No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(2)

With a snort, Mal flipped up the collar of his shirt, stuffed his stinging hands in his pockets, and started trudging east. Gainesville shouldn’t be too far away. That’s where he’d been when he got the brilliant idea to hitch a ride in the third boxcar from the end. Not his best decision. But the fellas already occupying the car had jumped on him pretty fast. The train couldn’t have traveled too many miles from town before he’d been tossed. Surely there’d be a farm or ranch nearby with a barn he could hunker down in for a night or two. All he had to do was find it before full dark hit.

By the time he came across the first structure, Mal was shivering so hard, he could barely keep his balance. The wind pounding him from the north kept pushing him off track, making him fight to walk a straight line. But, hey, at least it wasn’t snowing. That preacher man would be proud of him. He’d just doubled the size of his blessing list.

Mal chuckled, but the expulsion of air turned into a cough. One that made his chest ache. Hunching his shoulders, he ducked his head and turned full into the wind, cutting across a field to shorten his path to the barn.

Light glowed from the windows of the house that stood a short distance away. Smoke blew out the chimney at a sharp angle, as much a slave to the wind as he was. He usually took steps to avoid people, but in this instance, he was too cold to even consider looking for a more suitable hideout. If he could just bed down in some straw for the night and get warm, he could be away before the owners woke up in the morning.

Suddenly thankful for the encroaching darkness, Malachi flattened himself against the far side of the barn and inched his way around until he reached the doors at the front. Opening the one closest to him just enough to squeeze through, he slipped inside and held the door, fighting the tug of the wind in order to close it quietly. The last thing he needed was for the slam of a door to bring the farmer running. Farmers tended to carry shotguns, and Mal wasn’t too fond of buckshot.

He peered through the crack he’d left open and watched the house, ready to make a run for the field, if necessary. But no one came out to challenge him. He released the breath he’d been holding and closed the door the rest of the way. Looked like his blessing list was up to three now. Mal grinned and trudged to the darkest corner he could find.

The smell of hay tickled his nose, but he was too happy to be out of the wind to pay it any mind. With numb, shaky fingers, he managed to undo the buttons on his flannel shirt. He removed it along with the long-sleeved wool undershirt he wore and stretched both over the empty stall door. He tried to undo the laces of his shoes, but his fingers were too stiff to pick the knots free. His feet would have to wait until he regained some feeling in his hands.

He huffed his breath over his cupped hands, then moved into the stall and buried himself in the pile of straw. He lay still for a long time, his bony arms curled in front of his thin chest, his knees pulled up tight. The dampness of his trousers caused his teeth to chatter uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and imagined everything warm he could think of. A roaring fire. A wool blanket—no, not one of those scratchy things. A quilt. A thick, soft, down-filled quilt with lace at the edges like he saw in a shop window once. A steaming bowl of barley soup.

The pang hit his stomach hard. Great. He knew better than to think about food. Now he wasn’t gonna be able to think about anything else. Mal opened his eyes and squinted through the shadows. Maybe there was some feed in the corncrib he’d passed on the way in. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a dinner of field corn pilfered from a bunch of livestock. Awful stuff. Hard and dry, and it always stuck in his teeth. But it would hold back the gnawing in his belly and maybe even let him sleep.

Reluctantly, Malachi unfolded himself and brushed off the straw. He clenched his jaw to still the chattering of his teeth and slowly made his way to where he recalled seeing the crib. One of the horses snorted as he passed and kicked at his stall door.

“Easy, boy,” Mal murmured in a soft voice. “No reason to get worked up. I ain’t gonna hurt nuthin’.”

In the dwindling light coming through one of the windows, the horse watched him with big, brown eyes that made Mal’s neck itch, but the beast quit his bangin’. Malachi eased past, keeping his gaze on the horse, not liking the way he stared at him. Down his long horse nose. All snooty. Like the shopkeeper’s wife who used to shoo him with her broom every time she caught him going through the garbage bins behind the store. As if he were a rat or some other kind of vermin.

Caught up in his thoughts, Mal didn’t see the shovel until his shoe collided with it. It toppled to the floor with a clatter that echoed off the rafters. Mal froze, his heart thumping harder than a blacksmith’s hammer.

A hinge creaked. He spun to face the sound. On his left. Toward the front. Between him and the door.

Footsteps.

Malachi snatched the fallen shovel and pulled it back, ready to strike. He’d smash and run. As soon as the farmer showed himself.

A figure emerged from inside a front stall. A tiny figure with round green eyes and a halo of curly black hair standing out around her head. Pale skin. Plump, rosy cheeks.

Mal slowly dropped his arms and set the shovel aside. There’d be no smashing and running. Not when God had sent him an angel.

“Who are you?” the angel asked, her childish voice holding only curiosity. No accusation.

Mal couldn’t say a word.

The angel didn’t ask another question. Just stared back at him. Only then did Mal remember he didn’t have a shirt on. He circled his arms around his middle, trying to hide his scrawny, naked chest. He didn’t want to offend the angel. Or have her see the bones that showed through his skin. A man had his pride, after all.