"Reckon we all figured Emma would tell you." Danny shrugged. "Hell, she's tellin' everybody somethin'."
"Well," J.T. said, and pushed himself to his feet, "I ain't got the time to bother with a dance."
"Can't say as I blame you, boss. Why, spendin' this much time with Emma's about to wear me out!"
J.T. stopped and then slowly grinned. "You know, Danny, you're right. It's my duty to help out the menfolk of Buckshot. I think what I gotta do here is march right on over to the church and have me a little talk with Emma."
"Boss, I think you're touched," Danny said softly.
"Nope." J.T. crossed the room and grabbed his hat. Jamming it onto his head, he said, "You said it yourself. The men don't want to work with Emma. So me and her will just have to work this all out between just us." He yanked the door open. "Thanks for the idea, Danny."
"Hey, boss?"
J.T. stuck his head back inside. "Yeah?"
"Maybe you best stop by your house first, huh?" Danny grinned. "You smell like the wrong side of the coop!"
"Good thinking!"
Danny Hanks sat openmouthed, staring at the door long after J.T. had slammed it. Yep. The man was touched.
###
Emma smiled as she tried to assemble her notes into some kind of order. She was thankful that Preacher Jeffries bad no objections to the town ladies using the church as a meeting place. Of course, with his own wife on the committee, he could hardly refuse.
"So," Emma said firmly, trying to regain the ladies' wandering attention, "you all see what I mean, then."
The women threw glances at each other for a long moment before Priscilla Jeffries, the preacher's wife, spoke up.
"Yes, Emma dear. We do see, but…" The too-thin young woman twisted her handkerchief nervously in her lap. "Really, I don't think you can expect the folks here in Buckshot to put on a fancy ball like they do in Boston."
"Oh, but –" Emma started, but Nell Frampton interrupted.
"That's right, dear." The older woman pushed her graying hair out of her eyes with a paint-stained hand. "Why, most of us come out here to escape all that fall-de-rall. Now, if the meetin's over, I've just got to get back and finish my painting."
"It's not over yet, Nellie," Emma broke in quickly. "Please stay." She knew very well that if Nell were allowed to leave, it might be days to pry her away from her easel again. Besides, if Nell left now, she could very well start a stampede!
Nell settled back down reluctantly. "Oh, very well, Emma. A moment longer then." The older woman's sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly. "You know, Emma, you might stop by one day soon. I'd like to do your portrait."
Emma hurriedly groped for something to say. Nellie was a sweet woman, but no one in their right mind volunteered to pose for her. She had the oddest knack of painting what she called the inner truth. Emma still remembered the scandal that swept through town when the last preacher's wife had posed for Nell. The sanctimonious woman had been a thorn in everyone's side with all her righteous talk about virtue and the wages of sin. Then Nell finished her portrait.
You had to look hard to see it, but it was unmistakable. Softly worked in shadow colors, far in the back of the painting, was a couple, embracing lovingly. The preacher's wife and Loftus McKenzie, a hog farmer who lived outside of town.
Now, no one else had known anything about the woman's fondness for Loftus. No one but Nell. And no one was quite sure how she knew. But at least something good had come out of that old scandal. The preacher's wife ran off with Loftus and the dried-up preacher left for parts unknown.
Still, ever since then Nellie had had a hard time finding anyone willing to pose for her.
Thankfully Myrtis Hartsfield spoke up before Emma was forced to answer. "That's enough about your paintin', Nell. We've got to get this thing settled. Now, Emma, honey, I know you're tryin' real hard and all… but folks in Buckshot like the sound of a good fiddle. We like toetappin' music. We don't want to hear it played like it was a cat dyin'."
"But…"
Maybelle Hawken raised her voice over the din. The seventy-year-old woman was hard of hearing and shouted as if everyone else was, too. "Don't know what the fuss is all about Buckshot ain't gonna change, young lady. Not for you nor nobody. 'Sides. I figure any hoorah folks wear shoes to is high-tone enough for most around here!"
Priscilla and Myrtis turned on the older woman, both of them shouting to be heard. A couple of the other ladies started in commenting on the goings-on and Nellie leaned back and studied Emma, as if planning a portrait.
She'd lost control. Somehow it had all gone wrong. Emma looked helplessly at her audience and saw her lovely plans disappear. She'd only wanted to try something special. Like she'd seen back east. Why, last year's Valentine ball had been simply elegant ,with the faint droning of violins played the way they were meant to be played, fine wines, candlelight, and the men and women dressed in the height of fashion. It was all so magical. Was it so wrong to want to share a little magic with her friends?
She glanced at the familiar faces surrounding her and smiled helplessly. Even with all the aggravation, Emma wouldn't want anything about her hometown changed. Permanently, that is.
The arguing women had each, in her own way, tried to fill the hole in Emma's life when her mother had died. They'd loved her, comforted her, scolded her, and on more than one occasion swatted her backside for her. And though she wouldn't have them any other way, Emma did wish that they could bend just enough to see that a little change once in a while was a good thing. And that an elegant dance could be just as much fun as a good old-fashioned barn dance. Emma knew they would all enjoy it so!
But she realized that all Myrtis asked for was a bright red dress with a couple of stiff petticoats to rustle during the square dance. Priscilla Jeffries only wanted the men to spit into spittoons instead of the floor… Emma sighed. And Maybelle only expected folks to wear shoes. It was hopeless.
"Well now, looks like I came at just the right time!"
Emma's breath caught. That deep voice set little spirals of delight dancing down her spine. Slowly she turned to see J.T. standing in the open doorway. The ladies' loud arguments ceased immediately as they all turned to look at the handsome sheriff.
But J.T. only had eyes for Emma. "I'm here to help, Em." He smiled. "What do you want us men to do first?"
Chapter Three
J.T. filled the doorway and Emma stared at him. He'd changed clothes. The long-sleeved gray shirt tucked into a neatly pressed pair of black pants suited him perfectly. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. It didn't seem to stop, this fascination with J.T. Phillips. For years she'd watched, followed, dreamed about him, and he'd treated her as he would a pesky little sister.
From the summer of her fifteenth year to that last humiliating St. Valentine's Day before she'd left for the east, Emma had loved J.T. to distraction.
She looked at him now and felt the same, familiar quickening of her blood, the curl of excitement in her stomach. He was tall enough for three men, with long legs, broad shoulders, jet-black hair that needed trimming, and eyes as dark and fathomless as a winter night's sky.
Emma forced a deep breath into her lungs and pointedly looked away. No. She wouldn't start that up again. She was a lady now, an adult, not a love-struck child. So why was it, she asked herself, that the sound of his voice affected her the same way it always had? In fact, the only way she seemed able to control her reactions to J.T. was to avoid him completely. And that's just what she'd been trying to do. Besides… that Valentine's Day memory still hurt. It probably always would. Emma repressed a shudder. Never again, she silently vowed.
But she would accept his help! She knew very well that if J.T. became involved, the other men in Buckshot would follow.
"Emma! Emma girl!"
She jumped, startled to find that she'd been staring at J.T. so hard she'd forgotten about everyone else. Emma spun around quickly and faced Maybelle.
The older woman frowned at her. "
Where'd your mind go, child?"
The other ladies exchanged knowing looks and soft smiles.
"Uh…" Emma said, feeling a flush of embarrassment sweep her.
Maybelle shoved her large body out of the creaking chair. "Well, if that's all you got to say, I'm goin' home. Still got bread to bake and Hollis's long johns to wash."
As if she'd rung the school bell for dismissal, the other women rose and followed Maybelle to the door. J.T. stepped aside nimbly to avoid the rush. Emma hurriedly stepped in behind them and shouted heartily, "All right, ladies! We'll meet again tomorrow. Same time. Right here at the church."
No one answered, but Emma did see Maybelle's hand lift slightly in acknowledgment.
"Didn’t mean to bust up your meetin' ," J.T. said quietly when they were alone.
"Oh, you didn't," Emma answered as she closed the door. Why did everyone have to leave at once? "They were all itchin' – I mean ready to go anyway. I couldn't have held them much longer."
He held his hat in his hands and watched as she gathered up her bonnet and gloves. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window, covering her in soft patches of color. "Did you decide on anything yet for the dance?" he finally managed to say.
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she slid her string bag over her wrist. Her hands were shaking. "Not really. But we still have two weeks. I'm sure I'll manage."
"Yeah, " he agreed.
Emma straightened and told herself firmly that she had to stop reacting in such a ridiculous manner to J.T.'s presence. Her childish adoration of him was in the past. And that's where she was going to keep it. He'd made it clear enough before she left town that he just wasn't interested.
"Well," she said with forced brightness, "thank you for your offer, J.T." She took a few quick steps to the front door.
He reached it ahead of her. "It was more than an offer, Em. Like you said, I'm supposed to be in charge of the men's contributions to this little get-together."
Her gaze shot up to his. "Get-together?"
"Yeah."
"J.T." – she pulled her gloves on with a sharp tug – "this dance is going to be much more than a 'gettogether.'"
He grinned and leaned his shoulder against the door, preventing her from opening it. "Not if you keep on ordering the men around like you've been doing, it isn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Em" – he chucked her under her chin – "that folks who remember you in pigtails with a runny nose don't take kindly to you all of a sudden bossin' 'em."
"I am not bossing anyone," Emma countered, stepping back just a little.
"Wasn't it you who said that they had to wear coats and ties?" He crossed his arms negligently over his chest.
"That's not being bossy." Emma argued. "It's simply informing them what kind of clothing would be appropriate."
J.T. laughed. "Appropriate? Imagine Emma Taylor worried about 'appropriate'!"
A hot wave of humiliation washed over her as she remembered what he was referring to. She grabbed at the doorknob but couldn't quite get it. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Well then," he said, leaning toward her, "I'll help you recall. Wasn't it you who sneaked into the church and rigged a bucket of honey so's it would fall onto our old preacher's wife when she came into services?"
Emma came up short and looked up at him. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn't thinking about that last Valentine's Day. Maybe, she told herself, it was such a small thing to him, he'd forgotten all about it.
"And wasn't it you who smeared axle grease all over Deacon Barnes's spectacles when he was drunk?" J.T. went on, shaking his head. "Poor fella woke up and thought he was blind!"
Emma's lips twitched and she covered her mouth with her hand to hide the smile. Then she realized how close J.T. was. The laughter in her died, swept away by a more powerful emotion. She swallowed nervously and forced herself to meet his gaze seriously. "That was a long time ago, J.T. I was a child."
"That's what I'm sayin', Emma." His breath brushed her cheek and her heart stopped. "Folks around here think of you as that child."
"Everyone?" She watched him closely.
"Just about."
For a few long moments neither of them moved. Just as she'd thought. J.T. still saw her as the little girl of the past. Probably expected her to moon and sigh over him like she used to. Well, she wasn't about to do that again!
Emma reached out, pushed J.T.'s hand away, and grasped the doorknob. He jumped aside when she yanked it open.
"Well, J.T.," she told him stubbornly, "it's high time folks around here learned that Emma Taylor's all grown up now. And this Valentine's dance is one way to prove it."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
"If I have to drag every man in town to this dance, that's just what I'll do!" She turned away and started walking. Over her shoulder she added, "With or without your help, J.T. Phillips."
As she hurried quickly down the boardwalk, she heard him chuckling behind her. Her mind's eye quickly drew up an image of J.T.'s smile and her heart stopped. But she reminded herself sharply of what had happened the day she'd taken him a token of her love. She felt again the wash of embarrassment. The sharp sting of discomfort. And she would always remember Dixie Murdoch's laughter.
Straightening her shoulders, Emma recalled the solemn vow she'd made on her trip east. That she would never again force herself on J.T. Phillips. That she would pretend the years of her adoration hadn't happened. That she would find a man to marry who didn't stir up every sense in her body so that she wouldn't again make a fool of herself for love.
The trouble was, the only man she'd ever wanted to marry was J.T.
But perhaps it was time to realize that she never would. And maybe it was better that way. She didn't want to feel again a driving need to be with someone. She didn't want to be the fool again.
"Hey, Emma!"
What did he want now? She stopped and waited for him as he trotted up to her side. "Just curious, you understand," J.T. said, "but what did you have in mind for the men to do?"
Emma thought for a moment then smiled. "You could build a dance floor, J.T."
"Dance floor?"
"Yes."
"What the hell, I mean, why do we need a dance floor?" He put his hat on and looked down at her in amazement. "We always hold the square dance in the meadow."
Her spine stiffened and she glared back at him. "Didn't you just say that you were going to get the men to help?"
"Well, yeah, but…"
"This year we won't be having a square dance."
"Why the hell not?" J.T.'s balled fists rode his hips. "Hollis Hawken is the best fiddle player in the state. Most folks come special just to hear him play. And Deacon Barnes practices all year to call the squares on Valentine's Day!"
Emma smoothed the front of her pale lavender gown. "This year we're going to dance the waltz."
"The what?"
She frowned at him. "The waltz. It's a lovely dance that I learned–"
"I know. Back east."
"Yes." Emma smiled softly. "It's a smooth, elegant dance where couples glide across a polished floor together." Her smile disappeared as she remarked, "We could hardly glide in the meadow with all the gopher holes out there. Not to mention the horse… er…"
"Leavings?" he suggested.
She cleared her throat and ignored his grin. "Exactly."
"And who besides you knows how to do this dang dance anyway?" He wasn't ready to admit that he'd seen the dance before, on a trip to San Francisco.
"Well, no one yet…" She held up her hand to cut him off. "But it's easy to learn, I can teach–"
"Of all the harebrained–"
"If you don't want to help," Emma cut in.
"Hell," he groaned softly, "you don't need help. I will. I'll prob'ly have to hold a gun on the men for this one."
"For heaven's sake, J.T." Emma's temper boiled up and overflowe
d. "I'm not asking you to hang anybody! It’s just a dance!"
"No, Emma!" he shouted back at her, "what we have every year is a dance! I got no idea what this is!"
She inhaled deeply, color staining her cheeks. But before she said another heated word, Emma suddenly spun around on her heel and stomped off.
J.T. kicked a nearby hitching post and winced.
###
Frank Taylor sat in the kitchen of his hotel and watched his daughter move between the stove and table, carrying and serving supper.
Paper Hearts Page 2
