Or maybe . . . Her stomach clenched. Maybe he was shutting her out. Distancing himself, just as he’d done the last time he’d gotten ready to leave.
She might have accepted his leaving without a fight ten years ago when she’d been a child, but she wasn’t about to let him get on his high horse of nobility and ride away from her again with some flimsy excuse about it being for her own good. Not after he’d kissed her like a starving man who’d finally been offered a place at the table. She might not have been kissed more than three times in her lifetime, but she knew the difference between polite interest, brotherly concern, and a soul-deep need that matched the longing of her own heart.
Emma straightened her shoulders and set her chin. Mr. Malachi Shaw had better brace himself. He was in for the battle of his life. And she wasn’t afraid to fight dirty.
40
Two days later, Mal tied down his saddlebag with a heavy heart. He was going to miss Harper’s Station. All the women with their quirky personalities and independent spirits—he had no doubt they would flourish just as Emma had predicted.
They’d flooded back into town first thing yesterday morning, as soon as they were assured Angus was behind bars. None of the men had accompanied them. A not-so-subtle message that it was past time for him to be hitting the trail.
Porter had stayed in Seymour to get caught up on overdue shipments as well as to oversee the building of his new freight wagon. He’d also convinced his brother to give Andrew a job at his livery. The kid was a natural with horses, and since his pay included meals and a place to sleep, Mal figured he’d make out just fine. Trail might be a tad lonely without the kid along, but the boy needed stability, something Mal couldn’t offer right now. Even if he found work quickly, a rail camp was no place to raise a kid.
Taking hold of Ulysses’s reins, Mal led the animal out of the barn and around to the front of the station house. No voices echoed within. No pots and pans rattled, no shoe heels clicked on the wood floors. Deserted. Empty. Downright depressing.
Well, at least the ladies had made the rounds yesterday to say their good-byes.
Maybelle had added a couple of stitches to his shoulder and given him a sack of clean bandages and salve along with strict instructions on how to tend the wound. Betty had ordered him to keep a sharp eye out for bandits while he traveled. Grace offered to wire his former employer on his behalf, but he’d turned her down, wanting to start somewhere fresh. Tori had gifted him with two new boxes of cartridges for his rifle and a leather satchel for carrying his additional belongings, which he needed after Henry loaded him down with a thick stack of writing paper, pens, and ink, and Bertie heaped more food on him than he could possibly eat in a week.
The only person he hadn’t said good-bye to was Emma.
Mal clenched his jaw and forced his boots to keep walking, one foot in front of the other. He wasn’t looking forward to this last farewell. Saying good-bye to the aunts had been hard enough this morning. They’d both put a good face on things, but if they felt even a fraction of the tearing pain he did at the prospect of being separated from the only family he’d ever known—again—they’d hidden more hurt than they’d let show. Of course, they might’ve already made peace with his leaving. He’d been gone for ten years, after all. Easy enough to slip back into old habits.
Ulysses snorted as he clomped along. Mal sighed, as well, then forced his chin up. He had plenty of lonely miles ahead to wallow in the doldrums. He needed to put on a cheerful face for Emma. Show his support of her work. Let her know how proud he was of the woman she’d become. Not to mention drinking in the sight of her one last time, memorizing each line and curve so he’d be able to carry her image in his mind.
Pulling up to Tori’s store, he tossed Ulysses’s reins over the hitching post and leaned his back against the railing to wait. All the women had congregated inside the café next door for a meeting or planning session or some such gathering. He hadn’t been invited.
He’d barely settled in when the café’s door creaked open. Emma stepped onto the boardwalk and descended to the street. She was so beautiful. Her prim banker’s suit with the dark blue jacket and matching skirt showed off her slim waist and delicate figure. The white shirtwaist drew his gaze up to the slender line of her throat, the curve of her cheek, and the few tendrils of black, curly hair blowing in the breeze that refused to be tamed by her topknot.
He straightened away from the railing, his arms aching to hold her one last time, his lips starving for another taste of her sweetness. He locked down the impulses but could do nothing to slow the racing of his heart or the twisting in his gut.