Kate met Mark’s gaze, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “And now you know who’s really in charge of Harmony House.”
She tacked herself onto the end of the train and followed the children out the door, but Mark wasn’t fooled. Abner’s confidence stemmed from his faith in Kate. She and Miss Southerland had created a place where discarded children felt not only safe, but wanted and loved.
Perhaps she really was where she needed to be. A humbling thought, seeing as how she hadn’t required his assistance in the slightest to get here. He’d fancied himself her rescuer all those years ago, but she hadn’t needed his rescue. She’d managed that maneuver all on her own.
Katherine bit the inside of her cheek as she exited the house, leaving Mark behind. Again. Oh, she knew he was still there. She could feel him following her, but her heart already ached at the thought of sending him away a second time. How would she manage it? Sending him away the first time had shattered her heart. It had taken years to fit the pieces back together and get the mechanism working again. She’d thought herself healed, but Mark waltzing back into her life unannounced had magnified the cracks and fissures, making them impossible to ignore.
Why, Lord? Must I really do this again? Send him away when my heart yearns for him to stay?
Maybe God was testing her faith—testing her dedication to her calling. The children had to come first. Her desires came second. Mark was simply her Isaac. The human love she must sacrifice upon the altar in order to stay true to divine love.
Katherine lifted her chin. She’d done it before. She could do it again. It wasn’t as if they’d truly gotten reacquainted or anything. They’d spent less than an hour in each other’s company. They were still strangers. Strangers with a common past, perhaps, but strangers nonetheless. People changed a lot in ten years. Heaven knew she had changed. There was no telling what a decade of waging war had done to Mark. His gentle musician’s soul had probably been hardened into something unrecognizable.
Then again, he’d seemed plenty gentle cradling baby Sarah in his big warrior arms.
Doing her best to banish that heart-softening picture, Katherine focused her attention instead on Eliza and Mr. Brooks. They seemed to be arguing about something. Not that their voices were raised, but Eliza had that annoyed expression on her face that only appeared when someone attempted to derail her plans. The fact that the quiet Mr. Brooks had elicited such a response from the strong-willed Eliza was unexpected. And exceedingly interesting.
“Here’s your baby bed,” Abner announced as they came alongside the wagon.
Eliza, still exuding an aura of miffed-ness, turned to face the approaching children. “Thank you, Abner. This looks splendid. However, I might not need it after all.” Her gaze found Katherine. “Mr. Brooks has taken it upon himself to play escort and drive me to Georgia’s home.”
And she was going to let him? Katherine bit back a smile. She couldn’t wait to hear the story of how Mr. Brooks convinced Eliza to capitulate. For there had to be a story. Eliza Southerland wasn’t one to surrender easily.
“Well, Sarah just drifted off to sleep, so she might be content to ride in the bed.” Katherine looked down at the peaceful babe in her arms. “Though she is awfully sweet to hold.”
“Yes, well, I better take her.” Eliza came around to stand in front of Katherine and held out her arms, her militant bearing softening as her gaze fell upon Sarah. Her voice lowered to a murmur. “The child needs to nurse, the sooner the better.”
Katherine nodded. “Of course.” She started to hand off the baby, but a shadow fell over them.
“Wait,” Mark said softly. “I’d like to say good-bye.” He held out his arms, his gaze imploring. “May I?”
Katherine shifted directions and lay the babe in his arms.
“Thank you.” Holding Sarah in his left arm, he tugged his hat off with his right and set it on the wagon seat. Then he bent down and placed a kiss on her tiny forehead. “You had a rough start, little one, but you’re strong. Never forget that God wants you to be on this earth. He sees you and loves you and has a special plan for your life. Miss Katherine and Miss Eliza will take good care of you, and Uncle Mark is only a telegram away if you ever need me.”
As he spoke, Katherine’s gaze fell on Abner, then Ruby, then the little ones. They all stared up at Mark as if the words of blessing he spoke over Sarah were meant for them too. Perhaps they were. Katherine’s heart swelled. These children were so thirsty for affirmation, for acceptance. She resolved to speak such blessings over them until they all believed they were loved, wanted, and created with a purpose.
Her attention returned to the man who seemed to have deepened over time, not hardened.
Mark’s gaze bored into her. “I mean it, Kate. If she ever needs anything, send word. I’ll take care of it.”
Unable to speak from the emotion welling in her throat, Katherine offered a nod instead.
Mark handed the baby over to Eliza and reclaimed his hat, his eyes suspiciously bright as they followed the baby’s progress. “Take care of them, Jonah.” He tipped his chin toward his friend as Mr. Brooks moved to help Eliza climb into the wagon.
Mr. Brooks met his gaze. “I will.” His tone carried the weight of a sacred vow.
Katherine gathered the children around her, making sure they were well out of the wagon’s path. She picked up Quill and propped him on her hip and placed a staying hand on Ted’s shoulder while Ruby clasped Priscilla’s hand. Abner stood stoically at her side as the wagon rolled away.
Only as the conveyance disappeared down the road did it occur to Katherine that Mr. Brooks had left his horse behind. Meaning he’d be coming back for it. Meaning his friend would probably wait on him before making his own departure. Meaning she would no longer be able to avoid his questions.
And the more they talked and shared with each other, the harder it would be to send him away again. The more it would hurt to lay him on the altar.
Quill bounced in her arms, then patted her cheek with a cry of “Bunny!” He pointed at the tall grass along the side of the road, then squirmed to get down.
Struck by the sight of an animal emerging from a thicket, Katherine lowered Quill to the ground with only half her mind, paying little heed to the children bounding off to give chase to the unsuspecting rabbit.
When Abraham offered Isaac on the altar, the Lord stopped him at the last moment, giving him a ram, instead, to offer in Isaac’s place.
Her focus shifted to the man who had gathered the reins of his mount and the mount of his friend. As he led them past her, their gazes caught and held.
“What?” he asked, his pace slowing.
She shook her head. “Nothing.” Then, to keep from sounding like a complete idiot, she added, “There’s a water trough at the east end of the barn. Fresh hay inside.”
He tugged on the brim of his hat in a motion of thanks and continued past.
Katherine bit her lip, much more than nothing going through her mind. Complicated thoughts. Worrisome thoughts. Hopeful thoughts that could easily lead to devastating disappointment. Yet all of them centered on a single dangerous question.
Might God restore Mark to her as he did Isaac to Abraham?
And if so, what would that mean for the children?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
It took thirty minutes to reach the turnoff to Georgia Harris’s home, plenty of time for Eliza to take the measure of the man at her side. Or it would have been, had Jonah Brooks possessed the decency to fit into any of the tidy pigeonholes she’d constructed in her mind for the categorization of men. Unfortunately, he had barely uttered a dozen words to her since they’d left Harmony House, making classification difficult. A fact that left her quite uneasy. Until she understood his temperament, she wouldn’t be able to manage him properly.
After growing up in the South, being educated in the North, and making a life for herself in the West, Eliza had fine-tuned her male-identification system, wit
h the majority falling into one of three major categories.
Master types needed to believe they were fully in power. Blatant disagreement only brought out the bully in them. One had to employ subtlety, hinting at suggestions while wearing a veil of subservience, so as to make them believe a planted idea was actually their own.
Intellectual types were impervious to emotional pleas and must therefore be approached with logical arguments. Even better if a woman supported her logical argument with documentation provided by men—quotes from male philosophers, scientists, and historians proved most effective.
Savior types wanted to feel strong and necessary to the women around them. Independent women constituted a threat to their masculinity. Managing this type required one to mask her strength and defer to the gentleman’s capabilities and protective instincts. This type was susceptible to emotional displays—tears, in particular—though Eliza had never had the stomach, nor the acting ability, to manipulate to that extent.
“That the turnoff?” Mr. Brooks asked, raising his left hand to gesture to the overgrown path twenty yards ahead.
How had he spotted it so early? She only knew its location because of the frequency of her visits to Georgia’s home, not because the grass-covered ruts were actually visible. Most people missed the turn altogether the first handful of times they searched it out. And even once a person knew what she was looking for, she had to be right up on it to see where to go, especially this time of year, when the vegetation was at its peak.
Eliza eyed him more closely as she adjusted her hold on the baby. “Yes. That’s it.”
He nodded and resumed his silence.
She’d initially placed Mr. Brooks in the savior category, with his insistence on playing escort combined with the way he’d stepped in and taken charge of hitching the team for her. Yet he’d been slow to interfere with the ponies, allowing her to struggle on her own before taking them in hand, and he’d made it clear that his escort was prompted more by a sense of duty toward the child than the belief that a woman couldn’t handle driving a wagon on her own.
His reserved demeanor gave one the impression that he preferred thinking a matter through before speaking, which could indicate an intellectual typology. On the other hand, his bearing radiated the authority of a natural leader, more in keeping with the master type. When he’d made the proclamation about escorting her, she’d recognized instantly that there would be no dissuading him. Yet he hadn’t bullied or insulted her in any way.
Not to mention that he was a Horseman, for goodness’ sake. A warrior confident in his skills and experience. For good reason. Yet he was not the leader of the Horsemen. Which meant he was content to let others take charge. At least other men. Whether or not he’d bend to the wisdom of a woman was yet to be seen.
She utilized other, more minor, categories as well: scoundrels, cowards, charmers. Mr. Brooks definitely did not fit any of those descriptions. Then there was the decent type. Kind fellows, unfailingly polite, and always ready to lend a hand. One need not manage the decent type at all, which made them comfortable to be around, yet exceedingly bland. Jonah Brooks was anything but bland. There was a roughness around his edges and secrets behind his eyes. Secrets that intrigued and invited investigation as much as they cautioned her to keep her distance.
Mr. Brooks clicked to the ponies and effortlessly steered them onto the rutted path that led to the Harris homestead. Bessie and Tessie responded to him like a pair of lovestruck schoolgirls eager to please the new boy in town. Not a hint of stubbornness emerged when the wagon made the corner, unlike when Eliza drove. It usually took her two or three attempts to get the pair to turn off the road and into the high grass, but apparently Bessie and Tessie would traipse right off a cliff with Mr. Brooks at the reins.
He turned to look at her at that exact moment, precisely when her pique was at its, well, peak. He said nothing. Neither in words nor expression. No smirk to indicate a feeling of superiority. No brow raised in challenge. Not even a polite smile to put her at ease. Just a brief, nondescript glance that heightened her curiosity to disturbing levels.
Why did she care so much about discerning the inner workings of this man? He was a stranger who would be on his way in a few hours, never to darken her doorstep again. She should simply ignore him and focus on the baby who’d inspired this little drive in the first place.
Eliza straightened her spine, faced forward, and ordered her mind back to the task at hand. Only the task at hand was currently sleeping and had no need of immediate attention. Which left her mind free to travel elsewhere. And, of course, the elsewhere it chose sat three inches away from her on the driver’s bench.
Stoic. Inscrutable. Frustratingly capable. And far too handsome for her peace of mind. Not that a man’s looks were worth anything. Character was the true measure of a man’s worth, though she’d yet to meet one who didn’t come up short in that department. Her father included. Nevertheless, a well-put-together face with a strong jawline, a pair of broad shoulders covered in lean muscle, and an impenetrable gaze that dared her to probe deeper could all be extremely distracting. Even for someone who knew better than to be taken in by such meaningless superficiality.
Girl, get your head on right.
“What was that?”
Good grief. Had she actually muttered that bit of self-instruction aloud?
Mr. Brooks turned those far-too-keen eyes her direction. Eliza stiffened, refusing to give him the upper hand. She wouldn’t be intimidated. Not by him. Not by anyone.
Pasting a smile on her face that had nothing in common with the flash of embarrassed panic thumping in her chest, she pointed to the homestead that had just come into view. “The house is ahead, on the right.”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, just long enough for her to be certain he hadn’t been fooled by her word switch. But he didn’t call her on it. Nor did he exhibit any hint of smugness, suspicion, or even amusement. He simply nodded his acceptance of what she’d said and steered the wagon toward Georgia’s yard.
Why couldn’t he just fall into one of her tidy categories and cease being so intriguing?
As he drew the wagon to a halt and came around to assist her, however, the confidence of his stride, the sureness of his arms, and the penetration of his dark brown eyes boded ill. She very much feared that Jonah Brooks was not a man to be pigeonholed. Which meant he was a man who needed to fly her coop as soon as possible.
Jonah intended to lift Miss Southerland to the ground, babe and all, but apparently the contrary woman had different ideas. She handed the infant to him, then turned to clamber down from the wagon under her own power. Which would have been fine had he possessed any clue how to hold a baby. Hands that had been prepared to circle a woman’s waist nearly clapped together as the space shrank to engulf a newborn’s torso. Twisting his grip at the last moment, he planted one palm on the little one’s stomach and the other against her back like bread on a sandwich.
Sarah’s eyes popped open. Taking one look at him, she scrunched her face and howled. Jonah winced.
Don’t drop her. Don’t drop her. Don’t drop her.
Afraid to move, he held Sarah at arm’s length and prayed for Miss Southerland to hurry up. It seemed an eternity passed before she reached the ground. When she turned, he swore he heard amusement in her voice, though he didn’t dare take his eyes off the baby to confirm his suspicion.
“Held a lot of babies in your day, Mr. Brooks?”
“First one,” he muttered.
He hated looking incompetent in front of a woman as dynamic and efficient as Eliza Southerland, but if looking the fool knocked a crack in that veneer she’d hidden behind for the last half hour, maybe it was worth the dent in his pride.
“I would have never guessed.”
Why was she teasing him instead of rescuing the kid from his ineptitude? Wasn’t that her job? Rescuing children?
Jonah swiveled until his outstretched arms nearly bumped Miss Southerland’s shoulder. �
��Here.”
He chanced a quick glance away from the baby and caught a diabolical twinkle in her eyes.
“Oh no. I held her the entire ride out here.” She brushed past him, pausing just long enough to give his back a patronizing pat as she went. “It’s definitely your turn.”
He looked at the baby. Then at Miss Southerland’s retreating back. Then back to the baby, her cries boosting his panic and galvanizing his feet.
“Hold up.”
She spun to face him but continued backing away. “What was it you told me? Something about this baby being an assignment from the Almighty?” Her lips twitched at one end. “I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your sacred duty.” Her gaze dropped from his face to the wailing babe, blanket unswaddled and dangling, feet kicking. “I’m sure you have everything”—her eyes met his again—“well in hand.”
Her skirt billowed as she executed a perfect about-face and strode away.
Jonah eyed the baby. “She don’t think I can handle you,” he murmured as determination fired in his blood. “Time to prove her wrong.”
As if the babe understood him, she ceased her wailing and blinked at him.
A team player. Good.
Cupping his right hand more firmly around the back of Sarah’s skull, Jonah positioned her along the length of his forearm, then tucked her close to his body like a sack of potatoes, and marched after Miss Southerland, his longer strides allowing him to catch—and pass—her before they reached the front porch. As if not to be outdone, her strides lengthened to keep pace with his so that they reached the house at the same time. The urge to win pulsed strongly through his veins, but good manners took precedence. Halting at the base of the porch steps, Jonah pivoted sideways and gestured for Miss Southerland to precede him.
She glared at him instead.
Then, all at once, her face was directly in front of his as she moved not to the steps but to his position. Close enough for him to smell roses. From her soap, maybe? Whatever it was from, it was mighty distracting. Made him notice other things. Like the fact that her waist was only four inches away from his left hand, a hand that suddenly itched to fit itself to that particular curve. And her mouth. Just two inches below his. Her lips weren’t smiling, but they weren’t exactly frowning neither. More like suspended halfway between, still deciding on a direction. Which result would a kiss achieve?
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