Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (10 page)

“What do I have to spend my earnings on, besides a drink now and then?”

“You’d have to give that up if you ever had a mind to impress Mercy Evans.”

“That’s already been determined.”

“Oh? She already laid down the law to you, did she?” His eyes crinkled in the corners.

“Not in so many words.” Sam frowned. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“I’m on the side that’s right.” Clarence shuffled to the door. “I’m goin’ out to the johnny.”

“What do you mean, ‘the side that’s right’?”

The older gentleman put a callused hand to the door latch, sighed, and then partially turned to regard Sam with eyes that had the ability to see straight through him. “When you go home tonight, you read from the Good Book. You’ve got a Bible, don’t you?”

“Somewhere, yep.”

“Well, I want you to dust it off and read the twenty-ninth chapter of Jeremiah, payin’ special attention to verses eleven through thirteen. Then, get on those knees of yours and seek the Lord with all your heart. Ask Him who’s the better choice for Mercy Evans and those boys.”

“I already know I’m the better choice. Beauchamp’s too old to want to pour his time and effort into two raucous little tykes.”

Up went those gray eyebrows again. “If you’re so sure about that, then you’d best also ask Him to give her a like mind. I overheard Juanita sayin’ she heard from somebody or ’nother that someone else told ’im she was hitchin’ up this comin’ weekend.”

“That’s a lot of somebodies out there talkin’ about stuff they know little about. For someone who doesn’t cotton to gossip, I’d say you had your listenin’ ears on this mornin’, Uncle.”

He gave a lopsided grin and sniffed. “Just lookin’ out for my nephew, that’s all.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Well….” The man shifted his weight to the other foot and pulled on his beard. “Gossip or not, one thing is clear: Judge Corbett gave that little lady thirty days to find a husband. Since she wants to hang on t’ them boys, I’d say she’s goin’ to be hitchin’ up with somebody right quick here, maybe this weekend. Question is, who?”

“She’s already made that pretty clear.”

“Humph. You’re givin’ up awful easy, aren’t you? Sometimes, you’ve got to fight for a woman. You ever done that? No, didn’t think so.”

The man didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“Might be you could have a little talk with Harold yourself,” Uncle Clarence continued. “See where he stands, exactly.”

“What? You mean, pay him a visit?”

His uncle chuckled under his breath and gave his head a little shake. “My, my, things could prove mighty interestin’ if you two hitched up. Yep, mighty interestin’, indeed.”

Uncle Clarence stepped outside and shut the door, leaving Sam with a gaping mouth and a load of things to mull over. He could hear Clarence resume whistling the hymn, the tuneful melody merging with the song of the black-capped chickadees and whip-poor-wills.

***

In the morning, Mercy dropped the boys off at Mrs. Parsons’ house. The older woman had been so helpful in caring for them since the fire, and so Mercy was dismayed when the woman announced her plans to spend the rest of the summer with her daughter in Nashville. “I figured my leavin’ wouldn’t matter much, since you’ll be marryin’ soon,” she said. “I do hope you understand.”

“I’ll still need someone to watch the boys during the day while I work,” Mercy explained.

The woman’s brow crumpled like a stomped tin can. “I should think you’ll be stayin’ home once you marry Mr. Beauchamp. He makes a decent enough livin’, don’t he?”

Mercy was grateful the boys had gone straight to the backyard to explore, and were not within earshot of the conversation. She cleared her throat. “Who told you about my plans to marry the postmaster, if I may ask?”

“Oh, gracious, I don’t know. It’s all over town.” Instant dread etched the woman’s wrinkled countenance. “You ain’t the last to find out, are you? Good grief, I hope folks hain’t been spreadin’ lies, but, you know, your situation is a rather peculiar one, so it has caught the attention of lots o’ folks.”

Mercy sighed and shook her head. “I understand that people are curious. And, no, it’s not a lie. I wouldn’t say it’s exactly official, though. Mr. Beauchamp and I haven’t come to a firm agreement.”

“I see.” The elderly woman found a hair on her chin and began twirling it between her thumb and index finger, her gray eyes seeming to size up the matter. “Mr. Beauchamp is a fine man, but….” She pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows down.

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t mean t’ sound petty or anythin’, but he ain’t what you’d call the handsomest critter in Paris. Truth told, I’ve seen some stray mutts ’bout town with better looks than his.”

At that, Mercy nearly choked because, doggone it, Mrs. Parsons spoke the truth. It was a shame her betrothed couldn’t have been blessed with handsomer features. Still, he remained her best choice, no matter that Sam Connors had offered his hand mere hours ago, his visit having made for an almost sleepless night.

She thanked Mrs. Parsons for watching the boys, then trudged next door to Doc Trumble’s. She climbed the porch steps, wiped her shoes on the rug, and entered the house, the entire main level of which consisted of Doc’s medical practice, the front parlor being the waiting room, with ten or so sturdy wooden chairs surrounding a large brick fireplace. Down the hall, several rooms served as examining areas. There was a small pharmacy, with cabinets where Doc kept his medical supplies, a tiny kitchen and washroom, and four rooms furnished with cots for long-term patients. The second floor served as the residence of Doc Trumble and his wife, Nora.

As Mercy entered the vacant office, which would soon be bustling with patients eager to see the doctor, she reflected on attending to Sam Connors—bandaging his burn wounds, sticking a thermometer under his tongue, forcing water and broth down his parched throat, assisting him in walking around the room to keep his muscles active, and encouraging him to cough up as much black mucus as he could, to prevent him from falling victim to pneumonia. All the while, he’d tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d ignored him, telling him now was not the time for talking but for concentrating on his recovery.

Looking back, she realized she’d put up a wall thick enough to prevent herself from entertaining as much as a smidgeon of curiosity about him. He remained untouchable in her eyes—and certainly an impossible candidate for marriage, considering her family’s certain reaction. On the other hand, they highly endorsed Harold Beauchamp for his strong religious values, not to mention his high standing in the community. How ironic that on the outside, they all wanted to be looked upon as virtuous, but on the inside, they seethed with bitterness at their enemies, placing the Connors clan on the same level as the devil himself. And from what she knew, the Connors did the same, attending Sunday services while harboring equal loathing for the Evanses. Would it ever end? Could she not do anything to help stop the hate and to heal the wounds of the past? She had great passion and even talent for helping to cure the physical body, but the inner soul? No, that was God’s department.

Love is the key, My child. Step out in faith and do the unthinkable. Trust Me.
The insight flashed across her mind so abruptly that she stopped short in the middle of the parlor, looked toward the ceiling, and then gazed about the room, as if to identify from which direction the Voice had come.
“Do the unthinkable”
? What did that mean?
Lord, are You speaking to me?

The sound of Doc’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs forced her to dismiss, for the time being, the wild notion that God just might be telling her to marry—of all people—Samuel Connors.

9

I
t had been one of those days when even taking a moment to breathe seemed a luxury. By the time four gongs chimed on the grandfather clock in the hallway, marking the final appointment of the day, Doc had admitted two patients for an overnight stay, sent several home with pills and tonics for stomach problems and coughs, bandaged up a few wounds, and even set a bone or two. Why, even Mrs. Trumble had come downstairs to help, as she did when the workload became more than Doc and Mercy could handle alone. She was happy to perform any task she was able—unless there was blood, the mere sight of which sent her into a dead faint.

Given her weak stomach and low tolerance for sickness and death, Mercy wondered how she and Doc Trumble had wound up together, even though their love for each other easily bridged the vast differences between them. Apparently, there was some truth to the adage “Opposites attract.” It boded well for her and Harold Beauchamp, who, beyond a shared love for God, had very little in common. Of course, she probably had even less in common with Sam Connors, and why she persisted in even allowing his image to pop up in her mind’s eye perturbed her something fierce.

Mrs. Trumble entered the waiting room, where Mercy was straightening chairs. “Isn’t it time you went and retrieved those boys, Mercy? Let me finish cleaning up. You’re looking mighty spent, if I may say so.”

Mercy blew several strands of dark hair off her face. “Does it show that much?”

The woman folded her arms across her portly bosom. “You’ve taken on quite an assignment in caring for those youngsters, young lady. It would be too much for most people.”

“I’ll admit, it worries me some, but I know I’ll manage fine.”

“A husband will help share the burden.”

“I’d have preferred it not come down to that, but the judge was adamant.”

Mrs. Trumble offered her a half smile. “I understand, but he’s only thinking of those boys’ best interests. Mr. Beauchamp will make a fine father figure for them.”

Mercy sighed. “Is there no one in town who hasn’t heard Mr. Beauchamp is my primary contender?”

The older woman laughed. “Can’t get much by the people of Paris. Your situation is big news around here.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Mrs. Trumble’s gaze traveled over Mercy’s shoulder and out the window. “Speaking of the postmaster….”

Mercy whirled around. Sure enough, the roundish, balding man was making his way up the front walk. Her stomach clenched. What had brought him here? She didn’t remember arranging to get together today. Had he come to pay her a spontaneous visit? Or had he taken ill and come in search of medical attention?

Mercy stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. “Hello, Mr. Beauchamp.”

Seeing her, he halted, removed his bowler hat, and took to turning it in his hands. “Miss Evans.” He nodded. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your workday.”

“No, not at all. I was about to pick up the boys from Mrs. Parsons’. I must say I’m surprised to see you. Did you close the post office early?”

“No. Mr. Lawson, my clerk, is manning it for a while.”

“I see. Is everything okay?”

“Uh…not exactly.”

“Dear me, you don’t look so good. Do you need to see the doctor?”

“No, nothing like that.” Sweat beads had formed on his forehead and now dripped down his plump face. “I’ve come to talk to you about this…marriage deal.”

“Oh.”
Marriage deal?
Uncertainty made her pulse accelerate. “In that case, why don’t you come up on the porch so we can talk?” The sweltering heat only exacerbated her sense of dread.

Next door, a screen door slammed shut, and the squeals of John Roy and Joseph traveled over. “Mercy! Are you comin’ to git us now?” This from John Roy, who ran across the drive separating the two houses, Joseph close behind. After greeting her with a hug, they commenced skipping up and down the wooden steps.

Mrs. Parsons ambled out onto her front stoop and shielded her eyes against the sun. “Hullo there, Miss Evans! Them boys is plain anxious to see you. Guess they’re tuckered out from all the jobs I gave ’em today.”

Mercy smiled. “Thank you for watching them,” she called back. “I appreciate it.”

Mrs. Parsons flicked her wrist. “Think nothin’ of it. My pleasure. They sure got energy, though.” Turning to go back inside, she gave Mr. Beauchamp a quick appraisal. “Afternoon, Mr. Beauchamp. Lovely day, ain’t it? Plenty hot, though.”

He shuffled his feet. “Yes, ma’am. Quite so.”

“Well, you have a good afternoon, both o’ you.” Her skirts flared as she disappeared inside her house, the screen door flapping against the frame.

“We helped Mrs. Parsons clean out ’er shed today,” Joseph announced to Mercy.

“Did you now?”

The boy stretched to his full height, which wasn’t saying much. “She gived us cookies and milk afterward, ’cause we done so good.”

She ruffled his hair, noting that it needed a trim. Add that to the long list of things to think about with boys, along with clothing, shoes, toys, and games. Heavens, she needed a man just to help her sort out all their needs. She hoped Mr. Beauchamp was up for the task.

John Roy gazed down at him from the porch steps. “Are you comin’ over for supper again, Mr. Bonechomp?”

Mercy almost laughed at the mispronunciation, but the postmaster merely cleared his throat and gave her a desperate glance, so she cleared her throat to cover her giggle. “Um…boys, why don’t you go out back and play a bit? Mr. Beauchamp and I have some discussing to do.”

“’Bout your weddin’?” asked Joseph.

“Uh, yes,” she answered. “Go on, now.”

They bounded off the steps and made for the backyard.

“Now then, Mr. Beauchamp—or perhaps I should begin calling you Harold—why don’t you come up on the porch and make yourself comfortable?”

But something in his expression told her that making himself comfortable was the last thing he’d be doing. He lowered his gaze. “I’m not sure I’ll be staying long.”

Her heart bumped hard against her chest, and she took a deep breath, fighting down her dread. “I see.”

“I’ll just get on with it,” he said, casting her a troubled glance. “I’m not so sure this marriage is a good idea, after all. I’m afraid I—”

“Please, Mr. Beauchamp, don’t do this to me!” She flew off the porch. “You are my only hope for keeping those boys.”

The outburst surprised Mercy almost as much as Mr. Beauchamp, who stepped back, his eyes wide with alarm.