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

She breathed past a knot welling up in her chest. "He
has enough on his hands what with all the extra folks in town
today. Besides, the people of Hickman shouldn't have to put
up with that barrelhouse bum another minute."

"And what do you propose to do with hint?"

She knew what she'd like to do. "I'll stick hini in that old
tin tub out back. He can lay there till he sobers up."

Ben frowned. "I'll go get the sheriff."

"No, don't bother," Emma muttered, raising her chin a
notch. "I'll just...."

"Well, my At Gertie's gravy! Would you look at that old
coot? Such a disgrace." Iris Winthrop, Little Hickman's own
over-the-fence ear duster and owner of Winthrop's Dry Goods,
joined the small throng of citizens gathering on the sidewalk,
face pinched into a contorted frown. "Doesn't he have an ounce
of sense under that filthy cap?" she sputtered. Always dressed
to the nines, the high-nosed woman sniffed, her multicolored,
feather bonnet bobbling in the breeze. Some nodded their
agreement; still others merely watched as the pathetic Ezra
Browning tripped and nearly fell flat on his whiskery, redeyed face, then managed to right himself. Ezra laughed at his
blunder, had a coughing spell, then resumed his off-tune song,
swaying and teetering as he went.

"Oh, my stars in heaven," Mrs. Winthrop spat.

"One of these days he'll drink himself to death," someone
at the back of the crowd mumbled. Emma recognized the voice
as that of George Garner, Little Hickman's new postmaster.

And not a day too soon. A fresh dose of bitterness stirred
in Emma's heart. Wasn't it enough that Ezra Browning spent
every waking minute of his life making her miserable? Did he
have to punish the entire town?

More under-the-breath comments came from several
onlookers, as mothers herded their children to the opposite
side of the street, away from the drunken ignoramus. Emma
wanted to crawl into the nearest hole. Instead, she gathered
her wits and faced the hodgepodge of curious faces. "Please. You folks go about your business," she instructed, shoulders
pulled back. "I'll tend to old Ezra."

"I'll help," Ben offered, stepping forward.

"No." The single word cane out harsher than she
intended.

"Enna...." Liza gathered a wide-eyed Lill close to her
side with one hand, her other arni still supporting Molly. Her
brow furrowed with sympathy.

Eninia shook her head. "He's my father. I thank you for
your concern, Ben, Liza-and everyone-but I'll take it from
here. Please. Go on about your day."

Ben didn't look convinced, but at least he respected her
wishes enough to step aside. The other spectators followed
suit, moving back when Emma started down the sidewalk in
the direction of her drunken father.

Reverend Jonathan Atkins took another swig of freshsqueezed lemonade and licked his lips in pleasure. "You do
make the finest lemonade in town, Mrs. Baxter," he gushed,
setting the ice-cold glass to his sweaty temple. The temperature had to be pushing ninety degrees and not a cloud in the
sky.

Frances Baxter and her daughter, Rosie, had set up a
drink stand in front of Bordens' Bakery to accommodate the
number of visitors in town, and by the look of things, they
were doing a fine business. The line for refreshment extended
to the middle of Main Street.

Frances looked flushed, and Jon couldn't tell if it came
from his compliment or the excessive heat. "Why, thank ya,"
she said, hurrying to prepare another glass for the next eager customer, stuffing the nickel he offered into her deep dress
pocket. "It sure is a scorcher t'day."

"I'll grant you that," he replied, mopping his brow with
the back of his hand.

"Afternoon, Jon," said a passerby.

Jon craned his neck toward the low-timbred voice, then
grinned when he recognized its source. "Well, if it isn't the Callahans. Where are your youngsters?" Jon tipped his hat at Mrs.
Baxter, then turned his attention to his good friends, Rocky
and Sarah Callahan. Their wedding had cone on the heels of
Ben and Liza's, a sort of marriage of convenience, Rocky needing a mother for his niece and nephew, whom he'd acquired at
the death of his sister. If Jon were to judge, though, he would
say the two had scrapped the whole notion of convenience and
fallen in love. They were holding hands and smiling as if they
hadn't a care in the world.

"Bess Barrington offered to take them over to Sam's to
ride them blasted mules," Rocky said. "And we didn't refuse.
It's afforded Sarah and me the opportunity to visit without
Seth's persistent begging."

Jon laughed. "From what I hear, those mules are quite the
attraction. Don't know what anyone sees in those big-eared hay
burners, but I suppose if Sam's offering free rides to the kiddies, that'd be the draw."

Rocky nodded, opened his mouth to reply, then shut it
again without speaking. His eyes were fixed on something just
over Jon's shoulder.

"Come on, Ezra, you ole fool."

Jon turned his head at the sound of Emma Browning's
voice. The mite of a woman was doing her best to steer her
drunken father in a straight line.

"Emma, you need some help?" Rocky called out, stepping off the sidewalk to saunter across the street. Jon and Sarah
followed.

She paused to acknowledge the threesome with a tiny
smile. "Thank you, but I believe I can manage," she replied
with curtness, resuming her step. Her arni was looped through
Ezra's, her willowy frame doing its best to support his swaying
body. Emma was nothing if she wasn't stubborn-and a paradox of a woman if there ever was one. A delicate beauty, she
was also hard to the bone, Jon pondered.

Younger than Jon by a couple of years, Eninia had grown
up with Benjamin, Rocky, and hint and had attended the
same one-room schoolhouse. Jon distinctly remembered
chasing her around the playground on their recess breaks,
pulling at her blond braids, and teasing the occasional smile
from her plump lips. She'd been shy in those days but had
an edge to her even then. Maybe it was her need to survive
that had made her that way. Her bleary-eyed father had
been buzzed as far back as Jon could remember. And half
the time, if recollection served him right, she'd come to
school with bruises on her face and arms, a result, everyone
had presumed, of having pushed one of Ezra's wrong buttons.

Now, all grown up, Jon saw Emma for what she was, a
child in adult skin, tough as a hickory nut on the outside, but
underneath, uptight and scared. He had to give her credit
for her willful spirit, but there always had been a part of him
that longed to see into her depths. What really went on inside
Emma Browning's head? Then just as quickly as the question
surfaced, he'd remind himself that he was Little Hickman's
one and only parson, and he had no business courting one so
obstinate, never mind that she seemed to have no use for the
church.

"He's drunk as a skunk," Rocky muttered under his
breath.

"What do you suppose she plans to do with hint?" Jon
whispered back, as the unlikely pair drew nearer.

"Can't tell," Rocky answered. "Best leave her be, though.
Eninia's a proud one."

"With a head set in concrete," Jon added.

Sarah spoke for the first time. "She's really something,
isn't she? That man doesn't deserve to shine her shoes, and yet
there she is doing her best to help him."

"Get him out of sight is more like it," Rocky said. "He's
a downright embarrassment, not only to Emma, but to all of
Little Hickman."

"Way down upon the Schwanee Riv-eeer," Ezra bellowed,
his body leaning heavily into Emma's, his bloodshot eyes
heavy-lidded and glazed over. The old codger was so crocked
he didn't even know where he was, or that his daughter was
hauling him up the street.

On instinct, Jon stepped forward and grabbed hold of
Ezra's other arni. He was the preacher, after all. It was his job
to serve. Ezra gave Jon a distant look, as if trying to place just
where it was their paths had crossed. Soon, though, he shook
his head and continued his off-key song. "You taking him to
your place?" Jon asked above the ruckus.

Emma looked abashed. "Unhand hint, if you please, Reverend. I already said I can manage him just fine."

"And I happen to disagree. Are we headed to the boardinghouse?" When it cane to tenacity, he could play with the
best of them.

She stood stock-still for a split second and eyeballed him
around her father's head, thin strands of white-blond hair falling out from her loose sunbonnet. Perspiration had soaked through her blouse, plastering it to her skin. Jon swiped his
arm across his forehead. He frowned. "You have a problem
with my helping you?"

A look of contempt crossed her face. Someday he would
like to ask her what it was about him she detested. Jon clenched
his jaw. "Fine," she said. "I'm taking him to the boardinghouse.
I've a big tin tub out back he can sober up in."

Jon gave a half-grin and nodded. "Sounds like a fine place
for him. Maybe he'll sleep a few days if we toss in a pillow."

Emma blinked, refusing to see the humor in his remark.
When she started walking again, Jon took a firmer hold of
Ezra's arm. Then, throwing a backward glance at Rocky and
Sarah, he silently mouthed, "She hates me."

t was plain humiliating, no other word for it. Once she
and Jonathan had plunked her father into the rusty horse
trough out behind the boardinghouse, the man had wet himself and promptly fallen asleep. He certainly wouldn't wake up
fresh as a daisy in the morning.

If he was still here, that is.

With a little luck, he'd awaken and saunter back to Madam
Guttersnipe's den of iniquity-which was exactly where lie
belonged. Matter of fact, Emma should have taken him there
right off, and might have, had it not been for the Reverend
Jonathan Atkins' interference. A nian of the cloth would surely
have argued with the notion of dumping old Ezra at the beer
house.

She harrumphed and strode from the kitchen into the
dining room to give the table one last swipe with a damp cloth.
Why had the preacher stepped forward anyway? Did lie not
worry about his reputation? Surely, tongues would wag about the
minister walking through the middle of town arm in arm with
the town drunk, and in plain daylight, no less. Why, she could
almost picture Iris Winthrop now, guns batting at full speed as
she made it her duty to inform her merchants of the minister's
objectionable behavior. Never mind that he was simply doing a
good deed by getting the old bum off the street.

And that was another thing. Wouldn't his good deed now
put Eninia in his debt? She surely didn't want to be beholden
to Jonathan Atkins. She had no use for him, his Bible, or
his God. Before she knew it, the handsome parson would be
wheedling his way past her front door, eating at her table, conversing with her tenants, and doing his best to convert
everybody within hearing distance.

Raucous laughter outside her boardinghouse collided with
her nagging thoughts, drawing her to the window for a look.
On the way, she checked the old grandfather clock, which
stood like a majestic monarch against a far wall in the front
parlor, its ever present tick-tock soothing her taut nerves.

Dusk was falling fast. In another hour or so, explosions of
light would rocket through the sky, astounding young and old
alike. She hoped they would be loud enough to rouse old Ezra
and send him on his way.

Pulling back a lace curtain for a better look, she noted that
Harland Collins and Wes Clayton, two of her boarders, the
only ones who had shown up for her supper of beef stew and
biscuits, were lounging on the porch, taking slow drags off
their cigarettes. She had a strict rule about no smoking in the
house, so when one of there had the need to light up, he took
his habit outside. She scowled. Even from here, she could smell
the nicotine smoke as it drifted past the open window.