Angus had another gun. It was jabbing her in the back. Not only was she shielding the outlaw from gunfire, but she was also blocking Malachi from seeing the weapon Angus had tucked into the front of his trousers. A weapon he had every intention of utilizing as soon as he got what he wanted.
“What’s takin’ so long, boy?” Angus shouted, his booming voice so close to her face her ears rang. “Is my gold in there?”
Ned didn’t answer.
Emma’s already pounding heart thumped a little faster. Was this part of the plan? Getting Ned away from his father? But why would he stay in the church? What had Mal told him?
“Ned! Answer me, boy!” Angus’s grip on her throat tightened. She winced at the pressure and rose up on her tiptoes in a vain effort to open her airway.
“You ready to see your woman die, Shaw?” Angus shoved her forward a couple steps as he advanced toward Mal. “If I don’t see either my boy or my gold in—”
A loud bong cut off his words. Angus jerked his gaze toward the steeple. His grip loosened a fraction. Emma struck.
She thrust her elbow backward into his belly as hard as she could. Air whooshed from his lungs. His hold faltered as he dropped to his knees. She twisted away and fell to the ground, knowing Mal would never defend himself if she was in the way.
At the same time her back collided with the hard earth, Angus’s hand closed around his pistol. Emma drew up her knees. Focused on the gun. Kicked out with all her might. Her right heel connected just as a shot rang out. The gun went flying, but so had a bullet.
Malachi!
Emma frantically rolled to the side, her gaze searching. Had he been hit?
No. He was running toward her. Shouting her name. A revolver miraculously in his hand.
Brutal arms grabbed her and tried to lift her from the ground, but she refused to be the outlaw’s shield again. She rolled to her back and kicked savagely at his knee.
He groaned. Stumbled. Reached for something inside his boot.
A knife!
Mal’s footsteps pounded close. Too close. He wouldn’t see the knife. If he tackled Angus, the outlaw would gut him like a fish.
Emma could think of only one thing to do. She rolled toward Angus and grabbed his wrist with both hands, trying to pin the knife to the ground. But Angus was too strong. He flung her off of him with enough force to send her through the air and crashing into Malachi. Mal’s gun clattered to the ground as he tried to catch her and break her fall.
“Knife,” she managed to croak out as Mal pushed her aside and yelled for her to get to the church.
The church? She wasn’t about to hide away while her man battled a maniac. She stumbled toward the first weapon she spied, the rifle Mal had tossed aside at the start of this negotiation.
Once she had the gun in hand, she spun back toward the two men and lifted the stock to her shoulder. Malachi straddled Angus on the ground, his hands around the outlaw’s wrist as he struggled for control of the knife. They were too close together, moving too fast. She couldn’t shoot without chancing injury to the wrong man.
Mal pounded the outlaw’s wrist into the ground. Once. Twice. He lifted it for a third blow, but Angus grabbed a handful of dirt in his left hand and flung it into Malachi’s face. Blinded, Mal couldn’t see the blow that followed—a left jab to the side of his head.
Mal crumpled. Emma whimpered. But in a blink, he rolled to his feet like a cat, having pulled a knife of his own from somewhere. With a swipe of his sleeve, he wiped the worst of the dirt from his eyes as he circled his opponent, his gaze one of fierce concentration. He was faster, lighter on his feet than Angus, but the outlaw was bigger and surely more adept at fighting dirty.
Or maybe not. Even as the thought formed in Emma’s mind, Mal proved it untrue by making a mock knife throw. When Angus flinched and dodged to avoid the fake toss, Mal charged. Brought his knee up into the outlaw’s groin and slammed his elbow into Angus’s face.
Something cracked. Angus’s nose? Blood gushed. But the outlaw wouldn’t go down. With a roar, he slashed at Malachi with the knife. Mal blocked with his forearm, bringing his own knife down into his opponent’s thigh.
Angus cursed and shoved Mal backward. Mal stumbled. Angus hurled the knife. It sank into Mal’s shoulder. Emma gasped.
Mal turned at the sound. “Get out of here!” He glared furiously at her as he yanked the blade free. A large crimson stain spread over his shirt and vest.
She turned to obey his order, then froze. While Mal had been yelling at her, Angus had grabbed one of the fallen revolvers. She’d unwittingly been his distraction after all.
The outlaw’s arm lifted. His narrowed gaze homed in on Mal.
Emma lunged toward the church. But not for safety. For a clear shot.
Remembering everything Mal had taught her, she took quick aim at the widest part of Angus’s body and pulled the trigger. The rifle’s kick knocked her backward, but it was the sound of a second shot and the glimpse of Mal dropping to the ground in her peripheral vision that sent agony stabbing through her.
“No!” She ran to him, not even taking the time to see what had happened to Angus.
But in the same instant, Malachi sprang to his feet and grabbed her about the waist. Emma was so shocked by the unexpected action, she gave a little shriek and fought him for a heartbeat when he reached for the rifle in her hand.
Not that it stopped him. He snatched the weapon from her half-numb fingers and shoved her behind his back as he took aim at the man still standing in the churchyard.
“Make a move, Angus,” Mal snarled, “and I’ll put the next bullet between your eyes.”
Angus’s gun arm hung limp at his side. A stain nearly matching the one on Malachi’s shirt seeped from his bicep down to his elbow. Emma bit her bottom lip. Apparently she’d missed her target. Though, by the look of his arm, she’d done enough damage to keep him from harming Malachi. That’s all that truly mattered. Angus’s pistol fell from his hand and dropped to the ground with a thud. His disbelieving gaze followed it, then slowly lifted.
“She shot me. Again.”
“About time a woman took a pound of flesh from your mangy hide,” Mal spat. “I saw what you did to your wife. You should be horsewhipped for that crime alone.”
Fire ignited in Angus’s eyes. “Flora’s mine to do with as I see fit. She’s none of your concern, Shaw.”
“Maybe not,” a young, masculine voice said from somewhere behind Emma, “but she’s my concern. And you’ve hurt her for the last time.”
Ned strode around the corner of the church and marched past Malachi, his pistol and his fury aimed directly at his father.
“Put that gun away, boy,” Angus blustered, even as his nostrils flared as if catching the scent of danger. “What happened is between your ma and me. It don’t concern you.”
“Don’t concern me?” Ned shouted the words like an accusation. “She’s so busted up she can’t even stand without help. The lady was right, wasn’t she.” He nodded his head in Emma’s direction. “You beat Ma and left her for dead in the woods, like an animal shot for sport and left to rot. But you’re the animal. A rabid animal that needs to be put down.”
Emma’s heart lurched. So that’s why Ned had stayed in the church. Flora was in there. Knowing the extent of the damage Angus had wrought against the woman, it was no wonder the boy was spitting mad. But if he let his anger rule him, his actions would haunt him for the rest of his days. She couldn’t let that happen.
“You can’t shoot him, Ned.” Emma tried to step around Malachi, but he shifted to keep himself in front of her, his rifle still trained on Angus. “He’ll pay for his crimes. We’ll make sure of it.”
Ned shook his head. A tremor entered his voice. “I should have protected her. I have to make it right. Make sure she never has cause to fear him again.”
Emma’s heart thundered in her chest . . . No . . . the thunder came from outside. From the south. Riders. From Seymour.
Ned
took another step closer to his father, his gun steady, his finger on the trigger.
“You can’t protect your ma if you’re not around.” Mal’s voice rumbled low. Calm. Logical. “You shoot your pa in cold blood, you hang. Then who will provide for your ma? See to her protection?”
Ned’s gun hand trembled just a touch.
“Listen to him, Ned.” Flora’s voice.
“Ma?” Ned glanced behind.
Emma twisted around, too, and found the woman hobbling forward, a resolute Claire propping her up. “I need you, son,” she pled. “More than I need anything else. The next time your pa gets out of prison, he’ll be old and weak, and you’ll be a full-grown man in his prime. I’ll have nothing to fear.”
Ned’s gun lowered a few inches but remained locked on Angus.
“I know he deserves killin’,” Flora said, her face hardening as she swept a disgusted glance at her husband, “but he ain’t worth your life. We just gotta trust that God and the law will see to his punishment.”
The ground vibrated beneath Emma’s feet. The riders were getting closer.
“Please, Ned.” Flora reached for him. “Take my hand. Let’s go back inside.”
After a hesitation that felt like an hour but was surely only a few heartbeats in length, Ned uncocked his pistol and slid it into the holster at his side. He was halfway to his mother when Angus sneered at his back.
“Told ya, you turned him soft, Flora.” He spat onto the ground. “That pansy of yours will never be a real man.”
Mal lurched forward, swung the rifle around, and before Angus could blink, slammed the butt into the outlaw’s head. The snake crumpled face first into the dirt. Exactly where he belonged.
39
The moment Angus slumped unconscious to the ground, Mal spun around and grabbed Emma’s upper arm.
“Are you all right?” he demanded. His blood still pumped through his veins at lightning speed.
“Yes.” She nodded, but he didn’t believe her.
There were red marks along her slender throat from Angus’s fingers and a darkening bruise along her chin about the size of a man’s fist. The jackal had laid hands on her. Hurt her. A muscle ticked in Mal’s jaw. He wanted to slam the rifle stock into the fiend again. Lord knew he deserved it. But Emma was his main concern now. She looked as though she’d been through a war. Her dress was filthy, one sleeve torn at the shoulder, another tear leaving a gash down the left side of her skirt. All from rolling around in the dirt battling Angus . . . Heaven above! She’d been fighting—no, defending him—when she should have been running for cover. Mal didn’t know if he should shake her for acting so rashly or crush her to him in appreciation.
He opted for the latter.
Dropping the rifle to the ground, Mal grasped her upper arms with both hands and yanked her to him. Anger, leftover terror, and sweet relief all swirled through his chest as he pulled her near, but it was the love thrumming through his heart that brought his mouth crashing down upon hers.
He could have lost her. Forever. He held her tighter. Closer. Not ever wanting to experience that kind of scare again.
But wait. He was being too rough. After all the violence she’d suffered at Angus’s hands, he didn’t want to subject her to unwanted attentions. He should stop. But he couldn’t. Heaven help him, she tasted too sweet, and he’d hungered for this for so long. Maybe he’d find the strength if she pushed him away.
She didn’t. Instead, she melted against him.
A sigh-like moan escaped her throat, and just as he started scraping together the wherewithal to release her, she launched up on her tiptoes, clasped his shoulders, and kissed him back. Deeply.
Mal shuddered. The wound beneath his right shoulder shot a twinge of discomfort through him at her enthusiastic response, but he ignored it. Who cared about a little pain when the woman he loved was kissing him?
His hands gentled their grip on her arms and traveled around to her back, cherishing her. Caressing her. Replacing Angus’s mark of brutality with one of tenderness.
His palms skimmed their way up to her nape. His thumbs stroked featherlight touches over the slender column of her throat. Soothing. Erasing the ugliness. Then he cupped the back of her head in one hand, adjusted her face to the perfect angle, and poured all the love he’d stored up in his soul for the past decade into their kiss.
She met him stroke for stroke, reaching up to bury her fingers in his hair. Tiny shivers of awareness danced over his scalp, down his neck, and along his arms. His gut tightened. His hold tightened. He flattened his right palm into the hollow between her shoulder blades and drew her so close to him that not even a breeze could have slipped through.
“I see you . . . ah . . . have things well in hand, Shaw.”
Emma gave a little jump in Malachi’s arms, then tore her lips from his and hid her face in his chest.
Mal glared up at Benjamin Porter, who was trying not to smile and failing miserably. And the freighter wasn’t alone. The man’s brother, Bart, stood a few steps behind him along with half of Harper’s Station—Andrew, Betty, Grace, Tori, and some young fellow Mal didn’t recognize.
Not only had he lost his head and kissed Emma, but he’d done it with an audience. Claire and Ned must’ve born witness, too, but were probably too concerned about Flora’s condition to stay and enjoy the show in its entirety.
“That the outlaw?” Betty stepped around the gawkers and marched over to examine Angus’s crumpled form. “He dead?”
With great effort, Malachi forced his arms to uncurl. He stepped away from Emma, hating the feel of her hands slipping away from his neck, his chest. He wanted to grab them back, to maintain the connection. It felt as if she was slipping away for good. No doubt she was. Despite all they’d been through, the core of their circumstances hadn’t changed. She still lived in a women’s colony and he still lived the rough-and-tumble life of a railroad man. Or would as soon as he found another position.
“Shaw?” Betty turned to stare at him, impatience lining her practical face. Either unfazed by what she and the others had interrupted, or attempting in her own way to smooth things over by getting down to business, she stood over Angus and waited for Mal to respond.
He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the flush of heat rising up from his collar. “He’s not dead. He’s got a knife wound in his thigh, a bullet in his arm, and a knot on his forehead from where my rifle butt ran into his skull. Someone should probably tie him up and carry him back to Seymour along with the army payroll he stole five years ago. The strongbox is inside the church.”
“That’s what we brought him along for.” Betty jerked her thumb back toward the stranger.
Porter gave the fellow a little push. “Get to work, Deputy. Tie him up and charge him with kidnapping, assault, arson, extortion . . .” He looked at Mal. “Anything I’m missing?”
“He already did time for thievery, but attempting to take the money a second time could be a new charge. Not sure.”
Betty nudged Angus none-too-gently with the toe of her boot. “Murder,” she announced. “Eighteen counts. The weasel killed my chickens.”
Technically, Flora had done the deed on Angus’s behalf, but Mal wasn’t about to split hairs with the woman.
As the deputy and Porter moved to take care of Angus, Mal watched Emma enter the company of the other women. Tori and Grace surrounded her, cutting her off from him, leading her around the corner, out of his line of sight. A feeling akin to panic clutched at his chest. But what could he do? She belonged with them.
Emma allowed Tori and Grace to lead her away, still embarrassed—and in truth, a bit light-headed—from being caught so thoroughly kissing Malachi. Thankfully, neither of her friends felt the need to comment upon her public display. They were both chattering on about how Sheriff Tabor had been nowhere to be found and Andrew had been unable to convince Deputy Lang to leave his post in Seymour to assist.
“If it wasn’t for Mr. Porter’s insistence, we’d
have no lawman with us at all,” Tori said.
“Insistence?” Grace scoffed. “The man used every inch of height and muscle the good Lord gave him to intimidate Lang into compliance. I swear, for a man who’s been nothing but gentle and kind around us women, he looked like a grizzly when he took on that deputy.”
“Yes, well . . . I’m just relieved to find you safe and well, Emma,” Tori said, neatly turning the conversation. “We’ve all been worried sick. Your aunts, especially. They made me promise to ride back to Seymour the minute the ordeal was over and convey what had happened. Since I left Lewis behind with them and Daisy, I gladly agreed. I’ve never spent a night away from my son. Mr. Porter and his brother agreed to escort me back, no matter the time.”
“I’ll be staying to help out with things around here,” Grace said as they climbed the front steps to the church entrance. “See if Claire needs a hand with Flora. I’d wanted to stay behind in the first place, to offer my gun to the fight, but Mr. Shaw insisted I leave with the rest. He hadn’t wanted anyone to stay behind. He was afraid of what might happen to you if Angus thought we weren’t complying with his demand. But Flora was adamant that she wouldn’t be leaving as long as her son was in the line of fire.”
“And Claire was in no hurry to return to Seymour, what with Stanley Fischer still upset over his mail-order bride running out on him.” Tori gave Emma a knowing look. “So Mr. Shaw agreed to let the two of them stay as long as they stayed out of sight.”
“Oh, speaking of Claire . . .” Grace said as they crossed the threshold into the back of the sanctuary.
“Is that my name, I’m a hearin’?” The redhead stood up from where she’d been helping Flora settle onto a pallet of quilts in the corner. “Oh, but it’s good to see ye ladies.” She bustled forward and hugged each one in turn. “Now, tell me, why were me ears burnin’ when ye came in?”
Grace laughed. “I had just remembered that Maybelle sent me back with the key to her medical cabinet. She meant to leave it with you but forgot to take it out of her doctor’s bag.” Grace reached for the chain around her neck and pulled it from beneath her dress. A small key dangled from the end. She lifted the chain over her head and handed it to the younger woman.