"Smells fresh and clean in here," he stated, feeling obliged to convey his gratitude. It wasn't often he made note of the lemon-scented air in Emma's boardinghouse, even though it did appeal to him.
Emma bent to niop her brow with the corner of her soiled white apron then wiped her hands on it. She rewarded him with a rare smile, and his insides flipped. Lord, have mercy.
"I didn't know men noticed such things," she said, her tone facetious.
He continued using the doorframe as a leaning post. "Oh, they notice all right; they just don't let on because they're too blamed mule-headed."
A soft giggle erupted and his heart turned to mush. As usual, he needed to get a grip on himself before he revealed what she did to him.
"I suppose you've been out doing what preachers do," she said, turning back to her dusting duty. He watched her hand glide easily over the middle shelf. A stepladder shoved off to the side indicated she'd either already finished the two top shelves or she was working her way up to them.
He tossed his hat to a nearby table and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. "And what is it you think we do?"
Without turning, she replied, "Besides delivering a wellthought-out sermon every Sunday? Hui. I think you do a lot of gabbing with old farmers and charming their wives into feeding you whatever sweet they have in their cupboards. And when you're not doing that, you're buryin' your head in one of then books you got stashed in your room."
He laughed outright. "Thank you-I think-for your remark about the well-thought-out sermons. I notice you've been coming to services, so I'll take it as a compliment. As for the rest of your observation, you're not far off. How did you know?"
Leaning into her task with vigor, she said, "Intuition. I've watched you gobble my desserts as if you'd never eaten a dab of sugar in your life, and I've passed by your room a time or two to find you slumped over a book at that big of desk." Although he couldn't see her face, he could hear the smile in her words.
He grinned and bit into his lower lip. "I've always had a penchant for book learning. As for the sweet tooth, my mother wasn't much for baking. She cooked the essentials, but she left it up to old Ray Baker, who used to own the general store before Eldred Johansson took over the mercantile, to satisfy my longing for sweets. He always had jars full of jawbreakers, licorice and peppermint sticks, and every flavor lollipop you can imagine. And every so often, he'd slip nie a big slice of warns peanut butter fudge hot off the slab. I hung around his store on fudge-making days."
"Oh, I remember Mr. Baker," Emma said with excitement, pausing to look at her work and let the memory sink in. "He was a nice old guy with a shiny bald head and a pencil-thin moustache. Whenever he smiled big, that thing curled up at both ends like a snake." She giggled at the recollection, the sound floating over the air like a sweet song. "I always thought he had a warm spot for Clara Abbott."
His ears perked. "The lady who willed you the boardinghouse."
"Hm," she said with a slow nod. "He was forever stopping by for a visit. We'd be sittin' on the porch swing flappin' our jaws, Miss Abbott and me, and along he'd cone. He'd ask me how niy school day went and did I learn more than the boys did that clay. And he always seemed to have a stash of gumdrops in his pocket." She turned and looked at him then, her sapphire eyes flashing with recollection. "He'd give me a handful, and I'd eat every one of them, the red ones first, pocket lint and all."
Jon tossed back his head and laughed, conscious of how refreshing it was to carry on a conversation with Emma Browning, discovering she preferred red gumdrops to all the other colors. On a whim, he shoved off the doorframe and went to the brocade sling-back chair, dropping into it with a sigh, hoping she didn't see the act as presumptuous. Would she now clam up because he meant to get comfortable?
"I've always wondered how you cane to obtain this boardinghouse." He looked around the courtly room with its high ceilings and simple crown molding, a massive old landscape painting gracing the plaster wall opposite the one holding the bookshelves she'd been dusting. "I guess Mrs. Abbott thought the world of you, huh?"
"Miss Abbott," she corrected. "Far as I know, she never married. And yes, she cared for me, but no more than I for her. She was a dear old soul, always lookin' out for my best interest. One time she rode out to see my pa to have a word with him. She was angry because...."
Jon froze in place when her words halted mid-sentence. He swept his tongue over his upper lip, grazing his top teeth, gripped the ends of both chair arms, and waited while she struggled to compose herself, her back stiff, her hand moving mechanically over the smooth shelf. Finally, she shrugged her narrow shoulders and angled him with a desultory look. "That was a long time ago."
"Why don't you tell me about it?" he urged.
There was a quiet space of tine followed by a slow nod. "I suppose it couldn't hurt." At that, she finished her chore, dropped her wet rag into the bucket of murky water, and bent to pick up a handful of books. He followed her with his eyes, reminding himself to exhale when his lungs filled with air. When she set to returning books to their proper place, he pushed himself out of the chair and resolved to lend her a hand.
Outside, horses' hooves pounded clown Main Street, the sound echoing through town, interrupted by shouts of "Get up!" or the occasional squeal of an agitated child or a clog's shrill bark.
"I used to stop by to see Miss Abbott on my way home from school," Emma explained, picking up another book and perusing its title before deciding where to place it. He hunkered down beside the stack of books and without a word began handing her a few at a time. "She taught me woman things," she said, drawing out a long breath then placing the books on a lower shelf. When she turned around, he handed her four more leather-bound volumes, which she carefully studied then set on the middle shelf. If there was a method to her system of arrangement, he couldn't guess it. "Like how to cook and sew and weave a rug. She also loaned me lots of wonderful books, most of which Ezra disposed of when he got the chance." She gave a forced, cold smile. "He thought I was shirking my household duties if he caught me curled up with a book. He'd yank it out of my hand and toss it into the stove." A dull laugh sailed past her lips. "I always figured he was jealous 'cause he couldn't read near as good as me."
Jon nodded, the story tugging at a deep place in his heart. He pictured her as a young, defenseless girl trying to protect her precious property, envisioned her big blue eyes watering up with sorrow. A wave of disgust washed over hint. Lord, how can You expect me to care for a beast like Ezra Browning?
"One day when I went to Miss Abbott's, she spotted bruises goin' up and down my arm. She got powerful mad-not at me, mind you, but at Ezra." The whispered assertion seemed to take the wind from her sails. All of a sudden, she dropped down beside him, folded her legs up under her full skirt, propped her elbow on her lap, and leaned forward to rest her chin in her hand. The books he'd intended to give her went back to the top of the pile as he positioned himself next to her, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, arms bolstering him from behind. They sat in unmoving silence for a full minute or more, her lemony scent wafting through the air.
"What'd she do?" he finally asked.
Her lips curved into an unconscious smile as she stared straight ahead. "Well, she put me in her rig and took nie home, muttering stuff under her breath and saying she was going to make things right once and for all. I didn't know what she meant, still don't entirely. I kept begging her not to be mad at him 'cause I knew my papa would take it out on me after she left. She just patted my knee, told me not to worry, and said, `You're comin' to live with me, child."'
Her brows flickered as she straightened, dropped both hands to her lap, and toyed with the hem of her apron. "I should have known her scheme was too good to be true. When she offered to take me off Ezra's hands, he nearly exploded, saying he didn't need her help, and what did she know anyway about raisin' kids?
"I'll never forget that look he gave her. It was enough to freeze pig's snot. 'Sides,'
he told her, `who'd tend to the house chores and cook the meals?' When Miss Abbott argued that she'd go to the sheriff about the abuse he just laughed it off, sat'in' something like, `And who are you to judge nie, Clara Abbott? It ain't like you know anythin' about raisin' kids.' He said it real hateful like, and I remember Miss Abbott went all white in the face, turned around without making a sound, and stumbled out of the house. She didn't even look at me on her way out, just walked away all quiet-like.
"When I went back to see her the next day it was like the episode with Ezra had never happened."
Emma lifted her face and met his gaze. "Strange story, huh? I can't believe I told you. I've never told that to anyone."
Jon's heart gave a painful pinch. "Then I feel privileged that you trusted ne enough to repeat it. So how did you cone to own this boardinghouse?"
Emma's eyes trailed to the window where the curtains floated in the breeze. "I continued visiting Clara every chance I got. When I was sixteen, I moved in with her. She was gettin' real sickly and needed the help. My movin' in took a load off her shoulders. By that time, Ezra had no say in my decision to move. He was drinkin' so heavy by then he could hardly walk a straight line, let alone order me around. It was so freeing to discover he no longer had a hold on me.
"On Miss Abbott's deathbed, she told me she wanted me to take over her place when she was gone. She told me she'd drawn up some papers to make it all legal. I tried to argue with her, but she swore there was no one else she'd rather see take ownership, muttered something about it being the least she could do."
Jon nodded, picturing the scene, a dying woman giving a young girl hope. "Why do you think Ezra was so hateful toward Miss Abbott?"
She looked thoughtful. "I don't know. Jealous, maybe? He knew how much I loved her-and how much she loved Inc."
His next words came after careful thought. "I believe Ezra loves you, Emma." He couldn't help it. He lifted a hand and fingered a wisp of golden hair falling around her temple. Surprisingly, she didn't shrink away from him, merely kept her eyes fastened on her lap. Her hair was feathery soft, as he'd imagined it would be, and the feel of it between his fingertips warmed the edges of his heart, made him want to test her lips to see if they were just as soft. "He's just got a pitiful way of showing it," he whispered.
Dear Lord, site's a beauty.
"Not for a second do I excuse the way he raised you, Emma, but something tells me your father never had a clue how to give or receive love. Your mother died and he was stuck with a newborn baby-and no outside support." He swallowed nervously, expecting her to bolt at any second or, at the very least, argue his claim. When she didn't, he asked, "Do you know anything about Ezra's background, ever niet your grandparents?"
A cynical laugh blew past her lips. "I learned when I was about this high"-she laid her palm flat about two feet from the floor-"not to ask questions about my father's fancily. One slap across the face is enough to teach a kid when to keep her mouth shut."
Jon winced, marveling again that he cared for the old coot who'd abused his only child, his longing to lead him to the Savior still pressing in on him.
"Ever hear of a woman named Edith?" Jon asked on impulse.
She lifted inquiring blue eyes and shook her head. "No. Should I have?"
He swallowed a hard lump, let go of the wisps of hair he'd been fingering, and grazed the back of his hand over her pink cheek. "She's your father's aunt your great aunt."
She pulled back and stared at him, which forced him to drop his hand away from her face. "She's from Chicago," he explained, spacing each word evenly.
"I have an aunt in Chicago? How would you know about any of this?" Big question marks seemed to pop into her vivid blue eyes.
"Ezra told me," he said. "He wouldn't say much of anything about her, except that she's the only member of his family who ever seemed to care about him. I got the feeling that she's kept in contact with him over the years."
Frown lines etched deeper into her lovely brow. "I don't know why he couldn't have told cue about her. He's always been so hateful about anything relating to his past. The ornery old buzzard."
Jon wanted to comment that he worried Ezra's vinegary nature had rubbed off on her. Few had broken through the thick walls she'd built so craftily around herself. Walls that kept everyone at a safe distance. Was he managing-finally-to find a small crack in her exterior?
"I've been receiving notes from a lady in Chicago," she freely confessed. "But you probably already knew that, thanks to George Garner."
Jon chuckled low in his throat. "Can't slip much of anything past George's spectacles."
Ignoring the jest, she said, "No one named Edith, though. I wonder if...." Her fingers fluttered to the back of her neck to fumble with her hair. "If.-there's some connection. This lady's name is Grace Giles, but aside from that, I know little about her. I asked Ezra, but he claims he's never heard of her. She knows about us, though-in particular, that Ezra and I don't get along. Every time she writes, she reminds me that time is too short to waste it on bitterness and hatred, and she defends her claim with a Bible verse. Then she tells nie God loves nie and that she's praying for nie. She even talked nie into reading my Bible-starting with the book of John."
"Hill, good choice of books. I think I like this woman," Jon said, dipping his chin and taking the liberty to lean in close enough to get a good whiff of her soap-scented hair. She seemed not to notice so he savored the moment. "Have you tried the direct approach, just asked her straight-out who she is and why the interest?"
"Yes, a couple of weeks ago," she answered. "But she hasn't responded. Oh, she's sent me others in the meantime, but none that answers that particular letter. I think it's because she just keeps writin' me, whether I write back or not, and now that I have, it's taken awhile for the post office to deliver her reply. Truth be told, I'ni not sure I want to know what she has to say-entirely. Maybe she will tell me stuff I won't like hearing-ugly things about Ezra's past that could make the situation even worse between us. I don't know." She grimaced and shook her head. He saw a battle of sorts going on behind her eyes and yearned to assuage her fears.
"Could things be worse? You don't talk to the old guy now. How will knowing what the connection is with this Grace person change that? Who knows? It could improve the condition of your relationship, give you a clearer viewpoint. Aren't you curious to know everything you can?"
"Psh! My father spent so much time squelching my childhood questions that I think he actually killed my adult curiosity. If anything, I want to forget he even exists in that little house a mile out of town. That being the case, why would I want to learn about his roots?"
"Because they're your roots, too, and they might explain some things." She merely shrugged and picked at a loose thread on her apron pocket.
He mulled over his next words then spit them out before he lost his courage. "Ezra is a sick old man, Emma. I'm thinking he should come here to finish out his years-if he has years." It was more like weeks probably, days even, but he kept that thought locked away.
She drew back from him, eyes round and glowing with befuddlement. "What?"
"He can't live on his own out there anymore. He's not drinking, as far as I can tell. I looked through his cupboards this morning and couldn't find his stash. I think he's run out."
"That's why he's sick then. He needs a drink. It's always been that way. He runs out; he gets more. He'll turn ugly if he goes very many days without his ale. Believe me, I know."
"I know you do, and I'm sorry. But he's not sick because of going without. He's sick because he's-sick," lie said, reYnem- bering his promise to Ezra not to divulge the whole truth. "He needs our help. I'll do most of the work as far as his care goes. You wouldn't have to do much except supply the room, that little one I stayed in when I was ailing." He turned her chin with the tip of his finger. "And you did care for me very well, by the way. I don't know if I've thanked you sufficiently for that. I know you missed hours of sleep sitting by my beds
ide when the chills and fever hit. And on top of that, you still managed to take care of your boarders."
Their eyes locked temporarily before she flipped her wrist to signify it was nothing. "You thanked me with that big bouquet of flowers from the Hayward's garden, which was more than enough. I surely didn't nurse you back to health because I expected soniethin' in return." She glanced away from him, unable to hide the flush in her cheeks. "And don't forget, that Clayton girl spent an entire night carin' for you. Matter of fact, you started recoverin' the very next day."
If he didn't know better, he'd say she was jealous the way her shoulders reared back and she frowned at the telling. He decided to test the waters.
"She is a mighty pretty thing."
She shot hint a stony glare.
"What? You don't agree?" he asked.
Prickly as a new rope, she swiveled to retrieve a book from the nearby stack, a leather-bound copy of Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi, and perused its cover.
She was jealous. Inside, he bubbled with pleasure. "Of course, she's not nearly as pretty as someone else I know." This he said while leaning in close to get another whiff of her lovely scent.
She drew back and angled him with a suspicious look. "I believe we were discussing niy father. You mentioned bringing him here."
"Ali, yes, can we discuss that?"
"Have you talked to Doc?" she asked, standing and bringing some books with her.
He studied her demeanor, which had quickly reverted to the mode he'd grown accustomed to-distant. "I have, and he's not encouraging."
She straightened her shoulders and looked thoughtful. "You can ask my pa what he thinks about the idea, but I guarantee he'll hate it."
"I know. He's one cranky old nian."
She blew a few hairs out of her face. He studied her nose, her eyebrows, the sweep of lashes that dropped lazily over her pretty blue eyes. Her lips were full and delicate, and he wanted more than anything to kiss them.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 20
