Heart thundering in her chest, Emma faced her ladies, chin high. “You’re right, Flora. I can’t promise that you . . . that any of you . . . will be safe. I don’t know if we are facing one man or many. Staying will entail danger, and the serious possibility of physical harm. What I can promise you, though, is that I will stay and fight.
“Harper’s Station is my dream and my responsibility. My aunts and I own the land, and I refuse to be run off my property. What we face is no different than what the courageous families who settled this land faced before us. They had to fend off Indian attacks and raids from the warring Comanche. Some died. Some left. But some held their ground and prevailed.
“That is what I intend to do. Hold my ground, and do my best to preserve what we have built here. However, I will not ask anyone to fight this battle with me. Each of you must decide for yourself, but . . . I strongly suggest that those of you with children seek shelter elsewhere, if at all possible. The young ones must be protected. And be assured that if you leave, I will welcome your return once the danger has passed. You will always have a place here in Harper’s Station.”
“Unless the Station’s no longer standin’,” a very loud, very male voice boomed. The sound carried through an open window to Emma’s right.
She caught a brief glimpse of a man in a heavy buckskin coat, a dark blue bandana pulled high over his face. Then she saw a flash of metal.
“Everybody down!” Emma dove off the stage toward her aunts. She swept them both from the pew just as gunfire erupted.
2
Glass shattered. Women screamed. Emma prayed.
Protect us, Lord!
Then all fell silent.
Emma cautiously lifted her head and looked toward the window where she’d caught a glimpse of the man in buckskin. He was gone. Or hiding.
Releasing her hold on the aunts, she crawled across the front of the church to get to the window.
“Mind the glass, Emma.” Aunt Henry called out the warning in an overloud whisper.
Emma grinned. She should have known better than to think a little gunplay would rattle Henrietta Chandler. The woman’s nerves were as strong as a gunslinger’s. Emma heeded her aunt’s advice and veered away from the window to avoid the broken glass. Once she reached the wall, she clambered to her feet and flattened her back against the whitewashed planks. Scooting the glass out of her way with the toe of her shoe, she eased closer to the window.
Was he still out there? Waiting for her to show her face so he could take out the ringleader? Emma’s corset seemed to shrink about her midsection, stealing her breath, constricting her movement. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. Calm yourself, Emma. You can do this. Your ladies are counting on you.
Then, through the panic and the thunderous pounding of her heart, the hint of a sound tickled her ears. Hoofbeats. Moving away.
Emma spun toward the window and scanned the side yard. She craned her neck to check the road but saw nothing. Then she looked to the surrounding landscape. There. A rider. Disappearing into the scrub brush. Dark brown hat. Buckskin coat. Chestnut horse. Too far away to make out any other details.
“He’s gone.” She turned to face the women, who were slowly picking themselves off the floor, using the pews as support. “He rode off to the north. A single rider.”
“Anyone hurt?” The gruff voice of Maybelle Curtis rang through the room. “I can run fetch my doctorin’ bag if anyone’s of a need.”
A low murmur spread through the building as the women examined their children and each other for injury.
“Katie’s got a cut on her cheek that will need attention,” Betty offered, “but the rest of my chicks are in decent shape.”
“Charlie knocked his head pretty hard on the side of the pew when we dove for cover,” one of the young mothers from the sewing circle added. “I’d take it kindly if you could look at it for me, Maybelle.”
A handful of others called out similar concerns. All minor, thank the Lord. Emma hurried back to her aunts. “Are the two of you all right?” she asked even as she examined them for signs of injury.
“Quit your fussing,” Aunt Henry groused. “It’ll take more than a topple from a church pew to do us in.”
“We’re fine, dear,” Aunt Bertie confirmed in a softer tone. “Might be a little sore come tomorrow, but nothing to worry about. What about you, Emma? You were the most exposed when the shooting started.”
“I’m unharmed.” Emma took Bertie’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “No need to fret over me. We Chandlers are made of stern stuff.”
The woman beamed as she patted Emma’s hand. “That we are, dear. That we are.”
Convinced that her aunts were safe, Emma immediately searched the sanctuary for Victoria and her son. Finding her friend examining a hole in the far wall, Emma rushed to her side. “Tori? Are you and Lewis . . .”
Victoria turned aside to reveal a hale-and-hearty sandy-haired boy hiding among the folds of her skirts. “We’re fine. Just examining these bullet holes.” She reached above her head and ran the tip of her pointer finger over a divot in the white-washed wall. “Lewis was the one to bring it to my attention.”
“Bring what to your attention?” Emma frowned up at the half-dozen dark circles marring the wall, indignation swelling inside her once again. The fool man could have killed someone.
“He aimed high.” Victoria’s matter-of-fact voice recited her observation as if she and her son hadn’t just been under attack. “Even if we’d been standing, the shots would have sailed over our heads.”
Emma pivoted to study the broken window glass on the opposite side of the building. Short, jagged teeth jutted a bare inch at most from the top of the window frame. It had shattered from the top. “You think he intended only to scare us.”
Victoria nodded. “It seems so. But don’t think I’m excusing his actions.” Her eyes flared. “Anyone who fires a weapon into a crowded room deserves no sympathy. A bullet easily could have ricocheted and hit someone. As it is, the panic itself caused numerous injuries.”
A pounding from behind Emma drew her attention—drew everyone’s attention—back toward the pulpit. Aunt Henry’s palm slapped against the podium twice more before she raised an imperious hand and jabbed a finger toward the broken window.
“The coward has finally shown his true colors. Opening fire on women and children. Such depravity is not to be tolerated! Those of you who feel you must leave, do so with all haste, but those of you who feel the fire of injustice burning in your bellies, prepare yourselves for battle. I, for one, pledge to stay and fight alongside my niece. Who’s with me?”
“I am!” Victoria raised her hand in the air without a hint of hesitation. Emma’s eyes misted.
Betty Cooper pushed to her feet. “I ain’t about to leave my hens unprotected with a hooligan like that runnin’ around and causin’ mischief. Count me in.”
“Harper’s Station is my home.” Quiet Grace Mallory stood next. Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke, but there was nothing uncertain about the determined set of her chin. “I’m done running. And I’m done being told what I can and cannot do. The Lord gave me as much free will as he gave that man outside, and I choose to use mine by not bending to his. I choose to stay.”
Emma stared at the petite young woman. She’d never heard Grace string more than a handful of words together at any one time, and here she was addressing an entire room head held high and with a conviction that had Emma herself ready to sound the battle cry.
And she wasn’t the only one so affected. All over the room, women pushed to their feet, committing to stay and fight for their home. The show of solidarity seeped into Emma’s bones and infused her with strength, with purpose, and also with a touch of fear. These women were counting on her to lead them, to shepherd them through this travail. She knew how to fight financial battles, how to instill a spirit of independence in the women who came to her seeking aid, but how was she to fight a war
of physical aggression and danger? Didn’t the Bible warn against the blind leading the blind?
“I guess I better stay, too,” Maybelle grumbled as she grabbed hold of one of the pew backs and pulled herself to her feet. “If all you hardheaded females are set on being soldiers, someone’s gotta be here to nurse your wounds. And there will be wounds. Mark my words.”
The practical reminder subdued the swelling current of partisanship, but Emma was thankful for the hefty dose of reality. Taking her skirt in hand, she ascended the dais and took her position beside Aunt Henry.
“Maybelle’s right. As much as I would love for all of you to stay, there is every likelihood that we will be facing true danger. Each of you must prayerfully consider your choice and count the cost before making a decision.”
Betty Cooper lumbered between the pews until she reached an aisle, then ambled up toward the front. “I’m all for countin’ the cost, Emma, but if it’s all the same to you, I think we ought to count a few other things, as well.” She turned to face the group. “Those who plan to stay . . . how many of ya own a firearm?”
“Do we really need to bring weapons into this discussion, dear?” Aunt Bertie’s usually pink complexion went decidedly pale. “Guns only breed violence.”
Betty shook her head. “I don’t like it none, either, Miss Bertie, but this fella has already proved himself to be dishonorable. He ain’t above using force to push us outta our homes. If we plan to push back, we might have to do it in a language he understands.” She scanned the crowd of assembled women. “Now, raise your hand if you own a firearm. I keep a shotgun by the back door to keep the vermin outta the henhouse. What else we got?”
Three hands went up. Three. Out of the entire colony, only four women owned a gun. And Emma couldn’t even count herself among them. She could purchase some, of course, but they’d have to be ordered. Victoria didn’t stock them in her store. There’d never been a need for them in Harper’s Station. Until now.
“I have my husband’s hunting rifle,” the widow who ran the boardinghouse offered. “It’s stored away in a trunk with the rest of his belongings. Don’t know what kind of shape it’s in. Haven’t opened that trunk since I packed it up three years ago.”
“All right,” Betty said. “What else?” She pointed to the next woman with her hand raised. “Daisy?”
“I have my papa’s old army revolver.” Daisy was one of her aunts’ dear friends and couldn’t be a day under fifty. Which meant her papa’s revolver was probably of a similar age. “I’m afraid I never learned how to fire it, though. I just held on to it as a keepsake after Mama passed. Along with Papa’s confederate uniform.”
Emma bit back a groan. It was worse than she’d thought. But she hadn’t really thought this through at all, had she? Her women’s colony was designed to be a place of commerce, of belonging, of second chances. A place for women with nowhere to go to come together and support one another through hard work and camaraderie. A sisterhood. Never once had Emma considered that they might need a way to defend themselves against outsiders who wished them harm.
Yet here they were, in just such a situation. And thanks to her lack of foresight, they stood ready to defend their home with all the ferocity of a pack of newborn kittens.
The last woman with her hand raised, drew it down to her side as Betty turned her attention to her. Emma blinked. Grace Mallory?
“I carry a derringer in my handbag.”
Shock held the crowd immobile. Soft-spoken Grace Mallory carried a gun in her handbag? Emma never would have guessed such a thing, not in a thousand years. But how well did she truly know the young telegrapher? Grace had always made a point to keep to herself. Why, Emma had learned more about her in the last few minutes than she had in the last six months.
Grace lifted her chin. “I know how to use it and would be willing to teach others. But it’s only effective in close quarters. A weapon of last resort.”
“Well, if you know your way around a gun,” Betty announced, recovering more quickly than the rest of them from Grace’s revelation, “that puts you a step ahead of most.”
“I still think we should notify Sheriff Tabor,” Aunt Bertie urged. “Perhaps now that a crime has actually been committed, he’ll send deputies to protect us.”
Emma shook her head. “I will, of course, report this incident to the sheriff, but he has made his position abundantly clear. He can’t afford to assign men to Harper’s Station. Not until the cattle rustlers are caught.”
“He cares more for cows than women and children? Outrageous!”
Emma smiled at her aunt. Very rarely did Bertie get riled about anything. She was the sweet-tempered sister. But even Bertie had her limits.
“It’s not as simple as that,” Emma explained. “The rustling affects the three largest outfits in the county. If they continue losing stock, they will lose significant profit, which means men will lose their jobs, local businesses will lose sales, Seymour’s economy will decline. Hundreds of lives could be impacted.”
“Not to mention the physical altercations that cost men their lives.” Maybelle Curtis added. “There’ve already been two casualties attributed to the rustling that I’ve heard about. Good men, putting their lives on the line to defend the cattle in their charge. Sheriff Tabor is well within his rights to focus his energy there.”
Bertie fell silent for a moment, her brow creased, but then something sparked in her eyes. She lifted her gaze to her sister, then turned her attention to Emma.
“If the sheriff is unavailable to assist us, what’s to stop us from hiring a man of our own to see to our protection?”
“A mercenary?” Flora Johnson lurched to her feet, alarm turning her cheeks a violent red. “You can’t! Men like that can’t be trusted. All they care about is money. They’re more likely to turn on us than help us. Once they see how defenseless we are, they’ll empty the bank and run off, leaving us even more destitute than before.” Her fingers visibly trembled. “No men. They can’t be trusted.”
“But what if we knew of one who could be trusted?” Aunt Henry proposed. She turned to Emma and peered at her with a pointed look. “A man who would rather sacrifice himself than bring harm to someone under his care.”
Emma frowned slightly. What was her aunt suggesting . . . ? Then the answer came, and with it a fluttering in Emma’s belly she hadn’t felt in over a decade.
“Such a man doesn’t exist,” Flora snapped.
“Yes . . . he does.” Emma lifted her face to survey the women who depended on her for guidance, for leadership. Hope swelled in her breast along with a surge of newfound confidence—for she now had a plan. A plan that was sure to succeed because the man Aunt Henry spoke of had been fighting against injustice since the day he was born. “His name is Malachi Shaw.”
3
SOUTHERN MONTANA BORDER
BURLINGTON ROUTE CONSTRUCTION SITE
Malachi unwound the last foot of the fuse line, then examined the hole a final time. Depth looked good. Line was clear. No moisture. No debris to interfere with a clean run. Blast radius should be sufficient to break up the rock layers directly in line with the track path. He might have to lay a second charge to widen the area, but he’d make that decision after the rocks were cleared.
Scanning the area to make sure no one had ventured into the blast zone, Mal reached into his vest pocket and extracted a wooden matchstick.
“Fire in the hole!”
He struck the match head on the side of his boot, lit the fuse, and sprinted down the rocky incline as fast as the uneven terrain would allow. He counted in his head, knowing exactly how long he would have until the dynamite blew.
Five . . . six . . .
He zagged to the right to avoid the loose stones left over from a recent rockslide. Footing was everything.
Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .
He located the tree that marked the edge of the safety area. Only twenty yards to go.
Sweat dripped in his eye
s. The sting distracted him. He blinked to clear his vision. His toe stubbed hard against a chunk of sandstone jutting up from the ground. He fell forward, his momentum hurling his torso ahead of his feet. Mal fought against instinct. Instead of bracing his arms to catch himself, he tucked his arms into his body and curled his head into his chest to execute a bone-jarring roll. He couldn’t afford to lose time with a sprawled landing. He had to keep moving.
Sixteen . . . seventeen . . .
The instant his feet came around, Mal popped back up and caught his balance even as he continued his wild descent. The marker tree loomed. Almost there.
Nineteen . . .
Mal dove. The explosion detonated. The earth convulsed. A deafening roar reverberated through his body, vibrating his bones even before he collided with the ground. He covered his head with his hands. Dust and debris poured over him. But nothing bigger than a pebble. He’d survived. Again.
Blood thundered through his veins, invigorating him with an energy that buzzed with triumph. Mal jumped to his feet, a smile splitting his face as he turned to survey his handiwork. Never did he feel more alive than in the moment he escaped death’s grasp.
Man, but he loved this job.
“You crazy coyote!”
Mal turned to see his gangly assistant running toward him. The kid was barely eighteen, an orphan—just like Mal—and far too eager to prove himself.
“I thought you were a goner for sure.” Zachary laughed as he reached his mentor. “Shoulda known better. Dynamite ain’t strong enough to take out Malachi Shaw. Nothin’ is.” He slapped Mal on the arm. “You gotta teach me how to roll like that.”
“Sure, kid. But only if you remember that dynamite is strong enough to take out anyone who doesn’t respect it. And even some who do.”
Mal thought of his own instructor—Three Finger Willy. The old coal miner had taught Mal everything he knew about working with black powder, nitro, and dynamite, never missing a chance to remind him about the time he lost two of his fingers in an ill-timed blast. Willy had lost more than a pair of fingers a couple years back when a faulty fuse failed to blow. He went back in to check it, only to have the smoldering line reignite and make him a permanent part of the mine tunnel he’d been expanding.
No Other Will Do Page 3
