No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(63)

“Someone imminently wise,” Bertie continued, “who can be trusted implicitly. He’ll help you discern the right path.”

“But . . . Oh.” Understanding finally dawned.

She’s talking about you, isn’t she, Lord? Of course she is. I’m a dunderhead for taking so long to figure it out. Probably ’cause I’ve been a bit remiss in visitin’ with you lately. Might be a good idea to start up those regular chats again, huh?

“I’ll leave you to your work now.” Bertie patted his arm a final time and meandered back the way she had come. “Just be assured of one thing, Malachi.”

He pushed his hat brim high on his forehead and scratched at an itchy spot above his left ear. “What’s that?”

“No matter what choice you make, you will always be loved. By Henry and me. By Emma. And by the One who matters most.”

A suspicious thickness clogged his throat and turned his voice hoarse. “Thanks, Aunt Bert.”

She smiled in that motherly way of hers and disappeared out the side door.

He watched her go, still amazed that people like the Chandlers cared about a nobody like him. They’d stuck by him all these years, even after he left. Writing letters. Fretting. Praying. Why? He wasn’t blood kin. He was just some kid who took shelter in their barn one night. Yet they felt like family.

And Emma . . . Well, Emma felt like more than family. From the moment his angel proclaimed she was keeping him, his heart had belonged to her. Distance had dulled the effect somewhat, but feelings were flaring at full force and in new, more adult directions these days. He didn’t just feel devotion any longer, he felt desire. Longing. A soul-deep need that scared the wits out of him. Not because the situation they faced meant he might have to die to protect her. That’d be easy. He wouldn’t even think twice. No. It was the living without her after all this was over that had him worried.

Mal pulled his hat from his head and lifted his focus to the barn rafters.

“Lord, if you got some extra wisdom up there you can spare, I’d sure be obliged if you’d throw some my way. I ain’t got the first clue what I’m supposed to do.”

As his gaze dropped, he glimpsed the liniment bottle Bertie had set aright on the shelf. A quiet certainty entered his mind. He shook his head and grinned.

He might not have the first clue how to handle his Friday deadline, but it was suddenly clear as a still-water pool what he was supposed to do at the moment. Finish the job at hand and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

He just prayed the wisdom bestowed on him tomorrow had a little more direct bearing on his main quandary.





23


By the time Emma and Victoria joined the gathering behind the church, Betty and Grace had the women organized into two lines facing the targets Malachi had set up after services yesterday. The scarecrow Betty contributed took center stage surrounded by several scrap boards with painted targets staked in the ground at varying heights and distances.

Aunt Henry was the first to step up to the shooting line, wielding her spanking-new Colt revolver with purpose. She didn’t hit anything with her first round of bullets, but after reloading and accepting a few quiet suggestions from Grace, she managed to put a hole in the edge of the scarecrow’s leg on attempt number ten. Her whoop of triumph spurred on a barrage of gunplay as the others vied to equal her success.

“C’mon, gals,” Betty urged as she strode up and down her line of riflewomen. “Don’t let Henrietta Chandler best you. If she can hit the target with that peashooter of hers, you can do it with a real weapon!”

Tori lifted her rifle and motioned to Emma with her free hand. “That’s our signal.”

Emma waved her on. “You go ahead. I want to observe for a while. At least until Malachi gets here. He’ll want to know how everyone is doing.”

“What he’ll want is for you to practice,” Tori chided. “Lead by example, remember?”

“Leadership also requires supervision,” Emma quipped with a healthy dose of sass before turning serious. “I’m not trying to get out of anything, Tori. Honest. I’ll take my turn.” Even though the thought of shooting left her queasy.

Ever since Mal had pointed the barrel of that pistol at his own chest, the thought of firing a weapon made her ill. What if she accidentally wounded Mal or one of her ladies? Or a true innocent, like Lewis? She’d never forgive herself. Yet logic told her that the best way both to prevent an accident and protect those she cared about was to learn the skill. She just needed a couple minutes to settle her stomach first.

Tori stared at her, no doubt seeing past Emma’s excuses to the truth beneath, but she didn’t press further. “Don’t wait too long,” was all she said. “Postponing usually makes it worse.”

Emma nodded, knowing Tori was right. She’d walk the line once, see how everyone was faring, then take her place with Betty’s group. And if her stomach still churned? Well, she’d just have to ignore it. Or find a nearby bush to hide behind when she lost her breakfast.

“Hit the targets, Mama!”

Emma glanced up at the church steeple to see Lewis’s short arm waving at them through the opening in the bell tower, a popgun grasped firmly in his hand.

Tori smiled and waved back at her son. “I’ll do my best.” She glanced meaningfully at her friend. “And so will Aunt Emma.”