No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  Only Emma would call a snakebite a blessing.

  “Oh, and . . .” She leaned toward him.

  Mal bent his head to hers.

  Emma glanced quickly toward the curtain, then whispered, “Helen’s not the traitor.”

  Mal tilted his chin slightly in order to fully see her face. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The tiny pucker on her lips as she formed the word drew his gaze to her mouth. A mouth he wanted to taste. To touch. To kiss again and again until they were both short of breath.

  It was only inches away. All he’d have to do was lean forward a little. Turn his head.

  She sat back.

  And there went his chance. Not that he would have taken it with half the town only a room away.

  The scratch of the curtain being pushed back brought Malachi to attention. Sitting as straight as a broom handle in his chair, he kept his gaze firmly away from Emma’s lips as Maybelle walked in.

  “Here’s that salve I promised you,” she announced, completely ignoring Mal as she strode up to Emma and handed her a small metal tin. “I’ve shown your aunts how to change the bandage and instructed them on what to watch for. Soak it in a basin of water with Epsom salts before bed and again in the morning. Then apply the salve and a clean bandage. If you see red streaks moving up your arm from the bite site or if the area starts to ooze and grows painful to the touch, come see me right away.”

  Emma nodded. “I will.”

  “Good.” Maybelle’s attention shifted to Mal. “Perhaps Mr. Shaw would see you home?”

  Mal jumped to his feet, barely snagging his hat before it fell to the floor. “Of course.”

  “She’s to rest.” Maybelle’s hard stare branded the instructions on Malachi’s hide. “I want her using that hand as little as possible for the next few days. The cleaner she keeps it, the less chance infection will set in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He plunked his hat on his head, scooted around to the other side of the bed, took Emma’s good arm, and helped her to her feet. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  Maybelle crossed her arms over her midsection. “See that you do.”

  True to his word, Mal escorted Emma from the clinic to the station house, though the trip took three times longer than it should have with the ladies swarming like honeybees to nectar in their eagerness to express their sympathy and well wishes. Emma handled it all with grace, of course, taking time to thank each one for her concern. By the time Henry and Bertie bustled her upstairs to her room, Mal felt as if he’d run a mile upstream in hip-deep river water. But he didn’t stop to rest. Didn’t even snitch a roll from the cloth-covered basket sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

  Nope. He walked straight out the door and didn’t pause until he reached the telegraph office. He had a job to resign.

  26

  Four days later, a third male invaded the women’s colony. A short, skinny boy with a big, ugly horse. Horse was probably male, too, Emma mused as she watched the odd pair meander past the station-house window. At this rate, her ladies were going to be outnumbered by the end of the month.

  Emma tucked her needle into the fabric square she’d been quilting and stood.

  “Is your hand paining you, dear?” Bertie asked, her brows arching in concern.

  “No.” She rubbed at the tender spot on the heel of her right hand. It did still hurt a little, but that wasn’t why she’d stopped quilting. Emma smiled an apology to the women gathered around the quilt frame in her parlor for the afternoon sewing session. “I just saw someone I didn’t recognize ride by the window. I’m going to check it out.”

  Needles paused in midair and faces turned to peer out the window across from where Emma had been sitting.

  “Was it one of those awful men?” Pauline asked. The youngest lady in the sewing circle turned back to Emma with wide eyes as she nibbled her lower lip.

  Emma shook her head. “No. It was a boy. And his horse was a different color than the ones we’ve seen the outlaws ride.” She sidestepped around the quilt frame and crossed behind the sofa to the door. She claimed her rifle from the collection standing at attention against the wall—none of the ladies moved about without a weapon these days—then reached for the door handle as she glanced back into the room. “It’s probably someone who wandered into town by mistake.”

  “Better take Malachi with you,” Henry fussed. “Just in case.”

  “And if you can’t find him,” Bertie added, “Mr. Porter usually guards Main Street from the bench outside the store.”

  Emma had to fight a peevish retort. It was just a boy. Not that she’d make the mistake of underestimating him with all that had gone on. But, really—whatever happened to Aunt Henry’s battle cry that a woman didn’t need a man in order to be strong? She never would have doubted Emma’s capabilities before. But, to be fair, the entire town had been on edge, dreading the next swing of the attackers’ ax. One that hadn’t come. Yet.

  Emma tossed what she hoped was a confident smile at the aunts. “I’ll be careful.” Then she ducked out the door before the rising tide of her own worries dragged her under.

  Clutching her rifle in her right hand so she could have it ready in a flash, she trotted down the road after the boy and horse. The pair traveled at an unhurried clip, so she caught up to them quickly.

  The dun gelding—yep, a male, just as she’d suspected—snorted and tossed his head when she cut in front of him, but he didn’t buck or rear. A well-trained beast, even if he was ugly as a shriveled potato coated with mud. He had a chunk missing from one ear, a charcoal-gray mane that had been chopped off to a ridiculously short length, a big blotch of white on the left side of his rump, and a body that could either be gray with brown specks or brown with gray specks depending on how much color came from road dust. The horse held his head up like a king, though, and looked down on her with effrontery for interrupting his jaunt.

  But it wasn’t the horse that concerned her. It was the rider.

  Emma reached a hand up to stroke the gelding’s nose while at the same time swinging her rifle up to her shoulder to make sure the boy saw she was armed.

  “Welcome to Harper’s Station, young man. What’s your business?” Emma smiled at the boy, but she examined him, too. Searched for weapons, for lumps beneath his shirt that might indicate something hidden. Did a mental tally of how much gear he carried. And frowned. A lot of gear. A small trunk tied behind the cantle. Bulging saddlebags. As if the kid was planning on moving in.

  “Well?” She raised a brow at him.

  He held her gaze. “My business is my own,” he said, his chest puffing up with bravado even as his fingers trembled ever so slightly around the reins he held.

  The tremble softened her. The boy couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old, yet here he was, traveling alone and putting up a brave front when confronted by a bossy female with a rifle. She knew all too well what it felt like to stand up to someone stronger with only one’s wits and pride.

  Lowering her gun, she came alongside him, still craning her neck to keep an eye on his face. “Don’t worry.” She warmed her tone to something almost friendly and patted the horse’s neck, inches away from the boy’s knee. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just that we’ve been having trouble around these parts lately, and we’re a little shy of strangers. However, that’s no excuse for poor hospitality. Why don’t you hop down, and I’ll help you find whoever you’re looking for.”

  He snorted. “I ain’t gonna fall into that trap, lady. The minute I get off this horse, I lose my advantage. I’m not some fool kid who ain’t got a clue how the world works. Who says I’m lookin’ for somebody, anyway? I ain’t.” He sat up straighter in the saddle and sniffed loud and long. He raised his chin at a cocky angle as if thoroughly satisfied with his efforts to appear masculine. “I’m lookin’ for work,” he said, his gaze aimed somewhere to the left of her face. “I’m real good with horses. Got experience working at a fo
rge, too. I’m a right handy feller to have around.”

  Emma bit back a grin. “I’m sure you are. But I’m afraid we have no livery in Harper’s Station. Nor a smithy.”

  His blue eyes widened with incredulity as they found her gaze. “No livery? What kind of town ain’t got a livery?”

  “Harper’s Station is a women’s colony.”

  His brow scrunched. “A what?”

  “A women’s colony. Only women live here. We run businesses, farms, and manufacture goods to sell. Few of our ladies own horses, so we’ve no need of a livery. If we require a blacksmith or farrier for the horses we do have, we simply travel into Seymour to have the work done.”

  “I never heard of no women runnin’ businesses. ’Ceptin’ maybe a laundry. Well . . . and the pleasure houses.” He eyed her closely. “You look too proper for that kinda work, though. And too sober. My ma used to say the drink made the entertainin’ easier. ’Course, it couldn’t have been too easy, ’cause she drank all the time and still ended up dead.” He made the heartbreaking statement with all the pragmatism of a teller reciting his account figures at closing time. “What kinda business do you run?” Skepticism laced his tone. “Maybe I can work for you.”

  Emma smoothed the front of her bodice. “I’m a banker.” Pride infused her words, as it always did. Yet this time she felt a great deal of gratitude as well—gratitude that she wasn’t forced to make her living with backbreaking toil, or worse, on her actual back. Maybe she should find work for this boy. “Are you any good with sums?”

  “A lady banker?” He scoffed. “Yer pullin’ my leg.”

  Then again, maybe she should just push the chauvinistic man-child off his horse.

  Emma sighed. No. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t imagine anything as far-fetched as a lady banker. Most males couldn’t. It was probably a defect in the gender as a whole. So instead of pushing him off the horse, she gave him the stare instead. The one that dared him to see past the expected to the possible.

  The boy quit laughing. “No foolin’?”

  “No foolin’.” There was hope for this one yet. “My bank is just down the road a piece.” She nodded her head in the direction. “I can give you a tour later, if you want.” She held her hand out to him. “I’m Emma Chandler, by the way.”

  He’d started reaching for her hand but jerked back. “Emma? Mr. Shaw’s Emma? The angel?”

  Angel? Where had that come from? No matter. There was more important information to glean. “You know Mr. Shaw?”

  The boy grinned and dropped off the horse so fast, Emma had to leap back to keep her toes from being smashed. “Know him? He and me are partners.” There went the chest sticking out again. The manly display didn’t last long, though. Boyish enthusiasm overpowered it in a blink. “We both worked on the Burlington up in Montana until Mr. Shaw quit four days ago. That’s why I’m here. I brought his stuff.”

  Emma stepped backward, the sudden news throwing her off balance. “Malachi quit his job?” Why would he do such a thing? He loved working with the railroads. Was good at it, too. One of the most respected explosive expects in the field. Not that he’d ever made the claim himself. She’d learned of his prowess on her own. After Mal had written her about taking the railroad job, she’d had her broker check into the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad. The man provided her with glowing reports testifying to the savvy of their investors and the capabilities of their crew, including one Malachi Shaw, touted as the best blaster in the business.

  The boy didn’t seem to notice her distress. In fact, he grew increasingly more animated as his enthusiasm took over. “You should’ve seen the boss man’s face when he got Shaw’s telegram. His mouth got all tight, and his nostrils flared like an angry mule right before he starts kickin’. Then he let go with a string of curses that made even my ears burn, and I was born in the rail camps.”

  The boy chuckled. “Yep. He was none too happy, but it was his own fault for backin’ Shaw into a corner like that. Tellin’ him he had to report by Friday or be dismissed. I coulda told him that tack wouldn’t work. But did he ask me? Nope. Anyone who’d seen Shaw’s face when he got that telegram from you sayin’ you was in trouble woulda known where to lay his bet. Shaw would never leave his angel until she was safe. Even if it meant givin’ up his job.”

  The boy gave her a serious nod, his youthful enthusiasm fading into something more serious. “Mr. Shaw is the only one at the camps who treated me like a real person, not just some lackey to order about. That’s why I watched over his things and brought them to him. What’s important to him is important to me. And I reckon you, Miss Emma, are the most important thing of all.”

  Malachi had left his job. For her. Emma couldn’t seem to think her way past that stark fact.

  She had brought him into this mess, asked him to risk his life to help her protect her ladies, never giving thought to how long it might take or what kind of repercussions it might create for him. In truth, she hadn’t cared. All she’d cared about when she sent that telegram was protecting her colony. The community she’d built. The things she cared about. There had even been a part of her, deep down, that had wanted to send for him just so she could see him again. Emma bit her lip. What a selfish creature she was. So concerned with her own desires, her own plans, that she never once considered what Mal might be forced to sacrifice. She’d banked on his loyalty, and he’d paid the price.

  “Miss? You all right?”

  Emma gave herself a mental shake and glanced back at the boy. “Of course. I’m . . . fine.”

  He didn’t look like he believed her.

  “When . . . when did your employer send his telegram?” An awful thought started piecing itself together in the fog of her mind.

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled. “Monday, I think. Why?”

  “Monday,” she whispered, then turned to peer in the direction of the river. The last pieces clicked into place. The message Grace delivered before shooting practice. Mal’s sudden desire to search out the bandits the next day. It was his only chance to save his position with the railroad while still fulfilling his pledge to her. He’d wanted to keep that job. Wanted it so badly he’d hunted two armed gunmen. By himself. In their own territory.

  Thank God he hadn’t found them. A shiver coursed through Emma at the thought of what could have happened. Yet what had happened hurt, too. She’d stolen the one thing that had given him pride and respect. And what had she given him in return? Nothing but trouble.

  Emma was so deep in her thoughts, she failed to hear the jogging footsteps approaching until the horse nickered and stamped his front hooves. Her head whipped around as she belatedly lifted her rifle.

  Malachi.

  His gaze searched her face for a brief moment before he turned his attention to the boy. “Andrew! You’re a long way from Montana.”

  The boy straightened like a soldier coming to attention. “I been watchin’ over your things, Mr. Shaw, just like I told you I would. Brought Ulysses to you.”

  “So you did.” Mal was grinning like a kid who’d had a long-lost toy returned. The gelding bumped Mal’s shoulder with his nose. Mal chuckled softly and immediately started stroking the animal’s mismatched ears, placing his forehead against that of the horse. “I missed you, old man,” Mal murmured. “It’s good to have you back.”

  “I brought your trunk and the rest of your stuff, too. Even your big copper tub. Had to leave that at the depot in Seymour, though. It was too big to tie to the saddle.”

  A deep rumble of laughter echoed in Malachi’s chest, the sound warming Emma’s heart even as it twisted the guilt deeper into her soul.

  “I can just picture you trying to lash that big ol’ thing to Ulysses’s back.” Mal glanced over to Andrew, then leaned back in to murmur to his horse. “You wouldn’t stand for that, would you, old man?” Ulysses lifted his head and shook it as if in answer. Mal grinned, his own head pulling back even as his hand lingered. He stroked the gelding’s cheek, a more thoug
htful expression spreading across his features. Mal raised a brow at the boy. “Why did you leave the camp? I would have returned to collect my things eventually.”

  “I figured you might need some help,” Andrew said. “Seemed to me that whatever trouble you got tangled up in was more complicated than you first thought. So I came down to lend a hand.” The boy’s cocksure voice couldn’t quite conceal the pleading undertone. He wanted to stay with Malachi—likely the only man who had ever shown interest in him, who’d ever treated him with kindness, dignity.

  But if he stayed, Emma’s trouble could get him killed.

  “No!”

  Both males jerked their faces toward her.

  “You need to go.” Her eyes met Malachi’s. “Both of you.” She’d been selfish long enough. Yet the thought of him leaving her again ripped her heart from her chest. A sob welled inside her. She forced it back, the effort leaving her vulnerable to the tears cresting the rims of her eyes. “You’ve given me enough, Mal. Go back to Montana. To the railroad. You’re the best blaster in the business.”

  The best man she’d ever known. The man she trusted above all others. The man she . . . loved. Yes, loved. Not with the girlish infatuation of her past, but with a mature ardency that urged her to set her own desires aside and do what was best for him. By keeping him here, she was slowly stripping away his identity and everything he’d built for himself. It had to stop.

  “Em.” Mal dropped his hand from the horse and stepped toward her.

  She shook her head and backed away. The tears fell freely now, and the sob pressed against her throat, nearly choking her.

  “I never should have asked you to come. It was wrong. Selfish. I’m so sorry.”

  He reached for her.

  She bolted.

  27

  Malachi sprinted after Emma for three steps, then remembered Andrew. He skidded to a halt and turned back. “Sorry, kid. I gotta . . .”