Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  Ben didn't look convinced, but at least he respected her wishes enough to step aside. The other spectators followed suit, moving back when Emma started down the sidewalk in the direction of her drunken father.

  Reverend Jonathan Atkins took another swig of freshsqueezed lemonade and licked his lips in pleasure. "You do make the finest lemonade in town, Mrs. Baxter," he gushed, setting the ice-cold glass to his sweaty temple. The temperature had to be pushing ninety degrees and not a cloud in the sky.

  Frances Baxter and her daughter, Rosie, had set up a drink stand in front of Bordens' Bakery to accommodate the number of visitors in town, and by the look of things, they were doing a fine business. The line for refreshment extended to the middle of Main Street.

  Frances looked flushed, and Jon couldn't tell if it came from his compliment or the excessive heat. "Why, thank ya," she said, hurrying to prepare another glass for the next eager customer, stuffing the nickel he offered into her deep dress pocket. "It sure is a scorcher t'day."

  "I'll grant you that," he replied, mopping his brow with the back of his hand.

  "Afternoon, Jon," said a passerby.

  Jon craned his neck toward the low-timbred voice, then grinned when he recognized its source. "Well, if it isn't the Callahans. Where are your youngsters?" Jon tipped his hat at Mrs. Baxter, then turned his attention to his good friends, Rocky and Sarah Callahan. Their wedding had cone on the heels of Ben and Liza's, a sort of marriage of convenience, Rocky needing a mother for his niece and nephew, whom he'd acquired at the death of his sister. If Jon were to judge, though, he would say the two had scrapped the whole notion of convenience and fallen in love. They were holding hands and smiling as if they hadn't a care in the world.

  "Bess Barrington offered to take them over to Sam's to ride them blasted mules," Rocky said. "And we didn't refuse. It's afforded Sarah and me the opportunity to visit without Seth's persistent begging."

  Jon laughed. "From what I hear, those mules are quite the attraction. Don't know what anyone sees in those big-eared hay burners, but I suppose if Sam's offering free rides to the kiddies, that'd be the draw."

  Rocky nodded, opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again without speaking. His eyes were fixed on something just over Jon's shoulder.

  "Come on, Ezra, you ole fool."

  Jon turned his head at the sound of Emma Browning's voice. The mite of a woman was doing her best to steer her drunken father in a straight line.

  "Emma, you need some help?" Rocky called out, stepping off the sidewalk to saunter across the street. Jon and Sarah followed.

  She paused to acknowledge the threesome with a tiny smile. "Thank you, but I believe I can manage," she replied with curtness, resuming her step. Her arni was looped through Ezra's, her willowy frame doing its best to support his swaying body. Emma was nothing if she wasn't stubborn-and a paradox of a woman if there ever was one. A delicate beauty, she was also hard to the bone, Jon pondered.

  Younger than Jon by a couple of years, Eninia had grown up with Benjamin, Rocky, and hint and had attended the same one-room schoolhouse. Jon distinctly remembered chasing her around the playground on their recess breaks, pulling at her blond braids, and teasing the occasional smile from her plump lips. She'd been shy in those days but had an edge to her even then. Maybe it was her need to survive that had made her that way. Her bleary-eyed father had been buzzed as far back as Jon could remember. And half the time, if recollection served him right, she'd come to school with bruises on her face and arms, a result, everyone had presumed, of having pushed one of Ezra's wrong buttons.

  Now, all grown up, Jon saw Emma for what she was, a child in adult skin, tough as a hickory nut on the outside, but underneath, uptight and scared. He had to give her credit for her willful spirit, but there always had been a part of him that longed to see into her depths. What really went on inside Emma Browning's head? Then just as quickly as the question surfaced, he'd remind himself that he was Little Hickman's one and only parson, and he had no business courting one so obstinate, never mind that she seemed to have no use for the church.

  "He's drunk as a skunk," Rocky muttered under his breath.

  "What do you suppose she plans to do with hint?" Jon whispered back, as the unlikely pair drew nearer.

  "Can't tell," Rocky answered. "Best leave her be, though. Eninia's a proud one."

  "With a head set in concrete," Jon added.

  Sarah spoke for the first time. "She's really something, isn't she? That man doesn't deserve to shine her shoes, and yet there she is doing her best to help him."

  "Get him out of sight is more like it," Rocky said. "He's a downright embarrassment, not only to Emma, but to all of Little Hickman."

  "Way down upon the Schwanee Riv-eeer," Ezra bellowed, his body leaning heavily into Emma's, his bloodshot eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over. The old codger was so crocked he didn't even know where he was, or that his daughter was hauling him up the street.

  On instinct, Jon stepped forward and grabbed hold of Ezra's other arni. He was the preacher, after all. It was his job to serve. Ezra gave Jon a distant look, as if trying to place just where it was their paths had crossed. Soon, though, he shook his head and continued his off-key song. "You taking him to your place?" Jon asked above the ruckus.

  Emma looked abashed. "Unhand hint, if you please, Reverend. I already said I can manage him just fine."

  "And I happen to disagree. Are we headed to the boardinghouse?" When it cane to tenacity, he could play with the best of them.

  She stood stock-still for a split second and eyeballed him around her father's head, thin strands of white-blond hair falling out from her loose sunbonnet. Perspiration had soaked through her blouse, plastering it to her skin. Jon swiped his arm across his forehead. He frowned. "You have a problem with my helping you?"

  A look of contempt crossed her face. Someday he would like to ask her what it was about him she detested. Jon clenched his jaw. "Fine," she said. "I'm taking him to the boardinghouse. I've a big tin tub out back he can sober up in."

  Jon gave a half-grin and nodded. "Sounds like a fine place for him. Maybe he'll sleep a few days if we toss in a pillow."

  Emma blinked, refusing to see the humor in his remark. When she started walking again, Jon took a firmer hold of Ezra's arm. Then, throwing a backward glance at Rocky and Sarah, he silently mouthed, "She hates me."

  -6~ O;v

  t was plain humiliating, no other word for it. Once she and Jonathan had plunked her father into the rusty horse trough out behind the boardinghouse, the man had wet himself and promptly fallen asleep. He certainly wouldn't wake up fresh as a daisy in the morning.

  If he was still here, that is.

  With a little luck, he'd awaken and saunter back to Madam Guttersnipe's den of iniquity-which was exactly where lie belonged. Matter of fact, Emma should have taken him there right off, and might have, had it not been for the Reverend Jonathan Atkins' interference. A nian of the cloth would surely have argued with the notion of dumping old Ezra at the beer house.

  She harrumphed and strode from the kitchen into the dining room to give the table one last swipe with a damp cloth. Why had the preacher stepped forward anyway? Did lie not worry about his reputation? Surely, tongues would wag about the minister walking through the middle of town arm in arm with the town drunk, and in plain daylight, no less. Why, she could almost picture Iris Winthrop now, guns batting at full speed as she made it her duty to inform her merchants of the minister's objectionable behavior. Never mind that he was simply doing a good deed by getting the old bum off the street.

  And that was another thing. Wouldn't his good deed now put Eninia in his debt? She surely didn't want to be beholden to Jonathan Atkins. She had no use for him, his Bible, or his God. Before she knew it, the handsome parson would be wheedling his way past her front door, eating at her table, conversing with her tenants, and doing his best to convert everybody within hearing distance.

  Raucous laughter outside her boardinghou
se collided with her nagging thoughts, drawing her to the window for a look. On the way, she checked the old grandfather clock, which stood like a majestic monarch against a far wall in the front parlor, its ever present tick-tock soothing her taut nerves.

  Dusk was falling fast. In another hour or so, explosions of light would rocket through the sky, astounding young and old alike. She hoped they would be loud enough to rouse old Ezra and send him on his way.

  Pulling back a lace curtain for a better look, she noted that Harland Collins and Wes Clayton, two of her boarders, the only ones who had shown up for her supper of beef stew and biscuits, were lounging on the porch, taking slow drags off their cigarettes. She had a strict rule about no smoking in the house, so when one of there had the need to light up, he took his habit outside. She scowled. Even from here, she could smell the nicotine smoke as it drifted past the open window.

  She swabbed her damp brow with the corner of her apron and looked out over the street, still abuzz with activity. Come morning, the streets would be blessedly peaceful again, save the usual traffic. There would be the clip-clop of horses' hooves, the occasional shouted greeting, and the scurrying feet of children racing up the sidewalk, but not the clack and clamor of hundreds of extra folks swirling dust into the hot, dry air, dropping debris along the way, and talking in fast, excited voices about the upcoming fireworks display.

  "Heard Hickman's boozehound is out back sleepin' it off," muttered Mr. Clayton, obviously unaware that Emma stood in the window behind hire. The rocking chair lie sat in sang a slow, mournful tune as lie set it in notion. "Miss Emma and the reverend dropped him in that old horse trough. Guess they made quite the trio traipsin' up Main Street, Ezra trippin' over his own feet whilst Enmia and that preacher fella dragged him along."

  Harland Collins let out a nighty chuckle, rubbed his whiskered jowls, then took a deep draw on his cigarette before blowing out a perfect smoke ring. Emma hung back in the shadows, glad she'd chosen not to light the parlor lanips. Up the street, the tinny sounds of Madam Guttersnipe's piano filled the dusky night.

  "Yep, had to be quite a sight," Harland was saying, looking out over the street. He lifted a hand to wave at a passerby. "Don't imagine Ezra will remember a thing come mornin', but the ones spectatin' shore will. It's a dirty shame what that little lady has to put up with."

  "Pfff. Tain't nothin' new for her," Wes argued. "Miss Emma's been puttin' up with that beerified ragbag since she was a little missy. Cain't have been easy on her, though, 'specially with no mania to fend ter 'er. No wonder she's so full o' vinegar. Had to learn life the hard way."

  Emma hated that she was the focus of their discussion; even more that she'd garnered their sympathy. She needed no one's pity, leastways not from these two old coots. She had a mind to march out the back door and toss a bucket of slops over that worthless, sleeping fool. It was, after all, entirely his fault that folks were talking about her.

  Not for the first time Emma brooded over the mother she'd never had and wondered how different life might have been. Would she be living in Little Hickman today, or might her mother have whisked her away at a young age, perhaps straight from her cradle, and into some distant, remote place, far from Ezra Browning's reach? Like so many times before, she imagined the sceneEmma, a mere babe, snatched from her bed in the wee hours of morning into a waiting carriage driven by some noble defender, wrapped safely in her mother's warm embrace. Of course, they would have traveled miles, maybe even crossing over the Tennessee border, before Ezra finally awoke from his drunken stupor and discovered their absence. Naturally, it would've been futile to go in search of them, for they would have covered their tracks so skillfully. And, besides, Ezra would have lacked the town's help and support, for everyone would have silently applauded the young mother for her indomitable strength and courage.

  Eninia shook her head as if to ward off her foolish meanderings. Who was she kidding? Lydia Baxter Browning had died giving birth to her, and the only proof Emma had that she'd even existed was a tattered photograph she kept between the pages of a book. Matter of fact, Emma didn't even have grandparents as far as she knew.

  Maybe Mr. Clayton was right; she'd learned life the hard way, and it had made her the person she was today, strong and self-sufficient. If people mistook that for bitter and steelyedged, well, so be it. She wasn't here to impress anybody, least of all the nien living under her roof.

  "Vinegar, you say?" Harland Joked. "Ha! Miss Emma's as scrappy as a hog-tied Indian squaw. I daresay she could swallow down a teaspoon o' vinegar with nary a wince." To that, both men cackled loud enough to wake the mongrel dog lounging under Emma's porch. The mangy mutt sauntered out and shook the dust off himself, then voiced his annoyance with a low growl.

  Emma frowned and turned away from the window.

  It was high time she drew herself a bath and tried to wash away the memory of this day.

  "Mr. Atkins, come and sit by us," came the shrill invitation from Lill Broughton.

  "Reverend, Lill, not Mister," Ben corrected. The entire family scooted over on their blanket, making room for Jon's approach. He grinned and filled up the distance between them with a few long strides.

  "Mister will do just fine, Lill," he said, dropping down on the blanket in the precise corner that Lill patted with her hand. Her entire freckled face was awash with excitement. By contrast, her little sister Molly lay sprawled across her stepmother's lap, dead to the world, her plump, round face smudged with grime, her (lark hair mussed and coming loose from its short ponytail.

  Jon couldn't hold back a chuckle. "You're not excited about these fireworks, are you, Lil?"

  "My insides is 'bout to explode!" she exclaimed. "Papa says it'll be at least another half hour. The sky needs to get a lot more stars in it."

  Jon couldn't blame her for her excitement. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit to having a few butterflies himself. It'd been a good long while since Little Hickman had sponsored a fireworks display. Jon reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of wrapped taffy. "Maybe this will tide you over?" he asked, handing it to the eager child.

  "Mm, thank you, Mister-uh, Reverend." All fingers, Lill hastened to unwrap the concoction, momentarily losing herself in the effort. Jon chortled to himself. In the unlikely event lie ever had children, lie would want them to be just like Lill and Molly.

  "Did you get that tanked up Ezra Browning situated over at Enmia's place?" Ben asked. Sitting close to Liza, he had propped an arm over his bent knee and was chewing on a long blade of grass, his hat tilted so that it nearly covered one dark eyebrow.

  "How'd you hear about that?" Jon asked, dragging his eyes away front Lill.

  Ben harruniphed. "Who in Hickman hasn't heard about it? 'Fraid you were an interesting topic this afternoon, my friend." Eyes twinkling, Ben went on. "Topics ran the gamut, too. Everything from `What would possess the preacher to be seen with that pickled fool?' to `Did you notice Reverend Atkins' new boots?"'

  Jon shot Ben a curious look then glanced at his boots, not new, but shined that morning by a young lad anxious to make a dime. "You're joshing, right?"

  Ben shook his head and laughed. "I'ni serious as a doublebarreled shotgun. Course, in this town, it doesn't take much to get tongues wagging. I have a feeling Iris Winthrop was a mite put out with you for walking down the same side of the street as Ezra Browning, much less helping him along."

  "It was no less than Jesus would have done," Jon countered. "Does she not know that our Lord took meals with the scum of the earth? In fact, He associated with them every day."

  "You don't need to convince nie of that, but do you think that matters one bit to Mrs. Winthrop? Everyone knows that woman is all about upholding her fine character. Nothing is more important to her than status and maintaining Little Hickman's spotless reputation." Ben cut loose with another low-throated chuckle. "Mightn't have been so bad if we hadn't had so many visitors today."

  Jon's eyes scanned the field where literally hundreds,
maybe even a thousand or more, folks had heard about Little Hickman's fireworks and come out to watch. Buggy after buggy lined the outskirts of town, where folks had left them and their horses tied to makeshift hitching posts and various shade trees. Here and there, lanterns dotted the landscape like dozens of fireflies. In the distance, a child's excited whoop filled the air, followed by whinnying horses and inpatient, barking dogs. Yes, it was unfortunate that so many had had to witness Ezra Browning's drunken display, Jon mused, but it was nothing new to most of Hickman's townsfolk. It irked him how people placed so much importance on outward appearance and less on the decaying souls of men.

  "Well, I imagine Mrs. Winthrop won't be too pleased tomorrow mornin' when she learns I've taken old Ezra to the bathhouse and cleaned him up," Jon said, taking a gumdrop from his shirt pocket, tossing it straight up, and catching it in his open mouth.

  Ben whistled through his teeth. "You serious? I'd venture to say Emma won't be so happy herself. She prides herself on handling her own affairs, you know."

  Jon made a scoffing sound. "It's high time Emma Browning swallowed some of that pride."

  A rooster crowed at precisely five-thirty the next morning. Precisely, because, no sooner had he screeched out his morning call than the grandfather clock took up its chiming. Emma groaned, buried her face in the folds of her cotton blanket, and squeezed her eyes shut against the early stages of dawn. Had she slept a wink? Last night's fireworks, although an impressive display of glitter and dazzle from her second-story perch, still echoed through her brain, the crack and boom of each explosion singeing her nerves. To make matters worse, after she had settled in for the night, each of her boarders had plodded up the stairs at varying times, some moaning and mumbling to themselves, others tripping along the way, the result of overimbibing. The only two who had cone in at a decent hour and, thankfully, sober, were Elliott Newman and his son, Luke.