No Other Will Do

by Karen Witemeyer

  Picking up his pace, Mal left the females behind and cut across the fields for the shortest path to the church. Once there, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted up to the freighter. “Ring the bell, Porter. We need everyone gathered as soon as possible.”

  Without bothering to question why, the freighter grabbed the rope and pulled. The high-pitched metallic tone resonated through the air, sending vibrations along Mal’s nape.

  “It’s a little early to be ringing the bell, son,” Brother Garrett said, stepping out of the church door. “I only rode in about fifteen minutes ago. We don’t normally sound the call to worship until ten o’clock.”

  “Sorry, Parson. We’re going to have to forgo services this morning.” Mal strode to the steps and planted his boot on the bottom stair. “An outlaw has taken Miss Chandler hostage and threatened the rest of the town. We have to make a plan, then get the womenfolk out of Harper’s Station.”

  The circuit rider’s indrawn breath was the only hint of his shock. His expression remained serene, though his eyes did warm with concern. He crossed the small porch to the steps and laid a hand on Mal’s shoulder. “The sermon can wait for another day, but when everyone gets here, I insist we spare a few moments for prayer. If ever there was a time for divine direction, it is today.” The preacher gave Mal’s shoulder a squeeze, then stepped back. “‘Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.’”

  Mal nodded. The old man was right. All his planning would be in vain if the Lord wasn’t leading their efforts. “Thanks, Parson. An invocation would be much appreciated.”

  “Mr. Shaw!”

  Mal spun around to see Victoria Adams running up to the church, dragging her son by the hand beside her.

  “Mr. Shaw,” she repeated as she neared him, her breath heaving. “Where’s Emma?” Her gaze shifted from the church entrance to the yard to the station house behind them. “I heard the bell and thought she would be here. Is she—”

  Mal held up a hand to forestall what was sure to be a torrent of frantic questions. “I’ll explain what happened as soon as everyone gets here.”

  “Why don’t you come inside with me, Miss Adams.” Brother Garrett gestured for her to follow him into the church. “I was hoping Lewis might tell me some more about that rock collection of his. I picked up a stone a couple days ago that had some lovely quartz streaks running through it. I think I might have put it in my pack . . .”

  Lewis bounded up the stairs, a grin on his face as he traded his mother’s hand for the preacher’s. “Is it white or pink?”

  “But . . .” Tori glanced from her son to Mal. Her protest died away. She must have seen his torment. Heaven knew he was barely holding it at bay. She bit the edge of her bottom lip, then straightened her posture, lifted the hem of her skirt an inch or two to navigate the stairs, and marched past him. “I’ll see you inside.”

  She didn’t have long to wait. A steady stream of females filed into the church over the next ten minutes. Porter followed the last stragglers inside and posted himself by the door, rifle in hand. Mal did a quick count. Everyone was here. Well, except for Maybelle and Flora at the clinic. And Emma.

  He swallowed hard to rid himself of the anguish that last thought conjured, tugged his hat off, stepped up to the podium, and cleared his throat. Instant silence blanketed the room.

  “The outlaw has captured Emma,” Mal said without preamble. “And he’s threatened to kill her unless everyone vacates town by tomorrow morning.” Ignoring the gasps filling the room, Mal set his jaw and continued. “So everyone will be leaving today.” He stared pointedly at Betty. “No exceptions.”

  He took a deep breath and scanned the faces staring up at him. Friends. Neighbors. Women he respected. Admired. Women he’d been called to protect, a task he must accomplish no matter the cost. Before he could send them off to safety, however, he needed something from them. Something that could make the difference between saving Emma or losing her.

  “But you are—we are—a community,” he reminded them. “A community that thrives because you help one another. And you never abandon a sister in need.”

  “That’s right!” Henry jumped to her feet and stabbed a finger in the air. “And if you think we’re going to abandon Emma when she needs us most, you’ve gone plumb loco.”

  Head nods and murmurs of assent filled the room.

  “Good,” Mal said. “Because I need your help. There’s only one way to ensure Emma’s safety, and that’s to shift the bargaining power in our favor. I don’t trust this outlaw to keep his word. Emma can identify him, which means as soon as she outlives her usefulness, he has no reason to keep her alive. Our best chance is to find what he wants before morning and force him to negotiate a trade.”

  “But we don’t know what he wants,” Henry cried.

  “Yes, we do,” a timid voice said from the rear of the church.

  Everyone twisted around in their pews to see Maybelle propping up a battered Flora. The woman’s right eye was swollen shut, her face covered with bruises, her arm still wrapped protectively around her side, but she held herself with dignity, purpose, and determination.

  Gripping the doorpost, Flora braced her feet and stood a little straighter. “He wants his gold.”

  34

  Mal hurried down the aisle and swept Flora into his arms.

  “Careful,” Maybelle cautioned. “I think her ribs are broken. Fool woman should be curled up on a cot in the clinic, but she insisted on coming. Said she had to do all she could to help Emma.”

  Mal cradled the brave woman gently, giving her a nod of approval. “You’re a strong lady, Flora,” he said, meeting her gaze squarely as he recalled her earlier words about being weak when it came to standing up to her husband. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you different. I’m glad to have your help.”

  Henry and Bertie, seated on the front pew, immediately scooted down to make room. “Set her here, Malachi,” Bertie instructed. “Maybelle and I will see to her comfort as you continue.”

  Mal complied and lowered Flora softly to the pew. Maybelle slid onto the bench beside her.

  Retaking his place at the podium, Mal faced the group. “Word has probably spread by now, but I think everyone needs to know the facts. Flora’s husband, Angus, is the outlaw who’s been harassing Harper’s Station. He’s been in prison the last five years for robbing an army payroll convoy. Apparently, he stashed the gold somewhere here in Harper’s Station before Emma purchased the property. Now that he’s been released, he’s set on retrieving the stolen gold. He’s forced his young son, Ned—a lad of only fifteen—to work alongside him. He is the second outlaw. Fearing for Ned’s safety, Flora has gone along with Angus’s plan, trying to convince all of us to leave, in order to prevent her boy from being caught in any crossfire that might occur. Unfortunately, Angus has run out of patience. Which leaves the boy vulnerable, and Emma directly in harm’s way.”

  Mal’s fingers closed around the edge of the podium. The wooden corners dug painfully into his hands, and he struggled to tame the urge to run out of the church, jump on Ulysses, and race into the woods. To take down Angus and rescue the woman he loved. But this was no dime novel. He had no guarantee of a happy ending. Not in this world. He’d seen too many evil men in power and too many broken lives left in their wake to believe that good always won out over evil.

  So he had to use every weapon at his disposal. And right now, the best weapons available were not the rifles and revolvers in this room but the knowledge and intelligence of the women who carried them.

  Looking to the ladies seated in the front row, Mal started building his arsenal. “Flora, did Angus tell you where the gold was hidden?”

  She shook her head.

  Of course not. That would be too easy. But Mal was used to doing things the hard way. He’d been making do with scraps since the day he was born. A boy could make a right fine meal out of scraps with a l
ittle persistence and creativity. If the restaurant door was locked, he’d just have to go around back and start digging through the trash.

  “He didn’t trust me,” Flora said. “Feared I’d steal it from him. The only clue I ever got from him was when I asked how he could be sure it was still there. ‘It’s secured in stone,’ he said.” Flora shrugged. “I searched for it myself, when no one was around. Dug under rocks in the fields, checked hearths in several of the town buildings for loose stones. I even climbed onto the roof of the café one night before we set up the watch and tried to look down the chimney by lantern light. I thought if I could just give him what he wanted, he’d give up this fool quest, and I could take my son home. But I never found even a hint of that money.”

  Victoria Adams raised a hand. Mal nodded to her.

  “Several of the buildings had to be repaired when we first arrived. Some were enlarged. I know Maybelle added a room onto the clinic, and I expanded the back storeroom of my shop. Emma made some modifications at the bank, too, so it could support the large steel safe she special-ordered from Chicago. If this man hid his ill-gotten gains here five years ago, we’ll only find them if we envision what the town looked like back then. I’m pretty sure Emma had to have the café’s chimney rebuilt before it was safe for occupancy. If the masons didn’t find anything suspicious, it makes sense that Flora wouldn’t be able to, either.”

  “Good point, Miss Adams.” Mal lifted his gaze to the rest of the group. “How many of you were here when the colony first started?”

  The aunts both raised their hands. As did Betty Cooper, Maybelle Curtis, Victoria Adams, and Stella Grimes from the boardinghouse.

  Mal released his grip on the podium and leaned his forearms on it instead as his mind started processing the possibilities. “I doubt he would have hidden the money outside. If he had, he could have just slipped into town on a moonless night when everyone was asleep and retrieved it. So it has to be in one of the buildings. But which one?”

  Betty thunked the stock of her shotgun against the floor. “It prob’ly ain’t the church, since he set the place on fire a while back. Wouldn’t be smart. Too much risk of the place burnin’ to the ground and leavin’ the payroll unprotected in the rubble.”

  “Agreed.” Mal pressed his weight onto his elbows as he bent over the lectern. “Any other buildings we can eliminate?”

  Grace Mallory slowly got to her feet at the back of the room. “There’s no stone in the telegraph office. There’s a single cast-iron stove used for heating. No hearth or chimney. The rest is made of wood.”

  One of the seamstresses, Pauline, Mal thought, raised a timid hand. She glanced at the woman seated beside her then turned back toward the front. “Our house is the same. No chimney. Just a cookstove and a stovepipe. It was really more of a shanty when we first moved in.”

  Her companion nodded emphatically. “All the smaller homes were. Only the larger, more established businesses have stonework.”

  “All right,” Mal said, straightening. “Show of hands . . . Which buildings have some type of stone feature?”

  Stella Grimes from the boardinghouse raised a hand. As did Betty Cooper, the aunts, and Tori Adams.

  The aunts . . . the station house. The one building they knew for sure the outlaw had been inside. Mal’s heart thumped in a wild rhythm. Until he remembered that the muddy footprints they’d found had never approached the parlor hearth. Or any other stone feature in the house. Just the plaster wall in the basement where Angus had tacked his threatening note. Nothing but another scare tactic.

  Mal cleared his throat and forced his mind back to a more logical, methodical plan. “I think we can eliminate Betty’s farm,” he said. “It’s isolated enough that Angus could have attacked whenever he wanted.” He looked to the aunts in the front row. “What about Emma’s bank?” He thought back to the few times he’d been inside the building. “I remember wooden floors in her office.”

  “She paid a builder to reinforce the floors to ensure the interior room holding the safe would be supported,” Aunt Bertie said, “and reinforced the walls with brick covered in plaster. But before that, the building was as simple as most of the others.”

  “So we have three main places to search. Porter . . .” Mal met the freighter’s gaze at the back of the room. “You’ll take the store. Tori, you and Lewis focus on packing up what you don’t want to leave behind while Porter examines your chimney and hearth. I’ll check out the boardinghouse, then move on to the Chandler home. Everyone else needs to pack their belongings and start heading out of town. We can’t take chances with Emma’s life. Angus is sure to be watching, and I want him to believe we are complying with his demands.”

  Mal paced to the left side of the stage, too antsy to stay behind the podium any longer. “Grace is going to wire the sheriff’s office, and I sent Andrew to fetch additional support,” he said. “I pray Tabor or one of his deputies will be here by the time we find the gold and can help us set a trap. If not, we’ll find a way to manage on our own.”

  Because there was no way he’d leave Emma alone with Angus come nightfall. If they didn’t find the gold by early afternoon, he’d have to abandon the plan and go after her without it. His chances of success would be greatly diminished, but now that he knew some of the outlaw’s tricks, he prayed he’d do a better job of tracking.

  Prayed . . .

  Forgive me, Lord. I got so caught up in my own plans that I forgot to seek yours.

  A few ladies started to rise. Malachi held up both hands. “Wait!” Everyone froze at his urgent tone. “Please. Be seated. There’s one more crucial detail to see to before we depart.” He twisted to the right and met Brother’s Garrett’s eye. “The most important detail. Parson?”

  Mal stepped down from the dais, clearing the stage for the preacher.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” Brother Garrett approached the pulpit, set his well-worn Bible on the stand, and turned his compassionate gaze upon his parishioners. “I understand the need for brevity as lives hang in the balance, but as I listened to the unholy challenge you ladies have been forced to face, I couldn’t help but be reminded of a passage from Psalm 18, one I pray will bring you hope as you battle your enemy.” He fingered the ribbon marker on his Bible and opened the book to a place near the center.

  “‘I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust, my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.

  “‘I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies. The sorrows of death compassed me, and the floods of ungodly men made me afraid. . . . In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears. . . .

  “‘He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them which hated me, for they were too strong for me. They prevented me in the day of my calamity: but the Lord was my stay.’”

  Silence hung suspended in the room. Women bowed their heads. Several closed their eyes. A few even nodded a silent amen. But the gentle minister wasn’t finished.

  “You are not alone in this struggle, brothers and sisters.” The parson’s attention zeroed in on Malachi. Mal felt the look go through him like a dart, piercing his soul.

  How did he know? How had the man guessed that even while Mal actively solicited help from the ladies, he still felt alone? Alone in his efforts to save the town. To save Emma. Alone, like he’d been his entire life. Battling against those who expected him to fail. Battling his own fears that he’d prove them right.

  “You have an ally who wields more power than any human foe. One who will stand beside you, or better yet, lead the charge as you face your enemy. Join me, beloved, as we call upon the Lord, as we cry unto our God.”

  Mal bowed his head and bared his soul.

  “Almighty God,” the parson intoned, “we beseech thee today for help in defeatin
g our enemy. We cannot succeed without thy guidance, without thy strength. You parted the sea to rescue thy people. You made the sun stand still. You closed the mouths of lions. And best of all, you resurrected Jesus Christ from the dead, defeating the evil one for eternity. Thou art a God who saves.

  “We ask thee to save thy people again today. To protect Miss Chandler from the one who holds her captive. To guard the life of young Ned, and to plant seeds of goodness in his soul so that he won’t repeat his father’s mistakes. To watch over the ladies as they leave their homes and to guide the men who defend them.

  “Lord, only you know the wisest course. I pray that thou wilt give Mr. Shaw discernment, so this situation might be resolved without bloodshed. Thou hast taught that all things are possible to him that believeth. We believe in thee. Show us the way, and lead thy people to victory. In the holy name of thy Son and our Savior, Jesus Christ, amen.”

  Mal’s head remained bowed, his heart aching and raw. All I care about is getting Emma back safely. If finding the gold is not the best plan, show me the right one. And if I try to step wrong, throw a boulder in my path. I’m liable to miss a more subtle sign.

  When Mal glanced up, all the ladies were looking at him, their gazes expectant. Mal nodded to the preacher as the man collected his Bible and stepped down, then took up the vacated position on the dais.

  “Well, until the Lord shows us a better way,” he announced, “we’re gonna stick to the plan we got. Ladies, start packin’. Harper’s Station needs to be a ghost town by this afternoon.”

  35

  Four hours later, covered with sweat and soot, Malachi leaned over the water trough at the station-house corral, cupped his hands, and sloshed water over his head. He repeated the action, this time taking a moment to rub the grime off his face and neck. Yanking his shirttail out of his waistband, he ran the marginally clean section of cotton across his brow.

  His hand slowed as he ran the fabric over his eyes, his cheeks, and then the length of his jaw. His chin dropped, and his hand closed around his shirttail, wanting to ball it into a fist.