No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(70)

Her green eyes stared back at him with no judgment. “I guess that means you didn’t find the bandits.”

Mal blew out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hat-flattened hair. “Nope. Found a few traces but nothing substantial. Knew it was a long shot when I set out. Should’ve just stayed here. Maybe if I had . . .”

“You would have stopped that snake from latching on to my arm?” She gave him one of her don’t-be-an-idiot looks. “Not even you could have stopped that, Mal. Besides, I’m glad you didn’t. That snake healed a rift between Helen and me. A swollen arm and a banged-up hand is a small price to pay for that blessing.”

Only Emma would call a snakebite a blessing.

“Oh, and . . .” She leaned toward him.

Mal bent his head to hers.

Emma glanced quickly toward the curtain, then whispered, “Helen’s not the traitor.”

Mal tilted his chin slightly in order to fully see her face. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

The tiny pucker on her lips as she formed the word drew his gaze to her mouth. A mouth he wanted to taste. To touch. To kiss again and again until they were both short of breath.

It was only inches away. All he’d have to do was lean forward a little. Turn his head.

She sat back.

And there went his chance. Not that he would have taken it with half the town only a room away.

The scratch of the curtain being pushed back brought Malachi to attention. Sitting as straight as a broom handle in his chair, he kept his gaze firmly away from Emma’s lips as Maybelle walked in.

“Here’s that salve I promised you,” she announced, completely ignoring Mal as she strode up to Emma and handed her a small metal tin. “I’ve shown your aunts how to change the bandage and instructed them on what to watch for. Soak it in a basin of water with Epsom salts before bed and again in the morning. Then apply the salve and a clean bandage. If you see red streaks moving up your arm from the bite site or if the area starts to ooze and grows painful to the touch, come see me right away.”

Emma nodded. “I will.”

“Good.” Maybelle’s attention shifted to Mal. “Perhaps Mr. Shaw would see you home?”

Mal jumped to his feet, barely snagging his hat before it fell to the floor. “Of course.”

“She’s to rest.” Maybelle’s hard stare branded the instructions on Malachi’s hide. “I want her using that hand as little as possible for the next few days. The cleaner she keeps it, the less chance infection will set in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He plunked his hat on his head, scooted around to the other side of the bed, took Emma’s good arm, and helped her to her feet. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Maybelle crossed her arms over her midsection. “See that you do.”

True to his word, Mal escorted Emma from the clinic to the station house, though the trip took three times longer than it should have with the ladies swarming like honeybees to nectar in their eagerness to express their sympathy and well wishes. Emma handled it all with grace, of course, taking time to thank each one for her concern. By the time Henry and Bertie bustled her upstairs to her room, Mal felt as if he’d run a mile upstream in hip-deep river water. But he didn’t stop to rest. Didn’t even snitch a roll from the cloth-covered basket sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

Nope. He walked straight out the door and didn’t pause until he reached the telegraph office. He had a job to resign.





26


Four days later, a third male invaded the women’s colony. A short, skinny boy with a big, ugly horse. Horse was probably male, too, Emma mused as she watched the odd pair meander past the station-house window. At this rate, her ladies were going to be outnumbered by the end of the month.

Emma tucked her needle into the fabric square she’d been quilting and stood.

“Is your hand paining you, dear?” Bertie asked, her brows arching in concern.

“No.” She rubbed at the tender spot on the heel of her right hand. It did still hurt a little, but that wasn’t why she’d stopped quilting. Emma smiled an apology to the women gathered around the quilt frame in her parlor for the afternoon sewing session. “I just saw someone I didn’t recognize ride by the window. I’m going to check it out.”

Needles paused in midair and faces turned to peer out the window across from where Emma had been sitting.

“Was it one of those awful men?” Pauline asked. The youngest lady in the sewing circle turned back to Emma with wide eyes as she nibbled her lower lip.

Emma shook her head. “No. It was a boy. And his horse was a different color than the ones we’ve seen the outlaws ride.” She sidestepped around the quilt frame and crossed behind the sofa to the door. She claimed her rifle from the collection standing at attention against the wall—none of the ladies moved about without a weapon these days—then reached for the door handle as she glanced back into the room. “It’s probably someone who wandered into town by mistake.”

“Better take Malachi with you,” Henry fussed. “Just in case.”

“And if you can’t find him,” Bertie added, “Mr. Porter usually guards Main Street from the bench outside the store.”

Emma had to fight a peevish retort. It was just a boy. Not that she’d make the mistake of underestimating him with all that had gone on. But, really—whatever happened to Aunt Henry’s battle cry that a woman didn’t need a man in order to be strong? She never would have doubted Emma’s capabilities before. But, to be fair, the entire town had been on edge, dreading the next swing of the attackers’ ax. One that hadn’t come. Yet.