Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  “What sort of techniques do you use in this forging process?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lot.” He sipped on his water. The potato soup was excellent but steaming hot.

  “Like what? Name them.” She raised her spoon to her mouth, then gently blew on it. The simple act almost entranced him, and for a second, he questioned his state of mind.

  “You can’t possibly be interested in this.”

  “But I am!”

  Her brown eyes pulled him in, and he heard his own breath catch. He laughed to cover his reaction. “Well, there’s drawin’, which just means lengthenin’ the metal. Then, there’s shrinkin’, by which you thicken or shorten it; and bendin’, or punchin’, meanin’ you make a hole in the metal. Lots of terms that probably don’t mean a great deal to you, but they’re second nature to me.”

  “I think it’s quite fascinating.”

  He stared across the table at her, studying her face as if seeing it for the first time. “Hmm. Yes, so do I.”

  “What?”

  He jerked back, realizing his blunder. “It’s, uh, fascinatin’ that you find it fascinatin’.”

  She giggled, and the sound fairly floated through the room, putting him in mind of the gentle breeze wafting in through the open window behind him.

  As the meal continued, she recounted, at his insistence, how she’d spent the afternoon: weeding the vegetable garden, sweeping the porch, cleaning her sewing room, sorting through some paperwork, and getting caught up on other things she hadn’t found time to do since taking custody of the boys. When he asked her if she missed working for Doc Trumble, she said yes, but not as much as she’d expected to. He asked how she’d been handling her grief lately, and she answered that there were good days and bad days. He nodded and said he understood about that sort of thing, thinking it might be an opportune time to wrap her in a comforting hug, but also deciding that walking around the table to do it might come off as awkward.

  They’d just started clearing the table when a knock came to the door.

  “That must be Dora Hansen, bringing the boys home,” Mercy said.

  “I’ll get it,” Sam offered, seeing that her arms were full of linens.

  When he opened the door, a man who looked to be in his seventies stood on the porch. “Evenin’,” he said in a pleasant voice, with a smile to accompany the greeting. “Name’s Horace Morby. I live a couple o’ houses thataway.” He tipped his head to the left. “The wife didn’t go through the mail till tonight, and when she did, she found somethin’ that should’ve come to you.” He extended an envelope to Sam. “You are the blacksmith, ain’t y’?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, Samuel Connors.” With a movement that was less than suave, Sam accepted the envelope, giving it a hurried glance before stuffing it in the pocket of his pants. “Thanks for walkin’ over. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Pfff, weren’t none a’tall. Wife’s always tellin’ me I need to walk my supper off most nights. Well, I’ll be goin’ now.” Horace lifted his saggy hat an inch off his head of sparse white hair, then plopped it back in place and gave a quick nod. “An’ welcome to the neighborhood. The wife said she would’ve sent you folks a platter o’ cookies if I hadn’t eaten ’em all.”

  “Quite all right. Thanks again.”

  Before closing the door, Sam glanced up and down the street, expecting to see the boys. Craziest thing. He missed them.

  19

  Who was at the door?” Mercy called from the kitchen. She knew it couldn’t have been Joseph and John Roy; the house was still so quiet.

  “Neighbor,” she heard Sam reply. “Fellow by the name of Morris Horby.”

  “Morris Horby? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Said he lives a couple o’ doors down.”

  “Oh!” Her spurt of laughter couldn’t be helped. “You mean Horace Morby.”

  He didn’t seem to catch the humor in his error. “Morris Horby, Horace Morby. At least I was close.”

  She stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on the sides of her skirt. “The Morbys are nice people. What did Mr. Morby want?”

  He held up an envelope. “Apparently the mailman delivered a letter to them that should’ve come here. He was kind enough to bring it over.”

  “Is it addressed to both of us?”

  “Uh, no. It’s from one of my cousins, someone I haven’t seen or heard from in a very long time. She’s…somewhat estranged from the family.”

  “Really? Would I know her?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s a bit younger than you, I think, and she moved to Nashville about six years ago. Her name’s Persephone Greve. ’Course, her maiden name is Connors. She’s my uncle Gilbert and aunt Ella’s daughter, the youngest of their brood. I don’t think she gets on too well with her parents or brothers. She came along when my aunt was in her forties. I recall my mother sayin’ Ella didn’t want the baby, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Good chance she resented her, but who knows?”

  “Oh, how could a mother resent her own child?” Mercy accentuated her point with a click of the tongue, then creased her brow. “I do remember Persephone, but not well. She was a couple of years behind me in school, so we never played together, but then, I wasn’t allowed to associate with the Connorses.”

  Sam just stood there, studying the letter, with a frown on his face.

  “Well, are you going to open that letter or just stare at it?”

  “I—sure, I guess.”

  He kept eyeing the envelope, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might want privacy. “I’ll just go finish cleaning up the kitchen,” she announced.

  He made no argument, so she turned and left the room, wondering if he’d tell her about the contents or keep her in the dark.

  Five minutes later, he still hadn’t returned to the kitchen, and a strange sense of trepidation came over her.

  ***

  Just as the wall clock struck seven gongs, the boys barged inside the house, more wound up than two spools of thread, completely aflutter about their time at the Hansens’. “We played baseball an’ tag, and Mr. Hansen showed us how to dig for worms, so’s you can catch big catfish,” Joseph explained in one breath. “An’ Mrs. Hansen let us help her carry in water from her well. They don’t gots a faucet; they gots a big pump handle that y’ gotta be real strong to lift up then push back down, over an’ over. John Roy wasn’t strong enough, but I was.”

  “Was so!” John Roy cried. “I just din’t want t’ do it.”

  “They gots chickens what gives eggs, too,” Joseph continued. “Can we get us some chickens, Mercy? Them chickens likes to be held.”

  “You have kittens to hold,” she told him with a smile. “We don’t need any more critters around here. And, speaking of the kittens, go hunt them down and put them outside, would you? They probably need to relieve themselves about now.”

  As both boys scooted off, still full of energy and excitement, Mercy called after them, “Don’t wander too far, now. It’s almost bath time.”

  Left alone with Mercy once more, Sam clutched the envelope in his pocket and deliberated for the dozenth time whether he should share its contents with Mercy, despite his cousin’s insistence that he keep them a secret. He had no desire to deceive his wife, but he also wanted to use good judgment. What would he accomplish by telling her what his cousin had revealed—and not revealed? It would only cause undue worry. At the same time, secrets between spouses were not healthy, no matter that he and Mercy weren’t spouses in the traditional sense. It nettled him that Persephone had put him in this awkward position, and yet perhaps she’d thought she had no choice. Questions circled in his head like a pesky swarm of bees.

  “Well.” Mercy rubbed her hands together and pivoted her body to face him. Her dark eyes locked with his. “Everything all right?”

  He knew she referred to the letter. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” His chest tightened with the slight untruth.

  As
dusk settled outside, a persistent goldfinch sang a calming song—per-chip-er-ee, per-chip-er-ee—and he imagined her nestling in with her younglings for a warm summer night’s sleep. Off in the distance, a couple of dogs barked back and forth. Mercy held her clasped hands at her waist, waiting, he knew, for him to elaborate.

  Oh, good glory, what was the point in dragging it out another second? He had no choice but to show her the letter. He yanked the thing from his pocket and held it out.

  She looked at it but made no move to take it.

  “Here.” He shoved it closer. “I want you to read it.”

  “But…it’s not addressed to me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re my wife, and you have a right to read it.”

  “Not if it’s private.”

  “How about I read it to you?”

  She hesitated, brow crinkled, lips pursed.

  He reached out and snagged her hand. “Come on.” He led her into the parlor and lowered himself onto the divan, Mercy settling in next to him. They sat close enough that their thighs touched, sparking a flicker of warmth in his gut. He cleared his throat and chewed over how to preface the letter. “Like I said, I haven’t seen or heard from Persephone in a long while—years, probably—so I was more than a little surprised to get this letter.”

  “Please, if your cousin intended it for you alone, I don’t think you should read it to me.”

  “She did, but it’s my right to disregard her wishes. Maybe together we can figure out what’s goin’ on here.”

  A tight little gasp came out of her. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t worry.” He patted her on the knee, something he’d never done, and was surprised she didn’t flinch. “Let me read it to you, and then we’ll talk.” He unfolded the parchment and felt her lean in closer as he began to read.

  Dear Cousin Samuel,

  It has been a very long time since we talked or even saw each other, not for lack of want on my part but because it is just best for all concerned that I don’t return to Paris. I have my reasons.

  I understand that you married Mercy Evans. (News travels fast and far, though I learned this not from my parents or siblings but from my childhood friend Adelaide Lawson, who still lives in Paris. We keep in contact, but I confess not even she knows the reason I’ve never come home.) I’m sure your Mercy is a fine woman, but I fear her last name alone will bring you great strife. I am aware of damage already done to your property.

  I have something important to tell you about, but I cannot write it in a letter. For that reason, I ask that you come to Nashville at your earliest convenience. Do not bring anyone with you. In fact, tell no one of your plans to visit me—or even about this letter. The sooner you come, the sooner your questions will be answered.

  Hank and I have room to accommodate your overnight stay. I look forward to seeing you. I shall await your reply so that I can prepare for your visit.

  Best regards,

  Persephone Greve

  Sam refolded the letter and looked at Mercy. Her eyes seemed to have taken on a darker, sharper hue than before, perhaps due to the reflection off the flaming lamp on the side table or the sheer intentness with which she’d listened. He heard her breath catch, and he wanted nothing more than to reassure her. But he needed reassurance himself!

  “Tell me your thoughts,” he said.

  “My thoughts?” She met his gaze, her brow crimped with confusion. “I…I don’t know what to think. I’m a little mystified.”

  “That makes two of us, then.”

  “When will you go see her?”

  “I can’t go right away. Uncle Clarence and I are swamped with orders. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

  “Surely, he’d understand. Whatever information your cousin has seems urgent.”

  “I know, but there are other things to consider—namely, my concern about leavin’ you and the boys alone.”

  “That’s really quite funny,” she said, actually giggling. “I’ve been pretty much on my own ever since my ma died, and I had the boys to myself for a few weeks before you moved in. I think we’ll survive just fine.”

  “But your property hadn’t been vandalized before, either. I’m worried somethin’ else might happen while I’m gone. I think I’ll give it a week or so, just to make sure things remain quiet around here. And when I do decide to go, no one but you and Uncle Clarence will know I’m out of town.”

  “The Lord will take care of us. I’m not worried.”

  The kitchen door slammed shut, and the boys came pounding down the hall. “Mercy, where are you?” John Roy squealed.

  “We’re in here,” she called.

  The boys rounded the corner, then stopped, breathing hard, and peered at them through troubled-looking blue eyes. “We can’t find Barney,” said Joseph. “He went through the bushes and din’t come back out.”

  “How do you know it was Barney and not Roscoe?” Sam asked.

  “’Cause Barney gots more black on one side than Roscoe,” John Roy said. “See?” He held up the supposed Roscoe.

  “Ah, so that’s how you tell.” Sam smiled. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come back. He’s probably just sniffin’ things out.”

  “Dogs sniff things out,” Mercy corrected him, with a glance that seemed to question his intelligence. “Cats sneak.”

  “Oh. Well then, he’s probably sneakin’ up on somethin’—maybe a mouse.”

  “Somebody tooked him,” said John Roy.

  “What would make you think that?”

  “’Cause we heard somebody,” said Joseph.

  An unsettling feeling spread through Sam’s stomach. He slid forward on the sofa. “What do you mean, you heard somebody?”

  “Barney meowed real loud,” John Roy said, “and then we heard somebody run away on the other side of the bushes.”

  Now Mercy eased forward, her skirts brushing against Sam’s leg. “Which side of the yard?”

  Joseph pointed to his left. “Over there.”

  She angled Sam a worried glance to match the boys’. “The shrubs are tall on that side. Old Mr. Ferguson likes his privacy, so he rarely trims them.”

  “Is he disgruntled?” Sam asked. “I mean, would he…you know?”

  Mercy shook her head. “No. No, he’s not like that. He enjoys his solitude, but he’s a kindly old man. He would never….”

  Good thing she’d read his mind. He hadn’t wanted to alarm the boys by asking directly if the man would intentionally hurt their pet.

  Sam pushed himself up, then winked at the boys. “Think I’ll go outside and investigate for myself. How’s that sound?”

  Mercy nearly beat him to a standing position, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Uh, no, you won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He turned his back to the boys, lifting his brows at her. “Because one of us should stay with them.” This he said through gritted teeth.

  She took a baby step back as understanding dawned. “All right, then. I’ll get them ready for their bath.”

  He gave a quick smile, then faced the boys again. “That’s a fine idea. Boys, you go on upstairs with Mercy.”

  “But….” Joseph balked. “What if you can’t find Barney?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

  But he didn’t find him, even after prowling around the neighborhood for the next hour, calling the fur ball by name. He looked under neighbors’ porches, behind bushes, even up in trees, all the while listening for the tiniest meow, but all he heard were those same barking dogs, the occasional clomp of horses’ hooves, and the squeak of a wagon wheel in need of greasing. To say he was perplexed put it lightly. How could a kitten escape so easily, unless—as Joseph had said—someone had taken it? Why anybody would steal a kitten from an innocent kid was beyond him. More baffling—and far more disturbing—was the timing, for how could someone have pulled off a catnapping unless he’d been watching the house, waiting for the o
pportunity? A shiver ran down Sam’s body as he made his way back to the house.

  Mercy met him at the door, wringing her hands. “Did you find him?” she whispered frantically.

  He looked up the stairs, then back at her. “Where’re the boys?”

  “Tucked in bed, but Joseph is having none of it. He’s up there crying because John Roy is hogging Roscoe, and he doesn’t have a kitten to cuddle.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t know where Barney could be. I looked everywhere.”

  “How could one little kitten disappear so quickly? I don’t like that Joseph thought he heard footsteps. Do you think he really did, or could it have been his imagination?” There was a distinct tremor in Mercy’s voice, and, for the second time that evening, he felt the need to reassure her.

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure Barney’s fine. He’s probably just hidin’ somewhere, and he’ll show up in the mornin’.”

  She moved out from under his hand. “In the morning? That little guy is too young to be out at night all alone. He’s not big enough to defend himself. We have to find him.” She hiked up her skirts and pushed past him, nearly knocking him off balance. He snagged her by the arm, and she whirled around. “Let go. I need to find Barney.”

  “He’s a cat, Mercy. He’ll find his way.”

  “What? How can you say that? He’s a helpless little kitten, too small for his instincts to have kicked in yet.” She was serious, and the sheen in her eyes said she was also near to tears.

  “What’re you gonna do?”