Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  She heard the twitter of waking birds out her open window, felt a warns, tickling breeze creep past her bare arms, and noted that the temperature in her room had barely dropped a degree in the night.

  With a sigh, she yanked back the cotton sheet and hauled herself up.

  It was going to be another sweltering clay.

  Breakfast had been a quiet affair. Of Emma's six boarders, four had missed the meal, either sleeping past the deadline for receiving a hot breakfast and settling for a cup of coffee and a piece of buttered bread on the run, or choosing not to eat at all for lack of appetite, hoping to slip out the door unnoticed. While she'd been scrubbing a fry pan, Gideon Barnard, who worked at Grady Swanson's Sawmill, had sauntered past the kitchen door looking fuzzy-eyed. He'd shot her a wary look, as if to say, "I know, I know. Don't lecture me." Not that she'd intended to do so. She'd lived long enough to know lectures didn't solve a thing; they certainly didn't deter a man's drinking habit. Proof of that lay out in the old tin tub in the backyard.

  "D-did you like the f-fireworks, Miss Emma?"

  Eninia looked up from her bread making. It was just past nine-thirty. Luke stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked in his suspenders, dark brown hair haphazardly brushed to one side, close-set eyes darting about, avoiding direct contact with hers. Pug-nosed and rosy-cheeked, it was his ever-present grin that most endeared him to her. A grown man with the innocence and intelligence of a youngster, he was Little Hicknian's lamplighter, faithfully lighting the lamps along Main Street at dusk. During the day, he made himself available for jobs that didn't require mind power. Most of the time, she had no trouble keeping him busy, but on those days she couldn't, she'd send him off to his father's wheelwright shop, Flanders' Foods, Eldred Johansson's Mercantile, or Sani's Livery. Thankfully, they always had a job waiting for him.

  "They were a sight to behold, weren't they?" she replied, pausing for a second to recall the event, then quickly going back to kneading the large lump of dough beneath her hands. When she finished, she molded the clump into a ball and laid a towel over it. Then she wiped her floured hands on her apron. Luke kept watch from his place in the doorway.

  "M-nie and Pa, we liked them big ones," he remarked in his flat, monotone voice, his words always coming out slow and labored, with intermittent stuttering. "They made me sh-shake right here." He put a stubby hand to his chest.

  Emma laughed. "I know what you mean."

  Luke took a step forward, eyes eager. "Want me to sweep the f-floor?"

  She glanced around the tidy kitchen. "It's been done, but you could take the broom to the front porch. That could use a goin' over. After that-"

  Just then, a squawking male voice made her pause midsentence. She walked to the kitchen window overlooking the backyard. A sudden gasp escaped her throat.

  Luke came up beside her. "Ain't that the p-preacher?" Her shoulders slumped as she heaved a sigh. Jon Atkins was helping old Ezra out of the tin tub, and from the sound of things, her father wasn't too happy for the help.

  Why couldn't the reverend mind his own business?

  $~a~ii 1 /vzee

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  emme go," Ezra screeched, both hands flailing. "I don't need no help."

  "I beg to differ, old nian," Jon argued. "You can't even stand up on your own. Look at you."

  Jon caught sight of Eninia Browning bounding off the boardinghouse back stoop, skirts flaring, wisps of blond hair coming loose from their tight little bun. Her blue eyes sparked with a mixture of anger and confusion as she marched with purpose in their direction, Luke Newman on her heels.

  "What do you think you're doing, Jon Atkins?" she asked.

  "I'ni about to take this odorous fellow to the bathhouse."

  Eninia fixed hint with a perplexing stare, squinting against the sun. "Why would you do that?"

  "He could use a bath, don't you think?" The man's stench was enough to knock a skunk to its knees.

  "Don't need no bath," Ezra grumbled. "Had one already."

  "When? Last spring?" Jon asked, trying to make light of the situation. It had been at least a week since the guy had even shaved, let alone bathed himself.

  Ezra coughed and spat, just missing Jon's boot. It was all Jon could do not to set the oaf back down in the tub and let him sleep awhile longer. But he'd determined to get involved in the fellow's life-actually, God had prompted him to get involved-and so here he was defending himself to the drunken fool's daughter.

  "It won't do you any good," Emma said. "Matter of fact, you'd be wastin' your tine." Her eyes skittered over Ezra's slouched frame. She crossed her arms and stuck out her obstinate little chin. "He's nothin' but a drunk."

  Jon took a moment to study Eninia's stance, spine straight as a pin, jaw tense, eyes hard and proud. She'd learned that stance from years of struggling to survive. "When was the last time you saw him sober?" he asked.

  Enema laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Well now, that'd take some recollectin', preacher."

  Preacher? Jon? Reverend Atkins? Which was it? Jon mused. She'd known him all her life, but since his return to Hickman a little less than a year ago, she didn't seem to know quite how to address him. Furthermore, she was determined to dislike him.

  Ezra swayed, and Jon got a firmer grip on his arm. The bum was still so liquored up he didn't even know he was the topic of conversation.

  "Cone on, old man," he said, turning Ezra around and pointing hint in the right direction, slanting his face away from the worst of Ezra's overpowering odor.

  "You w-want some h-help?" asked Luke. Up until now, he'd been the silent observer. Matter of fact, Luke spent most of his time on the sidelines watching life go by. Jon wondered if the boy didn't know a whole lot more about living than most folks gave hint credit for knowing.

  "That'd be real nice, Luke. You take the other arm."

  Luke stepped forward and Emma's frown grew. "There's no hope for Ezra, Jon. You might as well accept it."

  Ah, so now he was Jon again.

  He paused and smiled at her. "Oh, there's hope, Emma. As long as there's a God in heaven, there is hope."

  She made a scoffing noise. "You'd best save your sernion- izin' for your congregation."

  His grin widened as he tilted his face at her. "I will if you promise to cone hear me sonietinie."

  He detected the slightest hitch at the corner of her mouth. "Now, why would I bother comin' to hear one of your sermons?"

  "To please me maybe?" She gave him an odd look, and how could he blame her? She'd be blown away by the knowledge that he was attracted to her, had been since he was a snotty-nosed kid. Of course, his attraction made zero sense. He needed a wife, yes, but a good Christian wife, someone to support his ministry, not someone like Emma Browning who openly admitted she had no use for God.

  He gave himself a mental scolding.

  Ask her about the room, Jon.

  The nudge was as strong as if Jupiter, his horse, had plowed straight into his side. I've asked her plenty, Lord. She's made it clear she doesn't want me under her roof.

  Ask, Jon.

  "You rent that extra room out yet?" he asked.

  She gave him a stunned look, probably still mulling over his invitation to cone to church. "What? No." Her arms remained crossed, except now she hugged herself more tightly and added a scowl to her pursed lips.

  "I'ni still in need of a place."

  Ezra belched loud enough to scare the birds from their perches. Not only that, it carried a vile stench. Emma lifted a hand and batted the acrid air to ward off the worst of the smell.

  "Oh, for crying in a bucket! If you get him out of here, you can rent a blasted room."

  Jon grinned. It was a victory grin, he knew, so he tried not to let it grow to extremes. Thank You, Lord. "That's a load off my shoulders, Emma. Toni Averly, who bought my place, will be pleased to know I'm finally moving out."

  He and Luke started hauling Ezra out of the yard.

  "Rent's twelve dollars a week, but my long-te
riners pay by the month," she called to his back. "I'll expect you to pay the first month's rent on the day you move in. Thereafter, rent's due the first of every month. And if you get behind, there'll be no mercy.

  Jon waved, hiding his victory grin. "I always pay my bills on time."

  "And I won't stand for any of your preaching, either, you hear?"

  "Will you sit for it?"

  She didn't respond to that, just made a grumbling noise.

  He was still grinning when they passed Winthrop's Dry Goods and lie caught a glimpse of Iris Winthrop through the glass, her wide-eyed, gaped-mouth reaction when she saw Luke and him escorting Ezra through the center of town only adding to his satisfaction.

  The bath was no easy affair, but when it was finished, Ezra Browning did smell as nice as a field of daisies. Of course, he'd sauntered in the direction of the Madam's saloon shortly thereafter, much to Jon's dismay, not in the least bit grateful for their help.

  "Let me take you back to your house, Ezra," Jon had offered. "Luke and I will help you clean up the place and fix you a decent meal." But Ezra had shaken his head and mumbled something about needing a drink instead.

  "I guess h-he don't like ar cookin'," Luke had said while they stood there next to the bathhouse watching Ezra anible off, Jon's arm looped over Luke's hunched shoulders.

  Jon slanted his head at Luke. "He doesn't know what lie's missing. I cook a mean bean soup."

  Luke shot him a twisted grin. "Me and Pa like bean soup, but Miss Emma don't n-never make it. She says she don't dare iii-make b-bean soup for a houseful of r-rude nien."

  At Luke's remark, Jon clutched his stomach and bent over laughing.

  Emma dusted with a vengeance. Now, why had she gone and offered her vacant room to Jonathan Atkins? Hadn't she just been telling herself she neither wanted nor needed the company of a preacher in her establishment? So why was it that when he'd looked at her with those powder blue eyes of his, she'd crumbled like a month-old cookie? Was it because he'd taken old Ezra off her hands? It seemed a likely excuse. After all, one good deed deserved another, and Lord knows she wasn't about to take her father to the bathhouse herself, much as the old codger did need a bath. But then she had to confess there was more to it than that.

  Emma dusted even faster. Truth was, she wasn't willing to delve much deeper into her reasons for relenting. All she knew was that the town's young preacher was about to make his hone in this very room, and she'd best get it ready for him. She lifted a lace doily from the chest of drawers, gave it a little shake and replaced it, smoothing down the corners with care. Then she glanced up at the ancient picture hanging crooked above the chest and righted it.

  Standing back, she made a sweeping assessment of the room: clean sheets on the old four-poster bed, braided rug freshly beaten, gingham curtains laundered and pressed, and the cracked leather seat of the old wooden rocker wiped clean. She had no idea when Jon Atkins planned to move into Mr. Dreyfus's old room, but at least it would be ready for him when he did.

  She dropped her hands to her sides and felt a bulge in her apron pocket. Stuffing her hand into her pocket she withdrew the lone wool sock she'd found under Mr. Dreyfus's bed, the one she'd darned for hint on numerous occasions. More than likely, he hadn't missed it yet, but cone winter he'd be wondering what had become of it.

  Fingering the woolen fabric, an unwelcome nieniory poked to the surface.

  Blustery winds sneaked through the cracks of the poorly heated cabin, the pile of firewood next to the stone fireplace dwindling down to almost nothing. Papa staggered through the door, eyes watery red, snowy boots leaving a trail of white on the just swept rug as he stomped his feet. An icy look on his round, whiskered face matched the frigid temperatures. Emma shivered in the straight-back chair and drew the wool blanket up closer around her neck, tucking the book she'd been reading beneath its folds.

  "What you doin, girl?" he growled, slamming the door shut behind him, eyes narrow and suspicious. "How come I don't smell no supper cookie'?"

  "We're outta most all the food, Papa. All that's left is some flour and oil and a few cans of beans." She drew her knees up close to her chest, hoping he wouldn't find her book. He'd accuse her of laziness for sure. No matter that she'd spent the afternoon sweeping, dusting, and shoveling a narrow path to the rickety old outhouse. Her tenyear-old muscles felt sore and fatigued.

  "Then cook the lousy beans, missy."

  "We've had beans three times this week, Papa."

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to reclaim them. Papa didn't take nicely to backtalk. He reached her in two long strides and gave her the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough to knock her off the chair, sending her precious book of Bible stories in another direction.

  With his beefy hand he retrieved the book and held it at arm's length. Papa squinted his bloodshot eyes at the cover and tried to make out the title. "What's this nonsense?" he asked.

  "Miss Abbott gave it to me," she confessed, her cheek still burning like hot coals where his hand had struck it. She wouldn't mention the book's contents.

  "That lady what runs the boardinghouse? How many times I gotta tell you to stay away from that religious crazy?"

  Emma pulled herself upright. "Can I have my book back, Papa?" she squeaked out, ignoring his remark. Miss Abbott was as close as Emma would ever come to having a mother, or a grandmother, for that matter. Nearly every day after school she took an extra minute to swing by the older woman's boardinghouse to receive a warm hug and, if she was lucky, cookies and a tall glass of milk.

  Papa took one look at the fireplace. The fire was now only a few red embers. Without a second's hesitation, he tossed the treasured volume into the fire, ignoring her sudden gasp. Puffs of black smoke climbed the chimney until the hard cover of the book took hold, reigniting the flames to a rich orange-red. 11

  A trudging sound conning up the stairs dragged Eninia's sullen thoughts back to the present. She took a gander at her watch and found it near suppertinie. Gideon Barnard glanced inside the open door on his way past then halted and backtracked. "You lookin' for soniethin', Miss Eninia?"

  She janinied the wool sock back in her apron pocket. "Just cleanin' out Mr. Dreyfus's old room, makin' way for the next boarder."

  Gray eyes slanted under a crinkled brow, reinforcing the older gentleman's perpetual frown. "Yeah? Who's movin' in?"

  "The Reverend Atkins." She purposely kept her answer short, not wanting to elaborate. Bending, she picked up the bucket of water she'd used to niop the wood floor, gathered up the dusting cloth and a few other items, and headed for the door, hoping to slip past Mr. Barnard without further incident. But it wasn't to be.

  "That so? The preacher?" He moved aside to let her pass, then, rather than go to his room as he'd earlier intended, he followed a few paces behind her. "That mean we have to clean up our talk around here?"

  "I've been askin' you hooligans to do that for some time now. I don't imagine a preacher will have any more success at it than me." On the way down the hall, she stopped, set the bucket down, and, with her free hand, righted another picture, then ran her fingers along the top of the frame, pleased to find it dust-free.

  "I ain't cleanin' up my mouth-or my actions, for that matter."

  She sniffed. "Fine. Now, if you'll excuse nie I need to be checkin' on my supper." She picked up the bucket and resumed her steps.

  When she turned to take the stairs, Gideon Barnard was muttering something under his breath.

  Vfter cleaning up the supper dishes, Emma plopped a wide-brimmed hat on her head and went out to her garden to do some weeding and to cut a few stems of blue Larkspur for a bouquet. Harland and Wes retreated to the front porch to have their smokes, and Charley Connors and Gid Barnard headed for the parlor with their playing cards. The last she saw of Elliott and Luke Newman, they were retiring to their room.

  It was a quiet summer evening, the kind that made one linger awhile just to catch the sights and smells. What a c
ontrast from yesterday's hubbub, Emma thought, while stooping to pull a few weeds on her walk to the garden, then snipping off some wild clematis that grew near the path, their purple hue a nice complement to the larkspur. Even the humidity had leveled off, making the hot-as-an-oven temperatures somehow more livable.

  The voices of children at play carried over the motionless air while, overhead, a couple of squirrels quarreled over their rightful places on an oak branch. Through the narrow alleyway, between her place and Flanders' Food Store, she spotted Mr. and Mrs. Crunkle crossing Main Street, a little brown (log on their heels. Out for their usual stroll, she mused with a smile, bending to snip a few larkspur stems, their fragrance wafting through the air. The orange tabby who'd wandered into the yard last spring and never wandered back out, probably because Luke had started feeding it suppertime scraps, moseyed over to rub against her leg. "Well, if it isn't Miss Tabitha," she said, bending to give the cat a gentle scratch behind its ear. She scanned the yard for Luke's scruffy dog, another one of his projects, but didn't spot it. No doubt, the no-name niutt had found a cool spot in which to lounge after downing a plateful of leftovers.

  Her garden, a mix of varied vegetables and an array of flowers, grew healthy weeds as well. With a sigh, she hunkered down and started yanking them out one by one.

  "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

  A rustle of approaching footsteps coming from the side of the house and the mellow-sounding voice accompanying them so startled her that she lost her balance and fell backwards on her rump, legs sprawling. Jonathan Atkins, all six-foot-plus of his lean frame, sped ahead to offer his hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Here, let me help you up." When lie bent forward, his sand-colored hair fell across his forehead.

  Batting at his long-fingered hand, she righted herself in record time, scrambling to her feet, not missing the flash of humor that washed over hire when he straightened. Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, what must he think? One part of her cared more than she wanted to admit, but another part rose up with defiance. How dare he sneak up on her like that, then give her that innocent look, oozing with charm no less.