“She stayed in the clinic with Maybelle for the first several days, too weak to do anything but recover. And that’s not all.” Emma lowered her voice even though no one was around to overhear. “Maybelle confided that she found evidence of old wounds. Scars and bones that hadn’t been set correctly. You might have noticed the bump on Flora’s nose and the way the little finger on her left hand is crooked at the end. Maybelle fears the woman has suffered abuse for a long time. Is it any wonder she spooks easily?”
Malachi blew out a breath and dropped his head forward. His knuckles turned white as his grip on the chairback grew forceful. “Any man who uses his fist on a woman deserves to be drawn and quartered.” Slowly, he lifted his head. She sensed what was coming. His eyes glowed with apology. “As much as I hate what happened to her, I can’t eliminate her as a suspect.”
Emma nodded and tried to erase the acrid burn at the back of her throat by swallowing. Recalling Flora’s battered body when she’d first stumbled into town always turned her stomach. Yet the reminder of her recent arrival brought another lady to mind. “Mal . . . we haven’t discussed the other name that came up during our inquiries.”
Malachi straightened, releasing the chairback as he paced a couple steps along the length of Emma’s desk. “The first one on scene. The one who sounded the alarm.”
Emma started a second column on her sheet of paper and underlined the name she’d just written. “Claire.”
14
Mal paced the office as Emma went on to describe the newest addition to Harper’s Station. He had to pace. Any time he settled too long in Emma’s vicinity, he started thinking more about her and less about who the traitor might be. One would think that working with dynamite would teach a man better self-discipline.
He bit back a growl as he pushed a finger through the crevice in the lace curtains hanging over the window and pulled the right panel back. Everything looked quiet. The garden ladies were the only people outside, and even they would be breaking for lunch soon.
“Mal? Are you listening?” Emma’s voice brought his head around with guilty speed.
“Sorry. Just wanted to check the street.” He let the curtain drop back into place. “I heard you say Claire arrived the day before the fire, though. And since we don’t have any evidence of a woman’s involvement before then, her being the insider could make sense.”
Emma nibbled on the end of her pen, her attention focused on the ceiling, leaving him free to look his fill without being caught. Not that he would stare . . . Who was he kidding? Of course he would stare. He couldn’t seem not to. The young girl he’d known had grown into a stunning woman—one he would only be with for a couple more days if he had any hope of making it back to the rail camp on time. So he stared. Memorizing the slender line of her neck, the way tiny tendrils of hair curled around the base of her skull, the way her nose scrunched around the edges when she disliked the direction her thoughts were leading her, as it did now.
“It’s not just that Claire is young,” she was saying, “it’s that her story with Fischer checked out so completely. Mr. Porter confirmed that Stanley Fischer had indeed sent for a mail-order bride and that he threatened all kinds of retaliation against anyone who helped her back out of her obligation to him. The day after we took her in, Tori received a telegram informing her that Fischer’s Emporium would no longer conduct business with the ladies of Harper’s Station, nor would any other Seymour proprietor.”
“And that same night, someone set the church on fire.” Malachi strode past the bookshelf again, this time keeping his hands clasped behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to finger the pictures she had on display there. Pictures of home. Or at least the closest thing he’d ever had to one. He cleared his throat. “Could be another level of revenge.”
When he reached the front wall and pivoted to pace back toward the window, he caught Emma shaking her head. “Fischer has never approved of our colony, that’s true, but if Claire is secretly working for him, that would mean he would have had to hire her to pose as his affianced bride, stage a big hoopla in Seymour about her rejecting him to get people to believe her dire straits, then send her here with a sob story and hope we would take her in. Yet threatening to cut off our business if we help her works completely against that aim. If he wanted Claire to infiltrate our colony, why would he take the risk of us turning her down in order to protect our current members’ livelihoods?”
Mal paused a few steps from the window. “Maybe because he knows you’re a woman of principle who will never turn away a female in need.”
A laugh of disbelief burst through the room as if some little imp hiding under the desk had just popped an air-filled paper sack.
“Stanley Fischer?” Emma scoffed. “Believe me, the man doesn’t consider women capable of high principles. Besides, he’s not clever enough to pull off such an elaborate scheme. Especially when he could have suspended his business with us months ago without Claire even being in the picture. Not to mention the fact that I saw our attacker the day of the shooting, and he definitely was not Stanley Fischer.”
“You said he wore a mask,” Mal reminded her.