The Librarian of Boone's Hollow - Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,20

threadbare, but it was still the nicest set of clothes he owned. Had ever owned. And Maw’d been so proud to give it to him.

A flash of orange in the sea of green to his left caught his attention, and Maw’s voice from ten years past spoke in his memory. “I’m lettin’ ya have that slingshot your paw made for ya, ’cause somebody’s gotta keep the crows out o’ my garden patch. But, Emmett, if I catch ya takin’ aim at one o’ my pretty orioles, I’ll use that slingshot for kindlin’, an’ you won’t never be given another.” He’d known back then that Maw meant what she said, and he only shot at the pesky black birds that tormented her beans and squash and tomatoes. To this day, when he saw the telltale orange belly of an oriole, he thought of Maw.

Thoughts of Maw always led to thoughts of home, and eagerness made his feet speed up, even though the muscles in his calves and the backs of his thighs burned almost as hot as the sun. The quicker steps jarred him, and the arm bearing the bag’s weight felt like it could disconnect from his shoulder. He switched hands, not breaking stride. He set his lips in a grim line and ignored his aching muscles. He’d gotten soft walking only from building to building on mostly flat ground for the past four years.

He heaved mighty breaths and swiped at sweat and pushed himself upward, upward, upward. Finally, legs quivering like the limb on a hemlock bush in the breeze, he entered a narrow clearing lined with wooden structures. He paused in the break between the trees and set his bag beside his feet. Hands on his hips, he took in the familiar setting. Not a thing had changed since his last visit home a year ago, except somebody’d painted the Blevins’ old smokehouse. White with blue trim, the same as his fraternity colors.

His college buddies would probably scoff at the uneven dirt streets, weathered buildings with rock foundations, and grassless yards in front of the houses. But it was a welcome sight to him. He’d reached Boone’s Hollow. He was home.

“Emmett! Emmett Tharp!” a female voice blasted, its tone so full of joy that Emmett automatically smiled.

He turned in the direction of the call, expecting to see Maw running to greet him. Instead, Bettina Webber was coming at him. And she had her arms spread wide.

Boone’s Hollow

Emmett

EMMETT RUBBED HIS EYES, NOT sure he was seeing right. But when he lowered his fists, the same image filled his vision—Bettina, coming so fast puffs of dust hung in the humid air behind her. Her blue-checked skirt flew up and exposed her dirty knees, and her freckled face wore the biggest smile he’d ever seen.

He scratched his temple. Why’d she have her arms open like that? She was fixing to hug somebody. He glanced over his shoulder. No one else was there. So that meant—

“Emmett! Oh, Emmett, you’re home!” Without even a pause, she leaped.

He grunted, his arms closing around her in reflex, and staggered backward two steps. Good thing he’d put down his carpetbag or the two of them would probably be in a heap on the ground. He wouldn’t have been too pleased at getting his best clothes dusty from the suit collar to pant cuffs.

Between her stranglehold on him and some kind of flowery scent rising from her sweat-damp hair and filling his nostrils, he couldn’t breathe. Weary from his long walk, damp head to toe with perspiration, and worried he’d faint dead away if he didn’t draw a good breath soon, he leaned forward until her bare feet met the ground. Then he unwound her arms from his neck. With one wide sideways step, he put himself behind his luggage. From the safety of his barrier, he pulled in a full breath and then let it out, eyeing her close in case she decided to take another lunge in his direction.

She tilted her head, fluttering her eyelashes. “Hey, Emmett. I been watchin’ for you so I could welcome you home.”

He could’ve asked how she’d known when to expect him, but he was half-afraid to start a conversation. She was acting as if she didn’t have good sense. Had she dipped into her pap’s jug of moonshine? The still high on the mountain in the pine trees behind the Webbers’ place was supposed to be a secret, but everybody in town knew why Burke Webber planted