Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (30 page)

"Know nothing about what?" Jon pressed.

Seconds turned into a minute, during which Ezra closed
his eyes. Using all the strength he could muster, despite his
ringing ears and raging fever, Jon propped himself higher.
"Ezra?"

Finally, the old nian opened his cloudy gray eyes and
focused on Jon. "Doc says I ain't long ter this world."

Exhausted, Jon dropped his head to the pillow and
devoured a deep breath of air, thankful for the cool breeze
wafting through the open window near his head.

"I got a bad thing goin' on in my lungs and liver," Ezra
grumbled. "Doc says it's worse than bad, says my hard life
done it to me." Again, he looked at the door. He waved his
thumb in the direction that Emma had gone and shook his
head. "I know she hates rne, and I don't blame 'er none the way
I treated 'er. She was good most tines, she truly was. If I pa'n't been so blasted hammered my whole life I might o' been able
to raise her proper."

Ezra rocked forward in the chair. "She's a good girl."

A spot in Jon's chest clogged with emotion. "She is that."

Jon prayed while Ezra slowly rocked. He longed for the
strength to rise up and go to him, wrap his arms around his
frail shoulders. Instead, he lay in about as bad a shape as Ezra
himself. "God can help you, Ezra," he managed. "You may not
believe it, but even at this stage in your life, He wants nothing
more than for you to surrender your heart to Him. He'll give
you the strength and courage you need to fight this battle. It's
no good trying to fight it on your own. Might be you'll even
have time to settle things with Eninia."

Having never resolved matters with his own father before
he died still put an ache in Jon's heart. Exactly a year and a
half after his mother's death, his father had drowned while
fishing off a steep embankment. Hal Owen had found him in
the river facedown, fishing line still tangled around his body,
empty whiskey bottles at the river's edge. If it hadn't been for
Reverend Miller's loving wisdom and the Callahans' remarkable, unconditional love in taking him into their household
afterward, he may well have followed his father's destructive
path. Instead, he'd learned about the love of his heavenly
Father, and out of a great need for truth and meaning in life,
had given his heart to Him at the age of sixteen-and-a-half
years.

Ezra pushed himself up from the chair, the effort creating
shortness of breath.

"Where're you going?" Jon asked.

"Back to work. Jus' stopped by for a second." Every breath
carried a wheeze. "You don't go tellin' Emma 'bout my condition, you hear?"

"She deserves to know, Ezra."

"Maybe. But I don't want her feelin' beholden. It ain't
right." He made a half-turn then stopped, not quite letting
his eyes meet Jon's. "Sorry you got stuck in that cave," he
mumbled.

"Thanks. When I get my strength back, I'll ride out to see
you. Shouldn't be more than a few days. In the meantime, you
take care of yourself."

"Yeah, yeah," Ezra said, waving off the comment with a
flick of his wrist then sauntering out the door without so much
as a fare-thee-well.

As soon as the front door opened and shut, he heard
Emma enter through the back.

ninia glanced at the wall calendar. She'd just flipped
the page to September. How was it possible? In a matter
of weeks, the leaves would begin their transformation from
green to orange, yellow, and red before turning a rusty
brown and dropping to the cold earth. The air, once hot
and steamy, would take on a shivery nip, calling for extra
layers of clothing before venturing out. Families of squirrels
and chipmunks would start the business of collecting foodnot so different from the humans who had already started
laying up Janis, jellies, and sauces for the winter months.
She'd been doing the same, filling up shelves in the cellar
under the kitchen with canned peaches, pears, tomatoes,
and applesauce, along with a large assortment of vegetables.

It was nearing the supper hour. Billy Wonder sauntered
into the kitchen where she was stirring gravy over a hot stove.
"I'll be leavin' town soon," he divulged. "Thought you'd like
to know that." He plopped down a number of coins on the
counter, which she quickly swept up and stuffed into her apron
pocket. "Aren't you going to count those?" he asked.

Ever since their encounter on the street some weeks ago,
she'd treated him courteously at her table but avoided any
further confrontations for fear he'd bring up that silly notion
about her having feelings for the preacher. Fool-headed, that's
what it was.

"No need," she said. He'd been faithfully paying her the
suni total of seven dollars every Friday, and she'd only had to
remind hini it was due twice. She had the distinct feeling he
managed to finagle his way into most folks' lives on charm
alone, then quickly wandered out before they caught on.
Paying his way was a foreign concept to Billy Wonder. Yet in
spite of his rather audacious manner, she had to admit he was
a most likeable character, and the announcement that he was
leaving not only took her by surprise, but also filled her with a
twinge of regret. He'd become somewhat of a fixture around
the boardinghouse.

"Where will you go next?" she asked.

"Further south, Tennessee, then Georgia. Might even go
as far down as Florida. I'll want to get a head start on the
weather. Cold winters spoil my temperament."

"Winters aren't so bad here," she remarked. "Hardly get
any snow as a rule."

"No, but you get ice," he stated, as if he were the authority.
"Might as well have snow for all the frigid temperatures. Nothing worse than freezing rain sluicing the cold earth. Makes
navigating my rig nearly impossible." Billy found a spoon and
dipped it into the gravy, then brought it to his lips, lightly
blowing on it before closing his mouth around the spoon and
sighing with pleasure. "That's delicious, madam. Have I told
you what a wonderful cook you are?"

She smiled, staring into the saucepan of bubbling gravy.
"Plenty of tines."

"I'll surely miss your fine biscuits when I head for parts
unknown."

There was a wistful tone in his words, and she wondered
what it was that kept him moving. Best not to pry, she concluded.
She'd always been adept at keeping her distance with regard to folks' innermost feelings, somehow knowing it could lay her
open for questioning.

"Well, remind nie, and I'll pack you some before you go."

He turned around, putting his back to the stove and folding his arms across his chest, his gaze zeroing in on her face.
"I'm actually going to miss Little Hickman. Folks've been real
nice to iiie."

"I'm glad to hear that. It's a pleasant place."

"It's the sort of place in which a man wouldn't mind settling down-if he was to find him a nice woman first."

Sticky heat inched across her cheeks, and she wondered if
lie sensed her discomfort. This was just where she didn't want
the conversation heading. "You just finished sayin' you don't
like the cold winters."

"Ali, but the warmth of a woman could easily persuade
me to stick out a nippy Kentucky winter." She sorted through
the silverware drawer in search of a wooden spoon and, finding one, set about shoveling mashed potatoes from a steaming kettle into a large serving bowl, her mouth clamped shut.
"Course, it appears the only woman I'd be interested in pursuing has her eye out for the preacher."

She sighed loudly. Reaching into a drawer with one hand,
she picked up two crocheted hot pads and pressed them into
his palms. "Here, make yourself useful," she ordered.

"Doing what?" lie asked.

She pointed at the heavy cast-iron kettle. "Hold that by the
handles so I can scrape it out."

Looking about as blundering as an elephant balancing
fine porcelain on its head, Billy Wonder situated the potholders on the handles and hefted the kettle up, tipping it to make
the potatoes accessible. While she worked, she felt his eyes continuously boring holes through her damp cheeks.

"Just admit it," he quietly dared.

"There's nothin' to admit," she countered, drawing her
brows together in a tight frown.

"Sure there is."

Her back went straighter than usual as irritation ran a line
up her spine. "Tip it further this way," she urged, guiding the
pan with her utensil. "More."

He complied. She scraped. "I've seen how you peer at him
across the table," he pointed out. "Caught the fear in your eyes
when he first came up missing, watched you care for hint when
he was down with that fever. Oh, and don't think the lot of us
didn't notice that look of contempt on your face the night that
pretty Clayton girl showed up to lend a hand." He laughed
outright. "My, my, you looked ready to sweep her clean off
your porch. And I believe you intended to use the wrong end
of the broom to do it."

"Oh, pooh! You're being ridiculous," she snapped, a
tight ball of apprehension rolling around in her gut. Had
she really looked as riled that clay as she'd felt? It had been
another long twenty-four hours of caring for Jonathan, his
fever refusing to break even after the third day, his sudden
turn for the worse disarming everyone, including Doc. Day
and night she'd cared for him, blotted his parched, fevered
face with wet cloths, spoken in low, comforting tones to him
when he got the tremors, and replaced his sweat-soaked
sheets with dry ones. Sitting on the rocker beside his bed,
she'd forced water down his throat, dozed when she got the
chance, and prayed short prayers that gave little consolation.

Doc had just delivered another one of his lectures, insisting she needed rest. He'd been standing on the porch, preparing to leave, and talking to her through the screen door.

"I'll be fine," she'd muttered, watching a fly soar around
Doc's balding head. Hannah Clayton had volunteered her
services, he'd announced, and he wouldn't stand for any of
her arguments. "What?" she'd fired back, aghast. "That's
completely unnecessary. I'd have to show her where everything is."

Doc had blinked and shifted from one foot to the other, a
loose board squeaking under his weight as he batted at the fly.
"And your point?"

"Well, I...." What was her point? She'd been too exhausted
to think clearly, but the one thing she had known was that
she didn't like the thought of Hannah Clayton taking her
place in the little rocker. For some reason, she'd wanted to be
the one in Jon's line of vision when at last he opened his eyes,
irrational as that was. She had glanced around only to discover her boarders, including Billy Wonder, had grown quiet
as church mice, hanging on to every word spoken between
Doc and her.

Bucking up, she'd dragged her gaze back to the town's
doctor. He'd pulled back his shoulders. "She'll be here by seven
and fully expects to stay the night," he stated, his eyes revealing he would have the last word. "You'll show her what you've
been doing for the reverend, and then you'll take to your bed."
Her back sagged on its own. A slow smile appeared on his face
just before he turned to leave. "And don't worry, Emma. I'll see
to it that he learns what you've done for him."

Mortification of the worst kind had jumped to the surface.
"You'll do no such thing! Besides, it's nothin' different than I
would've done for anyone else."

He'd grinned. "Then it shouldn't bother you one way or
the other who I send over here to help, Hannah Clayton or
niy great uncle." He'd turned and headed down the steps, his throaty chuckle transporting itself over the air like a soft,
wispy cloud.

"You love him, don't you?" Billy asked, breaking into her
thoughts, his breath disturbing the tiny tendrils of hair at her
temple.

The question left her so nonplussed that she dropped the
spoon in the kettle with an impatient clunk, deciding the noname dog could lick out the remains.

"Mr. Wonder, you are out of line in asking such a thing."

He tossed back his head and laughed. "You are a puzzle,
Miss Emma. Pretty thing like you seeming content to run this
boardinghouse of misfits." He set the cast-iron kettle down
and tossed the hot pads to the counter. Then lie stuffed his
hands in his pockets. "Sorry if I've offended you, but you can't
blame a guy for wondering why no one's snatched you up yet.
How old are you anyway?" He tipped his face down close as
if to judge her age by the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her
eyes. In a regular huff, she gathered up several dirty utensils
and carried then to the sink, pitching them down with a clang
and a clatter.

"That is none of your business." So she was a spinster
going on twenty-nine? These days, ladies were proud of their
independence.

"I'm guessing twenty-three, twenty-four. You can't be a
(lay over twenty-five," the galoot pestered, following in her
steps. She turned the spigot and stuck a teakettle under the
water's flow, studying its vigorous spray. "Anyway, doesn't
matter," he finally relented after she'd filled the teakettle to
the brim.