No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  Katie started shaking her head before Emma finished. “No. I’ll not leave Betty and Helen out here alone.” The change in her was swift. Gone was the panic-stricken girl, and in her place was a determined, loyal young woman. “Helen might be willing to come to town with me, but Betty will never leave her hens. She’s too stubborn. We’ll face whatever comes just like you’re always telling us to do, Miss Chandler. Together.”

  “Good for you.” Emma’s chest swelled with pride. Perhaps she really was making a difference with these women. She gave Katie’s arm a brisk pat, then turned to face the barn once again. “Shall we go see what they’ve discovered?”

  Katie nibbled her lip again but nodded as she lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  13

  It took nearly three hours for Emma and Malachi to make the rounds to all the residents of Harper’s Station. By the time they’d made it back to the boardinghouse, most of the ladies there had already moved on to their usual duties—Grace to the telegraph office, Flora and Esther to the gardens, Daisy and her young roommate, Pauline, to the sewing circle. They’d spoken to the boardinghouse proprietress, Stella Grimes, and then worked their way through town, stopping at the store and the medical clinic before working back toward the garden, the station house where the quilters were working in the aunts’ parlor, and finally the telegraph office.

  Eager to get all the random pieces of information out of her head and down onto paper so she could organize them, Emma led Malachi to the bank and showed him to her office.

  “So this is where you work,” Mal said as he followed her through the doorway and walked about the office. He ran a hand along the scalloped corner of her desk and the base of the hand-painted desk lamp sitting there. His rough fingers looked strange against the delicate rose pattern, but this room had never anticipated hosting such a masculine guest.

  Had he been the tailored sort she was accustomed to seeing in a bank office, men in striped suits with slender hands and short-trimmed hair, he might have fit in. But Malachi was no tailored dandy. His scuffed boots testified to the physical labor he performed. Broken-in denim trousers hugged slim hips that looked right at home beneath his holster and gun belt. His blue cotton shirt, black worsted vest, and black Stetson could have belonged to a hundred different cowboys, yet somehow they seemed suited only to him. Malachi Shaw exuded rugged masculinity in this lacy woman’s room the way a cougar would exude sleek power standing in a field of wildflowers. Both seemingly out of place, yet both so confident in who they were that their surroundings held no sway.

  Malachi strolled from her desk across the room to examine the bookshelf that stood out from the cream-colored walls papered in a faint scroll pattern. The shelves held her ledgers, several financial treatises she’d inherited from her father, a few newer books she’d purchased herself, and a trio of framed photographs prominently displayed on the second shelf from the top. The photograph on the left depicted her parents holding her as a baby. The one on the right showed the aunts as much younger women in front of their home in Gainesville. And the photograph she most prized . . . she and Malachi as children, standing behind the aunts, who were seated in matching parlor chairs—Henry looking so serious and stoic, Bertie with her soft smile, Malachi looking stiff and uncomfortable, and she . . . Well, she wasn’t looking at the camera at all. She was looking at Malachi, a devilish gleam in her eye as if she were determined to goad a smile out of him.

  It had been taken the summer before Malachi left, and it had kept her company all these years. Now seeing him pause to stare at it—his hand arrested in midair above it as if he’d been temporarily frozen by the memory of that day—Emma’s breath caught. Dragonflies flitted about in her stomach, the tickling commotion making her light-headed.

  “I have a copy, too,” he said softly. “In my trunk.”

  In his trunk. Hidden away. Forgotten?

  The tickling in her stomach dimmed, as if the dragonflies had suddenly been drenched with molasses. Their wings heavy. Their bodies falling.

  “I keep it in that stationery box you gave me when I left . . . along with your letters.” Malachi’s back was to her, but his deep voice resonated through the room, through her. His near-reverent tone restored the tickle inside her and increased the fluttering tenfold.

  He’d kept her letters. Dared she hope they were precious to him, preserved so that he might savor them on days he was feeling lonely? That’s what she did with his letters, after all. Pulled them out of the old hatbox she kept on the top shelf of her wardrobe and read them late at night by the light of her bedside lamp. Remembered the boy he’d been. Imagined the man he’d become. Imagined him walking back into her life one day.

  And now he was here. Here to rescue her, to be her champion, just as he’d always been.

  No, not her champion. The colony’s champion. He was here for Harper’s Station, not for her. Dwelling on old girlish feelings and dreams would serve no purpose. She had a job to do. A colony to protect.

  A heart to protect, too, a small voice whispered inside her head. Remember, he’ll be leaving.

  Just then, Mal turned. Determined to handle this as any other business deal, Emma pasted on her best banker’s smile and waved toward one of the two vacant chairs sitting in front of her desk. “Have a seat. I’d thought I’d make some notes as we sift through what we learned this morning.”

  Mal shook his head. “No thanks. I think better when I’m moving.”

  “All right.” Emma circled around to her own chair, sat down, and retrieved a few sheets of paper from the top desk drawer. Pen in hand, she dipped the nib into her inkwell and wrote the word Turpentine at the top left of the page. “So let’s start with the turpentine. Betty identified the canister as belonging to the farm, which means she, Katie, and Helen all had access to it.”

  Mal paced toward the window. “But the women who work the garden stopped by a few days ago to collect a couple barrows full of compost for fertilizing. It would have been a simple matter for one of them to sneak into the barn, grab the turpentine, and hide it under the compost.”

  “But that’s made with chicken droppings.” Emma wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t imagine concealing something in manure. One would have to actually touch the stuff.

  Malachi chuckled. “You’re such a girl, Em. Don’t you see? That’s what makes it the perfect hiding place. Guaranteed to repel inquisitive ladies.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Emma twisted back around in her chair and inked her pen again. “All right. I’ll add Flora and Esther.”

  “Any on the list so far you think we can rule out?” Mal asked as he paced along the inner wall. He paused to peruse the needlework sampler hanging near her desk, though she doubted he actually read the verse Bertie had stitched. His attention seemed too internal, too contemplative.

  Emma glanced at her list of names and tried to be as objective as possible. Even though she’d lectured Malachi on assuming innocence, she knew she couldn’t blindly trust her emotions. She had to examine every possibility, no matter how unpalatable. “The only person I feel completely confident about removing is Betty. She’s been with me nearly as long as Tori, and she seemed completely straightforward when we asked her about the turpentine. I would think a guilty person would try to avert suspicion by pointing the finger elsewhere or fabricating excuses. She did none of that.

  “Besides, I can’t imagine some outlaw manipulating her. She’s as tough as they come. She doesn’t have children or other family the man could use as leverage against her. That was the reason she joined us in the first place. She had no one left to care for after her husband died, no purpose. Taking in lost young women, teaching them to find their inner strength, and showing them they have value has become her mission. I can’t imagine her jeopardizing that.”

  “Yeah, she didn’t really strike me as the furtive type.” Malachi rubbed a hand over his jaw. His still-whiskered jaw. He’d taken his turn with the bathing tub last night—they all had after getting
covered in soot and mud while fighting the fire—but he’d foregone shaving this morning, too intent on examining the area around the church before the sun had fully risen.

  What would he look like without the stubble? Less outlaw and more gentleman? Somehow she doubted it. Malachi had always possessed an edge, a touch of wildness that came from surviving on his own for so long. A shave and fancy clothes wouldn’t tame him. Nothing would. Not completely.

  Emma cleared her throat and ordered her thoughts back to her list. “Katie seemed genuinely upset by the prospect of our attacker nosing around the farm. I don’t think it likely that she’s involved, either, but I can’t be certain.”

  Malachi walked around the front side of her desk and clasped the back of one of the chairs she had offered him earlier. His arms stiff, he leaned forward and met her gaze. “What about Helen? I didn’t actually meet her when we were at the chicken farm.”

  Emma had to glance away from the shining chocolate brown of his eyes. Staring into them was far too distracting. “Helen goes out of her way to avoid men. She chose to work for Betty so she could be removed from town, from the chance of encountering Mr. Porter or any other man who might wander in unexpectedly. She only attends church because it is required of all the ladies who live in Harper’s Station, but she sits sandwiched between Betty and Katie the whole time and leaves before the last amen fades from the rafters. I don’t believe she’s said a single word to Brother Garrett since she’s been here, and he’s about as harmless as they come.”

  Mal levered himself back up to a full standing position, though his hands still grasped the chairback. “So she’s a viable candidate.”

  Emma frowned. “You don’t think the fact that she’s terrified of men precludes her involvement?”

  Mal shrugged. “Maybe. But she’s secretive. A loner. Skilled at avoiding people. That would make stealing the turpentine an easy matter. Besides, fear is a powerful motivator. Perhaps she’s terrified of men because she’s being controlled by one. Or maybe it’s not men she’s afraid of but people from outside the community. People who might recognize her and question her reason for being here.”

  Emma’s stomach cramped. She hated this. Hated questioning the motives of women she considered family. Hated imagining the worst when her natural inclination was to hope for the best and do everything in her power to bring about favorable outcomes. But to find a favorable outcome in this situation, she had to suspect the worst of her neighbors, her friends. Only one morning in and it was already wearing her down.

  “Hey.” Mal’s voice rumbled close to her ear.

  When had he come around the desk?

  His hand settled on her shoulder, the warmth from his fingers passing through the edge of the puffed sleeve to travel down the length of her arm. “I know this isn’t pleasant, Em, but I need a basic understanding of who the residents are. If it’s too upsetting for you, I can ask the aunts instead.”

  “No. I’m fine. Really.” She managed a small smile. “I want to do this. It’s my responsibility. It’s just disheartening to look at the people I love through such a suspicious lens.”

  “Until I met you, that was the only lens I knew existed.” The soft words shot straight through her heart, but before she could respond, he patted her shoulder and stepped away. “Tell me about the garden ladies.”

  “The . . . um . . . garden . . . yes.” Good grief, Emma. Get your head on straight. He’s going to think you a complete ninny. “That would be Flora and Esther.”

  Mal looked at her a bit oddly but thankfully made no comment about her scatterbrained recital. Then he frowned slightly. “Didn’t you tell me Flora was the one who encouraged everyone to leave after the shooting at the church? Seems her goal and the goal of the attacker line up pretty well.”

  “Perhaps,” Emma conceded, “but she wasn’t the only one eager for people to leave. Many others voiced the same concerns. And why wouldn’t they? The man shot at them. Any sane person would consider leaving to be the safer option. I, myself, encouraged many of the women to leave.”

  Mal rubbed his chin. “Okay, but if you combine her desire to get people out of town with her familiarity with the garden area, which is where I found the turpentine, that give us more than ample reason to add her to the suspect list.”

  “I suppose.” Emma underlined Flora’s name, then moved her pen up to underline Helen’s, as well. As she did so, another memory surfaced. “You know, Flora was reluctant to leave the site of the fire last night. And she was lingering around the garden fence.”

  “She could have been waiting for everyone to leave so she could retrieve the turpentine without witnesses,” Malachi said. “You sending her back with Miss Adams foiled that plan.”

  “It’s possible. But you didn’t see her face, Mal.” Emma thought back to her conversation with Flora. “Her eyes were dull, haunted, as if the fire had brought back terrible memories. I can only imagine what horrors Flora has seen in her lifetime.” Emma glanced up to meet Malachi’s gaze. “When she came to us, nearly three weeks ago now, she was bloodied and bruised and could barely walk.

  “She stayed in the clinic with Maybelle for the first several days, too weak to do anything but recover. And that’s not all.” Emma lowered her voice even though no one was around to overhear. “Maybelle confided that she found evidence of old wounds. Scars and bones that hadn’t been set correctly. You might have noticed the bump on Flora’s nose and the way the little finger on her left hand is crooked at the end. Maybelle fears the woman has suffered abuse for a long time. Is it any wonder she spooks easily?”

  Malachi blew out a breath and dropped his head forward. His knuckles turned white as his grip on the chairback grew forceful. “Any man who uses his fist on a woman deserves to be drawn and quartered.” Slowly, he lifted his head. She sensed what was coming. His eyes glowed with apology. “As much as I hate what happened to her, I can’t eliminate her as a suspect.”

  Emma nodded and tried to erase the acrid burn at the back of her throat by swallowing. Recalling Flora’s battered body when she’d first stumbled into town always turned her stomach. Yet the reminder of her recent arrival brought another lady to mind. “Mal . . . we haven’t discussed the other name that came up during our inquiries.”

  Malachi straightened, releasing the chairback as he paced a couple steps along the length of Emma’s desk. “The first one on scene. The one who sounded the alarm.”

  Emma started a second column on her sheet of paper and underlined the name she’d just written. “Claire.”

  14

  Mal paced the office as Emma went on to describe the newest addition to Harper’s Station. He had to pace. Any time he settled too long in Emma’s vicinity, he started thinking more about her and less about who the traitor might be. One would think that working with dynamite would teach a man better self-discipline.

  He bit back a growl as he pushed a finger through the crevice in the lace curtains hanging over the window and pulled the right panel back. Everything looked quiet. The garden ladies were the only people outside, and even they would be breaking for lunch soon.

  “Mal? Are you listening?” Emma’s voice brought his head around with guilty speed.

  “Sorry. Just wanted to check the street.” He let the curtain drop back into place. “I heard you say Claire arrived the day before the fire, though. And since we don’t have any evidence of a woman’s involvement before then, her being the insider could make sense.”

  Emma nibbled on the end of her pen, her attention focused on the ceiling, leaving him free to look his fill without being caught. Not that he would stare . . . Who was he kidding? Of course he would stare. He couldn’t seem not to. The young girl he’d known had grown into a stunning woman—one he would only be with for a couple more days if he had any hope of making it back to the rail camp on time. So he stared. Memorizing the slender line of her neck, the way tiny tendrils of hair curled around the base of her skull, the way her nose scrunched around the edges wh
en she disliked the direction her thoughts were leading her, as it did now.

  “It’s not just that Claire is young,” she was saying, “it’s that her story with Fischer checked out so completely. Mr. Porter confirmed that Stanley Fischer had indeed sent for a mail-order bride and that he threatened all kinds of retaliation against anyone who helped her back out of her obligation to him. The day after we took her in, Tori received a telegram informing her that Fischer’s Emporium would no longer conduct business with the ladies of Harper’s Station, nor would any other Seymour proprietor.”

  “And that same night, someone set the church on fire.” Malachi strode past the bookshelf again, this time keeping his hands clasped behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to finger the pictures she had on display there. Pictures of home. Or at least the closest thing he’d ever had to one. He cleared his throat. “Could be another level of revenge.”

  When he reached the front wall and pivoted to pace back toward the window, he caught Emma shaking her head. “Fischer has never approved of our colony, that’s true, but if Claire is secretly working for him, that would mean he would have had to hire her to pose as his affianced bride, stage a big hoopla in Seymour about her rejecting him to get people to believe her dire straits, then send her here with a sob story and hope we would take her in. Yet threatening to cut off our business if we help her works completely against that aim. If he wanted Claire to infiltrate our colony, why would he take the risk of us turning her down in order to protect our current members’ livelihoods?”

  Mal paused a few steps from the window. “Maybe because he knows you’re a woman of principle who will never turn away a female in need.”