“How could you? What have I ever done to make you think I could be capable of such treachery? That I would be in league with two . . . men.” She spat the word with such revulsion that Emma winced.
“You’ve done nothing, Helen. I swear. These attacks have me rattled—that’s all. They have me seeing disloyalty where there is none. Please, forgive me.” Emma sighed and glanced away, tears close to the surface as guilt churned in her belly. “I feel so helpless. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary. That’s what I promised.” She turned back toward Helen. “To you. To everyone. But I can’t keep you safe. You’re my responsibility, and I’m letting you down.”
Helen ceased her retreat, but she said nothing. Emma couldn’t blame her. She’d been so eager to find the betrayer, yet in her chase, she’d betrayed one of her own.
She inhaled a breath to apologize a final time when movement in the grass to the left of Helen’s feet caught her eye.
Helen must have seen the change in Emma’s face, for the other woman started backing away again.
“No. Stop!” Emma rushed forward even as Helen stepped backward onto the whipping tail of a snake easily five feet long.
The head came up with a loud hiss. Helen gasped and lurched sideways. Emma lunged forward. Directly into the path of the striking snake.
Fangs punctured her hand. The body wrapped around her arm and squeezed.
25
Malachi had already started for home when distant reverberations from the church bell floated out to greet his ears. The gentle sound hovered above him with all the dread-filled grace of circling buzzards. Instinct had him craning his neck to peer up at the sky just as the first vibrations faded. Then a second toll echoed, stronger than the first.
The bong slashed through Mal’s stupor. Something was wrong.
“Yah!” He kicked his horse’s sides and galloped for home.
He’d told Porter to ring the bell if anything happened while he was away. Mal had promised to race for Harper’s Station like a runaway locomotive if he heard the signal. Now, even a train engine seemed too slow.
If something had happened to Emma or the aunts . . .
Mal leaned farther over the gray’s neck, urging the mare to greater speed.
He never should have left. He’d abandoned the women for a fool’s errand, leaving them vulnerable. Had the outlaws snuck past him while he’d been searching for their camp? Mal hadn’t heard any gunfire, but men had other ways to hurt women, ways that didn’t require bullets.
Mal clenched his jaw and drove his mount into the Wichita River. As he splashed across the shallow expanse, one truth echoed in his mind.
He’d chosen wrong. He’d put Emma’s safety at risk in an effort to save his job. A lousy, dirty mess of a job that would never smile at him. Hug him. Love him. Shoot, more than likely the stinkin’ job would kill him. Blow him into a thousand tiny bits. Why had he even debated? Nothing was more important than the people he loved. Nothing.
The mare climbed the east bank with three lunging strides, then picked up speed again on the flatland that stretched between the river and the churchyard. Uncaring that thorns grabbed at his soggy pant legs, Mal wove through the scrub brush, his gaze searching for Porter.
The freighter must have been watching for his approach, for the big man ducked out of the entryway to the church and waved to Malachi from the steps. By the time he made it to ground level, Mal was off his horse and demanding answers.
“You need to hustle down to the clinic.” Porter moved to take the mare’s reins. “Miss Chandler’s been hurt.”
Searing pain tore through Mal’s chest. His mind screamed a silent denial even as his feet took off at a dead run.
Emma. Hurt. His fault.
Give it to me, he pled as he ran. Whatever she’s suffering. Give it to me. Angels don’t deserve pain.
She didn’t deserve any of this. Attackers. Traitors. Him running off and leaving her unprotected.
You call yourself a just God? How is any of this just?
He sprinted past the boardinghouse. Victoria’s store. The café. Turned the corner past the bank. Emma’s bank. The front window boarded up. Desolate.
Please let her be all right.
His bootheels pounded up the three steps leading into the clinic. He threw open the door and lunged inside only to be smothered by a flock of clucking hens.
“Let me through.” The sharp order guillotined the chatter. A half dozen faces turned as one to stare at him. Malachi didn’t have time to play nice. If they wouldn’t clear a path, he’d make one himself.
He twisted his shoulders sideways and started barreling through the overcrowded waiting room. Gasps and tiny, high-pitched grunts of displeasure echoed through the room. He bumped elbows, hips, even trod on one poor gal’s foot—for which he mumbled a quick sorry as he pressed on, until a pair of hands clasped his left arm.
“Calm down, boy. Stormin’ through here like a wild boar on a rampage ain’t gonna help things.”