Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (31 page)

She turned off the faucet and flipped the lid on the shiny
little pot before setting it on the counter, took a few steadying
breaths, and raised up her head to gaze at him. It surprised her that his coffee-colored eyes weren't judging. Nor were they
glinting with hilarity. Instead, a probing query came into them
and something like genuine interest.

Her anger settled down. "I'ni twenty-eight, if you must
know."

"No!"

She dropped her eyes to the breadcrumbs littering the
countertop and swept them into a neat little pile with the side
of her hand, then set to poking the pile with her fingertip,
arranging and rearranging. "I enjoy making my own way, not
having to rely on another human being. Always have," she
heard herself confess.

Hands still stuffed away, lie gave a silent nod. "I can
understand that. I've felt the same myself. I started making
niy own way as a boy of twelve after I lost both my parents in
an ambush outside of St. Louis. I escaped with nothing but the
shirt on niy back, and that only because the desperados were
too busy pilfering through the wagons to see me get away." A
cynical snigger ripped past his throat followed by an angry
curse. "They slaughtered eight adults and seven kids that (lay,
my folks among them. We were traveling with a band of gypsies, you see." The smile on his face was cold and ghostly, his
eyes icy with remembrance. "Took me weeks to come forward,
maybe months. I was scared half out of my wits that if I did
go to the law one of them would come after me. Hmph! They
were long gone by the time I finally went to the sheriff. Far as
I know they're still roamin' free unless the devil's taken 'em
down."

The story horrified her. How did one come out of something like that and remain sane? So that explained his wanderlust. "How terrible for you," she managed on a hoarse
whisper.

He shrugged and looked out the window overlooking the
backyard. "Do you know that was exactly twenty-four years ago
this month? I remember it like it was yesterday."

A cold, raw shiver flickered down her spine.

Lord, I don't understand You. Why would You allow such atrocities to happen? Where were You when Billy needed You-when I
needed You? Where are You now?

In an impulsive act, she placed her hand on Billy Wonder's
arm, allowing herself to care, wrapping her mind around the
fact that she was even capable of it.

"I'm sorry, Billy," she said, meaning it.

He looked at her hand then slowly raised his face until
their eyes met and held. "I'll tell you a secret if you promise to
keep it between us."

Her chest tightened with anticipation. In her lifetime,
she'd been privy to very few secrets, mostly because best friends
often shared them, and she really didn't have a best friend.
Her head bobbed up and down with nervous excitement. "I
promise.

He swallowed hard then seemed to ponder where to begin.
"My real name's not Billy Wonder."

"No." That was the secret? She'd suspected as much.

"It's Philip William Westerwunter. German I guess. Don't
know what it means. Philip was my great-grandfather's name
on my mother's side and William was an uncle to my Grandpa
Westerwunter." He looked proud, if not relieved, that his secret
was out.

"I don't think anyone would guess your real name," she
stated, keeping a straight face.

"The first person who does is going on the road with
me." At this, they shared a spontaneous laugh, after which
Billy quickly sobered. "You never did get over to see one of my shows, you know. Last one's tomorrow." His brown eyes
sparked with a kind of impish innocence, and she decided he
was really quite handsome-in an offhand sort of way.

"When does it start?" she heard herself ask.

"Two o'clock sharp."

She thought about tomorrow's list of chores: sweeping the
floor and dusting the library shelves, baking a week's worth of
bread, weeding the garden, picking the last of the ripe tomatoes, pole beans, peppers, and zucchinis, and writing a letter to
Grace.

Grace.

As hard as she tried, she could not keep up with that
woman's letter-writing skills. To every one of Emma's missives,
Grace returned three.

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as Billy waited
for her answer.

"I'll be there."

No getting around it, Ezra Browning was a dying nian.
Jon steered Jupiter over rough terrain on his way back to town
and rehashed his Saturday morning visit. Ezra's cough had
worsened, choking the very breath from his diseased lungs,
blood intermingling with spittle. Gray lines etched into his
aging face, and bony, sagging shoulders only emphasized an
obvious weight loss. He doubted the fellow had eaten a proper
meal in weeks, perhaps months.

"You need to talk to Emilia," Jon had said after spoonfeeding Ezra half a cup of chicken soup while he'd reclined in
bed, his head propped up by two grubby feather pillows. "She
deserves to know how sick you are."

"I ain't wantin' her to know nothin'," Ezra grumped. "She
don't much care anyway, so there'd be no point to tellin' 'er."
This he'd said between suffocating coughs.

"You're not fit to care for yourself, old man," Jon said. "Emma
and I could help. You could move into the boardinghouse."

"Pfff. Been takin' care o' myself all my life. No reason to
stop now."

"You've never been this sick. Don't think I don't know how
bad off you are. I talked to Doc myself."

"He had no right divulgin' my business."

"I forced it out of hint." It was true. When he'd approached
Doc Randolph about Ezra's health, the doctor had been hesitant to say anything, claiming he'd sworn to keep the matter
quiet at Ezra's request. But Jon had convinced him he could
help the old guy if Doc would just be straight with him. That's
when he'd learned what he'd feared; Ezra had a large tumor
in one of his lungs, and a rapidly decaying liver only added to
the problem.

Deciding not to push him further where Emma was concerned, he'd asked, "Have you got any family-anyone you
want me to contact for you?"

The old man shook his head and stared at the ceiling.
"I done tol' the only person who'd care one whit. Wrote 'er a
letter last spring-around April I guess."

"Would that be Edith?" Jon asked on a whim.

Ezra's eyes clouded with interest. "How'd ya know 'bout
her?"

"You mentioned her awhile back. Don't s'pose you remember. Who is she?"

"Yer a nosy young cuss, preacher kid," Ezra grumbled.

Jon chuckled. "I've been called worse. Come on, who is
Edith?"

Ezra harruniphed and said, "She's niy mother's sister
and the only one from my fancily who ever gived a hoot 'bout
me.

Jon's spine went straight. "You have an aunt?" He let
the newfound information settle. "Does Emma know about
her?"

"Never saw the need to tell 'er. I lost contact with ever'one
after I left home. Heard from Aunt Edith ever' so often, but
that was it. Ain't like she ever come to see me and Emma. She
usually jus' wrote notes now and then, and sometimes I'd write
back." Ezra shrugged. "Didn't hear back from 'er this last time
though."

"Well, maybe she never got your note," Jon offered. "Or
could be she's moved-or she's sick. Is your mother still
living?"

His head moved from side to side on the filthy pillow.
"Don't know nothin' 'bout my ma or pa, and there ain't no
need tryin' to contact 'em," he groused. "They'd a writ nie a
long time ago if they gived a care."

Rivers of compassion washed over hint. "God loves you,
my friend. He wants to heal your heart from the inside out.
Have you ever considered giving what's left of your life over to
Hini?"

Ezra's age-worn face creased even more. "Doubt God's
much interested in what's left of me, a cranky, vile of coot. I
ain't done much of anythin' good with my life. God knows my
wakin' hours weren't worth a toot. Couldn't even take proper
care o' my own kid. And that's the plain truth of it."

For the first time ever, Jon witnessed something different
in Ezra, and it sounded like remorse, honest and genuine.

"God doesn't care about any of that. What He does care
about is a penitent heart, a soul that's truly sorry for his sin and willing to accept the forgiveness that only Jesus can provide. How about I give you a Bible so you can read the very
words that tell of His great love? Would you go for that?"

He didn't say yes, and he didn't say no. What he did do was
turn his head away and close his eyes. Minutes later, he was
snoring. Either that or feigning sleep to avoid further discussion.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Jon headed back to town.

on found Emma dusting shelves in the library upon
his return from the Browning farm. She'd removed
all the books and stacked them in several neat piles on the
floor. He leaned in the doorway, hat in hand, and watched
for several moments, his presence completely undetected.
She wore a red gingham skirt, frayed at the hem, and a white
cotton blouse with puffy short sleeves, dipped at the neck.
Her pinned-back blond hair tumbled down like shimmering
gold.

Lord, she's beautiful.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, she whirled about. Her face
was pink with perspiration, and the notion struck him that
she actually enjoyed laboring around her house, making it a
comfortable dwelling place for all, even though its inhabitants
failed to mutter their thanks.

"Smells fresh and clean in here," he stated, feeling obliged
to convey his gratitude. It wasn't often he made note of the
lemon-scented air in Emma's boardinghouse, even though it
did appeal to him.

Emma bent to niop her brow with the corner of her soiled
white apron then wiped her hands on it. She rewarded him
with a rare smile, and his insides flipped. Lord, have mercy.

"I didn't know men noticed such things," she said, her
tone facetious.

He continued using the doorframe as a leaning post. "Oh,
they notice all right; they just don't let on because they're too
blamed mule-headed."

A soft giggle erupted and his heart turned to mush. As
usual, he needed to get a grip on himself before he revealed
what she did to him.

"I suppose you've been out doing what preachers do," she
said, turning back to her dusting duty. He watched her hand
glide easily over the middle shelf. A stepladder shoved off to
the side indicated she'd either already finished the two top
shelves or she was working her way up to them.

He tossed his hat to a nearby table and stuffed his hands
in his trouser pockets. "And what is it you think we do?"

Without turning, she replied, "Besides delivering a wellthought-out sermon every Sunday? Hui. I think you do a lot
of gabbing with old farmers and charming their wives into
feeding you whatever sweet they have in their cupboards. And
when you're not doing that, you're buryin' your head in one of
then books you got stashed in your room."

He laughed outright. "Thank you-I think-for your
remark about the well-thought-out sermons. I notice you've
been coming to services, so I'll take it as a compliment. As for
the rest of your observation, you're not far off. How did you
know?"