Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (16 page)

Mark 10:27 says, "With men it is impossible, but not
with God: for with God all things are possible."

Very Truly Yours,

Grace Giles

Who in the world was Grace Giles?

/ou s-s-sewin' a new dress?"

Eninia looked up from her stitching and smiled at Luke
scantling in the doorway. She didn't normally keep the door
to her private quarters standing open, but it was so hot today
that the cross ventilation coming from the window at the end
of the hall and her own open window provided a gentle, cooling breeze.

"I am, and after that I plan to stitch some new curtains for
the kitchen."

The fabric she'd ordered from the mercantile had arrived
by freight two clays ago, a beautiful purple cotton with tiny,
delicate red and yellow roses, and she'd been so excited she'd
torn the brown paper off the parcel right there on the spot, in
front of Eldred Johansson, Gus Humphrey, and Tim Warner.
Of course, they hadn't understood or appreciated her enthusiasm, but when Lucy Fontaine ambled through the door, a babe
on her hip and a toddler at her side, she'd sufficiently oohed
and ahhed, smiling and running a hand over the cloth, as if it
were a priceless treasure. And it was, for it had been more than
three years since Emma had indulged herself in a new dress.

"Y-y-you goin' to wear it to a p-party?" he asked.

"Party? Don't know of any upcomin' parties, Luke. I 'spect
I'll just wear it around the house since my other dresses are
gettin' so worn."

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at her.
She smiled to herself and went back to sewing, powering the
machine with a slow, rhythmic pumping of the foot treadle, concentrating all her efforts on steering the up and down movement of the needle as it made a path over the pinned hens.

Luke spoke over the machine's gentle hunt. "My iiiiii-mania could sew."

Emma ceased pumping the pedal. "Really? Did she sew
dresses?" She started pulling pins from the section she'd just
sewn and stabbing them into her tomato-shaped pincushion.

"I think. She iii-made me a shirt once. My mania, she was
real p-pretty."

"What did she look like?"

Luke leaned into the doorframe, the wheels in his head
spinning. "She was this tall." He laid his palm flat about five
feet from the floor. "She had yellow hair-like you-and soft
hands."

The simple description put a tiny ache in her heart. "She
sounds lovely."

"Who sounds lovely?" Jonathan Atkins sneaked up behind
Luke and placed both hands on his shoulders. Emma's chest
gave a strange lurch at the sight of him.

A wide grin washed over Luke's asymmetrical face. "My
iii-mania," he replied. "She was as p-p-pretty as Miss Eninia."

Jon's burning eyes held her captive as he looked around
Luke's head. "Then your mother was a beauty."

Knowing she blushed, she put up her defenses and concentrated her efforts on her sewing. Men didn't discombobulate
her as a rule, so the notion that the preacher had managed to
do so made her want to stomp her foot in protest.

"I got her picture," Luke said. "Want me to go g-get it?"

Even though she dove into her task, she knew he'd
trained his eyes on her blushing cheeks, probably felt tickled
to have rattled her. "I'd like nothing more," Jon said. "I'll
wait here."

No additional prompting necessary, Luke disappeared
down the hall. Emma stared at her handiwork and felt her
shoulders drop in frustration. She'd been stitching straight as
you please until he walked in. Aggravated with herself-and
with hini-she let go a sigh.

"Something wrong?" he asked from his station.

"Just some crooked stitching is all. I'll need to rip it out."

"Hm. Sorry if I distracted you."

"What? No-you didn't," she lied. She clipped the end
with scissors and started pulling out the uneven threads.

He kept watching her, which didn't help her concentration
any. "I went to see your father today," he announced.

She paused in her task. "I don't know why you bother with
him. I heard you took a group from the church out there the
other day, which was mighty nice of y'all but quite pointless.
He won't keep it neat, you know."

"I found that out today." He chuckled to himself. "But we
managed to do some much-needed repairs around the property, so it was worth it. And it gave everyone a good feeling to
be able to lend a hand."

A wave of guilt slammed into her. He was her father. She
should be responsible for his care, but she rarely even visited
him.

"God's in the business of healing broken people, Emma.
He often uses the church to accomplish that. I'm praying your
pa will open his heart to the Lord."

"Humph." She didn't want to talk about the church-or
God, for that matter. Her fingers fumbled with the thread
while he stood in the doorway.

"What makes you close up at the mention of God?"

She shook her head. "I'm doin' fine on my own. I didn't see
God intervenin' in my life when I was a sprout, so why bother?"

"Because you need a Savior, Eninia." He said her name as
if it meant something to hint. "We all do, no matter how selfsufficient we try to make ourselves." When she didn't respond,
just kept her eyes fastened on her work, he asked, "Did you
pray much as a kid?"

The offhand question got her to thinking. "A few times, I
suppose.

"How did your prayers go?"

She scowled and gave her head an arbitrary toss. "Once
after Ezra hit nie, I asked God to let him drown in Hickman
Creek. Does that count? Another time I asked Him to suffocate the old geezer in his sleep by letting the roof cave in just
on his side of the house, mind you, not mine. As you can see,
He answered neither prayer." Now that she thought about it,
they were bizarre requests, and recalling them prompted a bit
of cynical laughter.

Jon chortled low in his throat. "Emma, Emma, you're too
much."

There was a certain warmth to his tone that she chose to
ignore. "I had it all planned out, too," she went on. "How I'd
go live with Miss Abbott after Papa died." She sobered. "That
wasn't very nice of me, was it?"

"You were angry, and rightfully so. Let me just say that
God is angered by injustice. In fact, He hates it, especially
when it involves children. But that's anger of a righteous kind.
As long as we recognize anger for what it is, it can't steal our
joy; but if we give it a foothold, it can do great damage, even
cheat us of our ability to trust another human being."

She raised her chin in defiance, felt a stinging sensation at the back of her eyes. In short order, she took up
her sewing again, flustered that he'd managed to rouse her
emotions.

"What he did to you was wrong, Emma." All of a sudden,
he was standing next to her, having taken the liberty to walk
right into her private domain. "I have a feeling he'd call it all
back if he could," he was saying. "The old fool has spent the
better share of his life drunk. He knows you hate him for it,
but he's helpless to do a thing about it."

"That's not my fault," she said, sudden anger rising up.
"And I'll thank you to leave my room immediately."

He didn't move. Just stood there staring down at her-as
if he had the right-close enough that she heard each measured breath. "God can help you, Em-."

"Here it is!" Just in time, Luke cane bounding into the
room, sticking a faded photograph under both their noses.

Emma reached out and took the photo from Luke's stubby
fingers. Forcing a bright-eyed smile, she gave him her full
attention. "You were right, Luke. She is very pretty."

"Furniture and whatnot's comin' in on the next freight
wagon!" reported Gerald Crunkle, dismounting his horse at
the site of the new schoolhouse and waving the telegram he'd
just received. About a dozen men had gathered to work today,
and a few of them looked up when Gerald arrived. Most didn't
take the time to stop what they were doing, however, just wiped
their brows with their shirtsleeves and granted hint a cursory
glance. "Want me to read what it says here?" he asked.

Jon grinned, feeling his own brand of excitement at the
news. The quicker the men finished the work on this schoolhouse, the sooner they could start erecting the church.

"I'll read it anyways," Gerald said when he got no audible
response to his question. "Desks, books, supplies arriving on 28 July. Stop. Anticipate four wagonloads. Stop. Full payment
expected upon delivery. Stop." Gerald studied the yellow piece
of paper as if it were a juicy piece of watermelon. "Ain't that
good news?" he said.

"It's great news, Gerald," Ben Broughton professed, hauling another broken board across the yard to add to the growing pile of debris. There would be one big fire in another week
or so. "You'll forgive us, though, for not sharing your sane
level of enthusiasm. Most of its have been here since daybreak,
and right now the news of the furniture's arrival sounds a bit
like, well, more work." A facetious tone accompanied his droll
grin as he tossed the board on the pile with a clatter, stopped
to niop his wet face, and then looked up to exchange a waggish
look with Jon, who was perched high on a ladder. Jon shook
his head and laughed to himself before returning to the job
assigned him, painting the cedar trim around the new windows.

A couple of murmurs of agreement came from Sully
Thompson and Edgar Blake, who were coming around the
corner of the white clapboard schoolhouse, also carrying armloads of debris.

"And by the way, Crunkle," Edgar said, loud enough for
everyone to hear. "Some of us have noticed how it seems like
lately we been seein' more o' your backside ridin' out o' here
than the other way 'round."

Someone sounded a hearty laugh on the other side of the
building. Gerald's mouth turned under as he gave a broadshouldered shrug. "Hey, I brought y'all lunch yesterday. You
best show a bit o' gratitude." Pushing seventy, Gerald found a
tree stump to drop onto and gave a loud sigh. He was the sort
of fellow who took well to teasing, and for that reason, the men
were quick to dish it out whenever they got the chance.

"I'll just sit here and supervise 'fore I head back. Preacher,
looks like you missed a spot -a little to your left higher."

"Thanks, Gerald," Jon said, dabbing the area with his
paintbrush, grinning to himself.

"The way I see it, if that furniture conies in the end of July
we ought to be able to use the building for our church service
first Sunday in August," remarked Rocky Callahan, who was
climbing down a ladder at the end opposite Jon, paint can in
hand.

Elmer Hayward found another stump close to Gerald's
and made himself comfortable. Broad shouldered and well
muscled, and older than Gerald by about ten years, Elmer
still managed to work circles around most everybody. With
his full, white beard and thick head of white hair, lie resembled a lumberjack. He removed a handkerchief from his hip
pocket and wiped his brow. "Attendance will jump when that
happens."

"I hope you're right," Jon said. "I'm afraid it's dropped off
since having to meet in the Winthrop's living room."

"Can ya blame us? Folks is sick o' that woman's fretful
looks," Bill Jarvis muttered. "I declare them oriental rugs o'
hers belong in a museum instead of a livin' room the way she
eyes everybody what walks on 'em."

"She and Clyde have been more than generous," Jon said
in their quick defense. The last thing he wanted was word getting back to Mrs. Winthrop that folks were complaining about
her lack of hospitality. "Who wouldn't be overprotective about
such valuable possessions? I'm amazed she offered her house
at all."

Robert Johnson came to stand under the shade of a tree
and take a swig from his water canteen. "I'd say it was more
Clyde who made the offer. Iris went along with it. You wouldn't think it at first glance, but Clyde Winthrop wears the pants in
that house. He mostly just lets her think she's in charge. You
see the way he shut her up a few weeks ago when she didn't
agree with the preacher here about goin' out to Ezra Browning's place? My, my, that was worth every cent of the price of
admission. Come to think of it, I put double in the offering
plate that (lay."