Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2) (46 page)

emme go," Ezra screeched, both hands flailing. "I don't need no
help."

"I beg to differ, old man," Jon argued. "You can't even stand up on
your own. Look at you."

Jon caught sight of Emma Browning bounding off the boardinghouse back stoop, skirts flaring with every step, wisps of blond hair
coming loose from its tight little bun and falling in damp ringlets around
her oval face. Her blue eyes sparked with a mixture of anger and confusion as she marched with purpose in their direction, Luke Newman on
her heels.

"What do you think you're doing, Jon Atkins?" she asked.

"I'm about to take this odorous fellow to the bathhouse."

Emma fixed him with a perplexing stare and set her jaw in a firm
line. Jon paused, one arm around Ezra to keep him from toppling. "Why
would you want to do that?" she asked, lifting a hand to shade her eyes
from the early morning sun.

"He could use a bath, don't you think?" The man's stench was
enough to knock over a horse.

"Don't need no bath," Ezra grumbled. "Had one already."

"When? Last spring?"Jon asked, trying to make light of the situation. It had been at least a week since the guy had even shaved, let alone
bathed himself.

Ezra coughed and spat, just missing Jon's boot. It was all Jon could
do not to set the oaf back down in the tub and let him sleep awhile
longer. But he'd determined to get involved in the fellow's life-actually, God had prompted him to get involved-and so here he was defending
himself to the drunken fool's daughter.

"Won't do you any good," Emma said. "Matter of fact, you'd be
wastin' your time." Her eyes skittered over Ezra's slouched frame. She
crossed her arms and stuck out her obstinate little chin. "He's nothin'
but a drunk."

Jon took a moment to study Emma's stance, spine straight as a pin,
jaw tense, eyes hard and proud. She'd learned that stance from years of
struggling to survive, he was sure of it. "When was the last time you saw
him sober?" he asked.

Emma laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Well
now, that'd take some recollectin; preacher." Preacher? Jon? Reverend
Atkins? Which was it? She'd known him all her life, but since his return
to Hickman a little less than a year ago, she didn't seem to know quite
how to address him. Furthermore, she was determined to dislike him.

Ezra swayed and Jon got a firmer grip on his arm. The bum was still
so liquored up he didn't even know he was the topic of conversation.

"Come on, old man," he said, turning Ezra around and pointing
him in the right direction, slanting his face away from the worst of Ezra's
overpowering odor.

"You w-want some h-help?" asked Luke. Up until now, he'd been
the silent observer. Matter of fact, Luke spent most of his time on the
sidelines watching life go by. Jon wondered if the boy didn't know a whole
lot more about living than most folks gave him credit for knowing.

"That'd be real nice, Luke. You take the other arm."

Luke stepped forward and Emma's frown grew. "There's no hope for
Ezra, Jon. You might as well accept it." Ah, so now he was Jon again.

He paused and smiled at her. "Oh, there's hope, Emma. As long as
there's a God in heaven, there is hope."

She made a scoffing noise. "You'd best save your sermonizin' for
your congregation.

His grin widened as he tilted his face at her. "I will if you promise
to come hear me sometime."

He detected the slightest hitch at the corner of her mouth. "Now,
why would I bother comin' to hear one of your sermons?"

"To please me maybe?" She gave him an odd look, and how could he
blame her? She'd be blown away by the knowledge that he was attracted
to her, had been since he was a snotty-nosed kid. Of course, his attraction made no sense. He was a pastor, for crying out loud. He needed a
wife, yes, but a good Christian wife, someone to support his ministry,
not someone like Emma Browning who openly admitted she had no use
for God.

He gave himself a mental scolding.

Ask her about the room, Jon.

The nudge was as strong as if Jupiter, his horse, had plowed straight
into his side. I've asked her plenty, Lord. She's made it clear she doesn't want
me under her roof.

Ask, Jon.

"You rent that room to anyone yet?" he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, probably still mulling over his invitation to come to church. "What? No." Her arms remained crossed,
except now she hugged herself more tightly and added a scowl to her
pursed lips.

"I'm still in need of a place."

Ezra belched loud enough to scare the birds from their perches.
Not only that, it carried a deadly stench. Emma lifted a hand and batted
the acrid air to ward off the worst of the smell.

"Oh, for crying in a bucket! If you get him out of here, you can rent
a blasted room,"

Jon grinned. It was a victory grin, he knew, so he tried not to let
it grow to extremes. Thank You, Lord. "That's a load off my shoulders,
Emma. Tom Averly, who bought my place, will be pleased to know I'm
finally moving out."

He and Luke started hauling Ezra out of the yard.

"Rent's $12 a week, but my long-termers pay by the month," she
called to his back. "I'll expect you to pay the first month's rent on the day you move in. Thereafter, rent's due the first of every month. And if you
get behind, there'll be no mercy."

Jon waved, hiding his victory grin. "I always pay my bills on time."

"And I won't stand for any of your preaching, either, you hear?"

"Will you sit for it?"

She didn't respond to that, just made a grumbling noise.

He was still grinning when they passed Winthrop's Dry Goods
and he caught a glimpse of Iris Winthrop through the glass, her wideeyed, gaped-mouth reaction when she saw Luke and him escorting Ezra
through the center of town only adding to his satisfaction.

The bath was no easy affair, but when finished, Ezra Browning did
smell as nice as a field of daisies. Of course, he'd sauntered in the direction of Madam Guttersnipe's Saloon shortly thereafter much to Jon's
dismay and not in the least bit grateful for their help.

"Let me take you back to your house, Ezra," Jon had offered. "Luke
and I'll help you clean up the place then fix you a decent meal." But Ezra
had shaken his head and mumbled something about needing a drink
instead.

"I guess h-he don't like ar cookin;" Luke had said while they stood
there next to the bathhouse watching Ezra amble off, Jon's arm looped
over Luke's hunched shoulders.

Jon slanted his head at Luke. "He doesn't know what he's missing.
I cook a mean bean soup."

Luke shot him a twisted grin. "Me and Pa like bean soup, but Miss
Emma don't n-never make it. She says she don't dare m-make b-bean
soup for a houseful of r-rude men."

At Luke's remark, Jon clutched his stomach and bent over laughing.

Emma dusted with a vengeance. Now, why had she gone and
offered her vacant room to Jonathan Atkins? Hadn't she just been telling herself she neither wanted nor needed the company of a preacher
in her establishment? So why was it that when he'd looked at her with those powder blue eyes of his, she'd crumbled like a month-old cookie?
Was it because he'd taken old Ezra off her hands? It seemed a likely
excuse. After all, one good deed deserved another, and Lord knows she
wasn't about to take her father to the bathhouse herself, much as the old
codger did need a bath. But then she had to confess there was more to
it than that.

Emma dusted faster. Truth was, she wasn't willing to delve much
deeper into her reasons for relenting. All she knew was that the town's
young preacher was about to make his home in this very room, and she'd
best get it ready for him. She lifted a lace doily from the chest of drawers, gave it a little shake and replaced it, smoothing down the corners
with care. Then she glanced up at the ancient picture hanging crooked
above the chest and righted it.

Standing back, she made a sweeping assessment of the room. Clean
sheets on the old four-poster bed, braid rug freshly beaten, gingham
curtains laundered and pressed, and the cracked leather seat of the old
wooden rocker wiped clean. She had no idea when Jon Atkins planned
to move into Mr. Dreyfus's old room, but at least it would be ready for
him when he did.

She dropped her hands to her sides and felt a bulge in her apron
pocket. Stuffing her hand into her pocket she withdrew the lone wool
sock she'd found under Mr. Dreyfus's bed, the one she'd darned for him
on numerous occasions. More than likely, he hadn't missed it yet, but
come winter he'd be wondering what had become of it.

Fingering the woolen fabric, an unwelcome memory poked to the
surface. Blustery winds sneaked through the cracks of the poorly heated cabin,
the pile of firewood next to the stone fireplace dwindling down to almost nothing. Papa staggered through the door, eyes watery red, snowy boots leaving a
trail of white on the just swept rug as he stomped his feet. An icy look on his
round, whiskered face matched the frigid temperatures. Emma shivered in
the straight-back chair and drew the wool blanket up closer around her neck,
tucking the book she'd been reading beneath its folds.

"What you doin, girl?" he growled, slamming the door shut behind him, bloodshot eyes narrow and suspicious. "How come I don't smell no supper
cookin'?"

"We're outa most all the food, Papa. All that's left is some flour and oil
and a few cans of beans." She drew her knees up close to her chest, hoping he
wouldn't find her book. He'd accuse her of laziness for sure. No matter that
she'd spent the afternoon sweeping, dusting, and shoveling a narrow path to
the rickety old outhouse. Her ten-year-old muscles felt sore and fatigued.

"Then cook the lousy beans, missy."

"We've had beans three times this week, Papa."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to reclaim them. Papa
didn't take nicely to backtalk. He reached her in two long strides and gave her
the back of his hand. The force of the blow was enough to knock her off the
chair, sending her precious book of Bible stories in another direction.

With his beefy hand he retrieved the book and held it at arm's length.
Papa couldn't read, but he squinted at the words as if in doing so he might be
able to make out its title. "What's this nonsense?" he asked.

"Miss Abbottgave it to me," she confessed, her cheek still burning like hot
coals where his hand had struck it. She wouldn't mention the book's contents.

"That old lady what runs the boardinghouse? How many times I gotta
tell you to stay away from that religious crazy?"

Emma pulled herself upright. "Can I have my book back, Papa?" she
squeaked out, ignoring his remark. Miss Abbott was as close as Emma would
ever come to having a mother, or a grandmother, for that matter. Nearly every
day after school she took an extra minute to swing by the older woman's boardinghouse to receive a warm hug and, if she was lucky, cookies and a tall glass
of milk.