Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (23 page)

His eyebrows arched in a questioning manner. "And what
did you like about it?"

Not prepared to comment, she took a second to respond.
"I just found it interestin' is all, your idea about prayin' with
the mind of God. Askin' for things in His name, but makin'
His will be our will and all. I liked how you said it."

He chuckled. "It all conies straight from the Word of God,
Emma. I assure you it's not some notion I concocted. Christianity requires faith because parts of Scripture can be paradoxical."

Para-zi'hat? Dared she tell him he'd stumped her with the
word? Oh, she hated that he was so book-smart and she was
such a-a bumblehead!

Billy cleared his throat and clucked as if thoroughly bored.
"Shall we go, Miss Emma? Sun's a beatin'."

She allowed Billy to give her a nudge. "It was nice the way you
honored the Winthrops," she said with a quick turn of the head.
"I thought Iris was going to faint dead away from all that extra
attention. Did you see how she sped up that fan on her face?"

Jon gave a hearty laugh then rocked back on his heels.
"She did appear delighted, didn't she? Can't say the same for poor Clyde. Course, he understands the importance of keeping Iris happy. If Iris ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." To this,
he laughed harder, and she couldn't help the emergent giggle.
Billy managed a weak smile, not knowing the infamous Iris
Winthrop.

"You do have a way with her." And with that pretty Clayton
girl.

He shrugged. "Just being myself."

"Well, we'll see you back at the house."

"Oh, don't plan on me for supper. I'm invited elsewhere."

"Oh." She tried to cover her ridiculous disappointment.
No doubt it was that Clayton girl who'd extended the invitation. How silly of her to have rambled on like that-as if they
were on friendlier-than-normal terms. "Well then...."

"We'll talk later," he assured her.

Humph. She didn't need his assurance. Bucking up, she
pointed her gaze at Billy. "Shall we go, then?"

Billy sighed with pleasure and patted her hand, and
together they walked to his gaudy, gussied-up rig.

onday was Jon's clay for making his rounds, visiting the
sick and elderly, and calling on as many regulars as
the day would allow. It was an overcast day, clammy and warns,
and in the air there was a whisper of impending rain. Even the
birds seemed less eager to move about, content to sit clustered
on tree branches, chirping in a nervous sort of prattle, as if they
were privy to something no one else could know.

Jupiter seemed skittish and touchy, throwing his head at
the slightest sound, watching his footing with fastidious vigilance. No doubt about it, a storm brewed in the distance. That's
why he'd decided to visit old Ezra first. If a storm was going
to hold him up later, he'd sooner be stuck with someone other
than Ezra Browning again. Even the elderly widows Marley
and Jacobsen, sisters who'd been living together for the past
ten years, sounded more appealing. At least they kept their
cupboards well stocked with plenty of sweets.

Jon steered Jupiter down the trail toward the Browning
farm. When he arrived, the goat greeted him, and the chickens came running. He climbed down from his horse and tossed
the reins over the repaired hitching post, then sauntered up
the narrow lane, shooing the chickens out of his way. So far,
vandals had left the old man alone, and it even appeared by
the look of the rose bushes Liza had planted on the north
side of the house that he'd managed to get out and pull a few
weeds. Would wonders never cease?

He gave a light rap on the door and peered through the
window, hearing Ezra's cough before noting his plodding shuffle to the door. Jon stepped back to wait for the door to swing
open. When it did, he witnessed something different in the
man's eyes. A hint of pleasure, a flash of jubilation? Sadly, the
expression quickly died.

"You again? What I got to do to convince ya to leave nie
be?" he snapped, holding open the door and stepping back,
neither inviting Jon in nor chasing hini away. Jon took it as a
definite invitation. He grinned and walked inside. One day at
a time, he told himself. Inasmuch as you have done it unto
the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me. So
You've said, Lord.

He stayed for an hour, most of which passed with Ezra's
coughing spells and bits of conversation. While they talked,
Jon straightened the little shack as best he could, washed a
few dishes, and scrubbed the table and tiny counter space.
This time Ezra didn't question him as to why he'd cone, just
watched and wheezed, stubby fingers tapping away at the
table.

"Haven't seen you in town for a while, Ezra," Jon said, finishing what he could around the place and deciding to sit for a
spell before heading out. His next stop would be Clarence and
Mary Sterling's neat little farm. Would she have any of her oatmeal raisin cookies on hand? "You still working at the saloon?"
Ever since the drunken episode on the Fourth of July, there'd
been little noise from him. Were his prayers working?

"Sure. Jus' not as often, that's all. I got -1 ain't uh...."

Jon waited before deciding to prod, edging forward on his
chair. "You ain't what?" he ventured to ask.

Ezra shook his head and shot Jon a mocking smile. His
filthy fingers tapped a little faster. It was clear he had something to say, but whether he would was another matter. "I go
when I can," he finally conceded.

"Meaning some clays you're not well enough?"

A siniple nod was all he got in return.

"Have you gone to see the doc? He might be able to give
you something for that cough. It's a nasty one. Seems to nie
you've been fighting it for some time now. Might not hurt
to-"

"Yer a nosy cuss, ain't ya?" Ezra blurted. But even as he
said it, Jon detected a faint teasing. "I never asked ya to start
comin' out here, preacher kid. And it still ain't clear to me why
ya do."

Jon sighed. "I'm sure you won't believe this, Ezra, but I
enjoy our friendship."

Refusing to acknowledge his remark, Ezra sniffed and
took out a thin piece of rice paper from his front shirt pocket
along with a small, round container of tobacco, then set about
to create a cigarette, his fingers so shaky he could barely make
them operate.

"I've heard those things aren't good for your lungs," Jon
remarked, somewhat fascinated as Ezra creased the paper
then laid it flat on the table. With trembling movements,
he poured a dense line of tobacco down the middle of the
paper.

"Too late fer worryin' about that," he said with a snort,
a sad, disparaging tone sneaking in to mix with the cynical.
After a hearty attempt to roll the tiny paper, it slipped from his
grasp, spilling on the table. Frustrated, he shoved the entire
contents to the floor with a flip of his wrist and leaned back,
breathless and weary eyed. "Can't even make my own cigarettes anymore."

Lord, help me reveal Your love to this man. Somehow, help him
spot Your light in the midst of his dark, hopeless world.

"You see niy girl much?"

The question set Jon back. "Emma? Sure, I see her every
day. She's a fine cook and good housekeeper, takes her job
very seriously." Prettiest girl in town.

"She cone out here the other clay."

Jon's spine went straight as a pin. "She did? Well, that's
good news, right? Did you two have a nice visit?"

Lord, I've been praying for this, praying that You'd start to mend
this broken relationship before its too late.

A huffing sound spilled out. "Don't know as you'd call it
that. It weren't a social call, but she did wind up stayin' awhile.
Even cleaned up my place-like old times. Wanted to know if I
knew someone who's been sendin' 'er letters. Course, I couldn't
help her any. I only know one person from Chicago and it ain't
the name she give Inc."

"What nave did she give you-if I nay ask?"

"Don't 'nieniber now."

Jon's body tensed. Was someone sending her intimidating notes? He thought about the letter George Garner had
asked hint to deliver and remembered how she'd quickly
tucked it out of sight and pretended to act as if it meant
nothing. But he'd sensed there was more involved than she
let on.

"Who do you know from Chicago?" Jon asked. "Maybe
there's some connection between the person you know and the
one who's been writing to Emma."

He shrugged and turned his mouth under. "Doubt it.
Don't matter anyhow." Ezra put his hands on the chair arms
and with effort pushed himself upward then shuffled to a
more comfortable chair, flopping clown once he reached it, his
breathing labored.

"What if it does natter, Ezra? Tell nie who you know from
Chicago."

When it appeared the old guy was about to fall asleep, Jon
stood and strode across the room. "Ezra?" he asked, bending closer despite his stench. "Who do you know?" But a fresh
coughing spell kept Ezra from answering. Helpless, Jon took
a step back and waited for the coughing to subside, wincing at
the sight of blood on Ezra's collar.

When it finally did clear up, Ezra took a labored breath
and laid his head against the back of the chair again. "Edith,"
he muttered.

"Edith," Jon repeated. "Who's that?"

But it was like talking to a corpse the way the fellow had
settled in for his nap.

On the ride to the Sterling farm, Jon pondered just who
this Edith person might be. Could she be an old acquaintance
from Ezra's past, a distant cousin, perhaps, someone who used
to live in Little Hickman? Or was there somehow a link remaining with Lydia's family, someone vile enough to send Emma
menacing notes? He recalled the time Ezra had divulged the
story of his marriage to Lydia and her own parents' rejection
afterward. It must have been a painful time for her.

He reined in Jupiter at the base of a hill where the little
Sterling farm sat nestled amongst tall pines and rambling
oaks. As usual, Clarence and Mary Sterling waited for him on
the front porch, arni in arni. Some nameless emotion tugged
at his heart at the sight. What would it be like to grow old
with someone? He tried to envision Emma in her seventies and
knew without a doubt she'd be just as lovely then as now.

Mary lifted a thin arm and waved at Jon. "Got some chicken
sandwiches and a platter of fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies
jus' waitin' to be et, Reverend," she called.

Jon dismounted and cast his gaze upward. The sky was
still gray and overcast. Not much had changed in the weather except for the eerily still air around hint. In the trees overhead, not a leaf moved. Even the birds had hushed their
song. Jupiter pawed at the earth with a powerful front leg
and snorted.

"And the coffee's on, I presume," he returned, removing
his Bible from his saddlebag.

"Been percolatin' for awhile now," Clarence said.

Jon grinned and watched his steps as he headed up the
pebbled pathway.

Emma hastened to remove clothespins from the line, toss
them into her apron pocket, and drop clothes, some still partially damp, into the laundry basket at her feet. Black, looming
clouds promised rain, and as the wind picked up, she found
herself hurrying even faster to finish her task. Rather than
expose the clothes to driving rain, she would drape them over
her bedposts and the tub in her private bath to finish drying.

Luke stepped out on the porch. "N-n-need help, Miss
Eninia?" he hollered.

"Could you carry in this basket?" she called back, thankful
for his offer. "I have just a few more things to get off the line
and then-I'll-be-finished-out here." A heavy blast of
wind whistled around the house. Tree limbs bowed low, causing loose branches to break free and hurtle to the ground.
She ducked her head to dodge the worst of the gale. Not a half
hour ago, the air had been spookishly quiet, and now it howled
and shrieked like a rabid banshee on the loose. Miss Tabitha
meowed in protest and whizzed between Luke's legs, making
a beeline for the house, the mangy, no-name mutt Luke had
been feeding following in her wake.