Emma released him at once and took a couple steps back, covering her embarrassment with a chuckle. “Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away.” She glanced up at him, and got her first true glimpse of the man Malachi had become.
Oh my.
In her excitement to see him, she hadn’t actually seen him. If she had, she’d probably still be glued to the porch, clinging to the railing for support.
“It’s good to see you, Emma.” His voice resonated with a masculine depth far removed from that of the boy she remembered. He pulled off his hat and fidgeted with the brim. “You’re looking . . . well.”
“And you’re much taller than the last time I saw you.” And had broader shoulders. A more muscled chest. And the bearing of a man unafraid to face whatever challenge fate threw at him.
Yet he just stood there. Staring. At everything except her. His gaze flitted toward her in haphazard patterns, like a nervous bumblebee that couldn’t decide whether to land or not.
The silence stretched. Why couldn’t she think of anything to say? She’d never been at a loss for words around him when they were young. Of course, he hadn’t looked like a rugged outlaw then. An extremely handsome outlaw with a gun on his hip, brown hair hanging past his collar, whiskers shadowing his jaw.
Good gracious. Her heart was pounding so hard against her ribs, she feared he would hear it if she didn’t fill the silence with something. Anything.
“I’ve missed you.”
Emma inwardly cringed. All right, maybe not anything. And definitely not something spoken in that breathy voice that sounded nothing like her usual take-charge self.
His gaze locked onto hers, though, and all regrets flew from her mind. For the briefest moment, she could have sworn she saw longing in his dark eyes. But then he cocked a half grin at her and looked up toward the heavens the way he used to do when she would pester him with too much jabbering.
“Seems you haven’t changed much, Emma. Still getting into trouble.”
Oh, she was in trouble, all right. But not because of the shooter targeting her town. Nope. Her real trouble had just arrived.
8
“Malachi Shaw, as I live and breathe.”
Mal forced his gaze away from Emma and turned toward the crotchety voice that hadn’t changed in all the years he’d been away. Henrietta Chandler, tall and thin, her dark hair still scraped back in the unforgiving bun he remembered, though with more gray streaked through it now than when he’d been a boy.
“Aunt Henry.” He dipped his chin in deference, surprised by the emotion that swelled in his throat.
“Bertie!” Henrietta called over her shoulder. “The boy’s finally deigned to pay us a visit. Better get on out here before he disappears again.”
Emma leaned close—close enough that her side brushed against his arm. Mal forced himself not to react. At least not in a way she could see. Couldn’t do much about the hitch in his pulse.
“She still hasn’t quite forgiven you for leaving, you know.” Emma’s whisper sent a shiver over the skin near his ear and down his neck. It distracted him so completely, he never saw Bertie emerge from the house. She seemed to simply materialize beside her sister in a blink of the eye.
“Oh, Malachi.” Aunt Bertie clasped her hands together beneath her chin, her welcoming smile soft and warm, just like the rest of her. “It’s so good to have you back. We’ve all missed you dreadfully. Haven’t we, sister?”
“Hmmph.” Aunt Henry’s pinched lips gave no hint of relaxing, but Malachi recognized the stern look for what it was—a shield. Employed the same strategy himself on a regular basis. Probably why he’d always felt a stronger kinship with the elder, more strident Chandler sister than the younger one, despite Bertie’s kind, nurturing, and gentle ways.
Henry sniffed. “Well, at least we don’t have to wait until his next letter arrives to know he hasn’t blown himself to bits.” She waved with an imperious circle of her arm that brooked no argument. “Well? Get on up here, boy. It isn’t polite to keep an old woman out on the porch in the night wind. I’ll catch my death.”
Malachi bit back a smile. The slight breeze that ruffled his hair still carried the heat of summer. She’d have to run pretty hard to catch death out here, though he had no trouble picturing her chasing down the Grim Reaper, taking swings at him with her broom as she harangued him for all his slights against womankind. Mal doubted the old fella would dare touch her, even with that long scythe of his.
Mal shoved his hat back on his head and gave a sharp nod. “Be right there. Just got to see to my horse—”
“You go on ahead. I’ll take care of the horse.” Emma’s hand came down atop his as she reached for the reins. Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t pull away. So he did. Slower than he should have, torturing himself with the feel of her fingertips trailing along the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face.
Emma lowered her lashes, then tugged the reins fully from his grasp and turned to lead his horse away. “Yes . . . well . . . You’ve had a long journey and must be tired. It’s the least I can do.”
Mal grabbed his saddlebags as she led the mare past him, then lingered to watch her disappear around the side of the house. The gentle sway of her hips. The way she stroked the gray’s cheek as she rounded the corner. The way she glanced back and caught him staring . . .
Shoot!
As if lightning had suddenly struck the ground between his boots, Mal jolted to attention, spun around, and hotfooted it toward the front door.
Emma’s far too good for the likes of you, Malachi Shaw, he silently lectured himself as he scampered after the aunts. You best remember that. He was here for one purpose, and one purpose only—to clear out the scum threatening Emma and her ladies. It didn’t matter how pretty she looked or how kind her manner. Or how impossibly good she’d felt pressed up against him in that impromptu hug. He just had to keep his head down and his eyes to himself for a few days and he’d soon be back to the safety of blasting tunnels in mountains.
By the time Emma rejoined the group inside, she had a firm grip on her senses. They’d not be taking leave of her again. So what if her girlhood crush had come raging back to life with all the strength of a woman’s longing when she’d found Malachi watching her. The man had a life of his own. Probably even a woman of his own up in Montana, though he’d never spoken of one in his letters. Not that he would. Speak of one. In a letter. To her. After all, she’d never mentioned the clerk who’d paid court to her while she’d trained in the bank run by her late father’s partner. Some things were just . . . private. And too embarrassing to admit to the young man who’d once been her champion and dearest friend.
Especially when that bank clerk had soft hands and an itchy moustache and never took her side in any discussion she instigated with the manager regarding the lack of loans granted to women. Poor Nathaniel. He just didn’t measure up. Not against a boy who’d been willing to stand up for her and her aunts no matter how outlandish Aunt Henry’s rhetoric became or how much the other boys ridiculed him.
A thought suddenly stopped her as Emma reached the back door. Did Malachi compare the women he met to his memories of her? How did she compare? Emma nibbled on her thumbnail, an unflattering picture painting itself in her head. He probably held her up as an example of what not to look for in a woman. Bossy. Opinionated. Stubborn. What was it he’d said? Oh, yes. He’d taken one look at her tonight and named her greatest failing. “Still getting into trouble.”
Yep. Not exactly the sweet, biddable type a man looked for when searching for a bride. But then, she’d never really wanted a husband. The aunts had gotten along just fine without a man. Why couldn’t she? She had her bank, her women’s colony, dear friends to keep her from getting lonely. She didn’t need a man to fulfill the ministry God had laid on her heart.
How many times had Aunt Henry quoted 1 Corinthians 7:34? “The unmarried woman careth for the things of the Lord, that she ma
y be holy both in body and in spirit: but she that is married careth for the things of the world, how she may please her husband.”
Men were a distraction. One she couldn’t afford. She had a town to preserve, her ladies to protect. Emma squared her shoulders and yanked the back door open, Aunt’s Henry’s charge ringing in her mind.
Yet as she made her way through the kitchen, it was Aunt Bertie’s voice that met her ears, bringing to mind all the times Bertie had countered her older sister’s argument with other biblical truths. Like the fact that women were created to be a helpmeet to man. How countless godly women accomplished powerful ministries while being married. Deborah, Esther, Huldah the prophetess, Priscilla, and Jesus’s own mother. Bertie had been adamant that Emma not be raised to believe that the path the aunts had chosen was the only one available. God could work through all women, married or single, young or old, rich or poor. All he required was a heart open to his leading.
“Where are you leading me, Lord?” Emma whispered as she slowed her step in the hall and peered into the small parlor. Bertie was plying Malachi with cookies and asking questions about his work while Aunt Henry shook his coat out over the entryway floor, away from the rug, wagging her head over the amount of dust that fell. And Malachi? Well, when Bertie turned to place the cookie plate on the small table between his chair and the sofa, he slid one of the two cookies he’d taken into his lap, covering it with his napkin.
Emma’s lips trembled slightly. He still saved back food. The sight struck a chord deep within her breast. After all these years. A man grown with steady employment and a wage that reflected the danger of his work. Yet he hid food in his napkin as if he were still the half-starved boy she’d found in her barn.
The boy who’d first given her purpose. Now the man who’d left his job to answer her call for help.
Emma pressed her lips together and straightened her shoulders. Whatever feelings had stirred inside her upon seeing him again must be set aside. Malachi hadn’t come all this way to renew an old acquaintance. He’d come to lend his aid. Aid that the women of Harper’s Station dearly needed.
Time to focus on what was truly important.
Emma’s light tread on the floorboards brought Malachi’s head up, but he masked the rest of his reaction. A pretty remarkable feat given the staccato thumping of his heart against his ribs. He better get used to the grown-up Emma soon, or this was going to be an uncomfortable few days.
“There you are, Emma.” Bertie bustled over to her niece and ushered her to the chair directly beside the one Mal sat in. Great. As if being in the same room wasn’t bad enough, the woman had to sit within touching distance.
Mal glared at the large quilt frame shoved against the adjoining wall. There would have been more room to spread the furnishings out had it not been for the oversized wooden frame. What was it doing here, anyway? The aunts didn’t even like sewing. Nor did Emma. But there the thing sat in their parlor, the red and tan squares stretched atop it, taunting him. Maybe he should go unpack his gear in the barn.
“Malachi was just telling us about his railroad work, weren’t you, dear?” Bertie smiled at Mal, dashing his hopes for escape as she took her seat on the sofa. “It must be so exciting to see history unfolding right before your eyes. The wheels of progress continually turning.” Her eager smile was so enthusiastic and genuine, Mal couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride in his meager accomplishments. But then he remembered why he had come to Harper’s Station.
Bertie might be acting as if his visit was nothing more than a long overdue social call, but he couldn’t afford to pretend. Danger stalked these ladies. The very ladies who’d taken him in, seen to his needs, mothered him. And Emma, his brave little angel, the one bright spot in a childhood of darkness. She was counting on him to protect the colony she’d built. He’d not waste time playing house when he could be gathering the information he needed to stop the man threatening her.
“Now that Emma’s here,” Mal said, “I think we should discuss other, more urgent matters.”
Bertie’s smile tightened a bit but didn’t fade. “Of course. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in so long, and—”
“Leave the boy be, Bert.” Henry hung Mal’s coat on a wall hook, then slid onto the yellow sofa cushion next to her sister. “There’ll be time enough to get caught up on the pleasantries later. Malachi’s obviously chomping at the bit to figure out what’s going on here. Always was a worrier, that one.” Henry arched a brow at him, her lips twitching ever so slightly at one corner, as if unwilling to admit to her teasing. He’d missed the challenge of ferreting out her subtle humor. “Emma,” Henry said, “tell him about the church.”
With nowhere else to look, Mal turned his gaze on Emma, and for the first time noticed the shadows beneath her lovely green eyes and the strain evident in the tiny lines around her mouth. As much as Emma believed in community and women helping women, she was still the leader here, the one people looked to for answers, for solutions to their problems. A heavy burden for one so young.
“I had called a meeting a few days ago to discuss the threatening note Tori and I found nailed to the church door.”
Mal’s brow furrowed. “Note? Porter didn’t say anything about a note.”
Emma tilted her head. “You’ve met Mr. Porter?”
Mal nodded as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his palms along the length of his thighs. “Met him in Seymour after I got in today.” No need to add to their worries by mentioning the altercation with Fischer. “I was looking for directions to Harper’s Station. He overheard me asking a shopkeeper about the best route to take, then cornered me outside to ask what business I had here. Wanted to make sure I intended you ladies no harm.”
“Always did like that brawny fellow.”
“Henry!” Aunt Bertie gasped.
“What?” Henry shrugged. “The man’s built like a grizzly. It’s not like you haven’t noticed.”
Alberta Chandler blushed. “Good heavens. Benjamin Porter’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman, going out of his way to help our Miss Adams with her supplies and shipping our goods at modest prices. He should be spoken of with respect.”
“Oh, I respect him plenty. Told me himself he believed women had a right to decide their own futures. Should even be allowed to vote. He might be a muscle-bound giant, but his mama raised that boy right.”
Mal could just picture Aunt Henry marching up to Porter on the street and demanding his views on women’s suffrage before agreeing to his hire. Probably had him quaking in those extra-large boots of his. The fact that he’d won her over spoke well of his character.
“Well, once he learned who I was,” Mal continued, “he offered to fill me in on what little he knew. Told me about the shooting and about Emma encouraging the women with children to leave town. At least temporarily.” Mal leaned forward again, bracing his elbows across his knees. “Didn’t say anything about a note, though.”
“There were three of them, actually. The first was found nailed to a tree along the path to the river. The second on a fence post on the far side of Betty’s farm. The third was on the church door. Each one a little closer to the heart of town. And each one a little more threatening.”
Mal clenched his jaw. She recounted the details with remarkable straightforwardness, but she couldn’t quite mask the fear in her eyes. This guy had rattled her. And he was intensifying the terror tactics.
He looked from Emma to the aunts and back again. “Did anyone get a look at him when he shot up the church?”
“I did.” Emma pulled her arms in toward her stomach and folded her hands tightly together. “He hid his features behind a bandana, though, so I’m not sure what good it will do.”
“You might be surprised.” Mal twisted in his chair to face her more directly. “Tell me what you remember.”
She glanced down at her lap. “He had a loud voice. A booming voice. And he wore a buckskin coat. There was fringe on the sleeves, I think.” She close
d her eyes and squeezed them tight as if trying to picture the man in her mind. “His hat was dark brown and his horse was a chestnut, with a black tail.”
“That’s good, Emma.” And it was. She’d recalled a fair amount of detail when most people would be too overcome with shock to notice. “Was he tall? Short?”
She opened her eyes. “I don’t know. I just had a couple glimpses of him. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. It’s not that important. Was he alone?”
She tapped her fingers softly against the arm of her chair. “As far as I could tell.”
“Have you had any further contact since the day of the shooting?” Mal’s mind spun with plans. They’d need to set up a watch. Train the women how to protect themselves. None of them should walk out alone. They’d need to pair off, the larger the groups the better.
“No. It’s been quiet since—”
“Fire!” A high-pitched scream from outside broke off Emma’s answer. “Somebody help! The church is on fire!”
9
The church! Emma shot to her feet, her heart in her throat. “Henry. Bertie. Grab every pail or pot you can find in the house. I’ll grab the ones in the stable and meet you by the garden. Malachi . . .”
But he was already through the front door. Gun drawn. “Stay in the house,” he yelled over his shoulder as his boots pounded across the porch. “It could be a trap.”
Stay in the house? While her ladies flocked to the scene and tried to extinguish the blaze on their own? Not a chance!
Emma ignored Malachi’s command and sprinted through the house to the kitchen and out the back door. Trusting Aunt Henry, at least, to follow—Henry would never sit idly back and let a man fight her battles for her—Emma grabbed the milking pail and the one used for water and dashed across the length of the corral, making a beeline for the church.