Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (40 page)

"Everything okay?" he asked, looking from one to the
other. It was the first time in a long while he'd allowed himself
to look deep into Emma's face, and what he saw there revealed
a truth he'd been running from. He loved her deeply.

Her casual, polite nod did not convince him. Pulling back
her chin, she handed Ezra off to him. "Since you offered, I'll
leave you to his evening ablutions. I have to go get my bucket."
With a turn, she left the kitchen, slamming the door harder
than necessary behind her. Jon watched her out of the side of
one eye as she strode down the path, and he saw her lift her
apron to swipe her cheek. Blast!

"You say something to get her riled?"

Ezra's breathing seemed more labored than usual. "Jus'
that I been Join' some thinkin'. Ya know how you been tellin' nie 'bout God and His love an' forgiveness? I thought it was
all good stuff what I said, but it don't appear she liked it
much."

Ali, so that was it. She didn't want to hear that Ezra's heart
was going soft.

"Well, Ezra, forgiveness is a touchy thing. Might be you'll
need to talk to God about that. I can't promise you she'll ever
forgive you entirely, but you can't allow her lack of mercy over
you to stand in the way of your own salvation. By asking her
forgiveness, you've done your part. The melting down of her
heart-now, that's God's business."

Ezra's legs trembled from weakness, so Jon set him down
on a stool next to the butcher-block table. Once situated, he
clasped his hands in his lap and fidgeted, his breaths coming
out like a whole band of whistles. Jon stood next to him, worried he might topple. "I got to make her see."

"Maybe she's not quite ready yet, you know, to hear what
you have to say."

A minute lapsed while Ezra seemed to collect his thoughts.
"I left home at a ripe young age, you know. My ma and pop
was glad to see nie go."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Phftt. Couldn'ta been much more 'n thirteen, fourteen."
In his eyes was poignant sorrow, deep and cavernous. Of
course, Ezra hadn't a clue how transparent they were, crystalline windows opening into his soul, as if they had a story all
their own to tell.

Jon waited, then ventured a question. "What were they
like, your parents?"

Tilting back his head to look at the ceiling, lie gave a
dismal snort. "Distant. They never had no use for me."

"Why do you think that was?"

"Never could figure it out, 'cept they liked Howard and
Hester better."

"The twins." He remembered Ezra's revelation about his
older sister and brother from when he'd eavesdropped from
the doorway.

Ezra nodded. "Brats, they was. Always talking 'bout me
behind niy back, pokin' fun at me, kickin' me around, sat'in'
stuff like Ma and Pa liked them better, and I was nothin' but
a crossbreed."

"Crossbreed. What would make them say that?"

Shriveled shoulders dropped even further. "Don't know,
don't care. My folks was on trips a lot for business, left us kids
with some neighbor lady. They never knowed half the tinie
what was goin' on. When they'd get home from their long trips
they'd haul out big presents for the brats and give me sonie-
thin' like a measly little writin' tablet."

Some nagging thought pestered Jon in his deepest partlike an itch he couldn't quite reach or an obliterated memory
that refused to resurface. Something just didn't seem right
here. He felt his brow crease, drawing his eyes into beady circles. "So where did you go when you left home?"

Ezra tipped his head at him and frowned. "Roamed the
countryside. Picked up jobs here an' there, mostly in honky-tonk
joints. I was big for niy age. Weren't hard gettin' folks to believe
I was eighteen. Most places give me room an' board and all the
booze I wanted. That's how my habit got off the ground.

"Once I met my Lydia, though, things started lookin' up."
His eyes went wet at the corners and he shook his head. "Liked
to died when she stopped breathin' that hot day in June, leavin'
nie with that squallin' kid."

"And that's when the drinking started up again?" Jon took
a long-held breath and swallowed.

Ezra's face lowered, making Jon wonder if he'd suddenly
dropped off to sleep, but then he gave a slow, gloomy nod.
"Got worse than ever after that. Ain't no excuse for my behavior, 'cept to say I wasn't happy unless I was pub-crawlin'. Even
that pretty li'1 girl out there," he poked a finger toward the
backyard, "couldn't turn my eyes away from the stuff. Now that
I think 'bout it, I prob'bly resented her. Ain't that a rotten thin'
to say?"

Jon patted the old nian on the shoulder. With all his might,
he wanted to dislike him, but it wasn't in him to do so. Almost
from the time he'd taken the job as Little Hickman's pastor
and committed to helping the helpless, he'd latched on to Ezra
Browning. Now, no matter what, he couldn't let go.

"Best get you ready for bed," he said, having no idea what
else to say. Out the back door, he noted Emma loitering in the
garden, probably waiting for them to disappear.

He helped him off the stool. The fellow grunted and
swayed, and if Jon hadn't been there to catch him, he'd have
fallen flat on his face.

Lord, please live Your life through me. Make me a light that
points the way to You. I never set things right with my own pa, and
a part of me still mourns that fact. Maybe that's what draws me to
Ezra. He reminds me of Luther Atkins. It may be too late for my pa,
but its not too late for Ezra.

He led Ezra to the washroom on the main floor, Ezra's feet
shuffling along at a childlike pace, the floorboards squeaking
under each labored step.

renzied enthusiasm rippled through the congregation. It was a full house in Little Hickman Community
Church, the new building drawing curious attendees from
as far away as Nicholasville. Why, it was a celebration to rival
the opening day of the new schoolhouse some two months
earlier. Thankfully, the sun shone bright, even though the
maple leaves in the churchyard had started dropping to the
earth one by one, their flaxen hue a sure sign that cooler air
would soon be blowing up the valleys and over the ridges,
bending Kentucky's blue grasses and ushering in an all-new
season.

Dressed in their Sunday best, which, for most men, simply
meant a freshly laundered shirt tucked into a pair of trousers
held up by suspenders, and for the womenfolk meant a simple
cotton dress, folks sauntered down the center and side aisles
seeking out spots in which to crowd together on shiny new
pews.

With her usual flair, the church pianist and Hickman's
newly appointed schoolteacher, Bess Barrington, treated the
incoming church attendees to a rendition of "Onward Christian Soldiers" on the slightly off-key piano.

When the piano the Winthrops had generously commissioned to purchase for the new church had not yet arrived
from the Michigan manufacturer, and Jon had decided the
donated one at the school should remain intact, Emma had
kindly offered the use of hers, saying it just sat in the music
room like a big of hippo, anyway, collecting dust. "Makes nary a peep, 'cept for those tines back when Mr. Wonder tried to
play it," she wrinkled up her nose at the memory, "and Miss
Tabitha decides at midnight to use it as a tactic to wake the
dead."

Jon had laughed, glad that at least they were again
treating each other with civility. He couldn't even count the
tines he'd wanted to share his heart with her, haul her into
his arms again, and kiss her silly while savoring the scent
of her hair against his cheek. Of course, he walked away
from the temptation every time, knowing it could never
work between them unless she dedicated her heart and life
to Christ.

"Well, I appreciate that, Emma. I'll gather up some men
to help me wheel it over there," he'd said just two days ago.
"Maybe you'll cone Sunday to hear the way it's supposed to be
played?"

She'd awarded hini with a half-grin, pausing midway in
her mopping job. "I expect I will just to hear how it's played,
mind you."

"Of course. I wouldn't expect you'd cone to hear my
sermon.

With a hint of a twinkle in her eye, she'd turned back to
her task. "And isn't that the truth."

And there she sat now, just four rows back, squeezed in
tight between the Callahan family and Fancy Jenkins. Sarah
Jenkins, Fancy's daughter, sat smack in front of them with Sully
and Esther Thompson and their clan, holding their wiggling
baby, Millie, on her lap. Jon suspected that before the service
ended, Esther would be giving Sarah permission to take the
toddler outside. When Jon failed to get Emma's attention-all
he had in mind was a friendly smile-he turned his eyes elsewhere.

Amidst the commotion of incoming worshippers, he
perused his surroundings from a chair on the two-step-up
platform. It was a simple structure, simple but sturdy. High
ceilings to afford that the sound would carry, a big potbellied stove situated at the rear, and floors made of four-by-four
wood timbers, which even now carried their strong scent and
probably would for years to cone, graced the interior. Four big
windows flanked either side of the room to allow for plenty of
incoming light, and kerosene lamps hung six feet apart from
the fresh painted white walls. It was that new-wood, new-paint
smell nixed with the scent of fresh bathed children that made
a body fairly keel over with delight.

The sort of pride a father must feel when his child takes his
first steps pranced straight across his chest. So many nien and
women had pitched in at various stages of construction-he'd
counted at least eighty-over the past weeks to accomplish the
job of erecting Little Hickman Community Church, making
its name all the more appropriate. Even folks who didn't normally attend Sunday services had rolled up their sleeves to see
the building completed before the onset of bad weather. Sitting on the tiny platform now, with Carl Hardy seated on one
side of hint and church elder, Bill Jarvis, on the other, he felt
as if he were walking through a dream. Wasn't it only yesterday he'd felt the nudge to sell his farm and donate his profits
toward building a new church?

At the conclusion of Bess's hymn, the congregation hushed,
settled into their spots, and pointed their gazes to the front of the
sanctuary. With a smile on his face, Jon approached the roughhewn pulpit, Bible in hand and bookmarked at Psalm 118.

Clearing his throat, he swallowed the unexpected nervous
knot that had grown up in his throat, opened the book at the
appropriate spot, and, with booming voice, read, "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad
in it!"

Emnia's body shifted uncomfortably when she listened to
the Reverend Atkins' pealing voice, his convicting words in his
sermon titled "The God Who Hears" making her pulse tick at
a faster-than-normal pace. When Fancy leaned into her shoulder mid-way through Jon's message and whispered, "My, ain't
he a fine-looking man," Emma's jaw had dropped. Yes, he was
that, but she wouldn't be admitting any such thing to Fancy
Jenkins. Instead, she'd nudged her gently with an elbow and
stifled a hysterical giggle.