Mal pulled his hat from his head and lifted his focus to the barn rafters.
“Lord, if you got some extra wisdom up there you can spare, I’d sure be obliged if you’d throw some my way. I ain’t got the first clue what I’m supposed to do.”
As his gaze dropped, he glimpsed the liniment bottle Bertie had set aright on the shelf. A quiet certainty entered his mind. He shook his head and grinned.
He might not have the first clue how to handle his Friday deadline, but it was suddenly clear as a still-water pool what he was supposed to do at the moment. Finish the job at hand and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
He just prayed the wisdom bestowed on him tomorrow had a little more direct bearing on his main quandary.
23
By the time Emma and Victoria joined the gathering behind the church, Betty and Grace had the women organized into two lines facing the targets Malachi had set up after services yesterday. The scarecrow Betty contributed took center stage surrounded by several scrap boards with painted targets staked in the ground at varying heights and distances.
Aunt Henry was the first to step up to the shooting line, wielding her spanking-new Colt revolver with purpose. She didn’t hit anything with her first round of bullets, but after reloading and accepting a few quiet suggestions from Grace, she managed to put a hole in the edge of the scarecrow’s leg on attempt number ten. Her whoop of triumph spurred on a barrage of gunplay as the others vied to equal her success.
“C’mon, gals,” Betty urged as she strode up and down her line of riflewomen. “Don’t let Henrietta Chandler best you. If she can hit the target with that peashooter of hers, you can do it with a real weapon!”
Tori lifted her rifle and motioned to Emma with her free hand. “That’s our signal.”
Emma waved her on. “You go ahead. I want to observe for a while. At least until Malachi gets here. He’ll want to know how everyone is doing.”
“What he’ll want is for you to practice,” Tori chided. “Lead by example, remember?”
“Leadership also requires supervision,” Emma quipped with a healthy dose of sass before turning serious. “I’m not trying to get out of anything, Tori. Honest. I’ll take my turn.” Even though the thought of shooting left her queasy.
Ever since Mal had pointed the barrel of that pistol at his own chest, the thought of firing a weapon made her ill. What if she accidentally wounded Mal or one of her ladies? Or a true innocent, like Lewis? She’d never forgive herself. Yet logic told her that the best way both to prevent an accident and protect those she cared about was to learn the skill. She just needed a couple minutes to settle her stomach first.
Tori stared at her, no doubt seeing past Emma’s excuses to the truth beneath, but she didn’t press further. “Don’t wait too long,” was all she said. “Postponing usually makes it worse.”
Emma nodded, knowing Tori was right. She’d walk the line once, see how everyone was faring, then take her place with Betty’s group. And if her stomach still churned? Well, she’d just have to ignore it. Or find a nearby bush to hide behind when she lost her breakfast.
“Hit the targets, Mama!”
Emma glanced up at the church steeple to see Lewis’s short arm waving at them through the opening in the bell tower, a popgun grasped firmly in his hand.
Tori smiled and waved back at her son. “I’ll do my best.” She glanced meaningfully at her friend. “And so will Aunt Emma.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma shooed Tori toward Betty’s group on the left and made her way to the opposite end, where Grace was helping Claire balance her revolver in two hands, much like Malachi had demonstrated for Emma.
Remembering that particular lesson brought an altogether different swirling sensation to her belly. Which only worsened the churning.
Breathe, Emma. Walk and breathe.
Taking small steps and slow breaths, Emma made her way down the line, focusing on each of her ladies as she passed, desperate to take her mind off her nausea. Some were timid with their weapons. Others gripped them so tightly their arms shook from the force. None of them seemed able to hit the targets with any consistency.
It was early yet, Emma reminded herself. Like any skill, marksmanship required practice. Repetition. Time.
Unfortunately, time was in short supply.
She’d nearly reached the end of the line when she spotted Malachi jogging across the field behind the station house, rifle in hand, holster on hip. A little jolt of pleasure shot through her, though she couldn’t tell if it was more from the prospect of spending time with him or the excuse he presented to postpone her lesson a few minutes longer.
She smiled and waved. He raised his chin in acknowledgment and angled his path to intercept her.
“How are the troops shaping up?” he asked, not the least out of breath after his little run.
“Aunt Henry hit the scarecrow.” She decided to start with the good news. And to leave out the part about it taking ten attempts.
“Henry?” Mal chuckled and wagged his head. “Well, good for her. Anyone else connect with a target?”
And now for the bad news. Emma winced slightly. “Well . . . not that I’ve seen. But I’m sure they will by the end of the practice session.”
Mal eyed her, one brow raised. “And you?”
Emma dropped her gaze to the dirt, her stomach immediately clenching. “I haven’t . . . ah . . . taken my turn yet.”
A warm hand circled her wrist. “No time like the present.”
So much for him being her excuse to procrastinate. Emma bit back a groan as Mal dragged her over to Betty’s group. She also pointedly ignored the I-told-you-so look Tori aimed her way as she stumbled up to the shooting line.
“Focus on the closest target,” Mal instructed, gesturing to the painted board staked twenty paces away.
It might be close, but the thing was only a foot across and even fewer inches high. Its insignificant size instilled no confidence whatsoever.
Mal demonstrated the proper stance, took aim with his own rifle, and fired. The blast blended in with the rest of the shots echoing at random intervals along the length of the line, but for some reason, Emma flinched. The target flinched, too, taking the punishment of Mal’s nearly perfect hit through the red circle at the center of the board.
“Now you.” He stepped aside and urged her forward.
Emma swallowed hard, her insides roiling with greater ferocity. Her hands shook as she lifted the weapon to her shoulder. She tried to steady the barrel with her left hand, but her palm was too sweaty. Dropping her left arm, she rubbed her palm against the fabric of her skirt and bumped against the hard circle of her father’s watch.
“You can do this, Emma.” Her father’s words rang through her mind, encouraging, expectant, gently pushing her past her fear of failure just as he had every time she’d tried something new as a child. Riding a pony, saying her lines in the school Nativity play, balancing a column of figures.
“Take a slow, deep breath. It will still your nerves.”
It took a moment for Emma to realize the advice came from Mal, not the memories of her father. Mal’s voice was as steady as her father’s always had been. Calming. Brimming with belief that she could prevail.
It was his belief in her that finally quieted the storm inside. The queasiness didn’t abate, but after she followed his direction and inhaled a long, slow breath, the churning slowed enough that she could clear her mind and release her fear.
“Hold the grip. Tuck the stock into the pocket of your shoulder. Now reach out and support the barrel.” His voice rolled over her like warm oil, soothing her remaining rough edges and greasing the cogs inside until everything ran smoothly. “Widen your stance a bit. Good. Twist at the waist and sight your target.”
He didn’t touch her, but she could feel him at her side. Feel his support. His strength.
“When you’re ready, move your finger to the trigger, release your breath, and squeeze.”
As if hypno
tized by his voice, she followed his instructions as he spoke them. Her finger slid down to curve around the trigger. She exhaled, made a mental note to keep her eyes open this time, and squeezed.
The kick surprised her, shoving the stock into her shoulder with more force than she’d expected. Pulling a trigger for practice when the magazine was empty didn’t exactly produce the same experience. Feeling a little bruised, she started to lower the rifle in order to rub the sore spot, but Mal’s voice intruded again.
“Wide right. Try again.”
She scrunched her nose. He was starting to sound less like a source of calm and more like a taskmaster. But she responded, fitting the rifle stock back into her shoulder. Couldn’t have the man thinking her too delicate to continue, could she?
Not waiting for his instructions this time, Emma regained her stance, sighted the target once again, and shot.
High.
She glared at the target and adjusted the angle of her rifle, no longer caring about the ache in her shoulder. She was going to hit that plank of wood.
“Lower your cheek to the stock this time,” Mal murmured close to her ear. “Use your dominant eye to sight the target. Don’t try to look through both.”
Emma pressed her cheek to the stock and focused on the sight at the end of her barrel then lined it up with the center of the target. She squeezed the trigger. The target wobbled. Her heart thumped a wild, excited rhythm. She lifted her cheek and stared at the old board in disbelief. She’d shot the top right corner clean off!
“Good job.” Mal’s hand rested on her left shoulder for a brief moment, just long enough for her pulse to ratchet up another notch. “Now do it again, and this time hit the paint.”
Determined to prove to him she could do just that, Emma gave a sharp nod and lifted the rifle back into place. But just as she fit the stock to her shoulder, a muffled gunshot rang out behind her. Far behind her. She turned.
“That came from town.” Malachi took off, sprinting toward the church even as the steeple bell rang out a warning.
Emma raced after him, not about to let him go alone. He slowed slightly at the front of the church and craned his neck up to peer at the bell tower.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled a single word. “Where?”
Emma doubted Aunt Bertie would be able to hear a thing with the bell donging so close to her head, but she leaned out the opening and gestured across the street anyway.
The station house.
Emma leapt toward home, but a firm grip on her arm brought her up short.
“No.” Mal scowled down at her, his eyes promising he’d give no quarter if she chose to disobey.
“That’s my home,” Emma protested, even as a touch of rationality cut through the haze of anger that had blotted out all else the instant she realized someone was in her house doing only God knew what. If she blindly rushed in, she’d no doubt play right into the outlaws’ hands. Mal was right. She had to think.
But the next thought to enter her mind had her struggling against Mal’s hold, desperate to do what she had just vowed not to. “What if he’s setting another fire?”
She had to get inside, stop whatever damage the fiend had planned. Everything her aunts owned was in that house. All the heirlooms they prized, their family heritage. Bertie’s needlework. Henry’s suffrage-tract collection. Things that could never be replaced. And the quilt! If it was destroyed, there’d be no hope of the sewing circle filling their quota in time.
Yet Mal refused to budge. His grip on her arm only tightened. “You run in there,” he growled, “you could get shot. Leave or die. Remember, Em? I’m not about to give him the chance to make good on that threat. Nothing in that house is worth your life.”
She hated that he was right. Hated that she was useless as day-old toast with the rifle she carried. Hated that she was a liability instead of an asset.
Hated that, the longer she argued with him, the greater the likelihood that the outlaws would escape.
She ceased her struggles. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
He eyed her skeptically.
“I promise. Now go.”
Mal had no choice but to trust her word. Thankfully, Emma was the trustworthy type. She hadn’t lied to him in all the years he’d known her, and he didn’t expect she’d start now. He prayed not, anyway.
“Keep the women back behind the church,” he instructed as he released his grip on her arm. “For all we know, he could have staked out a sniper position upstairs in the station house and is just waiting to start picking you all off as soon as you get within range. I’ll clear the building and let you know when it’s safe.”
Emma gave a sharp nod, then spun around and hurried back toward the growing crowd of females clustering along the edge of the church.
Mal headed the opposite way, not directly toward the station house, but veering into town. Someone had shot off a warning, and Mal’s money was on Porter. Find the freighter, and he’d find the information he needed to rout the outlaws.
But when he found Porter, the information the man shared was not at all what Malachi wished to hear.
“He’s gone,” Porter announced without preamble when Mal caught up to him out by the telegraph office. He was leading a limping Helios back toward the station-house barn. Porter looked none too steady himself. “Lit out right after I fired the signal shot. I tried to give chase, but the canny devil drove all the animals out of the corral. Took the main road, too, so picking out his tracks will be a nightmare unless you noticed something distinctive about the chestnut’s shoes the last time you went after the shooter.”
Mal slammed the flat of his hand against the plank siding of the telegraph office. He’d spent hours staring at tracks in the dirt and mud around the river. No nicks, chips, or identifying marks. The shoes had been easy enough to track in the countryside with no other hoofprints to compete for attention, but they’d be impossible to pick out on a well-traveled road.
He had one day to find the outlaws. One blessed day. And they’d slipped in and out of town right under his nose. For pity’s sake. He’d been in the barn not thirty minutes ago. They must have crept in the moment he left.
“One man or two?” Mal clipped out the question.
Porter answered just as abruptly. “One.”
“Stocky build or slight?”
“Stocky.”
Mal grunted. The leader, then. He’d figured as much since Porter had mentioned the chestnut.
Mal decided to head to the station house and assess the damage. Make sure the second man wasn’t lingering behind somewhere. Mal recalled Emma’s fears and started jogging toward the Chandler residence.
“I’m going to check out the house,” he called to Porter over his shoulder. “I’ll help you round up the stock when everything’s clear.”
The front door stood wide open, a casualty of the outlaw’s hurried exit. Mal ascended the porch, drew his revolver, and pressed his back against the wall just outside the door. With a quick turn of his head, he glanced into the front room, then jerked his head back. No bullets flew in his direction. He tried again, taking a longer look this time. No one in his line of sight.
Mal caught his breath and bounded into the parlor all at once, leading with his gun. He sensed no movement. Keeping his back against the wall, he scanned the room. A lamp lay overturned and busted on the floor, oil seeping into the wood, but nothing else looked disturbed. Nothing smelled like smoke, either, thank the Lord.
Keeping his weapon drawn, Mal worked through every room of the house, one by one. The kitchen and upstairs bedrooms seemed untouched. The only places he found evidence of the outlaw’s presence was in the parlor, hall, and basement. Dirty footsteps marred Bertie’s clean floors, but it was what adorned the basement wall that turned Mal’s blood to ice.
A note was tacked to the interior wall, a crude sketch of a woman lying on her back sat at the bottom of the page, Xs where the eyes should be. A message was scrawled above the drawing. Y
ou’re first, banker lady.
Mal tore it from the wall and wadded it into his fist before shoving it inside the vest pocket he usually reserved for stashing food. No way would he be showing this to Emma. As soon as he found a moment alone, he’d burn the vile thing.
The outlaw was growing bolder. Striking even closer to home. Time for Mal to switch tactics. He’d had enough of being a step behind, of only being able to react after an attack. Time to go on the offensive. First thing tomorrow morning, Mal was going hunting.
24
Mal watched the sky grow pink from his post in the church steeple, determination building in him with every degree that the sky lightened. For the past two hours, he’d prayed for a sign, for some kind of confirmation that going after the outlaws was the right thing to do. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask. God had given Moses a pillar of cloud. Gideon a soggy fleece. Joseph a dream. What had he given Mal? Nothing but a crick in his neck. So far.
“I know the Good Book says you’re not slow in keeping your promises,” Mal grumbled as he rolled his shoulders to get out the worst of the kinks, “but I’m feeling rather pinched for time. I need some of that wisdom you promised, and I need it soon.” Before I botch something up.
Once the rising sun cleared the horizon, Mal climbed down the narrow, winding steeple staircase and exited the church. With no divine answers shedding light on his path, he had no choice but to make his own way as best he could. And that way entailed going after the men threatening Emma.
He had one day.
If he failed? Mal swallowed, his throat growing tight. If he failed, he’d have no choice but to forfeit one of the two things he loved most.
“Emma! Pay attention, girl. You’re scaldin’ the gravy.”
Emma started. Her gaze jerked from the window to the bubbling beef stock in the pan she was supposed to be stirring. “Sorry, Aunt Henry.” She immediately pulled the saucepan to a cooler part of the cookstove and worked her whisk through the thickened gravy, frowning as dark flecks worked their way to the surface. She glanced over her shoulder to where Henry was mashing the potatoes, thankfully with her back turned. Emma grabbed a spoon and tried to fish out as many of the charred flecks as she could. Maybe she’d get lucky and no one would notice. She certainly wouldn’t be able to taste anything tonight—not when Malachi hadn’t returned.
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