Sensations bombarded her, making her dizzy. Her knees weakened beneath the assault, but Amos held her firm, her anchor in the vortex. She found the idea of a future with this man very amenable indeed.
Yet as much as his kiss exhilarated her, the loss of control it inspired unsettled her. She pushed more firmly against Amos’s chest, a tricky feat in itself, since her arms currently held all the strength of wet newsprint. Nevertheless, Amos reacted immediately. He loosened his grip and separated his mouth from hers.
They stood there for a long moment, silent except for the breathless huffs filling the air between them. Grace couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze, so she stared at a spot about an inch above the V of his vest, oddly comforted by the fact that his chest rose and fell with the same erratic rhythm as her own.
“Forgive me, Grace,” he finally said, taking a step back from her and tugging on the hem of his vest in that nervous way of his she was starting to find charming. “I’m afraid my ardency got a bit out of hand.”
“You weren’t alone in that,” she admitted softly, unwilling to let him place all the blame on himself.
“Still . . .” He cleared his throat. “A gentleman never places a lady’s reputation at risk. We are in a public office. Anyone could have come in.” His body turned slightly. “Or seen through the window.”
Grace lifted her head to peer through the paned glass, relief washing over her when she saw nothing but dirt and trees and a handful of buildings. Most people were at home this time of day, preparing for the evening meal.
However, despite her gratitude over not being caught in a private embrace, she sensed an increasing awkwardness about Amos that tugged at her heart. She recalled the humorous, self-deprecating stories he’d entertained her with over the wire about his nemesis, one Harriet Dexter, who believed it her calling in life to point out his shortcomings to the female population of Denison. Now Amos was apologizing to her as if worried he’d embarrassed her with his attentions.
Well, Harriet Dexter was an idiot, and as soon as Amos and Grace returned from Philadelphia, she intended to travel to Denison and rub the woman’s face in her mistake. Amos Bledsoe was a man any woman would be proud to have by her side. And if he continued to find Grace amenable after their sufficient wooing period, she intended to make the arrangement permanent. Permanent and so blissfully happy that all those foolish Denison girls who let him slip through their fingers would kick themselves for their stupidity.
“We’re courting, Amos. Officially,” Grace said, her voice firm, her attention capturing and holding his gaze hostage. “There is nothing improper about a courting couple sharing a celebratory kiss. And if anyone did happen to spy our embrace, I would accept whatever teasing resulted with good grace because I know how fortunate I am to have a man like you as my beau.”
A warmth came into his blue eyes that made her pulse flicker. “I am the fortunate one, Miss Mallory. And whatever transpires over the next few days with this scheme of yours, know that I will remain steadfastly by your side. Come what may.”
Come what may, indeed. Grace could only hope that what came was a successful double-cross and an uneventful journey to Philadelphia. Everything hinged on Detective Dunbar being less clever than he was pretty. Generally, those who relied on looks to get through life spent little time harnessing their intellect, but the Pinkerton didn’t strike her as a fool. He was canny. How canny was yet to be determined. Only time, and a box of musty books, would tell.
22
Two days later, Helen snuck out of church early and ran for home. Katie had given her an odd look when she muttered an excuse about her stomach aching as she exited their pew while everyone stood for the closing hymn. It hadn’t been a lie. Her gut had been tied up in knots ever since Tori Adams made an announcement about a riderless horse her son Lewis had spotted down by the river the day before. Mr. Porter had taken the boy fishing and had tried to catch the still-saddled beast, but being on foot, he’d not been able to keep up with the animal when it spooked and ran.
Mr. Porter was about as good with horses as Miss Bertie Chandler was with blackberry syrup, and Miss Bertie’s syrup had won enough blue ribbons to fill an entire kitchen drawer. If Ben Porter couldn’t catch the horse, Helen didn’t know why she thought she could do any better, but she had to try.
Because she wasn’t the only one whose ears had perked up at the announcement. That Pinkerton fella had shown up at services too, making Helen’s stomachache even worse, and he’d volunteered to track down the runaway.
Claire had told Helen about the detective’s questions when she’d come out to the cabin to check on her patient yesterday. Dunbar had asked her some generic questions about Grace and then probed her about unusual occurrences around town. Had anyone unfamiliar come to the clinic for medical assistance? Anyone try to buy supplies? He made it sound like he was only asking as a way to prevent someone from getting close to Grace through dishonest means. He had urged Claire not to treat any strangers without first checking with him or the marshal.
He was looking for Lee. Helen was sure of it. Which meant he was the one who’d shot him. The vile thought stirred her simmering anger to such a pitch, she found a new burst of energy as she ran toward the farmhouse. She couldn’t let him find Lee’s horse. Not if the animal still wore its saddle and bags. She had to rescue Lee’s Bible.
Her stranger had been burning with fever the last two days, more unconscious than not. Tossing, turning, flailing, moaning. Calling for Rachel. Every once in a while, even calling for Helen. She had bathed his face and neck with cool water throughout the day and had even sneaked away at night to tend him, careful to leave the farmhouse after everyone was asleep and to return before the roosters crowed in order to avoid suspicion.
She’d followed Claire’s directions in cooking up the milk and bread poultice and applied it four times a day. But still, Lee’s fever raged. If it didn’t break soon, she might have to fulfill his request to find Rachel and give her his Bible after all. Not that she would mind meeting Rachel. Lee’s sister had endured the same crucible Helen had as a child. They were bound to feel a kinship of sorts. Yet she didn’t want a kinship based on mutual loss. Not when that loss meant Lee’s death.
Please, Lord, she prayed as a stitch in her side caused her to slow to a brisk walk. He’s the first man I ever met who didn’t make me want to run in the opposite direction. She glared at the scattered clouds that lollygagged their way across the sky. Isn’t that why you recruited me for nursing duty? Because you knew Lee was the one man on earth who would actually make me feel safe? You can’t take him from me now. Not after I’ve gone all soft for him. That would be a trick my old man would pull. Not the act of a loving Father.
Like the time her pa had waited just long enough for her to grow attached to Corky’s runt pup. All the spaniel’s siblings had been sold or given away, but no one wanted little Percy, with his mismatched eyes and uneven gait. No one but Helen. To her, he was the most perfect friend a girl could want. Loyal and full of love, licking her face and following wherever she went. Even making her laugh when no one else was around to hear. Her affection-starved heart hadn’t stood a chance.
She’d been careful not to let her delight in the puppy show around her pa, but he must have guessed. Two months after Percy had been weaned, just long enough to make her believe she might get to keep him, her pa brought a gunnysack out to the barn. He snatched Percy by the scruff of his neck, tossed him inside, and marched down to the river.
Helen had screamed and wailed, chasing after her pa, begging him not to drown her pup. But it hadn’t stopped him.
“The pup is mine, not yours, brat. And if I don’t want to spare the food to feed it, I can do what I want to rid myself of the critter. Just like I can with you. So shut yer mouth.”
She had. She’d shut everything down that day. Turned off the tears. Turned off her heart. Vowed never to give him a weapon to use against her like that again. Caring only made you weak. V
ulnerable.
You’re supposed to be better than that, she accused the Father she’d always believed to be worth her devotion, unlike the earthly model she’d been stuck with. You’re supposed to give good gifts to your children. Isn’t that what you promised?
Oh, she knew the Bible promised God’s children hardship as well as blessing. Hardship didn’t scare her. She’d dealt with it her entire life. God could send all the suffering, persecution, and fiery trials he wanted. What he couldn’t do was tease her with hope, break open her sealed-up heart, then yank the gift away. That would make him cruel. And she’d never serve a cruel master. Ever.
The stitch in her side suddenly sharpened to a full-blown cramp. Helen grimaced and stumbled to a halt, pinching her waist between her thumb and fingers. As she did so, the verse the traveling preacher had read from the pulpit that morning tripped through her muddled mind. The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein.
Helen shuddered, the passage from Psalm 24 echoing far too closely the words her father had spouted when he’d stolen Percy from her. Ownership. God owned everything. The world. The people. Helen.
No. She would not be owned. She’d not simply lie down and let someone else dictate her life, meekly accepting whatever happened.
If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.
The words of Jesus slammed into her heart and shattered her arguments. Helen grabbed her middle and doubled over, though not because of the cramp in her side. This pain went deeper, to the pit of her soul. She was the whosoever trying to save her own life, which meant she was destined to lose it. Unless she found a way to deny herself. Give up control and fully surrender her will to that of her Savior. If she truly wanted to follow him, she had to be willing to go wherever he led. Even through the valley of the shadow of death.
She’d always thought that meant her death. But what if it meant the death of another? One she cared about? Tears welled in her eyes. She hadn’t shed tears since the day her pa had drowned her puppy. She hadn’t even allowed herself to cry when her mother died. Tears equaled weakness. Yet it wasn’t weakness that brought the moisture to her eyes as she stood in the middle of the farmhouse road. It was contrition. By refusing to deny herself, she had denied her Lord. Throwing ultimatums in his face as if she had the right.
Fail to heal Lee, and I won’t love you anymore, she’d threatened. I’ll turn my back on you. Call you unjust, a betrayer. Was her love for him so shallow that she’d turn her back like a petulant child if she didn’t get her way?
The first tear rolled down her cheek, followed by a second and a third, until a stream flowed. Helen tightened her grip on her midsection and rocked slightly as she released the last vestiges of her control. “O, God, you are good,” she said softly, her voice cracking as her throat grew thick. “Your love is perfect. Your ways are perfect. You are worthy of my trust. No matter what comes. You are able to save Lee from death, but even if you do not, I will still follow you. I will still love you. Because you are not cruel or unjust or petty. You are holy and righteous and full of compassion. You are God, able to see not only into the past but into the future, and I trust you to know what is best.”
The tears continued to fall, and Helen made no move to wipe them away. She needed the cleansing, needed to let go, needed to let the Shepherd lead.
A soft whinny echoed in her ears.
Her head jerked up and a smile stretched her mouth wide. O, Lord. You are good.
For there, not a hundred yards away from her, stood the very thing she’d sought when she’d bolted from church. A chestnut gelding. Saddle. No rider.
Lee’s horse.
She laughed. A tear-clogged, croak of a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. One that felt so free, she did it again. She’d thought she’d felt true freedom on the day her father died, but she’d only lost her jailor, not her chains. Today she was truly free.
Unwrapping her arms from about her middle, Helen straightened and smiled again. She felt lighter, buoyant almost, and so full of hope that she thought her heart might burst.
She still didn’t know Lee’s fate, but the Lord had sent her his horse, so she’d be thankful for that blessing and leave the rest in the Almighty’s hands.
After pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and cleaning up the mess she’d made of her face, Helen approached the horse. She moved slowly but confidently, speaking to the animal in low tones.
“Hey, boy.” She held her palm open in front of her as her skirts rustled the tall grass near the shallow creek that must have drawn the animal to this particular spot. The big horse blinked at her and swished his tail but showed no signs of fear. “Looking for Lee? I’m helping him. I’d like to help you, too. I could get you out of that saddle if you hold still for a few minutes. What do you say?”
As she neared the horse, she could see the scrapes where the chestnut had tried to free himself from his tack with no success. Helen recalled sleeping in her clothes several days in a row when traveling and the sore places she’d developed from her corset pressing into her skin with no relief. How much worse must a saddle be? So heavy and unwieldly.
She moved within reach. The chestnut snorted and sidestepped. “Easy, boy.” She offered him her hand to smell, and when he calmed a bit, she reached up to stroke his cheek. She continued petting him and murmuring praise, moving along his neck and over his shoulder until she reached the cinch strap. Acting as if they were in a confined barn stall instead of out on the wide-open prairie where the horse could spook and run for days, Helen lifted the stirrup and hooked it over the saddle horn to get it out of the way. Then she tugged on the cinch strap. The chestnut blew out a breath, as if eager to assist. The fastening loosened, and the girth fell free. Quickly, Helen tied up the extra strap length and, keeping a hand on the horse’s body, made her way behind him to the other side. He was a little too tall for her, but she managed to drag the saddle and pad off without tumbling onto her rear.
The chestnut bolted the moment he was free of his burden. Helen made no move to stop him, just grinned at his exuberance. As he scampered off, she turned her attention to the tack at her feet. Lee’s saddlebag hung from the side of the cantle, still affixed. She hunkered down in the grass and unbuckled the leather pouch. Inside were a fresh shirt and a small book—the Bible he’d asked her to take to his sister. A brown ribbon marked a passage near the end.
Helen pulled upward on the ribbon until the Bible opened, and immediately her eyes were drawn to the underlined verse in the middle of the left page. The first verse of Galatians 5.
“‘Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.’” Helen turned her face to the sky. “I will,” she vowed.
Never again would she allow her fear of being hurt to shackle her.
23
Here’s my supply list for the week.” Tori Adams handed Grace a half-sheet of paper. Grace scanned the items, thankful for the shopkeeper’s tidy script. She never had trouble deciphering Tori’s handwriting.
Emma, on the other hand, was the worst. The banker’s numbers always stood out clear and precise—no one could accuse Emma Shaw of being careless with her figures—but her rushed penmanship often required mental contortions to untangle.
Emma had brought her Monday financial report by that morning for Grace to wire to the broker in New York, and Grace still hadn’t finished translating the document into a legible message. Thankfully, she’d been working with Emma long enough to recognize most of her scrawl patterns, but she still preferred to copy the information onto a clean telegraph blank before sending the contents over the wire. It was much easier to decode Emma’s scribbles beforehand than trying to translate mid-transmission.
Grace glanced up from Tori’s list and raised a brow. “Only five i
tems? That’s a short list for you. Has your delivery business dropped off?”
Tori shook her head. “No. In fact, Mr. Porter and I added two new clients last week.” The smile that accompanied her words was small, as usual from the stoic shopkeeper, but satisfaction gleamed in her blue eyes. “I gave the rest of my list to Ben when he visited on Saturday. Knowing that shipment of bicycles would be arriving today, I asked him to load up with staples as well. Flour, sugar, coffee, cornmeal, lard. Those kinds of things. No sense making a trip with a half-empty freight wagon.”
Grace quirked her lips as she returned to her desk, opened the telegraph circuit, and started tapping out the message that would be delivered to Tori’s supplier in Gainesville. “Something tells me an empty wagon wouldn’t stop Mr. Porter from making a trip out to see you.”
The freighter appeared in town at least three times a week these days. Tori blamed the extra visits on their delivery business, but everyone in town knew she and Benjamin Porter were courting. After each delivery run, Tori cooked dinner for the freighter, and the two were often spotted sitting together on the bench outside the shop in the evenings, sipping coffee and talking until the sun set. How Mr. Porter managed to find his way home in the fading light of dusk was a mystery that kept the gossip mills grinding. Some ladies presumed those giant horses of his could see in the dark. Others believed he set up camp somewhere along the road to pass the night then rose at dawn to finish the journey. Everyone agreed that he’d do anything necessary to spend time with Tori. The man was besotted. And judging by the faint pink coloring Tori’s cheeks, he wasn’t the only one.
“Yes, well . . .” Tori fiddled with her reticule strings. “Lewis enjoys spending time with him. Ben is helping him train Hercules.”