Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (35 page)

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.