Emma’s shoes pounded against the boardwalk. Lewis didn’t dash through the main store entrance as she expected but sprinted around the far corner. Snatching a handful of skirt to keep from tripping on the stairs to the street, Emma followed without question. She had to reach Malachi. Wherever he was.
Wagon ruts in the dirt created an alleyway of sorts and then turned right, around the building. Lewis disappeared into the back storeroom. Emma increased her pace to catch up but twisted her ankle as her heel caught on the uneven ground. Wincing at the twinge, she recovered and continued on, keeping her gaze glued to the ground so as not to repeat her folly.
Had Mal been helping Tori with her merchandise? Had the shipment of guns arrived while Emma had been dozing at her desk? But no. The freight wagon would be here. And even as tired as she’d been, surely she would have heard . . .
Her imagination raced faster than her feet as she rounded the corner. Had he been cut? Had a pile of heavy boxes smashed his skull? Would he die?
She gained the doorway and rushed inside. Then stumbled to a halt. For there stood Malachi. Tall. Strong. Unharmed.
Or was he? Blood and dirt smeared the tan fabric of his shirt. Yet he was talking, giving orders.
“Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll fetch them.” He took a step toward the door, then growled and lurched back the way he’d come. “I swear if you get out of that chair one more time I’m going to shoot you myself.”
Emma’s exhausted brain struggled to make sense of the scene. Hard to do when her gaze refused to leave Malachi to see whom he might be speaking to.
“I’ll keep him here, Mr. Shaw.” Tori’s voice. “You can go.”
Malachi nodded and turned toward the door. He came up short when he saw her. His eyes warmed for a minute, then cooled to businesslike efficiency. “Good. You’re here. It’ll likely take two of you to keep the fool from going after his pets.” Mal pivoted sideways to squeeze past her and out the door.
She had no idea what pets he was talking about. This whole episode left her feeling a bit like Alice, fallen down a rabbit hole into some kind of nonsensical world. All she knew was that she couldn’t let her rabbit scamper off without answering one vital question.
“Wait!” she called, stirring from her stupor enough to dash after Malachi and lunge for his arm. Her fingers closed over his sleeve, and he stopped.
He tossed an impatient glance over his shoulder. “What, Em? I need to go before that stubborn cuss changes his mind.”
She examined him from head to toe, not caring that a gentlewoman wouldn’t ogle a man in such a way. The fear still spearing through her was far from gentle. She had to know for certain. “You’re not hurt?”
His forehead wrinkled. “No.”
“Lewis said to come quick. That he was hurt. A man was hurt. I thought . . .” She cleared her throat and released her hold on his arm, realizing at last how silly she must look. Like some kind of dull-witted female who couldn’t understand the most basic facts of biology.
Malachi’s eyes softened. “You thought he meant me.”
She nodded and glanced away. “But of course you’re fine. And in a hurry.” She smiled brightly—too brightly, she was sure, thanks to the embarrassment thrumming through her veins—and stepped back. “Go on with your errand. I’ll help Tori.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but Emma didn’t give him the chance. She spun around and hurried back into the storeroom.
Now that her brain was cleared of its panic fog, she recognized Benjamin Porter right away. Or what was left of him. The poor man was a bloodied mess. His shirt was torn in several places, his left knee—scraped raw—was visible through a hole in his trousers. He sat—well, squirmed was more like it—in one of Tori’s kitchen chairs, unwilling to still enough for Tori to clean away the dirt and blood from his face.
Thankfully, Lewis was nowhere to be seen. Tori must have sent him into their living quarters, away from the grisly scene.
“I’ve got to get Helios and Hermes.” Mr. Porter tried to rise, but Tori quickly set aside the basin of water she held and fit her palms to the large man’s shoulders. “They’re stuck in the traces.” He batted at her hands. “Might injure themselves.”
“You’re staying right here.” Tori’s firm tone left no room for discussion. “Mr. Shaw will tend to your precious horses.”
When Mr. Porter continued to struggle, Emma joined the fray, helping Tori press him back into his seat.
Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Bandits!” He wagged his head back and forth as if witnessing their approach on either side of him. “Can’t let them get the shipment. Victoria needs it. She’s counting on me.”
Victoria? Since when had Tori and the freighter moved their relationship to a first-name basis? Or had they? To be fair, the man was spouting off about invisible bandits. Not exactly his most lucid moment.
Emma met Tori’s concerned gaze over the man’s head. “He’s talking like he doesn’t know where he is.”
“I’m not sure he does. Mr. Shaw thinks he hit his head in the crash. There’s a huge knot on this side.”
“Helios! Hermes!” Mr. Porter cried out as if in pain, his gaze seeing something beyond Emma’s shoulder, something only visible in his own mind.
“He keeps rambling on about his horses, fool man,” Tori muttered, reaching again for the cloth floating in the basin sitting atop a nearby crate. “More worried about them than himself.” She leaned her mouth close to the big man’s ear. “Mr. Shaw went to fetch those great beasts of yours. He’ll take care of them.”
The freighter’s hand lashed out without warning and latched onto Tori’s arm. The cloth she’d just retrieved dripped water on his trousers, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. His wild eyes searched her face. “Don’t let him put them down. Even if a leg is broke. I might be able to mend it. Promise.” He roared it the second time. “Promise!”
“I’ll tell him as soon as I see him,” Tori hurried to assure him, though Emma noticed she was careful not to promise something she couldn’t guarantee. “He’ll take good care of them. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Emma had never before prayed for the health of horses, but she did so now. Heaven knew this man had been through enough already, he didn’t need to lose what seemed to be his closest friends, as well.
Mr. Porter released Tori’s arm and settled, mollified at least for the moment. A red mark marred the skin below the cuff of her sleeve, but Tori ignored it and went back to cleaning his face.
Now that the big man had calmed, Emma couldn’t help prodding her friend just a bit. “He called you Victoria,” Emma whispered, curious to see her friend’s reaction. Tori had always insisted on the strictest formality when dealing with men. It was one of the ways she held them at arm’s length.
“The poor man’s out of his head,” Tori said, her cheeks admirably unflushed. “I never gave him leave to address me as such.”
Emma smiled. “But he obviously thinks of you in such terms and cares about your opinion of him, if that outburst was any indication. The man’s sweet on you.”
There was the blush. Finally!
Tori gave her a sharp glare, though, so it could have been anger that spawned the pink in her cheeks. “You have better things to do than play matchmaker, Emma. You know my feelings on the matter.”
She did. Tori had no intention of marrying. Or even being around men more than was necessary. And Emma understood why. A brutal betrayal like the one she’d endured would scare any woman off of marriage. Yet not all men were scoundrels. Mr. Porter had been serving as their freighter for nigh on a year, and he’d proven himself honorable and dependable and had never treated any of the ladies of Harper’s Station with anything but respect and kindness. What if Tori was throwing away a chance at love simply out of fear?
And what if you’re throwing away the same chance out of duty?
The thought snuck up on Emma, and insinuated itself in her brain, conjuring up memories of her and Malachi in the café. Of the way her pulse thrummed every time she saw him. Of the secret fear that watching him leave again would tear her heart to pieces.
Mr. Porter jerked against her hold right then and brought her attention back to the matter at hand. Tori held the cloth to the man’s head, where blood matted his hair. He hissed in a breath and pulled away from her touch.
Emma pressed him back into the chair. “Easy, Mr. Porter. You’ve been injured. You need to let Miss Adams tend your wound.”
“Miss Adams?” He twisted his head toward Emma. “Where?”
“I’m here, Mr. Porter.” Tori’s voice seemed to soothe the giant of a man.
His gaze immediately sought hers. “Don’t worry, miss. They’re safe. In the wagon.” He winced as Tori set the cloth to his head again. She couldn’t seem to withstand his earnest gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “I got a . . . a false bottom. Always carry valuables there. Just in case. There’s unscrupulous characters out there, you know.”
Tori smiled slightly. “I know.” She continued cleaning the blood from his hair. “I’m thankful you had the foresight to hide the weapons.”
“Didn’t want to let you down. Sold most of your goods, too. The ones Fischer refused. Got your money in my pock—” His words died off on another hiss when he lifted his hips and tried to bend his arm to reach into his trouser pocket.
“Just leave it.” Tori laid a gentle hand on the small section of his sleeve that had no blood smeared upon it. “It’ll keep.” She glanced across him to Emma, her eyes bewildered, as if she couldn’t imagine why this man had gone out of his way to do her such a significant kindness. “I never asked you to—”
“Wanted to,” he interrupted, his eyes sliding closed, his voice slurring slightly. “You and the others need the funds. Deserve them for your labor.” His eyes opened again, and for a second Emma swore she saw a twinkle of pride in them before the haze of pain covered it up. “Got a better price for ’em, too. Delivered to folks on the outskirts of town. Seems . . . people like the convenience . . . of fresh eggs delivered . . . to their door.” His eyes closed again. “Might set up . . . a reg’lar route. I’d be willin’ . . . to run it . . .” His words died off, and he slumped in the chair.
“Mr. Porter?” Tori tossed the rag aside and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Porter!”
A shuffling sounded behind them. “Step aside, gals, and let an old lady through.” Maybelle marched into the fray, Claire close on her heels.
Emma backed away at once, relieved to have an expert in their midst. Heaven knew she wasn’t adding anything of value to the proceedings, beyond keeping the giant of a man in the chair.
“Claire, fetch the smelling salts.” Maybelle thrust her medical bag at the younger woman. “Let me guess. Head wound?”
Tori nodded, not taking her hand from the freighter’s shoulder. “He has a gash on this side above his ear. It’s swelling something awful. Even the lightest touch had him hissing in pain when I tried to clean it.”
Claire handed Maybelle a tiny vial. The midwife uncapped it and waved it under the man’s nose. He yanked his face away from the stringent odor, and his eyes opened wide.
“What . . . ?”
“Mr. Porter.” Maybelle grabbed the big man’s chin as if he were a ten-year-old boy and forced him to look at her. “Listen to me. You’ve taken a hard knock on the head and already passed out once. I need you to stay awake. Fight against the sleep for me. Understand?”
“All . . . right,” he croaked.
“Good.” Maybelle released his chin, then scooted around to the right side of his chair to examine the wound Tori had mentioned. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot, but the gash is not too wide. Should only need eight to ten stitches. Swelling is significant.” She pressed gently against the area around the wound, drawing a groan from her patient, but she continued probing without apology. “It’ll give you a nasty headache, and you might not want to wear a hat for a few days, but having the swelling on the outside is better than the inside. We’ll need to clean it real good, though, to stave off infection. Won’t be too comfortable for a while, but a man your size should be able to handle a little discomfort without falling apart.”
Mr. Porter straightened in his chair. He clasped the wooden arms and gave her a nod. “I’m ready when you are, ma’am.” He sounded more like himself now. More lucid and in control.
Maybelle patted his arm. “No need to brace too hard yet. I’ll need a minute to gather my things. You got any other wounds I need to know about? Shooting pains? Difficulty breathing? Deep cuts?”
He shook his head slightly, then winced at the movement. “Don’t think so. Managed to walk here after the crash. Just sore.”
“Good.” Maybelle turned and caught Emma’s eye. “Keep him talking,” she whispered. “It’ll distract him from what I have to do.”
Emma bit her lip and took a moment to collect her thoughts before stepping closer to the chair again. “Mr. Porter.” Careful to keep herself on the opposite side, out of Maybelle’s path, Emma waited until his gaze met hers. “Were you attacked?” At his nod she asked, “Can you describe the men who attacked you?”
“There were two. One rode a big chestnut gelding, black socks and mane. The other rider was slighter of build and rode a sorrel. Weaker mount. Couldn’t keep up with the chestnut.”
“Figures he’d remember the horses better than the people,” Tori grumped even as she stroked the hair off his forehead.
“Men wore masks,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as Maybelle pressed a wet cloth directly atop his wound.
Emma hurried to ask another question. “Did they speak to you?”
“Said they wanted the guns. Seemed to be expecting them.”
Emma hid her dismay. More evidence of a traitor in their midst. One who was still communicating with their attackers despite the start of the night watch.
Mr. Porter stiffened, his muscles flexing as he fought not to pull away from the women tending him. “Told them the shipment had been delayed,” he ground out. “That I was only carrying foodstuffs. They didn’t believe me. Forced me off the road at the top of Harper’s Hill. Unhitched my team, then sent them racing off, the traces dragging the ground behind them.” His face darkened as anger instead of pain etched his brow. “Didn’t care that the lines could trip them up, could send them tumbling down the hill in their fright. Barbarians.”
“What did the men do next?” Emma asked, eager to turn his attention away from his horses. It wouldn’t do any of them any good if he got it in his mind to go after them. She’d never known him to use his strength against a woman, but all one had to do was look at his size to recognize that he could overpower all four of them with barely a flick of his wrist if he chose.
Thankfully, he took her cue and forced his grip on the chair to relax. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and his jaw worked back and forth. “Took a knife to the flour sacks,” he recounted, his voice steadier, more controlled, “and smashed the crates carrying the hams and bacon slabs. Might be able to salvage some of what’s left once I retrieve my wagon. If I can retrieve it. Devils dismantled the brake, pistol-whipped me, and tossed me in the back before pushing the thing down the hill. I was too disoriented to realize what was happening until the wagon careened off the road. All I could do was grab the sides and brace myself. Crashed in an arroyo. Better than a tree, I suppose, though the impact felt about the same.
“Wagon’s busted up, but it’s still more or less in one piece. Shielded me from the worst of the collision.” He paused. “Except for the crate that bashed my skull in the same spot the chestnut’s rider had dented me with his pistol butt a few minutes before. Not sure how long I lay in the wreckage before I roused enough to pull myself up and climb out. Bandits were long gone by then.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Emma touched his hand. “The men who attacked you are obviously the same ones who have been threatening us. I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“Not your fault.” Mr. Porter’s eyes slid closed and tension visibly radiated through his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
Emma shot a worried glance at Maybelle, only to discover a needle in her hand and a long thread being pulled through the freighter’s skin. Stomach roiling at the sight, Emma quickly shifted her gaze back to Mr. Porter’s face. She curled her fingers around his large palm, offering whatever comfort she could.
After a moment, his eyes opened again. “With no wagon, I won’t be able to make my runs for a while.” He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as Maybelle started another stitch. Once the needle was through, he continued. “Thought I might hang out here until I can find a replacement. Lend a hand.”
Emma caught Tori vigorously shaking her head out of the corner of her eye.
“Need I remind you this is a women’s colony, Mr. Porter?” Emma shot Tori a speaking glance. She’d be loyal to her friend and respect her wishes to a point, but she also had to consider the needs of the rest of the women in town. Having a second man around could make a world of difference.
When Emma returned her attention to the freighter, he was ready for her. His eyes burned with determination.
“A women’s colony . . . plus Shaw. I’ll bunk with him.”
“I’ll have to put it to a vote,” Emma hedged.
Porter started to nod, then stopped when Maybelle fitted the needle to him again. “Take your vote, Miss Chandler, but know this—those men invited me to the fight when they crashed my wagon and endangered my horses. I’m involved now, whether you allow me to stay in town or not. I’ll camp down by the river, if need be, but I’m not leaving.”