“I know because I found the real Elliott Dunbar left for dead out in the pecan grove near the farm.” She handed Lee’s Bible to Emma. “I found this in his saddlebags yesterday when I ran across his abandoned horse on my way home from church, but I didn’t realize what it meant until this morning when I saw the Family Records page. That’s when the truth clicked, and I rushed straight here.”
Emma flipped a couple pages then read the top name out loud. “Elliott Leander Dunbar, born April 7, 1865.” She frowned. “So the man you just told me about, the one you’ve been nursing, is the real Pinkerton agent?”
Helen nodded. “Yep. That other fella stole Lee’s papers. Right after he shot him off his horse, bashed him in the skull, and left him to bleed to death in the scrub brush.”
Bledsoe shrank back. “Oh, Grace . . .” His voice cracked.
Emma moved past Malachi and touched Bledsoe on the arm. “Grace is a fighter, Amos. And she’s clever. She’ll be all right.”
The marshal placed his palm at the small of Emma’s back and nodded, as if a few sappy words would make a difference. They didn’t need platitudes. They needed action.
“She carries a derringer,” Shaw said, the first practical thing to come out of this conversation. “And she knows how to use it. Pulled it on me once.”
“I know about the gun.” Bledsoe paced to the station house wall and kicked it with the toe of his shoe. “But if she has it, why didn’t she use it already? If nothing else, the sound of the gunshot would have alerted the town and brought us running.”
“Maybe in the panic she forgot or . . . didn’t get a chance.” Emma tried to make it sound harmless, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.
A big burly fellow versus the tiny telegraph operator? Helen’s mouth tightened. He could overpower her in a snap of his fingers.
“Whatever her reason for not firing it,” the marshal said with a firm voice, “she still has the weapon with her, and it’s concealed. Dunbar, or whatever his name is, won’t even know she has it. That will give her an advantage.”
Only if the imposter didn’t keep her tied up, which of course he would. Helen kept that thought to herself, though. Stating the obvious never helped. They were all worried about Grace, and Helen had pieces of the puzzle that could help find her friend.
“His name’s Lockhart,” Helen announced.
All three heads swung around to look at her.
“The man at my cabin has been either unconscious or delirious with fever since I found him on Friday, but his fever broke this morning, and he told me that he recognized the fellow who attacked him. Milton Lockhart, Haversham’s second-in-command at the mine.” She glanced at Emma, then the marshal, then finally screwed up her courage to face Bledsoe again. “Lee suspects that Lockhart’s the shooter who took down Grace’s father.”
Bledsoe grabbed the marshal’s arm. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
“I know, but we’ve got to play this smart, too.” Malachi tugged free of the other man’s hold, then hunkered down to examine the markings Lockhart had left behind in the dirt. Then his gaze lifted to the road. “There’s no distinguishing marks, no nicks in a hoof or missing shoe. And his path leads straight to the road. We’ll have to ride slow and watch for a trail that leaves the main path if we hope to find him holed up somewhere.”
The marshal pushed to his feet and rubbed a hand over his face. “A man like Lockhart doesn’t strike me as the hole-up-in-the-middle-of-nowhere type, though. He’s used to his comforts, to getting whatever he wants with a wink and a smile, especially where females are concerned. Even staying in the jailhouse, he convinced Ann Marie to bring him breakfast the last two mornings and flirted with Katie enough after church that she brought by extra pillows and blankets for his cot yesterday afternoon along with a dozen of her famous pecan pralines.”
Helen frowned at the knowledge that the pecans she’d harvested had gone to feed a monster’s sweet tooth.
“He still has Detective Dunbar’s credentials,” Emma added, her face growing more troubled. “It would be easy for him to convince someone that he’s a lawman transporting a prisoner. And since Grace has made a point never to venture outside Harper’s Station while she’s lived here, very few people would recognize her.”
“So we bang on every door between here and Seymour,” Mr. Bledsoe insisted, undaunted.
Helen had to admit to being impressed by his persistence. Most men would be hesitant to go up against a gunman with a history of putting bullets into people who got in his way.
“We will,” the marshal said, but there was an odd reluctance in his voice. He turned to Emma, his jaw clenching. “But I’ve got to be back here before nightfall.”
Emma’s forehead scrunched. “Why? Finding Grace takes precedence over everything—”
“Not everything,” Malachi ground out. “I’ll do all in my power to find her, Em, but if he gets her to talk . . .”
Bledsoe blew out a harsh breath. “He’ll come straight to the bank. And to the one person who can open the vault and retrieve the books.”
“I can’t leave you unguarded, Em. Don’t ask me to.” The tortured look on the marshal’s face was too much to take. Helen glanced away.
Emma stepped close to her husband, her eyes fierce as she placed her palm against his cheek. “Then I guess you better find her before nightfall.” She gazed steadily at him, her emotions raw and exposed but her conviction strong.
Helen swore she could feel the air thickening around her. What must it be like to feel such a connection to another person, as if speaking aloud were superfluous?
The charged moment ended when Emma stepped back. “I’ll fetch Ben Porter from Tori’s store. He knows the area farms and ranches better than anyone. Maybe he can help you narrow the search.”
Malachi nodded. “Good. Then I need you to gather the women and put them on high alert. If Lockhart comes back to town, everyone needs to be ready. And armed.”
“I’ll tell Betty and the others at the farm,” Helen volunteered. “I’d offer to help keep watch in town, but I’ve got to get back to Lee. If Lockhart figures out he’s alive, he’ll be a target, too. And I didn’t nurse him back to health just so that skunk could put another bullet in him.”
“Are you sure he can be trusted?” the marshal asked.
Helen paused, met the lawman’s gaze square on, and nodded. “Yes. He’s the most protective man I’ve ever met. When I told him I had seen Lockhart in town, he tried to crawl out of bed, determined to get to Grace. I had to bar the door from the outside and shutter the window when I left just to make sure he’d stay put. The man’s so weak he can barely feed himself, yet he’s ready to take on Lockhart to save a woman he’s never met. He can be trusted.”
Bledsoe’s fist unclenched and something nearing acceptance softened his features. Then his forehead scrunched. “Does he wear a mustache?”
Helen started a bit at the unexpected question, then smiled. Emma’s brows shot up to her hairline, but Helen didn’t care. “Yep. A real thick brown one, trimmed at the edges.”
Bledsoe nodded. “Grace contacted the Pinkerton Agency about Detective Dunbar when he first arrived,” he said. “Asked about his appearance. Brown hair. Mustache. Just like Lockhart. Beard was questionable, though.”
“Lee doesn’t wear a beard,” Helen added, excited to help prove Lee’s identity. “He’s grown some stubble over the last few days while he’s been recovering, but no regular beard. Oh! And his sister . . .” She snatched the Bible away from Emma and shoved it at Mr. Bledsoe. “Rachel.” She pointed at the name written in the inscription. “Her married name is West. She lives in Carthage, Missouri. You can wire her. Get all the details on her brother you could ever want.”
“Right now I’m more concerned with finding Grace than sorting out identities.” Bledsoe handed the Bible back to Helen. “Although getting on the wire is a good idea. I’ll telegraph the area lawmen, let them know about the false Pinkerton credentials and Lockhart’s
physical description.” He turned to Malachi. “Would it be all right if I sent the information in your name? It would give the message more immediate credibility.”
“Absolutely.” The marshal thumped Bledsoe on the back. “I’ll grab some extra weapons from the jailhouse. You need to be armed with something more than a bunch of dots and dashes.”
Helen couldn’t agree more. Bledsoe might have sufficient brainpower for the hunt, but only a fool would chase down a killer with no firepower. Thankfully, the telegraph operator felt no compulsion to argue.
“Thanks,” Bledsoe said. “I can have the telegrams sent in ten minutes. I’ll wire Seymour and Wichita Falls directly, then get my colleague in Denison to spread a wider net while we start the search.”
Malachi nodded and strode toward town, taking his wife’s arm as he went. “I’ll have the horses saddled and ready in fifteen.”
Bledsoe hurried after them. “Mrs. Shaw?”
Emma glanced around. “Yes?”
“When you gather the women, would you ask them to pray?” His voice thickened. “Grace is out there—alone—with a killer. She’s going to need divine protection.”
Emma touched his arm. “We will pray without ceasing until Grace is returned to us.”
Bledsoe nodded his thanks, then set off at a jog toward the telegraph office. Malachi and Emma continued on to town, their steps long and hurried. Helen hesitated, leaning a hand against the station house wall.
Divine protection. How often had she prayed for that very thing when she lay huddled in a corner, begging the Lord to hide her from her father? To shield her from his fists? And how often had her father found her anyway?
Scripture calls you a hiding place, a mighty tower, a shield to those who put their trust in you. Yet sometimes evil penetrates your defenses. Helen bit her lower lip. I never understood why. She lifted her chin and squinted at the sky. But deep in my soul, I believe you are good. I believe you are strong. And I believe that I don’t have to understand everything. I just have to trust. So that’s what I’m going to do. Trust you to take care of my friend. Please be her shield. And don’t let evil win.
27
She looks so normal.” A muffled, unfamiliar feminine voice tickled the periphery of Grace’s consciousness.
Grace struggled to open her eyes, but her lashes seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. Something hazy tugged at her memory. Like a dream, it dodged her grasp as wakefulness pulled her in the opposite direction. She considered surrendering to sleep in order to chase the elusive dream, but in the center of the fog filling her mind, one small pebble of certainty refused to blow away in the mist.
Danger.
She was in danger. She had to wake. Had to fight. Escape.
“She doesn’t look mad, but she must be if she drowned her own child.”
A child? Was it a child who was in danger? Grace needed to shake off this unnatural lethargy. Now. She tried again to lift her eyelids and managed the tiniest slit.
“Will she hang, do you think?” A dark-haired woman in a black dress stood a few feet away, sniffing her disapproval. Only a touch of white lace at her collar and cuffs softened the severity of her appearance—that and the flirtatious smile she aimed at the man beside her between sniffs. The smile vanished, however, as she leaned forward and scowled at Grace. “She should hang, if you ask me, mad or not. Any mother who would kill her own child deserves to die.”
Grace tried to shout a denial, but all that escaped her raspy throat was a quiet moan. The woman jumped back at the sound.
“There’s nothing to fear, ma’am. Not while I’m around.”
That voice! That slick, arrogant, womanizing voice. Grace’s stomach clenched as memory raced back. Dunbar.
He strutted into Grace’s narrow field of vision with a cocksure smile on his face and swagger emanating from every pore. The woman gazed up at him hungrily, as if he were a slice of chocolate cake with buttercream icing.
Which was odd since there was a heavy odor of—Grace sniffed—manure hanging about the place. She pried her lids open another smidgen, careful not to moan again and draw unwanted attention.
“I’ll make sure no harm comes to you or your father,” Dunbar assured the woman. “But as a precaution, when you bring dinner out later, just leave it on the ground outside the door and knock to let me know it’s ready. She’ll be awake by then, and I don’t want her to frighten you.” He stepped closer to the woman and reached out to cup her cheek. “When the madness comes upon her, she can chill the bones with her screams.”
The woman shivered and leaned closer to him. The deceitful detective wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “If you happen to hear strange noises, just ignore them, darlin’. I do my best to keep her calm, but I can’t keep her sedated all the time. The doctor warned that too much laudanum can be dangerous, and while her destiny lies either at the end of a rope or in a locked room at an asylum somewhere, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I unintentionally hastened her demise. She’s still a child of God, even if Satan has broken her mind.”
“You’re such a good man, Detective Dunbar. This world needs more men like you.”
Grace’s stomach roiled, either as an effect of the heavy dose of laudanum Dunbar had poured down her throat or from the naïve woman’s syrupy adoration.
The two stood together by a dark wooden beam. Gardening implements and pieces of harness hung on the wall behind them. Straw littered the floor between them and where Grace lay on her side.
A barn. They must be in a barn. But where? On whose property?
Grace stared harder at the woman, trying to make out her features. Thin streaks of gray threaded through the brown bun pulled tightly at her nape. Her face showed a few lines but no discernable wrinkles. Not a young woman, but not terribly old, either. Yet Dunbar mentioned a father, not a husband. So a spinster? A widow?
Whoever she was, she was ripe for Dunbar’s picking. And since the father was not the one seeing to the Pinkerton and his prisoner’s comfort, Grace concluded he was probably infirm or, at the very least, uninterested in the people taking shelter beneath his roof.
Dunbar had mentioned dinner, so it must still be daytime. Grace strained to hear noises from outside the walls. Anything to help her piece together where she was. People. Horses. Wagons. A train whistle.
Nothing.
So they weren’t in a town, which made sense. He’d not want to move too far from Harper’s Station if he believed she’d hidden the documents there.
The fog continued receding from Grace’s brain, and her eyelids felt lighter, but she didn’t open them further. Better for Dunbar to believe she remained insensate. What she did do was rock forward very gently. He’d laid her down on her right side, and her derringer was strapped to her right thigh. When she moved, she felt the bruising from lying atop the hard metal. Thank God! Dunbar hadn’t found the weapon.
She gently tested her arms. Her left arm refused to budge. She glanced away from her captor to examine her hands. Rope bound her wrists. She wiggled her fingers and silently breathed a sigh of relief when they moved on command.
“You get on back to your father, now, Irene,” Dunbar drawled. “And be sure to thank him again for his hospitality. My horse couldn’t continue on much longer with the double load. I’ll try not to inconvenience you for long.”
Irene smiled. “It’s no inconvenience, I assure you. Father and I are glad to aid an officer of the law. Besides, you paid well above what lodging and food would require.”
Dunbar dipped his chin and doffed his hat. “The Pinkertons thank you for your gracious assistance, ma’am. But I do have one request. You must not tell anyone of our presence here, for your own safety. The woman’s brother insists she is innocent despite all evidence to the contrary and has attempted to cut me down on more than one occasion in a misguided effort to rescue his sister.”
Irene gasped, her gaze raking the detective from head to toe. “You’re not injured, I hope?”
&n
bsp; The cocky grin reemerged. “No, ma’am. The fellow’s a telegraph operator. Worthless with a gun. Outwitting him was no hardship, but I’d hate for you or your father to be caught in the crossfire should he somehow track us down.”
“I’ll not say a word,” Irene vowed, “and I’ll ensure that Father keeps quiet as well.”
“You’re a fine woman, Irene Gladstone. God surely blessed me when he brought me to your door.”
Irene Gladstone. Grace filed the name away even as she cringed at the blasphemy of her abductor claiming God’s guidance. The scripture was true indeed about Satan masquerading as an angel of light.
However, as soon as the door closed behind the starry-eyed Miss Gladstone, the demon showed his true colors.
“You can stop pretending to be asleep, Grace.” Dunbar stalked across the dusty floor and leaned his face close to hers. “Now that we have a little privacy, we can get down to business.”
Rough arms jerked her into a sitting position. The straw beneath her shifted, and her head spun at the sudden movement.
“I don’t know where the documents are!” Grace hunched forward, desperate to stop her stomach from revolting. The effects of the laudanum might be clearing from her mind, but they lingered in her belly. Not that she would mind spewing what little was left of her breakfast all over the man in front of her, but she’d rather not cover herself with it in the process.
“Now, Grace.” Dunbar dragged a milking stool over to where she sat and planted himself on its seat directly in front of her. Then he winked at her as if this were some kind of game. “I like you, sweetheart. I really do. Not many people are clever enough to fool me, but you managed. At least for a while. I can appreciate that. Respect it even.” He smiled as he paid her the ridiculous compliment, leaning forward to rest his forearm on his knee. “But Chauncey is paying me good money to retrieve those papers, and if he loses his fortune . . . well, I’ll be losing mine as well, won’t I? Can’t have that.”
Grace glared at him.
He chuckled. “Still got your spunk, I see. Well, that won’t last long.” He flattened his palms against his thighs and pushed to a standing position. Then he strode over to her, grabbed her bound wrists, and yanked her to her feet.