Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] by Message on the Quilt Page B

speech from
Henry V.
Depending on how many young people frequented the evening assemblies, he might tell Twain’s story about the jumping frog. Boys especially enjoyed that one.
    Tonight, though, Noah wasn’t really in the mood for humor. Taking a deep breath, he gazed over the imaginary crowd and began. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have found that audiences in Maine and Georgia and Missouri and California and, I hope, Nebraska”—he paused to allow for the expected smiles and chuckles to ripple through the crowd—“all share the same curiosity about speakers they have not heard before.” He made a joke about himself and then mentioned the article about himself in the
Daily Dispatch.
William Rhodes should appreciate that. It never hurt to befriend a newspaper editor.
    He’d just segued his introduction to the Shepherd’s Psalm—he’d recite that at the opening exercises—when he thought he heard a scream. He glanced toward the river. A coyote? He was imagining things. But the second scream convinced him. Very real. And coming from—the direction of that row of little cottages he’d walked past earlier. Empty cottages, he’d thought, although now, as he jumped down off the stage and trotted out from beneath the overhang, he saw a light glimmering in a window. And heard another scream. A woman.
    Noah ran.

    Emilie had been standing, frozen with fear, but with the second scream, she managed to move. She’d barely managed to keep from dropping the lighted oil lamp when the flickering light revealed that thing.
I could have burned the place down.
At least she’d managed to set the lamp down atop the old table. But now what?
    Her heart pounding, her eyes on the vile creature curled up in the opposite corner of the cottage parlor, she stepped back. And back. And back until, finally, she sensed the closed door behind her and grasped the glass doorknob. And there she stood.
    She couldn’t just leave the lamp burning, but there was no way on earth she would be able to muster the courage to reverse her steps. Even if that thing didn’t seem inclined to attack. She shuddered. She would step out onto the porch and regroup. Maybe it would leave. She would keep the door open and watch from a safe distance. Maybe she could outwait it. Maybe the light from the lamp would make it do…something.
    Slowly, she turned the doorknob and felt the catch release. Taking a deep breath, she stepped to one side, flung the door open, and whirled—directly into the arms of a stranger. She screamed again, before clinging to him like a five-year-old girl welcoming her father home from the newspaper office.
    When the stranger rumbled that things were “all right,” Emilie backpedaled away from him, nearly tripping off the edge of the porch. He reached out to catch her lest she fall. She waved him off and pointed at the open door. “S–s–snake.”
    The stranger stepped to the doorway and peered in. “It’s just a bull snake.”
    He was tall. Very…tall. And rather good-looking—at least based on the side of his face illuminated by the lamplight. Emilie hugged herself and took another step away. “Who are you? And what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
    “Noah Shaw,” he said. His voice was deep, but gentle. Calming. “And prior to charging across an open field to rescue a damsel in distress, I was practicing one of my monologues over on the Tabernacle stage.”
    “In the dark?”
    Mr. Shaw shrugged and glanced back into the cottage before answering. “I’m accustomed to tents. I wasn’t certain what it would be like—how to project.” He paused. “And I assumed I’d have the grounds to myself at this hour.”
    Shaw.
After hearing Father talk about Noah Shaw, she’d envisioned spectacles and a bald pate, not someone so young. So handsome. Not someone like the man standing before her. She glanced down at the faded calico dress she’d donned before riding over here. Thankful for the low light, she said,