Giving her head a little shake, she fastened the final button at the front of her gingham dress, secured the tie belt at the back of her waist, and hung her housecoat, which she'd worn through breakfast, on the hook over her door. Next, she moved to the mirror, trying not to think about Jon Atkins, or her father, for that matter. Leaning forward, she surveyed her reflection with griminess. When had she gotten those crinkle lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and what was that brown, freckly spot just over her right eyebrow?
She picked up a comb and ran it through her golden hair, tipped her head to one side, and tried to decide how to wear her locks, in the end, choosing the easiest method, a single ponytail going down the middle of her back and pulled together with a ribbon.
Most women want stability and comfort, someplace warm and inviting. Jon's words to Billy pulled at her nieniory. Had he been thinking about anyone in particular when he'd made the remark? Hannah Clayton, perhaps? Although he hadn't mentioned her for some time, Emma often wondered who he visited when he made his pastoral calls.
"Oh, pish-posh, why should it natter to nie who Jon Atkins visits?" she muttered in the mirror. "I'm perfectly contented with my life. Don't need some minister of the Word fussin' with niy head."
So why was it, she thought, as she pressed the front of her flared skirt with her palms, then surveyed herself one last time, pinching some pink into her cheeks, that she couldn't seem to shoo him out of her mind?
A sudden commotion coming from outside had her running to the side window to peer down at the street. Billy Wonder's garish wagon, pulled by his two horses, had halted outside the boardinghouse. He was coming to bid her good-bye. Grabbing up her sunbonnet from the bedpost, she plopped it on her head, then changed her mind last minute and tossed it on the bed. Finally, she snatched her reticule from its hook, stuffed it under her arm, and sailed down the stairs.
"You're not staying here, old man, so you may as well stop arguing with me."
"I ain't goin' nowheres with you, preacher kid, least of all to the boardinghouse. My girl won't take kindly to my takin' up space there."
"Your girl's already cleaned out the guest room in preparation for your arrival. She wants you to cone live with her." It went against his grain to stretch the truth, but there was no help for it this time.
"Balderdash! If she'd wanted nie to come, she'd have told me herself."
Jon heaved a sigh. "I told her not to come out 'cause I knew what a fuss you'd raise."
His wheezing was especially bad today, and every word of argument that came from his mouth took great effort so much that Jon feared he'd keel over right there if he didn't calm down.
"Cain't leave my aniiiials."
"Sam Livingston's agreed to come get the horses, and Edgar Blake's taking the other critters to his place. They'll be well taken care of," Jon assured hire.
Ezra dug in his heels, his face reddening as lie gripped the arms of his tattered easy chair. The place stank to high heaven. The question of when Ezra had last taken a bath sat on the tip of his tongue, but he managed not to ask it, vowing that as soon as they got back to Emma's he'd start running the water. The old fool could fight hint all lie wanted, but like it or not he was going to soak for no less than thirty minutes.
"If I ever kick this cough I'm comin' back fer my animals," Ezra spat out, setting off a stint of hacking and spewing that lasted several seconds.
"And you'll get no argument from either Sam or Edgar." He reached out a hand. "Let me help you up."
"Don't need no help." But even as he said it, lie took Jon's hand to pull himself up, shaking and teetering. Had Jon waited even one more day, lie wasn't sure he'd have gotten the old guy out of his chair.
Outside, his friend Rocky Callahan waited in his wagon. They'd fashioned a bed of sorts in the back of the wagon in which to lay Ezra. It would be interesting to see how he took to the news that he'd be riding into town on a cot rather than atop his swayback mare.
"Catch your breath," Jon told hini.
They must have stood outside the shack a full two minutes without moving, Ezra's eyes scanning the ramshackle place, thinking thoughts Jon would never know. A glint of remorse shone in his craggy countenance.
Wetness burned at the back of Jon's eyes.
"Come on, Ezra. It's time to go."
"Here're your biscuits, Billy Wonder," Emma said, shoving the still warm batch into his hands. "There must be three dozen or more of 'em in there, so I hope you're hungry."
Billy lifted the towel from the basket and peered underneath, his eyes rolling heavenward at the fine aroma. "Hni. Give ne an hour or so to let my breakfast settle and I'll be chompin' away on these delicacies before you can spit out the words `Better 'n Boston's best batch o' buttered biscuits!"'
Emma laughed at his tongue twister. "Well, share them along the way if you can't eat 'em all. Otherwise they'll get too hard and go to waste."
"Share then, you say? Bite your tongue, madam. I will share them only if I run across a dying beggar lying along the road, and even then I'll make him give me the clothes off his back first."
She laughed again, harder this time. "Oh, Billy."
"You are beautiful when you laugh. You should consider doing it more often." She blushed at the compliment and clasped her hands behind her back. "And you are a smooth one, Mr. Wonder."
"So I've been told." He swept off his hat and clawed his fingers through his dark hair. Eyeing her with particular care, he bent forward and whispered, "I meant what I said, you know, about settling down someday-given the right woman and all. What if I'm looking at her now and just walking away?"
She looked hint square in the face, which came as a surprise, considering she'd spent her entire life shunning the male species. Tipping her head just so, she gave him the beginnings of a smile. "You are a sweet man."
"But not the one to knock you off your feet."
There was nothing to say, so she stood mute. A gentle breeze cooled her cheeks, ruffled her long sleeves, and played with the hem of her skirt.
He looked up and down Main Street where folks were riding past, some calling out their good-byes from their high perches on dusty rigs, others smiling and waving as they rode their whinnying nags through town. Billy rewarded them all with polite nods.
"I saw it in his eyes, Emma," he muttered, kicking a stone off the sidewalk with the toe of his shiny, black boot. "Last night at the supper table when I was teasing about wantin' to find nie a woman with wanderlust in her veins. The preacher thought I had eyes for you, and he looked plenty worried."
"Oh, phooey! What would the reverend see in me? He's a churchman. I'm a-a worldly...." She couldn't seem to finish her sentence. What exactly was she? She wasn't a heathen, for she'd never been one to use vile language, partake in bad habits, or engage in gossip. She'd rarely told a lie, never laughed at crude jokes, and tried not to covet her neighbor's things-although there were tines she'd longed for Liza Broughton's sweet looks, refined manners, and intelligence or Sarah Callahan's delicate beauty. And she'd started attending Sunday services, she reminded herself. That ought to count for something. Of course, her motives weren't especially pure. She had to admit that she'd fallen into the same category as Fancy Jenkins when it came to church attendance. The preacher was downright fine to look at.
So if she wasn't a heathen, what was she? Certainly not a Christian-for she'd never made a conscious decision to trust Christ. Too much bitterness, she decided, thanks to Ezra Browning. Despite Grace Giles' words that God loved her, she couldn't imagine God wanting someone with as dark a heart as she possessed.
So, no, Jonathan Atkins couldn't possibly be interested in her-unless it was her soul he sought to save and nothing more. She could see him caring about that. He was a compassionate man. Just look how he cared for her drunken father.
She put a hand to her brow to shield the sun from her eyes, wishing now she'd worn her bonnet, and looked up at Billy. "Are you a Christian, Mr. Wonder?"
The
question must have thrown him, for he blew out a loud breath and twisted his mouth downward. "Well now, that's a blunt question, but since you ask it, I suppose I'd have to say no. Are you?"
Emptiness such as she'd never experienced crawled across her chest, its claws reaching out and pinching until it hurt, and she shook her head. "No."
"Well, then," he hemmed. "We're a pair."
His remark produced the tiniest of laughs, hollow and depthless. "Well," she said, swallowing hard. "You take care of yourself Philip William Westerwunter." She extended her hand. "Until we meet again."
"Until we meet again," he repeated, holding her hand in both of his.
Just then, Gus Humphrey stepped out of Johansson's Mercantile, three storefronts down, broom in hand. "Mr. Wonder!" he called. "We'll miss yer shows. Don't forget about us."
Billy turned. "No danger there," he called back, dropping Eninia's hand in order to wave at the lad.
"Got any last-minute tricks?" asked Fred Swain, who, with his young wife on his arm and four trailing youngsters, was crossing the street, having just left the bank. Little Ermaline still had her arni in a sling, but her leg was free of its cast. With the use of a pair of crutches, she managed to limp along with her siblings, the smile on her face indicating the inconvenience didn't bother her in the least. Emma thought about the accident and marveled how well, and speedily, she'd recovered. Was that the hand of God, then? And if it was, why hadn't He simply prevented the accident from ever occurring?
Sometimes the Lord allows these things so His children will learn to trust Him more. Pure and clear, the words of Rita Flowers lingered at the edges of her mind. Somethin' good will come of it, she'd added. Had something good cone of it? The family certainly didn't look any worse for the wear, and they still had their little girl, didn't they?
Suddenly, folks started gathering around the likable trickster to bid him good-bye. To be sure, he'd made his share of friends in Little Hickman. Of course, there was that faction of folks (Doc included) who claimed he was a shyster-bilking citizens of their hard-earned money for elixirs that weren't worth the cost of the bottles they came in.
Emma cared not what folks thought or said, for she'd formed her own opinions and planned to stick by them. As unconventional as lie was, she liked the silly man, and truth be told, Little Hickman wouldn't be quite the sane in his absence.
An hour later, Billy well on his way, Emma sat herself down under the big oak outside the post office, gathered her skirts about her, and carefully removed the seal from the envelope that contained her most recent missive from Grace Giles. A trace of some delicate perfume wafted through the air as she unfolded the onionskin paper and began to read.
My Dear Emma,
You will never know how pleased I was to receive your letter and to learn that you've been reading the Bible Clara gave you some years ago.
You asked me several questions that I will gladly try to answer, perhaps not quite to your satisfaction yet, but, rest assured, all in good time.
First, yes, I do believe that Jesus performed all the miracles spoken of in the book of John. Certain scholars have started rumors that perhaps we shouldn't take the Bible so literally, but I say that's blasphemy. If God could send His Son to earth by way of a virgin birth, why could He not heal the sick and even call back the dead? As to whether He performs miracles today-of course! The Bible tells us that Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. That says to me that the same God who touched a hurting world nearly two thousand years ago longs to do for us today what He did then. You must believe it, Emma. We live in changing times, but our God's great love remains as strong and firm as ever.
You asked how one could learn to forgive another for the wrongs done against him. I presume you are asking how you could possibly forgive your father. Am I right? That is not an easy thing, I grant you, but it is far from impossible because of the power and strength that is ours through Christ Jesus. If you believe that, you are already halfway there! Trust Jesus to heal the hurts of your past, Emma dear-then trust Him to lend you the forgiveness you need to show your father. Forgiveness is far more freeing than living with a heart of anger.
How do I know about Ezra Browning? Well, I know because my mother, God rest her precious soul, was your father's aunt. She passed away just over four months ago. Apparently, my mother and Ezra maintained minimal correspondence over the years, and before her passing, she had much to tell me about your father's own ill-fated childhood and the people who raised him. She also told me what she knew about you, which, unfortunately, wasn't a great deal. She heard stories of abuse, however, and because of that, her heart ached for you-as does mine. In your father's most recent missive to my mother, he indicated the two of you remain at odds.
I shall reserve the remainder of your questions for later (please be patient), my dear cousin-think of it; we are cousins-for the hour is quite late, and I must rise early to tend to my restaurant business. I am a childless widow, but very much at peace in my life. I have a fine little eatery in the heart of Chicago called Grace's Kitchen, and I reside in the upstairs apartment. Quite convenient, I must say, but not necessarily the place in which I wish to live out my remaining years. I shall post this letter tomorrow when one of my regulars comes in for his morning coffee. He will deliver my precious letter to the city post office.
Be well, and write back to me!
Your friend-and cousin.
Grace Giles
P.S. Let us say that I was perchance interested in starting up my own boardinghouse in Chicago-or someplace rural. Could you tell me what I might expect before undertaking such a project? (And you may tell your curious postmaster that I'm quite interested in knowing these things.)
Eninia smiled at her cousin's postscript. At last, she had something legitimate to tell George Garner when he inquired about the mystery letters from Chicago.
"I have a cousin, a real live cousin," she whispered into the noonday breeze, fighting back the impulse to jump up and down, maybe even do a jig in the middle of the street. "Who would have thought?"
With her fingers, she retraced the finely penned words, rereading them at a snail's pace, taking them into her as if they were delicate morsels that required slow chewing and savoring.
Several questions still swirled in her head: Where was Ezra's homeplace, and who had raised him if not his own parents? How did Grace know Clara Abbott? How had Grace's mother learned of Ezra's poor parenting? However, she determined not to dwell on them another minute. Hadn't Grace told her to be patient? All in good time, she'd said, all in good time.
She folded up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and tucked it safely between the pages of the newest edition of Ladies' Home Journal, a splurge she'd made at the mercantile earlier when picking up a few household items.
"Hello, Miss Browning," called a male voice.
She glanced up to find a smiling Irwin Waggoner and Gertrude Riley, Hickman's latest "couple," entering the post office together, Gertrude's two youngsters, Charles and Jolene, trailing behind. His protective hand on the middle of her back as they'd traversed the sidewalk, and the manner in which Gertrude blushed with bliss, created a longing in the core of her being. What nnzst itbe like to have captured a man's heart? She returned the greeting and watched them disappear into the building.
Not ten feet away, a black squirrel scampered up a tree trunk, twittering for all his might at a blue jay who'd invaded his territory. Halfway up, the critter scuttled out on a limb then turned to finish his scolding. Sufficiently told, the jay took flight. Overhead, puffy, snowball clouds glided by, their shapes shifting with the air currents. It was so crowning a moment that in that instant everything in Emma's world seemed to glitter with tranquility.
That is, until she heard the sound of wagon wheels turning on the dusty, potholed street and witnessed two Wien sitting atop a wagon seat, carting something, or someone, in the back. "Ya ain't got no business," whined their passenger, loud enough to raise the curiosit
y of passersby.
And just like that, her peaceful moment vanished.
As usual, he did his best to try her patience.
"You should drink some more water," she said, pointing to the glass on the bedside stand. "Doc says it'll help your cough."
"I could use a drink of the real stuff," he groused. "I'm plain sick o' water."
She counted to twenty in her head. "You're done with drinkin' ale, Pa. Water and milk's the only liquids you'll be gettin' under my roof. Now, stop bein' so cussed ornery."
"Phew! Yore the ornery one," he countered.
Not wanting to argue, she picked up the glass and shoved it under his nose, bending to lift his head with her other hand. His body trembled with weakness. "Drink," she ordered.
He drank to appease her. Two sips, three sips, four, then five. He was thirsty, the old coot.
When he finished, she set the glass back on the stand with a plunk, noting that at least half the water had disappeared down his gullet. "Was that so bad?"
He pointed his gaze at the ceiling, his stubborn chin jutting out. "I ain't needin' nobody to wait on me," he muttered. "Been takin' care o' myself for nigh onto sixty years now." Emma wasn't sure how old her father was, for he'd never shared his birth date, but one thing was certain. He looked older than his years. And, yes, he did need a full-tine nurse. As it was, he could barely walk from the bed to the necessary-a chair with a lidded hole and a chamber pot underneath that Doc had sent over.
Thankfully, Jon, true to his word, had been at the fellow's side most of the day, lending a hand and seeing to his personal needs, even giving him a bath in the portable tub in the main floor bathroom. Rocky had hung around long enough to help transport hint down the hall, one man on each side. When the whole affair was over, she wasn't sure who was the more exhausted, Jon or Ezra, for both were sweating bullets by the time they got him situated in bed.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 22
