Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  Jon's body tensed. Was someone sending her intimidating notes? He thought about the letter George Garner had asked hint to deliver and remembered how she'd quickly tucked it out of sight and pretended to act as if it meant nothing. But he'd sensed there was more involved than she let on.

  "Who do you know from Chicago?" Jon asked. "Maybe there's some connection between the person you know and the one who's been writing to Emma."

  He shrugged and turned his mouth under. "Doubt it. Don't matter anyhow." Ezra put his hands on the chair arms and with effort pushed himself upward then shuffled to a more comfortable chair, flopping clown once he reached it, his breathing labored.

  "What if it does natter, Ezra? Tell nie who you know from Chicago."

  When it appeared the old guy was about to fall asleep, Jon stood and strode across the room. "Ezra?" he asked, bending closer despite his stench. "Who do you know?" But a fresh coughing spell kept Ezra from answering. Helpless, Jon took a step back and waited for the coughing to subside, wincing at the sight of blood on Ezra's collar.

  When it finally did clear up, Ezra took a labored breath and laid his head against the back of the chair again. "Edith," he muttered.

  "Edith," Jon repeated. "Who's that?"

  But it was like talking to a corpse the way the fellow had settled in for his nap.

  On the ride to the Sterling farm, Jon pondered just who this Edith person might be. Could she be an old acquaintance from Ezra's past, a distant cousin, perhaps, someone who used to live in Little Hickman? Or was there somehow a link remaining with Lydia's family, someone vile enough to send Emma menacing notes? He recalled the time Ezra had divulged the story of his marriage to Lydia and her own parents' rejection afterward. It must have been a painful time for her.

  He reined in Jupiter at the base of a hill where the little Sterling farm sat nestled amongst tall pines and rambling oaks. As usual, Clarence and Mary Sterling waited for him on the front porch, arni in arni. Some nameless emotion tugged at his heart at the sight. What would it be like to grow old with someone? He tried to envision Emma in her seventies and knew without a doubt she'd be just as lovely then as now.

  Mary lifted a thin arm and waved at Jon. "Got some chicken sandwiches and a platter of fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies jus' waitin' to be et, Reverend," she called.

  Jon dismounted and cast his gaze upward. The sky was still gray and overcast. Not much had changed in the weather except for the eerily still air around hint. In the trees overhead, not a leaf moved. Even the birds had hushed their song. Jupiter pawed at the earth with a powerful front leg and snorted.

  "And the coffee's on, I presume," he returned, removing his Bible from his saddlebag.

  "Been percolatin' for awhile now," Clarence said.

  Jon grinned and watched his steps as he headed up the pebbled pathway.

  Emma hastened to remove clothespins from the line, toss them into her apron pocket, and drop clothes, some still partially damp, into the laundry basket at her feet. Black, looming clouds promised rain, and as the wind picked up, she found herself hurrying even faster to finish her task. Rather than expose the clothes to driving rain, she would drape them over her bedposts and the tub in her private bath to finish drying.

  Luke stepped out on the porch. "N-n-need help, Miss Eninia?" he hollered.

  "Could you carry in this basket?" she called back, thankful for his offer. "I have just a few more things to get off the line and then-I'll-be-finished-out here." A heavy blast of wind whistled around the house. Tree limbs bowed low, causing loose branches to break free and hurtle to the ground. She ducked her head to dodge the worst of the gale. Not a half hour ago, the air had been spookishly quiet, and now it howled and shrieked like a rabid banshee on the loose. Miss Tabitha meowed in protest and whizzed between Luke's legs, making a beeline for the house, the mangy, no-name mutt Luke had been feeding following in her wake.

  Luke lumbered down the steps and picked up the laundry basket, darting back as fast as his awkward body would allow. Emma scampered up the stairs behind him, closing the door just as a sheet of lightning sliced across the angry, black skies, and an explosion of thunder reverberated off the walls. A second later, the skies opened up. Emma leaned against the door as if the weight of her body against it would keep them safe.

  "Tarnation! What a storm." She breathed two full breaths before gathering her wits and pushing herself away from the door. "Those rascally varmints ran right past you, Luke. Where'd they go?"

  They searched the kitchen and washroom for the skinny, orange feline and droopy eyed, brown mongrel, bent to look under the butcher-block table, then moved to the broom closet.

  "They need to go back out," she insisted, looking around the doors, under the sink, and behind the stove, but with no luck.

  "They can't hurt n-nothin'," Luke protested. "They J 'Just ascared."

  "That may be, but we can't start lettin' them in every time we have a little storm." Little storm? This was hardly a typical summer squall, she mused, but she didn't show any mercy as the rain pummeled the windowsills. She could only imagine what it was doing to her precious flowerbeds and vegetables. "Those fleabags will start takin' us for granted." As if they didn't already. Every day, Luke saved a large portion of his meals for the critters, and now they'd come to expect it, standing on the back porch like two castaways, which, of course, they were.

  Like flaming arrows, lightning bolts ripped the sky and instant thunder rattled the windows and foundation. "Land sakes!" she exclaimed, running to the window, the animals put out of her mind for the time being.

  Luke cane up beside her to gaze at the rain, which was practically falling horizontally now. "How will ny p-p-papa get hone?"

  "Oh, goodness, you needn't worry about that." She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "This storn'll be over before you know it."

  But even as she said it, she felt her confidence waning, watching her poor corn and tomato plants bend nearly to the ground, her rose bushes drowning in the waterfall coming off the roof, and more twigs ripping loose from their branches and soaring to the earth like wildly thrown darts.

  "And what about M-Mr. Wonder and the p-preacher-and all the others?"

  "They're all fine," she said, fighting down the tiny twinge of worry that erupted in the back of her brain, knowing that Luke had a sixth sense about such things, somehow managing to figure out before anyone else when things weren't exactly right with the world. "Cone now, help me put down all the windows before this wind knocks the pictures off my walls."

  Behind them, the ragtag brown dog whined and plopped himself in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, his eyes darting nervously between Luke and Emma.

  She suspected the clog and Luke shared that extra sense.

  Blast! He knew he should have stayed at the Sterling's a few more minutes. He could have waited out the storm with them and enjoyed another oatmeal raisin cookie and just one more cup of Mary's coffee. But Bill and Flora Jarvis were expecting hint and so he'd tried to stay ahead of the storm. Instead, here he was, stranded in a dark cave just west of the fork at Sugar Creek and Little Hickman Creek Roads. Jupiter was hitched to a tree situated in a cluster back on the creek bank near the bridge. It wasn't the best of situations, but at least it was better than standing in the wide-open elements taking the brunt of the driving rains. There was a single tree right next to the cave, a big oak, but he didn't feel good about hitching Jupe to one tall tree that might be a target for lightning. Hunkered down in the approximately six-by-six-foot cleft in the side of a sloped piece of earth, Jon sat against a lumpy rock wall, stretched his legs out, and thanked God that at least he was dry and shielded from the worst of the storm.

  This part of Kentucky was home to dozens of caves much like the one in which Jon now found shelter. Wild animals called them home, children played in them, and the occasional outlaw had even been known to hole up in one until the coast was clear for moving on. Of course, many were much larger, big enough for walk
ing through, and oftentimes long and winding enough to confuse even the smartest footsloggers.

  Jon tried to pass the time by quoting Scripture, huniming his favorite hymns, and planning the week ahead. It seemed such a waste to be sitting in a cave twiddling his thumbs, but he'd learned early on the dangers of lightning, having heard the story at least a hundred times about his Great Grandpa Martin's near-death experience with a deadly lightning bolt. Funny how the story changed with every telling, going from "It struck him smack in the middle of his back, paralyzing him for the rest of his born days," to "Got him square between the eyes, blinding him for life," to "Affected his brain somethin' fierce. That nian never could get out a straight sentence after that." No matter how the story went, it had stuck with Jon as a lad, and to this day, he had a great deal of respect for electric storms.

  As if Mother Nature herself had read his thoughts, she issued a bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder so loud that it shook him to the soles of his boots then echoed off the rock walls. He snapped to attention. Maybe this wasn't the time for humming, he decided, or maybe he should hum louder for distraction's sake. He thought about old Jupiter and hoped he was faring okay under that clump of trees.

  The rain fell in torrents now, some blowing through the cave's mouth to form a narrow stream that ran down a slight incline and pooled around his boots. Leaning forward, he peered out the opening, glimpsed the tops of trees bending and twisting like angry giants, and tried to remember the last storm of this magnitude. A year ago, they'd had three solid clays of rain that resulted in a swelling creek that rose to river proportions and knocked out the ancient bridge, even closing clown the school for several clays. But the winds hadn't compared to this storm's ferocious gusts.

  Putting him in mind of the Independence Day's bountiful fireworks display, continuous streaks of lightning and powerful, pulsing thunder filled the skies, shaking the earth's foundation, making his heart pound and his chest constrict. "Lord Almighty," he whispered. Then he blew out little puffs of air from his clogged lungs when he realized he'd been holding his breath.

  He folded his hands in his lap, an attempt to relax, but just as quickly unfolded them and got up on his knees to peer out the entrance of the cave, the cramped space not allowing him to stand. Moments ago, his watch had indicated it was midafternoon, but if one had only the blackish skies to go by, he'd think it was time to turn in for the night. Realizing he'd knelt in a puddle, he settled himself back against the hard wall and closed his eyes, releasing a brief shudder as chill bumps rose on his arms.

  No point in trying to escape this dark hole until the rain slows, he told himself, which, by the look of things, could be awhile. He tried to think about next Sunday's sermon, his mind wandering to yesterday's instead, and then the well-attended picnic, and then to Emma. Despite his current circumstances, he felt a smile break through. She'd actually had some kind words to say about his message, a miracle in itself.

  Just then, an ear-splitting peal of thunder resounded overhead, jerking hini out of his thoughts, as lightning struck the tree closest to the cave, its ininiense trunk rupturing and plowing into the earth with such vehemence he thought he might be witnessing the end of time itself. The ground quaked as dirt and rock came loose from the cave's wall, pinging off his arms, legs, and face.

  Death by suffocation didn't appeal to him, so with little forethought he jumped to his feet, thinking to get out before the place completely collapsed, but in suddenly standing, he smacked his head hard on a razor-sharp, jagged edge of rock hanging from the low ceiling. Searing pain surged from the fresh gash, first stunning him, then hurtling him backward until he stumbled in a heap against a cold, hard wall. Something warm and wet made a fast trail down his forehead. Rain? No, for when the wetness seeped into the corner of his mouth, he tasted blood, and lots of it. As quickly as possible, he searched his pockets for a handkerchief, but finding none, ripped off a big section of his shirt and pressed it against the wound, wincing with discomfort.

  Disoriented, he put his shoulders to the wall and, breathing deeply, blinked once, twice, three times, as he sought to gather his wits and stop the bleeding, noting in that instant how dark his surroundings had grown.

  Another burst of thunder erupted, but the flash of lightning that went with it seemed less luminous. In fact, only a glimpse shone through a tiny crack straight ahead of him. What in the world? In haste, he crawled across the space to investigate, and that's when he made his discovery.

  The monstrous tree so brutally struck mere seconds ago had fallen like a dead giant and firmly planted its trunk directly in front of the cave's entrance, making it quite impossible to escape.

  It was then he realized with chagrin that unless someone missed him and came looking for him, he was sitting in his own grave.

  momma tossed and turned in her bed, staring at the blank ceiling one minute and the wall the next, then gazing out the window where the rain still fell in sheets; the thunder, although now distant, still roared and rumbled like a fiercely disgruntled lion. It was deathly hot in her room, but opening the window much more than a crack would let in the rain, and she wasn't sure which was worse, lying in a pool of sweat or allowing the rain to pool on her floor.

  Luke had asked at least a dozen tines after supper what had happened to the preacher. "No idea, boy," his father had replied. "He's probably holed up soniewheres, waitin' out the storm. Don't worry about it."

  But a minute later, he'd turned his question on Enmia. "Y-you think lie's okay?"

  "Of course," had been her pat reply, not wanting to think about it.

  "W-where you think he is?" he'd asked Mr. Wonder.

  The man had laid down his newspaper and shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea, son, but I'm sure he's fine. Probably someone from the parish has him tucked safe away. He's a friendly sort, that man." Clearing his throat, he'd added, "Surprised some woman hasn't snagged him up by now." With that, his eyes had traveled straight to Emma, as if to gauge her reaction. She'd promptly dropped her chin and returned to her mending, still irritated with herself for offering the little guest room off the parlor to Billy for the night. Was he now going to assume it was his for the taking? Well, no point in worrying over that till the sun returned.

  After Mr. Newman had ushered Luke to their room, the others had breathed a sigh. "That boy's worried plenty about the preacher," Charley said.

  "You think he's okay?" Wes asked.

  The room went silent. The no-name clog lifted his head from his napping spot and looked from one to the other. Sometime during the course of the evening everyone had cone to accept the dog's presence, and so there he was, lying in the center of the room on the braided rug, acting as if he owned the place and everyone in it. As for Miss Tabitha, she hadn't shown her face to anyone.

  "I'll be jig-swiggered if I know!" Gid answered. "Mr. Wonder's prob'ly right. Someone front the church talked 'im into stayin' in their guest quarters."

  Wes pushed up from his chair and stretched. "You're probably right, but if he ain't back by mornin', we should probably investigate."

  The lot of them nodded their heads then retreated to their rooms one by one, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts.

  Now, hours later, she still couldn't sleep, the battering rain keeping her from it.

  Jonathan Atkins, where in tarnation are you and what are you doin' to me?

  "Lord, keep 'im safe wherever he is. Please."

  It was the first time she'd prayed as an adult and, holy hog's tooth, if she didn't feel a sort of peace cone over her, after which she fell into a semi-restful sleep.

  It was his own moaning that woke hint hours later, utter blackness preventing him from seeing his hand in front of his face. In fact, for a second he feared his head wound had left him blind; then he remembered the huge tree that blocked his light source. Far-off thunder indicated the storm persisted, just not as close. Throat parched, he tried to swallow but found it hard to work up the saliva.

 
; His entire body ached, his back from the fall he'd taken, his shoulders from lying on the hard floor, his hip, which had taken the brunt of his backward fall, and the gash on his head, from which he still felt blood oozing. Now he had dizziness to add to the mix, forcing hint to lie still lest he lose what little remained in his gut.

  "Lord God, I'm coming to You as Your child," he whispered into the dark, his voice blending with the pelting rains. "As You know, there is a hulking tree blocking this cave's passage, and it is beyond me how I'm ever going to escape. So I'm asking You, Father, to intervene, to send someone to get me out of here. Also, if Jupiter is suffering in any way, would you please help hint with his circumstance or put him out of his misery?"

  As if he needed reminding that he hadn't eaten a thing since Mary Sterling's oatmeal raisin cookies earlier that day, his stomach growled. He'd heard once that when a man starved to death, his hunger pangs eventually subsided. Therefore, the fact he was hungry was a good thing, he supposed.

  He hoped to remain hungry until someone found him.

  Emma banged around in the kitchen, her mood less than chipper. Rain still drizzled from a murky sky, with only a hint of a sunrise in the east.

  Jonathan had not come home last night. She knew it was silly to fret. After all, she'd never worried one jot about him before he'd moved under her roof, had barely let him cross her mind-and hadn't he fared just fine without her? Now here she was stewing over his safety!

  She flipped an egg, intending to keep the yoke intact, but accidentally breaking it, broke the lot of then and quickly added milk and salt and pepper, scrambling the whole mess together. She mopped her sweaty brow with the corner of her apron and continued fuming. No wonder she'd dragged her feet in giving Jon Atkins room and board. Something had told her early on that giving him a room could jeopardize her heart, and she'd been right. Not that she'd ever let on to anyone, him least of all, but there it was just the same-out in the open-no natter how she looked at it. Oh, what a fix!