Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) (5 page)

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard?" Emma turned to face Sarah, tucking
her hands into her apron pockets. "He lost his wife to smallpox a few years back, and his son just last spring to some awful
fever. He's been alone since then-that is, till them little ones
came into the picture."

"But that's terrible," Sarah said, wincing to learn of his
loss. Knowing it seemed to put a different slant on things.

"He used to be God-fearin', but from what I hear he's quit
goin' to church altogether. 'Course, I'm not one to talk," Emma
admitted with a smirk.

Sarah thought it interesting that Emma would bring up
the subject of church. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Don't need it," she answered with a flick of the wrist. "I figure God's fine for some folks, but I'd rather make my own
way. 'Sides, I'm too busy most Sundays to give church much
thought."

Rebuilding the burned-down schoolhouse, which had
doubled as the town's church, was all people could talk about
these days. "Perhaps you'll give it a try once they erect the new
building come spring."

"Pfff. Can't imagine that will make much difference to
me," she remarked. "I don't hold much importance for religion and such."

Emma turned and gave another lazy glance out the
window, strands of her golden hair falling out of its tight little
bun, slender shoulders straight, a quiet strength about her.
"Especially when it don't seem to lessen all the heartache that's
out there. Take those little ones, for instance," she said in a
voice so low Sarah had to strain to hear her. "Where was God
when their mama was lyin' on her deathbed? Seems to me it
would've been just as easy as not for Him to let her live."

Making a turn, she strolled across the room to sweep her
finger over the fireplace mantel, again coming up clean, no
doubt. Next, she made her way to the tall bookcase with the
glass doors and did the same thing, sweeping a clean finger
over the top edge. "And what of Rocky's wife and son-and
Ben Broughton's first wife, who died while giving birth to their
second child? And then there was that awful schoolhouse fire
and the death of that young man. All senseless events, and
that's just Hickman." Emma shook her head, sadness evident.
"Where was God then?"

From what she'd heard, a delinquent boy had started the
schoolhouse fire in his attempt to avenge his anger at Liza Merriwether Broughton, Little Hickman's teacher. His futile
effort had resulted in his own death. One could hardly blame
God for that. The other matters, although tragic in nature,
were results of living in a less than perfect world, where the
hardships of life seemed to take their toll on the human body.
Emma wanted to know where God was, and Sarah might have
told her He was right there in the middle of it all, ready and
able to help ease the burden, but she doubted Emma was open
to that. Besides, now was not the time for arguing particulars.
Instead, she feebly offered up a few words.

"Some things are just plain hard to understand, Emma.
But I do know this: God takes some of the ugliest of situations
and makes them turn out right in the end. Take Benjamin, for
instance, now happily married to the lovely Miss Merriwether.
That never would have happened had Liza failed to accept the
teaching job last summer."

Folding her arms, Emma fixed Sarah with a curious stare.
"You don't appear too bitter about that matter, considering it
was you Ben was supposed to marry."

Sarah couldn't hold back the tiny spurt of laughter that
bubbled forth. "It was plain to see from the moment I bounded
off that stage that Benjamin Broughton had already handed
off his heart to another. How could I fault him for something
over which he had no control? Besides, he'd tried to enlighten
the agency about his change of plans, but the message failed
to reach me in time."

Emma tapped a finger to her lips. "So I suppose you would
say that God will eventually turn even that misunderstanding
into something good?"

"If I trust Him, yes," Sarah stated, if nothing else, wanting
to be clear on that one thing.

With uplifted chin, Emma glanced out the window, then
sauntered toward the kitchen. "Rocky and those youngins are
headin' this way. I think I'll go get a plate of cookies ready."

"Don't make any fuss," Sarah called after. "They won't be
here long."

"Nonsense," Emma replied. 'Anyone can see by the look
of those children that they haven't had any sweets in weeks.
Wouldn't hurt to try sweetenin' up that Rocky Callahan
either."

"You two mind your manners, now," Rocky told the kids as
he helped them from the rig and ambled up the walk toward
Emma Browning's front porch. Neither had a word to say in
response. After breakfast, Rocky had discovered Seth's eggs at
the bottom of the waste barrel, and so he'd made him sit on an
overturned crate in the corner. Of course, the whole thing had
made Rachel madder than a hornet on a hotplate, and she'd
threatened not to speak to him for the rest of the week-which
should have pleased him, but didn't.

The fact was, he had no idea how to handle the rascally
pair.

Emma Browning met them at the door. Dressed in an old
work dress and worn apron, strands of blond hair falling to
either side of her smudged oval face, she was a pretty woman
despite her indifference. Nice looks aside, she managed to
maintain a good distance that few ever bridged. Utterly selfsufficient, Emma made it clear she had no use for men. In fact,
to Rocky's knowledge she'd never even had a beau, although
she was pretty enough to warrant a second glance.

"Come in," she invited. "Miss Woodward has been expecting you."

Rocky pulled off his hat while stepping over the threshold
and glanced across the room at Sarah. She was standing and
wiping her hands on the front of her apple-green satin skirt;
a long-sleeved white blouse, buttoned to the neck and tucked
in at the waist, accented her stately appearance. Striking hazel
eyes, framed by her thick, wine-red locks, gave him a quick
assessment before moving over the children with an approving look.

"My, my, who do we have here?" Emma asked, bending
over the children.

When both remained silent, Rocky nudged Rachel in the
side. "I'm Rachel," she said, jumping to attention. "And this
here is my brother, Seth."

A warm smile played around Emma's mouth. "I'm pleased
to meet you both. My name is Emma Browning," she said,
extending a hand. "Miss Woodward told me yesterday what
fine children you are."

Rocky's eyes made a quick path back to Sarah and found
her beaming-not at him, of course, but at the impish pair.
If anything, she took great pains not to bestow him with anything resembling friendliness.

Rachel and Seth stood straighter than little fence posts,
shedding wary glances from Emma to Sarah. Again, he gave
the girl a healthy nudge. "What do you say to Miss Browning?"

The girl quickly took the hand Emma offered. "It's nice
to meet you, ma'am." Without prompting, Seth followed suit,
a tiny grin lifting up the corners of his mouth when Emma
shook his hand in greeting.

Sarah's full, green skirt made a rustling sound as she
ambled across the room, a cascade of pink material-Rachel's
dress, no doubt-hanging over one arm. Upon reaching him
and the children, she touched a finger to Rachel's chin and
gave it a gentle lift. He thought he saw Rachel's eyes dart to
the flowy, pink fabric.

"I'm happy to see you're both wearing your mittens today,"
Sarah said, pleasant as could be. Of course, Rocky didn't miss
the rapid, searing glance intended just for him that followed
the smile. If he could have said something in his defense, he
would have, but the truth was he felt like a heel for having
forced them out in the elements yesterday with nothing on
their fingers. As easy as it'd been to locate the mittens today,
under a folded blanket in Rachel's room, he could have helped
find them yesterday and saved them all the hassle.

"I have an idea," Emma said, looking from Seth to Rachel.
"How about you two give me your wraps and then come with
me to the kitchen and help me with the cookies and milk?
When we come back Miss Woodward can show Rachel her new
dress."

Seth's eyes lit like two firecrackers. "Cookies?" he asked,
finding his voice. Even Rachel's usual somber mood allowed
a modest smile before she cast Rocky a questioning look. As
soon as he nodded his consent, they handed over their winter
gear to Emma and followed her to the kitchen.

When the trio disappeared, Rocky turned his gaze on
Sarah. "You finished the dress, then?"

She nodded, and he noticed a red lock coming loose
from its high bun. It dangled at the side of her face, one long,
fiery ringlet. "It's a rather simple dress, so it didn't require much time," she stated, holding it up for his inspection. It was
the color of faded roses, a soft-looking fabric that his fingers
itched to touch, but he didn't. It appeared to be complete save
the hem and the bottom of the long sleeves. Even the neckline, round and ruffled, was finished to perfection, and the
buttons, gold and shiny, made a straight path down the front,
stopping at the gathered waistband. At first glance, he thought
it quite pretty-as dresses went. Not that he was any kind of
expert on female attire.

"The next one should go even faster now that I know what
to expect."

He lifted a brow. "The next one?" As far as he knew, he'd
only purchased enough material for one dress.

"Yes, now that I have her measurements down pat and I've
fashioned an easy enough pattern. I have several dresses for
which I have no use. With a little snipping, I should be able to
stitch another dress quite simply-or maybe even two."

He should have been grateful for the generous offer, but
instead it rankled. He might be a bit tightfisted, but he was
by no means needy. "I'll not have you ripping up your own
clothes for the sake of the girl. One dress should do her for
now. And by the way, I intend to pay you for your trouble. How
much do I owe you?" He reached into his pocket and drew out
his roll of cash. Sarah's eyes narrowed.

"I meant no offense."

"None taken. How much?" he asked, more brusque than
necessary.

"I have no set fee since I'm not accustomed to sewing for
others."

"I see." If he'd had a knife, he might have cut the tension between them. "Are you going to suggest a fair amount?"

"I would think most any sum would appear unseemly to
you, Mr. Callahan," she returned with a sharp tone. "After all,
you considered the price of the material above reason."

Snappish little woman. "I've never bought fabric before,"
he said in his defense. Hester had, of course, and he'd never
quibbled over prices then, but he wouldn't mention that. What
had turned him into such a self-centered galoot?

Seconds of wasted silence ticked away while Rocky stared
down at his wad of bills. "Would one dollar suffice?" he asked,
glancing up.

A deep frown furrowed her pretty brow. "That seems
excessive. How does fifty cents sound?"

Oh, he rued the day his sister had willed him her children
and put him in this awkward position. A month ago, he never
would have imagined himself standing here debating a fair
price for stitching a little girl's dress, let alone with someone
as fetching as the infamous Miss Sarah Woodward from Winchester, Massachusetts.

"Fine," he said, hauling out the necessary coins from his
pants pocket and handing them over. In the exchange, a
smooth hand brushed against his callused one, the brief touch
managing to jangle his nerves to their limit. And to think he'd
actually entertained the thought of asking her to marry him.
Imagine living under the same roof with someone as enticingcorrection, as utterly exasperating-as Sarah Woodward.

Self-control would be the order of the day, that and large
doses of staying power.

As if she'd read his very thoughts, she quickly stepped
away from him, tucking the coins into her skirt pocket, then nervously fingering a red curl before tucking it behind a
diminutive ear. Outside, bitter winds whipped around the
corners of the building. Sarah wrapped her arms about
herself, her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into the
folds of her tiny, belted waistline, nails that had undoubtedly
never seen a trace of dirt beneath them, much less planted
a single garden seed. With anxious eyes, she peered toward
the kitchen, as if willing Emma and the kids to come walking
through the door. What was taking them so long?

"The dress is nice," he finally conceded, realizing his foolishness in delaying the compliment. "Can you cook as well?"

Her jaw dropped open in shock. Truthfully, he'd surprised
himself with how the question shot out of nowhere.

"Pardon?"

"Cook-can you cook?"

Her green eyes scalded him with intensity. "Actually, I'm a
fine cook. Why do you ask?"