“You need to be ready, Em.” His voice came out hard, yet there was a sadness in his eyes that disturbed her far more. “If this man attacks you, you can’t hesitate. Aim at the widest target, his torso, and pull the trigger.”
Her heart thudded so hard in her chest it hurt. He squeezed her hand, and for a moment she thought her worst nightmare was about to come true—that he would force her finger back against the trigger. She shook her head. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Don’t,” she whispered.
He didn’t. But neither did he let her release the gun. It was almost as if he thought she needed protection from him.
She narrowed her gaze and tipped her chin sideways. What’s going on in that head of yours, Malachi Shaw? Did he think that what had happened between them a moment ago had proved him untrustworthy? A threat? Nothing could be further from the truth. Under his touch, she’d felt not only safe but cherished. As if she weren’t alone in her mission. As if she had a partner to lean on. One who cared for her first and her responsibilities second.
No wonder she’d felt weightless and light-headed. It was a wonder she hadn’t floated right off the floor to bump against the ceiling. For a few stolen moments, he’d released her from the burden of duty. It was a gift she needed to repay.
“I trust you, Mal.” She held his gaze, urging him to see the confidence she had in him, not only in dealing with the outlaws but in dealing with what was flaring between them.
His brown eyes softened just a little, but then he blinked and looked away. “I won’t always be there, Em,” he said, finally relaxing his grip on her hands and taking the gun from her.
Malachi stepped past to lay the pistol on the table behind her. An icy tremor coursed over her arms and shoulders, causing her to twitch and wrap her arms about herself for comfort. It was going to take some strong tea and an even stronger mind to keep from having nightmares about that gun pointed at Mal’s chest. She prayed she never saw such a sight again.
“Here.” Malachi handed her the rifle, the intimate huskiness gone from his voice. Nothing but cool, businesslike precision remained. “Show me how to load it, and then we’ll work on your stance.”
Emma swallowed her disappointment and gave him a quick nod. Time to take up the mantle of responsibility again. Collecting the first cartridge, she mimicked what she’d seen the other ladies do and fed it into the Winchester’s receiver. She pushed it into the magazine with her thumb, ignoring the pinch both in the pad of her finger and in her heart as she reached for the next cartridge.
With grim determination, Malachi saw to the rest of Emma’s training without a repeat of the disaster with the revolver. When she demonstrated sufficient capability with the rifle, he’d praised her efforts and then taken his weapons and left, using the same excuse he’d employed that morning. Sending a telegram. He’d never gotten around to wiring the county land office earlier, thanks to the outlaws’ interruption, so it gave him a legitimate reason to leave—one more palatable than the truth—that he didn’t trust himself alone with her.
He never should have held her so close, not while the scare of the gunfight that morning had still been fresh in his mind. A single stray bullet could have ended her life. The discovery that the outlaws had been stalking the ladies for weeks only added to his unnerved state. Imagining that coldhearted snake watching Emma, learning her routines, her habits . . . It chilled his blood.
So when she’d leaned back into his chest, thawing—no, heating—his blood, he’d been drawn in like a man craving a blazing hearth after fighting his way home through a snowstorm. That’s what she’d felt like. Home. The way she’d lightly pressed against him, her body soft and pliant. Her voice dripping over him like honey. The smell of her hair, the pale column of her neck begging to be tasted. He’d nearly given in. He’d wanted to give in. Shoot, a part of him still did. Then she said she trusted him, her eyes green pools of sincerity—sincerity mixed with something deeper that grabbed his gut and twisted it into a knot he had yet to untangle. He’d been a breath away from grabbing her to him and kissing her with all the yearning he’d suppressed since the moment he’d arrived to find her a woman grown.
She was dangerous, tempting him to dream of things beyond his reach. He had a job. The respect of men he admired. A purpose in mentoring young pups like Andrew and Zachary. He didn’t need her planting impossible ideas in his head. She would never leave her ladies. Her place was here with them. His was in Montana on the rail lines. He could never belong in a women’s colony. One had only to note his gender to figure that one out. And Emma couldn’t follow him to the rail camps. Living in tents, constantly on the move—it was a harsh existence, filled with rough men and even rougher women. Drink ran high. Morality ran low. She wouldn’t be safe. Or happy. And he cared too much about her to subject her to that kind of life.