No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  The smell of burning wood assaulted her as she ran. Flames flickered in the distance, glowing with an orange light against the dark sky. But only on one side of the building. The side closest to the garden. If the fire reached the plants . . .

  No. She wouldn’t let it. They depended on that garden for food, for wages, for purpose. She’d not let it burn. Malachi could chase down the instigator, if he so chose. She had a town to save.

  Ducking through the corral slats, Emma dragged the pails behind her, not caring about the dents and dings they gathered as they knocked into the fencing. Once on the other side, she hiked her skirts up again and ran toward the small group of women gathering at the garden gate. Someone had already pushed the gate wide and stood hunched over, working the handle of the pump they used to irrigate the crops.

  Malachi, having taken the longer path down the main street, caught up to her just as she reached the road. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt. “What are you doing out here? I told you it wasn’t safe.”

  Emma jerked her arm free of his grasp. “Safe doesn’t matter right now. I need to be with my ladies. Fighting the fire.”

  “Safe always matters, Emma.” Malachi’s gaze left hers to scan the area around them. “He could be lying in wait, planning to use the light of the fire to pick you off one by one.”

  “Well, if I hear a gunshot, I’ll take cover. In the meantime, I have a fire to put out.”

  “Emma . . .”

  Ignoring the plea in his voice, she spun away and sprinted across the road. “Form a line,” Emma called, spotting Tori and Grace among the women. “We can take turns at the pump and pass the buckets down.”

  Tori nodded to her and immediately started organizing the women, some of whom were in their nightwear.

  “I’ll take over the pump. Let you young ones do the heavy lifting.” Maybelle Curtis huffed up behind Emma. The poor woman must have run all the way from her home on the north side of town.

  Emma patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Maybelle.”

  The older woman nodded, bent slightly to catch her breath, then straightened and started calling out orders of her own. “If the smoke gets too thick, tear a strip of petticoat and wrap it around your nose and mouth. Too much smoke in the lungs can take a person down. And mind your skirts. Especially those of you taking the front lines.” She skewered Emma with a pointed look as she passed through the gate and took hold of the pump handle Flora had just released. “A stray spark can set the fabric ablaze before you know what’s what. I don’t want to be tending any burns that could have been avoided with common sense.”

  Emma nodded, grabbed one of the buckets Flora had already filled, and headed toward the church. Water sloshed onto her skirt and shoes as she scurried. The cold barely registered. The fire held her full attention.

  Heat stung her face and hands as she neared the fire. Her eyes watered from the smoke. The acrid smell wrinkled her nose.

  You will not steal our home! The silent vow reverberated inside Emma as she tossed her bucketful of water on the first flames she encountered. The hiss of steam echoed loudly in the night, but the flames raged on, undeterred.

  “Toss me the empty pail,” someone called from behind.

  Emma turned to find Grace waiting with open arms. Emma flung the pail across the three feet that separated them. Grace caught it, then spun around and repeated the motion, Tori’s line well in place. And judging by the movement farther down, a full pail was already halfway to her.

  Emma turned back to regard the church, a cough scratching at her throat. She walked a few steps along the wall, eyeing the damage already wrought. The flames seemed to be most concentrated in the center of the wall, though they licked upward as well. They hadn’t reached either the front or back of the building. As far as she could tell, only this one section was ablaze.

  She hurried back to where Grace was accepting the next bucket. “It’s not too bad,” she yelled over the crackling of the fire. “We can do this.”

  Grace’s lips pressed together in a thin line as she handed off the bucket. “I pray you’re right.”

  Emma took the handle from Grace’s hands. The weight of the bucket dragged on her arms, but she held tight and waddled back into the fray. With a strength born of determination, she took hold of the bottom of the pail and hurled the contents into the heart of the blaze.

  Malachi shoved his revolver into its holster and stomped back toward the church. Nothing. That’s what he’d found. Absolutely nothing. No hoofprints. No footprints. At least none of the male variety. There were a bunch of dainty female footprints around as one would expect, but nothing else.

  How had the outlaw done it? Set the church on fire and left without a trace? Had Mal missed something? He’d gone over every inch of the ground leading away from the church. He’d searched the outlying scrub brush for broken twigs or bent branches and found nothing there either. But it was dark. Everything in shades of gray and black. All too easy for details to get lost in the shadows. He’d have to check the area again in the morning.

  Some protector he was turning out to be. The male guardian brought in to ferret out the threat and shield the ladies of Harper’s Station from harm, and he’d contributed absolutely nothing to their defense. Not only had he failed to find the man responsible, or even a hint of how the fiend had accomplished his task, he’d left the women to fight the blaze on their own.

  As he strode closer, the scene brought into focus sliced the guilt into him even more deeply. Weary soldiers covered in battle grime. Bedraggled. Sodden clothes. Mud-caked shoes and hems. Faces drawn with fatigue.

  All the remaining townswomen must have turned out. From one gal who looked like she was still in her teens, to a handful of females in nightclothes and caps, to the aunts who apparently listened to him as well as Emma did—they all worked together, their rhythm steady. Mal traced the line up toward the front, his scowl deepening. The women closer to the flames were streaked with soot. Their faces reddened from the heat. Emma, of course, was at the head of the line, tossing water onto the last ribbon of fire that licked up toward the roof.

  Her fine white blouse had turned to gray, the untucked shirttail hanging shapeless behind her. Her hair hung in hanks around her face, but when she turned to accept the next bucket, focused green eyes glittered with purpose. Nothing short of collapse would keep her from fighting.

  However, as she pivoted back toward the building and flung the water, her weariness became evident. The water only caught the bottom portion of the flames, leaving the top to continue its climb toward the roof.

  A short woman rushed forward to collect the empty pail but then froze at the sight of him. Dropping the pail, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a tiny gun. Her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes hard, she cocked the weapon and aimed it at his chest.

  “Stop where you are.” Her voice was quiet, but it bore an intensity that carried above the sounds of clanking buckets and crackling flames. Her hand didn’t waver, either. This one had grit—and a wariness in her gaze that spoke of past hardship.

  Mal raised his arms out to the side, away from his gun, hoping to soothe her. Buckets started to pile up around the third lady in the line as she gaped at the scene.

  “It’s all right, Grace.” Emma came up beside the gun-toter and gently placed a hand on her arm. “This is Malachi Shaw. The friend I told you about. He just arrived tonight. I didn’t have time to tell you. He’s been out searching for the culprit.”

  “And now I’m here to help put out the rest of this fire,” Mal said, keeping his voice as friendly as possible. “If you’ll allow me to help.”

  Grace slowly lowered her arm. “Of course. Forgive me.” She glanced down at her shoes as she uncocked the derringer and slipped it back into her pocket. “I didn’t realize who you were.”

  “No harm done.” Malachi grinned. “I’m actually glad to see that you carry a weapon. With all the trouble around here, the more protectio
n you ladies have, the better.”

  With the gun now out of the equation, Mal lowered his hands and strode over to where another woman stood with what looked like a stockpot in hand. Her eyes wide, she made no move to stop him as he took the pot from her. He murmured a thank-you, then marched back toward the building and tossed the water high enough to douse the top edge of the flame at the roof’s eave.

  Emma slid into place behind him and handed him bucket after bucket. It didn’t take long to extinguish the dying fire, but he doused the wood several additional times just to make sure no embers sprang back to life.

  Once he called a halt, the women crowded around to assess the damage. Many turned their buckets upside down and used them as stools. All eyes rested on him. Or on the blackened wall behind him. He wasn’t quite sure which.

  Emma stepped in front of him, her hand smoothing her hair back from her face, her arm trembling with fatigue. “We did it, ladies. We saved the church!”

  A cheer rose, and tired smiles broke out across the women’s faces. A few even found the energy to raise arms into the air.

  “It will require love and attention to restore the church to its former glory, but it is still standing. Just like us. We are still here. Still standing. And still strong!”

  Calls of “That’s right” and “Amen” rang out amid a round of applause and a score of nodding heads. Malachi’s chest tightened, pride shooting through him. Emma was incredible. Was it any wonder these women flocked to her? She was a natural leader. A fighter. An inspiration.

  She walked among the throng, stopping to speak to each woman there. All but one. The short one who’d pulled the gun on him earlier. Grace, wasn’t it? The quick-draw female had wandered back over to the church, and was staring at the wall, her brow furrowed. She slowly paced the length of the charred area, her hand raised as if to trace some kind of pattern.

  Curious, Mal moved closer, his boots sinking slightly in the shallow mud. “What do you see?” He was careful to approach from the side instead of the rear, not wanting to startle her again.

  “There’s something odd about this charring.” Her eyes never veered from the wall. “Certain sections seem darker. Deeper. As if the fire burned hotter or longer there.”

  Mal squinted at the blackened wall. With smoke in the air and only a half moon, it was hard to make out the details. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called over his shoulder.

  “Emma!” He waited for her to look his way. “Bring a couple of those lanterns up here, would you?” He pointed to the four lanterns someone had set up to help light the way for the bucket line.

  Emma glanced back at the lanterns and nodded to him that she understood.

  Mal studied the wall. There did seem to be darker strips. Some vertical. Some horizontal. It was odd. If he wanted to torch a church, he’d douse the interior with turpentine or kerosene and light it up from within. It would take longer for someone to notice the danger that way and therefore cause more damage.

  But damage didn’t seem to be the ultimate goal of this attack. The man had only lit one side of the building, the side facing town, the side most likely to be spotted. And it had been. Early. Before the flames had spread. So destruction hadn’t been his aim. Was he trying to instill fear or testing the ladies’ resolve? Mal frowned. Perhaps both.

  “Here, Malachi.” Emma handed him a lantern. Women crowded around, three of them carrying lights as well. “What are we looking at?”

  Mal gestured with a jerk of his chin toward the wall. “There are lines burned into the wall.”

  “I think they might be letters,” Grace said, tracing a pattern in the air with one hand as she stared at the church.

  Letters? A cold knot twisted in Malachi’s gut. He held his lantern aloft, shining the light against the charred wood. The other three ladies moved forward and held their lights up, the water-soaked wood glistening in the soft glow.

  A gasp echoed behind him. Then a low murmur spread among the group. Mal clenched his teeth in an effort to tamp down the rage swelling from his gut up through his throat.

  The man hadn’t just splashed turpentine on the wall. No. He’d taken his time. Painted a warning meant to intimidate. To bludgeon. To terrorize.

  For there in black, scarred letters blazed the message.

  LEAVE or DIE.

  10

  “Well, if he wants me dead,” Aunt Henry’s disgusted tone cut through the low buzz of shocked murmuring, leaving silence in her wake, “he’s going to have to come take care of the job face-to-face. I’m not leaving, and I’m not about to keel over just because he scored some shabby-looking letters into the side of the church.”

  Emma’s lips twitched, wanting to smile despite the soot, the mud, and the taste of woodsmoke clinging to her tongue. Aunt Henry. Dear, indomitable Aunt Henry. Leave it to her to diffuse this awful situation with a barrage of plain speaking.

  “Now, I don’t know about you ladies,” Henry continued, her voice growing stronger as every head swiveled to face her, “but I won’t be giving that bully the satisfaction of standing around gaping at his vandalism and fretting over what might happen tomorrow. The good Lord taught that worrying about tomorrow is as pointless as milking a dry cow. Leaves you frustrated, frazzled, and with nothing to show for your effort. On the other hand, my mama, rest her soul, taught that a good night’s sleep can shrink any problem down to a manageable size. So that’s what I aim to do—get some sleep and leave the worrying to the Lord. I suggest you all do the same.” She turned around, grabbed one of the stockpots Emma recognized as belonging to their personal stores, then waved an arm at her sister. “Come along, Bertie. Dry clothes and a warm bed await.”

  Bertie smiled at Emma—an everything-will-be just-fine type of smile that warmed her insides despite the soggy blouse plastered to her chest.

  “Coming, sister.” She swept past the other ladies as if nothing were amiss. “I think I’ll put the kettle on as well. A cup of tea is just the thing to settle the nerves and warm the toes.”

  “Chamomile is especially soothing,” Maybelle said, turning to follow. “Peppermint, too. I’ve got both at the clinic if anyone needs some.” The midwife-turned-town-doctor reached across her body to rub her right shoulder, obviously sore from manning the pump.

  Claire, who’d taken up residence with the older woman yesterday after joining the colony, hurried to Maybelle’s side, lifting the lantern she carried out in front of her. “I’ll be lightin’ the way fer ye, Miss Curtis. My arm’s strong, should ye be feelin’ the need to lean upon somethin’.”

  And just like that, the crowd dispersed. Groups of two or three separated themselves and wandered toward their homes. Not one lady spoke of leaving. Not one fell into hysterics or fretful tears. Not one cast blame on Emma for failing to prevent the attack.

  They’d banded together to fight the fire and had been victorious. Now they banded together again, unified in their resilience. They would not trade their victor status for that of victim. They were strong. Capable. Courageous. And Emma had never been more proud to be among them.

  “Will you be all right, Em?” Tori came up beside her, two buckets in each hand, buckets still bearing strings with soggy, illegible price tags attached. “I need to check on Lewis.”

  Emma touched her friend’s shoulder. “Go. I’m sure he must be worried.”

  “Daisy’s watching him, but I . . .” Tori’s attention strayed to the store down the street, a visible ache in her eyes. “I just need to see him.”

  “Of course you do.” What mother wouldn’t want to clutch her child to her bosom and reassure herself that he was well after such a disturbing event? Even a spinster raised by spinsters could imagine such a need. Could secretly envy it, too. Emma blinked back the mist forming in her eyes—infernal smoke—and gave Tori a gentle nudge. “Give Lewis a kiss for me.”

  As Tori started back, Emma glanced around to see who was left near the church. Those from the boardinghouse next door to Tori’s st
ore were already several yards ahead. Emma didn’t want Tori walking back alone in the dark. She spotted Flora slumped against the garden fence near the corner farthest from the church and immediately waved to her. “Flora!”

  The woman nearly jumped out of her shoes. Her head jerked up, the whites of her wide eyes glowing in the moonlight.

  Emma silently chastised herself for startling the poor dear and bustled toward her, an apology written on her face. “Come, walk with Tori. Neither of you should go back alone.”

  “Yes, Flora,” Tori urged, having drawn to a stop when Emma called out. “I’d feel better with some company.”

  Flora’s gaze darted to the ground, to the church, to the garden. “I . . .” She made no move to straighten away from the fence.

  Moving to her side, Emma gently took hold of her arm and helped her stand. Tori backtracked toward the garden and held out a hand to Flora.

  “Come along, now,” Tori said, using the same coaxing voice she used to lure Lewis into his evening bath. “I’ve got some of that peppermint tea in the store that Maybelle was talking about. How about I brew a pot and we all have a cup? Then you and Daisy can return to your rooms.”

  Flora glanced back at the garden once more before finally submitting to Tori’s shepherding. The two walked off arm in arm, Tori chattering the whole way.

  Emma studied the dark-haired Flora and sent up a quick prayer on her behalf. The message burned into the church wall must have truly spooked her. Understandable given the circumstances. Not everyone had the sturdy constitution of Aunt Henry. Besides, Flora had been on edge since the shooting at the church. She’d been the most vocal advocate for evacuation, encouraging as many ladies as would listen to leave. She would have left, too, Emma was certain, if she’d had anywhere to go. But she didn’t. Flora had no family besides her husband, and judging by the bruised and battered condition she’d been in when she arrived at Harper’s Station a few weeks ago, returning to him offered no safe haven.