No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(20)

Malachi stuffed the boxed supper into the saddlebag he’d slung over his shoulder, then ran a hand over his jaw, the whiskers setting his palm to itching. Better pick up a razor and some shaving soap before he headed out. Besides, he still needed to get directions. Emma’d written him that the largest store in Seymour bought goods from her ladies, and judging by the size of the false front he’d spied across the street from the courthouse, Fischer’s Emporium was the biggest store in town. Might as well take out two birds with one shot.

Cutting through the vacant lots behind the hotel, Mal headed back to Main Street. Jogging slightly to avoid the freight wagon rolling toward him, he hopped onto the boardwalk and made his way down to the large store on the corner. A stocky fellow with a white apron tied about his waist stood in front, sweeping the boardwalk with more vigor than the task required. His head bent, he muttered beneath his breath, stopping abruptly when Malachi’s boots trudged across the boards he’d just swept.

The man’s shoulders straightened as he met Mal’s gaze, but the frown on his face stayed rooted in place. “I’m about to close up for the night, mister. If you got a big order, better come back in the morning.”

“All I need is a razor and soap. Shouldn’t take but a minute.” Mal tried to soften him up with a friendly smile, but the fella’s frown must’ve been carved from granite. It didn’t budge. “I’m on my way out of town tonight,” Mal explained. “I’d be much obliged if you could see your way to letting me make a purchase before you close.”

The man sighed and turned his back as he opened the store’s door. “Better my place than some other getting your coin, I suppose. Come on in.” A bell rang as the door opened. “Just hurry it up. I got a meetin’ with Sheriff Tabor in a few minutes to see about a personal matter.”

“I won’t take but a minute,” Mal promised, “if you could just—”

“Razors’re over there.” Fischer gestured toward a middle aisle with a pointed finger.

Mal headed toward the shelves of soaps, breezing past the wide selection of ladies’ bath goods, to find the razors. Bypassing the fancy pearl-handled ones more prominently displayed, he grabbed a plain one from the bottom shelf, a lather brush, and a round cake of shaving soap, then strode back to the counter and laid his items in front of the foul-tempered clerk.

“A dollar and two bits for the razor, fifty cents for the brush, and four for the soap. Comes to a dollar seventy-nine.”

Mal handed him a two-dollar note and waited while the man counted out his change. “Don’t suppose you could give me directions to Harper’s Station?” he asked. “It’s north of here, ain’t it?”

“Harper’s Station?” Fischer’s hand balled into a fist, and red flushed his face. “You mean Harpy’s Station? That bunch of man-haters. Harridans, all of ’em. Turning womenfolk against their men. It ain’t natural. No man in his right mind would go to that godforsaken place.”

A muscle twitched in Malachi’s jaw. “Well, that’s where I’m headed. Just thought since you did business with them, you’d be able—”

“Do business with them?” Fischer’s teeth ground together in the back of his mouth. “Not anymore. Not after what they done. If it was up to me, I’d gather a posse together and clear them out. Good-for-nothing, meddlin’ vipers . . .”

In a flash, Mal grabbed the shopkeeper’s shirtfront. He dragged him halfway across the counter with a single yank. Coins clinked onto the floor, but Mal paid them no mind. He put his face nose to nose with the old cuss. “It’s not up to you,” Mal growled. “Got that?”

Fischer sputtered. “Hold on, there, mister.” He held out his palms. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it. Just blowing steam, you know?”

“Good.” Mal released the slimy toad and shoved him back to his own side of the counter. “Because I don’t take kindly to men who browbeat women.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Fischer straightened his shirt and rolled his shoulders as if trying to erase the memory of Malachi’s grip. “I don’t take kindly to strangers who interfere in affairs that ain’t none of their concern.”

Mal scooped up his purchases, his hard-eyed glare never once leaving Fischer’s face. “The women of Harper’s Station are my concern. Anyone who threatens them will have to deal with me.”

Then, leaving his change where it had fallen on the floor, Mal strode out of the store before he did something stupid, like knock a few teeth out of Fischer’s head.

“What’s your business at Harper’s Station?” A tall, burly fellow stepped out of the shadows and blocked Mal’s path to the stairs.

“My own,” Mal ground out, tromping forward. What was it with these people? Couldn’t a man buy a razor without being subjected to insults and inquisitions?

The fella stood an inch or two taller than Malachi and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds of what appeared to be solid muscle, but Mal was riled enough to take him on should the gent want a fight.

The man made no move to stop him, but neither did he step out of the way. Mal tucked his purchases into his side and, leading with his shoulder, barreled his way past. The sturdy fella’s arm felt like a slab of granite, but it budged enough to let Mal by.