Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (36 page)

M
ale voices, sounding close yet a thousand miles away, tugged at Flora’s senses, and she willed herself to awaken. Foggy…so foggy. That was the only word she could draw upon to describe the condition of her brain right now. Furthermore, she couldn’t place her surroundings, as the bed she lay on had an extra-hard mattress, the blanket tucked beneath her chin was stiff and scratchy, and the overall
feel
of the place was crisp and sterile.

Pain sliced her side, and a moan came out of her.

“Flora, can you hear me?” said the male voice. “She’s coming out of it, Sam. Flora? It’s Doc Trumble.”

Samuel? Doc?
What had happened to land her at Doc Trumble’s place? She tried to lift her arms, perhaps to throw off the blanket and sit up, but they were weighted down with something—maybe even tied. A pain shot clear up to her left shoulder, and another moan escaped.

“You took quite a fall, Flora,” the doctor said. “Do you recall it? Can you open your eyes?”

Wanting to open them and doing so were two different things. In fact, it took everything in her even to keep from falling back into sweet oblivion. Still, she had to try.

I took a fall?
Slowly it came back, in tiny pieces: carrying a box of books down from upstairs, losing her balance on the first step, careening downward, rolling, twisting, cracking against something, and then an immediate jolt of pain to every part of her body. How could she have been so careless? Could she do nothing right? A clumsy fool, that’s what she was!

With all her will and might, she opened her eyes to mere slits. Hovering in front of her was Doc’s bearded face with those beady green eyes, and behind him stood Samuel, his body leaning forward, his expression unreadable. Oh, how he must hate her, all the more now for bringing this trouble upon him. He always accused her of doing things to get attention, and she would admit that she sometimes did, but not this time. She attempted to open her mouth, but the effort proved too great, and instead she drifted back into her deep, dark place of slumber.

***

Sam sat staring at his mother. Just yesterday, he wouldn’t have imagined himself missing sleep to sit at her bedside. He didn’t hate her, but he also didn’t care much for her. Perhaps he loved her but didn’t like her, if that made sense. She stirred, a tiny whiffling sound escaping her lips, so he sat forward. She’d been doing a lot of this over the past two hours, so he didn’t hold out much hope that this time would be any different. But then her eyelids fluttered open, and she stared at the ceiling.

“Mother?”

Ever so slowly, she angled her head in his direction. He stood up, so that she wouldn’t have to crane her neck, and loomed over her. “How are you feelin’?”

“Samuel? What’s happened?”

“You fell down the stairs. One of your hired hands found you in the foyer.”

“Oh, yes. I remember.”

“You remember? How did it happen?” He saw her move beneath her blanket, and he feared she had escaping on her mind. “Don’t try to sit up. Doc says you broke both wrists. He had to set them in plaster o’ Paris bandages.”

“I’ve broken my…my wrists? How could that be?”

“You fell down the stairs.”

“I know, but…my wrists? When did I do this?”

“Today.”

Her eyes glazed over. “Don’t hate me for doing it.” She pushed the words out as if each one weighed a hundred pounds.

“Why would I?”

“It was so stupid of me.” Her eyes closed. “I sometimes do things…for…attention.” This she whispered in spurts.

It was a hideous thought, her falling down the stairs on purpose. Was she capable of such a repulsive act? Was she that desperate? He swallowed hard. “Did you do this for attention?”

“Samuel.” She cracked open her eyes, then closed them again. “Don’t…leave…me. Lonely…come h-o-o-o-me.”

“Mother, surely, you didn’t do this on purpose.” He leaned closer, but she drifted off again, her breathing deep and steady. Doc had expected her to sleep all night, waking only for brief intervals. He’d told Sam to go home and come back tomorrow, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone. His stomach roiled and his hands turned clammy. What had she meant? In her delirium, had she just confessed to intentionally falling down the stairs? He pressed his hands against the sides of his head and gritted his teeth, wishing he could toss out the ugly mental images of her tumbling down the stairs—
on purpose
.

Rage and turmoil swam in his brain until his temples throbbed. He had to get out of here, had to get away from her. He stood, threw her a parting glance, and stormed out.

***

“Mercy. Wake up, Mercy.”

As if wrapped in a huge, sticky web, Mercy fought her way to the present, threw off her covers, and jumped to her feet. “What? What’s going on? Where are the boys? Is the house on fire?”

Callused hands wrapped around her upper arms and gave a gentle squeeze. “Shh, no. It’s me. Sam.”

She came awake with suddenness, staring into Sam’s probing eyes, his big Stetson sitting on his head at an angle. Realizing her lack of modesty, she whirled around to reach for the housecoat that usually hung on her bedpost. Remembering that she’d put it in the laundry box yesterday, she rushed to her wardrobe in search of something with which to cover herself. “What are you doing in here?” she asked in a panic.

“Settle down, would you? I just want to talk. Sorry I woke you.”

“Okay, but….” The memory of his mother’s accident came rushing back with a thud. “Your mother! Is she all right? What’s happened?” Finding no suitable covering, she hugged herself.

“She did it.”

“She did what?”

“She threw herself down the stairs on purpose. She’s always feigned sickness for attention, and now she’s caused herself an actual injury.”

“No, Sam. Not even your mother would do a thing like that. It could have killed her.”

“She would, and she did. She said as much.”

“She woke up?”

Sam plopped down at the foot of her bed. Since the room was mostly dark, save for the moon’s glow outside the window, Mercy deemed it safe to be seen in her thin nightgown. Surely, Sam couldn’t make out her features; and even if he did, a husband was allowed to look, for goodness’ sake. Besides, he’d come in her room to talk, nothing more. So, she approached the bed and sat down next to him, the mattress springs squawking under her.

“Tell me what she said.”

“She mostly mumbled, but I made it out just fine. She said she does things for attention, and then she asked me not to hate her…said what she did was stupid. Said she was lonely and wanted me to come home.”

Mercy’s gut churned. “Maybe tomorrow she’ll be more lucid and can clarify what she meant. I doubt—I mean, I can’t imagine—”

“You don’t know my mother,” he cut in.

“No, I don’t. But I soon will. She’s coming here whenever Doc says she’s well enough to leave.”

His head jerked up. “Are you kiddin’? She’d create nothin’ but upheaval.”

“She can’t go home, Sam. With two broken wrists, she won’t be able to take care of herself.”

“Then somebody else can do it.”

“You’re her only child, which makes us the responsible party. She’ll come here.”

He leaped from the bed. “She will not.”

She followed suit, and two stubborn sets of eyes locked gazes. “Of course she will. I’ve already told Doc. It’s the right thing to do, Sam, and you know it.”

“You’d be stuck carin’ for her while I go to work every day.”

“I’m a nurse. I can handle her.”

“Oh, really? How do you plan to go about handlin’ her? That woman is too much for even the most experienced. She’ll give you a terrible time, and I can’t have that.”

“The Lord will give me strength when the time comes. He’s promised in His Word that His grace is sufficient to meet all our needs, and that His strength is made perfect in our weakness. All day long, the same verse has been echoing in my head.
‘Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’
I’m convinced the Lord wants to use me, and He wants to use you, as well, if you can just learn to forgive.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but who could argue with the Word of God? He clamped it shut again. On instinct, she reached up and cupped his cheek. “You must learn to forgive her, Sam. If you don’t, you’ll never experience the abundant life God wants to give you. There is freedom in letting go of the things that bind you.”

He frowned and leaned away from her hand. “I’m not bound by anything.”

“Of course you are. The bitterness you harbor against your mother for the way she raised you, and now for this latest finding—her affair with my father—it’s got you all tied up in knots.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

He breathed in a great gulp of air and grew solemn. “I’d prefer you not preachin’ at me, Mercy.”

“I’m not preaching. I’m stating a few simple facts.” The reverend’s advice echoed in her mind:
“Take care to avoid a preaching tone.…Your best defense is prayer
.
”
“But if you took it as such, I apologize.”

He looked into her face, then took one of her hands in both of his and squeezed. Then, slowly, he bent and kissed her cheek, a feather-light sensation that only made her long for more. She turned her face up in invitation and closed her eyes, but he didn’t take the bait. Dratted man!

“We’ll talk about this more at breakfast.”

She opened her eyes. “I’ve already determined it’s the only thing to do.”

“We’ll see. Go back to bed.” His voice bordered on brisk. Was that it, then? No more kisses? She wanted to scream at him to notice her in her sleeping gown, but his dour mood must have put blinders on him. He turned and headed for the door. Out of frustration, she stomped her foot. “You are a—a belch-breathing stinkweed, Samuel Connors.”

That stopped him like a glue trap. “A
what
?” He swiveled around and stared at her, his brawny silhouette blocking the doorway.

She gulped. “You heard me.”

He gave one long blink, then looked her up and down. She swallowed what felt like a prickly cactus, knowing she’d stepped over the line with her comment. Step by agonizing step, he swaggered back to her, removing his hat and tossing it on the bed. “Watch what you call me, Mercy, or I may kiss you to the point of no return. Is that what you want, wife of convenience?”

Lord help her, but she couldn’t breathe. “What?”

“Don’t think for a second you don’t tempt me. I’m a full-blooded male who’s been mindin’ his manners far too long.”

She truly had stepped over that line—way over it. “I merely meant—”

He tipped her chin up so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze, their breathing coming out in stops and starts, her racing heart thudding in her ears and making her shiver in the dusky dark.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Scared, then?”

She jerked back and squared her shoulders. “Of course not.” Of course, she was! Scared spitless, actually.

His hands clasped her upper arms, firmly yet gently. She shivered again as he drew her close, blanketing her in a warm, tight embrace that soldered their bodies together.

He’d kissed her plenty of times before, but this kiss…ah, this one didn’t feel like the others. He didn’t simply kiss this time. No, he lavished, then lingered, then drew away by slow degrees before starting the process all over again, deepening, growing, and multiplying the whole experience until she fell into an almost trancelike state, dizzy, breathless, and sated.
I love you, Samuel Connors. I love you, love you, love you
. But she couldn’t bring herself to voice the words, as he had yet to utter them aloud to her. Did he feel the same? She wanted desperately to know, yet was even more desperately afraid to ask.

The kiss ended with all due reluctance, and with Sam’s nose buried in the curve of her neck. “I’ve gotta go get a little sleep, or I’ll be good for nothin’ tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she managed.
You could sleep here
, she might have said, but her dryer-than-sand throat wouldn’t allow the words to come out.

Before turning to go, he pinned her with tired blue eyes. “I don’t want my mother livin’ with us.”

There was no point in arguing further at three in the morning. “Like you said, we’ll talk more at breakfast.”

He touched the skin beneath her chin, looking like he had something more to say—or do—but then he dropped his hand and walked out.

36

A
ll that week, Flora fussed and stewed at having to be fed, needing help with her private ablutions, and depending on someone else, either Mrs. Trumble, Mrs. Hardy, or Mercy Evans, to give her a drink of water. Yes, Mercy Evans waited on her, arriving early in the morning to feed her breakfast and give her a sponge bath, leaving after lunch to tend to her own chores at home, and returning later to feed her supper. The second and third nights, Mercy stayed there, sleeping on a cot in the next room, in case Flora needed something in the middle of the night.

Flora insisted again and again that she ought to go home, but the girl refused, claiming she didn’t mind at all, that Sam was home with the boys and would gladly get Joseph off to school and take John Roy to her aunt Gladys’s house. Had Flora’s other relatives any shred of compassion, they would have stepped forward, but they were all still mad as hornets at her, and of course her sister and brother-in-law had left town just before the accident.

What a fine fix she’d put herself in, making that brainless misstep at the top of the stairs and tumbling clear to the bottom. Worse, Samuel refused to visit her, claiming she’d done the silly thing on purpose. Good grief, who would purposely throw herself down a flight of stairs? Apparently, she would, according to her son—which made her wonder if his wife thought the same. At the very least, Mercy had to despise her for the affair with her father. But if she did, she didn’t let on. In fact, if anything, she treated her with too much kindness—the sort that made Flora uncomfortable. No one else—not even her own relatives, whose good deeds were done with the unspoken understanding that she would return the favor—had treated her in this manner. Apparently, Mercy had learned, in her years of working with Doc Trumble, to treat everyone with a generous spirit, whether she liked the individual or not. It was the only way Flora could make sense of her behavior.