Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (12 page)

He felt like one of the many puzzle pieces Luke picked up
to study. "This d-d-don't fit nowhere," lie announced, sticking
a piece under Enema's nose, clearly frustrated at his lack of
success.

"Be patient, Luke. These things take tine."
Well, there was a sermon in itself.

By midweek, the temperatures had climbed to the midnineties. That is, if one went by the thermometer George
Garner had hung from a nail on a tree outside the post office.
Emma went to stand in the shade of the old oak to study the
instrument, its red needle clearly pointing square between the
90 and 100 marks. Just knowing the temperature seemed to
make the perspiration flow more readily.

She mopped her brow then absently looked at the letter
she held in her hand, its postmark stamped Chicago. In the
upper left-hand corner was the name Grace Giles, but since no
address followed, the source remained a mystery. A ridiculous
shiver of apprehension made an erratic path up and down her
spine despite the midday heat.

Why would a complete stranger be writing her?

It reminded her of two other missives she'd received just
last month, also from Chicago. Across the page on the first
one had been the carefully written words: "For if ye forgive
men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive
you." The signature had consisted of mere initials-G.G. The
second letter, arriving two weeks later, seemed to have been a
continuation of the first, for it stated simply: "But if ye forgive
not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your
trespasses." Under the verse, which she could only assume
cane from the Bible, were the words, If you desire the truth, dear
Emma, it will be given you. That too was signed G. G.

Mystified, she'd stuffed the notes away in her top drawer
and tried to forget them. And for the most part, she had, casting the foolish notes off as someone's silly ploy to addle her
senses. Now she wondered what game this Grace Giles from
Chicago was trying to play, for she could only assume that
Grace Giles and G. G. were one in the same.

"It's hotter 'n niy mania's chili," claimed Will Murdock,
tipping his hat at Emma in a friendly manner before sidling
up next to her to read the thermometer for himself.

She quickly crammed the envelope deep into her dress
pocket. "Well, hello there, sheriff. Your mania's chili, huh?"

"Yep. And she used to use her ripest chili peppers straight
from the garden. Like to've ripped my stomach limn' right
out. My, that was good stuff. I got the recipe if you want to
borrow it."

She giggled, thankful for the diversion Will Murdock provided. "I believe I would, Will. Sounds like something I could
use against that motley bunch of men I'm housin'."

"Oh, it'll curl their toes, Miss Emma. Might even burn
their tongues enough to shut 'em up for a few days."

Now they both laughed. Hickman's middle-aged slieriff rocked back on his heels, took off his hat to run a hand
through his scraggly, damp hair, replaced it, then looped a
thumb in his shiny belt buckle. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I don't know how you do it, Miss Emma, keep your wits
about you when you've all those mouths to feed. Keepin' the
peace must be a twenty-four-hour job, and I thought I had it
bad. You got yer work cut out."

"Pfff. There's no keepin' peace. If they can't get along,
that's their problem. I'ni not their mother, and I've told 'em so.
It's not so bad most days. Long as they take care of their own
stuff, mind their business, and don't break the law, I'll keep
washin' their sheets and feeding 'em."

"I like your thinkin'. Makes my job easier, you holdin' that law business over their heads. From what I hear, you're quite a
remarkable cook, Miss Eninia. And a wonder, to boot."

"Oh, fiddle. Who told you that?" They raised their heads
to watch a flock of birds navigate across a brilliant, azure sky.

"Jon Atkins. And you know preachers-they're prone to
tellin' the truth."

A tiny seed of satisfaction sprouted, causing a smile to
emerge. She'd been pleasantly surprised to discover the reverend had been keeping to himself, not spouting off about his
religious beliefs, and most evenings climbing the stairs to his
room, where she presumed he spent time studying all those
religious books he had stacked against the wall on a shelf. Of
course, his silent prayers before mealtimes were a bit noticeable, but who wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to thank the
Lord for his daily bread? As long as he didn't force the rest
of them to comply-other than Luke, who'd already taken to
bowing his head along with the preacher-she had no reason
to complain about his presence.

"My meals are quite plain," she stated. An unexpected
breeze lifted her skirts nearly to her knees, and she hastily
pushed them down. Overhead, a squirrel scampered out on a
limb.

Will grinned, revealing his signature, silver eyetooth.
"Don't go sellin' yourself short, Miss Emma. I've never heard
your cookin' referred to as plain. Harland Collins is always
braggin' on it, makes me plain jealous I'm not reapin' the benefits of livin' there. A bachelor grows plenty tired of his own
vittles."

Emma laughed. "And what about Mrs. Harwood? Last I
heard she was leaving platters of cookies on your office doorstep, her way of sat'in' thanks for arresting that no-good,
moonshinin' neighbor of hers and closin' down his outfit."

"Well, you got a point there, and don't get mne wrong, her
cakes and cookies are pure pleasure. But they don't stick to
the ribs like a juicy piece of chicken and a pile of spuds and
gravy.

"Will Murdock, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were
fishin' for a supper invite."

He tossed back his head and gave a hearty laugh. "Well
now, 'sides Navin' culinary skills, seems you're also quite the
mind reader, Emma Browning."

"And you're quite handy with the flattery," she jested.

A rig carrying a load of hay rattled at a faster-than-usual
clip through town, its driver, Herb Jacobs, lifting a hand to
wave at both of them on his way past. A mongrel (log ran to
keep up, barking at the back wheel.

"I wouldn't be worth my weight if I missed the opportunity
to pay a fine lady such as yourself a well-deserved compliment,
now would l?" he said over the noise and clatter, batting a
hand at the sudden cloud of dust.

"Well, I thank ya for-" An ear-splitting scream had them
turning their heads.

Up the street and in front of Bordon's Bakery, a crowd
gathered. Herb Jacobs brought his wagon to a stop and leaped
to the ground, running to the excited group. Emma shielded
her eyes from the sun and squinted at the scene but couldn't
make any sense of it.

"What do you think's going on?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I think I'm about to find out," Will
answered, tipping his hat at her before sprinting off.

"Fetch the doc!" someone screamed.

"Is she breathing?" asked another.

"Lord help us. How did this happen?" asked Truman
Atwater. In his hand, he carried a fresh loaf of bread wrapped
in brown paper. His wife, Martha, clung to his arm, her eyes
pools of concern.

"Think she ran right out in front of Herb's rig," offered
Orville Bordon, owner of the bakery.

Herb's face was pasty white as he shook his head in disbelief. "I didn't see her till it was too late," he said, his voice hardly
more than a whisper. "Went right under my front wheel.

Flora Swain lay sprawled across her child's lifeless body,
three of her other children all standing around her, clinging
to her skirts and screaming to high heaven.

Jon made his way to the front of the group. "Step aside,
folks, and give us some air. Doc Randolph's on his way up the
street now." He tried to hold his voice steady as he crouched
down beside Flora and rested a hand on her trembling shoulder. So far, he couldn't tell if the child was even alive, so still
was her tiny body. Her face, badly scraped, was a mass of
torn, bleeding skin, and out of the one visible ear oozed a
thin stream of blood. Her arni, clearly broken, lay grotesquely
crooked at her side, a bone protruding. One leg had oddly
folded itself beneath her frame so that she lay at an awkward
tilt. Jon's heart slid clear to his toes. Dear Lord, please breathe
new life into this child, give her the strength to survive.

"Wake up, Ernialine!" her mother wailed, cupping the
girl's cheeks in both hands. "Open your eyes right now. Oh,
niy baby!" The panic in her voice rose to deafening heights.
And the louder she screamed, the more her three clinging
youngsters carried on. In a hurried backward glance, Jon discovered Emma standing directly behind him. When their eyes
met, she seemed to read his thoughts and hastily removed all three children from the scene, swooping one up into her arras
and coaxing the other two away with promises of sugar.

A path carved itself into the growing mass of curious
bystanders, making way for Doc Randolph's entry, Will Murdock coming in behind him. Quiet mutterings and speculations flittered aimlessly as Doc opened his black doctor bag
and began to bring out an assortment of instruments.

"Flora, it's nie, Doc," he whispered. She seemed not to
have heard, so Doc proceeded with his duties as if she weren't
there, lifting the girl's eyelids, checking her pulse, then positioning his stethoscope directly to the child's chest, his somber
expression denoting his full concentration. A hush fell over the
gathering crowd.

"There's a good, steady heartbeat," lie announced.

Great sighs of relief passed from one to the other as folks
shifted their weight and looked to the heavens. From there,
Doc began examining the child from head to toe. "I don't want
to move her just yet," he explained. "Flora, do you think you
could give me a bit of room? I swear I won't hurt her." Compassion welled in the aging doctor's eyes, his years of experience
in caring for the sick and dying showing itself in his kindly
expression.

As if waking from a bad dream, she stared at him with
unseeing eyes, yet somehow had the sense to sit back. Jon
took the opportunity to give her shoulder a gentle, supportive
squeeze. The woman fairly fell into his side, as if soaking up
what bit of strength lie could offer. Tears rushed down her
cheeks like torrents of rain.

Doc continued his careful exploration, moving skillful hands
from top to bottom, pushing, prodding, and gently poking the
lifeless child. It seemed that most had forgotten to breathe,
so hushed was the group of folks who'd gathered around the scene. Finally, Doc took a deep breath and leaned back on his
haunches, keeping his eyes trained on the girl. "Might be some
internal bleeding. I'll have to set her leg and arm, but aside
from that, I don't see any other visible injuries, other than some
head trauma, which, from what I can see, isn't too severe. Surface wounds mostly. She should start waking up soon, which is
why I'd like to get her moved to my office now."

"We'll fetch the stretcher, Doc. It still behind your door?"
asked Will.

Doc nodded, his eyes still on his patient.

"Herb, why don't you come with me?" Will suggested. "I'll
need to question you about the accident."

"Weren't his fault, Will," offered Harvey. "I was sittin' right
there on that bench in front of Bordon's when it happened.
Sure, Herb was movin' kind of fast, but I witnessed the whole
thing. That little 'n' had a mind to run right across the street
without lookin'. Think she must've seen that there black dog."

"I thank you for that, Harv. I'll be talkin' to you later. Right
now, we gotta get that stretcher for Doc. Come on, Herb."

Herb Jacobs, still in a seeming trance, gave his head a
shake and followed the sheriff down the street.

"She gonna be okay, Doc?" inquired Elliott Newman, who
must have heard the commotion and left his wheelwright shop
to have a look. Luke, looking sullen and insecure, clung tightly
to his father's arm.