Flora glanced back at the garden once more before finally submitting to Tori’s shepherding. The two walked off arm in arm, Tori chattering the whole way.
Emma studied the dark-haired Flora and sent up a quick prayer on her behalf. The message burned into the church wall must have truly spooked her. Understandable given the circumstances. Not everyone had the sturdy constitution of Aunt Henry. Besides, Flora had been on edge since the shooting at the church. She’d been the most vocal advocate for evacuation, encouraging as many ladies as would listen to leave. She would have left, too, Emma was certain, if she’d had anywhere to go. But she didn’t. Flora had no family besides her husband, and judging by the bruised and battered condition she’d been in when she arrived at Harper’s Station a few weeks ago, returning to him offered no safe haven.
The soft glow of lantern light in her right periphery alerted Emma to Malachi’s approach, yet she couldn’t look away from Tori and Flora to acknowledge him. She had to watch. Had to make sure they came to no harm. As if her watching over them ensured their safety. Ha! Her eyes on them wouldn’t shield their bodies from a bullet should the shooter decide to enforce his threat. Nothing she did could stop the man—not from setting fires or shooting into populated buildings. What if he did start killing? How many would die because of her?
“You really are a great leader.” Malachi’s low voice caressed her ear even as his words unintentionally shredded her heart, letting all her doubts and insecurities escape in one fell swoop.
She twisted to face him. The weight of her responsibility pressed down on her with such heaviness, it nearly bent her in two. “Oh, Mal. You have no idea how wrong you are.”
Malachi barely had time to brace himself before Emma slammed into his chest for the second time that night. He gritted his teeth against the contact. The closeness. Self-preservation demanded that he set her at arm’s length, give himself a buffer so he could breathe, think. But he couldn’t. He’d seen her eyes. Those glorious green eyes that had always seen the best in him had been filled with torment.
And now they were weeping against his chest, each teardrop scalding his soul.
Had he done this? Malachi stared into the night sky at the smirking half-moon, recriminating himself for opening his mouth. He knew he was rusty when it came to paying compliments to females, but he’d never dreamed he could reduce one to tears by making the effort.
Emma clung to his waist, her fingers digging into the damp fabric of his shirt at the small of his back. Her cheek pressed tightly against his chest. Her shoulders trembled with the force of her tears. She needed comfort. Needed someone to soothe her.
Why in the world had she chosen him? A rock probably knew more about comforting than he did.
Glancing back at the moon that seemed to be laughing outright at him now, Mal set his jaw and slowly curled his arms around her. Mercy, but she was a tiny thing. So delicate. Yet he knew her core was solid steel. She’d just forgotten for a moment. Forgotten how strong she was. He’d remind her. Somehow.
He patted her back once. Then, when she didn’t stop shaking, he patted her again. She sniffed a little and let out a shuddering breath. That meant her cry was almost done, didn’t it? Man, he hoped so.
Her fingers released their death grip on the back of his shirt, but her arms stayed circled around him. In fact, they squeezed him more firmly, her palms flattening along the line of his spine as her cheek burrowed deeper into the hollow beneath his shoulder. Mal swallowed. Sakes alive, but her holding him felt good. And wasn’t he a blackguard for noticing? Here she was, in distress, and all he could think about was how good she felt pressed up against him.
Yet . . . if it felt good to him, maybe it could feel good for her, too. If he . . . just . . .
Ah, shoot. Malachi flattened his palms against her back and squished her close. She let out a little squeak as her nose mashed into his chest in an awkward fashion, but she didn’t try to break away. He relaxed his grip enough to let her settle, then tried stroking her back like he did for Ulysses when his horse demanded pampering. Emma let out a little sigh. A rather soothed-sounding sigh.
Mal grinned triumphantly at the smirking moon. Ha! He could be more comforting than a rock. Wasn’t so hard. Just had to imagine she was his horse.
Mal stroked her back again, making little circles with the tips of his fingers as he tried to conjure up a mental image of Ulysses. Then Emma shifted slightly, and all her softness moved to a slightly different position, bringing it to the forefront of his attention. The half-formed picture of his horse vanished.
Yeah. Should’ve known that wouldn’t work.
But at least Emma wasn’t crying anymore.