Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  “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 cha
nce 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.

  Mrs. Whintley’s gaze lifted from the boys to Mercy. “And how are you doing, Miss Evans?”

  “I’m managing at the moment.”

  “Ah, yes, ‘at the moment.’ I heard about the judge’s decision.” She chewed her lower lip, and Mercy could about imagine the stirrings going on inside that feather-topped head of silver hair. “Also heard tell you’re lookin’ for a husband. I didn’t read your advertisement, mind you, but I’ve heard plenty of talk. Why, you’re the main topic of conversation about town.”

  Mercy didn’t doubt her for a minute. Ever since she’d placed the ad in the Paris Post-Intelligencer, her ears hadn’t stopped itching, nor had folks stopped staring at her like she’d lost her last scrap of common sense. She suppressed a sigh.

  “Any, uh…”—the woman leaned in close and lifted her graying eyebrows so high, they disappeared under her hat, her greenish eyes twinkling like twin stars—“promisin’ prospects?”

  Having grown fidgety in their waiting, the boys let go of Mercy’s hands and went in search of sticks. Keeping a close watch on them out of the corner of her eye, she muttered under her breath, “I don’t know that you’d call them promising, no.”

  Oh, she’d gotten plenty of calls—in fact, her door knocker had taken quite a beating of late—but her options were limited. Paris plain lacked eligible bachelors, and the ones who did qualify were either missing a front tooth or two, had a gnat-sized brain, or, sorry to say, hadn’t learned the finer skills of bathing. Granted, there were some not so hard on the eye, but they were lacking in either personality or proper motives, drawn in by the appeal of a nice house over their heads and caring not one smidgeon about the boys. Worst were the clowns who got the wrong idea about their sleeping arrangements, assuming she’d welcome them straight into her bed.

  “So, you’re sayin’ you’ve had no luck?”

  She really didn’t care to discuss her private life with Mrs. Whintley, the woman dubbed “town crier” by many. Still, giving her a few crumbs would make her feel important, as if she had an edge, and keep her busy sharing her privileged information—for the next few days, at least.

  “Well, if you promise not to say anything….”

  Mrs. Whintley’s eyes went round as pennies, as she bobbed her head up and down several times.

  “I will tell you that I do have a few possibly good prospects. One is”—the poor woman held her breath and looked ready to fall over—“oh, I best not say his name, but he’s a professional about town—a fine Christian man who’s never married. He would probably do quite well. And then, there is Mr.—oh! Again, I mustn’t let the name slip. Let’s just say he’s a widower who lives outside of town. I doubt you know him. Let’s see….” She scratched her temple, feigning deep thought. “Oh, yes! Another man I don’t know, whose sister wrote to tell him of my plight, will be arriving on the afternoon train tomorrow to meet me.”

  Mrs. Whintley’s jaw dropped. “Gracious me! Really?”

  Mercy nodded. What she’d said was true enough, except for the part about them being “good prospects.” Perhaps Harold Beauchamp, the forty-something postmaster, who would remain nameless to Wilma Whintley, came the closest in terms of decent possibilities, but only because he understood her immediate need, had always treated her with utmost respect, and hadn’t seemed to object when she’d explained the rule of separate bedrooms. If anything, he’d blushed profusely at the mention of it. Best, he professed to know the Lord, which, of course, rated of utmost importance. Unfortunately, the poor fellow had a pudgy belly, thinning hairline, and crooked teeth that hampered his smile—which also hampered her spirits.

  Of course, she had yet to meet Caroline Hammerstrom’s brother. He could be her perfect match, for all she knew. After all, she’d been praying unceasingly ever since paying Judge Corbett a visit and learning she must find a husband. Surely, God would answer her prayer, sooner than later.

  A horse whinnied, and a deep-throated “Whoa” turned both women’s heads. Sam Connors, riding high and straight and looking fully recovered from his brush with death, pulled back on the reins of his shining black steed, bringing it to a halt at the side of the road. He gave the women a cursory nod and lifted his hat an inch from his curly head before replacing it, but the boys received his full attention. At first sight of him, they both dropped their sticks and ran to meet him.

  Mrs. Whintley bumped against Mercy and murmured under her breath, “My mother’s milk cow, Miss Evans. Now, there’s a man for you. It’s a cryin’ shame your families don’t get along.”

  A shame indeed, Mercy thought. But, the family feud aside, she couldn’t marry the man whose father had murdered her pa. No sir, never in a million years. Not even if God wrote the command in the sand with a stick.

  5

  Sam looped the reins over Tucker’s saddle horn. The worn leather of the stirrups creaked as he raised himself up, swung one big leg over the horse’s rear, and jumped down, making the dust fly. He brushed off his pants and smiled down at the boys, patting them both on their sandy heads and taking care not to gawk at Mercy Evans, who looked mighty pretty today in her pale blue skirt and fitted floral blouse with low, rounded neckline and shiny buttons climbing up her front. She had her black-as-midnight hair pulled back in a loose bun, as usual, the strings of the ribbon woven around it and tied in a bow dangling to her neckline, and a few homespun curls framing her face. She was a scrumptious sight, if he did say so—but, again, quite untouchable.

  “You never came to see us,” said the older of the two boys—Joseph, if he recalled correctly. He had just a wisp of a grin on his face, making Sam wonder what, if anything, w
ould make him smile these days. Sam would just about give away his left arm to finagle a giggle out of either one of them.

  “No, I don’t guess I did. I’ve gone back to work, so I’ve been pretty busy. That don’t mean I haven’t thought plenty about you, though. You doin’ okay?”

  Neither boy responded; they merely lifted their slim little shoulders in a slight shrug. The gesture tugged at his heart, and he turned his eyes on Miss Evans—the “husband hunter,” as he’d been mentally referring to her—and the older woman standing beside her. The unknown woman stepped forward and extended a hand. “Good mornin’, sir. I’m Wilma Whintley. My Wilfred, rest his soul, surely did appreciate your blacksmithin’ services.”

  Oh yes, the infamous Widow Whintley. Poor woman. He’d often heard others refer to her as Wilma “Windbag” Whintley, due to her extreme love for gossip. He tipped his hat at her. “Nice meetin’ you, ma’am. You let me know if you have need of any metalwork.”

  “Yes, indeed I shall. Well, I’ll be goin’ now. I’m to meet Mrs. Rutherford and a few other members of the Paris Women’s Club to discuss our annual city picnic in late August. Perhaps I’ll see you there, Mr. Connors.” To Mercy, she added, “And you be sure to come as well, Miss Evans, and bring those boys—that is, if you still…you know….”

  “Yes, yes, I will. Thank you. Good-bye, ma’am.”

  Sam watched the woman skedaddle across the street, her bustle bouncing behind her like a jumpy dog.

  Mercy let out a noticeable sigh.

  He chuckled. “Good friend of yours?”

  She glanced across the street. “A neighbor.” Then, blowing out a loud breath, she surveyed him hastily. “So, you’ve returned to work, have you? I take it you’re feeling much better, then.”

  “A whale of a lot better than I did a week ago. Doc says I shouldn’t have gone back to work yet, but I’m no good just sittin’ around. Thanks for askin’ after me, nurse. I wasn’t aware you cared.”