No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  Betty patted Helen’s shoulder. “When I got back, I found meat scraps by the gate. Someone unlatched the gate but kept it closed so we wouldn’t suspect anything. Then they laid out scraps to lure the dogs in.” Betty turned hard eyes on Mal. “No man could’ve gotten that close in broad daylight without one of us noticing.” Her gaze shifted to the crowd standing around the wagon. “One of our own did this.”

  Gasps and disbelieving murmurs spread through the crowd as ladies turned to look at their neighbors. Anger. Fear. Confusion. However, one face in the crowd registered nothing but determination. The face he admired most.

  Without missing a beat, Emma hiked up her skirts, scaled the closest wagon wheel, and pulled herself up onto the driver’s box. She stood tall. Resolute.

  “Ladies!” She dropped her skillet onto the bench seat and clapped her hands twice to get their attention. Unfortunately, the commotion had grown too unruly in the brief moment it had taken her to climb into the wagon.

  Mal lifted his fingers to his mouth to give a sharp whistle like the one he used to call Ulysses, but Emma beat him to it. Curving thumb and forefinger and placing them just past the edge of her retracted lips, she let out a piercing blast that had him grinning with pride. Mal leaned back on his heels. He’d taught her that. They’d been kids at the time, but still . . . no one could deny the woman’s impressive pitch and volume.

  Especially not the ladies milling about the street. The instant the whistle hit the air, their clamor died, and all heads jerked up to face their leader.

  “Thank you.” Emma nodded, satisfied that she had everyone’s attention. “What happened at the farm is an abomination, and the fact that one of our own might have been involved is devastating. But hear me. We cannot afford to turn on each other, to allow suspicion and distrust to destroy our unity. We have an enemy to defeat, and if he senses that we no longer stand together, he will swoop in and tear us apart as efficiently as those dogs laid waste to Betty’s hens. Our strength is in our solidarity. If that is lost, we have nothing with which to make our stand.”

  “But how can we stand together when one of the links in our chain is busted?” Betty challenged, her chin jutted forward, her eyes blazing.

  Mal started to move toward the wagon, thinking to jump up beside Emma and make a tangible show of support. But a quick glance from her warned him off.

  “You’re absolutely right, Betty. We can’t depend on a weakened link. But neither can we discard it into the scrap heap. We don’t know her motives, what kind of hold our enemy might have over her. What if she is as much a victim as the rest of us? What if the outlaw is threatening the life of someone she loves in order to gain her cooperation? What if he’s blackmailing her or forcing her to do his bidding by some other means?”

  Malachi watched the faces of the women around him. Some softened in sympathy, others crinkled in confusion, while others hardened even further.

  Betty’s was about as soft as a slab of granite. “What if she’s simply a Judas, getting paid to turn on her own? Or what if she’s the outlaw’s lover and has been in on the plan from the very beginning? We can’t just look the other way, not when people—sisters—could die.”

  Murmurs of agreement rose again, but Emma held up a hand to silence them. “You’re right. We don’t know the true motives of the one who has aided our enemy. But every one of us came to Harper’s Station with the hope of starting over. We all have things in our past that we wanted to escape or change or forget. None of us are in a position to cast stones. That’s why I’m going to give whoever is involved the chance to make the right decision. To come to me. Privately. Tonight at the station house, I’ll leave the front door unlocked, and I’ll be waiting in the parlor. All night. There will be no blame given, no punishment inflicted. In fact, I will provide safe passage out of town before first light and funds for a train ticket to someplace new. An escape and a chance for a fresh start, no questions asked.”

  “And if the traitor don’t show up?” Betty jabbed.

  “Then we’ll have to try something more drastic, like doing away with privacy and making sure no one is left alone at any time. There will be nowhere she can hide and no way she can aid the outlaw. Whatever consequences arise because of that will be on her own head.” Emma scanned the audience, slowly, her gaze hesitating over each lady in the crowd. “So, please. Whoever you are. Come see me tonight. It is the best option, both for your safety and for ours.”

  After that final plea, Emma stepped to the edge of the wagon. Mal hurried forward to help her down. She offered him a small smile of thanks, then turned and walked back to the station house, head held high despite the fact that her tender heart must be throbbing with disappointment and grief.

  He ached for her even as his chest nearly burst with pride over the way she’d handled the situation. Strong yet compassionate. Fair yet filled with grace.

  Although he had to admit, there was one thing he sided with Betty on. Emma couldn’t know the true motives of the traitor. Her soft heart wanted to believe the best of people, but he’d seen the ugliness of evil too often to doubt its prevalence.

  If she wanted to open her door in the dead of night to a woman who’d betray her own neighbors, he couldn’t stop her. But he sure as shootin’ wouldn’t be leaving her to face her caller alone. He planned to lurk in a dark corner close at hand, armed and ready to do whatever it took to keep her safe.

  30

  The knock on Emma’s door never came.

  Mal sat in the darkened kitchen all night. Gun ready, ears perked for the slightest sound. But nothing came.

  He watched Emma from a distance as sleep overtook her, head drooping, then shoulders, then her entire body sliding down the back of the settee to lie across the length of the seat. He crept into the parlor sometime after midnight to cover her with a knitted throw. He arranged her legs atop the cushion, slipping her shoes from her feet and bending her knees so that she lay tucked in a more comfortable position. Then he brought the afghan up over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against the softness of her dark hair and a nearly painful longing stirred in his soul.

  She was so beautiful, his angel. So brave. Such a big heart. Always trying to save the world. Just as she’d saved him.

  Malachi bent forward and feathered a tender kiss against her temple, one so soft he barely felt it himself, but one so full of feeling, his heart nearly burst as it pounded in his chest. His eyes closed as his lips touched her skin. He hovered, unable to pull away. So close to what he craved. To whom he loved. His angel. His Emma.

  How he wished she truly was his. How he would cherish her. Guard her. Support her in all her world-saving endeavors during the day and hold her in his arms every night.

  But such dreams were just that—dreams. In truth he had no claim to her beyond friendship. She was a woman of high ideals with a mission that required her full attention. He was a recently unemployed explosives expert who was better at destroying things than building them. The son of the town drunk who, despite his belated education and trade skills gained later in life, never fully escaped the stain of his past. She deserved better.

  Although, the thought of anyone else claiming her set off a murderous impulse of such ferocity inside him that, before he knew it, his fingers were clenched into fists. Forcing himself to breathe, he relaxed his hands and slowly straightened away from her sleeping form.

  “I love you, Em,” he whispered. And I vow to do whatever it takes to ensure your safety and happiness. Even if it means giving up my own.

  Backing away, Mal returned to the kitchen and his silent vigil—a vigil he kept until it was time for his predawn shift in the steeple. The change in location didn’t alter his focus, though. Instead of watching for outlaws approaching from the river, he kept his gaze trained on the station house until the sky began to lighten in anticipation of the sun. No visitors paid a call.

  Emma awoke to early morning sunlight teasing her eyelids as dawn broke. Disoriented at first, she stre
tched her cramped legs only to nearly topple herself from the parlor settee.

  The parlor. The traitor. Had no one come?

  Disappointment surged as she sat up and blinked away the sleep from her eyes. Her messy topknot flopped halfway down the side of her head and one of Bertie’s afghans fell from her shoulder.

  How had that gotten there? She didn’t recall . . . Or did she? There was something hazy and dreamlike tickling her memory. A warm presence. A gentle touch. Whispered words she couldn’t quite make out. One of the aunts? Emma crinkled her brow in concentration as she tried to bring the memory into sharper focus. It didn’t feel like one of the aunts. It felt different. Stronger somehow. Larger.

  She glanced toward the kitchen doorway. A chair sat in front of the table. A chair facing the parlor entrance. As if someone had been watching her. Guarding her.

  Malachi.

  Warmth flowed through her. Comforting. Cherishing. She fingered the soft yarn of the afghan and pictured Mal bending down to arrange it over her. Did he feel the same heat in his veins that she did whenever the two of them drew close? Or was his affection merely brotherly? No. Not brotherly. It had to be more than that. A brother wouldn’t look at her the way Mal had in the café the day he’d taught her how to hold a rifle. Or hold her with such bone-melting tenderness.

  He felt something for her. He might not be able to admit it yet, but it was there. And as soon as this mess with the bandits was cleared up, she intended to confront him about it.

  She was a Chandler female, after all. And Chandler women could do anything men could do, including propose marriage, if it came to that. Emma jumped to her feet like a soldier coming to attention, her back straight, arms stiff at her sides. Of course, she might have to convince him that he loved her first, but surely when she told him how much she cared for him, he’d see the truth.

  Or run away again.

  Emma frowned. Her posture sagged. Mal did have a bad habit of running when he thought leaving was in her best interest. Well . . . she’d just have to take that option off the table somehow. Prove to him that he was in her best interest.

  She took a step toward the kitchen, thinking to march out to the barn and find him, but as soon as she started, her topknot completely unraveled and plopped against her shoulder before her hair spilled down her back in tangled disarray. Heavens. She couldn’t go out there in this condition. She’d scare him off for sure. Hair of a wild woman. Rumpled clothes. Not to mention the likelihood of foul-smelling breath. Ugh. She’d have to freshen up first.

  Tugging dangling hairpins free as she went, she dashed up the stairs, careful to keep her tread light so as not to wake the aunts. Henry was usually up with the sun, but she’d taken a shift on watch last night and would probably sleep another hour. Bertie rarely rose before seven.

  Emma started finger-combing her matted hair as she moved into her room and gently closed the door. Stepping to the window, she took hold of the curtains, intending to close them so she could disrobe, but a movement near the garden grabbed her attention.

  The ladies didn’t work the garden on Sundays. Although, if Mrs. Grimes decided she needed something fresh to serve the circuit-riding preacher after services, she could have sent Flora or Esther to gather a few things. But the woman in the garden wasn’t gathering vegetables. In fact, she didn’t look to be moving much at all. Until Malachi came down from the steeple and passed by. Then she bent over the rows of plants and started harvesting, or pretending to. She positioned her back to him so he wouldn’t be able to see her face. Not that he gave her more than a cursory glance since Porter had come up at the same time and said something to him while pointing back to the boardinghouse. Mal nodded and followed the freighter into the heart of town. Leaving the woman to her own devices.

  Emma pressed her forehead to the window glass, trying to make out the woman’s features. Who was it? She squinted through the glass, but the garden was too far away to make out more than the woman’s outline. And her movements. No sooner had the men turned their backs than the woman sprinted through the gate and behind the church. Was she heading for the river?

  Emma gasped and lunged for her door. She pounded down the stairs.

  She had to catch her. Had to stop her from endangering the town. For she must be headed back to the outlaws, otherwise she would have taken Emma up on her offer of money and a fresh start.

  “Emma?” Henry sleepily called to her from upstairs, but Emma didn’t have time to explain.

  “Get Malachi,” Emma yelled back to her aunt, her pace not slowing. “Tell him I spotted the traitor running toward the river.”

  Emma grabbed her rifle from where she’d propped it against the parlor wall last night and raced out the back door.

  “You can’t—”

  The door slammed, cutting off her aunt’s protest.

  Yes, she could. She had to. She had to protect her ladies. Besides, Mal would come for her. She’d not be alone for long. And this time she was armed.

  Emma dashed through the corral, mentally railing at the time lost by having to climb through the fence slats. But when she caught a glimpse of a woman in a dark coat disappearing down the slope leading to the river, she found a new burst of energy. She ran across the field that stretched between her and the church, then cut across open country to the place where the woman had disappeared.

  She crested the hill. Glanced right and left. Panic stabbed her gut. Her ragged breaths echoed loudly in her ears. Where was the woman? To the west, the river stretched fairly straight, but there was a bend to the right. Surely her quarry must have gone east around the bend. Otherwise she would still be visible. Praying she was right, Emma set out to the east, and before long, ran across a fresh set of footprints leading into the river. Small. Pointed toes. A woman’s shoes. Triumph surged through Emma. She couldn’t be too far behind.

  Holding her rifle in one hand, she gathered up her skirts with the other and waded into the shallow river. Water ran over her ankles and halfway up her calves, dousing her stockings and the edges of her petticoats. She trudged on, doing her best to watch her footing even as she scoured the far shore for a glimpse of the lady she chased. No sign.

  The traitor must be rounding the bend while wading in the water to hide her tracks. But Emma didn’t want her tracks to be hidden. She needed Malachi to find them quickly. The woman she followed had to come out on the other side eventually. Emma could make better time, not to mention leave more visible tracks if she crossed the river directly. She eyed the far side of the river and found a sloping section of bank that would provide an easy exit. So she headed for it, pushing through knee-deep water in order to get there.

  Once on the other side, she released her skirts, grabbed a quick couple of breaths to relieve her heaving sides, then forced herself into a slow jog along the river’s edge, her gaze constantly swiveling between the river and the bushy mesquite to her left.

  The bend in the river finally ceased its curving and began to straighten. Yet the improved view yielded no sign of Emma’s quarry. Where had she left the river? Emma had seen no footprints. No trail of water droplets or flattened prairie grass from dragging hems near the river’s edge.

  Emma bit her lip. She couldn’t lose the trail. Not now. Not when she was so close. She glanced toward the scrub brush but saw nothing. Heard nothing.

  Frustration mounting, she jogged forward until she reached a pile of dead branches beneath a small cedar tree. Her attention was so focused on trying to spot her quarry that she didn’t lift her back foot enough to clear the branches as she stepped over them. The toe of her shoe caught on something hard and immobile, nearly launching her onto her face.

  Emma caught her balance and glared down at whatever had tripped her. Her eyes widened. A flat brown stone, almost completely hidden, lay beneath the leaves and twigs. A stone that had a dark spot in the middle. A wet spot.

  Exhilaration shot through her. She looked for more stones hidden inside the camouflage of dead branches and
found several, all about a man’s stride apart. The branches and leaves meandered up the flat bank in a seemingly haphazard manner to a rocky section of ground where a trail would be next to impossible to find. No wonder Malachi hadn’t been able to track the outlaws. They’d disguised their escape route perfectly. If she hadn’t stubbed her toe, she would have completely passed it by without a second thought.

  Instead of searching for a glimpse of the woman she pursued, Emma focused on the path. The stones hidden within the dead branches. The dry, rocky creek bed leading north into the densest patch of scrub brush. Emma pressed on, even as the vegetation grew from prairie grass to three- and four-foot shrubs, to mesquite and oak trees that stretched closer to ten feet. Only when she was completely surrounded with little or no visibility did she stop.

  She’d been watching the ground for footprints, but had seen none. She could be three feet or three hundred feet from the precise route her quarry had taken. Since her eyes were of no help now, Emma closed them and stilled her body, focusing all her attention on the sounds around her.

  There weren’t many. No birds. No hum of insects. The breeze rustled leaves and cooled the perspiration on her forehead, but nothing else stirred. So Emma held her breath and listened harder. Show me, Lord. Please.

  The wind stilled.

  Utter silence.

  Then a new rustling sounded to her left. A rustling with no breeze. It had to be an animal. Or a person.

  Emma slowly turned her head to the left, careful not to make any noise that would give away her position.

  Voices. Male. Female. Muffled and distant. But voices for certain.

  Should she leave? Fetch Malachi and let him deal with the outlaws? Or would they simply disappear again? This might be her only chance to catch them unaware. She heard one male voice. Low. Growling. But that didn’t mean the second man wasn’t nearby. A shiver coursed down her back, but she willed the fear away. Her grip tightened on her rifle. She brought it around in front of herself, into a more ready position. Two hands. Finger hovering over the trigger. Hand beneath the barrel.