Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (49 page)

"Emma, wait!" Jon called.

When she didn't slow down, just picked up her long skirts
and walked faster, Grace leaped from her chair and took off
after her. Jon let then go.

"What's he doing at the saloon?" he asked both men,
practicing his preacherly, calm demeanor, but feeling anything but relaxed. Before he ran off half-cocked, he needed
details.

Harland shook his head. "Craziest thing you ever (lid see.
Gid and nie was just sittin' there at the madam's place enjoyin'
ar ale when in conies Ezra. At first I didn't think nothin' of
it 'cause he used to be a fixture there. Then it hit me he ain't
s'posed to be there.

"Me and Gid both thought it at the sane time. We was
goin' to take 'iin back to the house, but then he walks tip on the
stage and gets everyone's attention. Even Gus stopped playin'
the planer."

Jon motioned for them to start moving toward the saloon.
"Keep talking," lie said, giving Rocky a silent invitation to
follow. Without a second's hesitation, lie leaped from his chair.
Several other nien who'd noticed the commotion, perhaps expecting trouble, tagged along. Jon was thankful for their
presence.

"Well, once he got the place all quiet like, he started up
preachin'," continued Harland. "It was just like God Hisself
was doin' the talkin'. Folks was lendin' 'im their ears, and even
the madam had a tear in 'er eye. He was talkin' about how
he got-what you call it-salvation, and sat'in' that any of its
could experience the same thing. Weren't no special formula,
he said, 'cept to take Jesus as your Savior.

"Well, he had one coughin' spell toward the end of his
preachin' episode where blood was comin' out, but then he got
control. He said a few more things about havin' regrets and
whatnot, and asked folks to think over what lie said. That's
when it happened."

Jon felt his brow crinkle and a knot start to form in his
gut. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"He toppled over right there on that stage."

Alarm curled through his veins. "Toppled?" He stepped
up his gait, eyes zeroing in on the saloon, where a crowd had
gathered outside the swinging doors.

"Several of us men carried him to that bench there,"
Gideon offered, pointing straight ahead. "We sent Henry
Watson after the doc, but I ain't sure...."

That was all he needed to hear before lie set off on a run.

"Pa, say soniethin'. Please. Talk to me." Emma cradled her
father's head in her aria, body bent over him. Beside her Grace
prayed in low murmurs, her hand on Ezra's arm.

"Didn't I tell you-they was discussin' my homnecomin' up
there?" he muttered, his voice shaky and scarcely audible.

A well of sadness dug so deep in her soul she had to fight
to keep her own self breathing. "Papa, please don't talk like
that," she begged on a hoarse whisper. "We're not done yet,
you and nie."

He closed his eyes and swallowed. Blood oozed out the
side of his mouth and made a straight path down his chin. The
sight unnerved her.

"It's nearin' my time, girl. I won't be a burden to ya any
longer."

It seemed to take him longer than usual to suck in his next
breath. When lie did, it came out raspy and hollow sounding.
His eyes opened to slits and fixed on her face for the briefest
time. "You was always a good-girl. I'm sorry I...."

"Shh. I know, Pa. I'ni sorry too."

A strange groan broke loose from his chest, and his eyes
fluttered shut.

"Pa?" When he made no further attempt to open them,
she leaned close to whisper in his ear. "I still got things to say
to you, Pa. You hear me?"

"Emma." Doc had been prodding her to move aside, but
she wouldn't listen.

Another shallow breath slipped past his sagging mouth.
Desperate to say her piece, she put her mouth close to his ear.
"Jesus saved nie just like He did you, Papa. I meant to tell
you sooner, but I was too piggish to do it. I meant to tell you it
was brave of you to walk in front of the church like that, too,
and I was, well, proud of you for doin' it.

"I love you, Pa, I really do, and I wanted so bad to tell you,
but-well, it just wouldn't come out o' nie. But you knew it, didn't
you, Papa?" Only inches from his face, she saw a slight movement
behind his eyelids. He battled to open them further, and when
he did, it was to give her a glazed-over look, as if his spirit had flown away. Panicked, she started to shake hint, barely aware of
the growing crowd of curious bystanders.

"Don't go yet, Pa," she begged.

"Excuse nie, folks," cane a male voice-deep, lulling,
soothing-familiar. Jon. "Let me through, please. Enmia," he
whispered in her ear. "Come on, Emma; let's get out of Doc's
way now, shall we?" His warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, big and long-fingered. She leaned into it.

A stream of tears coursed down her cheeks. "I love you,
Pa," she repeated, willing him to open his eyes.

"Come on, honey."

She tipped back on her heels and fell against the preacher's firm chest, unable to see through the hot blur of tears.
"Tell him to wake up, Jon. He'll listen to you."

She felt his chest heave. "I'm afraid he wouldn't hear me,"
lie whispered.

She refused to accept that. "Wake up, Ezra Browning, you
of coot," she ordered.

But Ezra Browning did not move again.

The finieral had been a quiet affair, attended mostly by
Emma's close friends and very few of Ezra's, which was to be
expected. Over the years the man had made little time for
friendship building.

Naturally, Jon performed the ceremony, although his
words were few due to his clogged-up throat. It was his first
funeral as a minister of the gospel, and he decided it would
forever be his least favorite obligation.

Emma had sat in a chair in the parlor, shoulders straight,
face serenely peaceful, though not naturally so. It was as if
she'd determined to turn off her emotional faucet. She shook the hands of friends and thanked then for their concern,
pasted smile in place. Grace stood behind her acting as host
and doing a fine job of it, protective of her younger cousin, her
hand set squarely upon her shoulder. Jon would have liked to
assume the role of protector, but, alas, Emma didn't know his
full intentions, and now didn't seem an appropriate time for
telling her, considering her grief.

Afterward, in the following weeks, Eninia's boarders walked
around the house with sullen faces, keeping the noise down,
and going to their rooms at decent hours. Even Luke seemed
to recognize the need to hold back his blather, although Jon
thought his senseless chatter might do everyone some good.
Around town, talk was that Madam Guttersnipe had considered closing down the saloon for lack of business. It would
seem Ezra Browning's "sermon" had touched a tender chord
in many a heart, Gus Masterson, the saloon's pianist, for one.
Ever since Ezra's passing, he'd been attending Little Hickman
Community Church, and Sunday before last, had walked to
the front to express his need for the Savior. Jon suspected it
wouldn't be long before Bess would start trading off with him
at the piano, and wouldn't that be a flat-out miracle!

From saloon honky-tonk to church hymnal. Would wonders never cease?

Of the boarders, Wes Clayton and Elliott Newman
seemed most affected by Ezra's passing. Three Sundays in
a row now, they'd faithfully sat in the third row from the
back, all ears at Jon's messages. Luke came, too, of course,
his perpetual smile a joy to watch, a regular boost to Jon's
confidence.

Folks stopped by almost daily to deliver big casseroles,
pies, cakes, platters of cookies, and pans full of fried chicken
and scalloped potatoes, freeing Emma of the need to spend long hours in the kitchen. Even Iris Winthrop dropped off a
meatloaf hefty enough for serving an army. Seeming genuinely
concerned, she stood on the porch and chatted with Grace for
at least ten minutes, Jon standing at his window just above and
catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

"Well, it was a shock to that poor girl, I'm sure," Iris had
said. "Of course, she suffered years under that man's abuse, so
one part of her ought to be relieved."

"Ezra found forgiveness in his latter days," Grace put in.
"He and Emma had just started to make amends."

"Well, yes, and I'm sure that must give Miss Browning
some sense of peace. Still, it does amaze nie."

"What's that, Mrs. Winthrop?"

"Why, this whole business of God's grace and forgiveness-no matter how great the sin, no Ynatter how late in life...
there is always forgiveness for those who seek it."

Grace's low-throated chuckle rose to Jon's second-story
window. "I see you've been paying close attention to our pastor's sernions, Mrs. Winthrop."

Grace stayed on a full ten days after Ezra's passing, tending to the house chores and the meals; weeding the garden,
even though most of it had withered, save the pumpkins and
squash; and running errands, affording Emma the opportunity to hide out in her private quarters like a hermit, as if she
had need of a refuge. Jon grilled Grace more than once about
Emma's reclusive behavior.

"She needs time to process all that's happened to her, Jon.
In some odd way, she feels guilty-about Ezra."

"Guilty? Why should she feel guilty? It was Ezra who
wronged her."

"And she who carries the responsibility for not freeing hire
of his guilt."

"That wasn't her job to do."

"You and I know that, but try convincing her. I've told her
till I'ni blue, but it doesn't seen to matter.

"She spent the better share of her life hating and resenting her father, and then in the end, it occurred to her that she
truly loved him. Now she faces the harsh reality of what might
have been if they'd have communicated their hearts to one
another long ago."

Jon shook his head. "But the timing would have been all
wrong before. It took Ezra's illness to bring him to his knees
before Almighty God and your timely letters to alert her to her
need for Christ. Can't she see that?"

Grace placed a hand on his forearm. "I've no doubt you'll
find a way to make her see it, Jon."

His shoulders slumped. "She won't talk to me. Every time
we meet in the hallway, she makes an about-face. My presence has always disarmed her, reminded her that her heart
wasn't right with her Creator, but now that she's a Christian, it
puzzles me how she's more determined than ever to avoid nie.
It doesn't make sense." He looked to Grace for some kind of
encouragement, but she remained quiet. "Unless she just plain
dislikes me and I'ni too thickheaded to see it." His insides panicked with raw realization. "Well, blast if that hasn't been it all
along! She does hate nie."

Grace cackled. "Oh, listen to you. If you believe that, then
you have slow-of-wit to add to thickheaded, my dear Reverend."

"Really?" He studied her now-smiling countenance.
"Believe it or not, you've just made me feel better, Grace
Giles."

She laughed outright. "You'll be fine," she'd said, patting
him on the arras. "What you need to do is help her overcome her feelings of inadequacy. It is quite beyond her that you, a
minister of God's Word, could possibly be interested in her-in
any way but friendly, that is."

"No kidding? Did she tell you that?"

She gave a casual shrug. Her eyes glinted with humor.
"Perhaps a bit of courting would do the trick?"