Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  "Understand what?" he growled. "Why I growed up to be an infernal, villainous old numbskull?"

  He'd nailed it, all right. "I'd like to help you, Ezra-if you'll let me."

  He shook his head hard. "Too late."

  Jon shook his just as vehemently. "It's never too late. God has a plan, no matter what you may think. And whether you know it or not, He loves you."

  "Don't tell me about God, preacher kid. If He cared one bit He'd have let my Lydia live all them years ago."

  "He gave you Emma, and she's still very nnuch alive. That ought to count for something."

  A scoffing sound blew through his lips. "She don't want nothin' to do with nie."

  Jon opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. How did one argue with the truth?

  On a tree branch very near the window, the cardinals were still going at it.

  Emma jammed the foolish letter back into its envelope and laid it in her top dresser drawer with the others, doing her best to forget it. But the more she busied herself around the room, the more it pestered until finally she retrieved it for another read.

  I know you don't believe this, Emma, but there is a good reason why your father turned out as he did. Believe me, I know. Please do this one thing-ask God to help you understand. He will lead you one step at a time.

  If you desire to know more, I will enlighten you, but you must ask. Until then, I will continue to hound you with special promises from God's Holy Word.

  Mark 10:27 says, "With men it is impossible, but not with God: for with God all things are possible."

  Very Truly Yours,

  Grace Giles

  Who in the world was Grace Giles?

  -61~" X;z

  /ou s-s-sewin' a new dress?"

  Eninia looked up from her stitching and smiled at Luke scantling in the doorway. She didn't normally keep the door to her private quarters standing open, but it was so hot today that the cross ventilation coming from the window at the end of the hall and her own open window provided a gentle, cooling breeze.

  "I am, and after that I plan to stitch some new curtains for the kitchen."

  The fabric she'd ordered from the mercantile had arrived by freight two clays ago, a beautiful purple cotton with tiny, delicate red and yellow roses, and she'd been so excited she'd torn the brown paper off the parcel right there on the spot, in front of Eldred Johansson, Gus Humphrey, and Tim Warner. Of course, they hadn't understood or appreciated her enthusiasm, but when Lucy Fontaine ambled through the door, a babe on her hip and a toddler at her side, she'd sufficiently oohed and ahhed, smiling and running a hand over the cloth, as if it were a priceless treasure. And it was, for it had been more than three years since Emma had indulged herself in a new dress.

  "Y-y-you goin' to wear it to a p-party?" he asked.

  "Party? Don't know of any upcomin' parties, Luke. I 'spect I'll just wear it around the house since my other dresses are gettin' so worn."

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at her. She smiled to herself and went back to sewing, powering the machine with a slow, rhythmic pumping of the foot treadle, concentrating all her efforts on steering the up and down movement of the needle as it made a path over the pinned hens.

  Luke spoke over the machine's gentle hunt. "My iiiiii-mania could sew."

  Emma ceased pumping the pedal. "Really? Did she sew dresses?" She started pulling pins from the section she'd just sewn and stabbing them into her tomato-shaped pincushion.

  "I think. She iii-made me a shirt once. My mania, she was real p-pretty."

  "What did she look like?"

  Luke leaned into the doorframe, the wheels in his head spinning. "She was this tall." He laid his palm flat about five feet from the floor. "She had yellow hair-like you-and soft hands."

  The simple description put a tiny ache in her heart. "She sounds lovely."

  "Who sounds lovely?" Jonathan Atkins sneaked up behind Luke and placed both hands on his shoulders. Emma's chest gave a strange lurch at the sight of him.

  A wide grin washed over Luke's asymmetrical face. "My iii-mania," he replied. "She was as p-p-pretty as Miss Eninia."

  Jon's burning eyes held her captive as he looked around Luke's head. "Then your mother was a beauty."

  Knowing she blushed, she put up her defenses and concentrated her efforts on her sewing. Men didn't discombobulate her as a rule, so the notion that the preacher had managed to do so made her want to stomp her foot in protest.

  "I got her picture," Luke said. "Want me to go g-get it?"

  Even though she dove into her task, she knew he'd trained his eyes on her blushing cheeks, probably felt tickled to have rattled her. "I'd like nothing more," Jon said. "I'll wait here."

  No additional prompting necessary, Luke disappeared down the hall. Emma stared at her handiwork and felt her shoulders drop in frustration. She'd been stitching straight as you please until he walked in. Aggravated with herself-and with hini-she let go a sigh.

  "Something wrong?" he asked from his station.

  "Just some crooked stitching is all. I'll need to rip it out."

  "Hm. Sorry if I distracted you."

  "What? No-you didn't," she lied. She clipped the end with scissors and started pulling out the uneven threads.

  He kept watching her, which didn't help her concentration any. "I went to see your father today," he announced.

  She paused in her task. "I don't know why you bother with him. I heard you took a group from the church out there the other day, which was mighty nice of y'all but quite pointless. He won't keep it neat, you know."

  "I found that out today." He chuckled to himself. "But we managed to do some much-needed repairs around the property, so it was worth it. And it gave everyone a good feeling to be able to lend a hand."

  A wave of guilt slammed into her. He was her father. She should be responsible for his care, but she rarely even visited him.

  "God's in the business of healing broken people, Emma. He often uses the church to accomplish that. I'm praying your pa will open his heart to the Lord."

  "Humph." She didn't want to talk about the church-or God, for that matter. Her fingers fumbled with the thread while he stood in the doorway.

  "What makes you close up at the mention of God?"

  She shook her head. "I'm doin' fine on my own. I didn't see God intervenin' in my life when I was a sprout, so why bother?"

  "Because you need a Savior, Eninia." He said her name as if it meant something to hint. "We all do, no matter how selfsufficient we try to make ourselves." When she didn't respond, just kept her eyes fastened on her work, he asked, "Did you pray much as a kid?"

  The offhand question got her to thinking. "A few times, I suppose.

  "How did your prayers go?"

  She scowled and gave her head an arbitrary toss. "Once after Ezra hit nie, I asked God to let him drown in Hickman Creek. Does that count? Another time I asked Him to suffocate the old geezer in his sleep by letting the roof cave in just on his side of the house, mind you, not mine. As you can see, He answered neither prayer." Now that she thought about it, they were bizarre requests, and recalling them prompted a bit of cynical laughter.

  Jon chortled low in his throat. "Emma, Emma, you're too much."

  There was a certain warmth to his tone that she chose to ignore. "I had it all planned out, too," she went on. "How I'd go live with Miss Abbott after Papa died." She sobered. "That wasn't very nice of me, was it?"

  "You were angry, and rightfully so. Let me just say that God is angered by injustice. In fact, He hates it, especially when it involves children. But that's anger of a righteous kind. As long as we recognize anger for what it is, it can't steal our joy; but if we give it a foothold, it can do great damage, even cheat us of our ability to trust another human being."

  She raised her chin in defiance, felt a stinging sensation at the back of her eyes. In short order, she took up her sewing again, flustered that he'd managed to rouse her emotions.

  "What h
e did to you was wrong, Emma." All of a sudden, he was standing next to her, having taken the liberty to walk right into her private domain. "I have a feeling he'd call it all back if he could," he was saying. "The old fool has spent the better share of his life drunk. He knows you hate him for it, but he's helpless to do a thing about it."

  "That's not my fault," she said, sudden anger rising up. "And I'll thank you to leave my room immediately."

  He didn't move. Just stood there staring down at her-as if he had the right-close enough that she heard each measured breath. "God can help you, Em-."

  "Here it is!" Just in time, Luke cane bounding into the room, sticking a faded photograph under both their noses.

  Emma reached out and took the photo from Luke's stubby fingers. Forcing a bright-eyed smile, she gave him her full attention. "You were right, Luke. She is very pretty."

  "Furniture and whatnot's comin' in on the next freight wagon!" reported Gerald Crunkle, dismounting his horse at the site of the new schoolhouse and waving the telegram he'd just received. About a dozen men had gathered to work today, and a few of them looked up when Gerald arrived. Most didn't take the time to stop what they were doing, however, just wiped their brows with their shirtsleeves and granted hint a cursory glance. "Want me to read what it says here?" he asked.

  Jon grinned, feeling his own brand of excitement at the news. The quicker the men finished the work on this schoolhouse, the sooner they could start erecting the church.

  "I'll read it anyways," Gerald said when he got no audible response to his question. "Desks, books, supplies arriving on 28 July. Stop. Anticipate four wagonloads. Stop. Full payment expected upon delivery. Stop." Gerald studied the yellow piece of paper as if it were a juicy piece of watermelon. "Ain't that good news?" he said.

  "It's great news, Gerald," Ben Broughton professed, hauling another broken board across the yard to add to the growing pile of debris. There would be one big fire in another week or so. "You'll forgive us, though, for not sharing your sane level of enthusiasm. Most of its have been here since daybreak, and right now the news of the furniture's arrival sounds a bit like, well, more work." A facetious tone accompanied his droll grin as he tossed the board on the pile with a clatter, stopped to niop his wet face, and then looked up to exchange a waggish look with Jon, who was perched high on a ladder. Jon shook his head and laughed to himself before returning to the job assigned him, painting the cedar trim around the new windows.

  A couple of murmurs of agreement came from Sully Thompson and Edgar Blake, who were coming around the corner of the white clapboard schoolhouse, also carrying armloads of debris.

  "And by the way, Crunkle," Edgar said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Some of us have noticed how it seems like lately we been seein' more o' your backside ridin' out o' here than the other way 'round."

  Someone sounded a hearty laugh on the other side of the building. Gerald's mouth turned under as he gave a broadshouldered shrug. "Hey, I brought y'all lunch yesterday. You best show a bit o' gratitude." Pushing seventy, Gerald found a tree stump to drop onto and gave a loud sigh. He was the sort of fellow who took well to teasing, and for that reason, the men were quick to dish it out whenever they got the chance.

  "I'll just sit here and supervise 'fore I head back. Preacher, looks like you missed a spot -a little to your left higher."

  "Thanks, Gerald," Jon said, dabbing the area with his paintbrush, grinning to himself.

  "The way I see it, if that furniture conies in the end of July we ought to be able to use the building for our church service first Sunday in August," remarked Rocky Callahan, who was climbing down a ladder at the end opposite Jon, paint can in hand.

  Elmer Hayward found another stump close to Gerald's and made himself comfortable. Broad shouldered and well muscled, and older than Gerald by about ten years, Elmer still managed to work circles around most everybody. With his full, white beard and thick head of white hair, lie resembled a lumberjack. He removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his brow. "Attendance will jump when that happens."

  "I hope you're right," Jon said. "I'm afraid it's dropped off since having to meet in the Winthrop's living room."

  "Can ya blame us? Folks is sick o' that woman's fretful looks," Bill Jarvis muttered. "I declare them oriental rugs o' hers belong in a museum instead of a livin' room the way she eyes everybody what walks on 'em."

  "She and Clyde have been more than generous," Jon said in their quick defense. The last thing he wanted was word getting back to Mrs. Winthrop that folks were complaining about her lack of hospitality. "Who wouldn't be overprotective about such valuable possessions? I'm amazed she offered her house at all."

  Robert Johnson came to stand under the shade of a tree and take a swig from his water canteen. "I'd say it was more Clyde who made the offer. Iris went along with it. You wouldn't think it at first glance, but Clyde Winthrop wears the pants in that house. He mostly just lets her think she's in charge. You see the way he shut her up a few weeks ago when she didn't agree with the preacher here about goin' out to Ezra Browning's place? My, my, that was worth every cent of the price of admission. Come to think of it, I put double in the offering plate that (lay."

  Several hooted and even Jon chuckled, although with his back to the bunch of them. Tithes and offerings had been up, he quietly mused.

  When the laughter died down, Gerald asked, "How's that old fossil, Ezra Browning, takin' to your visits, Preacher? He startin' to come around?"

  Jon glanced from his high perch to ponder the question. It appeared that most had decided to take a break, by the look of things, hunkering down in any shady spot they could find to take swigs from their water jars. He chose to finish out his job despite the sun's penetrating rays.

  "Truth is, I don't know what, if anything, I'm accomplishing by going out there, but there's one thing I do know. God's commanded nie to love the man."

  "But you ain't even his pastor," said Bill. "He ain't never once set foot in our church."

  Jon shook his head, wishing they could catch his passion. "If I'm not his pastor, what good am I? Did Jesus come only to serve the desirable?"

  "Was lie talkie' about folks what tote rifles?" asked Henry Johnson, one of Hickman's younger farmers.

  Jon cackled. "I see what you're saying, Henry. I'll confess looking down the barrel of a rifle is not my favorite thing to do, but I haven't seen it since that first time. Truth is, I think the old guy's startin' to like me."

  Rocky Callahan took a swig of water, screwed the lid back on the jar, and cleared his throat. "I think it boils down to this, men. Ezra's not the most lovable character in Little Hickman, but he's still a child of God. Wouldn't hurt for any of us to show the fellow a little compassion."

  After that, the topic of Ezra Browning came to an abrupt end.

  Eninia viewed herself in her full-length mirror before closing her door behind her and exiting down the back stairs. It was the first time she was wearing her new dress, and for that reason, she'd taken special care with her old high-tops, polishing them to a sheen, selected a purple ribbon with which to tie back her golden hair, set a white bonnet on her head, and pinched some color into her already rose-hued cheeks. Not that it mattered one iota if anyone noticed her.

  In her reticule, she carried an envelope of cash, payment from her boarders, three-quarters of which would go into her bank account, and the rest for purchasing necessary supplies from Johansson's Mercantile and Flanders' Foods. As much as she hated to admit it, she also had to make a purchase of thread and a melange of other items from Mrs. Winthrop, the woman's selection far surpassing that of Eldred's meager stock.

  Outside, she paused before crossing the street to Little Hicknian's Bank and Trust, lifting a hand to wave at the Bergen family riding past in their ramshackle farm cart. Wagon wheels and a warm breeze sent dust swirling into the hot, dry air. Women traversed the sidewalk, some dawdling to stare into store windows, others hurrying along, arms full of either packages or babies. The
scent of horse manure and hay filled the air, as did the sounds of shouting male voices, whinnying horses, and the saloon's tinny, off-key piano.

  Holding down her bonnet, Eninia crossed the street, stepped up to the sidewalk, pulled back the solid oak door, and entered the bank building.

  Ila Jacobsen, Frieda Hardy, Sarah Callahan, and Fred Swain stood in line at the bank window. Millie Humphrey, one of the tellers, was waiting on Ila. Back in his glass-enclosed office, Bill Whittaker, Little Hicknian's bank president, sat at his big walnut desk brooding over a stack of papers. At the sight of Emma, Sarah turned and acknowledged her with a friendly smile and wave, Fred Swain granting her a courteous nod.

  "How is little Ermaline doing, Mr. Swain?" Emma asked by way of a greeting, coming to stand behind him.

  The man's polite nod switched to a beaming smile as he swiveled his body to give Emma his full attention. "You'd hardly know that leg and arm is broke what with the way she gets herself around, manipulatin' her little body so's she can do most anythin' she puts her mind to. Doc says we need to try holdin' her down some, but sat'in' it and Join' it is two different things. Yep, yep, yep, she's a rascal, that one. Guess if she wasn't, she wouldn't be in this fix, eh? Herb says she runned right out in front of 'im, and we believe 'im. That accident weren't any o' his fault."

  "I'm relieved to hear it," Emma said. "I know Mr. Jacobs was just plain sick about the whole thing. I'm sure he's glad to hear she's doin' so well."

  "Pfff. Herb's been out to the house nearly every day. He and Ermaline's becomin' quite the friends. Doc says it's good for both of 'em-ya know, facin' the thing head-on rather than tryin' to pretend it didn't happen. Sometimes that's the best way to deal with the past. Face it and move on, that's Flora's and my philosophy. Ain't nothin' else we can do but thank the good Lord things didn't turn out worse. Yep, there's always a silver limn' if you look hard enough."

  His words struck a chord in Enema's heart that she hadn't expected. Face it and move on. The notion that Fred and Flora Swain held no ill feelings for the accident was refreshing, if not surprising. Most would have found reason for grudge-holding, particularly for something as monumental as running over an innocent child. She gave the idea a moment to settle in.