“You know I’m not at liberty to say. All Western Union correspondence is held in the strictest confidence. If you want to discuss the contents, you’ll need to talk to Mr. Shaw directly.”
Why did Emma have the feeling that Grace was doing more than reciting telegraph regulations? It was almost as if she were trying to warn her somehow.
Emma bit her lip as she watched Grace cross the street toward the station house. What was in that message?
22
Malachi carted a second bucket of fresh water down the barn aisle and poured its contents into the half-barrel tub in Hermes’s stall. Or was it Helios? He really needed to find out. Couldn’t go around calling a horse by the wrong name. It’d be disrespectful. One of the Shires had a white belly, the other’s underside was fully black. As soon as he figured out which belly went with which name, he’d be able to tell them apart. For now, he just had to keep guessing.
He gave old White Belly a pat on the shoulder, then sidled out of the way so the animal could drink. Mal had gotten the harness off of the pair and settled them in side-by-side stalls with a scoop of oats in each feedbox. Now, if he could just find some liniment and salve, he’d get them doctored and be free to catch up to the women. To Emma.
A pressure squeezed his chest. Mal rubbed at it absently as he made his way to the tack shelves. The ache was getting worse. Every time she touched him, it magnified, making it harder to recall the reasons he couldn’t reach for her. Hold her. Claim her as his own.
Heaven knew he wanted to. But he’d learned early in life that wanting rarely led to getting. And if sacrificing his dreams allowed Emma to fulfill hers, well, he’d find a way to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself. She’d accomplished so much with this place, with these women. Asking her to set her work aside in order to be with him would be a betrayal. He couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t ask her to choose. Even if, by some miracle, she returned his feelings.
Mal lifted a brown tin from the shelf and squinted at the label at the same time a shadow fell across the barn opening. He glanced to his right and spotted a woman silhouetted in the doorway.
“Emma?” His traitorous heart leapt, but he reined his voice into stoic submission. “I thought we agreed I’d meet you at the shooting lessons.” He purposely focused his attention on the bottles and tins on the shelf in front of him despite the fact that his mind didn’t process a thing he was seeing. “I’m going to need a little longer to tend the horses.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shaw. It’s Grace Mallory. From the telegraph office. You’ve received a wire.”
Malachi pivoted to face the woman who was not Emma. He quickly masked his disappointment with a friendly smile and took a step toward her.
“Forgive me for mistaking you, Miss Mallory.” He met her at the door. “I . . . uh . . .” Why was she giving him that odd look? So serious. Almost . . . resigned? “It was good of you to deliver the message with such diligence.”
She extended her hand. A folded slip of paper peeked out from beneath her thumb. “You mentioned that you wanted to be notified right away if a reply came in. Today, one did.”
He accepted the slip and tucked it into his shirt pocket, unwilling, for some reason, to read it in front of her, even though she would have to know the contents. He dug in his trouser pocket for a coin to tip her for her trouble, but she waved him off.
“I’ll be with the other ladies at the store, then behind the church for the lessons. If you should decide to send a message in return, come fetch me, and I’ll send the wire for you.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving him staring after her with an unaccountable dread building in his gut.
Once Grace was out of sight, Mal turned his back to the doorway and strode deeper into the barn, his hand itching to dig out the telegram that sat heavily in his pocket. Why he felt the need to read it in the gloom of the barn’s interior instead of under the full light of the sun streaming through the entrance, he had no idea. Yet that’s what he did.
When he reached the tack shelf, he dipped his thumb and forefinger into his pocket and extracted the slip of paper. His eyes scanned the words quickly, like a kid trying to get foul-tasting medicine down as fast as possible, but as his gut knotted, he went back and read the words again.
NEARING BIGHORN CANYON
NEED EXPERIENCED BLASTER
REPORT BY FRIDAY OR BE REPLACED
Report by Friday. Four days. Two required for travel.