Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (5 page)

“He won’t mind my leaving for a while.”

“And the boys? You plannin’ to take them with you to see the judge?”

She hadn’t thought about that. The last thing they needed was to worry about the possibility of having to go to someone they didn’t know. “Doc won’t mind if they sit in his parlor.”

“Ah, so that’s how it’s goin’ to be, is it? When you don’t know what else to do with them, you’ll haul them to Doc’s office.”

“I’m working on a plan, Sheriff. If I have to hire someone to watch them at my house, I will. Sweet lightning, you’ve barely given me a second to grieve the loss of my friends, and already you’re here to steal their boys out from under me?”

He showed only a hint of remorse. “It’s not me makin’ the decisions here, Miss Evans. Judge Corbett is adamant the Watson boys need two parents.”

Indignation sizzled in her chest. No way would she let anyone—not even the judge—take those children. Why, she’d get married herself before she let that happen!

The notion struck her like a boulder to the head, nearly knocking her sideways. Such a preposterous solution, but it just might work.

That is, if she could find somebody willing to marry a self-proclaimed—and self-sufficient—spinster. And quick!

4

I
t had been a long three days at the clinic, but, thanks to Mercy’s ministrations under Doc’s supervision, Sam had recovered his appetite and a good deal of strength. He never had succeeded in striking up any kind of conversation with Miss Evans, though. Seemed to him she’d built herself a strong shield to hide behind. It shouldn’t have mattered one iota that he couldn’t break through it, but she had the prettiest face in town, and he had a stubborn streak long enough to make it impossible not to try. Of course, his mother and several cousins had made regular visits to Doc’s office, continually berating him for allowing an Evans to see to his care, but he hadn’t paid them any heed. He hadn’t said it to their faces, but in his head, he’d told them to mind their own blasted business.

Mercy had brought the Watson boys to Doc’s office to visit him earlier today—apparently at their dogged insistence—and he’d taken the opportunity to assure them he wasn’t going to die. For some reason, they’d latched onto him and persisted in calling him an angel, which, of course, he was about as far away from being as a horse was from being a hog. It did put a tender spot in his heart when he saw them, though, knowing he’d had the wherewithal to save them from that fiery pit and that God—yes, God—had led him to that tiny bedroom on the other side of the kitchen where the flames had not yet stretched their deadly fingers. The real miracle, of course, was that not a hair on their heads had been touched. He’d heard that folks all around town agreed.

Doc strolled into his room while he sat propped up with a pillow behind him, eating his supper of chicken noodle soup and corn bread. He’d been coughing a lot less, and, while his lungs still had a bit of a wheeze to them, Doc said he was confident the threat of pneumonia had passed. He hadn’t known till afterward how concerned Doc actually had been for his life. “You’re a lucky fellow, Sam. I’d say Somebody up there had His eyes on you.”

“You might be right, Doc,” he said. Inwardly, he wasn’t so sure. He was plain sick of his hypocritical relatives, who wouldn’t dream of missing a Sunday service but also spewed their hatred on the Evans clan. If that was a representation of God and Christianity, he wanted no part of it. The only relative whose faith seemed halfway genuine was his uncle Clarence, who worked with him at the family’s blacksmith shop. Not a strong case for attending church. Still, he did believe God had led him to save the boys.

Doc dragged a stool over to Sam’s cot and sat, pulling on his long white beard, which put Sam in mind of St. Nick’s woolly whiskers. He also had twinkling eyes and a friendly smile, which endeared him to all who met him. “You’re looking quite good this afternoon, Sam. How are you feeling?” For a change, the fellow didn’t haul out his stethoscope.

“I’m ready to go back to work, Doc.”

He chuckled. “I’ll let you go home today, if you want. Your mother said a driver would be by within the hour. But I’d say take at least another week off, to rest those lungs.”

His mother. He had yet to inform her he’d soon be moving out, and he could about imagine the fight she’d put up.

Doc must have read something in his expression, for he quirked a white eyebrow. “You don’t look too pleased.”

“Oh, I’m happy to be goin’, Doc, don’t get me wrong, and I appreciate you and Mercy nursin’ me back to health. But puttin’ up with my mother’s fussin’ will be another story. You wouldn’t happen to know of a small house for sale in town, would you? Or anybody with a room to let?”

A light dawned in the elder fellow’s face. “You’re planning to leave Flora to her own defenses?”

“It’s about time, don’t you think?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps past time. She’s healthy as a hog.”

“You’d never know it to talk to her. She’s managed to convince any number of people she’s dyin’ of one disorder or another. I used to think the same, but now I know it’s her way of keepin’ me around.”

“Flora Connors will do just fine on her own. She has a nice little nest egg and plenty of other family members to dote on her, not to mention Virgil Perry running the farm. High time you lit out, Sam. I’m sorry I haven’t any suggestions as to where you might hang your hat, however…unless you’d consider Mercy Evans’ present dilemma.”

“Mercy Evans’ dilemma?”

“I guess you haven’t heard.”

“You’ve kept me cooped up in this little ten-by-ten room for the past few days, and it pains Miss Evans to speak more than three consecutive words to me at one sittin’. Far be it from her to clue me in on any sort of pickle she’s gotten herself into.”

“It’s not exactly a pickle, and maybe ‘dilemma’ wasn’t the best choice of word. I’d say it’s more like a crisis, and it involves those two Watson youngsters whose lives you saved.”

His spine straightened like a rod, and he set his plate of food on the bedside table. “What’s happened to those boys? I just saw them this mornin’.”

Doc put a hand to his shoulder. “Slow down. Nothing’s happened to them…yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘yet’?”

“Apparently, Judge Corbett doesn’t believe it’s in their best interest to stay with Mercy, being as she’s unwed, plus she works full-time. So, he’s ruled that they’ve got to go to a married couple. I took it upon myself to pay Joe Corbett a visit on her behalf, told him I’d lessen her hours, if need be, and keep her pay the same, but he insists they need a two-parent family. I’m not saying Mercy would have accepted my offer, anyway—she’s one proud woman, I tell you—but I had to see if Joe would soften at my suggestion. Best he could do was give her thirty days to find a husband. And she’s agreed to his terms. If she doesn’t find herself a man, the boys will go to a worthy couple.”

“Thirty days? That doesn’t sound very reasonable. Corbett’s an old grouch, if you ask me. Always has been.”

“He wants those boys settled in a stable environment.”

“Yes, but who knows them better than Miss Evans? I understand she and their parents were good friends.”

“The best of friends.”

“Well then, tearin’ them away from her would be downright cruel. Don’t they have any close relatives?”

“None that I’m aware of. Herb’s dad ran off with another woman when Herb was but a boy, and his mother raised him and his sister to adulthood, then died of diphtheria. Herb’s sister married and moved out west somewhere. Word is they haven’t even been able to reach her with news of her brother’s death. As for Millie, she was an only child, and her parents died two years back, in much the way she and Herb passed, except that they were lodged in a Chicago hotel that went up in flames.” He gave his head a slow shake. “It’s a world of devastation we live in.”

Sam grunted. “I’m sorry about the situation, but I don’t see where I could do a single thing to help.”

Doc narrowed his gray eyes at Sam. “I hear she’s placed an ad in the
Paris Post-Intelligencer
.”

Sam’s gasp generated a coughing spasm.

“You okay, son? I didn’t mean to set you off like that.” Doc gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

“I’m fine.” He recovered and let Doc’s proclamation absorb for a bit. “She’d actually go to such an extreme just to keep those boys?”

“She loves them a great deal.”

“Guess so. I just hope she knows what she’s doin’, puttin’ herself out there like that. Somebody could easily take advantage of her, not carin’ one hoot about those boys.”

“Hmm. You sure are right about that. Well”—Doc put his hands on his knees and stood up—“I best drive out to Bertha Neville’s place and check on her boy’s rash. You come back and see me in three days so I can give those lungs a good listen, you hear?”

He was tempted to fish for a few more details about Miss Evans’ quest for a husband, but he didn’t want Doc getting the wrong idea. He couldn’t have him thinking he’d ever consider such a wild notion. Imagine the commotion if a Connors married up with an Evans. Why, he nearly laughed out loud at the very thought, and might have, if another coughing spell hadn’t started.

***

On Saturday morning, Mercy and her two little waifs crossed Poplar Street at Washington to make their way to May’s General Store, her written list of necessary items tucked deep in her dress pocket, Joseph and John Roy holding tight to her hands. She had to remind herself to walk at a slower pace than usual, to accommodate their short legs, which weren’t capable of keeping up with her long, hurried strides. Shoot, she had to remind herself on a continual basis that it wasn’t just she but three now.

Joseph did his best to kick every stone and stick in his path. “Whatcha need at the store?” he asked.

“I have quite a list.”

“Are we gonna have to carry it all back?” John Roy asked, speaking for the first time on their jaunt east toward the center of town.

She smiled. “No, honey. Mr. May will have one of his clerks deliver my order later today.”

Joseph paused to aim his toe at a large rock and sent it sailing across the dusty road. It just missed a passing rider on horseback, but Mercy refrained from scolding him just yet. “Can we get some candy sticks?” he asked. “Mama always buys ar favorite colors.”

She noted how he mentioned her in the present tense, and her heart developed an instant ache. “Then we shall have to carry on the tradition.”

John Roy squinted up at her. “What’s that?”

“I guess you could say it’s something people continue doing out of habit.”

“You mean, like Mama and Papa sayin’ prayers with us every night?”

“Yes, just like that.”

Joseph stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to pick up a stick. “But now they ain’t goin’ to, ’cause they went up to heaven. Leastways that’s what the preacher said at that cemetery before those guys put them big boxes down in the ground. What were those for, anyway?”

John Roy had grown unusually quiet. She felt his gaze land on her, so she said a silent prayer before answering, fighting back the tears. It had been eight days since the deadly fire, and the boys had remained mostly quiet about all that had transpired in their lives. She resumed walking, towing the boys along with her. “The boxes carried your mama and papa. Don’t worry; they are warm and comfortable as can be in there. Besides, it’s just their bodies. Their souls are with Jesus.”

Land sakes, Mercy. How are they supposed to grasp that concept?

“Miss Evans! Miss Evans!”

She breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced behind her. There was Wilma Whintley, a middle-aged widow whose yard backed up to hers, waving her white handkerchief. She paused on the wooden sidewalk to give the woman a chance to scurry across the road, her hefted skirts revealing black, high-top, button shoes. Although the bustle was on its way out, the woman still insisted on wearing the hideous contraption that fastened around her waist under her skirts to give her a big-bottomed look—rather humorous in itself, considering Mrs. Whintley had a hefty enough frame without the help of a bustle. She also insisted on wearing big, feathery hats, no matter the occasion or the sweltering temperatures.

Mercy put on her usual smile. Although she’d rather chat with someone other than the somewhat meddlesome woman, the interruption was an opportune excuse to cease discussing the morose subject of caskets with John Roy and Joseph. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“And a fine mornin’ to you, Miss Evans.” Winded as if she’d just run a full mile, the woman offered a diminutive smile to the boys. “My, my, you two are lookin’ mighty handsome,” she puffed. “Looks like Miss Evans done went out shoppin’ for you.” She raised the handkerchief to her face and dabbed at her damp forehead.

Joseph raised his chin to engage the woman, but he didn’t appear to have a remnant of a smile in him. It had been awhile since he or his brother had shown even a hint of one. “A whole lot of folks been stoppin’ by with clothes an’ such, ’cause ar house burned down.”

She shifted her position and frowned. “I know, and I’m ever so sorry about that.”

John Roy looked up at the woman. “Yeah, and we ain’t seen ar mama and papa since. Mercy says their souls is with Jesus. Do you gots a soul?”

“Why, I—” A strained and pallid expression washed over the woman’s sun-crimped face. She produced an accordion fan from her skirt pocket and set to waving it, then cast a hurried glance at Mercy. “I suppose I do, yes.” The inquiry certainly seemed to have unsettled her. Most people hadn’t a clue what to say to the newly orphaned boys, and many of those who thought they did would have been better to keep their mouths shut. Why, just yesterday, Mrs. Mortimer, the Watsons’ neighbor, had told the boys, “I certainly will miss your parents. The Lord must have something more important for them to do up there on them golden streets than raise you two boys.” Mercy had wanted to kick the woman right in the shin for saying such a rude thing. Why couldn’t people think before they spoke? Thankfully, neither boy had brought up the remark again, and Mercy hoped that meant it had sailed straight over their heads.