Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Read online

  Well, he could use his charms on her all lie liked. She wouldn't be falling for them.

  "I thought I'd let you know I intend to start moving some of niy things in tomorrow-if that's all right with you."

  She wiped her dirt-smudged hands on her skirt. By the look of it, she'd been wiping it with more than just dirt. Jon thought lie detected a hint of tomato sauce, and what elsegrape juice?

  "So soon?"

  "Is there a problem?"

  "No-not-a problem." She swiped at her brow and left a black streak there, lending to the bedraggled look. It was downright endearing.

  Bending, she retrieved a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, whisked up her hat, then slanted a wary look at Jon. "I'll show you where your room is so you'll know where to put your things."

  "Great."

  He followed her up the back stoop, shocked by the discovery that he couldn't take his eyes off her. The screen door squeaked in protest when she opened it.

  Inside, lie gave the kitchen a quick assessment. He'd been in the house before, but on those occasions, he'd only gotten as far as the front parlor and living room. The kitchen was quite large, with an attached washroom to his left. In the center stood a massive butcher-block table over which a myriad of copper pots and kettles hung on hooks from the ceiling. On the opposite wall was a big cast-iron oven with a stovepipe vent, and next to that a shiny, white, floor-to-ceiling cabinet with glass doors that revealed stacks of dishes. Beside the cabinet was a wide door leading into the dining room. Through the opening, he spotted a long oak table with about a dozen chairs surrounding it.

  "We had roast beef for supper," she informed him in a matter-of-fact tone.

  His mouth watered at the mere thought of a home-cooked meal every night. He'd grown accustomed to settling for meager meals during the week, the kind that required little preparation. Occasionally, one of his parishioners would take pity on him and drop off a basket of fried chicken or a big container of vegetable soup, and most Fridays, he went out to Clarence and Mary Sterling's place for supper. The rest of the time, he fended for himself.

  Emma hung her hat on a hook behind the door, then laid the flowers on the counter. Walking across the room, she stretched to reach a white antique vase on a high shelf. "I'll just be a minute," she said, turning slightly. "I want to put these in water."

  "Take your tine," he said. Harland Collins ambled down the hallway. When he spotted Jon, he gave a slow smile. "Well, if it ain't the preacher," he hailed, stopping in the doorway. "Hear tell you're goin' to be stayin' here. Hope the bunch o' sinners what lives here won't infect yer soul, you bein' a preacher an' all."

  A hearty laugh pushed past Jon's chest. "I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Collins. My father was the biggest sinner I know. Matter of fact, I'm one myself but for God's grace." From the corner of his eye, he watched Emma bristle. Was it the reference to his worthless father or the fact he'd mentioned God?

  Harland sniffed. "That so? Well, that bein' the case, you wouldn't want to join ne and Wes in a round o' poker later, would ya?" His beady eyes twinkled with mischief.

  "'Fraid I'll have to draw the line on that one," Jon said with a grin. "I doubt that would sit well with my parishioners. Besides, I'm just here to find out where to put my things. It's going to take me a few days to settle in."

  At that, Emma set the vase full of fresh flowers on the kitchen worktable and turned. "I'll show you to your room now," she announced. "We'll take the back stairs." She led him across the hall and past a tiny water closet. Halfway up the stairs she paused. "It's a bunch of brutes livin' under my roof. Don't expect any mollycoddling from them."

  He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. Because she was two steps above him, their eyes were nearly level. "What about their pretty landlady?" he inquired.

  She appeared to be counting to ten before replying. "I coddle no one." An abrupt twist of her body had her skirts flaring and Jon chuckling under his breath.

  They made a right turn at the top of the stairs. "Those are my quarters," she said, gesturing toward the back of the house. So, she lived just above the kitchen, he mused. He would like to be a little mouse and slip under the door. A glimpse into Emma Browning's private domain might reveal a great deal about the person.

  They passed rooms on either side, and he silently tried to imagine which boarder went with which room. To his left was another water closet. A hasty glance inside revealed a wash sink and raised claw-foot tub. Through the room's lone window, a patch of late afternoon sunlight cast its reflective glow across the light blue, plaster wall.

  It was a rambling old house, built back in the sixties. Nothing spectacular or extravagant about the structure itself, except that it was solid. Simple crown molding, aged oak floors that creaked and groaned, and rose-colored, floral wallpaper, peeling at the edges, all added warmth and charm to the place. Strangely, having entered the second floor for the first time, it already felt like hone to hint. Was this the Lord's way of affirming his decision to sell the family farm? He'd had no regrets about it doubts perhaps-but the feelings washing over hint now quickly melted even those away.

  Emma cane to a stop at the end of the hallway and flung open the door to the last room on their left. Remaining daylight filtered through the open window, which overlooked the covered porch and Little Hickman's Main Street. A warm, gentle breeze played with the curtains. Eninia stepped aside to allow Jon's entry.

  "I serve two meals a day. Breakfast is served from seven to eight and supper's at six o'clock on the dot," she spouted from the door, hands stuffed into her apron pockets. "Fridays and Mondays are washdays, but don't think that means I'll be washing your personal items. You'll have to go down to Rita's Laundry Service for that. I do wash the linens, though-if you tear them off your bed ahead of time. If you don't, I'll assume you want to go another week. Pile them outside your door on Friday morning. I'll remake your bed after I've cleaned and pressed the sheets, but that's the only day I'll make your bed.

  "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.

  Ezra harruniphed and ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Who knows? Some scallywags rode out a month ago an' throwed rocks at 'em." He scratched himself. "They's jus' havin' fun I guess, but, boy, did they skee-daddle when they heard my gun go off."

  Jon's gut twisted with an unexpected knot. Everyone around town knew Ezra for his loutish manners, but that didn't give anyone license to vandalize his property. He'd like to knock a few heads together.

  "Did you let the sheriff know?"

  Ezra snorted. "You kiddin'? Will Murdock don't have a good word for me."