“What you need is someone to teach you and your readers style,” Adelaide said.

Charles smirked. “I can’t see farmers reading it.”

“Well, no, but farmers’ wives spend money in town—”

“On birds for their heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Graves?”

“Not at all, Miss Crum. Not at all.”

“Good, because I’d like to write a fashion column for the paper.”

“A fashion column isn’t a bad idea. Could you give me a sample—say, by Monday?”

“I’ll deliver it personally.”

He nodded. “Are you always this efficient?”

“I take my work seriously.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

The words ricocheted through her and left a hitch in her breathing, a huge knot in her stomach. Dare she hope for something too important to consider?

JANET DEAN

grew up in a family that cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted wonderful stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters. As her daughters grew, they watched Little House on the Prairie, reawakening Janet’s love of American history and the stories of strong men and women of faith who built this country. Janet eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance and loves spinning stories for Love Inspired Historical. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and bridge, and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and to spend time with family.

Janet Dean
Courting Miss Adelaide

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bear with each other and forgive whatever

grievances you may have against one another.

Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

—Colossians 3:13

To my critique partner, Shirley Jump—

her slashing red pen, savvy advice and endless

support helped me become the writer

I am today. To David Highway, President of

the Hamilton County Historical Society—

a big thanks for his assistance with my

research. To my late parents, who never

stopped believing I’d attain my dream.

To my husband—a good man, a wonderful

father and the love of my life.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

From the March 1, 1897, edition of The Noblesville Ledger:

WANTED: HOMES FOR CHILDREN

NOBLESVILLE—A company of homeless children from the East will arrive in Noblesville, Indiana, on Saturday, April 13. These boys and girls of various ages have been thrown friendless upon the world. The citizens of Noblesville are asked to assist the agents of the Children’s Aid Society in finding good homes for the children.

Persons requesting these children must first agree to treat the children as members of their family, promising to feed, clothe, send them to school and church and Sunday School until they reach the age of seventeen.

Applications must be made to and approved by the local committee. Interviews will be held on Saturday, March 30, in Judge Willowby’s chambers at the Noblesville County courthouse. The following well-respected citizens have agreed to sit on the local committee: C. Graves, J. Sparks, T. Paul and M. Wylie.

Distribution will be made at the Ward schoolhouse on April 13 at 10:30 a.m.

Chapter One

Noblesville, Indiana, spring of 1897

Adelaide Crum stepped to the open door and peered into the judge’s chambers. Her heart hammered beneath her corset. Now that the moment she’d waited for had arrived, her courage faltered. She considered turning tail and scurrying home. But then she remembered the quiet, the emptiness of those rooms. She closed her eyes and sent up a simple prayer. I don’t ask often, Lord, but I’m asking today. Please, let them say yes.

Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room, then sat on one of the two chairs and faced the four men who held her future in their hands. To fill the vacant chair with something, she laid her purse on the seat, a seat that mocked her singleness.

Mr. Wylie, a large man who owned a farm north of town, folded his sausagelike fingers on the table. “I’ve dropped my wife off in front of your shop more times than I can count, Miss Crum.” He chuckled. “Usually costs me, too.”

She smiled a thank-you for his business.

Beside the farmer sat Mr. Sparks, the town banker. The little tufts of hair fringing his bald head reminded Adelaide of a horned owl. “Perhaps you’d better tell us why you’ve come, Miss Crum. Do you have recommendations for this committee?”

“I’ve come for myself.” Adelaide laid a calming hand on her midriff to offset the growing urge to deposit her breakfast on the table in front of her. “To ask for a child.”

Mr. Paul’s nostrils flared, giving him an air of disdain, not a cordial expression for an elder at her church and the town’s Superintendent of Schools. “For yourself? You’re a single woman, are you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“I hope you can appreciate how unfair it would be to place a child in your home, where, if something happened to you, the youngster would be homeless.”

“I’m in excellent health, Mr. Paul.” She’d take this opening to plead her case. “I have sufficient funds to meet a child’s needs. And a skill to teach, enabling a girl to make her own way. When I pass on, I’d leave her my worldly assets.”

She took a deep breath, pulling into her lungs the overpowering scent of Mr. Paul’s spicy cologne. “I’ll see she’s educated and brought up in the church. I’ve lived in Noblesville all my life. You remember seeing me in Sunday school, Mr. Paul. Mr. Sparks, I bank with you. Numerous people in town can vouch for my character.” She’d rehearsed the words countless times and they tumbled out in a rush.

One man remained silent. Charles Graves. Her gaze darted to the new editor of The Noblesville Ledger, who sat at the far right of the table. Rumor had it he was single. Mr. Graves’s generous mouth softened the square line of his jaw. Deep grooves marred his forehead, an indication, perhaps, that a newsman’s life wasn’t easy. And yet the cleft in the middle of his chin gave him a vulnerable air. Undeniably handsome, broad-shouldered and tall, he overshadowed the other men in the room.

He stared as if scanning the core of her, possibly looking for a flaw that would declare her unfit to rear a child. Their gazes locked and the intensity of his inspection sent a shiver down Adelaide’s spine.

Mr. Paul rose and came around the table. “Miss Crum, I believe your character to be without blemish. I’m sure you can do all you say. However, the fact remains you’re a maiden lady with no experience dealing with children.”

“We have childless couples begging for a baby,” Mr. Wylie added. “Couples, with acres of ground and not enough hands to till it, seeking boys. We have tried-and-true parents who’ve shown their abilities by rearing their own children.”

Heat climbed Adelaide’s neck. Fiddlesticks! If I’d had the good fortune to be a tried-and-true parent, I wouldn’t be here.

How frustrating to have men make all the decisions, as they always had in Noblesville. She might be single, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t bring up a child. She had the capacity, the intelligence, to sit on a committee like this one, to help make important decisions. Why couldn’t men see women had a unique perspective with value, married or not?

“Gentlemen, I’ve proven my abilities by running a successful business while I tended to my sick mother. I can rear a child and do it well.”

Her gaze collided with the editor’s. Did she see compassion in his warm brown eyes?

Mr. Wylie pointed to the paper in front of him. “We’ll only be getting twenty-eight children, mostly boys. We’re unable to meet the demand. I hope you understand.”

She understood all right. They didn’t think she could handle the job. Lord, give me the words to convince them.

“Gentlemen, please hear me out. The fact I’m unmarried will give me more time to devote to a child. I realize boys are needed in the fields. My desire to rear a girl won’t interfere with that.” She bit her lower lip. “I’d be a good mother, if you’d give me a chance.”

Arms folded across his chest, Mr. Paul leaned toward her. “The Children’s Aid Society does not seek single parents, except in the rarest of cases. If we weren’t overrun with applicants, perhaps we might consider your marital status more leniently.”

She searched their faces for help. Mr. Paul’s features appeared carved in granite. Mr. Sparks fidgeted in his chair. Mr. Wylie gave her a kind look, but showed no sign of intervening.

Mr. Graves wore a slight frown. He cleared his throat. “Miss Crum made some valid points about her suitability. Any chance, gentlemen, of stretching the rules?”

Adelaide held her breath. Oh, please, God, change their minds.

Mr. Paul tapped the edges of the paperwork in his hand. “Charles, we aren’t here to make history. Just to make certain these children have good homes. Besides, placing a child in a fatherless home is unscriptural.”

Mr. Graves arched a brow. “Would that be Third Timothy Four?”

Adelaide knew her Bible. There was no Third Timothy. Surprised at the jab and pleased he knew the Scriptures, she smiled at the editor. He winked. Warmth spread through Adelaide like honey on a hot biscuit. Could this handsome, successful man be on her side?

Mr. Paul harrumphed. “Perhaps you find that funny, Mr. Graves, but I do not. The Bible makes it clear the man is the head of the family. It isn’t right to put a child into a home with no paternal guidance.”

Adelaide tightened her hands into fists. Mr. Paul’s fifteen-year-old son Jacob perpetually terrorized the town. A few months ago, she’d had to report him to the sheriff after she’d caught him setting fire to Mr. Hudson’s shed. The boy had run off and thankfully, she’d been able to douse the flames. Yet, Mr. Paul had the gall to preach paternal guidance. “I had no father growing up. I’m no worse for it.”

Mr. Paul leaned forward and patted her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to insult you. There are circumstances over which we have no control, but that’s not the case here.”

Adelaide glanced at Mr. Graves. His gaze had narrowed but he said nothing. What had she expected? He didn’t know her. None of them really did. They saw a spinster—nothing more.

“I’m sorry we can’t help you.” Mr. Wylie stood and walked toward the door.

She wanted to scream, but that would only prove her to be a hysterical female unfit to rear a child. She hated being powerless. Hated being at their mercy. Hated being unable to change a thing.

Adelaide grabbed her purse and rose. At the door, she looked back one last time, searching for some sign of softening on their faces, but no miracle came. Tears stung her eyes, but no matter what, she would not let them see her cry.

Mr. Wylie opened the door. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again.

Unable to speak, she nodded an acknowledgment. Head high, she strode through the door into the waiting area, past her staring neighbors, and into the courthouse corridor, holding herself together with the strength of a well-honed will.

Every step pounded in her head, reiterating again and again and again. I failed. I failed. I failed.

In the hallway, she sidestepped a couple blocking her path.

“Please, Ed, we can’t replace our boy. I’d like a girl—”

“A boy is what we agreed on,” the man snapped. “I’m trying to put this family back together, and all you do is whine.”

The woman’s gaze darted to Adelaide, and then dropped to the floor. Frances. Before Adelaide could greet her, Frances followed her husband to the door. Ed turned to open it, giving Adelaide a glimpse of his face. Anger blazed in his eyes. Then, like a shade dropping over a window, he controlled his expression, leaving his countenance smooth and pleasant.

“Miss Crum,” he said, giving her a friendly nod.

Adelaide couldn’t believe this irate man could be the same person who’d picked her up after a childhood tumble and declared she’d be fine. All these years later, she still remembered his kindness, the gentle way he’d cleaned her scrapes with the red bandanna he’d dampened at a nearby pump.

Losing their son must have changed him. Whatever the cause, if Ed carried that much anger, the Drummonds shouldn’t be considered for a child. But they probably would be, since marriage seemed to be the committee’s only condition.

The pain of the rejection tore through her. Adelaide bolted for the entrance. She shoved open the heavy door, gulping in air. As she started down the steps, low-slung clouds released their moisture, spattering her face as if nature shed the tears she would not weep. Lightning zigzagged overhead and thunder rumbled, then the sky burst under the weight of its watery load.

In the deluge, her sodden garments grew heavy, but didn’t slow her progress. With both hands, she hiked her skirts and hustled across the street. As she trudged to the back of her shop, closed for this momentous day, the mud grabbed at her shoes. Her shoulders heaving with exertion, she pried the dirty shoes from her feet and dropped them outside the door, indifferent she’d ruined their fine leather. Then climbed the stairs to her quarters above the shop.

She removed her soggy skirt, and then wilted onto the bed, dropping her hat on the floor. A curtain of rain veiled the window, darkening the room. Her mother’s words echoed in her head. It’s a man’s world, Adelaide. If you think otherwise, you’re in for a rude awakening.

Today, four men had found her unworthy to rear a child. She’d built a successful business, had taken care of herself and her invalid mother, and all without a man’s help. But what she wanted most, a child and family, she couldn’t have without a man, without a committee of men.

“Why, Lord? Why was the answer no?” No reply came.

There would be no little girl to sew for, no little girl to love. No little girl, period.

A sob ripped through her, then a piercing wail. She burrowed her face in the pillow to muffle the sound, but then remembered she had no one to hear. No one to see. No one to care.

The dam she’d built to hold back her emotions crumbled, releasing a flood of tears. As she wept, spasms shook her body until, long minutes later, exhaustion quieted her. Every part of her echoed with hollowness, emptiness. For the first time in her thirty-one years, she felt old. Old, with the hope squeezed out of her.

But then she remembered Mr. Graves’s wink.

Somehow the gesture had united them against the others. He appeared to have confidence in her ability to mother a child. Like butter on a burn, the thought soothed her wounded heart.

But even if no one else did, Adelaide had faith in herself. And even a stronger faith in God. God would sustain her.

What if the committee’s decision wasn’t God’s final word?

At the thought, Adelaide sat up on the bed. Her chest swelled with hope and her mind wrapped around a fresh determination. The committee’s rules weren’t etched in stone like the Ten Commandments. She’d never believed all the conventions in her world concurred with God’s plan. Until she knew in the core of her being God didn’t want her to mother a child, she would not give up hope. She would believe a child waited for her, waited for the comfort of Adelaide’s arms.

Charles couldn’t get the memory of Miss Crum out of his mind. He wished he hadn’t agreed to sit on this committee. He wanted no part in impersonating God. No part in causing the kind of pain he’d read on Miss Crum’s face.

If Charles understood anything, he understood pain.

He forced his attention back to the discussion, chagrined to discover everyone looking at him, waiting for him to speak. “I’m sorry. Would you repeat that?”

“We were saying the Drummonds have the ability to train a boy in farmwork. They lost their only child to a stove fire a few years back. A terrible tragedy.”

Charles examined the burly man and his timid wife. From the little he’d listened to, Mr. Drummond had done all the talking. The man seemed affable enough, but during the interview, his wife had avoided eye contact. Perhaps she was merely shy. “Mrs. Drummond, you haven’t said. Do you want a boy, too?”

She looked to her husband, hesitating a moment. “I’d be open to a girl.” Her voice quavered, but for the first time she met Charles’s eyes. He saw a flicker of hope, and something else, something that gnawed at his memory. Before he could identify it, she lowered her gaze.

Mr. Wylie checked a list. “We’ve been told to expect a brother and sister. Would you be willing to take both of them?”

Mrs. Drummond’s gaze darted to her husband.

“How old are they?” Mr. Drummond asked.

“The boy is ten, the girl is, let’s see…” Wylie scanned a paper in front of him. “Seven.”

Mr. Drummond rubbed his chin. “Two pair of hands would be a help,” he said, considering. Then he smiled. “The missus would like a girl. We’ll take them both.”

“Excellent. We don’t want to split up siblings unless we have no choice.”

Mr. Drummond nodded. “Family means everything. Husband, wife…” He hesitated, his tone emotional. “Children. Nothing should divide a family.”

Mr. Wylie pushed the papers away and looked at Charles. “Any objections, Mr. Graves?”

The couple had the proper references, had said all the right words, but what did that prove? The entire exercise was ludicrous. But perhaps no more so than nature’s method of selecting parents guaranteed they’d be adequate for the job.

Yet some kind of sixth sense twisted a lump in his throat, made him hesitate, but just as quickly, he dismissed it. The others knew them, had greeted them warmly.

For the hundredth time he questioned why God, all powerful and all knowing, allowed unsuitable people to have children. He could only be certain about one thing. A child would be better off living in Noblesville than roaming the streets of New York City or living in one of its crowded orphanages. “I have none.”

“Good!” Mr. Wylie sent Mr. Drummond a smile. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Ed, for helping fix the church roof.”

Ed nodded. “Glad to do it. We can’t expect the parson to hold an umbrella over his head while he’s preaching.”

While Wylie ushered the Drummonds from the room, Charles rose from his chair and crossed to the window. Even in the sudden downpour, the streets crawled with horse-drawn wagons and buggies. A typical Saturday, the day area farmers came to town to transact business or sell produce.

Like most county seats, the courthouse dominated the square, giving a certain dignity to the mishmash of architecture surrounding it. Noblesville was a nice little town. The decision to move here had been a good one. He’d been able to help his brother’s family and to bring The Noblesville Ledger back to life. That had been his father’s plan, but long before that revelation, owning a paper had been Charles’s dream, a dream he’d soon achieve.

His hand sought the telegram inside his pocket, notification his father had died peacefully in his sleep. Charles crushed the flimsy paper into a tight ball. Maybe now, he could put his past to rest.

He looked down the block to The Ledger, then across the street to Miss Crum’s millinery shop. She wanted a child to love, not a worker for her store.

Charles turned from the window. “I’m uncomfortable placing these youngsters to be laborers on farms.”

“Work never hurt anyone.” Wylie hunched forward, biceps bulging in his ill-fitting coat until Charles expected to hear ripping fabric. “Hard work builds strong bodies, sound minds.”

“Some of these ‘Street Arabs’ have been pickpockets and beggars,” Paul spoke up. “We’re saving them from a life of crime. If they work hard, they’ll make something of themselves.”

Charles’s thoughts turned to Miss Crum, an easy task. She stuck in a man’s mind like taffy on the roof of a tot’s mouth. Her eyes had captured him the first moment he saw her. A dazzling blue, they were deep-set under straight, slim brows, gentle, intelligent eyes. Her hair, the color of pale honey, had been smoothed back into a low chignon. Clearly a proper, straitlaced woman, the kind of woman who attended church on Sunday wouldn’t abide a man like him.

She’d shown a passel of courage facing the committee, even more strength of will when she’d left with her dignity pulled around her like a cloak. Of all the women he’d met that day, Miss Crum was the only one he felt certain would give a child the kind of home he’d read about in books.

He might have fought more for her, but thoughts of his widowed sister-in-law’s struggles had stopped him. Besides, to object further would have been a waste of time. He’d soon discovered folks in Noblesville resisted anyone who challenged their customary way of life.

By noon all the children had been spoken for. The actual selection of the orphans would take place in two weeks on the day of distribution. The four men shook hands, relieved they’d finished their job, at least for now. After the distribution, the committee had agreed to keep an eye on the children and their guardians as best they could.

A fearsome responsibility.

Outside the courthouse the men dispersed. Charles pulled his collar up around his neck and dashed to the paper in the pounding rain, splattering puddles with every footfall. Ducking into the doorway of The Ledger, he removed his hat, dumping water on his shoes, his spirits as damp as his feet.

His gaze shifted across the street to the CLOSED sign in the window of Miss Crum’s millinery shop. In the months he’d been here, he’d never seen the shop closed on a Saturday.

As he opened the door to the paper, he couldn’t help wondering what Adelaide Crum was doing right at this moment, after four men had dashed her hopes as surely as the sudden storm had wiped out the sun.

Chapter Two

Adelaide woke with a start, bolting upright in bed. Something important was to take place today. Then the memory hit and she sank against the pillows. The children would arrive today.

For her, another ordinary day; for twenty-eight couples, this day had blessed them with a child.

The past two weeks, she had relived the meeting with the committee numerous times, trying to see how she could have convinced them. Wasted thoughts. Wasted hopes. Wasted tears.

She’d been certain God approved of her desire to rear a child, yet the committee had turned her down. Could she have been wrong? Didn’t God want her to mother an orphan? If not, why?

I’d be a good mother. I’d never be like Mama—crabby, critical, always taking the pleasure out of everything.

After a decade of caring for her mother and running the shop, at first her mother’s death had been a relief. The admission put a knot in Adelaide’s stomach, and she said a quick prayer of repentance.

Shaking off her dark thoughts, Adelaide held up her left thumb. “I’m thankful, God, for a thriving business.” Lifting her index finger, she continued, “I’m thankful for these comfortable rooms that give me shelter.” Then, “Thank you, Lord, for good friends.” Touching each finger in turn, she found, as always, many things for which to give thanks.

But today, it wasn’t enough.

She climbed out of bed and shoved up the window. The clatter of wheels, a barking dog and a vendor’s shout brought life into the room. She walked to the dresser mirror and picked up her brush. In her reflection, she found no ravages of age, no sign of crow’s-feet. Her nose was clearly too long, but, all in all, a nice enough face.

Nice enough for a handsome man like Mr. Graves to admire?

Adelaide blinked. Where had that thought come from?

She laid down the brush and leaned toward the mirror, then crossed her eyes. If you don’t stop that, Adelaide, your eyes will get stuck there. Recalling her mother’s warning, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Feeling better, she dressed, then hurried to the kitchen and made coffee. As she sipped the hot brew, her gaze traveled the room, pleased with the soft blue walls above the white wainscoting. Blue-and-white checked curtains, crisp with starch, hung at the window over the sink. This would be a cozy place for a child to have breakfast. The oak pedestal table circled with four pressed-back chairs, plenty of seating for a family.

Neither a crumb littered the floor nor did a speck of dust mar the table. She sighed. All too aware, she lived in the perfect, uncluttered home of a childless woman.

Enough of self-pity. Time to open her shop. Downstairs, she flipped the sign in the window and sat down to mend a torn seam when the bell jingled.

Sally Bender, dressed in drab green with her gray hair stuffed beneath a faded blue bonnet, tromped into the shop. “Land sakes, Adelaide! Are you buried alive under all these hats?” Before Adelaide could answer, Sally went on, “It’s high time you got out your frame so we can finish that quilt.”

Adelaide’s mother’s declining health had ended the quilting bees. “Good morning to you, too, Sally,” Adelaide said with a teasing grin.

“Oh, good morning.” Sally smiled sheepishly, but then parked fisted hands on her hips. “You know I’m right. It’s not good to mope like this.”

“I’m sewing, not moping.”

“You can’t fool me, Adelaide Crum. You’re hiding out here. The ‘Snip and Sew’ quilters haven’t met in months. Why, the church auction will come and go before we finish that quilt.” A spark flared in Sally’s eyes. “Is it man trouble?”

“No, just work.”

“Then start having some. Ask Horace Smith to the church picnic. Give me something to think about besides this unseasonable heat.”

Old enough to be her father, the town’s mortician looked barely more alive than his clientele. “If you’re relying on me for excitement, you’ll expire from a bad case of monotony.” She chuckled. “No doubt Horace would thank me for the business.”

Sally poked her arm. “Now you sound more like yourself.”

Putting aside her sewing, Adelaide rose. “I’ll set up the frame. We can start a week from Monday at ten o’clock.”

“Good. On the way home, I’ll stop and tell the others.” She drew Adelaide into a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Sally spun out like a whirlwind. Adelaide whispered thanks for a caring friend.

Adelaide kept busy, but the morning dragged. Unable to concentrate, she had to rip out rows of stitches in Mrs. Willowby’s bolero jacket and jabbed herself twice with the needle. She laid the garment aside, then stuck the pricked finger in her mouth as she ambled over to the window.

The street was exceptionally busy, even for a Saturday. No doubt twenty-eight of these conveyances held those fortunate couples who’d been given a child.

What if an unexpected child had ridden the train? Maybe I’m supposed to be at the distribution, taking an opportunity God provided.

Adelaide whipped off her apron and raced upstairs for her hat and gloves.

Charles walked the few blocks to The Ledger, his stride brisk. Under his hat perspiration already beaded his forehead. He neared Whitehall’s Café and the aroma of strong coffee wafted through an open window, tempting him. Up ahead, a group of people huddled, heads bent, talking, unusual for an early Saturday morning. Coffee could wait.

As Charles neared the paper, his reporter came running from the opposite direction, his lanky legs skidding to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Graves, Sarah Hartman hung herself from a rafter in her barn!”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing except she’s an old lady who lived on a farm outside of town. Must’ve gone daft. Her daughter found her this morning.”

“Too bad,” Charles said without a trace of feeling. Long ago, journalism had taught him to distance himself from tragedy, to look at events as part of the job, not troubles affecting people’s lives. Otherwise, every death would have him bawling like a baby. Though, upon occasion, the sum of all those tragedies circled over his head like buzzards converging on the kill, disturbing his sleep.

“Did the sheriff say it looked like suicide, or the town gossips?”

James thrust out his chin, annoyance etching his brow. “The sheriff did. He found a crate kicked over beneath the body.”

Charles nodded his approval. “Good work. Get the sheriff’s statement. Interview the daughter. While you’re at it, ask about funeral arrangements for the obit.”

“Mrs. Hartman had one child.” James checked his tablet, clearly proud of his reporting skills. “Frances Drummond.”

Drummond? Charles had no idea why, but hearing that name left him feeling uneasy.

A crowd gathered as Adelaide slipped into the schoolhouse. Across the front of the room, the orphans sat in two rows of chairs, their young faces etched with uncertainty and a glimmer of hope. Adelaide counted nineteen boys and nine girls. Twenty-eight, the exact number the committee had expected. Her heart plummeted. Still, she couldn’t drag herself away.

She studied each child in turn. Some appeared to be in their early teens, others quite young; their small feet dangled above the floor. Though rumpled from travel, all wore proper clothing, with hair combed and faces scrubbed.

They were beautiful, every single one of them.

Across the room she caught the eye of Mr. Graves. His quick smile made her feel less alone in this room of instant families.

Adelaide’s gaze returned to a young girl of six or seven. Fair and blond, she leveled aquamarine eyes on the crowd. A brave little thing or maybe merely good at hiding her fear.

“Miss Abigail, what on Earth are you doing here?”

With huge proportions and a voice to match, Viola Willowby loomed over her. That a steady customer persisted in calling her Abigail, even though Adelaide’s Hats and Sundries hung in bold letters over her shop, set Adelaide’s teeth on edge.

She lifted her gaze, forcing up the corners of her mouth into something she hoped resembled a smile. Atop Mrs. Willowby’s head perched one of Adelaide’s finest creations—a floppy straw hat bedecked with pink cabbage roses.

“Hello, Mrs. Willowby.”

“I saw you leave the orphan interviews. Why were you there?”

“For the same reason as you.”

Mrs. Willowby gasped. “You can’t be serious! It…it wouldn’t be proper.” Mrs. Willowby pulled a lace-edged hanky from its hiding place in the depths of her ample bosom and touched the linen to her nose, as if she feared catching some dire malady that would render her as irrational as she obviously thought Adelaide to be.

Adelaide looked her square in the eye. “And why not?”

“You’re a spin—” Mrs. Willowby’s face flushed, unable to get the heinous word past her lips. “A maiden lady.”

Adelaide wanted to rip the stunning hat off her customer’s head and swat her across the face with it. But then she sighed, ashamed of herself. A Christian shouldn’t think that way. Besides, Mrs. Willowby represented the thinking of the committee, probably of their church, even the entire town. “You needn’t worry. They denied my request.”

“Well, I should think so!”

Judge Willowby, an equally large man, tapped his wife on the shoulder. “I’m sure Miss Crum is quite capable of rearing a youngster, Mrs. Willowby.” While his wife sputtered like an overflowing teakettle, he motioned to two chairs. “It’s time to start.” He turned to Adelaide. “Nice to see you, Miss Crum.”

Adelaide smiled at the judge. Clearly he found some good in his uncharitable wife.

Adelaide could understand why the Willowbys had been given a child. Years before, they’d lost their two children to diphtheria. Well-heeled, after finding natural gas on their property, they wielded a lot of influence in town.

While she…Well, truth be told, she was a spinster. How she disliked the word, but at thirty-one years of age, soon to be thirty-two, Adelaide had to accept it applied to her.

She moved to the back of the room and took a seat, recalling some years back her chance at marriage. She hadn’t loved Jack, the man who’d asked. Had her refusal been a mistake? Young at the time, she’d foolishly expected to fall in love. It hadn’t happened.

Keeping busy hadn’t been a problem. She faithfully attended the First Christian Church, went to prayer meetings on Wednesday nights, where she communed with the Lord, but with not one eligible bachelor. Within the pages of books, she found adventure, but put little stock in the fictitious men who whisked women away to live happily ever after. No, Adelaide lived in the real world, had her feet planted firmly on the ground. Men couldn’t be counted on. Her chest constricted. Her mother’s life had proved that.

Her gaze returned to Mr. Graves. Light streamed through the window behind him and the rays caught in his thick hair, giving him a halo of sorts. Though with that strong jaw and stern expression, he hardly looked like an angel. But he did, she had to admit, look fine.

Mr. Wylie walked to the front and asked for quiet, then introduced Mr. Fry, an agent of the Children’s Aid Society.

A thin fellow with slicked-back hair and a hooked nose walked to the podium, eyeing the crowd over his reading glasses. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Children’s Aid Society is grateful for your interest. Many of these children were homeless, sleeping in doorways and privies, selling matches or flowers, working as shoeshine or paperboys. Some begged for food. When they came to us, many wore filthy rags infested with vermin.”

The children sat unmoving, staring ahead with somber gazes, showing no reaction to Mr. Fry’s words. “You may wonder why New York City has such a vast number of orphans.” His hand swept over the children. “Some of these children aren’t, in fact, orphans. When John’s family—” a thin boy scrambled to his feet “—immigrated to this country, he and his family became forever separated.” John sat down.

“Death or desertion of one parent left eight of our twenty-eight children with no one to care for them. Unwed mothers left a few on our doorstep.”

Someone murmured, “Poor things.”

Tears stung Adelaide’s eyes. More than anything, she wanted to take every last one of these children home and try to make up for the deprivation of their young lives with warm hugs and fresh-baked cookies.

“In some cases, family members brought them to us, trusting we could provide them a better life, which, with your help, we’re attempting to do.”

Adelaide couldn’t imagine giving up a child. Nothing could make her do such a thing.

“Mr. Brace, our founder,” Mr. Fry continued, “realized we couldn’t handle the problem alone. He devised this plan to place the ten thousand orphans we presently have into rural areas and small towns, where they’ll receive an education and enjoy the benefits of a healthy environment and family life.”

The numbers boggled Adelaide. Surely with that many homeless children, there’d be one child for her.

Perhaps if she went to New York—

“Your local committee,” he said then consulted his notes, “comprised of Mr. Wylie, Mr. Paul, Mr. Sparks and Mr. Graves, has approved the eligibility of your homes.”

Involuntarily, Adelaide’s gaze again sought Mr. Graves. Even from this distance, the sight of his determined, serious face shot little pricks of awareness through her limbs.

She forced her attention back to Mr. Fry.

“I’ve been told more requests were made than we could provide on this trip. Perhaps in the future as more children come to us, we can remedy that situation.”

Adelaide caught her breath. If they came again, then, next time she might convince the committee.

Who was she fooling? No one in Noblesville, or New York, would give a single woman a child. If only she could give her world a twist and watch it transform like the bits of colored glass in the kaleidoscope she’d seen at the mercantile. Maybe then, she’d change a few stubborn minds.

“Along with periodic visits by one of our agents, these gentlemen have agreed to oversee the children’s welfare. At any time, the agreement to care for a child can be broken, either by the family or by the child.”

Perhaps a little girl would be unhappy in her new home and the committee would reconsider their decision.

He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s meet the children.”

Mr. Fry introduced the bigger boys in the back row. Half listening, Adelaide’s eyes remained riveted on the little blond-haired girl. At last, Mr. Fry gave her name. She stood along with an older boy beside her.

“Emma and William Grounds are brother and sister. Emma is seven, her brother, William, ten. Their father deserted his family years ago and their mother recently died. Both youngsters are in good health.” Emma and William clutched each other’s hands, their eyes conveyed a warning—they were a matched pair, not to be separated.

Mr. Fry continued down the row and the Grounds children sat down. Laying her head on her brother’s shoulder, Emma stuck two small fingers in her mouth. Two precious German children, whose father had left them, as hers had done. Adelaide yearned to pull them into her arms until that longing bordered on pain.

Oh, Lord, please bring these children into my life.

Mr. Fry instructed the selected couples to seek out the children and the meeting ended. Almost against her will, Adelaide moved toward the Grounds siblings. She froze when she spotted Frances and Ed Drummond, wearing black out of respect for Mrs. Hartman’s untimely death, talking to William and Emma.

As Adelaide watched, Emma tentatively took Frances’s hand. William sat silent, his arms hanging limp. A woman who’d accompanied the orphans on the train joined the couple and spoke to William. Apparently overcoming his hesitation, he took his sister’s other hand.

Disappointment slammed into Adelaide’s stomach. She swayed and sank onto a nearby chair. Her children were going to live with that angry man and his spiritless wife. Helpless to act, she watched the four of them cross to the registration table. The Drummonds signed a paper and left the room before a miracle could bring those children into her arms. Didn’t God care about them? About her?

Across the way, Judge and Mrs. Willowby left with a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy in tow. The same process repeated all around the room. Soon all the orphans were spoken for and on their way to new homes.

A heavy stone of misery sparked a sudden, uncustomary anger. Adelaide approached the table where the men who’d denied her application sifted through paperwork. “How could you allow the Drummonds to have the Grounds children?”

Mr. Paul, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, leapt to his feet. “Now see here, Miss Crum, it’s not your place to criticize the decisions of this committee!”

Mr. Wylie took Mr. Paul’s arm. “No need to raise your voice, Thaddeus.” He turned to Adelaide. “The Drummonds are fine people. Ed sits on the county council, helps his neighbors. You probably heard Mrs. Drummond recently lost her mother.” He grimaced. “A few years back, their only child died in a horrible accident. They deserve this new beginning.”

Face pinched, Mr. Sparks came around the table. “You’re mistaken about the Drummonds. They pay their bills and attend church.”

Adelaide wanted to challenge their view, but that meant butting her head into that stone wall of men. Without a doubt, Frances was a good person, but she’d changed into a colorless, weary creature, perhaps downtrodden by her husband.

“Do you have proof they’re unsuitable?” Mr. Graves asked.

Adelaide moved forward. “The day of the interviews, Mr. Drummond looked very angry—”

“If that’s a crime, we’d all be in trouble.” Mr. Wylie chuckled. “I know you’ve never been married, Miss Crum, but it’s not uncommon for husbands and wives to argue.”

She tamped down her annoyance. They hadn’t seen Ed Drummond’s expression. But they’d already gone back to their paperwork, dismissing her with silence.

All except Mr. Graves, who studied her with dark, somber eyes. But he remained mute.

She turned to leave, then stepped into the bright sunlight, watching wagons and buggies roll away from the schoolhouse. Her gaze lingered on the smiling couples with youngsters.

For a moment, she regretted refusing Jack’s offer of marriage.

But then she remembered how he’d gobble dinner, barely speaking a word, and later, hands folded over a premature paunch, would fall asleep in the parlor until he roused enough to go home. No sharing of dreams, no laughter, no connection. His only thank-you for the meal was an odorous belch.

Without a doubt, her main appeal to Jack had been the income from her shop. Adelaide lifted her chin. If marriage offered no more than that, she could manage nicely without a man. But a child…A child was different.

Charles watched Miss Crum leave. What had she seen or heard that upset her enough to challenge the committee? With his own misgivings needling him, he followed her. “Miss Crum!”

She pivoted. His heart stuttered in his chest, a warning that when it came to Miss Crum, he was fast losing his objectivity. “I need to ask. What made you say the Drummonds wouldn’t make good parents?”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “I’ve seen Ed’s temper. Frances appears heartbroken, unable to care for two children.”

“That’s understandable. She lost her mother—”

A light touch on his arm cut off his words.

“Have you ever had a bad feeling about anyone, Mr. Graves?”

“Sure.”

“Then you can understand my concern. I have a bad feeling about that man.”

As a newsman, he might use intuition to guide him, but he needed tangible evidence, not the insight of one disgruntled woman. “With nothing to base it on—”

“I know the committee’s position. They made it clear the day I applied.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good day.”

Watching her leave, he regretted the committee’s decision. No point in getting sappy about it. He wasn’t in the business of securing everyone’s happiness, even the happiness of a woman with eyes the color of a clear summer sky.

Crossing the street, he slipped between a buckboard hauling sacks of feed and a dray wagon. The image of Adelaide Crum nagged at him with a steadfastness that left him shaken.

Yet, the lady saw things as black and white, right or wrong, while he found areas of gray. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of getting involved with her, with anyone.

He had all he could do running the paper and helping his brother’s family. He didn’t want another complication in his life, in particular a complication of the female sort.

Yet something about Adelaide Crum made him question his decision.

Chapter Three

Tuesday morning Adelaide sewed pink ribbons on to a child’s bonnet, each tiny stitch made with infinite care. On the table beside her, her Bible lay closed. Unread.

As she worked, she pictured Emma Grounds, the little German girl, wearing this hat as they picked daylilies out back. She imagined bending down to gather the girl to her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the scent of warmed skin, the scent of a child.

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting tears, then knotted the final thread, snipped off the ends and laid the finished hat on her lap. In reality, a customer would buy this bonnet for her daughter or granddaughter and it would be gone, out of Adelaide’s grasp as surely as Emma.

She removed her spectacles and laid the hat on the counter. The bell jingled over the door. The sight of Laura Larson brought a smile to Adelaide’s face. Laura’s youthful spirit might be encased in a plump, matronly body, but her laughter lit up a room like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Without her help, Adelaide couldn’t have managed the shop during her mother’s illness. “Hello!”

Laura strolled toward her, her gaze sweeping the shop. Slicked back into a bun, some of her salt-and-pepper curls escaped to frame her round unwrinkled face. “My, my, haven’t you been busy.”

Leaning on the counter, Adelaide viewed her surroundings through Laura’s eyes. Hats lined every shelf and perched on every stand. Already full when she’d become work-possessed, display cabinets burst at the seams. “I guess I’m overstocked.”

Laura giggled, sounding more like a young girl than a grandmother in her fifties. “I’d say so. Do you have some hat-making elves tucked away in the back?”

Adelaide smiled. “No, I made them all.”

“Why so many?”

What could Adelaide say? She’d been drowning her sorrow in hats? That for the past two weeks she’d been sewing, rather than praying about her problems? “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds wonderful, if you have the time.”

Adelaide headed to the kettle on the tiny potbellied stove in the back. “One thing I have plenty of is time.”

“What you have plenty of, dear, is hats,” Laura said, following her.

Pouring steaming water into a prepared teapot, Adelaide chuckled. For a moment, the sound stopped her hand. How long had it been since she’d laughed?

Adelaide gathered two cups with saucers and added a teaspoon of sugar in each, the way she and Laura liked their tea. She carried the tray into the showroom.

Laura joined her at the table, a cozy spot where her customers leafed through copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book while enjoying a restorative cup of tea.

“Why not mark them down and run an ad in the paper?” Laura said. “You’ll need the space when it’s time to display wools and velvets.”

Running an ad meant seeing Mr. Graves. She would like to strategically poke a hatpin into every member of the committee, even The Ledger’s editor. Of course, she’d do no such a thing.

Filling Laura’s cup, Adelaide sighed. “I’ll run an ad.”

Laura took a sip, and then rested her cup in the saucer. “You missed Wednesday night’s prayer meeting. Again.” Laura touched her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Adelaide lifted her head, meeting Laura’s gentle and accepting, ready-to-listen eyes. Her gaze skittered away and settled on the bonnet lying on the counter, then over to her unread Bible.

She considered telling Laura about her struggles, but it might sound as if she blamed God. And she didn’t. It was her fault she resisted His will for her life. Or was it the committee who refused His will? Her mind had been so full of hurt and discouragement she no longer heard with certainty the quiet, inner voice that had guided and sustained her.

Laura gave her hand a squeeze, but said nothing, simply waited. Tenacious as a bulldog tugging at a trouser leg, Laura wouldn’t let go until she got the story.

“A couple weeks ago, I asked to care for one of the orphans coming to town on the train, and the committee turned me down.”

“Oh, no.”

“Afterward—” She bit her lower lip until she could continue. “To keep busy, I made hats.”

Laura turned over Adelaide’s hand. “Which explains your rough palms and bloodshot eyes.”

“It’s been…a difficult time.”

“Yes, I see—”

“Do you? Do you see this was my last chance—” Adelaide blinked hard and pulled away her hand.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Laura said, her heartfelt tone bringing a lump to Adelaide’s throat.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry for burdening you with this.”

“Don’t be silly! I’m your friend.” Laura slapped the table. “That committee is made up of nitwits.”

“Some nitwits. Only the superintendent of schools, the president of the bank, the editor of our newspaper—”

“Mr. Graves?” Laura scooted to the edge of her seat.

“None other.”

“Now there is a handsome man,” Laura said, with a grin. “Looks like his father.”

Adelaide gasped. “You knew Mr. Graves’s father?”

Laura nodded, her eyes shining like a brand-new penny. “He grew up in Noblesville. Back then, I had a huge crush on Adam Graves. But he only had eyes for your mother.”

“My mother?”

“Yes, dear, it might astonish you to hear this, but as a young woman, Constance Gunder reigned as belle of the county.”

Her mother had been an attractive woman, but the pained expression she’d worn as long as Adelaide could remember suggested Constance had never known a happy day in her life.

“For a long while, Adam and your mother were inseparable,” Laura continued. “Everyone assumed they’d marry.”

Adelaide hadn’t been told any of this. Why had her mother gone from belle to bitter? “What happened?”

“Constance fell in love with your father. Not a staying kind of man, but he swept your mother off her feet.” Laura sighed. “Adam moved away right after that. Landed in Cincinnati, I believe. Your folks got married. As far as I know, Adam never came back, not even to visit his parents before they died.”

“That seems callous.”

“A broken heart can change a man—and a woman. I’ve always wondered if that’s what damaged your mother.”

Adelaide shook her head. “My mother never opened her heart enough to get it broken.” She ran her finger around the cup’s rim. “Did you know my father?”

“Not really. A fun-loving, charming traveling salesman with dimples—that pretty much describes Calvin Crum.”

“Do you know why he left?”

Laura shook her head. “Constance never confided in me.” Laura pursed her lips, as if cutting off something she wanted to say, then brightened. “Well, all that’s water under the bridge.” She waggled her brows. “I understand Adam Graves’s son is available.”

“For what?”

“For your ad, what else? And you better get over there, before all these hats start gathering dust.” Laura returned to her tea, her face the picture of innocence, knowing full well she’d used the exact words that would convince Adelaide to place the ad and put her into the presence of Mr. Graves.

Whether Adelaide wanted to deal with the editor or not, she needed cash to buy supplies. She couldn’t afford to dip into her meager savings.

Besides, she had another pressing reason to see him. “I do owe Mr. Graves and the entire committee an apology.”

“Why?”

“I lost my temper at the distribution of the orphans.” Adelaide glanced at her hands.

“I’d have wanted to give them a piece of my mind, too.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have. I’ve asked God’s forgiveness.” She swallowed. “But I’ve put off the next step.”

Laura nodded. “You’ll be doing the right thing. You can place the ad as an act of repentance and good business.” Laura smiled, then rose to give Adelaide a quick hug. “I’ll be back to quilt on Monday. I’m only blocks away if you need me,” Laura said, then left.

Adelaide restored order to the shop and then climbed the stairs, her stomach lurching at the prospect of facing Mr. Graves and the entire committee. If she had more say in what happened, maybe she wouldn’t be in this mess. In her world, an unmarried woman couldn’t discern anger in a man, couldn’t challenge the decisions of men. Couldn’t be deemed fit to rear a motherless child, though countless widows raised their own children.

If only I had a way to get through to these men, to let my voice be heard.

Then maybe—

“Oh, why am I even bothering to dream about what can’t be undone?” she said to the empty room.

Adelaide whipped off the apron, smoothed her navy skirt and then donned hat and gloves. Mr. Graves would not see how dejected she’d been since the committee’s decision.

In fact, she wouldn’t let Mr. Graves see her heart at all.

Downstairs, she flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED, left the shop and stood at the edge of the boardwalk, waiting while horses of every description clopped past. The sight of the huge animals always left Adelaide weak in the knees. Would she ever get over her fear of horses?

Seeing an opening, she hustled across the street, holding the hem of her skirt out of the dust. Arriving safely on the other side without being crushed by the temperamental beasts, she heaved a sigh of relief. In front of The Ledger, she took a moment to slow her breathing. Grasping the handle of the door, she turned the knob when the door burst open.

A young man slammed into her. The red-faced youth steadied her with his hand. “Excuse me, miss! Are you all right?”

Adelaide fluffed her leg-of-mutton sleeves. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I’m rushing to get to the courthouse. A horse thief is being arraigned today, and I’m sitting in on the trial.” Holding a pad and pencil aloft, he puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “I’m a reporter.”

“Not apt to be one for long if you knock down a loyal reader, James,” warned a deep masculine voice, a familiar voice that sent a wave of heat to Adelaide’s cheeks.

The young man’s complexion also deepened to the color of beets. The editor smiled, softening the harshness of his words, and gave Adelaide a wink. The second time he’d winked at her. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but smile back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Miss Crum.”

Adelaide’s gaze darted to the editor. Heavenly days, no one took care of her. Even hearing the words unsettled and somehow thrilled her, too.

“I’ll expect a full report on the proceedings, James.”

The young man nodded, then took off at a run across the street, his long legs dodging buggies and wagons on his way to the courthouse.

Adelaide turned back to the editor. “I don’t believe his feet touched the ground.”

Brown eyes sparkling with good humor, Mr. Graves chuckled. Without a coat, attired in a pin-striped vest and white shirt, he’d rolled his sleeves to the elbow giving her a clear view of muscled forearms. His broad shoulders filled the doorway.

The kind of shoulders one could lean on, tell every trouble to, a luxury Adelaide had never had.

Laura had said Charles looked like his father. Adelaide resembled her mother. Odd, history repeating itself that way.

He gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “Come in.”

The instant Adelaide stepped inside, the odor of ink filled her nostrils. With the presses running, the noise level forced her to raise her voice several notches, disconcerting her. But not nearly as much as the man beside her, who looked more male than any man she’d ever met.

“Your reporter seems like a conscientious young man.”

“Yes, but a bit out of control.”

Exactly how Adelaide felt at the moment.

He led her to a desk the likes of which she’d never seen. Newspapers, books and a jumble of paper littered the surface and spilled over onto the floor. Her gaze surveyed three coffee cups, two tumblers, one filled with water, the other with pencils, an ink well, scissors, a glue bottle, a crumpled rag stained with ink, rubber bands, an apple and, gracious, the remainder of a half-eaten sandwich.

“Oh, my.”

Mr. Graves stiffened. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing really.” Adelaide clasped her hands together to keep them from organizing the desk and then giving it the dusting—well, more like the good scrubbing—it needed. That Mr. Graves could work amidst such a mess amazed and baffled her.

He motioned to a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

She glanced at the chair he’d indicated, only to find it piled with newspapers. With a boyish grin, Mr. Graves removed them, obviously unconcerned with disarray. She started to sit when she spotted the crumbs.

He followed her gaze. “Let me take care of that.” He took out a handkerchief and swiped it over the seat, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor.

She cringed. Heavenly days, fodder for bugs, or worse, rodents. But then he bent near and she caught the smell of leather and soap mingled with ink and filled her lungs, reveling in the scent of him. Suddenly woozy, she dropped into the now tidy seat before she did something foolish, like telling him how good he smelled.

The fumes must have made me light-headed.

The editor cleared a space, then perched on the corner of his desk. His dark gray pants and vest hugged a flat midriff with nary a sign of a potbelly. Her gaze lingered on his hands. Ink-stained, the tips of his long fingers fascinated her. Large, capable, strong—a man’s hands, not at all like her own.

With great effort, she pulled her gaze away to look into his eyes and caught him studying her, a puzzled look on his face. Heat climbed her neck. What was the matter with her? She was behaving like a schoolgirl, as if she’d never seen a man.

“Miss Crum? You’re here because…?”

Her hand fluttered upward, easing her collar from the heat of her neck. “I want to place an advertisement in your paper.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’d welcome your business, but I believe you already advertise with us.”

He’d paid attention, knew she ran a monthly ad, but then that was his job. “Yes, but I need a special advertisement to promote the sale of my latest creations.” She worried her lower lip. “I’m overstocked.”

“I see. Perhaps a larger, eye-catching ad would bring in those ladies who didn’t get a new bonnet for Easter?”

Adelaide smiled. “Exactly.”

“Let’s check our type selection for a suitable hat.”

Adelaide took in a deep breath. “Before we do, there’s another reason I’ve come, a more important reason.”

“More important than business?” He gave her a teasing grin.

“Much.” She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “I, ah, owe you an apology.”

He raised a brow. “For what?”

“For my outburst the day of the distribution. I don’t know what got into me.” She sighed. “I behaved badly and I’m sorry.”

“You surprise me, Miss Crum.”

Adelaide glanced at her hands, then met his gaze. “When I’ve done wrong, the Bible teaches me to apologize.”

His eyes searched her face. “Apparently you do more than carry that book on Sunday mornings.”

What a strange comment. One he wouldn’t have made if he knew how she’d struggled of late with reading the Bible. “The Bible also says you’re to forgive me.”

“Yes, if need be, seventy times seven.” A smile took over his solemn face. “Forgiving you is an easy task, Miss Crum.”

Like rainfall after a drought, his words seeped into her thirsty heart. “Thank you.” She shot him a grin. “Though, I trust my behavior won’t require quite that much clemency.”

He leaned toward her. “That’s too bad.”

Adelaide’s mouth went dry. What did he mean? She lurched from the chair. “I’d like to look at your hat selection.”

He smiled, and then with a hand on her elbow, led her to an enormous array of type fitted into shallow drawers. The presses pulsated through the wooden floor into the soles of her shoes and up into her limbs. That had to be why she felt shaky on her feet. Not because of Mr. Graves’s touch.

The presses came to an abrupt halt.

The editor stopped his search and faced her. “Perhaps I’m out of line, but I feel compelled to say I disagreed with the committee’s decision.” He took a step closer until she could see the length of his lashes, became aware of the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. “I saw the logic in the astute arguments you made regarding your suitability.”

Compliments on her cooking she’d had, but no man had ever praised her intellect. Still…“Then, why didn’t you speak up?”

“I thought about the burdens my sister-in-law carries rearing her boys alone. Too late I realized that even with her hardships, Mary is an excellent mother.” He stepped closer yet, until she could feel heat from his body, could see gold flecks in his dark eyes. “I’m sure you’d be a good mother.”

Sudden tears filled her eyes and she looked away.

He touched her arm. “I think I know how much the committee’s decision has hurt you.”

Adelaide noticed his assistant watching the exchange with interest. Teddy Marshall would be telling his wife about this visit at noon and the whole town would know by nightfall. She smoothed her skirt, then her brow. “Whether it hurt me isn’t the point. It wasn’t fair.”

His gaze locked with hers. “Life is often unfair, Miss Crum,” he said, and then returned to his search of the boxes.

From his tone, Adelaide suspected he wasn’t simply talking about her situation. Did he have a message in there? Some lesson to learn? If so, she wasn’t ready for it. Not with her heart burning with want for something she couldn’t have.

He held out two blocks for her to examine. “Here you are.”

Adelaide pulled her spectacles from her bag to peruse the blocks, glad for the distraction from all the confusing feelings rushing through her. With Mr. Graves standing near, she found it difficult to concentrate. Taking an eternity to make a simple decision wasn’t like her. She forced her focus on business, not on the man at her side.

At last, she selected the larger block engraved with a most fetching hat, complete with feathers. “I’d like to use this.”

Remembering her mother’s words, she removed her wire-rimmed eyeglasses and stuffed them into her purse.

“Your eyes are pretty either way,” he said softly.

Is he teasing me? “I’ve been told spectacles give me the appearance of an old maid schoolmarm.”

“They give you an air of intelligence.” He met her gaze. “I find intelligent women attractive.”

She fingered the ribbed edge of her collar, her mind whirling around the compliment.

A door slammed. Fannie Whitehall crossed the room, her curly red hair poking out from under a big-brimmed straw hat.

Fannie said hello, and then brushed past Adelaide with as much interest as she’d give a fencepost. She held out two jars topped with a thin layer of paraffin and thrust them into Mr. Graves’s hands. “I brought some of my preserves like I promised.”

Charles looked at the jars like he’d never seen jam before. “Thank you, Miss Whitehall.”

“That jam’s mighty fine on biscuits.”

He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m sure it is, but I’m not much of a cook.”

“I’d make you a batch, but you’d have to bake them.” Fannie let out a giggle. “I always burn the bottoms.”

“Biscuits are my specialty.” The words tumbled out of Adelaide’s mouth. Had she actually said that? Out loud? Apparently she had, judging by the startled expression on both Mr. Graves and Fannie’s faces. “Ah, as a thank-you for the time you spent on my ad.”

“That’s kind of you, Miss Crum,” Mr. Graves said.

Her gaze collided with his and held for several moments, then darted away, then returned. He gazed at her with an intensity that suggested something important was happening, something significant. No man had ever looked at Adelaide like that before. Her hands trembled and she clasped them together, trying to gain control over her traitorous body, especially with Fannie’s sharp-eyed scrutiny.

“I…I’d best be…going,” Adelaide stammered. “I need to get back to the shop.”

“Let me walk you out.” The editor gently guided her by her elbow to the door and then opened it. “I’ll write up the ad and have it ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

The huskiness in his voice set her insides humming and brought an odd tightness to her throat. “I’ll stop by the paper to look at it before I open the shop.”

They said goodbye. Once outside, the sun shone brighter and the sky appeared shades bluer than when she’d walked over to The Ledger. Finding a break in the traffic, she scurried across the street and entered her shop, then glanced back.

Mr. Graves remained in the open doorway where she’d left him. He’d complimented her eyes, even said her spectacles gave her an air of intelligence. No one had ever said anything nicer to her in all her days. Joy zinged through her chest, pushing against her lungs until she could barely breathe.

Then Fannie joined Mr. Graves in the doorway, deflating Adelaide’s mood faster than a burst balloon.

Charles watched Miss Crum cross the street and enter her shop. As the door closed behind her, he detected a little twinge of disappointment. Silly. The lady was a client, nothing more.

Beside him, Fannie cocked her head. “Promise you won’t forget to take the jam home. I put it on your desk.”

“How could I forget?”

She giggled, and then jiggling her fingers at him, she flounced down the walk.

Charles let out a gust of air. He needed to help Teddy get the presses running, but he stayed at the door, thinking not about Fannie, but of Miss Crum.

With his office directly across the street from her shop, he’d noticed since the interviews how little she went out. When he worked late, he’d observe her lamp lit well into the night. After seeing her today, he guessed Miss Crum was a workhorse or an insomniac. Under her pretty blue eyes, dark smudges marred her creamy skin. If he was any judge of people, and in this business he made it a point to be, Miss Crum still suffered from the committee’s rejection.

“Miss Crum’s a looker, though kind of standoffish.”

Charles hadn’t heard Teddy come up behind him. For a burly man he had a light step. Charles purposely turned a cool eye on his assistant, hoping to stop what was coming.

“Yes, sirree, she’s one fine-looking woman. Thinking about courting her?”

Charles scowled. “Where did you get that idea?”

Teddy smiled, putting his whole face into it, annoying Charles. “Oh, I’ve seen you watching her comings and goings. It’s time you quit thinking about asking her and do it.”

“My priority is to get this newspaper in shape.”

“Which you’ve done. Since you’ve taken over, the paper comes out on time and has another section. Why, it looks downright citified.” Teddy swept his arm over the room. “You’ve made this your life. A lonely way of living, that’s sure.”

The truth slammed into Charles. He was lonely. Since he arrived in town, Fannie had come by the paper with one excuse after another. But her giggling and incessant chatter put a knot in his stomach. From what she’d said, she didn’t even read the newspaper.

No, he liked the appearance and manner of Miss Crum. “I’ve considered asking her to dinner,” he said before he thought.

“Miss Whitehall or Miss Crum?”

“Miss Crum.”

Teddy raised his brows. “So, what’s stopping you?”

“A woman who applied for an orphan would have only one thing on her mind—getting married and having babies of her own. I’ve no intention of tying that knot.”

Teddy scratched the back of his neck, peering at him with mild hazel eyes. “You running away from matrimony, boss?”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Charles studied the floor, and then raised his gaze. “In my experience, Teddy, if you smile twice at a woman, she starts planning your wedding.” His hand left his pocket and pushed through his hair. “What makes women think they know a man better than he knows himself?”

Teddy hooted. “They do, that’s a fact.” His eyes disappeared in a lopsided grin, a grin fading faster than morning glories at noon. “What’s wrong with marrying? My Grace is a good woman, takes care of me just fine. Gave me four sons,” Teddy said, his tone laced with pride.

Countless Sunday mornings, Charles had seen Miss Crum set off for church, dressed to the hilt from the shiny tips of her shoes to the top of her elaborate hat, clutching the Good Book. Yes, a fine Christian woman. As different from him as any woman he’d ever known. Exactly why this sense of a connection between them wasn’t logical.

If Charles really cared about Miss Crum, he’d stay away.

But he had no intention of sharing that with Teddy. “We’d best get to work or we won’t get this edition out.”

Teddy gave him a long, hard look before heading inside. Once they had the presses running, Charles strode to his desk. Miss Crum’s dismay at the disorder he worked in made him as uncomfortable as having his knuckles rapped by his first-grade teacher. He began organizing the clutter and then stopped.

He wasn’t going to let any woman walk in here and, with one disapproving glance, change the way he ran his office. If he did, next thing he knew, she’d be running his life.

Tousling the paperwork, he restored the desk to its original state and for good measure, dumped the cup of pencils. Slumping into his chair, he eyed the mess with grim satisfaction, promising to steer clear of Miss Crum.

Yet loneliness washed over him, leaving him hollow. Empty. Unlike Fannie, unlike any woman he’d known, Miss Crum captivated him. Though he fought it, he craved substance. Biscuits instead of jam. But that meant letting someone get close. Even a woman like Miss Crum, whose guileless blue eyes tugged at the rusty hinges of his heart, needed to be held at arm’s length.

For her sake, more than his.

Chapter Four

That morning, Adelaide awakened with a sense of anticipation. How much did her excitement have to do with seeing Mr. Graves that day? Everything. That realization scared her more than horses, more than tornadoes—her worst fears…until now.

No, spending her life alone terrified her more than anything.

With God only a whisper away, shame lapped at her conscience. A Christian could never be alone. Still, hadn’t God intended His children to walk two by two?

Forcing her mind away from the editor, she picked up her Bible and opened it to the pink crocheted bookmark, a bookmark she hadn’t moved in weeks. She had a lot of catching up to do. “Forgive me, Lord,” she whispered, then began to read.

The clock struck nine. Adelaide jumped, then closed her Bible, amazed she’d read for an hour. Within these pages, pages she’d neglected, she found peace and comfort and strength. No matter what happened, she would never again make the mistake of neglecting Scripture.

She donned gloves and her latest hat, harboring butterflies in her stomach instead of the peace her Bible reading had given her, all because of Mr. Graves.

Minutes later Adelaide walked through the door of The Ledger. Mr. Graves and Teddy leaned over the boxes of type, selecting and then sliding them into place on narrow racks. When the door shut behind her, Mr. Graves’s gaze met hers.

Teddy threw up a hand. Adelaide waved back, excited to be in this fascinating world of words. Until Mr. Graves’s friendly smile put a flutter into the rhythm of her heart.

They met at his desk, a desk with less clutter and no stale food or empty coffee mugs. Adelaide bit back a smile.

The editor stuck his hands into his pockets and tipped forward on the toes of his shoes. “You look festive today.”

“Thank you.”

Amusement warmed his chocolate eyes as he viewed her hat with its nested bird. “Looks like some baby birds are about to hatch in that bonnet of yours.”

Laughter bubbled up inside Adelaide. She pressed her lips together, trying to keep her mirth inside, but a most unbecoming giggle forced its way out. Heavenly days, she sounded like Fannie. “I like birds.”

“Hopefully that fruit is fake or the birds you so admire might put your hat on the menu.”

“I’ll have you know my hat is in vogue,” she said, the hint of a tease in her voice. “What you need is someone to teach you and your readers style.”

He smirked. “I can’t see farmers reading it.”

“Well, no. But farmers’ wives spend money in town—”

“On birds for their heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. “Are you poking fun at me, Mr. Graves?”

His gaze sobered, something deep and mysterious replaced the mirth and sent a quiver through Adelaide. “Not at all, Miss Crum. Not at all.”

She glanced away from that look and the unspoken words it contained. “Good because I’d like to write a fashion column for the paper.” She covered her mouth with her hand, but the half-baked idea she’d been considering had already escaped. Being around this man scrambled her orderly mind.

Considering her proposal, Mr. Graves tapped a finger on his chin, very near the cleft. “I couldn’t pay much—”

“One free ad per column will do.”

“You’re a shrewd businesswoman. A fashion column isn’t a bad idea. Could you give me a sample? Say, by Monday?”

She beamed, barely able to keep from hugging him for this opportunity. A column would give her shop publicity. Perhaps increase sales, something she needed badly. An article would also give her a voice—granted one about style, but still a published voice. “It’ll be exciting to see my name in print.”

“You and I seem to be kindred spirits.”

He cleared his throat, pivoted to his desk and grabbed a piece of paper. “I have your ad right here. Have a seat.”

Adelaide glanced at the chair across from his desk, pleased to see it cleared of books and crumbs. She shot him a grin. “It appears you’ve made a few changes.”

“Nothing of consequence.” His mouth twisted as if he tried not to smile. “It merely made sense to have one chair fit for subscribers.”

She cocked her head at him. “That’s very astute of you.”

“Under that proper demeanor, you have a feisty side, Miss Crum, a side that keeps a man on his toes.”

Adelaide lifted her chin and reached for the ad. “Stay on your toes if you like, but I prefer to be seated.”

His laugh told Adelaide the editor had gotten her attempt at humor. How long had it been since she’d made a joke? Felt this alive?

She tamped down her unbusinesslike feelings. After putting on her spectacles, she read the ad, and with an approving nod, returned it to him. “This is perfect.”

Mr. Graves sat on the edge of his desk. He leaned toward her, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Something about this man made her feel content, like she did in church, but had never experienced in her home growing up. She hardly knew him, so the thought made no sense. And Adelaide prided herself on being a sensible woman.

“I’ll run this in the next edition,” Mr. Graves said.

“And I’ll deliver my column personally. On Monday. If you print it, the column should take care of the bill.”

He nodded. “Are you always this efficient?”

“I take my work seriously.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

He’d called them kindred spirits, declared her to be a woman after his own heart. The words ricocheted through her and left a hitch in her breathing and a huge knot in her stomach. Dare she hope for something too important to consider?

On Monday Adelaide once again sat across from the editor, this time with her fashion column clutched in her palm. When she handed it over to Mr. Graves, her heart tripped in her chest. Why had this column become so important?

“Neat, bold strokes, a woman not afraid to share her mind.” He grinned, settling behind his desk to read.

Across from him, Adelaide fidgeted like a student waiting outside the principal’s office while Mr. Graves bent his head to read. After he finished, he smiled. “Your assessment of women’s fashions is written with the wit and flair I’d only expect from a professional journalist. I’ll run it in the next edition.”

“I loved writing it.”

“If you want another article, let me know.”

“I’d hoped you’d want a monthly column.”

Mr. Graves ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, perhaps. Let’s see how this article is received first.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m guessing we’ll get positive feedback from the ladies. Who knows? Maybe the men, too.” He tapped the paper. “You have a gift for words.”

Slowly a smile took over his face. “Would you be my dinner guest Saturday evening?”

Adelaide blinked. Had he asked her to dinner? She gulped. “Dinner? Saturday?”

“If that isn’t a good night…”

He must think I’m an idiot. “Saturday will be fine.”

A strange tightness seized her throat. How long since she’d shared a meal with a man? Years. And never with a man this attractive, this intelligent. A man, who had only to smile in her direction to set her heart hammering.

Evidently from his calm, easy demeanor, Mr. Graves often asked a woman to share a meal. Something she’d best remember, lest she make too much of the invitation.

“I’ll call for you at seven,” he said.

“Seven,” she repeated.

“I thought we might go to the Becker House.”

She nodded, recovering her wits and her manners. “The Becker House would be lovely.”

“When I arrived in town, I stayed there, so I speak from experience. The food is great.”

The door rattled shut. A rotund gentleman dropped the briefcase he carried, then shoved his hat back on his head and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Whoo-ee, it sure is hot for April. Never thought I’d complain about the heat after the winter we had, but this day is an oven, and I’m the hog roasting inside.”

Charles crossed to the stranger. “May I help you, sir?”

“You can indeed. I’m looking for Mr. Charles Graves.”

“You’ve found him.”

“Excellent! Saves me a trip back into the sun.” He stuck out a palm. “I’m Spencer Evans, your father’s attorney. My condolences for your loss.”

Adam Graves had died? Adelaide’s gaze darted to the editor. Mr. Graves gave a curt nod. She hadn’t seen anything about it in the paper. Nor did his son act grieved, but from her limited experience, she realized men didn’t carry their feelings on their sleeves.

“I’m sorry about your father, Mr. Graves.” Rising, Adelaide tucked her spectacles into her bag. “I’d best be going.”

“I’ll see you Saturday evening, Miss Crum.”

“Did you say Miss Crum?” Mr. Evans turned toward her. “Could you be Adelaide Crum?” When she nodded, the lawyer slapped his hands together. “It’s a piece of luck finding you here. A sure piece of luck.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t. I apologize for being obtuse. This unseasonable heat must be muddling my brain, what there is of it.” He chuckled. “As I said, I’m Adam Graves’s attorney. If I locate all the heirs before I melt, I’d like to read his will at one o’clock this afternoon. If you both are available, that is.”

Adelaide looked at Mr. Graves, then back to Mr. Evans. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t know Adam Graves.”

The editor frowned. “Are you certain of your facts, Mr. Evans?”

“I make it a point to be certain of my facts.” Mr. Evans gave a nod toward the stack of newsprint. “I’m sure in your business, you do the same. Adelaide Crum is one of Adam Graves’s heirs, as is one Mary Graves. Do you know where I can find her?”

Mr. Graves nodded. “Mary lives on South Sixth Street between Maple and Conner. If you’d like, I can take you to her place right now.”

Filled with unspoken questions, the editor’s gaze locked with Adelaide’s. Baffled by the turn of events, she looked away.

“I’d appreciate it.” The lawyer turned to her. “We’ll meet in the private dining room of the Becker House this afternoon at one o’clock, Miss Crum. That way I can take the morning train back to Cincinnati tomorrow.” He shoved his hat back in place.

Adelaide looked at the clock on the wall. “In less than an hour, Mary will be coming to my shop to quilt.”

“Wonderful. That’ll give me time to speak to her before she leaves. Whoo-ee, it is indeed my lucky day!” Mr. Evans turned toward Adelaide. “And yours, too, Miss Crum.” He gave her a jaunty wave. “See you this afternoon.”

Then he and Mr. Graves were gone, leaving Adelaide with an uncomfortable feeling that this was not her lucky day. Not her lucky day at all.

Adelaide laid out scissors and thread, and then prepared a sandwich for lunch. While thinking about the odd meeting with the lawyer, she layered ham and cheese on two slices of bread. With so much on her mind, she had no interest in food or quilting. But company might take her mind off the one o’clock appointment.

At exactly ten o’clock, the “Snip and Sew” quilting group, carrying lunch pails and sewing baskets, pushed through the shop door, the four women clumped together as if they’d been stitched at the hips. They chattered and laughed, except for Mary, who gave Adelaide an encouraging smile.

Tension eased from between Adelaide’s shoulder blades. At least, Mary didn’t appear disturbed that she’d be at the reading of Adam Graves’s will.

Bringing up the rear came a fifth woman, the one person Adelaide had least expected to be interested in quilting.

Fannie Whitehall.

Sally pulled Fannie forward. “Fannie’s joining our group. She’s not a quilter, but she can stitch a fine hem.”

“How nice of you to help, Fannie,” Laura said.

The others greeted Fannie, friendly as birds on a branch.

The news thudded to the bottom of Adelaide’s stomach. From seeing Fannie at The Ledger, Adelaide knew the girl hankered to play husband archery, and Mr. Graves was the target. Still, money raised from the sale of the quilt would buy supplies for the Sunday school. Only a selfish woman would resent another pair of helping hands. She swallowed her reservations and offered a smile. “Welcome, Fannie.”

“Well, shall we get started?” Laura said.

Adelaide led the ladies to where she’d assembled her frame and had attached the Dresden Plate quilt. The pastel petals and yellow centers looked pretty enough to attract bees.

Adelaide grabbed a chair for Fannie, then she and Mary put away the ladies’ lunches.

“Charles brought Mr. Evans by,” Mary said in a low voice. “He told me you’re one of the heirs.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Adelaide’s stomach knotted. Whatever happened at the reading of the will, there’d be consequences.

By the time Mary and Adelaide took their places around the frame and threaded their needles, the chatter had ebbed and all heads bent over their work.

Fannie sewed beside Adelaide, taking each stitch with care, surprising Adelaide, who’d expected the girl’s workmanship to be shoddy. At the thought, Adelaide’s needle pierced the layers of fabric, pricking both her finger and her conscience.

Pausing in the middle of a stitch, Fannie looked at Mary with big, innocent eyes. “I’m hoping you can help me, Mary.”

Mary tied a knot in her thread. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“I don’t mean help with quilting.” Fannie sighed. “I mean help with men. Well, not all men, only one. Charles Graves.”

Adelaide missed the eye of the needle with her thread.

Mary shrugged. “I can’t be much help. My brother-in-law is a mystery, even to me.”

“Adelaide, you were talking to Mr. Graves.” Fannie whisked her gaze over Adelaide either sizing her up as the competition—or fitting her for a very tight seam. “You—” Fannie hesitated “—don’t have designs on him, do you?”

Adelaide’s pulse skipped a beat. “Designs?”

Every hand hovered over the quilt, all eyes riveted on her and Fannie. Adelaide shook her head.

“I didn’t think you did. I told Mama, ‘Adelaide Crum is too levelheaded for a man like Mr. Graves.’ I can’t imagine you two courting.” Fannie’s eyes narrowed. “So you were at the paper on business. Nothing else?”

Heat filled Adelaide’s veins. “Yes, business for the shop.”

Fannie beamed. “Oh, I’m glad. I’m mad about Mr. Graves. Mama says he’d be quite the catch.”

With her teeth, Sally broke off a length of thread. “Are you doing a little fishing, Fannie? Over at The Ledger?”

The women chuckled.

Fannie sighed. “I’m not sure you noticed, Adelaide, but Mr. Graves didn’t seem all that eager to try my b-biscuits.” Her voice quavered. “I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

As much as Adelaide didn’t want to, a thread of sympathy tugged between her heart and Fannie’s. The girl meant well, even if she didn’t see the consequences of her words or actions.

“Maybe your reputation as a cook is scaring him off,” Laura said, one brow arched.

“Well, it’s hard to get the temperature right in that huge cookstove of Mama’s. But how would Mr. Graves know that?”

“You told him,” Adelaide reminded her.

“I did?” Fannie thought a second. “Oh, I did!” Her green eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined my chances with him, exactly like I ruin my biscuits.”

Adelaide laid down her needle. “That’s no reason to cry.”

“I’m sorry.” Fannie dashed away the tears slipping down her cheeks. “It’s just that I’m getting…well, desperate.”

Martha harrumphed. “Desperate? How?”

“In three months, I’ll be twenty. I’ve always planned to be engaged by my twentieth birthday. I’m getting old!” she wailed.

Fast losing sympathy for the girl, and with her own birthday looming, Adelaide bit back a retort.

Laura shook her head. “Fannie, dear, I’m sure you don’t intend to, but you have a way of making me feel ancient.”

Fannie gasped. “Oh, chicken feathers, Laura. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you in such a rush anyway?” Martha asked, smoothing her dress over her bulging belly. “If you ask me, men are like flies. You trap yourself one, only to learn he can be a pest.”

“Appears to me, yours has been pestering you plenty,” Sally said and the room once again filled with laughter.

Fannie took up her needle again. “I’ll lose my looks soon.”

Sally waved a dismissive hand. “Phooey! You’re pretty. I look like a possum and I still managed to get a husband.”

Adelaide gasped. “You do not look like a possum!”

“I do,” Sally said, stitching along a rose-sprigged petal. “Small beady eyes, long nose, gray hair. Why, with my sons toting guns everywhere, I rarely venture out after dark.”

Chuckles bounced off the high ceiling. “You’re making fun, but I’m serious,” Fannie moaned. “What am I doing wrong?”

Laura rose and stepped around the frame, then tilted Fannie’s face to hers. “You’re too eager. Let the man take the lead.”

“I’m only being friendly,” she said dismissing the comment. “What I need is a new hat, maybe a new way to style my hair. You always look fashionable, Adelaide. Will you help me?”

Adelaide thought of telling Fannie to leave the editor alone, but that wasn’t her place. Nor did she care who he courted, though she had questions about the man. Even more about Adam Graves’s will.

Sally gave Fannie a wink. “Play possum more, Fannie.”

“Play possum?”

Sally nodded. “When you chase the men like a hound dog after a fox, why, you take all the fun out of it. Pretend you don’t care. Pretend you wouldn’t feed them a biscuit if they were the last to arrive for the fishes and loaves.”

Fannie turned to Adelaide. “You’re the best possum I know. Would you help me become more…?”

“Demure,” Laura provided.

“Demure?” Fannie smiled wide. “I like the sound of that.”

Had Fannie compared her to a wild animal that hung from a tree by its tail? Adelaide worked up a smile before she injured Fannie with her needle. As much as Fannie grated on her nerves, if she refused, the ladies might decide she had an interest in Mr. Graves. “It would be my pleasure.”

“With your help, Adelaide, Charles Graves will fall in love with me, and I’ll soon be a married lady.”

As Adelaide listened to Fannie chatter on about his virtues, she realized her help meant trying to get Fannie a husband and children. She had to wonder—

What kind of bargain had she struck? And what would it cost her in the end?

Charles paced the private dining room at the Becker House. His sister-in-law, wearing her best finery, sat watching him, her expression wistful. Could she be thinking Sam should be sitting beside her, instead of lying in Crownland Cemetery?

He’d wanted to rip into Mr. Evans’s briefcase to look at the terms of his father’s will. When it came to legalities, the gregarious attorney kept a tight rein on his mouth and skillfully sidestepped every question Charles had slung at him, giving no hint why Adam had mentioned the milliner in his will.

At exactly one o’clock Mr. Evans ushered Miss Crum, looking as perplexed as he felt, into the room. She glanced at him, her eyes filling with sympathy, probably for his loss. She couldn’t know grief was the last emotion his father’s death elicited.

She still wore the bird nest hat. On her, the silly hat looked good. Every hair in place, her clothing spotless, Miss Crum appeared serene. Only a heightened color in her cheeks suggested either the heat or an inner turmoil bothered her.

Well, she wasn’t the only one stirred up by the chain of events. His father was no philanthropist. He’d never cared about the financial problems a woman might have either running a business or raising two children alone. He’d never cared about anyone.

Mr. Evans stepped forward. “Miss Crum, I believe you said that you and Mary Graves quilt together.”

Miss Crum smiled. “Yes, and we attend the same church. Mary’s father is my doctor.”

“This is indeed a small town.” Mr. Evans grinned, motioning to the table. “Well, since we’re all here, let’s take seats and get down to business before we roast and find ourselves on the hotel bill of fare.” He chuckled, but no one else laughed.

Miss Crum took a chair across from Mary. Charles strode to the other side of the table and sat beside his brother’s widow.

After sitting at the head of the table, Mr. Evans unlocked his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “I have here Adam Graves’s last will and testament.”

Charles shifted in his seat.

“‘I, Adam Graves, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath to my son, Charles Andrew Graves, and to Mary Lynn Graves, my son Samuel Eugene Graves’s widow, my house in Cincinnati and its contents.’”

Apparently his father had kept his boyhood home. Nothing could ever make him step inside that place.

Mr. Evans glanced at him and Mary. “If neither of you want to move in…”

Both Mary and Charles shook their heads.

“Then I suggest the house and belongings be sold at auction. My assistant can ship personal items you might want.”

“Sell them all,” Charles said, his tone filled with bitterness.

“If Mary agrees, I can do that, except for this.” He took a silky pouch from his briefcase and removed a gold pocket watch, the fob hanging from a thin chain. “When Adam made out his will, he asked me to give this watch to you personally.”

Taking the watch, Charles felt the weight of it in his palm and took in the intricate engraving on the lid. His gaze dropped to the fob. He pictured Grandpa Graves, a large man with a hearty laugh, dangling the fob from callused hands, coaxing Charles and Sam onto his lap. His grandparents’ rare visits were peaceful times. He tucked the watch in his pocket.

“‘I bequeath Charles Graves the sum of two thousand dollars,’” Mr. Evan continued, “‘and fifty percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”

Charles’s jaw tightened. Leaving half ownership of the paper to him and half to Mary wasn’t good business, but at least Charles knew his sister-in-law wouldn’t interfere at the paper.

Mr. Evans handed over the bank draft. “In a moment, I’ll go over the ownership papers.” Evans turned to the will. “I hereby bequeath to Mary Graves the sum of five thousand dollars.”

Charles squeezed Mary’s hand, pleased his father had realized she needed money more than he. The money would come in handy in the years ahead, raising Sam’s boys. And would give Mary the security she lacked since his brother had died. Weeping silent tears, she took the bank draft with trembling fingers.

Mr. Evans focused on the page in front of him. Charles’s pulse kicked up a notch.

“‘I hereby bequeath to Adelaide Crum, daughter of Constance Gunder Crum, fifty-percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”

Constance Gunder? Air whooshed out of Charles’s mouth and his gaze settled on the woman across from him.

“Me? Why? I don’t understand any of this,” Miss Crum said. “Why mention my mother?”

Constance Gunder, the name Charles’s mother had hurled in his father’s face after Adam had accused his wife of flirting in church. Charles had never forgotten the name—or his father’s reaction. Adam had backhanded his mother, knocking her to the floor, and then stood over her, shouting she wasn’t worthy to wipe Constance Gunder’s shoes and if she ever spoke that name again, he’d kill her. Charles had known then that somehow this woman had been at the root of Adam’s anger, anger he expelled through his fists.

Constance Gunder, the woman Charles learned to despise—could she really be Miss Crum’s mother?

How could his father do this? Was this one last ha-ha from the grave?

“Furthermore—” Mr. Evans began.

Charles jumped to his feet. Mary laid a hand on his wrist, but he jerked away from her touch. “What’s going on here?” His voice sounded gruff and he cleared his throat. If only he could clear this nightmare his father had concocted as easily.

“It’s quite simple,” Mr. Evans said, nonplussed by Charles’s reaction. “You and Miss Crum are half owners of The Noblesville Ledger.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Mr. Evans’s gaze returned to the will. “There’s more.”

“More?” Unable to sit, Charles strode to the fireplace, putting him across from Miss Crum, the woman who’d made a crack in his frozen heart. What a joke on him.

Miss Crum’s eyes were wide, probably seeing dollar signs. Yet, even as he thought it, he knew the accusation wasn’t true. Still, the idea clung to his mind like a burr under a saddle.

Mr. Evans bent over the paperwork. “‘The equal shares of The Noblesville Ledger are not to be sold by either Charles Graves or Adelaide Crum for a period of two months. If either heir goes against my wishes, and sells his or her half of The Noblesville Ledger before the end of a two-month waiting period, the equipment and building are to be sold, all proceeds going to charity.’”

Charles stalked back to the table. Mary met his gaze with a worried frown. “He promised the paper to me! Why did he leave a perfect stranger half of my paper? Then force us to keep this ludicrous arrangement for months?”

Mr. Evans tipped his head between Charles and Miss Crum. “Perhaps she isn’t a stranger, at least not to your father.”

Color climbed Miss Crum’s neck. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting—”

“My father returned to Noblesville only once—four years ago, when he bought The Ledger.” Charles turned to Miss Crum. “Did you two arrange this then?”

Miss Crum gasped. “I’ve never even met your father.”

“Adam didn’t share his motives with me, but rest assured, knowing your father, he had his reasons. Where there’s a will, there’s always a reason.” Mr. Evans chuckled to himself.

Charles scowled. “Have you considered joining a minstrel show, Mr. Evans?”

The attorney sobered. “I apologize.” He handed Mary and Miss Crum a copy of the will, then laid the third copy where Charles had been sitting. “This lawyering can get dry as dust. I can see this is no laughing matter.”

“Surely we can make this partnership work for two months,” Miss Crum said, as if her ownership was of no consequence. “I won’t be underfoot at The Ledger. I have my own business to run.”

“Charles, sit down,” Mary said, tears brimming in her eyes.

But he couldn’t sit. Just when Charles had found some measure of control over his life, his father yanked it out of his hands. Even from the grave, Adam managed to control—no, punish—him.

His gaze sought the milliner’s. “If you’re expecting this business relationship to be pleasurable, Miss Crum, you’re mistaken. As soon as I can, I’ll buy you out. In the meantime, I promise, this will be the longest two months of your life.”

Chapter Five

Minutes later Adelaide stormed out of the hotel and strode up the street. How dare Charles Graves act as if she’d robbed him? She’d considered him a friend, but he’d treated her like an enemy. True, he’d been denied half ownership of the paper, a sizable financial loss, but that hadn’t been her doing.

Adelaide dodged a woman holding a towheaded boy by one hand. The sight of the child put a catch in her throat. But she wouldn’t think about that now, not when her mind couldn’t grasp Charles’s hatred of her mother, a woman he’d never met.

She’d get to the bottom of this. No more guessing about her mother and father, about her past. But where should she begin?

Before taking sick, once or twice a year her mother had cleaned the attic. Now that Adelaide thought about it, she always gave an excuse why she didn’t need help. The last time Adelaide had been up there, she’d stored equipment used to care for an invalid. She’d seen a few pieces of furniture, a couple trunks. Could the trunks hold the answer?

About to turn the corner onto Ninth, she heard a shout.

“Adelaide, wait!” With one hand clamped on her bright green hat and holding her billowing skirts with the other, Mary rushed toward her. Adelaide slowed her steps.

“You’re—a fast—walker,” Mary said, her words uttered in hitches as she came alongside.

“Only when I’m angry.”

Mary sighed. “I’m sorry about Charles’s reaction to the will. He’ll get used to sharing the paper.”

“I doubt that.”

“He calls the paper his dream, but really it’s his refuge.”

Two men strolled past, discussing the rising price of seed. Once out of earshot, Adelaide leaned closer to Mary. “Do you understand why Adam Graves left me half the paper?”

“I have no idea. I never knew Sam’s father, only met him once—at Sam’s funeral. He came up to the casket, spoke to me and the boys, and then tried to have a word with Charles. That didn’t go well, and Adam left immediately, didn’t even attend Sam’s graveside service. He never contacted me after that, not even to check on his grandsons.”

Mary fell in beside Adelaide and they began walking again, but at a slower pace. When they reached the Masonic Lodge with its impressive gables, Mary cleared her throat. “If you never met Adam, then the connection had to have been between your mother and Adam.”

“My mother never mentioned him, but a friend said they were childhood sweethearts. I don’t understand any of it, but I’m going to search the attic to see what I can find.”

Mary laid a hand on Adelaide’s arm. “Do you want company?”

At the gesture, Adelaide blinked back sudden tears. “That’s a kind offer, but…why would you want to?”

“I wouldn’t want to poke around in the past alone. Plus, I knew Sam, and I know Charles. Perhaps I can give you insight.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Adelaide admitted, then led the way to her shop.

Inside, they found Laura helping a shopper try on a hat. “Back already?”

Adelaide took Laura aside. “Thanks for tending the store. Would you mind staying while Mary and I have a visit?”

Laura greeted Mary, and then smiled. “I’d love to stay. I’ve missed the shop.”

Adelaide ushered Mary up to her quarters, then lit the lantern and opened the door to the attic. Adelaide climbed the stairs with Mary close behind. In the dim light, Adelaide didn’t see the cobweb until it plastered against her face, a sticky reminder of the attic’s neglect.

At the top of the stairs, the scent of lavender permeated everything her mother had touched, now mingled with the musty smell of age. Regret she and her mother hadn’t been close laid heavy on her chest. Maybe here she’d find the clue to her mother’s aloofness.

Mary looked around the stand-up attic. “This is huge,” she said, then sneezed.

“I’m sorry, it needs cleaning.”

Mary laughed. “With two boys, I’m used to a little dust.”

Along one wall stood makeshift shelves filled with long forgotten fruit jars, crocks, a glass butter churn with a wooden paddle, a jar of buttons. Across the way sat a dressmaker dummy and an elaborate wicker carriage.

Under the window, Adelaide spied the large camelback trunk.

Dropping to her knees, Adelaide blew a layer of dust off the lid, and then raised it carefully. She removed an old rust-stained quilt then pushed aside a stack of linens. Underneath she found a celluloid-covered box. She tugged it out, and then lifted the tiny brass catch to reveal a stack of handkerchiefs. “Granny must have tatted these.”

Mary fingered the lace. “They’re lovely.”

A visit from her grandmother had been an oasis in the desert of her life. She put the box aside to take downstairs.

Still, no hint here to what went before. Adelaide led Mary past a dresser. Tucked behind a hall tree, she found the small trunk. She rolled it out, its metal wheels squeaking, and then opened the latch. Inside she found another quilt, a half-finished pillow slip, a Bible—Granny’s.

Had she been foolish to think she’d find anything that would reveal her mother’s past in this dirty, stuffy place?

About to give up, her hand brushed against paper, paper that crackled with age. “Oh, it’s my parents’ marriage license.”

The license promised “until death do us part,” yet her parents’ marriage had ended nearly as quickly as it began. Her gaze swept over the wedding date. She gasped. January 17, 1866, not the October date she’d been told.

“Is something wrong?”

Adelaide’s fingers flew to her mouth. “They married six months before my birth. I didn’t know.”

A spark of insight ignited in Adelaide’s heart. Her mother’s warnings about men now made sense.

Oh, Mama, did my conception end your hopes and dreams?

The afternoon sun glinted in through the window, sparking off an old mirror in the corner. Adelaide rose and walked to the window facing the street, thinking about her mother’s loss of independence and the load of responsibility she’d carried alone.

A woman and small child, their eyes downcast, came into view. Adelaide’s pulse tripped. Emma, the orphan girl, held Frances Drummond’s hand. Dressed in black from head to foot, a veil covered Frances’s face. They stopped in front of The Ledger, then disappeared inside. Perhaps Frances had a delivery problem with the paper. Yet, something about the two troubled her.

Adelaide turned back to Mary. “Your boys will be home from school soon. Maybe we should continue the search later.”

Mary looked at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh, I should be going, but we haven’t found what you wanted.”

“I’ll look another time.” She smiled at Mary. “But thanks, I’m grateful for your company.”

Closing the lid of the trunk, and gathering the box of hankies and the lantern, they returned below.

Later, Adelaide waved goodbye to Mary and Laura, then stood at the window, waiting for Frances and Emma to leave The Ledger.

Charles threw down his pen and shoved aside the copy he’d tried to edit for the past hour. Even with his insides twisted into a pretzel over losing control of the paper, he couldn’t put Miss Crum out of his mind. He’d not soon forget her anger-filled eyes tinged with hurt.

The door opened and he lifted his gaze from the paperwork, half expecting, even half hoping to find Miss Crum standing there. It wasn’t. A twinge of disappointment settled in his gut.

His visitor wore a black gauze veil attached to her hat, hiding her face, making it difficult to identify her—until Charles spotted a little girl he did recognize peeking around the woman’s skirts—one of the orphans. Charles rose and went around his desk.

Carrying a satchel, the woman approached with cautious steps. “Mr. Graves, I’m bringing Emma to you.”

He leaned closer. “Mrs. Drummond?”

“Yes.” Her hand fluttered to the veil. “I’m feeling poorly…since Mama died. Not up to caring for Emma right now.”

“I see.” But he didn’t see at all. “What about William?”

“Ed needs William on the farm. But Emma…” She hesitated. “Emma needs someone to see she eats right and keeps up with her schoolwork, needs someone to braid her hair.” With a gentle touch, she ran work-worn fingers over Emma’s silken plaits. “I hope you might know a good place for her until I’m on my feet.”

Charles saw Mrs. Drummond’s obvious reluctance to let Emma go and her responsibility for Emma shifted to his shoulders.

“I’d be glad to help.” This poor woman carried a heavy load. “I’m sorry about your mother’s…death.”

“I can’t believe she’d…” Her shaky voice trailed off.

Neither spoke the horrifying truth lingering beneath the conversation—suicide. He could imagine Mrs. Drummond’s regrets; guilt for not having seen it coming, for not having done more to prevent such a loss. “Can I do anything else?”

“No.” She bent close to Emma, emitting a soft moan, and then kissed the little girl’s forehead.

Charles took a step closer. “You seem to be in pain.”

“I wrenched my back, but I’ll be fine.” Mrs. Drummond handed Emma the satchel. “Remember what I told you.” The little girl bobbed a promise, her face melancholy. Mrs. Drummond’s fingers skimmed over Emma’s cheeks. “I’ll be going, then.” With a hurried step, she walked out the door, leaving Emma behind.

Emma stared after her until the door closed, then turned to him with sad eyes. Where was his assistant? “Teddy!”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Run to the bank and then on to the superintendent’s office and ask Mr. Sparks and Mr. Paul to come as soon as they can.”

“Sure.” Unspoken questions packed Teddy’s gaze, but he headed out the door.

Charles cleared his throat. “Emma, I’m Mr. Graves.”

She looked back at him, her blue eyes swimming with tears, twisting his innards into a knot. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

He had no idea how to keep his promise.

Tears spilled over her pale lower lashes, becoming visible now that they were wet and spiky. If he didn’t do something, she’d start bawling. The prospect sent him behind his desk. He jerked open the top drawer and rummaged through it until he found what he sought—a bag of peppermints. “When I was a youngster,” he began, “on my way home from school, I’d pass Mrs. Wagner’s house. She’d be rocking on her porch, wearing a gray tattered sweater, no matter how hot the day…”

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