Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (17 page)

Several hooted and even Jon chuckled, although with his
back to the bunch of them. Tithes and offerings had been up,
he quietly mused.

When the laughter died down, Gerald asked, "How's that
old fossil, Ezra Browning, takin' to your visits, Preacher? He
startin' to come around?"

Jon glanced from his high perch to ponder the question.
It appeared that most had decided to take a break, by the look
of things, hunkering down in any shady spot they could find
to take swigs from their water jars. He chose to finish out his
job despite the sun's penetrating rays.

"Truth is, I don't know what, if anything, I'm accomplishing by going out there, but there's one thing I do know. God's
commanded nie to love the man."

"But you ain't even his pastor," said Bill. "He ain't never
once set foot in our church."

Jon shook his head, wishing they could catch his passion.
"If I'm not his pastor, what good am I? Did Jesus come only to
serve the desirable?"

"Was lie talkie' about folks what tote rifles?" asked Henry
Johnson, one of Hickman's younger farmers.

Jon cackled. "I see what you're saying, Henry. I'll confess
looking down the barrel of a rifle is not my favorite thing to
do, but I haven't seen it since that first time. Truth is, I think
the old guy's startin' to like me."

Rocky Callahan took a swig of water, screwed the lid back
on the jar, and cleared his throat. "I think it boils down to this,
men. Ezra's not the most lovable character in Little Hickman,
but he's still a child of God. Wouldn't hurt for any of us to show
the fellow a little compassion."

After that, the topic of Ezra Browning came to an abrupt
end.

Eninia viewed herself in her full-length mirror before closing her door behind her and exiting down the back stairs. It
was the first time she was wearing her new dress, and for that
reason, she'd taken special care with her old high-tops, polishing them to a sheen, selected a purple ribbon with which to
tie back her golden hair, set a white bonnet on her head, and
pinched some color into her already rose-hued cheeks. Not
that it mattered one iota if anyone noticed her.

In her reticule, she carried an envelope of cash, payment
from her boarders, three-quarters of which would go into her
bank account, and the rest for purchasing necessary supplies
from Johansson's Mercantile and Flanders' Foods. As much as
she hated to admit it, she also had to make a purchase of thread
and a melange of other items from Mrs. Winthrop, the woman's
selection far surpassing that of Eldred's meager stock.

Outside, she paused before crossing the street to Little
Hicknian's Bank and Trust, lifting a hand to wave at the
Bergen family riding past in their ramshackle farm cart.
Wagon wheels and a warm breeze sent dust swirling into the
hot, dry air. Women traversed the sidewalk, some dawdling to
stare into store windows, others hurrying along, arms full of
either packages or babies. The scent of horse manure and hay filled the air, as did the sounds of shouting male voices, whinnying horses, and the saloon's tinny, off-key piano.

Holding down her bonnet, Eninia crossed the street,
stepped up to the sidewalk, pulled back the solid oak door,
and entered the bank building.

Ila Jacobsen, Frieda Hardy, Sarah Callahan, and Fred
Swain stood in line at the bank window. Millie Humphrey, one
of the tellers, was waiting on Ila. Back in his glass-enclosed
office, Bill Whittaker, Little Hicknian's bank president, sat at
his big walnut desk brooding over a stack of papers. At the
sight of Emma, Sarah turned and acknowledged her with a
friendly smile and wave, Fred Swain granting her a courteous
nod.

"How is little Ermaline doing, Mr. Swain?" Emma asked
by way of a greeting, coming to stand behind him.

The man's polite nod switched to a beaming smile as
he swiveled his body to give Emma his full attention. "You'd
hardly know that leg and arm is broke what with the way she
gets herself around, manipulatin' her little body so's she can
do most anythin' she puts her mind to. Doc says we need to try
holdin' her down some, but sat'in' it and Join' it is two different things. Yep, yep, yep, she's a rascal, that one. Guess if she
wasn't, she wouldn't be in this fix, eh? Herb says she runned
right out in front of 'im, and we believe 'im. That accident
weren't any o' his fault."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Emma said. "I know Mr. Jacobs
was just plain sick about the whole thing. I'm sure he's glad to
hear she's doin' so well."

"Pfff. Herb's been out to the house nearly every day. He
and Ermaline's becomin' quite the friends. Doc says it's good
for both of 'em-ya know, facin' the thing head-on rather than
tryin' to pretend it didn't happen. Sometimes that's the best way to deal with the past. Face it and move on, that's Flora's
and my philosophy. Ain't nothin' else we can do but thank the
good Lord things didn't turn out worse. Yep, there's always a
silver limn' if you look hard enough."

His words struck a chord in Enema's heart that she hadn't
expected. Face it and move on. The notion that Fred and Flora
Swain held no ill feelings for the accident was refreshing, if not
surprising. Most would have found reason for grudge-holding,
particularly for something as monumental as running over an
innocent child. She gave the idea a moment to settle in.

"You go on ahead of me, Mr. Swain," Sarah was saying.
"I'd like the chance to visit with Emnia."

"Why, sure," Fred said, gladly switching places, drawing
out a leather pouch from the back pocket of his overalls and
preparing to do business at the window.

All smiles, Sarah squeezed Enema's arm. "How've you
been, Emma?" she asked, her luxuriant, red locks falling
around her temples, the shiny, turquoise comb at the back
of her head not quite sufficient for holding the bulk of her
glossy hair.

Emma silently admired her, the poised and polished
Sarah Woodward Callahan, former mail-order bride from
Winchester, Massachusetts, a Boston suburb. Arriving on a
stagecoach last winter with the intention of marrying Benjamin Broughton, she'd wound up instead on the hand of
Rocky Callahan. And just as well. The two fit like a hand and
a glove, despite Rocky's provincial upbringing. Fashionable
and sophisticated, she embodied everything that Little Hickman wasn't and yet somehow managed to win over the entire
town. Of course, it hadn't hurt that she'd donated the funds
for a schoolhouse. It'd been an anonymous gift, of course, but
few doubted the donor's identity.

"I'm fine, thank you. . .yourself?"

"Gracious, I'ni fine as can be," Sarah replied, her oval face
simply glowing.

Eninia wondered how she could possibly have looked at
her image in the mirror mere moments ago and admired her
hand-sewn dress when before her stood a woman of elegance
and fine breeding, wearing a store-bought, shimmering satin
gown and carrying a handbag to match.

"Have you seen the schoolhouse?" Sarah was asking, completely oblivious to Emma's covetous thoughts.

"What? No, not just lately."

"Oh, you must drive out and see it. I stopped there just
an hour ago. The nien were hard at work, painting, hauling
debris away from the site, and finishing up on small tasks. It's
as pretty as a picture set against those green, lush foothills and
lovely trees. I'm so glad the town council voted to move it out a
ways. It won't hurt the children having to walk a bit, and it will
give the town some room to expand. And I think the name
the council's decided on, Oak Hill Schoolhouse, is downright
homey, don't you?"

"Yes. Homey's a good word." Actually, she'd stayed away
from the council meetings, mostly because she didn't think her
vote much counted. She had no children. It didn't matter one
way or the other to her where they stationed the new building
or what name they chose to give it.

"And the church should stay at the center of town-right
where the schoolhouse used to be," Sarah said. "Oh, I know
Jonathan must be chomping at the bit to get that project
started. Has he said?"

"What?"

"Jon, er, Reverend Atkins." She made a disparaging face.
"It's hard for me to think of him as Reverend when he and Rocky are such close friends. You must feel the same-especially now that he's taken a room in your boardinghouse,
which, by the way, I think is quite lovely."

Of all the words she'd have chosen for describing the
preacher's living arrangements, lovely wasn't one of them. Distracting seemed a more likely word.

"ell, if it's not Miss Eninia herself. Thought I night be
givin' your nail to the preacher again," said George
Garner. "But I see you've cone for it." The postmaster emerged
from the back end of the building, rubbed his hands on his
soiled trousers, and shuffled to the front counter, combing
a hand through his oily gray hair. His hatching gray beard
still contained the remnants of his breakfast, which seeped to
have been toast and strawberry jam. George's eyebrows flicked
upward, like an inverted V. "You got a couple more letters from
Chicago." He propped an elbow on the marred counter and
leaned forward, his stale breath wending through the air. "One
of 'eh came in four days ago and another just yesterday."

Eninia sorted through the pieces of mail she'd just taken
from her slot; a postcard from Mr. Dreyfus addressed to the
boardinghouse residents, an advertisement for a new cookstove, a flyer about November's presidential election, and two
letters from the mysterious Grace Giles. She stuffed it all into
her leather reticule and pasted on a smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Garner, but, uni, if you don't mind, I'll
pick up my own mail after this. No need givin' it to the reverend." She would have liked to have added that he needn't
keep checking the return address, either, but knew the futility
in that.

He looked only a little contrite. "If you say so."

"You have a good afternoon now." She turned on her
heel.

"And you, too, ma'am."

When she walked to the door to pull it open, lie called out,
"Mighty pretty dress you're wearin' there."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Garner." She slipped out with a smile
on her face.

Mrs. Winthrop looked up when Emma entered the dry
goods store and forced a pleasant look. "Well, well, Miss Enmia,
I see you're wearing a new dress."

Obviously not intended for a compliment, Emma pulled
back her shoulders. "Yes."

"Is that fabric from my stock? I don't recall the floral pattern."

"Afraid not. I special ordered it from the mercantile."

Iris's pointy chin shot forward, a hand quickly spreading
across her aniple chest. "I see. You couldn't have ordered from
me?"

It was a known fact Iris Winthrop considered Eldred
Johansson her competitor, even though his inventory varied
quite drastically, his store carrying hardware and general supplies, while the Winthrops specialized more in sewing notions
and household and kitchen items.

Emma recalled the day she'd left the dry goods store and
marched straight to the mercantile to place an order for fabric.
"I happened to spot this fabric in Mr. Johansson's catalog." She
plastered on a smile. "I simply couldn't resist it."

"Well!" Iris huffed. "It's lovely, indeed, but I'm sure Mr.
Johansson and I have the same catalog. Was it Sears, Roebuck,
and Company by chance?"

Emma withdrew a list from her pocket. "I believe it was."
She unfolded the paper and handed it over the counter. "Now,
then, if you'll be so kind as to fill my order?"

Iris adjusted her spectacles and perused the paper. "Hm.
Needles, thimble, candle wax, yellow thread, one bar of lemon soap, a pair of shoestrings," she read aloud. Eninia shifted her
weight. Without a word, the proprietress began assembling the
items in a neat little pile next to the cash register.

Emilia watched as the stuffy woman moved about. "It's
another swelterin' clay," she said, feeling compelled to converse. "Almost makes a body anxious for fall."