No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(27)

Tori nodded to her and immediately started organizing the women, some of whom were in their nightwear.

“I’ll take over the pump. Let you young ones do the heavy lifting.” Maybelle Curtis huffed up behind Emma. The poor woman must have run all the way from her home on the north side of town.

Emma patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Maybelle.”

The older woman nodded, bent slightly to catch her breath, then straightened and started calling out orders of her own. “If the smoke gets too thick, tear a strip of petticoat and wrap it around your nose and mouth. Too much smoke in the lungs can take a person down. And mind your skirts. Especially those of you taking the front lines.” She skewered Emma with a pointed look as she passed through the gate and took hold of the pump handle Flora had just released. “A stray spark can set the fabric ablaze before you know what’s what. I don’t want to be tending any burns that could have been avoided with common sense.”

Emma nodded, grabbed one of the buckets Flora had already filled, and headed toward the church. Water sloshed onto her skirt and shoes as she scurried. The cold barely registered. The fire held her full attention.

Heat stung her face and hands as she neared the fire. Her eyes watered from the smoke. The acrid smell wrinkled her nose.

You will not steal our home! The silent vow reverberated inside Emma as she tossed her bucketful of water on the first flames she encountered. The hiss of steam echoed loudly in the night, but the flames raged on, undeterred.

“Toss me the empty pail,” someone called from behind.

Emma turned to find Grace waiting with open arms. Emma flung the pail across the three feet that separated them. Grace caught it, then spun around and repeated the motion, Tori’s line well in place. And judging by the movement farther down, a full pail was already halfway to her.

Emma turned back to regard the church, a cough scratching at her throat. She walked a few steps along the wall, eyeing the damage already wrought. The flames seemed to be most concentrated in the center of the wall, though they licked upward as well. They hadn’t reached either the front or back of the building. As far as she could tell, only this one section was ablaze.

She hurried back to where Grace was accepting the next bucket. “It’s not too bad,” she yelled over the crackling of the fire. “We can do this.”

Grace’s lips pressed together in a thin line as she handed off the bucket. “I pray you’re right.”

Emma took the handle from Grace’s hands. The weight of the bucket dragged on her arms, but she held tight and waddled back into the fray. With a strength born of determination, she took hold of the bottom of the pail and hurled the contents into the heart of the blaze.



Malachi shoved his revolver into its holster and stomped back toward the church. Nothing. That’s what he’d found. Absolutely nothing. No hoofprints. No footprints. At least none of the male variety. There were a bunch of dainty female footprints around as one would expect, but nothing else.

How had the outlaw done it? Set the church on fire and left without a trace? Had Mal missed something? He’d gone over every inch of the ground leading away from the church. He’d searched the outlying scrub brush for broken twigs or bent branches and found nothing there either. But it was dark. Everything in shades of gray and black. All too easy for details to get lost in the shadows. He’d have to check the area again in the morning.

Some protector he was turning out to be. The male guardian brought in to ferret out the threat and shield the ladies of Harper’s Station from harm, and he’d contributed absolutely nothing to their defense. Not only had he failed to find the man responsible, or even a hint of how the fiend had accomplished his task, he’d left the women to fight the blaze on their own.

As he strode closer, the scene brought into focus sliced the guilt into him even more deeply. Weary soldiers covered in battle grime. Bedraggled. Sodden clothes. Mud-caked shoes and hems. Faces drawn with fatigue.

All the remaining townswomen must have turned out. From one gal who looked like she was still in her teens, to a handful of females in nightclothes and caps, to the aunts who apparently listened to him as well as Emma did—they all worked together, their rhythm steady. Mal traced the line up toward the front, his scowl deepening. The women closer to the flames were streaked with soot. Their faces reddened from the heat. Emma, of course, was at the head of the line, tossing water onto the last ribbon of fire that licked up toward the roof.

Her fine white blouse had turned to gray, the untucked shirttail hanging shapeless behind her. Her hair hung in hanks around her face, but when she turned to accept the next bucket, focused green eyes glittered with purpose. Nothing short of collapse would keep her from fighting.

However, as she pivoted back toward the building and flung the water, her weariness became evident. The water only caught the bottom portion of the flames, leaving the top to continue its climb toward the roof.

A short woman rushed forward to collect the empty pail but then froze at the sight of him. Dropping the pail, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a tiny gun. Her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes hard, she cocked the weapon and aimed it at his chest.

“Stop where you are.” Her voice was quiet, but it bore an intensity that carried above the sounds of clanking buckets and crackling flames. Her hand didn’t waver, either. This one had grit—and a wariness in her gaze that spoke of past hardship.