Paper Hearts

by Maureen Child

  "How's the dance comin' along?" he finally ventured.

  "Not very well, Pa." Emma sat down opposite him and picked up her coffee cup. She looked at her father over the china rim and noted, not for the first time, the deep wrinkles in his suntanned cheeks, the receding gray hair, and the soft brown eyes. "I can't seem to get folks to try anything new."

  "Ain't surprised, hon." He lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth, then talked around them. "You come home with a lot of big-city notions that just ain't gonna work in Buckshot. Folks here do things the way they like 'em done. Why should they want to change?"

  Emma glanced at her father's overalls and knew he spoke the truth. He hadn't once worn the beautiful suits she'd purchased for him while she was away. She moved her gaze around the familiar kitchen and realized that since her father'd hit that pocket of gold a few years back, he'd not spent a penny of it on himself.

  Oh, he'd built the boardinghouse, but only because he liked company and figured that with his own hotel he'd always have someone to talk to. And he'd sent her to a finishing school, but only because he'd promised Emma's mother that he would do all he could to see that Emma became a lady.

  But he wasn't interested in anything else. Like the rest of Buckshot, he liked things just the way they were and saw no reason to change.

  Emma sighed and pushed her potatoes around on her plate with her fork. If she were forced to tell the truth, she supposed she would have to admit to feeling pretty much the same. There was a lot to be said for just being yourself. And yet she recalled clearly the snide remarks made by the eastern women whenever they thought she couldn't hear. They'd criticized her hair, her clothes, her way of speaking, even the way she walked.

  But by the end of her two-year enrollment she was every bit as good as any other female in that blasted academy. She'd learned her lessons well, and by heaven all that hard work was not going to go to waste.

  She was going to give the town of Buckshot at least one day of elegance. One day of splendor where they could enjoy what other folks had. Then, if they still wanted the old way of doing things, at least Emma would know she had tried. Besides, she wanted J.T. Phillips to see what he had missed by dismissing her love.

  ###

  "Can't figure out why you'd want to do such a thing, J.T."

  J.T. stared at the man on the porch swing and ground his teeth together in frustration. Hadn't he already explained his position three times? Tiredly he rubbed one hand over his jaw and started again. This was proving harder than he'd thought.

  "What's wrong with givin' the women one fancy day, Deacon?"

  "Ain't nothin' wrong I s'pose." Deacon Barnes leaned over the porch rail and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dust. "But what about the square dancin'? Hell, I even worked up a few new calls this year!"

  J.T. sighed and tried to make a deal. "How 'bout if we have a few squares called in between these waltzes Emma's planned?"

  "Well…"

  "Now, Deacon." J.T.'s voice deepened. "You know as well as me that you're always takin' breaks anyway."

  "True, true. Throat gets dry." He coughed and patted his throat. "A little sip of Dutch's brew clears it right up, though. Well, all right then." Deacon narrowed his gaze. "I’ll help with the dang floor." The thin man's scraggly beard split when he grinned. "'Sides, this way I’ll get more time to visit with Dutch!"

  J.T. took off his hat. This wouldn't be easy. "Emma says this year no jugs."

  "What?"

  Chapter Four

  Emma moved slowly in the afternoon sun. She was in no hurry. She wasn't even sure if the other ladies would show up at the meeting. Somehow nothing seemed to be working out the way she'd planned.

  "Thunderation!" She kicked a stone in her path and sent it skittering across the road.

  "Well, Emma. What's the trouble with you?"

  Emma jumped nervously and spun around in a circle. "Nell? Where are you?"

  "Up here," came that voice again. Emma leaned her head back and stared up into the branches of an ancient elm tree. "Where?"

  "Right here, girl."

  Something moved and Emma squinted into the leafy darkness.

  "For heaven's sake. Are you blind?"

  Finally Nell's face came into view. The older woman blended into her surroundings beautifully. She wore an old green shirt and a pair of beige men's pants. She was straddling a thick tree limb, her back against the wide trunk. Munching on an apple, Nell could have been a child on a summer day instead of a woman closing in on sixty.

  "Hello, Nellie, what are you doing?" Emma asked, not surprised at all to find her friend up a tree.

  "I climbed up early to wait for the sunset." Nell tossed her apple core to the ground and wiped her hands on her pants. "You get a real nice view from up here."

  "I remember."

  Nell had the best climbing tree in the county.

  "Why the long face, girl? Your party not working out just right?"

  "No, Nell, it's not. But it's not my party. It's for everyone."

  "Is it?" Nell shifted her weight slightly and a few leaves floated to the ground. "I wonder."

  "We have a Valentine's Day dance every year, Nellie. You know that as well as me."

  "Yeah… but it ain't never been this much work before."

  "I just want it to be special, is all," Emma said defensively.

  "Now, why's that, do you suppose?"

  "Well…" Emma looked up and met the older woman's steady gaze. "Is it so wrong to want something special, Nell? Just once?"

  Nell leaned forward, her arms folded on the tree limb. "No. It ain't wrong, Emma. But you should try to figure out why you want it so bad." She smiled and the leafy shadows played over her face. "You maybe tryin' to show somebody a thing or two?"

  Emma lowered her gaze and stared down at the town at the foot of the hill.

  "Maybe that handsome sheriff you used to follow around?"

  Emma stiffened. "No, Nellie. I'm not."

  "Hmmm…" Nell cupped her chin in her hands. "Anyhow, folks’re sure talkin’ about this dance of yours."

  "Imagine so," Emma murmured. "What are they sayin'?"

  "Well, the women are pretty much on your side of the whole thing." She leaned back again, stretched her legs out along the limb and crossed her ankles. "'Course it don't take much to talk a woman into gettin' all spruced up once in a while. But the men…"

  "Yes?"

  "I haven't heard so much grumblin' and complainin' since Tom Hill's saloon ran out of beer one Saturday night."

  Emma crossed her arms in front of her and frowned thoughtfully. "And I'll just bet that J .T. is right in there with them."

  "Well now, that is a funny thing. Ordinarily I would've figured that, too. But it appears ol' J.T. ain't as predictable as we thought." Nell smiled down at the younger woman. "He's got a whole slew of men down in the meadow buildin' that dance floor."

  "He does?"

  "He does. And from what I hear, it wasn't easy."

  Emma stared silently down at the town, her mind whirling. J.T. was helping? Why? Last time she'd talked to him, he hadn't seemed any too anxious. Then her friend spoke up again and Emma shook her head.

  "You know, Emma," Nell said in a different tone, "I've started a portrait of you."

  Emma looked up into the tree and saw that Nellie had leaned back into the shadows. Her face was hidden from sight.

  "You have? But how? I haven't posed."

  "Don't always need a body to pose for me," Nell said vaguely. "I keep my eyes open. Then I just paint what I see."

  Emma squinted hard, desperate to try to read Nell's features. It was impossible. If she didn't want to be seen, Nell could practically disappear.

  "Yeah, Emma," the woman said. "I think this painting is gonna be one of my best. You should stop by and take a look sometime soon."

  A chill crept up Emma's spine, but she fought it down. It was ridiculous, this superstitious nonsense about Nell's paintings. Why should Emm
a worry about what Nell painted? It didn't mean anything. Did it? She shook her head. No. It didn't.

  "Maybe I will, Nellie," she called as she started down the hill for town.

  "Oh, you will, dear," Nell whispered, and leaned back against the trunk again to wait out the sunset.

  ###

  In the meadow on the other side of town J.T. had his own problems. Deacon Barnes, Hollis Hawken, George Hartsfield, and a few of the other men had all showed up to help build the dance floor. But they were doing a lot more talking than building.

  "I can't understand what all the hoo-rah is over this Valentine's Day anyway," Hollis grumbled "Ever' female in town is abuzz with what they're gonna wear and, worse yet, what we're gonna wear!"

  "Know what you mean," Deacon chimed in. "Why, it's gettin' so's a man ain't safe in his own bed no more. Just yesterday, Dove Charles come by first thing with a big ol' cake." He curled his lip in distaste. "Just passin' by, she says. A-carryin' that big cake, I asks her? Well, she says, she knows since I ain't got no woman of my own fixin' for me, I must be powerful hungry."

  George laughed, a booming sound that carried over the meadow. "Was the cake any good?"

  "Hell yes, it was good! You think a woman that size don't know how to cook?"

  Hollis chuckled softly in sympathy. "Awright, Deacon. You got you some female problems, I reckon. But at least you ain't got one livin' with you! Why, my woman's been after me about this dance for days! Says I got to wear a tie. Now why the hell would I want to wear a tie for? Hell, I ain't dead. Ain't nobody gonna bury me!"

  "This is all Emma's doin', y'know," Deacon whined.

  J.T. sighed and shook his head. Before he could speak, though, George added his two cents' worth.

  "Huh! You think that's bad? I can't even walk in my house without Myrt a-grabbin' hold of my arm and swingin' me into a two-step! She's practicin' her square dance day and night. It's gettin' so I don't dare walk across the floor•!"

  "Hell," Deacon spat into the dirt, "didn't nobody tell her there ain't gonna be no square dancin' this year?"

  "What?"

  "Now, Deacon…" J.T. said warningly. "I told you we'd do a couple of rounds." He glanced quickly at the other men. In the two days since he’d first spoken to Deacon, he'd been able to keep the man quiet about Emma's plans. J.T. told himself he should have known that it couldn't last.

  "A couple?" George asked, throwing his hammer down. "If we're only dancin' a couple of squares, why the hell are we buildin' this here floor?"

  "Miss Emma is fixin' to teach us all some fancy new steps," Deacon told him.

  "Not me, she ain't," Hollis answered quickly.

  There was a murmur of agreement from the other men.

  "It's bad enough we got to dance once a year anyhow. I ain't takin' no lessons like no durned schoolboy!"

  J.T. threw his hat down. He was beginning to see Emma's point. Maybe a change now and again was the right way to do things. "You bunch beat all, you know that? One day a year the women want a little party and some dancin' and all you can do is complain about it!"

  "I don't see you with no woman a-draggin' you off to dance, J.T.," Hollis whined.

  Deacon snorted. "He probably won't even show up."

  "Oh, yes he will," George added slyly. "Myrt tells me that he's been comin' around regular for the last few days to 'help' Emma."

  J.T. frowned at the big, barrel-chested blacksmith. George talked too much.

  "You mean all that time Emma spent follerin' him around finally sunk in?" Deacon asked on a laugh.

  "'Pears so," George confirmed. "Leastways, that's what my woman says."

  J.T. flushed slightly as the men's chuckling grew. "We gonna build this floor or are you men gonna talk the day away?"

  "All right, J.T., we're fixin' to do it." Hollis bent over and picked up a plank. "Where the hell you want this blasted thing, anyway?"

  J.T. snatched his hat off the ground. Jamming it onto his head he stalked off, mumbling, "Right where you're standin', knot head!"

  He kept walking, heading toward the jailhouse. Might as well check in on Danny. See how things were doing in his absence. Besides, while he was gone, the men might get the rest of their gossiping out of their systems.

  His patience shot, J.T. began to have an idea of the problems Emma had been having since she'd started her campaign for an elegant valentine party. He'd never known his friends to be so blasted hardheaded. Or had they always been like that, and he'd just never noticed?

  What was the matter with them anyway? Was the thought of a little romance that frightening? He knew darned well that those men loved their wives. But they'd rather be dragged behind a crazy mule than admit it.

  J .T. stuck his hands in his pockets and told himself that he wasn't much better. Oh, he'd loved Emma for years. Obviously, according to George, the whole town except for Emma knew it. But he'd never told her. He'd never even hinted at it. He'd been so busy trying to keep her at arm's length when she was too young that he'd lost most of his chances. And now she'd hardly stand still long enough for him to talk to her.

  J.T. snorted, stopped in the middle of the road, and turned away from town. He needed to think. Deliberately he stomped past the buildings at the edge of Buckshot and kept right on going. Valentine's Day. Emma gone for two long years and she comes home just in time for Valentine's Day.

  J.T. walked to a lightning-struck oak tree and plopped down on the stump. He recalled clearly the last time he'd seen Emma before she'd left Buckshot. In fact, he'd do just about anything to forget it.

  It was Valentine's Day then, too. And she was almost eighteen, the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. J.T. had made up his mind to ask her pa for her hand on her eighteenth birthday. But he'd never gotten the chance.

  He closed his eyes against the afternoon sun and let the memory come.

  J.T. had been in his home, right beside the jailhouse, that day. It was early still, he'd just finished breakfast. When he answered the knock at his door, he'd no idea that he was shattering all of his carefully laid plans.

  Dixie Murdoch was standing on the porch. And Dixie, all done up in her finest dress, was quite a sight. She'd stepped right into his small parlor, carrying a plate of heart-shaped cookies she said she'd made just for him. There hadn't seemed a polite way of getting her to leave, so J.T. had let her talk. And she did. The woman rambled on for what seemed hours before she finally rose to go home.

  In his eagerness to see her out J.T. leaped up and made for the door. Somehow he lost his footing and tumbled into Dixie. Being a tall, well-built girl, she kept her balance and wrapped her arms around J.T. to steady him. Before he knew it, she was kissing him. And he stood there, his arms still wrapped around Dixie, and let her.

  He barely heard the front door swing open. But Dixie did, he was sure of it. Because her ardor increased and she flattened herself against him like hair on a dog. When he finally came to his senses and peeled Dixie off, he was in time to see Emma, running from his house like she was on fire.

  Dixie was laughing, making some nasty remarks about Emma being a foolish child for chasin' after a man who didn't want her. J.T. was sure that Emma heard her, because she really started moving then, her running feet -barely touching the ground.

  And at that moment, J.T. came as close as he ever had in his life to striking a woman. Quickly he nearly shoved Dixie out the door and started after Emma. But she didn't want to be caught. She was halfway home by the time J.T. reached the street

  On his way back he saw it. Crumpled into a ball and tossed into the mud just outside his front door was a lace-trimmed red paper heart.

  He picked it up and gently smoothed it out with his fingertips until he could read it.

  The message was simple. J.T. I love you, Emma.

  J.T. opened his eyes and stared blankly at the scenery around him. Maybe if he hadn't given her an extra day to cool off before going to see her, things would have been different. As it was, when he went to her house, she wa
s already gone. To that fancy academy. To be gone two long years.

  And her not knowing that he loved her, too.

  Chapter Five

  Emma'd been trying to explain the dance floor and why she'd wanted to try something different.

  "Ah, hush," Maybelle shouted at Myrtis. "You just want to keep doin' the same old thing 'cause you know you're the best square dancer in town and you like to hear everybody else say so!"

  "Maybelle Hawken, you're a spiteful old woman!" Myrtis countered quickly.