How he wished she truly was his. How he would cherish her. Guard her. Support her in all her world-saving endeavors during the day and hold her in his arms every night.
But such dreams were just that—dreams. In truth he had no claim to her beyond friendship. She was a woman of high ideals with a mission that required her full attention. He was a recently unemployed explosives expert who was better at destroying things than building them. The son of the town drunk who, despite his belated education and trade skills gained later in life, never fully escaped the stain of his past. She deserved better.
Although, the thought of anyone else claiming her set off a murderous impulse of such ferocity inside him that, before he knew it, his fingers were clenched into fists. Forcing himself to breathe, he relaxed his hands and slowly straightened away from her sleeping form.
“I love you, Em,” he whispered. And I vow to do whatever it takes to ensure your safety and happiness. Even if it means giving up my own.
Backing away, Mal returned to the kitchen and his silent vigil—a vigil he kept until it was time for his predawn shift in the steeple. The change in location didn’t alter his focus, though. Instead of watching for outlaws approaching from the river, he kept his gaze trained on the station house until the sky began to lighten in anticipation of the sun. No visitors paid a call.
Emma awoke to early morning sunlight teasing her eyelids as dawn broke. Disoriented at first, she stretched her cramped legs only to nearly topple herself from the parlor settee.
The parlor. The traitor. Had no one come?
Disappointment surged as she sat up and blinked away the sleep from her eyes. Her messy topknot flopped halfway down the side of her head and one of Bertie’s afghans fell from her shoulder.
How had that gotten there? She didn’t recall . . . Or did she? There was something hazy and dreamlike tickling her memory. A warm presence. A gentle touch. Whispered words she couldn’t quite make out. One of the aunts? Emma crinkled her brow in concentration as she tried to bring the memory into sharper focus. It didn’t feel like one of the aunts. It felt different. Stronger somehow. Larger.
She glanced toward the kitchen doorway. A chair sat in front of the table. A chair facing the parlor entrance. As if someone had been watching her. Guarding her.
Malachi.
Warmth flowed through her. Comforting. Cherishing. She fingered the soft yarn of the afghan and pictured Mal bending down to arrange it over her. Did he feel the same heat in his veins that she did whenever the two of them drew close? Or was his affection merely brotherly? No. Not brotherly. It had to be more than that. A brother wouldn’t look at her the way Mal had in the café the day he’d taught her how to hold a rifle. Or hold her with such bone-melting tenderness.
He felt something for her. He might not be able to admit it yet, but it was there. And as soon as this mess with the bandits was cleared up, she intended to confront him about it.
She was a Chandler female, after all. And Chandler women could do anything men could do, including propose marriage, if it came to that. Emma jumped to her feet like a soldier coming to attention, her back straight, arms stiff at her sides. Of course, she might have to convince him that he loved her first, but surely when she told him how much she cared for him, he’d see the truth.
Or run away again.
Emma frowned. Her posture sagged. Mal did have a bad habit of running when he thought leaving was in her best interest. Well . . . she’d just have to take that option off the table somehow. Prove to him that he was in her best interest.
She took a step toward the kitchen, thinking to march out to the barn and find him, but as soon as she started, her topknot completely unraveled and plopped against her shoulder before her hair spilled down her back in tangled disarray. Heavens. She couldn’t go out there in this condition. She’d scare him off for sure. Hair of a wild woman. Rumpled clothes. Not to mention the likelihood of foul-smelling breath. Ugh. She’d have to freshen up first.
Tugging dangling hairpins free as she went, she dashed up the stairs, careful to keep her tread light so as not to wake the aunts. Henry was usually up with the sun, but she’d taken a shift on watch last night and would probably sleep another hour. Bertie rarely rose before seven.