A note was tacked to the interior wall, a crude sketch of a woman lying on her back sat at the bottom of the page, Xs where the eyes should be. A message was scrawled above the drawing. You’re first, banker lady.
Mal tore it from the wall and wadded it into his fist before shoving it inside the vest pocket he usually reserved for stashing food. No way would he be showing this to Emma. As soon as he found a moment alone, he’d burn the vile thing.
The outlaw was growing bolder. Striking even closer to home. Time for Mal to switch tactics. He’d had enough of being a step behind, of only being able to react after an attack. Time to go on the offensive. First thing tomorrow morning, Mal was going hunting.
24
Mal watched the sky grow pink from his post in the church steeple, determination building in him with every degree that the sky lightened. For the past two hours, he’d prayed for a sign, for some kind of confirmation that going after the outlaws was the right thing to do. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask. God had given Moses a pillar of cloud. Gideon a soggy fleece. Joseph a dream. What had he given Mal? Nothing but a crick in his neck. So far.
“I know the Good Book says you’re not slow in keeping your promises,” Mal grumbled as he rolled his shoulders to get out the worst of the kinks, “but I’m feeling rather pinched for time. I need some of that wisdom you promised, and I need it soon.” Before I botch something up.
Once the rising sun cleared the horizon, Mal climbed down the narrow, winding steeple staircase and exited the church. With no divine answers shedding light on his path, he had no choice but to make his own way as best he could. And that way entailed going after the men threatening Emma.
He had one day.
If he failed? Mal swallowed, his throat growing tight. If he failed, he’d have no choice but to forfeit one of the two things he loved most.
“Emma! Pay attention, girl. You’re scaldin’ the gravy.”
Emma started. Her gaze jerked from the window to the bubbling beef stock in the pan she was supposed to be stirring. “Sorry, Aunt Henry.” She immediately pulled the saucepan to a cooler part of the cookstove and worked her whisk through the thickened gravy, frowning as dark flecks worked their way to the surface. She glanced over her shoulder to where Henry was mashing the potatoes, thankfully with her back turned. Emma grabbed a spoon and tried to fish out as many of the charred flecks as she could. Maybe she’d get lucky and no one would notice. She certainly wouldn’t be able to taste anything tonight—not when Malachi hadn’t returned.
She sighed, her attention once again floating to the window. He’d been gone all day. All. Day. Chasing outlaws. Dangerous outlaws with guns and cleverly designed hiding places. Now dusk was falling, and there was still no sign of him.
He’d sworn to her that he’d take every precaution when he announced his intention to go “hunting,” as he called it, yet something had been off. She didn’t understand the odd desperation radiating from him. But he’d been acting strangely ever since that episode with the outlaw in the house yesterday. There was something he wasn’t telling her.
She had to admit she’d found it difficult to sleep last night, knowing that horrible man had been inside her home. Malachi had assured her that the outlaw hadn’t gone upstairs into the bedchambers, and she’d seen the truth of that when she helped Bertie sweep away the dried mud that had fallen off the man’s boots. None of it had been found on the upstairs carpets. And while she found a small dose of comfort in knowing he hadn’t violated her most personal space, his odd visit left too many questions swirling in her brain to allow her to rest.
Why the station house? What had been his intent? Another scare tactic that he hadn’t had time to carry out before Mr. Porter interrupted him? Or had there been another plan altogether?
She thought of what Malachi had speculated about the man using one of the upstairs windows as a vantage point to take out the women one by one. But if that had been his intent, why had they found traces of him in the basement instead of the bedchambers?
Emma dropped her spoon back into the gravy and rubbed the spot that throbbed right above her left eyebrow. She was missing something. . . .
A motion outside snagged Emma’s attention. She abandoned the gravy and moved closer to the kitchen window. There. A woman. Walking alone. Behind the church. Heading toward the river.
Pulse racing, Emma spun for the door. “Mind the gravy for me, Aunt Henry.”
“Where are you . . . ?”
Emma sprinted out the door, leaving Henry’s chopped-off question dangling in the air behind her. She couldn’t think about dinner, her aunt, not even Malachi. Her mind was locked on one target. The traitor.
Hitching her skirts past her calves, Emma ran down the back steps, past the barn, and across the field that separated the station house from the church. She recognized the navy blue dress and severely styled dark hair of the woman venturing into the brush west of the church.