Aunt Henry leaned across the middle of the table, blocking Mal’s view of Emma. Henry grabbed the turpentine and brush, marched over to the corner of the kitchen, and dropped them on top of the pie safe. “Claptrap, I say. Nothing but a bunch of claptrap. A woman wouldn’t burn a church. This is the work of a man. The man who shot at us a few days ago. That’s who you need to be tracking down, not wasting time on a witch hunt.”
His shoulders went rigid as his temper flared. “I ain’t sayin’ the man Emma saw isn’t the one behind this. I’m sure he is. But you need to consider that he might have an accomplice.” Mal paused to take a breath, then made a point to lower his voice. “You’re the one always saying that women can do anything men can, Aunt Henry. But you can’t just take the good without lookin’ at the bad. Sure, women are capable of being doctors and bankers,” he said with a wave of his hand toward Emma, “but they can also be criminals and deceivers. Excusing them all from guilt simply because they are female before you hear me out is as much an act of prejudice as those who assume men are the only ones capable of casting a responsible vote.”
“He’s got a point, Henry,” Bertie said as she lowered a platter of flapjacks onto the middle of the table like a peace offering. A rather loud sniff was the only response she received to that observation. Nevertheless, Bertie continued bustling about as if nothing untoward had happened. She collected the syrup and butter crock, then deliberately pulled out her chair and took a seat. “Come along now. There’s plenty of time to hash everything out while we eat.”
Malachi bit back the argument that leapt to his tongue. Jaw tight, he removed his hat and tossed it on top of the pie safe next to the turpentine canister. His suspicions and conclusions clamored for release, but he swallowed them down. A few minutes’ delay wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, people were less likely to be cranky after consuming Bertie’s blackberry syrup. Himself included.
Emma slid around to the spot closest to the wall on his right, her demeanor quiet, subdued. Lines marred her forehead as she took her seat, her gaze locked on the emptiness of the plate in front of her. Henry had no such compunction. She glared at him as she perched ramrod straight in the seat opposite his.
“There we are.” Bertie smiled, ignoring the tension in the air as she stretched her hands out toward him and Henry. “Would you say the blessing for us, Malachi?” She nodded at him, her eyes saying more than her words—Don’t forget what is most important.
Mal cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He reached for Emma’s hand as he accepted Bertie’s. Emma’s fingers trembled slightly, so he gripped them tightly, trying to reassure her that all would be well. He’d see to it.
Then he bowed his head. “Lord, we thank you for the food before us, and for the people around this table.” He ran his thumb over the back of Emma’s hand. “Thank you for keeping everyone safe last night during the fire. Please continue to watch over the women of Harper’s Station and protect them from harm. Resolve this situation quickly, Lord. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
No one spoke after that. The only sounds breaking the silence were the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional creak of wood when someone shifted in their chair.
The flapjacks were as light and fluffy as Mal remembered, and the syrup such a perfect blend of sweet and tart that, had his mind not been so occupied, he was sure he would have savored each bite with lingering care. Instead, he wolfed down six pancakes before the ladies finished their tea. Well, only five, really. One lay folded inside his napkin on his lap to be stashed later in his saddlebag. Mal glanced at Emma and the aunts, making sure none of them was paying him any attention, then slipped the napkin inside his vest, to the hidden pocket he’d sewn into the lining.
“I just can’t believe one of my ladies could be guilty of helping this outlaw.” Emma set her fork aside, abandoning a perfectly good half a pancake.
Mal was momentarily distracted by the leftover pieces, purple with absorbed syrup, and destined for the slop pail. Bertie’s flapjacks deserved better. Then Emma turned to face him, and all thought of flapjacks, purple or otherwise, flew from his head.
“I know these women. Some are more prickly than others, but they all want this place to succeed. Need this place to succeed. Why would they sabotage their own future?”
Mal scooted his plate away from the edge of the table and leaned forward. “I don’t know, Em. Maybe this fella offered enough money to tempt someone to secure her future in a faster, easier way. Or maybe he’s blackmailing one of the colony members.”
“But what makes you so sure that one of the women is involved?” This came from Aunt Henry.
Mal glanced her way before turning his attention back to Emma. “I found faint traces of footprints this morning when I searched the area around the church. A man’s boot, a size or two smaller than mine, but larger than a woman’s shoe.”