Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (32 page)

Leaning into her task with vigor, she said, "Intuition. I've
watched you gobble my desserts as if you'd never eaten a dab of
sugar in your life, and I've passed by your room a time or two
to find you slumped over a book at that big of desk." Although
he couldn't see her face, he could hear the smile in her words.

He grinned and bit into his lower lip. "I've always had a
penchant for book learning. As for the sweet tooth, my mother
wasn't much for baking. She cooked the essentials, but she left
it up to old Ray Baker, who used to own the general store
before Eldred Johansson took over the mercantile, to satisfy
my longing for sweets. He always had jars full of jawbreakers, licorice and peppermint sticks, and every flavor lollipop you
can imagine. And every so often, he'd slip nie a big slice of
warns peanut butter fudge hot off the slab. I hung around his
store on fudge-making days."

"Oh, I remember Mr. Baker," Emma said with excitement,
pausing to look at her work and let the memory sink in. "He
was a nice old guy with a shiny bald head and a pencil-thin
moustache. Whenever he smiled big, that thing curled up at
both ends like a snake." She giggled at the recollection, the
sound floating over the air like a sweet song. "I always thought
he had a warm spot for Clara Abbott."

His ears perked. "The lady who willed you the boardinghouse."

"Hm," she said with a slow nod. "He was forever stopping by
for a visit. We'd be sittin' on the porch swing flappin' our jaws,
Miss Abbott and me, and along he'd cone. He'd ask me how
niy school day went and did I learn more than the boys did that
clay. And he always seemed to have a stash of gumdrops in his
pocket." She turned and looked at him then, her sapphire eyes
flashing with recollection. "He'd give me a handful, and I'd eat
every one of them, the red ones first, pocket lint and all."

Jon tossed back his head and laughed, conscious of how
refreshing it was to carry on a conversation with Emma Browning, discovering she preferred red gumdrops to all the other
colors. On a whim, he shoved off the doorframe and went
to the brocade sling-back chair, dropping into it with a sigh,
hoping she didn't see the act as presumptuous. Would she now
clam up because he meant to get comfortable?

"I've always wondered how you cane to obtain this boardinghouse." He looked around the courtly room with its high
ceilings and simple crown molding, a massive old landscape
painting gracing the plaster wall opposite the one holding the bookshelves she'd been dusting. "I guess Mrs. Abbott thought
the world of you, huh?"

"Miss Abbott," she corrected. "Far as I know, she never
married. And yes, she cared for me, but no more than I for
her. She was a dear old soul, always lookin' out for my best
interest. One time she rode out to see my pa to have a word
with him. She was angry because...."

Jon froze in place when her words halted mid-sentence.
He swept his tongue over his upper lip, grazing his top teeth,
gripped the ends of both chair arms, and waited while she
struggled to compose herself, her back stiff, her hand moving
mechanically over the smooth shelf. Finally, she shrugged her
narrow shoulders and angled him with a desultory look. "That
was a long time ago."

"Why don't you tell me about it?" he urged.

There was a quiet space of tine followed by a slow nod. "I suppose it couldn't hurt." At that, she finished her chore, dropped
her wet rag into the bucket of murky water, and bent to pick up
a handful of books. He followed her with his eyes, reminding
himself to exhale when his lungs filled with air. When she set to
returning books to their proper place, he pushed himself out of
the chair and resolved to lend her a hand.

Outside, horses' hooves pounded clown Main Street, the
sound echoing through town, interrupted by shouts of "Get
up!" or the occasional squeal of an agitated child or a clog's
shrill bark.

"I used to stop by to see Miss Abbott on my way home
from school," Emma explained, picking up another book
and perusing its title before deciding where to place it. He
hunkered down beside the stack of books and without a word
began handing her a few at a time. "She taught me woman
things," she said, drawing out a long breath then placing the books on a lower shelf. When she turned around, he handed
her four more leather-bound volumes, which she carefully
studied then set on the middle shelf. If there was a method
to her system of arrangement, he couldn't guess it. "Like how
to cook and sew and weave a rug. She also loaned me lots of
wonderful books, most of which Ezra disposed of when he got
the chance." She gave a forced, cold smile. "He thought I was
shirking my household duties if he caught me curled up with a
book. He'd yank it out of my hand and toss it into the stove." A
dull laugh sailed past her lips. "I always figured he was jealous
'cause he couldn't read near as good as me."

Jon nodded, the story tugging at a deep place in his heart.
He pictured her as a young, defenseless girl trying to protect
her precious property, envisioned her big blue eyes watering
up with sorrow. A wave of disgust washed over hint. Lord, how
can You expect me to care for a beast like Ezra Browning?

"One day when I went to Miss Abbott's, she spotted bruises
goin' up and down my arm. She got powerful mad-not at me,
mind you, but at Ezra." The whispered assertion seemed to take
the wind from her sails. All of a sudden, she dropped down
beside him, folded her legs up under her full skirt, propped
her elbow on her lap, and leaned forward to rest her chin in
her hand. The books he'd intended to give her went back to
the top of the pile as he positioned himself next to her, legs
outstretched and crossed at the ankles, arms bolstering him
from behind. They sat in unmoving silence for a full minute
or more, her lemony scent wafting through the air.

"What'd she do?" he finally asked.

Her lips curved into an unconscious smile as she stared
straight ahead. "Well, she put me in her rig and took nie home,
muttering stuff under her breath and saying she was going to
make things right once and for all. I didn't know what she meant, still don't entirely. I kept begging her not to be mad at
him 'cause I knew my papa would take it out on me after she
left. She just patted my knee, told me not to worry, and said,
`You're comin' to live with me, child."'

Her brows flickered as she straightened, dropped both
hands to her lap, and toyed with the hem of her apron. "I
should have known her scheme was too good to be true. When
she offered to take me off Ezra's hands, he nearly exploded,
saying he didn't need her help, and what did she know anyway
about raisin' kids?

"I'll never forget that look he gave her. It was enough to
freeze pig's snot. 'Sides,' he told her, `who'd tend to the house
chores and cook the meals?' When Miss Abbott argued that
she'd go to the sheriff about the abuse he just laughed it off,
sat'in' something like, `And who are you to judge nie, Clara
Abbott? It ain't like you know anythin' about raisin' kids.' He
said it real hateful like, and I remember Miss Abbott went all
white in the face, turned around without making a sound, and
stumbled out of the house. She didn't even look at me on her
way out, just walked away all quiet-like.

"When I went back to see her the next day it was like the
episode with Ezra had never happened."

Emma lifted her face and met his gaze. "Strange story,
huh? I can't believe I told you. I've never told that to anyone."

Jon's heart gave a painful pinch. "Then I feel privileged
that you trusted ne enough to repeat it. So how did you cone
to own this boardinghouse?"

Emma's eyes trailed to the window where the curtains
floated in the breeze. "I continued visiting Clara every chance
I got. When I was sixteen, I moved in with her. She was gettin'
real sickly and needed the help. My movin' in took a load off
her shoulders. By that time, Ezra had no say in my decision to move. He was drinkin' so heavy by then he could hardly walk
a straight line, let alone order me around. It was so freeing to
discover he no longer had a hold on me.

"On Miss Abbott's deathbed, she told me she wanted me
to take over her place when she was gone. She told me she'd
drawn up some papers to make it all legal. I tried to argue
with her, but she swore there was no one else she'd rather see
take ownership, muttered something about it being the least
she could do."

Jon nodded, picturing the scene, a dying woman giving a
young girl hope. "Why do you think Ezra was so hateful toward
Miss Abbott?"

She looked thoughtful. "I don't know. Jealous, maybe? He
knew how much I loved her-and how much she loved Inc."

His next words came after careful thought. "I believe Ezra
loves you, Emma." He couldn't help it. He lifted a hand and
fingered a wisp of golden hair falling around her temple. Surprisingly, she didn't shrink away from him, merely kept her
eyes fastened on her lap. Her hair was feathery soft, as he'd
imagined it would be, and the feel of it between his fingertips
warmed the edges of his heart, made him want to test her lips
to see if they were just as soft. "He's just got a pitiful way of
showing it," he whispered.

Dear Lord, site's a beauty.

"Not for a second do I excuse the way he raised you,
Emma, but something tells me your father never had a clue
how to give or receive love. Your mother died and he was
stuck with a newborn baby-and no outside support." He
swallowed nervously, expecting her to bolt at any second or,
at the very least, argue his claim. When she didn't, he asked,
"Do you know anything about Ezra's background, ever niet
your grandparents?"

A cynical laugh blew past her lips. "I learned when I was
about this high"-she laid her palm flat about two feet from
the floor-"not to ask questions about my father's fancily. One
slap across the face is enough to teach a kid when to keep her
mouth shut."

Jon winced, marveling again that he cared for the old coot
who'd abused his only child, his longing to lead him to the
Savior still pressing in on him.

"Ever hear of a woman named Edith?" Jon asked on
impulse.

She lifted inquiring blue eyes and shook her head. "No.
Should I have?"

He swallowed a hard lump, let go of the wisps of hair he'd
been fingering, and grazed the back of his hand over her pink
cheek. "She's your father's aunt your great aunt."

She pulled back and stared at him, which forced him to
drop his hand away from her face. "She's from Chicago," he
explained, spacing each word evenly.

"I have an aunt in Chicago? How would you know about
any of this?" Big question marks seemed to pop into her vivid
blue eyes.

"Ezra told me," he said. "He wouldn't say much of anything
about her, except that she's the only member of his family who
ever seemed to care about him. I got the feeling that she's kept
in contact with him over the years."

Frown lines etched deeper into her lovely brow. "I don't
know why he couldn't have told cue about her. He's always been
so hateful about anything relating to his past. The ornery old
buzzard."

Jon wanted to comment that he worried Ezra's vinegary
nature had rubbed off on her. Few had broken through the
thick walls she'd built so craftily around herself. Walls that kept everyone at a safe distance. Was he managing-finally-to find a small crack in her exterior?

"I've been receiving notes from a lady in Chicago," she
freely confessed. "But you probably already knew that, thanks
to George Garner."

Jon chuckled low in his throat. "Can't slip much of anything past George's spectacles."

Ignoring the jest, she said, "No one named Edith, though.
I wonder if...." Her fingers fluttered to the back of her neck to
fumble with her hair. "If.-there's some connection. This lady's
name is Grace Giles, but aside from that, I know little about
her. I asked Ezra, but he claims he's never heard of her. She
knows about us, though-in particular, that Ezra and I don't
get along. Every time she writes, she reminds me that time is
too short to waste it on bitterness and hatred, and she defends
her claim with a Bible verse. Then she tells nie God loves nie
and that she's praying for nie. She even talked nie into reading
my Bible-starting with the book of John."

"Hill, good choice of books. I think I like this woman,"
Jon said, dipping his chin and taking the liberty to lean in
close enough to get a good whiff of her soap-scented hair. She
seemed not to notice so he savored the moment. "Have you
tried the direct approach, just asked her straight-out who she
is and why the interest?"

"Yes, a couple of weeks ago," she answered. "But she hasn't
responded. Oh, she's sent me others in the meantime, but
none that answers that particular letter. I think it's because
she just keeps writin' me, whether I write back or not, and
now that I have, it's taken awhile for the post office to deliver
her reply. Truth be told, I'ni not sure I want to know what she
has to say-entirely. Maybe she will tell me stuff I won't like
hearing-ugly things about Ezra's past that could make the situation even worse between us. I don't know." She grimaced
and shook her head. He saw a battle of sorts going on behind
her eyes and yearned to assuage her fears.

"Could things be worse? You don't talk to the old guy
now. How will knowing what the connection is with this Grace
person change that? Who knows? It could improve the condition of your relationship, give you a clearer viewpoint. Aren't
you curious to know everything you can?"

"Psh! My father spent so much time squelching my childhood questions that I think he actually killed my adult curiosity. If anything, I want to forget he even exists in that little
house a mile out of town. That being the case, why would I
want to learn about his roots?"

"Because they're your roots, too, and they might explain
some things." She merely shrugged and picked at a loose
thread on her apron pocket.