Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (22 page)

Sam grinned. “Well, that’s true enough.”

The way he rested on his haunches made Mercy question whether he had grown uncomfortable. “Do you want to sit on the couch with us?”

“Nope, I’d rather stay right here and look at each o’ you. Have to make sure you’re all okay.” His gravelly tone planted a tender craving in her heart.

She combed her fingers through John Roy’s tangled hair. “Thanks to your kindness, we’re feeling a fair piece better now.”

He touched her knee, his blue eyes searing a path to her heart. “Glad to hear it.”

Joseph sucked in a breath, his cheeks puffing up, then blew it out. “Can we ask Jesus to bring Barney home?”

“Of course we can,” Mercy said. “God hears all our prayers, great and small, and answers each one.”

“Who’s gonna pray, you or Sam?”

“Mercy is,” Sam shot out.

John Roy wriggled free of her embrace and scooted off the couch. “We gots to all kneel down, like we do before bed, ’cause God likes it better that way.” With hands folded, he demonstrated the posture he and Joseph assumed every night before bedtime prayers, and Joseph followed suit, kneeling next to him.

Mercy smiled gamely at Sam, then slid off the couch and joined the boys on her knees. Sam positioned himself next to her, their sides brushing. With head bent, eyes closed, and palms pressed together, she led them in a simple yet heartfelt prayer, thanking God for His love, care, and protection and then asking for little Barney’s safe return.

The four of them moved to the kitchen, where Mercy read aloud a comforting passage from the Bible while the boys—Sam included—enjoyed a bedtime snack of chocolate cookies she’d baked that afternoon, washed down with cold milk. Once Joseph and John Roy had been tucked back in bed for the second time that night, Sam followed Mercy out of the room, gently closed the door behind him, and then led her down the hallway. “How ’bout a cup of tea in the kitchen before I go outside for another look around?”

“That sounds nice.”

“Might have to nibble another cookie, too.” He winked, and Mercy’s stomach flipped.

***

They sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, Sam snacking on cookies till the half dozen or so she’d spread on a platter had all but vanished. He stared at the last remaining morsel, knowing he could easily down it in one bite but also knowing he’d regret it later when he awoke with a stomachache, so he decided to let it sit there and continue tempting him instead.

Of course, that lone cookie wasn’t the only thing in the room tempting him. Mercy sat across from him, her hair cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall, looking downright lovely, puffy eyes and flushed cheeks and all.

“This has been quite a night,” Mercy said with a sigh. “First, that letter from your cousin, then Barney going missing, with the possibility that someone took him, and then our wild hysterics…I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.”

He set his cup down and inclined his head at her. “It’s my job.”

“Your job?”

“I married you for better, for worse, remember? If my family goes a little berserk on me, then so be it. It’s my job to take care of you in the good times and bad times alike.”

A tiny smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “I imagined you going to the judge tomorrow to start the annulment proceedings.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You think I’d toss you all away over a little cryin’ spell?”

She tucked a few strands of dark hair behind her ear and studied her teacup. “Well, I…I appreciate your understanding.”

A thumping sound at the front door had both of them turning their heads. Sam shoved back his chair, planted his hands on the table, and pushed himself up. “Stay here.” He left no room in his tone for negotiating, and she didn’t argue.

With purposeful strides, he crossed the dining room and the living room to the front entryway. Reaching the door, he was surprised to see no silhouette through the window. He opened the door, first a crack, then a little wider, sticking his head outside and craning his neck in both directions. That’s when he heard a soft meow. On one of the wicker chairs under the window sat a wooden crate with a board resting on top—a makeshift lid, of sorts. A shrill mewing persisted as he stepped onto the porch, approached the crate, and lifted the board. There lay a little ball of fuzz, quivering with fright.

Sam lifted Barney out of the box and began to check him over for wounds, while cooing, in a tone far more effeminate than he would have liked, “What in the world were you doin’ in that crate, little fella?” He was relieved to find the kitten unharmed; the only difference was the string tied rather tightly around his neck, with a note attached. Sam loosened the knot, freeing the kitten of his noose. He kept the unread note clutched in his fist.

“My stars in glory, you’ve found him!” Mercy said, rushing onto the porch.

“Not exactly.” Sam handed Barney over to her. “He was left on the porch, in a wooden crate.”

“A wooden crate? Who on earth would put him in—what’s that you’re holding?” she asked, pressing the kitten to her cheek. She drew so close to his side, he felt her breath on his cheek and caught a hint of a pleasant floral scent, whether from her hair or her skin, he couldn’t say—although he would have liked to investigate.

“Some kind of note.” He began to unfold it.

“What’s it say?” She lowered her head to get a better view, effectively blocking his line of vision. At least he could tell, at this close proximity, that the flowery fragrance came from her hair. He wondered what she used to make it smell so luscious. He shook off his tangle of thoughts, then lifted the letter where they both could see it.

Mercy squinted at the scribbled shorthand. “You two had no business marrying,” she read aloud, and he was glad she’d taken it upon herself to decipher the almost illegible, mostly misspelled, writing.

“‘Connors and Evans blood ain’t meant for mixing. Didn’t your daddies…learn’—I think that’s what it says—‘you that long ago? You best get…divorced…’fore trouble mounts. The news’—I suppose he meant
noose
—‘around your dumb cat’s neck is to warn you that if you don’t divorce soon, somebody’s going to get hurt.’”

Mercy’s mouth gaped wide as she gawked up at Sam, who was equally dumbstruck. She then snatched the paper from his hand to study it. “It looks like a man’s handwriting, if you ask me. A man who can’t spell worth a cat’s tooth.” She quirked her brow at him. “What did he mean by ‘somebody’s going to get hurt’? I don’t want to be responsible for any bloodshed. Somebody ought to tell this person there’s already been enough sorrow. And why should we have to explain our decision, anyway? Least of all to our loony relatives who don’t know what it means to keep their noses where they belong. Don’t they know we married for the sake of convenience and not love?”

With every sentence, her voice rose in pitch. Unable to resist, he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, which brought an abrupt halt to her flow of words. “For a godly woman, you sure know how to spout off.”

She opened her mouth and sucked in a loud breath, then clamped her lips shut. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her perplexed expression. “Don’t worry, there’s nothin’ wrong with a little righteous anger. Heck, I just read the other night the account of Jesus tossin’ over tables in a show of anger when He caught some people buyin’ and sellin’ goods in the temple.”

He hadn’t known her chocolate eyes could get any bigger or rounder, but they certainly did. “You’ve been reading your Bible?”

He cocked his head and grinned. “I have, and I’ve been enjoyin’ it, I might add—and learnin’ a few things along the way. But that’s a discussion for another time. For now, I want you to take that kitten upstairs to Joseph. He’ll be so relieved to find ’im safe. Just don’t tell ’im he came delivered in a crate.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Will you…are we going to continue this discussion?”

He lifted one brow, tempted to say he’d much rather sample the taste of her lips than talk. But he supposed she wouldn’t go for the idea, considering she’d just affirmed the basis for their marriage as convenience, certainly not love. Apparently, her feelings for him in no way compared to the growing ones he had for her.

21

F
lora Connors adjusted her hat. The thing was big and heavy, not to mention uncomfortable on such a hot day, but it simply wasn’t proper to leave the house without one, so she’d donned it at the last minute, while one of Virgil’s hired hands had hitched up the buggy. In her estimation, women these days didn’t dress appropriately, particularly when going into town. Many went straight from gardening or doing household chores to shopping and other public activities, a most unappealing, indecent sight.

She sniffed, straightened her back, and lifted her chin high as she pulled the reins to the right, directing her horse onto Blakemore Street and then heading south, toward Wood and the center of Paris. She had a long list of errands, after which she planned on stopping by the blacksmith shop to say hello to Samuel, since he didn’t have the decency to pay her a visit. She couldn’t believe how inconsiderate he’d become since marrying that Evans woman. She refused to refer to her as a Connors, much less her daughter-in-law, no matter the legitimacy of the union. She would never forgive Samuel for committing such treason against his family.

Flora found a shady spot to park her buggy in front of Paris Bank and Trust. She climbed down, looped the reins around a hitching post, brushed off her bell skirt, and adjusted her hat again. Stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk, she nodded at a couple of Paris citizens as they strolled by, then opened the big, heavy door of the bank and walked inside. Several customers stood in line, single file. Next time, she would come earlier, to avoid the crowds. She draped the long strap of her satchel over her shoulder and released a long sigh.

It must have been a loud sigh, for several heads turned in her direction. One of them, regrettably, belonged to Wilma Whintley.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Connors! Looks like we’ve got a little wait here. Fortunately, it’s not as hot today as yesterday. Must be a storm’s brewin’. My gout always acts up when the weather’s about to make a drastic change. How are you doin’? You’re lookin’ mighty fine in that lovely getup. I must say, purple becomes you.”

Flora forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Whintley. I’m fine, and you?” She was hardly in the mood for conversing with the likes of Wilma Whintley, a busybody if ever there was one, and she thanked the Lord she didn’t have the woman’s reputation for incessant blather. As the widow of Ernest Connors, her image was one of courage, strength, and resilience. Through her husband’s six years of undeserved incarceration, until his sudden death due to illness, she’d stood by his side, and folks respected her for it. Oh, they might not admit it to her face, but it showed in their expressions. And she didn’t need any public association with Wilma Whintley tarnishing her fine image.

“Oh, gracious me, I’m as fine as a silver spoon. Never better. Well, except for this gout, as I mentioned. I presume you’re plannin’ to attend the community picnic this Saturday, hosted by the Paris Women’s Club? It’ll be quite the affair, like always.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” Flora didn’t especially wish to go, but it wouldn’t do for her to skip when folks counted on her delicious cakes, cookies, and pies at the baked goods sale. She always received high praise for them.

“I serve on the plannin’ committee, you know.”

“Isn’t that nice.” Flora could about imagine how their meetings went, too. Once they finished with business, the gossip would begin. That was reason enough not to join the Paris Women’s Club, never mind that she’d been invited only twice. She couldn’t abide their worthless chatter. Besides, what if one of them started questioning her about matters she didn’t care to address—namely, her husband’s sentence? Yes, the courts had closed the books on the case, but she had no doubt folks still talked about it in hushed tones, wondering what really had transpired on that dreadful day. Oh, she kept a number of secrets locked away, secrets of which she alone—and that vile Virgil Perry—had knowledge. No, best all around she stay clear of that talkative, if not nosy, club.

The bank clerk finished with a customer, and those in line took one step forward. Wilma eyed her askance. “Nice havin’ your son for a neighbor! You do know my yard backs up to Mercy’s, don’t you?”

No, she hadn’t known. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one? I mean—how nice for you.”

“Yes, she’s a fine young woman, that Mercy. And your son, my, what a handsome feller. Friendly, too, is what I hear. I haven’t had much opportunity to talk to him over the fence, mind you, but I see him out back most every evenin’, playin’ with those darlin’ li’l boys. I’m sure you must miss him, but you know what they say—you didn’t lose a son; you gained a daughter.”

“Is that what they say?” She didn’t like the direction this conversation had taken, particularly since it seemed to have attracted the attention of the other bank patrons, and one of them, a man, wore a definite smirk on his face.

“How noble of Sam to rescue those boys from that house fire, and then to marry Mercy so she could take custody of ’em. She sure was devoted to the Watsons. Terrible tragedy, their deaths.” The woman wagged her head and frowned, closing her mouth for all of five seconds—probably to catch her breath.

“Yes, wasn’t it?” The bigger tragedy was Samuel’s marrying an Evans, but she’d keep that thought tucked away. She glanced with impatience at the people ahead of her in line. A small child started fussing, and her mother bent to pick her up, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle.

“Of course, I’m sure you weren’t too thrilled by their decision to marry,” Wilma went on, “or perhaps you’ve put that silly feud to rest by now.”

“Silly feud”?
How dare she! What did she know about their families’ history? The line advanced one step, and Flora began counting the seconds until she could leave the confines of this building—and, better yet, the presence of this intolerable woman.

“Mrs. Connors?”