"Well, once he got the place all quiet like, he started up preachin'," continued Harland. "It was just like God Hisself was doin' the talkin'. Folks was lendin' 'im their ears, and even the madam had a tear in 'er eye. He was talkin' about how he got-what you call it-salvation, and sat'in' that any of its could experience the same thing. Weren't no special formula, he said, 'cept to take Jesus as your Savior.
"Well, he had one coughin' spell toward the end of his preachin' episode where blood was comin' out, but then he got control. He said a few more things about havin' regrets and whatnot, and asked folks to think over what lie said. That's when it happened."
Jon felt his brow crinkle and a knot start to form in his gut. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"He toppled over right there on that stage."
Alarm curled through his veins. "Toppled?" He stepped up his gait, eyes zeroing in on the saloon, where a crowd had gathered outside the swinging doors.
"Several of us men carried him to that bench there," Gideon offered, pointing straight ahead. "We sent Henry Watson after the doc, but I ain't sure...."
That was all he needed to hear before lie set off on a run.
"Pa, say soniethin'. Please. Talk to me." Emma cradled her father's head in her aria, body bent over him. Beside her Grace prayed in low murmurs, her hand on Ezra's arm.
"Didn't I tell you-they was discussin' my homnecomin' up there?" he muttered, his voice shaky and scarcely audible.
A well of sadness dug so deep in her soul she had to fight to keep her own self breathing. "Papa, please don't talk like that," she begged on a hoarse whisper. "We're not done yet, you and nie."
He closed his eyes and swallowed. Blood oozed out the side of his mouth and made a straight path down his chin. The sight unnerved her.
"It's nearin' my time, girl. I won't be a burden to ya any longer."
It seemed to take him longer than usual to suck in his next breath. When lie did, it came out raspy and hollow sounding. His eyes opened to slits and fixed on her face for the briefest time. "You was always a good-girl. I'm sorry I...."
"Shh. I know, Pa. I'ni sorry too."
A strange groan broke loose from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut.
"Pa?" When he made no further attempt to open them, she leaned close to whisper in his ear. "I still got things to say to you, Pa. You hear me?"
"Emma." Doc had been prodding her to move aside, but she wouldn't listen.
Another shallow breath slipped past his sagging mouth. Desperate to say her piece, she put her mouth close to his ear. "Jesus saved nie just like He did you, Papa. I meant to tell you sooner, but I was too piggish to do it. I meant to tell you it was brave of you to walk in front of the church like that, too, and I was, well, proud of you for doin' it.
"I love you, Pa, I really do, and I wanted so bad to tell you, but-well, it just wouldn't come out o' nie. But you knew it, didn't you, Papa?" Only inches from his face, she saw a slight movement behind his eyelids. He battled to open them further, and when he did, it was to give her a glazed-over look, as if his spirit had flown away. Panicked, she started to shake hint, barely aware of the growing crowd of curious bystanders.
"Don't go yet, Pa," she begged.
"Excuse nie, folks," cane a male voice-deep, lulling, soothing-familiar. Jon. "Let me through, please. Enmia," he whispered in her ear. "Come on, Emma; let's get out of Doc's way now, shall we?" His warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, big and long-fingered. She leaned into it.
A stream of tears coursed down her cheeks. "I love you, Pa," she repeated, willing him to open his eyes.
"Come on, honey."
She tipped back on her heels and fell against the preacher's firm chest, unable to see through the hot blur of tears. "Tell him to wake up, Jon. He'll listen to you."
She felt his chest heave. "I'm afraid he wouldn't hear me," lie whispered.
She refused to accept that. "Wake up, Ezra Browning, you of coot," she ordered.
But Ezra Browning did not move again.
The finieral had been a quiet affair, attended mostly by Emma's close friends and very few of Ezra's, which was to be expected. Over the years the man had made little time for friendship building.
Naturally, Jon performed the ceremony, although his words were few due to his clogged-up throat. It was his first funeral as a minister of the gospel, and he decided it would forever be his least favorite obligation.
Emma had sat in a chair in the parlor, shoulders straight, face serenely peaceful, though not naturally so. It was as if she'd determined to turn off her emotional faucet. She shook the hands of friends and thanked then for their concern, pasted smile in place. Grace stood behind her acting as host and doing a fine job of it, protective of her younger cousin, her hand set squarely upon her shoulder. Jon would have liked to assume the role of protector, but, alas, Emma didn't know his full intentions, and now didn't seem an appropriate time for telling her, considering her grief.
Afterward, in the following weeks, Eninia's boarders walked around the house with sullen faces, keeping the noise down, and going to their rooms at decent hours. Even Luke seemed to recognize the need to hold back his blather, although Jon thought his senseless chatter might do everyone some good. Around town, talk was that Madam Guttersnipe had considered closing down the saloon for lack of business. It would seem Ezra Browning's "sermon" had touched a tender chord in many a heart, Gus Masterson, the saloon's pianist, for one. Ever since Ezra's passing, he'd been attending Little Hickman Community Church, and Sunday before last, had walked to the front to express his need for the Savior. Jon suspected it wouldn't be long before Bess would start trading off with him at the piano, and wouldn't that be a flat-out miracle!
From saloon honky-tonk to church hymnal. Would wonders never cease?
Of the boarders, Wes Clayton and Elliott Newman seemed most affected by Ezra's passing. Three Sundays in a row now, they'd faithfully sat in the third row from the back, all ears at Jon's messages. Luke came, too, of course, his perpetual smile a joy to watch, a regular boost to Jon's confidence.
Folks stopped by almost daily to deliver big casseroles, pies, cakes, platters of cookies, and pans full of fried chicken and scalloped potatoes, freeing Emma of the need to spend long hours in the kitchen. Even Iris Winthrop dropped off a meatloaf hefty enough for serving an army. Seeming genuinely concerned, she stood on the porch and chatted with Grace for at least ten minutes, Jon standing at his window just above and catching bits and pieces of the conversation.
"Well, it was a shock to that poor girl, I'm sure," Iris had said. "Of course, she suffered years under that man's abuse, so one part of her ought to be relieved."
"Ezra found forgiveness in his latter days," Grace put in. "He and Emma had just started to make amends."
"Well, yes, and I'm sure that must give Miss Browning some sense of peace. Still, it does amaze nie."
"What's that, Mrs. Winthrop?"
"Why, this whole business of God's grace and forgiveness-no matter how great the sin, no Ynatter how late in life... there is always forgiveness for those who seek it."
Grace's low-throated chuckle rose to Jon's second-story window. "I see you've been paying close attention to our pastor's sernions, Mrs. Winthrop."
Grace stayed on a full ten days after Ezra's passing, tending to the house chores and the meals; weeding the garden, even though most of it had withered, save the pumpkins and squash; and running errands, affording Emma the opportunity to hide out in her private quarters like a hermit, as if she had need of a refuge. Jon grilled Grace more than once about Emma's reclusive behavior.
"She needs time to process all that's happened to her, Jon. In some odd way, she feels guilty-about Ezra."
"Guilty? Why should she feel guilty? It was Ezra who wronged her."
"And she who carries the responsibility for not freeing hire of his guilt."
"That wasn't her job to do."
"You and I know that, but try convincing her. I've told her till
I'ni blue, but it doesn't seen to matter.
"She spent the better share of her life hating and resenting her father, and then in the end, it occurred to her that she truly loved him. Now she faces the harsh reality of what might have been if they'd have communicated their hearts to one another long ago."
Jon shook his head. "But the timing would have been all wrong before. It took Ezra's illness to bring him to his knees before Almighty God and your timely letters to alert her to her need for Christ. Can't she see that?"
Grace placed a hand on his forearm. "I've no doubt you'll find a way to make her see it, Jon."
His shoulders slumped. "She won't talk to me. Every time we meet in the hallway, she makes an about-face. My presence has always disarmed her, reminded her that her heart wasn't right with her Creator, but now that she's a Christian, it puzzles me how she's more determined than ever to avoid nie. It doesn't make sense." He looked to Grace for some kind of encouragement, but she remained quiet. "Unless she just plain dislikes me and I'ni too thickheaded to see it." His insides panicked with raw realization. "Well, blast if that hasn't been it all along! She does hate nie."
Grace cackled. "Oh, listen to you. If you believe that, then you have slow-of-wit to add to thickheaded, my dear Reverend."
"Really?" He studied her now-smiling countenance. "Believe it or not, you've just made me feel better, Grace Giles."
She laughed outright. "You'll be fine," she'd said, patting him on the arras. "What you need to do is help her overcome her feelings of inadequacy. It is quite beyond her that you, a minister of God's Word, could possibly be interested in her-in any way but friendly, that is."
"No kidding? Did she tell you that?"
She gave a casual shrug. Her eyes glinted with humor. "Perhaps a bit of courting would do the trick?"
"You take care now, Miss Eninia," George Garner called as Emma made her exit from the post office, another missive from Grace tucked safely away in her coat pocket. She'd torn into it immediately and had thrilled to read that things were progressing at a fast rate concerning the move to Little Hickman. All that remained was to settle up with the new owners, pack her belongings, and set off on her journey. She'd hired a friend to drive her this time, someone familiar with the roads to and from Lexington. It should make for a more pleasant ride, especially when considering the fellow's wife planned to join them on the journey.
"And you, Mr. Garner," she replied.
For the first time in days, a tiny seed of expectation sprouted in her heart and made her step a little lighter, made a smile inch its way past her chattering teeth. Was it because a golden sun shone through thinning trees, making a valiant effort to warm the late-October air, or was it that Grace's letter had boosted her spirits?
She pulled her collar close and paused to sniff the scent of autumn, much like No-name did when he crawled out from under the porch, senses sharp and vigilant. One block off Main Street, at the corner of Washington and Mayfield, Gerald and Eileen Crunkle sat bundled up together on their porch swing. A fire of leaves burned itself out where their front yard met the road. She'd noticed Gerald earlier raking dry leaves into a giant pile and toyed with the notion of running up the street to ask if she night dive into the middle of it, but figured he'd think she was missing a screw or two if she did.
Jon Atkins spotted her as he was leaving the livery, no doubt having turned Jupiter over to Sani. He lifted a hand and waved, causing her heart to scuttle off track. Lately, he'd been all smiles and attention, leaping to his feet to pull out her chair at the table, helping her haul out the trash barrel, rising before her most mornings to start the coffee, and even standing next to her at the sink to dry the dishes while she washed. Ever since Grace's departure, he'd stepped into her cousin's shoes, making it his job to look after her. She'd been careful to guard her heart, not wanting to read more into his actions than necessary, telling herself his kindness came from sympathy and a need to fulfill his pastoral duties rather than from genuine tenderness. Still, she couldn't help but wonder.
And now that she had set off for hone, she knew he followed her.
"Emilia, wait," he called.
She turned to find him jogging across the dusty street, darting out of the path of Fred Swain and his team of horses.
"I just came from Ben and Liza's place," he announced. "They've invited its for supper next Wednesday night." Us? "She's expecting that baby any minute now, but she still insists. Says she's better off staying busy. I guess they've asked the Callahans as well." When she didn't immediately answer, he added with a smile, "It'll be a regular party. Are you game?"
"Me?"
She still couldn't get past the "us" part of his earlier statement. "They've invited us" was what he said. There wasn't an "us," was there?
"Yes, you." In broad daylight, he took a section of her hair between his fingers and gently tugged. "It will do you good to get out of that house, Enmia. You've done nothing but hide out for the past five weeks. Folks are starting to worry about you."
That was it, then. As her pastor, he saw the need to draw her out of her self-made cocoon, and what better way than to surround her with friends? But would her pastor also finger her hair and make chill bumps race up and down her arms?
Carl and Frieda Hardy walked by. "Afternoon, Preacher. Miss Emma," Carl said.
When Emma would have stepped back for propriety's sake, Jon leaned closer, nodding as the couple passed, but keeping his eyes trained on her.
"My! Did you see that, Carl? Emma Browning and Jonathan Atkins...." Frieda's voice drifted off.
Jon smiled. "We're the talk of the town, Miss Browning."
She snapped out of her trance, felt a soaking blush. "I don't know what there'd be to talk about."
He chortled, and she noted he hadn't dropped her wisp of hair; rather, he studied it with care as he rolled it around in his fingertips. "You don't think they're curious about us?"
"There is no `us."' Is there?
"They probably think something's going on right this minute."
She drew back and followed his gaze, which landed on Doc Randolph. Taking a rare break on his front stool), the old gentleman, tin mug in one hand, newspaper in the other, looked up and nodded. Even through the cloud of dust hovering over Main Street, Emma swore she saw him wink.
Then there were Truman and Martha Atwater, Ila Jacobsen, and Rose Marley all engaged in conversation in front of the bank. The names Bryan and McKinley drifted past her ears, indicating their discussion centered on the upcoming presidential election. She sighed with relief-until they all turned to gawk at her and Jon, at which point Rose made an indiscernible remark and Ila covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
In haste, Eninia resumed her steps toward home. She refused to be the topic of folks' conversations. If her sudden move surprised Jon he didn't let on; he merely fell into step with her, their heels clicking out a similar rhythm as they traipsed up the sidewalk.
"Your reputation will be tarnished."
He looped his arm through hers. "My reputation is what it is."
"Jonathan." She could almost hear his smile. "I'm notyou shouldn't...."
When she would have mounted the steps to her porch, he snagged her by the arm and halted her progress. "I shouldn't what?" he prodded, turning her. "Love you? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"What?" A gasp of air whistled through her lungs. "Jonathan."
His hands settled on her shoulders as he bent close. With the pad of his thumb, he drew little circles around her shoulder blades. Tenderness that went beyond a pastor's call to duty swirled in his eyes.
"Jonathan," she repeated.
He chuckled. "You're going to wear my name right out, woman. Was there something you wanted to add to it?"
She blushed with wonderment. "I don't know what to say... exactly."
"How about telling me you'll be my bride?"
Another gasp put her lungs in danger of draining completely. "Your-bride?"
No-name sauntered
out from under the porch and stretched, sniffed the air, and stood in sober contemplation. Soon, he ambled to his favorite bush and lifted a leg. Overhead, two squirrels scampered across a branch and vaulted to the roof just over Jon's dormer window.
"But I-I couldn't."
His whole face spread into a smile. "Of course you could."
She managed a small one in return. Could it be? After all these years of running from Jon Atkins, starting with the playground when he'd chased her around the rope swing, then into adulthood when he'd hounded her very soul with his overt testimony, had she finally run out of reasons for escaping him?
"I'ni not exactly preacher's wife material." She dropped her chin, and he promptly lifted it.
"Why would you think that? People love you. You're warm, generous, funny, kind-hearted... passionate." He looked to the heavens. "Help nie make her understand, Lord."
She laughed from sheer joy. "I don't think I'm any of those things."
He touched the tip of her nose. "Then it's time you started thinking more highly of yourself, young lady. God sees you as His precious child, someone worthy to be loved and cherished. I want you to start seeing yourself in that light."
She regarded him with somber curiosity. "Are you talking to me as my pastor now? I can't tell."
His brows flickered a little. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her cheek, letting his lips linger at the spot, warming her with his moist breath. "Indeed I am," he whispered. "In fact, your pastor is about to kiss you more heartily, so if you don't want all of Little Hickman to watch, perhaps we should go inside?"
A ball of tension knotted in her throat and refused to move. "Oh."
With nary an ounce of strength left in her to argue the natter, she allowed him to lead her up the steps.
-CL/64 I"
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 31