Working with explosives might help a man feel alive, but it was only because he constantly flirted with death.
“I’ll check out the blast site and give the all clear while you head back to camp to clean up.” Zachary gazed up at him like a pup eager for a pat or word of praise. His open admiration made Mal itch. He doubted he’d ever get used to the feeling, even as he continued hungering for it.
Respect. It had only taken twenty-five years, but he’d finally earned a portion of the precious commodity he’d been starving for his entire life. All because he had a talent for staying alive.
Every time he finished a successful detonation, the men he worked with slapped him on the back and commended his bravery. He soaked up every ounce of their acceptance, like parched earth absorbing a gentle rain. Yet he hid the truth from them, knowing deep down that it wasn’t bravery that allowed him to stay calm under pressure. It was a lack of caring. One didn’t fear death if one had nothing to live for. Not that he wished for his own end. He’d been staving off that old devil too long to succumb without a fight. But sometimes he couldn’t help wishing he had more than a company paycheck waiting for him at the end of each job. Something to give his life meaning. Purpose.
’Course, if he had that, he’d lose his edge in the demolition business. Be thankful for what you got, Shaw, and quit your whinin’.
He turned his attention back to Zach and thumped the kid on the back. “Watch where you step as you clear the area. Those rocks will be unstable.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “Quit actin’ like I never done this before, Mal. I know what I’m doin’.” He pulled away and started trudging up the incline to the blast site.
Mal strode after him. “Hold up, Zach.”
The kid turned, his face petulant. “What?”
Mal halted one step below him on the slope, making their heads equal in height. He lifted a hand, gripped the young man’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “You got a real knack for this business, Zach, but you’re in a hurry, and that scares me. Demolition requires patience. Caution. Vigilance. When you hurry, you lose those things. I tell you to be careful because I want you to remember the importance of going slow, of double- and triple-checking the details. Not because I don’t think you’re capable, but because I want you to become a master at what you do.”
Zach’s jaw dropped, hanging so loose Mal could probably set it to swinging with a tap of his thumb. But then the kid straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and tightened his unhinged jawbone.
“Does that mean you’ll let me run my own demolition next time we get an assignment?”
Mal stared at the boy. Hard. “You’ve got the training. The skills. If you can show me you’ve got the patience, then, yes, you can run the next demolition.”
Zach let out a whoop loud enough to rival a dynamite blast, and for a moment, Mal thought the kid might try to hug him. Thankfully, Zach gathered his wits in time. Mal didn’t do hugs. A slap on the back was affection enough between comrades. Anything more might make the kid think they were friends. Mal didn’t do friendship, either. Friendship meant caring. It meant letting someone see beneath the surface. He’d only ever let one person see beneath his surface, and it had nearly torn his heart from his chest when he’d been forced to leave. Mal was no genius, but he was smart enough to learn from that mistake.
He liked Zach. But the boy was a colleague. Not a friend. Not a kid brother Mal needed to feel responsible for. Just a trainee.
So why did his chest thrum with satisfaction when the boy vowed to make him proud before setting off at a controlled pace toward the blast zone?
It didn’t mean he cared. He was just glad the hardheaded kid was taking his advice for once. That was all.
Trusting Zach to do the job he’d trained him for, Mal trudged back toward the railroad camp, more than ready to clean off the dust and grime. The aunts would be glad to know at least one of their lessons had stuck.
On that first night in their home, when they’d forced him into a tub of steaming water and refused to let him out until he scrubbed every last crevice, he’d seriously considered making a run for the door. But then the warmth of the water penetrated his half-frozen skin. It relaxed his muscles. Made him feel safe and peaceful. In the end, he’d nearly fallen asleep in that tub.
That night he’d vowed never to be dirty again. Dirty defined his old life. Dirty, unwanted, afraid. Thanks to his angel, he’d escaped his past and been given a chance to plot a new course for his future. And the one he’d plotted included a copper tub large enough to accommodate a full-grown man. Even the camp laundress didn’t have a tub so large. It would take a good thirty minutes to heat enough water to fill it up, but the soak would be worth it. Malachi could practically feel the gentle slosh of the water now. About as close to heaven as a man like him was bound to get.
Mal approached the section of track under construction and raised a hand in passing to the fellow carting water to the workers. Mules dragged railroad ties, Chinamen gabbed to each other in their native tongue, supervisors shouted orders, but it was the constant staccato beat of hammers on rails beneath it all that served as the heartbeat of the rail camp. The drive toward progress. A constant moving forward. Tearing down obstacles to obtain goals. The rhythm of his life.
He strode through the tents marking the outer edges of the camp so intent on reaching his own on the far side that he failed to spot the young boy running toward him until he nearly tripped over the lad.
“Mr. Shaw.” The boy adroitly dodged to the side to avoid the collision, as if accustomed to such inattention by those older than he.
The action hit a familiar chord in Malachi. He stopped immediately and gave the boy his full attention. “Yes? What is it, Andrew?”
The boy smiled at hearing his name. Most men around camp wouldn’t exert the effort to remember the moniker of an errand boy, but Malachi knew what it was like to be considered beneath another’s notice and made a point to learn the names of all the young boys who worked around camp. Especially Andrew’s.
The kid’s mother had served drinks and other . . . things at one of the saloon tents that followed the rail camps. Mal recalled her being drunk more often than sober and had done his best to take Andrew under his wing, giving him permission to bunk in his tent if he wanted to steer clear of his ma’s . . . company and teaching him how to stash the few coins he earned running errands in an empty soda-cracker tin stuffed with old socks to keep the coins from rattling. Parents with a hankering for drink had a tendency to develop sticky fingers.
Six months back, one of his mother’s customers had caught her stealing money from his trouser pocket while he pretended to sleep. He took his anger out on her with his fists. One particularly brutal blow snapped her neck. She’d died instantly. Two weeks after Andrew’s twelfth birthday.
With nowhere else to go, Andrew stayed with the railroad, running errands for the supervisors and whoever else had coin to spare. More often than not, he found his way to the pallet Mal left out for him near the foot of his bed, close enough to the tent flap so the kid could slip in and out on his own terms. Though Mal could always tell when he’d been there.
“A telegram, sir.” Andrew held out a piece of paper to him, his smile fading. “It came in about an hour ago. Seemed important, so I been watchin’ fer ya.”
A telegram? Who would have . . . ? Malachi reached for the slightly crumpled paper. He scanned the words quickly, then started again at the top, focusing on each word while his gut turned to stone.
IN TROUBLE. NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE COME.
EMMA
Mal clenched the paper in his fist, turned, and sprinted for his tent. Smaller footsteps, equally swift, followed.
“Want me to saddle your horse, Mr. Shaw?” Andrew huffed the question as he pulled up outside Malachi’s tent. “I checked the schedule. There’s a train leavin’ out of Sheridan at three. You can still make it.”
Malachi glanced over his shoulder as he threw
open his tent flap. He should probably take the kid to task for reading his private correspondence, but he was too thankful for receiving the information to care. He dug out a silver dollar from his trouser pocket and tossed it to Andrew. “Thanks, kid. There’s another dollar in it for you if you can have Ulysses ready and waiting in the next ten minutes.”
Andrew nodded. “Yes, sir!” He shot off in the direction of the roped corral where the few saddle horses owned by the wealthier crew members were interspersed with the pack mules.
Malachi ducked into his tent and immediately dragged his saddlebags out from under his cot. Clean clothes. Food. Canteen. Money. Weapons. Only the essentials.
He stuffed two shirts and a pair of pants into one bag, then opened the small chest at the foot of his bed and grabbed the sack inside. Canned beans, soda crackers, and the leftovers he’d stashed after last night’s dinner at the mess. Not as much provision as he usually preferred on a journey of such a duration, but it was enough to get by even if something went wrong on the way to Sheridan.
He removed his gun belt from the trunk next and buckled it about his waist, the holster heavy but comfortable against his hip. After casting a wistful look at the copper washtub standing in the far corner, Mal filled his canteen with the water from the ewer on his washstand, then opened the lockbox at the bottom of his trunk and pocketed the funds from last month’s pay.
His heart pounding with purpose, Mal swung his saddlebags over his left shoulder, grabbed his hunting rifle and the ammunition pouch from beside his cot, and strode from his tent. He spotted Andrew leading his dun gelding toward him. He tossed the boy a second coin. Andrew snatched it from the air with one hand and handed the reins to Malachi with the other.
“I’ll watch over your things for you while you’re gone.” Andrew jerked his chin toward Malachi’s tent.
Mal nodded his thanks as he slid his rifle into the saddle boot. “Appreciate it.” He fastened the saddlebags and canteen in place and mounted Ulysses.
“How long will ya be gone?” Andrew asked.
Malachi’s gaze swung south. “As long as it takes.” He blinked, then turned back to Andrew. “I’ll stop by the boss’s tent before I leave. Let him know where I’m headed. Tell Zachary he’s in charge until I get back.”
Andrew nodded.
Mal reined Ulysses around, but the kid’s voice made him hesitate.
“Who’s Emma, Mr. Shaw? Your sister?”
Mal’s chest constricted. Sister? Some might think of a childhood companion in those terms. He’d never been able to, though.
As he touched his heels to Ulysses’s flanks, the truth spilled from his lips in a quiet whisper. “She’s my angel.”
4
Malachi’s knees bounced restlessly as he stared out the train window, ignoring the scenery blurring past. Emma. He hadn’t seen her in ten years. Would he even recognize her? A dry chuckle escaped beneath his breath. As if he could ever forget even a single aspect of her features. They were etched on his brain as surely as if a branding iron had burned them there.
Of course, they would have changed. Matured. She’d been only thirteen when he’d left, on the cusp of womanhood. She’d be twenty-three now. A woman grown. Probably just as strong-willed and opinionated as ever. More so, even, since she’d been under the aunts’ continued tutelage all this time. A grin tugged on his mouth, but he contained it. Mostly.
Those dark curls of hers wouldn’t bounce along her back anymore when she skipped from place to place. They’d be pinned atop her head or stuffed under a bonnet. She’d be dressed in style, no doubt. Suit coat and long skirts. Maybe even one of those ties that looked like they belonged on a man. Only on her, it would look smart and respectable. Fitting for a career woman. A banker.
He still couldn’t quite believe his little angel was running her own bank, taking after the father she barely remembered. But doggone, he was proud of her. He knew from that first meeting in the barn that Emma Chandler was special. Big heart. Big dreams.
And she’d kept him informed of her progress along the way. She’d written to him every month since he’d left. Newsy letters, nearly as exuberant as the woman herself. She’d kept him up to date with all the goings-on in Gainesville until she left to attend that fancy boarding school back east. Tears of homesickness had stained the first few notes she’d sent him from New York, but then her confidence grew as she fell in love with the world of finance. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to be studying such improper subjects, but a little thing like propriety never stopped Emma.
She followed the stock market in the papers, attended lectures on investment strategies, and read nearly every book on finance held in the Astor Library. After graduation, she called in a favor from her late father’s business partner, and sweet-talked him into allowing her to work in his bank as a teller while learning the details of the managerial side of things after hours. Her excitement about this new job had bled through the pages for the first few months, but then the tone of her letters changed.
Her male co-workers belittled her opinions, treated her as if she had no right to work alongside them, accused her of using her father’s name to get on the payroll and her feminine wiles to remain there. After all, they knew she spent indecent amounts of time alone with the boss after hours. Mal had offered to come back to Texas and teach the cretins some manners, but Emma had made him promise to let her handle it. If she was going to survive in a male-dominated occupation, she’d have to learn to fight her own battles. And she had, though not without paying a price.
Her innocent optimism had been tarnished by harsh reality. And it changed her. Her letters grew bitter as she recounted tale after tale of how women were turned down for loans or dismissed as unintelligent when they came in with questions regarding their mortgages or accounts. She’d done her best to educate the women who were willing to listen to her, but more often than not, even the females looked down on her, questioning her morality for working outside the home or, worse, believing the rumors circulating about her and the boss who was old enough to be her father.
Thankfully, she’d gotten out and returned to Texas before irreparable damage had been done. Soon after, she’d met a woman named Victoria Adams, and the two of them had conceived the idea of a women’s colony, taking men completely out of the equation.
Gradually, her natural optimism returned, along with a healthy dose of passion for helping women who were out of resources and out of options—women who’d been ill-used by men and those, like her, who longed to climb out from beneath a man’s thumb to establish their own careers. She’d found her mission. Her calling. Providing down-on-their-luck females the same gift she’d once given him—a fresh start.
Yet her mission had not been without its risks. Had championing the less fortunate gotten her into the trouble she now faced? If the woman was anything like the girl he remembered, he could easily imagine Emma giving some dunderheaded man a tongue lashing without heed to the repercussions. She never seemed to care about the size or social weight of her opponent—only about what was right. Which was why he’d had to leave ten years ago.
He’d lived with the Chandlers for two years—two of the best years of his life. The aunts had fed him, clothed him, forced him to go to school. He hadn’t been in a schoolroom for three years and had only gone sporadically before that. But Emma worked with him every night. Taught him to read, to write his letters so they didn’t look like a five-year-old had scribbled them. Caught him up on history, grammar, long division. Ack. He still hated long division, though he had to admit, understanding the concept made calculating blast radiuses a lot easier. The teacher had lent him books to study when school wasn’t in session, and by the second year, he’d nearly caught up to the boys his own age.
Not that they wanted anything to do with him. Which was fine with Mal. He’d been on the receiving end of snide comments and derisive looks his whole life. Didn’t even put a dent in his hide. But when the oldest boy of the group, Oliver Evans, st
arted taking an interest in Emma, Mal’s hide got real thin, real fast.
Oliver’s father owned the local drug emporium, and Oliver was used to winning the favors of any gal he pleased. At least girls who could be swayed by a bag of penny candy or one of them tiny bottles of toilet water. But Emma was too smart to be lured by such bribes. How many times had she taken one of the younger Swift girls under her wing to soothe hurt feelings after Oliver’s cruel taunts about farm girls with patches on their skirts and chicken feathers for brains? Oliver would be the last boy to turn Emma’s head. Which was probably why Oliver had been so determined to win her.
Mal kept a close watch on Emma every day at recess and walked her home after school. He made sure Oliver knew he was watching, too. Though the boy was a year older and three inches taller, Mal had been hardened by life on the streets. No pampered rich kid was going to lay a finger on Emma without her consent.
But during a potluck supper one Sunday after church, Mal let his guard down. A mistake that a decade later still rubbed his conscience raw. Emma and the aunts had been sitting on the family blanket. Aunt Henry had been up in arms about the preacher’s sermon, insisting that there was no biblical basis for the traditional belief that Mary Magdalene was a harlot.
“Scripture records that Jesus drove seven demons out of her. Demons! Yet Christian tradition—a tradition perpetuated by men, I’ll have you know—insists on linking her to the nameless woman caught in adultery. There is absolutely no evidence in the Bible indicating these two women were the same person.” Aunt Henry tossed her napkin down as if it were a gauntlet. “Mary was a godly disciple. More faithful than the male followers who scattered at Jesus’s arrest and crucifixion. It was the women who stayed by the Savior’s side. And Mary Magdalene to whom Jesus appeared first after his resurrection. Not John. Not Peter. Mary. I dare you to name a more faithful disciple.”
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