Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (50 page)

"You take care now, Miss Eninia," George Garner called
as Emma made her exit from the post office, another missive
from Grace tucked safely away in her coat pocket. She'd torn
into it immediately and had thrilled to read that things were
progressing at a fast rate concerning the move to Little Hickman. All that remained was to settle up with the new owners,
pack her belongings, and set off on her journey. She'd hired a
friend to drive her this time, someone familiar with the roads
to and from Lexington. It should make for a more pleasant
ride, especially when considering the fellow's wife planned to
join them on the journey.

"And you, Mr. Garner," she replied.

For the first time in days, a tiny seed of expectation
sprouted in her heart and made her step a little lighter, made
a smile inch its way past her chattering teeth. Was it because
a golden sun shone through thinning trees, making a valiant
effort to warm the late-October air, or was it that Grace's letter
had boosted her spirits?

She pulled her collar close and paused to sniff the scent
of autumn, much like No-name did when he crawled out from
under the porch, senses sharp and vigilant. One block off Main
Street, at the corner of Washington and Mayfield, Gerald and
Eileen Crunkle sat bundled up together on their porch swing. A fire of leaves burned itself out where their front yard met
the road. She'd noticed Gerald earlier raking dry leaves into a
giant pile and toyed with the notion of running up the street
to ask if she night dive into the middle of it, but figured he'd
think she was missing a screw or two if she did.

Jon Atkins spotted her as he was leaving the livery, no
doubt having turned Jupiter over to Sani. He lifted a hand
and waved, causing her heart to scuttle off track. Lately, he'd
been all smiles and attention, leaping to his feet to pull out
her chair at the table, helping her haul out the trash barrel,
rising before her most mornings to start the coffee, and even
standing next to her at the sink to dry the dishes while she
washed. Ever since Grace's departure, he'd stepped into her
cousin's shoes, making it his job to look after her. She'd been
careful to guard her heart, not wanting to read more into
his actions than necessary, telling herself his kindness came
from sympathy and a need to fulfill his pastoral duties rather
than from genuine tenderness. Still, she couldn't help but
wonder.

And now that she had set off for hone, she knew he followed her.

"Emilia, wait," he called.

She turned to find him jogging across the dusty street,
darting out of the path of Fred Swain and his team of
horses.

"I just came from Ben and Liza's place," he announced.
"They've invited its for supper next Wednesday night." Us?
"She's expecting that baby any minute now, but she still insists.
Says she's better off staying busy. I guess they've asked the Callahans as well." When she didn't immediately answer, he added
with a smile, "It'll be a regular party. Are you game?"

"Me?"

She still couldn't get past the "us" part of his earlier statement. "They've invited us" was what he said. There wasn't an
"us," was there?

"Yes, you." In broad daylight, he took a section of her hair
between his fingers and gently tugged. "It will do you good to
get out of that house, Enmia. You've done nothing but hide out
for the past five weeks. Folks are starting to worry about you."

That was it, then. As her pastor, he saw the need to draw
her out of her self-made cocoon, and what better way than to
surround her with friends? But would her pastor also finger
her hair and make chill bumps race up and down her arms?

Carl and Frieda Hardy walked by. "Afternoon, Preacher.
Miss Emma," Carl said.

When Emma would have stepped back for propriety's sake,
Jon leaned closer, nodding as the couple passed, but keeping
his eyes trained on her.

"My! Did you see that, Carl? Emma Browning and Jonathan Atkins...." Frieda's voice drifted off.

Jon smiled. "We're the talk of the town, Miss Browning."

She snapped out of her trance, felt a soaking blush. "I don't
know what there'd be to talk about."

He chortled, and she noted he hadn't dropped her wisp of
hair; rather, he studied it with care as he rolled it around in his
fingertips. "You don't think they're curious about us?"

"There is no `us."' Is there?

"They probably think something's going on right this
minute."

She drew back and followed his gaze, which landed on
Doc Randolph. Taking a rare break on his front stool), the
old gentleman, tin mug in one hand, newspaper in the other,
looked up and nodded. Even through the cloud of dust hovering over Main Street, Emma swore she saw him wink.

Then there were Truman and Martha Atwater, Ila Jacobsen, and Rose Marley all engaged in conversation in front of the
bank. The names Bryan and McKinley drifted past her ears,
indicating their discussion centered on the upcoming presidential election. She sighed with relief-until they all turned to
gawk at her and Jon, at which point Rose made an indiscernible
remark and Ila covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

In haste, Eninia resumed her steps toward home. She
refused to be the topic of folks' conversations. If her sudden
move surprised Jon he didn't let on; he merely fell into step
with her, their heels clicking out a similar rhythm as they
traipsed up the sidewalk.

"Your reputation will be tarnished."

He looped his arm through hers. "My reputation is what
it is."

"Jonathan." She could almost hear his smile. "I'm notyou shouldn't...."

When she would have mounted the steps to her porch, he
snagged her by the arm and halted her progress. "I shouldn't
what?" he prodded, turning her. "Love you? Is that what you're
trying to say?"

"What?" A gasp of air whistled through her lungs. "Jonathan."

His hands settled on her shoulders as he bent close. With
the pad of his thumb, he drew little circles around her shoulder blades. Tenderness that went beyond a pastor's call to duty
swirled in his eyes.

"Jonathan," she repeated.

He chuckled. "You're going to wear my name right out,
woman. Was there something you wanted to add to it?"

She blushed with wonderment. "I don't know what to say...
exactly."

"How about telling me you'll be my bride?"

Another gasp put her lungs in danger of draining completely. "Your-bride?"

No-name sauntered out from under the porch and
stretched, sniffed the air, and stood in sober contemplation.
Soon, he ambled to his favorite bush and lifted a leg. Overhead, two squirrels scampered across a branch and vaulted to
the roof just over Jon's dormer window.

"But I-I couldn't."

His whole face spread into a smile. "Of course you could."

She managed a small one in return. Could it be? After all
these years of running from Jon Atkins, starting with the playground when he'd chased her around the rope swing, then into
adulthood when he'd hounded her very soul with his overt testimony, had she finally run out of reasons for escaping him?

"I'ni not exactly preacher's wife material." She dropped
her chin, and he promptly lifted it.

"Why would you think that? People love you. You're warm,
generous, funny, kind-hearted... passionate." He looked to the
heavens. "Help nie make her understand, Lord."

She laughed from sheer joy. "I don't think I'm any of those
things."

He touched the tip of her nose. "Then it's time you started
thinking more highly of yourself, young lady. God sees you as
His precious child, someone worthy to be loved and cherished.
I want you to start seeing yourself in that light."

She regarded him with somber curiosity. "Are you talking
to me as my pastor now? I can't tell."

His brows flickered a little. He leaned forward and planted
a soft kiss on her cheek, letting his lips linger at the spot, warming her with his moist breath. "Indeed I am," he whispered.
"In fact, your pastor is about to kiss you more heartily, so if you don't want all of Little Hickman to watch, perhaps we should
go inside?"

A ball of tension knotted in her throat and refused to
move. "Oh."

With nary an ounce of strength left in her to argue the
natter, she allowed him to lead her up the steps.

o Jon's great relief, the house was as quiet as a bare tree
in the dead of winter, but it wouldn't be that way for long.
In less than an hour, Eninia's boarders would amble through
the door expecting supper. Good thing he smelled a sininier-
ing kettle of stew in the kitchen. A glance into the dining room
indicated a set table.

He shut the door behind then. Giving hint her back, she
unbuttoned her coat and slipped out of it, hanging it on the
coat tree next to the door. The linen scarf went with it. It was
impossible not to admire her belted waist, the flare of her
narrow hips, and the rest of her shapely form beneath the blue
cotton of her dress. To add to his torture, her blond hair fell in
graceful curves around her feminine shoulders.

Lord, give me strength.

He'd asked her to be his bride, but now he questioned
the manner in which he'd done it. Too hasty? Too forward?
Too presumptuous? "Perhaps a bit of courting?" Grace had
said. Blast! He knew nothing of courting. How did one ease
into a marriage proposal? Was there any way to go about
it other than straightforward? He loved her; he wanted to
marry her. That should be sufficient. And yet Grace's assertion that Eninia felt inadequate beat dully away in his head.
Ezra had done it to her, of course, had drilled into her the
notion of her insignificance. Though not intentional, his
hurtful words and actions had followed her into adulthood,
making her believe she neither needed nor deserved the love
of a roan.

Well, tonight that ended. From this day forward, if he
accomplished nothing else, he would make her understand
this single truth: she had worth. The question was, should he
prove it to her with an immediate kiss? He had warned her
that he intended to kiss her thoroughly, but now that he'd
tucked her away from Hickman's watchful gazes, he suddenly
felt the need to wait for the perfect nionient if there was such
a thing.

Eninia glanced at the vacant room where only weeks ago
her father lay ailing. Something drew her to the doorway. Jon
followed close behind, resolving not to speak without first
weighing his words. She leaned in the doorframe and sighed.
He placed a hand on her shoulder and breathed deep of her
scent.

Seconds flew by as they stared at the empty room, the
single cot with its fresh washed bedding, the unlit lantern on
the tiny bedside table, the motionless rocker sitting in the
corner. A single rose stood straight as a pin in a crystal vase
atop the chest of drawers, the Bible Jon had given Ezra lying
next to it. The poignant moment gave Jon pause. With a little
imagination, he could almost hear the old fellow's hacking
cough, see him hunched over the edge of the bed, his rounded
shoulders trembling with weakness. As he'd done a number of
times before, he reminded himself that Ezra Browning had
passed into his eternal home.

"There were things I didn't get to say," she muttered.

"You said everything that needed saying."

She gave a half-turn and looked into his eyes. Her own
shimmered with moistness. It took every ounce of willpower he
could muster not to put on his preacher hat and tell her God
wanted all her leftover pain.

"I should have spent more time with him."

"The time you spent with hint in the end was quality. Ezra
Browning was a hard man, and considering everything he put
you through, I commend you for taking such good care of
him. It was a selfless act, you taking him into your house."

Her eyes trailed back to the empty bed. "You didn't give
me much choice, if you'll recall." Her tone was just shy of facetious, and he smiled.

Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, he asked, "Can you
look back now and see the bigger picture-see that God had a
hand in all of it? Starting way back when you were just a little
thing?"

There was a long pause.

"Think about it, Eninia. If Edith hadn't kept track of Ezra's
whereabouts and relayed the information back to Clara, there
never would have been a Clara's Boardinghouse back in the
seventies and eighties. There never would have been a woman
looking out for you while you were growing up, a place for you
to kick off your shoes after school, enjoy an afternoon snack,
learn womanly things. Maybe you didn't recognize God's love
back then, but Clara paved the way for you to know Him by
giving you that Bible.

"If Ezra hadn't written to Edith last spring to tell her he was
sick, she might have taken the family secret to her grave, but
she recognized the need to share it with Grace. If she hadn't,
you and Grace might never have met."