Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Caleb took a few steps away from her, stared at the ground, and returned. “What about you? Will you return to your uncle’s farm?”

  “I wasn’t wanted there. I’ll find a place to work, perhaps as a nurse to a widow, or as a housekeeper. I will make my way.”

  Caleb stepped closer to Leah. “Do you want to end our marriage?”

  Her tears flowed again as Leah considered the pain of leaving Caleb and his children. She shook her head. “No, but I don’t want to be pitied. I know I’m not pretty. I know I’m not what a man wants.”

  “Why do you think that, Leah?”

  Leah’s voice broke as she revealed her long-hidden sorrow. “No one has ever wanted me. My mother loved me, but even she knew I was too plain to be chosen as a bride.”

  “Did she say that to you?”

  “She didn’t have to. When other girls planned for marriage, my mother taught me how to keep bees. She knew I’d have to make my own way in the world.”

  Caleb retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Wipe your eyes, Leah.”

  She took it from him and did as he instructed.

  Caleb stood beside her until her sobs abated. “There’s a stream just beyond that rise,” he said. “Let’s go and sit awhile.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have some things to say to you, and I don’t want to say them in the middle of the road.”

  Here it comes, Leah thought as she trudged behind Caleb, her head hanging down like a withered tulip. My day of reckoning has finally arrived.

  Caleb tied the horse to a branch, took the handkerchief from Leah, and wet it in the stream. “Sit down,” he said. “The bank is dry.”

  Leah lowered herself to the leaf-covered slope and wiped her face on her sleeve.

  “Here,” Caleb said, “let me clean your face.”

  A gasp of surprise escaped Leah’s lips as he gently applied the cool, damp handkerchief to her cheeks. “Take a deep breath, and let it out.”

  She did as he asked, but her breath caught on sobs.

  “Again.” He sat beside her, his arms resting on his knees.

  She breathed deeply and looked at her surroundings. The autumn sun shone through scarlet-leaved maples, illuminating the bank with dappled light.

  “You are quieter now,” Caleb said. “There’s nothing scares me more than an angry woman.”

  Leah smiled in spite of her distress. “Thee has battled Confederate soldiers, but an angry woman scares thee?”

  “Oh yes. You see, I don’t care what a Reb thinks of me, but I do care what you think of me.” Caleb watched her for a few seconds then ran his hand through his hair and turned to face her. “It’s true I didn’t have marriage in mind when I spoke to your uncle. But when he suggested it, I saw no reason to object.”

  “Thee didn’t want a wife.”

  “Not then.” Caleb must have seen the pain that flit through Leah’s heart, because he hastily added, “But I changed my mind.”

  Leah’s breath eased. “Thee did? When?”

  “The first time I saw you. I don’t know who told you that you were plain, Leah, but they lied.”

  Leah’s eyes widened with disbelief. Everyone had remarked on her plain looks. Everyone.

  “You have a lovely face,” Caleb said. “Deep brown eyes that twinkle with good humor and intelligence, and wide lips that are quick to smile. Your body puts me in mind of a young doe, eager to spring into action at the slightest sign of danger. You’re strong in both body and mind. A woman like you is equal to any task.”

  How could it be true? Caleb actually thought her pretty.

  “I walked into Reverend Harrison’s study that morning expecting to see a timid spinster. Instead I found a strikingly beautiful woman whose bravery matched my own.”

  The ache beneath Leah’s heart subsided. “Why—why didn’t thee consummate our marriage?”

  “I told you. It was my agreement with your uncle not to take advantage of you. But as you may recall, I recently requested a change to that arrangement.”

  On the train, Leah recalled. He’d kissed her and asked permission to share the marriage bed. “I forgot,” Leah murmured.

  “Forgot?” Caleb’s voice was ripe with disbelief. “You forgot?”

  Leah smiled at his exasperated tone. “I mean, I didn’t forget thy kiss. But when I got so angry, I forgot thee had made that request.”

  “I assume you’re still considering it,” Caleb said.

  Leah nodded and smiled at her husband. Of course she’d take him as her husband. It was what she’d wanted from the day Uncle Abram had told her of her marriage. But her answer could wait until tonight. Leah rested her head on her knees, suddenly exhausted by her fluctuating emotions. Caleb’s words had dissolved her anger and sorrow. Now joyous hope began to grow in her heart.

  “Many years ago,” Caleb said, “when arranged marriages were typical, the honeymoon was a time when the newly married couple would get to know one another. In a strange way, I think my convalescence in Washington was our honeymoon.”

  “We certainly spent a lot of time together.”

  “You were a wonderful nurse. If you hadn’t come, who knows what would have happened to me.”

  “It was the juice from the radish leaves,” Leah said. “Plus the honey.”

  “If you say so,” Caleb allowed. “But it was much more than your medicinals that made me well, Leah. It was you.”

  Leah raised her eyebrows in question.

  “You talked to me,” Caleb explained, “and sustained me. I was lonely, and you kept me company. I was fretful, and you eased my worry. Even if you don’t love me, you treat me in a very loving way. I am most fortunate to have you in my life.”

  Tears formed in her eyes once again.

  “My word, woman,” Caleb said as he passed the damp handkerchief to her. “What have I said to upset you?”

  “Nothing,” Leah said between sniffles. “Nothing at all.” She sprang from her position, wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, and kissed his mouth as the salty tears fell down her cheeks.

  Caleb drew her closer and returned her kiss. “Being married to you is more than just a stroke of luck, Leah. The Lord blessed me when He arranged for you to be my wife. I’ve come to love you very much.”

  Leah laid her head on his shoulder, enjoying the strength of his embrace. “I love thee, Caleb. Thank thee for choosing me.”

  Caleb kissed her again. “If I weren’t already married to you, I’d propose.”

  Leah kissed him. “If I weren’t already married, I’d accept.”

  Caleb gently placed his hands on her cheeks and looked into her eyes. “Leah Wall, will you marry me? Will you give me more children and live with me until the Lord calls us home?”

  Leah’s soul overflowed with joy. Her years of aching emptiness faded as Caleb’s words sank into her heart. “I’ll marry thee, Caleb Whitaker, and I’ll be a mother to thy children. All of them. I may not have loved thee when we married, but I do so love thee now.”

  Epilogue

  Caleb smiled down at Leah from the cherry tree. “Ready for another basket?”

  Leah shielded her eyes from the April sun and looked up at her husband. “Send it down, and I’ll add it to the others.”

  A basket tied to a rope descended from the branches. Leah untied the knot and set the basket on the ground. “That’s two bushels of cherries from this one tree.”

  “And more to come,” Caleb said, climbing down the ladder. “It’s been a good year for cherries.” A bee flew lazily around Caleb’s head; he swatted it away.

  “Don’t hurt my bee,” Leah scolded, reaching for his hand. “Thee wouldn’t have so many cherries if my bees hadn’t done their job.”

  “Not to mention the honey I enjoy every morning on Delia’s biscuits.” Caleb laid a hand on Leah’s rounded abdomen. “How’s my son today?”

  Leah covered his hand with hers. “Thy daughter is doing quite well. She’s pushing
against my ribs with the strength of an ox.”

  Caleb kissed her forehead. “No daughter would be so strong. It must be a boy.”

  Leah wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled her head on his chest. “Thee doesn’t really care if it’s a girl, does thee?”

  Caleb pulled her closer. “Of course not. But think of poor Stephen. Two sisters to boss him around hardly seems fair.” The baby pushed against Leah’s ribs with such force that Caleb felt it. “I see what you mean about the little ox,” he said. “Stay in your warm cocoon, little one,” he said to Leah’s stomach. “It’s not yet time to greet the world.”

  Leah ran her hand through her husband’s dark hair. “I love thee.”

  Caleb straightened and held Leah’s face in his calloused hands. “And I love you.” He kissed her brow. “I will love you until my dying day.” He kissed her cheek. “And I will kiss you until all my kisses have been used up.” He kissed her lips.

  Leah’s heart soared as she sent up another prayer of gratitude, her fourth one that day. The Lord had made her wait, preparing her to be a wife and mother, but at last, the secret desires of her heart had been fulfilled.

  CLAIRE SANDERS

  After many years of writing and publishing in the nonfiction world of academia, Claire turned her energy, humor, and creativity toward the production of compelling romantic fiction. Claire lives in the greater Houston area with her daughter and two well-loved dogs. When she isn’t writing, you’ll find her cooking, gardening, and dreaming of places to travel.

  A Iender Branch

  by Jane LaMunyon

  Dedication

  To librarian Bill Purdy of the Mojave Branch library.

  He went out of his way to get books

  on the Union Pacific Railroad,

  even loaning me one from his own personal library. Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  Kimberly, Massachusetts

  March 15, 1874

  Journal entry:

  This has been the best day of my life! I was so nervous when I opened the letter from the Boston school board. Thank You, God, for Winston Heights Academy accepting me! I will be the best teacher they’ve ever had. I’ll miss Eugenia, Lolly, and Mrs. Palmer, who have been more than family to me.

  This afternoon, just before the mail came, I saw the first robin of the year and…

  The next morning Mary Sherwood stood on a two-foot-high stool, holding an open book in front of her face. Strains of Bach from the piano in the parlor filled the house, and the citrus smell of lemon cake just out of the oven drifted through the high-ceilinged rooms. She felt a tug on the hem of her skirt and looked down.

  Eugenia, her friend and former nanny, on her knees, frowned up at her. “Stand up straight, Girl. You want your hem to look wig-waggy?” Mary straightened, holding the book higher. Eugenia carefully marked the hem on the peach-colored skirt. “I declare, you gonna cross your eyes with all that readin’.”

  Holding the book close to her chest and remembering to hold very still, Mary said, “Oh, Genie, this is the story of a teacher who risked her life to rescue one of her little students.”

  “Girl, you may find that school teachin’ is just plain work.” She stood and walked around Mary, pausing to move the hem marking on the back left, and circled again.

  A loud knocking at the door silenced the piano music. Mary and Eugenia walked through the hallway, Eugenia muttering, “Who’s come knocking?” Lolly, Eugenia’s sixteen-year-old daughter, joined them from the parlor, and they opened the door.

  The three women eyed the man who stood on their front porch. Dark, wavy hair crowned a friendly face. Mary had never seen such eyes, a cross between gray and deep blue, fringed with long black lashes. His skin was tanned; his clothes, though of the latest fashion, looked casual on him.

  A faint smile curved his lips, and he said, “I’m looking for Mary Sherwood.”

  Of all the heroes in the books she’d read, this man personified them. He definitely had the look of a prince seeking his princess, of a knight coming to the rescue of his lady.

  “What you want with her?”

  Eugenia’s question brought Mary from her daydream. “I’m Mary Sherwood,” she said.

  The man’s smile broadened. “My name is Jesse Harcourt. Your father sent me.”

  A cold ripple of distress went through Mary. Fighting down her shock, she met his eyes, attempting a confidence she did not feel. “My father?” Mary hadn’t seen her father in thirteen years. Her last memory was of him walking away from her. She clutched her book to her chest, too stunned to move.

  Eugenia hugged Mary’s shoulders, saying, “Mr. Sherwood? He’s alive? Glory to God! Girl, where’s your manners? Come inside, young man, and tell us why Mr. Sherwood hisself isn’t on our porch!”

  “He wants to see you.” The man looked into Mary’s eyes, a question in his own. She turned abruptly, not wanting him to see her confusion. He followed them into the house, and she escaped to the kitchen. She set the book on the cutting table and leaned on it with both palms, squeezing her eyes to shut out old memories. She’d made very sure her life was well ordered, and everything had gone exactly as she’d planned it, with no surprises. Now this visitor, sent by her father, was a threat to her schedule.

  Eugenia entered the kitchen, her soft shoes making little noise. “Honey-Girl?” She put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  Mary took a deep breath, then stood and clenched her fists. “I don’t want to see my father!”

  “Why, Child? What’s this all about?”

  “He left us! He just walked away and left us defenseless!” She tried to push down the memory of her mother looking back at her, pleading with her to be silent, as she was dragged away by Union soldiers to her death. The memory faded, to be replaced by their home consumed in flames.

  Eugenia pulled Mary into her arms. “Hush, now. He didn’t know they’d get that far south. None of them knew.”

  Mary stiffened. “He shouldn’t have gone.”

  Eugenia dropped her hands from Mary’s arms. “We’ll talk about this later. Now, the young man in our parlor had nothing to do with that. The Good Book tells us to be hospitable.”

  She lit the fire beneath the kettle and got plates from the cupboard. “Cut the lemon cake and save a piece for Miz Palmer. She’ll be home soon.”

  Mary blinked back tears. She thought she’d gotten over the trauma of feeling abandoned by her father, losing her mother and her home, and making the long trip north with Eugenia and Lolly on the Underground Railroad. She simply had refused to think about it. But she was unprepared for the memory to come up unexpectedly and strike her.

  Determined not to let the man see her confusion, she forced herself to maintain her composure, which came to her so easily now after years of practice. She sliced the cake, gathering the familiar defenses that never failed her. By the time she had the last piece of cake on its plate, her control was in place.

  Jesse sat on the edge of the settee in the parlor, waiting. The room was homey but tastefully decorated. The high ceiling was rimmed with ten-inch crown molding, the walls papered in a small flower design. Three wing chairs faced each other near the front windows, where the housekeeper’s daughter sat waiting for her mother and Miss Sherwood to return, and the side pieces and inlaid tables flanked the walls.

  He heard murmuring in the kitchen. Jesse hadn’t known what to expect when he finally met Mary Sherwood, but he had never imagined such a petite, auburn-haired beauty existed. Her ivory skin contrasted with the rosy bloom on her lips. But he’d never forget her eyes. Pale blue, large, and so expressive.

  He’d expected her to be thrilled to hear that her father was alive and wanted to see her. Instead, her face grew stiff and pale, her body rigid. She had tried to hide her reaction by quickly turning away.

  The women were justifiably surprised by his news, and clearly the housekeeper was elated. But Miss Sherwood looked shocked. Did she think her father was de
ad? Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so direct, but he never imagined there’d be a problem.

  The housekeeper, Eugenia, came in carrying a tray with a silver service on it; Lolly stood to help her mother. Mary Sherwood followed, looking cool and confident, carrying a tray with four servings of lemon cake. He stifled a grin as he caught sight of pins at the hem of her skirt, winking in the light. He concentrated on his piece of cake to avoid embarrassing her.

  Jesse was trying to think of a way to broach the subject he’d come to discuss when the front door opened and a tall, elegant lady with gray strands in her blond hair strode in. “Another letter for you, Mary!” she called, unpinning her hat. She stopped abruptly when she saw Jesse. “What a surprise! We have company.”

  This must be Thelma Palmer. The Pinkerton detectives told him Mary had been living with her for many years. He liked her instantly. She had a no-nonsense way about her, coupled with intelligent, wide blue eyes.

  Jesse needed to talk with Miss Sherwood alone, but her standoffish attitude told him she’d not welcome his request. He should have written first, to give her a chance to think about it. But he was there, and he was sure that coming in person was the right thing to do.

  Their small talk turned to his home, which brought up many questions. What was California like? Were there wild Indians? Not in Eureka, he told them. He talked of his work in the logging business and glanced at Mary as he said he worked for a fine man who was good at managing the camp. She maintained her aloof appearance.

  “So, what brings you to Massachusetts?” asked Mrs. Palmer.

  “I had business in New York for the outfit I work for,” he replied. He smiled at Mary; she looked down at her hands in her lap. “I came to Massachusetts to see Miss Sherwood.”