Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  "Wake up, Ernialine!" her mother wailed, cupping the girl's cheeks in both hands. "Open your eyes right now. Oh, niy baby!" The panic in her voice rose to deafening heights. And the louder she screamed, the more her three clinging youngsters carried on. In a hurried backward glance, Jon discovered Emma standing directly behind him. When their eyes met, she seemed to read his thoughts and hastily removed all three children from the scene, swooping one up into her arras and coaxing the other two away with promises of sugar.

  A path carved itself into the growing mass of curious bystanders, making way for Doc Randolph's entry, Will Murdock coming in behind him. Quiet mutterings and speculations flittered aimlessly as Doc opened his black doctor bag and began to bring out an assortment of instruments.

  "Flora, it's nie, Doc," he whispered. She seemed not to have heard, so Doc proceeded with his duties as if she weren't there, lifting the girl's eyelids, checking her pulse, then positioning his stethoscope directly to the child's chest, his somber expression denoting his full concentration. A hush fell over the gathering crowd.

  "There's a good, steady heartbeat," lie announced.

  Great sighs of relief passed from one to the other as folks shifted their weight and looked to the heavens. From there, Doc began examining the child from head to toe. "I don't want to move her just yet," he explained. "Flora, do you think you could give me a bit of room? I swear I won't hurt her." Compassion welled in the aging doctor's eyes, his years of experience in caring for the sick and dying showing itself in his kindly expression.

  As if waking from a bad dream, she stared at him with unseeing eyes, yet somehow had the sense to sit back. Jon took the opportunity to give her shoulder a gentle, supportive squeeze. The woman fairly fell into his side, as if soaking up what bit of strength lie could offer. Tears rushed down her cheeks like torrents of rain.

  Doc continued his careful exploration, moving skillful hands from top to bottom, pushing, prodding, and gently poking the lifeless child. It seemed that most had forgotten to breathe, so hushed was the group of folks who'd gathered around the scene. Finally, Doc took a deep breath and leaned back on his haunches, keeping his eyes trained on the girl. "Might be some internal bleeding. I'll have to set her leg and arm, but aside from that, I don't see any other visible injuries, other than some head trauma, which, from what I can see, isn't too severe. Surface wounds mostly. She should start waking up soon, which is why I'd like to get her moved to my office now."

  "We'll fetch the stretcher, Doc. It still behind your door?" asked Will.

  Doc nodded, his eyes still on his patient.

  "Herb, why don't you come with me?" Will suggested. "I'll need to question you about the accident."

  "Weren't his fault, Will," offered Harvey. "I was sittin' right there on that bench in front of Bordon's when it happened. Sure, Herb was movin' kind of fast, but I witnessed the whole thing. That little 'n' had a mind to run right across the street without lookin'. Think she must've seen that there black dog."

  "I thank you for that, Harv. I'll be talkin' to you later. Right now, we gotta get that stretcher for Doc. Come on, Herb."

  Herb Jacobs, still in a seeming trance, gave his head a shake and followed the sheriff down the street.

  "She gonna be okay, Doc?" inquired Elliott Newman, who must have heard the commotion and left his wheelwright shop to have a look. Luke, looking sullen and insecure, clung tightly to his father's arm.

  A guarded expression splashed across Doc Randolph's face as his gaze went from the unmoving child to her mother. "We'll know soon enough," were his carefully chosen words.

  -6~ 459~&

  he first rays of sun shot over a bumpy horizon like hot honey on a biscuit. Wispy clouds, thin and hairlike, stretched across an already brilliant sky of orange and blue, grazing the tops of Kentucky's low mountain range. Jon tipped his hat back for an unobstructed view of nature's display, rested one hand on the saddle horn and the other on his knee, and breathed in the clean scents of morning.

  "Don't get much better than this, right, preacher?"

  Jon grinned, never taking his eyes off the resplendent display, to his right a field of black-eyed Susans and to the left a copse of tall pines reaching skyward.

  "Nope, Elmer, not much better. Matter of fact, this is church, in my opinion."

  Jupiter whinnied in agreement, then continued picking his way down the hillside leading to Ezra Browning's oneroom shack. A little caravan of volunteers followed Jon's lead: Elmer and Bess Barrington, Rocky and Sarah Callahan, Ben and Liza Broughton, Tom Averly, Irwin Waggoner, and Gerald Crunkle. The small turnout pleased him. Now he could only hope that Ezra would allow them on his property.

  Ben and Rocky clicked their horses into a faster gait and cane up alongside Jon.

  "Think he'll meet us on his porch with that shotgun?" asked Ben.

  "If he does you have niy permission to turn tail and run."

  Ben chuckled. "And leave you to your own defenses? Nothin' doin'."

  "He brings out that gun," Rocky inserted, "we're all high- tailin' it, you hear? I'll beat you all back to town."

  "You always were the chicken-heart," Ben harassed.

  "And you were the hothead," Rocky retorted.

  Jon couldn't help the grin. "Contain yourselves, nien, or I'll have to send you both to the end of the line."

  "What-and miss all the fun?" Ben joshed.

  A flock of birds flew overhead, settling in a meadow, no doubt in search of breakfast. The men reined in their horses at the top of a knoll, calling a halt to the rest of the group. "Looks pretty quiet down there," remarked Ben. "The guy's probably sleepin' off another night of debauchery. What'll we do if we can't wake him up?"

  "We'll work around him," Jon said. "Might be better that way." He glanced behind him at the quiet cavalcade of followers, Elmer, Irwin, Toni, and Gerald riding single file, with the three ladies bringing up the rear in Ben's wagon. The wagon carried a load of building supplies, including glass for the broken windows, donated by none other than Clyde Winthrop.

  "Probably should have left the women home this first tine," he said, chasing down a smidgeon of worry. If anything happened of a negative nature, there'd be no one to blame but himself.

  "Liza wouldn't hear of it. She was ready to head out here last Sunday after dinner."

  Jon chuckled under his breath. "She's something. Heart of gold, that woman."

  "And a mind of steel," said Ben, shaking his head, his tone a niix of pride and pleasure.

  Jon gave Rocky a sideways glance. "And I suppose Sarah refused to stay home once she learned Liza was coming."

  He grinned and nodded. "Matter of fact, Rachel and Seth would've cone too if Ma hadn't insisted we drop them off at their place."

  "And what of Lill and Molly?" Jon asked.

  "They were still sawing logs when we left. Lilt's responsible. She'll hold down the fort till we get back."

  They proceeded down the hill until the little cabin cane in full view and they found a place to hitch the horses. Chickens scratched at sod, scuttling away the closer they came. Wandering aimlessly was Ezra's lone goat, skinny as a rail. A sort of pity welled up in Jon for the helpless creature.

  "It's deadly quiet," Rocky said.

  Ben looked back at Liza, who was driving the rig, and motioned for her to stay put. She reined in the horses and stopped several yards back.

  "Let me go knock on the door," Jon said, dismounting and loosely tethering the reins to the same crooked post he'd used before.

  He walked across rutted terrain, climbed the rickety porch steps, and rapped on the door. When he got no response, he gave the door a slight nudge. It pushed open with ease. "Ezra?" he called.

  As expected, the room was a hodgepodge of empty soup cans, heaps of clothing, dirty dishes, and upturned furniture. In the corner, slumped in a chair and out like a dead horse, was Ezra, empty bottles stockpiled at his feet. Jon walked the ten or so steps it took to get to the other side of the room and poked the guy
in the shoulder. "Ezra, wake up." A low moan cane from his mouth, along with a trail of spittle. "Ezra, you have company."

  Emma wrung out the last of this week's laundry, piled the wet garments into a basket, and headed out the back door. Miss Tabitha, stretched out on the windowsill enjoying a patch of sunlight, meowed a greeting.

  "Mornin', Emma," called Rita Flowers, Little Hickman's laundress. She was crossing the alley but paused midway when she spotted Enmia, putting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the blaring sun. "Ain't it a beautiful mornin'?"

  Emma put down the basket and cast a smile at the middleaged woman. "The finest." Although it promised to be another hot day, there was a lovely breeze to offset the worst of it. "You out for a pleasure walk?" Emma noticed she was strolling in the opposite direction of her laundry business.

  Rita shook her head. "I'm goin' over to Doc's office to see what I can do about relieving Flora. Lucy Fontaine said Flora's been stayin' with little Ernaline round the clock. Fred's doing his best to keep house and take care of their brood, but it's not an easy time for there. Hear Doc's out to the Thompson fare right now lookin' after their youngest that's got the croup.

  "Doc's got his hands full," Emma remarked. "How is little Ernialine?"

  "Holdin' 'er own far's I know. Actin' like a regular little sprout, anxious to be out of bed. Course, she can't move what with a broken leg and arni and bruises, to boot. Lucky little thing, if ya ask me."

  Emma recalled the accident with a shudder. "It was a terrible thing, but I'm glad that things seen to be workin' themselves out."

  "I s'pose we could've been havin' a funeral. Thank the Lord for His great mercy."

  It seeped to Erma it would have been altogether more merciful had the Lord prevented the accident, but she refrained from expressing her opinion.

  "Sometimes the Lord allows these things so His children will learn what it is to trust Hini completely. No matter the outcome, He's the one in control. I suspect the Swains will grow closer t'gether 'cause of this accident. No matter, somethin' good will come of it. Romans 8:28, you know." No, Emma didn't know, but she kept that matter to herself. "Well, I best be gettin' over to Doc's. You have a good day now."

  They waved and Emma hoisted up the basketful of wet clothes and walked to the clothesline, the cat joining her to curl around her legs and do her best to make a pest of herself.

  "Shoo!" Emma ordered, smiling to herself for no particular reason when the cat failed to obey.

  After hanging the last towel, she set to rights a couple of garments hanging in a cockeyed fashion, and that's when she noticed it, the corner of something sticking out of her sopping dress pocket. "What in the world?" she muttered, pulling from the pocket a waterlogged envelope, the writing on it faded and running. It came back to her then, the note she'd received in the mail a few days ago, stowed away for safekeeping when Will Murdock had cone along, then completely forgotten about when the accident stole their attention.

  A frown pulled at her face. Would she even be able to decipher the contents now that the missive had gone through the wash? Walking to the back stoop, she dropped down to the top step, her skirts falling about her ankles, and commenced to peel back the envelope's gummed flap, taking care not to do more damage to its already fragile state.

  As suspected, the message was mostly unreadable, save a few words here and there, mistakes-past forgiveness-your father.

  Her frown deepened. The thing made no sense, regardless of the effort she put into decoding the washed-out words. Finally ruling it fruitless, she crumpled the wet letter into a ball, retrieved her laundry basket, and went back inside, tossing the crumpled paper into the waste bin.

  Only one thing nettled her senses. The mention of her father.

  The evening supper consisted of beef stew and warm biscuits with a side of warns applesauce. Jon ate as if it were his last meal, famished after a clay of laboring at Ezra's place, repairing broken fence posts, replacing rotten boards in the front porch, and swapping old shards of glass for new in the broken windows. While he worked at those tasks, Irwin, Elmer, Toni, and Gerald tilled the garden and planted some seed, even though it was late in the season, repaired the roof on a shed out back, and built a lean-to for the wayward chickens. Ben and Rocky fixed broken hinges, repaired sagging cupboard doors, and mended broken furniture, while Liza, Sarah, and Bess scrubbed floors, cabinets, stove and sink, and washed every piece of clothing they could lay their hands on. After that, they baked enough bread to last Ezra into next year, if it didn't mold first.

  As everyone toiled, Ezra sat on his haunches, stupefied. No one lectured, no one preached. They just worked as unto the Lord, with no thought of repayment. The verse from Matthew, Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me, seemed to permeate the little cabin as the team of volunteers worked side by side. Even now, Jon's heart swelled with gratitude as he lapped up the last of his stew.

  For a change, the table wasn't full. Gideon and Wes were working late at the sawmill, and Charley Connors was reportedly butchering a fresh side of beef that had just arrived at Flanders' Foods from Bill Jarvis.

  "Delicious supper, Eninia," Jon praised, giving his mouth a thorough sweep with his napkin, feeling like he'd downed it so fast that surely he was wearing it all over his face. Luke picked up his napkin and did the same, his eyes mindful of Jon's every move.

  "Just a simple stew," she said, giving a dainty nod. She rose and set to picking up plates and spoons.

  "Thatwas not simple," he argued, deciding to help. "Simple would be fried hamburger with watered down gravy and a sliced potato added to the niix, niy usual mid-week fare."

  Half a grin peeked out on her pretty face. His goal was to coax out a full-blown one, one of these clays. "You actually ate that?"

  "You'd be surprised what I concocted in the name of food. It's a wonder my stomach survived those many years of abuse. I used to toss pickles and sliced apples into a fry pan and eat then like candy."

  Her nose wrinkled in disbelief. "That sounds terrible."

  Following Jon's example of lending a hand, Luke picked up his soup bowl and carried it to the kitchen. Elliott and Harland remained at the table, scraping out the last of their stew and eating in silence.

  In the kitchen, Emma placed a towel on the handle of a steaming kettle and carried it to the sink, setting it on the butcher-block table next to the sink.

  "Where would you like these?" Jon asked, holding his bowl, a platter of biscuits, and the crock of applesauce. Luke stood behind him, trying to mimic him.

  She put the stopper in the bottom of the sink and turned her head. The long, blond braid that went down the center of her back flopped over her left shoulder. He had the uncanny urge to test it for softness, or worse, disassemble the entire plait and run a hand clear through it.

  What was he thinking? He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for one brief second, trying to erase the ridiculous image that had bolted across his mind, tinkering with his judgment.

  With a nod, she pointed at the table directly under Jon's nose. "Set them there, and thank you very nmch. In the future, you can remain seated at the table. Long as you pay your room and board, I'll tend to the household chores."

  He felt put down, but not beaten. "I'm accustomed to doing my part. I don't mind bringing my dishes to the kitchen."

  "My kitchen is my domain, Mr., er, Reverend."

  Ali, so she didn't want hint encroaching on her territory. "When are you going to start calling me Jon?" he asked, setting the dishes on the marred counter, Luke following suit. She made a point to ignore him, pouring the kettle-full of steaming water into the sink, then turning the faucet to add a sufficient amount of cold. He wondered why the old house had a heated coil in the attic that ran hot water to the upstairs bathroom, but didn't have pipes running to the kitchen.

  "Reverend's too formal for old friends, don't you think?"

  She sniffed. "Old friends? Hardly. You tease
d me mercilessly."

  "That's what boys do when they have a crush. I chased you over every square inch of that playground just itching to yank at one of your braids. Remember that?"

  Her back straightened. He positioned himself against the table and folded his arras across his chest. She took up a dish and set to washing it.

  "That was at least a century ago," she said. "Unfortunately, most of niy schoolday memories are rather cloudy."

  He could imagine they were, as busy as she had been defending herself against an abusive, alcoholic father. Of course, he'd been doing the same, but at least he'd had Rocky and Ben to run to when things got bad. Who had been her allies? Try as he might, he couldn't remember her having many friends. Was that because Ezra had driven them all away? He thought about the old coot, wondered what he was doing in his spic-and-span kitchen. Was he even now bringing it to ruin, dirtying dishes that would sit for days to come, staggering around in his oneroom shack while he spent another night in drunken squalor?

  Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these.... "You remember our teacher's name? Thornton, Thorpe...?"

  "Thurston. Mr. Thurston," Emnia answered, pausing to gaze off in thought. "He had a mole on his chin that stuck out like a fly in a sugar bowl. Mean as a bull in a four-foot pen, too. He slapped the tops of our hands with a paddle if we used our fingers to count."

  "Ali, yes. I sat on niy hands a lot."

  This produced the tiniest giggle, and it made him frantic to keep the conversation moving, made him imagine what one of her full-out laughs would sound like.

  "Remember Virginia Peabody?" he asked.