No Other Will Do

  Relaxing his hold on the rifle, yet still keeping it accessible and his senses alert, Mal jogged forward and dropped to the ground beside Flora. She immediately curled in on herself, covering her head as if bracing for more violence. A whimper escaped her.

  Mal had started to reach for her but hesitated at her obvious terror. “I’m not going to hurt you, Flora. I’m here to help.” He patted her shoulder once, then raised his hand to hover awkwardly in midair. She flinched at the touch, but didn’t whimper again, thank heavens. He tried a second pat. Some of the stiffness left her posture and she began to uncurl.

  “Where’s Emma?” Mal asked, unable to keep the question bottled up a second longer.

  “She tried to save me from him,” Flora mumbled through swollen lips. “She shoulda left me there.” Flora twisted her head around until her grief-filled gaze met Malachi’s. “Shoulda run away the moment she spotted Angus. But she didn’t.” Flora shook her head, bewildered. “After all I done to hurt the town, she still stayed. Even shot him. Or at least drew blood.” A hint of a smile cracked her lips. “He didn’t expect that. Thought she’d be soft. Weak. Like me. Not Emma.”

  “Where is she?” It was all Mal could do not to shake the woman and end her rambling. While he wanted to hear an account of what happened, he wanted Emma safe first.

  “He took her.”

  Mal sprang to his feet, rifle in hand, and ran toward the thicker trees where Flora’s drag marks led. He had to find the outlaw’s trail. Had to get Emma back.

  “Wait!” a weak voice called after him. “You can’t save her that way.”

  Mal ignored Flora’s plea and ran deeper into the woods. He spotted Emma’s rifle, fallen on the ground at the base of an oak tree. He snatched it up and held it tight while he scanned the terrain, as if somehow the connection she had to the rifle would lead him to her. But of course it didn’t.

  He found the place where the drag marks stopped. The place where Flora had lain. A chaotic pattern of footprints had displaced leaves and left evidence of a scuffle. A scuffle that ended with the smaller set of prints disappearing, leaving only the large prints to lead off to the west, prints that pressed deeper into the earth. Deeper because they carried a load. A load Malachi intended to retrieve.

  Holding his rifle in one hand and Emma’s in the other, Mal set off after the outlaw. About a hundred yards in, a second pair of prints joined the trail from the north. Nearly the same size but shallower.

  Mal followed the trail, heart thumping, spirit praying for Emma’s well-being. Then all at once the footprints vanished. Just like Emma’s had when he’d trailed her from the river. But this time there were no hidden stones, no creek bed. A few large tree roots stood above ground. But on the other side of the roots, all Mal found were dead leaves and dry earth, neither of which had been disturbed.

  The outlaws must have changed direction here and masked their trail somehow. But which way had they gone? A growl of frustration rose in Mal’s throat. Why must he always be a step behind? It was maddening.

  Emma’s captor had obviously spent years running from posses and lawmen to be so accomplished at hiding his trail. Mal would just have to be better. Smarter. He had a woman to find. A woman who meant more to him than anything else under the sun. So he picked a direction and started marching. When he’d gone about twenty-five yards with no sign of a trail, he backtracked and tried again at a different angle.

  After five attempts, he finally stumbled upon the outlaws’ trail on a nearly perpendicular path to where they’d been headed before. A path that passed near a tree sporting a broken branch with a scrap of burlap stuck in its bark. They must’ve had a sack of dirt, dead leaves, and other various ground scrapings waiting for just such an occasion. They made a sharp change in direction, then backtracked and covered the trail with debris to throw off anyone following. Mal had to give the man credit. He was a wily old fox. But tricks would only hold up for so long, and Mal was too invested to give up the chase.

  Until he found the hoofprints.

  He couldn’t chase down horses. He’d have to return to town and fetch Ulysses. Following the trail on foot would keep him at too much of a disadvantage. Besides, Flora needed tending. He could practically hear Emma now, scolding him for leaving a battered woman alone in the woods, defenseless and unprotected. She’d never approve of his abandoning a female in need, even when her own safety hung in the balance.

  So he begged the Lord to do what he couldn’t—watch over and protect Emma—and then tore his gaze away from the trail and turned back.

  Urgency continued pounding in his head, and a physical ache twisted his gut as his steps carried him away from Emma, but he set his jaw and forced his legs into a trot. The faster he took care of Flora, the faster he could return for Emma.

  When he finally caught up to the other woman, she had dragged herself a few more yards toward the river. Hearing his approach, she swiveled her head around, her eyes wide with fright. Then recognizing him, the air whooshed out of her lungs. “Thank heavens you came back.”

  Mal hunkered beside her again and gently touched her back. “It’ll be all right, Flora. I’ll carry you back to town, and Maybelle will get you all fixed up.”

  She shook her head at him. “You don’t understand. It ain’t me you should be worryin’ about. In fact, you should leave me here and run back as fast as you can go. They need to be warned. The entire town is in danger.”

  A coldness spread through Mal’s veins like a ribbon of ice winding from his arms through his core and down to his toes. “What kind of danger?”

  “Angus . . . my husband . . .” Flora’s gaze dropped to the ground at that admission, but she quickly steeled herself and brought her face back up. One eye was swollen and red, but the other glittered with determination. “He gave me a message. Said to tell you that he’s done waitin’. The women have until morning to clear out. If they ain’t gone, he’ll take care of the business himself—picking them off one by one.” She swallowed hard. “Startin’ with Emma.”

  No! The roar of denial screamed through Mal’s head with such force he had to clench his jaw shut to keep it contained. Even then, an agonized moan rumbled in his throat as his hands trembled with helpless outrage.

  “What does he want?” Mal forced the words through his tight throat as he balled his hands into fists to still their tremors. “The county land office wired me back a couple days ago. There’s no record of valuable mineral deposits or water rights worth killing over. What could he possibly want with Harper’s Station?”

  “Gold.”

  “But there’s no gold in the area,” Mal insisted. “No silver, copper—nothing of that sort.”

  Flora shook her head sadly. “Not in the ground. In a U.S. Army payroll strongbox.”

  Mal rocked back on his heels, her words nearly bowling him over. “All of this is about a stash from a heist?”

  Flora nodded. “From five years ago. Angus and a gang of no-good drifters he’d collected, ambushed a small army convoy headed for Fort Elliott, killing three soldiers and injuring several more. Angus told the gang to split up so they’d be harder to track, and fools that they were, they listened to him. He gave them each a piddling few coins to tide them over, then hid the rest. That way when the army tracked them all down, he was the only one with no evidence on his person. Talked his way into a reduced sentence. Probably would’ve gotten off completely if one of the injured soldiers hadn’t recognized his horse.”

  Flora wilted a bit, the telling apparently taking its toll on her. Mal moved close and shored her up, lifting her so she could lean against his side.

  “Angus spent the last five years in prison, obsessin’ over that gold and making plans to get it back. And now he’s forcin’ our son to ride with him.” She grabbed Mal’s arm with surprising force. “Ned’s only fifteen. He’s just a boy. Too scared of his pa to stand against him. If you or the ladies challenge Angus on this, I’m terrified my boy will get caught in the crossfire. Plea
se. You gotta convince the others to leave. It’s the only way to protect my boy and Emma.”

  Mal didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. Not when the truth of what would happen was churning his heart into mush.

  Clearing out the town might appease Angus and keep Ned safe, but Emma had no such guarantees. If she stumbled across a family reunion between Flora and her husband, she had seen the outlaw’s face—which meant she could identify him, testify against him, and send him back to prison. The minute Angus no longer needed her to assure the town’s cooperation, Emma would be dead.

  Mal swung his rifle strap over his shoulder and handed Emma’s weapon to Flora. Without a word, he gently fitted his arms beneath the battered woman and lifted her off the ground, cradling her against his chest.

  “First things first,” he grunted. “Let’s get you back to town so Maybelle can tend your injuries. Then we’ll figure out what to do about Angus.”

  Malachi stood and carried Flora out of the woods. As his legs worked, so did his mind. There had to be a way to save the woman he loved. No other option was tenable. His angel would not be dying at that devil’s hands.

  33

  Thanking God for hot summers that brought shallow rivers, Malachi slogged through the muddy, knee-high water with Flora in his arms. His legs strained against the river’s resistance. His lower back throbbed. His arms burned from the effort of holding Flora as still as possible. But he kept on. One step. Then another. Not stopping. Ignoring the pain. Keeping Emma’s face in his mind.

  Climbing up the embankment on the opposite side of the river nearly did him in, though. The grade brought him to his knees. His weary muscles cried out for him to stop. To rest. To replenish his strength. But Emma couldn’t afford for him to stop. Her life hung in the balance. So Mal gritted his teeth and grunted his way back to his feet. He redistributed Flora’s weight, clenched his jaw, and took another step.

  “You’ve carried me far enough, Mr. Shaw,” Flora said, her voice as tired sounding as his body felt. “You can send someone back for me.”

  “Emma wouldn’t want me to,” he ground out, taking another step.

  “It’ll be faster,” Flora insisted. “And I’ll be safe enough on this side of the river. You can leave one of the rifles with me.”

  Malachi halted, torn. She was right. It would be faster. But would it be better? What if he handed over the rifle and Flora shot him in the back? His gut told him she was no killer, but her betrayal was too fresh for him to trust her completely.

  So he took another step. Then another.

  “Stubborn fool,” Flora muttered.

  Mal grimaced. She was probably right. He wasn’t sure he could make it much farther. If he could just get around the bend, maybe he’d be close enough to town to fire off a signal shot. Two quick rounds from his rifle should bring help. If they were heard.

  Two percussive blasts rent the air.

  Mal blinked. Had he just thought those shots into existence? Of course not. He must have imagined . . .

  “Over here! They’re over here!”

  Mal jerked toward the shout. He hadn’t imagined that. He glanced back toward the water and nearly wept.

  Ulysses was charging toward him, Andrew on his back. Water sprayed around them, catching the sunlight. Mal had been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other and getting around the bend, that he’d not noticed the horse and rider on the opposite side of the river.

  And Andrew wasn’t alone. Others now rounded the curve. Women running toward them, some in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, others in more practical garb. All carrying weapons. All ready to do battle.

  And Betty Cooper, bless her sensible heart and old knees, drove a wagon with Maybelle Curtis and her doctoring bag riding shotgun.

  The Lord had sent the cavalry.

  Flora tried to hide from the women, turning her face into Mal’s shoulder, but it was an impossible task. Mal did his best to smooth things over by explaining as much as he could, especially to a hard-faced Betty as he neared the wagon.

  “She’s been severely beaten. By her husband. He’s got control of her son.” Mal met Betty’s gaze. “That’s why she did what she did.”

  “You don’t gotta explain it to me, Shaw.” Betty clambered down from the wagon and moved to the back to let the tailgate down. “I got eyes.”

  Mal sat on the edge of the wagon bed and carefully laid Flora on a pallet of blankets Maybelle had arranged. The midwife climbed into the wagon bed beside Flora and started clucking over the woman’s injuries. Flora ducked her head and hid her face with her arm.

  “None of that hiding, now, Flora,” Betty said, gently taking hold of the injured woman’s arm and peeling it away from her face. “Esther showed me your letter. We all know you were in a tough spot. Scared for your boy and unable to sway your man from his course. God never blessed me with a child, but if he had, there’s no telling how far I’d go to protect him.”

  Tears rolled down Flora bruised cheeks. “But your chickens . . .”

  Betty sniffed once and cleared her throat, her voice coming out a little thicker than before. “Yeah, well. I done forgave you for that when I read your instructions to Emma to use your bank funds to buy new ones. As much as I cared for them ornery birds, that’s all they were. Birds. People are more important.”

  “Emma!” Henry’s strident shout pierced the conversation.

  Mal turned, dread weighing heavily in his gut. Henry and Bertie were running up to the wagon as fast as their fifty-year-old legs would carry them.

  “Malachi,” Henry huffed. “Where’s Emma?”

  He clenched his jaw and dropped his gaze to the ground. How he hated to disappoint these ladies. But the truth was the truth, and dancing around it would only waste time. “The outlaw has her.”

  Bertie gasped and grabbed Henry’s arm. Henry’s eyes flared with fire. “Then what are you standing around here for? Go after her!”

  “I tracked her to their camp. They left on horseback.”

  Henry snapped at Andrew. “You! Boy! Get off that horse and give it to Malachi. He’s got to go after—”

  “No, aunt.” Mal stepped in front of her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “There is more to explain, and not much time to act. Organize the women while I give instructions to Andrew. I want everyone at the church in twenty minutes.”

  Then before she could find the breath to argue, he spun away from her and strode toward Andrew, signaling him to stop dismounting and stay in the saddle. He gestured to the telegraph operator, too, who had just caught up to the group.

  “Grace, I need you to wire Sheriff Tabor. Tell him Emma Chandler’s been abducted, and we have a witness who can describe the outlaw who took her.”

  “I will, but when I wired yesterday to report the attack at Betty’s farm, the deputy sent a reply that the sheriff had been out of town the last three days chasing rustlers, and he didn’t know when Tabor would be back.”

  Mal frowned. “Then tell the deputy to come.” He turned to Andrew. “But just in case he refuses, I need you to ride to Seymour.”

  “But I want to stay with you,” Andrew protested, revealing his youth more than usual. Then he caught himself and hardened. His jaw jutted forward, and his eyes shimmered with defiance. “You need all the help you can get if you want to get your woman back.”

  Mal didn’t bother disagreeing. “That’s true. But the rest of the womenfolk need protecting, too. And you’re the most capable rider I got around here.” Andrew sat a little straighter in the saddle. Mal patted Ulysses’s neck and peered pointedly at the boy who was in such a hurry to be a man. “Take Ulysses back to the barn for me and saddle the gray mare. There’s money in my saddlebags. Take ten dollars and settle my account with the livery owner, then check on the deputy.”

  Mal glanced quickly over his shoulder to make sure Henry and Bertie still stood a distance away. He’d be telling them the rest of the news soon enough, but he couldn’t afford to be slowed down
with questions and demands at the moment. So he lowered his voice just to be safe.

  “Tell him that the outlaw says, if the town isn’t vacated by morning, he will kill Miss Chandler along with any person who remains behind.”

  Andrew swallowed slow and long, but he gave a sharp nod.

  “If he still won’t come, go back to the livery. The owner is Ben Porter’s brother. Tell him Ben needs his help. And see if he knows of any other men in town who might be willing to assist.”

  “I’ll send a wire ahead to Mr. Porter,” Grace offered, “so he’ll know to expect you. That will give him time to round up any others who might be willing to help.”

  Mal nodded. “Good.” He turned back to Andrew. “Take one of the Chandler horses with you as a spare, in case you need it, but it’d be best if you stay in Seymour until this mess is over.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be back by this afternoon, Mr. Shaw. With reinforcements.” Then, before Mal could argue the point, he reined Ulysses’s head around and set off at a canter for the station house.

  Stubborn brat. Mal’s mouth twitched at the corners as he watched the boy weave around the women clustered at the wagon. The kid reminded him of himself at that age. Proud. Defiant. Desperate to prove his worth to anyone who would give him a chance. That defiance had landed him in hot water on more than one occasion.

  Watch over him, Mal prayed. He’d do his best to keep an eye on the kid, as well, but the threat to Emma demanded his full attention.

  Mal swept his gaze over the women Henry was herding back toward town. They moved at a quick clip. Even Betty had climbed back into the driver’s seat of her wagon. She clucked to her team, and worked at turning them around while Maybelle and Bertie sat with Flora in the rear. Satisfied that everyone was following instructions, he backtracked a few steps to collect the two rifles Flora had dropped when the wagon arrived.

  “Where’s Porter?” Malachi asked Grace as he jogged back her direction.

  “Keeping watch from the steeple,” she called out as he loped past.