Betty shook her head. “I don’t like it none, either, Miss Bertie, but this fella has already proved himself to be dishonorable. He ain’t above using force to push us outta our homes. If we plan to push back, we might have to do it in a language he understands.” She scanned the crowd of assembled women. “Now, raise your hand if you own a firearm. I keep a shotgun by the back door to keep the vermin outta the henhouse. What else we got?”
Three hands went up. Three. Out of the entire colony, only four women owned a gun. And Emma couldn’t even count herself among them. She could purchase some, of course, but they’d have to be ordered. Victoria didn’t stock them in her store. There’d never been a need for them in Harper’s Station. Until now.
“I have my husband’s hunting rifle,” the widow who ran the boardinghouse offered. “It’s stored away in a trunk with the rest of his belongings. Don’t know what kind of shape it’s in. Haven’t opened that trunk since I packed it up three years ago.”
“All right,” Betty said. “What else?” She pointed to the next woman with her hand raised. “Daisy?”
“I have my papa’s old army revolver.” Daisy was one of her aunts’ dear friends and couldn’t be a day under fifty. Which meant her papa’s revolver was probably of a similar age. “I’m afraid I never learned how to fire it, though. I just held on to it as a keepsake after Mama passed. Along with Papa’s confederate uniform.”
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.