Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  She slapped at a fly, then shielded her eyes from the sun. “I was asking as a professional courtesy, of course.”

  He grinned. “Of course. By the way, not sure I ever did thank you for takin’ me in that night.”

  “I assure you, I didn’t take you in—willingly, that is—and you certainly weren’t around long enough for me to do you much good. Your mother saw to that.”

  Did he detect a bit of antagonism? “My mother can be somewhat of a nuisance, I’ll give you that. I don’t know what she said to you when she and my cousins came bargin’ into your house, but whatever it was, let me just apologize for her rudeness.”

  “You certainly don’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.” She drew the boys close and looked at him. “We want to thank you again for running into that blazing house. I don’t know how…or why….”

  He flicked a wrist. “Never mind that. I’m just glad I acted when I did. There wasn’t another soul around at the time, so I didn’t have a second to waste.” He set his eyes on the boys now. “By the way, which one of you wrote that fine thank-you letter I got in the mail the other day?”

  Joseph raised his hand as if he were sitting in a schoolroom. A lively grin popped out on his handsome young face, and Sam wondered if it was the first time since the fire. “Mercy helped me. She spelled the words, and I writed all the letters.”

  “And so did I!” John Roy piped up. “Help, I mean.”

  “You didn’t write it,” Joseph said.

  “No, but I tol’ you some of the words t’ write!”

  Mercy applied a bit of pressure to their shoulders. “Boys.”

  Sam looked at her, searching his memory for a prettier face but coming up empty. Giving himself a mental rebuke, he turned his attention back to the boys, bending at the waist and touching both their noses. “It was mighty fine o’ both of you to send the letter. I folded it up and put it back in the envelope for safekeepin’.”

  Mercy cleared her throat. “Well, we must be on our way, as we have a number of errands to run. Nice to see you, Mr. Connors.” She made an attempt to turn the boys in the opposite direction.

  “Likewise. Oh, one more thing, Miss Evans.” He raised his index finger. “Just curious how that, uh, advertisement scheme of yours is workin’ out.”

  She blinked and promptly blushed. “I wasn’t aware you’d heard about it.”

  He couldn’t help but throw back his head and laugh. “Heard about it?” He removed his Stetson, ran a hand through his tangled hair, then plopped the hat back in place. “Is there anyone in all of Henry County who hasn’t? You’ve made quite a stir.”

  She pulled back her shoulders and sniffed. “I figured folks would find my public notice a bit out of the ordinary—desperate, even—but I hardly expected anyone to find it humorous, Mr. Connors. In fact, I would expect you to cheer me on, seeing as you are the one who saved these boys from perishing in the fire.”

  Well, she did have a way of wiping the grin right off his face. He collected himself and glanced down at the boys, both of whom stared up at him with looks of confusion. He doubted they were aware of her plan. “Do you have any serious contenders?”

  She lifted her chin. “Perhaps. Actually, yes.” With her curt reply, she turned the boys around, took their hands in hers, and proceeded up the street without so much as a “Good day.”

  “Wait!” He clicked at Tucker, who lifted his head and ambled toward them. “Who are they—your prospective…you know?”

  She whirled. “It is none of your concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the boys and I have errands to run.” Again, she turned and set off.

  He snagged her by the arm, not hard, but enough to bring a halt to her steps. Tucker snorted, as if to say, “Make up your mind. Are we coming or going?” “Darn tootin’ it’s my concern. You just said yourself I ought to be cheerin’ you on.” He spread his arms. “Well, here I am, cheerin’ you on. Now, tell me who you’ve picked.”

  “I haven’t picked anyone—yet. But with all the callers I’ve had, I wouldn’t expect it to take much longer.”

  He rocked back on his boot heels and ignored the annoying stirring in his chest. What was it? Mere curiosity? Or, worse, jealousy? “You’ve had a lot of interest, then?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll need to repaint my porch steps for all the traffic they’ve had.”

  Although he knew she’d meant the remark in jest, she didn’t break a grin—more like a smirk. Oh, she was an imp, and it irked him that she attracted him. Somehow, he knew that given the chance to dig, he’d find a sense of humor buried beneath that thick shield she wore so snugly around her. This was a strong woman who’d known pain but had learned the art of mastering it.

  “So, you have how much time left to make this…this decision?”

  “A couple of weeks. But I’ll be making it sooner than that, as there’s the wed—the ceremony to plan.”

  “Performed by a preacher, I presume. And what if he doesn’t approve of this little plot you’ve cooked up?”

  She bristled. “I’ll have you know I haven’t ‘cooked up’ anything. I’m being forced into it. And for your information, I’ve spoken to Reverend Younker, and he understands my predicament. As long as I marry a fine Christian man”—was it his imagination, or did she throw him a scornful glance?—“he’s agreed to perform the nuptials and bless the union.”

  Joseph’s head jerked up. “You’re gettin’ married?”

  Mercy snarled, and with a scowl to scare away a skunk, she looked Sam square in the eyes. “Now look what you’ve made me do.” She turned on her heel. “Come on, boys.” And with that, she set off again, this time at a much faster pace, so that the boys had to run to keep up.

  “Huh? I didn’t make you do anything, lady!” He tagged along behind, Tucker clip-clopping after. “It was your tongue that slipped, not mine. And, just so you know, they were bound to find out anyway. Why the big secret?”

  Without turning, she let go of Joseph’s hand and gave a backward wave. “Good-bye, Mr. Connors!” Then, taking Joseph’s hand again, she whisked the boys across the street, her long skirts blowing in the wind. The last thing Sam heard was little John Roy’s pleading voice. “Ouch! My side hurts. Why’re we runnin’? Who’s gettin’ married?”

  He watched until the threesome had vanished from view, and then he climbed back in the saddle, sputtering to himself. “What in tarnation do I care who she marries?”

  6

  The next few days went by in a storm of male callers. Apparently, news of Mercy’s infamous ad had spread beyond Henry County. Oh, how she’d beseeched the Lord to lend her wisdom. The biblical command “Pray without ceasing” had taken on a literal meaning. She knelt at her bedside each night; prayed while she dutifully performed her job in the doctor’s office, with the boys playing next door at the home of Etta Parsons, a grandmotherly type with a world of energy and love; and pleaded to the Father as she went about her household chores, both kids talking and sometimes bickering in the background. She needed a whole wagonload of wisdom, but, so far, God had not shed one particle of light on what she should do or whom she should choose as a life mate. About the only words she got from Him were gentle reminders to wait and trust. Wait and trust? Really? When the clock kept ticking?

  A flicker of attraction to at least one of her callers would’ve helped, but none quite measured up to the standards she’d set for her future husband: (1) Must love God, (2) Must love children, (3) Must have a sense of humor and enjoy life. It went without saying that “Must have front teeth intact” ranked rather high. Her list went on, even as she questioned whether her extreme pickiness had slowed the process. Her mind kept skipping back to Harold Beauchamp, the kindhearted, highly respected, even godly, Paris postmaster. Surely, she could grow fond of him over time, despite his being so much older than she. Perhaps she might even encourage him—tactfully, of course—to lose the bulge that hung over his belt.

  As it turned out, Mercy and the boys had waited
exactly one hour at the train station the day after her encounter with Sam Connors, only to be stood up by the one man she’d hung her last hopes on. According to Caroline Hammerstrom, her brother had lost his nerve in the final minutes before boarding his train in Chicago, claiming he simply wasn’t ready to make such a commitment. Well, fine. Mercy didn’t want to marry a coward, anyway, so it was best he hadn’t come. Still, it had been a deep disappointment not to at least meet him. Surely, he would have loved the boys and immediately sensed their deep need for a father’s care. On the other hand, perhaps he had an even bigger breadbasket than Mr. Beauchamp.

  She had decided to tell the boys about the judge’s decree. With all the talk around town, not to mention the stream of male callers, they’d figure it out soon enough, anyway. Best they hear it from her, even though their young minds wouldn’t fully grasp it. Of course, they’d bellowed to the treetops and cried rivers at the thought of having to live with anyone other than her, and nothing she’d said had consoled them, until she’d finally promised it wouldn’t come to that. And she wasn’t about to break her promise. Even if it meant that she had to marry her least appealing candidate—Festus Morton, a toothless farmer who’d traveled seven miles by mule to offer his hand that very day in exchange for lodging at her house and all the food he cared to eat. He’d even promised he’d give up farming and spend all his time with the boys so she could keep on working full-time, or even overtime, if she had a mind to. In a word, he wanted room and board for life.

  She’d shooed him out the door as quick as she could, but now she told herself that if it came down to it—if marrying Festus Morton was the only way to keep the boys for good—she would go crawling to him on her hands and knees.

  Her cousins Frieda Yeager and Wilburta Crockett, daughters of Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertie, paid her a visit to tell her how sorry they were to hear of her plight. “Marriage ain’t always what it’s cracked up t’ be,” Frieda said. “I shore hope y’ don’t get y’rself into a fix you’ll regret f’r the rest o’ your life.” Frieda and her husband and kids had moved back to Paris just a few months ago, after spending five years in East Tennessee. In that time, she’d picked up a stronger accent, and Mercy suspected it came from living up in the hills.

  She knew she had a southern drawl, herself—who in Tennessee didn’t?—but her mother had been a real stickler for proper English, so she’d spent a good share of her life reading grammar books and working on polished speech.

  “Indeed!” Wilburta agreed. “You might hitch up with some half-wit, and then where would you be, Cousin?”

  Had Mercy’s conscience not pricked her ahead of time, she might have told her cousins that their husbands were nothing to brag about. Land of Lincoln, Wilburta’s husband, Ellis, had Festus Morton beat in looks and smarts by only a hair or two.

  “I’m lookin’ for someone with some brains,” she said, hoping to earn a smile from them. “And it wouldn’t hurt if he were halfway decent to look at.”

  Both remained solemn-faced while they all sat around the table sipping on sweet tea. Frieda plunked down her glass and stared off. “Cain’t say I could name a single eligible bachelor in all of Paris that fits them traits.…unless y’r talkin’ the likes o’ Samuel Connors.”

  Mercy’s spine stiffened. “Which I am not.”

  “I should say not, Frieda Yeager. He’s a Connors, anyway. No Evans would ever consider hookin’ up with a Connors. Why, it’d be downright sinful.”

  Mercy would’ve liked to ask Wilburta how she’d come to that conclusion, but since she had no interest in Samuel Connors, she kept the question tucked away.

  “Still, it don’t hurt t’ ask what he’s like,” said Frieda, her green eyes flashing with interest and a speck of mischief. “He is right fine-lookin’. Don’t know why nobody’s ever snatched him up. Did he have much to say to you whilst you helped Doc take care o’ him?”

  Mercy recalled how he’d tried his darnedest to make conversation with her, even attempting to flirt, and how she’d kept her words to a minimum. She’d probably come across as just short of boorish, but she preferred to think she’d acted professionally. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We were civil with each other.”

  Frieda’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I s’pose it’s f’r the best. He might be good-lookin’, but he comes from devil’s stock.”

  At that, Mercy bristled from the top of her head clear down to her toes. “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “Mercy Evans, you need to ask?” Wilburta’s voice rose to a pitch that rivaled the highest piano key. “His father killed your pa!”

  “That doesn’t make Samuel Connors responsible. Have you forgotten he walked into a burning house, with no thought for his own well-being, to save the lives of John Roy and Joseph?”

  Wilburta, the more garish of the two, turned her mouth down and sniffed. “O’ course, I hain’t forgot that, but that don’t erase the fact he’s a Connors. Everybody knows the Connors clan is bad.”

  “Not everybody, Burtie. To my knowledge, it’s only Evans folk who feel that way.”

  “Well, no matter. Evans and Connors blood don’t mix.”

  Rather than argue, Mercy changed the subject to something safer, inquiring after her cousins’ latest quilting and sewing projects. When the boys came bounding down the stairs, asking what she planned to fix for supper, the two ladies gathered up their things and said good-bye—and none too soon for Mercy.

  When she’d finished washing the supper dishes, Mercy reined in her thoughts and gazed out the kitchen window at her neglected garden, where the boys climbed an old apple tree in need of a good pruning. At least they’d found something to while away their minutes before bedtime.

  “Mercy Beauchamp.” She tested the name on her lips. Wrinkling her nose, she stepped away from the window, passed through the dining room, and entered the front parlor. “Good evening, Mrs. Beauchamp.” She plopped down into the old settee that had been sitting against the same wall since before her father passed. “How do you do, Mrs. Beauchamp?” she said in a singsong voice, mimicking Thelma Younker, the reverend’s wife. “Lovely day, isn’t it? My, my, I do declare, the longer you and Harold have been married, the more you two look alike.” That thought snapped her back to the present and made her groan.

  Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she stared at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord,” she vented in sheer frustration, “is Mr. Beauchamp really Your best choice for me?”

  Wait and trust.

  She groaned. “Wait and trust, wait and trust. What does that mean, Father? Show me a sign.”

  But all she got in return was the constant, irksome ticking of the heirloom clock on the fireplace mantel in the front parlor.

  ***

  Sam mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve, ready to clean up after a long day of work. This time of year, Connors Blacksmith Shop grew uncomfortably warm. The fact that it had been built into a hillside, constructed of stone, with plenty of shade trees surrounding it, meant that it stayed cool in early summer, but these factors were no match for the relentless rays of the late July sun.

  Across the room, his uncle, not quite ready to call an end to his labors, put the final touches on a garden gate he’d been crafting for one of their customers by attaching a forged hinge to it.

  Sam took up the broom and started sweeping dust and shavings from under the table onto the dustpan, then dropped the debris into the nearby wastebasket.

  “You find y’rself a place to live yet?” his uncle asked.

  “Nope.” Sam glanced at Uncle Clarence, who hadn’t bothered to look up. “But I did learn Bessie Overmyer has a room to let at the boardinghouse.”

  Now Uncle Clarence shot him a quick glance, his gray eyebrows upturned. “You must be pretty desperate to get out from under your ma’s clutches if you’re thinkin’ ’bout movin’ there. Hear them rooms are about as big as Mother Goose’s shoe. Ain’t she mostly set up for travelers passin’ through?”

/>   “Yeah, but I talked to her, and she says she has a room at the back of the second floor that would accommodate a longer stay. ’Course, I’d have to share the single washroom with the other tenants.”

  His uncle wrinkled his nose. “Seems y’ought to be able to find somethin’ better’n Bessie’s Boardinghouse, son. Think I’d endure your ma’s constant carryin’ on for the comforts of that big ol’ farmhouse ’fore I’d resort to livin’ in a twelve by twelve room.”

  Uncle Clarence never had been one to mince words when it came to Sam’s mother. He couldn’t fight back the grin. “You don’t live with her.”

  “Thank the good Lord for that!”

  Truth was, Sam had been giving serious thought to approaching Mercy Evans about her need for a husband. As far as he could tell, he’d be her best bet. Just that morning, while sipping a tin mug of hot coffee over at Juanita’s Café, a dingy little hangout where the local laborers liked to gather before heading to their job sites, he’d overheard a few men jawing at another table. “If I weren’t married m’self, I’d offer up my services to that pretty little Evans dame. That one’s a looker.” This from the rough-and-tumble Bill Jarman, who worked over at the tanning factory. Several men had added their two cents on the matter, one middle-aged fellow joking that it might be worth a divorce, and one old codger saying, “Divorce nothin’. My wife died five years ago. I been thinkin’ on startin’ over with someone.”

  Juanita Mendez, the healthily plump owner of the establishment, had sauntered over with a tray of breakfast buns, her black hair done up in its usual braided knot at the nape of her neck, her long red skirts whooshing around her chubby ankles. “You boys don’t stand a chance,” she’d said in her machine-gun-fast Spanish accent. “Miss Evans, she already name her future husband.”

  All ears had perked, including Sam’s, as she’d taken her time setting the tray of goods in the center of the big round table. “That so?” Bill had asked, stretching out his fat paw to snatch up a jelly roll. “Who’s the lucky feller?”