The aunts vowed to hire a lawyer and fight the injustice of the sheriff’s ruling, but Malachi knew what a trial would mean. Emma would have to testify to what Oliver had done, relive the humiliation and fear. Her assault would be a matter of public record.
She wouldn’t care one whit, of course. At least not on the surface. She’d march into that courtroom and defend him with all the fervor of a revival preacher fighting to save souls from hell. That’s just who she was. But he wasn’t about to let her recount Oliver’s atrocities in front of a full gallery of witnesses—witnesses who would gawk and gossip and question her morals even though she was the innocent party in the whole ordeal.
So he’d left. Quietly. In the night. But not before Emma cornered him and made him promise to write to her. Often. She’d insisted that she’d worry herself sick if she didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. She even thrust her writing box at him, stocked with paper, pen, ink, and postage stamps. And a coin pouch filled with her meager savings, he’d later discovered.
And since he’d never break a promise to her, and because he secretly longed to preserve his connection to her, even if he never laid eyes on her again, he’d written. And extracted a promise of his own. If she ever needed his help, she was to send for him.
Now she had.
Malachi refocused his gaze on the landscape outside his window, silently urging the train to greater speed. Hang in there, Emma. I’m coming.
5
Emma sat in her office at the bank, her head bent over her writing desk as she added the latest names to her ledger. Irene Booker and her son, Charlie, had left that morning, bringing the count up to thirty. Thirty women and children lost to Harper’s Station. She’d expected such an exodus, but every departure still hit her like a blow to her midsection.
She replaced her pen in the black lacquered stand and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. It’s hard to believe you are in control, Lord, when a man with a gun steals our freedom and scatters our members far and wide. I thought this colony was your plan. Why are you allowing this attack?
The ceiling offered no answer. Emma sighed and turned back to her ledger, or would have if Aunt Bertie’s needlework sampler hadn’t caught her attention. Hanging in a frame on the wall beside her desk, the colorful stitching radiated love and encouragement, just as Bertie herself always did. Yet today it also offered a pointed reminder.
“But the God of all grace,” the brightly colored thread announced, “who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you. To him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.”
Emma bit her bottom lip, then bowed her head. “Forgive me, Father. I have no right to demand exemption from suffering when not even your Son was spared. No lives have yet been lost, and I thank you for that mercy most deeply. Please establish and strengthen us, and when the time is right, may those who have left us return to settle here once again, if it be your will.”
Opening her eyes, she ran her fingers along the ledger page a final time, then closed the cover and set the book aside. Instead of dwelling on those who had been lost, she should be counting her blessings regarding how many had stayed.
The café had closed down, but the boardinghouse remained staffed and open, ready to serve meals to any in need of such service. There were two ladies to keep the garden watered, weeded, and harvested and three to keep the sewing circle in business. Other ladies had already volunteered to help the quilting group fill the current order, including the aunts, their friend Daisy, and Emma herself. Heaven knew there’d be little for her to do at the bank with over half her town absent. She’d operate the bank in the morning hours and quilt in the afternoons, assuming she could remember how to stitch a straight line. She’d never really had the patience for the task. But if plying a needle meant keeping the women of Harper’s Station financially solvent, she’d gladly contribute her limited skill.