Page 6 of Heart on the Line

Emma joined in the laughter. “Yes. Too much proof, as far as I’m concerned. Hopefully we won’t put the theory to such an extensive test again anytime soon.”

Remembering the life-threatening attacks against Harper’s Station a few months ago, Grace heartily agreed.

“Thanks again for joining me for dinner tonight.” Emma slipped her hand free and rubbed her arms against the brisk wind that swept over them. “Betty always insists on feeding Malachi on the days he works for her. Thankfully the new coop is nearly complete. Once the laying hens move in, I’ll be able to claim my husband for evening meals again.”

Grace smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

Ever since her marriage, Emma had gone out of her way to assure the ladies of Harper’s Station that her new status as a wife in no way affected her dedication to their community. If it hadn’t been dinner at the café tonight, Grace was certain Emma would have arranged another time for the two of them to chat. And not just about telegraph business. Emma might be a banker and the town manager, but first and foremost, she was a friend. The kind who welcomed a runaway, grief-stricken girl with open arms and gave her not only a job but also a home.

The wind picked up, causing the temperature to dip as the sun plunged toward the horizon. A shiver coursed over Grace, urging her to make a quick dash back to her rooms at the telegraph office and the stove that waited for her there.

It wasn’t just the stove she was eager to return to. She cast another glance at Tori and Ben, warmth infusing her cheeks as he leaned close and brushed a kiss across the shopkeeper’s cheek. Grace might not have a man to hold her, to stand by her side, or to kiss her good night, but she did have a particular friend. One who corresponded with her nearly every evening and who might, even now, be calling her on the wire.

She glanced toward the small clapboard building on the outskirts of town. Anticipation surged inside her, despite her attempts to stifle it.

This was too ridiculous. For all she knew, Mr. A was a middle-aged dandy who wore a girdle to contain his generous belly and doused himself in suffocating amounts of strong cologne. She could probably overlook the girth, but the cologne? She never could abide the artificial smell of toilet water. Especially since men who opted to wear such scents tended to do so in place of bathing. Having a hundred miles between them was probably a good thing.

So why was she stepping down from the boardwalk and lifting a hand to wave farewell to Emma?

“I’m going to get out of this wind,” she heard herself say. “Give Malachi my regards.”

Emma nodded. “I will.” Only a slight wrinkle in her brow hinted at her curiosity over Grace’s eagerness to depart. “Have a good night.”

“You, too.” Reinforcing her excuse, Grace tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and jogged toward her rooms.

When she pushed open the door, the heat from her stove washed over her in gentle welcome. She slipped off her shawl, folded it over her arm, then turned to click the lock into place. Even in a town full of women she trusted with her life, Grace never retired without locking the front door and checking all the windows. She made her rounds hurriedly tonight but still inspected every latch to make sure it was secure.

The sounder in the office was quiet. No tapping coming through the wire yet. Mentally insisting she was not disappointed, Grace hung up her shawl, exchanged her less comfortable heeled button boots for a pair of soft kid leather slippers, and put on a kettle for tea.

By the time she had a steaming cup in hand, the first tappings echoed though the office doorway. Her silly heart leapt at the sound, but she forced her feet to move at a sedate pace from her private chamber, which served as bedroom, kitchen, and sitting room, into the office.

She always kept the doorway open at night, in case an emergency message came through, but Western Union operators were not required to work after hours. They were, however, given the privilege of conversing with one another when not on the clock. Many stayed late or arrived early to do so. Very few conversed as late in the evening as this, though. Most were home with their families by now, so there was a greater chance of privacy. That was one of the reasons she allowed herself to indulge in these nightly chats with Mr. A. The late hour didn’t bother her, since she lived in the same building where the telegraph was housed, but what about her companion?

He spoke often of his mother and sister, his nephew. He had family, people who cared about him. So why did he spend his evenings conversing with her over the telegraph wires? Could he be as lonely as she was?

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Three unit pause. Dot. Dot. Dot. Seven unit pause. Dash. Dash. Dot. Seven unit pause.

. - . - . . - . - - - - - . . - - . . . . . . - . .

Hs. G. Are you there?

It was Mr. A. She’d recognize his quick touch at the key anywhere. So crisp and precise. A metronome couldn’t create spaces any more rhythmic. She’d long admired his deft hand at the key. Setting her tea on the table, Grace slid into her office chair, a giddy tickle in her stomach despite her best efforts to maintain a sense of detachment.

Yes, Station Dn. I’m here.

Excellent! I worried I had waited too long to call. Dinner at my sister’s took longer than expected.

I hope you didn’t rush away on my account, Grace tapped. She touched the key, intending to reassure him that she could answer his call anytime, since her personal chambers were only a couple steps away from the office, but such a detail seemed too intimate to share, even with someone she’d corresponded with for several months. She settled for a more generalized reply. Family ranks higher than friendship.

Not when they insist on driving one to distraction. I was eager to escape. Believe me.

What dastardly plague did they set upon you? Grace grinned as she tapped out the words. Mr. A always seemed to have a humorous story to tell about his family, his life so wonderfully normal that whenever she listened to him, she managed to forget all about danger and unseen foes. For a few blessed minutes, she was simply a girl talking to a young man, no worries in sight.

I dare not tell you, for fear of spreading the contagion. It seems to strike the women around me with alarming regularity.

Intrigued, Grace leaned forward. Surely the distance between us will serve as adequate protection.

My mother and sister have both been afflicted for some time, I’m sorry to say, but tonight their symptoms worsened.