Had Malachi arrived?
Mr. Porter would be the one to direct him to Harper’s Station when he showed up in Seymour. Except for the circuit-riding preacher, Mr. Porter was the only male allowed in the colony, and only because he carried their goods to market and brought supplies in from the outside. The man was courteous, dependable, and always fetched them an honest price. And upon occasion, he delivered passengers.
As the wagon drew nearer, Emma’s breath caught. There was a passenger. A dark shape loomed next to Mr. Porter on the wagon seat, but Emma couldn’t make out any distinguishing characteristics. She peeled the lace curtains back even farther, her stomach swirling about as if she’d swallowed a pitcher full of tadpoles. The wagon finally cleared the branches of the oak tree that shaded the café and revealed the passenger. Emma’s breath leaked from her in a slow, silent sigh.
A female. Not Malachi.
She released the curtain and spun away from the window. What had she expected? That he had sprouted wings and flown to Texas? Even if he’d left Montana immediately after receiving her telegram, it would still take at least two days for him to reach Seymour, and only if he traveled through the night.
Ever since she’d made up her mind to ask him to come, anticipation had been swelling inside her like yeasty bread dough rising on a warm windowsill. She was in desperate need of someone to punch her down and knead her back into shape. Someone like the new lady who had come to Harper’s Station. A lady who deserved to be welcomed by the colony’s founder. Welcomed . . . and warned.
Emma smoothed the pleats of her shirtwaist and touched a hand to her hair. Then, forcing a cheerful jaunt to her stride, she exited her office and made her way down the street to Tori’s mercantile.
Mr. Porter helped the newcomer down just as Lewis rushed out of the store. “Mr. Ben! Mr. Ben! Did you hear about the shooting? Some mean ol’ fella shot up the church yesterday. And we was all inside!”
Oh, heavens. Emma picked up her pace. Wasn’t that a lovely way to welcome a new sister to town?
Mr. Porter’s pleasant expression hardened so fast, Emma nearly stumbled from whiplash. He jerked his attention from the boy to the shop. “Is your ma . . . ?”
Victoria appeared in the doorway. “I’m fine, Mr. Porter. Everyone is fine.” Not quite meeting the freighter’s gaze, she stepped into the street and offered her hand to the young—very young—woman at his side. “I’m Victoria Adams. Welcome to Harper’s Station.”
The girl—for she couldn’t be more than seventeen—bobbed a quick curtsey, then took Tori’s hand. “I’m Claire, ma’am. Claire Nevin.” Her voice carried a bit of an Irish lilt. She smiled at Tori, but as Emma neared, she noted the girl’s eyes carried the desperate, cornered look apparent in far too many of her ladies when they first came to town.
Emma finally reached the group and introduced herself. “Claire,” she said, holding out her hand, “so glad to meet you. I’m Emma Chandler, director of the women’s colony. We’re delighted you came to visit.”
Claire held tight to Emma’s hand, refusing to release it. “I wish to do more than visit, ma’am. I wish to take shelter among ye.” Her gaze darted from Emma to Tori and back to Emma. “Please, ma’am. I can’t marry him.” Her head wagged adamantly back and forth. “I just can’t!”
Tori stepped forward and took Claire’s elbow. She guided her to the bench sitting outside the mercantile. “Come along now, Miss Nevin. Have a seat. We’ll get this all sorted out in no time. Miss Chandler is somewhat of an expert when it comes to granting assistance to young ladies in circumstances similar to your own. She’ll know what to do.” Tori met Emma’s gaze, a wealth of meaning passing between the two.
How could they help the girl when they themselves were under attack? But how could they not? Young ladies with nowhere to go were the reason for the colony’s existence. They couldn’t simply turn Claire away.
Victoria steered Claire to the middle of the bench and seated herself to one side. Emma slid onto the opposite end of the bench.
“Lewis,” Tori called to her son, “help Mr. Porter unload the supplies. The eggs and canned goods to sell are in their usual place in the back room.”
The boy grinned up at the freighter, a sparkle in his eye. Emma had no doubt that the moment the two males disappeared into the storeroom, tales of yesterday’s events would be flying from the lad’s lips.
“And mind those eggs,” Tori admonished. “I don’t want a single crack in those shells. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mama.” Lewis dashed toward the back of the wagon to help unload.
Mr. Porter stared at Victoria for a moment, then flicked a glance at Claire. He shifted from foot to foot, looking as if he intended to speak. Apparently he changed his mind, though, for he gave a quick nod and followed the boy.
“Now,” Emma said, smiling her most reassuring smile as she patted Claire’s knee, “tell us what has brought you here.”
Claire dipped her chin. “I’m runnin’ away.”
Sympathy rose in Emma’s breast at the defeat in the girl’s voice. Young people should be filled with hope, their future filled with possibilities and promise. But judging by Claire’s well-worn dress and pitifully small traveling bag, hope was in short supply for her.
“Who are you running from?” Emma gently prodded.
“My intended.” Claire slowly raised her face, her eyes brimming with despair. “When I answered his advertisement, I told meself it didn’t matter what he looked like so long as he was kind and a good provider. Anythin’ is better than starvin’ in the tenement, me sisters and brothers cryin’, me da drinkin’ and breakin’ me ma’s heart over and over again with his wastrel ways.
“I decided, with one less mouth to feed, they’d be better off. Eileen’s old enough to tend the bairns. Polly’s got a good hand with the cookin’.” She sniffed. “They’d get along. And I’d have a life of me own. Out here with the big sky, fresh air, and a man to provide for me. Only the man doin’ the providin’ ain’t a man I can live with.”
Claire turned to face Emma and grabbed her hand. Words tumbled out of her faster than water down a falls. “He’s older than me da! He’s got white chin whiskers and a belly that rolls over his belt. And meaty hands that make a mean-looking fist.”
Emma winced at the telling description. Claire would have no idea what his fist looked like if she hadn’t had cause to see it.
“He owns a store and can certainly provide for me right and proper, but he’s far short o’ kind. The minute I stepped off the train, he acted like he owned me. Started goin’ over me duties as soon as we walked into the store. What I was to clean, when he expected supper, how I should address customers. It was insultin’. He left me feelin’ like he’d just hired a housekeeper and clerk without benefit of wages. And then he had the cheek to show me the bedroom and brag about how quickly he got a bairn on his last wife, and how the woman had failed him by dyin’ during the birthin’ and takin’ the babe with her. As if the poor woman had stolen his child from him apurpose. Then he laid his hands upon me hips and measured me with his eyes. He pronounced me a skinny twig but said me hips were wide enough to birth him the sons he wanted.”
Emma’s jaw grew rigid. “The bounder! What a despicable way to welcome a mail-order bride. Has the man never heard of wooing?”
“He didn’t think wooin’ was necessary,” Claire said. “Not since he bought me.”
Bristling, Emma stiffened her spine. “Mr. Lincoln outlawed slavery in these great United States thirty years ago. That man did not buy you.”
“That’s what I told him.” Claire jutted out her chin, her eyes sparking with the first hint of spirit Emma had seen. “He tried to march me to the parson’s house straightaway, without even giving me time to catch a breath or wash the trail dirt from me face, but I put me feet down. I told him I wouldn’t say the words afore God, not until we’d had a few days to get to know each other.”
Victoria nodded her approval. “Good for y
ou.”
Claire wilted. “He refused to spend the coin to put me up in a boardinghouse. Said I already belonged to him—that I’d signed a betrothal agreement. Threatened to bring me up on charges of breach of contract unless I either married him or paid him back for the train fare he forked out to bring me here. I told him I’d find work and pay him back, but I owe seventy-five dollars. It’s a fortune, it is. And no one in Seymour would hire me. I spent all day yesterday askin’.”
Claire reached out to Tori and clasped her hand as well. “You’re my last chance, ladies. Mrs. Baker, the dressmaker, told me about Harper’s Station, said I could find work here, maybe even a loan to pay off me debt and gain me freedom. If you turn me away, I’ll be left with no choice.” Her voice trembled as she twisted her head to entreat both of her prospective saviors. “I’ll have to marry Stanley Fischer.”
A jolt of shock shot through Emma. “Stanley Fischer . . . of Fischer’s Emporium?”
“Aye.” Claire’s brow furrowed. “Do ye know him?”
He was only their most significant account. Having the largest dry goods store in Seymour, he took all the fresh eggs and vegetables they could sell. He stocked their canned goods, as well, eager to save on the cost of shipping items from more distant manufacturers.
Mr. Fischer had made it plain on several occasions that he disapproved of the women’s colony. Called it unnatural, accused her ladies of being man-haters and defilers of God’s design for woman to be man’s helpmeet. Yet even as he spewed such vile sentiment, he recognized the quality of their goods and the fairness of their price. So in true hypocritical fashion, he accepted their business and turned a tidy profit in the process.
“We are acquainted with Mr. Fischer, yes.” Emma shared a look with Tori. They both knew that if they took Claire in, Mr. Fischer would likely retaliate. He was in a position to strike a deadly blow to the financial solvency of their community, and he was just spiteful enough to do so.
What should she do? If she gave Claire the loan, it might mean dozens of other ladies would default on their own payments. But how could she turn her back on such a young girl, alone in the world? Such an action went against everything she believed in. But did the good of one outweigh the good of many?
“Tori?” Emma asked the silent question she knew her friend would be weighing in her own mind. Victoria had the most to lose if they took Claire in. She relied on Fischer’s business to keep her own afloat.
Victoria only hesitated a moment before dipping her chin in a small nod. “We cannot send her back to him, Emma. No one deserves such treatment. We’ll find new outlets.”
Claire turned from one to the other, confusion lining her face. “What outlets? Does Stanley Fischer hold sway over you, too? He warned me that I’d not find haven with you, but I thought he was just blowing wind.” She bit her lip and let go of the hands she held. She bowed her head and buried her hands in her lap.
“Ease yourself, Claire.” Emma smiled, patting the young woman’s knee. “No man holds sway in Harper’s Station. We are independent women here. Hardworking women. Women who aid one another when a sister is in need. Mr. Fischer buys some of the goods we produce, but we are not fully dependent upon his business. There are other avenues we can explore.” She pushed to her feet and tugged on the hem of her jacket. “Now, if I am to give you a loan to repay the fare Mr. Fischer purchased on your behalf, and if we accept you into our community, there are some stipulations you must agree to.”
Claire jumped to her feet like a soldier reporting for duty. “Anything, Miss Chandler.”
Emma schooled her features into her serious, banker mien. “You must work among us in a capacity that suits your skills, thereby allowing you to make reasonable payments on your loan at the end of each month, and you must abide by the rules of the colony.”
“What rules are those, ma’am?” A cautionary crease lined Claire’s forehead.
Good. It meant she was weighing the ramifications.
Emma listed the basic tenets of their society, ticking them off on her fingers. “You must attend church services every Sunday; you must not speak disparagingly about any lady among us; and if you see a sister in need, you must lend your aid.”
Claire tipped her chin up as if waiting for more. When none came, she raised a brow. “Is that all of it, then?”
Emma nodded. “It is.”
“Then I agree, ma’am.” A smile beamed across Claire’s face, making her appear even younger and prettier than before.
“Normally, this is where I would invite you to walk with me down to the bank,” Emma stated, “but I’m afraid there is one other vital piece of information you need to know.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
Emma met Claire’s eyes. “Harper’s Station is under attack.”
6
After two and a half days of nonstop travel, Malachi stepped off the train in Seymour, Texas, bleary-eyed, unshaven, and weary to the bone. There’d been no sleeper berths available when he’d booked passage at the last minute in Sheridan, so he’d been forced to ride on a hard wooden bench in the second-class cabin for the duration of the journey. Though, truth to tell, it’d been worry, not the bench that had kept him awake. Anyone who worked in a railroad camp knew how to shut his ears as well as his eyes when his head hit the cot. Had to. Would never get any sleep otherwise. Yet every time he closed his eyes while aboard the train, all Mal could see was a young Emma staring up at him, pleading with him to help her.
Help her with what?
Wrestling that question had stolen his sleep. What kind of trouble was she in? What if he didn’t have the skills necessary to help her? But she’d asked for him. She knew what kind of life he led. Shoot. Maybe she needed him to blow something up. Malachi grinned as he stepped from the train to the platform. If only it could be so simple. But Emma wasn’t the simple type. No, her problems ran from complicated to hopelessly snarled. She was too tenderhearted and too stubborn to leave any thread loose to flap alone in the wind. She always held fast to them all. It was her most endearing quality.
And the most frustrating.
Rubbing a hand over the dark stubble sprouting out of his cheeks and chin, Malachi strode away from the depot in search of two things—food and a horse. He could use a bath and a shave as well, but he didn’t want to linger in Seymour any longer than necessary. His supervisor had only given him a week’s leave, and he’d already used over a third of it getting here. Despite the sun hanging low in the western sky, he needed to press on to Harper’s Station. If he hurried, he might manage to get there before full dark.
He followed the flow of passengers to the Washington Hotel dining room, but the man in the suit at the restaurant’s reception podium took one look at Mal’s rumpled clothing, still coated in dust from Wednesday’s blast at the rail camp, and sniffed in displeasure.
“Table for one, sir?” he asked with eyebrow raised and nose slanted downward, his hoity-toity voice making it clear that the correct answer to the question was no.
Not in the mood to play the game of social niceties, Mal reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bank note. He slapped it down on the podium the fella stood behind with enough force to make Prissy Pants jump.
“I’m gonna save us both the discomfort of taking you up on that completely ingenuous invitation.”
The man’s second brow rose at Mal’s use of the word ingenuous. Mal enjoyed leveling the playing field a bit by throwing a ten-dollar word into the mix. Men like Prissy Pants never expected it, which put them off their guard. Exactly where Malachi wanted them.
“Have the cook put together a box supper for me.” Mal strolled around the side of the podium. Prissy Pants backed up a step. A few of the diners at tables closest to the front of the room turned their heads to stare. Casually dropping an elbow onto the corner of the lectern, Mal leaned in. “Whatever he’s got on hand will suffice. I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect it, then I’ll be outta your hair for good. Work f
or you?”
Prissy Pants nodded as he edged away from the podium, trying to increase the distance between himself and Malachi. His eyes darted to the dining room patrons, then back. He swallowed. “I-I’ll see to it at once, sir.”
And he did, leaving his station to deliver Mal’s order directly to the kitchen. After he’d pocketed the five dollars, of course.
Mal tipped his hat and smiled at the couple behind him. The lady shied away, skittish-like, but the cowboy escorting her nodded approval. Nice to know there were a few fellas who respected a workingman’s dust more than a clean-shaven jaw.
Mal ventured down to Main Street and located a livery, where he made arrangements to rent a horse, saddle, and tack. Still having a few minutes to kill, he wandered down to the courthouse square to get a feel for the town, then circled around and hiked the three blocks back to the hotel. When he returned for his meal, the line for the dining room had dwindled to nothing. Prissy Pants handed over his boxed supper without a word, but the censure still etched in the man’s face got Mal to thinking as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.
He’d left Montana in such a hurry he hadn’t packed more than the essentials, figuring he could buy whatever he needed along the way. Only, a place like Harper’s Station wasn’t likely to carry men’s shaving gear in its dry goods store. Not much call for male toiletries in a women’s colony. Showing up on Emma’s doorstep scruffy and mangy because he was in a hurry to get there was one thing. Staying that way for the duration of his visit was another.
Malachi stuffed the boxed supper into the saddlebag he’d slung over his shoulder, then ran a hand over his jaw, the whiskers setting his palm to itching. Better pick up a razor and some shaving soap before he headed out. Besides, he still needed to get directions. Emma’d written him that the largest store in Seymour bought goods from her ladies, and judging by the size of the false front he’d spied across the street from the courthouse, Fischer’s Emporium was the biggest store in town. Might as well take out two birds with one shot.