Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (4 page)

Several people nodded in agreement, and somebody across the room said, “Amen!”

Sam couldn’t abide the attention, especially since he was hardly a hero. And he didn’t want people putting him on some kind of pedestal. He’d merely acted on impulse, nothing more. Someone truly courageous would have gone through the flames and rescued the parents. He clamped his eyes shut against the awful burning and tried to concentrate on breathing through his rattly lungs.

“Would you like to try another sip of water, Mr. Connors?” Mercy’s voice rang with a tone more like obligation than compassion, and he realized someone had probably coerced her into bringing him into her home. In fact, he thought he recalled her saying she never asked to take care of him in the first place. He did need to get out of here, not because she was an Evans, but because he didn’t want to inconvenience her. Plus, he wanted to escape all these eyes boring into him.

“Help me up, Frank.”

Sheriff Marshall stepped forward. “I think you should wait till Doc Trumble gets here.”

“Yeah,” said Abner. “You just came back to the land of the livin’, Sam.”

“I’ll be fine.” He sat up and gathered his bearings.

“Yes, he’ll be quite fine,” his mother echoed, as if his words weren’t convincing enough.

Meeting Mercy’s gaze, he managed to paste a slight grin on his mouth. “I thank you for the use of your couch, Miss Evans. Sorry I can’t stay.” Her momentary blush gave him a small satisfaction. She sure was a pretty thing, with that sleek, dark hair and those chocolate-brown eyes hooded by thick black lashes.

Rather than say anything else to the boys, he merely nodded and gave them each a gentle pat on the head, not having the heart to linger on their hangdog expressions. Frank seized hold of one arm and helped him to a standing position, and then George took the other arm, and together they guided him to the door. A coughing spasm threatened, but he managed to hold off the worst of it till he got outside. When they reached the carriage, he grasped hold of a handle and hauled himself up onto the rear seat, then reclined as best he could. The walk, though short, had so exhausted him, he wondered if he’d find his next breath.

“Well!” His mother situated herself in the front, next to George. Sam could envision her pressing the wrinkles out of her skirt and picking at invisible lint balls. “That was awkward, to say the least. I hope never to cross paths with that woman again.”

“It’s a small town, Mother,” Sam muttered. “I guarantee you’ll be seein’ her for years to come.”

“Can’t you make that horse move a little faster, George?” she asked, ignoring his remark.

As the carriage wended its way up Wood Street, Sam clamped his lips and tried to control the burning tickle in his parched throat, but it gave way to a coughing episode that seemed to go on forever.

“There goes Doc Trumble now,” George said, and Sam heard a horse gallop by. “Looks like he’s headin’ to his place.”

“Turn around,” Sam said. “I want you to drop me off there.”

His mother whirled her head around. “But he’s coming to the house to check on you. You’ll be more comfortable in your own bed.”

He rolled his stinging eyes skyward. Thirty years old, and he was still living under his mother’s roof—and taking her orders. Too long she’d manipulated him into believing she couldn’t fend for herself. When his father had gone off to jail six years ago, he’d felt obligated to stay with her at the family’s big farmhouse. But lately—especially after her embarrassing tirade tonight—he’d been contemplating his escape from under her clutches. Shoot, he’d move into the barn if he couldn’t find a place to suit him. His mother would survive just fine on her own. Even if she didn’t, he couldn’t let her continue governing his life. The hatred she spewed for the Evans family was worse than poison, and he’d grown downright sick of swallowing it.

George turned around to look at him, and when he saw that Sam was dead serious, he turned the carriage around. Frank and George assisted him up the beaten pathway to Doc Trumble’s house, his mother following behind, sputtering that she couldn’t understand why he didn’t just go home and let the doctor come to him. Arriving at the same time were Abner Stockton and Jeb Finnegan.

“What’re ye doin’ here?” Jeb asked in his typical Irish brogue. “We come to tell the doc to go out to yer farm.”

“He has no common sense,” his mother chirped.

“He wanted to see Doc Trumble in his office,” Frank said, taking one of Sam’s arms to help him up the front steps.

Doc met them at the door. He knew just about every breathing soul in the area, having delivered almost every person in Henry County age thirty and under—Sam included. “Well, what’ve we here?” He pushed wide his screen and stepped aside to allow their entry.

“My son entered a blazing house fire, Doctor, and he needs your immediate attention.”

With nary a question about the fire, the full-bearded gentleman scurried down the dimly lit hallway to one of his patient rooms, and by the time they reached it, Sam fairly collapsed on the narrow cot, his body drenched in sweat from all the effort, his ears ringing as loud as the bells at First Methodist Church. Rattly lungs were a constant reminder of the smoke he’d inhaled and the effort it took to catch one good breath. Sickening dizziness came over him again, and as Doc peered down at him through worried eyes, he lost his will to stay awake, once more slipping into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

***

After a mostly wakeful night, Mercy pushed the cotton blanket off her and dragged herself up, her first thoughts of the two boys asleep in the big bed in the room across the hall. It’d been past midnight when she’d finally tucked them in, their little bodies spent and their emotions drained. She’d tried to find the words to comfort them, but none had come—probably because she was in need of comfort, herself. So, she’d prayed with them instead; but each plea had sounded bleak and empty. Little boys didn’t understand phrases such as “Mama and Papa are with Jesus now,” or “We must trust the Lord, for He has reasons in allowing such things.”

A long, jagged sigh issued out of her as she shuffled across the cool wood floor to her bureau and riffled through the drawer for her underclothes. In methodical fashion, she shed her nightdress, donned her pantalets and camisole, and then went to her wardrobe and passed over each cheerful, floral print until she found a simple, drab-colored cotton dress. She slipped on a pair of dark stockings, followed by her practical brown oxfords. Then, in routine fashion, she walked to her dresser to retrieve a horsehair brush and whisked it through her long locks, sweeping them up in their usual knot at the back of her head and fastening it with a bronze comb. She gave her face a quick glance, frowning at the sight of her puffy eyes.

On her way downstairs, she looked in on the brothers and found them sleeping soundly. Relief washed through her at not having to start her day dealing with their fresh tears. As it was, she could barely deal with her own tears, the depth of her loss only now beginning to register. How would she ever manage without Millie and Herb? They’d been the best of friends for years, sharing the same church pew on Sunday mornings, partaking of meals at each other’s homes, playing games and working jigsaw puzzles, laughing and romping with the children, and enjoying picnics together on warm summer days. For years, it’d been the five of them, and now, in the blink of an eye, the number had whittled down to three.

After a quick trip to the outhouse, she found herself at the sink, filling a teakettle from the faucet. She stared numbly at the gushing water, which put her in mind of the bucket of tears she’d shed through the night. The sun had risen in the eastern sky, giving way to a cloudless morning, and birds, oblivious to the ravages of the night before, sang a new song to welcome the day. Before, she would have delighted in the masterful morning, but today her world had taken on a grey and mournful hue, and she couldn’t see past the clouds that shadowed her usually sunny disposition.

I will refresh you, My child. Keep your eyes on Me, your Maker and Provider.

The words ran sweetly through her mind, bringing a sense of reassurance.

“Oh, God,” she prayed with uplifted face, “I don’t know what tomorrow holds or how I’ll manage with these boys, but I know You have all the answers. Help me to trust You so I can make the right decisions for my future—for
our
future. I’m responsible for three of us now, and my heart weighs heavy. Please confirm to me Your promise to never leave us or forsake us. Help me to trust You.” She reminded herself of her many blessings—a secure job with Doc Trumble, a mortgage-free home, thanks to the inheritance her father had left her, food aplenty, and, most important, her faith. No husband, of course, but then what did she need with one when she’d always managed fine without? Besides, at twenty-six, she’d passed the age of marriageability and now wore the badge of spinster.

Around nine o’clock, Mercy was seated in the dining room, sipping tea and reading from her mother’s Bible, when the boys ambled downstairs. They each wore one of her father’s old work shirts, having lost all their clothes and other possessions in the fire. They also wore bedraggled faces, their eyes full of unspoken pain, and their hair mussed and standing on end. No tears fell, but she knew it wouldn’t take much to get a steady stream going again. She grinned. “Well, look who finally woke up. Are you two hungry?” Both shook their heads. “But of course you are. How do bacon and eggs sound?”

They shrugged their narrow shoulders. Taking that as a yes, she pushed back her chair.

“Did the angel man live?”

Joseph’s question put a halt to her standing. She’d barely thought about the tough, tall, rawboned man with the longish sandy hair that curled around his damp forehead. “I’m sure he did, darling.” She could only hope she hadn’t misjudged his condition, and that Doc Trumble hadn’t discovered anything beyond the symptoms of smoke inhalation and the burns on his forearms and cheeks.

“Can we go see him?”

“Oh! No, I think not.”

Both added disappointment to their already sorrowful expressions. How could she possibly explain the words
animosity
and
hatred
to two children who’d never dealt with such emotions?

“But we want to thank ’im.”

“I understand, but there’s really no need. He already knows how very grateful you are.” He had no idea how far her gratitude stretched, though. “I suppose we could write him a letter today. How would that be?”

Joseph’s eyes brightened for the first time. “Yeah! I can write it if you tell me the letters.”

With resolve, she stood and walked to the stove, putting on a cheerful demeanor, although it took great effort. “We’ll work as a team, then.”

She reached for the frying pan hanging on a nail above the big cookstove, then moved to the icebox to retrieve some eggs, her long skirt swishing with each step. Just as she started to fire up the stove, a loud rap sounded on her door. “I’ll get that. Would you boys mind setting the table? You know where I keep the utensils.” She wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the front of the house to see to her early-morning visitor.

Through the sheer curtain, she spied Sheriff Marshall standing on the porch. She swung wide the door. Something in his expression caused a knot to settle at the pit of her stomach. “Good morning, Sheriff. Is there a problem?”

He held his hat in both hands and shot her a cursory nod, then glanced past her. “Are the Watson boys about?”

“They’re in the kitchen. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I thought you’d want to know we found the bodies of Herb and Millie Watson.”

Her heart gave a hard wallop against her chest. Rather than invite the sheriff inside, she stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. Swallowing down a bitter taste, she gathered her resolve and asked, “And the fire…do you know how it started?”

“Looks to be an overturned lantern next to their bed.”

“Oh, no. Millie said Frank liked to read in bed. Perhaps he drifted off before extinguishing the lamp.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes on his shoes. “We figure he must’ve bumped it turnin’ over in bed.”

Her heart shattered as the impact of the truth slammed hard. What a cruel conclusion to life for two people so in love with each other and their children, not to mention their Lord and Savior. She couldn’t help but ask how He could allow such devastation. Of course, she knew that Christians were not exempt from the awful consequences of a fallen world. Right now, however, that knowledge didn’t offer much comfort.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee, Sheriff?”

“No, no. I actually came to talk to you about something else.” He started turning his hat in his hands and shifting nervously.

“Oh?”

“I met with Judge Corbett this mornin’, and it’s his belief that since the Watson boys have no known relatives, they need to go to a married couple. I’ll be returnin’ for them at the end of the day. That should give you time to talk to—”

“What? Absolutely not! I won’t have it. I may as well be their next of kin. They need to be with someone familiar—someone who understands their anguish and who loves them.”

“There’s plenty o’ compassionate folks in Paris.”

“I don’t doubt that, Sheriff, but no one knows them as well as I do.”

“The Watsons have other friends, Miss Evans—married friends equipped to care for two growing boys. You work full-time for Doc Trumble. How do you expect to keep that up with two kids underfoot?”

“I know a few widows with younger children, and they seem to handle things just fine.”

“And they have families willin’ to help. Who do you have?”

“I have friends and several relatives. I’m not a recluse, Sheriff.”

He huffed out a loud, whistling breath, a result of his having smoked stogies for as long as she’d known him. “Well, it’s the judge’s decision, so you’re arguin’ with the wrong person.”

“Then I shall take this up with him just as soon as I’ve fed the boys their breakfast.”

“Ain’t Doc expectin’ you to report to work?”