Convinced that her aunts were safe, Emma immediately searched the sanctuary for Victoria and her son. Finding her friend examining a hole in the far wall, Emma rushed to her side. “Tori? Are you and Lewis . . .”
Victoria turned aside to reveal a hale-and-hearty sandy-haired boy hiding among the folds of her skirts. “We’re fine. Just examining these bullet holes.” She reached above her head and ran the tip of her pointer finger over a divot in the whitewashed wall. “Lewis was the one to bring it to my attention.”
“Bring what to your attention?” Emma frowned up at the half-dozen dark circles marring the wall, indignation swelling inside her once again. The fool man could have killed someone.
“He aimed high.” Victoria’s matter-of-fact voice recited her observation as if she and her son hadn’t just been under attack. “Even if we’d been standing, the shots would have sailed over our heads.”
Emma pivoted to study the broken window glass on the opposite side of the building. Short, jagged teeth jutted a bare inch at most from the top of the window frame. It had shattered from the top. “You think he intended only to scare us.”
Victoria nodded. “It seems so. But don’t think I’m excusing his actions.” Her eyes flared. “Anyone who fires a weapon into a crowded room deserves no sympathy. A bullet easily could have ricocheted and hit someone. As it is, the panic itself caused numerous injuries.”
A pounding from behind Emma drew her attention—drew everyone’s attention—back toward the pulpit. Aunt Henry’s palm slapped against the podium twice more before she raised an imperious hand and jabbed a finger toward the broken window.
“The coward has finally shown his true colors. Opening fire on women and children. Such depravity is not to be tolerated! Those of you who feel you must leave, do so with all haste, but those of you who feel the fire of injustice burning in your bellies, prepare yourselves for battle. I, for one, pledge to stay and fight alongside my niece. Who’s with me?”
“I am!” Victoria raised her hand in the air without a hint of hesitation. Emma’s eyes misted.
Betty Cooper pushed to her feet. “I ain’t about to leave my hens unprotected with a hooligan like that runnin’ around and causin’ mischief. Count me in.”
“Harper’s Station is my home.” Quiet Grace Mallory stood next. Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke, but there was nothing uncertain about the determined set of her chin. “I’m done running. And I’m done being told what I can and cannot do. The Lord gave me as much free will as he gave that man outside, and I choose to use mine by not bending to his. I choose to stay.”
Emma stared at the petite young woman. She’d never heard Grace string more than a handful of words together at any one time, and here she was addressing an entire room head held high and with a conviction that had Emma herself ready to sound the battle cry.
And she wasn’t the only one so affected. All over the room, women pushed to their feet, committing to stay and fight for their home. The show of solidarity seeped into Emma’s bones and infused her with strength, with purpose, and also with a touch of fear. These women were counting on her to lead them, to shepherd them through this travail. She knew how to fight financial battles, how to instill a spirit of independence in the women who came to her seeking aid, but how was she to fight a war of physical aggression and danger? Didn’t the Bible warn against the blind leading the blind?
“I guess I better stay, too,” Maybelle grumbled as she grabbed hold of one of the pew backs and pulled herself to her feet. “If all you hardheaded females are set on being soldiers, someone’s gotta be here to nurse your wounds. And there will be wounds. Mark my words.”
The practical reminder subdued the swelling current of partisanship, but Emma was thankful for the hefty dose of reality. Taking her skirt in hand, she ascended the dais and took her position beside Aunt Henry.
“Maybelle’s right. As much as I would love for all of you to stay, there is every likelihood that we will be facing true danger. Each of you must prayerfully consider your choice and count the cost before making a decision.”
Betty Cooper lumbered between the pews until she reached an aisle, then ambled up toward the front. “I’m all for countin’ the cost, Emma, but if it’s all the same to you, I think we ought to count a few other things, as well.” She turned to face the group. “Those who plan to stay . . . how many of ya own a firearm?”
“Do we really need to bring weapons into this discussion, dear?” Aunt Bertie’s usually pink complexion went decidedly pale. “Guns only breed violence.”