Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (20 page)

“I
was
, but the scamp unraveled most of my work.” She went down on her knees and reached under the bed, presenting him with another nice view. She came back out and, still kneeling, held up what looked like a partial mitten. “I thought I’d knit a pair for both boys, with colder days in the offing. I guess I’ll have to start again, thanks to Roscoe or Barney. Or maybe both.”

He grinned. “Glad I’m not the only one who can’t tell those two creatures apart.”

She grabbed hold of the bedstead and pulled herself up. “They’re identical, as far as I can tell, from their four white paws to the black tips of their tails.”

He chuckled. “I’ve noticed, although I’ll admit I haven’t studied either one of ’em to any great extent. There are other things in this house I’d rather spend time lookin’ at.”

She must have caught him staring at her hair, for she swept it off of her shoulder as her cheeks turned a pinkish hue. “I had intended to put my hair up and change into something more presentable,” she murmured.

He scanned her attire—a belted floral dress with a white collar and buttons that trailed halfway down the front. “Don’t bother. You look more than presentable in my eyes.”

She wrinkled her impertinent little nose. “Oh, forevermore. I look like a poor, bedraggled ragamuffin.”

“Then how do I look?” He did a downward assessment of his own shirt, one of the three he’d worn so often to the workplace that it’d developed a few tears and permanent dark stains, despite the apron he always wore to protect himself from flying ash and other debris. His trousers, likewise, had seen many a better day, with their knees worn and pocket stitches frayed.

“You look”—she grinned, exposing a pretty set of sparkling teeth—“not much better than me, I suppose.”

They shared a short-lived laugh. Was it their first? He glanced down the hallway. “Where are the boys, by the way?”

“Oh, they accepted an invitation to play with the Hansen boys. Their mother pledged to feed them supper and have them home around seven. You don’t mind, I hope.”

“Mind?” He blinked. “Mind that I don’t have to race outside and throw the ball back and forth, or play chase or hide-and-seek or good guys an’ bad guys?”

She tilted her head. “Good guys and bad guys?”

“Of course. Every boy’s gotta learn that game. It’s done with pretend weapons and lots o’ runnin’.”

“Pretend weapons?” She raised her eyebrows. “That makes me feel so much better.”

He reached over and gave her hair a playful tug. It was even silkier than he’d imagined. “They wouldn’t’ve learned that particular game if it weren’t for me, you know.”

She took a tiny step back. Had the gentle touch made her uncomfortable?

“They’d be missing out on lots of things if it weren’t for you. I appreciate all you do for them.”

“No need to mention it, because you know what? Tonight I plan to enjoy a little respite.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing all afternoon.”

“Save that thought and tell me all you’ve done over supper.”

“All right.”

“But give me a few minutes to change and wash up.” She started to speak, but he held up a finger. “And don’t think for a second you need to do the same. Like I said, you look more than presentable. In fact, you look lovely. I, on the other hand, have been workin’ in a dusty shop all day, handlin’ iron and old tools, and ridin’ my horse.”

She sucked in a deep breath, gathering her hair in both fists at the back of her head, then ran one hand the length of it.

“And don’t feel like you have to hide this beautiful mane. I rather like it down.”

“Oh.”

He winked, then turned. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”

To his utter satisfaction, when they reunited in the dining room, he saw that she hadn’t done a thing to her appearance; she’d merely donned a pair of low pumps. He preferred her barefooted, but he didn’t want to press his luck. She might very well balk if he made any more requests. They enjoyed a wonderful meal and surprisingly easy conversation, once they’d selected the unlikely topic of blacksmithing. Mercy brought it up and seemed curious, so he gave her a brief overview of the forging process. He liked the way she leaned across the table and seemed to listen, not only with her ears, but with her eyes. He tried to recall the last time anyone had asked him about his profession but came up empty.

“What sort of techniques do you use in this forging process?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot.” He sipped on his water. The potato soup was excellent but steaming hot.

“Like what? Name them.” She raised her spoon to her mouth, then gently blew on it. The simple act almost entranced him, and for a second, he questioned his state of mind.

“You can’t possibly be interested in this.”

“But I am!”

Her brown eyes pulled him in, and he heard his own breath catch. He laughed to cover his reaction. “Well, there’s drawin’, which just means lengthenin’ the metal. Then, there’s shrinkin’, by which you thicken or shorten it; and bendin’, or punchin’, meanin’ you make a hole in the metal. Lots of terms that probably don’t mean a great deal to you, but they’re second nature to me.”

“I think it’s quite fascinating.”

He stared across the table at her, studying her face as if seeing it for the first time. “Hmm. Yes, so do I.”

“What?”

He jerked back, realizing his blunder. “It’s, uh, fascinatin’ that
you
find it fascinatin’.”

She giggled, and the sound fairly floated through the room, putting him in mind of the gentle breeze wafting in through the open window behind him.

As the meal continued, she recounted, at his insistence, how she’d spent the afternoon: weeding the vegetable garden, sweeping the porch, cleaning her sewing room, sorting through some paperwork, and getting caught up on other things she hadn’t found time to do since taking custody of the boys. When he asked her if she missed working for Doc Trumble, she said yes, but not as much as she’d expected to. He asked how she’d been handling her grief lately, and she answered that there were good days and bad days. He nodded and said he understood about that sort of thing, thinking it might be an opportune time to wrap her in a comforting hug, but also deciding that walking around the table to do it might come off as awkward.

They’d just started clearing the table when a knock came to the door.

“That must be Dora Hansen, bringing the boys home,” Mercy said.

“I’ll get it,” Sam offered, seeing that her arms were full of linens.

When he opened the door, a man who looked to be in his seventies stood on the porch. “Evenin’,” he said in a pleasant voice, with a smile to accompany the greeting. “Name’s Horace Morby. I live a couple o’ houses thataway.” He tipped his head to the left. “The wife didn’t go through the mail till tonight, and when she did, she found somethin’ that should’ve come to you.” He extended an envelope to Sam. “You are the blacksmith, ain’t y’?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, Samuel Connors.” With a movement that was less than suave, Sam accepted the envelope, giving it a hurried glance before stuffing it in the pocket of his pants. “Thanks for walkin’ over. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

“Pfff, weren’t none a’tall. Wife’s always tellin’ me I need to walk my supper off most nights. Well, I’ll be goin’ now.” Horace lifted his saggy hat an inch off his head of sparse white hair, then plopped it back in place and gave a quick nod. “An’ welcome to the neighborhood. The wife said she would’ve sent you folks a platter o’ cookies if I hadn’t eaten ’em all.”

“Quite all right. Thanks again.”

Before closing the door, Sam glanced up and down the street, expecting to see the boys. Craziest thing. He missed them.

19

W
ho was at the door?” Mercy called from the kitchen. She knew it couldn’t have been Joseph and John Roy; the house was still so quiet.

“Neighbor,” she heard Sam reply. “Fellow by the name of Morris Horby.”

“Morris Horby? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Said he lives a couple o’ doors down.”

“Oh!” Her spurt of laughter couldn’t be helped. “You mean Horace Morby.”

He didn’t seem to catch the humor in his error. “Morris Horby, Horace Morby. At least I was close.”

She stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on the sides of her skirt. “The Morbys are nice people. What did Mr. Morby want?”

He held up an envelope. “Apparently the mailman delivered a letter to them that should’ve come here. He was kind enough to bring it over.”

“Is it addressed to both of us?”

“Uh, no. It’s from one of my cousins, someone I haven’t seen or heard from in a very long time. She’s…somewhat estranged from the family.”

“Really? Would I know her?”

“I’m not sure. She’s a bit younger than you, I think, and she moved to Nashville about six years ago. Her name’s Persephone Greve. ’Course, her maiden name is Connors. She’s my uncle Gilbert and aunt Ella’s daughter, the youngest of their brood. I don’t think she gets on too well with her parents or brothers. She came along when my aunt was in her forties. I recall my mother sayin’ Ella didn’t want the baby, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Good chance she resented her, but who knows?”

“Oh, how could a mother resent her own child?” Mercy accentuated her point with a click of the tongue, then creased her brow. “I do remember Persephone, but not well. She was a couple of years behind me in school, so we never played together, but then, I wasn’t allowed to associate with the Connorses.”

Sam just stood there, studying the letter, with a frown on his face.

“Well, are you going to open that letter or just stare at it?”

“I—sure, I guess.”

He kept eyeing the envelope, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might want privacy. “I’ll just go finish cleaning up the kitchen,” she announced.

He made no argument, so she turned and left the room, wondering if he’d tell her about the contents or keep her in the dark.

Five minutes later, he still hadn’t returned to the kitchen, and a strange sense of trepidation came over her.

***

Just as the wall clock struck seven gongs, the boys barged inside the house, more wound up than two spools of thread, completely aflutter about their time at the Hansens’. “We played baseball an’ tag, and Mr. Hansen showed us how to dig for worms, so’s you can catch big catfish,” Joseph explained in one breath. “An’ Mrs. Hansen let us help her carry in water from her well. They don’t gots a faucet; they gots a big pump handle that y’ gotta be real strong to lift up then push back down, over an’ over. John Roy wasn’t strong enough, but I was.”

“Was so!” John Roy cried. “I just din’t want t’ do it.”

“They gots chickens what gives eggs, too,” Joseph continued. “Can we get us some chickens, Mercy? Them chickens likes to be held.”

“You have kittens to hold,” she told him with a smile. “We don’t need any more critters around here. And, speaking of the kittens, go hunt them down and put them outside, would you? They probably need to relieve themselves about now.”

As both boys scooted off, still full of energy and excitement, Mercy called after them, “Don’t wander too far, now. It’s almost bath time.”

Left alone with Mercy once more, Sam clutched the envelope in his pocket and deliberated for the dozenth time whether he should share its contents with Mercy, despite his cousin’s insistence that he keep them a secret. He had no desire to deceive his wife, but he also wanted to use good judgment. What would he accomplish by telling her what his cousin had revealed—and not revealed? It would only cause undue worry. At the same time, secrets between spouses were not healthy, no matter that he and Mercy weren’t spouses in the traditional
sense. It nettled him that Persephone had put him in this awkward position, and yet perhaps she’d thought she had no choice. Questions circled in his head like a pesky swarm of bees.

“Well.” Mercy rubbed her hands together and pivoted her body to face him. Her dark eyes locked with his. “Everything all right?”

He knew she referred to the letter. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” His chest tightened with the slight untruth.

As dusk settled outside, a persistent goldfinch sang a calming song—
per-chip-er-ee, per-chip-er-ee
—and he imagined her nestling in with her younglings for a warm summer night’s sleep. Off in the distance, a couple of dogs barked back and forth. Mercy held her clasped hands at her waist, waiting, he knew, for him to elaborate.

Oh, good glory, what was the point in dragging it out another second? He had no choice but to show her the letter. He yanked the thing from his pocket and held it out.

She looked at it but made no move to take it.

“Here.” He shoved it closer. “I want you to read it.”

“But…it’s not addressed to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re my wife, and you have a right to read it.”

“Not if it’s private.”

“How about I read it to you?”

She hesitated, brow crinkled, lips pursed.

He reached out and snagged her hand. “Come on.” He led her into the parlor and lowered himself onto the divan, Mercy settling in next to him. They sat close enough that their thighs touched, sparking a flicker of warmth in his gut. He cleared his throat and chewed over how to preface the letter. “Like I said, I haven’t seen or heard from Persephone in a long while—years, probably—so I was more than a little surprised to get this letter.”

“Please, if your cousin intended it for you alone, I don’t think you should read it to me.”

“She did, but it’s my right to disregard her wishes. Maybe together we can figure out what’s goin’ on here.”

A tight little gasp came out of her. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry.” He patted her on the knee, something he’d never done, and was surprised she didn’t flinch. “Let me read it to you, and then we’ll talk.” He unfolded the parchment and felt her lean in closer as he began to read.

Dear Cousin Samuel,

It has been a very long time since we talked or even saw each other, not for lack of want on my part but because it is just best for all concerned that I don’t return to Paris. I have my reasons.