No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  Mal cleared his throat and backed away a couple steps. “I’ll . . . uh . . . see you in about thirty minutes, then.”

  Emma nodded. “Behind the church. We’ll be ready.”

  He held her gaze an instant longer, the contact playing further havoc with her heart rate as unspoken words seemed to hang in the air between them. Then he turned his back and led the horses through the corral gate. Emma did her part, as well, returning to the bench and driving her team over to Tori’s store.

  As she pulled up, a flood of women poured out of the café and immediately started digging through the contents of the wagon.

  “Ladies.” Tori swept out of the store with a large crate in hand. Her voice carried above the clamor as she descended to the street. “I’ve cleared off the yardage table inside. Let Miss Chandler and me bring in the goods and lay them out for you to make your selections. I have a price chart already prepared, so we’ll be able to finalize your sales quickly. It will just take a moment to set everything up.”

  Emma hurried to meet her at the rear of the wagon and helped her shoo away eager hands. “Sorry,” she murmured under her breath after the ladies retreated. “I guess I should have driven around to the back.”

  “I doubt it would have mattered.” Tori layered rifles into Emma’s waiting arms. “They would have followed you. Everyone is still worked up by the attack on Mr. Porter. They’re eager to gain some means of personal protection.”

  “How is he faring?” Emma inquired as Tori filled the crate with handguns and ammunition boxes.

  “Maybelle took him down to the clinic and is watching over him there.” Tori dragged the crate to the edge of the wagon bed, climbed down, then turned to retrieve it. Gripping the handholds firmly, she grimaced slightly as the weight of the box pulled on her arms. But Tori had worked in shops her entire life. She was used to carting heavy loads. So with a straight spine, she marched up the stairs and into her store.

  Emma followed.

  “It took five stitches to seal that gash on his head.” Tori turned down the fabric aisle. “The entire time Maybelle worked on him, he barely made a sound. Just sat there still as a statue.”

  Tori’s voice held an undercurrent of wonder, possibly even respect. Emma couldn’t help but grin.

  “You should see the clever contraption he rigged in his freight wagon to keep his cargo safe. It was completely disguised. Quite ingenious, really. If he hadn’t told me where to look, I doubt we would have found the cache, even knowing it was there.” She reached the table and carefully dropped the rifles onto its surface. The clatter of steel on wood broke off their conversation for the moment.

  Emma immediately started sorting the long guns into two piles, shotguns and rifles, while Tori organized the revolvers and ammunition.

  “Do you know the outcome of the vote regarding Mr. Porter staying on for a few days?” Emma asked.

  “Permission has been granted,” Tori confirmed. “Nearly unanimously. Only two ladies voted against.”

  “Are you all right with that? I know you weren’t eager to have Mr. Porter around any longer than necessary.”

  “I put my personal feelings aside.” Tori stacked the last of the ammunition boxes, then reached for the price chart she’d written out and arranged it in the center of the table, never once meeting Emma’s gaze. “Having another man around will improve our chances of winning this standoff. It would be foolish to put my own comfort ahead of the well-being of the entire town.”

  Emma touched her friend’s arm. “Thank you.”

  Tori nodded, then stepped back from the table. “The display’s not up to my usual standards, but it’ll do for now.” She glanced toward the shop door. “Go ahead and let them in. I’ll fetch my receipt book.”

  Emma moved to the front of the store, opened the door, and waved the ladies inside. As they filed through, she found herself scrutinizing each one, wishing she could determine the identity of the two who had voted against letting Mr. Porter stay. One of them was most likely the traitor. Unfortunately, there was no way to know who cast the dissenting votes. In true democratic fashion, they always performed their elections by secret ballot.

  Betty Cooper pushed her way to the front of the crowd and doled out advice and instructions to the ladies as they made their selections. Emma expected to see Grace there as well, but the telegraph operator was the last to walk through the door, and when she did, she stopped in front of Emma instead of proceeding to the gun table.

  “Miss Chandler? Did Mr. Shaw return to town with you?”

  “Yes.” Emma frowned over the troubled look in the young woman’s eyes. “He’s at the station house, tending to Mr. Porter’s horses.”

  Grace nodded and turned as if to leave. Frissons of disquiet prickled Emma’s neck. She reached out and caught the young lady’s arm. “Did something happen while we were away?”

  Grace smiled as if to reassure, but the gesture failed to reach her eyes. “He received a telegram. That’s all. I’ll deliver it and return shortly.”

  “A telegram? From whom? The county land office?” Perhaps they’d found something of interest regarding Harper’s Station’s mineral or water rights.

  “You know I’m not at liberty to say. All Western Union correspondence is held in the strictest confidence. If you want to discuss the contents, you’ll need to talk to Mr. Shaw directly.”

  Why did Emma have the feeling that Grace was doing more than reciting telegraph regulations? It was almost as if she were trying to warn her somehow.

  Emma bit her lip as she watched Grace cross the street toward the station house. What was in that message?

  22

  Malachi carted a second bucket of fresh water down the barn aisle and poured its contents into the half-barrel tub in Hermes’s stall. Or was it Helios? He really needed to find out. Couldn’t go around calling a horse by the wrong name. It’d be disrespectful. One of the Shires had a white belly, the other’s underside was fully black. As soon as he figured out which belly went with which name, he’d be able to tell them apart. For now, he just had to keep guessing.

  He gave old White Belly a pat on the shoulder, then sidled out of the way so the animal could drink. Mal had gotten the harness off of the pair and settled them in side-by-side stalls with a scoop of oats in each feedbox. Now, if he could just find some liniment and salve, he’d get them doctored and be free to catch up to the women. To Emma.

  A pressure squeezed his chest. Mal rubbed at it absently as he made his way to the tack shelves. The ache was getting worse. Every time she touched him, it magnified, making it harder to recall the reasons he couldn’t reach for her. Hold her. Claim her as his own.

  Heaven knew he wanted to. But he’d learned early in life that wanting rarely led to getting. And if sacrificing his dreams allowed Emma to fulfill hers, well, he’d find a way to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself. She’d accomplished so much with this place, with these women. Asking her to set her work aside in order to be with him would be a betrayal. He couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t ask her to choose. Even if, by some miracle, she returned his feelings.

  Mal lifted a brown tin from the shelf and squinted at the label at the same time a shadow fell across the barn opening. He glanced to his right and spotted a woman silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Emma?” His traitorous heart leapt, but he reined his voice into stoic submission. “I thought we agreed I’d meet you at the shooting lessons.” He purposely focused his attention on the bottles and tins on the shelf in front of him despite the fact that his mind didn’t process a thing he was seeing. “I’m going to need a little longer to tend the horses.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shaw. It’s Grace Mallory. From the telegraph office. You’ve received a wire.”

  Malachi pivoted to face the woman who was not Emma. He quickly masked his disappointment with a friendly smile and took a step toward her.

  “Forgive me for mistaking you, Miss Mallory.” He met her at the
door. “I . . . uh . . .” Why was she giving him that odd look? So serious. Almost . . . resigned? “It was good of you to deliver the message with such diligence.”

  She extended her hand. A folded slip of paper peeked out from beneath her thumb. “You mentioned that you wanted to be notified right away if a reply came in. Today, one did.”

  He accepted the slip and tucked it into his shirt pocket, unwilling, for some reason, to read it in front of her, even though she would have to know the contents. He dug in his trouser pocket for a coin to tip her for her trouble, but she waved him off.

  “I’ll be with the other ladies at the store, then behind the church for the lessons. If you should decide to send a message in return, come fetch me, and I’ll send the wire for you.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving him staring after her with an unaccountable dread building in his gut.

  Once Grace was out of sight, Mal turned his back to the doorway and strode deeper into the barn, his hand itching to dig out the telegram that sat heavily in his pocket. Why he felt the need to read it in the gloom of the barn’s interior instead of under the full light of the sun streaming through the entrance, he had no idea. Yet that’s what he did.

  When he reached the tack shelf, he dipped his thumb and forefinger into his pocket and extracted the slip of paper. His eyes scanned the words quickly, like a kid trying to get foul-tasting medicine down as fast as possible, but as his gut knotted, he went back and read the words again.

  NEARING BIGHORN CANYON

  NEED EXPERIENCED BLASTER

  REPORT BY FRIDAY OR BE REPLACED

  Report by Friday. Four days. Two required for travel.

  When he’d wired the rail boss after the shooting, he’d informed the man that he’d probably need a few extra days to wrap things up. The boss had given him one. One extra day and a deadline with zero flexibility. Mal’s numb mind desperately tried to piece together a scenario that could possibly allow him to meet that deadline without leaving Emma in the lurch. Only one came to him. Catch the attackers by tomorrow.

  Odds of success? A hundred to one. Mal rubbed the back of his neck. More like a thousand to one. He hadn’t even taught the women how to shoot yet. And he couldn’t exactly leave them unprotected to go scouring the countryside for a camp that seemed to move to a new location every night.

  So where did that leave him? In the middle of no-way-to-winsville, that’s where.

  Mal slammed the pad of his fist against the barn wall. Bottles and tins rattled on the shelves. Harnesses jangled. Pain ratcheted up his arm. He didn’t care. He reared back and hit the wall again. This time Hermes and Helios took notice. They snorted and tossed their heads, their white eyes glaring at him for disturbing their much-earned respite.

  “Mind your own business,” he growled at them. “You’re out of your jam. I’m mired chest deep in mine.”

  “Sounds like a sticky situation.”

  Mal jerked to the left, then spun toward the small side door that led to the house. “Bertie.” He swallowed hard. Great. Just what he didn’t need. “Why aren’t you . . . ah . . . with the others at the store?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve always been more of a pacifist than most. Drives Henry crazy.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ll do my part to keep watch, but I’ll not be purchasing a gun.”

  Somehow he wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t quite picture his gentle, bighearted aunt pointing a loaded weapon at another human being. He’d barely gotten her to hold the unloaded practice gun at the café the other day. It was only when Emma told her that she needed to set an example for the other ladies that Bertie had given in.

  “I won’t be showing up for shooting practice either, young man,” she said when he opened his mouth to offer her the use of his rifle for just that purpose. She pointed her finger at him as if taking him to task for even suggesting such a thing. Which he hadn’t. Yet. Because she shushed him before he could. The woman could read minds the way a schoolmarm read books. Or so it seemed to Mal. Ten years hadn’t dulled her skills one iota.

  She brushed past him and moved to the tack shelves. There she found a bottle that had tipped over during his little steam-letting session and righted it. “Someone’s got to keep watch in town, after all, while everyone is out at target practice. I’ll be up in the steeple keeping an eye on things with Lewis. We’ll ring the bell if we see anything suspicious.”

  Mal stilled. She was right. The attackers would hear the gunfire. Realize they’d been tricked. But they’d also be able to scout the area and determine that everyone had gathered by the church, leaving the rest of town unguarded. They’d not take a chance straight on against so many weapons, but what would stop them from setting another fire or destroying property? The store. Emma’s bank. The clinic. They could do serious damage to the women’s livelihoods.

  “That’s a good thought, Aunt Bert. Think I’ll put Porter on guard, too. He might still be under the weather, but another pair of eyes will be good to have around.” Especially if those eyes were attached to a man who actually carried a gun and possibly even a grudge against the men attacking.

  Bertie turned and smiled. “Yes. I’m so glad the ladies voted to allow that dear Mr. Porter to stay on until these difficulties are dealt with. I’ll sleep better knowing we have another capable man about the place.”

  “Porter’s staying?” Could this be the answer Mal sought? Could he turn the women over to Porter? The thought soured his tongue. Tasted an awful lot like quitting.

  “Just until the unpleasantries are sorted out.” Bertie sauntered closer and winked up at him. “He says he wants to stay because those bandits dragged him into our business by attacking him on the road. But if you ask me, he has another reason altogether. Two, actually. One with blond hair and a head for business. The other with short pants and a severe case of hero worship.” She tapped Mal’s arm and tittered, her eyes alight with merriment and some kind of hidden message that made his mouth go a little bit dry. “I do so adore watching young people fall in love. Some tumble as easily as a pecan dropping from a tree in the fall wind. Others fight against it with everything they have.” She paused and stared up at him.

  His palms grew moist. She couldn’t know. Surely. He kept those feeling bottled up tight. She couldn’t—

  “Victoria’s a fighter,” Bertie continued, breaking contact with his gaze to turn her face toward the main barn entrance. “Benjamin Porter’s going to have his hands full.” She grinned then, her face nothing but sweetness and light. The weight on Mal’s chest eased just enough to draw in a full breath.

  Taking the offensive, Mal cleared his throat. “Better not be meddling in their affairs, Bertie.” He gave her a stern look—which she completely ignored. Instead she smiled and slipped her arm through his as if he were fifteen again and they were having “how to be a gentleman” lessons.

  “I never meddle, dear.” She tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “But I do make myself available to give advice. Should someone find themselves in a prickly predicament.” She looked meaningfully at him. “Say, like the one that had you drumming the walls a minute ago.”

  Mal tensed. “Thanks all the same, Aunt Bert, but I can handle that one on my own.”

  “Yes. I heard you handling it all the way from the kitchen.”

  He tugged his arm free and turned to confront her about her poor definition of “never meddling,” but she held up a hand to stop him before a single word made it past his lips.

  “Don’t give me that obstinate look, Malachi Shaw. I’m not going to wheedle anything out of you. We’re all entitled to a few secrets. I just wanted to let you know that I’m available to listen should you need an extra pair of ears.”

  That shut him up. Apparently her definition matched his after all.

  “Besides, there’s someone else who can help you more than I ever could. One who already knows the details of what’s plaguing you.”

  Grace? The telegraph operator seemed nice and all, but Mal wasn’t about t
o discuss such a private matter with her.

  “Someone imminently wise,” Bertie continued, “who can be trusted implicitly. He’ll help you discern the right path.”

  “But . . . Oh.” Understanding finally dawned.

  She’s talking about you, isn’t she, Lord? Of course she is. I’m a dunderhead for taking so long to figure it out. Probably ’cause I’ve been a bit remiss in visitin’ with you lately. Might be a good idea to start up those regular chats again, huh?

  “I’ll leave you to your work now.” Bertie patted his arm a final time and meandered back the way she had come. “Just be assured of one thing, Malachi.”

  He pushed his hat brim high on his forehead and scratched at an itchy spot above his left ear. “What’s that?”

  “No matter what choice you make, you will always be loved. By Henry and me. By Emma. And by the One who matters most.”

  A suspicious thickness clogged his throat and turned his voice hoarse. “Thanks, Aunt Bert.”

  She smiled in that motherly way of hers and disappeared out the side door.

  He watched her go, still amazed that people like the Chandlers cared about a nobody like him. They’d stuck by him all these years, even after he left. Writing letters. Fretting. Praying. Why? He wasn’t blood kin. He was just some kid who took shelter in their barn one night. Yet they felt like family.

  And Emma . . . Well, Emma felt like more than family. From the moment his angel proclaimed she was keeping him, his heart had belonged to her. Distance had dulled the effect somewhat, but feelings were flaring at full force and in new, more adult directions these days. He didn’t just feel devotion any longer, he felt desire. Longing. A soul-deep need that scared the wits out of him. Not because the situation they faced meant he might have to die to protect her. That’d be easy. He wouldn’t even think twice. No. It was the living without her after all this was over that had him worried.