Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  Mercy was grateful the boys had gone straight to the backyard to explore, and were not within earshot of the conversation. She cleared her throat. “Who told you about my plans to marry the postmaster, if I may ask?”

  “Oh, gracious, I don’t know. It’s all over town.” Instant dread etched the woman’s wrinkled countenance. “You ain’t the last to find out, are you? Good grief, I hope folks hain’t been spreadin’ lies, but, you know, your situation is a rather peculiar one, so it has caught the attention of lots o’ folks.”

  Mercy sighed and shook her head. “I understand that people are curious. And, no, it’s not a lie. I wouldn’t say it’s exactly official, though. Mr. Beauchamp and I haven’t come to a firm agreement.”

  “I see.” The elderly woman found a hair on her chin and began twirling it between her thumb and index finger, her gray eyes seeming to size up the matter. “Mr. Beauchamp is a fine man, but….” She pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows down.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I don’t mean t’ sound petty or anythin’, but he ain’t what you’d call the handsomest critter in Paris. Truth told, I’ve seen some stray mutts ’bout town with better looks than his.”

  At that, Mercy nearly choked because, doggone it, Mrs. Parsons spoke the truth. It was a shame her betrothed couldn’t have been blessed with handsomer features. Still, he remained her best choice, no matter that Sam Connors had offered his hand mere hours ago, his visit having made for an almost sleepless night.

  She thanked Mrs. Parsons for watching the boys, then trudged next door to Doc Trumble’s. She climbed the porch steps, wiped her shoes on the rug, and entered the house, the entire main level of which consisted of Doc’s medical practice, the front parlor being the waiting room, with ten or so sturdy wooden chairs surrounding a large brick fireplace. Down the hall, several rooms served as examining areas. There was a small pharmacy, with cabinets where Doc kept his medical supplies, a tiny kitchen and washroom, and four rooms furnished with cots for long-term patients. The second floor served as the residence of Doc Trumble and his wife, Nora.

  As Mercy entered the vacant office, which would soon be bustling with patients eager to see the doctor, she reflected on attending to Sam Connors—bandaging his burn wounds, sticking a thermometer under his tongue, forcing water and broth down his parched throat, assisting him in walking around the room to keep his muscles active, and encouraging him to cough up as much black mucus as he could, to prevent him from falling victim to pneumonia. All the while, he’d tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d ignored him, telling him now was not the time for talking but for concentrating on his recovery.

  Looking back, she realized she’d put up a wall thick enough to prevent herself from entertaining as much as a smidgeon of curiosity about him. He remained untouchable in her eyes—and certainly an impossible candidate for marriage, considering her family’s certain reaction. On the other hand, they highly endorsed Harold Beauchamp for his strong religious values, not to mention his high standing in the community. How ironic that on the outside, they all wanted to be looked upon as virtuous, but on the inside, they seethed with bitterness at their enemies, placing the Connors clan on the same level as the devil himself. And from what she knew, the Connors did the same, attending Sunday services while harboring equal loathing for the Evanses. Would it ever end? Could she not do anything to help stop the hate and to heal the wounds of the past? She had great passion and even talent for helping to cure the physical body, but the inner soul? No, that was God’s department.

  Love is the key, My child. Step out in faith and do the unthinkable. Trust Me. The insight flashed across her mind so abruptly that she stopped short in the middle of the parlor, looked toward the ceiling, and then gazed about the room, as if to identify from which direction the Voice had come. “Do the unthinkable”? What did that mean? Lord, are You speaking to me?

  The sound of Doc’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs forced her to dismiss, for the time being, the wild notion that God just might be telling her to marry—of all people—Samuel Connors.

  9

  It had been one of those days when even taking a moment to breathe seemed a luxury. By the time four gongs chimed on the grandfather clock in the hallway, marking the final appointment of the day, Doc had admitted two patients for an overnight stay, sent several home with pills and tonics for stomach problems and coughs, bandaged up a few wounds, and even set a bone or two. Why, even Mrs. Trumble had come downstairs to help, as she did when the workload became more than Doc and Mercy could handle alone. She was happy to perform any task she was able—unless there was blood, the mere sight of which sent her into a dead faint.

  Given her weak stomach and low tolerance for sickness and death, Mercy wondered how she and Doc Trumble had wound up together, even though their love for each other easily bridged the vast differences between them. Apparently, there was some truth to the adage “Opposites attract.” It boded well for her and Harold Beauchamp, who, beyond a shared love for God, had very little in common. Of course, she probably had even less in common with Sam Connors, and why she persisted in even allowing his image to pop up in her mind’s eye perturbed her something fierce.

  Mrs. Trumble entered the waiting room, where Mercy was straightening chairs. “Isn’t it time you went and retrieved those boys, Mercy? Let me finish cleaning up. You’re looking mighty spent, if I may say so.”

  Mercy blew several strands of dark hair off her face. “Does it show that much?”

  The woman folded her arms across her portly bosom. “You’ve taken on quite an assignment in caring for those youngsters, young lady. It would be too much for most people.”

  “I’ll admit, it worries me some, but I know I’ll manage fine.”

  “A husband will help share the burden.”

  “I’d have preferred it not come down to that, but the judge was adamant.”

  Mrs. Trumble offered her a half smile. “I understand, but he’s only thinking of those boys’ best interests. Mr. Beauchamp will make a fine father figure for them.”

  Mercy sighed. “Is there no one in town who hasn’t heard Mr. Beauchamp is my primary contender?”

  The older woman laughed. “Can’t get much by the people of Paris. Your situation is big news around here.”

  “So I’ve gathered.”

  Mrs. Trumble’s gaze traveled over Mercy’s shoulder and out the window. “Speaking of the postmaster….”

  Mercy whirled around. Sure enough, the roundish, balding man was making his way up the front walk. Her stomach clenched. What had brought him here? She didn’t remember arranging to get together today. Had he come to pay her a spontaneous visit? Or had he taken ill and come in search of medical attention?

  Mercy stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. “Hello, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  Seeing her, he halted, removed his bowler hat, and took to turning it in his hands. “Miss Evans.” He nodded. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your workday.”

  “No, not at all. I was about to pick up the boys from Mrs. Parsons’. I must say I’m surprised to see you. Did you close the post office early?”

  “No. Mr. Lawson, my clerk, is manning it for a while.”

  “I see. Is everything okay?”

  “Uh…not exactly.”

  “Dear me, you don’t look so good. Do you need to see the doctor?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Sweat beads had formed on his forehead and now dripped down his plump face. “I’ve come to talk to you about this…marriage deal.”

  “Oh.” Marriage deal? Uncertainty made her pulse accelerate. “In that case, why don’t you come up on the porch so we can talk?” The sweltering heat only exacerbated her sense of dread.

  Next door, a screen door slammed shut, and the squeals of John Roy and Joseph traveled over. “Mercy! Are you comin’ to git us now?” This from John Roy, who ran across the drive separating the two houses, Joseph close behind. After greeting her with a hug,
they commenced skipping up and down the wooden steps.

  Mrs. Parsons ambled out onto her front stoop and shielded her eyes against the sun. “Hullo there, Miss Evans! Them boys is plain anxious to see you. Guess they’re tuckered out from all the jobs I gave ’em today.”

  Mercy smiled. “Thank you for watching them,” she called back. “I appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Parsons flicked her wrist. “Think nothin’ of it. My pleasure. They sure got energy, though.” Turning to go back inside, she gave Mr. Beauchamp a quick appraisal. “Afternoon, Mr. Beauchamp. Lovely day, ain’t it? Plenty hot, though.”

  He shuffled his feet. “Yes, ma’am. Quite so.”

  “Well, you have a good afternoon, both o’ you.” Her skirts flared as she disappeared inside her house, the screen door flapping against the frame.

  “We helped Mrs. Parsons clean out ’er shed today,” Joseph announced to Mercy.

  “Did you now?”

  The boy stretched to his full height, which wasn’t saying much. “She gived us cookies and milk afterward, ’cause we done so good.”

  She ruffled his hair, noting that it needed a trim. Add that to the long list of things to think about with boys, along with clothing, shoes, toys, and games. Heavens, she needed a man just to help her sort out all their needs. She hoped Mr. Beauchamp was up for the task.

  John Roy gazed down at him from the porch steps. “Are you comin’ over for supper again, Mr. Bonechomp?”

  Mercy almost laughed at the mispronunciation, but the postmaster merely cleared his throat and gave her a desperate glance, so she cleared her throat to cover her giggle. “Um…boys, why don’t you go out back and play a bit? Mr. Beauchamp and I have some discussing to do.”

  “’Bout your weddin’?” asked Joseph.

  “Uh, yes,” she answered. “Go on, now.”

  They bounded off the steps and made for the backyard.

  “Now then, Mr. Beauchamp—or perhaps I should begin calling you Harold—why don’t you come up on the porch and make yourself comfortable?”

  But something in his expression told her that making himself comfortable was the last thing he’d be doing. He lowered his gaze. “I’m not sure I’ll be staying long.”

  Her heart bumped hard against her chest, and she took a deep breath, fighting down her dread. “I see.”

  “I’ll just get on with it,” he said, casting her a troubled glance. “I’m not so sure this marriage is a good idea, after all. I’m afraid I—”

  “Please, Mr. Beauchamp, don’t do this to me!” She flew off the porch. “You are my only hope for keeping those boys.”

  The outburst surprised Mercy almost as much as Mr. Beauchamp, who stepped back, his eyes wide with alarm.

  Duly embarrassed, she straightened her shoulders and composed herself. “I’m sorry. What I mean to say is, if your hesitation is due to the boys and all their energy, I will see to it that they contain themselves when you come home from work. I’m sure they’ll settle down; they’re just young, is all. But I keep a neat house, and I’m a good cook, and I’ll—”

  “Please, Miss Evans.” He raised both hands, palms out. “I’m simply not the man for the job. After giving this arrangement much thought and prayer, I’ve reached the conclusion that our marrying would not be in everyone’s best interest. Don’t get me wrong; you’re a lovely woman—beautiful, even—but I’m a bachelor who prefers to remain as such. I’m sorry to have strung you along. I thought it could work between us. Were it not for those boys, perhaps it might have.”

  She jerked her chin up. “Were it not for those boys, I would not have asked you, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  He gave a soft smile. “Therein lies the problem.”

  “But—”

  He shushed her with a gentle touch to the arm. “You’re a fine Christian woman, Miss Evans, but you know as well as I we’re no match for each other. God no more intended for us to be together than He intended for the sun and moon to collide. I think there must be somebody in this town far better suited to you.”

  “There isn’t.” She hated her mawkish tone. Good grief, did she have no dignity?

  “I’m sure there is,” Mr. Beauchamp said.

  She studied his face. Kindness, pure and simple, filled his brown eyes, and for the first time, she thought she could learn to care for him—never love him, maybe, but care for him. Surely, that would be enough. Wouldn’t it?

  He nodded, then glanced over his shoulder. “In fact, I believe I see a suitable prospect coming up the street as we speak.”

  She followed his gaze, and her heart jostled.

  Riding tall as a tree, his cowboy hat drawn low over his eyes, Sam Connors reined in his coal-black horse at the foot of Doc’s drive and tipped his hat at them. “Afternoon, folks. Am I interruptin’?”

  “Yes,” said Mercy.

  “No,” said Mr. Beauchamp.

  “I’ll be going now, miss.” The kindly postmaster leaned forward and added quietly, “I’ve been praying for you, and I think you’d do well to take Mr. Connors up on his offer.”

  “His offer? You know? But how—?”

  With another crooked-toothed smile, he plopped his hat on his head, turned around, and started down the walkway to the street, where his horse and carriage waited. Confusion swirled in Mercy’s head like a miniature typhoon as she watched him nod to Samuel Connors before climbing into his carriage and driving away.

  There sat Samuel Connors, wearing a grin. Had he somehow convinced Mr. Beauchamp not to marry her? Why, that arrogant rat!

  She marched down the walk, prepared to give the man what for, but when he climbed down off his steed and held out a bunch of flowers tied with a yellow ribbon, the steam drained right out of her, at least for a moment.

  ***

  Had he completely lost his mind? Sam figured so when he saw her tramping down the walkway, the hem of her skirts in her hand, vengeance in her eyes. The sight of the flowers seemed to give her pause, but then that fiery look came back all the fiercer. For a Christian woman, she sure did have a streak in her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  He glanced around to see if they had any company. It wouldn’t have surprised him had he seen a few neighborhood doors fly open the way her voice shot to the treetops.

  How to answer her with his throat suddenly closed up tighter than a bank safe? While gathering his wits, he mustered a small grin and thrust the flowers under her nose, but she made no move to take them. Heck, she didn’t even give them so much as a peek.

  Give me strength, Lord. As prayers went, this one ranked low, but it was a start. After digging up his Bible and reading from it last night, particularly the verses his uncle had recommended, he’d been seized with a hunger to figure out God’s plans for his life. He had a strong suspicion they included Mercy Evans, but convincing her of that wouldn’t be easy.

  He dropped the flowers to his side and considered his next words. Might as well just come out with it. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?”

  “Mr. Connors, I thought I made it plain that—”

  “And have you prayed about it?”

  “What?”

  He could hardly fault her for her disbelief. It wasn’t often he did the preaching. Shoot, he hadn’t even darkened a church door since last Christmas. “Because I have. Prayed and also read God’s Word. Last night, I memorized Jeremiah twenty-nine, verse eleven: ‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you hope in your latter end.’ I think my ‘latter end’ involves marryin’ you and helpin’ raise those boys. Harold Beauchamp is not your man. He doesn’t even like kids that much. He told me so, just this mornin’.”

  “You went to see Mr. Beauchamp?” She pressed her hands to her temples. “Mr. Connors, I—”

  “Sam, just call me Sam.”

  A low growl came out of her. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

  He smiled. “You’l
l learn over time.”

  “What? No. I’ve already told you, our families—”

  “—will have to learn to mind their own business,” he finished. “We shouldn’t let a long-ago feud kept alive by our relatives rule the way we live our lives.”

  Her eyes rounded like two brown billiard balls. “Your father killed my daddy.”

  He closed his eyes and put his face to the sun. The truth stung. “I know.” He lowered his face and met her gaze. “I doubt anyone from my family has ever apologized for that, so I’d like to do that now. Truly, truly, I am sorry for what my father did. We may never fully learn what transpired between them that day.” He swallowed hard at the sight of her, several strands of hair framing her cheeks, her dark eyes filled with tears to the point of brimming over. The emotion seeping out of her made him want to draw her close, but he didn’t even dare touch her arm, for fear of frightening her. He couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to broach the subject of marriage again, but he’d been compelled to at least try, spurred on by his uncle’s remarks.

  Maybe he’d been wrong to go see Harold Beauchamp this morning, but the man needed a little reality drilled into him if he thought marriage to Mercy was going to be easy. He didn’t have a clue how much work it took to raise two boys. Granted, neither did Sam, but he’d had plenty of practice keeping up with his energetic young cousins. He almost grinned, remembering the gray pallor Harold’s face had taken on when Sam had painted a picture of life with two young boys who were likely to live at home for at least fifteen years more.

  By the time Sam had finished talking to him, the poor man had confessed that he wasn’t Mercy’s best choice, no matter that he liked her well enough. It was those kids and their seemingly inexhaustible energy that worried him. He didn’t think he had what it took to work ten hours a day, then come home to a bustling household of rollicking boys—not when he’d grown accustomed to the simple solitude bachelorhood afforded. He’d admitted to long having admired Mercy Evans; that, when the opportunity to wed her had presented itself, he’d seized it—with no thought for the boys’ welfare. Now he regretted it, he’d said, especially after speaking with Sam.