No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(94)
He met his aunt’s gaze and swallowed what was left of the mangled meat in his mouth. “She should be safe as long as she has value to him,” Mal said, repeating the litany he’d been feeding himself the last several hours. “If he kills her, he loses his leverage.”
“But there are other ways to hurt her besides killing.” Bertie’s chin wobbled just a bit, and the sight nearly shattered Mal’s self-control. “She’s a beautiful girl. Alone with two men.”
“One man and a boy,” Mal forced out through his clenched jaw. “Angus might get a little rough in his treatment of her, he seems to like to knock females around, but I don’t think he’ll do anything more severe with his son looking on.”
At least that’s what Mal prayed for with every breath.
Bertie’s smile returned, subdued but optimistic. “I’m sure you’re right, dear. Now, finish your sandwich, then come carry Emma’s trunk downstairs for me.” She turned and sauntered away, sure he would do as she bid.
But Mal didn’t want to carry Emma’s trunk. He wanted to carry Emma—to safety. Which meant he had to find the gold. Unless the Lord had devised some other plan. Have you? Mal glanced toward the sky. A disgustingly happy sky, blue and cheerful with a sun so bright it hurt his eyes and puffy white clouds that showed no hint of the evil raging on the earth below them.
Do you see? Or are you so far away that our troubles seem too small for you to bother with? I haven’t found the gold, yet I haven’t been inspired with any other ideas, either. Mal forced his clenched jaw to relax. He needed to be open to the Lord’s leading, not angry and defensive. Please. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own. Show me what to do. I’m begging—
A muffled shout had Mal dropping the remnants of his sandwich and grabbing the revolver at his hip. Heart racing, he tried to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from.
Another squeal. From the house.
Mal took off at a run, threw open the back door, and ran into the kitchen.
“Malachi! Oh, Malachi, come quick!” Bertie’s excited voice came from somewhere to his right.
“Bertie?” He thundered into the parlor just as his aunt flew through the entrance on the opposite side of the room, the one near the stairs.
She wore the biggest smile he’d ever seen.
Flummoxed, Mal holstered his gun and strode across the room to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she enthused, her plump little body bobbing up and down in her excitement. “Something might be very, very right.” She grabbed his arm and started pulling him toward the stairs. “Come see!”
Instead of heading up to the bedrooms as he expected, she dragged him through the doorway that led to the basement where they stored canned goods, storm supplies, and other random paraphernalia that had no other home.
“Bertie—”
“I didn’t remember until I came down to fetch a crate.” Excitement bubbled from her, an excitement he failed to share. This was taking too long.
“What did you remember?” Mal fought to keep his exasperation in check out of respect for the woman who’d been the only mother figure he’d ever known. But it wasn’t easy.
Bertie reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at him as he clomped down the last two steps. Heavy, musty air filled his lungs, weighing him down even further until his aunt spoke again.
“The key to rescuing Emma, of course.”
Rescuing Emma? Malachi leapt forward, the weight dissipating from his limbs and his heart. He grabbed hold of Bertie’s hand. “How?”
She patted his arm, then pulled away from his hold, that unreasonably cheerful smile still etched on her face. Reaching overhead, she took down the single lantern illuminating the basement from its hook in the ceiling. Then she pivoted, took a handful of steps past a shelf full of canned goods, and held the light aloft so that it shined against the far wall.
“I’m certain the gold you’ve been looking for is behind there.” She pointed straight ahead.
The hope Bertie’s overactive imagination had spawned inside him withered as he stared at a perfectly normal, non-stone wall. The same non-stone wall where Angus had left the threatening note about Emma. A threat he would carry out by morning if Malachi didn’t find the gold.
“It’s plaster, aunt.”
She didn’t appear fazed by his observation. “On this side, yes,” she said, stepping forward and running her free hand over the smooth, whitewashed wall. “But on the other side is the remainder of the stonework from the chimney on the floor above. Stone that reaches all the way down to the floor of this basement.”
Mal’s gaze bored into the wall, as if he could find the stone if he just stared at it hard enough. Could it be that the note hadn’t been a scare tactic, but a misdirection, like the sack of leaves Angus kept on hand in the woods to cover his trail? He’d broken in to the station house to claim the gold, but when he’d found the stonework covered in plaster, he knew he’d not have enough time to bring down the wall and retrieve it. So when Porter’s shot warned him time was up, he’d left the note to throw anyone who searched the house off the scent.
And it worked, until Alberta Chandler figured out the truth, thanks to some heavenly guidance.
Mal rushed forward and placed his hand on the wall, his fingers trembling slightly.