No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(21)
“You defended the women in there,” the man said as he followed Mal down the steps, “so I tend to think you don’t mean them harm, but those ladies have suffered enough trials lately. I ain’t about to let some stranger show up and harass them further.”
Mal spun around to face his accuser, some part of his brain registering that the man was simply trying to protect the women, same as him, but his gut still ached for a fight. “I ain’t a stranger,” he ground out, even as he eyed the man’s chin and balled his right hand into a fist. “At least not to Emma Chandler. She asked me to come.” He bent toward the raised boardwalk and set his parcels down, then straightened. “I ain’t gonna let that cretin in there”—he tipped his head toward Fischer’s store—“stop me from answerin’ her call. Nor you, either.”
He threw a punch.
The burly fella caught it. With the flat of his palm. Not his chin, as Mal had intended. The man’s fingers curled around Mal’s fist in an iron grip. Mal drew back his left arm, determined to get the upper hand—he’d beaten opponents bigger than him before—but the man’s friendly smile stopped his swing before it gained any momentum.
“Unusual way of shaking hands,” the man said, forcing Mal’s captured arm down to a more civilized level. “But I must admit, I’m glad to know you. I’m Ben Porter.” He pumped Mal’s fist up and down, his smile never dimming. “And if I’m not mistaken, you, sir, are Malachi Shaw.”
Mal recognized the fella’s name from Emma’s letters. The freighter who transported their goods and brought in supplies. Glancing around, he spied the freight wagon pulled around the side of the building.
Slowly, Mal unclenched his fist and twisted his arm free, turning the forced handshake into an earnest one. “I am.” He grinned at the larger man. “Sorry about taking a swing at you. Haven’t slept much the last two days. Guess I’m a bit tetchy.”
“Conversin’ with Fischer will do that to a person.” Porter slapped his shoulder with his free hand. “I can give you directions to Harper’s Station, and if you can spare a few minutes, I can share what I know of the trouble they’re facing.”
Mal glanced up at the sky. The sun still blazed brightly. Summer hours afforded him more daylight to travel by. Surely he could spare a half hour. Getting some details about what he’d be facing was too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Know a quiet place where we can talk?” Mal asked, giving a significant glance toward Fischer’s store.
Porter nodded. “My brother owns the livery a block north of here. We can use his office. Let me unload Fischer’s order right quick, and I’ll meet you there.” Porter started walking toward the wagon.
“I think I just rented a horse from your brother.” Mal took a step in the opposite direction. “I’ll settle up with him while you finish here.”
Fifteen minutes later, munching on a roll with a slab of ham tucked inside that he’d taken from his supper box, Mal followed Ben Porter into his brother’s office. The smell of hay and manure clung to the place. Not terribly appetizing, but it afforded privacy. Mal swallowed the bite he’d been chomping and cautiously lowered himself onto a stool of dubious soundness as Porter took the single chair behind the desk.
Ready to get to the point so he could get on the road, Mal eyed Porter straight on. “So what am I up against?”
7
Daylight faded as Malachi neared Harper’s Station, but he did his best to scour the landscape for any sign of the shooter Ben Porter had told him about. The freighter had no firsthand information. No description or hint of the man’s identity. All he could offer was a young boy’s account of a shooting at the church building. A shooting that could have taken Emma’s life, exposed as she’d been, addressing her ladies.
A tremor coursed through him, just as it did every time he let himself imagine what could have happened that day. Which he’d done at least a hundred times since leaving Seymour.
Mal set his jaw. Emma was fine. Ben had seen her. Talked to her. There was no call to get worked up over what could have happened, not when there was so much more to get worked up about regarding what might still be.
Why did the fool woman insist on staying? Didn’t she realize that a man who would shoot up a church wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a woman if it meant getting what he wanted? She’d sent away the families with children, but what about protecting her own skin? Did she value her life so little?
His mount sidestepped, and Mal forced his hands to loosen their suddenly too tight grip on the reins. He knew the answers. Knew her. Emma was a fighter. He’d only be wasting his breath if he tried to convince her to leave. The best he could do was stand beside her and draw the enemy’s fire until he managed to run the barbarian to ground.
Ben had no idea who was behind the threats. Stanley Fischer was the most vocal opponent of the women’s colony, but his disapproval hadn’t turned menacing until yesterday, when the mail-order bride he’d sent for had shown the good sense to flee her bridegroom and take refuge with Emma’s ladies. If he’d had to choose between a lifetime with Fischer or facing the temporary dangers of a madman with a rifle, Mal would have chosen the madman, too.
Rustlers were stirring up trouble in the area, but it was unlikely one of them would attack Harper’s Station. Other than a handful of milk cows and a passel of chickens, the women had no livestock to steal. Besides, the shooter had demanded they leave. Obviously, there was something there he wanted. Mal would have to check the water rights and soil surveys to see if there was anything of value to be gained from the land itself. If the shooter succeeded in scattering the women, it’d be a fairly simple matter to hire an anonymous agent to purchase the land on his behalf when Emma decided to sell.