No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(9)

Emma bit back a groan. It was worse than she’d thought. But she hadn’t really thought this through at all, had she? Her women’s colony was designed to be a place of commerce, of belonging, of second chances. A place for women with nowhere to go to come together and support one another through hard work and camaraderie. A sisterhood. Never once had Emma considered that they might need a way to defend themselves against outsiders who wished them harm.

Yet here they were, in just such a situation. And thanks to her lack of foresight, they stood ready to defend their home with all the ferocity of a pack of newborn kittens.

The last woman with her hand raised, drew it down to her side as Betty turned her attention to her. Emma blinked. Grace Mallory?

“I carry a derringer in my handbag.”

Shock held the crowd immobile. Soft-spoken Grace Mallory carried a gun in her handbag? Emma never would have guessed such a thing, not in a thousand years. But how well did she truly know the young telegrapher? Grace had always made a point to keep to herself. Why, Emma had learned more about her in the last few minutes than she had in the last six months.

Grace lifted her chin. “I know how to use it and would be willing to teach others. But it’s only effective in close quarters. A weapon of last resort.”

“Well, if you know your way around a gun,” Betty announced, recovering more quickly than the rest of them from Grace’s revelation, “that puts you a step ahead of most.”

“I still think we should notify Sheriff Tabor,” Aunt Bertie urged. “Perhaps now that a crime has actually been committed, he’ll send deputies to protect us.”

Emma shook her head. “I will, of course, report this incident to the sheriff, but he has made his position abundantly clear. He can’t afford to assign men to Harper’s Station. Not until the cattle rustlers are caught.”

“He cares more for cows than women and children? Outrageous!”

Emma smiled at her aunt. Very rarely did Bertie get riled about anything. She was the sweet-tempered sister. But even Bertie had her limits.

“It’s not as simple as that,” Emma explained. “The rustling affects the three largest outfits in the county. If they continue losing stock, they will lose significant profit, which means men will lose their jobs, local businesses will lose sales, Seymour’s economy will decline. Hundreds of lives could be impacted.”

“Not to mention the physical altercations that cost men their lives.” Maybelle Curtis added. “There’ve already been two casualties attributed to the rustling that I’ve heard about. Good men, putting their lives on the line to defend the cattle in their charge. Sheriff Tabor is well within his rights to focus his energy there.”

Bertie fell silent for a moment, her brow creased, but then something sparked in her eyes. She lifted her gaze to her sister, then turned her attention to Emma.

“If the sheriff is unavailable to assist us, what’s to stop us from hiring a man of our own to see to our protection?”

“A mercenary?” Flora Johnson lurched to her feet, alarm turning her cheeks a violent red. “You can’t! Men like that can’t be trusted. All they care about is money. They’re more likely to turn on us than help us. Once they see how defenseless we are, they’ll empty the bank and run off, leaving us even more destitute than before.” Her fingers visibly trembled. “No men. They can’t be trusted.”

“But what if we knew of one who could be trusted?” Aunt Henry proposed. She turned to Emma and peered at her with a pointed look. “A man who would rather sacrifice himself than bring harm to someone under his care.”

Emma frowned slightly. What was her aunt suggesting . . . ? Then the answer came, and with it a fluttering in Emma’s belly she hadn’t felt in over a decade.

“Such a man doesn’t exist,” Flora snapped.

“Yes . . . he does.” Emma lifted her face to survey the women who depended on her for guidance, for leadership. Hope swelled in her breast along with a surge of newfound confidence—for she now had a plan. A plan that was sure to succeed because the man Aunt Henry spoke of had been fighting against injustice since the day he was born. “His name is Malachi Shaw.”





3


SOUTHERN MONTANA BORDER

BURLINGTON ROUTE CONSTRUCTION SITE

Malachi unwound the last foot of the fuse line, then examined the hole a final time. Depth looked good. Line was clear. No moisture. No debris to interfere with a clean run. Blast radius should be sufficient to break up the rock layers directly in line with the track path. He might have to lay a second charge to widen the area, but he’d make that decision after the rocks were cleared.

Scanning the area to make sure no one had ventured into the blast zone, Mal reached into his vest pocket and extracted a wooden matchstick.

“Fire in the hole!”

He struck the match head on the side of his boot, lit the fuse, and sprinted down the rocky incline as fast as the uneven terrain would allow. He counted in his head, knowing exactly how long he would have until the dynamite blew.

Five . . . six . . .

He zagged to the right to avoid the loose stones left over from a recent rockslide. Footing was everything.

Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

He located the tree that marked the edge of the safety area. Only twenty yards to go.