No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(31)
“So is that why you brought me here?” he challenged. “’Cause you needed a man to be the leader for you?”
Her brows scrunched downward. “No. I brought you here to help.”
“To help, huh?” He pushed away from the fence and glared at her. “Okay. Then here’s my first tip. Quit knocking yourself down. No one knows what to do when thrust into a situation they’ve never encountered before, no matter their age or experience. All anyone can do is take the information they’ve been given, weigh the risks and rewards, then make the best decision possible at the time. I’ll help you gather that information, Emma. I’ll teach you and the others how to defend yourselves. Shoot, I’ll even give you my advice—not that you’ll take it.” He gave her a meaningful look, recalling the way she’d disregarded his instructions to stay inside.
She jutted her chin out in response, that familiar spark of defiance returning to her eyes.
He had to work hard to hold back his grin.
“But you’re the one these ladies respect,” Mal reminded her. “You’re the one they trust. Not me. You are their leader.”
She glanced away, her face a mask of concentration as she silently battled to subdue her doubts. Mal watched her struggle for a moment, then, on impulse, grabbed her hand.
Emma blinked. She glanced at his hand on hers, then lifted her eyes to his face.
His throat suddenly tight, Mal fought the urge to drop her hand and turn away. She needed to know she wasn’t in this alone. He tightened his grip.
“I’ll be here for you,” he vowed. “For as long as it takes. You don’t have to shoulder the load on your own. I’ll help you carry it.”
And when she didn’t need his help anymore? Malachi tried to ignore the insidious thought as he basked in the light of Emma’s grateful smile, but the prospect lingered in the air between them, tainting the sweetness of the moment like rotted beef in a savory stew.
Leaving her once had left scars he’d yet to recover from. He wasn’t sure he could survive the experience a second time.
11
Mal woke to the sound of roosters—multiple roosters—crowing to announce the coming day. The chicken farm stood far enough away that most townsfolk with closed doors and windows would probably sleep through the racket, but Malachi had opted for a pallet in the stable with the barn door wide open.
Emma had tried to shuttle him off last night to one of the homes in town that had been vacated after the first group of women left, but he’d refused to go. Some deranged lunatic was out there threatening the women of Harper’s Station, and the females he cared about most were holed up together in the old station house. He wasn’t about to leave them unguarded.
Besides, he wanted the chance to examine the area around the church in the light of day before anyone else could wander out there and disturb evidence he might have missed in the dark.
After tending the horses, milking the cow, and leaving the pail of milk on the back porch for Emma or one of the aunts to find, Mal grabbed the leftover oatmeal cookie he’d stashed in his coat pocket last night before the fire broke out and munched on the crumbled mess. Didn’t look too pretty after being squashed every which way, but it was sustenance enough to keep him going. Had a roll and a little ham left over from the supper box he’d bought in Seymour in his saddlebag, too, but he’d save that for later, just in case he missed breakfast while out hunting clues.
An hour later, Mal’s stomach was grumbling something fierce, but it was his mind that truly churned. He tromped through the paddock behind the station house, stomped up the back-porch steps, and pulled the kitchen door open.
“There you are, Malachi,” Aunt Bertie exclaimed. “Just in time for flapjacks with my special recipe blackberry syrup.” She winked at him, then bunched her apron up in her hand and reached for the coffeepot. “Have a seat, dear, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
The sharp smell of the dark-roasted brew wafted toward him first, followed quickly by the fruity aroma of syrup heating in a pan of hot water on the stove. Stacks of fluffy golden-brown pancakes were no doubt waiting in the warming oven. Mal nearly groaned. He hadn’t tasted Bertie’s flapjacks in over a decade, but he remembered them. Oh, how he remembered. He’d once eaten seven in one sitting.
But as much as he would have loved to sit down and feast, he had a more urgent matter to deal with. A matter concerning the young woman placing napkins and forks at the four place settings arranged on the table.
Mal strode forward and deposited a canister in the middle of the table with a decisive thunk.
Emma eyed him askance, her nose scrunching a bit as she examined the dirt-encrusted can. “What is that?”
“Turpentine.” He held up a dusty paintbrush and plopped it onto the lid of the can. “Found that with it, too.”
Emma’s gaze jerked back to his. Her face paled slightly. “Where did you find it?”
“Tucked out of sight behind the northeast corner of the garden fence.”
The two forks she held fell to the table with a clatter. She gripped the chairback in front of her for support. “Why would he leave it behind? And by the garden, no less. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to toss it in the bushes if he didn’t want to take it with him?”
“I’m not sure he was the one who left it behind.”