He and Luke started hauling Ezra out of the yard.
"Rent's $12 a week, but my long-termers pay by the month," she called to his back. "I'll expect you to pay the first month's rent on the day you move in. Thereafter, rent's due the first of every month. And if you get behind, there'll be no mercy."
Jon waved, hiding his victory grin. "I always pay my bills on time."
"And I won't stand for any of your preaching, either, you hear?"
"Will you sit for it?"
She didn't respond to that, just made a grumbling noise.
He was still grinning when they passed Winthrop's Dry Goods and he caught a glimpse of Iris Winthrop through the glass, her wideeyed, gaped-mouth reaction when she saw Luke and him escorting Ezra through the center of town only adding to his satisfaction.
The bath was no easy affair, but when finished, Ezra Browning did smell as nice as a field of daisies. Of course, he'd sauntered in the direction of Madam Guttersnipe's Saloon shortly thereafter much to Jon's dismay and not in the least bit grateful for their help.
"Let me take you back to your house, Ezra," Jon had offered. "Luke and I'll help you clean up the place then fix you a decent meal." But Ezra had shaken his head and mumbled something about needing a drink instead.
"I guess h-he don't like ar cookin;" Luke had said while they stood there next to the bathhouse watching Ezra amble off, Jon's arm looped over Luke's hunched shoulders.
Jon slanted his head at Luke. "He doesn't know what he's missing. I cook a mean bean soup."
Luke shot him a twisted grin. "Me and Pa like bean soup, but Miss Emma don't n-never make it. She says she don't dare m-make b-bean soup for a houseful of r-rude men."
At Luke's remark, Jon clutched his stomach and bent over laughing.
Emma dusted with a vengeance. Now, why had she gone and offered her vacant room to Jonathan Atkins? Hadn't she just been telling herself she neither wanted nor needed the company of a preacher in her establishment? So why was it that when he'd looked at her with those powder blue eyes of his, she'd crumbled like a month-old cookie? Was it because he'd taken old Ezra off her hands? It seemed a likely excuse. After all, one good deed deserved another, and Lord knows she wasn't about to take her father to the bathhouse herself, much as the old codger did need a bath. But then she had to confess there was more to it than that.
Emma dusted faster. Truth was, she wasn't willing to delve much deeper into her reasons for relenting. All she knew was that the town's young preacher was about to make his home in this very room, and she'd best get it ready for him. She lifted a lace doily from the chest of drawers, gave it a little shake and replaced it, smoothing down the corners with care. Then she glanced up at the ancient picture hanging crooked above the chest and righted it.
Standing back, she made a sweeping assessment of the room. Clean sheets on the old four-poster bed, braid rug freshly beaten, gingham curtains laundered and pressed, and the cracked leather seat of the old wooden rocker wiped clean. She had no idea when Jon Atkins planned to move into Mr. Dreyfus's old room, but at least it would be ready for him when he did.
She dropped her hands to her sides and felt a bulge in her apron pocket. Stuffing her hand into her pocket she withdrew the lone wool sock she'd found under Mr. Dreyfus's bed, the one she'd darned for him on numerous occasions. More than likely, he hadn't missed it yet, but come winter he'd be wondering what had become of it.
Fingering the woolen fabric, an unwelcome memory poked to the surface. Blustery winds sneaked through the cracks of the poorly heated cabin, the pile of firewood next to the stone fireplace dwindling down to almost nothing. Papa staggered through the door, eyes watery red, snowy boots leaving a trail of white on the just swept rug as he stomped his feet. An icy look on his round, whiskered face matched the frigid temperatures. Emma shivered in the straight-back chair and drew the wool blanket up closer around her neck, tucking the book she'd been reading beneath its folds.
"What you doin, girl?" he growled, slamming the door shut behind him, bloodshot eyes narrow and suspicious. "How come I don't smell no supper cookin'?"
"We're outa most all the food, Papa. All that's left is some flour and oil and a few cans of beans." She drew her knees up close to her chest, hoping he wouldn't find her book. He'd accuse her of laziness for sure. No matter that she'd spent the afternoon sweeping, dusting, and shoveling a narrow path to the rickety old outhouse. Her ten-year-old muscles felt sore and fatigued.
"Then cook the lousy beans, missy."
"We've had beans three times this week, Papa."
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to reclaim them. Papa didn't take nicely to backtalk. He reached her in two long strides and gave her the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough to knock her off the chair, sending her precious book of Bible stories in another direction.
With his beefy hand he retrieved the book and held it at arm's length. Papa couldn't read, but he squinted at the words as if in doing so he might be able to make out its title. "What's this nonsense?" he asked.
"Miss Abbottgave it to me," she confessed, her cheek still burning like hot coals where his hand had struck it. She wouldn't mention the book's contents.
"That old lady what runs the boardinghouse? How many times I gotta tell you to stay away from that religious crazy?"
Emma pulled herself upright. "Can I have my book back, Papa?" she squeaked out, ignoring his remark. Miss Abbott was as close as Emma would ever come to having a mother, or a grandmother, for that matter. Nearly every day after school she took an extra minute to swing by the older woman's boardinghouse to receive a warm hug and, if she was lucky, cookies and a tall glass of milk.
Papa took one look at the fireplace, its flames died down to a few red embers. Without a second's hesitation, he tossed the treasured volume into the fire, ignoring her sudden gasp. A puff of black smoke climbed the chimney until the hard cover of the book took hold, reigniting the flames to a rich orange-red.
The sound of trudging feet coming up the stairs dragged Emma's sullen thoughts back to the present. She took a gander at her watch and found it near suppertime. Gideon Barnard glanced inside the open door on his way past then halted and backtracked. "You lookin' for somethin', Miss Emma?"
She jammed the wool sock back in her apron pocket. "Just cleanin' out Mr. Dreyfus's old room, makin' way for the next boarder."
Gray eyes slanted under a crinkled brow, lending credence to the older gentleman's perpetual frown. "Yeah? Who's movin' in?"
"The Reverend Atkins." She purposely kept her answer short, not wanting to elaborate. Bending, she picked up the bucket of water she'd used to mop the wood floor, gathered up the dusting cloth and a few other items, and headed for the door, hoping to slip past Mr. Barnard without further incident. But it wasn't to be.
"That so? The preacher?" He moved aside to let her pass, then, rather than go to his room as he'd earlier intended, he followed a few paces behind her. "That mean we have to clean up our talk around here?"
"I've been askin' you hooligans to do that for some time now. Don't imagine a preacher will have any more success at it than me." On the way down the hall, she stopped, set the bucket down, and with her free hand righted another picture, then ran her fingers along the top of the frame, pleased to find it dust-free.
"I ain't cleanin' up my mouth-or my actions, for that matter."
She sniffed. "Fine. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to be checkin' on my supper." She picked up the bucket and resumed her steps.
When she turned to take the stairs, Gideon Barnard was muttering something under his breath.
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Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) Page 30