Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (25 page)

After Mr. Newman had ushered Luke to their room, the
others had breathed a sigh. "That boy's worried plenty about
the preacher," Charley said.

"You think he's okay?" Wes asked.

The room went silent. The no-name clog lifted his head
from his napping spot and looked from one to the other. Sometime during the course of the evening everyone had cone to
accept the dog's presence, and so there he was, lying in the
center of the room on the braided rug, acting as if he owned
the place and everyone in it. As for Miss Tabitha, she hadn't
shown her face to anyone.

"I'll be jig-swiggered if I know!" Gid answered. "Mr. Wonder's prob'ly right. Someone front the church talked 'im into
stayin' in their guest quarters."

Wes pushed up from his chair and stretched. "You're probably right, but if he ain't back by mornin', we should probably
investigate."

The lot of them nodded their heads then retreated to their
rooms one by one, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts.

Now, hours later, she still couldn't sleep, the battering rain
keeping her from it.

Jonathan Atkins, where in tarnation are you and what are you
doin' to me?

"Lord, keep 'im safe wherever he is. Please."

It was the first time she'd prayed as an adult and, holy
hog's tooth, if she didn't feel a sort of peace cone over her,
after which she fell into a semi-restful sleep.

It was his own moaning that woke hint hours later, utter
blackness preventing him from seeing his hand in front of his
face. In fact, for a second he feared his head wound had left
him blind; then he remembered the huge tree that blocked
his light source. Far-off thunder indicated the storm persisted,
just not as close. Throat parched, he tried to swallow but found
it hard to work up the saliva.

His entire body ached, his back from the fall he'd taken,
his shoulders from lying on the hard floor, his hip, which had
taken the brunt of his backward fall, and the gash on his head,
from which he still felt blood oozing. Now he had dizziness to
add to the mix, forcing hint to lie still lest he lose what little
remained in his gut.

"Lord God, I'm coming to You as Your child," he whispered into the dark, his voice blending with the pelting rains.
"As You know, there is a hulking tree blocking this cave's passage, and it is beyond me how I'm ever going to escape. So I'm
asking You, Father, to intervene, to send someone to get me
out of here. Also, if Jupiter is suffering in any way, would you
please help hint with his circumstance or put him out of his
misery?"

As if he needed reminding that he hadn't eaten a thing
since Mary Sterling's oatmeal raisin cookies earlier that day, his
stomach growled. He'd heard once that when a man starved
to death, his hunger pangs eventually subsided. Therefore, the
fact he was hungry was a good thing, he supposed.

He hoped to remain hungry until someone found him.

Emma banged around in the kitchen, her mood less than
chipper. Rain still drizzled from a murky sky, with only a hint
of a sunrise in the east.

Jonathan had not come home last night. She knew it was
silly to fret. After all, she'd never worried one jot about him
before he'd moved under her roof, had barely let him cross
her mind-and hadn't he fared just fine without her? Now
here she was stewing over his safety!

She flipped an egg, intending to keep the yoke intact, but
accidentally breaking it, broke the lot of then and quickly
added milk and salt and pepper, scrambling the whole mess
together. She mopped her sweaty brow with the corner of her
apron and continued fuming. No wonder she'd dragged her
feet in giving Jon Atkins room and board. Something had told
her early on that giving him a room could jeopardize her heart,
and she'd been right. Not that she'd ever let on to anyone, him
least of all, but there it was just the same-out in the open-no
natter how she looked at it. Oh, what a fix!

"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.