No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(7)
Heart thundering in her chest, Emma faced her ladies, chin high. “You’re right, Flora. I can’t promise that you . . . that any of you . . . will be safe. I don’t know if we are facing one man or many. Staying will entail danger, and the serious possibility of physical harm. What I can promise you, though, is that I will stay and fight.
“Harper’s Station is my dream and my responsibility. My aunts and I own the land, and I refuse to be run off my property. What we face is no different than what the courageous families who settled this land faced before us. They had to fend off Indian attacks and raids from the warring Comanche. Some died. Some left. But some held their ground and prevailed.
“That is what I intend to do. Hold my ground, and do my best to preserve what we have built here. However, I will not ask anyone to fight this battle with me. Each of you must decide for yourself, but . . . I strongly suggest that those of you with children seek shelter elsewhere, if at all possible. The young ones must be protected. And be assured that if you leave, I will welcome your return once the danger has passed. You will always have a place here in Harper’s Station.”
“Unless the Station’s no longer standin’,” a very loud, very male voice boomed. The sound carried through an open window to Emma’s right.
She caught a brief glimpse of a man in a heavy buckskin coat, a dark blue bandana pulled high over his face. Then she saw a flash of metal.
“Everybody down!” Emma dove off the stage toward her aunts. She swept them both from the pew just as gunfire erupted.
2
Glass shattered. Women screamed. Emma prayed.
Protect us, Lord!
Then all fell silent.
Emma cautiously lifted her head and looked toward the window where she’d caught a glimpse of the man in buckskin. He was gone. Or hiding.
Releasing her hold on the aunts, she crawled across the front of the church to get to the window.
“Mind the glass, Emma.” Aunt Henry called out the warning in an overloud whisper.
Emma grinned. She should have known better than to think a little gunplay would rattle Henrietta Chandler. The woman’s nerves were as strong as a gunslinger’s. Emma heeded her aunt’s advice and veered away from the window to avoid the broken glass. Once she reached the wall, she clambered to her feet and flattened her back against the whitewashed planks. Scooting the glass out of her way with the toe of her shoe, she eased closer to the window.
Was he still out there? Waiting for her to show her face so he could take out the ringleader? Emma’s corset seemed to shrink about her midsection, stealing her breath, constricting her movement. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. Calm yourself, Emma. You can do this. Your ladies are counting on you.
Then, through the panic and the thunderous pounding of her heart, the hint of a sound tickled her ears. Hoofbeats. Moving away.
Emma spun toward the window and scanned the side yard. She craned her neck to check the road but saw nothing. Then she looked to the surrounding landscape. There. A rider. Disappearing into the scrub brush. Dark brown hat. Buckskin coat. Chestnut horse. Too far away to make out any other details.
“He’s gone.” She turned to face the women, who were slowly picking themselves off the floor, using the pews as support. “He rode off to the north. A single rider.”
“Anyone hurt?” The gruff voice of Maybelle Curtis rang through the room. “I can run fetch my doctorin’ bag if anyone’s of a need.”
A low murmur spread through the building as the women examined their children and each other for injury.
“Katie’s got a cut on her cheek that will need attention,” Betty offered, “but the rest of my chicks are in decent shape.”
“Charlie knocked his head pretty hard on the side of the pew when we dove for cover,” one of the young mothers from the sewing circle added. “I’d take it kindly if you could look at it for me, Maybelle.”
A handful of others called out similar concerns. All minor, thank the Lord. Emma hurried back to her aunts. “Are the two of you all right?” she asked even as she examined them for signs of injury.
“Quit your fussing,” Aunt Henry groused. “It’ll take more than a topple from a church pew to do us in.”
“We’re fine, dear,” Aunt Bertie confirmed in a softer tone. “Might be a little sore come tomorrow, but nothing to worry about. What about you, Emma? You were the most exposed when the shooting started.”
“I’m unharmed.” Emma took Bertie’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “No need to fret over me. We Chandlers are made of stern stuff.”
The woman beamed as she patted Emma’s hand. “That we are, dear. That we are.”
Convinced that her aunts were safe, Emma immediately searched the sanctuary for Victoria and her son. Finding her friend examining a hole in the far wall, Emma rushed to her side. “Tori? Are you and Lewis . . .”
Victoria turned aside to reveal a hale-and-hearty sandy-haired boy hiding among the folds of her skirts. “We’re fine. Just examining these bullet holes.” She reached above her head and ran the tip of her pointer finger over a divot in the whitewashed wall. “Lewis was the one to bring it to my attention.”
“Bring what to your attention?” Emma frowned up at the half-dozen dark circles marring the wall, indignation swelling inside her once again. The fool man could have killed someone.