Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (18 page)

Iris sniffed. "Yes, well, the cooler weather will be upon us
before you know it, and then we'll be wishing for sunnier."

"Isn't that the truth!"

The bell above the door sounded and both women turned.
"Afternoon, ladies." Emma sucked in a breath. What in the
world would bring Jonathan Atkins to the dry goods store?
Apparently, Iris wondered the same, for her jaw dropped.

"Why, Reverend, what a lovely surprise," she gushed. "To
what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

Emma fought down the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't
know anyone quite as two-faced as Iris Winthrop. Just days
ago, she'd been bad-mouthing the preacher for keeping company with the likes of Ezra Browning and the hooligans living
in her boardinghouse, and now she fairly blossomed in his
presence.

Charming character that he was, Jon removed his hat and
smiled, revealing perfectly aligned teeth. His blue eyes glinted
with warmth as they meandered from Iris to Emma and back
to Iris, his sandy-colored hair falling across his forehead in
its usual haphazard fashion despite his recent haircut. Emma
silently instructed herself to pay no heed to his exceedingly
handsome face.

"I thought I'd stop by to tell you we plan to start up services in the new schoolhouse the first Sunday in August. As
part of the festivities, we'd like to honor both you and Clyde
that morning."

Iris clasped her throat with one hand, her other spreading
flat across her thick midsection. Her black, beady eyes went
round with pleasure. "Well, my goodness!" she tittered.

Jon glanced at Emma, and in that instant, she felt some sort
of tenuous connection with him. "There's no getting around
the fact that if you hadn't offered your house as a Sunday
meeting place, Little Hickman Community Church would not
have had the opportunity for regular worship," he explained.
"We'd simply like to show our appreciation. You will promise
to come, right?" he pressed, leaning forward.

Iris looked ready to burst. "We wouldn't think of missing."

Jon heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Of course, the ladies are
planning a church picnic to follow." Emma earned an extra
long glance from him at the announcement. Was he extending her a private invitation? It wouldn't hurt to go this once,
she reasoned, even if it would mean sitting through one of his
sermons. Besides, talking to Sarah Callahan had sparked her
curiosity about the schoolhouse.

He pulled his gaze back to Iris and turned the rim of his
hat in his hands, his engaging smile never fading. "I expect
we'll have a big turnout, what with it being the first time for
opening the doors to the public."

"Well, I'ni sure you're right about that, Reverend," said
Iris, cheeks aglow. "And the women will put on quite a spread
afterward. I'll be sure to bring my pies."

"You're famous for your apple and blueberry," he remarked,
eyes twinkling.

The man had no compunctions when it came to doling out
praise. Emma pinched her lips together to avoid a smile.

"As I recall, your fried chicken is the envy of every woman
across the county. Why, that last potluck had Flossie Martin
and Esther Thompson guessing at your mystery ingredient."

The woman blushed crimson. "I'll be sure to contribute all
three then," she exclaimed. "The pies and the chicken."

"How, may I ask, does Clyde manage to stay so fit and trim
married to such a fine cook?"

A twittering sound like a warbling bird came from Iris's
throat. She took up Emma's list and used it as a fan. "Why,
Reverend Atkins, you'll have nie swooning."

Later, Emma held her giggle at bay as she made her way to
Flanders' Foods next door, a box of goods under one arni. She
heard the Winthrop's screen door slam shut with a thwop.

"Emma, wait!" Jon called after her.

She gave a half-turn but didn't slow her pace.

In a matter of seconds, he was at her side, huffing to catch
up. "That's a pretty dress you're wearing. Isn't that the one you
were working on the other day?"

His memory impressed her. "It is. Thank you."

"You look pretty as a picture in it. You're an amazingly
talented wonian, Emma Browning. Lovely, too, if I do say so."

She halted in the middle of the sidewalk and stared him
square in the face. "Reverend Atkins, you are a clever man
thinkin' you can wheedle the same reaction out of me as you
did Mrs. Winthrop. I do not charm easily, sir."

He tossed back his head and laughed. She managed not to
react. "I have known that about you for some time, Emma, but
I've always enjoyed a good challenge."

Emma shook her head and resumed her step.

"You have to admit you came close to smiling back there,"
he said.

Yes, she had, but she wouldn't admit it. At the door to the
grocery, she paused to look at him, a tiny grin even now tickling the corners of her mouth.

"For a preacher, you sure can be a scamp."

She heard his low-throated chortle even after the door
closed behind her.

The first letter simply said,

Dear Emma,

I am praying for you. If you have a Bible, please read
the entire book ofJohn. (I happen to know that Clara Abbott
gave you one.) It will only take a week if you commit to reading three chapters a day.

I eagerly await a reply from you as to what you think
after you've read it.

Your heavenly Father loves you with a love you cannot
begin to fathom.

Yours very sincerely,

Grace Giles

What did this woman know about Clara Abbott? And how
would she have learned of the treasured Bible given to her
just before the woman's passing? She thought of the leatherbound book tucked safely beneath her lace handkerchiefs in
the top drawer of her bureau. It had been lying there for many
years-completely untouched.

The second letter read,

Dear Emma,

Have you started reading John's Gospel? Don't you find
it quite fascinating reading about Jesus' life on earth? Please
don't hesitate to write me with any questions you might have.
You have my return address, and every day I hope to receive
a letter from you.

Have you settled matters with your father? I pray for
you often.

Yours always,

Grace Giles

Outside, a gentle breeze drifted past Eninia's bedroom
window, flirting with the lace curtains. A full moon added
light to the glowing candle at her bedside. She strained her
eyes to read again the letters she'd received earlier that day
but only now had found time to read. After perusing them a
second time, and then a third, she carefully folded them up
and tucked them back into their envelopes, running her fingers over the meticulously written return address in the upper
left-hand corner of one of them.

With a tiny frown, she rose from her wicker chair and
padded across the room to her bureau, her nightdress tickling
her ankles, her long tresses falling over her shoulders. Pulling
open the top drawer, she laid the letters atop the others she'd
received, noting the growing collection.

Grace Giles, who are you?

When she would have closed the drawer, she suddenly
found herself digging to the bottom, pushing aside handkerchiefs, pillowslips, and doilies until her fingers finally
clasped hold of the small leather Bible.

Clutching it in both hands, she first stared at it as if it
were a menacing object. Soon, though, a jumble of emotions
grabbed hold of her-curiosity, eagerness, surprise, and
panic. Sucking in a tight breath, she flipped open the cover.
This Bible belongs to Clara Abbott was carefully penned on the
front page.

For some reason she'd thought she would find a clue as to
Grace Giles' identity by simply opening the book, but it wasn't there. She thumbed through the first few pages, Births-Family Record-Deaths, but found each page void of any entries.

The next page listed every book of the Bible from the Old
and New Testaments.

Without forethought, she traced her finger down the length
of the feathery page until it landed on the book of John. "Page
1088," she whispered.

She told herself it was simple curiosity and nothing more
that prompted her to find the designated book. But it was
something altogether different that had her walking across
the room, flopping down into her chair, and propping the
book open on her lap. Deep, unsettled hunger?

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with
God, and the Word was God," she read aloud from the first
verse in chapter one.

Outside, the tinny sounds of off-key piano playing drifted
up from Madam Guttersnipe's Saloon.

She settled back and continued reading.

mma guided the rented horse down the dusty trail. It
had been several months since she'd found the need
for a horse, so when she'd walked into Sam's Livery the next
day announcing her request for a gentle horse, there had
been a few stares from Sam, Sully Thompson, and Edgar
Blake. Even Elliott Newnan had emerged from his wheelwright shop at the back of the livery wearing a look of surprise.

"Where you headin', Miss Eninia?" Elliott asked.

Not wanting to divulge her destination, and somewhat
perturbed with the nien for their curiosity, Emma merely
shrugged. "Can't a body enjoy a horseback ride for no particular reason other than it seems like a good day for one?"

The men gawked, obviously not swallowing her reasoning. "You want I should send Luke with ya?" Elliott asked. "It's
not all that proper for a lady to be out ridin' these hills on her
own, even if it is just a pleasure trip."

This was hardly a pleasure trip, she might have said. "No,
I'll be fine." This was Little Hickman, for goodness' sake. Yes,
there'd been a few problems in the past, the schoolhouse fire
namely, but Clement Bartel, the boy who'd started the fire,
was dead as a result, and since then very little had transpired
in this tiny coniniunity-with the exception of Ezra Browning's drunken shenanigans.

Directing the horse down the hillside, she held on to the
saddle horn to steady herself, not nearly as adept a rider as most women she knew. Having spent most of her life cooped
up in the house with Ezra, and then running the boardinghouse from age eighteen on, there'd been little reason for
riding.

At a flat, grassy patch, she reined in the horse named
Lester and surveyed the familiar countryside spread out before
her: the dilapidated barn and old sheds, the acres of wasted
farmland, the tottering one-room shack. A row of flowers blossomed along the west side of the old house, a contrast of color
against the ancient boards.

Whether she would even find her father at home was
a matter of debate. She knew he worked at the saloon several afternoons a week and spent a good share of the rest
of his time there. Giving the horse a gentle nudge with
her boot heels, she guided him the rest of the way down
the hillside. Pansy, the ancient old goat, raised her skinny
head to check her out, then went back to pulling up what
few blades of grass she could find around the yard. Emma
reached behind her and yanked a couple of apples and an
overripe pear from the saddlebag. "Here you go, girl," she
called, tossing the fruit to the ground. The animal meandered over, took a moment to sniff out the offering, then
gobbled it down with fervor. "Thought you'd enjoy that,"
she said, jumping down from Lester and leading him to a
newly repaired fence post.