Needles paused in midair and faces turned to peer out the window across from where Emma had been sitting.
“Was it one of those awful men?” Pauline asked. The youngest lady in the sewing circle turned back to Emma with wide eyes as she nibbled her lower lip.
Emma shook her head. “No. It was a boy. And his horse was a different color than the ones we’ve seen the outlaws ride.” She sidestepped around the quilt frame and crossed behind the sofa to the door. She claimed her rifle from the collection standing at attention against the wall—none of the ladies moved about without a weapon these days—then reached for the door handle as she glanced back into the room. “It’s probably someone who wandered into town by mistake.”
“Better take Malachi with you,” Henry fussed. “Just in case.”
“And if you can’t find him,” Bertie added, “Mr. Porter usually guards Main Street from the bench outside the store.”
Emma had to fight a peevish retort. It was just a boy. Not that she’d make the mistake of underestimating him with all that had gone on. But, really—whatever happened to Aunt Henry’s battle cry that a woman didn’t need a man in order to be strong? She never would have doubted Emma’s capabilities before. But, to be fair, the entire town had been on edge, dreading the next swing of the attackers’ ax. One that hadn’t come. Yet.
Emma tossed what she hoped was a confident smile at the aunts. “I’ll be careful.” Then she ducked out the door before the rising tide of her own worries dragged her under.
Clutching her rifle in her right hand so she could have it ready in a flash, she trotted down the road after the boy and horse. The pair traveled at an unhurried clip, so she caught up to them quickly.
The dun gelding—yep, a male, just as she’d suspected—snorted and tossed his head when she cut in front of him, but he didn’t buck or rear. A well-trained beast, even if he was ugly as a shriveled potato coated with mud. He had a chunk missing from one ear, a charcoal-gray mane that had been chopped off to a ridiculously short length, a big blotch of white on the left side of his rump, and a body that could either be gray with brown specks or brown with gray specks depending on how much color came from road dust. The horse held his head up like a king, though, and looked down on her with effrontery for interrupting his jaunt.
But it wasn’t the horse that concerned her. It was the rider.
Emma reached a hand up to stroke the gelding’s nose while at the same time swinging her rifle up to her shoulder to make sure the boy saw she was armed.
“Welcome to Harper’s Station, young man. What’s your business?” Emma smiled at the boy, but she examined him, too. Searched for weapons, for lumps beneath his shirt that might indicate something hidden. Did a mental tally of how much gear he carried. And frowned. A lot of gear. A small trunk tied behind the cantle. Bulging saddlebags. As if the kid was planning on moving in.
“Well?” She raised a brow at him.
He held her gaze. “My business is my own,” he said, his chest puffing up with bravado even as his fingers trembled ever so slightly around the reins he held.
The tremble softened her. The boy couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old, yet here he was, traveling alone and putting up a brave front when confronted by a bossy female with a rifle. She knew all too well what it felt like to stand up to someone stronger with only one’s wits and pride.
Lowering her gun, she came alongside him, still craning her neck to keep an eye on his face. “Don’t worry.” She warmed her tone to something almost friendly and patted the horse’s neck, inches away from the boy’s knee. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just that we’ve been having trouble around these parts lately, and we’re a little shy of strangers. However, that’s no excuse for poor hospitality. Why don’t you hop down, and I’ll help you find whoever you’re looking for.”
He snorted. “I ain’t gonna fall into that trap, lady. The minute I get off this horse, I lose my advantage. I’m not some fool kid who ain’t got a clue how the world works. Who says I’m lookin’ for somebody, anyway? I ain’t.” He sat up straighter in the saddle and sniffed loud and long. He raised his chin at a cocky angle as if thoroughly satisfied with his efforts to appear masculine. “I’m lookin’ for work,” he said, his gaze aimed somewhere to the left of her face. “I’m real good with horses. Got experience working at a forge, too. I’m a right handy feller to have around.”
Emma bit back a grin. “I’m sure you are. But I’m afraid we have no livery in Harper’s Station. Nor a smithy.”
His blue eyes widened with incredulity as they found her gaze. “No livery? What kind of town ain’t got a livery?”
“Harper’s Station is a women’s colony.”