Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (21 page)

I understand that you married Mercy Evans. (News travels fast and far, though I learned this not from my parents or siblings but from my childhood friend Adelaide Lawson, who still lives in Paris. We keep in contact, but I confess not even she knows the reason I’ve never come home.) I’m sure your Mercy is a fine woman, but I fear her last name alone will bring you great strife. I am aware of damage already done to your property.

I have something important to tell you about, but I cannot write it in a letter. For that reason, I ask that you come to Nashville at your earliest convenience. Do not bring anyone with you. In fact, tell no one of your plans to visit me—or even about this letter. The sooner you come, the sooner your questions will be answered.

Hank and I have room to accommodate your overnight stay. I look forward to seeing you. I shall await your reply so that I can prepare for your visit.

Best regards,
Persephone Greve

Sam refolded the letter and looked at Mercy. Her eyes seemed to have taken on a darker, sharper hue than before, perhaps due to the reflection off the flaming lamp on the side table or the sheer intentness with which she’d listened. He heard her breath catch, and he wanted nothing more than to reassure her. But he needed reassurance himself!

“Tell me your thoughts,” he said.

“My thoughts?” She met his gaze, her brow crimped with confusion. “I…I don’t know what to think. I’m a little mystified.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

“When will you go see her?”

“I can’t go right away. Uncle Clarence and I are swamped with orders. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“Surely, he’d understand. Whatever information your cousin has seems urgent.”

“I know, but there are other things to consider—namely, my concern about leavin’ you and the boys alone.”

“That’s really quite funny,” she said, actually giggling. “I’ve been pretty much on my own ever since my ma died, and I had the boys to myself for a few weeks before you moved in. I think we’ll survive just fine.”

“But your property hadn’t been vandalized before, either. I’m worried somethin’ else might happen while I’m gone. I think I’ll give it a week or so, just to make sure things remain quiet around here. And when I do decide to go, no one but you and Uncle Clarence will know I’m out of town.”

“The Lord will take care of us. I’m not worried.”

The kitchen door slammed shut, and the boys came pounding down the hall. “Mercy, where are you?” John Roy squealed.

“We’re in here,” she called.

The boys rounded the corner, then stopped, breathing hard, and peered at them through troubled-looking blue eyes. “We can’t find Barney,” said Joseph. “He went through the bushes and din’t come back out.”

“How do you know it was Barney and not Roscoe?” Sam asked.

“’Cause Barney gots more black on one side than Roscoe,” John Roy said. “See?” He held up the supposed Roscoe.

“Ah, so that’s how you tell.” Sam smiled. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come back. He’s probably just sniffin’ things out.”

“Dogs sniff things out,” Mercy corrected him, with a glance that seemed to question his intelligence. “Cats sneak.”

“Oh. Well then, he’s probably sneakin’ up on somethin’—maybe a mouse.”

“Somebody tooked him,” said John Roy.

“What would make you think that?”

“’Cause we heard somebody,” said Joseph.

An unsettling feeling spread through Sam’s stomach. He slid forward on the sofa. “What do you mean, you heard somebody?”

“Barney meowed real loud,” John Roy said, “and then we heard somebody run away on the other side of the bushes.”

Now Mercy eased forward, her skirts brushing against Sam’s leg. “Which side of the yard?”

Joseph pointed to his left. “Over there.”

She angled Sam a worried glance to match the boys’. “The shrubs are tall on that side. Old Mr. Ferguson likes his privacy, so he rarely trims them.”

“Is he disgruntled?” Sam asked. “I mean, would he…you know?”

Mercy shook her head. “No. No, he’s not like that. He enjoys his solitude, but he’s a kindly old man. He would never….”

Good thing she’d read his mind. He hadn’t wanted to alarm the boys by asking directly if the man would intentionally hurt their pet.

Sam pushed himself up, then winked at the boys. “Think I’ll go outside and investigate for myself. How’s that sound?”

Mercy nearly beat him to a standing position, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “I’ll come with you.”

“Uh, no, you won’t.”

“Why not?”

He turned his back to the boys, lifting his brows at her. “Because one of us should stay with them.” This he said through gritted teeth.

She took a baby step back as understanding dawned. “All right, then. I’ll get them ready for their bath.”

He gave a quick smile, then faced the boys again. “That’s a fine idea. Boys, you go on upstairs with Mercy.”

“But….” Joseph balked. “What if you can’t find Barney?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

But he didn’t find him, even after prowling around the neighborhood for the next hour, calling the fur ball by name. He looked under neighbors’ porches, behind bushes, even up in trees, all the while listening for the tiniest meow, but all he heard were those same barking dogs, the occasional clomp of horses’ hooves, and the squeak of a wagon wheel in need of greasing. To say he was perplexed put it lightly. How could a kitten escape so easily, unless—as Joseph had said—someone had taken it? Why anybody would steal a kitten from an innocent kid was beyond him. More baffling—and far more disturbing—was the timing, for how could someone have pulled off a catnapping unless he’d been watching the house, waiting for the opportunity? A shiver ran down Sam’s body as he made his way back to the house.

Mercy met him at the door, wringing her hands. “Did you find him?” she whispered frantically.

He looked up the stairs, then back at her. “Where’re the boys?”

“Tucked in bed, but Joseph is having none of it. He’s up there crying because John Roy is hogging Roscoe, and he doesn’t have a kitten to cuddle.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know where Barney could be. I looked everywhere.”

“How could one little kitten disappear so quickly? I don’t like that Joseph thought he heard footsteps. Do you think he really did, or could it have been his imagination?” There was a distinct tremor in Mercy’s voice, and, for the second time that evening, he felt the need to reassure her.

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure Barney’s fine. He’s probably just hidin’ somewhere, and he’ll show up in the mornin’.”

She moved out from under his hand. “In the morning? That little guy is too young to be out at night all alone. He’s not big enough to defend himself. We have to find him.” She hiked up her skirts and pushed past him, nearly knocking him off balance. He snagged her by the arm, and she whirled around. “Let go. I need to find Barney.”

“He’s a cat, Mercy. He’ll find his way.”

“What? How can you say that? He’s a helpless little kitten, too small for his instincts to have kicked in yet.” She was serious, and the sheen in her eyes said she was also near to tears.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I told you, I’m going out to find him.”

“I’ve just spent the past hour lookin’ for him, and I tell you, he’s not out there.”

“Did you find Barney?” came a small voice from upstairs.

They spun around. Joseph stood at the top of the staircase, gazing down at them, eyes hopeful.

Sam shook his head. “No, buddy, but don’t worry yourself. Like I just told Mercy, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

In the shadows, Sam could see the boy’s face drop just before the bawling erupted. Mercy left Sam’s side and hurried up the stairs to enfold him in her arms. All the commotion brought a sleepy-eyed John Roy out of the bedroom, Roscoe tucked under one arm. The sight of his brother’s hysteria brought him to tears, as well, and soon, even Mercy had joined the crying chorus. Sam darted up the stairs himself, meeting his little makeshift family at the top and encircling all of them in a tight embrace. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh, it’ll be all right. No need to cry.”

But he figured they
did
have need to cry, every one of them. They’d already lost so much. Losing poor little Barney was more than any of them could bear right now. And as he stood there, hugging them close, he came to a startling realization.

He loved all three of them.

20

M
ercy and the boys cried for the next several minutes, taking turns sucking in gasps and expelling sighs between rounds of tears. Then, Sam gently led them downstairs, talking in low, soothing tones as they descended. He situated them on the couch in the living room, across from the fireplace, with Mercy in the middle, then knelt on one knee in front of them, his large, callused hands resting atop the boys’ knees in a fatherly gesture. He didn’t try to shush them, as before; he just let them cry, and Mercy noticed that his own eyes appeared slightly damp in the corners.

Mercy sniffled, trying to stanch the flow of her own tears. What in the world must Sam think? It was bad enough that he had two sobbing children to tend to, but a wife who’d also lost control of her faculties? She wouldn’t blame him if he visited Judge Corbett tomorrow and asked him to start the annulment proceedings. He’d bitten off more than he’d bargained for when he’d “married” the three of them.

There was a lull in the boys’ crying spasms, and Joseph swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and whimpered, “I miss Barney.”

“I know you do, son,” Sam soothed. “I’ll look for him some more after you go back to bed. How’s that?”

Whether it was the mention of missing something or the idea of going back to bed, something triggered an all-new eruption from John Roy. “I m-miss Mama an’ Papa.”

A painful gasp came out of Mercy at the unexpected statement. Sam cupped the boy’s head from behind and drew him to his chest, then locked gazes with Mercy. “Of course you do.” Her heart split down the center. There it was—the bedrock reason behind their shattered emotions, Barney’s disappearance having put a chink in their heavy armor. Till now, they’d held themselves together from day to day with tiny threads of self-restraint, but this latest development had broken down their flimsy resolve and forced reality to the surface. Death had visited them, and none of them had fully dealt with its hammering blow. Fresh tears trailed down Mercy’s damp cheeks at the realization that she couldn’t comfort the boys in the way they needed when she could barely contain her own anguish. How she thanked God for Sam’s strong presence in that moment.

“Papa used to t-tuck us in,” cried Joseph.

“And M-Mama readed us s-stories,” said John Roy between hiccupping sighs.

“And sang us songs.”

John Roy cried louder.

Joseph cut loose a wail that nearly took off the roof. “Why’d they have t’ die?”

The question shot out like a bullet, one they’d all been dodging every day since the disaster had struck. Unfortunately, it hit its mark tonight—square in their aching chests.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, his tone wavering. “It was their time, I suppose.”

Mercy pulled herself together as best she could. “But it wasn’t
your
time, and we must look at it that way—that God had a special purpose in bringing Sam to your rescue. God has plans for you, boys, and for all of us, and someday He’ll reveal them to each of us.” She knew she spoke far above their level of understanding. Heavenly mercies, she spoke above her own. “I don’t claim to have the answers, by any means, but this one thing I know: God loves us, and He wants us to trust Him, especially when times are hard.”

Her words seemed to have a calming effect, even on her. The four of them spent the next few seconds in sober silence, sniffing and pondering private thoughts, and then Joseph aimed his gaze at Sam. “You was ar angel.”

Sam produced a weak smile and tousled the boy’s downy hair. “I know you’ve said that, but, believe me, I’m no angel. I was just at the right place at the right time.”

“No.” He shook his head stubbornly. “God sent you to save us. Mercy said so.”

Now Sam’s eyes welled up. He lowered his head and studied the floor for a moment, then raised his gaze to meet Mercy’s, blinking away tears. “All right, I’ll accept that.”

Mercy reached out and touched Sam on the forearm. It was the first she’d felt his firm muscle, and she found it comforting if not intriguing. The only men she’d ever had intentional physical contact with had been patients of Doc Trumble’s, and she realized with suddenness what a sheltered existence she lived. “Thank you, Sam,” she managed.

“For what?”

“For just…helping us through this.”

He smiled and laid his hand on hers, and the warmth of his touch sent a surprising tingle straight up her arm. “At no time do I want any of you to hold back your tears.” His voice was firm yet gentle. “If you need to cry, you get it out, you hear? And if you ever need to talk about…that night, well, you just feel free to do it. Everybody understand?”

Still conscious of his hand on hers, Mercy pulled away—lest he detect her quickening pulse—and put it back where it had been, around Joseph’s narrow shoulder. She tugged both boys closer. “I think we all feel a little better now, don’t we, boys?”

They gave slow, quiet nods.

“A good cry never hurt anybody,” said Sam, his steady voice soothing her senses.

Joseph wiped his drippy nose. “Mama tol’ us cryin’ keeps your head from achin’.”

John Roy nodded against Mercy’s chest, where her dress fabric stuck to her bosom from having soaked up so many of his tears. “An’ from esplodin’.”

Despite it all, Mercy chuckled. “Exploding?”

John Roy sat back and blinked bloodshot eyes at her. “If you don’t cry, your tears’ll fill up your head and make it burst wide open.”

She and Sam shared a smile. “That’s good to know, isn’t it, Sam?”

“Indeed. We don’t want any explodin’ heads.” Sam smiled. “Your mother was very wise to tell you that cryin’ can be a good thing.”

“’Specially when y’r bleedin’,” Joseph put in. “If y’r jus’ cryin’ ’cause you din’t get your way, y’ain’t supposed to cry.”