“I found evidence of two different camps,” Malachi said, his deep voice rumbling with an authority that hushed the ladies at once and drew all attention to him. “Neither of which has been used in at least a week.”
Emma didn’t like the grim set of his mouth or the way his gaze found hers and seemed to impale her against the back wall, as if she should understand the significance of a pair of abandoned campsites. Straightening away from the wall, she raised her chin. Emma hated to admit ignorance, but this was no time to protect her pride. Protecting her ladies came first.
She took a breath. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
“It means,” Mal said, “that the man is smart. He’s moving his camp from place to place so he can’t be pinned down. It also means he’s been here a while. Most likely quite a while, planning, preparing . . . watching.”
An icy shiver danced over Emma’s skin. How long had he been out there? Watching. Plotting. Growing impatient.
“Unfortunately, the outlaws had too big a lead for me to catch up to them.” He was focused on the seated females now, most likely searching their faces for a reaction to his news that the men had gotten away. Emma wanted to probe them, too, so she left Tori and meandered up along the edge of the room, keeping her back to the side wall. Profiles gave little away, though, and she didn’t dare make her intentions too obvious.
“Once I got to the river,” Mal continued, “there was no sign of them, either to the east or west. I combed the banks on both sides looking for fresh tracks. Found nothing but a single track on the west side. Which means they probably split up, and one is better at disguising his tracks than the other.”
Emma watched the women on her list. Claire fidgeted in her seat. Flora stared at her lap. Helen reached for Katie’s hand and squeezed it. All acted nervous, but none stood out. Not in a room where stress and anxiety hovered over the crowd like a swarm of angry bees.
A movement to Emma’s right brought her head around. Tori. Emma released a breath. Her friend had come up beside her while she’d been scrutinizing the seated ladies. She gave Emma a penetrating look, one that promised there would be questions to answer later, then turned to face the front. “Could there be more men out there that we haven’t seen yet? Until today we’ve assumed the threat came from a single man. Now we’ve seen two.”
That muscle in Malachi’s jaw ticked again. “I can’t say with certainty, but I don’t believe there are more. The camps I found were small and spread out. If there were more men, the individual camps would be clumped together to enhance communication, not half a mile apart. No, I think we’re looking at a small operation, but a savvy one. The fact that the man revealed the ace up his sleeve—a second man—means we’re running out of time.”
“Running out of time before what?” Betty demanded.
Malachi scowled, ran a hand over his face. “Before he decides he needs more than scare tactics to get what he wants.”
A murmur arose in the room as the ladies turned to one another in shared concern, but Malachi’s sharp voice cut them off with all the efficiency of a butcher’s cleaver taking off a squawking chicken’s head. “Stop!”
All tongues froze. All eyes zeroed in on the man at the front of the room.
“You don’t have time to chatter and fret. Not if we’re going to make a stand. Today he came after me, foolishly believing I was his only threat.” Mal’s hard gaze scoured each face in the room, then came to rest on Emma. “He was wrong.”
Emma sucked in a breath, her heart fluttering in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
Mal turned back to the room at large. “We have an army that outnumbers his forces. An army of strong, capable women who are ready to fight for their homes. All you need is a little organization and training. That starts now.” His voice brooked no argument, and none was forthcoming. In fact, several women sat straighter in their seats, squared their shoulders, and set their chins.
They were magnificent! Each and every one of them.
“Emma.”
She snapped her gaze to Malachi at the sound of her name spoken in his commanding tones.
“Fetch my rifle and saddlebags from the barn.” She started moving for the door as he turned his attention back to the women. “Betty. Grace. Come to the front. No female is going to leave this room until she can properly hold and load a weapon. And the minute the new shipment Miss Adams ordered arrives, we’ll begin target practice.”
Emma paused in the doorway, glancing back to catch Mal’s eye one more time. Needing him to see her gratitude, her faith in him, her admiration as he single-handedly turned a gaggle of frightened geese into would-be tigresses.
He nodded to her, the movement of his jaw firm, convicted. “They won’t catch us off guard again.”
16
After retrieving the rifle, Emma retreated into the background, insisting that the other ladies be instructed first. Malachi’s air of authority calmed their nerves for the most part, though it was his patience that kept them from getting flustered. He didn’t allow them room for squeamishness but neither did he raise his voice when they made a misstep or heave a frustrated breath when he had to repeat himself, which he did . . . often. Even when Helen wanted no part in the training—or, more accurately, no involvement with Malachi—he kept a lid on his temper. He simply walked across the room to Betty, handed her the rifle, shooed the man-shy Helen toward her supervisor, and temporarily took over shotgun lessons.
By the time the café cleared out, each of the women had an idea of which type of weapon they would feel most comfortable using and which would be best suited for each situation. Rifles for longer distance, as when the newly paired partners would be on watch, and handguns for personal protection in closer quarters. After observing Malachi’s instruction for several hours, Emma could easily recite the differences between the shells of a breech-loading shotgun, the side-feeding cartridges of the repeating rifle, and the bullets that fit within the round chambers of the Colt Army Revolver without error. She was doing just that, internally, when Betty and Grace took their leave. Anxious to prove to Malachi that she’d been paying close attention, she held her hand out to accept the revolver. Yet when he set it in her palm, the weight of it took her by surprise.
“Use two hands,” Mal instructed, reaching for her left hand and positioning it beneath her right. “It will steady your aim and keep your arm from getting fatigued.”
Emma nodded and firmed up her grip, but the moment his hand brushed hers, her insides started trembling.
For heaven’s sake! What was wrong with her? He’d done the exact same thing with each of the other ladies he tutored this afternoon. The touch was purely instructional. Not personal.
There was no reason for her to feel shivery all over, or for her stomach to flip just because he moved behind her to help her take the proper stance. And her lungs had absolutely no excuse for running so shallow when his front pressed against her back and his arms stretched along the length of hers. Nor did her heart need to suddenly start throbbing in reaction to his warm breath fanning over her cheek while his bristled jaw scraped ever-so-lightly against her skin.
“Fit your finger to the trigger,” he murmured low against her ear.
Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound huskier than it had a minute before? Probably her imagination. Heaven knew the rest of her other senses were going berserk. It would be a shame for her ears to be left out.
“Now . . . squeeze.” The whispered command nearly melted her insides.
She obeyed and slowly moved her finger, but her eyes slid closed at the same time as she leaned just the tiniest bit back against his chest. His firm . . . strong . . . warm chest.
Click.
The sound made her jerk. Malachi had emptied the chambers, so no bullet had fired, but the quiet tick shattered the silence . . . and the illusion of intimacy she had let herself sink into. Good grief. She was acting worse than Katie, leaning into Mal as if she were some man-starved flirt
instead of a woman on a mission to learn how to protect herself and those she cared about.
She stiffened and straightened away from Malachi’s all-too-pleasant physique, letting her arms drop in the process. Emma expected Mal to step away, give her one of those horrible I’m-disappointed-in-you looks, then lecture her on the importance of focusing on the task at hand.
He didn’t. Instead, his arms lingered over hers, even as they hung at her sides. His hands did eventually move, but not away. No, they traced upward along her sleeves and then curled around her upper arms in a near embrace.
His face stayed bent against hers, as well, almost as if . . . Emma swallowed. Almost as if he was contemplating nuzzling her neck.
Her pulse stuttered even as she told herself she was mistaken. Malachi had been nothing but professional with all the other ladies. She was misinterpreting things.
But it didn’t feel like a misinterpretation. Alone in the café. His hands holding her. His body close. His whiskers rasping gently against her sensitive skin.
“Next time . . .” His voice rumbled in a deep octave that did odd things to her midsection. “Keep your eyes open when you pull the trigger.”
She should have been embarrassed, chagrined that he’d noticed her shameful lack of concentration, but she just couldn’t summon a proper dose of regret. Not when he was so close. Holding her. Nuzzling her neck. For he was nuzzling. She could feel the edge of his nose against her nape, his lips a hairsbreadth away from her skin.
If she turned her head a few inches . . . But she was afraid to move. Afraid to ruin the moment. The sensations flooding her were too extraordinary. Too wonderful.
“I will,” she breathed.
“Will what?” he asked, his whiskers brushing against her earlobe and sending shivers dancing down her back.
“Keep my eyes open.” Though at the moment her eyelids were drooping dangerously. She wanted nothing more than to let them slide closed and lean her head back against his shoulder. “When I shoot.”
He froze. His lips hovered just above the sensitive part of her neck that clamored for his attention.
No! Emma could have bitten her tongue off in that moment. She never should have reminded him of the shooting lessons, of the gun. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Her mind had been so deliciously fuzzy, thinking only of the man behind her, that the words had just slipped out. And now he was pulling away from her.
The warmth of his breath on her neck disappeared first, then the heat from his chest on her back as he stepped away. He released his hold on her arms and moved around to stand in front of her.
Wrapping his right hand around hers, he trapped the revolver between them. He raised the weapon slowly, his darkly intense gaze boring into hers as he placed the pistol’s barrel flush against his own chest.
“What are you . . . ?” Emma struggled to pull the gun away, unable to bear the thought of Malachi being on the receiving end of a bullet. Especially one she was responsible for. She didn’t care that the gun wasn’t loaded. The horrible thoughts running through her head played havoc with that truth. What if he had missed a chamber somehow when he’d removed the ammunition? If the gun went off, he couldn’t survive a shot at such close range.
“Stop it, Mal. This isn’t funny.” She tugged on the gun again, but his arm didn’t budge.
“You need to be ready, Em.” His voice came out hard, yet there was a sadness in his eyes that disturbed her far more. “If this man attacks you, you can’t hesitate. Aim at the widest target, his torso, and pull the trigger.”
Her heart thudded so hard in her chest it hurt. He squeezed her hand, and for a moment she thought her worst nightmare was about to come true—that he would force her finger back against the trigger. She shook her head. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Don’t,” she whispered.
He didn’t. But neither did he let her release the gun. It was almost as if he thought she needed protection from him.
She narrowed her gaze and tipped her chin sideways. What’s going on in that head of yours, Malachi Shaw? Did he think that what had happened between them a moment ago had proved him untrustworthy? A threat? Nothing could be further from the truth. Under his touch, she’d felt not only safe but cherished. As if she weren’t alone in her mission. As if she had a partner to lean on. One who cared for her first and her responsibilities second.
No wonder she’d felt weightless and light-headed. It was a wonder she hadn’t floated right off the floor to bump against the ceiling. For a few stolen moments, he’d released her from the burden of duty. It was a gift she needed to repay.
“I trust you, Mal.” She held his gaze, urging him to see the confidence she had in him, not only in dealing with the outlaws but in dealing with what was flaring between them.
His brown eyes softened just a little, but then he blinked and looked away. “I won’t always be there, Em,” he said, finally relaxing his grip on her hands and taking the gun from her.
Malachi stepped past to lay the pistol on the table behind her. An icy tremor coursed over her arms and shoulders, causing her to twitch and wrap her arms about herself for comfort. It was going to take some strong tea and an even stronger mind to keep from having nightmares about that gun pointed at Mal’s chest. She prayed she never saw such a sight again.
“Here.” Malachi handed her the rifle, the intimate huskiness gone from his voice. Nothing but cool, businesslike precision remained. “Show me how to load it, and then we’ll work on your stance.”
Emma swallowed her disappointment and gave him a quick nod. Time to take up the mantle of responsibility again. Collecting the first cartridge, she mimicked what she’d seen the other ladies do and fed it into the Winchester’s receiver. She pushed it into the magazine with her thumb, ignoring the pinch both in the pad of her finger and in her heart as she reached for the next cartridge.
With grim determination, Malachi saw to the rest of Emma’s training without a repeat of the disaster with the revolver. When she demonstrated sufficient capability with the rifle, he’d praised her efforts and then taken his weapons and left, using the same excuse he’d employed that morning. Sending a telegram. He’d never gotten around to wiring the county land office earlier, thanks to the outlaws’ interruption, so it gave him a legitimate reason to leave—one more palatable than the truth—that he didn’t trust himself alone with her.
He never should have held her so close, not while the scare of the gunfight that morning had still been fresh in his mind. A single stray bullet could have ended her life. The discovery that the outlaws had been stalking the ladies for weeks only added to his unnerved state. Imagining that coldhearted snake watching Emma, learning her routines, her habits . . . It chilled his blood.
So when she’d leaned back into his chest, thawing—no, heating—his blood, he’d been drawn in like a man craving a blazing hearth after fighting his way home through a snowstorm. That’s what she’d felt like. Home. The way she’d lightly pressed against him, her body soft and pliant. Her voice dripping over him like honey. The smell of her hair, the pale column of her neck begging to be tasted. He’d nearly given in. He’d wanted to give in. Shoot, a part of him still did. Then she said she trusted him, her eyes green pools of sincerity—sincerity mixed with something deeper that grabbed his gut and twisted it into a knot he had yet to untangle. He’d been a breath away from grabbing her to him and kissing her with all the yearning he’d suppressed since the moment he’d arrived to find her a woman grown.
She was dangerous, tempting him to dream of things beyond his reach. He had a job. The respect of men he admired. A purpose in mentoring young pups like Andrew and Zachary. He didn’t need her planting impossible ideas in his head. She would never leave her ladies. Her place was here with them. His was in Montana on the rail lines. He could never belong in a women’s colony. One had only to note his gender to figure that one out. And Emma couldn’t follow him to the rail camps. Living in tents, constantly on the move—it was a harsh
existence, filled with rough men and even rougher women. Drink ran high. Morality ran low. She wouldn’t be safe. Or happy. And he cared too much about her to subject her to that kind of life.
Best he just get on with the business at hand.
Malachi climbed the steps to the telegraph office and stomped inside. Grace glanced up from her position behind the counter and set down the long paper tape she’d been examining.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Shaw?”
Mal touched the brim of his hat and bent forward to prop his rifle against the wall of the counter. “Need to send a couple telegrams,” he said, straightening. “One to the county land office and the other to my outfit up in Montana.”
It was past time to check in with the rail boss and to remind himself where he belonged.
17
Emma didn’t linger in the empty café. She needed company. The sensible, level-headed kind. The kind that could manage objectivity even while being fiercely loyal. She needed Tori.
Shoulders set, Emma marched down the boardwalk to Victoria’s store and pushed open the door. At the sound of the bell jangling, Tori came out from the back room, a welcoming smile on her face. A smile that shifted from welcoming to penetrating in a blink of an eye. Emma’s shoulders sagged in reaction—not in disappointment, but in relief. Here she didn’t have to pretend to have all the answers. Here she didn’t have to be in charge. Here she could be her weak, filled-with-doubts self, and no one would care.
“Go ahead and flip the Closed sign over.” Tori gestured toward the placard hanging in the front display window. “I’ve already got some water heating for tea.”
Emma grinned and shook her head. “How’d you know I’d be coming over?”
Tori gave her a disbelieving stare. “Private ammunition lessons in the café with the man you’ve pined over for half your life? Please. I put the kettle on the moment I spied Betty and Grace leaving.”
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