"Looks like they's finally comin' in," he announced. "Don't see no preacher, though."
Whirling on her heel, she ran down the steps to greet the search party then quickly halted at the bottom. There wasn't a one of them who looked jubilant. Her heart sank to her toes.
So thirsty. Jon rubbed his tongue over the roof of his mouth and found it dry as cotton, his lips cracked and sore. He was burning up, but couldn't say if it was due to fever or the beastly hot temperature in the little cave. He swiped at his face with his sleeve and groaned. It seemed every muscle in his body ached as he drifted in and out of a restless stupor, his body quivering out of control.
He wasn't at death's door; of that, he was certain. No, in situations such as this, death tended to take its sweet time, but the question of how long a Yuan could go without water did harass his half-witted mind. Was it three days or longer? The thought of waiting another day made his throat constrict, his heart jump erratically.
Confusing thoughts and images kept surfacing, his father's weather-beaten, hard-lined face evolving into that of Ezra Browning, then emerging into some kind of hairy varmint with black, stir-crazy eyes. He shuddered and fought down a queasy stomach.
Einnia's face sprang up next, like a budding tulip just opening on a warns May morning, a refreshing sight in comparison. He reached up to cup her chin, but she shrank back.
Be Jesus to Ezra came the clear thought in the midst of all the fuzzy ones.
"Lord?" lie asked.
The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.
He recognized the words of the psalmist. "Lord," he managed in a hoarse voice. "If You bring me out of this black place, I promise to do all I can to bring Ezra to You."
My son, I am with you. I will never leave you or forsake you.
The last thing he remembered as he drifted off to sleep was the sweet, seductive song of a Kentucky bluebird.
Dear Grace Giles,
I have no idea who you are or why you insist on writing to me, but I'll have to admit I'm curious, and yes yore letters have all reached me far as I know.
Eninia sat and stared at the paper before her. Oh, what she wouldn't give for fine handwriting, the kind that swept across the paper with flare and elegance-the way that Grace Giles' penscript flowed so artfully. But, alas, hers was nothing more than chicken scratch, a mere scrawl of words, and probably misspelled ones, at that. Far as I know? Was that correct grammar? She debated drawing a line through it but decided that would only make matters worse.
It wasn't that she hadn't been a good student while in school; she'd done well with all three of her teachers. But English hadn't been her favorite subject or her easiest. To this clay, she lacked confidence when it cane to speaking and writing correctly, and why wouldn't she, surrounded as she was by a band of uncouth characters-save Jonathan Atkins, of course? It amazed her how he'd grown up in Little Hickman Creek, as everyone else had, but seemed made from different cloth. Had college and seminary clone that to him, taught him the art of refinement and class? He was a finespun gentleman if ever there was one, but not the stuffy, stiff-necked type. No, Jonathan had a kind manner about him, the sort that fairly drew folks in, like a lure at the end of a fishhook.
Jonathan. Just as quickly as his face surfaced, she pushed it back. She mustn't think about hint now, for whenever she did she thought the worst, imagined him lying under a log somewhere in deep suffering or, worse, dead.
Her eyes refocused on the task at hand, composing a letter to Grace Giles without sounding like a dolt. She turned the wick on her kerosene lamp up a notch, glanced at her clock, which revealed the midnight hour, and picked up her Lewis Waterman fountain pen, rolling it around between her fingers before putting it to the paper once again.
You'll be happy to know I been reading the Bible that Clara Abbott give to me. Was Clara a friend of yours? She was my closest friend, and when she died, I guess you'd say a part of me went with her.
I read the entire contents of the book ofJohn as you told me to do. And now I'll write down the questions that come to my head after reading it.
1. Do you think Jesus really did all those miracles?
2. Does He still do miracles today?
3. Why did He have to die for our sins?
4. How does a person forgive someone else for the wrong things he done to hurt her?
5. How is it that you know about my father?
6. Do you know where he came from, becus he wasn't ever clear on that?
She quickly scratched out the number seven, figuring that she'd already given the woman plenty of things to ponder on. Then she reread what she'd written and felt a developing frown. Oh, how could she send out something so sloppily written, and with scratch marks, to boot? Shouldn't an adult like her be better able to compose a decent missive?
She looked at the one she'd received from Grace that day and compared the script.
My Dear Emma,
I worry that I have not yet heard from you. I trust that you are well and that you've had a chance to read the gospel of John. It is such a wonderful book about the life of Christ and His purpose in coming to earth-to bring us salvation. Can you imagine loving someone so much that you would freely sacrifice your life for him? Well, Jesus did that for the sin of the entire world.
Have you had a chance to visit your father? How are you finding him these days? How is his health faring? Has anything changed with regard to your relationship with him? Please remember I am praying daily for both of you.
Would you kindly write me and tell me if you have been receiving my letters? Also, do let me know if my letters bore you to high heaven.
I am your friend, Emma, and I long to talk to you about certain matters, but I do not wish to push too much. I anxiously await a letter from you.
Do feel free to ask me whatever you wish with regard to your Bible reading-and anything else.
I remain, yours truly,
Grace Giles
Emma reread the letter twice, then reread her own, finally deciding to scribble a hasty closing, fold it up, and send it regardless of its probable errors. After all, she wasn't out to impress Grace Giles... whoever she was.
After addressing the envelope, she prepared to seal it shut, then on a whine took it back out and hastily added a postscript.
P.S. The postmaster is most nosy about your letters, so I fear I lied and told him you were asking about starting up yore own boardinghouse in Chicago. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you ask me a question or two about my bisness? I think that would ease my conchense.
While lying in bed later, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hand at another prayer.
"Dear Lord," she whispered into the night. "If You're out there, would You please help the nien find Jon tomorrow? They're startin' out early after a good breakfast, Lord, and this time I've packed them plenty more food for nourishment, so they can ride until they find him. I s'pose I ask a lot, Lord, for one who's not accustomed to talking much to You, but one more thing. .it would sure help a great deal if You'd show them just where to look this time. Seems to me, they haven't done all that well in using their own resources. Might You lend them Your eyes and Your wisdom?"
She stared at the ceiling, pulling her sheet up under her chin, thankful that the air wafting across her room tonight was cooler. "And one more thing, Lord." She licked her lips and thought on her words. "Is there any way I can ever forgive my pa? If there is, maybe You could show nie how that would work."
Shadows from the distant streetlights Luke had lit that evening danced on her walls. She watched them flash and flicker until at last her eyes grew heavy.
"Amen." It was her second prayer in the last twenty-four hours.
Jon lifted his arm, which felt about as heavy as a boulder, and tried to read his wristwatch, but no matter his efforts, the numbers and hands refused to focus. He knew his body was burning with fever, but there was little he could do to alleviate the problem. Even
the muddy floor where lie lay, knees propped up for lack of space, didn't appease his hot, dry skin.
The oven-like cave was stuffy, which lie found interesting. Shouldn't it be damp and cool, stuck as it was in the cleft of a rock? Or was it the lack of fresh air in this rotten hole that made him so uncomfortable? Through a few tiny openings, lie caught a glimpse of blue sky, caught the occasional ray of sunlight. What day was it? No longer could lie form a clear thought, much less figure out something as complicated as the day of the week. Besides, what difference did it make?
"Abide with nie...fast ...falls the eventide. The darkness deepens-Lord, with ...me...abide."
He barely eked out the words of the hymn, but what he managed brought comfort, so he continued.
"When other helpers... fail... and comforts flee, help of-the helpless, oh... abide ...with ...me."
Breathless, lie fell into another erratic sleep.
"Check this out. It's another of them fallen trees. This'n is huge. Anyone see anything suspicious, tracks maybe?"
"I don't see anything, Will. Looks like it just come down in the storm like so many other trees around here. I tell you that was some powerful storm."
"There's a mound behind that downed tree, Ben. Think there could be another one of then hidden caves back in there?"
"As far as I know, we've checked every last one of 'em in these parts."
It was like pushing his way through dense fog to get to the other side, a heavy blanket of lead keeping Jon from moving, his eyes from opening to mere slits.
"H-here," lie finally managed through a croaky voice. "In here."
"Nope, don't see a thing," someone said. Ben Broughton? "We best move on. Time's a wasting."
"Here," Jon screeched again, louder this time, determined to make his unused voice heard.
"You hear somethin'?" someone said. Rocky? A horse whinnied and stomped.
Oh, blessed Lord! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see! "In-here," he repeated, the very notion that they were out there giving him strength.
"What in the...?" He heard the clatter of men dismounting, boots hitting the earth, and the approach of thumping feet. "Thanks be to God! You in there, Jon? You all right? Sound the gun, Will!" Rocky demanded.
Before Jon formed his next words, a round of gunfire blasted through the air, echoing off the hills and beyond.
"Reverend, how are you?" This from Will Murdock. "You hurt anywhere?"
"I'm-fine. One question though."
"What's that, Jon?" they all asked in unison. Jon pictured them hunkered down on the other side of the tree, hanging on to his every word.
"What-took-you so long?"
"They found him! Preacher's been found. He's alive!"
Emilia heard the dish hit the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces before her brain transmitted the message that she'd dropped it. Picking up her skirts, she stepped over the broken mess and ran to look outside to see who was shouting. Next came the banging on her front door.
"Miss Browning, Miss Browning!" Peeking through the screen door was Gus Humphrey, the stock boy who worked at Eldred Johansson's Mercantile.
"Why, Gus, what can I do for you?"
"Doc sent me. He says he'll be needin' your guest room for the preacher. He don't want 'im goin' up and down them stairs to his roonijus' yet. Doc says his office bed's bein' occupied by that old feller, Clarence Hazelton."
"Of course, of course, that's fine. Come in, Gus. Tell me what you know about the preacher." Like an anxious schoolchild eager to hear the news of whether she'd won first prize for the sack race, she bit her lip and held her breath.
She pushed open the door, but the boy remained firmly planted. "Cain't. I pots to ride back out to deliver some tools to the men. The preacher's been stuck in a cave about a half a mile off Sugar Creek Road. A humongous tree fell flat across the front of the cave. Men is sawing their way through it now to make way for 'im to escape."
"A cave? Is he-all right?"
"Doc says he's bad hurt on the head, pots a high fever too. Called it de-de-dration 'er soniethin'. That an' heatstroke and I don't know what all."
"Dehydration? Heatstroke?" she mumbled. "He'll be needing lots of fluids."
"After I drop off then tools Mr. Johansson rounded up, I gotta ride out to of Reverend Miller's place."
"Reverend Miller?"
"Mrs. Winthrop says someone's got to preach the sermon Sunday, and it won't be Reverend Atkins."
"Oh."
Strange, it wouldn't have occurred to her to worry about such formalities at a time like this, but leave it to the school board president and self-appointed general governing body of all of Little Hickman Creek to keep things running smoothly.
She watched the lad take off running across the street. Here and there, folks gathered in clusters, talking excitedly. Lucy Fontaine lifted a hand from one such cluster and waved at Enna, a baby on her hip.
"Oh, Miss Emma, ain't it grand news?" she hollered loud enough to shatter the new front windowpane at Borden's Bakery, the one on which they'd just painted the words
WHAT A BARGAIN!
FRESH DONUTS AND A CUP OF COFFEE = JUST 10( FOR BOTH HURRY ON OVER BEFORE THE DONUTS DRY OUT!
Every word held a different color of the rainbow, forcing passersby to stop by for a gander at the fancy letter work. And if one did that, why, the fine aroma of delectable baked goods wooed the "victim" the rest of way inside.
"Enna, you hear ne? They found the preacher. Ain't it grand?" Lucy called again.
"I just heard the news," she returned, stepping out on her porch. "It is indeed a great relief."
"An answer to prayer is what it is," Lucy exclaimed. "There's some of its been prayin' 'round the clock. Praises be to Jesus!"
Well, then, there was her answer. "Yes, praises!" she exclaimed, unsure of the proper protocol for praising the Lord in public when one didn't profess to be a Christian.
Overhead, the jays and robins had some sort of jubilant chorus going between them. Emma walked back inside with a smile on her face.
"He's safe," she whispered, closing the door and leaning against it, aware that a tear drifted down her cheek. "Thank You, Lord."
This talking to the Lord business was becoming a regular habit.
Jon practiced patience while the men worked, relishing in the canteen of water passed to him by Tom Averly through a small opening.
"Don't drink too much or too fast, Reverend," Doc Randolph instructed. "Unless you want it all comin' back up on ya. How's that head?"
"Shouldn't be long now, Jon," said Rocky, who seemed to be at one of the hacksaws now. One by one, they each took turns penetrating the mile-wide tree trunk, demanding every ounce of human strength. Grady Swanson had lent his best tools for grinding through the massive trunk, but even so, it took time and energy.
"When you got a weakling like Rocky Callahan at the saw, it slows down progress," said Ben. A band of laughter and lighthearted jeering followed the remark as the chiseling and sawing went on.
When there was a lull in the laughter and work, Toni Averly bent close to the opening. "Your horse is as good as new, Jon. Walked right up to his stall and helped hisself to some dried-up seed. Took nie a day to even realize he was in there. Sustained a couple of scratches, but for the most part he come through the ordeal jus' fine. Looked 'im over good, I did."
"Thanks, Toni."
"You best rest now, Jon. We'll have you out of here in no time," Doc was saying. "How's that head of yours?" It was the second time he'd asked, but so far, Jon hadn't gotten a word in edgewise.
"It's aching, but I'll be-fine-once I'ni out of here."
"How's the vision? Have things been blurry?"
"Yeah, some. Right now all I want to do is-go home."
Hone. He realized by hone he meant Emma's Boardinghouse-and Emilia.
Doc used the word concussion in conversation before Jon drifted back to sleep.
-6~ Ofz~&W-n
mnia march
ed down the sidewalk, Billy's possessions in - hand: a pillow and blanket, a change of clothing, a pair of socks, a vest, and a small, decorative box containing several items, such as cuff links, tiepins, and a gold chain. She passed by the bank, crossed the alley, and nearly collided with Mr. Wonder himself as he was leaving Bordon's Bakery, licking sticky fingers. Something custardy still lingered on his chin.
He removed his hat and bowed in his usual polite manner. "Afternoon, miss." Then, glancing at the items she carried, lie raised his pencil-thin, dark brows. "You come bearing treasures?"
She extended her arras. "Actually, your treasures, I'm afraid. I'll be needin' the front room you've been using. I hope you don't mind that I went in and got your things. I'm sure you've heard by now they've found the preacher."
He nodded and took his belongings, though not with any degree of enthusiasm. "Yes, so I've heard. Wonderful news, simply wonderful."
"Doc doesn't want the reverend walking up and down the stairs just yet," she explained. "He suggested the front room would be appropriate."
One eyebrow quirked. "So you're kicking me out of my room?"
She wanted to ask when the room had become his but held her tongue.
"You're welcome to keep havin' your meals with us, of course, but I'm afraid you'll have to resume sleepin' in your wagon."
He tossed a rueful gaze at his colorful rig, still parked in the lot where the new church would stand. The horses that went with it had taken up residence at Sani's Livery. "My dear Miss Emma, upon entering any fine town such as your own, I usually find folk quite niagnaninious and munificent. Although I would prefer more comfortable accommodations, I suppose my wagon will have to suffice."
At the risk of sounding moronic, she did not ask hint the meaning of the two M words, just clasped her hands behind her back and gave a weak smile, breathing in the fine scents of fresh bread coining from the bakery.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 17