No Other Will Do Read online

  The soft glow of lantern light in her right periphery alerted Emma to Malachi’s approach, yet she couldn’t look away from Tori and Flora to acknowledge him. She had to watch. Had to make sure they came to no harm. As if her watching over them ensured their safety. Ha! Her eyes on them wouldn’t shield their bodies from a bullet should the shooter decide to enforce his threat. Nothing she did could stop the man—not from setting fires or shooting into populated buildings. What if he did start killing? How many would die because of her?

  “You really are a great leader.” Malachi’s low voice caressed her ear even as his words unintentionally shredded her heart, letting all her doubts and insecurities escape in one fell swoop.

  She twisted to face him. The weight of her responsibility pressed down on her with such heaviness, it nearly bent her in two. “Oh, Mal. You have no idea how wrong you are.”

  Malachi barely had time to brace himself before Emma slammed into his chest for the second time that night. He gritted his teeth against the contact. The closeness. Self-preservation demanded that he set her at arm’s length, give himself a buffer so he could breathe, think. But he couldn’t. He’d seen her eyes. Those glorious green eyes that had always seen the best in him had been filled with torment.

  And now they were weeping against his chest, each teardrop scalding his soul.

  Had he done this? Malachi stared into the night sky at the smirking half-moon, recriminating himself for opening his mouth. He knew he was rusty when it came to paying compliments to females, but he’d never dreamed he could reduce one to tears by making the effort.

  Emma clung to his waist, her fingers digging into the damp fabric of his shirt at the small of his back. Her cheek pressed tightly against his chest. Her shoulders trembled with the force of her tears. She needed comfort. Needed someone to soothe her.

  Why in the world had she chosen him? A rock probably knew more about comforting than he did.

  Glancing back at the moon that seemed to be laughing outright at him now, Mal set his jaw and slowly curled his arms around her. Mercy, but she was a tiny thing. So delicate. Yet he knew her core was solid steel. She’d just forgotten for a moment. Forgotten how strong she was. He’d remind her. Somehow.

  He patted her back once. Then, when she didn’t stop shaking, he patted her again. She sniffed a little and let out a shuddering breath. That meant her cry was almost done, didn’t it? Man, he hoped so.

  Her fingers released their death grip on the back of his shirt, but her arms stayed circled around him. In fact, they squeezed him more firmly, her palms flattening along the line of his spine as her cheek burrowed deeper into the hollow beneath his shoulder. Mal swallowed. Sakes alive, but her holding him felt good. And wasn’t he a blackguard for noticing? Here she was, in distress, and all he could think about was how good she felt pressed up against him.

  Yet . . . if it felt good to him, maybe it could feel good for her, too. If he . . . just . . .

  Ah, shoot. Malachi flattened his palms against her back and squished her close. She let out a little squeak as her nose mashed into his chest in an awkward fashion, but she didn’t try to break away. He relaxed his grip enough to let her settle, then tried stroking her back like he did for Ulysses when his horse demanded pampering. Emma let out a little sigh. A rather soothed-sounding sigh.

  Mal grinned triumphantly at the smirking moon. Ha! He could be more comforting than a rock. Wasn’t so hard. Just had to imagine she was his horse.

  Mal stroked her back again, making little circles with the tips of his fingers as he tried to conjure up a mental image of Ulysses. Then Emma shifted slightly, and all her softness moved to a slightly different position, bringing it to the forefront of his attention. The half-formed picture of his horse vanished.

  Yeah. Should’ve known that wouldn’t work.

  But at least Emma wasn’t crying anymore.

  “They’re all depending on me.” Her tiny voice nearly got swallowed up in his chest. Mal loosened his hold and gave her room to breathe.

  She sniffed a couple times, ran the edge of her sleeve beneath her nose—an action that brought to mind the little girl he’d once known—then turned her face up to look at him. Streaked with soot and tears, hair in a tangled mess, he shouldn’t have found her lovely. Yet he did. So lovely his chest ached.

  “They’re all depending on me,” she repeated. “They’re depending on me, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. I can’t keep them safe. Can’t protect their property, their livelihoods. This situation is completely outside my control.”

  “Leading ain’t about controlling everything, Emma.” Mal dropped his arms from around her and took a step back. “It’s about helping the people around you succeed. Encouraging them to be their best selves.” He kicked the toe of his mud-caked boot against the garden fence. “You’ve got that talent in spades. It’s why they follow you.”

  It’s why I followed you.

  She shook her head.

  He frowned. “Don’t go arguin’ with me.”

  She shook her head again anyway. Muleheaded female.

  “A good leader would know what to do. I’m too young. Too inexperienced.”

  Malachi crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the fence. He scowled at her, too. He wasn’t about to let her momentary doubts steal her confidence, her drive. He knew firsthand how hard it was to escape the mire of believing you weren’t good enough. He’d been spoon-fed that drivel his entire childhood. Until Emma and the aunts had taught him differently. Time he returned the favor.

  “So is that why you brought me here?” he challenged. “’Cause you needed a man to be the leader for you?”

  Her brows scrunched downward. “No. I brought you here to help.”

  “To help, huh?” He pushed away from the fence and glared at her. “Okay. Then here’s my first tip. Quit knocking yourself down. No one knows what to do when thrust into a situation they’ve never encountered before, no matter their age or experience. All anyone can do is take the information they’ve been given, weigh the risks and rewards, then make the best decision possible at the time. I’ll help you gather that information, Emma. I’ll teach you and the others how to defend yourselves. Shoot, I’ll even give you my advice—not that you’ll take it.” He gave her a meaningful look, recalling the way she’d disregarded his instructions to stay inside.

  She jutted her chin out in response, that familiar spark of defiance returning to her eyes.

  He had to work hard to hold back his grin.

  “But you’re the one these ladies respect,” Mal reminded her. “You’re the one they trust. Not me. You are their leader.”

  She glanced away, her face a mask of concentration as she silently battled to subdue her doubts. Mal watched her struggle for a moment, then, on impulse, grabbed her hand.

  Emma blinked. She glanced at his hand on hers, then lifted her eyes to his face.

  His throat suddenly tight, Mal fought the urge to drop her hand and turn away. She needed to know she wasn’t in this alone. He tightened his grip.

  “I’ll be here for you,” he vowed. “For as long as it takes. You don’t have to shoulder the load on your own. I’ll help you carry it.”

  And when she didn’t need his help anymore? Malachi tried to ignore the insidious thought as he basked in the light of Emma’s grateful smile, but the prospect lingered in the air between them, tainting the sweetness of the moment like rotted beef in a savory stew.

  Leaving her once had left scars he’d yet to recover from. He wasn’t sure he could survive the experience a second time.

  11

  Mal woke to the sound of roosters—multiple roosters—crowing to announce the coming day. The chicken farm stood far enough away that most townsfolk with closed doors and windows would probably sleep through the racket, but Malachi had opted for a pallet in the stable with the barn door wide open.

  Emma had tried to shuttle him off last night to one of the homes in town that had been vac
ated after the first group of women left, but he’d refused to go. Some deranged lunatic was out there threatening the women of Harper’s Station, and the females he cared about most were holed up together in the old station house. He wasn’t about to leave them unguarded.

  Besides, he wanted the chance to examine the area around the church in the light of day before anyone else could wander out there and disturb evidence he might have missed in the dark.

  After tending the horses, milking the cow, and leaving the pail of milk on the back porch for Emma or one of the aunts to find, Mal grabbed the leftover oatmeal cookie he’d stashed in his coat pocket last night before the fire broke out and munched on the crumbled mess. Didn’t look too pretty after being squashed every which way, but it was sustenance enough to keep him going. Had a roll and a little ham left over from the supper box he’d bought in Seymour in his saddlebag, too, but he’d save that for later, just in case he missed breakfast while out hunting clues.

  An hour later, Mal’s stomach was grumbling something fierce, but it was his mind that truly churned. He tromped through the paddock behind the station house, stomped up the back-porch steps, and pulled the kitchen door open.

  “There you are, Malachi,” Aunt Bertie exclaimed. “Just in time for flapjacks with my special recipe blackberry syrup.” She winked at him, then bunched her apron up in her hand and reached for the coffeepot. “Have a seat, dear, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  The sharp smell of the dark-roasted brew wafted toward him first, followed quickly by the fruity aroma of syrup heating in a pan of hot water on the stove. Stacks of fluffy golden-brown pancakes were no doubt waiting in the warming oven. Mal nearly groaned. He hadn’t tasted Bertie’s flapjacks in over a decade, but he remembered them. Oh, how he remembered. He’d once eaten seven in one sitting.

  But as much as he would have loved to sit down and feast, he had a more urgent matter to deal with. A matter concerning the young woman placing napkins and forks at the four place settings arranged on the table.

  Mal strode forward and deposited a canister in the middle of the table with a decisive thunk.

  Emma eyed him askance, her nose scrunching a bit as she examined the dirt-encrusted can. “What is that?”

  “Turpentine.” He held up a dusty paintbrush and plopped it onto the lid of the can. “Found that with it, too.”

  Emma’s gaze jerked back to his. Her face paled slightly. “Where did you find it?”

  “Tucked out of sight behind the northeast corner of the garden fence.”

  The two forks she held fell to the table with a clatter. She gripped the chairback in front of her for support. “Why would he leave it behind? And by the garden, no less. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to toss it in the bushes if he didn’t want to take it with him?”

  “I’m not sure he was the one who left it behind.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

  Mal worked his jaw back and forth before answering, knowing she wasn’t going to take well to his conclusion. “I’m saying there’s a chance he has an accomplice. Here. In Harper’s Station.”

  “Of all the hog swill I’ve heard in my day, that batch smells the worst, Malachi Shaw.” Aunt Henry burst through the kitchen doorway and pierced Mal with the same withering look she’d used the time she caught him in a lie about where the corn bread had disappeared to. That look had tugged so hard on his conscience, he’d spilled the whole story of taking the leftovers to his room and hiding them under his bed. She made him do dishes for a week after that. Not because he took the food and ruined her plans to have dressing that night with the baked chicken Bertie fixed, but because he’d lied to her. And drawn a colony of crumb-hunting ants into the house.

  Her disapproval still made him squirm, but this time Mal held his ground. The Chandlers might not want to hear what he had to say, but he cared more about protecting their stubborn hides than offending their suffragist sensibilities.

  “I wouldn’t suggest the idea, Aunt Henry, if I didn’t have good reason.” He aimed his words in the elder Chandler sister’s direction, but his eyes never left Emma’s.

  “Surely, you don’t think one of my ladies . . .” She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t know them like I do. We help each other. Depend on each other. Besides, each lady took a vow when joining the community never to do another lady harm. None of them would ever . . . We’re family.”

  Mal gentled his voice. “Family is no guarantee of loyalty.” He knew that better than most.

  “But you saw how everyone worked together to fight the fire. Every one. Why would someone set a fire, then work tirelessly to extinguish it? It makes no sense.”

  “Actually it’s pretty smart.” Mal rubbed an itchy spot on his stubble-covered chin. He really needed to shave. “Keeps others from growing suspicious.”

  Aunt Henry leaned across the middle of the table, blocking Mal’s view of Emma. Henry grabbed the turpentine and brush, marched over to the corner of the kitchen, and dropped them on top of the pie safe. “Claptrap, I say. Nothing but a bunch of claptrap. A woman wouldn’t burn a church. This is the work of a man. The man who shot at us a few days ago. That’s who you need to be tracking down, not wasting time on a witch hunt.”

  His shoulders went rigid as his temper flared. “I ain’t sayin’ the man Emma saw isn’t the one behind this. I’m sure he is. But you need to consider that he might have an accomplice.” Mal paused to take a breath, then made a point to lower his voice. “You’re the one always saying that women can do anything men can, Aunt Henry. But you can’t just take the good without lookin’ at the bad. Sure, women are capable of being doctors and bankers,” he said with a wave of his hand toward Emma, “but they can also be criminals and deceivers. Excusing them all from guilt simply because they are female before you hear me out is as much an act of prejudice as those who assume men are the only ones capable of casting a responsible vote.”

  “He’s got a point, Henry,” Bertie said as she lowered a platter of flapjacks onto the middle of the table like a peace offering. A rather loud sniff was the only response she received to that observation. Nevertheless, Bertie continued bustling about as if nothing untoward had happened. She collected the syrup and butter crock, then deliberately pulled out her chair and took a seat. “Come along now. There’s plenty of time to hash everything out while we eat.”

  Malachi bit back the argument that leapt to his tongue. Jaw tight, he removed his hat and tossed it on top of the pie safe next to the turpentine canister. His suspicions and conclusions clamored for release, but he swallowed them down. A few minutes’ delay wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, people were less likely to be cranky after consuming Bertie’s blackberry syrup. Himself included.

  Emma slid around to the spot closest to the wall on his right, her demeanor quiet, subdued. Lines marred her forehead as she took her seat, her gaze locked on the emptiness of the plate in front of her. Henry had no such compunction. She glared at him as she perched ramrod straight in the seat opposite his.

  “There we are.” Bertie smiled, ignoring the tension in the air as she stretched her hands out toward him and Henry. “Would you say the blessing for us, Malachi?” She nodded at him, her eyes saying more than her words—Don’t forget what is most important.

  Mal cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He reached for Emma’s hand as he accepted Bertie’s. Emma’s fingers trembled slightly, so he gripped them tightly, trying to reassure her that all would be well. He’d see to it.

  Then he bowed his head. “Lord, we thank you for the food before us, and for the people around this table.” He ran his thumb over the back of Emma’s hand. “Thank you for keeping everyone safe last night during the fire. Please continue to watch over the women of Harper’s Station and protect them from harm. Resolve this situation quickly, Lord. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  No one spoke after that. The only sounds breaking the silence were the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional c
reak of wood when someone shifted in their chair.

  The flapjacks were as light and fluffy as Mal remembered, and the syrup such a perfect blend of sweet and tart that, had his mind not been so occupied, he was sure he would have savored each bite with lingering care. Instead, he wolfed down six pancakes before the ladies finished their tea. Well, only five, really. One lay folded inside his napkin on his lap to be stashed later in his saddlebag. Mal glanced at Emma and the aunts, making sure none of them was paying him any attention, then slipped the napkin inside his vest, to the hidden pocket he’d sewn into the lining.

  “I just can’t believe one of my ladies could be guilty of helping this outlaw.” Emma set her fork aside, abandoning a perfectly good half a pancake.

  Mal was momentarily distracted by the leftover pieces, purple with absorbed syrup, and destined for the slop pail. Bertie’s flapjacks deserved better. Then Emma turned to face him, and all thought of flapjacks, purple or otherwise, flew from his head.

  “I know these women. Some are more prickly than others, but they all want this place to succeed. Need this place to succeed. Why would they sabotage their own future?”

  Mal scooted his plate away from the edge of the table and leaned forward. “I don’t know, Em. Maybe this fella offered enough money to tempt someone to secure her future in a faster, easier way. Or maybe he’s blackmailing one of the colony members.”

  “But what makes you so sure that one of the women is involved?” This came from Aunt Henry.

  Mal glanced her way before turning his attention back to Emma. “I found faint traces of footprints this morning when I searched the area around the church. A man’s boot, a size or two smaller than mine, but larger than a woman’s shoe.”

  “There’s your proof!” Henry’s palm slapped the tabletop. “He was there.”

  “Yes he was. Four days ago when he shot up the church. The tracks were too faded to have been newly made. And they didn’t fit with what happened. They only led to the west side of the building, to the window where he shot into the church. Then they backtracked to where a horse waited. I found hoofprints in the grass that match Emma’s account of the man riding off through the brush instead of on the road. No boot prints leading to the east side of the building where the fire was set. So unless he followed his previous tracks precisely and climbed over the top of the church, he can’t be the one responsible.”