"Will's a good man-fair, too," Jon said in his defense.
"Ain't no matter. It's over an' done. 'Sides, what do you care? I ain't a churchgoer."
Jon chuckled. "You don't have to attend my church to be my friend."
Ezra threw hini a disbelieving look. Did no one care about hint?
A crack of thunder sounded in the heavens, louder and closer. Jon watched the fellow fuss with another sheet. His wheezing lungs rattled. What a pathetic character, Jon thought.
Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these....
"You ever been to church, Ezra?" Jon asked, pulling up a wooden chair and dusting off a month's worth of breadcrunibs before sitting.
Ezra grimaced. "Ain't got no cause for goin'."
"Anyone ever invite you?"
"I can't recall as much." He sniffed, and a tiny smirk cracked his thin lips. "Guess I ain't the only one knowin' I'm a lost cause."
"You're not a lost cause, Ezra. There's plenty of folks that have done far worse than you and yet somehow have discovered God's love and forgiveness."
Ezra snatched a bottle of ale off the filthy counter and pointed it at Jon, eyebrows raised. "You want one?" he asked. There was a definite sneer in his tone.
Jon couldn't help the grin. Most would consider the blatant offer nothing short of blasphemy. "I'll pass."
Ezra wrangled the cap off the bottle and took a long swig. "Good. I ain't into sharin' anyways." He held the bottle up as if it were some prized possession. "This stuff ain't cheap ya know." His rancid breath carried across the room. Jon had all he could do to sit still.
Resting a booted foot across his knee, he watched Ezra take another swig. "God's in the business of healing wounded souls."
Ezra's eyes bulged. "Tarnation! My soul ain't wounded; it's dead!"
Rather than react to the remark, Jon sucked in a calming breath. "How would you like a little help with this place?" he asked, deciding he'd pushed enough for one day.
"Huh?"
"I was thinking about asking some of my parishioners to lend a hand out here. We could have your yard cleaned up in no time. A couple of the ladies could make fast work of your kitchen.
"I notice your porch is sagging. Wouldn't take much more than a few boards and nails to bring it to rights. We could special order the windowpanes if Eldred doesn't already have them in stock. A good coat of white paint would spruce up the outside."
Dead silence filled the space between then, save Ezra's persistent wheeze-until a loud clap of thunder rumbled past the little house's thin walls and a streak of lightning scorched the sky, giving instant light to the dimly lit room. On its tail came the first drops of rain, their pinging sounds bouncing off the old tin roof.
"I ain't needin' no charity," he grumbled.
"It wouldn't be charity. I'd expect you to work alongside us, and you'd be paying for your own windows and paint."
Ezra scratched his head, and for the first time, Jon noticed a slight tremor. Nerves? Or a result of years of imbibing? He glared at Jon through bloodshot eyes, then lifted the bottle to his mouth and drained it in a natter of seconds.
"You'd need to sober up though-at least till after we finished all the work," Jon said with practiced calm, leaning forward in the chair, clasping his hands together between his spread knees. "Think you could do that?"
"Pff£ I'ni sober now, ain't I?" Ezra slammed the bottle down on the counter and moseyed across the room, his less than sure-footed gait an indication he was anything but.
"I'd expect you to lay off the sauce completely. We wouldn't want folks thinkin' you were incapable of a little self-control, would we?"
Ezra shot him a sideways glare. "Don't rightly care what folks think. 'Sides, ain't no one I know who'd be willin' to lift a finger on my account."
He was probably right. "We'll see about that. There are a lot of good people in Little Hickman."
Ezra didn't look convinced. Jon rose just as the sky pulled back the last of its draperies and cut loose a torrential downpour. A powerful wind steamrolled past the open windows, dousing the sheets Ezra had used as makeshift barriers, the rain coursing in like a waterfall. Miniature rivers spawned on the ancient wood floor, finding a slanted pathway to the center of the room.
"Got some extra sheets?" Jon called above the sudden flood of commotion, feeling helpless.
Ezra shook his head. "Naw. 'Taint no use anyway."
"Somehow we need to block these windows."
The man stood there as if missing a good share of his brain, which he probably was. Jon couldn't let the rain do more damage than it'd already done. Out the back window, he spotted something draped from a clothesline, lying flat to the wind. "What's that?"
Ezra shuffled to the window as if he hadn't a clue his house was the hub of a true gully washer. "An old piece of canvas I used to throw over my chicken yard. Fool chickens won't stay under it though."
"Got a hammer and some more nails?"
Ezra scratched his head again and pulled his brow into a deep frown. "Yeah, right in that there box."
While he sauntered across the room, Jon pulled up his collar and dashed out the back door.
It took a full hour for the rain to slow its course, but by the time it had, Jon had nailed a piece of canvas to each broken window, helped Ezra niop the floor, did what he could to tidy up the kitchen, then made them a pot of coffee.
"I best get back while the storm's at a lull," Jon said, setting his empty mug on the marred tabletop.
Ezra angled him a wary look. "Why'd you come out here, preacher kid?"
Jon stood. "I told you. I wanted to check on you."
Ezra's graying eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. "That don't make no sense."
Jon chuckled. "Maybe not now, but it will."
"Huh?"
Thunder rolled in the distance, indicating the worst of the storm had passed. "I'll be back. You work on sobering up now. You'll need your wits about you-and your strength." He stretched. "We'll have this place looking spiffy."
Ezra's eyes narrowed into beady little circles, putting Jon in mind of a cornered banty rooster. "Word has it you sold your place to Tom Averly and you're movin' into my girl's boardin'house."
Jon was surprised the news had reached Ezra Browningand that he'd remembered it. He was almost certain the fellow remembered nothing about his drunken episode on Independence Day or the bath the morning after. "You heard right. Still have a few more trips to make before my move is complete. Tom bought most everything 'cept for the clothes on niy back."
Ezra grumbled low in his chest. "Fool thing you did, gettin' rid of that place and donatin' the funds to a new church buil- din'."
Ezra wasn't the first one who'd voiced his opinion on the matter. Perhaps it had been extreme on Jon's part, but sometimes obeying God called for extreme measures. He had no doubt God would meet his needs. "I'd be a bigger fool to disregard God's direction for my life."
Ezra shook his head as if to wrestle it free of a swarm of pesky flies. "That's a bunch of hooey."
"To you it probably is, Ezra," Jon said. "I best be on my way. I have a sermon to prepare for. Don't imagine you'd want to cone to Sunday services and critique my delivery?"
For the first time, a smile, or more like a smirk, popped out on Ezra's face, revealing yellowed teeth, one missing on top, probably due to decay and neglect. "I ain't never set foot in a church-'ceptin' when I married Lydia Baxter. Don't'spect I ever will."
It'd been a long while since he'd heard mention of Ezra Browning's wife-Emma's mother. There'd been talk how she'd died after giving birth to Emma, but beyond that, he knew very little. He suspected her death held the key to much of Ezra and Emma's animosity. "You must have loved her very much."
Ezra scoffed, cursed, then moved to the sink, putting his back to Jon. "Long time ago," he mumbled, picking up one of the dishes Jon had just washed to study its sheen.
Jon walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. He turned back. "I'll be on my
way then. Remember what I said about sobering up. And, Ezra, you might want to have Doc check that wheezing cough you got."
The only response he received from that was another flatout curse.
Emma's steps were purposeful. She had a number of things to tend to, and she didn't welcome the thought of getting wet in the next wave of rain. A deluge had already fallen earlier in the day, for which much of Little Hickman was grateful. At least the dust would finally settle. But enough was enough.
A child's shout of glee had her pausing mid-step to glance down Main Street where she glimpsed a mother and her child. The toddler, having slipped from his mania's hands, had discovered a puddle the size of a small lake and was hopping around in it like a frog, squealing with delight when the water splashed past his knees, soaking his trousers. Emma smiled at the scene, recalling a time when she too had relished the feel of mud between her toes.
"What you doin' in that mud hole, girl? Ain't you got no sense atall? Git back to the house 'fore I tan yer li'l hide. There's work to be done."
It was a scorching day, the kind that made the sweat stick to one's armpits.
"But it feels so good, Papa," she squealed, her six-year-old enthusiasm difficult to curb. "You should try it." She waded further into Little Hickman Creek, soaking the hem of her cotton dress despite lifting it above her knees. `Ain't ya hot, Papa?"
"Not as hot as your backside's gonna be if you don't haul yourself outta that water hole 'fore I count to ten," he roared. His face was red as a tomato, whether from heat or rage Emma couldn't say. "You ain't finished washin' the breakfast dishes yet. And after that, you got to tote in those pails of milk from the barn."
She'd grown accustomed to Ezra Browning's fits, learned how far she could push before he laid a hand to her. This seemed to be one of those times, so with a sigh she meandered back to shore, choosing her favorite flat rocks as stepping-stones, knowing them by heart from previous trips to the creek. That's why it so surprised her when she found herself sprawled on her backside, having slipped on a slimy pebble, soaked from head to toe.
"Nov, look what you done!" Ezra bellowed, wading a foot or so in to drag her up by the arm. Pain surged through her side where she'd collided with a sharp, protruding twig, but she was too proud to confess it. And what good would it have done her? There'd be no sympathy, not when the entire incident was her own doing.
Even the silent tears she shed as they trudged up the hill toward their one-room cabin seemed not to affect him. She struggled alongside him, barely managing to keep up with Ezra' long strides.
And just like that, the joy of cool mud between her toes shriveled like a rose in winter.
Eninia blotted out the pesky memory with a tiny shake of the head. She dragged her gaze away from the youngster and his mother and resumed her step, passing Flanders' Food Store. Stepping down from the sidewalk, she crossed the alley, bypassing a puddle. Rivers of rainwater still drained off one corner of the roof of Winthrop's Dry Goods, creating a stream that followed a downward path toward Zeke's Barber Shop, a square little building situated down the alley and just behind the dry goods store.
A jangling bell welcomed her when she walked into Winthrop's. Fancy Jenkins was just picking up a box of purchased goods from the counter. Iris Winthrop turned at the sound. "Why, good afternoon, Miss Browning," the proprietor greeted from behind the counter, her usual pasted-on smile lacking genuine friendliness. Everyone knew the woman was more about appearances than actual benevolence. Emma was certain her father's presence in the town had always been a thorn in Mrs. Winthrop's side, and the fact that Emma carried the Browning name made her an automatic detriment to Little Hickman.
Fancy Jenkins, on the other hand, wore a smile of the warmest kind despite her missing upper tooth. "Hello there, Miss Emma." She hefted the box of supplies higher. "Ain't it a drippy clay today? I 'spect it'll stay like this fer awhile." She was a small-boned woman, perhaps frail-looking at first glance, but in her clear blue eyes, there was a depth that spoke of courage and spunk. Life had not been easy for her, she having lost her husband to heart problems a year or so back when her only daughter, Sarah, was about thirteen. Somehow, she eked out a living by managing a small piece of farmland and selling eggs. Enema admired her grit.
"It's a wet one, but the lower temperatures are a welcome relief. I'll say that," Eninia replied, offering up a smile for both women before hauling out her list of needs from her front apron pocket and giving it a quick perusal. Yellow thread to match the fabric she'd bought earlier for making new kitchen curtains, needles, a fresh supply of straight pins, three yards of cloth for a new dress-purple, perhaps?-and a supply of serviceable fabric with which to stitch some new kitchen towels.
"Yes, it was hotter than a stovepipe on the Fourth," Fancy concurred, blowing a graying strand of hair off her cheek. "My, but there was a throng of folks come out for them fireworks. Wasn't that a fine display?" She seemed to want to talk, and she placed her box of miscellaneous items back on the counter, shoving aside some sewing notions Mrs. Winthrop had intended for display. Enema didn't miss the loud sigh the shopkeeper blew out.
"I watched them from my upstairs window," Emma said, trying her best to be polite. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Iris's mouth pull into a straight line. Clearly, she wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. She fussed with some papers by her cash register. The notion that she didn't approve of either one of them gracing her establishment amused rather than peeved Emma, and almost made her want to prolong the conversation.
"Me and my Sarah sat on a blanket next to the Broughtons and that nice Reverend Atkins. My, but he's a handsome man, the reverend. Hear tell he's movin' into your place."
He'd been moving his belongings in for the past three days now, and so far, she'd managed to avoid his comings and goings. Ever since agreeing to let him take the room Mr. Dreyfus had vacated, she'd been berating herself. Doubtless, there'd be nothing but sermons from morning till night now. Evidence of that came when Luke appeared at the breakfast table just yesterday toting a little black Bible. She'd been standing at the table slicing a fresh loaf of bread.
"R-repent y-ye, and believe the g-gospel!" he'd spouted to a table full of gaping men.
"Huh?" Charlie Conners had asked, his eggs falling off his fork.
"That's what it says r-right here," Luke had claimed, laying a stubby finger on a page about midway through the book.
"You can't read," his father had chided, brow pinched. "Here, give me that." Quickly, he'd pushed back his chair and snatched the book out from under Luke's nose. "Where's it say that?"
Luke had leaned close, his eyes doing a careful search, a look of sheer determination written across his pudgy, round face. Finally, he'd put a chubby finger to the page. "R-right there," he'd announced. "The p-preacher says so."
"The preacher, huh?" His father had scowled then squinted at the printed page. "This here says, `It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a wide house."'
When loud laughter erupted, Emma had turned on her heel and left the dining room.
"He all moved in? That's quite an adjustment for the preacher-front a big farm to one little room. Can't imagine givin' up all that space," Fancy was saying, pulling Emma back to the present.
Talk about adjustments! She could only imagine the grumWings that were sure to come if Jon Atkins used her renters as sounding boards for his sermons. Why, they'd mock him up one side and down the other.
"He's been bringing his stuff in little by little far as I know. I haven't paid him much mind," Emma replied, stuffing her list back into her apron pocket and setting off on a stroll through the little store, fingering various fabrics along the way, scanning the place for just the right color and pattern for stitching herself a new dress.
"Sure is nice of the Winthrops to open their house up for Sunday services," Fancy commented.
Emma glanced up to acknowledge the remark. Mrs. Winthrop sniffed and raised her chin a notch.
Since the school burned down, folks met in the Winthrop's massive living room. They did, after all, own the biggest house in Little Hickman. Its central location, one block off Main Street, was convenient for all. Although it seemed an uncommonly generous act from Emma's perspective, she suspected the woman enjoyed the accolades that came as a result.
"I been goin' just so's I can watch the reverend," Fancy added, covering her toothy grin with the palm of her hand and letting go a high-pitched giggle. Emma pinched her lips together to hide a smile and took up a piece of woven cotton to finger its softness. Purple and with a delicate, floral pattern running through it. Wasn't it just what she'd been looking for? "Ain't a more comely lookin' man in all of Hickman if you ask ine," Fancy chortled.
"My lands!" Mrs. Winthrop clacked, drawing her shoulders up tight and pushing out her plenteous chest. Emma watched in quiet amusement. "It's improper to think of a man of the cloth in that light."
Fancy shrugged. "Nothin' improper about it in my book. I'ni just statin' a plain fact. Course, he's a fine speaker, too. I ain't denyin' that. Since he got that preacher schoolin' out East, he sure talks a fine piece, usin' all them nice words. Holds the ear of most folk much better'n Reverend Miller ever did. Frankly, I'ni glad that man got too old for circuit ridin'. His sermons were startin' to wear."
Mrs. Winthrop sucked in a raspy breath, visibly addled. "Well." She pursed her thin lips and raised two pointy eyebrows, taking care to look straight at Emma, her eyeglasses resting low on her oversized nose. Emma looked away. "At least Reverend Miller guarded his reputation. This one doesn't seem to care who he's seen with or where he resides."
The comment did as intended, set Emma back for an instant. The bolt of cloth she'd been stroking slipped from her fingertips. Of course, Mrs. Winthrop was referring to the preacher's dealings with Ezra Browning and the fact that he'd chosen to take up residence in her boardinghouse, joining her flock of ne'er-do-wells. She wasn't thrilled about the preacher's presence in her house, either, but she resented the pompous woman's implication that she ran a less-than-respectable business.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 5