Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  Juanita had straightened, shifted to one side, and placed a hand on her round hip. One black eyebrow had jutted higher than the other. “Harold Beauchamp.”

  Sam had coughed, not so much from his continued bouts of congestion since the fire but from the fact that his coffee had gone down the wrong pipe at her response. A few surprised gasps had filtered through the room, followed by spurts of laughter. “The Paris postmaster?” someone had asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Sí, señor. I hear it from the man who bring my mail to me.”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’?”

  “What’s he know about raisin’ young’uns?”

  “Who says it’s them young’uns he’s interested in?”

  “What in all creation does she see in him?”

  The questions and remarks had kept up until Sam had heard enough and pushed back in his chair, its legs screeching loudly across the grainy concrete floor. He’d tossed a few coins on the table, nodded his thanks at Juanita, then stalked out the door, his dander up for reasons he couldn’t identify. Why should it matter one whit whom Mercy Evans chose to marry?

  But even as he’d strode through the shop door that morning and fired up the forge, he’d mulled over the idea of offering her his hand. She’d probably chase him right out of her house, but it was worth a shot, even if she refused. He cared about the future of those little boys, and he frankly couldn’t see Beauchamp having the energy or desire to invest a lot of time in them. Not that he wasn’t a nice enough guy, but what did Mercy see in that balding, pudgy bachelor, who had to be nearing his mid-forties?

  Now Sam decided to test his uncle’s reaction to the notion of approaching her. “You hear about Mercy Evans and her search for a husband?”

  “Yep.” His uncle kept his eyes on his task, using a mallet to fix an angle, then laying it down and taking up a file to perfect the shape to his liking.

  “You ever talk to her?”

  “Nope.” The filing motion made a swish, swish sound.

  “She’s a pretty thing.”

  “Yep.”

  “I been thinkin’ ’bout…makin’ her an offer, I guess you could say.”

  Uncle Clarence stilled his hands, and he looked up, his thin lips barely visible beneath his bushy mustache. Still, Sam swore he detected the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth. However, his gray eyes refused to give away any emotion. “That so?”

  “You think it’s foolhardy o’ me?”

  “Depends on your motive, I guess.”

  “My motive?” Sam stood the ancient cornhusk broom in a corner and set the dustpan alongside it, then reached around to untie his apron and lifted it over his head.

  “Sure. Are you lookin’ for a permanent place to hang your hat? The fastest way to pull your mother’s chain? Are you marryin’ for love?”

  “Love? Heck, no!” A tiny knot of guilt rolled around in his gut. “I won’t deny it’d be nice to have my own place.”

  “It wouldn’t be your place. It’d be hers.”

  “Yeah, but she’s advertisin’ for a husband. I would expect she’d be willin’ to share her house with ’im.”

  “I wouldn’t expect much more than that from her.”

  Sam caught his uncle’s drift, and a wave of warmth stole into his cheeks. Made him glad for the shop’s dimming light. “It’d be a purely legal arrangement, nothin’ more.”

  “Uh-huh. And how long would you stand for that?”

  “Uncle Clarence!”

  “She’s an Evans, son. I don’t have to warn you what the outcry would be, from both families, if you two hitched up.”

  How quickly he’d breezed past the subject of keeping the union strictly platonic. “It’s those boys I’m thinkin’ about. I’m fond of them, and there’s a sort of unseen bond between us. If Mercy doesn’t find a husband soon, she’ll be forced to give ’em up. It would tear those little guys to shreds.”

  “Ah. That part is understandable, your wantin’ to help them out. Poor little fellers. I will give you credit for havin’ a noble cause.”

  “So, you don’t think it’s entirely ludicrous?”

  The man took a few more swipes with his file, then laid his project aside. “I didn’t say that.” He set to straightening his tools, clearly taking his sweet time to expound upon his answer. At last, he raised his head and looked Sam head-on. “Marryin’ her would stir up a real storm. Don’t be countin’ on anybody’s blessin’.”

  “Not even yours?” Sam ventured. “I wouldn’t want to put up a wall between us.”

  “Pfff.” His uncle tossed his head to the side and went back to sorting his tools. “Don’t go worryin’ your mind over that. I respect you enough to let you make your own decisions. I always have thought this feud a waste of time and energy. But it does have its roots, and roots go deep.”

  “I know.” Sam sighed. “Well, I’m not expectin’ anything to come o’ my offer, anyway. I hear she’s already leanin’ toward Harold Beauchamp.”

  Uncle Clarence made a snuffling sound. “I would hardly put them two together. Ain’t he ’bout old enough to be her father?”

  “Darned close. Harold’s a nice fellow, though.”

  “He may be, but that don’t make him a good fit for Mercy. ’Course, he’s also a fine Christian, and I ’magine that’s a high priority for her.”

  “How would you know about her priorities?”

  “Everybody knows Mercy Evans is a God-fearin’ woman. She’s not gonna marry someone who won’t abide puttin’ God first, going to church, sayin’ his prayers, readin’ his Bible, and teachin’ those boys the ways of the Lord.”

  Sam studied his scuffed shoes and scratched his temple as a blanket of silence settled between them.

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to brush up on your faith, son,” Clarence finally said. “It’s been a while since you attended services.”

  He was right, of course. Mercy would be looking for somebody who shared her values and religious beliefs. Well, heck, it wouldn’t kill him to go to church.

  But something told him she’d expect a little bit more out of him than simple church attendance.

  Wasn’t he putting the cart ahead of the ox? Who knew but that she’d kick him straight off her porch before he even spoke the first word of his proposal?

  7

  After punctuating their bedtime prayer with a hasty “amen,” Mercy leaned forward and planted a kiss on each boy’s forehead, then tucked the light cotton blanket up snugly to their chins. Both offered up sleepy half smiles, having finally exhausted their seemingly endless questions about the evening with Harold Beauchamp: “Do you like him?” “How come he don’t have much hair?” “Did he get tired of playin’ with us?” “Why’d it sound like he swallowed a whistle?” “How come he tripped over that shoe? Can’t he see very good?” And the one that beat all: “Why’d you pick him t’ marry?”

  She’d tried to answer each question as best she could, but the last one had purely stumped her. Why indeed? Because he best fit her criteria? It was a sad day when not one man who’d crossed over her threshold in the past ten days with eager eyes for marriage could get her heart to thumping. Was it possible she’d taken matters too much into her own hands, even though she’d bathed her days in prayer? Had she misread the Father’s cues? Oh, why did it have to be so hard to determine His will? Could it be He didn’t wish for her to marry Harold Beauchamp—or any man, for that matter—because the boys would be better off with someone else? The very notion produced tears she had no desire to suppress.

  Weary, she extinguished the light, tiptoed out of the darkened room, and descended the wooden staircase with a loud, long sigh that blew upward and caused a few stray hairs to lift off her forehead. Mr. Beauchamp had thought it a good idea to spend the evening with her and the boys—to get acquainted, he’d said—and she’d thought it wise, as well, but he’d certainly worn a fatigued expression at the close of the night, the boys having run him ragged with their rounds of tag, hide
-and-seek, and leapfrog. She figured he hadn’t played much of anything of late, except for that newfangled gramophone he’d recently ordered from the Sears & Roebuck Catalog and couldn’t stop talking about. The boys had winded him so badly that gigantic sweat circles formed under his armpits, inflicting havoc on his neatly pressed Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt. She tried to imagine washing his sweat-stained shirts, and felt her nose scrunch up all on its own.

  While he’d treated them all with kindness, it had been clear he wasn’t accustomed to being around children, and she worried he just might call off the whole arrangement, deciding their raucous play was more than his ticker could handle, not to mention his wheezing lungs. No wonder John Roy thought the poor man had swallowed a whistle. She would have to warn them that Mr. Beauchamp might not be up for that much activity going forward.

  When he’d announced his leave-taking, around eight o’clock, the boys had bid him good-bye, then scampered off to the kitchen for their promised bedtime snack of cookies and milk. He’d hesitated by the door, chewing his lower lip, as if trying to figure out how to break the news that he’d rather live with a family of venomous rattlesnakes than take on two active young boys, but in the end, he’d just given her a tentative smile and nodded good night. Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t given any indication that he’d had a nice time. She let go another heavy wad of air, trying to expel her worries, then shuffled into the kitchen and set the teakettle on the stove to heat water for a cup of tea.

  As she lifted the kettle off the flame and prepared to fill her cup, a gentle knock sounded on the front door. Jolted to attention, she set the kettle down—too fast, causing the liquid to splash. Pricks of scorching heat singed her wrist.

  “Ouch!”

  The knock came again. Mr. Beauchamp, no doubt. She groaned. He couldn’t have waited till tomorrow to tell her of his decision to back out of the arrangement? She scurried through the dimly lit house to the door. Through the glass, she could make out the silhouette of a figure—a silhouette that stretched much taller and wider than the frame of Mr. Beauchamp.

  ***

  Sam prepared himself for a tongue-lashing. What sort of man came calling on a woman at nine thirty in the evening? Why, she might have readied herself for bed; but then, she wouldn’t have come to the door. At least, that was his assumption. She stopped and stared at him through the glass, mouth agape.

  He cleared his throat. “Good evenin’. May I come in?”

  She swept a few stray hairs out of her face and straightened her shoulders, then slowly turned the lock and opened the door a crack. “I’m afraid I’m not a hospital, Mr. Connors. If you’re still having medical problems, you’d best go see Doc Trumble.”

  He wedged the toe of his boot inside the door to keep it from closing, which prompted a tight little gasp from her throat. “I’m glad to see you, too, Miss Evans.” He grinned and hoped she’d take his remark as playful. “I don’t need medical care. I’ve come to talk to you.”

  Her face contorted in a mix of annoyance and confusion. “Have you no idea of the time?”

  Even with that frown, you’re flawless. “Yes, I know. Sorry about that, but it’s urgent. May I?”

  Rather than open the door so much as a hair further, she adjusted her stiff stance, as if prepared to slam it shut. “What could you possibly need to tell me at this hour?”

  A mosquito buzzed around and lit on his forehead. He slapped it before it could start feasting. “I’d rather talk inside before I’m eaten alive. I promise not to overstay my welcome.”

  She arched a dark eyebrow. “You already have.”

  “I guess I asked for that one. Let me rephrase. I’ll take just a few minutes o’ your time.” He batted at another mosquito, hoping she would relent.

  Ever so slowly, the door inched open. “Say your piece, then.”

  Before she could change her mind, he scooted past her and removed his Stetson. He sure had a talent for stirring up her ire. In all the years of knowing her, even though only on a formal basis, he’d never managed to wrangle a smile from her, but it didn’t dampen his determination to try.

  While turning his hat in his hands, he gave a hurried glance around, remembering certain aspects of the expansive yet cozy house from the brief time he’d spent there after the fire: the wide oak staircase; the parlor; the wrought-iron coat tree, which he would bet money his uncle Clarence had crafted and sold to May’s General Store for resale.

  “Nice house,” he said.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Connors?” she asked, not bothering to acknowledge the compliment.

  “Um…could I come in?”

  “You are in.”

  Feisty little mite.

  “Oh, all right. Come into my parlor, if you must.”

  He nodded and entered the room. On the west wall hung a large painting of a little girl with big eyes and wispy hair sitting on a child-size chair, legs crossed at her ankles, and holding an open book in her lap. Under the canvas print stood a long sofa with side tables on either end, a vase of flowers on one and a small stack of books on the other. A floor lamp towered over the table with the books. On the inside wall was a brick fireplace, flanked by a pair of wing chairs upholstered in a dark burgundy brocade, and the wood floor was covered with an ornately patterned wool rug.

  “Is this the room I was laid in after the fire?”

  She gave a quick nod, minus any semblance of a smile. “Yes. Have a seat there.” All business, she pointed at the sofa, where he must have lain mere weeks ago. He walked over and sat down. “Can I take your hat?” she asked.

  He glanced absently at the tattered thing and realized holding it gave his hands something to do. “No, thanks. I’ll keep it with me.”

  She remained firm as a starched collar staring down at him. “I was just making myself a cup of tea. Would you care for some?”

  He let out a whiff of air. “Sounds great.”

  “Fine. Make yourself comfortable.” Her long skirts ruffled as she left the room.

  “Well, this is a little better than standin’ on the porch gettin’ gnawed to death by mosquitoes,” he muttered to himself. He spread his knees, settled back, laid his hat beside him, and twiddled his thumbs in his lap. That kept him occupied for about a minute. He glanced around, his gaze falling on the side table with the stack of books. Reaching over, he plucked the book on the top of the pile. The Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life, by Hannah Whitall Smith. The title struck him as odd. He’d never considered the Christian life a necessarily happy one. More like dutiful. Every so-called Christian he knew didn’t come off as excessively joyful, his mother a prime example. While she wouldn’t think of missing Sunday service, she was always grousing about one thing or another; more often than not, she wore a sour face, suggesting to him that living happily as a Christian didn’t come naturally.

  The sole exception was Uncle Clarence, who was always humming or whistling a hymn when he came to the shop in the mornings. Folks about town knew him to be friendly, kindhearted, generous, and fair. In fact, Sam couldn’t recall him ever uttering a harsh word—quite the opposite of his brother Ernest. Sam’s father.

  “Are you a reader?”

  Mercy’s voice gave him a jolt. He hadn’t heard her approach. “I like to read, yes.” He quickly set the book back where he’d found it.

  She handed him a dainty china cup and saucer, which he took clumsily in hand, his big, earthy fingers easily encircling the whole thing.

  “What’s your favorite genre?” she asked.

  “My what?” He’d never heard the word before, and he was irked by his own ignorance. Old Beauchamp had probably read every book ever published—Christian, that is—and he no doubt knew his Bible from front to back, perhaps even had whole chapters memorized! What chance did he stand against someone like him, never mind his rather sagging appearance? She obviously saw deeper than the man’s exterior. He took a swallow of tea and nearly scorched his tonsils.

  “What is it yo
u like to read?”

  “Oh.” The newspaper. “The Bible, o’ course.”

  There went those lovely brows, forming two inverted Vs, and he knew by the spark in her chocolate eyes she didn’t for a minute swallow it. “Is that so? Then I’m sure you won’t mind sharing your favorite Scripture verse.”

  She had him there. “Uh, sure. It’s, um…‘Jesus wept.’ My mother used to say it when I disobeyed. She’d say, ‘Jesus wept—and I know why.’” He grinned. “I guess she thought it was funny.”

  Mercy didn’t smile.

  He sobered. “But it wasn’t, of course.”

  She gave a slow shake of the head and narrowed her eyes to slits. “Are you going to tell me the reason for your visit?”

  His heart took a dive, its fast tick pounding loud in his ears. He took another nervous swig of tea, this one slower. Where had his courage run off to, anyway? The lady’s fine looks put him in a regular dither. “Are you gonna sit?”

  With a shrug, she moved to one of the wing chairs next to the fireplace. It was then that he took note of her bare feet peeking out from beneath her skirt. How could he have missed them when she’d gone into the kitchen? No wonder he hadn’t heard her return to the parlor. Small, pretty, and nicely shaped they were—and a pure distraction. As if he needed anything else to divert his poor, slow-thinking head.

  She must have noticed him gawking, for she quickly drew her feet under the blue fabric of her skirt. “Now then, tell me what brought you to my house at this hour.”

  He swallowed more hot liquid, then set the cup in the saucer in a less than delicate manner, sounding a loud clunk. “I…well, I’ve come to make you a proposal.” “Make you a proposal”?

  She stared, saying nothing.

  “That didn’t come out quite right. What I meant to say is…well, I know you’ve been on this husband hunt, and I wondered if, well, I might throw my name in the hat…as a contender.”

  “You want to what?”