No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  She sighed, her attention once again floating to the window. He’d been gone all day. All. Day. Chasing outlaws. Dangerous outlaws with guns and cleverly designed hiding places. Now dusk was falling, and there was still no sign of him.

  He’d sworn to her that he’d take every precaution when he announced his intention to go “hunting,” as he called it, yet something had been off. She didn’t understand the odd desperation radiating from him. But he’d been acting strangely ever since that episode with the outlaw in the house yesterday. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

  She had to admit she’d found it difficult to sleep last night, knowing that horrible man had been inside her home. Malachi had assured her that the outlaw hadn’t gone upstairs into the bedchambers, and she’d seen the truth of that when she helped Bertie sweep away the dried mud that had fallen off the man’s boots. None of it had been found on the upstairs carpets. And while she found a small dose of comfort in knowing he hadn’t violated her most personal space, his odd visit left too many questions swirling in her brain to allow her to rest.

  Why the station house? What had been his intent? Another scare tactic that he hadn’t had time to carry out before Mr. Porter interrupted him? Or had there been another plan altogether?

  She thought of what Malachi had speculated about the man using one of the upstairs windows as a vantage point to take out the women one by one. But if that had been his intent, why had they found traces of him in the basement instead of the bedchambers?

  Emma dropped her spoon back into the gravy and rubbed the spot that throbbed right above her left eyebrow. She was missing something. . . .

  A motion outside snagged Emma’s attention. She abandoned the gravy and moved closer to the kitchen window. There. A woman. Walking alone. Behind the church. Heading toward the river.

  Pulse racing, Emma spun for the door. “Mind the gravy for me, Aunt Henry.”

  “Where are you . . . ?”

  Emma sprinted out the door, leaving Henry’s chopped-off question dangling in the air behind her. She couldn’t think about dinner, her aunt, not even Malachi. Her mind was locked on one target. The traitor.

  Hitching her skirts past her calves, Emma ran down the back steps, past the barn, and across the field that separated the station house from the church. She recognized the navy blue dress and severely styled dark hair of the woman venturing into the brush west of the church.

  Helen.

  Emma picked up her pace. She’d not let Helen escape her sight. She could be meeting one of the villains or stashing a note informing them of some piece of vital information. Emma had no idea what that vital information could be since the guns had already been recovered, but that didn’t matter. Whatever Helen was doing, she had to be stopped.

  Emma hit an uneven patch of ground and stumbled a bit. In the moment it took her to regain her footing, Helen disappeared.

  No!

  Setting her chin, Emma kept running in the direction she’d last seen the other woman. She couldn’t have gone far. The prairie would have had to swallow her up for her to disappear that quickly. Emma rushed through the scrub brush where she’d last seen Helen and nearly tripped over her quarry.

  Helen shrieked and jumped to her feet from where she’d been hunkered over, some kind of metal blade in her hand.

  Why hadn’t Emma thought to bring along a weapon? All this training, and she’d just run off and left a kitchen full of cutlery behind. What had she been thinking!

  “Emma! You gave me a start.” Helen held a hand to her breast, her eyes wide. In genuine surprise, or in guilt over being found out? “Why are you running? Has something happened back in town?” Her gaze shifted past Emma’s shoulder toward Harper’s Station, her teeth biting into her bottom lip.

  Such a convincing depiction of concern, but Emma wouldn’t fall for it. She narrowed her eyes as she struggled to control her labored breathing. Hard to sound authoritative while gasping for air. “What are you doing out here, Helen? Alone.”

  The other woman returned her focus to Emma, her brow creased. “I was just—” The hand with the blade came up.

  “Stop!” Emma thrust out her arm in warning.

  “What?” Helen took a step back, her nostrils flaring in true alarm. “What’s going on?” She twisted from side to side as if looking for an attacker.

  At her jerky movement, the fabric of her skirt fell away from the half-concealed blade. Or what Emma had assumed was a blade. In truth it was a . . . garden trowel? What was she using that for? To bury a secret message? To conceal pilfered goods?

  “I’m sorry I frightened you, Helen.” Emma lowered her arm. “But I need to know what you are doing out here. It isn’t safe for you to be away from town.”

  Helen eyed her warily. “I just wanted to collect some wild onions. I noticed them growing out here during the shooting lesson yesterday.” She gestured to the prairie.

  Sure enough, a cluster of white flowers dotted the area. Onion flowers.

  “Miss Betty said it would be all right as long as I didn’t dally.”

  Emma hesitated. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Helen appeared genuinely perplexed.

  “I know this is going to sound odd, Helen, but I need to look inside your gunnysack. And have you turn out the pockets of your skirt.” If she had writing utensils or something suspicious hidden away, Emma would know her story was an elaborate ploy. If not . . . Well, then she’d just made a fool of herself and frightened one of her ladies for no good reason.

  Helen bent down to retrieve the burlap bag she’d brought along to carry the wild onions in and handed it over. Emma peered inside. Empty. As were Helen’s pockets. Except for a completely innocuous cotton handkerchief.

  Emma handed the bag back. “I’m so sorry. I made a mistake.”

  Helen’s eyes sparked with defiance, but even that couldn’t completely hide the hurt hiding in her gaze. “What did you think I was doing out here?” She lifted her trowel and forced a laugh. “Burying a dead body or something?”

  “Nothing so gruesome, I assure you.” Emma smiled, trying to piece together the trust she’d just shattered. “I simply grew . . . concerned when I saw you wandering off alone.”

  “Not for my safety, apparently.” Helen frowned. “You would have been more solicitous when you found me. No, you were suspicious about something.” Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. Then another. “Suspicious about me.”

  “It was a mistake,” Emma repeated. “One I deeply regret. Your safety does matter to me. The safety of all the women matters to me.”

  The lines digging into Helen’s brow cleared. “That’s it.” She shook her head and staggered back another step. “You thought I was helping them. The men who are attacking us.”

  Emma followed, her arms outstretched in silent apology. But Helen warded her off. Backed farther away.

  “How could you? What have I ever done to make you think I could be capable of such treachery? That I would be in league with two . . . men.” She spat the word with such revulsion that Emma winced.

  “You’ve done nothing, Helen. I swear. These attacks have me rattled—that’s all. They have me seeing disloyalty where there is none. Please, forgive me.” Emma sighed and glanced away, tears close to the surface as guilt churned in her belly. “I feel so helpless. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary. That’s what I promised.” She turned back toward Helen. “To you. To everyone. But I can’t keep you safe. You’re my responsibility, and I’m letting you down.”

  Helen ceased her retreat, but she said nothing. Emma couldn’t blame her. She’d been so eager to find the betrayer, yet in her chase, she’d betrayed one of her own.

  She inhaled a breath to apologize a final time when movement in the grass to the left of Helen’s feet caught her eye.

  Helen must have seen the change in Emma’s face, for the other woman started backing away again.

  “No. Stop!” Emma rushed forward even as Helen stepped backward onto the
whipping tail of a snake easily five feet long.

  The head came up with a loud hiss. Helen gasped and lurched sideways. Emma lunged forward. Directly into the path of the striking snake.

  Fangs punctured her hand. The body wrapped around her arm and squeezed.

  25

  Malachi had already started for home when distant reverberations from the church bell floated out to greet his ears. The gentle sound hovered above him with all the dread-filled grace of circling buzzards. Instinct had him craning his neck to peer up at the sky just as the first vibrations faded. Then a second toll echoed, stronger than the first.

  The bong slashed through Mal’s stupor. Something was wrong.

  “Yah!” He kicked his horse’s sides and galloped for home.

  He’d told Porter to ring the bell if anything happened while he was away. Mal had promised to race for Harper’s Station like a runaway locomotive if he heard the signal. Now, even a train engine seemed too slow.

  If something had happened to Emma or the aunts . . .

  Mal leaned farther over the gray’s neck, urging the mare to greater speed.

  He never should have left. He’d abandoned the women for a fool’s errand, leaving them vulnerable. Had the outlaws snuck past him while he’d been searching for their camp? Mal hadn’t heard any gunfire, but men had other ways to hurt women, ways that didn’t require bullets.

  Mal clenched his jaw and drove his mount into the Wichita River. As he splashed across the shallow expanse, one truth echoed in his mind.

  He’d chosen wrong. He’d put Emma’s safety at risk in an effort to save his job. A lousy, dirty mess of a job that would never smile at him. Hug him. Love him. Shoot, more than likely the stinkin’ job would kill him. Blow him into a thousand tiny bits. Why had he even debated? Nothing was more important than the people he loved. Nothing.

  The mare climbed the east bank with three lunging strides, then picked up speed again on the flatland that stretched between the river and the churchyard. Uncaring that thorns grabbed at his soggy pant legs, Mal wove through the scrub brush, his gaze searching for Porter.

  The freighter must have been watching for his approach, for the big man ducked out of the entryway to the church and waved to Malachi from the steps. By the time he made it to ground level, Mal was off his horse and demanding answers.

  “You need to hustle down to the clinic.” Porter moved to take the mare’s reins. “Miss Chandler’s been hurt.”

  Searing pain tore through Mal’s chest. His mind screamed a silent denial even as his feet took off at a dead run.

  Emma. Hurt. His fault.

  Give it to me, he pled as he ran. Whatever she’s suffering. Give it to me. Angels don’t deserve pain.

  She didn’t deserve any of this. Attackers. Traitors. Him running off and leaving her unprotected.

  You call yourself a just God? How is any of this just?

  He sprinted past the boardinghouse. Victoria’s store. The café. Turned the corner past the bank. Emma’s bank. The front window boarded up. Desolate.

  Please let her be all right.

  His bootheels pounded up the three steps leading into the clinic. He threw open the door and lunged inside only to be smothered by a flock of clucking hens.

  “Let me through.” The sharp order guillotined the chatter. A half dozen faces turned as one to stare at him. Malachi didn’t have time to play nice. If they wouldn’t clear a path, he’d make one himself.

  He twisted his shoulders sideways and started barreling through the overcrowded waiting room. Gasps and tiny, high-pitched grunts of displeasure echoed through the room. He bumped elbows, hips, even trod on one poor gal’s foot—for which he mumbled a quick sorry as he pressed on, until a pair of hands clasped his left arm.

  “Calm down, boy. Stormin’ through here like a wild boar on a rampage ain’t gonna help things.”

  Mal jerked his arm away before the familiar voice registered in his brain.

  “Leave him be, Henry. He’s worried about our girl. As he should be.” Bertie moved directly into his path, her admonishment changing to reassurance as she turned from her sister to him.

  He loved the aunts. He really did. But if Bertie didn’t get her sweet, motherly self out of his way, he was going to pick her up and move her.

  “It’s all right, Malachi,” she said, eyes soft. “Helen managed to get the creature off of Emma before any real damage was done.”

  Rage, hot and searing, blazed through Malachi. He grabbed Bertie’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. “She was attacked?”

  Horrible visions flashed like lightning through his brain. A masked outlaw chasing Emma. Her running. Screaming. The outlaw being too fast. Too strong. Dragging her down. Pinning her beneath him. A desperate Helen fending him off from behind.

  Mal steered Bertie aside. He had to get to Emma. Had to see for himself that she truly was all right.

  “ . . . didn’t want to let go.” Bertie continued yapping, shadowing him like an overeager pup. Her words faded in and out through the haze of his anger. “Strong bugger . . . They finally got Emma free . . . She stepped on his neck, and Helen chopped his head off with her garden trowel.”

  “Wait. What?” Mal jerked to a halt and spun to his left to face Bertie. “Helen took off his head? With a garden trowel?” Impossible. No way under heaven could shy, slender Helen take off a man’s head with a tiny handheld spade. A Roman gladiator couldn’t accomplish that feat with such a weapon.

  Bertie raised an exasperated brow. “Really, Malachi. It’s insulting for you to look so shocked. We’re not helpless, you know. We might need a man’s assistance to fight off another man bent on trouble, but any female who works on a farm, like Helen does, knows how to deal with a rat snake.”

  A rat snake?

  Mal’s knees quivered. He braced a hand against the wall, pretty sure his legs were about to buckle.

  A rat snake. He shook his head and swallowed the laughter bubbling up his throat. To think he’d thought . . . Well, never mind what he’d thought. That mental picture would only ignite his rage again. Because it could have happened. Thank God it hadn’t.

  With his knees regaining a bit of fortitude, Mal pushed away from the wall and smiled down at Bertie. “I’m glad Helen was with her. She’s a strong woman.” He tipped his hat up to the top of his forehead as his pulse regulated. “Now. Can I go in and check on Emma?”

  Henry came up behind her sister. “You got your head on straight? She don’t need you going off half-cocked once you get in there. The girl’s been through enough already today.” The look she gave him had him fighting the urge to squirm. Something told him she was talking about more than the snake.

  “I’ll not upset her, Aunt Henry. I promise.”

  She examined him from stem to stern, gave him one more good glare, and dipped her head in a sharp nod.

  Mal reached for the knob and pulled open the door, his ears registering Henry mumbling something about Emma ruining a perfectly good skillet of gravy thanks to his thoughtlessness. Having no idea what she meant by that statement and no desire to figure it out, he left the waiting room behind and stepped through the doorway into the clinic office.

  Claire Nevin stepped around a white curtain that divided the room in half and smiled at him. “She’s in here, Mr. Shaw. Helen’s sitting with her.”

  The gal turned and disappeared again behind the curtain. Mal tugged off his hat and followed. Emma sat propped up in a narrow bed, her head turned toward a second woman sitting in a chair on the far side.

  Helen sprang up from her seat the instant he rounded the curtain edge, her eyes wide, her mouth pinched. “I better be getting back to the farm.” She glanced at Emma. “I’ll fill in for you during the watch tonight.”

  “You don’t have to. I—” Emma protested before Helen cut her off with a shake of her head.

  “Maybelle said to rest. You heard her same as me. I’m not due for another shift until Thursday. I’m taking your turn.”


  “All right.” Emma nodded. “Thank you.”

  Helen offered a tight smile, then strode toward the end of the bed. She slowed when she neared Mal’s position, her gaze growing wary. Mal sidestepped between the bed and the curtain to get out of her way, then watched her skedaddle like a mouse that had just found a clear path around a barn cat. Claire discreetly followed her out.

  Once the other ladies were gone, Mal circled around to the opposite side and took up the chair Helen had vacated. That was when he noticed Emma’s arm.

  The sleeve of her blouse had been rolled up past her elbow. Her palm and wrist were wrapped in a bandage. The beginning signs of bruising darkened the skin in a spiral pattern along her forearm up to her elbow.

  His chest ached. “Does it hurt?”

  “Only a little. Maybelle assured me there’s no venom to worry about. She treated the bite area with some salve anyway to stave off infection.” Emma raised her bandaged hand from the mattress and turned the palm toward him.

  He wanted to take that hand in his and kiss each fingertip. Tenderly. Lovingly. To cradle it to his cheek, assuring himself she was safe. But he did none of that. Just nodded and dangled his hat off the end of his knee.

  “I shouldn’t have left you, Em.” He hung his head, then forced himself to meet her gaze. “I should have been here. Taking care of things.”

  Her green eyes stared back at him with no judgment. “I guess that means you didn’t find the bandits.”

  Mal blew out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hat-flattened hair. “Nope. Found a few traces but nothing substantial. Knew it was a long shot when I set out. Should’ve just stayed here. Maybe if I had . . .”

  “You would have stopped that snake from latching on to my arm?” She gave him one of her don’t-be-an-idiot looks. “Not even you could have stopped that, Mal. Besides, I’m glad you didn’t. That snake healed a rift between Helen and me. A swollen arm and a banged-up hand is a small price to pay for that blessing.”