Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (14 page)

Her nose wrinkled in disbelief. "That sounds terrible."

Following Jon's example of lending a hand, Luke picked
up his soup bowl and carried it to the kitchen. Elliott and Harland remained at the table, scraping out the last of their stew
and eating in silence.

In the kitchen, Emma placed a towel on the handle of
a steaming kettle and carried it to the sink, setting it on the
butcher-block table next to the sink.

"Where would you like these?" Jon asked, holding his bowl,
a platter of biscuits, and the crock of applesauce. Luke stood
behind him, trying to mimic him.

She put the stopper in the bottom of the sink and turned
her head. The long, blond braid that went down the center of
her back flopped over her left shoulder. He had the uncanny
urge to test it for softness, or worse, disassemble the entire
plait and run a hand clear through it.

What was he thinking? He shook his head and squeezed
his eyes shut for one brief second, trying to erase the ridiculous image that had bolted across his mind, tinkering with his
judgment.

With a nod, she pointed at the table directly under Jon's
nose. "Set them there, and thank you very nmch. In the future,
you can remain seated at the table. Long as you pay your room
and board, I'll tend to the household chores."

He felt put down, but not beaten. "I'm accustomed to doing
my part. I don't mind bringing my dishes to the kitchen."

"My kitchen is my domain, Mr., er, Reverend."

Ali, so she didn't want hint encroaching on her territory.
"When are you going to start calling me Jon?" he asked,
setting the dishes on the marred counter, Luke following
suit. She made a point to ignore him, pouring the kettle-full
of steaming water into the sink, then turning the faucet to
add a sufficient amount of cold. He wondered why the old
house had a heated coil in the attic that ran hot water to
the upstairs bathroom, but didn't have pipes running to the
kitchen.

"Reverend's too formal for old friends, don't you think?"

She sniffed. "Old friends? Hardly. You teased me mercilessly."

"That's what boys do when they have a crush. I chased you
over every square inch of that playground just itching to yank
at one of your braids. Remember that?"

Her back straightened. He positioned himself against the table and folded his arras across his chest. She took up a dish
and set to washing it.

"That was at least a century ago," she said. "Unfortunately,
most of niy schoolday memories are rather cloudy."

He could imagine they were, as busy as she had been defending herself against an abusive, alcoholic father. Of course, he'd
been doing the same, but at least he'd had Rocky and Ben to
run to when things got bad. Who had been her allies? Try as
he might, he couldn't remember her having many friends. Was
that because Ezra had driven them all away? He thought about
the old coot, wondered what he was doing in his spic-and-span
kitchen. Was he even now bringing it to ruin, dirtying dishes
that would sit for days to come, staggering around in his oneroom shack while he spent another night in drunken squalor?

Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these....
"You remember our teacher's name? Thornton, Thorpe...?"

"Thurston. Mr. Thurston," Emnia answered, pausing to
gaze off in thought. "He had a mole on his chin that stuck out
like a fly in a sugar bowl. Mean as a bull in a four-foot pen, too.
He slapped the tops of our hands with a paddle if we used our
fingers to count."

"Ali, yes. I sat on niy hands a lot."

This produced the tiniest giggle, and it made him frantic
to keep the conversation moving, made him imagine what one
of her full-out laughs would sound like.

"Remember Virginia Peabody?" he asked.

She turned just slightly and nodded. "A tall, shy girl with
black, curly hair."

He gave a fast nod. "Remember the time we were having
a spelling bee and she had need of the necessary? `Mr. Thurston,' she wailed to high heaven, stompin' from one foot to the
other. `I got to go!' Her face was blood-red. I remember that."

Emma turned full around, sapphire eyes wide as she put a
hand to her mouth, applying a dab of soapsuds in the process.
"Did he let her leave?"

Jon shook his head. "Nope. He got that stern look on his
face where his mouth turned under, his chin dropped, and
his eyebrows crinkled into one long bushy line, and in that
all-important, deep tone, he said something like, `My dear,
you shall have to wait until the noon break.' Well it wasn't five
minutes-I think Howard Fuller was spelling legislature-or
maybe it was parliament-when Eddie Hampton pointed at
the floor under poor Virginia and shouted, `Mr. Thurston,
Virginia Peabody's a goin'!"'

"Oh!" Eninia's hands flattened over her chest, one on top
of the other, as the impact of the story dawned in her expression. And that's when it happened. A giggle erupted, not just
a tiny, fruitless one, either, but the kind a person can't hold
back, bubbling up like a geyser, coming out in lusty bursts, the
likes of which he'd never heard. "Oh, dear-little Virginia,"
she said between laughing spurts, her eyes beginning to water.
She clutched her stomach as if it pained her even to breathe.

As if getting the joke, Luke joined in.

In the doorway, Elliott Newman and Harland Collins
stood gape-mouthed and sober as judges-as if they'd never
heard anything like it either.

What had gotten into her, laughing like a foolhardy
child; worse, knowing he was responsible for making it
happen.

Emma laid her next-day dress out along with her stockings, petticoat, and underthings. Padding barefoot to the mirror in her cotton nightgown, she gazed at her reflection
before yanking free her long, blond braid.

Poor Virginia Peabody, she mused, even now smiling at
the silly recollection. My, it'd been a long while since she'd
thought about her school days, much less laughed about them,
and the notion made her ponder what other events of the past
lay buried in her subconscious. She picked up her boar-bristle
hairbrush and ran it through her long tresses, gently smoothing out the knots at the ends and working her way up to the
top of her head.

"What you doin' up at this hour?"

"I was just brushing my hair, Papa." She lay her mama's hairbrush on the little box beside her bed and tucked her bare feet up
under the blankets, a cold chill racing through her spine the closer
he came. She was glad she'd stashed her book, Little Women, under
her mattress-and just in time, too. Dear Miss Abbott had given it to
her just last week, saying every girl should have the chance to read
good literature, and already she was nearly halfway through it.

He took a gander around the room, his bloodshot eyes bulging
like two gigantic boulders, a bottle of ale in one hand. 'More'n likely
you was daydreamin' again, sittin' there brushin' your hair like you
was the Queen of England herself. You put out that light now 'fore I
tan your li'l hide."

"Yes, Papa," she said, bending forward to blow out the candle
and hastening under the covers.

Next week was her thirteenth birthday.

Was that too young to run away?

Von had a full day ahead. Late July heat settled on his
shoulders as he moved up the sidewalk. Everyone he
passed wanted to stop and talk, slowing his progress and keeping him from his duties. Besides calls to make on parishioners, there was Sunday's sermon hanging over his head, the
final architectural plans for the new church to look over, clean
clothes ready for hint at Rita's place, a haircut awaiting him at
Zeke's Barbershop, a list of supplies to pick up, and, finally, a
letter to post.

"You seen the new school lately, Reverend?" asked Clarence Sterling. The elderly fellow had just dismounted his rig
and was crossing Jon's path on his way to the bank, a stack of
papers tucked under his arni.

Jon paused. "I was just coming from there, Clarence. Matter
of fact, I'm running an errand for Ben Broughton, who's over
at the site now." He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his
pants pocket and glanced at it, a list of materials he'd volunteered to pick up at the sawmill and mercantile.

"Looks awful near to done, if you ask me. Kind o' nice
lookin' up the road apiece and seein' that nice new buildin'
takin' shape. Won't be long 'fore we hear them recess bells
again. Heard tell they're hirin' Bess Barrington for the teacher
job. Ought to be good. Least she won't go runnin' off to get
married fore the school year's even up." He chuckled at his
own words. "When we startin' that new church, by the way?"

"Rocky says he's ready to break ground this week, but I'm
thinking the men will need a breather between projects."

Clarence moved his aged shoulders in a shrug. "Piddle.
Won't take long once the frame goes up. Many hands make
light work, Reverend. I ain't helped much with the school, but
when it conies time to start that church buildin', I'll be there
from morning till night, and I ain't the only one, mark my
words."

"Well, I thank you for that, Clarence. We'll need all the
hands we can get."

"Speakin' of which, how'd it go over at Ezra Browning's
place?" he asked, running a liver-spotted hand over his stubbled face.

"We accomplished what we set out to accomplish, but I'ni
not sure Ezra fully appreciated our visit. He spent the day in
his chair watching us and coughing up a storm."

Clarence shook his head. "The old fool."

By three in the afternoon, Jon had a fresh haircut and a
pillowcase full of clean clothes hefted over one shoulder. He'd
delivered the building supplies to Ben, stopped at the Swain
house on his way back through town to visit little Ermaline,
who was faring quite well despite her broken arm and leg, and
was now on his way to the post office before heading back to
the boardinghouse to drop off his laundry. Once done with
that, he would head out to Sully and Esther Thompson's farm
to see how little Millie, their youngest, was doing after her
bout with the croup, pay another visit to old Ezra, and then, if
it wasn't too late, stop out at Carl and Frieda Hardy's place for
a piece of Frieda's apple pie.

"Afternoon, George," Jon said upon entering the post
office. The postmaster looked up from his station behind the
counter and grinned, presenting the wide gap between his two
front teeth. "You got another letter from that professor friend o'
yours." George Garner was notorious for reading the postmark on every piece of mail that cane across his desk. It was a
wonder he ever finished the job of sorting.

Jon lowered the pillowcase of clothes to the floor. "Thanks,
George. And I'd appreciate it if you'd post this one for nie." He
retrieved the missive he'd written to his professor from his hip
pocket and handed it across the counter.

George adjusted the spectacles that rested on the bridge
of his nose to peruse the addressed envelope given him then
nodded his balding head. "Oh, and since you're livin' at the
boardinghouse perhaps you wouldn't mind deliverin' this to
Miss Emma?" He reached under the counter and drew out an
envelope. Had he been holding it specifically for her rather
than inserting it in her postal box?