Grace raced for the blue cloth pinned to the ground by eight large stones. The fabric flapped between the rock anchors, urging her on.
She was going to win this time. She felt it.
Leaning forward over the handlebars, she drove her legs faster, her heart pounding with excitement. The finish line loomed, but she dared not slow down. Better to simply steer away from the rocks.
“Be careful!” Amos called out from behind her.
From behind her! Grace laughed and continued pedaling. At the last moment, she steered to the left to avoid the rocks, but the jerk of the front wheel threw off her balance. She wobbled.
“Brake!” Amos yelled.
Grace reached for the braking lever, but when she loosened her grip on the handlebars, what little control she’d managed to maintain was lost. The bicycle tipped. She jumped from the seat, but the wheels kept rolling. The frame clipped her legs. Grace tumbled, bracing herself as she fell. One hand hit the blue blanket, and the other grabbed for a corner rock to ensure she didn’t strike her head.
“Grace! Are you all right?”
Grace rolled onto her side in time to see Amos execute a perfect, full-speed dismount, clearing the metal frame with an agile leap while the bicycle rolled past and toppled harmlessly to the ground a few feet away.
It really was quite impressive—and patently unfair—that he should be so graceful in his dismount while she lay sprawled on the ground in an inelegant heap. Yet she couldn’t help but admire his athleticism.
Grace smiled as Amos reached her, his worried gaze scanning her for injury. “Are you hurt?”
She giggled and shook her head. She might have a bruise or two on her hip, and her wrist might be a tad sore after the awkward grab of the rock, but she was fine. Glorious, really.
“I won!” She grinned up at him and poked him in the chest. “You owe me a favor.”
He frowned, obviously not quite as delighted as she by her victory. “If you wanted a favor so badly, all you had to do was ask. Goodness, Grace. You frightened me half to death.”
He helped her gain her feet, then took her by the arm and led her to the middle of the blanket, where a picnic basket sat waiting for them.
Her heart melted at all the trouble he had gone to: finding a beautiful spot by the river, setting out a blanket, arranging a basket of refreshments. He must have been working on this all morning. But then, Amos was like that, going out of his way to make her feel special.
Like the code he created to tell her he loved her over the telegraph lines without anyone else understanding: . - - - - . . . . - . . . - - Anyone who happened to be on the wires after hours would simply think it was a call sign, when in fact the numbers 143 stood for the number of letters in each of the three words that made her heart sing. I love you.
Not only had they resumed their evening chats, but over the last three months, Amos had made a point to visit Harper’s Station nearly every two weeks. He even surprised her once with an extra return fare so she could travel to Denison and meet his family. She’d stayed with his sister and instantly felt at home with the vivacious Lucy. Amos’s mother was a dear too, welcoming Grace without the slightest hesitation. And two-year-old Harry was about as adorable as little boys came, even with his penchant for grabbing bonnet strings while one’s bonnet was still attached to one’s head. Apparently, if spectacles weren’t available, the little scamp had no trouble improvising. She loved Amos’s family and couldn’t wait for the day she’d claim them as her own.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Amos asked as he helped her take a seat on the blanket.
Grace nodded. “I’m perfect.” She glanced around at the river, the blue sky, the birds soaring on the currents overhead. “How could I not be? It’s a beautiful day”—she looked at the man at her side—“I’m in wonderful company, and I just bested Amos Bledsoe in a bicycle race!”
He smiled at her, the tender playfulness in his expression heating her insides enough that she could probably remove her heavy wool coat without fear of setting her teeth to chattering.
“What will you claim as your favor?” His voice deepened, grew richer, darker. The sound of it set her heart to fluttering. Every time he’d won, he’d claimed a kiss.
She thought of asking him for the same but held back. As much as she loved his kisses, she wanted to savor her victory a little longer. “I’m going to hold onto it for a bit,” she said, a healthy dose of sass in her tone. “One never knows when a favor will come in handy.”
He chuckled, raising his gaze from where it had been resting on her lips, and turned to open the picnic basket.
Hmm . . . maybe she shouldn’t have given up her claim to that kiss so quickly.
Amos pulled out a glass jar full of apple cider and two lovely engraved goblets in a pattern she thought she recalled seeing in his mother’s china cabinet.
Grace sat up a little straighter, her stomach dancing.
Amos said nothing as he poured the cider into the two glasses. He handed her one and kept the other for himself. Then he reached inside the basket a second time and pulled out a small box wrapped in a red ribbon.
Grace toyed with her goblet, not sure if she should sip her cider or wait for her companion to speak. He was obviously setting the stage for something. Her gaze darted from the box to Amos to the box again. She swallowed.
Amos set the box on the blanket in the few inches of space that separated him from her. Then he held his goblet toward her and met her gaze with his beautiful blue eyes.
“For years, I searched for a woman to call my own. For the right woman. One who valued character over charisma and intellect over broad shoulders. For a while, I despaired of finding her. Then came a delicate tap across my sounder. A tap that complimented me on my ‘fine hand at the key.’”
Grace dropped her attention to her lap, her lips curving into a soft smile. She remembered that day. Emma had had some urgent banking business to convey to New York, but the operator in Seymour had been out sick and Grace had needed to find another telegrapher to relay her message. Mr. A had always impressed her with his precision on the key, so she’d approached him about her predicament, and he’d responded with speed and efficiency. It had seemed only right to thank him afterward and show proper appreciation. Little did she know, that single interaction would spark a friendship that would deepen into a life-transforming love.
Amos reached between them and gently lifted her chin until her eyes met his. “I thank God that he made me wait, Grace. Because no other woman could make me even half as happy as you do.”
The smile that stretched across her face was so wide it nearly hurt. How she adored this man!
“Grace Mallory. I love you with all my heart. I want to share my life with you, my home with you, my future with you. I know you treasure this place,” he said as he looked away from her for the first time in order to gesture toward Harper’s Station with a tip of his head, “but if you’d be willing to take me as your husband and follow me to Denison, I vow to do everything within my power to ensure you never regret it.”
Her heart full to bursting, it was all Grace could do not to toss away the fancy goblet and fling her arms about her beloved’s neck. Instead, she sat up on her knees and lifted a hand to touch his smoothly shaven jaw. “I would follow you anywhere, Amos Bledsoe.” And she would. As much as she loved Harper’s Station and the friends she’d made here, it was time to move on. This had been her sanctuary, her place to hide from danger, but now it was time to stop hiding and start living. Shoot, she might even retire her derringer.
Amos leaned into her touch, his eyes never leaving hers. “Does that mean . . . ?”
“Yes, I’ve decided on the favor I want to claim.”
He blinked a couple times as if dazed by her random change of subject. It wasn’t nice to tease a man at a time like this, but she couldn’t help it. It was just so fun to keep him off-balance.
“Oh?” he asked, pulling slightly away from her. “What f
avor is that?”
She found his free hand on the blanket and covered it with hers. “Make me your wife, Amos. My heart will never recover if you don’t.”
His eyes glimmered behind his spectacles, and his mouth curved into a smile so sweet, it made her insides ache. “Well, I certainly can’t let your heart suffer such a fatal blow, can I?”
“Not if you wish to be considered a gentleman.” Grace tried to make her face prim and prudish but failed miserably.
Amos bent his head close to hers. “Would I be considered a gentleman if I were to kiss my newly betrothed?”
Grace tipped her face up to meet his, her breath growing shallow. “I suppose it would be acceptable if the lady was willing.”
His attention dropped to her lips then languidly lifted back to her eyes. “And is my lady willing?”
“Oh, yes,” Grace murmured, her voice breathy in anticipation. “Very.”
His lips brushed hers, the contact light and tender. She lifted up to meet him, to deepen the connection. Some of the cider from her goblet sloshed onto her hand as she moved, but she didn’t care. Amos had finally proposed! If ever an occasion called for a little celebratory mess, this was it.
He tugged his hand from under hers and reached up to cup the back of her head. He drew her close, exactly where she longed to be. She wanted to be by his side forever, loving him, supporting him, partnering with him as they maneuvered through the challenges of life.
When Amos pulled away, Grace’s eyes slowly opened. She peered into his face for a long moment, then, as passion receded, she settled back on her heels. “I have one more favor to ask of you, Amos.”
He quirked a brow. “Oh?”
“Let’s have a short engagement.”
Rich, masculine laughter rang out across the countryside. “I think that can be arranged.” He raised his glass to her and winked. “So, a toast. To us!”
Grace held her half-empty goblet up as well. “To our future. May it be filled with love, laughter, and family.”
“Hear, hear.” Amos gently clinked his glass against hers, then sipped.
Grace did the same. The cool liquid refreshed her, its sweetness a promise of good things to come.
When they finished their toasting, Amos set his goblet aside and pushed the beribboned box toward her. “Open it.”
She handed her goblet to Amos, then gently picked up the box and tugged the bow free. The red ribbon fell into her lap as her fingers found the edge of the hinged box and pried it open. In the center lay a beautiful, heart-shaped gold locket. Delicate raised flowers decorated the pendant. “Oh, Amos. It’s lovely.” She ran a fingertip over the raised design, her touch light, reverent.
“I thought you might like to carry a photograph of your parents inside.”
She looked up from the gift to the giver, her eyes growing misty. “I love you, Amos Bledsoe.”
He smiled. “And I, you.”
Determined not to turn into a watering pot, Grace thrust the jewelry box toward him. “Put it on me. Please?”
He hesitated. “But there’s no photo inside yet.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “There’s love inside, and that’s what really matters.” She turned her back to give him access to her neck and to keep the earnest look in his eyes from melting her into a puddle of sentimentality.
He reached around her head and positioned the gold heart at the base of her throat, then fastened the clasp at her nape, his touch stirring the tiny hairs there.
She covered the locket with her hand and pressed it against her chest, her heart brimming with love for the kindhearted man who would soon be her husband. “Perfect.”
They lingered on the blanket for an hour, talking of everything and nothing and thoroughly enjoying being together. But when gathering clouds moved in to block the sun and the wind began to blow from the north, they recalled that this was, in fact, February, and outdoor excursions could become uncomfortably cold in quick order.
“Has Helen heard any news from Dunbar?” Amos asked as he packed away his mother’s glassware.
Grace pushed the rocks off the blanket then shook the worst of the dry grass from it. “She received a letter last week. The judge denied Chaucer’s appeal. Tremont Haversham’s amended will stands valid. Margaret Flanders’s inheritance is secure.”
“Excellent. And the investigation into Chaucer’s involvement with Lockhart?” Amos collected the two blanket corners closest to him and stood.
Grace grinned. Most men would wad the fabric up or leave the woman to deal with it. But not Amos. He was chivalrous to the core.
“Last I heard, they had uncovered enough circumstantial evidence to press charges, but nothing to guarantee a conviction.” They folded the blanket in half, then halved it again. “Chaucer has retreated to Boston, and he and his mother are circling an army of lawyers around them.” She stepped forward to meet Amos. She collected his corners then waited for him to bring up the folded edge. “Lee doubts the man will spend any time in prison, but with his fortune out of reach, he should no longer be a threat to anyone.”
“Doesn’t sound like a sufficient penalty compared to the crime.” Amos frowned as he handed off the last fold.
Grace crouched down to fit the blanket inside the basket. “To be honest, I’m more concerned about Helen. Lee’s been writing her every few days, but his work with the Flanders family concluded several weeks ago, and he still hasn’t returned. Helen’s afraid he won’t come back, that his letters will slow to a trickle and eventually stop. I’ve tried to reassure her that he wouldn’t have written with such regularity if he didn’t care about her, but the longer he stays away, the more despondent she gets. She hides it well behind that tough exterior, but she’s cracking inside, and it breaks my heart.”
She and Helen had bonded over the last few months, sharing confidences about their long-distance beaus over daily tea at the telegraph office. Helen came to town every day to check for a letter at the store, and afterward she’d drop by the telegraph office to visit. At first, the visits had been out of courtesy. She’d come to share the latest news on the Haversham case as it unfolded. But gradually, the visits had become longer and the conversation more personal as the two ladies shared their hopes about the future. Marriage, leaving Harper’s Station, how to be a proper wife.
Helen had opened up a bit about her past, her story tugging on Grace’s heartstrings even as it helped her understand the insecurities Helen carried regarding men. Yet even as close as they had become, Helen had withdrawn lately. The more Amos visited, the less Helen sought out Grace’s company, as if seeing her friend find happiness was too painful to endure when her own lingered in the haze of uncertainty. Grace prayed for her friend every night. For Mr. Dunbar too. Nevertheless, the waiting continued to eat away at Helen.
Amos retrieved Grace’s bicycle and rolled it over to where she stood. He took the basket out of her hands and held the bike steady as she straddled the frame and clasped the handlebars.
He hooked the basket handle over his own handlebars then swung a leg over the frame in preparation for mounting. Both feet still on the ground, he looked over at Grace. “I wouldn’t worry about Dunbar’s return.”
“How can you be so sure? He was here for such a short time.”
Amos grinned. “I saw the way he kissed Helen good-bye. That wasn’t a passing fancy kind of kiss. That was a my-life-has-been-permanently-altered kind of kiss. I happen to be well-versed in that particular variety.” He winked at her and set his foot to the pedal. “He’ll be back.”
Amos pushed his velocipede into motion. Grace hesitated, offering up a brief prayer on Helen’s behalf, hoping Amos was correct. She wanted so badly for Helen to find the same happiness with Detective Dunbar that she had found with Amos. Her fingers found her locket, and she gave the treasured charm a stroke. Gaining the love of the right man made the pain and uncertainty of the wait worthwhile in the end.
Grace mounted her bicycle and pedaled hard t
o catch up to Amos. The ride back to Harper’s Station was colder than the ride out, but her heart held too much warmth to mind. She was to be married to a man she adored. To her best friend—the man on the other end of the wire who had brought light into her lonely life before she’d ever seen his face. God truly was adept at bringing good out of even the most horrible situations. For if she hadn’t been on the run from Haversham, she never would have met the wonderful ladies of Harper’s Station, and without Harper’s Station, she never would have met Amos. Only a master weaver could intertwine dark and light threads in such a way that all one saw was beauty when looking back at the finished tapestry.
So caught up in watching Amos’s back and counting her blessings was Grace that she failed to notice they had veered off course, past Betty’s chicken farm onto a small rutted path, until Amos halted on the outer edge of a grove of pecan trees.
“Look,” he said, pointing through the trees toward a tiny, ramshackle cabin on the far side of the grove.
A man on horseback—Amos must have spotted him as they rode and decided to follow—dismounted and called Helen’s name.
The cabin door opened. Helen stood in the doorway, frozen. Then all at once her face beamed. Even from a distance, Grace could feel the force of her smile.
“Lee!” Helen ran to him and threw herself into his arms.
He caught her easily, his leg fully healed and strong, then twirled her around in a circle as their combined joy erupted in laughter.
“Told you he’d be back.” Amos wiggled his brows in a gesture of overblown masculine smugness.
Grace slapped at his arm with the back of her hand. She couldn’t let such arrogance run completely unchecked. Yet at the same time, she couldn’t hold back the smile that burst directly from her heart to her face at the sight of her friend reuniting with the man she loved.
As Lee and Helen’s reunion transitioned into something decidedly more romantic, Grace and Amos turned their bicycles around and quietly pedaled away.