“Conversin’ with Fischer will do that to a person.” Porter slapped his shoulder with his free hand. “I can give you directions to Harper’s Station, and if you can spare a few minutes, I can share what I know of the trouble they’re facing.”
Mal glanced up at the sky. The sun still blazed brightly. Summer hours afforded him more daylight to travel by. Surely he could spare a half hour. Getting some details about what he’d be facing was too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Know a quiet place where we can talk?” Mal asked, giving a significant glance toward Fischer’s store.
Porter nodded. “My brother owns the livery a block north of here. We can use his office. Let me unload Fischer’s order right quick, and I’ll meet you there.” Porter started walking toward the wagon.
“I think I just rented a horse from your brother.” Mal took a step in the opposite direction. “I’ll settle up with him while you finish here.”
Fifteen minutes later, munching on a roll with a slab of ham tucked inside that he’d taken from his supper box, Mal followed Ben Porter into his brother’s office. The smell of hay and manure clung to the place. Not terribly appetizing, but it afforded privacy. Mal swallowed the bite he’d been chomping and cautiously lowered himself onto a stool of dubious soundness as Porter took the single chair behind the desk.
Ready to get to the point so he could get on the road, Mal eyed Porter straight on. “So what am I up against?”
7
Daylight faded as Malachi neared Harper’s Station, but he did his best to scour the landscape for any sign of the shooter Ben Porter had told him about. The freighter had no firsthand information. No description or hint of the man’s identity. All he could offer was a young boy’s account of a shooting at the church building. A shooting that could have taken Emma’s life, exposed as she’d been, addressing her ladies.
A tremor coursed through him, just as it did every time he let himself imagine what could have happened that day. Which he’d done at least a hundred times since leaving Seymour.
Mal set his jaw. Emma was fine. Ben had seen her. Talked to her. There was no call to get worked up over what could have happened, not when there was so much more to get worked up about regarding what might still be.
Why did the fool woman insist on staying? Didn’t she realize that a man who would shoot up a church wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a woman if it meant getting what he wanted? She’d sent away the families with children, but what about protecting her own skin? Did she value her life so little?
His mount sidestepped, and Mal forced his hands to loosen their suddenly too tight grip on the reins. He knew the answers. Knew her. Emma was a fighter. He’d only be wasting his breath if he tried to convince her to leave. The best he could do was stand beside her and draw the enemy’s fire until he managed to run the barbarian to ground.
Ben had no idea who was behind the threats. Stanley Fischer was the most vocal opponent of the women’s colony, but his disapproval hadn’t turned menacing until yesterday, when the mail-order bride he’d sent for had shown the good sense to flee her bridegroom and take refuge with Emma’s ladies. If he’d had to choose between a lifetime with Fischer or facing the temporary dangers of a madman with a rifle, Mal would have chosen the madman, too.
Rustlers were stirring up trouble in the area, but it was unlikely one of them would attack Harper’s Station. Other than a handful of milk cows and a passel of chickens, the women had no livestock to steal. Besides, the shooter had demanded they leave. Obviously, there was something there he wanted. Mal would have to check the water rights and soil surveys to see if there was anything of value to be gained from the land itself. If the shooter succeeded in scattering the women, it’d be a fairly simple matter to hire an anonymous agent to purchase the land on his behalf when Emma decided to sell.
The fella probably thought a few gunshots would be all it would take to scare off a bunch of unprotected females. Mal chuckled. He didn’t know who he was going up against. Emma and the aunts had stubborn streaks a mile wide. Threats would just make them dig their heels in harder. Which meant . . . the attacker would have to either forfeit his game or take it to the next level.
Somehow Mal doubted a man unscrupulous enough to fire at unarmed women would hesitate to amplify the violence to gain the prize he sought.
Mal set his jaw and nudged his mount from a walk to a canter, wishing not for the first time that he had Ulysses with him. The gray mare he’d rented was sturdy enough, but she certainly hadn’t been built for speed. She was female, though, so at least one of them would fit in.