Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  "Smells good," said Wes Clayton, passing by the kitchen door. He and Charley Connors were the only boarders living on the main floor, across the hall from the kitchen, a tiny washroom separating their small rooms. Quiet, sensitive, even considerate to those who knew him, Wes sometimes came across to those who didn't as cold, eccentric, and hard. For the most part, she related well to him, probably because she believed most viewed her in the same way they did Mr. Clayton, unapproachable if not impenetrable. In some ways, they shared a kinship. She suspected one reason Wes had never married was the barrier he put up keeping most everybody out except for those he sincerely trusted. She'd often wondered what it was that held him at arm's length, but then, everyone carried secrets, didn't they? She of all people understood secrets.

  Was that how the preacher saw her, then? Cold, hard, distant? She gave her head a shake and went back to her eggs.

  "Did he cone hone in the night?" Wes asked, still tucking in his work shirt. She scowled. Did he have no scruples, tucking in his shirt in her company?

  "What? Who?" she asked, playing dumb.

  Wes cane up beside her, still adjusting himself. He smelled of sawdust, having worn the sane pair of coveralls to the sawmill for at least two solid weeks now without washing them. "Don't think you're foolin' me, little lady. I know you were lis- tenin' for the preacher's return." She felt her cheeks go red, and it wasn't from her cookstove. He chuckled to himself then ambled to the window. "I 'spect he's fine, but we'll go lookin' jus' the same. I'll run over to the sheriff's office, see if he's heard anythin'." There was a pause while he took a deep, audible breath. "Appears to be lettin' up out there. Maybe the sun'll pop out later."

  She kept her eyes glued to the eggs. "What about the sawmill? Ain't you goin' to work today?" Try as she might to avoid it, her language sometimes slipped when conversing with her boarders, except for the cursing aspect. That she wouldn't stoop to-unless one counted the silent, in-the-head-only kind.

  "Naw. I'll stop by and tell Grady 'bout the situation. 'Spect others'll want to help look-unless the feller gets back here before we form a search party."

  A vexing notion kept pulling at the corners of her mind. What if something was terribly wrong? Jon didn't strike her as the type who would hole up at someone else's place for the night, regardless of the weather, hence creating undue worry in the town. He was kind and generous, always putting the concern of others ahead of his own.

  It was the Christmas season. Someone had dropped a huge box of secondhand clothes off at the school, woolen caps, coats, freshly darned socks, knitted mittens, sweaters, scarves, and whatnot. The students gathered around the big wooden crate with eye-popping excitement, snatching up items from the box and holding them up for size, some greedier than others, pushing and shoving to paw through the collection.

  "Now, now, let us be courteous to one another," Mr. Thurston instructed, trying to regain control of the riotous bunch. Big boys pushed the smaller ones aside in their haste to find something suitable.

  Emma lagged back, not wanting to appear overanxious, even though she longed to get her hands on the velvety, soft-blue scarf lying at the top of the heap. Beside her, Jon Atkins also lagged. He was always like that, never pushy or audacious, unless it was to tease or pull at some girl's pigtail. He did so love to pester the girls, and they loved it right back. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

  "Get on up there, Emma," he whispered. "I see somethin' in that box that'd look mighty pretty around your neck. Bet it'd look nice next to your blue eyes."

  She felt the blush of her cheeks and hoped he wouldn't notice, but still she didn't shove through the crowd. In one fell swoop, he sought an opening and reached his arm through it, snatching up the velvet scarf and handing it to her like it was some precious offering.

  Amazed that he'd managed the maneuver, she barely eked out a thank you. Holding the soft cloth to her cheek, she said, "You best get yourself somethin' 'fore it all gets took."

  "Naw, I don't need anythin'," he replied, his smile lingering on her. "I get a bigger thrill from watchin' everybody else."

  "Loosen up, Miss Eninia," Wes said, snatching her out of her childhood renienibrance. "Feller's probably on his way hone as we speak."

  But as Wes walked into the dining room to take his usual seat at the table, she sensed a worried tone in his voice.

  By late-morning, Will Murdock and an assemblage of men, Wes Clayton and Elliott and Luke Newnan among the dozen or so, headed out of town in search of the preacher, who was now considered officially missing. Will had ridden out to several hones earlier and managed to track down where he'd last been seen-Clarence and Mary Sterling's place. As far as they knew, he had been going to Bill and Flora Jarvis's next, but Will said he'd never made it to the Jarvis farm.

  According to the Sterlings, Jon had paid a call on Ezra Browning before arriving at their place, so Will went to see Ezra on the chance that Jon had backtracked, but Ezra said he hadn't seen the preacher kid, as he referred to hini, but once, and that was yesterday morning. Of course, Will said it was hard to follow the man's speech since his persistent cough interrupted every other word. Emma flinched at the remark. She'd noticed the cough herself and wondered what was causing it. She made up her mind that while the men were gone today, she would go talk to Doc.

  But Doc wasn't in his office when she arrived there shortly after 2 p.m., umbrella shielding her from the constant drizzle. What she did find was a note tacked to his door indicating he was out making calls and wouldn't return till early evening. She toyed with the idea of renting another horse and riding out to her father's place. But what excuse would she give for paying hint another call? It wasn't as if she'd made a habit of checking on him. Heaven knew it made little difference to him if she showed up on his doorstep, and the only time he'd ever called on her was when he'd been too drunk to find his own way hone. She tossed the notion aside and set off across the street to the post office.

  George Garner greeted her with his usual friendly smile. At the door, she shook the rain off her umbrella as best she could before entering. "Afternoon," she said, returning the smile.

  "You got another of then notes from Chicago," he announced right off. "It's in your nail slot."

  Emnia walked straight to her box and removed her mail. "Thanks."

  "You're mighty popular with that Grace person. She an old friend from way back? I don't recall the Giles name bein' from around Hickman."

  Not in the mood for his questions, she made up something on the spot while she perused her nail-a couple of advertisements, another postcard from Mr. Dreyfus, and the missive from Grace Giles. "She's been inquiring about ny boardinghouse," she answered, which was an out-and-out lie. "Wants to know how to start up one of her own in Chicago. I'ni not sure how she come across my name. I've yet to write back to her, but I 'spect I will one of these days." At least that much was true. With every letter she received, her interest in Grace Giles mounted, not to mention new questions pertaining to the Scripture she'd been reading.

  When she glanced up to observe his reaction, a suspicious line showed up at the corners of his mouth. "She's awful persistent, ain't she?"

  The door opened and in walked Iris Bergen and her boy, Thomas. Emma breathed a sigh of relief to be let off the hook. "Afternoon, Mrs. Bergen," she greeted. "And Thomas, look at you. I believe you've grown at least half a foot in the last year." The way his pants came nearly to his calves, showing a good share of his boots, proved her point.

  The boy grinned and stretched to his full height. "I'ni almost taller than my maw," he announced.

  Emma smiled. "I can see that."

  Without further ado, the lad wandered over to the "wanted" posters, as most children were prone to do. She supposed it was fascinating reading to some, although she herself had never spent any time poring over the seedy looking characters who'd managed to dodge the law.

  "Nice to see you, Miss Browning. Any word on the preacher yet?"

  "Not that
I know of," Emma replied, trying to put the matter out of her mind. The more she dwelt on the idea of Jon Atkins going missing, the deeper her heart sank.

  "What about the preacher?" George asked.

  "You ain't heard?" Mrs. Bergen asked, mouth agape. "He's niissin'."

  George frowned. "Missin' what?"

  Iris looked perturbed. "He's missing, silly! Here I thought you kept abreast of all the news. How'd you miss out on that tidbit?"

  "Nobody tol' nie nothin'. He get waylaid in this storm?"

  "No one seems to know," she answered. "There's a bunch of men out lookin' for 'im now."

  George Garner scratched his head and looked genuinely concerned. "Well, I'll be. I hope he's all right. A feller can't go long without food and water."

  Did he have to mention that? Emma's stomach turned over as she made her way to the door, mail tucked away in her pocket.

  "Good day, Miss Emma," George called.

  Without turning, she waved and walked out into the soggy air.

  Jon's craving for water grew with every minute. He'd managed to stick his hand through a tiny opening to get a bit of moisture, but had skinned his wrist badly in the process. Only glimpses of light shone through the cave's opening, the massive tree trunk completely covering the mouth, leafy branches protruding through the hole, making it impossible to see out. Hoping to find moisture on some leaves, he'd spent the morning breaking off branches, but his efforts had gotten him nowhere. Even the floor of the cave had dried up, and what hadn't, had turned to niud.

  Throughout the course of the morning and early afternoon he'd taken to hollering, "Help!" thankful that the earlier dizziness had subsided, but then realized it was a waste of precious energy. Outside, the only sounds lie heard were the persistent drizzle of rain and a light breeze. He'd called and whistled for Jupiter but had gotten nothing in response. The silence had hint worried that his horse had been injured in the storm, might even be lying dead or suffering beneath the tree to which he'd been tied. For the umpteenth time lie berated himself for his actions. The creature would have fared much better had he let hint go free. Of course, lie hadn't expected to spend the night in this bleak and barren hole in the side of a cliff.

  Propped against a wall, Jon stretched stiff, unyielding muscles and heard an unexpected groan escape his mouth when lie felt pain in muscles lie didn't know lie had. He'd always considered himself a strong man. Despite the fact that lie wasn't a farmer, and wasn't accustomed to excessive labor, for the most part lie kept himself busy and active. However, this predicament had hire doubting his own strength.

  "Lord," lie prayed, "I've never confronted anything quite like this and, frankly, I'm baffled. Please give ine wisdom as to what my next steps should be." Waiting for an instant answer from the heavens, he slumped back in frustration when it didn't come. What did he expect? That God would roll the trunk away from the opening just as He'd removed the stone from Jesus' tomb? Plainly put, he was at God's mercy.

  He had spent a good share of his young life teaching others about learning to trust in a loving God despite their circumstances and obeying His call no matter where it led. Now here he was stuck in a cave, helpless to do a thing about it, and beginning to fear for his life. He felt his trust dwindling, his faith crumbling like a dried-up cookie. What if no one came? It would be easy for anyone to see that lightning had struck the tree, causing it to fall, but who could possibly know it blocked the entrance to a tiny cave? There were so many of these little holes in the side of a steep, rocky bluff. Few would suspect one was right behind a huge, fallen tree. Oh, he had no doubt folks would eventually locate him, but would it be his decaying body they came across or, worse, his skeleton?

  In retrospect, it had been foolish to take refuge in the cleft of a rock. He should have pressed on to the Jarvis farm regardless of the lightning and holed up there till the storm let up. Bill would have fed and watered Jupiter and put him in his barn for the night. Flora would have offered him a warm supper and a spare bed. Though he wasn't accustomed to putting folks out, or accepting any kind of charity, for that matter, this might very well have been the exception. In short, he had no one to blame but his own cowardly self.

  For reasons he couldn't explain, he thought about the time his father had caught him hiding out in the barn, avoiding certain punishment for failing to finish his chores before the supper hour.

  "What you doin' hidin' behind that hay bale, boy, like you was some kind of gutless, yellow-bellied turkey? Come out here and face me like a man!"

  Face him like a man? But he was only ten. Shoot, he still had trouble stretching tall enough to heave one bale onto the wagon, let alone a dozen or more. His muscles ached, his back and shoulders pained him, and his throat was parched. He'd only stopped for a minute's break. Was that so bad?

  In his hand, Luther Atkins held a bottle of whiskey. He always had his ale close by. Jon shook like a leaf. He was a coward when it came to facing his father, and he hated that facet of his personality. Someday he would be big enough to stand up to him-and then he would tell him!

  `Ain't I tot' you to get them bales loaded on that wagon?" Pa railed. "Why you draggin' yore feet? You been daydreamin'?"

  "N-no, sir," he replied, feeling sheepish.

  When Jon didn't move, his father reached down and yanked him up by the sleeve, ripping it free of its seam so that a gaping tear in the fabric exposed his arm to the chilly air. He flinched and shivered, gasping in pain when his father snagged hold of his arm as if trying to squeeze the blood from it.

  "Don't hurt the boy," his mother said from the barn door. "He ain't done nothin' wrong." Despite her frail demeanor, his ma had always done her best to defend her only child, even though it did little good.

  "No? What's he done right?" Luther laughed at his own words, thinking them funny, and spit on the dirt floor. His breath reeked of alcohol. Jon turned his head to avoid the worst of the stench, but he feared trying to wrench himself free of his pa's firm hold.

  When his mother approached, Jon spoke up. "Ma, go back in the house. He'll hurt you."

  "Better me than you, son," she said.

  At this, his father spat and laughed again. "You askin'fer trouble, woman?" To him it was a game, a sick sport, this constant battle for control.

  "Ma,"Jon begged.

  "Let 'im go," she pressed.

  The closer she came, the louder Jon's heart pounded. He could handle this, he told himself. He didn't need his mother getting hurt on his behalf, and all because he'd grown lazy and decided to sit a spell.

  Oh, if only he were stronger, taller, older-braver.

  It felt good to have the pressure on his arm released when his father flung him aside, but seeing his mother hit the wall and slide to the floor from one solid blow turned his relief into instant rage. Oh, he wanted to jump on his pa's back and beat him with something hard and sharp and heavy, but instead, he watched the man saunter out of the barn, an evil smile of victory on his face, as if he'd just accomplished a major feat.

  And it wasn't until his father disappeared from sight that Jon finally ran to his mother's side.

  Jon closed his eyes against the senseless, irrelevantnieniory; he thought he even imagined a certain wetness building up behind his eyelids. Where had the childhood reminiscence cone from-and why did it pop out at him now?

  Shoot, Lord, I can't even think straight anymore.

  !fter supper, Emma seated herself in a wicker chair on the front porch, waiting for her first glimpse of the search party. How long could it take a band of capable men to locate one nian gone missing? Frustration made her junip to her feet to pace the length of the sprawling porch.

  "Yer as fidgety as a pack o' cats in a gunny sack," said Gideon. "Yer niakin' me nervous."

  He, Harland, and Charley all sat smoking their cigarettes, Harland on the top step, Charley in the swing, and Gideon reclining in the ancient rocker. As soon as someone's cigarette smoked itself out, he rolled another. The porch was becoming a regular
chimney, but since everyone's nerves were on edge, Emma bit back the itch to complain.

  Billy Wonder pushed open the screen door, walked over to the chair Emma had vacated, and plopped himself into it. Apparently, he planned to use the guest room another night despite the orange sky in the west that promised a clear night. Emma decided to let the matter slide for now. "Any sign of them?"

  "Nothin'," said Harland, blowing out a smoke ring then pulling a hand down his haggard face.

  "Shouldn't be long now," Billy replied, his voice too chipper in Emma's opinion. "I still say he's visitin' someone, maybe not even acquaintances of the church. Could be hiding out in somebody's barn for all we know."

  Gideon heaved an indignant sigh. "If that were the case, he'd be home by now. Look at the sky, Wonder. Matter of fact, weather's clearin' real nice like."

  Billy looked out at the still soggy treetops, gave his head a tiny shake, and remarked, "Anybody go out to that new family's house, the Claytons? Might be the minister decided to pay a call on that pretty young lady and wound up stayin' a spell."

  For no reason she could think of, Eninia's neck stiffened. "When the sheriff rode back with a report this afternoon, he said they'd checked with every parishioner, including the Claytons. No one's seen him," she replied, trying for all she was worth to keep the tartness out of her tone.

  In the swing, Charley Connors pushed off with one foot and said, "Toni Averly discovered the reverend's horse out at his place. Went straight back to his old homestead, that horse did, a big ole branch draggin' behind him stuck to his bridle. Guess he was bearin' a few scratch marks, too. Makes one wonder if the preacher ain't throwed off somewheres in a ditch. I swear that thunder was loud enough to spook a stiff corpse in a bone yard. Plenty o' trees got struck by lightnin' out there is what I hear. I 'spect he could be lyin' under one of 'em."

  The more the nien speculated the sicker Emma felt. What was she doing listening to them when everything was gloom and doom? It was her porch. She had half a mind to send then all off to the saloon to drink their cares away. Instead, she turned to go inside. Her hand was on the doorknob when Harland stood and gazed down Main Street.