No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(14)

Mal groaned and immediately raced for the pond. He dodged families, trees, girls rolling hoops, men tossing horseshoes. Dread built in his chest with every step.

Abby was no great friend of Emma’s, her brother being one of Oliver’s most loyal cronies. Yet Emma would never allow a helpless animal to be harmed if she could do something about it. No doubt she had rushed to the ducklings’ defense, not once considering it could be a trap. Mal clenched his jaw. There probably wasn’t even a nest to defend.

He rounded the corner of the church and slid down the embankment that sheltered the pond. A flash of blue off to the left caught his eye. Had Emma been wearing a blue dress? Doggone it. He couldn’t remember. He’d been more concerned about keeping track of where she was than what she was wearing. Stupid. Stupid!

He veered to the left anyway, and chased down the blue dress. Only to find it attached to a blond-haired female. Not Emma.

Mal grabbed Abby’s arm and spun her to face him. She let out a squeal of distress, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

“Where is she?” he snapped.

Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “I didn’t know. I thought they were just going to have some fun. . . . I didn’t mean . . .” The girl was sobbing in earnest now, her broken sentences telling him nothing.

He shook her arm and bit out one word. “Where?”

Abby lifted her free hand and pointed toward a large cottonwood several yards back the way he had come. He released her and ran toward the tree.

He heard Emma before he saw her.

“Let me go. Please . . . stop. You’re hurting me. . . .”

Her whimpers sliced through Mal’s chest like a cavalry saber. He rounded the tree and stumbled to a halt. Every instinct demanded that he rush Oliver like a bull, take the fiend to the ground and pummel him until his face was too broken and bloody for even his old man to recognize. But Oliver was too close to Emma, bending over her while he held her pinned against a tree. Mal couldn’t risk causing his angel pain. But Oliver? Oh, Oliver would be feeling lots of pain. Real soon.

“Just one kiss,” Oliver demanded in a sickly smooth voice that turned Mal’s stomach. “That’s all. Then I’ll let you go.” His head lowered.

“No!” Emma jerked her face to the side. “I’ll never kiss a pig like you!” Then without warning, she threw her head forward and slammed her forehead straight into Oliver’s puckered lips.

The boy cursed and reared back, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Emma broke free of his hold for an instant, but Oliver recovered too quickly. Snatching her arm so hard she fell backward, Oliver raised a fist.

“I’ll teach you to—”

Malachi let out a roar and charged. By all that was holy, he was going to tear the swine limb from limb.

But just as he came within reach, two of Oliver’s cronies rushed him from behind. They tackled him, one throwing punches in his side as the other ground his face into the dirt. Malachi kicked and bucked, but they were too heavy. They twisted his arms behind him and forced him to his feet.

“I just wanted a taste of what you’ve already had, Malachi,” Oliver taunted, his rage of a moment ago supplanted by smug superiority as he dragged a struggling Emma beside him. “It must be nice living under the same roof as her with no one but the crazy Chandler sisters to act as chaperones.”

Malachi narrowed his gaze, silently promising retribution for the slur against Emma, but Oliver was too stupid to realize the danger he was in.

“Malachi would never!” In a flash, the fear in Emma’s eyes hardened to indignation. “How dare you say such a thing? It’s a vile lie!”

Oliver laughed. “What an innocent.” He stroked a piece of her hair. Emma yanked it from his grasp with a twist of her head and a glare, only wincing slightly when the few strands tangled in his fingers tore out of her scalp. “Maybe he hasn’t done anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t wanted to. Right, Mal?” Oliver shot a knowing glance at Malachi.

Mal’s gut clenched guiltily. He had imagined what it would be like to kiss Emma—she was too beautiful inside and out for him not to dream of such a treasure—but she was too young. And far too good for the likes of him. He’d sooner cut off his arm than take liberties.

“We’ve seen the way you watch her. Haven’t we, fellas?” Oliver shared a look with his friends, his smirk fanning the flame of Malachi’s rage. The boys holding Mal laughed and shouted their agreement.

Mal quit struggling. Let his arms go lax. Prayed his captors would instinctively relax, as well.

Oliver turned back to Emma. She renewed her struggles. “Do you suppose she tastes as sweet as she looks?” Then the dirty scum grabbed her head and brought his mouth down on hers. Hard. Staining Emma’s purity with his foul touch. She whimpered, tried desperately to push him away with her free hand.

Malachi struck. Using his thin build to his advantage, he twisted free from his captors’ loosened hold. Dodging their grasping hands, he threw himself to the ground, flipping so he’d land on his back. He kicked outward and upward, his bootheels jamming against the tender area of both boys, where he knew it would cause the most pain. As they howled and doubled over, Mal leapt to his feet and lunged for Oliver.

The boy’s eyes widened. He released his hold on Emma in order to bring his fists up for protection, but Malachi didn’t give him the chance to take a swing. Putting his head down, he rammed Oliver’s midsection and carried him to the ground. Oliver punched wildly at Mal’s back and shoulders, but Mal ignored the pain. All he saw was Emma’s terror as Oliver forced his attentions on her. Mal straddled Oliver, pinning him to the ground just as Oliver had pinned Emma to the tree. Then he smashed his fist into Oliver’s jaw. Oliver cried out.