Mal handed him a two-dollar note and waited while the man counted out his change. “Don’t suppose you could give me directions to Harper’s Station?” he asked. “It’s north of here, ain’t it?”
“Harper’s Station?” Fischer’s hand balled into a fist, and red flushed his face. “You mean Harpy’s Station? That bunch of man-haters. Harridans, all of ’em. Turning womenfolk against their men. It ain’t natural. No man in his right mind would go to that godforsaken place.”
A muscle twitched in Malachi’s jaw. “Well, that’s where I’m headed. Just thought since you did business with them, you’d be able—”
“Do business with them?” Fischer’s teeth ground together in the back of his mouth. “Not anymore. Not after what they done. If it was up to me, I’d gather a posse together and clear them out. Good-for-nothing, meddlin’ vipers . . .”
In a flash, Mal grabbed the shopkeeper’s shirtfront. He dragged him halfway across the counter with a single yank. Coins clinked onto the floor, but Mal paid them no mind. He put his face nose to nose with the old cuss. “It’s not up to you,” Mal growled. “Got that?”
Fischer sputtered. “Hold on, there, mister.” He held out his palms. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it. Just blowing steam, you know?”
“Good.” Mal released the slimy toad and shoved him back to his own side of the counter. “Because I don’t take kindly to men who browbeat women.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Fischer straightened his shirt and rolled his shoulders as if trying to erase the memory of Malachi’s grip. “I don’t take kindly to strangers who interfere in affairs that ain’t none of their concern.”
Mal scooped up his purchases, his hard-eyed glare never once leaving Fischer’s face. “The women of Harper’s Station are my concern. Anyone who threatens them will have to deal with me.”
Then, leaving his change where it had fallen on the floor, Mal strode out of the store before he did something stupid, like knock a few teeth out of Fischer’s head.
“What’s your business at Harper’s Station?” A tall, burly fellow stepped out of the shadows and blocked Mal’s path to the stairs.
“My own,” Mal ground out, tromping forward. What was it with these people? Couldn’t a man buy a razor without being subjected to insults and inquisitions?
The fella stood an inch or two taller than Malachi and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds of what appeared to be solid muscle, but Mal was riled enough to take him on should the gent want a fight.
The man made no move to stop him, but neither did he step out of the way. Mal tucked his purchases into his side and, leading with his shoulder, barreled his way past. The sturdy fella’s arm felt like a slab of granite, but it budged enough to let Mal by.
“You defended the women in there,” the man said as he followed Mal down the steps, “so I tend to think you don’t mean them harm, but those ladies have suffered enough trials lately. I ain’t about to let some stranger show up and harass them further.”
Mal spun around to face his accuser, some part of his brain registering that the man was simply trying to protect the women, same as him, but his gut still ached for a fight. “I ain’t a stranger,” he ground out, even as he eyed the man’s chin and balled his right hand into a fist. “At least not to Emma Chandler. She asked me to come.” He bent toward the raised boardwalk and set his parcels down, then straightened. “I ain’t gonna let that cretin in there”—he tipped his head toward Fischer’s store—“stop me from answerin’ her call. Nor you, either.”
He threw a punch.
The burly fella caught it. With the flat of his palm. Not his chin, as Mal had intended. The man’s fingers curled around Mal’s fist in an iron grip. Mal drew back his left arm, determined to get the upper hand—he’d beaten opponents bigger than him before—but the man’s friendly smile stopped his swing before it gained any momentum.
“Unusual way of shaking hands,” the man said, forcing Mal’s captured arm down to a more civilized level. “But I must admit, I’m glad to know you. I’m Ben Porter.” He pumped Mal’s fist up and down, his smile never dimming. “And if I’m not mistaken, you, sir, are Malachi Shaw.”
Mal recognized the fella’s name from Emma’s letters. The freighter who transported their goods and brought in supplies. Glancing around, he spied the freight wagon pulled around the side of the building.
Slowly, Mal unclenched his fist and twisted his arm free, turning the forced handshake into an earnest one. “I am.” He grinned at the larger man. “Sorry about taking a swing at you. Haven’t slept much the last two days. Guess I’m a bit tetchy.”