. He had the books, now she just needed to get him to leave. “I searched my father’s collection for the documents after he died,” she told him, thankful that her voice sounded relatively steady, “but I never found them. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Please take them and go.

But the detective appeared to be in no hurry. He started examining the covers, the spines. Flipped through the pages.

Not here! Don’t look for them here. She needed to get him out of her office. Out of the town.

“Those books have caused me no end of grief,” she blurted. “Just take them back to Agent Whitmore. The two of you can tear them apart for all I care. I never want to see them again.”

Please leave. Please leave.

He paused and stared at her, his icy gaze freezing her from the inside. Then he brought up his left leg and planted his boot on the seat of her office chair, making a table out of his knee. He set the books on his thigh, opened the top cover, and ran his fingers over the inside panel. He closed Oliver Twist, shuffled it to the bottom, then performed the same procedure on Guy Mannering.

What was he doing? Grace’s pulse raced as her eyes followed his every movement. He looked like he was feeling for something. The seal? But how would he have known about it? It was the one weak spot in her plan she could do nothing about—the Haversham seal embossed inside each book. If the Pinkerton knew about it, then . . .

Dunbar turned his face to her and smiled, a cat-with-bird-feathers-hanging-from-its-mouth kind of smile.

“I knew you were a clever one,” he purred as he dropped his foot back to the ground and stalked toward her. “Had to be to elude me for so long.”

Grace retreated a step. Dunbar advanced. She withdrew farther, until the backs of her knees bumped into the blue-striped chair.

“I thought you’d trust a Pinkerton, but somehow you saw through me, didn’t you?”

He knew!

Grace didn’t wait to see how much. She ran. But the counter’s half door slowed her down. As she fumbled to pull it open, Dunbar’s arm snaked around her waist and his hand slammed over her mouth.

She kicked and flailed, but he only chuckled. “A fighter. Good. I like a good tussle. Gets the blood flowing.”

Grace tried to scream, but his large palm smothered all but a tiny, muffled squeak. If only she could reach her derringer! The thought had her clawing at her skirt, but his hold kept her from bending at the middle, leaving her sole source of protection out of reach.

He toted her like a rag doll to the window and, holding her away from view, peered out, his smile growing wider at whatever he saw. “Everyone’s nice and occupied with those crazy contraptions Bledsoe was good enough to order. Getting out your bedroom window unseen will be easier than shooting a deer with a broken leg. No one will even know we’ve gone.”

No! Grace squirmed and shimmied, desperate to get away, but his arms circled her like iron bands.

“Yep, your little ruse almost worked,” he said, his voice conversational and not the least bit winded as he toed a fallen book out of his path and dragged her through the doorway into her private rooms. “Too bad Chauncey told me about the stamp his father used on the inside covers of his books. A seal embossed with his initials. Neither of those books had one.”

Grace stilled. Chauncey? As in Chaucer Haversham?

Dunbar wasn’t just working for him. They were friends. Longstanding friends, by the sound of it.

She should have joined Amos and the rest of the town ladies when she’d had the chance.

Dunbar braced a hip on her windowsill then wrapped a long leg around both of hers to free a hand for raising the window. While he shoved the window to its maximum height, she fought the only way she could, scratching at his face. One nail drew blood. He cursed then slammed his forehead hard against her skull. She went lax. Silver diamonds winked in her vision.

“Do that again, Grace, and I’ll take my knife to you. See how much you like having your face slit open. Not even Bledsoe would have you then.”

He bent his big frame around her much smaller one, and while she was too disoriented to slow him down, he ducked through the window and exited into the open field behind the telegraph office. A field completely hidden from the rest of Harper’s Station.

25

How do ya keep the wheels from running away with ya?” Henrietta Chandler demanded as she kicked out her skirt and stepped over the low section of the bicycle frame. Her strident voice brought Amos’s head around.

He’d been searching the crowd for Dunbar. He’d last seen the Pinkerton conversing with Ben Porter, no doubt questioning the freighter about who or what he’d seen on his trip into town. The man seemed obsessed with the whereabouts of any newcomers. Only fitting, with what they knew about Haversham, yet something about the man’s insistent curiosity raised Amos’s hackles.