Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) by Sharlene MacLaren

sprawled out on his bed, plain tuckered, I believe. You best sit, son." With sunken spirits, Luke
plopped into his chair.

    Charley Connors and Gideon entered then and walked
directly to their usual spots. "Yep, that preacher's still sleepin',
far as I can tell," Charley said. "Guess all that movin' and whatnot did 'ini in."
    "Or maybe ar company ain't to his likin'," said Gideon, pulling back his chair. "Figure them innocent ears o' his ain't used
to ar kind o' talk." The nian wore a perpetual scowl, but now
the briefest of smiles flickered like a flash of light from a lone
candle. He ran a hand over his bumpy, sallow skin and sat.
    A cackling Mr. Clayton nodded his head and pulled at the
gray beard that matched his thinning hair. "We'll break 'im
in.
    "Heard he had a cantankerous father," said Mr. Newman,
wiping at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, even though
he hadn't yet touched his food. "And a mania who hung herself
when he was just a lad. Somethin' tells me he ain't as innocent
as one might expect."
    That seemed to shut up the lot of them for the time being,
particularly when Harland made a harrumphing sound and
took up the bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table.
Others followed suit, reaching for the platter of chicken, the
bowl of green beans, and the tureen of gravy. Soon the clang
of forks and knives on plates and the loud chomping of food
made up the only sounds in the room.
    Emma cleared her throat and put her napkin beside her
plate. "I'll go check on the preacher," she announced, pushing
back her chair, its legs scraping shrilly on the fresh scrubbed
floor.
    Several pairs of inquiring eyes gawked at her. "You ain't
never checked on nie when I missed a meal," Harland Collins
remarked.
    Luke jumped to his feet. "I'll go with ya."

    "Sit down, Luke," his father ordered. "The preacher ain't
none of your business." Luke sat begrudgingly.
    "Yeah, why's he get the special treatment?" Charley asked,
shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes trained on
her while he noisily chewed.
    Why indeed? It irked her plenty, this need to explain when
she wasn't sure herself why it should matter one jot. Shoulders
stiff, she drew in a breath, then glanced from one to the other.
"If one o' you was ailin', I'd fetch the doctor. I'm merely going
to see if he has need of one." She turned. "And I'd appreciate
it if you tried eating with your mouths closed from now on."
That said, she marched out of the room.
    "Well, if that don't beat all," Charlie said with a sniff and
a hoot.

    "Get off my property, you no-good, snoopin' tadpole! I'll shoot ya
right on the spot! I ain't afeard to pull this trigger." Shotgun raised and
pointed straight at his head, Jon scrambled for breath, his heart nearly
leaping out of his chest. Sweat trickled down his face, dripping off his
chin to pool at his feet.
    "God loves you, Ezra," he managed. "He loves you. All you
have to do is surrender to Him, accept that you need a Savior, ask
Him....
    A blast of curse words erupted from the drunkard's mouth. "Shut
up!" he barked. `Ain't no God big enough for the likes o' me."
    "You're dead wrong." He cringed at his poor choice of words.
Ezra stepped closer, cocked the gun, and poked its long, steely barrel
into his temple.
    "Pull the trigger, you insufferable, cussed fool." Confusion mingled with awareness. He angled just his eyes in the direction of the voice. There stood Iris Winthrop in a pair of men's coveralls, booted
feet spread, hands stationed on her extensive hips, the harsh lines of
her face yielding their standard scowl. On her head was a flamingred, wide-brimmed hat with at least a dozen or more multicolored
roses shooting upward. "It's time the elders sought out a different
preacher. This one has too many outlandish notions."

    "No, d-d-don't shoot," wailed a boyish-sounding voice. Luke.
"He's sick."
    Sick? I'ni not sick, he tried to eke out. Fin just tired.
    "You sick?" Mrs.