No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(19)
“What rules are those, ma’am?” A cautionary crease lined Claire’s forehead.
Good. It meant she was weighing the ramifications.
Emma listed the basic tenets of their society, ticking them off on her fingers. “You must attend church services every Sunday; you must not speak disparagingly about any lady among us; and if you see a sister in need, you must lend your aid.”
Claire tipped her chin up as if waiting for more. When none came, she raised a brow. “Is that all of it, then?”
Emma nodded. “It is.”
“Then I agree, ma’am.” A smile beamed across Claire’s face, making her appear even younger and prettier than before.
“Normally, this is where I would invite you to walk with me down to the bank,” Emma stated, “but I’m afraid there is one other vital piece of information you need to know.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
Emma met Claire’s eyes. “Harper’s Station is under attack.”
6
After two and a half days of nonstop travel, Malachi stepped off the train in Seymour, Texas, bleary-eyed, unshaven, and weary to the bone. There’d been no sleeper berths available when he’d booked passage at the last minute in Sheridan, so he’d been forced to ride on a hard wooden bench in the second-class cabin for the duration of the journey. Though, truth to tell, it’d been worry, not the bench that had kept him awake. Anyone who worked in a railroad camp knew how to shut his ears as well as his eyes when his head hit the cot. Had to. Would never get any sleep otherwise. Yet every time he closed his eyes while aboard the train, all Mal could see was a young Emma staring up at him, pleading with him to help her.
Help her with what?
Wrestling that question had stolen his sleep. What kind of trouble was she in? What if he didn’t have the skills necessary to help her? But she’d asked for him. She knew what kind of life he led. Shoot. Maybe she needed him to blow something up. Malachi grinned as he stepped from the train to the platform. If only it could be so simple. But Emma wasn’t the simple type. No, her problems ran from complicated to hopelessly snarled. She was too tenderhearted and too stubborn to leave any thread loose to flap alone in the wind. She always held fast to them all. It was her most endearing quality.
And the most frustrating.
Rubbing a hand over the dark stubble sprouting out of his cheeks and chin, Malachi strode away from the depot in search of two things—food and a horse. He could use a bath and a shave as well, but he didn’t want to linger in Seymour any longer than necessary. His supervisor had only given him a week’s leave, and he’d already used over a third of it getting here. Despite the sun hanging low in the western sky, he needed to press on to Harper’s Station. If he hurried, he might manage to get there before full dark.
He followed the flow of passengers to the Washington Hotel dining room, but the man in the suit at the restaurant’s reception podium took one look at Mal’s rumpled clothing, still coated in dust from Wednesday’s blast at the rail camp, and sniffed in displeasure.
“Table for one, sir?” he asked with eyebrow raised and nose slanted downward, his hoity-toity voice making it clear that the correct answer to the question was no.
Not in the mood to play the game of social niceties, Mal reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bank note. He slapped it down on the podium the fella stood behind with enough force to make Prissy Pants jump.
“I’m gonna save us both the discomfort of taking you up on that completely ingenuous invitation.”
The man’s second brow rose at Mal’s use of the word ingenuous. Mal enjoyed leveling the playing field a bit by throwing a ten-dollar word into the mix. Men like Prissy Pants never expected it, which put them off their guard. Exactly where Malachi wanted them.
“Have the cook put together a box supper for me.” Mal strolled around the side of the podium. Prissy Pants backed up a step. A few of the diners at tables closest to the front of the room turned their heads to stare. Casually dropping an elbow onto the corner of the lectern, Mal leaned in. “Whatever he’s got on hand will suffice. I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect it, then I’ll be outta your hair for good. Work for you?”
Prissy Pants nodded as he edged away from the podium, trying to increase the distance between himself and Malachi. His eyes darted to the dining room patrons, then back. He swallowed. “I-I’ll see to it at once, sir.”
And he did, leaving his station to deliver Mal’s order directly to the kitchen. After he’d pocketed the five dollars, of course.
Mal tipped his hat and smiled at the couple behind him. The lady shied away, skittish-like, but the cowboy escorting her nodded approval. Nice to know there were a few fellas who respected a workingman’s dust more than a clean-shaven jaw.
Mal ventured down to Main Street and located a livery, where he made arrangements to rent a horse, saddle, and tack. Still having a few minutes to kill, he wandered down to the courthouse square to get a feel for the town, then circled around and hiked the three blocks back to the hotel. When he returned for his meal, the line for the dining room had dwindled to nothing. Prissy Pants handed over his boxed supper without a word, but the censure still etched in the man’s face got Mal to thinking as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.
He’d left Montana in such a hurry he hadn’t packed more than the essentials, figuring he could buy whatever he needed along the way. Only, a place like Harper’s Station wasn’t likely to carry men’s shaving gear in its dry goods store. Not much call for male toiletries in a women’s colony. Showing up on Emma’s doorstep scruffy and mangy because he was in a hurry to get there was one thing. Staying that way for the duration of his visit was another.