Gradually, her natural optimism returned, along with a healthy dose of passion for helping women who were out of resources and out of options—women who’d been ill-used by men and those, like her, who longed to climb out from beneath a man’s thumb to establish their own careers. She’d found her mission. Her calling. Providing down-on-their-luck females the same gift she’d once given him—a fresh start.
Yet her mission had not been without its risks. Had championing the less fortunate gotten her into the trouble she now faced? If the woman was anything like the girl he remembered, he could easily imagine Emma giving some dunderheaded man a tongue lashing without heed to the repercussions. She never seemed to care about the size or social weight of her opponent—only about what was right. Which was why he’d had to leave ten years ago.
He’d lived with the Chandlers for two years—two of the best years of his life. The aunts had fed him, clothed him, forced him to go to school. He hadn’t been in a schoolroom for three years and had only gone sporadically before that. But Emma worked with him every night. Taught him to read, to write his letters so they didn’t look like a five-year-old had scribbled them. Caught him up on history, grammar, long division. Ack. He still hated long division, though he had to admit, understanding the concept made calculating blast radiuses a lot easier. The teacher had lent him books to study when school wasn’t in session, and by the second year, he’d nearly caught up to the boys his own age.
Not that they wanted anything to do with him. Which was fine with Mal. He’d been on the receiving end of snide comments and derisive looks his whole life. Didn’t even put a dent in his hide. But when the oldest boy of the group, Oliver Evans, started taking an interest in Emma, Mal’s hide got real thin, real fast.
Oliver’s father owned the local drug emporium, and Oliver was used to winning the favors of any gal he pleased. At least girls who could be swayed by a bag of penny candy or one of them tiny bottles of toilet water. But Emma was too smart to be lured by such bribes. How many times had she taken one of the younger Swift girls under her wing to soothe hurt feelings after Oliver’s cruel taunts about farm girls with patches on their skirts and chicken feathers for brains? Oliver would be the last boy to turn Emma’s head. Which was probably why Oliver had been so determined to win her.
Mal kept a close watch on Emma every day at recess and walked her home after school. He made sure Oliver knew he was watching, too. Though the boy was a year older and three inches taller, Mal had been hardened by life on the streets. No pampered rich kid was going to lay a finger on Emma without her consent.
But during a potluck supper one Sunday after church, Mal let his guard down. A mistake that a decade later still rubbed his conscience raw. Emma and the aunts had been sitting on the family blanket. Aunt Henry had been up in arms about the preacher’s sermon, insisting that there was no biblical basis for the traditional belief that Mary Magdalene was a harlot.
“Scripture records that Jesus drove seven demons out of her. Demons! Yet Christian tradition—a tradition perpetuated by men, I’ll have you know—insists on linking her to the nameless woman caught in adultery. There is absolutely no evidence in the Bible indicating these two women were the same person.” Aunt Henry tossed her napkin down as if it were a gauntlet. “Mary was a godly disciple. More faithful than the male followers who scattered at Jesus’s arrest and crucifixion. It was the women who stayed by the Savior’s side. And Mary Magdalene to whom Jesus appeared first after his resurrection. Not John. Not Peter. Mary. I dare you to name a more faithful disciple.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Aunt Bertie soothed, or tried to. Aunt Henry seemed impervious to her sister’s efforts.
“It’s only because the male of the species feels threatened by the fact that the Lord chose a woman over a man for such an honor that they think to dishonor her good name with a past that wasn’t hers. Shameful, I tell you. Absolutely shameful.”
Aunt Bertie had glanced around nervously, then leaned forward to retrieve Henry’s napkin. “I’m sure Mr. Horner meant no offense by his categorization. After all, that was only one statement in an otherwise excellent lesson.” Bertie handed the napkin to her sister with a pointed look. “A lesson focused on the forgiving nature of God, and the importance of Christians extending that same forgiveness to their fellow man. Perhaps you could extend some to Mr. Horner for his error. The man is as kindhearted as they come and surely meant no offense.”
Henry cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her lap. “Yes, well. I suppose.”