Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (9 page)

"It's a wet one, but the lower temperatures are a welcome
relief. I'll say that," Eninia replied, offering up a smile for both
women before hauling out her list of needs from her front
apron pocket and giving it a quick perusal. Yellow thread to
match the fabric she'd bought earlier for making new kitchen
curtains, needles, a fresh supply of straight pins, three yards of
cloth for a new dress-purple, perhaps?-and a supply of serviceable fabric with which to stitch some new kitchen towels.

"Yes, it was hotter than a stovepipe on the Fourth," Fancy
concurred, blowing a graying strand of hair off her cheek.
"My, but there was a throng of folks come out for them fireworks. Wasn't that a fine display?" She seemed to want to talk,
and she placed her box of miscellaneous items back on the
counter, shoving aside some sewing notions Mrs. Winthrop
had intended for display. Enema didn't miss the loud sigh the
shopkeeper blew out.

"I watched them from my upstairs window," Emma said,
trying her best to be polite. Out of the corner of her eye, she
watched Iris's mouth pull into a straight line. Clearly, she wasn't
in the mood for idle chatter. She fussed with some papers by
her cash register. The notion that she didn't approve of either
one of them gracing her establishment amused rather than
peeved Emma, and almost made her want to prolong the conversation.

"Me and my Sarah sat on a blanket next to the Broughtons
and that nice Reverend Atkins. My, but he's a handsome man,
the reverend. Hear tell he's movin' into your place."

He'd been moving his belongings in for the past three
days now, and so far, she'd managed to avoid his comings and
goings. Ever since agreeing to let him take the room Mr. Dreyfus had vacated, she'd been berating herself. Doubtless, there'd
be nothing but sermons from morning till night now. Evidence
of that came when Luke appeared at the breakfast table just
yesterday toting a little black Bible. She'd been standing at the
table slicing a fresh loaf of bread.

"R-repent y-ye, and believe the g-gospel!" he'd spouted to
a table full of gaping men.

"Huh?" Charlie Conners had asked, his eggs falling off
his fork.

"That's what it says r-right here," Luke had claimed, laying
a stubby finger on a page about midway through the book.

"You can't read," his father had chided, brow pinched. "Here,
give me that." Quickly, he'd pushed back his chair and snatched
the book out from under Luke's nose. "Where's it say that?"

Luke had leaned close, his eyes doing a careful search, a
look of sheer determination written across his pudgy, round
face. Finally, he'd put a chubby finger to the page. "R-right
there," he'd announced. "The p-preacher says so."

"The preacher, huh?" His father had scowled then squinted
at the printed page. "This here says, `It is better to dwell in
a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling woman in a
wide house."'

When loud laughter erupted, Emma had turned on her
heel and left the dining room.

"He all moved in? That's quite an adjustment for the
preacher-front a big farm to one little room. Can't imagine givin' up all that space," Fancy was saying, pulling Emma back
to the present.

Talk about adjustments! She could only imagine the grumWings that were sure to come if Jon Atkins used her renters as
sounding boards for his sermons. Why, they'd mock him up
one side and down the other.

"He's been bringing his stuff in little by little far as I know.
I haven't paid him much mind," Emma replied, stuffing her list
back into her apron pocket and setting off on a stroll through
the little store, fingering various fabrics along the way, scanning the place for just the right color and pattern for stitching
herself a new dress.

"Sure is nice of the Winthrops to open their house up for
Sunday services," Fancy commented.

Emma glanced up to acknowledge the remark. Mrs. Winthrop sniffed and raised her chin a notch. Since the school
burned down, folks met in the Winthrop's massive living room.
They did, after all, own the biggest house in Little Hickman.
Its central location, one block off Main Street, was convenient
for all. Although it seemed an uncommonly generous act from
Emma's perspective, she suspected the woman enjoyed the
accolades that came as a result.

"I been goin' just so's I can watch the reverend," Fancy
added, covering her toothy grin with the palm of her hand
and letting go a high-pitched giggle. Emma pinched her lips
together to hide a smile and took up a piece of woven cotton
to finger its softness. Purple and with a delicate, floral pattern
running through it. Wasn't it just what she'd been looking for?
"Ain't a more comely lookin' man in all of Hickman if you ask
ine," Fancy chortled.

"My lands!" Mrs. Winthrop clacked, drawing her shoulders
up tight and pushing out her plenteous chest. Emma watched in quiet amusement. "It's improper to think of a man of the
cloth in that light."

Fancy shrugged. "Nothin' improper about it in my book.
I'ni just statin' a plain fact. Course, he's a fine speaker, too.
I ain't denyin' that. Since he got that preacher schoolin' out
East, he sure talks a fine piece, usin' all them nice words. Holds
the ear of most folk much better'n Reverend Miller ever did.
Frankly, I'ni glad that man got too old for circuit ridin'. His
sermons were startin' to wear."

Mrs. Winthrop sucked in a raspy breath, visibly addled.
"Well." She pursed her thin lips and raised two pointy eyebrows, taking care to look straight at Emma, her eyeglasses
resting low on her oversized nose. Emma looked away. "At least
Reverend Miller guarded his reputation. This one doesn't
seem to care who he's seen with or where he resides."

The comment did as intended, set Emma back for an
instant. The bolt of cloth she'd been stroking slipped from
her fingertips. Of course, Mrs. Winthrop was referring to the
preacher's dealings with Ezra Browning and the fact that he'd
chosen to take up residence in her boardinghouse, joining her
flock of ne'er-do-wells. She wasn't thrilled about the preacher's
presence in her house, either, but she resented the pompous
woman's implication that she ran a less-than-respectable business.

"My boarders are not the most befitting characters, I'll
grant you that," she said, matching the proprietor's pointed
gaze. "But I'll have you know I operate a dignified business,
certainly a step up from Madam Guttersnipe's establishment."

"A giant step," Fancy put in, bobbing her bony head up
and down so that her sunbonnet tipped to one side, revealing
her patchy gray hair.

Mrs. Winthrop made a clicking sound with her tongue
and put a hand to her throat to adjust her close-fitting collar.
"Well, of course that goes without saying. I'ni merely suggesting the minister should have thought twice before deciding to
live among such-such ill-mannered men. Why, it could prove
scandalous."

Since Emma wasn't in the mood for arguing, she swallowed down a retort and dropped her gaze to the purple fabric,
fingering it one last time. She knew Eldred Johansson carried a limited supply of fabrics in the mercantile. And what he
didn't have she could always special order. Suddenly it seemed
important to take her business elsewhere. Her decision made,
she turned and walked to the door.

"Surely you're not leaving already," Mrs. Winthrop
asserted, her jaw dropping to her waist. "Didn't you come in
with a list?"

Emma opened the door then paused to turn, applying
a forced smile. "Why, yes, I did." She squeezed the rumpled
piece of paper at the bottom of her deep pocket. "But the air
is just. too stuffy for shopping."

Iris Winthrop's eyebrows shot up in dismay as she nervously moistened her lips and patted her forehead with a silk
hankie. "Well, I never...."

Fancy Jenkins' mouth curved into a knowing smile as she
hoisted her box of goods into her arms. "Well, I declare if you
ain't right, Miss Emma. It is a mite stuffy in here."

yF he air was dank and clammy, scented with the smells of
perspiration, dusty clothes, horse manure, and Lily of
the Valley. It was all Jon could do to sing the morning hymn,
"Rescue the Perishing," led by Carl Hardy and accompanied by
Bess Barrington on the Winthrop's upright piano. About the
crammed living room and parlor, paper fans fluttered before
flushed faces, children cried and wiggled with boredom, and
pesky flies zoomed about, eluding the swipe of death.

Jon mopped his damp brow with his handkerchief and
examined his audience of faithful Sunday morning worshippers-all packed in close like a bunch of wayward lambs awaiting their shepherd's direction. There was Anna Johnson and
her twin boys squeezed in the front row, one toddler on the
floor at her feet, the other squirming in her lap. Robert, her
husband, leaned against a far wall by the front door, yawning so big Jon thought he'd catch a fly for sure. Ben Broughton stood nearby, shifting from one foot to the other, his lips
moving to the hymn's final chorus.

On either side of Anna sat Fancy Jenkins and her daughter, Sarah. Sarah seemed intent on helping Anna watch her
children, while Fancy contented herself with watching him.
Jon nodded politely at the widow. Liza Broughton and her
stepchildren, the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Crunkle, Mrs. Martin,
widows Ila Jacobsen and Rose Marley, and finally Lucy Fontaine and her brood of youngsters took up the first two rows
of chairs. The rest of the worshippers either sat on the floor or
stood along the walls, with a sparse number of occupied chairs in between. The crowded situation only stressed Hickman's
necessity for a new church building-the sooner the betterbut first he intended to mention Ezra Browning's need for
benevolence-and pray for hearts of compassion.

"Rescue the perishing, care for the dying," folks sang
wholeheartedly despite the punishing heat. "Jesus is merciful, Jesus will save." A thunderous "Amen!" echoed across the
room with the hymn's final chord. Jon rose and approached
the makeshift pulpit, a wooden box stationed on a sturdy table.
Bess rose, too, and wove her way through the masses to reach
her family, all situated in the front parlor to the left of the
entrance, just out of view.

Jon cleared his throat. "This morning's passage conies
from 1 John 3:17-18." He hauled his big Bible up to the box
and opened it to the place he'd bookmarked. Giving his congregants an encouraging smile, he began to read. "But whoso
hath this world's good-"

A baby's loud cry stopped him mid-sentence and redirected the eyes and attention of several parishioners. He gave
the mother a moment to hush her child with a bottle, then
continued. "And seeth his brother have need, and shutteth
off his compassion for him, how dwelleth the love of God in
him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in
tongue; but in deed and in truth."

Jon surveyed the gathering of folks. They were good
people, honest and hardworking, and, for the most part, compassionate toward others. He recalled numerous times when
they'd demonstrated selfless giving-like the barn raising out
at Rocky and Sarah Callahan's farm this spring, the Christmas
bazaar a couple of years ago when they'd donated all proceeds
to disadvantaged families, and the work clay last fall when
they'd served the widows of the community. Then there was the time the bridge over Little Hickman Creek collapsed and
the men united as one to rebuild an even sturdier one, completing the job in just three days. Yes, these were good people,
made of strong moral fiber, courageous and full of spirit. He
had confidence in them. Just the sane, he approached the
topic with caution.

"I want to talk to you today about our Christian responsibility
to help and encourage those less fortunate than we. Now some of
you might say, `I don't have a spare dine to give. How can I help
the needy when I'm in need myself?' I'm not talking about emptying your pockets; I'm talking about emptying your hearts."

Just then, Anna Johnson hefted a squirming twin into her
arms, motioned for Sarah Jenkins to look after the other one,
then wove her way to the front of the house, creating a nionien-
tary disturbance. Jon watched while folks made room for her
passing. Against the west wall, Harvey Coleson, the town's only
barber, mopped his sweaty brow and shifted his two-hundredpound frame, angling old Mrs. Jarvis with a perturbed look
when she succumbed to a coughing fit. Jon sighed. If he had
to guess, he'd say he'd lost his audience at the words Christian
responsibility. Still, he forged ahead.