A laugh of disbelief burst through the room as if some little imp hiding under the desk had just popped an air-filled paper sack.
“Stanley Fischer?” Emma scoffed. “Believe me, the man doesn’t consider women capable of high principles. Besides, he’s not clever enough to pull off such an elaborate scheme. Especially when he could have suspended his business with us months ago without Claire even being in the picture. Not to mention the fact that I saw our attacker the day of the shooting, and he definitely was not Stanley Fischer.”
“You said he wore a mask,” Mal reminded her.
“Sure, but a bandana only hides the face, not the belly, and Fischer is rather well-endowed in that area.”
Mal chuckled. Couldn’t argue with that. The angry shopkeeper he’d tangled with back in Seymour had certainly had a hefty gut. And ego. He seemed more the type to bluster and growl than to coldly plan an elaborate subversion.
“Also . . .” Emma pointed her pen in Mal’s direction, never one to let an advantage go unpressed. “Maybelle told us that she asked Claire to deliver Daisy’s medication to the boardinghouse. Claire didn’t volunteer to run the errand. She’d been busy washing their supper dishes at the time. So it was pure happenstance that Claire was the first one to discover the fire.”
Turning around to face Emma fully, Mal reached behind him to find the windowsill and leaned back to use the edge of it like a seat. “I agree that she’s not the most likely candidate, but her appearance right before the fire is too coincidental to completely ignore. I say we keep her on the list.”
“Fine.” Emma turned in her chair to face him, letting out a heavy sigh as she did so. “You know, this whole mess would be much easier to deal with if I just knew what the outlaw wanted. He obviously needs us gone for a reason, and I don’t think it’s simply because he feels threatened by a group of women living successfully on their own. He wants something here in Harper’s Station. It’s the only logical explanation for his persistence. But what is he after?”
“Is there anything special about the land itself?” Mal asked. “Water rights? Valuable mineral deposits? Any ore assays done by a previous owner?”
Emma shook her head, the toe of her shoe thumping the floor in a soft, staccato rhythm. “Not that I recall. The Wichita River flows along the northwest border of the property, but I don’t own proprietary rights to it. I don’t know of any ore or minerals that would be of particular value. We could check the county assay office to see if any claims have been filed for something in the surrounding area to be sure, but this is farm and ranch country, not mining country. And if what he wanted was the land, why not just approach me with an offer to buy?”
“Maybe he can’t afford to pay full price. Maybe he’s hoping that if he scares you and the others away, you’ll be eager to make a deal so you can make a fresh start somewhere else.” Mal crossed his arms over his chest and braced the heels of his boots out in front of him.
“But why does he want this land so badly?” Emma laid down her pen and pushed to her feet. “There is other property for sale nearby, undeveloped, but cheaper, if that is what he needs.”
Apparently it was her turn to pace. He smiled until he realized her direction. Directly toward him. Leaving him trapped against the window. If he jumped to his feet and moved away, he’d offend her for sure. Willing his body to remain still even though every muscle tensed at her approach, he forced himself to continue breathing at a steady rate.
In. Out.
She came alongside him, close enough to touch if he unlaced his arms. Malachi immediately tightened his hold on his ribs.
In. Out. In . . .
Drat! He could smell her. Or the lilac bath salts she’d washed in last night. The smell had lingered in the small room off the kitchen when he’d finally taken his turn in the tub. He’d never washed so fast in his life, needing to get away from thoughts of Emma in a tub of scented water, wearing absolutely noth—
Malachi jerked away from the window. And Emma. “I need to go.”
Emma’s forehead crinkled. “Go? Go where?”
Where, indeed. He didn’t have a clue. Away was at the top of the list. He could figure out the rest later. He didn’t slow down to discuss possibilities, just made a beeline for the door.
“Did you think of something?”
He could hear the soft click of her footsteps. Following. His pulse flickered. His stride stretched.
Yet her question sparked an idea just as he reached the doorway. He grabbed the jamb with one hand and glanced back. “I’m going to wire the county land office. See if they have any assay records on file.”
“Do you want me to co—?”
“Nope.” Heaven save him. That was the last thing he wanted. Okay, it was actually the first thing he wanted. Wanted it so bad it made him ache. Which was exactly why he needed to get away.
But as he pivoted to make his escape, he saw her face fall. Saw the hurt in her eyes. It was the same look she’d worn the day he left ten years ago. A look that haunted him still. “I’ll catch up with you in the old café building after lunch, all right?” he promised. “For the town meeting.”
Her lips curved upward in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure.” She nodded to him. “I’ll just stay here and write up a few more notes while things are fresh on my mind.”
Feeling like a heel but not trusting himself enough to stay, Mal slapped his palm against the doorjamb, fingered his hat brim in a show of respect, and turned tail and ran.
Right into an ambush.
They came from the east. Two riders. Masked. Armed.
Mal reached for his Colt. Gunfire erupted before he cleared leather. He ducked, instinct taking over. A bullet whizzed by his head. Another hit the ground near his feet. Another shattered the window behind him.
A woman screamed.
Emma! Had she been hit?
Hot rage seared through him as he scrambled for cover. They weren’t shooting high this time. And neither was he.
Darting around the corner of the bank building, Malachi returned fire. Or tried to. The barrage of bullets slamming into the brick around him made it impossible to get a clear shot. He had to settle for aiming in the riders’ general vicinity and firing blindly at the moving targets.
He emptied his revolver, pressed his back against the side of the building, and grabbed fresh ammunition from his gun belt. A couple more shots ricocheted off the brick as the horses passed his position. The rider closest to him turned around in the saddle. Dark eyes glowed above the mask. Hard. Determined. He raised his gun arm.
Ah, crud. Mal rolled to the side. The bullet struck the wall right where he’d been standing.
“Yah!” The outlaw spurred his horse to a gallop. His partner did the same, firing a few last shots into the air as he went.
Malachi shoved bullets into their chambers as fast as his shaking fingers would allow. He had to go after them. Had to stop them.
Gun loaded, he stepped out in front of the bank and took aim at the larger man’s back. A woman’s scream from somewhere up ahead rent the air just before he squeezed the trigger. The outlaw dropped low in the saddle. Mal’s shot missed.
He took aim again, but the riders raced out of range, flying past the garden and the church and disappearing into the brush.
They were headed for the river. Mal’s blood pumped through his veins with painful urgency. He had to get them back in sight. Now. He wouldn’t be able to track them if they got to the water. He holstered his weapon and dashed in front of the bank, his gaze narrowing in on the station house behind the telegraph office. He needed his horse. He stretched his legs to run, but broken glass crunched under his boots, sending shards of another sort slashing through his chest.
How could he have forgotten?
“Emma!” The wounded roar rasped against his throat. He dug in his heels and changed direction. Fluttering curtains and jagged glass obscured his vision through the window, so he lunged for the door. Yet just as
he reached for the handle, it swung away from him.
“Malachi! Oh, thank God you’re all right.” Emma stumbled through the doorway.
Malachi braced himself and even went so far as to open his arms a bit, but she didn’t throw herself against him. Didn’t rush to him for comfort. He should feel relieved that he didn’t have to put up with the emotional display, the confining touch, the ill-practiced awkwardness that always beset him when someone tried to show him affection. Yet he didn’t feel any of those things. What washed over him was disappointment.
She reached a hand out, as if to touch him. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, red rimmed her beautiful eyes. “I was so afraid.”
Of course she was afraid. The fiends had shot up her office with her inside. It still scorched his hide to think of what damage they could have wrought. Mal grabbed on to her hand, squeezing it tight. “It’s all right, Em. They’re gone.”
“But you . . . You’re not hurt. Right?” Her gaze raked over him, searching for proof of his health. “I was so afraid you’d been shot.”
That’s why she’d been afraid? Why she’d been crying? For him?
Mal longed to examine that truth more closely. To examine Emma more closely. But he didn’t have time. He had a pair of villains to track down.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, his voice more gruff than it should have been.
She shook her head. “No. I . . . I’m fine.”
He squeezed her fingers one more time then met her gaze. “I have to go after them.”
Her shoulders lifted, and her chin came up. “I know.” She released his hand.
Mal didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep her safe. So he left her standing there and sprinted across the street.
“You better come back to me, Malachi Shaw,” she ordered from behind him, her voice loud and strong.
Mal’s feet churned up the dirt beneath him, but his lips twitched into a smile. His bossy little angel was back.
15
When Malachi reached the station house, he sprinted through the barn, grabbed a lead line, and jogged into the corral. As he strode toward the three spooked horses running back and forth along the far fence, he curled his tongue, tightened his lips, and let out the piercing whistle that never failed to bring Ulysses racing to his side.
Unfortunately, Ulysses was still in Montana. His rented nag paid no heed to the signal, too frenzied by the recent gunfire to do anything but buck and dance around the enclosure.
Malachi gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for this.
“Easy.” As he approached the gray mare, Mal kept his voice low and his movements slow despite the urgency in his gut that screamed at him to hurry. “Time to take a little ride. You want to run, don’tcha?”
He opened his arms wide and stepped closer. The mare snorted and jerked her head but didn’t flee. Mal said a quick prayer of thanks as he cupped a hand over the gray’s nose. “That’s my girl,” he cooed.
The horse might not be as well trained as Ulysses, but she knew her job. Her tail flicked and her withers trembled as she fought the remains of her distress and submitted to his touch.
Mal attached the lead line and, using the bottom fence rail as a step, swung up onto the horse’s bare back. The nag sidestepped a bit but settled quickly enough. “Easy, now,” Mal urged. He didn’t have time to fetch a saddle or bridle. They were going to have to do this with a halter and one rein. Nothing he hadn’t done with Ulysses in the past, but a daunting process with an untried horse. Directing was no problem. But getting the beast to stop? Well, Mal just hoped whoever had trained the mare had taught her to heed the rider’s leg and seat signals. If not, he’d most likely be walking home. With a passel of new bruises.
“I’ve got the gate, Malachi!” Aunt Henry waved at him from the edge of the corral and swung the gate outward.
Thankful she’d had the gumption to leave the house and lend a hand, Mal scraped his heels against the horse’s sides and lurched for the opening.
“Go get those scoundrels!” she called as he raced past.
He didn’t answer. Just bent low over the mare’s neck and galloped toward the river.
Two hours later, Emma stood at the café window, nibbling on the edge of her thumb as she watched for Malachi’s return. Ladies trailed past her a few at a time, taking the seats she had set out earlier after she’d swept up the broken glass in her office and on the walkway outside the bank. Everyone was gathering for the town meeting. A meeting Malachi was supposed to run.
So where was he?
A hand touched her shoulder, and Emma twisted her neck to see Victoria eying her with sympathy. “I’m sure he’s fine,” her friend said. “Maybe he managed to trail them back to their hideout, and by this time tomorrow, it will all be over.”
Emma tried to grasp the hope Tori offered, but it was like trying to capture a handful of water. All but the tiniest bit leaked out around the edges of her fist. She clung to the few drops that lingered behind, wanting desperately to drink them in. Yet they disappeared almost instantly in the desert of her worry.
Surely he wouldn’t have tried to bring in two men by himself. Would he? She’d caught a glimpse of the masked outlaws through her broken window as they rode past the bank. The first man was the same rider she’d seen before. She was certain. A formidable foe on his own, but with a partner? A shiver danced along Emma’s nape. Malachi only had his six-shooter with him. She’d spotted rifles in boots on both of the outlaws’ saddles in addition to their revolvers. They had Mal outmanned and outgunned. When he’d gone searching for a trail after the fire, he’d told her he only intended to scout the location of the hideout so he could report back to the sheriff and bring in reinforcements. But if the outlaws discovered Mal on their trail, there was nothing to stop them from ambushing him.
“Come on, Em.” Tori took hold of her arm and not-so-gently steered her away from the window. “Worrying won’t bring him back any faster.”
“No.” Sudden purpose steeled her spine. “But going after him will.”
She broke away from Tori’s grasp, ignoring her friend’s sputtering protests, and marched straight over to Betty Cooper, uncaring of the curious glances she collected along the way. “Did you bring your shotgun, Betty?”
The farm woman pushed to her feet and grabbed the double barrels lying on the floor beneath her chair. “You bet. After the shenanigans this morning, I think I might just sleep with this thing under my pillow.” The women seated around her giggled, but their nervous glances to the window and back made it clear they knew the jest wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Emma fully expected all the women would be sleeping with weapons close at hand this night, even if they had to resort to cast-iron skillets and hat pins.
“Come with me,” Emma ordered. “We need to go after Malachi. He’s been gone too long.” Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her gaze darted back to the open doorway. “He may need our help. He could be injured or . . . or . . . captured. I’ve got horses at the station house. We can be saddled and ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
“No call to go hurrying off like some flibbertigibbet,” Aunt Henry groused from her position at the front of the room. “The boy can take care of himself.”
“Against two armed outlaws?” Emma couldn’t believe her aunt could be so cavalier. This was Malachi’s life they were talking about. “He risked his life going after those men. To protect us.” She swept an arm out to encompass everyone assembled in the café. “Only a featherbrained coward,” she said, borrowing one of her aunt’s favorite expressions to describe females who didn’t agree with her position on suffrage, “would sit by and do nothing when the man protecting her could be hurt or worse.” Though Emma adamantly refused to think about what worse could mean. “I owe him better than that.”
“He’s fine, Emma,” Henry insisted.
Emma fought the urge to grab the nearest unoccupied chair and hurl it at her aunt’s head. “You don’t know that.?
??
“’Course I do.”
How could she possibly . . . ?
“He just rode up,” her aunt announced, a smug smile on her face that didn’t completely hide the compassion lingering in her eyes.
Emma spun around, her breath catching in her throat as she glimpsed the truth of her aunt’s words for herself. Malachi was striding down the road, the gray mare following obediently behind.
She rushed outside and leaned over the boardwalk railing. “Malachi. Are you all . . .”
His hat brim lifted, and her words died. She’d never seen such anger in his eyes. Such a hard, glittering determination. His jaw ticked as he flicked the mare’s lead line around the hitching post and stomped up the café’s stairs.
“Inside,” he growled as he tromped past, leaving her gaping slack-jawed after him.
He’d never snapped orders at her before. Yet, their lives had never been in imminent danger before, either.
And truth to tell, deep inside, there was a part of her that sagged in relief at his taking charge. Just for a little while. These were still her ladies, her colony, but being responsible for their protection when she was facing an enemy she didn’t understand and a fight she didn’t know how to win had eroded her confidence until she was little more than a pile of ruins. Her pillar might continue to stand stalwartly in the wind, yet without roof and walls, it offered little shelter against the storm.
Malachi offered shelter. Strength. Protection. For all of them. So she trailed after him without a word and moved to stand next to Tori near the window at the back of the room.
“I apologize for my tardiness, ladies,” he said, nodding at Maybelle and Claire, who ducked through the doorway just as he turned to face the gathering. Not waiting for them to find a seat, he plunged ahead. “But I have some information that you’ll want to hear.”
“Did ya find where them scallywags are holed up?” Betty’s question boomed through the room. “My rig’s hitched and ready. I’ll gladly go fetch Sheriff Tabor.”
Several of the ladies murmured assent, looking to one another with bright eyes filled with hope.