No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  “I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Aunt Bertie soothed, or tried to. Aunt Henry seemed impervious to her sister’s efforts.

  “It’s only because the male of the species feels threatened by the fact that the Lord chose a woman over a man for such an honor that they think to dishonor her good name with a past that wasn’t hers. Shameful, I tell you. Absolutely shameful.”

  Aunt Bertie had glanced around nervously, then leaned forward to retrieve Henry’s napkin. “I’m sure Mr. Horner meant no offense by his categorization. After all, that was only one statement in an otherwise excellent lesson.” Bertie handed the napkin to her sister with a pointed look. “A lesson focused on the forgiving nature of God, and the importance of Christians extending that same forgiveness to their fellow man. Perhaps you could extend some to Mr. Horner for his error. The man is as kindhearted as they come and surely meant no offense.”

  Henry cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her lap. “Yes, well. I suppose.”

  Then, because Bertie couldn’t stand to see anyone uncomfortable, she’d suggested that Mal fetch her sister a piece of the lovely blueberry pie Bertie had made just that morning. Henry’s favorite. Mal had immediately agreed, worried that if he hesitated, Aunt Henry would take note of his gender and set her tongue to flapping at him for the sins of his long-dead male forebears.

  Emma had smiled at him with impish delight as he’d gotten to his feet, nearly letting the giggle he could tell was building inside her escape from behind the hand she raised to cover her mouth. She’d looked so happy, so carefree, he couldn’t imagine anything bad ever befalling her.

  But when he’d collected the pie from the food table some distance away and turned to head back to the aunts, his stomach clenched. Emma wasn’t there. He picked up his pace, his eyes scouring the gathering for any sign of her. Nothing. His back had only been turned for a minute. How could she have disappeared so quickly? She couldn’t have . . . unless someone had been waiting for him to break his vigil.

  Oliver.

  Mal dashed back to the aunts, uncaring that the slice of pie slid precariously close to the edge of the plate. He thrust the dessert at Henry and immediately demanded to know where Emma had gone. Flustered by his forceful tone, the aunts took precious seconds to gather themselves and answer. Abby Pierce had dragged Emma off to see a nest of duck eggs she’d discovered by the little pond behind the church. Some of the boys were threatening to stomp on the eggs, and Abby feared for the unhatched little ducklings.

  Mal groaned and immediately raced for the pond. He dodged families, trees, girls rolling hoops, men tossing horseshoes. Dread built in his chest with every step.

  Abby was no great friend of Emma’s, her brother being one of Oliver’s most loyal cronies. Yet Emma would never allow a helpless animal to be harmed if she could do something about it. No doubt she had rushed to the ducklings’ defense, not once considering it could be a trap. Mal clenched his jaw. There probably wasn’t even a nest to defend.

  He rounded the corner of the church and slid down the embankment that sheltered the pond. A flash of blue off to the left caught his eye. Had Emma been wearing a blue dress? Doggone it. He couldn’t remember. He’d been more concerned about keeping track of where she was than what she was wearing. Stupid. Stupid!

  He veered to the left anyway, and chased down the blue dress. Only to find it attached to a blond-haired female. Not Emma.

  Mal grabbed Abby’s arm and spun her to face him. She let out a squeal of distress, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

  “Where is she?” he snapped.

  Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “I didn’t know. I thought they were just going to have some fun. . . . I didn’t mean . . .” The girl was sobbing in earnest now, her broken sentences telling him nothing.

  He shook her arm and bit out one word. “Where?”

  Abby lifted her free hand and pointed toward a large cottonwood several yards back the way he had come. He released her and ran toward the tree.

  He heard Emma before he saw her.

  “Let me go. Please . . . stop. You’re hurting me. . . .”

  Her whimpers sliced through Mal’s chest like a cavalry saber. He rounded the tree and stumbled to a halt. Every instinct demanded that he rush Oliver like a bull, take the fiend to the ground and pummel him until his face was too broken and bloody for even his old man to recognize. But Oliver was too close to Emma, bending over her while he held her pinned against a tree. Mal couldn’t risk causing his angel pain. But Oliver? Oh, Oliver would be feeling lots of pain. Real soon.

  “Just one kiss,” Oliver demanded in a sickly smooth voice that turned Mal’s stomach. “That’s all. Then I’ll let you go.” His head lowered.

  “No!” Emma jerked her face to the side. “I’ll never kiss a pig like you!” Then without warning, she threw her head forward and slammed her forehead straight into Oliver’s puckered lips.

  The boy cursed and reared back, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Emma broke free of his hold for an instant, but Oliver recovered too quickly. Snatching her arm so hard she fell backward, Oliver raised a fist.

  “I’ll teach you to—”

  Malachi let out a roar and charged. By all that was holy, he was going to tear the swine limb from limb.

  But just as he came within reach, two of Oliver’s cronies rushed him from behind. They tackled him, one throwing punches in his side as the other ground his face into the dirt. Malachi kicked and bucked, but they were too heavy. They twisted his arms behind him and forced him to his feet.

  “I just wanted a taste of what you’ve already had, Malachi,” Oliver taunted, his rage of a moment ago supplanted by smug superiority as he dragged a struggling Emma beside him. “It must be nice living under the same roof as her with no one but the crazy Chandler sisters to act as chaperones.”

  Malachi narrowed his gaze, silently promising retribution for the slur against Emma, but Oliver was too stupid to realize the danger he was in.

  “Malachi would never!” In a flash, the fear in Emma’s eyes hardened to indignation. “How dare you say such a thing? It’s a vile lie!”

  Oliver laughed. “What an innocent.” He stroked a piece of her hair. Emma yanked it from his grasp with a twist of her head and a glare, only wincing slightly when the few strands tangled in his fingers tore out of her scalp. “Maybe he hasn’t done anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t wanted to. Right, Mal?” Oliver shot a knowing glance at Malachi.

  Mal’s gut clenched guiltily. He had imagined what it would be like to kiss Emma—she was too beautiful inside and out for him not to dream of such a treasure—but she was too young. And far too good for the likes of him. He’d sooner cut off his arm than take liberties.

  “We’ve seen the way you watch her. Haven’t we, fellas?” Oliver shared a look with his friends, his smirk fanning the flame of Malachi’s rage. The boys holding Mal laughed and shouted their agreement.

  Mal quit struggling. Let his arms go lax. Prayed his captors would instinctively relax, as well.

  Oliver turned back to Emma. She renewed her struggles. “Do you suppose she tastes as sweet as she looks?” Then the dirty scum grabbed her head and brought his mouth down on hers. Hard. Staining Emma’s purity with his foul touch. She whimpered, tried desperately to push him away with her free hand.

  Malachi struck. Using his thin build to his advantage, he twisted free from his captors’ loosened hold. Dodging their grasping hands, he threw himself to the ground, flipping so he’d land on his back. He kicked outward and upward, his bootheels jamming against the tender area of both boys, where he knew it would cause the most pain. As they howled and doubled over, Mal leapt to his feet and lunged for Oliver.

  The boy’s eyes widened. He released his hold on Emma in order to bring his fists up for protection, but Malachi didn’t give him the chance to take a swing. Putting his head down, he rammed Oliver’s midsection and carried him to the ground. Oliver punched wildly at Mal’s back and shoulder
s, but Mal ignored the pain. All he saw was Emma’s terror as Oliver forced his attentions on her. Mal straddled Oliver, pinning him to the ground just as Oliver had pinned Emma to the tree. Then he smashed his fist into Oliver’s jaw. Oliver cried out.

  “Say you’re sorry,” Mal demanded as he raised his fist, threatening another blow.

  Oliver whimpered. Then his gaze darted to somewhere behind Mal. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Didn’t mean to? He’d held her down and attacked her!

  Mal swung, but arms grabbed him from behind before the blow landed. Mal fought their hold. They were stronger than before. A man’s arms.

  “That’s enough!” Abby’s father pulled him off of Oliver and flung him aside.

  Mal immediately sought out Emma. Tears streaked her face. Tangled hair stood out from her head, bits of bark clinging to her curls. But her bright green eyes locked on him, full of gratitude and of worry—for him.

  She hurried to his side and immediately started fussing over his cuts and scrapes, as if they mattered.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, peering down into her face through a rapidly swelling eye. “I should have watched you more closely. I should’ve—”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself, Malachi Shaw.” She scowled up at him even as she brushed the dust off his sleeve. “Oliver is the one in the wrong, not you.” Then she smiled one of her magic smiles at him, the one that turned his insides to mush. “You protected me against three boys older and larger than you. In my book, that makes you hero material.”

  Hero material? Bah. A bunch of girlish fancy. But the words wormed their way into his bones, spreading their roots and vines until he couldn’t escape them. A hero. Emma’s hero. Him. Malachi Shaw. The idea was ludicrous . . . yet he longed so much for it to be true, that it infected him at the deepest level.

  Unfortunately, Emma and the aunts were the only ones who considered his actions heroic. Harland Evans, Oliver’s father, demanded that Malachi be charged with assault. The aunts insisted that Oliver be charged with the same crime against their niece. Abby’s father could only testify to Malachi’s attack on Oliver, not Oliver’s attack on Emma, so since Emma was basically unhurt and Oliver sported a busted nose, bloody lip, and a nice assortment of bruises, the sheriff sided with the Evans family. Not convinced a boyish scuffle really warranted jail time, yet needing to placate Harland Evans, who insisted Malachi was a miscreant who never should have been allowed into their community in the first place, the sheriff gave Malachi a choice. Leave Gainesville or go to jail.

  The aunts vowed to hire a lawyer and fight the injustice of the sheriff’s ruling, but Malachi knew what a trial would mean. Emma would have to testify to what Oliver had done, relive the humiliation and fear. Her assault would be a matter of public record.

  She wouldn’t care one whit, of course. At least not on the surface. She’d march into that courtroom and defend him with all the fervor of a revival preacher fighting to save souls from hell. That’s just who she was. But he wasn’t about to let her recount Oliver’s atrocities in front of a full gallery of witnesses—witnesses who would gawk and gossip and question her morals even though she was the innocent party in the whole ordeal.

  So he’d left. Quietly. In the night. But not before Emma cornered him and made him promise to write to her. Often. She’d insisted that she’d worry herself sick if she didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. She even thrust her writing box at him, stocked with paper, pen, ink, and postage stamps. And a coin pouch filled with her meager savings, he’d later discovered.

  And since he’d never break a promise to her, and because he secretly longed to preserve his connection to her, even if he never laid eyes on her again, he’d written. And extracted a promise of his own. If she ever needed his help, she was to send for him.

  Now she had.

  Malachi refocused his gaze on the landscape outside his window, silently urging the train to greater speed. Hang in there, Emma. I’m coming.

  5

  Emma sat in her office at the bank, her head bent over her writing desk as she added the latest names to her ledger. Irene Booker and her son, Charlie, had left that morning, bringing the count up to thirty. Thirty women and children lost to Harper’s Station. She’d expected such an exodus, but every departure still hit her like a blow to her midsection.

  She replaced her pen in the black lacquered stand and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. It’s hard to believe you are in control, Lord, when a man with a gun steals our freedom and scatters our members far and wide. I thought this colony was your plan. Why are you allowing this attack?

  The ceiling offered no answer. Emma sighed and turned back to her ledger, or would have if Aunt Bertie’s needlework sampler hadn’t caught her attention. Hanging in a frame on the wall beside her desk, the colorful stitching radiated love and encouragement, just as Bertie herself always did. Yet today it also offered a pointed reminder.

  “But the God of all grace,” the brightly colored thread announced, “who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you. To him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.”

  Emma bit her bottom lip, then bowed her head. “Forgive me, Father. I have no right to demand exemption from suffering when not even your Son was spared. No lives have yet been lost, and I thank you for that mercy most deeply. Please establish and strengthen us, and when the time is right, may those who have left us return to settle here once again, if it be your will.”

  Opening her eyes, she ran her fingers along the ledger page a final time, then closed the cover and set the book aside. Instead of dwelling on those who had been lost, she should be counting her blessings regarding how many had stayed.

  The café had closed down, but the boardinghouse remained staffed and open, ready to serve meals to any in need of such service. There were two ladies to keep the garden watered, weeded, and harvested and three to keep the sewing circle in business. Other ladies had already volunteered to help the quilting group fill the current order, including the aunts, their friend Daisy, and Emma herself. Heaven knew there’d be little for her to do at the bank with over half her town absent. She’d operate the bank in the morning hours and quilt in the afternoons, assuming she could remember how to stitch a straight line. She’d never really had the patience for the task. But if plying a needle meant keeping the women of Harper’s Station financially solvent, she’d gladly contribute her limited skill.

  Besides, it was a sound investment strategy. If the ladies of the circle failed to get their quilts to market by the deadline, they wouldn’t be able to make their monthly loan payments. And if Emma was going to be able to keep the bank open for business, she’d need those payments.

  Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she retrieved the gold watch that had once belonged to her father. She held it in her palm and flipped open the cover with a practiced flick of her thumb, her eyes, as they always did, finding the inscription etched inside the lid—To William with love, Ann. A gift from her mother on her father’s forty-fifth birthday. He’d been a good deal older than his wife, but they’d been well matched in other ways. Father’s philanthropy. Mother’s volunteer work at the hospital. Their love for their only child. The stories the aunts had told Emma about her parents were what had spurred her to find her own way to help those in need. Yet, as much as she wished she were running a charity here in Harper’s Station, the truth was, she was running a business—a business that offered hope and a fresh start to many. If the bank went under, the women would, too.

  “What would you do, Daddy?” she whispered into the empty office, remembering all those times she would crawl into her father’s lap and beg him to tell her about the bank. She’d idolized him. Wanted to emulate him in everything. Instead of tea parties, she had bank parties, having her dolls complete transactions with the money she’d made out of strips of brown paper and buttons
pilfered from Mother’s sewing basket.

  “Emma, darling.” She recalled his cultured voice, could almost feel the hand he used to run over her hair. “Banking is stewardship. We can’t give to everyone who asks or we risk losing the ability to give to any. We must seek God’s wisdom and direction, then work hard not only to protect but also increase what has been entrusted to us. Think like a five-talent steward, Emma.”

  Emma smiled. Daddy had loved Jesus’ parable of the talents. Especially the part where the master condemned the single-talent steward for not at least putting his money in the bank to earn interest.

  Emma circled her fingertip along the edge of the watch face. Think like a five-talent steward. Take measured risks. Be wise. Don’t let fear paralyze you.

  She’d built her business on that strategy. Invested the bulk of the inheritance her father had left her into developing the land and buildings comprising Harper’s Station. Invested the rest with a New York broker who had worked with her father, one who had proven trustworthy and willing to take instructions from a woman. She invested bank funds with him, as well, though on a more conservative trajectory. Protecting her ladies came before profit. However, if her quilters failed to make their quotas and lost the income needed to make their loan payments, a few would be perilously close to defaulting.

  The bank was solvent enough to let a couple months of missed payments slide for those in the direst need, but having such a small group of clients overall, the business wouldn’t survive much beyond that. Hard decisions would have to be made—decisions Emma would rather avoid. Yet if it came to it, she wouldn’t bury her talent in the sand. She’d make her father proud and do what had to be done.

  The rattle of wagon wheels outside brought Emma’s head up. Snapping her watch closed, she pushed to her feet and swiveled to get a better view. She slid the watch back into her pocket, then walked to the window and parted the lace curtains with her hand. Her pulse skittered. Benjamin Porter’s freight wagon.