“Bertie!” Henrietta called over her shoulder. “The boy’s finally deigned to pay us a visit. Better get on out here before he disappears again.”
Emma leaned close—close enough that her side brushed against his arm. Mal forced himself not to react. At least not in a way she could see. Couldn’t do much about the hitch in his pulse.
“She still hasn’t quite forgiven you for leaving, you know.” Emma’s whisper sent a shiver over the skin near his ear and down his neck. It distracted him so completely, he never saw Bertie emerge from the house. She seemed to simply materialize beside her sister in a blink of the eye.
“Oh, Malachi.” Aunt Bertie clasped her hands together beneath her chin, her welcoming smile soft and warm, just like the rest of her. “It’s so good to have you back. We’ve all missed you dreadfully. Haven’t we, sister?”
“Hmmph.” Aunt Henry’s pinched lips gave no hint of relaxing, but Malachi recognized the stern look for what it was—a shield. Employed the same strategy himself on a regular basis. Probably why he’d always felt a stronger kinship with the elder, more strident Chandler sister than the younger one, despite Bertie’s kind, nurturing, and gentle ways.
Henry sniffed. “Well, at least we don’t have to wait until his next letter arrives to know he hasn’t blown himself to bits.” She waved with an imperious circle of her arm that brooked no argument. “Well? Get on up here, boy. It isn’t polite to keep an old woman out on the porch in the night wind. I’ll catch my death.”
Malachi bit back a smile. The slight breeze that ruffled his hair still carried the heat of summer. She’d have to run pretty hard to catch death out here, though he had no trouble picturing her chasing down the Grim Reaper, taking swings at him with her broom as she harangued him for all his slights against womankind. Mal doubted the old fella would dare touch her, even with that long scythe of his.
Mal shoved his hat back on his head and gave a sharp nod. “Be right there. Just got to see to my horse—”
“You go on ahead. I’ll take care of the horse.” Emma’s hand came down atop his as she reached for the reins. Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t pull away. So he did. Slower than he should have, torturing himself with the feel of her fingertips trailing along the back of his hand.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face.
Emma lowered her lashes, then tugged the reins fully from his grasp and turned to lead his horse away. “Yes . . . well . . . You’ve had a long journey and must be tired. It’s the least I can do.”
Mal grabbed his saddlebags as she led the mare past him, then lingered to watch her disappear around the side of the house. The gentle sway of her hips. The way she stroked the gray’s cheek as she rounded the corner. The way she glanced back and caught him staring . . .
Shoot!
As if lightning had suddenly struck the ground between his boots, Mal jolted to attention, spun around, and hotfooted it toward the front door.
Emma’s far too good for the likes of you, Malachi Shaw, he silently lectured himself as he scampered after the aunts. You best remember that. He was here for one purpose, and one purpose only—to clear out the scum threatening Emma and her ladies. It didn’t matter how pretty she looked or how kind her manner. Or how impossibly good she’d felt pressed up against him in that impromptu hug. He just had to keep his head down and his eyes to himself for a few days and he’d soon be back to the safety of blasting tunnels in mountains.
By the time Emma rejoined the group inside, she had a firm grip on her senses. They’d not be taking leave of her again. So what if her girlhood crush had come raging back to life with all the strength of a woman’s longing when she’d found Malachi watching her. The man had a life of his own. Probably even a woman of his own up in Montana, though he’d never spoken of one in his letters. Not that he would. Speak of one. In a letter. To her. After all, she’d never mentioned the clerk who’d paid court to her while she’d trained in the bank run by her late father’s partner. Some things were just . . . private. And too embarrassing to admit to the young man who’d once been her champion and dearest friend.
Especially when that bank clerk had soft hands and an itchy moustache and never took her side in any discussion she instigated with the manager regarding the lack of loans granted to women. Poor Nathaniel. He just didn’t measure up. Not against a boy who’d been willing to stand up for her and her aunts no matter how outlandish Aunt Henry’s rhetoric became or how much the other boys ridiculed him.