No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(55)

“There were two. One rode a big chestnut gelding, black socks and mane. The other rider was slighter of build and rode a sorrel. Weaker mount. Couldn’t keep up with the chestnut.”

“Figures he’d remember the horses better than the people,” Tori grumped even as she stroked the hair off his forehead.

“Men wore masks,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as Maybelle pressed a wet cloth directly atop his wound.

Emma hurried to ask another question. “Did they speak to you?”

“Said they wanted the guns. Seemed to be expecting them.”

Emma hid her dismay. More evidence of a traitor in their midst. One who was still communicating with their attackers despite the start of the night watch.

Mr. Porter stiffened, his muscles flexing as he fought not to pull away from the women tending him. “Told them the shipment had been delayed,” he ground out. “That I was only carrying foodstuffs. They didn’t believe me. Forced me off the road at the top of Harper’s Hill. Unhitched my team, then sent them racing off, the traces dragging the ground behind them.” His face darkened as anger instead of pain etched his brow. “Didn’t care that the lines could trip them up, could send them tumbling down the hill in their fright. Barbarians.”

“What did the men do next?” Emma asked, eager to turn his attention away from his horses. It wouldn’t do any of them any good if he got it in his mind to go after them. She’d never known him to use his strength against a woman, but all one had to do was look at his size to recognize that he could overpower all four of them with barely a flick of his wrist if he chose.

Thankfully, he took her cue and forced his grip on the chair to relax. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and his jaw worked back and forth. “Took a knife to the flour sacks,” he recounted, his voice steadier, more controlled, “and smashed the crates carrying the hams and bacon slabs. Might be able to salvage some of what’s left once I retrieve my wagon. If I can retrieve it. Devils dismantled the brake, pistol-whipped me, and tossed me in the back before pushing the thing down the hill. I was too disoriented to realize what was happening until the wagon careened off the road. All I could do was grab the sides and brace myself. Crashed in an arroyo. Better than a tree, I suppose, though the impact felt about the same.

“Wagon’s busted up, but it’s still more or less in one piece. Shielded me from the worst of the collision.” He paused. “Except for the crate that bashed my skull in the same spot the chestnut’s rider had dented me with his pistol butt a few minutes before. Not sure how long I lay in the wreckage before I roused enough to pull myself up and climb out. Bandits were long gone by then.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Emma touched his hand. “The men who attacked you are obviously the same ones who have been threatening us. I can’t help but feel responsible.”

“Not your fault.” Mr. Porter’s eyes slid closed and tension visibly radiated through his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

Emma shot a worried glance at Maybelle, only to discover a needle in her hand and a long thread being pulled through the freighter’s skin. Stomach roiling at the sight, Emma quickly shifted her gaze back to Mr. Porter’s face. She curled her fingers around his large palm, offering whatever comfort she could.

After a moment, his eyes opened again. “With no wagon, I won’t be able to make my runs for a while.” He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as Maybelle started another stitch. Once the needle was through, he continued. “Thought I might hang out here until I can find a replacement. Lend a hand.”

Emma caught Tori vigorously shaking her head out of the corner of her eye.

“Need I remind you this is a women’s colony, Mr. Porter?” Emma shot Tori a speaking glance. She’d be loyal to her friend and respect her wishes to a point, but she also had to consider the needs of the rest of the women in town. Having a second man around could make a world of difference.

When Emma returned her attention to the freighter, he was ready for her. His eyes burned with determination.

“A women’s colony . . . plus Shaw. I’ll bunk with him.”

“I’ll have to put it to a vote,” Emma hedged.

Porter started to nod, then stopped when Maybelle fitted the needle to him again. “Take your vote, Miss Chandler, but know this—those men invited me to the fight when they crashed my wagon and endangered my horses. I’m involved now, whether you allow me to stay in town or not. I’ll camp down by the river, if need be, but I’m not leaving.”





20


Malachi found the wagon first, busted up in a ditch at the bottom of Harper’s Hill, just as Porter had said. The horses were another matter. Judging by the flattened prairie grass, they’d gone off the road about a quarter mile past the end of the hill. Mal scoured the landscape for the big black Shires he recalled from his first meeting with Porter back in Seymour. The oversized draft horses stood at least sixteen hands, if not taller. White stripes down their faces. White, feathery socks at their hooves. Massive creatures. Much like their master. So why couldn’t he find them? He saw nothing but prairie grass waving in the wind.

Until he followed the trail down a crumbling embankment. Turned out he’d been looking too high. The poor beasts had fallen to the ground about a hundred yards out from the road.