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

of it, but most of it went right back into the
school's charity bin."

    She laughed again but quickly stifled the sound with her
fingertips. "You're not sick then?" she asked, moving toward
the door, clearly finished with the conversation. At the doorway, she paused and turned, awaiting his reply.
    He rose and stretched, hands reaching high above his
head. "I'ni as chipper as a bird in May."
    She gave a curt nod. Several strands of hair fell loosely
about her tanned cheeks. "Well then, if you want any supper
you best get downstairs. You'll soon discover these men wait
for no one."
    "Thanks for the tip."
    He reached for a boot, and in the second it took to snag
hold of it, she was gone.

    "What say we play some poker?" Charley Connors asked,
coming in off the porch, the front screen door closing with a
whack. The smells of nicotine and rum carried through the air
when Charley sauntered into the parlor. Across the street and
up the block, sounds of riotous music coming from the saloon
penetrated the walls of Emma's Boardinghouse.
    Dusk settled in, lulling some in this dusty town into restful slumber but unleashing roving, dark spirits in others. Jon
hadn't felt prepared for the sense of foreboding nighttime
brought, having lived his entire life in the country where the
only sounds he heard came from creaking tree branches, a
reclusive coyote's howl, or croaking frogs on the shores of Little
Hickman Creek.
    "I'ni in," said Harland, rising from the ancient brocade
divan. He tossed a well-worn novel on a nearby sofa table.
    Without glancing up from the newspaper he'd been poring over for the last half hour, Elliott Newman gave a crisp, "I'm
out."

    "What about you, Wes?" Charley asked, eyeing the fellow
who'd been dozing in a leather chair in the adjoining library,
also designated the music room if one considered the upright
piano along the east wall.
    Wes looked up through the double French doors. "What?
No, I'm tuckered. Grady don't take to me comin' in late on
Monday mornin'. Think I'll surprise him for a change and be
on time." The fellow's knees groaned when he rose. He gave a
slight nod all around and ambled toward his room, which was
on the main floor and across from the kitchen. It was hard to
miss the slump to his shoulders and the subtle limp.
    "Did I hear poker?" Gid Barnard descended the creaking stairs and sauntered into the room. "I was about to have a
smoke, but I can be persuaded to play a round, providin' you
don't cheat." He stuffed his unlit cigar into his shirt pocket.
    Charley grinned then withdrew a deck of cards from the
top bureau drawer. "How about you, preacher?" His quizzical
gaze held a challenge. "You oughta have some bettin' money
left over from the sale o' that farm."
    Jon smiled. "It's not mine to bet with, my friend. In case
you haven't heard, we're building a new church with most of
the proceeds."
    Charley's eyebrows slanted in a frown. A mild curse slipped
out. "Awful waste if ya ask me, but pretty noble of ya."
    Jon might have told him that gambling away hard-earned
money was the true waste but passed over the opportunity.
These men weren't about listening to his sermons. What they
needed were sermons of example, not words. "Nothing noble
about it. I'ni plain weary of meeting in the Winthrop's living
room week after week. Donating my funds seemed like a good solution to the problem. But I surely didn't do it for the recognition."

    Charley looked halfway thoughtful then took to some
fancy card shuffling, the likes of which Jon had never before
witnessed. "Miss Emma? Join us?" he asked, bedevilment in
his tone, his eyes trained on the cards that shot back and forth
between his hands in a magical formation. Looking just past
forty, the amiable Charley Connors tossed his head of reddishbrown hair and grinned widely, this time causing the dimple
in the center of his chin to sprout. "You could be our weakpassive player who doesn't raise or fold much,