"Yeah, why's he get the special treatment?" Charley asked, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes trained on her while he noisily chewed.
Why indeed? It irked her plenty, this need to explain when she wasn't sure herself why it should matter one jot. Shoulders stiff, she drew in a breath, then glanced from one to the other. "If one o' you was ailin', I'd fetch the doctor. I'm merely going to see if he has need of one." She turned. "And I'd appreciate it if you tried eating with your mouths closed from now on." That said, she marched out of the room.
"Well, if that don't beat all," Charlie said with a sniff and a hoot.
"Get off my property, you no-good, snoopin' tadpole! I'll shoot ya right on the spot! I ain't afeard to pull this trigger." Shotgun raised and pointed straight at his head, Jon scrambled for breath, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. Sweat trickled down his face, dripping off his chin to pool at his feet.
"God loves you, Ezra," he managed. "He loves you. All you have to do is surrender to Him, accept that you need a Savior, ask Him....
A blast of curse words erupted from the drunkard's mouth. "Shut up!" he barked. `Ain't no God big enough for the likes o' me."
"You're dead wrong." He cringed at his poor choice of words. Ezra stepped closer, cocked the gun, and poked its long, steely barrel into his temple.
"Pull the trigger, you insufferable, cussed fool." Confusion mingled with awareness. He angled just his eyes in the direction of the voice. There stood Iris Winthrop in a pair of men's coveralls, booted feet spread, hands stationed on her extensive hips, the harsh lines of her face yielding their standard scowl. On her head was a flamingred, wide-brimmed hat with at least a dozen or more multicolored roses shooting upward. "It's time the elders sought out a different preacher. This one has too many outlandish notions."
"No, d-d-don't shoot," wailed a boyish-sounding voice. Luke. "He's sick."
Sick? I'ni not sick, he tried to eke out. Fin just tired.
"You sick?" Mrs. Winthrop asked, arms dropping to her sides.
The gun went down. "You sick?" Ezra asked.
"You sick?" asked an altogether different voice, this one faceless and from some distant place, its timbre soft and almost melodic. He fumbled his way through a sudden fog, trying to identify its owner. This is a dream, he assured himself. Wake up.
He put a hand to his forehead and let it linger there. Eyes heavy, he fought to open then, but they felt like lead blankets.
"You sick?" she repeated. "You're sweatin' bad as a fireman walkin' on ashes."
His meandering mind finally made it back to the present, and when it did, his eyes shot open in a flash. Emma Browning jumped back as if she'd just witnessed a ghost coming out of its skin. Jon bolted upright, swabbed his damp brow, and stared at the jumpy woman who'd squelched his nightmare.
asked if you're sick." The skittish expression gone, Emma now wore a look of impatient smugness.
"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" Jon hauled his legs over the side of the bed and shook his head, trying to rid it of the few remaining cobwebs.
"What?"
"Never mind. What time is it?"
"A quarter past six. The others are eating their supper. I called, but you didn't come down. The food don't last a long time around here, so if you don't cone on the first call, you could be out of luck. And after today I won't be checkin' on ya.
He swiped a hand over his face then wove it through his unruly head of hair before peering down at his bare feet. He was a disheveled mess, and he could only imagine what he looked like from Emma Browning's perspective. He noticed that she kept her eyes trained on something just over the top of his head. Was there something else amiss about his appearance, or had she never seen a barefooted man before?
"Thanks for the warning," he muttered, giving his head another shake. "I guess I was more tired than I wanted to believe. I never expected to sleep through supper."
"I suppose you have been busy moving." She made a sweep of the room with her silvery blue eyes. "You're all settled in then?" she asked, still refusing to meet his gaze. She clasped her hands at her waist, and he noted a torn sleeve and several smudge marks on the front of her dress, no doubt from tending to her myriad house chores. Did the woman ever stop to rest? A passel of guilt for having taken time out for a midday nap pestered his conscience.
"I haven't unpacked those boxes full of books yet, but everything I'll ever need is right here in this very room. Left all my furniture behind except for that desk and chair." He pointed to the country walnut desk and matching swivel office chair he'd stuffed in the corner of the room and to the left of the window. "Ben Broughton helped nie carry them up the steps. I don't think you were home that day."
She nodded and strolled across the room to run a hand over the desktop. Looking for dust, was she? He never had been much for tidying up. That was another reason he was glad to be rid of the house. Smaller living space meant smaller mess. She gave the wooden chair a couple of twirls with her index finger.
"I inherited both from a kindly seminary professor after he retired."
She turned her slip of a frame around to face him. "Teacher's pet?" she asked with a glimmer of mischief.
"In a manner of speaking, I guess. He took me under his wing that first year and every year thereafter. Students called nie hard-luck-Kentuck. I didn't have one dine to rub against another, and I guess it showed. It must've been that single pair of gray trousers, white shirt, black bow-tie, and frock coat I wore every day of the week." She gave a gentle laugh, and the sound washed over hint like fresh spring water. "It wasn't long, though, before the professor's wife got wind of nie and started collecting used clothes from every source imaginable." He shook his head. "You should have seen the assortment. Out of respect I wore some of it, but most of it went right back into the school's charity bin."
She laughed again but quickly stifled the sound with her fingertips. "You're not sick then?" she asked, moving toward the door, clearly finished with the conversation. At the doorway, she paused and turned, awaiting his reply.
He rose and stretched, hands reaching high above his head. "I'ni as chipper as a bird in May."
She gave a curt nod. Several strands of hair fell loosely about her tanned cheeks. "Well then, if you want any supper you best get downstairs. You'll soon discover these men wait for no one."
"Thanks for the tip."
He reached for a boot, and in the second it took to snag hold of it, she was gone.
"What say we play some poker?" Charley Connors asked, coming in off the porch, the front screen door closing with a whack. The smells of nicotine and rum carried through the air when Charley sauntered into the parlor. Across the street and up the block, sounds of riotous music coming from the saloon penetrated the walls of Emma's Boardinghouse.
Dusk settled in, lulling some in this dusty town into restful slumber but unleashing roving, dark spirits in others. Jon hadn't felt prepared for the sense of foreboding nighttime brought, having lived his entire life in the country where the only sounds he heard came from creaking tree branches, a reclusive coyote's howl, or croaking frogs on the shores of Little Hickman Creek.
"I'ni in," said Harland, rising from the ancient brocade divan. He tossed a well-worn novel on a nearby sofa table.
Without glancing up from the newspaper he'd been poring over for the last half hour, Elliott Newman gave a crisp, "I'm out."
"What about you, Wes?" Charley asked, eyeing the fellow who'd been dozing in a leather chair in the adjoining library, also designated the music room if one considered the upright piano along the east wall.
Wes looked up through the double French doors. "What? No, I'm tuckered. Grady don't take to me comin' in late on Monday mornin'. Think I'll surprise him for a change and be on time." The fellow's knees groaned when he rose. He gave a slight nod all around and ambled toward his room, which was on the main floor and across from the kitchen. It was hard to miss the slump to his shoulders and the subtle limp.
"Did I hear poker?" Gid Barnard descended the creaking stairs and sauntered into the room. "I was about to have a smoke, but I can be persuaded to play a round, providin' you don't cheat." He stuffed his unlit cigar into his shirt pocket.
Charley grinned then withdrew a deck of cards from the top bureau drawer. "How about you, preacher?" His quizzical gaze held a challenge. "You oughta have some bettin' money left over from the sale o' that farm."
Jon smiled. "It's not mine to bet with, my friend. In case you haven't heard, we're building a new church with most of the proceeds."
Charley's eyebrows slanted in a frown. A mild curse slipped out. "Awful waste if ya ask me, but pretty noble of ya."
Jon might have told him that gambling away hard-earned money was the true waste but passed over the opportunity. These men weren't about listening to his sermons. What they needed were sermons of example, not words. "Nothing noble about it. I'ni plain weary of meeting in the Winthrop's living room week after week. Donating my funds seemed like a good solution to the problem. But I surely didn't do it for the recognition."
Charley looked halfway thoughtful then took to some fancy card shuffling, the likes of which Jon had never before witnessed. "Miss Emma? Join us?" he asked, bedevilment in his tone, his eyes trained on the cards that shot back and forth between his hands in a magical formation. Looking just past forty, the amiable Charley Connors tossed his head of reddishbrown hair and grinned widely, this time causing the dimple in the center of his chin to sprout. "You could be our weakpassive player who doesn't raise or fold much, just the kind of player we like to have in the game." He winked at Jon, as if letting him in on one of his best-kept secrets.
Without so much as a glance up from the puzzle she and Luke were working on in the middle of the floor, she made a clicking sound with her tongue. "I haven't the slightest idea what you just meant by that, and anyway, don't be ridiculous. I won't be throwing away my money on that fool game."
Well, at least they had that in common, Jon mused. He had situated himself in a chair in the corner, quite content to watch her and Luke over the top of a history book he'd drawn from the library shelf. He should have been studying for next Sunday's sermon, he told himself, or writing a letter to Professor and Matilda Whiting, or at the very least, compiling a to-do list for the upcoming week. But, alas, here he sat, soaking up the sights and sounds of his new environment, testing the waters, wondering how and where he fit into this strange assortment of folk who made up Emma's Boardinghouse.
He felt like one of the many puzzle pieces Luke picked up to study. "This d-d-don't fit nowhere," lie announced, sticking a piece under Enema's nose, clearly frustrated at his lack of success.
"Be patient, Luke. These things take tine." Well, there was a sermon in itself.
By midweek, the temperatures had climbed to the midnineties. That is, if one went by the thermometer George Garner had hung from a nail on a tree outside the post office. Emma went to stand in the shade of the old oak to study the instrument, its red needle clearly pointing square between the 90 and 100 marks. Just knowing the temperature seemed to make the perspiration flow more readily.
She mopped her brow then absently looked at the letter she held in her hand, its postmark stamped Chicago. In the upper left-hand corner was the name Grace Giles, but since no address followed, the source remained a mystery. A ridiculous shiver of apprehension made an erratic path up and down her spine despite the midday heat.
Why would a complete stranger be writing her?
It reminded her of two other missives she'd received just last month, also from Chicago. Across the page on the first one had been the carefully written words: "For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you." The signature had consisted of mere initials-G.G. The second letter, arriving two weeks later, seemed to have been a continuation of the first, for it stated simply: "But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." Under the verse, which she could only assume cane from the Bible, were the words, If you desire the truth, dear Emma, it will be given you. That too was signed G. G.
Mystified, she'd stuffed the notes away in her top drawer and tried to forget them. And for the most part, she had, casting the foolish notes off as someone's silly ploy to addle her senses. Now she wondered what game this Grace Giles from Chicago was trying to play, for she could only assume that Grace Giles and G. G. were one in the same.
"It's hotter 'n niy mania's chili," claimed Will Murdock, tipping his hat at Emma in a friendly manner before sidling up next to her to read the thermometer for himself.
She quickly crammed the envelope deep into her dress pocket. "Well, hello there, sheriff. Your mania's chili, huh?"
"Yep. And she used to use her ripest chili peppers straight from the garden. Like to've ripped my stomach limn' right out. My, that was good stuff. I got the recipe if you want to borrow it."
She giggled, thankful for the diversion Will Murdock provided. "I believe I would, Will. Sounds like something I could use against that motley bunch of men I'm housin'."
"Oh, it'll curl their toes, Miss Emma. Might even burn their tongues enough to shut 'em up for a few days."
Now they both laughed. Hickman's middle-aged slieriff rocked back on his heels, took off his hat to run a hand through his scraggly, damp hair, replaced it, then looped a thumb in his shiny belt buckle. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I don't know how you do it, Miss Emma, keep your wits about you when you've all those mouths to feed. Keepin' the peace must be a twenty-four-hour job, and I thought I had it bad. You got yer work cut out."
"Pfff. There's no keepin' peace. If they can't get along, that's their problem. I'ni not their mother, and I've told 'em so. It's not so bad most days. Long as they take care of their own stuff, mind their business, and don't break the law, I'll keep washin' their sheets and feeding 'em."
"I like your thinkin'. Makes my job easier, you holdin' that law business over their heads. From what I hear, you're quite a remarkable cook, Miss Eninia. And a wonder, to boot."
"Oh, fiddle. Who told you that?" They raised their heads to watch a flock of birds navigate across a brilliant, azure sky.
"Jon Atkins. And you know preachers-they're prone to tellin' the truth."
A tiny seed of satisfaction sprouted, causing a smile to emerge. She'd been pleasantly surprised to discover the reverend had been keeping to himself, not spouting off about his religious beliefs, and most evenings climbing the stairs to his room, where she presumed he spent time studying all those religious books he had stacked against the wall on a shelf. Of course, his silent prayers before mealtimes were a bit noticeable, but who wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to thank the Lord for his daily bread? As long as he didn't force the rest of them to comply-other than Luke, who'd already taken to bowing his head along with the preacher-she had no reason to complain about his presence.
"My meals are quite plain," she stated. An unexpected breeze lifted her skirts nearly to her knees, and she hastily pushed them down. Overhead, a squirrel scampered out on a limb.
Will grinned, revealing his signature, silver eyetooth. "Don't go sellin' yourself short, Miss Emma. I've never heard your cookin' referred to as plain. Harland Collins is always braggin' on it, makes me plain jealous I'm not reapin' the benefits of livin' there. A bachelor grows plenty tired of his own vittles."
Emma laughed. "And what about Mrs. Harwood? Last I heard she was leaving platters of cookies on your office doorstep, her way of sat'in' thanks for arresting that no-good, moonshinin' neighbor of hers and closin' down his outfit."
"Well, you got a point there, and don't get mne wrong, her cakes and cookies are pure pleasure. But they don't stick to the ribs like a juicy piece of chicken and a pile of spuds and gravy.
"Will Murdock, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were fishin' for a supper invite."
He tossed back his head and gave a hearty laugh. "Well now, 'sides Navin' culinary skills, seems yo
u're also quite the mind reader, Emma Browning."
"And you're quite handy with the flattery," she jested.
A rig carrying a load of hay rattled at a faster-than-usual clip through town, its driver, Herb Jacobs, lifting a hand to wave at both of them on his way past. A mongrel (log ran to keep up, barking at the back wheel.
"I wouldn't be worth my weight if I missed the opportunity to pay a fine lady such as yourself a well-deserved compliment, now would l?" he said over the noise and clatter, batting a hand at the sudden cloud of dust.
"Well, I thank ya for-" An ear-splitting scream had them turning their heads.
Up the street and in front of Bordon's Bakery, a crowd gathered. Herb Jacobs brought his wagon to a stop and leaped to the ground, running to the excited group. Emma shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted at the scene but couldn't make any sense of it.
"What do you think's going on?" she asked.
"I don't know, but I think I'm about to find out," Will answered, tipping his hat at her before sprinting off.
"Fetch the doc!" someone screamed.
"Is she breathing?" asked another.
"Lord help us. How did this happen?" asked Truman Atwater. In his hand, he carried a fresh loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper. His wife, Martha, clung to his arm, her eyes pools of concern.
"Think she ran right out in front of Herb's rig," offered Orville Bordon, owner of the bakery.
Herb's face was pasty white as he shook his head in disbelief. "I didn't see her till it was too late," he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "Went right under my front wheel.
Flora Swain lay sprawled across her child's lifeless body, three of her other children all standing around her, clinging to her skirts and screaming to high heaven.
Jon made his way to the front of the group. "Step aside, folks, and give us some air. Doc Randolph's on his way up the street now." He tried to hold his voice steady as he crouched down beside Flora and rested a hand on her trembling shoulder. So far, he couldn't tell if the child was even alive, so still was her tiny body. Her face, badly scraped, was a mass of torn, bleeding skin, and out of the one visible ear oozed a thin stream of blood. Her arni, clearly broken, lay grotesquely crooked at her side, a bone protruding. One leg had oddly folded itself beneath her frame so that she lay at an awkward tilt. Jon's heart slid clear to his toes. Dear Lord, please breathe new life into this child, give her the strength to survive.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 7