Holstered or not, Revolver Granny, I’m moving in.
Amos tugged his hat back off his head and nodded toward the delicate woman hovering just beyond his reach. “Miss Mallory. Good to see you again.”
She dipped her chin in return, her lashes temporarily blocking the warmth of her lovely brown eyes. “Mr. Bledsoe.” Slowly those lashes lifted, and he swore he could feel the temperature in the room escalate a degree or two. “I’m sorry about leaving you here with so little explanation. I hope you can forgive my rudeness.”
“The food you sent over was tasty,” he replied, not quite ready to absolve her completely, at least not aloud. “It helped pass the time.”
She’d left him to stew, no doubt testing his resolve to stay the course. Understandable. She was in the path of an oncoming storm and needed to know whom she could depend on when the waters got rough. Yet he couldn’t let her think he was some pansy who’d let a woman walk all over him, either. She needed a strong man to stand beside her, one she could respect and rely on. He’d been that man for his mother and sister for the past ten years, ever since his father died the summer Amos turned eighteen. He aimed to be that man for Grace Mallory too. If she’d let him.
“Did the denizens agree to let me stay, or should I prepare to battle a mob of skirted zealots bearing pitchforks and torches once the sun goes down?”
Grace’s lips twitched upward in what was sure to be an adorable quirk of amusement when the marshal’s voice broke in and ruined the moment.
“No pitchforks around here, Bledsoe. Our gals pack lead.” He stood to his full height, bringing the lady circled in his arm with him. “Taught ’em myself.”
“Hush, you,” the brunette admonished, elbowing Shaw in the ribs. Not that he seemed to notice. “No intimidating the guest.”
Mrs. Shaw aimed a bright smile at Amos and tried to step out of her husband’s hold. He didn’t let her. She shot a frown at him over her shoulder before turning back to address Amos.
A grin crossed the marshal’s face the instant his wife was no longer facing him. It was all Amos could do not to grin back. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mien serious as Emma Shaw hurried to assure him of his safety.
“You are welcome to stay in Harper’s Station as long as you like, Mr. Bledsoe. Grace considers you a friend. That’s all the recommendation we need.”
Amos shifted his gaze back to Grace. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes met his, and the resulting impact to his chest reverberated down to his toes. She’d vouched for him in front of the entire town. Called him friend. Yet the way her eyes searched him now—peering past his spectacles, past the trail dust, past his disheveled suit—it seemed as if she were still evaluating him. Looking for indicators that he could indeed be trusted.
He had some proving to do. Amos stretched his neck above the starched points of his collar and jutted out his chin. He fully intended to be up to the task. Whatever that task entailed.
“So what happens next?” he asked.
Grace drew in a breath as if about to speak, but Mrs. Shaw jumped in first.
“I’m going to head back to the station house to help the aunts with dinner, and Malachi has his rounds to make, but you are certainly welcome to come get settled in the room Aunt Bertie set up for you. It’s in the basement, but no one can feather a nest like Bertie. She’ll have piles of warm quilts, a wash area, and probably even a plate of oatmeal cookies waiting for you.”
Good old Cookie Granny. Though, the wash area sounded better than the cookies at the moment. He swore he could still smell the faint odor of mule manure wafting up from his shoe. He’d never thought himself vain since he’d never considered himself handsome, but tidy? Yes. And the lovely Miss Mallory had only been introduced to the rumpled, dusty version of Amos Bledsoe. No wonder she held herself back. She was probably worried his disreputable appearance reflected a slovenly character. He’d have to pray that second and third and tenth impressions could eventually outweigh a poor first one.
Amos tipped his head. “I’m sure the accommodations will more than suit my needs. You and your aunts are kind to take me into your home. I would be happy to pay a boarding fee, of course.”
Mrs. Shaw waved her hand as if to brush away his offer. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, just know that you’re welcome here. Your satchel and saddlebags are already inside, and we’ve seen to your mule.”
Willful. Amos hid a shudder. “I’ll need to return that beast to Stranton’s Livery in Seymour sometime soon.”
“Stranton’s?” the marshal broke in. “That explains it. I wondered why in the world a man with a scrap of intelligence would choose a stubborn cuss like that to transport him. I nearly threw my shoulder out yanking on that ornery critter’s lead line while trying to move him away from the ladies’ garden plot. Obstinate thing refused to budge.”
Amos felt the pieces of his tattered manhood being stitched back together. If Malachi Shaw—a gun-toting, denim-wearing man’s man—struggled to corral Willful, then Amos need feel no shame for his own failures.
“He’s a handful, that’s for sure.” He gestured to his sorry state of dress. “I had a bit of difficulty with him myself, as you might have surmised from my less than orderly appearance.” He darted a glance at Miss Mallory, pleased to see she looked sympathetic. “But I was in a hurry to get to Harper’s Station, and he was the best of the horseflesh left to choose from.”
“Ah.” The marshal drew Amos’s attention away from Grace as he tugged his wife toward the door, then gestured for Amos and Grace to go out ahead of him.
Amos plunked his hat on his head again and smiled at Grace. She offered a small, shy smile in return before pivoting to exit. He followed, his gaze taking in the slender line of her neck and the curves nipping in at her waist.
“Next time you’re in Seymour, head to Bart Porter’s place.” The marshal’s voice had Amos jerking his gaze away from the woman in front of him to focus on the far less interesting features of Malachi Shaw. “His livery is a couple blocks south of the depot, but his stock is far superior and less likely to be picked over since he’s not the first livery visitors find when they get off the train. All the locals know to go to Porter’s.”
“Thanks,” Amos said, not thankful at all to still be talking with the marshal about mules and horses when who he really wanted to talk with was the woman who’d halted a few steps away from him. “I’ll remember that.”
“Tori mentioned that Ben will be making a delivery run through here tomorrow,” Mrs. Shaw added, prolonging the discussion. “He’s Bart’s brother. I’m sure he’d be happy to return your mule when he goes back to Seymour after his deliveries. He can pick you out a better mount and bring it with him next time he comes to town.”
“Actually, I’d prefer a bicycle.” Amos edged closer to Grace, hoping his abrupt change in subject would give him the chance to offer his escort.
“A what?”
Really? Was the marshal sabotaging him on purpose? Everyone knew what a bicycle was. The things were all the rage back east.
Amos frowned at Shaw. “A velocipede. An accelerator. A two-wheeled, man-powered vehicle. You know, a bicycle.”
“You’re a wheelman?” Mrs. Shaw practically bounced in excitement, which only made her husband scowl. “I’ve seen pictures in magazines, but I’ve never seen one in person. Oh, Mal, can you just imagine Aunt Henry’s reaction?” She spun to beam at her husband, effectively banishing his frown. “With all she’s read about how the velocipede is emancipating women, she’d be thrilled to see one in action! The bicycle costumes with their bloomers and split skirts, the freedom to go where one wills, and the independence of manufacturing one’s own mobility. She’ll be over the moon!” She brushed past Amos, ran up to Grace, and grabbed her hands. “I’m going to talk to Tori about placing an order. What do you think? Four? Five? I know Aunt Henry will want one, and I’d love to try one as well. Do you think any other ladies would like one? If Amos
would be willing to give us some instruction, we could have a town full of bicycles! Much cheaper to maintain than a horse, and with extra health benefits.”
“Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Emma?” The marshal’s frown was back in place as he strode up to his wife. “Henry is fifty-three years old. If she gets up on one of those contraptions, she’s liable to fall off and break her neck. Tell her, Bledsoe.” Shaw pierced Amos with a look that demanded full agreement.
But Amos was tired of this conversation and just cranky enough to be obstinate. Maybe Willful had rubbed off on him. “My mother rides one on occasion, and she’s around the same age. They’re quite safe once you learn to balance.”
Shaw’s eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw twitched in a rather menacing fashion. Amos decided he’d poked the bear enough.
“Although the roads in Denison are in much better condition than what I’ve seen here,” he added. “Ruts and erosion do make learning rather difficult.”
“The area where we’re building our house is flat and hard-packed,” Emma insisted, unperturbed by the dark cloud settling over her husband’s features. “It would be a perfect place to learn! I’m going to find Tori.” She turned back to Grace. “Expect us first thing tomorrow morning with an order to wire.”
Then, in a swirl of skirts, she spun around and hied off toward a large building bearing a sign that proclaimed it the general store. The marshal just shook his head and let out a sigh even as his lips curved into a smile, attesting to his fondness for the whirlwind force that was his wife.
“She’s probably gonna have the entire town wheeled up by the end of the month.” Shaw eyed Amos. “Why couldn’t you just ride a horse like a normal person?”
Amos shrugged. “My family says I’ve always been a little on the odd side.”
A strong hand came down on Amos’s shoulder. “Then you’ll feel right at home in Harper’s Station.” Shaw tipped his head toward Grace, the only one who hadn’t jumped into this crazy conversation, yet the one who’d captured Amos’s complete attention without saying a word. “You mind seeing Miss Mallory home? I gotta make sure Em doesn’t bankrupt us with this new bicycle scheme.”
Amos looked at the woman standing quietly in front of him, whose eyes communicated more than a person’s tongue ever could. And right now those eyes seemed to have lit with the same anticipation he felt thrumming through his veins.
A chance to be alone. Finally. To talk through matters of true importance, like who was threatening her, and how Amos could help.
Like how well they might suit, should they decide to explore a new facet of their relationship.
Like asking permission to take her hand so he could discover if her skin was truly as soft as it appeared.
Without turning his gaze away from the woman before him, Amos answered. “Yes. I’ll see Miss Mallory home.”
10
Grace walked silently beside Mr. Bledsoe, thankful that he made no effort to engage her in conversation. It was coming, she knew, but for a few blessed moments, peace reigned. A peace she desperately needed in order to collect her fragmented thoughts.
Mr. Bledsoe must be told about her father, Haversham, the missing documents—everything. But as they walked together, other thoughts intruded, niggling questions that refused to be banished. Why did her belly tighten every time Mr. Bledsoe’s gaze tangled with hers? And what would she do if Emma and Tori were right about him being interested in more than simple friendship? Did she want him to be interested in more?
She bit back a sigh. Things had been so much simpler when they merely conversed over the wire. It was safe. Anonymous. Grace stole a peek at the man at her side. Mr. A was no longer anonymous. He was real, and he was here. For her.
A little thrill coursed through her, leaving the skin on her arms tingling.
Safe might be comfortable, but it wasn’t exciting. Or particularly helpful when trouble struck. Better to have a tangible Amos Bledsoe by her side than an imaginary Mr. A who only existed in a lonely woman’s dreams.
When they reached the telegraph office, Mr. Bledsoe slowed his steps and turned to her. “You live here as well?”
Grace nodded. “There are two small rooms behind the office. It’s not much, but it suits me.” Some might find the small wooden building’s weathered plank siding and lopsided eaves ramshackle, but she preferred to view it as having character. Instead of a shade tree, she had a pole with a mess of black wires atop it in the side yard. The wires might be an eyesore, but she’d not complain. Not when they afforded her a paycheck every month. “I stayed in the boardinghouse for a short time while we had that outlaw trouble,” Grace continued when Mr. Bledsoe made no comment. “Emma didn’t want any of the ladies staying alone. But I found I missed my privacy.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed to admit the shy side of her nature to a man who seemed so gregarious. “As soon as the trouble ended, I moved back here.”
“I know what it’s like to want a place where you can escape people for a while. I love my family, but after a few hours in their company, I’m more than ready to find a quiet place to hide.” He laughed softly, and Grace smiled.
Silence stretched between them, and Grace edged closer to the door, not knowing what else to do. Mr. Bledsoe shifted from foot to foot. His gaze dropped to the ground.
“I don’t want to keep you from your supper,” he blurted, for the first time making her wonder if he could be as nervous as she was. “You must be quite hungry after facing down the masses during the town meeting.”
“Actually,” she said, turning her attention away from the door and back toward him, “my stomach is still knotted so tightly, I doubt I’ll be able to eat anything for quite some time.”
He looked up, something hopeful lighting his eyes.
Grace pressed a hand to her stomach and inhaled a long breath. Words jabbed at her tongue, clamoring for release. It took a moment to dredge up sufficient courage, but eventually they found their way into the air. “Perhaps I could make us some tea, and we could talk for a while?”
Mr. Bledsoe visibly relaxed, and the smile that stretched across his face was bright enough to banish the evening’s shadows. “I’d like that very much.”
How could she not smile in response? He seemed so genuinely pleased by the idea of spending time with her. A rather amazing situation, considering her decided lack of conversational skills.
She hadn’t contributed a single word to the discussion of horses, mules, and liveries back in the jailhouse. And not from lack of trying. She’d longed to say something witty or charming or even halfway intelligent, anything that might prove her to be something other than the shy, bland little mouse she knew herself to be. But each time she thought of something worthwhile to add, Emma or Malachi jumped in ahead of her. Thankfully, she was much better one-on-one. At least when conversing with other women. She’d not had much opportunity to test her skills with men, especially suitors. If that was what Mr. Bledsoe was.
Grace reached into her skirt pocket and retrieved the office key. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said as she let herself in. “If you’ll prop the door open, I’ll bring a second chair out for you, and we can sit in my office.” Between the open door and the window, there should be no perceived impropriety.
Mr. Bledsoe followed her past the customer counter and collected a piece of wood from the firebox she kept near the office stove in the corner. Returning to the entrance, he wedged the kindling scrap beneath the door and propped it open. Then he stuck his head into her personal quarters. “If you’ll show me which chair you want moved, I’ll carry it to the office for you.”
She pointed to a blue-striped armchair she used for reading, then frowned. A small brown stain marred the slightly faded upholstery near the edge of the seat. She didn’t remember that being there. Not that she could do anything about it now, since Mr. Bledsoe was already moving in that direction.
The chair was made of heavy oak, but Mr. Bledsoe lift
ed it several feet off the ground with no difficulty. He might look like one of her father’s university cronies in his suit and spectacles, but there was nothing frumpish about his muscles.
He busied himself with examining her telegraphy equipment until she brought out the tea tray. After learning he liked sugar as much as she did, she stirred two spoonfuls into his cup, handed the white china to him on a matching plain saucer, and gestured for him to sit.
He’d been so patient and polite, giving her plenty of uninterrupted time to gather her thoughts as she brewed the tea, yet she could not put off what needed to be said any longer.
“It was very kind of you to come all this way to offer your assistance, but I’m afraid the trouble you find me in is more severe than you could have bargained for.” She lowered herself into the blue upholstered chair when he insisted on claiming the less comfortable wooden chair for himself, and after an awkward hesitation to gather her courage, she met his gaze. “Please know that I will not hold you in poor esteem should you decide to return to Denison. In fact, I would recommend that you do so. Your mother and sister would not take kindly to my putting you in harm’s way.”
Amos’s gaze hardened. “I love my mother and sister, but they do not dictate my life. So tell me what we’re up against, and I’ll decide what risks I’m willing to take.”
Grace swallowed. What we’re up against. He’d already included himself. And the way he spoke—so firm and determined—Grace couldn’t help but consider him in a new light. The friendly, bantering Amos Bledsoe had a steel core. A strength, perchance, that a woman might lean upon and find purchase.
Would that strength continue to stand fast after he learned the truth about her situation? Only one way to find out.
Grace sipped her tea then leaned back in her chair, watching his face and gauging his reactions. “I’m afraid the story I have to tell is not a short one.”
Amos sat unmoving in his chair, trying to absorb all that Miss Mallory had told him during the last thirty minutes. Her father had been murdered right before her eyes. He couldn’t even fathom such a thing. To see someone you loved gunned down in the street . . . Amos couldn’t stop himself from thinking of his mother, his sister. His fingers balled into a fist. He clenched his jaw and jerked his gaze toward the window, searching for control, for perspective.