Courting Trouble (29 page)

He touched her arm. ‘‘No.’’

He circled around and helped her to the ground, then took her elbow and walked her clear to the door.

‘‘Good night, Essie,’’ he said in a pleasant voice plenty loud enough to be heard through the windows.

‘‘Good-bye,’’ she whispered.

He tipped his hat and returned to the rig.

Papa was standing in front of his office door when she entered. ‘‘He said he would have you home before dark. Where have you been?’’

Resentment surged through her, momentarily overshadowing her fragile bid toward repentance. ‘‘Where do you think I’ve been?’’

‘‘I have no idea.’’

She released the ties of her cloak, letting him think what he would.

‘‘What is it?’’ Mother asked, stepping into the hall. ‘‘Has something happened?’’

‘‘I told him.’’

She hurried forward. ‘‘What do you mean, you told him?’’

‘‘I mean, I told him.’’ Essie looked her father in the eye. ‘‘I told him I was ruined.’’

Mother gasped. ‘‘You didn’t.’’

‘‘I did.’’

‘‘Why on earth would you do such a thing?’’

Instead of answering, she slipped off her cloak, smoothed it over her arm, then returned her attention to Papa. ‘‘Do not accept another request for courtship on my behalf. I will never marry and I do not want to have to go through something like that ever again.’’

————

Katherine Crook knelt beside a bucket of oatmeal, carefully packing a half-dozen eggs inside. Lizzie was a careless girl, and Katherine didn’t want the eggs to crack before they made it home to the child’s mother. She glanced up when Hamilton entered the storage room and lifted the long, wooden bar from their barn-like door.

‘‘Quickly,’’ he said, ‘‘Mrs. Bogart has brought in a box of butter, but I need to receive a delivery.’’

Katherine placed the final egg in the bucket, then scrambled to her feet. The preacher’s wife made the best butter for miles around. Not every woman scrubbed her churn out before each use or washed the buttermilk out of the butter. Mrs. Bogart not only did that but she also churned her butter twice a week while the cream was still fresh. Her trays would sell for double the normal price before the day was through.

Brushing oatmeal off her hands, Katherine picked up the bucket and entered the store. ‘‘Here are your eggs, Lizzie.’’

‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’

She nodded to the girl, then made her way to the preacher’s wife, who had placed her butter chest on the counter.

‘‘Good morning, Mrs. Bogart. How are you?’’

The elderly woman’s face and chin above her collar held as many wrinkles and sags as a mastiff. Her eyes were barely visible beneath the folds of her skin, but her smile was warm as ever. ‘‘I’m fine, dear.

How is that beautiful baby?’’

‘‘Growing every day.’’

‘‘I’ll just bet she is.’’

Katherine opened the chest and began to remove trays of butter from inside. Each tray was dovetailed together and made with white wood, which kept its contents free from taint or smell. ‘‘I heard Preacher Bogart will be retiring soon?’’

The woman rested her clasped, gloved hands against her waist. ‘‘Yes. I still can’t quite believe it.’’

‘‘How long has Preacher Bogart been at the pulpit?’’

‘‘Nearly fifty years now. And did you know that the young man the elders are bringing in as our new shepherd is barely out of school?’’

‘‘No. I hadn’t heard a thing. Who is it?’’

‘‘Ewing Wortham. The son of the couple who run the orphanage?’’

Katherine hesitated. ‘‘Yes, of course. I met him for the first time last week.’’

Mrs. Bogart tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘‘I just don’t know how in the world I’ll be able to sit in those pews and listen to someone my grandson’s age give the message.’’ She shook her head, sending the flaps along her chin to swinging. ‘‘I can’t imagine what the elders were thinking to entrust our flock to such an untried fellow. Can you?’’

Katherine covered the woman’s hand and squeezed. ‘‘I cannot. And a couple of days ago I saw him driving Essie Spreckelmeyer through town. He’s not thinking to court her, is he?’’

A poignant smile stacked the wrinkles on each side of Mrs. Bogart’s mouth. ‘‘If he is, that is his saving grace. Anyone smart enough to snatch up that sweet little thing clearly has more intelligence than most of the other men in this town.’’

Katherine stiffened. Was that a hidden inference to Hamilton? She was so tired of hearing people speak of Essie with such regard. Oh, many made remarks about her choice of hats and her fancy attire and her penchant for pursuits more suited to men. But there were many more—including her husband—who were quick to defend the brazen woman, and Katherine had had about all she could take.

She closed the chest and opened their accounting book. ‘‘Well, I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but I’d hate for young Mr. Wortham to assume such an important position in town, only to find out he’d been led astray by the woman he was considering for marriage.’’

Frowning, Mrs. Bogart cocked her head. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

Katherine moistened her lips. ‘‘I want you to understand I’m not gossiping. I just thought you might want to, um, pray about this.’’

‘‘Pray about what?’’

Katherine scanned the store, then moved around the counter to Mrs. Bogart’s side. ‘‘Do you remember when that cowboy who worked for the judge left town in a hurry?’’

‘‘No. Not particularly.’’

‘‘Well, he did.’’ She lowered her voice. ‘‘And I have it from a good source that it was because he compromised Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’

The woman regarded Katherine at length before exasperation transformed her face. ‘‘Of all the ridiculous . . .’’ She tugged her gloves more tightly into place. ‘‘I wouldn’t believe everything I heard if I were you, Mrs. Crook.’’

The censure of the preacher’s wife stung. Katherine straightened. ‘‘Think what you will, Mrs. Bogart. Hamilton told me Essie was so desperate for a husband that she threw herself at him—right here in this very store when no one else was around. Why, she even wrote down the names of the men in town she’d decided to try her wiles on. Hamilton saw it with his own eyes. As a matter of fact, he was one of the men on her list.’’

A troubled frown puckered Mrs. Bogart’s brows.

Katherine lifted her chin. ‘‘And the cowboy I was telling you about told Hamilton she did the same thing to him. Only he was not as discerning as my husband, and when the sheriff caught that man and Essie in an, um, unfortunate encounter, he and the judge ran the fellow right out of town—as if he were the one at fault.’’

Mrs. Bogart searched Katherine’s eyes. And though Katherine couldn’t be certain of the details, she knew she wasn’t far from the mark. Jeremy and Harley were as close to Essie as anyone and not nearly so guarded with their tongues. It didn’t take much to put two and two together.

She picked up a pencil and handed it to the preacher’s wife. ‘‘Your signature, Mrs. Bogart?’’

The woman scribbled down her name, and for all her earlier bravado, her disorientation was such that she left the store without her butter box. No matter. Katherine would see that it was delivered to her before the next batch of cream was ready for churning.

chapter TWENTY-FOUR

HARLEY PRESSED HIMSELF against the arm of Essie’s chair and watched every stitch she took. The fire popped, filling the parlor with warmth.

‘‘Cain’t ya take bigger stitches? Then you’d finish quicker.’’

‘‘Smaller ones are better,’’ she answered. ‘‘You want these trousers to hold up through the winter, don’t you?’’

‘‘Well, shore. But I ain’t never had brand-new pants before. Not even at Christmas.’’

‘‘Well, in another hour or so, you will.’’

Pushing away from the chair, he wandered throughout the room. But instead of admiring the scenic painting above the secretary or the bronze cherub on the mantel, he squatted down and smoothed the tangled strands at the edge of their Axminster rug.

‘‘Go into the kitchen and ask my mother for a fork,’’ she said. ‘‘Tell her you are going to rake the fringe in the parlor for her.’’

He raced out to do her bidding, returning shortly with fork in hand. She expected him to tire of the chore, but he gave it his full attention, lining the threads up like teeth on a comb.

‘‘Ewing’s gonna take me hunting,’’ he said without deviating from his task.

‘‘Is he?’’ She paused, picturing Ewing’s carefully controlled expression when he’d escorted her to the door last week after her confession.

‘‘Hunting for what?’’

‘‘Dove.’’

‘‘Dove? But you’d need a gun to bring down one of those.’’

‘‘I know. He’s gonna teach me how ta shoot. I already know how to load.’’

‘‘But you’re only seven.’’

‘‘Ewing says his daddy gave him his first gun when he was six.’’

She tried to remember when Grandpa had taught her to shoot, but she couldn’t recall. Surely she’d been older than six or seven.

A knock at the front door interrupted her musings.

‘‘Want me ta get it?’’ Harley asked.

‘‘Please.’’

The boy loved to answer the door. Such a simple, ordinary thing, unless you were an orphan and had no door to open.

‘‘Howdy, Ewing,’’ she heard Harley say. ‘‘Come on in.’’

Essie stiffened. She’d been to the orphanage several times this past week but had not seen any sign of him there or anywhere else in town.

He stepped into the parlor, hat in hand, his strawberry blond hair neatly combed. A moment passed before it dawned on her how he was dressed.

He wore a black cutaway, black vest, black necktie, light-colored trousers, and pale gloves. The consummate dress for a gentleman caller.

‘‘Hello, Essie.’’

She felt heat rush to her cheeks. ‘‘Ewing.’’ She put down her sewing and stood. ‘‘My goodness. I . . . well, can I offer you something to drink?’’

‘‘No.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘Actually, I was wondering if I could interest you in a carriage ride?’’

Perplexed, she studied him. His face had cleared of all expression. She couldn’t imagine his motive for asking such a thing. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because that’s what courting couples do.’’

Her lips parted. Surely he didn’t still want to court her? Yet his rust-colored eyes were intense and determined.

‘‘What are you saying, Ewing?’’

‘‘I’m saying my feelings haven’t changed.’’ He looked to the side, floundered a moment, then returned his gaze to hers. ‘‘Well, that’s not exactly true.’’

She stood mute and completely caught off guard. Never in all her imaginings had she expected him to show up on her doorstep.

She glanced at Harley. The boy had stopped combing the fringe and placed his full attention onto them, his brown eyes alert.

‘‘Harley?’’ Ewing said. ‘‘Run along to the kitchen for a moment and let me speak to Miss Spreckelmeyer. Would you?’’

‘‘She cain’t go with ya right now. She’s makin’ me some pants.’’

‘‘Go on, Harley,’’ she said. ‘‘Tell Mother I said you’ve worked so hard you deserve a cookie.’’

His eyes lit up. ‘‘A cookie? Right now? Before supper?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

He raced from the room, his rapid footfalls echoing in his wake.

Essie indicated her father’s chair on the opposite side of the hearth from hers, and the two of them sat down.

Ewing crinkled the brim of his hat and stared at the fire. ‘‘I’m not going to pretend I’m not devastated. I am. But my feelings, the ones that count, haven’t changed.’’

She had no idea what to say. Those stolen moments beneath the magnolia tree had not been forced upon her. She’d been a willing participant. Not for one second had she considered how her actions might later affect Ewing or any other man. Of course, she hadn’t thought there would ever be any other man. Yet now an honorable one sat before her, his heart in his hand.

‘‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,’’ he said, ‘‘and a lot of praying. I came to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be much of a preacher if I held against you something God has already forgiven.’’

Forgiven?
How could God forgive her when she hadn’t even forgiven herself, not to mention Adam? Disbelief warred with shame and regret. ‘‘I’m unworthy of it,’’ she whispered.

His expression softened. ‘‘None of us are worthy of it. That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not perfect and you’re not perfect. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have strong feelings for you, because I do. And I’d still like to court you. If you’ll have me, anyway.’’

She could not reconcile the boy she’d known with this man. This amazingly gracious, poised, well-spoken man. He deserved better.

‘‘But I’m so old.’’

‘‘Old?’’ A hesitant smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘‘Are you telling me you have some gray hairs tucked up in that bun of yours?’’

‘‘Certainly not.’’

‘‘Well, then. Let’s not worry over trivialities such as how old you are and how old I am.’’

‘‘Seven years is not trivial.’’

‘‘It is to me.’’

And, of course, it probably was to him. Anyone who could overlook her unchaste life would certainly be able to overlook her advancing age.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he asked.

I don’t know,
she thought. This was what she’d always wanted. Ewing might not send her pulse skittering, but he was a good man and a cherished friend. He’d be an excellent father and provider. If he was willing to accept her the way she was, how could she turn him down?

He shifted in his chair. ‘‘We would, of course, need to be very circumspect in how we proceed.’’

She frowned, unsure of his point.

‘‘What I mean to say is, now that I am aware of your, um, weakness, I think it is essential that we do everything we can to guard you from yourself.’’ Both his tone and posture stiffened.

‘‘Guard me from myself?’’ she asked.

‘‘Yes.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘As you know, I have been offered the position of pastor at our church. And as such, my actions and those of the woman I court must be above reproach.’’

A spurt of defensiveness leapt to the forefront. What exactly did he think she was going to do? Drag him to the nearest tree and have her way with him?

With effort, she squelched her uncharitable thoughts. After all, she was the confessed sinner here, not him. And if he was willing to overlook her transgression, she could at least remember he was only trying to do what he thought best. Still, he needn’t sound so self-righteous about it.