Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (6 page)

Mrs. Whintley’s gaze lifted from the boys to Mercy. “And how are you doing, Miss Evans?”

“I’m managing at the moment.”

“Ah, yes, ‘at the moment.’ I heard about the judge’s decision.” She chewed her lower lip, and Mercy could about imagine the stirrings going on inside that feather-topped head of silver hair. “Also heard tell you’re lookin’ for a husband. I didn’t read your advertisement, mind you, but I’ve heard plenty of talk. Why, you’re the main topic of conversation about town.”

Mercy didn’t doubt her for a minute. Ever since she’d placed the ad in the
Paris Post-Intelligencer
, her ears hadn’t stopped itching, nor had folks stopped staring at her like she’d lost her last scrap of common sense. She suppressed a sigh.

“Any, uh…”—the woman leaned in close and lifted her graying eyebrows so high, they disappeared under her hat, her greenish eyes twinkling like twin stars—“promisin’ prospects?”

Having grown fidgety in their waiting, the boys let go of Mercy’s hands and went in search of sticks. Keeping a close watch on them out of the corner of her eye, she muttered under her breath, “I don’t know that you’d call them promising, no.”

Oh, she’d gotten plenty of calls—in fact, her door knocker had taken quite a beating of late—but her options were limited. Paris plain lacked eligible bachelors, and the ones who did qualify were either missing a front tooth or two, had a gnat-sized brain, or, sorry to say, hadn’t learned the finer skills of bathing. Granted, there were some not so hard on the eye, but they were lacking in either personality or proper motives, drawn in by the appeal of a nice house over their heads and caring not one smidgeon about the boys. Worst were the clowns who got the wrong idea about their sleeping arrangements, assuming she’d welcome them straight into her bed.

“So, you’re sayin’ you’ve had no luck?”

She really didn’t care to discuss her private life with Mrs. Whintley, the woman dubbed “town crier” by many. Still, giving her a few crumbs would make her feel important, as if she had an edge, and keep her busy sharing her privileged information—for the next few days, at least.

“Well, if you promise not to say anything….”

Mrs. Whintley’s eyes went round as pennies, as she bobbed her head up and down several times.

“I will tell you that I do have a few possibly good prospects. One is”—the poor woman held her breath and looked ready to fall over—“oh, I best not say his name, but he’s a professional about town—a fine Christian man who’s never married. He would probably do quite well. And then, there is Mr.—oh! Again, I mustn’t let the name slip. Let’s just say he’s a widower who lives outside of town. I doubt you know him. Let’s see….” She scratched her temple, feigning deep thought. “Oh, yes! Another man I don’t know, whose sister wrote to tell him of my plight, will be arriving on the afternoon train tomorrow to meet me.”

Mrs. Whintley’s jaw dropped. “Gracious me! Really?”

Mercy nodded. What she’d said was true enough, except for the part about them being “good prospects.” Perhaps Harold Beauchamp, the forty-something postmaster, who would remain nameless to Wilma Whintley, came the closest in terms of decent possibilities, but only because he understood her immediate need, had always treated her with utmost respect, and hadn’t seemed to object when she’d explained the rule of separate bedrooms. If anything, he’d blushed profusely at the mention of it. Best, he professed to know the Lord, which, of course, rated of utmost importance. Unfortunately, the poor fellow had a pudgy belly, thinning hairline, and crooked teeth that hampered his smile—which also hampered her spirits.

Of course, she had yet to meet Caroline Hammerstrom’s brother. He could be her perfect match, for all she knew. After all, she’d been praying unceasingly ever since paying Judge Corbett a visit and learning she must find a husband. Surely, God would answer her prayer, sooner than later.

A horse whinnied, and a deep-throated “Whoa” turned both women’s heads. Sam Connors, riding high and straight and looking fully recovered from his brush with death, pulled back on the reins of his shining black steed, bringing it to a halt at the side of the road. He gave the women a cursory nod and lifted his hat an inch from his curly head before replacing it, but the boys received his full attention. At first sight of him, they both dropped their sticks and ran to meet him.

Mrs. Whintley bumped against Mercy and murmured under her breath, “My mother’s milk cow, Miss Evans. Now, there’s a man for you. It’s a cryin’ shame your families don’t get along.”

A shame indeed
, Mercy thought. But, the family feud aside, she couldn’t marry the man whose father had murdered her pa. No sir, never in a million years. Not even if God wrote the command in the sand with a stick.

5

S
am looped the reins over Tucker’s saddle horn. The worn leather of the stirrups creaked as he raised himself up, swung one big leg over the horse’s rear, and jumped down, making the dust fly. He brushed off his pants and smiled down at the boys, patting them both on their sandy heads and taking care not to gawk at Mercy Evans, who looked mighty pretty today in her pale blue skirt and fitted floral blouse with low, rounded neckline and shiny buttons climbing up her front. She had her black-as-midnight hair pulled back in a loose bun, as usual, the strings of the ribbon woven around it and tied in a bow dangling to her neckline, and a few homespun curls framing her face. She was a scrumptious sight, if he did say so—but, again, quite untouchable.

“You never came to see us,” said the older of the two boys—Joseph, if he recalled correctly. He had just a wisp of a grin on his face, making Sam wonder what, if anything, would make him smile these days. Sam would just about give away his left arm to finagle a giggle out of either one of them.

“No, I don’t guess I did. I’ve gone back to work, so I’ve been pretty busy. That don’t mean I haven’t thought plenty about you, though. You doin’ okay?”

Neither boy responded; they merely lifted their slim little shoulders in a slight shrug. The gesture tugged at his heart, and he turned his eyes on Miss Evans—the “husband hunter,” as he’d been mentally referring to her—and the older woman standing beside her. The unknown woman stepped forward and extended a hand. “Good mornin’, sir. I’m Wilma Whintley. My Wilfred, rest his soul, surely did appreciate your blacksmithin’ services.”

Oh yes, the infamous Widow Whintley. Poor woman. He’d often heard others refer to her as Wilma “Windbag” Whintley, due to her extreme love for gossip. He tipped his hat at her. “Nice meetin’ you, ma’am. You let me know if you have need of any metalwork.”

“Yes, indeed I shall. Well, I’ll be goin’ now. I’m to meet Mrs. Rutherford and a few other members of the Paris Women’s Club to discuss our annual city picnic in late August. Perhaps I’ll see you there, Mr. Connors.” To Mercy, she added, “And you be sure to come as well, Miss Evans, and bring those boys—that is, if you still…you know….”

“Yes, yes, I will. Thank you. Good-bye, ma’am.”

Sam watched the woman skedaddle across the street, her bustle bouncing behind her like a jumpy dog.

Mercy let out a noticeable sigh.

He chuckled. “Good friend of yours?”

She glanced across the street. “A neighbor.” Then, blowing out a loud breath, she surveyed him hastily. “So, you’ve returned to work, have you? I take it you’re feeling much better, then.”

“A whale of a lot better than I did a week ago. Doc says I shouldn’t have gone back to work yet, but I’m no good just sittin’ around. Thanks for askin’ after me, nurse. I wasn’t aware you cared.”

She slapped at a fly, then shielded her eyes from the sun. “I was asking as a professional courtesy, of course.”

He grinned. “Of course. By the way, not sure I ever did thank you for takin’ me in that night.”

“I assure you, I didn’t take you in—willingly, that is—and you certainly weren’t around long enough for me to do you much good. Your mother saw to that.”

Did he detect a bit of antagonism? “My mother can be somewhat of a nuisance, I’ll give you that. I don’t know what she said to you when she and my cousins came bargin’ into your house, but whatever it was, let me just apologize for her rudeness.”

“You certainly don’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.” She drew the boys close and looked at him. “We want to thank you again for running into that blazing house. I don’t know how…or why….”

He flicked a wrist. “Never mind that. I’m just glad I acted when I did. There wasn’t another soul around at the time, so I didn’t have a second to waste.” He set his eyes on the boys now. “By the way, which one of you wrote that fine thank-you letter I got in the mail the other day?”

Joseph raised his hand as if he were sitting in a schoolroom. A lively grin popped out on his handsome young face, and Sam wondered if it was the first time since the fire. “Mercy helped me. She spelled the words, and I writed all the letters.”

“And so did I!” John Roy piped up. “Help, I mean.”

“You didn’t write it,” Joseph said.

“No, but I tol’ you some of the words t’ write!”

Mercy applied a bit of pressure to their shoulders. “Boys.”

Sam looked at her, searching his memory for a prettier face but coming up empty. Giving himself a mental rebuke, he turned his attention back to the boys, bending at the waist and touching both their noses. “It was mighty fine o’
both
of you to send the letter. I folded it up and put it back in the envelope for safekeepin’.”

Mercy cleared her throat. “Well, we must be on our way, as we have a number of errands to run. Nice to see you, Mr. Connors.” She made an attempt to turn the boys in the opposite direction.

“Likewise. Oh, one more thing, Miss Evans.” He raised his index finger. “Just curious how that, uh, advertisement scheme of yours is workin’ out.”

She blinked and promptly blushed. “I wasn’t aware you’d heard about it.”

He couldn’t help but throw back his head and laugh. “Heard about it?” He removed his Stetson, ran a hand through his tangled hair, then plopped the hat back in place. “Is there anyone in all of Henry County who hasn’t? You’ve made quite a stir.”

She pulled back her shoulders and sniffed. “I figured folks would find my public notice a bit out of the ordinary—desperate, even—but I hardly expected anyone to find it humorous, Mr. Connors. In fact, I would expect you to cheer me on, seeing as you are the one who saved these boys from perishing in the fire.”

Well, she did have a way of wiping the grin right off his face. He collected himself and glanced down at the boys, both of whom stared up at him with looks of confusion. He doubted they were aware of her plan. “Do you have any serious contenders?”

She lifted her chin. “Perhaps. Actually, yes.” With her curt reply, she turned the boys around, took their hands in hers, and proceeded up the street without so much as a “Good day.”

“Wait!” He clicked at Tucker, who lifted his head and ambled toward them. “Who are they—your prospective…you know?”

She whirled. “It is none of your concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the boys and I have errands to run.” Again, she turned and set off.

He snagged her by the arm, not hard, but enough to bring a halt to her steps. Tucker snorted, as if to say,
“Make up your mind. Are we coming or going?”
“Darn tootin’ it’s my concern. You just said yourself I ought to be cheerin’ you on.” He spread his arms. “Well, here I am, cheerin’ you on. Now, tell me who you’ve picked.”

“I haven’t picked anyone—yet. But with all the callers I’ve had, I wouldn’t expect it to take much longer.”

He rocked back on his boot heels and ignored the annoying stirring in his chest. What was it? Mere curiosity? Or, worse, jealousy? “You’ve had a lot of interest, then?”

“Let’s just say I’ll need to repaint my porch steps for all the traffic they’ve had.”

Although he knew she’d meant the remark in jest, she didn’t break a grin—more like a smirk. Oh, she was an imp, and it irked him that she attracted him. Somehow, he knew that given the chance to dig, he’d find a sense of humor buried beneath that thick shield she wore so snugly around her. This was a strong woman who’d known pain but had learned the art of mastering it.

“So, you have how much time left to make this…this decision?”

“A couple of weeks. But I’ll be making it sooner than that, as there’s the wed—the ceremony to plan.”

“Performed by a preacher, I presume. And what if he doesn’t approve of this little plot you’ve cooked up?”

She bristled. “I’ll have you know I haven’t ‘cooked up’ anything. I’m being forced into it. And for your information, I’ve spoken to Reverend Younker, and he understands my predicament. As long as I marry a fine Christian man”—was it his imagination, or did she throw him a scornful glance?—“he’s agreed to perform the nuptials and bless the union.”

Joseph’s head jerked up. “You’re gettin’ married?”

Mercy snarled, and with a scowl to scare away a skunk, she looked Sam square in the eyes. “Now look what you’ve made me do.” She turned on her heel. “Come on, boys.” And with that, she set off again, this time at a much faster pace, so that the boys had to run to keep up.

“Huh? I didn’t
make
you do anything, lady!” He tagged along behind, Tucker clip-clopping after. “It was your tongue that slipped, not mine. And, just so you know, they were bound to find out anyway. Why the big secret?”

Without turning, she let go of Joseph’s hand and gave a backward wave. “Good-bye, Mr. Connors!” Then, taking Joseph’s hand again, she whisked the boys across the street, her long skirts blowing in the wind. The last thing Sam heard was little John Roy’s pleading voice. “Ouch! My side hurts. Why’re we runnin’? Who’s gettin’ married?”

He watched until the threesome had vanished from view, and then he climbed back in the saddle, sputtering to himself. “What in tarnation do I care who she marries?”

6

T
he next few days went by in a storm of male callers. Apparently, news of Mercy’s infamous ad had spread beyond Henry County. Oh, how she’d beseeched the Lord to lend her wisdom. The biblical command
“Pray without ceasing”
had taken on a literal meaning. She knelt at her bedside each night; prayed while she dutifully performed her job in the doctor’s office, with the boys playing next door at the home of Etta Parsons, a grandmotherly type with a world of energy and love; and pleaded to the Father as she went about her household chores, both kids talking and sometimes bickering in the background. She needed a whole wagonload of wisdom, but, so far, God had not shed one particle of light on what she should do or whom she should choose as a life mate. About the only words she got from Him were gentle reminders to wait and trust.
Wait and trust?
Really?
When the clock kept ticking?