No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(54)

And what if you’re throwing away the same chance out of duty?

The thought snuck up on Emma, and insinuated itself in her brain, conjuring up memories of her and Malachi in the café. Of the way her pulse thrummed every time she saw him. Of the secret fear that watching him leave again would tear her heart to pieces.

Mr. Porter jerked against her hold right then and brought her attention back to the matter at hand. Tori held the cloth to the man’s head, where blood matted his hair. He hissed in a breath and pulled away from her touch.

Emma pressed him back into the chair. “Easy, Mr. Porter. You’ve been injured. You need to let Miss Adams tend your wound.”

“Miss Adams?” He twisted his head toward Emma. “Where?”

“I’m here, Mr. Porter.” Tori’s voice seemed to soothe the giant of a man.

His gaze immediately sought hers. “Don’t worry, miss. They’re safe. In the wagon.” He winced as Tori set the cloth to his head again. She couldn’t seem to withstand his earnest gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “I got a . . . a false bottom. Always carry valuables there. Just in case. There’s unscrupulous characters out there, you know.”

Tori smiled slightly. “I know.” She continued cleaning the blood from his hair. “I’m thankful you had the foresight to hide the weapons.”

“Didn’t want to let you down. Sold most of your goods, too. The ones Fischer refused. Got your money in my pock—” His words died off on another hiss when he lifted his hips and tried to bend his arm to reach into his trouser pocket.

“Just leave it.” Tori laid a gentle hand on the small section of his sleeve that had no blood smeared upon it. “It’ll keep.” She glanced across him to Emma, her eyes bewildered, as if she couldn’t imagine why this man had gone out of his way to do her such a significant kindness. “I never asked you to—”

“Wanted to,” he interrupted, his eyes sliding closed, his voice slurring slightly. “You and the others need the funds. Deserve them for your labor.” His eyes opened again, and for a second Emma swore she saw a twinkle of pride in them before the haze of pain covered it up. “Got a better price for ’em, too. Delivered to folks on the outskirts of town. Seems . . . people like the convenience . . . of fresh eggs delivered . . . to their door.” His eyes closed again. “Might set up . . . a reg’lar route. I’d be willin’ . . . to run it . . .” His words died off, and he slumped in the chair.

“Mr. Porter?” Tori tossed the rag aside and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Porter!”

A shuffling sounded behind them. “Step aside, gals, and let an old lady through.” Maybelle marched into the fray, Claire close on her heels.

Emma backed away at once, relieved to have an expert in their midst. Heaven knew she wasn’t adding anything of value to the proceedings, beyond keeping the giant of a man in the chair.

“Claire, fetch the smelling salts.” Maybelle thrust her medical bag at the younger woman. “Let me guess. Head wound?”

Tori nodded, not taking her hand from the freighter’s shoulder. “He has a gash on this side above his ear. It’s swelling something awful. Even the lightest touch had him hissing in pain when I tried to clean it.”

Claire handed Maybelle a tiny vial. The midwife uncapped it and waved it under the man’s nose. He yanked his face away from the stringent odor, and his eyes opened wide.

“What . . . ?”

“Mr. Porter.” Maybelle grabbed the big man’s chin as if he were a ten-year-old boy and forced him to look at her. “Listen to me. You’ve taken a hard knock on the head and already passed out once. I need you to stay awake. Fight against the sleep for me. Understand?”

“All . . . right,” he croaked.

“Good.” Maybelle released his chin, then scooted around to the right side of his chair to examine the wound Tori had mentioned. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot, but the gash is not too wide. Should only need eight to ten stitches. Swelling is significant.” She pressed gently against the area around the wound, drawing a groan from her patient, but she continued probing without apology. “It’ll give you a nasty headache, and you might not want to wear a hat for a few days, but having the swelling on the outside is better than the inside. We’ll need to clean it real good, though, to stave off infection. Won’t be too comfortable for a while, but a man your size should be able to handle a little discomfort without falling apart.”

Mr. Porter straightened in his chair. He clasped the wooden arms and gave her a nod. “I’m ready when you are, ma’am.” He sounded more like himself now. More lucid and in control.

Maybelle patted his arm. “No need to brace too hard yet. I’ll need a minute to gather my things. You got any other wounds I need to know about? Shooting pains? Difficulty breathing? Deep cuts?”

He shook his head slightly, then winced at the movement. “Don’t think so. Managed to walk here after the crash. Just sore.”

“Good.” Maybelle turned and caught Emma’s eye. “Keep him talking,” she whispered. “It’ll distract him from what I have to do.”

Emma bit her lip and took a moment to collect her thoughts before stepping closer to the chair again. “Mr. Porter.” Careful to keep herself on the opposite side, out of Maybelle’s path, Emma waited until his gaze met hers. “Were you attacked?” At his nod she asked, “Can you describe the men who attacked you?”