Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (10 page)

"The early church carried each other's burdens, looked
for opportunities to help. Jesus said in Matthew 25:35, `For I
was hungry, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave
me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in."'

Jon proceeded to speak about the duty of all Christians to
uplift the downhearted, provide hospitality, and work as onto
the Father-without grumbling or complaining. He cited relevant Scriptures and gave examples of the generosity of the
first Christian church. As he sought to end his message, he
scanned the people's faces. "God calls each of us to live holy
and righteous lives, following after Paul's example to cone together as laborers with God," he charged. "Why, right in
this fine community there are those without hope who could
benefit from the fruit of our labors."

Outside, a brisk breeze blew through the open windows,
parting Mrs. Winthrop's long, velvet curtains and providing momentary relief from the sweltering air. Jon removed a
handkerchief from his hip pocket and made a sweep across his
face. Again, he studied the roomful of faithful worshippers,
comforted by Ben Broughton's encouraging look.

"Our number one responsibility is to reach lost souls for
Christ," he continued, "but often that is accomplished by first
healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and befriending the
lonely. I would hope that folks would see Little Hickman Coni-
munity Church as a place that cares."

"Amen to that, Reverend," offered the elderly Esther
Martin from the second row, her floral hat so big that those
sitting behind her had given up trying to see around it.

Jon smiled. "I think it's clear we need to erect a new church
building."

A resounding "Amen!" came from several different directions along with nods of agreement.

"And I'm ready to proceed as soon as you are, but first
there is a pressing situation in our community we need to
address, an individual that sorely needs our help. His house
is in sad shape, I'ni afraid, missing windows, peeling paint,
broken porch steps. And the inside is just as bad. With the aid
of several able bodies, nien and women alike, I believe we can
help get this poor soul back on his feet. Can I count on you to
lend a hand?"

Heads turned toward each other and waggled up and
down. Faces rife with eagerness sought Jon's challenge, awaited
his direction.

"Who is it, preacher?" someone asked.

Jon swallowed down a lump the size of his breakfast of
grapefruit and sucked in a cavernous breath. "It's Ezra Browning. I paid a visit on hini three days ago."

Gasps and whispers rose up all around, the mumbling and
buzzing akin to a roomful of bumblebees. At the front of the
house, Mrs. Winthrop suddenly came to life, pressing a hand
to her ample chest. If Jon didn't know better, he'd say she was
about to have a coronary right in her own living room. He
gripped the corners of the box that held his big King James
Bible and uttered a silent prayer for guidance.

"What's this about, Reverend?" asked Elmer Barrington, his
voice carrying over the simmering crowd. Elmer, who'd been sitting around the corner in the front parlor with his family, came
out in plain view to ask the question. "Why would you bother
visitin' him? He ain't nothin' but a foul-mouthed, drunken dolt.
His own daughter don't have nothin' to do with 'im."

"I'll say," came the voice of Martha Atwater. "He's rude
and obnoxious. I don't even want to walk down Main Street
when he's out and about. Smells to high heaven, if I do say so.
Cain't even walk a straight line in broad daylight."

"I've made him promise he'll sober up," Jon offered. Well,
saying he'd squeezed a promise out of the fellow was a bit of a
stretch, rather like saying he'd wrestled a bull into submission,
but Jon refused to retract his words for fear of losing more
ground.

"What makes you think anything will change if we do fix
up his place?" This from Clarence Sterling, an aging farmer
who'd lived in Hickman most of his life. He stood next to an
open window, his petite wife, Mary, sitting in front of him in
an English club chair fanning herself, her white hair wrapped
in a tight little bun.

"I don't know that anything will change, Clarence," Jon
replied. "For all I know, Ezra Browning will curse the ground we
walk on, might even kick its off his property. The man's rarely
been shown any kindness, so he won't know how to handle it.
On the other hand, our good intentions just might provide a
channel for some positive changes. Sadly, there are no guarantees when a Christian steps out on a limb to help a wayward
soul. One thing I do know. If we don't start showing hint some
brotherly love, he'll never see God's grace in action.

"Think of it, Little Hickman Community Church just
could be his only hope for salvation."

"I'ni all for it," said Ben Broughton.

Several others offered nods of agreement, but then Iris
Winthrop's emphatic throat clearing drained his hopes. "Well."
She pushed herself to a standing position and the room went
quiet as a cemetery. It was a known fact she carried weight in
the town, and even more in the church since she opened her
home every Sunday for morning services, a generous act to be
sure. Because of that, folks paid her heed whenever she called
for it. Jon braced himself for the coming lecture, her expression enough to scare off a bat.

"I, for one, think the idea quite preposterous. What has
this insufferable man ever done for Little Hickman except
embarrass us? His actions at the Independence Day festivities were quite inexcusable, if you ask me, not to mention
humiliating."

Humiliating for whom? Jon wanted to ask.

"Mrs. Winthrop, I-"

"Furthermore, the people of this town would do well to
concentrate their efforts on finishing the schoolhouse and
church before wasting precious time on the likes of Ezra
Browning. Most lead busy lives, and expecting folks to donate their time and energy at this abhorrent man's house is not
only foolhardy, it's-it's insolent."

"Insolent?"
"And disrespectful," she added, as if he needed another
insult.

Upon finishing her speech, she clicked her tongue in disgust, the flowers on her wide-brimmed hat fairly trembling.
Slowly, she sat herself back down, taking care to fix her bountiful skirts on the way to her wingback chair.

"I'ni not asking for the town's help, nia'ani," Jon said while
begging the Lord for patience. "I'ni asking the church to step
in. God has called us to be His servants, to rescue the perishing, care for the dying. Did we not just sing those very words
in the morning hymn?"

"I don't care what we sang," she said with a cool stare.
"Wasting our time on this man is-"

"Oh, Iris, for the love of all that's good, be quiet." Jon was
certain God Himself had intervened until he recognized the
voice of Clyde Winthrop.

"Amen!" mumbled Esther Martin quite loud enough for
everyone to hear. A few snickers filtered through the air.

Normally sedate by nature, if not downright compliant,
Clyde possessed the innate ability to rein in his blustering wife
at the most opportune times. Jon believed he also had the
patience of job to have lived with Iris for nearly half a century. With surprising servility, she lowered her chin, expelling
a loud sniff.

Clyde moved to stand behind his wife. "Now then," he
said. "It seems to me we ought to hear the reverend out. He's
spotted a need within our community and apparently has a
plan for meeting it. I, for one, am curious to hear what that
plan night be."

Heads bobbed and faces once full of doubt now sparked
with interest. It was a start, Jon mused, nodding his appreciation to Clyde for defusing an otherwise tense situation, then
sweeping his gaze out over the small congregation before presenting his proposal.

"Supper's on!" Emma called from the dining room just
as the clock in the hallway chivied six times. "And ya best not
dawdle."

All around the house, a clatter arose as feet hit the floor.
Then came the pounding traffic on the front and back stairs and
the slamming of the front screen door, its squeaky hinges making
it quite impossible for anyone to enter the house unnoticed.

Tonight there was an extra place setting at the table-in
the spot where Mr. Dreyfus used to sit. It was the reverend's first
official meal with the other boarders. For that matter, tonight,
Sunday, would mark his first night's stay. She wondered how
long it would take him to regret his decision. Surely, Gideon
Barnard's foul mouth would do the trick-or the loud Saturday night carousing. And if those didn't do it, then their poker
games would-or their blatant mockery of his beliefs. Whatever, he'd be gone before any of them could spell pig snout.
She'd bet money on it.

As usual, Luke arrived first, his hair neatly combed to the
side, with the exception of a few unruly strands at the back of
his head that stood straight and tall as a cornstalk.

"The p-p-preacher's comin'," he announced to the floor.
"He'll sit here." Luke pulled out a chair and stood behind it
like a soldier awaiting his commanding officer, no doubt anticipating Jonathan Atkins' grand entrance. A tiny smile tickled the corners of Emma's mouth as she took her place at the head
of the table and closest to the kitchen.

Harland Collins sauntered in next. A widower in his sixties, he was one of Little Hickman's blacksmiths, keeping shop
in a room off the livery. No matter how hard he scrubbed, his
hands never seemed to cone clean, much to Emma's chagrin.
He nodded at both of then and took his usual seat, opposite
Luke's chair. On his tail came Wes Clayton and Elliott Newman.
Wes took the chair at the far end, same side as Luke, while
Elliott sat on Luke's right and next to Emma. "Why ain't you
sittin', boy?" Elliott asked, deep lines etched into his long, haggard face, making hint look as if he'd already reached the century mark, even though Emma knew him to be no older than
Harland Collins. Of all her boarders, Emma felt sorriest
for him. He had watched a malignant tumor eat away at his
beloved wife, Matilda, before she finally passed on, leaving
him with a teenage boy and a mountain of doctor and hospital bills. One year later to the day, his house burned to the
ground. Because he'd let his insurance expire, there'd been
nothing with which to rebuild. And that's when he'd come
knocking on her door.

"I'ni w-waitin' on the preacher," Luke explained in his slow
voice.

His father took up his napkin and laid it out on his lap, the
only one of her boarders who used the cloth for its intended
purpose. On more than one occasion, Harland Collins had
used it as a handkerchief, while Gideon Barnard thought it
most useful for shining his belt buckle.

"You night be standin' awhile then," Elliott said. "Last I
seen the preacher, he was sprawled out on his bed, plain tuckered, I believe. You best sit, son." With sunken spirits, Luke
plopped into his chair.

Charley Connors and Gideon entered then and walked
directly to their usual spots. "Yep, that preacher's still sleepin',
far as I can tell," Charley said. "Guess all that movin' and whatnot did 'ini in."

"Or maybe ar company ain't to his likin'," said Gideon, pulling back his chair. "Figure them innocent ears o' his ain't used
to ar kind o' talk." The nian wore a perpetual scowl, but now
the briefest of smiles flickered like a flash of light from a lone
candle. He ran a hand over his bumpy, sallow skin and sat.

A cackling Mr. Clayton nodded his head and pulled at the
gray beard that matched his thinning hair. "We'll break 'im
in.

"Heard he had a cantankerous father," said Mr. Newman,
wiping at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, even though
he hadn't yet touched his food. "And a mania who hung herself
when he was just a lad. Somethin' tells me he ain't as innocent
as one might expect."

That seemed to shut up the lot of them for the time being,
particularly when Harland made a harrumphing sound and
took up the bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table.
Others followed suit, reaching for the platter of chicken, the
bowl of green beans, and the tureen of gravy. Soon the clang
of forks and knives on plates and the loud chomping of food
made up the only sounds in the room.

Emma cleared her throat and put her napkin beside her
plate. "I'll go check on the preacher," she announced, pushing
back her chair, its legs scraping shrilly on the fresh scrubbed
floor.

Several pairs of inquiring eyes gawked at her. "You ain't
never checked on nie when I missed a meal," Harland Collins
remarked.

Luke jumped to his feet. "I'll go with ya."

"Sit down, Luke," his father ordered. "The preacher ain't
none of your business." Luke sat begrudgingly.

"Yeah, why's he get the special treatment?" Charley asked,
shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes trained on
her while he noisily chewed.

Why indeed? It irked her plenty, this need to explain when
she wasn't sure herself why it should matter one jot. Shoulders
stiff, she drew in a breath, then glanced from one to the other.
"If one o' you was ailin', I'd fetch the doctor. I'm merely going
to see if he has need of one." She turned. "And I'd appreciate
it if you tried eating with your mouths closed from now on."
That said, she marched out of the room.