“You’d still have ranch hands to assist while school’s in session, and I’d have all summer to help you. The real question is,” he tipped up her chin and grinned, “could you handle being married to someone who just outshot you?”
“Perhaps.” She shrugged and smiled up at him. There was no way this man would not suit her. Not one bit. He’d erased every worry in minutes and promised to keep helping even if she decided against him. And she had feelings for him—so many, for so long. What would she have done with those if she’d married August? “But you know . . . I’m going to want a rematch. It’s not every day I get the chance to face off with someone as good as you. With more practice, I just might—”
“If you have to compete with me, I’d rather you get better at something else.”
“What’s that?”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her forward. “Kissing.” He knocked her hat off with a flick of his fingers and smiled down at her. “You up to that challenge?”
“Definitely.” She slid her arms up around his neck. This time, she wouldn’t spend the first minute confused and—
A throat cleared. “I take it there’ll be no wedding today? I prefer to leave before I’m subjected to what will likely be an entertaining contest for you, but an incredibly awkward one for me.”
She smiled despite her hot cheeks and dropped her arms from Harrison’s shoulders. How had she forgotten the reverend was standing by his horse this whole time? “Thank you for coming out, Reverend, but you’re right, I don’t need your services today.” She smiled up at Harrison. “Though I’m pretty certain we’ll need them in the future.”
The moment Reverend McCabe turned to mount his horse, Harrison swooped her up and laid his first kiss right on target.
She didn’t even try to outkiss him.
Though she could do anything she put her mind to, she was smart enough to know when she needed a teacher.
Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER
“Oh, Charlotte, this is going to be lovely.”
Charlie looked up from the table she’d dragged into the barn and wiped her brow. Tomorrow they’d hold a barn dance after the wedding, and Momma insisted on tearing up burlap and making bows to pierce with dried baby’s breath for decorations. “It’s very pretty.”
“And not too girly.”
She smiled. “No, it’s just right. Thanks, Momma.” She walked over and gave her a side hug. All that remained to do was clean off the tables for the food, sweep the floor again, and maybe find more stumps for people to sit on. Charlie peeped outside to see Harrison assisting one of the elderly ladies, who’d come to bake cakes, up the porch steps.
Momma took the last sprig of baby’s breath from her basket and stuck it in the bow she’d just fluffed.
With her hands on her hips, Charlie scanned the barn and caught her mother looking outside toward the trellis. Months ago, Momma had tried to convince her to plant an impractical flowering vine in it instead of the pole beans she insisted would be of more use. “You want to decorate the green beans with burlap, don’t you?”
Momma tried not to smile, but her pursed lips gave her away. “You wouldn’t mind too awfully much?”
She shook her head. “As long as Harrison’s willing to stand in front of it with me, you could hang Christmas ornaments on it for all I care.”
Her mother sniffed. “I wish your father could see you marry Harrison.”
“Me too.” She sighed and put a hand on her mother’s stooped shoulder.
Wait a minute. “Momma?”
“Yes?”
How to ask her if she’d just heard what she thought she’d heard without confirming Daddy’s death? “So . . . you think Daddy would approve of Harrison?”
“Of course. I don’t know why he ever approved of that August fellow, but he’d have loved Harrison.”
“Yes he would’ve. I certainly do.” Crying on the day before her wedding was probably bad luck, but hearing her mother acknowledge that her father was gone only made the ache of missing him worse. But hope glimmered beneath the ache.
Oh, Lord, please let this be the beginning to healing my mother’s mind. I’ve slacked off praying for her lately, but please let her come back to me.
Momma’s face took on a far-off look. “How long has Hiram been gone now?”
Considering she’d just mentioned he’d approved of August, maybe she shouldn’t be specific. She tried to talk against her tight throat. “A long time.”
Momma nodded, then held out her left hand. She turned the ring on her finger until the little diamond chip was on top. “I wish he was here to give you away.”
“Yes.” She grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed. “But I’m so glad you are here to give me away.”
Walking arm in arm, they returned to the house, where the smell of baking sugar made Charlie’s stomach rumble.
The kitchen was a jumble with dirty dishes, pretty pastries, and ladies overflowing with good-natured laughter. Harrison’s student, Lydia, was wiping flour from her cheek when she looked at Charlie as if she needed to talk. She’d worked all morning with a smile that hadn’t quite reached her eyes.
Charlie gave her mother’s cheek a kiss before she shooed her away to rip up more burlap. She crossed over to Lydia. “Thank you for helping us get ready for our big day, but are you ready for yours?”
The young lady nodded, but she didn’t look as excited to graduate tomorrow as she should have. “You two are going to be very busy with commencement, a wedding, and a dance all in one day.”
“And happy.” Charlie waited for the girl to say whatever was making her fidget. But maybe she needed some prodding. “Do you need something, Lydia?”
She swallowed and shook her head as she absentmindedly kept wiping her hands on her towel. “Mama’s too sick to come to commencement. Papa, of course, doesn’t care enough to come see me since he figures I should be doing something to help with the medical bills rather than reading books and his—” She cut herself off. “Well, I need a ride out here, because neither Jane nor Beatrice can bring me since they won’t have room with their families.”
Charlie put a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “We’ll bring you out.”
“Oh no, you two don’t need to be carting me around on your wedding day!”
“You’re Harrison’s prized pupil and a good friend to me lately. We want you here.”
Lydia’s eyes shimmered. “I’m not his prized pupil—that’d be Beatrice.”
“No, I’m sure his pride in your work makes you the top student. Though you’re struggling at home, you work harder than the rest. I don’t hear him say ‘You should read what Beatrice wrote.’ It’s your work he shares with me.”
“Mr. Gray is too kind.” She swallowed, and her smile wavered. “I’m glad you’ve found your Prince Charming, Charlie. You’re a lucky woman.” She ducked her head. “I got to get back to the frosting.”
The footsteps behind Charlie were quickly followed by the familiar weight of a hand on her shoulder that immediately set to work out the knots in her muscles.
“We ready for tomorrow?” Harrison’s rumbly voice made her smile.
“Almost.” She nodded toward Lydia. “She needs a ride.”
“We can bring her out.”
“That’s what I said. Surely someone can take her back to town.” She sighed. “I’m worried for her.”
“Because of her family?”
“That, and I’m pretty certain she’s infatuated with you. Going to be tough for her to see you get married.”
He laughed. “She’s more infatuated with my library than me, but considering I only have about four or five more books for her to borrow, her infatuation will soon be over.”
“You underestimate your book-worthy hero qualities.” She grabbed his hands and turned to face him. “To start with, you’re rather handsome.”
“Without the glasses, maybe.”
“Oh, but to
a girl, that matters little when your kind heart and fun personality obliterate such an insignificant obstacle.” She plucked his glasses off and smiled up into his big blue eyes.
He tried to snatch his glasses back. “I sort of need those.”
“You can see me without them.”
“Not from this far away.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah, I see.” He pulled her closer. “Poor me, I’ve lost my glasses.” He laughed again. “But, still, being practically blind is not a heroic quality. Grendel and his mother would have eaten a myopic Beowulf for lunch, and then the poem would’ve been over within pages.”
He’d forced her to read Beowulf with him a month ago. She would have preferred a shorter version. “Well, you’re also tall and can quote poetry.”
“And I can shoot really well—let’s not forget that.”
“Of course not.” She rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep a chuckle from escaping. “With those qualities, no wonder your female students are the highest achievers. What girl wouldn’t want to impress you? I certainly did when I was their age—and you were a terrible shot back then.”
She could tell he was trying hard not to argue about his past shooting skills, but then he smiled and pulled her closer. “I guess I’m completely irresistible now.”
“Hmmm.” She tapped his chin. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you continue teaching, then.”
“No worries.” He nuzzled her hair. “You’re the only girl I want.”
Lydia peeked up from her work and smiled over at them. Maybe they were being a little too demonstrative.
Charlie gave him a quick peck on the cheek and handed him back his glasses. “I’m worried for Lydia though,” she whispered. “She might be pretty, but with no money and a father like hers . . . I’m not sure any decent men will be interested in her.”
“All she needs is a Mr. Darcy—a man rich enough not to care about her poverty, who can be caught by her fine eyes, and will look past her family’s poor manners. And considering Lydia’s borrowed Pride and Prejudice from me no less than three times, I’m pretty certain she’d swoon over any proud and disagreeable man who looked at her twice.”
“Don’t say that.” She playfully punched him.
“Don’t worry, she’s attractive enough to snag someone good—maybe not as good a shot as me, but then, no one can be perfect.”
“I do believe if this bragging keeps up, I’m going to have to start practicing more so I can bring you down a notch.”
He leaned closer. “You’re on.” The playful nip he gave her ear caused a shiver to run down her spine, so she stepped away from him lest he do it again. He could only pretend to whisper in her ear for so long before the others in the room realized more than whispering was going on. “Shame on you,” she breathed.
“No, no. No shame.” He grinned.
She swatted him. “Wait until tomorrow.” She blew out a shaky breath.
“Nervous?”
“To say our vows? No.”
“Then what’s got you addlepated, besides me and my good looks?”
She bit her lip and her cheeks heated.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?” When she didn’t answer, he pulled her into the nearby parlor.
She crossed her arms against herself but couldn’t stay silent with him staring at her. “I’m not worried about being able to outshoot you one day, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I was bad at kissing.” She swallowed. “What if I’m not good at . . . more?”
He trailed a finger down her cheek. “I could end up being just as bad as you, but we’ve got a lifetime to work on the ‘more.’” He kissed her forehead and left his lips against her hairline. “But I’m absolutely certain I’ll never tire of practicing at getting better at loving you.”
Keep reading for a special sample of A Heart Most Certain by Melissa Jagears.
Excerpt from
A Heart Most Certain
Chapter 1
SOUTHEAST KANSAS
OCTOBER 1905
Lydia King took a tentative step into Mr. Lowe’s hazy office, feeling like Bob Cratchit approaching Scrooge. Had Cratchit’s heart pitter-pattered as fast as hers? Except his heartbeat wouldn’t have had anything to do with Scrooge’s looks—thin blue lips, pointed nose, and red eyes, per Dickens.
Scrooge wasn’t a fraction as handsome as Mr. Lowe. His dark sideswept hair, strong jaw shadowed with stubble, and piercing hazel eyes made him one of the best-looking men in Teaville.
“Are you coming in any farther?” Mr. Lowe raised his right eyebrow and tipped his head toward an ornate green leather chair, giving her a tilted smile. “Have a seat.”
She squared her shoulders and glided over to the fancy chair—a strange piece of furniture to be positioned in the middle of a lumber office otherwise bare of anything but plain wood walls, a massive desk, and a man as good-looking as the sawdust in the office was thick. A layer of powdery dust covered every nook and cranny—despite the fact Mr. Lowe likely did no manual labor at the sawmill—and flighty bits danced to the sawmill’s whine in the sunlight streaming through the unadorned windows.
Above Mr. Lowe’s amused brow, a few feathery wood flakes rested on his wavy dark hair. He couldn’t be as terrible as the ladies from the moral society insisted. Not with that smile.
She grinned back and took a deep breath. “You may not know my name, Mr. Lowe, but perhaps you recognize me from church. I’m Lydia King.” She trailed her slender fingers through the silty dust covering the brass tacks on the end of the chair’s arm. “On behalf of the Teaville Ladies Moral Society, I’ve been tasked to present you with the opportunity to support our—”
“No.”
She blinked. “I haven’t finished asking.”
He tucked his pencil behind his ear and crossed his arms. “The answer will still be no.”
“But you don’t even know what worthy cause we’ve decided to undertake this year.” She squeezed the armrests. Dickens had gotten Scrooge all wrong—he definitely did not have red eyes or thin, blue lips. They were hazel and a manly pink, respectively.
“Perhaps it’s like last year’s?” The show of white teeth against dark stubble made him decidedly handsomer, even if his smile was more of a sneer. He looked toward the ceiling. “I believe you ladies decided our church needed a new bell.”
“The old system was dangerous. Why with each pull, the bell could have crashed down on any one of the children.”
“Then forgo ringing the bell.”
Well, didn’t he have all the answers. But the cold glint in his eye wouldn’t silence her. Throwing back her shoulders, she locked onto his stare. Money was needed if they were to increase production and help more families this winter than last. And not only would his money do more good for the poor outside of his pockets than in them, but Mrs. Little seemed to believe her getting a donation from Mr. Lowe would prove whether or not Lydia was worthy of marrying her son. “I’m sure this year’s project will meet your approval, if you’d let me share.”
He shrugged. “I was trying to save you breath.”
“I haven’t a shortage of breath.”
His lips twitched as he leaned back in his chair. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and rolled it between his fingers. “Then do share, Miss King.”
“We ladies quilt at our weekly meetings, but cutting out the blocks by hand takes a lot of time. With machines, we could do more. We’d like to—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.” Mr. Lowe’s secretary poked his head through the door, his bulbous nose out of place on his rail-thin body. “There’s been an accident, nothing terrible, but it needs your immediate attention.”
Mr. Lowe crossed the room and glanced out the window. “I should’ve noticed it’d gone quiet.” He pulled a frock coat off a hook and shrugged into it.
Lydia folded her hands demurely. She’d wait for him to return; she wasn’t about to tell Sebastian’s mother she’d left without a d
ime. What was simply pocket change to Mr. Lowe could decide her future. She needed to marry Sebastian Little before her father put them into so much debt that Sebastian changed his mind about her suitability.
If she didn’t marry before long, she’d soon be poor enough to be given a moral-society quilt. However, a warm blanket would do little to ease Mama’s suffering.
Mr. Lowe stopped in front of her as he made quick work of his buttons. “I’m afraid my answer is still no.” He flashed a smile and bobbed his head. “Good day, Miss King.”
Lydia turned the page and tucked her foot beneath Mr. Lowe’s big green chair.
“Goodness, Miss King!”
She jumped at Mr. Lowe’s secretary’s surprised voice and fumbled the book.
The cloth-bound volume slid down her white ruffled skirt and landed pages down on the floor.
“You startled me, miss.” The secretary’s large Adam’s apple descended with his noisy swallow. “I didn’t expect you in here.”
“I apologize.” Lydia leaned over, grabbed the book, and winced. The center pages had folded back upon themselves. Considering its tight binding, Mr. Lowe hadn’t yet read his brand-new copy of Mark Twain’s Roughing It. She brushed the clingy sawdust off the page edges. “I was waiting for Mr. Lowe, and I couldn’t resist . . .” She held out the book limply and then shook her head. “I shouldn’t have taken it off his desk, but it looked. . . .” Neglected. Sitting under a thin covering of sawdust, the title she’d been eyeing in Harper’s Bazaar for several weeks had called to her. “Anyway, I thought I’d bide my time until he returned.”
“Mr. Lowe isn’t returning.”
“The accident?” She bit her lip. Before she’d started reading, she’d fumed over Mr. Lowe’s rude departure, but if someone had been hurt, she’d need to repent every bit of that anger.
“A stack of lumber fell and knocked out a fence. Mr. Borror received a nasty bump to the head, so Mr. Lowe sent him home two hours ago.”
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