Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

“I told you, I’m going out to find him.”

  “I’ve just spent the past hour lookin’ for him, and I tell you, he’s not out there.”

  “Did you find Barney?” came a small voice from upstairs.

  They spun around. Joseph stood at the top of the staircase, gazing down at them, eyes hopeful.

  Sam shook his head. “No, buddy, but don’t worry yourself. Like I just told Mercy, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  In the shadows, Sam could see the boy’s face drop just before the bawling erupted. Mercy left Sam’s side and hurried up the stairs to enfold him in her arms. All the commotion brought a sleepy-eyed John Roy out of the bedroom, Roscoe tucked under one arm. The sight of his brother’s hysteria brought him to tears, as well, and soon, even Mercy had joined the crying chorus. Sam darted up the stairs himself, meeting his little makeshift family at the top and encircling all of them in a tight embrace. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh, it’ll be all right. No need to cry.”

  But he figured they did have need to cry, every one of them. They’d already lost so much. Losing poor little Barney was more than any of them could bear right now. And as he stood there, hugging them close, he came to a startling realization.

  He loved all three of them.

  20

  Mercy and the boys cried for the next several minutes, taking turns sucking in gasps and expelling sighs between rounds of tears. Then, Sam gently led them downstairs, talking in low, soothing tones as they descended. He situated them on the couch in the living room, across from the fireplace, with Mercy in the middle, then knelt on one knee in front of them, his large, callused hands resting atop the boys’ knees in a fatherly gesture. He didn’t try to shush them, as before; he just let them cry, and Mercy noticed that his own eyes appeared slightly damp in the corners.

  Mercy sniffled, trying to stanch the flow of her own tears. What in the world must Sam think? It was bad enough that he had two sobbing children to tend to, but a wife who’d also lost control of her faculties? She wouldn’t blame him if he visited Judge Corbett tomorrow and asked him to start the annulment proceedings. He’d bitten off more than he’d bargained for when he’d “married” the three of them.

  There was a lull in the boys’ crying spasms, and Joseph swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and whimpered, “I miss Barney.”

  “I know you do, son,” Sam soothed. “I’ll look for him some more after you go back to bed. How’s that?”

  Whether it was the mention of missing something or the idea of going back to bed, something triggered an all-new eruption from John Roy. “I m-miss Mama an’ Papa.”

  A painful gasp came out of Mercy at the unexpected statement. Sam cupped the boy’s head from behind and drew him to his chest, then locked gazes with Mercy. “Of course you do.” Her heart split down the center. There it was—the bedrock reason behind their shattered emotions, Barney’s disappearance having put a chink in their heavy armor. Till now, they’d held themselves together from day to day with tiny threads of self-restraint, but this latest development had broken down their flimsy resolve and forced reality to the surface. Death had visited them, and none of them had fully dealt with its hammering blow. Fresh tears trailed down Mercy’s damp cheeks at the realization that she couldn’t comfort the boys in the way they needed when she could barely contain her own anguish. How she thanked God for Sam’s strong presence in that moment.

  “Papa used to t-tuck us in,” cried Joseph.

  “And M-Mama readed us s-stories,” said John Roy between hiccupping sighs.

  “And sang us songs.”

  John Roy cried louder.

  Joseph cut loose a wail that nearly took off the roof. “Why’d they have t’ die?”

  The question shot out like a bullet, one they’d all been dodging every day since the disaster had struck. Unfortunately, it hit its mark tonight—square in their aching chests.

  “I don’t know,” Sam answered, his tone wavering. “It was their time, I suppose.”

  Mercy pulled herself together as best she could. “But it wasn’t your time, and we must look at it that way—that God had a special purpose in bringing Sam to your rescue. God has plans for you, boys, and for all of us, and someday He’ll reveal them to each of us.” She knew she spoke far above their level of understanding. Heavenly mercies, she spoke above her own. “I don’t claim to have the answers, by any means, but this one thing I know: God loves us, and He wants us to trust Him, especially when times are hard.”

  Her words seemed to have a calming effect, even on her. The four of them spent the next few seconds in sober silence, sniffing and pondering private thoughts, and then Joseph aimed his gaze at Sam. “You was ar angel.”

  Sam produced a weak smile and tousled the boy’s downy hair. “I know you’ve said that, but, believe me, I’m no angel. I was just at the right place at the right time.”

  “No.” He shook his head stubbornly. “God sent you to save us. Mercy said so.”

  Now Sam’s eyes welled up. He lowered his head and studied the floor for a moment, then raised his gaze to meet Mercy’s, blinking away tears. “All right, I’ll accept that.”

  Mercy reached out and touched Sam on the forearm. It was the first she’d felt his firm muscle, and she found it comforting if not intriguing. The only men she’d ever had intentional physical contact with had been patients of Doc Trumble’s, and she realized with suddenness what a sheltered existence she lived. “Thank you, Sam,” she managed.

  “For what?”

  “For just…helping us through this.”

  He smiled and laid his hand on hers, and the warmth of his touch sent a surprising tingle straight up her arm. “At no time do I want any of you to hold back your tears.” His voice was firm yet gentle. “If you need to cry, you get it out, you hear? And if you ever need to talk about…that night, well, you just feel free to do it. Everybody understand?”

  Still conscious of his hand on hers, Mercy pulled away—lest he detect her quickening pulse—and put it back where it had been, around Joseph’s narrow shoulder. She tugged both boys closer. “I think we all feel a little better now, don’t we, boys?”

  They gave slow, quiet nods.

  “A good cry never hurt anybody,” said Sam, his steady voice soothing her senses.

  Joseph wiped his drippy nose. “Mama tol’ us cryin’ keeps your head from achin’.”

  John Roy nodded against Mercy’s chest, where her dress fabric stuck to her bosom from having soaked up so many of his tears. “An’ from esplodin’.”

  Despite it all, Mercy chuckled. “Exploding?”

  John Roy sat back and blinked bloodshot eyes at her. “If you don’t cry, your tears’ll fill up your head and make it burst wide open.”

  She and Sam shared a smile. “That’s good to know, isn’t it, Sam?”

  “Indeed. We don’t want any explodin’ heads.” Sam smiled. “Your mother was very wise to tell you that cryin’ can be a good thing.”

  “’Specially when y’r bleedin’,” Joseph put in. “If y’r jus’ cryin’ ’cause you din’t get your way, y’ain’t supposed to cry.”

  Sam grinned. “Well, that’s true enough.”

  The way he rested on his haunches made Mercy question whether he had grown uncomfortable. “Do you want to sit on the couch with us?”

  “Nope, I’d rather stay right here and look at each o’ you. Have to make sure you’re all okay.” His gravelly tone planted a tender craving in her heart.

  She combed her fingers through John Roy’s tangled hair. “Thanks to your kindness, we’re feeling a fair piece better now.”

  He touched her knee, his blue eyes searing a path to her heart. “Glad to hear it.”

  Joseph sucked in a breath, his cheeks puffing up, then blew it out. “Can we ask Jesus to bring Barney home?”

  “Of course we can,” Mercy said. “God hears all our prayers, great and small, and answers each one.”

  “Who’s gonna pray, you or Sam?”

&nbs
p; “Mercy is,” Sam shot out.

  John Roy wriggled free of her embrace and scooted off the couch. “We gots to all kneel down, like we do before bed, ’cause God likes it better that way.” With hands folded, he demonstrated the posture he and Joseph assumed every night before bedtime prayers, and Joseph followed suit, kneeling next to him.

  Mercy smiled gamely at Sam, then slid off the couch and joined the boys on her knees. Sam positioned himself next to her, their sides brushing. With head bent, eyes closed, and palms pressed together, she led them in a simple yet heartfelt prayer, thanking God for His love, care, and protection and then asking for little Barney’s safe return.

  The four of them moved to the kitchen, where Mercy read aloud a comforting passage from the Bible while the boys—Sam included—enjoyed a bedtime snack of chocolate cookies she’d baked that afternoon, washed down with cold milk. Once Joseph and John Roy had been tucked back in bed for the second time that night, Sam followed Mercy out of the room, gently closed the door behind him, and then led her down the hallway. “How ’bout a cup of tea in the kitchen before I go outside for another look around?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Might have to nibble another cookie, too.” He winked, and Mercy’s stomach flipped.

  ***

  They sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, Sam snacking on cookies till the half dozen or so she’d spread on a platter had all but vanished. He stared at the last remaining morsel, knowing he could easily down it in one bite but also knowing he’d regret it later when he awoke with a stomachache, so he decided to let it sit there and continue tempting him instead.

  Of course, that lone cookie wasn’t the only thing in the room tempting him. Mercy sat across from him, her hair cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall, looking downright lovely, puffy eyes and flushed cheeks and all.

  “This has been quite a night,” Mercy said with a sigh. “First, that letter from your cousin, then Barney going missing, with the possibility that someone took him, and then our wild hysterics…I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.”

  He set his cup down and inclined his head at her. “It’s my job.”

  “Your job?”

  “I married you for better, for worse, remember? If my family goes a little berserk on me, then so be it. It’s my job to take care of you in the good times and bad times alike.”

  A tiny smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “I imagined you going to the judge tomorrow to start the annulment proceedings.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “You think I’d toss you all away over a little cryin’ spell?”

  She tucked a few strands of dark hair behind her ear and studied her teacup. “Well, I…I appreciate your understanding.”

  A thumping sound at the front door had both of them turning their heads. Sam shoved back his chair, planted his hands on the table, and pushed himself up. “Stay here.” He left no room in his tone for negotiating, and she didn’t argue.

  With purposeful strides, he crossed the dining room and the living room to the front entryway. Reaching the door, he was surprised to see no silhouette through the window. He opened the door, first a crack, then a little wider, sticking his head outside and craning his neck in both directions. That’s when he heard a soft meow. On one of the wicker chairs under the window sat a wooden crate with a board resting on top—a makeshift lid, of sorts. A shrill mewing persisted as he stepped onto the porch, approached the crate, and lifted the board. There lay a little ball of fuzz, quivering with fright.

  Sam lifted Barney out of the box and began to check him over for wounds, while cooing, in a tone far more effeminate than he would have liked, “What in the world were you doin’ in that crate, little fella?” He was relieved to find the kitten unharmed; the only difference was the string tied rather tightly around his neck, with a note attached. Sam loosened the knot, freeing the kitten of his noose. He kept the unread note clutched in his fist.

  “My stars in glory, you’ve found him!” Mercy said, rushing onto the porch.

  “Not exactly.” Sam handed Barney over to her. “He was left on the porch, in a wooden crate.”

  “A wooden crate? Who on earth would put him in—what’s that you’re holding?” she asked, pressing the kitten to her cheek. She drew so close to his side, he felt her breath on his cheek and caught a hint of a pleasant floral scent, whether from her hair or her skin, he couldn’t say—although he would have liked to investigate.

  “Some kind of note.” He began to unfold it.

  “What’s it say?” She lowered her head to get a better view, effectively blocking his line of vision. At least he could tell, at this close proximity, that the flowery fragrance came from her hair. He wondered what she used to make it smell so luscious. He shook off his tangle of thoughts, then lifted the letter where they both could see it.

  Mercy squinted at the scribbled shorthand. “You two had no business marrying,” she read aloud, and he was glad she’d taken it upon herself to decipher the almost illegible, mostly misspelled, writing.

  “‘Connors and Evans blood ain’t meant for mixing. Didn’t your daddies…learn’—I think that’s what it says—‘you that long ago? You best get…divorced…’fore trouble mounts. The news’—I suppose he meant noose—‘around your dumb cat’s neck is to warn you that if you don’t divorce soon, somebody’s going to get hurt.’”

  Mercy’s mouth gaped wide as she gawked up at Sam, who was equally dumbstruck. She then snatched the paper from his hand to study it. “It looks like a man’s handwriting, if you ask me. A man who can’t spell worth a cat’s tooth.” She quirked her brow at him. “What did he mean by ‘somebody’s going to get hurt’? I don’t want to be responsible for any bloodshed. Somebody ought to tell this person there’s already been enough sorrow. And why should we have to explain our decision, anyway? Least of all to our loony relatives who don’t know what it means to keep their noses where they belong. Don’t they know we married for the sake of convenience and not love?”

  With every sentence, her voice rose in pitch. Unable to resist, he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, which brought an abrupt halt to her flow of words. “For a godly woman, you sure know how to spout off.”

  She opened her mouth and sucked in a loud breath, then clamped her lips shut. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her perplexed expression. “Don’t worry, there’s nothin’ wrong with a little righteous anger. Heck, I just read the other night the account of Jesus tossin’ over tables in a show of anger when He caught some people buyin’ and sellin’ goods in the temple.”

  He hadn’t known her chocolate eyes could get any bigger or rounder, but they certainly did. “You’ve been reading your Bible?”

  He cocked his head and grinned. “I have, and I’ve been enjoyin’ it, I might add—and learnin’ a few things along the way. But that’s a discussion for another time. For now, I want you to take that kitten upstairs to Joseph. He’ll be so relieved to find ’im safe. Just don’t tell ’im he came delivered in a crate.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Will you…are we going to continue this discussion?”

  He lifted one brow, tempted to say he’d much rather sample the taste of her lips than talk. But he supposed she wouldn’t go for the idea, considering she’d just affirmed the basis for their marriage as convenience, certainly not love. Apparently, her feelings for him in no way compared to the growing ones he had for her.

  21

  Flora Connors adjusted her hat. The thing was big and heavy, not to mention uncomfortable on such a hot day, but it simply wasn’t proper to leave the house without one, so she’d donned it at the last minute, while one of Virgil’s hired hands had hitched up the buggy. In her estimation, women these days didn’t dress appropriately, particularly when going into town. Many went straight from gardening or doing household chores to shopping and other public activities, a most unappealing, indecent sight.

  She sniffed, straightened her back, and lifted her chin high
as she pulled the reins to the right, directing her horse onto Blakemore Street and then heading south, toward Wood and the center of Paris. She had a long list of errands, after which she planned on stopping by the blacksmith shop to say hello to Samuel, since he didn’t have the decency to pay her a visit. She couldn’t believe how inconsiderate he’d become since marrying that Evans woman. She refused to refer to her as a Connors, much less her daughter-in-law, no matter the legitimacy of the union. She would never forgive Samuel for committing such treason against his family.

  Flora found a shady spot to park her buggy in front of Paris Bank and Trust. She climbed down, looped the reins around a hitching post, brushed off her bell skirt, and adjusted her hat again. Stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk, she nodded at a couple of Paris citizens as they strolled by, then opened the big, heavy door of the bank and walked inside. Several customers stood in line, single file. Next time, she would come earlier, to avoid the crowds. She draped the long strap of her satchel over her shoulder and released a long sigh.

  It must have been a loud sigh, for several heads turned in her direction. One of them, regrettably, belonged to Wilma Whintley.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Connors! Looks like we’ve got a little wait here. Fortunately, it’s not as hot today as yesterday. Must be a storm’s brewin’. My gout always acts up when the weather’s about to make a drastic change. How are you doin’? You’re lookin’ mighty fine in that lovely getup. I must say, purple becomes you.”

  Flora forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Whintley. I’m fine, and you?” She was hardly in the mood for conversing with the likes of Wilma Whintley, a busybody if ever there was one, and she thanked the Lord she didn’t have the woman’s reputation for incessant blather. As the widow of Ernest Connors, her image was one of courage, strength, and resilience. Through her husband’s six years of undeserved incarceration, until his sudden death due to illness, she’d stood by his side, and folks respected her for it. Oh, they might not admit it to her face, but it showed in their expressions. And she didn’t need any public association with Wilma Whintley tarnishing her fine image.