Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (42 page)

Imagine! Ezra Browning a born-again Christian. Why,
he'd stood right there in front of God and everyone and confessed his sins. Yet, the most remarkable thing of all, she ruled,
was that irrefutable look of radiance on his face. She couldn't
get it out of her mind.

She passed the mercantile on her left, the CLOSED sign
hanging crooked on the door latch, and then Winthrop's
Dry Goods, the wrought-iron bench in front that usually
held a body or two now sitting vacant. She stepped off the
sidewalk and crossed the dusty alley. When she shot a glance
sideways, she saw Edgar Blake and Amos Jordan sitting on
the steps of Zeke's Barbershop. Both lifted their hands and
waved. She responded in kind, taking care not to slow her
pace.

A giant step up and she found herself on the sidewalk
again, tramping past a closed Flanders' Food Store. Orville Bordon crossed the street in front of her, giving her a tip
of his hat and a casual nod. "Mornin' to you, Miss Emma,"
he called. "Or perhaps good afternoon is more like it. I see
you been goin' to church lately. How you like that brand new
building?"

"It's fine, very nice." She hoped she didn't sound too curt.

"Service must be over then?" he asked, pausing in the
middle of the quiet street to ask the question.

"Just about," she said. Oh dear, what kind of answer was
that? Now he'd know she'd left before the final benediction.

But if he thought it odd, he didn't say; he merely nodded
and smiled. "Well, you have a good day now."

She resumed her hurried steps, anxious to reach the
confines of her private quarters. Since Sunday's meal always
consisted of leftovers, there would be plenty of time for her
to gather up her frayed nerves and put them to rights again
before facing her boarders-and her father. What would she
say to him-to Jon? What did they expect her to say? She
batted at damp eyes, glad that Mr. Bordon hadn't lingered.

Anxiety seized her chest as she thought about Jon, so tall
and handsome standing there before his little congregation,
so full of goodness and compassion. What a contrasting pair
they made; he so faith-driven, she so faithless; he contented
and at peace, she still gorging on the pain of the past.

Let it go, Einina, Grace had said in one of her letters. It isn't
worth the battle.

She sighed as she lengthened her gait, staring down at her
dusty high-top shoes.

Up the street, a horse-drawn rig, driven by Mort Brackett and carrying a female passenger, pulled into a spot in
front of the post office. Since the stagecoach rarely stopped
in Little Hickman, the fellow often delivered folks to and from Lexington for a fee. Rather curious about the woman
he'd transported, Emma stopped at the base of her porch
steps to have a look. Mr. Brackett jumped down, had a word
with his passenger, and walked around to the back of the
wagon.

Something stately and proper about her manner kept
Eninia gawking. My, she was a fair-looking type with her
green-what was it? Brocade?-traveling gown and matching
jacket, a feathery, flowery hat sitting at just the right angle on
her head, a shiny black bag resting on her lap, a parasol hanging over one arm. She spoke to Mr. Brackett in a soft voice then
pointed at her trunk. He heaved it off the back of the wagon,
carried it around to the front, and then returned to fetch her
off her high perch. Even from where she stood, Emma heard
the very cordial "Thank you, sir."

She had to be well bred, Emma thought. No one she knew
ever gave the scruffy Mr. Brackett the title of sir.

After giving a little shake of the head, she was about to
turn when Mr. Brackett caught her eye. "There she is," he said,
pointing. "Afternoon, Miss Eninia!" he hollered.

She made a shield from the noonday sun with her hand.
"Good day to you, Mr. Brackett."

Not wanting to appear overly nosy about the female traveler, she took to her steps again.

"Wait! Emma?" the woman called to her.

She paused and turned. "Yes?"

The woman approached, parasol in hand, bag hauled
over her slender shoulder. The smile on her face, warns and
vaguely familiar, caused a catch in Emma's throat, which kept
her from swallowing. No, it couldn't be.

"I-I'm sorry to say I don't have any extra rooms," she sputtered.

The fair lady looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. And, yes, it was a fine brocade she wore, definitely storebought, and looking mighty expensive.

The smile on her face never let up. If anything, it broadened as she looked Emilia up and down.

"You're even prettier than I imagined."

"What?"

Miss Tabitha meowed from the screen door, letting it
be known she wanted out. From under the porch, No-name
emerged, stretched his long, scrawny frame, and yawned. As
if he'd just noticed the stranger, he hobbled over to her and
greeted her by way of a sniff.

"You told me your hair was blond, but I didn't picture
it quite so long and flowing, and your lovely face, well, how
often does a person describe herself to a tee?" She giggled
and revealed bright teeth, the middle front one turned
slightly in.

"Pardon?" Eninia took one step down, bringing her that
much closer to the regally clad woman. "You aren't...." She
squinted, swallowed, tamped down a wave of excitement.

She nodded, fast, several times. "Yes! I'm Grace. Grace
Giles."

"No. Grace? My cousin, Grace?"

The rapid nods continued.

Emma's hand pressed flat across her open mouth.

"I hope I'm not coming at a bad time. Your last letter, well,
it sounded somewhat desperate. And you said if I ever wanted
to visit, I could share a room with you. My cook and wait staff
urged me to cone. Matter of fact, I told you in one of my letters I was thinking of selling. My cook is very interested in
buying my business-he and his wife, of course. She also works
for me. They're giving it a trial run this next week."

Her babbling persisted while Eninia's mind tried to sort
it all out. Grace, her only known relative, had come all the
way from Chicago just to see her? It seemed too good to be
true.

It took two steps down to get to ground level, and when
she did, she threw her arms around her cousin's neck and
wept.

still can't believe you're here," Emma said. She plopped
down on her bed, exhausted. "That trunk was heavy.
What on earth did you put in it?" She slid over and patted the
place beside her, a silent invitation to her cousin to sit.

"I can hardly believe it myself." Rather than sit, though,
Grace ran to the window to look out. "Oh, my, what a lovely
garden. Your sunflowers reach nearly to the clouds."

"Aren't they soniethin', though? I didn't expect such a crop
of 'em. I guess I threw out more seeds than I realized."

"I do so miss flowers in my little Chicago apartment.
There's just so much room out here. I can't get over the lush
trees, the green, rolling hills, the lovely, wide-open skiesand the birds. My! Everywhere I look, nature abounds. Why,
you must awake each morning and thank God for the beauty
of His creation. Me, I wake up to the sights and sounds and
smells of the city. Oh, it's not that I'm ungrateful, mind you.
I'm thankful for my very lucrative business. It's just that as I
age, I find the city less and less appealing."

Emma dawdled on Grace's assumption that she thanked
the Lord each clay, and realizing she fell short, swallowed a
lump of guilt.

Grace whirled away from the window, making her skirt
flare out with the twisting motion. Her sun-pinkened cheeks
glowed bright. "Oh, Eninia, I'm so happy to finally meet you."
In one fluid move, she strode across the room, tore the pins
from her hat, laid them on the dresser, and tossed the flowery bonnet like a soaring kite across the room, letting it land where it would. The move made her golden brown hair stand
up in places, and Emma nearly laughed aloud. Grace smoothed
the stray locks down with her hand and closed the distance
between them by throwing herself on the bed next to Emma.
For a woman of forty-six, she certainly had a springy manner
about her, springy yet graceful, living up to her name.

"You cane at the perfect tine," Emma told her.

Grace looked only a little hesitant. "You're not just saying
that?"

The bed jiggled while Grace made herself comfortable.
Two pairs of feet dangled over the edge of the high bed, the
simple sight of which produced a wave of giddiness in the pit
of Emma's stomach.

"From the moment I learned you were my cousin, I've
been dyin' to meet you."

Grace smiled, showing that slightly crooked front tooth,
which only lent to her charm. "Me too."

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Famished."

"Then we should go downstairs and produce a sandwich
and a bowl of soup for you."

When she would have leaped off the bed, Grace grabbed
her arm and pulled her back. "All in good time, cousin, but
first, tell inc how your father is faring."

Over the next several minutes, Emma told her cousin
about Ezra's dire condition, how he'd come in weak as a motherless duckling but rallied under their care. How he seemed to
have good clays and bad days with nary a hint the night before
of what to expect in the morning.

Unsure whether to tell her about her father's conversion,
she decided there was no reason not to, except for the fact that
Emma herself was still trying to digest it.

Cinnamon eyes sparkled like winter stars when Enirna
divulged the story. "But that's wonderful, Emma. It's exactly
what I've been asking God to do for Ezra." She tipped her
head and leaned in close. "Why so downcast?"

"What? Oh, I'm not. I just it seems unreal to me, that's
all. I don't understand how God could take the reckless ruins
of my father's life and make him into a new person. I'll grant
you he does seem different-there's a glow about hint-but I
can't help but wonder if he's riding on some kind of eniotion.
It all happened so fast."

Grace gave Emma's arm a gentle squeeze and curved her
mouth into a thoughtful smile. "That's what God does for its,
honey; He takes its just as we are, no matter how sinful or vile.
Nothing we do will ever make its worthy of Him, but that's the
good news. We don't have to be worthy. Christ paid the ultimate
sacrifice for our sins when He died on the cross, so the worst
is over. All that remains is for us to ask Him to forgive its and
believe that He does. There's nothing more to it than that."

She made it sound so simple. Had Jon presented it to Ezra
in just as simple a manner? If so, she could almost understand
why Ezra had prayed the prayer. It would be nice to live a
peace-filled life, free of anger and inner resentment.

A tiny seed of interest sprouted from within, making her
hungry, not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual. In fact,
her soul burned with need. To ward off the feeling, she pulled
herself up. Grace followed suit.

"Want to see what I brought you?"

Relief filtered through her veins when Grace didn't push
the subject. That and a ripple of excitement. "You brought me
something?"

"You don't think I would come all this way without bearing
gifts, (10 you?"

Grace tugged her to the floor next to the big black trunk,
and in the next several minutes, she emptied the thing of a
myriad of items. Besides those things she'd packed for herself,
clothing, nightwear, cosmetics, and such, she presented Emma
with an array of gifts: expensive perfume, a large supply of
two different colorful fabrics, a selection of threads and sewing
accessories, a lovely quilt, and a box of delectable chocolates.
Emma couldn't help but notice that most of the items bore the
name of Marshall Fields, either on tags or, in the case of the
perfume and chocolates, on the bottom of the boxes.

"Oh iiiy!" Emma rasped. "This is just too extravagant."

"Nonsense."

"But I've never owned anything from Marshall Fields."

"Well, now you do," Grace said with a shrug and a smile, as
if the items were nothing more than a few grains of sand. "And I
loved every single minute I spent shopping for them. I had your
sweet face, although I'd not seen it yet, pictured in my head the
whole time. You would love Marshall Fields, honey. Why, you
can nearly get lost in there if you don't pay attention."

"Oh, mercy. That seems far-fetched, but I'm sure it's true.
I saw a picture of it once and read an article when I was
skimming through a magazine in Johansson's Mercantile. It
looked to be quite soniethin'."

Emma stared at the outlandish assortment spread out
before her, the lovely quilt, the perfume, the fabrics. Wetness
spilled out the corners of her eyes. "I don't-know what to say,
'cept-thank you."

Without hesitation, Grace drew her close. A soft chuckle
breezed past her lips. "That'll do."

The two rocked back and forth for what must have been a
full two minutes. Emma relished in the warmth of her cousin's
embrace, still hardly believing she was here.