Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (6 page)

Papa took one look at the fireplace. The fire was now only a
few red embers. Without a second's hesitation, he tossed the treasured
volume into the fire, ignoring her sudden gasp. Puffs of black smoke
climbed the chimney until the hard cover of the book took hold, reigniting the flames to a rich orange-red.
11

A trudging sound conning up the stairs dragged Eninia's
sullen thoughts back to the present. She took a gander at her
watch and found it near suppertinie. Gideon Barnard glanced
inside the open door on his way past then halted and backtracked. "You lookin' for soniethin', Miss Eninia?"

She
janinied
the
wool
sock
back
in
her
apron
pocket.
"Just
cleanin' out Mr. Dreyfus's old room, makin' way for the next
boarder."

Gray eyes slanted under a crinkled brow, reinforcing the
older gentleman's perpetual frown. "Yeah? Who's movin' in?"

"The Reverend Atkins." She purposely kept her answer
short, not wanting to elaborate. Bending, she picked up the
bucket of water she'd used to niop the wood floor, gathered up the dusting cloth and a few other items, and headed for
the door, hoping to slip past Mr. Barnard without further incident. But it wasn't to be.

"That so? The preacher?" He moved aside to let her pass,
then, rather than go to his room as he'd earlier intended, he
followed a few paces behind her. "That mean we have to clean
up our talk around here?"

"I've been askin' you hooligans to do that for some time
now. I don't imagine a preacher will have any more success at
it than me." On the way down the hall, she stopped, set the
bucket down, and, with her free hand, righted another picture, then ran her fingers along the top of the frame, pleased
to find it dust-free.

"I ain't cleanin' up my mouth-or my actions, for that
matter."

She sniffed. "Fine. Now, if you'll excuse nie I need to be
checkin' on my supper." She picked up the bucket and resumed
her steps.

When she turned to take the stairs, Gideon Barnard was
muttering something under his breath.

Vfter cleaning up the supper dishes, Emma plopped a
wide-brimmed hat on her head and went out to her
garden to do some weeding and to cut a few stems of blue
Larkspur for a bouquet. Harland and Wes retreated to the
front porch to have their smokes, and Charley Connors and
Gid Barnard headed for the parlor with their playing cards.
The last she saw of Elliott and Luke Newman, they were retiring to their room.

It was a quiet summer evening, the kind that made one
linger awhile just to catch the sights and smells. What a contrast from yesterday's hubbub, Emma thought, while stooping
to pull a few weeds on her walk to the garden, then snipping
off some wild clematis that grew near the path, their purple
hue a nice complement to the larkspur. Even the humidity had
leveled off, making the hot-as-an-oven temperatures somehow
more livable.

The voices of children at play carried over the motionless
air while, overhead, a couple of squirrels quarreled over their
rightful places on an oak branch. Through the narrow alleyway, between her place and Flanders' Food Store, she spotted
Mr. and Mrs. Crunkle crossing Main Street, a little brown (log
on their heels. Out for their usual stroll, she mused with a
smile, bending to snip a few larkspur stems, their fragrance
wafting through the air. The orange tabby who'd wandered
into the yard last spring and never wandered back out, probably because Luke had started feeding it suppertime scraps,
moseyed over to rub against her leg. "Well, if it isn't Miss
Tabitha," she said, bending to give the cat a gentle scratch behind its ear. She scanned the yard for Luke's scruffy dog,
another one of his projects, but didn't spot it. No doubt, the
no-name niutt had found a cool spot in which to lounge after
downing a plateful of leftovers.

Her garden, a mix of varied vegetables and an array of
flowers, grew healthy weeds as well. With a sigh, she hunkered
down and started yanking them out one by one.

"Lovely evening, isn't it?"

A rustle of approaching footsteps coming from the side of
the house and the mellow-sounding voice accompanying them
so startled her that she lost her balance and fell backwards on
her rump, legs sprawling. Jonathan Atkins, all six-foot-plus of
his lean frame, sped ahead to offer his hand. "I didn't mean
to frighten you. Here, let me help you up." When lie bent forward, his sand-colored hair fell across his forehead.

Batting at his long-fingered hand, she righted herself in
record time, scrambling to her feet, not missing the flash of
humor that washed over hire when he straightened. Jumpin'
Jehoshaphat, what must he think? One part of her cared more
than she wanted to admit, but another part rose up with defiance. How dare he sneak up on her like that, then give her
that innocent look, oozing with charm no less.

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.