"What-was it like for you-growing up with your pa?"
The way his brow crinkled up, as if the question pained him, made her regret having asked it, but then he gave a loose shrug and grinned. "Truthfully? He was a mean cuss when he was drunk, which was most of the time; knocked my ma and me around if we so much as blinked wrong. I stayed clear of hint as much as possible."
How could he appear so nonchalant? "And your mother?"
That sobered him some. "She took the brunt of it, always defending nie, coming between us so that when his fists flew they'd hit her first. There carne a day, though, when I was old enough and big enough to fend for myself, that she couldn't take it anymore. That's when she-well, you know."
She did know. News of any kind traveled through Little Hickman as swift as a grass fire, but folks particularly seemed to cherish sharing juicy gossip. Luther Atkins' wife had hung herself in the barn, and her teenage boy, Jon, was the one who'd discovered her body. Emma recalled how the news had sent a chill racing through her body. How did a boy go on living after making such a horrid discovery?
Where was his bitterness, the expected rage? If he had any, he'd hidden it well.
As if he'd read her thoughts, he tipped his face in her direction. "I hated hint for what he'd done to my nia, Enuiia, but the Lord healed me of my anger a long time ago." He dipped lower until mere inches separated their faces.
In haste, she looked down at her shoes peeking out from the hens of the blanket.
"I was mad enough to kill him, don't think I wasn't. I knew where he kept his guns, and I was ready to go after him.
"I plotted how I'd march into Guttersnipe's, drag him away from whichever barroom girl he was coned up to, and I'd haul him out to the middle of the street where we'd be in plain view. I wanted everyone to watch while I did the act."
His words chilled her blood, and she couldn't help but look at him again. His gaze had rested on something straight ahead.
"But God had His hand on nie in the form of Reverend Miller," he continued. "As soon as he heard about the ordeal, he rode out to my place. He found me in the sorriest state I'd ever been in." He looked only a little sheepish. "By the time he arrived, I'd already torn the inside of our house to smithereens, ripped pictures off the walls, shredded my pa's clothing, broke dishes, ripped curtains off the windows, broke furniture with my bare hands. I mean, you want to see rage," he gave a slow nod, "that was a boy mad enough to kill.
"I remember Reverend Miller found a place to sit in a corner of the room to wait it out with nie. Just sat there straightfaced and calm as a cat in the summer sun. He listened to inc rant until finally I fell exhausted on the floor. That's when lie got up, came over, knelt down beside me, and said, `You're coming with me. The Callahans want you.'
"`The Callahans want rue?' I asked. It was the first time I'd ever heard words like that. Someone wanted mne. He said, `Yeah, they sent me out here to tell you to pack all your things. You're goin' to live with them.' I couldn't believe it. Besides Ben Broughton, Rocky Callahan was the best friend I'd ever had. And I was going to live with his family.
"You might say they saved my life. They showed me God's love in action. I would expect Reverend Miller to show me God's love-but an entire family?
"It wasn't long afterward I gave my heart and soul to Jesus Christ, asked Him to reign over my life, give me a purpose. That family's unconditional love sent nre straight to the cross, Emilia, gave me hope for the future, made nre realize I wasn't alone in this world.
"I can't say it was a happy-ever-after ending, though." He turned his gaze back to her, and in his eyes, she caught a glimpse of moistness. "I never made amends with my pa, although I tried. He wouldn't talk to me after I moved in with the Callahans. It was as if the hate in him increased a hundredfold. I wanted to show hire Christ's love the way the Callahans had me, but lie wouldn't have it. His life took a steep, downward spiral after that.
"He died eighteen months later, a spiteful, embittered soul."
Jon shook his head, and Emma couldn't help it; she drew her hand out from under the blanket and placed it on his arm. A ripple of muscle moved beneath her hand, sending a nip straight to her bones. She'd never touched a man in this way, with tenderness and compassion, and the knowledge gave her pause. Jon Atkins did amazing things to her emotions. Compassion such as she'd never known welled up inside until a single tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another-and then another. She sniffed and raised the blanket to her face to swipe at the wetness.
Jon moved an arni around her shoulder and tugged her close. "Ali, Emma," he murmured in her ear. "What have I done? I didn't mean to make you cry."
It seemed that once the flow of tears commenced there was no stopping then. Hard and hot, they racked her from the inside out. She gulped, trying to stave them off, but the harder she tried, the faster they fell. Then came the choking sobs, worsened only by Jon's comforting arms that now both encircled her, drawing her close to his hard chest. "Let them out, sweet Emma."
His soft words didn't help, for she only cried harder. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she get a grip on her conflicting feelings? And what had brought them on, Jon's sad story, so similar in nature to her own that it seemed to break her heart in two, or was it that this gripping, unforgiving spirit she'd buried deep inside her might never dig its way out? Jon seemed so at peace with his world, even though lie had every right to be resentful. She was so angry, but no longer knew if she had the right. Sure, she'd been abused, but hadn't a million other kids like her suffered worse things? At least Miss Abbott had loved her-enough to set her up for the rest of her life. Of that, she should be eternally thankful. Wasn't it time she let go of the hateful spirit she carried for Ezra Browning?
Oh, it was all so confusing.
A light kiss on her cheek and then her temple turned her to mush. She wasn't accustomed to such tenderness, and the fact that the preacher himself was showing it to her melted her very core.
Oh, Lord, she whispered inwardly, I want what Jon has. What do I have to do to get it?
Yet while the question lingered in her heart, she kept it hidden from the one person who could give her the answer.
- CL/-, 7"r Y~
if '00r~
momma," he whispered. There was no help for it; when she turned her face toward hint, he trailed tiny kisses down the length of it, partaking of her delicate scent along the way, trembling with rapturous pleasure.
Her lips were full and waiting when he kissed them, salty tears mixing with their savory taste. His heart pounded through his chest until he thought it would burst the buttons on his chambray shirt. Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord ...I've wanted this for so long. I love her, Lord. I love her.
My ways are perfect, My son. Do not rush My will. Give Me time to reveal Myself to her.
The hazy piece of reasoning sought to swim to the surface, but he kept pushing it back, not wanting to hear it, not wanting to break off this precious nionient.
Rejecting the nudge, verse after verse of Scripture started plowing through his senses even as his mouth gently meshed with hers.
As for God, His way is perfect: the word of the Lord is tried.. .the secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him, and He will show them His covenant... commit thy way unto the Lord, and He shall bring it to pass ...I delight to do thy will, oh my God: yea, thy law is within my heart.
With great reluctance, Jon stopped the kiss and cut loose a weary sigh. It couldn't be helped; there was no turning off the resounding voice of God.
Holding Emma at arm's length, he looked full into her face where fresh tears still rolled freely down her rosebud cheeks. Cupping her face on either side, he wiped their wetness with the pads of both thumbs. She looked confused, to say the least, maybe even a little dumbfounded, and who could blame her? Blast if he wasn't speechless himself! How did he explain to her why he'd kissed her like that then suddenly pulled away? She would never understand the wrongness of it, even though he himself had sensed it with untol
d certainty.
Truth was, until she made her peace with God, broke free of her own spitefulness toward her father, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of her kisses. Nor could he trust himself to be alone with her. And the worst of it was that he'd done all he could to point her to the Father. The rest remained with her. Otherwise, he'd always question the earnestness of her decision.
When she came to Jesus, he wanted her to cone of her own accord-not because he'd pushed her into making a decision to ask Him into her heart.
He dropped his hands to his lap and moved away from her. It wasn't hard to miss the tight little gasp that blew past her lips. He wanted to explain himself but couldn't find the words, couldn't even look her in the eye quite yet.
As if on cue, Luke's mangy brown dog sauntered up the porch steps, his droopy ears looking as if they needed scratching. Somewhere along the way Jon wasn't sure just whenthe mutt had managed to finagle his way into the household, as had the ginger-colored cat named Miss Tabitha.
"Hey, No-name," he mumbled for lack of anything better to say. The dog rubbed against his knee, a silent invitation for attention. Jon massaged his flea-bitten ear.
Emma stood to her feet, the impact of her sudden movement rocking the swing. "Well," she said with cool curtness, brushing down her skirt before swabbing her remaining tears with the end of her sleeve. "I feel foolish."
"What? No, you shouldn't. I-I can explain."
She raised a hand to put a halt to his next words, her throat sounding clogged and full with emotion. "No need. What just happened, well, don't worry 'bout it happenin' again. I saw your regret. Yo're probably kickin' yourself two ways to Brooklyn 'bout now, you bein' the preacher an' all."
"No! Listen, I...."
"It was plain silly of me to cry like that. For gracious sakes, I don't know what got into me, but I'm over it. Yes, I am."
She swiveled on her heel and headed for the door.
"Eninia, wait a minute. We should talk."
She paused, hand on the doorknob. "I don't need your sympathy, Jon Atkins. I can manage just fine without it."
So that was it, then. She was back to her stubborn, contrary self.
"Cone and sit back down," he urged again. "We can talk this out."
But the door closed behind her, and none too gently, before he had time to manage another word.
No-name gave him a droopy eyed, if not scathing, look. "I've blown it, haven't I, buddy?"
Dear Grace,
I thank you for the letter that came today. Since I can't sleep anyways, nows a good time to reply. Besides I'm feeling an azi ful need to talk to a woman, which don't happen that offen to me. I did something mighty foolish tonight concerning a man, and I don't need to tell you how imba- ra,ssed its made me feel. And here's what it is-I let him kiss me. It don't make sense because I never have let a man do that before, and I don't think it came off too pleasant for him since he had the azifulest scowl on his face afterward. To make matters worse, he is the preacher. (Did I tell you the preacher lives at my boardinhouse?) He's a very nice man and I know he's sorry now for given me false hope. I ashurred him it won't happen again.
Well, you'll be glad to know my pa is livin' in my spare room. Jon-that's the preacher-talked me into bringin him here because he's so sick. I'm praying God will somhow give me strength. My pa's not an easy man. I did just come across that verse in the Bible that says with God, all things are possible, so that gave me some hope.
I was plain thrilled to learn I had a cousin. Maybe somday you and me can meet. Wouln't that be somthing? You could stay right in my room if you ever chose to visit. But Chicago is a long ways away so don't feel oblegated. (I wish I was a better speller. That wasn't my best class in school.)
Is your mother's name Edith becuse I know now that Ezra wrote letters to Edith and she wrote back? How do you know Clara Abbott? Could you tell me this ; stuff the next time you write?
Who were the people who rased my father? Didn't he have his own parents?
I'm sorry for my pore writing. Yours is always so pretty and straight. My lines seem to go evey which way that its a plane out shame you have to try decifer it.
But I'm glad I found you-or you found me. It's nice to know I have a cousin.
Love,
Emma
P.S. Write back!
P.S. again-I'm reading that book ofJohn all over again and it seems to be makeing more sense to me the second time around. And I found another book called the Psalms that is just plain comficrting. I do think I want to learn more about God even though I never give it much thought before now.
As the days rolled by, an amazing thing happened. Ezra Browning started to improve. Doc said it was due to the care he was getting, the square meals, the lack of booze in his system, and the much-needed rest. But he also said they shouldn't count on it lasting. He was a sick man and, unfortunately, still a dying one.
Eninia scurried to wash the supper dishes, eager to go out to her garden before the sun made its final descent. Grapes ripe for picking hung from their vines, and she intended to make her father help her pull them off. If he was well enough to cone to the dinner table, as he'd done the last few clays, he was well enough to go out for some fresh air. If he tired, she would sit him on the cast-iron bench to watch.
Letters from Grace continued to pour in, with Emma answering every one of them. They had formed a fast friendship, knit together by the fact that Grace and Ezra were first cousins. Emma pored over Grace's missives, learning something new about her relative with every reading. She was fortysix years old, a widow to Wilburt Giles, having been married to him for twenty-one years before he suddenly fell ill. It was he who'd started the restaurant business, and Grace who'd carried it on. Her advice about Jon Atkins was that she must cease worrying over the kiss. If she had true feeling for him, and he did her, then the Lord would reveal His plan. "These things have a tendency to work out according to God's timetable," she'd said. At that revelation, Emma scowled and gave her head a tiny shake; not wanting to dwell on it, she quickly finished the note.
She learned, too, that Grace had never had the pleasure of children, although they'd wanted them. Over the years, they had cone to accept the fact of her barrenness and invested time in other people's children.
Her father, John Fielding, passed away shortly after her wedding, having suffered from a chronic lung disease. She had two sisters, both older and living in Kansas and Colorado. To her great sadness, she seldom had the opportunity to visit either one due to distance and the inability to leave her restaurant for long periods. She employed a cook and two dining waiters, but since her thriving little restaurant had made a name for itself, she barely had time to read the evening newspaper, let alone leave town.
She implied that she had grown tired of the weariness of city life and had thought much about selling out and retiring to a quieter community, perhaps one of the cozy little towns that were popping up on the outskirts of Chicago.
As for the questions Emma had regarding her father's background, Grace's answers were slow in coming, noticeably absent, in fact, with the exception of her admission that, yes, her mother's name was Edith, and also that before she died she'd revealed some things about Ezra's family. Things that Grace preferred not to talk about via mail.
Well, if she wouldn't write them in a letter, Emma had asked in her last note, how was she ever to learn the mystery? "Furthermore," she'd added, "what about Clara Abbott? I still don't understand the connection."
Emma dried the last dinner plate and on tiptoe placed it on top of the other clean plates neatly stacked in the cupboard. She wrung out the dishrag and draped it over the edge of the counter, then hung the damp towel on a hook beneath the sink. Wiping her hands on her apron front, she turned and perused her neat-as-a-pin kitchen.
"Ya always was good at keepin' things all polished up nicelike." Emilia whirled at the sound of Ezra's voice. He leaned the weight of his thinning body in the doorframe, too weak to support himself for long p
eriods, his shoulders bent as usual, skin taut and ashen, but a spark in his eyes she couldn't recall ever having seen before. My, what a sober mind did for a body.
"Thank you-I think. Was that a compliment?"
The tiniest chuckle broke loose. "I s'pose it could be if ya want to look at it thata way. Never was one for expressin' my gratitude toward ya, even though I should've."
Lately, Ezra Browning had been most hospitable, and she had no idea how to handle it. Even now, she felt a silly blush creep up her neck, as if this weren't her father standing three feet away from her but some stranger trying to butter her up. For that reason, she wanted to pick a fight with him, but she couldn't seem to conjure up a good enough motive for one.
"No need," she sputtered.
He started to cough but regained control of the episode much faster than normal. She walked the few steps it took to get to him and took his arm. His frailty did something to her innards, made her feel things she wasn't used to feeling. "Want to help me pick grapes?" she asked.
"Pick grapes, you say? Where's the preacher? That sounds like soniethin' he'd want to do." He was stalling, of course. No one she knew balked more at having to lift a finger. He was spoiled, and she had no one to blame for it but herself. Hadn't she catered to hint her entire life just to keep the peace?
"I have no idea, and I wouldn't ask hint to help me pick grapes anyway," she squawked. "Now, come on." She tried to hurry hint, but it was like telling a baby tortoise to speed it up the way he gingerly put one foot in front of the other.
"You and that preacher kid fightin'? Don't seem like you two's lookin' at each other near as much as ya used to," he nmrnnired when they finally reached the door.
"What? No." The muscles in her back tensed tighter than a drum as she reached for a big bucket sitting on the floor behind the door. It was plain mortifying to discover that her father had noticed something rising up between her and Jon, made her wonder what the others were thinking. Ever since those astounding kisses on the porch, the man had stepped cautiously around her, pointing his gaze to the floor in passing, conversing with everyone but her at the meal table, as if she carried some contagious gerni and the only hope for not catching it was distance and complete avoidance. No, they weren't fighting-exactlybut then they weren't speaking, either.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 24