No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(17)

Ever since she’d made up her mind to ask him to come, anticipation had been swelling inside her like yeasty bread dough rising on a warm windowsill. She was in desperate need of someone to punch her down and knead her back into shape. Someone like the new lady who had come to Harper’s Station. A lady who deserved to be welcomed by the colony’s founder. Welcomed . . . and warned.

Emma smoothed the pleats of her shirtwaist and touched a hand to her hair. Then, forcing a cheerful jaunt to her stride, she exited her office and made her way down the street to Tori’s mercantile.

Mr. Porter helped the newcomer down just as Lewis rushed out of the store. “Mr. Ben! Mr. Ben! Did you hear about the shooting? Some mean ol’ fella shot up the church yesterday. And we was all inside!”

Oh, heavens. Emma picked up her pace. Wasn’t that a lovely way to welcome a new sister to town?

Mr. Porter’s pleasant expression hardened so fast, Emma nearly stumbled from whiplash. He jerked his attention from the boy to the shop. “Is your ma . . . ?”

Victoria appeared in the doorway. “I’m fine, Mr. Porter. Everyone is fine.” Not quite meeting the freighter’s gaze, she stepped into the street and offered her hand to the young—very young—woman at his side. “I’m Victoria Adams. Welcome to Harper’s Station.”

The girl—for she couldn’t be more than seventeen—bobbed a quick curtsey, then took Tori’s hand. “I’m Claire, ma’am. Claire Nevin.” Her voice carried a bit of an Irish lilt. She smiled at Tori, but as Emma neared, she noted the girl’s eyes carried the desperate, cornered look apparent in far too many of her ladies when they first came to town.

Emma finally reached the group and introduced herself. “Claire,” she said, holding out her hand, “so glad to meet you. I’m Emma Chandler, director of the women’s colony. We’re delighted you came to visit.”

Claire held tight to Emma’s hand, refusing to release it. “I wish to do more than visit, ma’am. I wish to take shelter among ye.” Her gaze darted from Emma to Tori and back to Emma. “Please, ma’am. I can’t marry him.” Her head wagged adamantly back and forth. “I just can’t!”

Tori stepped forward and took Claire’s elbow. She guided her to the bench sitting outside the mercantile. “Come along now, Miss Nevin. Have a seat. We’ll get this all sorted out in no time. Miss Chandler is somewhat of an expert when it comes to granting assistance to young ladies in circumstances similar to your own. She’ll know what to do.” Tori met Emma’s gaze, a wealth of meaning passing between the two.

How could they help the girl when they themselves were under attack? But how could they not? Young ladies with nowhere to go were the reason for the colony’s existence. They couldn’t simply turn Claire away.

Victoria steered Claire to the middle of the bench and seated herself to one side. Emma slid onto the opposite end of the bench.

“Lewis,” Tori called to her son, “help Mr. Porter unload the supplies. The eggs and canned goods to sell are in their usual place in the back room.”

The boy grinned up at the freighter, a sparkle in his eye. Emma had no doubt that the moment the two males disappeared into the storeroom, tales of yesterday’s events would be flying from the lad’s lips.

“And mind those eggs,” Tori admonished. “I don’t want a single crack in those shells. You hear me?”

“Yes, Mama.” Lewis dashed toward the back of the wagon to help unload.

Mr. Porter stared at Victoria for a moment, then flicked a glance at Claire. He shifted from foot to foot, looking as if he intended to speak. Apparently he changed his mind, though, for he gave a quick nod and followed the boy.

“Now,” Emma said, smiling her most reassuring smile as she patted Claire’s knee, “tell us what has brought you here.”

Claire dipped her chin. “I’m runnin’ away.”

Sympathy rose in Emma’s breast at the defeat in the girl’s voice. Young people should be filled with hope, their future filled with possibilities and promise. But judging by Claire’s well-worn dress and pitifully small traveling bag, hope was in short supply for her.

“Who are you running from?” Emma gently prodded.

“My intended.” Claire slowly raised her face, her eyes brimming with despair. “When I answered his advertisement, I told meself it didn’t matter what he looked like so long as he was kind and a good provider. Anythin’ is better than starvin’ in the tenement, me sisters and brothers cryin’, me da drinkin’ and breakin’ me ma’s heart over and over again with his wastrel ways.

“I decided, with one less mouth to feed, they’d be better off. Eileen’s old enough to tend the bairns. Polly’s got a good hand with the cookin’.” She sniffed. “They’d get along. And I’d have a life of me own. Out here with the big sky, fresh air, and a man to provide for me. Only the man doin’ the providin’ ain’t a man I can live with.”

Claire turned to face Emma and grabbed her hand. Words tumbled out of her faster than water down a falls. “He’s older than me da! He’s got white chin whiskers and a belly that rolls over his belt. And meaty hands that make a mean-looking fist.”

Emma winced at the telling description. Claire would have no idea what his fist looked like if she hadn’t had cause to see it.