Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (7 page)

"We passed the bathroom." She nodded her head in the
direction from which they'd cone. "Everyone's allowed one
bath per week." He raised his eyebrows at that pronouncement,
but kept his mouth buttoned. "There's a schedule posted inside
the bathroom. Some don't take advantage of their weekly bath,
so you can take someone else's turn if you make sure it's okay.
I got one of them new fangled water heaters, a pipe that coils
down the chimney, starting up in the attic. The water heats as
it passes through the coil."

"I've heard of them. It'll be a nice change for nie not to
have to haul my water from the stove."

She ignored his remark and forged ahead. "You are to
wipe your feet at the door and clean up after yourself. You
will know my wrath if you leave the remnants of an apple on a
table or drop peanut shells on my parlor rug."

"I can only imagine your wrath at its worst, Emma," Jon
said, feigning a chill, trying to wheedle a smile out of her.

Not even a hint of one cracked her porcelain face. She
lifted a hand to sweep at a stray hair, a self-conscious move.

"Do we have a curfew?" he asked more or less in jest.

She breathed a loud sigh, as if she'd had about enough
of him. "Not as such. I lock the doors at 11, but everyone but
Luke, Mr. Newman, and Mr. Clayton enjoy their carousing.
They've all gotten very good at picking the lock." At last, the
first trace of a smile pushed past the hard lines of her mouth,
and for one tenuous moment he thought it might materialize.
No such luck.

A whinnying horse galloped down Main Street, the wagon
it was pulling loaded with supplies. Jon pulled the curtain back
to watch the action from his second-story station. "Nice view,"
he stated, not really expecting a response. Turning, he gave
the room a cursory once-over. It was about the size of a peanut,
lie mused, and would definitely take some getting used to. But
it would suffice. "Anything else?" lie asked. "In terms of rules,
that is?"

She lifted her head and pursed her pretty lips in thought.
"There's no smoking or drinkin' of alcoholic beverages in the
house-but then I guess I needn't tell you that."

"No."

"And no entertainin' women in your room, either, but I
suppose....

"I'll keep that in mind," he furnished.

"Well then," she wrung her hands, "I guess that about
sums it up, Reverend Atkins. You can start haulin' your stuff
up the front stairs whenever you have a mind to."

"You can dispense with the formalities, Emma. After all,
we've known each other since we were this high." He indicated
with flattened palm a distance of about three feet from the
floor.

She cleared her throat. "We'll see. I keep a professional
distance from my boarders-except in Luke's case, of course.
You understand."

He nodded. No, he didn't understand, but he didn't think
now was the time for voicing it. In time, he hoped to learn
what it was that made her tick, what she disliked about him,
and just what had turned her off to God and all matters of the
gospel.

"Well then...." She turned, as if preparing to leave, then
paused and cleared her throat, angling hini with a sheepish
look. "One more thing. I wanted to uh-thank you for tendin'
to Ezra. It was totally unnecessary."

"You can't be expected to look after him, not when you
have a business to run. I had some extra time on my hands,
and besides, I wanted to help."

She looked taken aback. "Well, just the sane. He's an ungrateful old coot who don't deserve anyone's time or attention. Lord
knows he probably can't remember a thing about last night or
even this mornin', for that matter. His memory's not what it used
to be. All that firewater has purely fried his noggin."

"I didn't do it for the recognition, and I don't need his
thanks, Emma-or yours. Simply put, I'm in the business of
helping my fellow human beings."

"Pfff. He hardly qualifies," she answered, her blue eyes
sparking with bitterness. He'd like to know what hideous
things Ezra Browning had done to his daughter to provoke
such open disgust. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He knew
she'd suffered some form of physical abuse. He remembered
the bruises she'd shown up to school with. But she was a grown
woman now. How long before she realized her anger would
one clay fester to the point of never healing?

It wasn't that he meant to excuse Ezra Browning's atrocious behavior. Far from it. He understood the effects abuse
and neglect played in a person's life, and he wasn't about to
diminish them. He should know; he'd suffered under his own father's iron fist, as had his mother. In fact, he'd watched his
father's abuse send his mother straight to the grave. One day
after arriving home from school, he'd gone out to the barn and
discovered her hanging by her neck from a rope, a note stuffed
in her dress pocket saying she couldn't take it anymore.

But his resultant hatred for Luther Atkins had done little
to assuage the pain of losing his mother. And it had done even
less to bring about any sense of closure or peace. In the end,
he'd found his only hope for healing lay in quiet surrender to
his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Only then had lie found the
strength to go on, somehow finding it possible to lay aside his
hostility toward his father and make a life for himself.

He wondered what it would take to convince Emma Browning of her great need for a loving God.

"Do you believe in second chances, Emma?"

She frowned. "In most cases, yes. In Ezra Browning's case?"
She shook her head and scoffed. "He blew all his chances long
ago.

Jon tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and advanced
one step closer to Emma. "How bad was it, Emma?" he dared
ask.

She sucked in a loud breath. "I don't have a mind to talk
about the past, leastways with you. You'll just start exhortin'
Scripture at nie as if I was one of your flock." She spun on her
heel and headed for the front stairs.

"No, I won't," he argued, sticking his head out the door to
watch her fast retreat. "It was a simple question."

"Nothin' simple about it," she called over her shoulder,
her slender frame vanishing around the corner. From the
doorway, lie heard the click of her hard-soled shoes hit the
wooden steps.

y-~
he old Browning farm wasn't much more than a tunible-
down shack, a barn and a couple of sheds in even worse
repair, and acres and acres of fallow soil. Where once straight
rows of cornstalks bent and shifted in July's hot breezes, a
mishmash of tall brown weeds now swayed in random fashion. A kind of forlornness swallowed Jon up at the sight. It
wasn't that he'd never ridden past the place before, but today
he seemed to look at it through different eyes, and it moved
him in ways lie hadn't expected.

Situated just a mile out of town on the other side of Little
Hickman Creek, Ezra's house stood crooked on a slender slope
of land. Curtains blew out the open windows, and he wondered
if the panes were broken out or just open to the elements.

Jon clicked his tongue at Jupiter and guided him toward
the tottering farmhouse. Glancing heavenward, lie noted fastmoving clouds, heavy with certain rain. I probably could have
picked a better day for paying a call on Ezra Browning, lie mused.
He could only imagine lightning moving in and forcing him to
stick out the storm with the bullheaded old man.

"God, ani I reading You right? Do You really want me
befriending this alehouse lush, and if so, why now? I'm in the
midst of packing up my belongings, trying to drum up volunteers for building the new church, getting my pastorate underway, and making an effort to call on potential churchgoers.
Surely, I'm wasting my time with Ezra."

Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my
brethren, you have done it unto me. The passage he'd read
just that morning repeated itself in his head.

"I get the message, Lord, but I'm not sure I have the
wherewithal to reach someone like Ezra Browning-or even
the patience. He's too much like my own father was, and when
I think of how he mistreated Emma...."

His thoughts trailed off as he drew nearer the place and
watched a lone goat rummaging through thin grasses and a few
chickens picking at the earth. In a weedy field were a couple of
grazing horses. He reigned in Jupiter next to a broken-down
shed, dismounted, and tied him to a rickety hitching post. The
horse whinnied, as if to voice his dubious opinion of the shaky
post.

"Stop right there," came a distant, gruff command.

Surprised, Jon whirled at the voice and saw Ezra standing
on his porch, rifle aimed straight at him. In one spontaneous
move, he raised his arms. "Hey, don't shoot nie, Ezra. I'm not
here to cause any trouble."

"What you want then?" he asked, squinting and taking
care not to lower his aim. He coughed then dropped a wad of
spittle at his feet. It looked to be mixed with some blood. "You
that preacher kid?"

Despite himself, he chuckled. "I am. Canie out to check
on you.

"Huh?"

Lord, what am I doing? This man doesn't want my help. The
rifle went down a smidgeon, but not low enough to warrant
Jon's arms going down. "How about you put down the rifle,
Ezra? I don't even carry a weapon, so it'd be pretty foolish on
your part to kill nie."

"Yer trespassin'. I got a right to protect my property."

Jon would like to ask him what it was he was trying to
protect. As far as he could tell, there didn't appear to be much
of anything worth looking after. He dared say every cent the old fool earned as barkeep at Madam Guttersnipe's Saloonthe worst place a man with his predisposition to alcohol could
work-went right back into feeding his habit.

"I'ni not here to cause trouble. Put the gun downplease."

Slowly, the rifle went down, as did Jon's arms. When Ezra
propped the gun against the porch railing, Jon set out on a
slow walk to the house, Ezra glowering the closer he came.

"Don't never get any visitors out here," Ezra nnunbled,
throwing another wad of spit.

"You should be happy to see me then," Jon responded.

"Pfff. Ain't got no need for a preacher. It ain't like I'm on
my last legs-yet."

Jon smiled. "I can see that." A far-off clap of thunder
sounded about the same time a cooling breeze ruffled his
shirtsleeves. His gaze shot upward at gathering gray clouds.

"You best hightail it back to town 'fore you get caught in a
rainstorm," Ezra warned. "Sky don't look promisin'."

Jon perused the house's exterior, noting the windows on
either side of the porch were missing their panes. On the
ground lay shards of broken glass. "It appears you're the
one who should be worrying about rain. How do you expect
to stay dry with those busted-out windows?" He put a foot
to the first porch step to test its strength. When it started
to give, he determined to stay on ground level for the time
being.

Ezra shrugged his hunched shoulders. "It leaks a tad, but
I hang sheets up to catch the worst of it. 'Spect I should be
gettin' to it." And just like that, he turned and headed inside.
Jon stood there with his mouth agape. Had Ezra just dismissed
him?

Deciding to chance it, he took the porch steps and invited himself inside the tumbledown house, the door already open
and hanging warped on its hinges. With care, he stepped over
the threshold and held his breath at the stench, a combination
of perspiration, stale alcohol, filthy clothes, and rancid food. A
quick perusal of the one-room shack revealed a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, an upturned chair, strewn-about clothes,
and a layer of dust on every stick of furniture. The urge to
wretch was strong, but he fought down the impulse with sheer
determination.

"I ain't cleaned in awhile," Ezra muttered, picking up a
stained sheet from a rickety kitchen chair. When he reached
to hang it over a window by two protruding nails, Jon stepped
forward to lend a hand.

"Let me," he offered, taking the sheet and hooking it in
place. "How'd the windows break?" he asked.