No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

“I’ve got to get Helios and Hermes.” Mr. Porter tried to rise, but Tori quickly set aside the basin of water she held and fit her palms to the large man’s shoulders. “They’re stuck in the traces.” He batted at her hands. “Might injure themselves.”

  “You’re staying right here.” Tori’s firm tone left no room for discussion. “Mr. Shaw will tend to your precious horses.”

  When Mr. Porter continued to struggle, Emma joined the fray, helping Tori press him back into his seat.

  Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Bandits!” He wagged his head back and forth as if witnessing their approach on either side of him. “Can’t let them get the shipment. Victoria needs it. She’s counting on me.”

  Victoria? Since when had Tori and the freighter moved their relationship to a first-name basis? Or had they? To be fair, the man was spouting off about invisible bandits. Not exactly his most lucid moment.

  Emma met Tori’s concerned gaze over the man’s head. “He’s talking like he doesn’t know where he is.”

  “I’m not sure he does. Mr. Shaw thinks he hit his head in the crash. There’s a huge knot on this side.”

  “Helios! Hermes!” Mr. Porter cried out as if in pain, his gaze seeing something beyond Emma’s shoulder, something only visible in his own mind.

  “He keeps rambling on about his horses, fool man,” Tori muttered, reaching again for the cloth floating in the basin sitting atop a nearby crate. “More worried about them than himself.” She leaned her mouth close to the big man’s ear. “Mr. Shaw went to fetch those great beasts of yours. He’ll take care of them.”

  The freighter’s hand lashed out without warning and latched onto Tori’s arm. The cloth she’d just retrieved dripped water on his trousers, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. His wild eyes searched her face. “Don’t let him put them down. Even if a leg is broke. I might be able to mend it. Promise.” He roared it the second time. “Promise!”

  “I’ll tell him as soon as I see him,” Tori hurried to assure him, though Emma noticed she was careful not to promise something she couldn’t guarantee. “He’ll take good care of them. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Emma had never before prayed for the health of horses, but she did so now. Heaven knew this man had been through enough already, he didn’t need to lose what seemed to be his closest friends, as well.

  Mr. Porter released Tori’s arm and settled, mollified at least for the moment. A red mark marred the skin below the cuff of her sleeve, but Tori ignored it and went back to cleaning his face.

  Now that the big man had calmed, Emma couldn’t help prodding her friend just a bit. “He called you Victoria,” Emma whispered, curious to see her friend’s reaction. Tori had always insisted on the strictest formality when dealing with men. It was one of the ways she held them at arm’s length.

  “The poor man’s out of his head,” Tori said, her cheeks admirably unflushed. “I never gave him leave to address me as such.”

  Emma smiled. “But he obviously thinks of you in such terms and cares about your opinion of him, if that outburst was any indication. The man’s sweet on you.”

  There was the blush. Finally!

  Tori gave her a sharp glare, though, so it could have been anger that spawned the pink in her cheeks. “You have better things to do than play matchmaker, Emma. You know my feelings on the matter.”

  She did. Tori had no intention of marrying. Or even being around men more than was necessary. And Emma understood why. A brutal betrayal like the one she’d endured would scare any woman off of marriage. Yet not all men were scoundrels. Mr. Porter had been serving as their freighter for nigh on a year, and he’d proven himself honorable and dependable and had never treated any of the ladies of Harper’s Station with anything but respect and kindness. What if Tori was throwing away a chance at love simply out of fear?

  And what if you’re throwing away the same chance out of duty?

  The thought snuck up on Emma, and insinuated itself in her brain, conjuring up memories of her and Malachi in the café. Of the way her pulse thrummed every time she saw him. Of the secret fear that watching him leave again would tear her heart to pieces.

  Mr. Porter jerked against her hold right then and brought her attention back to the matter at hand. Tori held the cloth to the man’s head, where blood matted his hair. He hissed in a breath and pulled away from her touch.

  Emma pressed him back into the chair. “Easy, Mr. Porter. You’ve been injured. You need to let Miss Adams tend your wound.”

  “Miss Adams?” He twisted his head toward Emma. “Where?”

  “I’m here, Mr. Porter.” Tori’s voice seemed to soothe the giant of a man.

  His gaze immediately sought hers. “Don’t worry, miss. They’re safe. In the wagon.” He winced as Tori set the cloth to his head again. She couldn’t seem to withstand his earnest gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “I got a . . . a false bottom. Always carry valuables there. Just in case. There’s unscrupulous characters out there, you know.”

  Tori smiled slightly. “I know.” She continued cleaning the blood from his hair. “I’m thankful you had the foresight to hide the weapons.”

  “Didn’t want to let you down. Sold most of your goods, too. The ones Fischer refused. Got your money in my pock—” His words died off on another hiss when he lifted his hips and tried to bend his arm to reach into his trouser pocket.

  “Just leave it.” Tori laid a gentle hand on the small section of his sleeve that had no blood smeared upon it. “It’ll keep.” She glanced across him to Emma, her eyes bewildered, as if she couldn’t imagine why this man had gone out of his way to do her such a significant kindness. “I never asked you to—”

  “Wanted to,” he interrupted, his eyes sliding closed, his voice slurring slightly. “You and the others need the funds. Deserve them for your labor.” His eyes opened again, and for a second Emma swore she saw a twinkle of pride in them before the haze of pain covered it up. “Got a better price for ’em, too. Delivered to folks on the outskirts of town. Seems . . . people like the convenience . . . of fresh eggs delivered . . . to their door.” His eyes closed again. “Might set up . . . a reg’lar route. I’d be willin’ . . . to run it . . .” His words died off, and he slumped in the chair.

  “Mr. Porter?” Tori tossed the rag aside and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Porter!”

  A shuffling sounded behind them. “Step aside, gals, and let an old lady through.” Maybelle marched into the fray, Claire close on her heels.

  Emma backed away at once, relieved to have an expert in their midst. Heaven knew she wasn’t adding anything of value to the proceedings, beyond keeping the giant of a man in the chair.

  “Claire, fetch the smelling salts.” Maybelle thrust her medical bag at the younger woman. “Let me guess. Head wound?”

  Tori nodded, not taking her hand from the freighter’s shoulder. “He has a gash on this side above his ear. It’s swelling something awful. Even the lightest touch had him hissing in pain when I tried to clean it.”

  Claire handed Maybelle a tiny vial. The midwife uncapped it and waved it under the man’s nose. He yanked his face away from the stringent odor, and his eyes opened wide.

  “What . . . ?”

  “Mr. Porter.” Maybelle grabbed the big man’s chin as if he were a ten-year-old boy and forced him to look at her. “Listen to me. You’ve taken a hard knock on the head and already passed out once. I need you to stay awake. Fight against the sleep for me. Understand?”

  “All . . . right,” he croaked.

  “Good.” Maybelle released his chin, then scooted around to the right side of his chair to examine the wound Tori had mentioned. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot, but the gash is not too wide. Should only need eight to ten stitches. Swelling is significant.” She pressed gently against the area around the wound, drawing a groan from her patient, but she continued probing without apology. “It’ll give you a nasty headache, and you might not want to wear a hat for a few days, but having the swe
lling on the outside is better than the inside. We’ll need to clean it real good, though, to stave off infection. Won’t be too comfortable for a while, but a man your size should be able to handle a little discomfort without falling apart.”

  Mr. Porter straightened in his chair. He clasped the wooden arms and gave her a nod. “I’m ready when you are, ma’am.” He sounded more like himself now. More lucid and in control.

  Maybelle patted his arm. “No need to brace too hard yet. I’ll need a minute to gather my things. You got any other wounds I need to know about? Shooting pains? Difficulty breathing? Deep cuts?”

  He shook his head slightly, then winced at the movement. “Don’t think so. Managed to walk here after the crash. Just sore.”

  “Good.” Maybelle turned and caught Emma’s eye. “Keep him talking,” she whispered. “It’ll distract him from what I have to do.”

  Emma bit her lip and took a moment to collect her thoughts before stepping closer to the chair again. “Mr. Porter.” Careful to keep herself on the opposite side, out of Maybelle’s path, Emma waited until his gaze met hers. “Were you attacked?” At his nod she asked, “Can you describe the men who attacked you?”

  “There were two. One rode a big chestnut gelding, black socks and mane. The other rider was slighter of build and rode a sorrel. Weaker mount. Couldn’t keep up with the chestnut.”

  “Figures he’d remember the horses better than the people,” Tori grumped even as she stroked the hair off his forehead.

  “Men wore masks,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as Maybelle pressed a wet cloth directly atop his wound.

  Emma hurried to ask another question. “Did they speak to you?”

  “Said they wanted the guns. Seemed to be expecting them.”

  Emma hid her dismay. More evidence of a traitor in their midst. One who was still communicating with their attackers despite the start of the night watch.

  Mr. Porter stiffened, his muscles flexing as he fought not to pull away from the women tending him. “Told them the shipment had been delayed,” he ground out. “That I was only carrying foodstuffs. They didn’t believe me. Forced me off the road at the top of Harper’s Hill. Unhitched my team, then sent them racing off, the traces dragging the ground behind them.” His face darkened as anger instead of pain etched his brow. “Didn’t care that the lines could trip them up, could send them tumbling down the hill in their fright. Barbarians.”

  “What did the men do next?” Emma asked, eager to turn his attention away from his horses. It wouldn’t do any of them any good if he got it in his mind to go after them. She’d never known him to use his strength against a woman, but all one had to do was look at his size to recognize that he could overpower all four of them with barely a flick of his wrist if he chose.

  Thankfully, he took her cue and forced his grip on the chair to relax. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and his jaw worked back and forth. “Took a knife to the flour sacks,” he recounted, his voice steadier, more controlled, “and smashed the crates carrying the hams and bacon slabs. Might be able to salvage some of what’s left once I retrieve my wagon. If I can retrieve it. Devils dismantled the brake, pistol-whipped me, and tossed me in the back before pushing the thing down the hill. I was too disoriented to realize what was happening until the wagon careened off the road. All I could do was grab the sides and brace myself. Crashed in an arroyo. Better than a tree, I suppose, though the impact felt about the same.

  “Wagon’s busted up, but it’s still more or less in one piece. Shielded me from the worst of the collision.” He paused. “Except for the crate that bashed my skull in the same spot the chestnut’s rider had dented me with his pistol butt a few minutes before. Not sure how long I lay in the wreckage before I roused enough to pull myself up and climb out. Bandits were long gone by then.”

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Emma touched his hand. “The men who attacked you are obviously the same ones who have been threatening us. I can’t help but feel responsible.”

  “Not your fault.” Mr. Porter’s eyes slid closed and tension visibly radiated through his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

  Emma shot a worried glance at Maybelle, only to discover a needle in her hand and a long thread being pulled through the freighter’s skin. Stomach roiling at the sight, Emma quickly shifted her gaze back to Mr. Porter’s face. She curled her fingers around his large palm, offering whatever comfort she could.

  After a moment, his eyes opened again. “With no wagon, I won’t be able to make my runs for a while.” He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as Maybelle started another stitch. Once the needle was through, he continued. “Thought I might hang out here until I can find a replacement. Lend a hand.”

  Emma caught Tori vigorously shaking her head out of the corner of her eye.

  “Need I remind you this is a women’s colony, Mr. Porter?” Emma shot Tori a speaking glance. She’d be loyal to her friend and respect her wishes to a point, but she also had to consider the needs of the rest of the women in town. Having a second man around could make a world of difference.

  When Emma returned her attention to the freighter, he was ready for her. His eyes burned with determination.

  “A women’s colony . . . plus Shaw. I’ll bunk with him.”

  “I’ll have to put it to a vote,” Emma hedged.

  Porter started to nod, then stopped when Maybelle fitted the needle to him again. “Take your vote, Miss Chandler, but know this—those men invited me to the fight when they crashed my wagon and endangered my horses. I’m involved now, whether you allow me to stay in town or not. I’ll camp down by the river, if need be, but I’m not leaving.”

  20

  Malachi found the wagon first, busted up in a ditch at the bottom of Harper’s Hill, just as Porter had said. The horses were another matter. Judging by the flattened prairie grass, they’d gone off the road about a quarter mile past the end of the hill. Mal scoured the landscape for the big black Shires he recalled from his first meeting with Porter back in Seymour. The oversized draft horses stood at least sixteen hands, if not taller. White stripes down their faces. White, feathery socks at their hooves. Massive creatures. Much like their master. So why couldn’t he find them? He saw nothing but prairie grass waving in the wind.

  Until he followed the trail down a crumbling embankment. Turned out he’d been looking too high. The poor beasts had fallen to the ground about a hundred yards out from the road.

  Mal dismounted and approached the downed pair cautiously. As strong as they were, one kick from a hind leg could take out his knee. Like most draft horses, Shires were docile and obedient creatures under normal circumstances. But these were far from normal circumstances.

  The horses must have heard his approach, for the one that lay half on top of the other lifted his head and tried in vain to struggle to his feet.

  “Easy,” Mal cooed, worried the beast might do serious damage to his partner if he continued flailing. “I’m here to help. Just gotta see what we’re up against.” He crept around the pair, giving them a wide berth as he circled first past their hindquarters, then around to their heads.

  He understood why Porter had been in such a tizzy. The geldings were still fastened together. Neck yoke hung intact beneath the collars. Crosslines over their backs. No wonder they’d been unable to get up. One had probably stumbled over the irregular ground and taken his partner down with him.

  Holding his hand out in front of him, Mal took a step toward the fallen pair. The black on top—Hermes? Or was it Helios? Mal had no idea which was which—snorted and shook his head as if trying to fling the blinders away so he could better assess the threat and protect his friend.

  “Whoa, Hermes.” Mal decided using a name the horse had at least heard before, even if it was the wrong one, was better than nothing. The faster he could establish trust, the greater the chance they’d get out of this without serious injury. At least for the top horse. Mal hadn’t witnessed much movement from the one benea
th. But then, having nearly a ton of horseflesh pressed against you would make movement difficult for even the hardiest creature.

  Mal shifted slightly to the left, putting himself in the horse’s direct line of sight. He stretched his hand out toward the beast’s nose. “Easy, boy. Porter sent me. He’s real worried about you and Helios, there.” Mal took another step, hunching low over his boots. “I can help you get free if you’ll let me.”

  Almost there.

  Hermes snorted again, his eyes wide, but his head settled to an occasional gentle bob. And when Mal cupped his open hand around the end of the horse’s nose and crooned soft words, the black gradually stilled. Mal patted the horse’s cheek with his free hand and stroked his forelock. Hermes’s side heaved, but the shuddering sigh seemed to be one of relief, not fear.

  “That’s right. Just relax. Let me do all the work.” Mal continued talking in low tones and stroking the frightened horse’s neck as he worked his way closer to the yoke.

  Not wanting to damage Porter’s harness any more than necessary, Mal kept his knife in his pocket and worked at the buckle on the breast strap first. Hermes tried to get a look at what he was doing, and nearly slammed his horse collar into Mal’s head.

  Mal dodged, then patted the black’s neck and gently pushed his head back down. “Lie still, big boy. If you knock me out, you’ll have no rescuer. Then where will you be?”

  Finally, he worked the buckle loose and tugged the breast strap free of the ring on the neck yoke. The martingale loop slid off next. Now all Mal had to do was find a way to climb between a pair of beasts weighing nearly two tons to cut the crosslines and any other tangles that held the animals together without getting squashed or trampled.

  Not any more dangerous than blowing up mountains. Or at least that’s what he told himself as he edged between the two massive heads.

  Thankful for the blinders that obscured his movements from the horses’ view, Mal eased a hand into his front trouser pocket and extracted his knife. He slipped the largest blade from its folded position and gently locked it into place. Then, folding the leather of the first crossline over the sharpened edge, he sawed through the strap. He paused to croon and pat both horses again. The gelding pinned beneath Hermes stirred, bringing a touch of a smile to Mal’s face.