Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (5 page)

"They were a sight to behold, weren't they?" she replied,
pausing for a second to recall the event, then quickly going
back to kneading the large lump of dough beneath her hands.
When she finished, she molded the clump into a ball and laid a
towel over it. Then she wiped her floured hands on her apron.
Luke kept watch from his place in the doorway.

"M-nie and Pa, we liked them big ones," he remarked in
his flat, monotone voice, his words always coming out slow and
labored, with intermittent stuttering. "They made me sh-shake
right here." He put a stubby hand to his chest.

Emma laughed. "I know what you mean."

Luke took a step forward, eyes eager. "Want me to sweep
the f-floor?"

She glanced around the tidy kitchen. "It's been done, but
you could take the broom to the front porch. That could use a
goin' over. After that-"

Just then, a squawking male voice made her pause midsentence. She walked to the kitchen window overlooking the
backyard. A sudden gasp escaped her throat.

Luke came up beside her. "Ain't that the p-preacher?"
Her shoulders slumped as she heaved a sigh. Jon Atkins
was helping old Ezra out of the tin tub, and from the sound of
things, her father wasn't too happy for the help.

Why couldn't the reverend mind his own business?

emme go," Ezra screeched, both hands flailing. "I
don't need no help."

"I beg to differ, old nian," Jon argued. "You can't even
stand up on your own. Look at you."

Jon caught sight of Eninia Browning bounding off the
boardinghouse back stoop, skirts flaring, wisps of blond hair
coming loose from their tight little bun. Her blue eyes sparked
with a mixture of anger and confusion as she marched with
purpose in their direction, Luke Newman on her heels.

"What do you think you're doing, Jon Atkins?" she asked.

"I'ni about to take this odorous fellow to the bathhouse."

Eninia fixed hint with a perplexing stare, squinting against
the sun. "Why would you do that?"

"He could use a bath, don't you think?" The man's stench
was enough to knock a skunk to its knees.

"Don't need no bath," Ezra grumbled. "Had one already."

"When? Last spring?" Jon asked, trying to make light of
the situation. It had been at least a week since the guy had
even shaved, let alone bathed himself.

Ezra coughed and spat, just missing Jon's boot. It was all
Jon could do not to set the oaf back down in the tub and let
him sleep awhile longer. But he'd determined to get involved
in the fellow's life-actually, God had prompted him to
get involved-and so here he was defending himself to the
drunken fool's daughter.

"It won't do you any good," Emma said. "Matter of fact,
you'd be wastin' your tine." Her eyes skittered over Ezra's slouched frame. She crossed her arms and stuck out her obstinate little chin. "He's nothin' but a drunk."

Jon took a moment to study Eninia's stance, spine straight
as a pin, jaw tense, eyes hard and proud. She'd learned that
stance from years of struggling to survive. "When was the last
time you saw him sober?" he asked.

Enema laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound.
"Well now, that'd take some recollectin', preacher."

Preacher? Jon? Reverend Atkins? Which was it? Jon mused.
She'd known him all her life, but since his return to Hickman
a little less than a year ago, she didn't seem to know quite how
to address him. Furthermore, she was determined to dislike
him.

Ezra swayed, and Jon got a firmer grip on his arm. The
bum was still so liquored up he didn't even know he was the
topic of conversation.

"Cone on, old man," he said, turning Ezra around and
pointing hint in the right direction, slanting his face away
from the worst of Ezra's overpowering odor.

"You w-want some h-help?" asked Luke. Up until now, he'd
been the silent observer. Matter of fact, Luke spent most of his
time on the sidelines watching life go by. Jon wondered if the
boy didn't know a whole lot more about living than most folks
gave hint credit for knowing.

"That'd be real nice, Luke. You take the other arm."

Luke stepped forward and Emma's frown grew. "There's
no hope for Ezra, Jon. You might as well accept it."

Ah, so now he was Jon again.

He paused and smiled at her. "Oh, there's hope, Emma.
As long as there's a God in heaven, there is hope."

She made a scoffing noise. "You'd best save your sernion-
izin' for your congregation."

His grin widened as he tilted his face at her. "I will if you
promise to cone hear me sonietinie."

He detected the slightest hitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Now, why would I bother comin' to hear one of your sermons?"

"To please me maybe?" She gave him an odd look, and
how could he blame her? She'd be blown away by the knowledge that he was attracted to her, had been since he was a
snotty-nosed kid. Of course, his attraction made zero sense.
He needed a wife, yes, but a good Christian wife, someone to
support his ministry, not someone like Emma Browning who
openly admitted she had no use for God.

He gave himself a mental scolding.

Ask her about the room, Jon.

The nudge was as strong as if Jupiter, his horse, had plowed
straight into his side. I've asked her plenty, Lord. She's made it
clear she doesn't want me under her roof.

Ask, Jon.

"You rent that extra room out yet?" he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, probably still mulling
over his invitation to cone to church. "What? No." Her arms
remained crossed, except now she hugged herself more tightly
and added a scowl to her pursed lips.

"I'ni still in need of a place."

Ezra belched loud enough to scare the birds from their
perches. Not only that, it carried a vile stench. Emma lifted a
hand and batted the acrid air to ward off the worst of the smell.

"Oh, for crying in a bucket! If you get him out of here, you
can rent a blasted room."

Jon grinned. It was a victory grin, he knew, so he tried not
to let it grow to extremes. Thank You, Lord. "That's a load off
my shoulders, Emma. Toni Averly, who bought my place, will
be pleased to know I'm finally moving out."

He and Luke started hauling Ezra out of the yard.

"Rent's twelve dollars a week, but my long-teriners pay by
the month," she called to his back. "I'll expect you to pay the
first month's rent on the day you move in. Thereafter, rent's
due the first of every month. And if you get behind, there'll be
no mercy.

Jon waved, hiding his victory grin. "I always pay my bills
on time."

"And I won't stand for any of your preaching, either, you
hear?"

"Will you sit for it?"

She didn't respond to that, just made a grumbling noise.

He was still grinning when they passed Winthrop's Dry
Goods and lie caught a glimpse of Iris Winthrop through the
glass, her wide-eyed, gaped-mouth reaction when she saw
Luke and him escorting Ezra through the center of town only
adding to his satisfaction.

The bath was no easy affair, but when it was finished, Ezra
Browning did smell as nice as a field of daisies. Of course,
he'd sauntered in the direction of the Madam's saloon shortly
thereafter, much to Jon's dismay, not in the least bit grateful
for their help.

"Let me take you back to your house, Ezra," Jon had
offered. "Luke and I will help you clean up the place and fix
you a decent meal." But Ezra had shaken his head and mumbled something about needing a drink instead.

"I guess h-he don't like ar cookin'," Luke had said while
they stood there next to the bathhouse watching Ezra anible
off, Jon's arm looped over Luke's hunched shoulders.

Jon slanted his head at Luke. "He doesn't know what lie's
missing. I cook a mean bean soup."

Luke shot him a twisted grin. "Me and Pa like bean soup, but Miss Emma don't n-never make it. She says she don't dare
iii-make b-bean soup for a houseful of r-rude nien."

At Luke's remark, Jon clutched his stomach and bent over
laughing.

Emma dusted with a vengeance. Now, why had she gone
and offered her vacant room to Jonathan Atkins? Hadn't she
just been telling herself she neither wanted nor needed the
company of a preacher in her establishment? So why was it
that when he'd looked at her with those powder blue eyes of
his, she'd crumbled like a month-old cookie? Was it because
he'd taken old Ezra off her hands? It seemed a likely excuse.
After all, one good deed deserved another, and Lord knows
she wasn't about to take her father to the bathhouse herself,
much as the old codger did need a bath. But then she had to
confess there was more to it than that.

Emma dusted even faster. Truth was, she wasn't willing
to delve much deeper into her reasons for relenting. All she
knew was that the town's young preacher was about to make
his hone in this very room, and she'd best get it ready for him.
She lifted a lace doily from the chest of drawers, gave it a little
shake and replaced it, smoothing down the corners with care.
Then she glanced up at the ancient picture hanging crooked
above the chest and righted it.

Standing back, she made a sweeping assessment of the room:
clean sheets on the old four-poster bed, braided rug freshly
beaten, gingham curtains laundered and pressed, and the
cracked leather seat of the old wooden rocker wiped clean. She
had no idea when Jon Atkins planned to move into Mr. Dreyfus's
old room, but at least it would be ready for him when he did.

She dropped her hands to her sides and felt a bulge in her
apron pocket. Stuffing her hand into her pocket she withdrew
the lone wool sock she'd found under Mr. Dreyfus's bed, the
one she'd darned for hint on numerous occasions. More than
likely, he hadn't missed it yet, but cone winter he'd be wondering what had become of it.

Fingering the woolen fabric, an unwelcome nieniory poked
to the surface.

Blustery winds sneaked through the cracks of the poorly heated
cabin, the pile of firewood next to the stone fireplace dwindling down
to almost nothing. Papa staggered through the door, eyes watery
red, snowy boots leaving a trail of white on the just swept rug as he
stomped his feet. An icy look on his round, whiskered face matched the
frigid temperatures. Emma shivered in the straight-back chair and
drew the wool blanket up closer around her neck, tucking the book
she'd been reading beneath its folds.

"What you doin, girl?" he growled, slamming the door shut
behind him, eyes narrow and suspicious. "How come I don't smell no
supper cookie'?"

"We're outta most all the food, Papa. All that's left is some flour
and oil and a few cans of beans." She drew her knees up close to her
chest, hoping he wouldn't find her book. He'd accuse her of laziness
for sure. No matter that she'd spent the afternoon sweeping, dusting,
and shoveling a narrow path to the rickety old outhouse. Her tenyear-old muscles felt sore and fatigued.

"Then cook the lousy beans, missy."

"We've had beans three times this week, Papa."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to reclaim them.
Papa didn't take nicely to backtalk. He reached her in two long strides
and gave her the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough
to knock her off the chair, sending her precious book of Bible stories
in another direction.

With his beefy hand he retrieved the book and held it at arm's
length. Papa squinted his bloodshot eyes at the cover and tried to
make out the title. "What's this nonsense?" he asked.

"Miss Abbott gave it to me," she confessed, her cheek still burning
like hot coals where his hand had struck it. She wouldn't mention the
book's contents.

"That lady what runs the boardinghouse? How many times I
gotta tell you to stay away from that religious crazy?"

Emma pulled herself upright. "Can I have my book back, Papa?"
she squeaked out, ignoring his remark. Miss Abbott was as close as
Emma would ever come to having a mother, or a grandmother, for
that matter. Nearly every day after school she took an extra minute
to swing by the older woman's boardinghouse to receive a warm hug
and, if she was lucky, cookies and a tall glass of milk.