No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(41)

A woman screamed.

Emma! Had she been hit?

Hot rage seared through him as he scrambled for cover. They weren’t shooting high this time. And neither was he.

Darting around the corner of the bank building, Malachi returned fire. Or tried to. The barrage of bullets slamming into the brick around him made it impossible to get a clear shot. He had to settle for aiming in the riders’ general vicinity and firing blindly at the moving targets.

He emptied his revolver, pressed his back against the side of the building, and grabbed fresh ammunition from his gun belt. A couple more shots ricocheted off the brick as the horses passed his position. The rider closest to him turned around in the saddle. Dark eyes glowed above the mask. Hard. Determined. He raised his gun arm.

Ah, crud. Mal rolled to the side. The bullet struck the wall right where he’d been standing.

“Yah!” The outlaw spurred his horse to a gallop. His partner did the same, firing a few last shots into the air as he went.

Malachi shoved bullets into their chambers as fast as his shaking fingers would allow. He had to go after them. Had to stop them.

Gun loaded, he stepped out in front of the bank and took aim at the larger man’s back. A woman’s scream from somewhere up ahead rent the air just before he squeezed the trigger. The outlaw dropped low in the saddle. Mal’s shot missed.

He took aim again, but the riders raced out of range, flying past the garden and the church and disappearing into the brush.

They were headed for the river. Mal’s blood pumped through his veins with painful urgency. He had to get them back in sight. Now. He wouldn’t be able to track them if they got to the water. He holstered his weapon and dashed in front of the bank, his gaze narrowing in on the station house behind the telegraph office. He needed his horse. He stretched his legs to run, but broken glass crunched under his boots, sending shards of another sort slashing through his chest.

How could he have forgotten?

“Emma!” The wounded roar rasped against his throat. He dug in his heels and changed direction. Fluttering curtains and jagged glass obscured his vision through the window, so he lunged for the door. Yet just as he reached for the handle, it swung away from him.

“Malachi! Oh, thank God you’re all right.” Emma stumbled through the doorway.

Malachi braced himself and even went so far as to open his arms a bit, but she didn’t throw herself against him. Didn’t rush to him for comfort. He should feel relieved that he didn’t have to put up with the emotional display, the confining touch, the ill-practiced awkwardness that always beset him when someone tried to show him affection. Yet he didn’t feel any of those things. What washed over him was disappointment.

She reached a hand out, as if to touch him. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, red rimmed her beautiful eyes. “I was so afraid.”

Of course she was afraid. The fiends had shot up her office with her inside. It still scorched his hide to think of what damage they could have wrought. Mal grabbed on to her hand, squeezing it tight. “It’s all right, Em. They’re gone.”

“But you . . . You’re not hurt. Right?” Her gaze raked over him, searching for proof of his health. “I was so afraid you’d been shot.”

That’s why she’d been afraid? Why she’d been crying? For him?

Mal longed to examine that truth more closely. To examine Emma more closely. But he didn’t have time. He had a pair of villains to track down.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, his voice more gruff than it should have been.

She shook her head. “No. I . . . I’m fine.”

He squeezed her fingers one more time then met her gaze. “I have to go after them.”

Her shoulders lifted, and her chin came up. “I know.” She released his hand.

Mal didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep her safe. So he left her standing there and sprinted across the street.

“You better come back to me, Malachi Shaw,” she ordered from behind him, her voice loud and strong.

Mal’s feet churned up the dirt beneath him, but his lips twitched into a smile. His bossy little angel was back.





15


When Malachi reached the station house, he sprinted through the barn, grabbed a lead line, and jogged into the corral. As he strode toward the three spooked horses running back and forth along the far fence, he curled his tongue, tightened his lips, and let out the piercing whistle that never failed to bring Ulysses racing to his side.

Unfortunately, Ulysses was still in Montana. His rented nag paid no heed to the signal, too frenzied by the recent gunfire to do anything but buck and dance around the enclosure.

Malachi gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for this.

“Easy.” As he approached the gray mare, Mal kept his voice low and his movements slow despite the urgency in his gut that screamed at him to hurry. “Time to take a little ride. You want to run, don’tcha?”

He opened his arms wide and stepped closer. The mare snorted and jerked her head but didn’t flee. Mal said a quick prayer of thanks as he cupped a hand over the gray’s nose. “That’s my girl,” he cooed.

The horse might not be as well trained as Ulysses, but she knew her job. Her tail flicked and her withers trembled as she fought the remains of her distress and submitted to his touch.