No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(26)

“Oh, I respect him plenty. Told me himself he believed women had a right to decide their own futures. Should even be allowed to vote. He might be a muscle-bound giant, but his mama raised that boy right.”

Mal could just picture Aunt Henry marching up to Porter on the street and demanding his views on women’s suffrage before agreeing to his hire. Probably had him quaking in those extra-large boots of his. The fact that he’d won her over spoke well of his character.

“Well, once he learned who I was,” Mal continued, “he offered to fill me in on what little he knew. Told me about the shooting and about Emma encouraging the women with children to leave town. At least temporarily.” Mal leaned forward again, bracing his elbows across his knees. “Didn’t say anything about a note, though.”

“There were three of them, actually. The first was found nailed to a tree along the path to the river. The second on a fence post on the far side of Betty’s farm. The third was on the church door. Each one a little closer to the heart of town. And each one a little more threatening.”

Mal clenched his jaw. She recounted the details with remarkable straightforwardness, but she couldn’t quite mask the fear in her eyes. This guy had rattled her. And he was intensifying the terror tactics.

He looked from Emma to the aunts and back again. “Did anyone get a look at him when he shot up the church?”

“I did.” Emma pulled her arms in toward her stomach and folded her hands tightly together. “He hid his features behind a bandana, though, so I’m not sure what good it will do.”

“You might be surprised.” Mal twisted in his chair to face her more directly. “Tell me what you remember.”

She glanced down at her lap. “He had a loud voice. A booming voice. And he wore a buckskin coat. There was fringe on the sleeves, I think.” She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight as if trying to picture the man in her mind. “His hat was dark brown and his horse was a chestnut, with a black tail.”

“That’s good, Emma.” And it was. She’d recalled a fair amount of detail when most people would be too overcome with shock to notice. “Was he tall? Short?”

She opened her eyes. “I don’t know. I just had a couple glimpses of him. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It’s not that important. Was he alone?”

She tapped her fingers softly against the arm of her chair. “As far as I could tell.”

“Have you had any further contact since the day of the shooting?” Mal’s mind spun with plans. They’d need to set up a watch. Train the women how to protect themselves. None of them should walk out alone. They’d need to pair off, the larger the groups the better.

“No. It’s been quiet since—”

“Fire!” A high-pitched scream from outside broke off Emma’s answer. “Somebody help! The church is on fire!”





9


The church! Emma shot to her feet, her heart in her throat. “Henry. Bertie. Grab every pail or pot you can find in the house. I’ll grab the ones in the stable and meet you by the garden. Malachi . . .”

But he was already through the front door. Gun drawn. “Stay in the house,” he yelled over his shoulder as his boots pounded across the porch. “It could be a trap.”

Stay in the house? While her ladies flocked to the scene and tried to extinguish the blaze on their own? Not a chance!

Emma ignored Malachi’s command and sprinted through the house to the kitchen and out the back door. Trusting Aunt Henry, at least, to follow—Henry would never sit idly back and let a man fight her battles for her—Emma grabbed the milking pail and the one used for water and dashed across the length of the corral, making a beeline for the church.

The smell of burning wood assaulted her as she ran. Flames flickered in the distance, glowing with an orange light against the dark sky. But only on one side of the building. The side closest to the garden. If the fire reached the plants . . .

No. She wouldn’t let it. They depended on that garden for food, for wages, for purpose. She’d not let it burn. Malachi could chase down the instigator, if he so chose. She had a town to save.

Ducking through the corral slats, Emma dragged the pails behind her, not caring about the dents and dings they gathered as they knocked into the fencing. Once on the other side, she hiked her skirts up again and ran toward the small group of women gathering at the garden gate. Someone had already pushed the gate wide and stood hunched over, working the handle of the pump they used to irrigate the crops.

Malachi, having taken the longer path down the main street, caught up to her just as she reached the road. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt. “What are you doing out here? I told you it wasn’t safe.”

Emma jerked her arm free of his grasp. “Safe doesn’t matter right now. I need to be with my ladies. Fighting the fire.”

“Safe always matters, Emma.” Malachi’s gaze left hers to scan the area around them. “He could be lying in wait, planning to use the light of the fire to pick you off one by one.”

“Well, if I hear a gunshot, I’ll take cover. In the meantime, I have a fire to put out.”

“Emma . . .”

Ignoring the plea in his voice, she spun away and sprinted across the road. “Form a line,” Emma called, spotting Tori and Grace among the women. “We can take turns at the pump and pass the buckets down.”