Tori released her hold on Emma and wrapped her arms around herself instead. “He said Mr. Shaw would never hurt you. But how would he know? They’ve been acquainted for less than a week. For all he knew, the man could have been beating you bloody in that café.”
“Malachi?” Emma laughed softly. “Oh, Tori. Porter was right. Mal would never hurt me. Ever. He’s too honorable. And too dedicated to my welfare and that of the aunts.” Her smile dimmed. “Probably to his detriment.”
Tori’s brow creased. “What does that mean?”
Emma slid her fingers through the tight knot of her friend’s arms. “Let’s go inside and brew some tea. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Well, almost all about it. Emma didn’t think she was quite up to confessing that she kissed the man. Not when her friend was bound to lecture her about the dangers of impropriety between the genders.
Besides, Emma wanted to savor that memory in private. Savor it. Examine it. Memorize it. And perhaps, dream up a way to repeat it.
Malachi lingered in the café, waiting for his pulse to settle and for the haze to clear from his brain. Thankfully, he’d had years of training working with explosive materials and knew how to calm his mind. A few reminders about keeping one’s focus usually did the trick. This time, though, it took more than a few. It took an entire lecture.
Emma was an emotional creature. Affectionate. She threw hugs around like they were handshakes. And kisses? Well, kisses were new, but not unheard of. She kissed the aunts on their cheeks all the time. It was a family thing, surely.
With her ill-placed guilt riling her up about his job, things had gotten out of hand. That’s all. Her tears proved her delicate state. Even as a girl she’d rarely cried. Not even when he left. Her chin had trembled and her voice had wobbled, but she’d held fast. Yet today she’d been sobbing as she ran from him. So when he’d finally convinced her he didn’t blame her for the consequences of losing his job, her relief had overcome her and she’d just reacted. His beautiful, impulsive angel had kissed him out of gratitude, nothing else.
That’s what he needed to believe, anyway, if he hoped to keep his wits from scattering.
Two outlaws were threatening Emma and the ladies of Harper’s Station. Wasting concentration on imagined motives for a friendly kiss would only put the women he cared about at greater risk. And that he wouldn’t do. He was here as protector, not suitor. Best he snuff out that fuse at the source before it ran away from him and eventually blew everything up.
Head screwed on straight, finally, Malachi strode out the café door and back down the street to the station-house barn, intent on finding Andrew. When he entered, a familiar nicker welcomed him. Ulysses. Man, but it was good to have his horse back.
Mal let out a low whistle, and his gelding answered with a snort and a bob of his head. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, old man.” Mal crossed to the stall where Andrew had set Ulysses up with fresh hay and water. His saddle and gear had been removed and he’d been given a quick rubdown, but the fellow could use a thorough brushing. Bertie had probably lured Andrew away with egg sandwiches and cookies. Mal patted his vest. Still had a couple cookies of his own tucked away. Gingerbread. Ulysses could probably smell them.
Even as the thought crossed Mal’s mind, the horse bent his neck over the stall’s half door and pushed his nose into Mal’s chest, eliciting a chuckle. “All right, you beggar. We’ll both have one.”
He dug into the inside pocket of his vest and pulled out the treats. Holding his palm flat under Ulysses’s nose, he offered the horse the one that was mostly whole. Then, after wiping his feeding hand down his trouser leg, Mal popped one of the broken pieces of the second cookie into his mouth.
The spices danced across his tongue, and the sweetness made him smile. The flavor reminded him of the ladies who had made them—spice for Henry, with her opinionated nature, and sweet for Bertie, the nurturer. The two made a perfect blend.
“It’s good, ain’t it?” Mal rubbed Ulysses at the base of his notched ear and threw the second half of the broken cookie into his own mouth. Dusting the crumbs from his hands, he stepped away from the stall to locate a currycomb and brush. “Let’s see if we can get some of that trail dust off.”
“I’ll take care of that, Mr. Shaw.” Andrew dashed through the barn doorway, coat flapping, cheeks bulging with an unfinished meal. The boy must have spied him through the kitchen window and come running. “I weren’t neglectin’ my duties. Honest. Miss Chandler was just so insistent, I didn’t think it’d be polite to turn her down.”
“No one thinks you’re neglectful, Andrew.” Malachi stepped forward and clapped the youngster on the shoulder. “You’ve taken fine care of Ulysses for me over the last couple weeks. I can tell. I’ve just missed doin’ for him myself. Like missin’ spendin’ time with an old friend.”
“So you ain’t mad?”
“Mad?” Malachi chuckled and gave Andrew’s shoulder an extra squeeze before releasing him and walking back to his horse. “Hardly. I lived with these women for two years when I wasn’t much older than you are now. They were always shoving food at me and demanding I come inside and eat at the table.”
Andrew scrunched his nose. “And wash up. Not just yer hands neither, but yer face and neck, too.”
Now that he mentioned it, the kid did look much cleaner than the last time he’d seen him. Mal grinned. “Yep.” He pointed to the tack shelf. “I think there’s a second brush over there. Why don’t you give me a hand, and you can catch me up on what’s been going on at the rail camp.”
Andrew nodded, then jumped to retrieve the second brush while Mal started working the currycomb over Ulysses’s side. When the boy joined him in the stall, Mal immediately asked about Zachary, his young explosives apprentice.
“Zach’s fine,” Andrew told him. “Boss man even let him run a few of the smaller blasting projects on his own while you were gone. Shaved off half of a good-sized boulder without blowin’ apart the weight-bearing side. Zach strutted around the camp for two days after that, neck all stretched up like a rooster ready to crow. Oh, and he wanted me to make sure you knew he still has all his fingers.”
Mal chuckled and shook his head. Leave it to Zach to get to the heart of a matter. He was proud of the boy. Handling a man’s job with a man’s skill. He’d obviously been paying heed to their lessons.
“Who’re they bringing in for the tunnel work?” Mal asked, moving down to the horse’s flanks.
“Ted Osbourne.”
Mal nodded to himself. That was one weight off his shoulders. “Osbourne’s good. Zach will be in good hands with him in command.” Though Mal would miss being the one grooming him. He was a good kid. Had a good head for the work—eager, at times a tad impatient, but never to the point of carelessness. Not working with him anymore was the only thing Mal truly regretted about losing the Burlington job. He was gonna miss that kid.
Mal cleared his throat and refocused on the kid here with him. “So what are your plans, Andrew? Will you head back to the rail camp?”
“Nah. I figured I’d hang out with you for a while.” He sniffed and set his face in manly lines, though he didn’t quite meet Malachi’s gaze. “Get a job in the area. That lady of yours even offered to show me around the bank. Asked if I was good with numbers. You think she’d care if she knew I ain’t learnt my times tables yet?”
Mal’s mind was flooded once again with Emma. That’s all it took—one simple question. And unfortunately, the images rushing in had nothing to do with banking or times tables or anything else that would be vastly less dangerous to contemplate.
Mal cleared his throat and tried to shift his mental picture of Emma from the café to the bank. From leaning in to kiss him, to leaning over ledgers at her desk. But, dad gum, if she didn’t look just as fetching bent over a stack of papers as she did raising up on tiptoes. “I, uh, think banking has more to do with adding and subtracting than—”
Footfalls coming fast cut him off.
/> Mal jerked to attention, shoved the currycomb at Andrew, and strode out of the stall. His hand hovered above his holster as Porter came into view. The big man carried the shopkeeper’s boy under his left arm like a sack of potatoes while his right held fast to his rifle.
“There’s trouble at the farm.” Porter shot a quick, suspicious look at Andrew, who had come up behind Malachi. “Spotted Mrs. Cooper driving that old wagon of hers like a cougar was on her trail. Them two gals are with her.”
Betty Cooper never left the farm unattended unless there was a town meeting or church service to attend. If she had Helen and Katie with her now, something was definitely wrong.
Mal nodded once to Porter, ordered Andrew to stay put, then drew his gun and ran out to meet the wagon flying in from the north.
29
Mal heard the wagon before he spotted it. Horse hooves pounding against earth. Harness jangling. Wood creaking. Betty was coming in fast. Too fast.
Porter finally put Lewis Adams down and with a swat to his rear sent the boy running in to his mother. Which meant Emma would be out in a blink and squarely in the middle of whatever trouble was heading their way.
Mal set his jaw, ran up the store steps, and planted himself in front of the door. He knew he couldn’t really expect to keep her inside, but he sure as shootin’ could keep himself between her and whatever danger had Betty charging into town like a spooked herd on stampede.
Sure enough, the moment Betty’s wagon careened around the curve past the clinic, Emma pulled open the store’s door and pushed none-too-gently against his back.
“Get out of the way, Mal,” she grunted, as if increased effort would make him budge. “I need to see what’s going on.” She gave up trying to shove him out of her way and swatted his shoulder instead. Not that it made a bit of difference.
“Do you have your rifle?” Mal snapped without turning to look at her. He knew she didn’t. He’d picked it up from where she’d dropped it in the middle of the street earlier and taken it back to the station house for her.
“Nooo . . .” she hedged, and he could tell her mind was spinning to find a plausible reason why he should let her out despite her unarmed state.
She was probably clever enough to come up with one, too, which would make Mal’s job that much harder. So before she could mount a counterattack, Mal pressed his advantage.
“No weapon means no exit. You stay inside until those of us who are armed determine it’s safe to come out.” He spoke harshly, giving her no room to argue.
“Fine,” she grumbled, her frustration rolling off her in waves he could actually feel through the back of his vest.
Then all at once, she was gone. He felt the heat leave from behind him, even though Betty’s call of “Whoa!” drowned out all sound of Emma’s movements.
She’d return. Of that he had no doubt. He’d better move fast.
Mal didn’t bother with the boardwalk stairs. He simply jumped down to the street, skirted far enough behind the rear of the farm wagon not to be blinded by the dust that was still settling, then scanned Betty’s back trail for any sign of her being followed.
No other clouds of dust heralded pursuit. No suspicious shadows stood out from the surrounding scrub brush or prairie grass. No approaching hoofbeats caught his ear. ’Course it was hard to hear much of anything above the sniffling and hiccups of the two ladies in the back of the wagon and Betty’s stomping as she climbed down from the driver’s box.
Not able to make out any visible threat, Mal turned around and marched up to meet Betty as she reached over the side of the wagon and hoisted a gunnysack out. She spun around, spotted Malachi, and threw the sack at his feet.
Mal cast a quick glance down at the lumpy bag, then zeroed in on Betty’s face. Mouth downturned. Eyebrows sharp. Unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.
Wait. Tears? Betty? The ex-soldier’s wife was the toughest old bird he knew. What could have—
“They killed ’em,” she spat, her voice quivering with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “Ever’ last one of ’em.”
Mal looked back down at the sack, a sick dread swirling in his gut as he calculated the size of the lumps.
“All my best layers. Gone.”
Her chickens. Mal clenched his jaw so hard, he nearly cracked a tooth. Who would do such a meanspirited thing? No. Wrong question. He knew who. What he didn’t know was . . . “How?” he ground out. “How did they get to the hens?”
“Dogs.” Betty turned her head and spat on the ground, her disgust palpable. “Two of ’em. Part coyote, I suspect.”
“Oh no!” Emma pushed past Malachi, her skirts swirling around the sack that lay at his feet. “Not your chickens.” Her voice broke as she reached out to touch Betty’s arm with her left hand. Her right, he noticed, held an iron skillet.
Mal glanced heavenward, something between a chuckle and a groan catching in his throat. Well, at least she’d obeyed him. She hadn’t come outside without a weapon, if one could call a frying pan a weapon. He wasn’t inclined to classify it as such himself, but since there was no sign of outlaws bearing down on their position, he opted not to share his opinion.
“Betty, I’m so . . . so sorry.”
Betty pulled away from Emma’s hold. A wounded look flashed across Emma’s features for a split second before she hid it away. A muscle in Malachi’s jaw ticked.
“It ain’t your fault, Emma. It’s them no-good outlaws!” Betty kicked the wagon wheel with the toe of her boot and spat at the ground again. “What is so all-fire important about this town that they would kill a henhouse full of innocent creatures just to force us out? It don’t make a lick of sense.”
“I wish I knew,” Emma said in a quiet voice. “I’d give it to them in a heartbeat, if it would mean they’d leave us alone.”
“Well, whatever it is, I aim to see they never get it,” Betty declared, bracing her legs apart and slapping hands on hips in a battle stance. “They killed my critters. I don’t care what they throw at me. I ain’t budgin’ from my farm, and I ain’t budgin’ from this town. They’ll have to shoot me dead and drag my ugly carcass down to the river to get me to leave.”
“Betty, don’t say that.” Katie climbed down from the wagon bed and circled around behind her mentor.
Helen was only a step behind. “Whatever those horrid men want, it’s not worth your life.”
“We can replace the chickens,” Emma said, trying to soothe, but it only turned Betty’s face darker.
“Some things can’t be replaced.” Betty blinked. A single tear rolled down her weathered cheek. “My Robert gave me two of those birds before he passed. They were tough old biddies, kinda like me, but they reminded me of the sergeant every time I saw them pecking about the yard.”
“Oh, Betty,” moaned someone behind Mal. He glanced over his shoulder. Flora stood as still as a post, her eyes filled with tears.
On all sides, the street brimmed with women. Solemn, quiet women who had wandered out of shops and homes to gather around Betty. To grieve and mourn her loss and to offer what little comfort could be given. It made the backs of Mal’s eyeballs itch a bit in sympathy even as it solidified his resolve.
Tomorrow he was going to ride to Seymour, return the mare he’d rented from the livery, round up as many men as were willing to make the trip back, and start beating the bushes for these two outlaws. Shoot. He’d pay the men for their time if he must. This had to stop before something besides chickens turned up dead.
“I need to know exactly what happened so I can report this to the sheriff tomorrow.” Mal hadn’t meant to bark the command, but if the disapproving stares aimed his direction were any indication, he’d spoken more harshly than he’d intended.
Betty wasn’t offended by his tone. She barely even batted an eyelash. She’d spent too many years around army folks to let a little domineering behavior cow her. Yet her deepening scowl told him she didn’t much care for his statement.
“Sheriff Tabor ain’t gonn
a do anything. I got no proof that anyone set the dogs on my chickens. Never saw hide not hair of the bandits. The birds were safely inside their pen with the gate closed when I left to walk the perimeter. If it weren’t for Helen’s shot, I never woulda known something was wrong.”
Mal turned a questioning gaze to the dark-haired woman at Betty’s side. For once, the man-shy lady met his stare without ducking away. Head high and jaw set she described the incident. “Someone unlatched the gate while Katie and I were in the house cleaning the eggs we’d gathered that morning and packing them in straw. I didn’t see who it was, but I know when I left the coop this morning, the latch was in place and undamaged. I always double-check.”
“I heard the barking.” Katie stepped forward to add to the telling. “A vicious, snarling sound.” She shivered. “I rushed to the window and saw them run straight for the gate, as if they knew the difference between it and the fence. They stopped for a minute, sniffing at the ground, but when one of the dogs hit the gate, it swung open as if the latch didn’t exist. The hens squawked and the dogs pounced.” Katie covered her face with her hands. “It was awful.”
“It was a slaughter.” Helen frowned. “Even the ones in the coop didn’t escape. Reminded me of fighting dogs. Bred to be killers. They didn’t even pause to eat what they killed, just chased down everything that moved. I grabbed my gun and ran out to try to stop them.”
“I didn’t want her to go,” Katie interrupted, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid they’d turn on her. I held her back. If I hadn’t, maybe some of the hens would still be—”
“You did nothing wrong, Katie.” Helen’s voice was firm, almost impatient. But there was a kindness to it, too, that seemed to reassure the younger woman. “Nothing was going to stop those dogs.” She turned back to Malachi. “I shot in the air. Scared them off. They yelped and ran toward the river, leaving nothing but destruction behind.”