Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (4 page)

She swabbed her damp brow with the corner of her apron
and looked out over the street, still abuzz with activity. Come
morning, the streets would be blessedly peaceful again, save
the usual traffic. There would be the clip-clop of horses'
hooves, the occasional shouted greeting, and the scurrying
feet of children racing up the sidewalk, but not the clack and
clamor of hundreds of extra folks swirling dust into the hot,
dry air, dropping debris along the way, and talking in fast,
excited voices about the upcoming fireworks display.

"Heard Hickman's boozehound is out back sleepin' it off,"
muttered Mr. Clayton, obviously unaware that Emma stood in
the window behind hire. The rocking chair lie sat in sang a
slow, mournful tune as lie set it in notion. "Miss Emma and the reverend dropped him in that old horse trough. Guess they made
quite the trio traipsin' up Main Street, Ezra trippin' over his own
feet whilst Enmia and that preacher fella dragged him along."

Harland Collins let out a nighty chuckle, rubbed his
whiskered jowls, then took a deep draw on his cigarette before
blowing out a perfect smoke ring. Emma hung back in the
shadows, glad she'd chosen not to light the parlor lanips. Up
the street, the tinny sounds of Madam Guttersnipe's piano
filled the dusky night.

"Yep, had to be quite a sight," Harland was saying, looking out over the street. He lifted a hand to wave at a passerby.
"Don't imagine Ezra will remember a thing come mornin', but
the ones spectatin' shore will. It's a dirty shame what that little
lady has to put up with."

"Pfff. Tain't nothin' new for her," Wes argued. "Miss
Emma's been puttin' up with that beerified ragbag since she
was a little missy. Cain't have been easy on her, though, 'specially with no mania to fend ter 'er. No wonder she's so full o'
vinegar. Had to learn life the hard way."

Emma hated that she was the focus of their discussion;
even more that she'd garnered their sympathy. She needed
no one's pity, leastways not from these two old coots. She had
a mind to march out the back door and toss a bucket of slops
over that worthless, sleeping fool. It was, after all, entirely his
fault that folks were talking about her.

Not for the first time Emma brooded over the mother she'd
never had and wondered how different life might have been.
Would she be living in Little Hickman today, or might her mother
have whisked her away at a young age, perhaps straight from her
cradle, and into some distant, remote place, far from Ezra Browning's reach? Like so many times before, she imagined the sceneEmma, a mere babe, snatched from her bed in the wee hours of morning into a waiting carriage driven by some noble defender,
wrapped safely in her mother's warm embrace. Of course, they
would have traveled miles, maybe even crossing over the Tennessee border, before Ezra finally awoke from his drunken stupor
and discovered their absence. Naturally, it would've been futile
to go in search of them, for they would have covered their tracks
so skillfully. And, besides, Ezra would have lacked the town's help
and support, for everyone would have silently applauded the
young mother for her indomitable strength and courage.

Eninia shook her head as if to ward off her foolish meanderings. Who was she kidding? Lydia Baxter Browning had
died giving birth to her, and the only proof Emma had that
she'd even existed was a tattered photograph she kept between
the pages of a book. Matter of fact, Emma didn't even have
grandparents as far as she knew.

Maybe Mr. Clayton was right; she'd learned life the hard
way, and it had made her the person she was today, strong
and self-sufficient. If people mistook that for bitter and steelyedged, well, so be it. She wasn't here to impress anybody, least
of all the nien living under her roof.

"Vinegar, you say?" Harland Joked. "Ha! Miss Emma's
as scrappy as a hog-tied Indian squaw. I daresay she could
swallow down a teaspoon o' vinegar with nary a wince." To
that, both men cackled loud enough to wake the mongrel dog
lounging under Emma's porch. The mangy mutt sauntered
out and shook the dust off himself, then voiced his annoyance
with a low growl.

Emma frowned and turned away from the window.

It was high time she drew herself a bath and tried to wash
away the memory of this day.

"Mr. Atkins, come and sit by us," came the shrill invitation
from Lill Broughton.

"Reverend, Lill, not Mister," Ben corrected. The entire
family scooted over on their blanket, making room for Jon's
approach. He grinned and filled up the distance between
them with a few long strides.

"Mister will do just fine, Lill," he said, dropping down on
the blanket in the precise corner that Lill patted with her hand.
Her entire freckled face was awash with excitement. By contrast,
her little sister Molly lay sprawled across her stepmother's lap,
dead to the world, her plump, round face smudged with grime,
her (lark hair mussed and coming loose from its short ponytail.

Jon couldn't hold back a chuckle. "You're not excited about
these fireworks, are you, Lil?"

"My insides is 'bout to explode!" she exclaimed. "Papa says
it'll be at least another half hour. The sky needs to get a lot
more stars in it."

Jon couldn't blame her for her excitement. If he were honest
with himself, he'd have to admit to having a few butterflies
himself. It'd been a good long while since Little Hickman had
sponsored a fireworks display. Jon reached in his pocket and
pulled out a piece of wrapped taffy. "Maybe this will tide you
over?" he asked, handing it to the eager child.

"Mm, thank you, Mister-uh, Reverend." All fingers, Lill
hastened to unwrap the concoction, momentarily losing herself in the effort. Jon chortled to himself. In the unlikely event
lie ever had children, lie would want them to be just like Lill
and Molly.

"Did you get that tanked up Ezra Browning situated over
at Enmia's place?" Ben asked. Sitting close to Liza, he had
propped an arm over his bent knee and was chewing on a long blade of grass, his hat tilted so that it nearly covered one
dark eyebrow.

"How'd you hear about that?" Jon asked, dragging his eyes
away front Lill.

Ben harruniphed. "Who in Hickman hasn't heard about
it? 'Fraid you were an interesting topic this afternoon, my
friend." Eyes twinkling, Ben went on. "Topics ran the gamut,
too. Everything from `What would possess the preacher to
be seen with that pickled fool?' to `Did you notice Reverend
Atkins' new boots?"'

Jon shot Ben a curious look then glanced at his boots, not
new, but shined that morning by a young lad anxious to make
a dime. "You're joshing, right?"

Ben shook his head and laughed. "I'ni serious as a doublebarreled shotgun. Course, in this town, it doesn't take much to
get tongues wagging. I have a feeling Iris Winthrop was a mite
put out with you for walking down the same side of the street
as Ezra Browning, much less helping him along."

"It was no less than Jesus would have done," Jon countered.
"Does she not know that our Lord took meals with the scum of
the earth? In fact, He associated with them every day."

"You don't need to convince nie of that, but do you think
that matters one bit to Mrs. Winthrop? Everyone knows that
woman is all about upholding her fine character. Nothing
is more important to her than status and maintaining Little
Hickman's spotless reputation." Ben cut loose with another
low-throated chuckle. "Mightn't have been so bad if we hadn't
had so many visitors today."

Jon's eyes scanned the field where literally hundreds,
maybe even a thousand or more, folks had heard about Little
Hickman's fireworks and come out to watch. Buggy after
buggy lined the outskirts of town, where folks had left them and their horses tied to makeshift hitching posts and various
shade trees. Here and there, lanterns dotted the landscape
like dozens of fireflies. In the distance, a child's excited whoop
filled the air, followed by whinnying horses and inpatient,
barking dogs. Yes, it was unfortunate that so many had had
to witness Ezra Browning's drunken display, Jon mused, but it
was nothing new to most of Hickman's townsfolk. It irked him
how people placed so much importance on outward appearance and less on the decaying souls of men.

"Well, I imagine Mrs. Winthrop won't be too pleased tomorrow mornin' when she learns I've taken old Ezra to the bathhouse
and cleaned him up," Jon said, taking a gumdrop from his shirt
pocket, tossing it straight up, and catching it in his open mouth.

Ben whistled through his teeth. "You serious? I'd venture
to say Emma won't be so happy herself. She prides herself on
handling her own affairs, you know."

Jon made a scoffing sound. "It's high time Emma Browning swallowed some of that pride."

A rooster crowed at precisely five-thirty the next morning.
Precisely, because, no sooner had he screeched out his morning call than the grandfather clock took up its chiming. Emma
groaned, buried her face in the folds of her cotton blanket, and
squeezed her eyes shut against the early stages of dawn. Had
she slept a wink? Last night's fireworks, although an impressive
display of glitter and dazzle from her second-story perch, still
echoed through her brain, the crack and boom of each explosion singeing her nerves. To make matters worse, after she had
settled in for the night, each of her boarders had plodded up
the stairs at varying times, some moaning and mumbling to themselves, others tripping along the way, the result of overimbibing. The only two who had cone in at a decent hour and,
thankfully, sober, were Elliott Newman and his son, Luke.

She heard the twitter of waking birds out her open window,
felt a warns, tickling breeze creep past her bare arms, and
noted that the temperature in her room had barely dropped a
degree in the night.

With a sigh, she yanked back the cotton sheet and hauled
herself up.

It was going to be another sweltering clay.

Breakfast had been a quiet affair. Of Emma's six boarders,
four had missed the meal, either sleeping past the deadline for
receiving a hot breakfast and settling for a cup of coffee and a
piece of buttered bread on the run, or choosing not to eat at all
for lack of appetite, hoping to slip out the door unnoticed. While
she'd been scrubbing a fry pan, Gideon Barnard, who worked
at Grady Swanson's Sawmill, had sauntered past the kitchen
door looking fuzzy-eyed. He'd shot her a wary look, as if to say,
"I know, I know. Don't lecture me." Not that she'd intended to
do so. She'd lived long enough to know lectures didn't solve a
thing; they certainly didn't deter a man's drinking habit. Proof
of that lay out in the old tin tub in the backyard.

"D-did you like the f-fireworks, Miss Emma?"

Eninia looked up from her bread making. It was just
past nine-thirty. Luke stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked
in his suspenders, dark brown hair haphazardly brushed to
one side, close-set eyes darting about, avoiding direct contact
with hers. Pug-nosed and rosy-cheeked, it was his ever-present
grin that most endeared him to her. A grown man with the innocence and intelligence of a youngster, he was Little Hicknian's lamplighter, faithfully lighting the lamps along Main
Street at dusk. During the day, he made himself available for
jobs that didn't require mind power. Most of the time, she had
no trouble keeping him busy, but on those days she couldn't,
she'd send him off to his father's wheelwright shop, Flanders'
Foods, Eldred Johansson's Mercantile, or Sani's Livery. Thankfully, they always had a job waiting for him.