Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (27 page)

"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."