Besides, it was a sound investment strategy. If the ladies of the circle failed to get their quilts to market by the deadline, they wouldn’t be able to make their monthly loan payments. And if Emma was going to be able to keep the bank open for business, she’d need those payments.
Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she retrieved the gold watch that had once belonged to her father. She held it in her palm and flipped open the cover with a practiced flick of her thumb, her eyes, as they always did, finding the inscription etched inside the lid—To William with love, Ann. A gift from her mother on her father’s forty-fifth birthday. He’d been a good deal older than his wife, but they’d been well matched in other ways. Father’s philanthropy. Mother’s volunteer work at the hospital. Their love for their only child. The stories the aunts had told Emma about her parents were what had spurred her to find her own way to help those in need. Yet, as much as she wished she were running a charity here in Harper’s Station, the truth was, she was running a business—a business that offered hope and a fresh start to many. If the bank went under, the women would, too.
“What would you do, Daddy?” she whispered into the empty office, remembering all those times she would crawl into her father’s lap and beg him to tell her about the bank. She’d idolized him. Wanted to emulate him in everything. Instead of tea parties, she had bank parties, having her dolls complete transactions with the money she’d made out of strips of brown paper and buttons pilfered from Mother’s sewing basket.
“Emma, darling.” She recalled his cultured voice, could almost feel the hand he used to run over her hair. “Banking is stewardship. We can’t give to everyone who asks or we risk losing the ability to give to any. We must seek God’s wisdom and direction, then work hard not only to protect but also increase what has been entrusted to us. Think like a five-talent steward, Emma.”
Emma smiled. Daddy had loved Jesus’ parable of the talents. Especially the part where the master condemned the single-talent steward for not at least putting his money in the bank to earn interest.
Emma circled her fingertip along the edge of the watch face. Think like a five-talent steward. Take measured risks. Be wise. Don’t let fear paralyze you.
She’d built her business on that strategy. Invested the bulk of the inheritance her father had left her into developing the land and buildings comprising Harper’s Station. Invested the rest with a New York broker who had worked with her father, one who had proven trustworthy and willing to take instructions from a woman. She invested bank funds with him, as well, though on a more conservative trajectory. Protecting her ladies came before profit. However, if her quilters failed to make their quotas and lost the income needed to make their loan payments, a few would be perilously close to defaulting.
The bank was solvent enough to let a couple months of missed payments slide for those in the direst need, but having such a small group of clients overall, the business wouldn’t survive much beyond that. Hard decisions would have to be made—decisions Emma would rather avoid. Yet if it came to it, she wouldn’t bury her talent in the sand. She’d make her father proud and do what had to be done.
The rattle of wagon wheels outside brought Emma’s head up. Snapping her watch closed, she pushed to her feet and swiveled to get a better view. She slid the watch back into her pocket, then walked to the window and parted the lace curtains with her hand. Her pulse skittered. Benjamin Porter’s freight wagon.
Had Malachi arrived?
Mr. Porter would be the one to direct him to Harper’s Station when he showed up in Seymour. Except for the circuit-riding preacher, Mr. Porter was the only male allowed in the colony, and only because he carried their goods to market and brought supplies in from the outside. The man was courteous, dependable, and always fetched them an honest price. And upon occasion, he delivered passengers.
As the wagon drew nearer, Emma’s breath caught. There was a passenger. A dark shape loomed next to Mr. Porter on the wagon seat, but Emma couldn’t make out any distinguishing characteristics. She peeled the lace curtains back even farther, her stomach swirling about as if she’d swallowed a pitcher full of tadpoles. The wagon finally cleared the branches of the oak tree that shaded the café and revealed the passenger. Emma’s breath leaked from her in a slow, silent sigh.
A female. Not Malachi.
She released the curtain and spun away from the window. What had she expected? That he had sprouted wings and flown to Texas? Even if he’d left Montana immediately after receiving her telegram, it would still take at least two days for him to reach Seymour, and only if he traveled through the night.