Helen. Malachi jerked his head up, looking for the timid woman. Had he scared her off?
“Don’t worry. She ain’t here.” Betty pointed her shotgun toward the boardinghouse. “I sent her to fetch that ancient revolver Miss Daisy offered. Thing’s as old as dirt, and we don’t have any proper ammunition for it, but I figured it would be good for Helen to get used to holding a weapon. I can give her some pointers on aiming the thing while we pass the time. Then when the new guns arrive, she’ll be more prepared.”
“Good idea.” And since Helen was still on Emma’s list of suspects, he felt a bit better knowing she wouldn’t have a loaded weapon tonight. Of course, pairing her with Betty was a boon, too. Not much got past the plain-spoken woman. “Who’s set to relieve you?”
“We got the eight to midnight shift, then Grace and Maybelle have the watch until four. Figured we needed gals who owned weapons on duty the first couple nights before Tori’s shipment comes in.”
“Miss Mallory’s tiny pistol won’t serve much purpose up in the steeple,” Mal said with a frown.
“That’s why I’m leaving my shotgun with her. But I’ve warned the ladies not to shoot at shadows. We’re here to watch and report, not start a gunfight. The last thing we need is for some nervous female to get spooked when something moves and end up hitting one of our own.”
“Agreed.” A bit of the tension that had coiled in Mal’s shoulders dissipated. “Everyone knows where to find me, right?”
Betty frowned as if not altogether pleased with his presumption that he’d be the one they ran to if trouble erupted. “I told ’em if they spot something suspicious, they’re to alert Emma at the station house.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You might be the hired gun, Shaw, but Emma’s still the one callin’ the shots around here. We report to her, not you. If she wants to bring you in, that’s fine, but we aren’t lettin’ you take the place over just because you think you know best. We don’t need a man to do our thinkin’ for us. Got that?”
Mal was in no mood for the woman’s hardheaded feminism. “Save your sermonizing for a day when two masked bandits haven’t just shot up your town.” He straightened to his full height and took a step toward her.
She didn’t back up, but he hadn’t expected her to. He just needed to make it clear that he wasn’t going to let her or any of the women castrate him when he was the only one standing between them and a pair of gun-happy outlaws.
“I have no interest in running this town,” Mal emphasized each word, praying they’d somehow penetrate the woman’s stubborn hide and sink into her brain. “Emma is far better qualified for that role than I will ever be. But right now, your enemies have the skill, the training, and the weapons that you lack. I’m your best chance at evening those odds.”
Betty harrumphed, obviously unhappy with his pronouncement, but she made no further argument. A good sign. The crotchety chicken farmer might just be warming up to him.
Thankfully, with Mal sleeping in the barn, he’d hear anyone who came to the station house looking for Emma, so he wouldn’t need to countermand Betty’s instructions, a chore that would certainly undo any goodwill he’d just scavenged for himself. Besides, he planned to cover the four-to-six shift every morning. Most people assumed that if they’d made it through the darkest hours of night with no incidents they were in the clear. But a canny attacker, like the one laying siege to Harper’s Station, could easily turn such beliefs to his advantage. If Mal were the outlaw, that was precisely the tack he would take. Wait until vigilance was low, use the encroaching light of dawn to his advantage, and strike before the rooster crowed.
Mal spotted Helen approaching, the old revolver dangling loosely in front of her skirt. She glanced up and stuttered to a halt. Mal took that as his cue. He gathered his discarded tools and the empty nail jar and fingered the brim of his hat.
“I’ll be on my way, then.” He raised his voice and managed a small wave in Helen’s direction without dropping the hammer tucked beneath his arm. “Have a good night, ladies.”
He prayed they would. Have a good night. A quiet night. Free from attack or any malicious furtive activity. He doubted the men who’d ridden through town earlier today would strike again so soon. If they kept to their pattern, they would take a day or two to regroup before making another attempt to drive the women out. Perhaps they would wait for information to be passed from their spy before crafting their next move.
The thought had Mal pivoting back toward the women. “Mrs. Cooper?”
Both women’s backs were turned. Helen flinched at the sound of his voice and made no effort to face him. Betty shooed the girl on into the church, then glanced behind to meet Malachi’s gaze. “Yeah?”
“I want a report on all activity. Even the women. If you see Maybelle or Claire making a house call in the middle of the night or Aunt Henry lighting the kitchen lamp to get a late-night snack, I want to know about it. The better I understand the women’s activities, the better I can protect them.” Especially from the traitor in their midst.
Betty looked at him long and hard until something that felt like understanding zinged through the air between them. Finally she gave a sharp nod. “I’ll make sure the second watch knows and tell the others after worship tomorrow.”
“Appreciate it.” Mal dipped his chin, then resumed his trek to the station house.
So far, the enemy had never truly attacked at night. The spy had set the church afire as evening fell, but the shooter himself had only made appearances during the day. Mal hoped that trend continued. He had a better chance of stopping an enemy he could see than one who used the cover of darkness. And heaven knew he couldn’t afford to miss again.
Emma fought a yawn and lost as she sat at her office desk late Monday morning. Her mouth spread wide, and she made no effort to cover the cavernous expanse with her hand. Why should she? No one was around, and she was just too tired.
She and Flora had taken the second watch the night before, and she’d been so keyed up about having four hours alone with one of her suspects, that she’d not been able to sleep before her shift began. A fact she greatly regretted.
The numbers in the open ledger on her desk swam before her eyes. If only they would stay in the columns they were assigned and quit blurring into the others, maybe then she’d be able to finish her tallies.
Grace had brought over the telegrams from the New York broker who managed her investments. As on every Monday morning, he’d sent her the gains and losses she had earned the past week, both from her personal accounts and those for the bank. She needed to compile the figures, analyze trends, and decide whether or not to continue with her current investment strategy or make adjustments. But concentration seemed beyond her capabilities this morning.
Another yawn hit her, causing her eyes to water and her nose to run. Admitting defeat, Emma shoved the ledger away from her and retrieved her already dampened handkerchief from her skirt pocket.
It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d actually learned something of value last night. But Flora had been tight-lipped. Emma’s gentle probes into the woman’s history had earned nothing more than vague generalities and evasive dodges. When she’d questioned her directly about the husband who had beaten her, Flora had practically curled into a ball in the corner of the small steeple area. Her eyes haunted and lost, she’d begged Emma not to ask any more questions. Emma had felt like the lowest of snakes. The poor woman had been abused and abandoned. Of course she didn’t wish to relive that pain. What kind of monster would ask her to?
That left her with nothing of value to report to Malachi when he’d arrived to relieve them. Nothing. And with only two hours’ sleep to fuel her now, she doubted she would accomplish anything of value today, either. She couldn’t even total a simple column of numbers.
Maybe if she got up and moved around . . . splashed some water on her face . . . something.
Emma pushed to her feet and strode out of her office into the main bank building just in time to meet May
belle as the older woman opened the door and stepped inside.
Forcing a welcoming smile to her face, Emma moved forward to greet the town healer. “Maybelle. So good to see you. You’re looking well.”
“And you’re looking like death warmed over. You didn’t sleep last night, did you, gal.” The woman’s eyes raked her from head to toe, missing nothing.
Emma wilted beneath the scrutiny. “Is it that bad? I’d hoped the burgundy shade of this dress would make up for my lack of vibrancy this morning.” She ran a hand over the deep red sleeve of her best suit jacket, the one she usually wore only to church. She’d even attached her indigo lace collar to her sensible ivory shirtwaist to liven her appearance. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough.
“It helps,” Maybelle said, her harsh tone softening to one of understanding affection, “but it can’t hide the shadows beneath your eyes or the pallor of your skin.” She stepped closer and took one of Emma’s hands in her own. “I know you carry the weight of this town on those slender shoulders of yours, but you’ve got to take care of yourself.” She patted Emma’s hand, and the motherly gesture brought a slight sting to Emma’s eyes. “The stress will eat you alive if you let it. Share your load, child. Get out from under some of that weight. It ain’t good for you. And for heaven’s sake . . . if you’re scheduled for watch duty, get some shut-eye ahead of time.”
Emma laughed lightly at the well-deserved admonishment. “You’re right, of course. And I am sharing the load. Or at least starting to. Mr. Shaw has been a true blessing in that regard.”
“I imagine so.” The woman eyed her speculatively. “Not too hard to look at, either.”
Warmth effused Emma’s cheeks. Maybelle cackled. “Ah! There’s the color we were looking for. Just keep thinking about your handsome Mr. Shaw and no one will notice the shadows under your eyes.”
Emma smiled at the teasing even as she determined to steer the woman clear of any further discussion of Malachi. Leading the way to the counter where most customer transactions took place, Emma searched for a safer topic of conversation. “It was good to see Brother Garrett yesterday. I found his sermon on holding tight to faith amidst fiery trials particularly apropos.”
Maybelle nodded agreement. “He told me afterward that he’d heard about the shooting incident but that he’d had no idea there’d been literal fiery trials until he’d seen the scorch marks on the outside of the church this morning. He commended Mr. Shaw for repairing the worst of the damage in preparation for services. Although, when he’d learned about the charred message left behind in the old boards, he’d been incensed. Promised to report the violation to Sheriff Tabor along with giving an account of the second shooting incident. Said he’d demand the lawman take greater steps to see to our protection. Don’t think it will do much good, but I was sure to thank him for his concern.”
“His advocacy can’t hurt.” Emma reached for the small set of keys she always kept in her pocket. She unlocked the door that separated the customer lobby from the more secure area behind the counter. After closing and locking it again behind her, she moved into the first teller window and fingered the key that would unlock the money drawer. Looking up at Maybelle through the protective bars, she smiled. “His prayers on our behalf will be much appreciated, as well.” She slipped the drawer key into the lock and turned it until that catch popped free. “Now, what can I help you with this morning?”
“Thought I better withdraw some funds, what with the new shipment coming in today. Twenty ought to do it.”
“Very well.” Emma pulled one ten-dollar bill and two fives from her drawer, then counted them into the shallow divot carved into the counter beneath the barred window. Maybelle had a policy against buying anything on credit. Her late husband had been a wastrel who’d left her with a pile of debt after his death. If she didn’t have the cash to pay for something, she did without. Thankfully, her midwifery skills had allowed her to recover her losses after a couple of lean years, and her stint as doctor for Harper’s Station had only improved her lot.
Emma made a note in the account book she kept locked in the till. At the end of the day, she’d transcribe the transaction into the main ledger she stored in the vault.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Emma asked as Maybelle folded the bank notes and stuffed them into her purse.
“That should do me for a while, I think.”
Emma nodded and slid the money drawer closed. She had just turned the key in the lock when Lewis burst through the front door.
His head swiveled from side to side, his wide-eyed gaze zeroing in on Emma. “Miss Chandler! Come quick. My ma needs you!”
Emma’s stomach clenched. All tiredness fled from her bones, leaving a desperate energy humming through her. Grabbing the teller door key and forcing it into the lock with trembling fingers, she called out to the boy. “I’m coming!”
“What’s happened?” Maybelle asked as Emma fumbled with the door.
For pity’s sake, why would the stubborn thing not open?
Finally the key slid home and the lock turned. She threw the door wide and slammed it shut behind her. Taking precious seconds to lock it back, she nearly missed Lewis’s answer.
“He’s hurt,” Lewis sputtered. “He’s hurt real bad.”
Emma’s heart screamed a denial. Please, God. Not Malachi. But who else could it be? There were no other men in Harper’s Station.
“I’ll go fetch my doctorin’ kit and meet you there,” Maybelle said, already hurrying out the door.
Emma met Lewis’s worried gaze, her own heart pounding so loudly in her chest she was surprised it didn’t echo off the rafters. “Is he at the store?” she asked.
Tori’s son gave a sharp nod and took off like a shot. Emma followed, barely pausing long enough to pull the bank door closed as she ran.
19
Emma’s shoes pounded against the boardwalk. Lewis didn’t dash through the main store entrance as she expected but sprinted around the far corner. Snatching a handful of skirt to keep from tripping on the stairs to the street, Emma followed without question. She had to reach Malachi. Wherever he was.
Wagon ruts in the dirt created an alleyway of sorts and then turned right, around the building. Lewis disappeared into the back storeroom. Emma increased her pace to catch up but twisted her ankle as her heel caught on the uneven ground. Wincing at the twinge, she recovered and continued on, keeping her gaze glued to the ground so as not to repeat her folly.
Had Mal been helping Tori with her merchandise? Had the shipment of guns arrived while Emma had been dozing at her desk? But no. The freight wagon would be here. And even as tired as she’d been, surely she would have heard . . .
Her imagination raced faster than her feet as she rounded the corner. Had he been cut? Had a pile of heavy boxes smashed his skull? Would he die?
She gained the doorway and rushed inside. Then stumbled to a halt. For there stood Malachi. Tall. Strong. Unharmed.
Or was he? Blood and dirt smeared the tan fabric of his shirt. Yet he was talking, giving orders.
“Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll fetch them.” He took a step toward the door, then growled and lurched back the way he’d come. “I swear if you get out of that chair one more time I’m going to shoot you myself.”
Emma’s exhausted brain struggled to make sense of the scene. Hard to do when her gaze refused to leave Malachi to see whom he might be speaking to.
“I’ll keep him here, Mr. Shaw.” Tori’s voice. “You can go.”
Malachi nodded and turned toward the door. He came up short when he saw her. His eyes warmed for a minute, then cooled to businesslike efficiency. “Good. You’re here. It’ll likely take two of you to keep the fool from going after his pets.” Mal pivoted sideways to squeeze past her and out the door.
She had no idea what pets he was talking about. This whole episode left her feeling a bit like Alice, fallen down a rabbit hole into some kind of nonsensical world. All she knew was that she couldn?
??t let her rabbit scamper off without answering one vital question.
“Wait!” she called, stirring from her stupor enough to dash after Malachi and lunge for his arm. Her fingers closed over his sleeve, and he stopped.
He tossed an impatient glance over his shoulder. “What, Em? I need to go before that stubborn cuss changes his mind.”
She examined him from head to toe, not caring that a gentlewoman wouldn’t ogle a man in such a way. The fear still spearing through her was far from gentle. She had to know for certain. “You’re not hurt?”
His forehead wrinkled. “No.”
“Lewis said to come quick. That he was hurt. A man was hurt. I thought . . .” She cleared her throat and released her hold on his arm, realizing at last how silly she must look. Like some kind of dull-witted female who couldn’t understand the most basic facts of biology.
Malachi’s eyes softened. “You thought he meant me.”
She nodded and glanced away. “But of course you’re fine. And in a hurry.” She smiled brightly—too brightly, she was sure, thanks to the embarrassment thrumming through her veins—and stepped back. “Go on with your errand. I’ll help Tori.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but Emma didn’t give him the chance. She spun around and hurried back into the storeroom.
Now that her brain was cleared of its panic fog, she recognized Benjamin Porter right away. Or what was left of him. The poor man was a bloodied mess. His shirt was torn in several places, his left knee—scraped raw—was visible through a hole in his trousers. He sat—well, squirmed was more like it—in one of Tori’s kitchen chairs, unwilling to still enough for Tori to clean away the dirt and blood from his face.
Thankfully, Lewis was nowhere to be seen. Tori must have sent him into their living quarters, away from the grisly scene.