No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(22)

The fella probably thought a few gunshots would be all it would take to scare off a bunch of unprotected females. Mal chuckled. He didn’t know who he was going up against. Emma and the aunts had stubborn streaks a mile wide. Threats would just make them dig their heels in harder. Which meant . . . the attacker would have to either forfeit his game or take it to the next level.

Somehow Mal doubted a man unscrupulous enough to fire at unarmed women would hesitate to amplify the violence to gain the prize he sought.

Mal set his jaw and nudged his mount from a walk to a canter, wishing not for the first time that he had Ulysses with him. The gray mare he’d rented was sturdy enough, but she certainly hadn’t been built for speed. She was female, though, so at least one of them would fit in.

The first buildings of Harper’s Station finally came into view as Malachi crested a slight hill. Dark silhouettes of pointed roofs rose above the vegetation spread out on the flatland below him. His gut clenched. Emma lived under one of those roofs. Ben had said she lived in the one closest to the edge of town, the old stagecoach stop that had given the town its name.

An odd lightness danced upon his chest as he spotted the building he sought. He rubbed at the spot, then scowled when the itch failed to dissipate.

Mal slowed his mount and took stock of the rest of Harper’s Station. A tight cluster of businesses lined one side of the road. A handful of other buildings scattered beyond. Not much there to covet that he could see.

A creak of a door focused his attention back on the station house. A young woman emerged from inside and stepped onto the covered porch. A sophisticated woman with dark hair pulled back from her face and wound into an intricate bun at her nape. A grown-up woman of means and mission.

Mal’s heart thudded in his chest as he halted his mount. After all the letters they’d exchanged over the years, he’d thought he’d been prepared to see her again. He’d been wrong.

She curled her fingers around the railing post and leaned forward to look at him. Her brows arched slightly. “Malachi?”

The name fell from her lips so softly, he doubted he’d actually heard it. Must’ve just read the shape of it on her mouth. A mouth within a face achingly familiar yet changed.

Mal stared. He couldn’t help it. His little Emma had grown into a handsome, well-put-together woman.

The long tan skirt she wore swept the porch steps as she slowly descended. Her ivory blouse puffed up slightly at the shoulders, nipped in nicely at her tiny waist, and swelled over curves he hadn’t remembered being quite so . . . pronounced in the thirteen-year-old girl he last saw.

His collar seemed to tighten around his throat.

“Malachi? Is that you?” She’d reached the bottom stair, her hand falling away from the post.

“Yep.” The short, scratchy croak of an answer wasn’t much of a howdy after ten years, but it was all he could manage.

Then she smiled. No, it was more than a smile. Her entire face lit up with such joy it nearly knocked him from his horse. He’d forgotten. Forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like that. Like the world had suddenly gotten better because he’d arrived.

Unable to withstand her beaming a moment longer, Mal jerked his attention down to his saddle and concentrated on dismounting without doing something stupid like falling on his rear. He hoped his impassiveness would dim her enthusiasm enough for him to get a grip on his sputtering brain and allow him to think of something slightly intelligent to say.

He should have known better.

The instant his boots hit the dirt, she hit him. In a full-on, no-room-to-breathe hug.



Emma wrapped her arms around Malachi’s waist and held on tight. He was back! After so many years, he was finally back.

It seemed to take forever, but his arms eventually lowered around her. Not that he actually returned her embrace. His arms circled her so lightly she barely felt the contact. If he hadn’t given her back an awkward little pat, she might have thought him a block of wood for all the affection he showed.

But Malachi had never been one to admit he cared about something. Or someone. When he’d first come to live with them, she’d been determined to win him over. To make him like her so they could become the closest of friends. But after several weeks, his manner remained aloof. He never smiled, answered all her questions with either a shrug or a grunt, and on some occasions actively avoided her. It was enough to wear down even the cheeriest of dispositions.

Then one day when he was chopping wood, she came up behind him with the water bucket and dipper. He must not have heard her, though, for when she called his name, he whirled around, hatchet in hand. She’d had to jump back to avoid getting hit. He’d gone so pale, she’d worried he might topple over in a dead faint. Wanting to comfort him in some way, she set down the pail and opened her arms to hug him.

He’d slapped her arms away. Then he’d yelled. Awful things. Hurtful things. Said she had feathers for brains, then spat out a string of foul words she’d never heard before but could tell meant something horrible by the way his eyes sharpened into dark, pointed steel when he flung them at her.

She’d burst into tears and ran straight for her room, sure Malachi hated her. It had been Aunt Bertie who’d finally explained. As she’d held Emma in her arms and wiped her tears away, Bertie had told her a secret. Sometimes people who had lost too much in life were afraid to care. About anyone or anything. For caring meant hurting if they lost what they cared about. And if they did start to care, they fought against it. Hard. That’s what Malachi was doing. Fighting.