No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(11)

He liked Zach. But the boy was a colleague. Not a friend. Not a kid brother Mal needed to feel responsible for. Just a trainee.

So why did his chest thrum with satisfaction when the boy vowed to make him proud before setting off at a controlled pace toward the blast zone?

It didn’t mean he cared. He was just glad the hardheaded kid was taking his advice for once. That was all.

Trusting Zach to do the job he’d trained him for, Mal trudged back toward the railroad camp, more than ready to clean off the dust and grime. The aunts would be glad to know at least one of their lessons had stuck.

On that first night in their home, when they’d forced him into a tub of steaming water and refused to let him out until he scrubbed every last crevice, he’d seriously considered making a run for the door. But then the warmth of the water penetrated his half-frozen skin. It relaxed his muscles. Made him feel safe and peaceful. In the end, he’d nearly fallen asleep in that tub.

That night he’d vowed never to be dirty again. Dirty defined his old life. Dirty, unwanted, afraid. Thanks to his angel, he’d escaped his past and been given a chance to plot a new course for his future. And the one he’d plotted included a copper tub large enough to accommodate a full-grown man. Even the camp laundress didn’t have a tub so large. It would take a good thirty minutes to heat enough water to fill it up, but the soak would be worth it. Malachi could practically feel the gentle slosh of the water now. About as close to heaven as a man like him was bound to get.

Mal approached the section of track under construction and raised a hand in passing to the fellow carting water to the workers. Mules dragged railroad ties, Chinamen gabbed to each other in their native tongue, supervisors shouted orders, but it was the constant staccato beat of hammers on rails beneath it all that served as the heartbeat of the rail camp. The drive toward progress. A constant moving forward. Tearing down obstacles to obtain goals. The rhythm of his life.

He strode through the tents marking the outer edges of the camp so intent on reaching his own on the far side that he failed to spot the young boy running toward him until he nearly tripped over the lad.

“Mr. Shaw.” The boy adroitly dodged to the side to avoid the collision, as if accustomed to such inattention by those older than he.

The action hit a familiar chord in Malachi. He stopped immediately and gave the boy his full attention. “Yes? What is it, Andrew?”

The boy smiled at hearing his name. Most men around camp wouldn’t exert the effort to remember the moniker of an errand boy, but Malachi knew what it was like to be considered beneath another’s notice and made a point to learn the names of all the young boys who worked around camp. Especially Andrew’s.

The kid’s mother had served drinks and other . . . things at one of the saloon tents that followed the rail camps. Mal recalled her being drunk more often than sober and had done his best to take Andrew under his wing, giving him permission to bunk in his tent if he wanted to steer clear of his ma’s . . . company and teaching him how to stash the few coins he earned running errands in an empty soda-cracker tin stuffed with old socks to keep the coins from rattling. Parents with a hankering for drink had a tendency to develop sticky fingers.

Six months back, one of his mother’s customers had caught her stealing money from his trouser pocket while he pretended to sleep. He took his anger out on her with his fists. One particularly brutal blow snapped her neck. She’d died instantly. Two weeks after Andrew’s twelfth birthday.

With nowhere else to go, Andrew stayed with the railroad, running errands for the supervisors and whoever else had coin to spare. More often than not, he found his way to the pallet Mal left out for him near the foot of his bed, close enough to the tent flap so the kid could slip in and out on his own terms. Though Mal could always tell when he’d been there.

“A telegram, sir.” Andrew held out a piece of paper to him, his smile fading. “It came in about an hour ago. Seemed important, so I been watchin’ fer ya.”

A telegram? Who would have . . . ? Malachi reached for the slightly crumpled paper. He scanned the words quickly, then started again at the top, focusing on each word while his gut turned to stone.

IN TROUBLE. NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE COME.

EMMA

Mal clenched the paper in his fist, turned, and sprinted for his tent. Smaller footsteps, equally swift, followed.

“Want me to saddle your horse, Mr. Shaw?” Andrew huffed the question as he pulled up outside Malachi’s tent. “I checked the schedule. There’s a train leavin’ out of Sheridan at three. You can still make it.”

Malachi glanced over his shoulder as he threw open his tent flap. He should probably take the kid to task for reading his private correspondence, but he was too thankful for receiving the information to care. He dug out a silver dollar from his trouser pocket and tossed it to Andrew. “Thanks, kid. There’s another dollar in it for you if you can have Ulysses ready and waiting in the next ten minutes.”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, sir!” He shot off in the direction of the roped corral where the few saddle horses owned by the wealthier crew members were interspersed with the pack mules.

Malachi ducked into his tent and immediately dragged his saddlebags out from under his cot. Clean clothes. Food. Canteen. Money. Weapons. Only the essentials.

He stuffed two shirts and a pair of pants into one bag, then opened the small chest at the foot of his bed and grabbed the sack inside. Canned beans, soda crackers, and the leftovers he’d stashed after last night’s dinner at the mess. Not as much provision as he usually preferred on a journey of such a duration, but it was enough to get by even if something went wrong on the way to Sheridan.