No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(102)
She didn’t. Instead, she melted against him.
A sigh-like moan escaped her throat, and just as he started scraping together the wherewithal to release her, she launched up on her tiptoes, clasped his shoulders, and kissed him back. Deeply.
Mal shuddered. The wound beneath his right shoulder shot a twinge of discomfort through him at her enthusiastic response, but he ignored it. Who cared about a little pain when the woman he loved was kissing him?
His hands gentled their grip on her arms and traveled around to her back, cherishing her. Caressing her. Replacing Angus’s mark of brutality with one of tenderness.
His palms skimmed their way up to her nape. His thumbs stroked featherlight touches over the slender column of her throat. Soothing. Erasing the ugliness. Then he cupped the back of her head in one hand, adjusted her face to the perfect angle, and poured all the love he’d stored up in his soul for the past decade into their kiss.
She met him stroke for stroke, reaching up to bury her fingers in his hair. Tiny shivers of awareness danced over his scalp, down his neck, and along his arms. His gut tightened. His hold tightened. He flattened his right palm into the hollow between her shoulder blades and drew her so close to him that not even a breeze could have slipped through.
“I see you . . . ah . . . have things well in hand, Shaw.”
Emma gave a little jump in Malachi’s arms, then tore her lips from his and hid her face in his chest.
Mal glared up at Benjamin Porter, who was trying not to smile and failing miserably. And the freighter wasn’t alone. The man’s brother, Bart, stood a few steps behind him along with half of Harper’s Station—Andrew, Betty, Grace, Tori, and some young fellow Mal didn’t recognize.
Not only had he lost his head and kissed Emma, but he’d done it with an audience. Claire and Ned must’ve born witness, too, but were probably too concerned about Flora’s condition to stay and enjoy the show in its entirety.
“That the outlaw?” Betty stepped around the gawkers and marched over to examine Angus’s crumpled form. “He dead?”
With great effort, Malachi forced his arms to uncurl. He stepped away from Emma, hating the feel of her hands slipping away from his neck, his chest. He wanted to grab them back, to maintain the connection. It felt as if she was slipping away for good. No doubt she was. Despite all they’d been through, the core of their circumstances hadn’t changed. She still lived in a women’s colony and he still lived the rough-and-tumble life of a railroad man. Or would as soon as he found another position.
“Shaw?” Betty turned to stare at him, impatience lining her practical face. Either unfazed by what she and the others had interrupted, or attempting in her own way to smooth things over by getting down to business, she stood over Angus and waited for Mal to respond.
He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the flush of heat rising up from his collar. “He’s not dead. He’s got a knife wound in his thigh, a bullet in his arm, and a knot on his forehead from where my rifle butt ran into his skull. Someone should probably tie him up and carry him back to Seymour along with the army payroll he stole five years ago. The strongbox is inside the church.”
“That’s what we brought him along for.” Betty jerked her thumb back toward the stranger.
Porter gave the fellow a little push. “Get to work, Deputy. Tie him up and charge him with kidnapping, assault, arson, extortion . . .” He looked at Mal. “Anything I’m missing?”
“He already did time for thievery, but attempting to take the money a second time could be a new charge. Not sure.”
Betty nudged Angus none-too-gently with the toe of her boot. “Murder,” she announced. “Eighteen counts. The weasel killed my chickens.”
Technically, Flora had done the deed on Angus’s behalf, but Mal wasn’t about to split hairs with the woman.
As the deputy and Porter moved to take care of Angus, Mal watched Emma enter the company of the other women. Tori and Grace surrounded her, cutting her off from him, leading her around the corner, out of his line of sight. A feeling akin to panic clutched at his chest. But what could he do? She belonged with them.
Emma allowed Tori and Grace to lead her away, still embarrassed—and in truth, a bit light-headed—from being caught so thoroughly kissing Malachi. Thankfully, neither of her friends felt the need to comment upon her public display. They were both chattering on about how Sheriff Tabor had been nowhere to be found and Andrew had been unable to convince Deputy Lang to leave his post in Seymour to assist.
“If it wasn’t for Mr. Porter’s insistence, we’d have no lawman with us at all,” Tori said.
“Insistence?” Grace scoffed. “The man used every inch of height and muscle the good Lord gave him to intimidate Lang into compliance. I swear, for a man who’s been nothing but gentle and kind around us women, he looked like a grizzly when he took on that deputy.”
“Yes, well . . . I’m just relieved to find you safe and well, Emma,” Tori said, neatly turning the conversation. “We’ve all been worried sick. Your aunts, especially. They made me promise to ride back to Seymour the minute the ordeal was over and convey what had happened. Since I left Lewis behind with them and Daisy, I gladly agreed. I’ve never spent a night away from my son. Mr. Porter and his brother agreed to escort me back, no matter the time.”