Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  “Oh, boy.”

  “What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Mercy asked.

  “We can only imagine. My mother’s mad about somethin’, but that’s nothin’ new. She looks like a boilin’ kettle whose top is about to blow.”

  Mercy giggled. “Uncle Fred and Aunt Aggie aren’t any better. Saints above, I’ve heard those two go at each other a few times. When I was about ten, I saw Aunt Aggie throw a frying pan at Uncle Fred. He ducked just in time, and the pan hit the wall and broke a picture. Then Aunt Aggie started scolding Fred for moving.”

  That evoked a chuckle from Sam.

  Just then, something truly incendiary must have been spoken—perhaps a scathing insult or a vile accusation—for the voices rose in volume, and fists started flying. The crowd surrounding the conflict swelled faster than a four-alarm fire, forming a human ring that blocked Sam and Mercy’s view. The next thing they knew, someone screamed, and then several shouts erupted, as a dust cloud arose from the burgeoning circle.

  Sam turned worried eyes on Mercy. “Stay with the boys,” he told her. “I’ve gotta get over there.” And he took off at a run.

  ***

  “Did you really have to get right in the middle of it?” Mercy dipped a cloth in warm, soapy water, preparing to tend Sam’s swollen eye, his bloodied nose, and his lower lip, which had already doubled in size since the fight. It had ended half an hour ago, with a single gunshot fired skyward from Sheriff Marshall’s pistol. With the aid of eyewitnesses, the sheriff had rounded up the key participants and hauled them off to jail, and then he’d declared the community picnic over, demanding that everyone pack up and head home.

  Fortunately, the festivities had already begun to wind down, or Mercy would have felt even worse. As it was, she felt partially responsible for the ruckus, since the spat had reportedly centered on her wedding. Sam’s mother had been lucky enough to escape jail, sent home with a reprimand instead. Mercy so wished the sheriff would lock her up for a few days, just to teach her a lesson; but then, he would have to do the same with Aunt Aggie.

  Mercy didn’t know whether to be mad at Sam for joining in the fight or relieved that things hadn’t gone worse for him. He could have landed himself on one of Doc Trumble’s cots again, perhaps even sharing a room with her cousin Bart, who’d been knocked backward into a tree trunk and suffered a head wound requiring several stitches. Now, wouldn’t that have been a dandy fix?

  “And sit still,” Mercy said, dabbing at his head. “I’m trying to get the bleeding to stop.”

  “I am sittin’ still.”

  “No, you’re squirming.”

  “I’m not squirmin’. And, for your information, I didn’t get right in the middle of it. I got pulled in.”

  “Couldn’t you have resisted?”

  “When your cousin Bart threw a punch at my face, I had no choice but to deliver him a good blow in return. A man’s got to defend himself.”

  “No choice? I think not.”

  “Even the Bible says ‘an eye for an eye,’” he muttered through his swollen lip.

  “I see you failed to read further,” Mercy retorted. “It goes on to say, ‘Whosoever smiteth thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ A couple verses further down, it says, ‘Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies, and pray for them that persecute you; that ye may be sons of your Father which is in heaven.’ That is the Christian way, Samuel Connors.”

  “You’ve got those verses memorized?”

  Mercy laughed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve recited that passage to myself over the years. Memorizing it came easy.”

  “So, you’re sayin’ I was supposed to stand there and let your cousins beat me senseless?”

  “No, silly, you were supposed to get yourself out of there and leave the whole mess to Sheriff Marshall to sort through.”

  “There were people gettin’ hurt. I had to help defend ’em.”

  “Your family, you mean. You had to defend your family against my family. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I—I don’t know exactly what I’m sayin’. Oh, I hate this feud.”

  “No more than I.”

  “I don’t want it comin’ between us.”

  She continued dabbing at his wounds, unsure how to respond to his comment. His breath, warm and feathery, brushed over her as she worked, and she was keenly aware of his blue eyes examining her at close range. She swiveled her body to avoid his gaze, dropped the cloth into the bowl of soapy water on the table, and then wrung it out again. “A Christian seeks to exist peacefully with his enemies,” she said, applying pressure with the cloth against a cut above his eyebrow that refused to stop oozing blood.

  He jerked when she hit a tender spot, and she didn’t bother apologizing. She’d suggested on the way home that he go see Doc Trumble, but, of course, he wouldn’t, his excuse being that Doc already had his hands full. For once, she thanked the Lord she no longer worked at the clinic. Injuries from senseless brawls were her least favorite ailment to treat, even though she knew not to show any bias when assisting the sick and wounded.

  “It was nice of Dora Hansen to offer to watch the boys for a while,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “What did they say about the fight?”

  “Thank goodness, they weren’t even aware of it. Dora noticed it right off and came over to tell me she’d take them home, as her family had just finished packing up to leave. The boys were so excited for the chance to go home with the Hansens, they missed all the racket, and since Dora’s husband had parked his rig on the opposite side of the park, they had no reason to look over there. They will, however, see your face as soon as they walk in the house. What do you plan to tell them?”

  “I guess I’ll tell ’em I messed with the wrong people.”

  “Be prepared for a bunch of questions.” She stepped back to study his wounds. “That’s about as much as I can do for you, except I think I’ll put a bandage on that cut above your eyebrow. How did you get that?”

  “Compliments of Cousin Bart.”

  Mercy grimaced. “I suppose you’re responsible for his falling backward.”

  He looked only a little sheepish. “He made me mad, doggone it.”

  She shook her head, making a tsking sound with her tongue, and reached for the bowl. “I’ll go empty this and get the bandages.” Before she could pick it up, he caught her by the wrist and turned her to face him, coiling his free hand around her other wrist. She inhaled sharply at the contact, and a shiver of awareness climbed up her back, her heart hammering hard against her chest. Slowly, he drew her closer, in between his knees, and then closed his legs, so that his thighs held her captive. It would have been easy to flee, but her feet stayed planted in place.

  “I’m sorry for makin’ matters worse,” he said softly.

  “I didn’t say you made matters worse.”

  He nodded. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I didn’t go over there with the intention o’ fightin’. I wanted to do what I could to stop it. But I guess you’re right; I should have left the whole matter in the sheriff’s hands, even though it took ’im a good six or seven minutes to reach the scene. I’m just glad nobody else pulled out a gun. I saw a few who had ’em at the ready.”

  She sucked in a breath. “The Lord knows we don’t need any more bloodshed. Does anybody know how this ruckus actually began? And is it true that our marriage sparked it?”

  “To an extent, from what I gathered. I don’t even want to know what they said about us, but I’m assumin’ the conversation between my mother and your aunt was the kindlin’ for the fire, and then folks started losin’ their wits and throwin’ punches for no good reason.” Sam sighed. “Oh, Mercy. What’re we gonna do with them?”

  She smiled. “It’s what they’re going to do with us that has me more worried.”

  In a quick and fluid move, before she had a chance to resist, he pulled her o
nto his lap, and her pulse started thrumming in her throat. Why, she couldn’t remember the last man whose lap she’d sat on—her pa’s, probably, when she’d been a little girl. Sweet dancing Moses, what to do with her racing heart?

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re as temptin’ as a bowl full o’ candy?”

  A nervous giggle rolled out of her. “Good glory, no!”

  “Glad to hear it. I wanted to be the first.”

  With their faces almost touching, Mercy swallowed, realizing she’d run out of words. Matter of fact, her mind had emptied of everything, including the whole incident at the park. All of her concentration was required for the act of taking a normal breath. Heaven help me, what’s happening? Is he going to…? No, he wouldn’t. But then….

  He used a finger to tip up her chin. “Mercy?”

  “Yes?” Her voice had a quivering quality she’d never heard before.

  “Have you ever been kissed?”

  “W-well, yes. You kissed me at our wedding, remember?”

  “That wasn’t a real kiss.”

  “It wasn’t?” She bit her lip to stifle her inner excitement.

  “No, I’m talkin’ about a real kiss. Has anyone ever given you a…you know…romantic kiss?”

  “I’m embarrassed to answer that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Then…I’ll admit no one has, but if you’re thinking about kissing me now, well, I don’t know if we should. I mean, I thought this marriage was supposed to be just an arrangement.”

  “It is just an arrangement.” She didn’t know why his response disappointed her. What had she hoped he’d say—that he wanted to change that?

  “Oh.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t kiss, does it?”

  “I don’t know. Aren’t there rules about that?”

  He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if deep in thought. “I should think we could make up our own rules, startin’ with kissin’. Let’s say that kissin’ is officially okay within a marriage in name only.”

  “Just kissing?” She wanted to make sure to get it straight in her mind.

  He gave one quick nod. “Yep, just kissin’. Nothin’ beyond that.”

  She considered him for a moment while one of his thumbs caressed her wrist, making her pulse quicken the more. Trying to appear as though it didn’t affect her, she shrugged. “I suppose that’d be fine.” She snagged a quick breath and lifted her chin a tad higher. “Go ahead, then.”

  Without hesitation, he leaned forward, and for a moment, they tried to decide which direction to approach from and where to put their noses. It was awkward and amusing at the same time. Her breathing sounded funny, coming out all rough and uneven, and it mortified her that he probably heard it. At first, their lips just barely touched, and the contact made her pull back. “Oh, your lip. It must hurt.”

  Even with the swelling, he managed that crooked smile she’d come to love, and raised his hands to cup her face. “I’ll take that chance.” He drew her closer, till the tips of their noses touched, and a tingling sensation raced clear to her twitching toes.

  Their lips met for all of three seconds before she drew back again and looked at him, even more breathless than before. “Wow,” she whispered.

  He chuckled. “That was nothin’.”

  “There’s more?”

  This time, he put his arms fully around her, then planted his mouth against hers in a practiced manner—as if he’d kissed a hundred girls before her—and the kiss lingered as their bodies brushed, and she swayed from left to right, experiencing textures and tastes she hadn’t known existed. At first, the kiss was almost timorous, two mouths sampling each other. But then it grew in strength, like waves on a sandy shore, as they played at the kiss, her timid hands coming up to splay across his muscled back, her lips teasing his, trying new angles.

  She pressed her palms more tightly to his back and settled herself more snugly against his chest, marveling at their differences—she soft, smooth, and pliable, and he hard, rough, and substantial. That knowledge, while not audibly shared, intensified the kiss, and a kind of eagerness she’d never known fired up inside her. Oh Lord, my husband has turned me into a ball of mush was the thought that came to her. Is there any help for me?

  A gentle parting, a searching of eyes, and then a sinking into each other’s mouths once more answered that question. Nope, no help. From this point forward, she would forever know a deep, persistent longing.

  This wondrous exploring of mouths ended all too quickly, and when he pulled away to gauge her face, she was certain he saw a pink hue that hadn’t been there earlier. He grinned, looking rather self-satisfied. “That, my dear, is a kiss.”

  25

  To avoid having to explain the roughed-up condition of his face, Sam had retreated to his bedroom before the boys returned from the Hansens’ and even feigned sleep when they knocked on his door. He’d overheard Mercy explaining that he wanted to get some sleep before his trip. It was a shame that he hadn’t gotten to wish them good night or rehash the day’s events with them, but he figured it was worth keeping them ignorant of his participation in the brawl at the community picnic. Some example he was turning out to be! Hopefully his wounds would fade sufficiently by the time he returned from Nashville on Tuesday. He’d at least had a chance to wake the boys in the early hours, when their room was still dark, and kiss them both on the forehead before heading for the train station.

  He’d also kissed Mercy good-bye, although the exchange had in no way compared to the passionate kisses they’d shared the night before. He’d feared that if he kissed her like that again, he wouldn’t make it to the train station on time. Good grief, what had gotten into him? The woman had him so entwined around her little finger, he couldn’t figure out how to free himself—not that he felt like trying. Still, she’d made it clear she wanted theirs to remain a marriage in name only, so he’d have to keep it that way—even if it killed him.

  After making several brief stops along the way to drop off and pick up passengers, the pulsing locomotive hissed to a stop in Nashville a little after ten in the morning. Sam wondered if he’d recognize his cousin Persephone, or if she’d even be waiting for him at the station. He’d sent her a letter, thanking her for the invitation and announcing his plans to arrive on Sunday morning, also assuring her that she needn’t pick him up till after church—assuming she and Hank attended. He didn’t want to put her out, so he’d offered to stay in a hotel, if that would make matters easier. She hadn’t responded to his letter, but then, he hadn’t expected her to, since she would have received it just yesterday, or maybe the day before. In retrospect, he probably should’ve waited to hear back from her, but she’d been so insistent on his coming right away, he’d assumed she wouldn’t mind. Besides, after yesterday’s fracas, he was even more interested to hear what she had to say on the subject of the feud.

  When the train stopped, he straightened his starched collar, tightened the knot in his tie, and buttoned his suit jacket, then ran his fingers through his hair and plopped his hat on his head. He was glad he’d gone to the barbershop a few days ago, taking the boys with him for a long-overdue haircut. His bruised, battered face had gotten him plenty of suspicious stares from fellow passengers; he didn’t need scruffy hair, to boot, or Persephone might very well send him straight back to Paris.

  He took up his leather bag, hefted the wide strap over one shoulder, and eased his way into the crowded aisle. Behind him, a child whined that he was hungry, and his mother assured him Grandmother would have breakfast waiting. “Will she have pancakes?” “It’s a good possibility.” “Will Grandpa let me drive his tractor?” “I’m sure he will if you ask nicely.”

  Sam smiled at the exchange as they moved along at a snail’s pace. He lowered his head to look out the window at the platform, where a multitude of folks stood waiting, either to greet incoming passengers with hugs or handshakes or to embark on their own journey. Like the lad behind him, Sam’s stoma
ch rattled from hunger. If Persephone didn’t meet him at the platform, the first item on his agenda would be locating a diner.

  Gripping the steel handle by the door, he climbed down to solid ground and scanned the crowd. No one looked remotely familiar, so he made his way to the sidewalk, then strolled down the platform till he had passed the locomotive, giving him a full view of the town. There, he took in the scents, sounds, and sights of his new surroundings. He hadn’t been to Nashville for three or four years, and he noticed a few changes: some newly erected buildings, freshly laid brick streets, and electric wires strung overhead to illuminate the place at night—something Paris still lacked. For a Sunday morning, the place was bustling with activity. There were many people milling about, some standing on street corners, smoking, and others darting across the road, dodging streetcars and horse traffic. Church bells clanged noisily nearby, and a whistle pierced the air as another train chugged into the station, four tracks over. In that moment, Sam decided he much preferred the quieter atmosphere and slower pace of Paris.

  With the conductor’s raspy pronouncement of “All aboard,” the platform crowd thinned a bit as folks embarked. Sam started for the station, thinking he would grab some coffee and a bite to eat. If Persephone didn’t show up by then, he’d hire a driver to drop him at the Greves’. He probably should have planned on that from the start. He reached inside his jacket pocket, feeling around for the envelope printed with their address.

  “Samuel Connors?”

  Startled, Sam turned in the direction of the deep male voice. Approaching him was a tall, dapper-looking fellow dressed in a brown tweed suit, shiny leather shoes, and a bowler hat. If it hadn’t been for his pleasant smile, Sam might have assumed the fellow to be pretentious and stuffy.

  “Yes?”

  The man extended a hand. “Hank Greve. I thought it might be you, the way you were standing there, looking a bit displaced.”

  “Yes, yes! Nice to meet you.” Sam shook his hand.

  “Persephone sends her regrets for not coming to the station. She’s in a motherly way, and she’s suffering from a bit of a weak stomach this morning.”