She hurried back to where Grace was accepting the next bucket. “It’s not too bad,” she yelled over the crackling of the fire. “We can do this.”
Grace’s lips pressed together in a thin line as she handed off the bucket. “I pray you’re right.”
Emma took the handle from Grace’s hands. The weight of the bucket dragged on her arms, but she held tight and waddled back into the fray. With a strength born of determination, she took hold of the bottom of the pail and hurled the contents into the heart of the blaze.
Malachi shoved his revolver into its holster and stomped back toward the church. Nothing. That’s what he’d found. Absolutely nothing. No hoofprints. No footprints. At least none of the male variety. There were a bunch of dainty female footprints around as one would expect, but nothing else.
How had the outlaw done it? Set the church on fire and left without a trace? Had Mal missed something? He’d gone over every inch of the ground leading away from the church. He’d searched the outlying scrub brush for broken twigs or bent branches and found nothing there either. But it was dark. Everything in shades of gray and black. All too easy for details to get lost in the shadows. He’d have to check the area again in the morning.
Some protector he was turning out to be. The male guardian brought in to ferret out the threat and shield the ladies of Harper’s Station from harm, and he’d contributed absolutely nothing to their defense. Not only had he failed to find the man responsible, or even a hint of how the fiend had accomplished his task, he’d left the women to fight the blaze on their own.
As he strode closer, the scene brought into focus sliced the guilt into him even more deeply. Weary soldiers covered in battle grime. Bedraggled. Sodden clothes. Mud-caked shoes and hems. Faces drawn with fatigue.
All the remaining townswomen must have turned out. From one gal who looked like she was still in her teens, to a handful of females in nightclothes and caps, to the aunts who apparently listened to him as well as Emma did—they all worked together, their rhythm steady. Mal traced the line up toward the front, his scowl deepening. The women closer to the flames were streaked with soot. Their faces reddened from the heat. Emma, of course, was at the head of the line, tossing water onto the last ribbon of fire that licked up toward the roof.
Her fine white blouse had turned to gray, the untucked shirttail hanging shapeless behind her. Her hair hung in hanks around her face, but when she turned to accept the next bucket, focused green eyes glittered with purpose. Nothing short of collapse would keep her from fighting.
However, as she pivoted back toward the building and flung the water, her weariness became evident. The water only caught the bottom portion of the flames, leaving the top to continue its climb toward the roof.
A short woman rushed forward to collect the empty pail but then froze at the sight of him. Dropping the pail, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a tiny gun. Her lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes hard, she cocked the weapon and aimed it at his chest.
“Stop where you are.” Her voice was quiet, but it bore an intensity that carried above the sounds of clanking buckets and crackling flames. Her hand didn’t waver, either. This one had grit—and a wariness in her gaze that spoke of past hardship.
Mal raised his arms out to the side, away from his gun, hoping to soothe her. Buckets started to pile up around the third lady in the line as she gaped at the scene.
“It’s all right, Grace.” Emma came up beside the gun-toter and gently placed a hand on her arm. “This is Malachi Shaw. The friend I told you about. He just arrived tonight. I didn’t have time to tell you. He’s been out searching for the culprit.”
“And now I’m here to help put out the rest of this fire,” Mal said, keeping his voice as friendly as possible. “If you’ll allow me to help.”
Grace slowly lowered her arm. “Of course. Forgive me.” She glanced down at her shoes as she uncocked the derringer and slipped it back into her pocket. “I didn’t realize who you were.”
“No harm done.” Malachi grinned. “I’m actually glad to see that you carry a weapon. With all the trouble around here, the more protection you ladies have, the better.”
With the gun now out of the equation, Mal lowered his hands and strode over to where another woman stood with what looked like a stockpot in hand. Her eyes wide, she made no move to stop him as he took the pot from her. He murmured a thank-you, then marched back toward the building and tossed the water high enough to douse the top edge of the flame at the roof’s eave.
Emma slid into place behind him and handed him bucket after bucket. It didn’t take long to extinguish the dying fire, but he doused the wood several additional times just to make sure no embers sprang back to life.