Em's Only Chance

Em tensed as Chance strode purposefully in her direction, glad he'd come yet wishing he'd go away.

He said, "Would you like to walk a while?"

Her feet groaned but Em ignored them. Handing her plate to Megan, she stood. "That'd be fine, Chance."

Slowly, aimlessly, they strolled away from the garish light of the fire and a rollicking rendition of "Old Dan Tucker." The sweet odor of cut corn stalks came in waves on the breeze. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Em saw two forms ahead of them in the darkness and made out a riotous mass of curling hair--Lisa Feiklin with a man.

"How have you been, Emma?"

"Same as always, I guess," Em answered. "Since the canning got done, things have been quiet around here till today. I'll be pullin' corn tomorrow, I reckon." She searched her mind for a safe topic. "Miss Susan's looking right fine."

"Another week and she'll be riding again, I expect." Chance dismissed the subject and groped for another.

The moon shone like a brilliant silver dollar, shedding smooth, gentle light on the party. It was a hay-ride moon, a hunting moon, a lover's moon.

When he spoke, his words seemed impatient, like he wanted to get them over with. "Look, Emma. Do you think we could go back to the way things were before? Before the cave, I mean? These two weeks I've whipped myself day and night for being a brass plated fool. Can you forgive me?"

"Surely, Chance. I'd like to forget it ever happened."

He drew a deep breath. "So would I."

Jeremy and Lobo passed them, brushing Chance's elbow.

"Jeremy! Watch where you'se a-goin'," Emma called.

"It's a miracle he can still run," Chance remarked, "after the back-breaking day we've had."

Emma chuckled. "It's a miracle all right." She told him about Jeremy's battle with rheumatic fever.

They walked past the corral and the chicken house before circling back. A chilly breeze skipped through, but quickly left to find other sport. Em wished she'd brought her wrap.

"Would you mind if I still call on you sometimes? As a friend? That is, if you don't mind being friends with an old heathen like me."

"I'd like it fine, Chance. That's what I wanted all along." She drew in a breath of clear air. Oddly, she didn't feel nearly as tired as she had twenty minutes ago.

Out of the darkness, racing Jeremy knocked Chance full in the back, almost knocking him down. The boy fell back, bounced up, and kept running.

"Jeremy Wescott!" Em cried. "What's got into you?" Mortified, she said, "I'm real sorry, Chance."

He worked his shoulders as though stretching. "Nothing's broken, I guess." His expression changed from concern to alarm. Clutching at his back, he twisted around, his movements becoming more frantic by the second.

"What is it?" Em demanded.

"Something's crawling down my shirt!" He slapped behind his shoulder blade.

"Is it stinging you?"

"Not yet." He tugged frantically at his buttons, noted Em's anxious eyes and turned his back toward her. "I apologize, Emma. I can't abide crawly critters. Never could." Slipping out of his shirt, he shook it--then held it up, catching the fire light to check for residents.

The ludicrous situation made Em smile. Chance glanced over his shoulder.

"For shame, Emma! You laughed at me when I had that tomfool flour in my hair and now you're about to do it again."

"I'm afraid Jeremy's up to something," she said, biting her upturned lips. "I'll speak to him about it."

"As Mr. Wyatt says, I'd be much obliged." A hint of sarcasm came through.

An instant later, Em's snickers died.

The glow of the flames reached Chance's bronze back. Instead of the firm, smooth flesh she expected, the thick skin was creased, puckered. Pale lines crisscrossed from shoulder to shoulder, from neck to waist. Scars. Deep, hideous scars.

Tears welled up before Em could stop them. She put out her hand and touched a white streak.

Chance froze. Slowly, he turned and looked at her. Em's swimming eyes gazed mutely into his. He looked away and shrugged into his shirt.

Fastening the buttons, he spoke deliberately. "I took Clark's Grammar from Master Pettigrew's library. The foreman found it in my bedding. I didn't steal it. I used to take it every Saturday night to study while the others slept."

Tears spilled over one by one and slid, shining, down Em's brown cheeks.

Naked pain lay grimly detailed on the man's taut face. His lips twitched.

For the first time in twenty years, Em listened to her heart instead of her head. She stepped into his arms.

One wounded creature reaching out to another, they held each other and shared the anguish, the agony that only those who know like affliction can fully understand.

"Forgive me," Em whispered into his shoulder.

"For what?"

"For acting like your past was no account." She drew away and lifted her wet face to him. "I don't know all the answers, Chance. Fact is, I don't know half as many as I thought I did ten minutes ago." She pulled in a shaky breath. "But I do know that Jesus can help you. If only I could explain it to you better."

He placed a finger on her lips, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion. "Let it lie, Emma. Please."

Closing her eyes, she nodded. He lifted her hand and placed it inside his crooked elbow. They took one more slow turn around the yard, not talking but sensing deeper companionship than mere conversation could provide.