Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (36 page)

Be well, and write back to me!

Your friend-and cousin.

Grace Giles

P.S. Let us say that I was perchance interested in starting
up my own boardinghouse in Chicago-or someplace rural.
Could you tell me what I might expect before undertaking
such a project? (And you may tell your curious postmaster
that I'm quite interested in knowing these things.)

Eninia smiled at her cousin's postscript. At last, she had
something legitimate to tell George Garner when he inquired
about the mystery letters from Chicago.

"I have a cousin, a real live cousin," she whispered into the
noonday breeze, fighting back the impulse to jump up and
down, maybe even do a jig in the middle of the street. "Who
would have thought?"

With her fingers, she retraced the finely penned words,
rereading them at a snail's pace, taking them into her as if they
were delicate morsels that required slow chewing and savoring.

Several questions still swirled in her head: Where was Ezra's
homeplace, and who had raised him if not his own parents?
How did Grace know Clara Abbott? How had Grace's mother
learned of Ezra's poor parenting? However, she determined
not to dwell on them another minute. Hadn't Grace told her to
be patient? All in good time, she'd said, all in good time.

She folded up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope,
and tucked it safely between the pages of the newest edition of
Ladies' Home Journal, a splurge she'd made at the mercantile
earlier when picking up a few household items.

"Hello, Miss Browning," called a male voice.

She glanced up to find a smiling Irwin Waggoner and Gertrude Riley, Hickman's latest "couple," entering the post office
together, Gertrude's two youngsters, Charles and Jolene, trailing
behind. His protective hand on the middle of her back as they'd
traversed the sidewalk, and the manner in which Gertrude blushed with bliss, created a longing in the core of her being.
What nnzst itbe like to have captured a man's heart? She returned
the greeting and watched them disappear into the building.

Not ten feet away, a black squirrel scampered up a tree
trunk, twittering for all his might at a blue jay who'd invaded
his territory. Halfway up, the critter scuttled out on a limb
then turned to finish his scolding. Sufficiently told, the jay took
flight. Overhead, puffy, snowball clouds glided by, their shapes
shifting with the air currents. It was so crowning a moment
that in that instant everything in Emma's world seemed to glitter with tranquility.

That is, until she heard the sound of wagon wheels turning on the dusty, potholed street and witnessed two Wien sitting atop a wagon seat, carting something, or someone, in the
back. "Ya ain't got no business," whined their passenger, loud
enough to raise the curiosity of passersby.

And just like that, her peaceful moment vanished.

As usual, he did his best to try her patience.

"You should drink some more water," she said, pointing
to the glass on the bedside stand. "Doc says it'll help your
cough."

"I could use a drink of the real stuff," he groused. "I'm
plain sick o' water."

She counted to twenty in her head. "You're done with
drinkin' ale, Pa. Water and milk's the only liquids you'll be
gettin' under my roof. Now, stop bein' so cussed ornery."

"Phew! Yore the ornery one," he countered.

Not wanting to argue, she picked up the glass and shoved
it under his nose, bending to lift his head with her other hand.
His body trembled with weakness. "Drink," she ordered.

He drank to appease her. Two sips, three sips, four, then
five. He was thirsty, the old coot.

When he finished, she set the glass back on the stand with
a plunk, noting that at least half the water had disappeared
down his gullet. "Was that so bad?"

He pointed his gaze at the ceiling, his stubborn chin jutting
out. "I ain't needin' nobody to wait on me," he muttered. "Been
takin' care o' myself for nigh onto sixty years now." Emma wasn't
sure how old her father was, for he'd never shared his birth date,
but one thing was certain. He looked older than his years. And,
yes, he did need a full-tine nurse. As it was, he could barely
walk from the bed to the necessary-a chair with a lidded hole
and a chamber pot underneath that Doc had sent over.

Thankfully, Jon, true to his word, had been at the fellow's
side most of the day, lending a hand and seeing to his personal
needs, even giving him a bath in the portable tub in the main
floor bathroom. Rocky had hung around long enough to help
transport hint down the hall, one man on each side. When
the whole affair was over, she wasn't sure who was the more
exhausted, Jon or Ezra, for both were sweating bullets by the
time they got him situated in bed.

She ripped out a sigh, which probably amounted to about
the fiftieth that day if she'd been counting. "Well, it's settled.
You're stayin' here until you regain your strength," she said,
wanting to sound optimistic, even though they both knew he'd
never see his farm again.

For the first time, the notion that Ezra Browning's life was
closing in on him cut straight to her core. As a youngster, she'd
learned the art of compliance as a means of survival, counting
down the days when she could strike out on her own, escape
his disparaging, stony presence.

"Where you off to, girl? It's gettin' close to dark time."

It was the evening of her sixteenth birthday. And her father
hadn't once acknowledged it. He sat in his easy chair, feet propped on
a wooden stool, one hand draped over his belly, the other holding to
a bottle of whiskey. Dark spots shaded the underside of his eyes, the
pupils glazed over.

She looked around the kitchen, brushing off his question. Strange.
When she walked out that door it would be to say good-bye, but he'd
so conditioned her to finish her chores that somehow she couldn't
leave without first washing the dishes. She dropped the knapsack
stuffed with her belongings in the middle of the room and went to the
sink. She sensed his eyes following her every move.

"What you up to?" he asked again. His voice contained its usual
gruff tone.

"I'm washin' the dishes," she answered. She kept her back to him
so he wouldn't see the look of elation that surely gleamed in her eyes.
There was a room waiting for her at Miss Abbott's Boardinghouse,
the first one on her left at the top of the front staircase. A handmade
quilt bedecked the Jenny Lind bed, which had a mattress made of real
feathers and down. She couldn't imagine sleeping in such luxury.

Miss Abbott had extended the invitation to come live with her,
and, by gum, she planned to take her up on it. Sixteen was plenty old
enough to be out on her own, and she didn't care what Ezra had to
say about it. She was done with the abuse. Done.

"What's in that ther' bag?" he asked.

She shivered despite June's hotter-than-normal temperatures.
`Just some stuff," she muttered. After scrubbing clean the few dishes,
she rinsed them and set them on a drying rack. As she'd done a thousand times before, she picked up the washbasin, dumped its contents
down the drain, and then wrung out the rag and draped it over the
edge of the sink.

Turning, she gave her father a long, assessing look. "I'm goin'
to Miss Abbott's place," she announced, pulling back her shoulders. "She's invited me to come and work for her. I'll be takin' my room
and board there."

When she would have expected him to blow up, he took a couple
of steadying breaths and stared at her, seeming speechless. Minutes
passed before he finally broke the silence. "What'm I s posed to do?"

She'd spent her life seeing to his every whim, even going out to
the barn to take from his stash when he needed a drink and couldn't
find a bottle in the cupboard. His very existence depended on her,
and she was plain tired of it. "You can open a can, can't you?" she
asked. "You'll have to learn to get by. I ain't your slave, Pa." It was
odd that her fear of him had vanished over the years, replaced by
hostility and-what was it? Cold contempt?

She looked at her shoes and noted the holes coming through at
the toes. Miss Abbott planned to pay her a small stipend on top of her
room and board. She would save very carefully, and when she had
enough, she would buy herself a nice new pair. Never again would
she have to beg her father for money to buy the essentials.

Rather than rant, he sagged in his chair, looking spent. "Ya ain't
old enough to go out on yer own."

She picked up her knapsack and tucked it under her arm. "I'm
sixteen, Pa. Some girls get married at my age."

"Pff. Ya ain't sixteen yet. When did ya turn sixteen?"

She turned her mouth up and tilted her head, noting her lack of
emotion. "Today, Pa."

At the sound of the tight little gasp escaping his chest, she walked
across the room and out the door. And she didn't look back until she
got to the top of the hill.

Oh, the sense of liberation, that day she'd walked out on
Ezra Browning.

Which was why it made it so difficult to understand the
overwhelming sadness she felt for him now.

Von hung back in the doorway and watched as she tended
to her father's needs, fluffing his pillow, fixing his blanket,
setting the glass of water in the center of the bedside stand.

"Jus' like old tines, eh?" he niurniured, his voice hoarse
from hours of coughing.

She straightened to her full height. "Not quite. The difference is you're sober for a change. All you ever did when I
was growin' up was drink." Her hair had long ago escaped its
ribbon and was hanging loosely down her back.

"I know." It was nothing more than a whisper, but he'd
heard it just as clear as if a bell had chimed in his ear. Regret.
Deep, unwavering. He wondered if she'd heard it, too, or had
she grown so accustomed to tuning him out that she'd missed
it?

She pulled up a stool and sat, unaware that Jon lurked in
the shadows. "Why did you drink so much?" she asked.

Jon held his breath. Lord, be present in this room. Grant healing to these two hearts before its too late. Turn Emma's animosity into
love. May she find forgiveness in You and then in her heart. And
grant hope and spiritual healing to Ezra.

"Guess I dint see no way out. I lost my wife, and my world
caved in. Life seemed prit'near hopeless."

"You had a kid to raise up. Did ya ever think of that?
Couldn't you have sobered up for niy sake?"

Jon winced, considered going into the room, but then
thought better of it, reasoning that at least they were talking.
He would act as referee only if necessary.

"'Course I did, but it wudn't easy. Once that stuff gets a
hold on ya, ther' ain't no turnin' back. It eased my mind, took
away the pain o' the past and the dread o' the future. I got me
a powerful need right now, matter o' fact. Wouldn't hurt none
to give me just a li'l swig o' somethin' from yer cupboard. 'Bout
anythin'll do."

Emma leaned forward in her chair. "What happened
in your past?" she asked, deciding to skip over his need for
a drink. "You've never talked about it. Who raised you?"
Her voice dropped so low that Jon had to strain his ears.
Immediate pangs of guilt for eavesdropping pinched his
conscience, but lie couldn't force himself to move away from
the door.

"What kind o' birdbrained question is that? My ma an' pa
did, who else?"

"How come you never talked about 'em then?"

He coughed, more out of a need to stall, though, Jon was
sure. "They wasn't much worth talkin' 'bout. You wouldn't o'
been interested. 'Sides, they was an uppity bunch, them and
those two kids."

"What two kids?" Emma's back stiffened as if a bolt of
lightning had just run the length of her.

"My older brother an' sister. Twins, they was. Spoilt to high
heaven, too. My ma and pa would o' give them the moon if
they could've. Me? I was a knife in their sides my whole life. I
guess you could say I wound up on their hate list, and the day
I left home for good there weren't no weepin' over it."