No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(32)

Her brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

Mal worked his jaw back and forth before answering, knowing she wasn’t going to take well to his conclusion. “I’m saying there’s a chance he has an accomplice. Here. In Harper’s Station.”

“Of all the hog swill I’ve heard in my day, that batch smells the worst, Malachi Shaw.” Aunt Henry burst through the kitchen doorway and pierced Mal with the same withering look she’d used the time she caught him in a lie about where the corn bread had disappeared to. That look had tugged so hard on his conscience, he’d spilled the whole story of taking the leftovers to his room and hiding them under his bed. She made him do dishes for a week after that. Not because he took the food and ruined her plans to have dressing that night with the baked chicken Bertie fixed, but because he’d lied to her. And drawn a colony of crumb-hunting ants into the house.

Her disapproval still made him squirm, but this time Mal held his ground. The Chandlers might not want to hear what he had to say, but he cared more about protecting their stubborn hides than offending their suffragist sensibilities.

“I wouldn’t suggest the idea, Aunt Henry, if I didn’t have good reason.” He aimed his words in the elder Chandler sister’s direction, but his eyes never left Emma’s.

“Surely, you don’t think one of my ladies . . .” She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t know them like I do. We help each other. Depend on each other. Besides, each lady took a vow when joining the community never to do another lady harm. None of them would ever . . . We’re family.”

Mal gentled his voice. “Family is no guarantee of loyalty.” He knew that better than most.

“But you saw how everyone worked together to fight the fire. Every one. Why would someone set a fire, then work tirelessly to extinguish it? It makes no sense.”

“Actually it’s pretty smart.” Mal rubbed an itchy spot on his stubble-covered chin. He really needed to shave. “Keeps others from growing suspicious.”

Aunt Henry leaned across the middle of the table, blocking Mal’s view of Emma. Henry grabbed the turpentine and brush, marched over to the corner of the kitchen, and dropped them on top of the pie safe. “Claptrap, I say. Nothing but a bunch of claptrap. A woman wouldn’t burn a church. This is the work of a man. The man who shot at us a few days ago. That’s who you need to be tracking down, not wasting time on a witch hunt.”

His shoulders went rigid as his temper flared. “I ain’t sayin’ the man Emma saw isn’t the one behind this. I’m sure he is. But you need to consider that he might have an accomplice.” Mal paused to take a breath, then made a point to lower his voice. “You’re the one always saying that women can do anything men can, Aunt Henry. But you can’t just take the good without lookin’ at the bad. Sure, women are capable of being doctors and bankers,” he said with a wave of his hand toward Emma, “but they can also be criminals and deceivers. Excusing them all from guilt simply because they are female before you hear me out is as much an act of prejudice as those who assume men are the only ones capable of casting a responsible vote.”

“He’s got a point, Henry,” Bertie said as she lowered a platter of flapjacks onto the middle of the table like a peace offering. A rather loud sniff was the only response she received to that observation. Nevertheless, Bertie continued bustling about as if nothing untoward had happened. She collected the syrup and butter crock, then deliberately pulled out her chair and took a seat. “Come along now. There’s plenty of time to hash everything out while we eat.”

Malachi bit back the argument that leapt to his tongue. Jaw tight, he removed his hat and tossed it on top of the pie safe next to the turpentine canister. His suspicions and conclusions clamored for release, but he swallowed them down. A few minutes’ delay wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, people were less likely to be cranky after consuming Bertie’s blackberry syrup. Himself included.

Emma slid around to the spot closest to the wall on his right, her demeanor quiet, subdued. Lines marred her forehead as she took her seat, her gaze locked on the emptiness of the plate in front of her. Henry had no such compunction. She glared at him as she perched ramrod straight in the seat opposite his.

“There we are.” Bertie smiled, ignoring the tension in the air as she stretched her hands out toward him and Henry. “Would you say the blessing for us, Malachi?” She nodded at him, her eyes saying more than her words—Don’t forget what is most important.

Mal cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He reached for Emma’s hand as he accepted Bertie’s. Emma’s fingers trembled slightly, so he gripped them tightly, trying to reassure her that all would be well. He’d see to it.

Then he bowed his head. “Lord, we thank you for the food before us, and for the people around this table.” He ran his thumb over the back of Emma’s hand. “Thank you for keeping everyone safe last night during the fire. Please continue to watch over the women of Harper’s Station and protect them from harm. Resolve this situation quickly, Lord. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

No one spoke after that. The only sounds breaking the silence were the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional creak of wood when someone shifted in their chair.

The flapjacks were as light and fluffy as Mal remembered, and the syrup such a perfect blend of sweet and tart that, had his mind not been so occupied, he was sure he would have savored each bite with lingering care. Instead, he wolfed down six pancakes before the ladies finished their tea. Well, only five, really. One lay folded inside his napkin on his lap to be stashed later in his saddlebag. Mal glanced at Emma and the aunts, making sure none of them was paying him any attention, then slipped the napkin inside his vest, to the hidden pocket he’d sewn into the lining.