“Amelia Clarkston, shame on you. Ellis is a good man.”
“He married Wilburta, which makes him a little slow-witted, if you ask me.”
Mercy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, stop it, silly. I’ve never had a problem with Wilburta.”
“That’s because she never picked on you growin’ up. She bossed me around somethin’ fierce and ran tattlin’ to Mama every chance she got. Durned near lost my Christianity over her. How come nobody ever picked on you, Mercy Evans Connors?”
“Probably because they felt sorry for me—losing Ma and all, and then being neglected by Pa.”
Amelia gave a knowing nod. “You pretty much raised yourself, when it gets right down to it.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Was Uncle Oscar ever mean to you? In a physical way, I mean?”
“No, nothing like that. He was just quiet and withdrawn. After Ma died, it was like he didn’t know what to do with me. Sometimes I think he forgot I existed. As I got older, he tried to make it up to me by buying me things, and he worked extra hard to pay off this house.”
“Maybe he had some sort o’ premonition of things to come.”
“I don’t know, Mellie. All I do know is that he saw to it that I’d be well taken care of, and for that, I’m grateful.”
“Where did he spend his time when he wasn’t workin’?”
“At the saloon, I suppose. He drank a lot.”
“I know. Mama told me.”
“He often disappeared for long hours and sometimes didn’t come home till after I’d gone to bed. Looking back, I suppose I had my lonely times, but I decided early on not to nurse my wounds with self-pity. It’s just not who I am.”
Amelia picked up some of the dishes and carried them to the sink. “Well, one thing is clear: I ain’t complainin’ ’bout you marryin’ a Connors. I got nothin’ against it. Matter of fact, I’m glad Sam Connors offered his hand to you, and I look forward to gettin’ to know him better.”
As do I. They had been married for almost one month, and she still treated him like a boarder in her home, tiptoeing around him and speaking to him no more than necessary, gladly allowing the boys to dominate the mealtime conversations. And he seemed to do the same. In short, neither of them quite knew what to do with the other. Granted, they’d had a lengthy chat about their childhoods, and they’d tried to piece together the why and wherefore of the vandalism, but those had been rare exceptions. Most of their talks centered on the boys—fitting, she figured, since they were the reason they’d married.
Amelia squeezed her shoulder, calling her back to the present. “If anybody gives you grief, you just sic your cousin Mellie on ’em, you hear?”
Mercy laughed. “I pity anyone who would rile a pregnant woman.”
Amelia nodded with mock seriousness. “You an’ me both.”
***
Sam stood at the anvil, using a pair of pliers and a hammer to mold, bend, and pound a red-hot hunk of iron into a circle. He’d been working on wheels for a customer’s horse-drawn carriage and had already completed the wooden portion of the wheel that the flattened iron would fit around.
“You tryin’ to kill it?”
“What’s that?” Sam swiped at his brow with his shirtsleeve.
His uncle nodded at the metal. “You’re beatin’ it like it was your worst enemy.”
“Oh.” A close appraisal revealed shoddy work. He growled and thrust the heavy chunk of metal back in the chamber with the tongs, letting it turn to liquid fire before pulling it back out and starting afresh. He chided himself for taking his mind off his task, even for an instant, a careless blunder when working with fire.
“What’s on your mind?” Uncle Clarence asked.
“Not much.” Sam tossed his tools on the workbench, where they landed with a clunk, and watched the red-hot hunk go black as it cooled.
“Uh-huh. You’ve been awful quiet the past few days. You still thinkin’ on that broken window? Chances are it wasn’t a personal vendetta, or you’d’ve found a note or somethin’, don’t y’ think? Good possibility it won’t happen again.”
His uncle knew him well. “Sheriff Marshall seems to think it was the work of some rowdy youngsters. Don’t know why they’d pick Mercy’s house, though. Did I tell you I dropped in on Mother that same afternoon? I wanted to see if she had any clue as to who might’ve been behind it.”
“You mentioned that the next day, but a customer came in, and I never did hear the rest o’ the story. You really think one of our relatives did it?”
“Don’t know. I’m hopin’ not, but I can’t shake the suspicion. There are folks on both sides unhappy with us, my mother chiefly. She knows how to stir a pot till it boils, that’s for sure.”
Clarence sighed. “That woman is a handful, I’ll grant you that. My brother tried ’is best to keep ’er happy, but I don’t think he really understood what she needed.”
Sam nodded. “They were an odd couple. My only recollection o’ them ever showin’ affection for each other was after my brothers died. I remember walkin’ in the kitchen one day and seein’ Father holdin’ Mother in his arms.”
Clarence shook his gray head. “Didn’t have much in common.”
“No. Not like you an’ Aunt Hester.”
The man smiled pensively. “Now, there’s a woman to feast your eyes on.”
Good thing love’s blind, Sam thought. While Aunt Hester was certainly loving and sweet-natured, she didn’t strike him as the type to turn a man’s eye, even in her prime, with her plump figure and slanted-toothed smile.
Love sure was mysterious, and he wondered if he’d ever experience the intrigue firsthand. He liked to think he and Mercy might reach a level of affection at some point, but first they’d have to get better acquainted. So far, she’d come off as guarded, and who could blame her? She was nursing deep emotional wounds from the loss of her friends, and the responsibility of raising their sons weighed heavily on her shoulders. She so wanted to do right by them—as did he. While he hadn’t known the Watsons personally, he knew they had loved their boys with every fiber of their beings. He had to figure out a way to earn her trust and give her reasons to smile again.
“The Lord put me an’ Hester together some forty years ago and gave us a slew o’ great kids. I suspect He had good reason for bringin’ you and Mercy together, too. Besides providin’ those boys with a safe home, your marriage has brought you back t’ church. Don’t see how that could be anythin’ but good.”
Sam had to admit he’d been enjoying Sunday services, had even cracked open his Bible a few times and started rereading certain passages and Bible stories he’d long forgotten.
Uncle Clarence held the large cross-peen sledgehammer head he’d been forging at arm’s length, lifting an eyebrow in assessment, and then gave a nod of approval before setting it down. It had been a long day. A rain shower early that afternoon had cooled the temperature, making the working conditions much pleasanter, but sweat droplets still rolled down his face and neck, dampening his shirtfront.
“Shall we call it a night?” Uncle Clarence asked, pulling his apron over his head.
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
A small grin played on Clarence’s mouth, his gray mustache twitching at the corners. “Your wife a good cook?”
“The best.” It was true—Mercy’s cooking was far better than he could have hoped. Lately, he’d found himself impatient to get home at the end of the day. Mercy would peek out the kitchen doorway with a shy smile as he went upstairs to wash up, and he would be welcomed minutes later by the tantalizing aroma of a savory meal, along with the incessant chatter of two lively boys. It was an altogether foreign feeling, considering he often used to work right through the supper hour, even though he knew full well he’d get a good tongue-lashing from his mother for doing so.
“Nothin’ quite like goin’ home to a warm woman and a hot meal. And a good snuggle by the fire is a nice benefit in the winter
time.”
“Uncle Clarence! I’ve never heard you talk like that.”
“Well, you weren’t married before. I reckon I can be a bit more forthright ’bout such things now.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You can still spare me the personal details.”
Clarence threw back his head and let a good chortle rumble out of him. “You wait and see, young man. Come winter, you’ll know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”
He already did, to a degree—except for the part about snuggling by the fire.
18
Standing at the stove, Mercy paused in stirring her creamy potato soup long enough to press one corner of her apron against her damp forehead. It wasn’t so much the heat of the day as the steam from the pot that made her perspire. In fact, the weather had been downright pleasant for a Tennessee August. The boys had gone to play and have supper with the Hansen boys, who lived two doors down and were close in age to John Roy and Joseph. Mercy didn’t know their mother well, since the family had moved to the neighborhood only six months ago, but she’d spoken to Dora Hansen often enough to feel comfortable accepting her invitation when she’d stopped by that afternoon. The boys’ enthusiastic response had further confirmed her decision.
The time alone was more welcome than Mercy had expected, and she’d accomplished a great deal in the boys’ absence. She’d even caught herself humming a couple of times, something she hadn’t done since before the fire.
Her heart tripped at the sounds of Tucker’s hooves and Sam’s mellow “Whoa.” She dabbed at her forehead again with the hem of her apron and darted to the window in time to see Sam leading Tucker through the barn door. Her first thought was that he and his uncle had closed their shop early, but the wall clock registered 5:30, the time he usually arrived home. She’d been so absorbed in enjoying the solitude, she’d let the time slip away. Why, she hadn’t even set the table yet.
It would take him a few minutes to get Tucker settled in his stall, feed and water him and Sally, and stow the tack, but she still scurried about, wanting to have everything in order before he walked through the door. It would be their first meal together without the boys, and she wanted it to go as smooth as butter.
She quickly set the table, using the good china; sliced up a loaf of fresh bread; and removed the kettle of soup from the stove, covering it with a lid to keep the steam in. Then she glanced around, touching her hair as she did. Good gravy! She’d never put it in a proper bun. It was still gathered back in a girlish ponytail. What on earth would Sam think if he saw her in this state? Moreover, what would he say about the boys’ absence at the supper table? Both she and Sam were accustomed to letting them fill in all the awkward spaces in conversation. Heavens, would they even have enough to talk about?
Before allowing herself another second to dwell on the matter, she dashed upstairs to tend to her appearance.
***
As he usually did when he got home from work, Sam slipped off his sooty boots, set them behind a wicker rocker in a corner of the covered porch, and entered the house in his stockinged feet. Man, the place smelled good—like fresh bread and savory herbs—and his stomach rumbled in approval. He waited for the boys to come bounding down the stairs or sailing around the side of the house from the backyard, whooping their excited salutations, but an uncanny silence welcomed him instead. He then awaited Mercy’s silent smile of greeting from the kitchen, but she didn’t appear. Where was everybody? He decided to go investigate.
The first thing he noticed when passing through the dining room was the table, set—for two rather than four—with fine china plates, crystal stemware, fancy silverware, and linen napkins with a floral print. In the center of the table was a crystal vase of roses. No boys tonight? Where could they be? He then heard a board creak overhead. Mercy would have an explanation. Shrugging, he swiveled on his heel and headed for the stairs and his normal routine of washing up before supper.
At the top of the stairwell, he heard faint rustling sounds coming from Mercy’s open bedroom door. “How could I have been so careless?” she was saying. “I should have known you’d steal it.” He slowed his steps and approached with caution. What he saw nearly stole his final breath. His wife was bent at the waist, to get a better view beneath the bed—giving him a better view of her derrière. “You give me back that yarn, you little rascal. Here, now.” He folded his arms and settled against the doorframe, fully mesmerized by the sight of her long, black-as-night hair, which he’d never seen unbound, cascading to one side and almost touching the floor.
She lowered herself flat on her stomach and reached an arm under the bed, then slid over, until her head and half of her body disappeared, giving him a satisfying view of her shapely calves, pretty ankles, and bare feet. “Aha! Got you, you little scamp! Now, where is your partner in crime? I know he must have helped you.”
Something rubbed against Sam’s ankle. He reached down and scooped up the tiny ball of fur—the exact duplicate of his brother, the apparent scamp.
“Lookin’ for somethin’?” he asked, as the kitten snuggled against his chest.
He had no idea a woman could move like that—slide out from her hiding place and rise to her feet quicker than a thief leaves town. She let go of the kitten as she righted herself, and the little monster scurried out of the room like a streak of lightning. Sam released his cohort, who chased after him, both vanishing down the hallway.
With her dark eyes almost as big as the ball of blue yarn she held in her hand, she stared at him. “I didn’t hear you come upstairs.”
He raised one stockinged foot. “I crept,” he teased. “You had me a little more than curious about what you were doin’, especially when I heard things like, ‘You give me that, you rascal.’” Eyes cast at the floor, he noted the trail of blue yarn, stretched under the bed and out the other side, around a chair, through the feet of the small table next to it, and back under the bed. “I see a little varmint made quick work o’ that yarn. Were you knittin’ somethin’?”
“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 moth
er 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.
Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) Page 15
