Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (11 page)

"Well, if that don't beat all," Charlie said with a sniff and
a hoot.

"Get off my property, you no-good, snoopin' tadpole! I'll shoot ya
right on the spot! I ain't afeard to pull this trigger." Shotgun raised and
pointed straight at his head, Jon scrambled for breath, his heart nearly
leaping out of his chest. Sweat trickled down his face, dripping off his
chin to pool at his feet.

"God loves you, Ezra," he managed. "He loves you. All you
have to do is surrender to Him, accept that you need a Savior, ask
Him....

A blast of curse words erupted from the drunkard's mouth. "Shut
up!" he barked. `Ain't no God big enough for the likes o' me."

"You're dead wrong." He cringed at his poor choice of words.
Ezra stepped closer, cocked the gun, and poked its long, steely barrel
into his temple.

"Pull the trigger, you insufferable, cussed fool." Confusion mingled with awareness. He angled just his eyes in the direction of the voice. There stood Iris Winthrop in a pair of men's coveralls, booted
feet spread, hands stationed on her extensive hips, the harsh lines of
her face yielding their standard scowl. On her head was a flamingred, wide-brimmed hat with at least a dozen or more multicolored
roses shooting upward. "It's time the elders sought out a different
preacher. This one has too many outlandish notions."

"No, d-d-don't shoot," wailed a boyish-sounding voice. Luke.
"He's sick."

Sick? I'ni not sick, he tried to eke out. Fin just tired.

"You sick?" Mrs. Winthrop asked, arms dropping to her sides.

The gun went down. "You sick?" Ezra asked.

"You sick?" asked an altogether different voice, this one faceless
and from some distant place, its timbre soft and almost melodic. He
fumbled his way through a sudden fog, trying to identify its owner.
This is a dream, he assured himself. Wake up.

He put a hand to his forehead and let it linger there. Eyes
heavy, he fought to open then, but they felt like lead blankets.

"You sick?" she repeated. "You're sweatin' bad as a fireman walkin' on ashes."

His meandering mind finally made it back to the present,
and when it did, his eyes shot open in a flash. Emma Browning
jumped back as if she'd just witnessed a ghost coming out of its
skin. Jon bolted upright, swabbed his damp brow, and stared
at the jumpy woman who'd squelched his nightmare.

asked if you're sick." The skittish expression gone, Emma
now wore a look of impatient smugness.

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" Jon hauled
his legs over the side of the bed and shook his head, trying to
rid it of the few remaining cobwebs.

"What?"

"Never mind. What time is it?"

"A quarter past six. The others are eating their supper. I
called, but you didn't come down. The food don't last a long
time around here, so if you don't cone on the first call, you
could be out of luck. And after today I won't be checkin' on
ya.

He swiped a hand over his face then wove it through his
unruly head of hair before peering down at his bare feet. He
was a disheveled mess, and he could only imagine what he
looked like from Emma Browning's perspective. He noticed
that she kept her eyes trained on something just over the top
of his head. Was there something else amiss about his appearance, or had she never seen a barefooted man before?

"Thanks for the warning," he muttered, giving his head
another shake. "I guess I was more tired than I wanted to
believe. I never expected to sleep through supper."

"I suppose you have been busy moving." She made a sweep
of the room with her silvery blue eyes. "You're all settled in
then?" she asked, still refusing to meet his gaze. She clasped
her hands at her waist, and he noted a torn sleeve and several
smudge marks on the front of her dress, no doubt from tending to her myriad house chores. Did the woman ever stop to rest?
A passel of guilt for having taken time out for a midday nap
pestered his conscience.

"I haven't unpacked those boxes full of books yet, but
everything I'll ever need is right here in this very room. Left
all my furniture behind except for that desk and chair." He
pointed to the country walnut desk and matching swivel office
chair he'd stuffed in the corner of the room and to the left of
the window. "Ben Broughton helped nie carry them up the
steps. I don't think you were home that day."

She nodded and strolled across the room to run a hand
over the desktop. Looking for dust, was she? He never had
been much for tidying up. That was another reason he was
glad to be rid of the house. Smaller living space meant smaller
mess. She gave the wooden chair a couple of twirls with her
index finger.

"I inherited both from a kindly seminary professor after
he retired."

She turned her slip of a frame around to face him. "Teacher's pet?" she asked with a glimmer of mischief.

"In a manner of speaking, I guess. He took me under his
wing that first year and every year thereafter. Students called
nie hard-luck-Kentuck. I didn't have one dine to rub against
another, and I guess it showed. It must've been that single pair
of gray trousers, white shirt, black bow-tie, and frock coat I
wore every day of the week." She gave a gentle laugh, and the
sound washed over hint like fresh spring water. "It wasn't long,
though, before the professor's wife got wind of nie and started
collecting used clothes from every source imaginable." He
shook his head. "You should have seen the assortment. Out of
respect I wore some of it, but most of it went right back into the
school's charity bin."

She laughed again but quickly stifled the sound with her
fingertips. "You're not sick then?" she asked, moving toward
the door, clearly finished with the conversation. At the doorway, she paused and turned, awaiting his reply.

He rose and stretched, hands reaching high above his
head. "I'ni as chipper as a bird in May."

She gave a curt nod. Several strands of hair fell loosely
about her tanned cheeks. "Well then, if you want any supper
you best get downstairs. You'll soon discover these men wait
for no one."

"Thanks for the tip."

He reached for a boot, and in the second it took to snag
hold of it, she was gone.

"What say we play some poker?" Charley Connors asked,
coming in off the porch, the front screen door closing with a
whack. The smells of nicotine and rum carried through the air
when Charley sauntered into the parlor. Across the street and
up the block, sounds of riotous music coming from the saloon
penetrated the walls of Emma's Boardinghouse.

Dusk settled in, lulling some in this dusty town into restful slumber but unleashing roving, dark spirits in others. Jon
hadn't felt prepared for the sense of foreboding nighttime
brought, having lived his entire life in the country where the
only sounds he heard came from creaking tree branches, a
reclusive coyote's howl, or croaking frogs on the shores of Little
Hickman Creek.

"I'ni in," said Harland, rising from the ancient brocade
divan. He tossed a well-worn novel on a nearby sofa table.

Without glancing up from the newspaper he'd been poring over for the last half hour, Elliott Newman gave a crisp, "I'm
out."

"What about you, Wes?" Charley asked, eyeing the fellow
who'd been dozing in a leather chair in the adjoining library,
also designated the music room if one considered the upright
piano along the east wall.

Wes looked up through the double French doors. "What?
No, I'm tuckered. Grady don't take to me comin' in late on
Monday mornin'. Think I'll surprise him for a change and be
on time." The fellow's knees groaned when he rose. He gave a
slight nod all around and ambled toward his room, which was
on the main floor and across from the kitchen. It was hard to
miss the slump to his shoulders and the subtle limp.

"Did I hear poker?" Gid Barnard descended the creaking stairs and sauntered into the room. "I was about to have a
smoke, but I can be persuaded to play a round, providin' you
don't cheat." He stuffed his unlit cigar into his shirt pocket.

Charley grinned then withdrew a deck of cards from the
top bureau drawer. "How about you, preacher?" His quizzical
gaze held a challenge. "You oughta have some bettin' money
left over from the sale o' that farm."

Jon smiled. "It's not mine to bet with, my friend. In case
you haven't heard, we're building a new church with most of
the proceeds."

Charley's eyebrows slanted in a frown. A mild curse slipped
out. "Awful waste if ya ask me, but pretty noble of ya."

Jon might have told him that gambling away hard-earned
money was the true waste but passed over the opportunity.
These men weren't about listening to his sermons. What they
needed were sermons of example, not words. "Nothing noble
about it. I'ni plain weary of meeting in the Winthrop's living
room week after week. Donating my funds seemed like a good solution to the problem. But I surely didn't do it for the recognition."

Charley looked halfway thoughtful then took to some
fancy card shuffling, the likes of which Jon had never before
witnessed. "Miss Emma? Join us?" he asked, bedevilment in
his tone, his eyes trained on the cards that shot back and forth
between his hands in a magical formation. Looking just past
forty, the amiable Charley Connors tossed his head of reddishbrown hair and grinned widely, this time causing the dimple
in the center of his chin to sprout. "You could be our weakpassive player who doesn't raise or fold much, just the kind of
player we like to have in the game." He winked at Jon, as if
letting him in on one of his best-kept secrets.

Without so much as a glance up from the puzzle she and
Luke were working on in the middle of the floor, she made a
clicking sound with her tongue. "I haven't the slightest idea
what you just meant by that, and anyway, don't be ridiculous. I
won't be throwing away my money on that fool game."

Well, at least they had that in common, Jon mused. He
had situated himself in a chair in the corner, quite content to
watch her and Luke over the top of a history book he'd drawn
from the library shelf. He should have been studying for next
Sunday's sermon, he told himself, or writing a letter to Professor and Matilda Whiting, or at the very least, compiling a
to-do list for the upcoming week. But, alas, here he sat, soaking up the sights and sounds of his new environment, testing
the waters, wondering how and where he fit into this strange
assortment of folk who made up Emma's Boardinghouse.