Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  It was nearing the supper hour. Billy Wonder sauntered into the kitchen where she was stirring gravy over a hot stove. "I'll be leavin' town soon," he divulged. "Thought you'd like to know that." He plopped down a number of coins on the counter, which she quickly swept up and stuffed into her apron pocket. "Aren't you going to count those?" he asked.

  Ever since their encounter on the street some weeks ago, she'd treated him courteously at her table but avoided any further confrontations for fear he'd bring up that silly notion about her having feelings for the preacher. Fool-headed, that's what it was.

  "No need," she said. He'd been faithfully paying her the suni total of seven dollars every Friday, and she'd only had to remind hini it was due twice. She had the distinct feeling he managed to finagle his way into most folks' lives on charm alone, then quickly wandered out before they caught on. Paying his way was a foreign concept to Billy Wonder. Yet in spite of his rather audacious manner, she had to admit he was a most likeable character, and the announcement that he was leaving not only took her by surprise, but also filled her with a twinge of regret. He'd become somewhat of a fixture around the boardinghouse.

  "Where will you go next?" she asked.

  "Further south, Tennessee, then Georgia. Might even go as far down as Florida. I'll want to get a head start on the weather. Cold winters spoil my temperament."

  "Winters aren't so bad here," she remarked. "Hardly get any snow as a rule."

  "No, but you get ice," he stated, as if he were the authority. "Might as well have snow for all the frigid temperatures. Nothing worse than freezing rain sluicing the cold earth. Makes navigating my rig nearly impossible." Billy found a spoon and dipped it into the gravy, then brought it to his lips, lightly blowing on it before closing his mouth around the spoon and sighing with pleasure. "That's delicious, madam. Have I told you what a wonderful cook you are?"

  She smiled, staring into the saucepan of bubbling gravy. "Plenty of tines."

  "I'll surely miss your fine biscuits when I head for parts unknown."

  There was a wistful tone in his words, and she wondered what it was that kept him moving. Best not to pry, she concluded. She'd always been adept at keeping her distance with regard to folks' innermost feelings, somehow knowing it could lay her open for questioning.

  "Well, remind nie, and I'll pack you some before you go."

  He turned around, putting his back to the stove and folding his arms across his chest, his gaze zeroing in on her face. "I'm actually going to miss Little Hickman. Folks've been real nice to iiie."

  "I'm glad to hear that. It's a pleasant place."

  "It's the sort of place in which a man wouldn't mind settling down-if he was to find him a nice woman first."

  Sticky heat inched across her cheeks, and she wondered if lie sensed her discomfort. This was just where she didn't want the conversation heading. "You just finished sayin' you don't like the cold winters."

  "Ali, but the warmth of a woman could easily persuade me to stick out a nippy Kentucky winter." She sorted through the silverware drawer in search of a wooden spoon and, finding one, set about shoveling mashed potatoes from a steaming kettle into a large serving bowl, her mouth clamped shut. "Course, it appears the only woman I'd be interested in pursuing has her eye out for the preacher."

  She sighed loudly. Reaching into a drawer with one hand, she picked up two crocheted hot pads and pressed them into his palms. "Here, make yourself useful," she ordered.

  "Doing what?" lie asked.

  She pointed at the heavy cast-iron kettle. "Hold that by the handles so I can scrape it out."

  Looking about as blundering as an elephant balancing fine porcelain on its head, Billy Wonder situated the potholders on the handles and hefted the kettle up, tipping it to make the potatoes accessible. While she worked, she felt his eyes continuously boring holes through her damp cheeks.

  "Just admit it," he quietly dared.

  "There's nothin' to admit," she countered, drawing her brows together in a tight frown.

  "Sure there is."

  Her back went straighter than usual as irritation ran a line up her spine. "Tip it further this way," she urged, guiding the pan with her utensil. "More."

  He complied. She scraped. "I've seen how you peer at him across the table," he pointed out. "Caught the fear in your eyes when he first came up missing, watched you care for hint when he was down with that fever. Oh, and don't think the lot of us didn't notice that look of contempt on your face the night that pretty Clayton girl showed up to lend a hand." He laughed outright. "My, my, you looked ready to sweep her clean off your porch. And I believe you intended to use the wrong end of the broom to do it."

  "Oh, pooh! You're being ridiculous," she snapped, a tight ball of apprehension rolling around in her gut. Had she really looked as riled that clay as she'd felt? It had been another long twenty-four hours of caring for Jonathan, his fever refusing to break even after the third day, his sudden turn for the worse disarming everyone, including Doc. Day and night she'd cared for him, blotted his parched, fevered face with wet cloths, spoken in low, comforting tones to him when he got the tremors, and replaced his sweat-soaked sheets with dry ones. Sitting on the rocker beside his bed, she'd forced water down his throat, dozed when she got the chance, and prayed short prayers that gave little consolation.

  Doc had just delivered another one of his lectures, insisting she needed rest. He'd been standing on the porch, preparing to leave, and talking to her through the screen door.

  "I'll be fine," she'd muttered, watching a fly soar around Doc's balding head. Hannah Clayton had volunteered her services, he'd announced, and he wouldn't stand for any of her arguments. "What?" she'd fired back, aghast. "That's completely unnecessary. I'd have to show her where everything is."

  Doc had blinked and shifted from one foot to the other, a loose board squeaking under his weight as he batted at the fly. "And your point?"

  "Well, I...." What was her point? She'd been too exhausted to think clearly, but the one thing she had known was that she didn't like the thought of Hannah Clayton taking her place in the little rocker. For some reason, she'd wanted to be the one in Jon's line of vision when at last he opened his eyes, irrational as that was. She had glanced around only to discover her boarders, including Billy Wonder, had grown quiet as church mice, hanging on to every word spoken between Doc and her.

  Bucking up, she'd dragged her gaze back to the town's doctor. He'd pulled back his shoulders. "She'll be here by seven and fully expects to stay the night," he stated, his eyes revealing he would have the last word. "You'll show her what you've been doing for the reverend, and then you'll take to your bed." Her back sagged on its own. A slow smile appeared on his face just before he turned to leave. "And don't worry, Emma. I'll see to it that he learns what you've done for him."

  Mortification of the worst kind had jumped to the surface. "You'll do no such thing! Besides, it's nothin' different than I would've done for anyone else."

  He'd grinned. "Then it shouldn't bother you one way or the other who I send over here to help, Hannah Clayton or niy great uncle." He'd turned and headed down the steps, his throaty chuckle transporting itself over the air like a soft, wispy cloud.

  "You love him, don't you?" Billy asked, breaking into her thoughts, his breath disturbing the tiny tendrils of hair at her temple.

  The question left her so nonplussed that she dropped the spoon in the kettle with an impatient clunk, deciding the noname dog could lick out the remains.

  "Mr. Wonder, you are out of line in asking such a thing."

  He tossed back his head and laughed. "You are a puzzle, Miss Emma. Pretty thing like you seeming content to run this boardinghouse of misfits." He set the cast-iron kettle down and tossed the hot pads to the counter. Then lie stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Sorry if I've offended you, but you can't blame a guy for wondering why no one's snatched you up yet. How old are you anyway?" He tipped his face down close as if to judge her age by the tiny wrinkles
in the corners of her eyes. In a regular huff, she gathered up several dirty utensils and carried then to the sink, pitching them down with a clang and a clatter.

  "That is none of your business." So she was a spinster going on twenty-nine? These days, ladies were proud of their independence.

  "I'm guessing twenty-three, twenty-four. You can't be a (lay over twenty-five," the galoot pestered, following in her steps. She turned the spigot and stuck a teakettle under the water's flow, studying its vigorous spray. "Anyway, doesn't matter," he finally relented after she'd filled the teakettle to the brim.

  She turned off the faucet and flipped the lid on the shiny little pot before setting it on the counter, took a few steadying breaths, and raised up her head to gaze at him. It surprised her that his coffee-colored eyes weren't judging. Nor were they glinting with hilarity. Instead, a probing query came into them and something like genuine interest.

  Her anger settled down. "I'ni twenty-eight, if you must know."

  "No!"

  She dropped her eyes to the breadcrumbs littering the countertop and swept them into a neat little pile with the side of her hand, then set to poking the pile with her fingertip, arranging and rearranging. "I enjoy making my own way, not having to rely on another human being. Always have," she heard herself confess.

  Hands still stuffed away, lie gave a silent nod. "I can understand that. I've felt the same myself. I started making niy own way as a boy of twelve after I lost both my parents in an ambush outside of St. Louis. I escaped with nothing but the shirt on niy back, and that only because the desperados were too busy pilfering through the wagons to see me get away." A cynical snigger ripped past his throat followed by an angry curse. "They slaughtered eight adults and seven kids that (lay, my folks among them. We were traveling with a band of gypsies, you see." The smile on his face was cold and ghostly, his eyes icy with remembrance. "Took me weeks to come forward, maybe months. I was scared half out of my wits that if I did go to the law one of them would come after me. Hmph! They were long gone by the time I finally went to the sheriff. Far as I know they're still roamin' free unless the devil's taken 'em down."

  The story horrified her. How did one come out of something like that and remain sane? So that explained his wanderlust. "How terrible for you," she managed on a hoarse whisper.

  He shrugged and looked out the window overlooking the backyard. "Do you know that was exactly twenty-four years ago this month? I remember it like it was yesterday."

  A cold, raw shiver flickered down her spine.

  Lord, I don't understand You. Why would You allow such atrocities to happen? Where were You when Billy needed You-when I needed You? Where are You now?

  In an impulsive act, she placed her hand on Billy Wonder's arm, allowing herself to care, wrapping her mind around the fact that she was even capable of it.

  "I'm sorry, Billy," she said, meaning it.

  He looked at her hand then slowly raised his face until their eyes met and held. "I'll tell you a secret if you promise to keep it between us."

  Her chest tightened with anticipation. In her lifetime, she'd been privy to very few secrets, mostly because best friends often shared them, and she really didn't have a best friend. Her head bobbed up and down with nervous excitement. "I promise.

  He swallowed hard then seemed to ponder where to begin. "My real name's not Billy Wonder."

  "No." That was the secret? She'd suspected as much.

  "It's Philip William Westerwunter. German I guess. Don't know what it means. Philip was my great-grandfather's name on my mother's side and William was an uncle to my Grandpa Westerwunter." He looked proud, if not relieved, that his secret was out.

  "I don't think anyone would guess your real name," she stated, keeping a straight face.

  "The first person who does is going on the road with me." At this, they shared a spontaneous laugh, after which Billy quickly sobered. "You never did get over to see one of my shows, you know. Last one's tomorrow." His brown eyes sparked with a kind of impish innocence, and she decided he was really quite handsome-in an offhand sort of way.

  "When does it start?" she heard herself ask.

  "Two o'clock sharp."

  She thought about tomorrow's list of chores: sweeping the floor and dusting the library shelves, baking a week's worth of bread, weeding the garden, picking the last of the ripe tomatoes, pole beans, peppers, and zucchinis, and writing a letter to Grace.

  Grace.

  As hard as she tried, she could not keep up with that woman's letter-writing skills. To every one of Emma's missives, Grace returned three.

  A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as Billy waited for her answer.

  "I'll be there."

  No getting around it, Ezra Browning was a dying nian. Jon steered Jupiter over rough terrain on his way back to town and rehashed his Saturday morning visit. Ezra's cough had worsened, choking the very breath from his diseased lungs, blood intermingling with spittle. Gray lines etched into his aging face, and bony, sagging shoulders only emphasized an obvious weight loss. He doubted the fellow had eaten a proper meal in weeks, perhaps months.

  "You need to talk to Emilia," Jon had said after spoonfeeding Ezra half a cup of chicken soup while he'd reclined in bed, his head propped up by two grubby feather pillows. "She deserves to know how sick you are."

  "I ain't wantin' her to know nothin'," Ezra grumped. "She don't much care anyway, so there'd be no point to tellin' 'er." This he'd said between suffocating coughs.

  "You're not fit to care for yourself, old man," Jon said. "Emma and I could help. You could move into the boardinghouse."

  "Pfff. Been takin' care o' myself all my life. No reason to stop now."

  "You've never been this sick. Don't think I don't know how bad off you are. I talked to Doc myself."

  "He had no right divulgin' my business."

  "I forced it out of hint." It was true. When he'd approached Doc Randolph about Ezra's health, the doctor had been hesitant to say anything, claiming he'd sworn to keep the matter quiet at Ezra's request. But Jon had convinced him he could help the old guy if Doc would just be straight with him. That's when he'd learned what he'd feared; Ezra had a large tumor in one of his lungs, and a rapidly decaying liver only added to the problem.

  Deciding not to push him further where Emma was concerned, he'd asked, "Have you got any family-anyone you want me to contact for you?"

  The old man shook his head and stared at the ceiling. "I done tol' the only person who'd care one whit. Wrote 'er a letter last spring-around April I guess."

  "Would that be Edith?" Jon asked on a whim.

  Ezra's eyes clouded with interest. "How'd ya know 'bout her?"

  "You mentioned her awhile back. Don't s'pose you remember. Who is she?"

  "Yer a nosy young cuss, preacher kid," Ezra grumbled.

  Jon chuckled. "I've been called worse. Come on, who is Edith?"

  Ezra harruniphed and said, "She's niy mother's sister and the only one from my fancily who ever gived a hoot 'bout me.

  Jon's spine went straight. "You have an aunt?" He let the newfound information settle. "Does Emma know about her?"

  "Never saw the need to tell 'er. I lost contact with ever'one after I left home. Heard from Aunt Edith ever' so often, but that was it. Ain't like she ever come to see me and Emma. She usually jus' wrote notes now and then, and sometimes I'd write back." Ezra shrugged. "Didn't hear back from 'er this last time though."

  "Well, maybe she never got your note," Jon offered. "Or could be she's moved-or she's sick. Is your mother still living?"

  His head moved from side to side on the filthy pillow. "Don't know nothin' 'bout my ma or pa, and there ain't no need tryin' to contact 'em," he groused. "They'd a writ nie a long time ago if they gived a care."

  Rivers of compassion washed over hint. "God loves you, my friend. He wants to heal your heart from the inside out. Have you ever considered giving what's left of your life over to Hini?"

  Ezra's age-worn face
creased even more. "Doubt God's much interested in what's left of me, a cranky, vile of coot. I ain't done much of anythin' good with my life. God knows my wakin' hours weren't worth a toot. Couldn't even take proper care o' my own kid. And that's the plain truth of it."

  For the first time ever, Jon witnessed something different in Ezra, and it sounded like remorse, honest and genuine.

  "God doesn't care about any of that. What He does care about is a penitent heart, a soul that's truly sorry for his sin and willing to accept the forgiveness that only Jesus can provide. How about I give you a Bible so you can read the very words that tell of His great love? Would you go for that?"

  He didn't say yes, and he didn't say no. What he did do was turn his head away and close his eyes. Minutes later, he was snoring. Either that or feigning sleep to avoid further discussion.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, Jon headed back to town.

  on found Emma dusting shelves in the library upon his return from the Browning farm. She'd removed all the books and stacked them in several neat piles on the floor. He leaned in the doorway, hat in hand, and watched for several moments, his presence completely undetected. She wore a red gingham skirt, frayed at the hem, and a white cotton blouse with puffy short sleeves, dipped at the neck. Her pinned-back blond hair tumbled down like shimmering gold.

  Lord, she's beautiful.

  As if she'd heard his thoughts, she whirled about. Her face was pink with perspiration, and the notion struck him that she actually enjoyed laboring around her house, making it a comfortable dwelling place for all, even though its inhabitants failed to mutter their thanks.