Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (19 page)

Some chickens waddled over. "Sorry, I've got nothing for
you," she murmured. They gathered round her and clucked,
angling their relatively long bodies at her, their rose combs
on the tops of their heads wobbling back and forth. A Rhode
Island Red variety, these chickens were known for their egglaying properties, and because of that, her father had rarely
decapitated one for its meat. And when he had, she'd never partaken, for they were the closest things she'd ever had to
pets.

They parted for her as she made her way up the beaten
path toward the front porch. She glanced about, impressed
by how neat the place looked, all thanks to the team of volunteers Jon had scrounged up. A tiny pang of guilt for not
having helped in the efforts struck a spot in the back of her
conscience.

She gave the front door a light rap, surprised to hear
approaching footsteps almost immediately. When Ezra opened
the door, they both stood speechless for what seemed like an
entire minute, and it wasn't until he broke the silence with a
series of coughing spasms that she finally spoke. "You should
have Doc Randolph check that cough."

"You sound like that preacher kid," he sputtered when the
cough let up. He stepped aside so she could enter. "You cone
out here to yell at me?"

Ignoring the question, she walked past him and looked
around. Little had changed, she mused with a sigh, a sudden
wave of memories flooding her head when she looked at the
dishes stacked high in the sink.

`Ain't you got them done yet?" bellowed Papa, stomping mud off
his feet at the door. "I went out to the barn a full hour ago."

Emma reeled where she stood and tasted fear. Papa had a bottle
of ale in one hand and a stick in the other. Did he plan to hit her with
the stick because she'd been dawdling with her chores?

"I'm tryin' to hurry, Papa, but this here pan has built-up grease
in it. It ain't comin' out so easy." She wouldn't tell him that her stitching practice had distracted her for a time. Just that afternoon, Miss
Abbott had given her some lessons with a needle and thread and sent
her home with the prettiest gingham fabric Emma had ever laid eyes
on. It was to be a pillow, Miss Abbott said, and once she finished the sides, they would stuff it with a wonderful soft filling. Emma planned
to put it at the head of her cot.

To her relief, Papa tossed the stick into the fireplace. She felt the
breath whoosh out of her and went back to her scrubbing.

"You got your schoolwork done?" he asked, moving to his chair.
His eyes were extra red tonight. She figured that after collecting the
eggs and milking old Wilma, he must have sat on his bench in the
barn and consumed a bottle of whiskey. He had so many of them
stored in various places out there. Sometime she would like to find
each one and break them all into a million pieces. But that would
mean a whippin' for sure.

"I finished it before supper," she fibbed.

He nodded, took a long swig, then reclined his head on his dingy
old chair.

The next morning, before she headed off to school, he was still
sitting there, eyes closed, mouth drooping, an empty bottle at his
feet.

Her eyes roved the one-room house. "I ain't had time to
pick up today," he mumbled.

When have you ever lifted a finger around this house?

She nodded and walked to the window. Hanging from
it was a pair of brand-new curtains. She fingered the dark
blue cotton and wondered who had hung them. Had it been
a woman from the church or Jon himself? She marveled that
anyone could be so generous to one so undeserving.

She felt her father's eyes bore holes through her back.
"What'd you want?" he asked front behind. "I know this ain't
no social call."

Turning, she gave hint a long, cold look. It felt good not
to fear hini any longer. She'd passed through that stage some
years ago and entered into one dictated more by bitterness and
disgust. "You look different without a bottle in your hand," she said, deciding to ignore his remark. It was difficult to keep the
mocking tone out of her voice.

He shrugged and tossed his head to one side, then swept
a dirty hand across his whiskered face. "I been cuttin' back,"
he said.

Her eyebrows shot up on their own. "You don't say." Now
that she took a moment to look at him, it did appear his eyes
were somewhat clearer. Still, she held out no hope. That was
another stage she'd passed through long ago.

His chest rattled before he released another string of
coughs. She turned her face away so as not to watch the struggle that ensued. It appeared his years of heavy smoking along
with imbibing had done a number on his aging body. Even
though he was only in his late fifties, he appeared to be at least
twenty years older.

"You should sit," she heard herself instruct, pointing at a
chair. To her surprise, he took her suggestion. Once he sat himself down, she walked to the sink to study the dishes. Should she
or shouldn't she? The rotten smells of caked-on food had her
wrinkling up her nose, but something from within made her
turn the water valve and dig for the pail he kept stored beneath
the sink. She filled it without a word, then lit a flame at the old
stove and lifted the full bucket of water to the single burner.

He was sitting in his chair watching her when she faced
him.

"Who is Grace Giles?" she asked straight out.

He gave her a blank stare, then his mouth twisted downward. "Who?"

"Grace Giles. Who is she?"

"I got no idea." His tone rang of impatience. "Am I s'posed
to know 'er?"

"You night. She lives in Chicago."

One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. "Chicago," lie
murmured. The tiniest glimmer lit in his eyes then quickly
died away. "Don't know her. How'd you come to meet her
anyway?"

She let go a frustrated sigh. "I haven't met her. She's a perfect stranger to me, but she's been sendin' me letters."
Another flicker of something crept across his face. "Letters about what?"

Rather than go into detail, she gave her head a little shake.
"Nothin' really important. Just-oh, never mind."

Rather than prod, he grew silent, which was just as well.
He didn't appear to know Grace Giles, so what was the point
of pressing the issue? She turned toward the sink and lifted
a dirty dish. Something red stuck to the edges of the plate.
Tomatoes? Beets? When she looked at him again to ask what
he'd eaten, his eyes had closed, and his breathing was coming
in labored spurts.

The old fool had drifted off to sleep, and here she was
stuck with a pile of dishes.

Right on schedule, the schoolhouse furniture and a
number of other building and school supplies arrived on the
twenty-eighth of July. A whole slew of nien and boys and a
sprinkling of women showed up for the unloading, including
Jon, who felt like a kid himself when lie first laid eyes on the
brand-spanking-new school desks.

Irwin Waggoner and Ben stood on one wagon, handing
down things, while Torn Averly, Carl Hardy, Rocky, and Fred
Swain handed down items from the other two horse-drawn
rigs. They'd set up a sort of assembly line, the men handling the bigger items, the women taking the lighter things that had
been placed on the ground.

With the big oak schoolhouse doors standing open, there
was a constant stream of folks moving up and down the steps
and into the fresh new building, a hubbub of excitement stirring the air with shouts of "Where should this go?" and "What's
in this carton?" and even "Why, ain't this a lovely picture of
George Washington?" It seemed that Sarah Callahan, who'd
undertaken the majority of the ordering-with the help of a
committee of other folks, including the former schoolteacher,
Liza Broughton-had thought of everything, right down to
the brand new textbooks, clock, bookcases and wall shelves,
flags, maps, and beautifully framed pictures of former U.S.
presidents.

A host of school-age children raced up and down the stairs,
a few with items in hand, but most just filled with boundless
energy.

"Ain't ya glad the school burned down?" Andrew Warner
was heard to have said while he skipped through the yard,
Todd Thompson chasing on his heels.

"Andrew James Warner!" his mother scolded. Beyond
that, she said no more. Jon couldn't help the chuckle that
emerged when he heard the innocent remark. He suspected
the ten- or eleven-year-old boy had merely voiced what others
thought but feared saying. Shoot, he felt it himself. Not that he
ever wanted to relive the nightmare of that awful fire in which
they'd nearly lost Liza Jane and Rufus Baxter-and had lost
Clement Bartel. Still, there was nothing quite like the sights
and smells of new wood and shiny, unmarred furniture, or the
feel of fresh, unused textbooks yet to be read and explored
with eager eyes. He handed a crate of books to the next person
in line, Clyde Winthrop, with a grin.

"Heard you stopped by the store a few days ago," Clyde
said, starting up a conversation before handing off the carton
to the fellow behind hini, Elmer Hayward.

"As a natter of fact, I did," Jon answered. "Did your wife
mention we plan to honor you two at this Sunday's services?"

"She did, and I want you to know it's completely unnecessary, Reverend. We don't need the thanks."

"I happen to disagree," Jon said. "You've made quite a sacrifice Sunday after Sunday."

Clyde shook his head. "Loaning out our living room has
been a privilege-for both of us. I know most felt like they
were imposing." He leaned in close to Jon and lowered his
voice. "Believe me; I know how outspoken that woman of mine
can be."

Jon nodded and handed off another box. "Well, don't
worry about it." He figured Clyde was mostly referring to the
Sunday she'd put up a fuss about his plan to come to Ezra
Browning's aid.

"You might not believe this," Clyde whispered, "but most
Sunday afternoons when Iris is busy cleaning up the place,
she'll comment on how much she likes the Sunday gatherings. I think they do her good-make her feel needed." He
gave his head a gentle shake then paused with the box in
his hand, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "She doesn't
always cone off as being the friendliest, but if you want the
truth, I think it's mostly a cover-up for her lack of children.
Strange, I know, but she still carries around the hurt of her
barrenness. You'd think at her age she'd have gotten past it,
but I guess that sort of thing sticks with a woman."

Jon moved his head up and down in a show of quiet
acknowledgment. "Knowing a person's background usually
explains a lot about why they behave the way they do." The two continued passing off boxes as they talked. "You take someone
like Ezra Browning, for example. He didn't become an alcoholic overnight. Something drove him to it."

Clyde nodded. "That's the truth." He turned and put
another box into Elmer's arms, then scratched his head and
looked to the sky, pausing for a breather. "And that daughter
of his has suffered plenty. Long as I've known her she's made
it her goal to avoid most men because of that old feller that
raised her."

"And yet she has a boardinghouse full of nien," Jon
remarked.

Clyde winked and laughed. "Well, o' course! None of them
pose a threat to her." He tilted his face at Jon and grinned, his
eyes flickering with bedevilment. "But now that you've moved
in, well, that could be another story."

The sentence remained open-ended, causing Jon to cease
what he was doing. "What you think I pose a threat?"

Now Clyde threw back his head for a great peal of laughter. When he finally composed himself, he opened his mouth
to respond, but someone at the schoolhouse steps called out.
"Hey, what's the holdup down there?"

Clyde took the box Jon held in his arms and chuckled as
they resumed passing supplies from hand to hand. "She's a
pretty tough little woman, that Emma Browning," he muttered
under his breath. "But I got to believe there's someone out
there who can tenderize her spirit." He leaned in closer. "Who
better than the preacher?" Another one of his hearty chuckles
followed.

Speechless, all Jon could do was stare straight ahead and
ruminate on his words.

By late afternoon, the place looked ready for the first clay
of school. Some had left for the day, while others lingered inside to admire the freshly painted walls, the floor's shiny
wood planks, and even the big oak desk the new teacher would
occupy. Liza Broughton stepped onto the platform at the
front of the room, perusing the entire room with bright-eyed
wonder. "Oh, it'd be such a pleasure to resume my job as Hickman's teacher." She rubbed her pregnant belly and wrinkled
her nose. "But I don't think I'm the one for the job."

"No, nia'ani, you're not," Ben said, stepping up beside her
to give her cheek a light peck and pull her to his side. Several
in the room snickered. Liza's already rosy cheeks seemed to
flush even more. Something close to envy pricked Jon at his
core, but he quickly shrank back from it. What business did
he, the preacher, have envying one of his best friends? It wasn't
as if he'd ever carried a torch for Liza Jane, or even that he
resented the love and happiness Ben so deserved.