Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (8 page)

Ezra harruniphed and ran a hand over his thinning
hair. "Who knows? Some scallywags rode out a month ago
an' throwed rocks at 'em." He scratched himself. "They's jus'
havin' fun I guess, but, boy, did they skee-daddle when they
heard my gun go off."

Jon's gut twisted with an unexpected knot. Everyone
around town knew Ezra for his loutish manners, but that
didn't give anyone license to vandalize his property. He'd like
to knock a few heads together.

"Did you let the sheriff know?"

Ezra snorted. "You kiddin'? Will Murdock don't have a
good word for me."

"Will's a good man-fair, too," Jon said in his defense.

"Ain't no matter. It's over an' done. 'Sides, what do you
care? I ain't a churchgoer."

Jon chuckled. "You don't have to attend my church to be
my friend."

Ezra threw hini a disbelieving look. Did no one care about
hint?

A crack of thunder sounded in the heavens, louder and
closer. Jon watched the fellow fuss with another sheet. His
wheezing lungs rattled. What a pathetic character, Jon thought.

Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these....

"You ever been to church, Ezra?" Jon asked, pulling up a
wooden chair and dusting off a month's worth of breadcrunibs
before sitting.

Ezra grimaced. "Ain't got no cause for goin'."

"Anyone ever invite you?"

"I can't recall as much." He sniffed, and a tiny smirk
cracked his thin lips. "Guess I ain't the only one knowin' I'm a
lost cause."

"You're not a lost cause, Ezra. There's plenty of folks that
have done far worse than you and yet somehow have discovered God's love and forgiveness."

Ezra snatched a bottle of ale off the filthy counter and
pointed it at Jon, eyebrows raised. "You want one?" he asked.
There was a definite sneer in his tone.

Jon couldn't help the grin. Most would consider the blatant offer nothing short of blasphemy. "I'll pass."

Ezra wrangled the cap off the bottle and took a long swig.
"Good. I ain't into sharin' anyways." He held the bottle up as
if it were some prized possession. "This stuff ain't cheap ya
know." His rancid breath carried across the room. Jon had all
he could do to sit still.

Resting a booted foot across his knee, he watched Ezra
take another swig. "God's in the business of healing wounded
souls."

Ezra's eyes bulged. "Tarnation! My soul ain't wounded; it's
dead!"

Rather than react to the remark, Jon sucked in a calming
breath. "How would you like a little help with this place?" he
asked, deciding he'd pushed enough for one day.

"Huh?"

"I was thinking about asking some of my parishioners to
lend a hand out here. We could have your yard cleaned up in
no time. A couple of the ladies could make fast work of your
kitchen.

"I notice your porch is sagging. Wouldn't take much more
than a few boards and nails to bring it to rights. We could special
order the windowpanes if Eldred doesn't already have them in
stock. A good coat of white paint would spruce up the outside."

Dead silence filled the space between then, save Ezra's
persistent wheeze-until a loud clap of thunder rumbled past
the little house's thin walls and a streak of lightning scorched
the sky, giving instant light to the dimly lit room. On its tail
came the first drops of rain, their pinging sounds bouncing
off the old tin roof.

"I ain't needin' no charity," he grumbled.

"It wouldn't be charity. I'd expect you to work alongside
us, and you'd be paying for your own windows and paint."

Ezra scratched his head, and for the first time, Jon noticed
a slight tremor. Nerves? Or a result of years of imbibing? He
glared at Jon through bloodshot eyes, then lifted the bottle to
his mouth and drained it in a natter of seconds.

"You'd need to sober up though-at least till after we
finished all the work," Jon said with practiced calm, leaning
forward in the chair, clasping his hands together between his
spread knees. "Think you could do that?"

"Pff£ I'ni sober now, ain't I?" Ezra slammed the bottle
down on the counter and moseyed across the room, his less
than sure-footed gait an indication he was anything but.

"I'd expect you to lay off the sauce completely. We wouldn't
want folks thinkin' you were incapable of a little self-control,
would we?"

Ezra shot him a sideways glare. "Don't rightly care what
folks think. 'Sides, ain't no one I know who'd be willin' to lift a
finger on my account."

He was probably right. "We'll see about that. There are a
lot of good people in Little Hickman."

Ezra didn't look convinced. Jon rose just as the sky pulled
back the last of its draperies and cut loose a torrential downpour.
A powerful wind steamrolled past the open windows, dousing
the sheets Ezra had used as makeshift barriers, the rain coursing
in like a waterfall. Miniature rivers spawned on the ancient wood
floor, finding a slanted pathway to the center of the room.

"Got some extra sheets?" Jon called above the sudden
flood of commotion, feeling helpless.

Ezra shook his head. "Naw. 'Taint no use anyway."

"Somehow we need to block these windows."

The man stood there as if missing a good share of his
brain, which he probably was. Jon couldn't let the rain do
more damage than it'd already done. Out the back window, he
spotted something draped from a clothesline, lying flat to the
wind. "What's that?"

Ezra shuffled to the window as if he hadn't a clue his house
was the hub of a true gully washer. "An old piece of canvas I
used to throw over my chicken yard. Fool chickens won't stay
under it though."

"Got a hammer and some more nails?"

Ezra scratched his head again and pulled his brow into a
deep frown. "Yeah, right in that there box."

While he sauntered across the room, Jon pulled up his
collar and dashed out the back door.

It took a full hour for the rain to slow its course, but by the
time it had, Jon had nailed a piece of canvas to each broken
window, helped Ezra niop the floor, did what he could to tidy
up the kitchen, then made them a pot of coffee.

"I best get back while the storm's at a lull," Jon said, setting
his empty mug on the marred tabletop.

Ezra angled him a wary look. "Why'd you come out here,
preacher kid?"

Jon stood. "I told you. I wanted to check on you."

Ezra's graying eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. "That
don't make no sense."

Jon chuckled. "Maybe not now, but it will."

"Huh?"

Thunder rolled in the distance, indicating the worst of
the storm had passed. "I'll be back. You work on sobering up
now. You'll need your wits about you-and your strength." He
stretched. "We'll have this place looking spiffy."

Ezra's eyes narrowed into beady little circles, putting Jon
in mind of a cornered banty rooster. "Word has it you sold
your place to Tom Averly and you're movin' into my girl's
boardin'house."

Jon was surprised the news had reached Ezra Browningand that he'd remembered it. He was almost certain the fellow
remembered nothing about his drunken episode on Independence Day or the bath the morning after. "You heard right. Still
have a few more trips to make before my move is complete. Tom
bought most everything 'cept for the clothes on niy back."

Ezra grumbled low in his chest. "Fool thing you did, gettin'
rid of that place and donatin' the funds to a new church buil-
din'."

Ezra wasn't the first one who'd voiced his opinion on
the matter. Perhaps it had been extreme on Jon's part, but sometimes obeying God called for extreme measures. He had
no doubt God would meet his needs. "I'd be a bigger fool to
disregard God's direction for my life."

Ezra shook his head as if to wrestle it free of a swarm of
pesky flies. "That's a bunch of hooey."

"To you it probably is, Ezra," Jon said. "I best be on my
way. I have a sermon to prepare for. Don't imagine you'd want
to cone to Sunday services and critique my delivery?"

For the first time, a smile, or more like a smirk, popped
out on Ezra's face, revealing yellowed teeth, one missing on
top, probably due to decay and neglect. "I ain't never set foot
in a church-'ceptin' when I married Lydia Baxter. Don't'spect
I ever will."

It'd been a long while since he'd heard mention of Ezra
Browning's wife-Emma's mother. There'd been talk how she'd
died after giving birth to Emma, but beyond that, he knew very
little. He suspected her death held the key to much of Ezra and
Emma's animosity. "You must have loved her very much."

Ezra scoffed, cursed, then moved to the sink, putting his
back to Jon. "Long time ago," he mumbled, picking up one of
the dishes Jon had just washed to study its sheen.

Jon walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. He
turned back. "I'll be on my way then. Remember what I said
about sobering up. And, Ezra, you might want to have Doc
check that wheezing cough you got."

The only response he received from that was another flatout curse.

Emma's steps were purposeful. She had a number of things
to tend to, and she didn't welcome the thought of getting wet in the next wave of rain. A deluge had already fallen earlier
in the day, for which much of Little Hickman was grateful. At
least the dust would finally settle. But enough was enough.

A child's shout of glee had her pausing mid-step to glance
down Main Street where she glimpsed a mother and her child.
The toddler, having slipped from his mania's hands, had discovered a puddle the size of a small lake and was hopping
around in it like a frog, squealing with delight when the water
splashed past his knees, soaking his trousers. Emma smiled at
the scene, recalling a time when she too had relished the feel
of mud between her toes.

"What you doin' in that mud hole, girl? Ain't you got no sense
atall? Git back to the house 'fore I tan yer li'l hide. There's work to
be done."

It was a scorching day, the kind that made the sweat stick to one's
armpits.

"But it feels so good, Papa," she squealed, her six-year-old enthusiasm difficult to curb. "You should try it." She waded further into
Little Hickman Creek, soaking the hem of her cotton dress despite
lifting it above her knees. `Ain't ya hot, Papa?"

"Not as hot as your backside's gonna be if you don't haul yourself
outta that water hole 'fore I count to ten," he roared. His face was
red as a tomato, whether from heat or rage Emma couldn't say. "You
ain't finished washin' the breakfast dishes yet. And after that, you got
to tote in those pails of milk from the barn."

She'd grown accustomed to Ezra Browning's fits, learned how
far she could push before he laid a hand to her. This seemed to be
one of those times, so with a sigh she meandered back to shore, choosing her favorite flat rocks as stepping-stones, knowing them by heart
from previous trips to the creek. That's why it so surprised her when
she found herself sprawled on her backside, having slipped on a slimy
pebble, soaked from head to toe.

"Nov, look what you done!" Ezra bellowed, wading a foot or so
in to drag her up by the arm. Pain surged through her side where
she'd collided with a sharp, protruding twig, but she was too proud
to confess it. And what good would it have done her? There'd be no
sympathy, not when the entire incident was her own doing.

Even the silent tears she shed as they trudged up the hill toward
their one-room cabin seemed not to affect him. She struggled alongside him, barely managing to keep up with Ezra' long strides.

And just like that, the joy of cool mud between her toes shriveled
like a rose in winter.

Eninia blotted out the pesky memory with a tiny shake
of the head. She dragged her gaze away from the youngster
and his mother and resumed her step, passing Flanders' Food
Store. Stepping down from the sidewalk, she crossed the alley,
bypassing a puddle. Rivers of rainwater still drained off one
corner of the roof of Winthrop's Dry Goods, creating a stream
that followed a downward path toward Zeke's Barber Shop, a
square little building situated down the alley and just behind
the dry goods store.

A jangling bell welcomed her when she walked into Winthrop's. Fancy Jenkins was just picking up a box of purchased
goods from the counter. Iris Winthrop turned at the sound.
"Why, good afternoon, Miss Browning," the proprietor greeted
from behind the counter, her usual pasted-on smile lacking genuine friendliness. Everyone knew the woman was more about
appearances than actual benevolence. Emma was certain her
father's presence in the town had always been a thorn in Mrs.
Winthrop's side, and the fact that Emma carried the Browning
name made her an automatic detriment to Little Hickman.

Fancy Jenkins, on the other hand, wore a smile of the
warmest kind despite her missing upper tooth. "Hello there,
Miss Emma." She hefted the box of supplies higher. "Ain't it a drippy clay today? I 'spect it'll stay like this fer awhile." She was
a small-boned woman, perhaps frail-looking at first glance,
but in her clear blue eyes, there was a depth that spoke of courage and spunk. Life had not been easy for her, she having lost
her husband to heart problems a year or so back when her only
daughter, Sarah, was about thirteen. Somehow, she eked out a
living by managing a small piece of farmland and selling eggs.
Enema admired her grit.