Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (15 page)

"I suppose I could do that," Jon said, somewhat hesitant
about delivering another's mail, particularly that of Emma
Browning. Ever since their amiable exchange of a few nights
ago, she'd been treating hint as if he were a bad rash.

"It's another one of those notes from Chicago," George
remarked with furrowed brow, as if Jon held the key to
some unsolved mystery and George expected him to hand
it over.

"Oh?" He was admittedly curious, but he would be hanged
before he'd stoop to George Garner's level and view the postmark. He stowed it away in his breast pocket.

George's frown doubled in size. "Ain't you even gonna look
at it?"

Jon lifted one of his brows and slanted his head at the
postmaster with a scolding look, doing his best to mask a grin.
"George, George, you'd finish your day a whole lot faster if
you'd stop reading everyone's mail."

He looked aghast. "I ain't readin' no one's nail. I just check
where it's comin' from. No harm in that."

The bell over the door let off a gentle chine, impelling
both men to glance at the entrance. Frank and Mary Callahan, Rocky's parents, walked through the door, their two
grandchildren, Rachel and Seth, in tow.

"Well, hello there, Jonathan," Mary greeted, tickled.
"Aren't you looking spiffy." She circled him as one might circle
a prized horse. Any second now, he expected her to order him
to open his mouth so she could inspect his teeth.

He grinned. "And good afternoon to both of you-as well
as Seth and Rachel. Look at Seth here, growing like a tomato
plant." He ruffled the boy's dark brown hair and noted how
Seth stretched to his full height. "And Rachel, if you get any
prettier, your uncle Rocky might have to confine you to the
house." The girl blushed like a rose.

"You just get a haircut?" Mary asked, persisting with her
appraisal. Despite the fact that he was the preacher, and thirty
years old, to boot, there were some in town who still viewed
him as a kid, and Mary Callahan was one of them. Probably
because he'd spent so much of his youth hanging with her son,
and had even moved in with them for a time after his pa had
died.

Only slightly embarrassed, he combed a hand through his
freshly cut hair and nodded. "Is it okay?"

"Why, it's perfect," she answered, looking pleased as pink
punch. "Makes you look mature, the way the ends just graze
your shirt collar."

"That's good to know then."

She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his shirtfront
and beamed up at hint. "And quite handsome, if I do say so."
Little Seth, arms at his sides, stared open-mouthed, clearly
absorbed, whereas Rachel had wandered over to the wall where
all the "wanted" posters hung. "Isn't he handsome, Frank?"

"Mary, for goodness' sake, you'll embarrass the boy."

Boy?

"Oh, piffle. He's used to me."

He was still grinning to himself on his walk back to the
boardinghouse. In the alley between the post office and
Emma's place, Elmer and Gladys Hayward and Bill and Flora
Jarvis were engaged in some political debate about the upcoming presidential election. "I say Bryan's Free Silver Movement
is a good idea. Might relieve nie and Gladys of some of our
debt," Elmer was saying. "We just ain't gettin' enough for our
crops these clays."

"You get rid of the gold standard, and we'll see inflation
straight across the board," Bill argued. "McKinley's got a good
head on 'is shoulders; Bryan's a lot of talk."

Not wanting to involve himself in the controversy, Jon
tipped his hat at the foursome and kept moving, thankful no
one objected to his lack of sociability.

He found Emma in the kitchen kneading a big batch
of bread dough. Four greased bread pans were set in a row
on the butcher-block table. She did a double take when he
entered the room. Was it the haircut? But then she hastily
covered her reaction with a cursory nod, seeming to apply
herself the harder to the business of punching the dough.
The notion that she envisioned herself pummeling his face
in place of the dough gave him pause. What had he done
to deserve her wrath besides draw out a burst of giggles the
other night? To say she left him flummoxed was putting it
mildly.

"Brought you something," he announced, extracting the
missive from his pocket. It took every ounce of his willpower
not to glance at the postmark or the sender's name in the process of handing it over.

She wiped her floured hands on her apron front and took
the letter, inspecting it in haste before positioning it under the
sugar bowl beside her-and completely out of sight. Was it his
imagination, or had a muscle flicked in her jaw when she first
saw it? "Thank you," she replied with definite curtness. "Don't
know why George expected you to deliver my mail."

"I don't know, either, but he asked me to do the favor, so I
obliged. I hope you don't mind. I didn't look at it, if that's what
you think."

She lifted a brow and shrugged. "I wasn't worried that you
had. Anyway, it's just some silly...."

He waited for her to finish the sentence, but she left it
hanging.

"Some silly..." he prodded, leaning toward her.

She tossed her head, and her blond hair, which she'd
pulled into a single ponytail then tied with a green ribbon to
match her dress, flopped over one shoulder. Truth be told,
he thought her quite a fetching sight. "Nothing," she replied,
pinching her lips together as she threw herself back into her
task. "Nothing at all."

He stared at her for at least a full minute before her hands
ceased and she turned to look at him, clearly perturbed. "Was
there something else you wanted?"

He couldn't stop the grin, which he knew rattled her. Without taking his eyes off her mouth, he reached in front of her
to snatch a shiny apple from a fruit bowl. She took a full step
back. "Nothing," he responded, sinking his teeth into the juicy
apple and sauntering out of the room. "Nothing at all."

An hour later, he knocked on Ezra's door.

"What you want, preacher kid?" Ezra asked through a twoinch slit in the door, his bloodshot eyes roving over him with
obvious suspicion.

Jon nudged the door open a couple of inches more with
the toe of his boot. "Just checking on you."

"Humph. Don't need no checkin' on." He choked on his
own spittle and wheezed as if it were his last breath. A trace
of blood mixed with the dirt that covered his shirtfront. Jon
pushed the rest of the way through the door. As he'd feared,
the place was a shambles. He mentally counted to ten, then
figured praying was the better route. Lord, give me patience, was
about all he could muster.

"Ezra, you're killing yourself, you know that?"

The man glared through glazed and watery eyes. In those
eyes Jon read the deepest kind of sorrow, detected a lostness
such as he hadn't seen for some time.

"Ain't none of your concern," Ezra grumbled.

"I've made it ny concern."

Jon kicked the door shut with his foot and walked across
the room to pick up a chair. On his way, he bent to retrieve
a number of other items-a tin bowl; a slice of bread, half
gnawed; an empty can; wads of paper with scribble marks
across them, and other waste. All the while, Ezra followed him
with curious, wary eyes.

"What you want?" he asked for the second time.

Ignoring the question, Jon sat down on the chair, the back
of which was missing a couple of spindles. "Have a seat," he
invited, pointing at the only other chair in the room. Amazing as it was, Ezra shuffled across the floor and dragged the
chair over to the table. Keeping a cagey eye on Jon, he took
a seat.

"I ain't got any coffee to offer ya," he said. "Used up the
last of it two days ago."

"I don't need any coffee." Jon scooted closer to the table,
clasped his hands together, and rested them in a pile of crumbs on the marred, wood surface. "What brought you to
Little Hickman all those years ago, Ezra?" he asked.

A cold, congested expression passed over hard features.
Ezra swiped a grimy hand down his face. Jon waited, wondering if he'd get an answer.

"Ain't nobody ever asked me that before."

And was it any wonder? Why should anyone inquire after
an unapproachable old geezer who'd spent the better share of
his life tanked?

Jon pulled back his shoulders and offered up a silent
prayer. "I'm asking."

Ezra leaned forward and sucked in a winded breath before
speaking. "Lydia and me wanted a fresh start away from her
parents."

"Lydia. And where was she from?"

"Danbury, Illinois. I was wanderin' around back then.
Come upon a huge farm. Her daddy give me a job, never guessin' I'd fall for 'is daughter." A sour chuckle rumbled up. "That
was a long time ago."

Desperate to keep him talking, Jon remarked, "I bet she
was a pretty thing."

Sunken eyes gleamed with some kind of proud yet faraway sheen. "Pertiest ya ever seen. Golden hair, blue eyes, the
smoothest skin."

So Emma's fair looks came from her mother. "And you
loved her," he pressed.

Jon's trained eye detected unspoken pain, and as if Ezra
sensed it, he quickly yanked his head up to glare at him.
"Course I loved 'er. We eloped eight months after we met."
He harrumphed. "Her folks was madder than two sick dogs,
threatenin' to undo the marriage, so we left Illinois and
come to Little Hickman. Didn't even tell 'em where we was for awhile. Land was cheap back then, and we had us some
big dreams for the future, figured we could make do on our
own. But Lydia was deep hurt. She finally wrote to her folks
when she was carryin', thought they'd want to know, but by
then they dint want nothin' to do with either one of us. Said
she threw 'er life away when she married me and they was
washin' their hands of 'er. Guess they thought I married 'er
for 'er money." He scoffed, as if the notion itself were utterly
detestable.

"After she died, they found a way to blame me for it. Said
I'd never get a red cent from them. Wanted nothin' to do with
Eninia neither."

"So Lydia died just after-Emma...."

Ezra screwed up his face in a sour scowl. "Givin' birth was
hard on her. She'd been sick the last half of her bein' in the
family way, so she was already weak and frail, then to have
to go through all that pain.... It took its toll. There weren't
nothin' I could do for 'er."

His gaze traveled to the shiny new windowpane and
beyond. "Buried 'er that very night up in those hills. Doc Randolph was the only one what knew us back then, so lie helped
dig the hole. Emma slept in a box beside the grave."

Hardly daring to breathe, Jon gave a slow nod, terrified
the fellow would stop talking, terrified he'd continue. While
he allowed the privileged information to settle in his brain,
they sat for several seconds in utter silence, save for the highpitched blather of two cardinals outside the window. "Waa-
cheer! Waa-cheer!" they chattered between them.

"Must've been hard, raising a little one on your own. What
about Emma's grandparents-your folks, I mean? Couldn't
they have lent a hand?" To his knowledge, not one relative had
ever paid the two of them a visit.

He might have known the question would push him over the
edge. It was a miracle he'd wrung this much out of him. Like a
bank vault, the old guy clamped his mouth up tight and sent a
glowering look across the table. Jon stared back, nervous energy
precipitating the tapping of his fingers on the table. "I meant no
offense," he offered. "I'm just trying to understand, Ezra."

"Understand what?" he growled. "Why I growed up to be
an infernal, villainous old numbskull?"

He'd nailed it, all right. "I'd like to help you, Ezra-if
you'll let me."

He shook his head hard. "Too late."

Jon shook his just as vehemently. "It's never too late. God
has a plan, no matter what you may think. And whether you
know it or not, He loves you."

"Don't tell me about God, preacher kid. If He cared one
bit He'd have let my Lydia live all them years ago."

"He gave you Emma, and she's still very nnuch alive. That
ought to count for something."

A scoffing sound blew through his lips. "She don't want
nothin' to do with nie."

Jon opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. How
did one argue with the truth?

On a tree branch very near the window, the cardinals were
still going at it.

Emma jammed the foolish letter back into its envelope
and laid it in her top dresser drawer with the others, doing
her best to forget it. But the more she busied herself around
the room, the more it pestered until finally she retrieved it for
another read.

I know you don't believe this, Emma, but there is a good
reason why your father turned out as he did. Believe me, I
know. Please do this one thing-ask God to help you understand. He will lead you one step at a time.

If you desire to know more, I will enlighten you, but you
must ask. Until then, I will continue to hound you with
special promises from God's Holy Word.