No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(98)
“You animal!” Emma struggled against her bindings, desperate to get free so Angus couldn’t use her as a weapon against Malachi. She wanted to pounce on the fiend herself and scratch his eyes out for even voicing such a horrible plot.
But the ropes held fast, and all her struggling managed to accomplish was bruising her forearms and ribs while entertaining the beast. His laughter crawled over her skin like a family of scorpions, poking and stinging and making her want to weep.
“That got your back up, didn’t it, girlie? Seems you ain’t so indifferent, after all.” Angus took a step toward her, his right hand balled into a fist.
“Pa,” Ned interrupted, squinting into the distance. “Shaw ain’t climbin’ into the steeple. He’s hangin’ something from the roof. Looks like a sheet smeared with something dark in the middle.” The boy pointed toward town.
“What?” Angus stomped away from her, pushed his son out of the way, and brought his field glasses back up to his eyes. “A white sheet,” he scoffed. “The mark of surren . . .” The word died away, replaced by a string of curses. “He can’t . . . It has to be a bluff.”
“What, Pa? What’s happened?”
Angus shoved the field glasses hard into his son’s chest, then started pacing, muttering vile invectives against Malachi under his breath.
Ned held the lenses up to his eyes. “‘Found your gold. Time to trade.’”
Emma knew better than to let her triumph show while Angus tramped about in an agitated state. The man was volatile. But now he was also vulnerable. Thanks to Malachi.
Seemed the outlaw had been right—every man did have a weakness. Even Angus.
Malachi stood in the churchyard, his back against the north wall, listening to the wind whip against the sheet he’d nailed to the roof twenty minutes ago. How much longer? He scanned the landscape between the church and the river, searching for a sign, any sign, that his message had been received.
He hadn’t wanted to stumble through the woods, calling out to Angus and giving away his position and tactical advantage. All the man would have to do was shoot Mal from a covered position then search out the gold for himself. And without Mal to stand in his way, Angus would dispose of Emma with equal speed.
No, he’d needed to lure the man into the open, someplace where they would be on equal footing, someplace where he had more power to bargain for Emma’s life. So he’d borrowed a can of black paint and a brush from Tori’s store and used one of Bertie’s old sheets to create a message for Angus. One the outlaw would be sure to see . . . as long as the man had been watching the exodus of the townsfolk.
Mal had been so certain that Angus would park himself in a place where he could watch all the comings and goings. But what if he hadn’t? What if he truly was waiting for morning to make his move and didn’t see the sign?
Mal shifted his position, tightening his grip on the rifle he held. No time to second-guess himself now. God had led him to this point. He just had to have faith. To stay strong and trust that if the Lord wanted him to change plans, he’d find a way to let Mal know.
Five minutes passed. Then another five. The sun dipped lower in the sky, slanting light beneath Mal’s hat brim, impeding his vision. He raised his left hand to shade his eyes, more concerned with spotting the enemy than in having both hands on the rifle.
As if that movement had been a signal, in the next heartbeat, two horses cantered out of the woods and across the brush-laden prairie. The first was a big chestnut with black socks and mane, the markings etched in Mal’s memory with keen precision after the shootout by the bank. It carried two riders. A large, barrel-chested man and a slender, black-haired angel. The angel rode in front, her body shielding the man who held a revolver to her temple. Mal barely even glanced at the second horse. The small sorrel and its youthful rider didn’t pose much of a threat, though Mal did a quick scan, anyway, to ascertain that the boy did not have his weapon drawn.
Angus reined in his chestnut a good twenty yards from the church. “If this is a trick, Shaw, your woman’s gonna be the one to pay the price. If I don’t see my gold in the next two minutes, you’ll see my bullet blow through her pretty little head.”
Mal tamped down the searing rage that churned in his gut and lifted his rifle with cool precision. He didn’t aim the barrel directly at Angus, not with Emma in the way, but he had it up and ready, his finger steady on the trigger.
“It’s no trick. I found the strongbox in the basement hearth of the old station house. Wedged in the flue about five feet from the floor. Sound familiar?”
The chestnut danced restively to the side, a sure indication his rider was agitated. Mal narrowed his gaze. Good. Time to even the odds a little more.
“Let the woman go, and I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden it.”
Angus tightened his hold on Emma. “Not a chance. I let go of the skirt, and you take a shot at me. I ain’t a fool, Shaw. You tell me where the gold is . . . then I’ll let ’er go.”
Mal slowly shook his head. “Nope. Soon as you know the gold’s location, Emma’s as good as dead.”
“What d’ya propose we do, then, cowboy? Stand here and jaw all evenin’?” he scoffed. “I ain’t exactly the socializin’ type.”
“I propose that we set aside our weapons and handle this trade like gentlemen. You and the boy dismount and send the horses on their way, then you and I lower our weapons and kick them aside. Once that’s done, send the boy over, and I’ll give him further instructions.”