Cutting through the vacant lots behind the hotel, Mal headed back to Main Street. Jogging slightly to avoid the freight wagon rolling toward him, he hopped onto the boardwalk and made his way down to the large store on the corner. A stocky fellow with a white apron tied about his waist stood in front, sweeping the boardwalk with more vigor than the task required. His head bent, he muttered beneath his breath, stopping abruptly when Malachi’s boots trudged across the boards he’d just swept.
The man’s shoulders straightened as he met Mal’s gaze, but the frown on his face stayed rooted in place. “I’m about to close up for the night, mister. If you got a big order, better come back in the morning.”
“All I need is a razor and soap. Shouldn’t take but a minute.” Mal tried to soften him up with a friendly smile, but the fella’s frown must’ve been carved from granite. It didn’t budge. “I’m on my way out of town tonight,” Mal explained. “I’d be much obliged if you could see your way to letting me make a purchase before you close.”
The man sighed and turned his back as he opened the store’s door. “Better my place than some other getting your coin, I suppose. Come on in.” A bell rang as the door opened. “Just hurry it up. I got a meetin’ with Sheriff Tabor in a few minutes to see about a personal matter.”
“I won’t take but a minute,” Mal promised, “if you could just—”
“Razors’re over there.” Fischer gestured toward a middle aisle with a pointed finger.
Mal headed toward the shelves of soaps, breezing past the wide selection of ladies’ bath goods, to find the razors. Bypassing the fancy pearl-handled ones more prominently displayed, he grabbed a plain one from the bottom shelf, a lather brush, and a round cake of shaving soap, then strode back to the counter and laid his items in front of the foul-tempered clerk.
“A dollar and two bits for the razor, fifty cents for the brush, and four for the soap. Comes to a dollar seventy-nine.”
Mal handed him a two-dollar note and waited while the man counted out his change. “Don’t suppose you could give me directions to Harper’s Station?” he asked. “It’s north of here, ain’t it?”
“Harper’s Station?” Fischer’s hand balled into a fist, and red flushed his face. “You mean Harpy’s Station? That bunch of man-haters. Harridans, all of ’em. Turning womenfolk against their men. It ain’t natural. No man in his right mind would go to that godforsaken place.”
A muscle twitched in Malachi’s jaw. “Well, that’s where I’m headed. Just thought since you did business with them, you’d be able—”
“Do business with them?” Fischer’s teeth ground together in the back of his mouth. “Not anymore. Not after what they done. If it was up to me, I’d gather a posse together and clear them out. Good-for-nothing, meddlin’ vipers . . .”
In a flash, Mal grabbed the shopkeeper’s shirtfront. He dragged him halfway across the counter with a single yank. Coins clinked onto the floor, but Mal paid them no mind. He put his face nose to nose with the old cuss. “It’s not up to you,” Mal growled. “Got that?”
Fischer sputtered. “Hold on, there, mister.” He held out his palms. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it. Just blowing steam, you know?”
“Good.” Mal released the slimy toad and shoved him back to his own side of the counter. “Because I don’t take kindly to men who browbeat women.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Fischer straightened his shirt and rolled his shoulders as if trying to erase the memory of Malachi’s grip. “I don’t take kindly to strangers who interfere in affairs that ain’t none of their concern.”
Mal scooped up his purchases, his hard-eyed glare never once leaving Fischer’s face. “The women of Harper’s Station are my concern. Anyone who threatens them will have to deal with me.”
Then, leaving his change where it had fallen on the floor, Mal strode out of the store before he did something stupid, like knock a few teeth out of Fischer’s head.
“What’s your business at Harper’s Station?” A tall, burly fellow stepped out of the shadows and blocked Mal’s path to the stairs.
“My own,” Mal ground out, tromping forward. What was it with these people? Couldn’t a man buy a razor without being subjected to insults and inquisitions?
The fella stood an inch or two taller than Malachi and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds of what appeared to be solid muscle, but Mal was riled enough to take him on should the gent want a fight.
The man made no move to stop him, but neither did he step out of the way. Mal tucked his purchases into his side and, leading with his shoulder, barreled his way past. The sturdy fella’s arm felt like a slab of granite, but it budged enough to let Mal by.
“You defended the women in there,” the man said as he followed Mal down the steps, “so I tend to think you don’t mean them harm, but those ladies have suffered enough trials lately. I ain’t about to let some stranger show up and harass them further.”
Mal spun around to face his accuser, some part of his brain registering that the man was simply trying to protect the women, same as him, but his gut still ached for a fight. “I ain’t a stranger,” he ground out, even as he eyed the man’s chin and balled his right hand into a fist. “At least not to Emma Chandler. She asked me to come.” He bent toward the raised boardwalk and set his parcels down, then straightened. “I ain’t gonna let that cretin in there”—he tipped his head toward Fischer’s store—“stop me from answerin’ her call. Nor you, either.”
He threw a punch.
The burly fella caught it. With the flat of his palm. Not his chin, as Mal had intended. The man’s fingers curled around Mal’s fist in an iron grip. Mal drew back his left arm, determined to get the upper hand—he’d beaten opponents bigger than him before—but the man’s friendly smile stopped his swing before it gained any momentum.
“Unusual way of shaking hands,” the man said, forcing Mal’s captured arm down to a more civilized level. “But I must admit, I’m glad to know you. I’m Ben Porter.” He pumped Mal’s fist up and down, his smile never dimming. “And if I’m not mistaken, you, sir, are Malachi Shaw.”
Mal recognized the fella’s name from Emma’s letters. The freighter who transported their goods and brought in supplies. Glancing around, he spied the freight wagon pulled around the side of the building.
Slowly, Mal unclenched his fist and twisted his arm free, turning the forced handshake into an earnest one. “I am.” He grinned at the larger man. “Sorry about taking a swing at you. Haven’t slept much the last two days. Guess I’m a bit tetchy.”
“Conversin’ with Fischer will do that to a person.” Porter slapped his shoulder with his free hand. “I can give you directions to Harper’s Station, and if you can spare a few minutes, I can share what I know of the trouble they’re facing.”
Mal glanced up at the sky. The sun still blazed brightly. Summer hours afforded him more daylight to travel by. Surely he could spare a half hour. Getting some details about what he’d be facing was too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Know a quiet place where we can talk?” Mal asked, giving a significant glance toward Fischer’s store.
Porter nodded. “My brother owns the livery a block north of here. We can use his office. Let me unload Fischer’s order right quick, and I’ll meet you there.” Porter started walking toward the wagon.
“I think I just rented a horse from your brother.” Mal took a step in the opposite direction. “I’ll settle up with him while you finish here.”
Fifteen minutes later, munching on a roll with a slab of ham tucked inside that he’d taken from his supper box, Mal followed Ben Porter into his brother’s office. The smell of hay and manure clung to the place. Not terribly appetizing, but it afforded privacy. Mal swallowed the bite he’d been chomping and cautiously lowered himself onto a stool of dubious soundness as Porter took the single chair behind the desk.
Ready to get to the point so he could get on the road, Mal eyed Porter straight on. “So what am I up against?
”
7
Daylight faded as Malachi neared Harper’s Station, but he did his best to scour the landscape for any sign of the shooter Ben Porter had told him about. The freighter had no firsthand information. No description or hint of the man’s identity. All he could offer was a young boy’s account of a shooting at the church building. A shooting that could have taken Emma’s life, exposed as she’d been, addressing her ladies.
A tremor coursed through him, just as it did every time he let himself imagine what could have happened that day. Which he’d done at least a hundred times since leaving Seymour.
Mal set his jaw. Emma was fine. Ben had seen her. Talked to her. There was no call to get worked up over what could have happened, not when there was so much more to get worked up about regarding what might still be.
Why did the fool woman insist on staying? Didn’t she realize that a man who would shoot up a church wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a woman if it meant getting what he wanted? She’d sent away the families with children, but what about protecting her own skin? Did she value her life so little?
His mount sidestepped, and Mal forced his hands to loosen their suddenly too tight grip on the reins. He knew the answers. Knew her. Emma was a fighter. He’d only be wasting his breath if he tried to convince her to leave. The best he could do was stand beside her and draw the enemy’s fire until he managed to run the barbarian to ground.
Ben had no idea who was behind the threats. Stanley Fischer was the most vocal opponent of the women’s colony, but his disapproval hadn’t turned menacing until yesterday, when the mail-order bride he’d sent for had shown the good sense to flee her bridegroom and take refuge with Emma’s ladies. If he’d had to choose between a lifetime with Fischer or facing the temporary dangers of a madman with a rifle, Mal would have chosen the madman, too.
Rustlers were stirring up trouble in the area, but it was unlikely one of them would attack Harper’s Station. Other than a handful of milk cows and a passel of chickens, the women had no livestock to steal. Besides, the shooter had demanded they leave. Obviously, there was something there he wanted. Mal would have to check the water rights and soil surveys to see if there was anything of value to be gained from the land itself. If the shooter succeeded in scattering the women, it’d be a fairly simple matter to hire an anonymous agent to purchase the land on his behalf when Emma decided to sell.
The fella probably thought a few gunshots would be all it would take to scare off a bunch of unprotected females. Mal chuckled. He didn’t know who he was going up against. Emma and the aunts had stubborn streaks a mile wide. Threats would just make them dig their heels in harder. Which meant . . . the attacker would have to either forfeit his game or take it to the next level.
Somehow Mal doubted a man unscrupulous enough to fire at unarmed women would hesitate to amplify the violence to gain the prize he sought.
Mal set his jaw and nudged his mount from a walk to a canter, wishing not for the first time that he had Ulysses with him. The gray mare he’d rented was sturdy enough, but she certainly hadn’t been built for speed. She was female, though, so at least one of them would fit in.
The first buildings of Harper’s Station finally came into view as Malachi crested a slight hill. Dark silhouettes of pointed roofs rose above the vegetation spread out on the flatland below him. His gut clenched. Emma lived under one of those roofs. Ben had said she lived in the one closest to the edge of town, the old stagecoach stop that had given the town its name.
An odd lightness danced upon his chest as he spotted the building he sought. He rubbed at the spot, then scowled when the itch failed to dissipate.
Mal slowed his mount and took stock of the rest of Harper’s Station. A tight cluster of businesses lined one side of the road. A handful of other buildings scattered beyond. Not much there to covet that he could see.
A creak of a door focused his attention back on the station house. A young woman emerged from inside and stepped onto the covered porch. A sophisticated woman with dark hair pulled back from her face and wound into an intricate bun at her nape. A grown-up woman of means and mission.
Mal’s heart thudded in his chest as he halted his mount. After all the letters they’d exchanged over the years, he’d thought he’d been prepared to see her again. He’d been wrong.
She curled her fingers around the railing post and leaned forward to look at him. Her brows arched slightly. “Malachi?”
The name fell from her lips so softly, he doubted he’d actually heard it. Must’ve just read the shape of it on her mouth. A mouth within a face achingly familiar yet changed.
Mal stared. He couldn’t help it. His little Emma had grown into a handsome, well-put-together woman.
The long tan skirt she wore swept the porch steps as she slowly descended. Her ivory blouse puffed up slightly at the shoulders, nipped in nicely at her tiny waist, and swelled over curves he hadn’t remembered being quite so . . . pronounced in the thirteen-year-old girl he last saw.
His collar seemed to tighten around his throat.
“Malachi? Is that you?” She’d reached the bottom stair, her hand falling away from the post.
“Yep.” The short, scratchy croak of an answer wasn’t much of a howdy after ten years, but it was all he could manage.
Then she smiled. No, it was more than a smile. Her entire face lit up with such joy it nearly knocked him from his horse. He’d forgotten. Forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like that. Like the world had suddenly gotten better because he’d arrived.
Unable to withstand her beaming a moment longer, Mal jerked his attention down to his saddle and concentrated on dismounting without doing something stupid like falling on his rear. He hoped his impassiveness would dim her enthusiasm enough for him to get a grip on his sputtering brain and allow him to think of something slightly intelligent to say.
He should have known better.
The instant his boots hit the dirt, she hit him. In a full-on, no-room-to-breathe hug.
Emma wrapped her arms around Malachi’s waist and held on tight. He was back! After so many years, he was finally back.
It seemed to take forever, but his arms eventually lowered around her. Not that he actually returned her embrace. His arms circled her so lightly she barely felt the contact. If he hadn’t given her back an awkward little pat, she might have thought him a block of wood for all the affection he showed.
But Malachi had never been one to admit he cared about something. Or someone. When he’d first come to live with them, she’d been determined to win him over. To make him like her so they could become the closest of friends. But after several weeks, his manner remained aloof. He never smiled, answered all her questions with either a shrug or a grunt, and on some occasions actively avoided her. It was enough to wear down even the cheeriest of dispositions.
Then one day when he was chopping wood, she came up behind him with the water bucket and dipper. He must not have heard her, though, for when she called his name, he whirled around, hatchet in hand. She’d had to jump back to avoid getting hit. He’d gone so pale, she’d worried he might topple over in a dead faint. Wanting to comfort him in some way, she set down the pail and opened her arms to hug him.
He’d slapped her arms away. Then he’d yelled. Awful things. Hurtful things. Said she had feathers for brains, then spat out a string of foul words she’d never heard before but could tell meant something horrible by the way his eyes sharpened into dark, pointed steel when he flung them at her.
She’d burst into tears and ran straight for her room, sure Malachi hated her. It had been Aunt Bertie who’d finally explained. As she’d held Emma in her arms and wiped her tears away, Bertie had told her a secret. Sometimes people who had lost too much in life were afraid to care. About anyone or anything. For caring meant hurting if they lost what they cared about. And if they did start to care, they fought against it. Hard. That’s what Malachi was doing. Fighting.
Emma had decided then and
there to fight, too. To fight for the frightened boy who didn’t know how to be a friend because he’d never had a friend. She’d started not an hour later, when she caught him pilfering food from the kitchen with the clear intent of running away. With a straightforward assurance only a child of eleven could muster, she’d instructed him on the fine art of apologies. All he had to do was say he was sorry for yelling at her. She would forgive him, and all would return to normal. She even gave him an example just like Miss Pratt always did in school when teaching a new lesson, and apologized for startling him by the woodpile.
She still recalled the look he’d given her. As if she’d suddenly sprouted a third eye in the middle of her forehead. She’d grown truly fearful then, thinking he’d leave for sure. So she started bossing him, even though her aunts had told her countless times that people disliked being told what to do. But she’d had no recourse. He was going to leave. So she’d planted her hands on her hips and demanded his apology. She’d goaded him for good measure, too, pointing out that saying two little words was far easier than finding a new home that was anywhere near as lovely as hers.
Her boast had been sinfully close to being a fib. She knew there were finer homes out there. Homes with fathers that a boy like Malachi could look up to. Homes with brothers he could play with and no pestering little girls who were too bossy for their own good. But he must have believed her, for his eyes got all shiny and he dropped his chin to stare at his feet. Then he’d given her the apology she’d wanted to hear, and she’d given him the hug she’d longed to share. He’d been a block of wood then, too. Not moving a muscle when she’d enthusiastically squeezed his middle.
Not much had changed. He hadn’t learned how to hug, and she hadn’t learned not to force herself upon him.
Emma’s face heated. Good grief. They weren’t children anymore. What must he think of her throwing herself at him like that? Probably that she hadn’t matured a bit in the past decade. Still the same leap-first-look-later girl she’d always been.
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