“Did you confront him?” He hoped not. If the Pinkerton had a hidden agenda, Grace needed any advantage available to get the upper hand.
Thankfully, she shook her head. “No. And I think I hid my reaction well enough that he didn’t suspect anything.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was harder to evade his direct questions about the location of the documents. I told him truthfully that I hadn’t been able to find them yet in my father’s belongings. He mentioned the books. Said his informant among the Pinkertons at the Silver Serpent Mine let it slip that two books had gone missing from the library at Haversham House.”
Amos straightened. “He admitted to knowing Chaucer Haversham? But earlier he acted as if he’d known nothing about Haversham discovering your whereabouts.”
“I know.” She sighed and turned back to the telegraph, outlining the rectangular base with her finger. “That was the lie I caught him in. I just can’t discern the intent behind it. Was he simply trying to spare me worry, not realizing that I already knew of Haversham’s discovery? Or is his duplicity a symptom of a more serious problem?”
She blew out a breath, pushed back from the desk, and twisted in her chair to stare into the empty space above the customer counter. “I can’t trust him with the books. Not yet, at least. When he asked about them, I told him I had packed them away and left them with a trusted friend. When I refused to give him the name of the friend, he encouraged me to wire that person and ask her to ship them to me.” Grace turned to face him, her eyes dark and fretful. “That’s when I left and came here. It was the perfect excuse—leave him to assume I’m wiring my friend.”
“Without realizing that your friend is just a few steps away at the bank.” Amos smiled. “Quick thinking. You probably bought yourself at least a couple days. Dunbar couldn’t expect a shipment to arrive any sooner than that.”
Grace’s gaze dodged past him through the doorway to her private chambers then returned to his face. “The books are at the bank, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They’re safe. Locked up tight.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
The depth of gratitude she packed into those two small words made his heart swell to what felt like twice its normal size. What he wouldn’t give to slay all her dragons so easily.
Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it reverberated with the tension of a complicated situation that had no clear solution. If they could figure out Dunbar’s true motives, they could decide how to proceed, but until they ferreted out the truth, they remained in limbo.
“I have two days to find Father’s documents.” Her tone didn’t instill much confidence. “But with Mr. Dunbar hanging around town, I can’t risk taking the books out of the vault.” Her mouth quirked with irony. “It’s rather hard to find something if you can’t look in the place where it’s hidden.”
Amos smacked his knee with his palm and shot to his feet, determination humming in his veins. He would not allow her to be defeated by this situation. “Then we’ll just have to tackle this problem another way.”
The office chair creaked as Grace craned her neck to follow his movements. “What are you thinking?”
He paced over to the counter, then pivoted, leaning back against the half wall. “If we can’t investigate the documents, we’ll just have to investigate the man who intends to claim them.”
“Mr. Dunbar? But what is there to investigate? His credentials are legitimate.” Her brow furrowed, but it seemed to be more in thought than confusion. “Malachi and I telegraphed the Pinkerton office in Philadelphia the morning after I received the warning over the wire. Detective Whitmore confirmed that he’s had the same man working my case since he received my father’s communication all those months ago, one Elliott Dunbar. Mr. Whitmore assured us that he could be trusted. Said Dunbar was as honorable as they come.”
“Yet your gut says otherwise, doesn’t it?” Amos gently prodded.
Grace gave a jerky little nod. “I just wish I had evidence one way or the other. To either verify that he is the honorable man Whitmore claims or to prove he’s been corrupted somehow. That Haversham got to him. Paid him off, threatened his family, something. But I have no proof on either side.”
“Not yet,” Amos conceded, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t start gathering the information you need to decide if he’s trustworthy.”
Interest lit Grace’s eyes. “What kind of information?”
“Anything. Everything.” Amos pushed away from the wall. He crossed the floor in five strides then sat on the corner of her desk. “We don’t take anything for granted. We question everything, including Whitmore’s testimony. If Dunbar has been working this case for nearly a year, Whitmore hasn’t seen him in quite some time. It’s possible Dunbar’s no longer the man Whitmore knew.”
“Not the man Whitmore knew . . .” Grace shot forward in her seat. She reached for the telegraph sounder, opened the circuit, and began tapping.
Amos translated the sounds as she set up a wired path to the telegraph office at the Pinkerton agency in Philadelphia. Once connected, she asked for Whitmore. The operator on the other end responded that the detective was not available, so Grace turned her attention directly to her cohort on the other side. A male operator, by the sound of his touch on the key, slightly heavier than Grace’s, and a little faster. Almost . . . regimented, like a soldier marching to battle.
Have you ever met Detective Dunbar?
Yes.
Can you describe his physical appearance?
Tall, brown hair, mustache.
No beard?
Never seen him with one. Might not shave while in the field, though.
That earned a frown from Grace, and no wonder. Dunbar seemed the type of man who used his looks as a weapon. Such a fellow would always look his best.
What about his eye color?
Don’t know. The tapping grew thicker and less precise, as if the sender were growing agitated. Never looked close enough to notice. Why all the questions? If he’s got the badge, he’s Detective Dunbar. The only way a Pinkerton loses his badge is if it’s stolen from his corpse. Quit clogging the line with your fretting. I have real work to do.
Grace thanked the operator for his assistance then raised her gaze to Amos. “The description matches.”
Amos frowned. “Tall. Brown hair. Mustache.” He shook his head. “Grace, that description matches half the men in Texas. I wouldn’t exactly call that substantive proof.”
She slumped backward in her chair. “I know. I hoped to uncover something more definitive, but it seems all I’ve done is confuse matters even further.”
“How’s that?”
“I thought we only had two possible scenarios to decide between. But now it appears we have three.”
Amos ached over the weariness and strain in her face that seemed to deepen as he watched. “Three?”
Grace released a heavy sigh and nodded. “Until now I thought I had two choices. Mr. Dunbar is trustworthy, or he’s been corrupted, possibly coerced, by Haversham. But according to the Pinkerton operator, there’s a third option.”
Amos thought back over the words of the Philadelphia operator in an effort to follow Grace’s logic. He had insisted Dunbar was exactly who he presented himself to be because . . . Amos’s back stiffened. “The badge.”
Grace’s gaze melted into his. “There could be a Pinkerton agent lying dead somewhere between here and Colorado.”
17
Helen sawed the stranger’s pant leg with a dull serrated knife she kept in the cabin for eating purposes. After five minutes, with only a two-inch slit to show for her effort, she abandoned the knife and used her hands instead. Grabbing the ragged edges of denim, she yanked them apart as hard as she could. The fabric gave way and tore several inches straight up the front. She repositioned her hands, and repeated the motion three more times, until she finally had his left pant leg split wide and hanging open to a point several inches above his knee
.
Unfortunately, her yanking on the denim tore away most of the clot that had formed over the wound on his thigh, and blood started seeping out of the bullet hole. Blood and a disturbing whitish fluid that hinted at infection.
Helen bit her lip and turned her head as an inconvenient lightheadedness assailed her. She needed help. She could give him basic care, but if infection had already set in, that required nursing skills she didn’t possess.
But who could she trust to keep her secret? Because her stranger had to remain a secret, at least until Helen figured out who he was. She might not care for Malachi Shaw’s male presence in Harper’s Station, but even she had to admit that the marshal was extremely protective of the ladies who lived there. With him on high alert over the threat to Grace, he’d probably either lock the stranger up or kick him out of town without sufficient care for his wound. Helen couldn’t let that happen. Not to Rachel’s brother.
She pulled a clean handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the bullet hole. Judging by the size of the stains on his trousers as well as what he’d left on the dirt and grass outside, the stranger had lost a bucket’s worth of blood. He was running a fever, mumbling out of his head, and had early signs of infection.
He represented no threat. He didn’t even carry a weapon. No one traveled through wild country without a way to defend themselves from animals or the occasional outlaw, yet her stranger wore a gun belt with an empty holster. A leather sheath large enough to hold a hunting knife hung at his left hip, but it too was missing its occupant. This fella didn’t even have any boots. He’d been stripped.
Whoever had shot him had made good and sure his opponent couldn’t give chase. Had her stranger shot first, bringing retaliation upon himself? Or had he been ambushed?
Helen tilted her head to get a better look at the man’s face as she continued pressing her makeshift dressing against the hole in his thigh. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. There weren’t enough lines on his face or leather in his hide for him to be much older. Surely a man who would sacrifice himself for his sister when he was fifteen couldn’t have hardened into a woman-hunting mercenary with no conscience in so short a time.
Helen straightened as another, more disturbing thought crossed her mind. He might not be the kind to hunt a woman for personal gain, but what if someone threatened his sister or someone he cared about? Helen frowned. Such a man would do anything to save the people he loved.
Maybe she ought to tie his wrists to the bedstead before she left. The iron was old, but it hadn’t corroded. It would hold him, especially in his weakened state.
First things first, though. She needed to clean that wound.
Helen left the blood-soaked handkerchief resting on his leg, then collected the water pail and hurried through the pecan grove to the creek. Maybelle, the town’s healer, always boiled her water and instruments before tending an injury. She said boiling made the water cleaner somehow and minimized the threat of infection.
Helen’s stranger couldn’t afford any more infection, so even though it meant moving like a snail when her instincts demanded she streak like a thoroughbred across the countryside to find help, Helen took the time to stoke a fire once she returned to the cabin and poured half the water into the kettle to heat. She poured a second portion into a glass retrieved from her supply box, which held one plate, one glass, and one set of flatware. She never expected company. Never wanted it. Now that she had some, she feared she’d lose him before she could extend better hospitality than hurling his unconscious body onto a bed made for someone considerably shorter in stature.
She peeked at the wound and murmured a prayer of thanks when she noted the bleeding had slowed. Looking around the sparse room for something to use for bandages, she frowned. A sheet would be ideal, but the stranger’s heavy carcass lay sprawled atop the only ones she had in the cabin. And she wasn’t about to move him.
The curtains? She smiled at the thought of binding his wounds with red floral calico, but she cleaned the cabin so sporadically that the curtains not only had dust coating their length, but spider webs in their corners.
That left her petticoats. She was wearing two. Her favorites. The ones that had softened with use and many washings, instead of the stiff, itchy new ones back in her wardrobe. Helen sighed, then reached beneath the front of her skirt to untie the waist string. She’d prefer to tear up the ugly black dress she wore, but if she showed up at the farm house without a skirt, she’d be pelted with questions from every angle and would never get away in time to fetch medical help.
While the water heated, she tore her top petticoat into strips. She rolled several strips into bandages but set aside two to use as bindings. As much as she hated the idea of tying her stranger up, she had more than herself to consider. He might be a noble hero to Rachel, but if he planned to harm Grace, even to save another, that made him the enemy.
Steam rose from the kettle spout and a low hiss started to build, indicating a boil was close. Helen dragged her chair next to the bed, placed the rolled bandages in her supply box, and set the box on the floor beside the chair.
“Time to clean out that hole,” she whispered, needing to say the words aloud to galvanize her into action. She’d nursed her mother hundreds of times and knew every trick in the book for dealing with bruises and black eyes and sore ribs, but she knew nothing about gunshot wounds. And though she was ashamed to admit it, the few glimpses she’d had of the hole in the stranger’s leg had made her rather queasy.
“Get over it, Helen,” she grumbled softly as she marched over to the small stove in the corner. “There’s no one but you to do it, so quit bein’ a sissy about it.” Wrapping a towel around her hand for protection, she clasped the kettle handle and poured most of the hot water into the chipped basin she kept for her personal needs. Steam rose to moisten her face. As if she wasn’t damp enough already after gathering pecans and wrestling a full-grown man into bed. If he ever did regain his senses, she’d have to hope the Lord would strike him with temporary blindness. Seeing a five-foot, bedraggled black crow bent over him would surely send his health into a sharp decline.
Helen touched the tip of her finger to the surface of the water, then immediately yanked it back with a hiss. Too hot. She’d scald him and herself. Taking the glass of water she’d set aside earlier, she poured a third of its contents into the basin and stirred with a wooden spoon. She tested the water again. Still hot, uncomfortably so, but not unbearable. She rolled her sleeves to the elbows, then, gritting her teeth, plunged her hands into the water and rubbed them vigorously with a small cake of soap.
Taking the basin in hand, she pivoted to face her patient. “Your turn, mister.”
Helen set the basin on the seat of her chair, then lifted her stranger’s leg and placed every spare towel she had beneath his thigh. Then, washrag in hand, she got to work. Kneeling beside the bed, she dipped the rag into the hot water and squeezed it out over his wound, letting it flush out as much dirt and debris as possible. The stranger moaned slightly, but thankfully there was no thrashing about. Not until she soaped up the rag and started scrubbing.
He bucked, and his arms swung wildly. Not knowing how else to stop him, Helen jumped to her feet and threw her body across his chest. She grabbed for his shoulders and used her weight to pin him to the bed.
“Easy,” she crooned next to his ear. “No need to get all worked up. You’re safe. Just got a hole in your leg that needs tending.”
His flailing subsided as she spoke, but the tension in his muscles remained taut. “Rachel?” His lashes fluttered and finally parted. His gaze met hers, and his brow furrowed. “Not . . . Rachel.”
Helen pulled back a bit, not sure if she was glad he was lucid enough to realize she wasn’t his sister. She knew he’d never hurt Rachel. But Helen Potter? That was an entirely different basket of nuts.
“No, I’m not Rachel. My name’s Helen. I found you outside. Shot.” Something flashed in his eyes. Not surp
rise. A memory, maybe? Then his focus returned to her, and all at once Helen became aware of her position pressed against his chest. She ducked away from his gaze and lifted off him, keeping her palms braced against his shoulders to make sure he stayed down. “I’m . . . ah . . . trying to clean your wound.” Why was she the one embarrassed? It was his fault they were in this predicament. He was the one who got himself shot. And he was the one who’d started thrashing around like a kid having a tantrum. She scowled at him. “You think you can manage to stay still long enough for me to finish?”
His mustache twitched. Was he smiling at her? It was hard to tell with that giant caterpillar on his lip.
“Yes . . . ma’am.”
Would that caterpillar be soft or prickly, should a woman get close enough to feel it? Not that she was considering such a thing, of course. She was simply curious. Curious and apparently dimwitted, for she still hadn’t removed her hands from him, even after he promised to lie still.
She scrambled away and reclaimed the washrag that had fallen on the bed. She’d already cleared away the worst of the dirt and dried blood from the outer edges of the wound, but she needed to clean as much as she could from the inside. She soaped up the rag and folded it over her smallest finger.
He must have pieced together what she intended, for his muscles tensed even further. “Can’t you just pour some whiskey on it and be done with it?” he grumbled.
“Sorry.” Helen shook her head. “I don’t have any.”
His eyes slid closed again and his jaw clenched. “Figures.” He curled his hands into fists. “Do what you gotta do.”
She did. And it nearly killed her, watching his face drain of all color and his fists press hard enough into the quilt to lift his torso several inches off the cot. She moved as quickly and as gently as she could, afraid to cause more damage, yet more afraid to leave something to fester inside him.