No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(44)
Mal turned back to the room at large. “We have an army that outnumbers his forces. An army of strong, capable women who are ready to fight for their homes. All you need is a little organization and training. That starts now.” His voice brooked no argument, and none was forthcoming. In fact, several women sat straighter in their seats, squared their shoulders, and set their chins.
They were magnificent! Each and every one of them.
“Emma.”
She snapped her gaze to Malachi at the sound of her name spoken in his commanding tones.
“Fetch my rifle and saddlebags from the barn.” She started moving for the door as he turned his attention back to the women. “Betty. Grace. Come to the front. No female is going to leave this room until she can properly hold and load a weapon. And the minute the new shipment Miss Adams ordered arrives, we’ll begin target practice.”
Emma paused in the doorway, glancing back to catch Mal’s eye one more time. Needing him to see her gratitude, her faith in him, her admiration as he single-handedly turned a gaggle of frightened geese into would-be tigresses.
He nodded to her, the movement of his jaw firm, convicted. “They won’t catch us off guard again.”
16
After retrieving the rifle, Emma retreated into the background, insisting that the other ladies be instructed first. Malachi’s air of authority calmed their nerves for the most part, though it was his patience that kept them from getting flustered. He didn’t allow them room for squeamishness but neither did he raise his voice when they made a misstep or heave a frustrated breath when he had to repeat himself, which he did . . . often. Even when Helen wanted no part in the training—or, more accurately, no involvement with Malachi—he kept a lid on his temper. He simply walked across the room to Betty, handed her the rifle, shooed the man-shy Helen toward her supervisor, and temporarily took over shotgun lessons.
By the time the café cleared out, each of the women had an idea of which type of weapon they would feel most comfortable using and which would be best suited for each situation. Rifles for longer distance, as when the newly paired partners would be on watch, and handguns for personal protection in closer quarters. After observing Malachi’s instruction for several hours, Emma could easily recite the differences between the shells of a breech-loading shotgun, the side-feeding cartridges of the repeating rifle, and the bullets that fit within the round chambers of the Colt Army Revolver without error. She was doing just that, internally, when Betty and Grace took their leave. Anxious to prove to Malachi that she’d been paying close attention, she held her hand out to accept the revolver. Yet when he set it in her palm, the weight of it took her by surprise.
“Use two hands,” Mal instructed, reaching for her left hand and positioning it beneath her right. “It will steady your aim and keep your arm from getting fatigued.”
Emma nodded and firmed up her grip, but the moment his hand brushed hers, her insides started trembling.
For heaven’s sake! What was wrong with her? He’d done the exact same thing with each of the other ladies he tutored this afternoon. The touch was purely instructional. Not personal.
There was no reason for her to feel shivery all over, or for her stomach to flip just because he moved behind her to help her take the proper stance. And her lungs had absolutely no excuse for running so shallow when his front pressed against her back and his arms stretched along the length of hers. Nor did her heart need to suddenly start throbbing in reaction to his warm breath fanning over her cheek while his bristled jaw scraped ever-so-lightly against her skin.
“Fit your finger to the trigger,” he murmured low against her ear.
Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound huskier than it had a minute before? Probably her imagination. Heaven knew the rest of her other senses were going berserk. It would be a shame for her ears to be left out.
“Now . . . squeeze.” The whispered command nearly melted her insides.
She obeyed and slowly moved her finger, but her eyes slid closed at the same time as she leaned just the tiniest bit back against his chest. His firm . . . strong . . . warm chest.
Click.
The sound made her jerk. Malachi had emptied the chambers, so no bullet had fired, but the quiet tick shattered the silence . . . and the illusion of intimacy she had let herself sink into. Good grief. She was acting worse than Katie, leaning into Mal as if she were some man-starved flirt instead of a woman on a mission to learn how to protect herself and those she cared about.
She stiffened and straightened away from Malachi’s all-too-pleasant physique, letting her arms drop in the process. Emma expected Mal to step away, give her one of those horrible I’m-disappointed-in-you looks, then lecture her on the importance of focusing on the task at hand.
He didn’t. Instead, his arms lingered over hers, even as they hung at her sides. His hands did eventually move, but not away. No, they traced upward along her sleeves and then curled around her upper arms in a near embrace.
His face stayed bent against hers, as well, almost as if . . . Emma swallowed. Almost as if he was contemplating nuzzling her neck.
Her pulse stuttered even as she told herself she was mistaken. Malachi had been nothing but professional with all the other ladies. She was misinterpreting things.
But it didn’t feel like a misinterpretation. Alone in the café. His hands holding her. His body close. His whiskers rasping gently against her sensitive skin.