Once the hidden path merged with a dry creek bed, the trail became harder to read. Mal lost precious minutes searching for clues in the prairie grass before he finally spotted one of Emma’s shoeprints. No, not Emma’s. Another woman’s. Slightly longer from heel to toe, the impression a little deeper. Must be Flora’s. Anger flared at the thought of the woman who’d betrayed them all, who might at this very minute be luring Emma into a trap. He’d seen her name at the bottom of Esther’s letter. He’d not taken the time to read her excuses or apologies, if there were any. He didn’t need to know the whys. All he needed was the where. Where was she? Surely if he found Flora, he’d find Emma as well.
Instead of wasting time searching for another set of prints, he followed Flora’s trail into the thickening vegetation. Just as the scrub brush gave way to oaks and mesquites, a movement to his left brought Mal’s head around. In a flash, he had his rifle aimed, cocked, and ready.
He froze in position, ears poised to catch any sound, eyes locked on the small space between the trees where he’d seen a shadow. A shadow that moved a second time. Low to the ground. Like an animal. A wounded animal. Limping. Scraping.
Mal raised his head from the barrel to widen his view yet still kept his finger on the trigger. Whatever was out there was moving toward him. Slow. Deliberate. Yet it made no effort to move with any degree of stealth.
Then something slid out of the shadows. A pale hand stretched into the sunlight followed by a mud-colored sleeve. It stretched. Reached. Then pulled. A feminine head appeared. One Mal recognized. A grimace of agony twisted Flora’s features as she dragged herself forward another few inches, her second arm curled protectively around her middle, her legs trailing behind. She reached again. Pulled. Dragged. Her battered face stirred Mal’s pity. Her leaf-strewn hair and torn flesh ignited his anger. An anger that no longer focused on her, but on the man who could beat a woman so badly she had to crawl away to escape him.
Relaxing his hold on the rifle, yet still keeping it accessible and his senses alert, Mal jogged forward and dropped to the ground beside Flora. She immediately curled in on herself, covering her head as if bracing for more violence. A whimper escaped her.
Mal had started to reach for her but hesitated at her obvious terror. “I’m not going to hurt you, Flora. I’m here to help.” He patted her shoulder once, then raised his hand to hover awkwardly in midair. She flinched at the touch, but didn’t whimper again, thank heavens. He tried a second pat. Some of the stiffness left her posture and she began to uncurl.
“Where’s Emma?” Mal asked, unable to keep the question bottled up a second longer.
“She tried to save me from him,” Flora mumbled through swollen lips. “She shoulda left me there.” Flora twisted her head around until her grief-filled gaze met Malachi’s. “Shoulda run away the moment she spotted Angus. But she didn’t.” Flora shook her head, bewildered. “After all I done to hurt the town, she still stayed. Even shot him. Or at least drew blood.” A hint of a smile cracked her lips. “He didn’t expect that. Thought she’d be soft. Weak. Like me. Not Emma.”
“Where is she?” It was all Mal could do not to shake the woman and end her rambling. While he wanted to hear an account of what happened, he wanted Emma safe first.
“He took her.”
Mal sprang to his feet, rifle in hand, and ran toward the thicker trees where Flora’s drag marks led. He had to find the outlaw’s trail. Had to get Emma back.
“Wait!” a weak voice called after him. “You can’t save her that way.”
Mal ignored Flora’s plea and ran deeper into the woods. He spotted Emma’s rifle, fallen on the ground at the base of an oak tree. He snatched it up and held it tight while he scanned the terrain, as if somehow the connection she had to the rifle would lead him to her. But of course it didn’t.
He found the place where the drag marks stopped. The place where Flora had lain. A chaotic pattern of footprints had displaced leaves and left evidence of a scuffle. A scuffle that ended with the smaller set of prints disappearing, leaving only the large prints to lead off to the west, prints that pressed deeper into the earth. Deeper because they carried a load. A load Malachi intended to retrieve.
Holding his rifle in one hand and Emma’s in the other, Mal set off after the outlaw. About a hundred yards in, a second pair of prints joined the trail from the north. Nearly the same size but shallower.
Mal followed the trail, heart thumping, spirit praying for Emma’s well-being. Then all at once the footprints vanished. Just like Emma’s had when he’d trailed her from the river. But this time there were no hidden stones, no creek bed. A few large tree roots stood above ground. But on the other side of the roots, all Mal found were dead leaves and dry earth, neither of which had been disturbed.
The outlaws must have changed direction here and masked their trail somehow. But which way had they gone? A growl of frustration rose in Mal’s throat. Why must he always be a step behind? It was maddening.