No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(101)

“She shot me. Again.”

“About time a woman took a pound of flesh from your mangy hide,” Mal spat. “I saw what you did to your wife. You should be horsewhipped for that crime alone.”

Fire ignited in Angus’s eyes. “Flora’s mine to do with as I see fit. She’s none of your concern, Shaw.”

“Maybe not,” a young, masculine voice said from somewhere behind Emma, “but she’s my concern. And you’ve hurt her for the last time.”

Ned strode around the corner of the church and marched past Malachi, his pistol and his fury aimed directly at his father.

“Put that gun away, boy,” Angus blustered, even as his nostrils flared as if catching the scent of danger. “What happened is between your ma and me. It don’t concern you.”

“Don’t concern me?” Ned shouted the words like an accusation. “She’s so busted up she can’t even stand without help. The lady was right, wasn’t she.” He nodded his head in Emma’s direction. “You beat Ma and left her for dead in the woods, like an animal shot for sport and left to rot. But you’re the animal. A rabid animal that needs to be put down.”

Emma’s heart lurched. So that’s why Ned had stayed in the church. Flora was in there. Knowing the extent of the damage Angus had wrought against the woman, it was no wonder the boy was spitting mad. But if he let his anger rule him, his actions would haunt him for the rest of his days. She couldn’t let that happen.

“You can’t shoot him, Ned.” Emma tried to step around Malachi, but he shifted to keep himself in front of her, his rifle still trained on Angus. “He’ll pay for his crimes. We’ll make sure of it.”

Ned shook his head. A tremor entered his voice. “I should have protected her. I have to make it right. Make sure she never has cause to fear him again.”

Emma’s heart thundered in her chest . . . No . . . the thunder came from outside. From the south. Riders. From Seymour.

Ned took another step closer to his father, his gun steady, his finger on the trigger.

“You can’t protect your ma if you’re not around.” Mal’s voice rumbled low. Calm. Logical. “You shoot your pa in cold blood, you hang. Then who will provide for your ma? See to her protection?”

Ned’s gun hand trembled just a touch.

“Listen to him, Ned.” Flora’s voice.

“Ma?” Ned glanced behind.

Emma twisted around, too, and found the woman hobbling forward, a resolute Claire propping her up. “I need you, son,” she pled. “More than I need anything else. The next time your pa gets out of prison, he’ll be old and weak, and you’ll be a full-grown man in his prime. I’ll have nothing to fear.”

Ned’s gun lowered a few inches but remained locked on Angus.

“I know he deserves killin’,” Flora said, her face hardening as she swept a disgusted glance at her husband, “but he ain’t worth your life. We just gotta trust that God and the law will see to his punishment.”

The ground vibrated beneath Emma’s feet. The riders were getting closer.

“Please, Ned.” Flora reached for him. “Take my hand. Let’s go back inside.”

After a hesitation that felt like an hour but was surely only a few heartbeats in length, Ned uncocked his pistol and slid it into the holster at his side. He was halfway to his mother when Angus sneered at his back.

“Told ya, you turned him soft, Flora.” He spat onto the ground. “That pansy of yours will never be a real man.”

Mal lurched forward, swung the rifle around, and before Angus could blink, slammed the butt into the outlaw’s head. The snake crumpled face first into the dirt. Exactly where he belonged.





39


The moment Angus slumped unconscious to the ground, Mal spun around and grabbed Emma’s upper arm.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. His blood still pumped through his veins at lightning speed.

“Yes.” She nodded, but he didn’t believe her.

There were red marks along her slender throat from Angus’s fingers and a darkening bruise along her chin about the size of a man’s fist. The jackal had laid hands on her. Hurt her. A muscle ticked in Mal’s jaw. He wanted to slam the rifle stock into the fiend again. Lord knew he deserved it. But Emma was his main concern now. She looked as though she’d been through a war. Her dress was filthy, one sleeve torn at the shoulder, another tear leaving a gash down the left side of her skirt. All from rolling around in the dirt battling Angus . . . Heaven above! She’d been fighting—no, defending him—when she should have been running for cover. Mal didn’t know if he should shake her for acting so rashly or crush her to him in appreciation.

He opted for the latter.

Dropping the rifle to the ground, Mal grasped her upper arms with both hands and yanked her to him. Anger, leftover terror, and sweet relief all swirled through his chest as he pulled her near, but it was the love thrumming through his heart that brought his mouth crashing down upon hers.

He could have lost her. Forever. He held her tighter. Closer. Not ever wanting to experience that kind of scare again.

But wait. He was being too rough. After all the violence she’d suffered at Angus’s hands, he didn’t want to subject her to unwanted attentions. He should stop. But he couldn’t. Heaven help him, she tasted too sweet, and he’d hungered for this for so long. Maybe he’d find the strength if she pushed him away.