A spinster by choice

When Willa Wright’s fiancé abandoned her, he ended all her hopes for romance. Now she dedicates herself to teaching Pinewood’s children, including the new pastor’s young wards. If she didn’t know better, Reverend Calvert’s kindness could almost fool Willa into caring again. Almost...

Though Matthew Calvert adores his niece and nephew, he wants a family of his own, too. The more he sees of the pretty schoolteacher, the more he wants that future with her. Yet Willa, so warm to her pupils, is ice-cool toward him. But where there’s a woman like Willa, there’s a man determined to guide her back to love.

“Have these children names?”

Willa’s reversion to the formal, polite tone called Matthew back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old and in first grade.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned and sucked in a breath, irritated by such whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small, square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

DOROTHY CLARK

Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

Wooing the Schoolmarm

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

—Psalms 34:18

Books with historical settings require a great deal of time-consuming research. This book is dedicated with deep appreciation to Rhonda Shaner Pollock of the Portville Historical & Preservation Society for her gracious and unfailing help in uncovering details of a schoolmarm’s daily life

in a rural village in 1840. Thank you, Rhonda.

“Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To You be the glory.

Contents

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

Pinewood Village, 1840

“Here we are. This is the schoolhouse.” Matthew Calvert looked from the small, white, frame building to his deceased brother’s children. Joshua had on his “brave” face, which meant he was really afraid, and Sally looked about to cry. Please, Lord, don’t let her cry. You know my heart turns to mush when she tears up. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll make nice friends and have a good time learning new things.”

He placed his hands on the children’s backs and urged them up the steps to the small porch before they could resume their pleading to stay at home with him this first day in the new town. Their small bodies tensed, moved with reluctance.

He leaned forward and glanced in the open door. A slender woman was writing on a large slate at the far end of the room. The sunlight coming in a side window played upon the thick roll of chestnut-colored hair that coiled from one small ear across the nape of her neck to the other, and warmed the pale skin of a narrow wrist that was exposed by the movement of her sleeve cuff as she printed out a list of words. She looked neat and efficient. Please, God, let her also be kindhearted. He nudged his niece and nephew forward and stepped inside. “Excuse me.”

The teacher turned. Her gaze met his over the top of the double rows of bench desks and his heart jolted. He stared into blue-green eyes rimmed with long, black lashes, rendered speechless by an attraction so immediate, so strong, every sensible thought in his head disappeared.

The teacher’s gaze dropped to the children, then rose back to meet his. “Good morning, Reverend Calvert. Welcome to Pinewood.”

The formal tone of the teacher’s voice brought him to his senses. He broke off his stare and cleared his throat. “Thank you. I—” He focused his attention, gave her a questioning look. “How did you know who I am?”

Her mouth curved into a smile that made his pulse trip all over itself. She placed the book she held on her desk. “You are from the city, Reverend Calvert. You will soon learn in a village as small as Pinewood that one knows all the residents and everything that happens.” She brushed her fingertips together and minuscule bits of chalk dust danced in the stream of sunlight. “I dare say I knew within ten minutes of the time you descended from your carriage and carried your bags into the parsonage that you had arrived.” She gave him a wry look. “But, I confess, I did not know you were coming here this morning.”

“I see.” He lifted the left side of his mouth in the crooked grin his mother had called his mischief escape. “So I have managed a ‘coup’ of sorts by bringing the children to school?”

She stared at him a moment, then looked away. “So it would seem. Have these children names?”

Her reversion to the formal, polite tone called him back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned at his burst of whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

Children’s voices floated in the door. Their light, quick footfalls sounded on the steps. The voices quieted as five children entered and bunched at the doorway to stare at them.

“Come in and take your seats, children. We have a lovely surprise this morning. You are going to have some new classmates.” The teacher gave a graceful little gesture and the clustered children separated, casting surreptitious glances their way as they moved toward the bench desks.

Matthew drew in a breath and hid the pang of sympathy he felt for Joshua and Sally. “I’d best be going, Miss Wright.” She looked up at him and that same odd jolt in his heart happened. He hurried on. “The children have slates and chalk. And also some bread and butter for dinner. I wasn’t sure—”

She smiled. “That is fine.”

His pulse thudded. He jerked his gaze from Miss Wright’s captivating eyes and looked down at Joshua and Sally. “Be good, now—do as Miss Wright says. Joshua, you take Sally’s hand and help her across the street when you come home. I’ll be waiting for you.” He tore his gaze from Sally’s small, trembling mouth and, circling around three more children filing into the schoolroom, escaped out the open door. The children needed to adjust to their new situation. And so did he. What had happened to him in there?

* * *

“Miss Wright!”

Willa halted as Danny Brody skidded to a stop in front of her. “Miss Hall wants you.” He pointed behind her, then raced off.

Willa turned, saw Ellen promenading toward her and fought to hold back a frown. She loved her lifelong friend, but sometimes the pretentious ways she had developed irritated her. Still, one couldn’t blame Ellen for parading about. She was the prettiest girl in town now that Callie Conner had moved away—and one of the biggest gossips. If this was about Thomas again—

“Gracious, Willa, why were you walking at such an unseemly pace? If Danny weren’t handy I never would have caught you.”

“I have to fix supper, then help Mother with the ironing.” She shifted the paper-wrapped package of meat she held to her other hand for emphasis. “Was there something you wanted, Ellen?”

Excitement glinted in her friend’s big, blue eyes. “I wanted to tell you the latest news. Father told me that the new pastor is a young man. And nice-looking.”

“He is.” Willa gave an inward sigh and relaxed. She should have guessed Ellen had stopped her to talk about Reverend Calvert. The new church and pastor were all anyone in the village talked about these days. Thank goodness. She disliked discussing anything pertaining to God, but at least the church topic had replaced the gossip about her abruptly cancelled wedding.

“You’ve seen him?” Ellen leaned close, gripped her arm. “What does he look like? I didn’t dare ask Father for details.”

She thought back to that morning. “Well, Reverend Calvert is quite tall…with blond hair and brown eyes.” She cast back for her impression of the pastor and tempered her words so Ellen would not guess she had felt a momentary attraction to the man. That would elicit a hundred questions from her friend. “He has a strong appearance, with a square jaw. But his smile is charming.” And his lopsided grin disarming. She ignored the image of that grin that snapped into her head and forged on. “As is his son’s. His daughter’s smile is more shy in nature.”

Ellen jerked back. “He has children?”

“Yes. Joshua and Sally. He brought them to school this morning.” She tilted her head to one side and grinned up at her friend. “How did that important detail escape you?”

“I’ve been helping Mother with my new gown all day.” Ellen’s lovely face darkened. “Father didn’t mention that the reverend was married.”

“Oh.” Willa gaped at her perturbed friend. “Ellen Hall! Surely you weren’t thinking of— Why, you haven’t even seen the man!”

“Well, gracious, a girl can hope, Willa. When I heard the pastor was young and handsome I thought, perhaps at last there was a man of distinction I could marry in this place. I should have known it was hopeless.” Ellen sighed with a little shrug. “I must go home. Mother is waiting to hem my new dress for Sunday. I’ll have to tell her there’s no hurry now. I certainly don’t care to impress a bunch of loggers. Bye, Willa.”

“Bye, Ellen.” Willa shook her head and cut across Main Street away from the block of huddled stores before anyone else could stop her to chat. Imagine Ellen being so eager to marry a “man of distinction” she would make plans toward that end before she even saw Pastor Calvert.

She frowned, hurried across the Stony Creek bridge and turned onto the beaten path along Brook Street. Perhaps she should have told Ellen the truth about Thomas and why their wedding had been canceled. Perhaps she should have cautioned her about trusting a man. Any man. Not that it mattered. Her friend was in no danger from the attractive Reverend Calvert, and neither was she. The man was married. And that was perfect as far as she was concerned. She’d had enough of handsome men with charming smiles.

* * *

Willa tossed the soapy dishwater out the lean-to door then eyed the neat piles of clean, folded clothing that covered the long table against the wall. The sight of the fruit of her mother’s dawn-to-dusk labor over hot laundry tubs and a hot iron kindled the old resentment. How could her father have simply walked away knowing his wife and child would no longer be allowed to live in the cabin the company provided for its loggers? He’d known they had no other place to go. If the company owner hadn’t accepted her mother’s offer to do laundry for the unmarried loggers in exchange for staying in the cabin…

Willa set her jaw, rinsed the dishpan at the pump, then walked back into the kitchen. She had struggled to find an answer for her father’s behavior since she was seven years old, and now she had—thanks to Thomas. Perhaps one day she would be grateful to him for teaching her that men were selfish and faithless and their words of love were not to be believed. But it had been only three months since he’d tossed her aside to go west and her hurt and anger left little room for gratitude.

She plunked the dishpan down onto the wide boards of the sink cupboard, yanked off her apron and jammed it on its hook. Thomas’s desertion didn’t bear thinking on, but she couldn’t seem to stop. At least the gossip had died—thanks to the new pastor’s arrival. She took a breath to calm herself and stepped into the living room.

“Why did you do the ironing, Mama? I told you I would do it tonight. You work too hard.”

Her mother glanced up from the shirt she was mending and gave her a tired smile. “You’ve got your job, and I’ve got mine, Willa. I’ll do the ironing. But it would be good if you’re of a mind to help me with the mending. It’s hard for me to keep up with it. Especially the socks.”

She nodded, crossed the rag rug and seated herself opposite her mother at the small table beneath the window. “I have two new students—Joshua and Sally Calvert. The new pastor brought them to school today.”

“I heard he had young children. But I haven’t heard about his wife.” Her mother adjusted the sides of the tear in the shirt and took another neat stitch. “Is she the friendly sort or city standoffish?”

“Mrs. Calvert wasn’t with them.” Willa pulled the basket of darning supplies close and lifted a sock off the pile. “The pastor is friendly. Of course, given his profession, he would be. But the children are very quiet.” She eyed the sock’s heel and sighed. It was a large hole. “Mr. Dibble was outside the livery hitching horses to a wagon when I passed on my way home. He always asks after you, Mama.” She threaded a needle, then slipped the darning egg inside the sock. “He asked to be remembered to you.”

“I don’t care to be talking about David Dibble or any other man, Willa.”

She nodded, frowned at the bitterness in her mother’s voice. Not that she blamed her after the way her father had betrayed them by walking off to make a new life for himself. “I know how you feel, Mama. Every word Thomas spoke to me of love and marriage was a lie. But I will not let his deserting me three days before we were to be wed make me bitter.”

She leaned closer to the evening light coming in the window, wove the needle through the sock fabric and stretched the darning floss across the hole, then repeated the maneuver in the other direction. “I learned my lesson well, Mama. I will never trust another man. Thomas’s perfidy robbed me of any desire to fall in love or marry. But I refuse to let him rob me of anything more.” Her voice broke. She blinked away the tears welling into her eyes and glared down at the sock in her hand. “I shall have a good, useful life teaching children. And I will be happy.”

Silence followed her proclamation.

She glanced across the table from beneath her lowered lashes. Her mother was looking at her, a mixture of sadness and anger in her eyes, her hands idle in her lap. “You didn’t deserve that sort of treatment, Willa. Thomas Hunter is a selfish man, and you’re well rid of him.”

She raised her head. “Like you were well rid of Papa?”

“That was different. We were married and had a child.” Her mother cleared her throat, reached across the table and covered her hand. “I tried my best to make your father stay, Willa. I didn’t want you hurt.”

There was a mountain of love behind the quiet, strained words. She stared down at her mother’s dry, work-roughened hand. How many times had its touch comforted her, taken away her childish hurts? But Thomas’s treachery had pierced too deep. The wound he’d given her would remain. She took a breath and forced a smile. “Papa left thirteen years ago, Mama. The hurt is gone. All that’s left is an empty spot in my heart. But it’s only been three months since Thomas cast me aside. That part of my heart still hurts.” She drew another deep breath and made another turn with the darning floss. “You were right about Thomas not being trustworthy, Mama. I should have listened to you.”

“And I should have remembered ears do not hear when a heart is full.” There was a fierceness in her mother’s voice she’d never before heard. “Now, let’s put this behind us and not speak of Thomas again. Time will heal the wound.” Her mother drew her hand back, tied off her sewing thread, snipped it, set aside the finished shirt and picked up another off the mending pile. She laid it in her lap and looked off into the distance. “I’m so thankful you hadn’t married Thomas and aren’t doomed to spend your life alone, not knowing if you’re married or a widow. One day you will find a man who truly loves you and you will be free to love him.”

Willa jerked her head up and stared at her mother, stunned by her words, suddenly understanding her bitterness, her secluded lifestyle. She’d always thought of her father’s leaving as a single event, as the moment he had said goodbye and walked out the door, and her wound from his leaving had scarred over with the passing years. But her mother lived with the consequences of her father’s selfish act every day. Her father had stolen her mother’s life.

She caught her breath, looked down and wove the needle over and under the threads she’d stretched across the hole in the sock, thankfulness rising to weave through the hurt of Thomas’s desertion. At least her life was still her own. And it would remain so. She would let no man steal it from her. No man! Not ever.

* * *

Matthew gathered his courage and peeked in the bedroom door. If Sally spotted him, the crying and begging to sleep in Joshua’s room would start again. He considered himself as brave and stalwart as the next man, but Sally’s tears undid him.

Moonlight streamed in the windows, slanted across the bed. He huffed out a breath of relief. She was asleep, one small hand tucked beneath her chin, her long, blond curls splayed across her pillow. He stared at the spot of white fabric visible where the edge of the covers met her hand and a pang struck his heart. He didn’t have to go closer to see what it was. He knew. She was clutching her mother’s glove.

Lord, I don’t know what to do. Will allowing Sally to have Judith’s glove lessen her grief? Or does it prolong it? Should I take the glove away? I need wisdom, Lord. I need help!

He walked to the stairs and started down. He loved Joshua and Sally and willingly accepted their guardianship, but being thrust into the role of parent to two young, grieving children was daunting. He was faced with tasks and decisions he was ill-prepared to handle. That one child was a little girl made it even more difficult. And he had his own grief to contend with.

He shot a glance toward the ceiling of the small entrance hall. “I miss you, Robert. And I’m doing the best I can. But it would be a lot easier if you’d had two sons.” The thought of Sally’s little arms around his neck, of her small hand thrust so trustingly into his made his heart ache. “Not that I would want it different, big brother. I’ll figure it out. But it would certainly help with the girl things if I had a wife.”

He frowned and walked into his study to arrange his possessions that had come by freight wagon that afternoon. Why couldn’t he find a woman to love and marry? He was tired of this emptiness, this yearning for someone to share his life with that he’d been carrying around the last few years. He wanted a wife and children. Having Joshua and Sally these last few weeks had only increased that desire.

He lifted a box of books to his desk, pulled out his pocketknife and cut the cord that bound it. Robert had known Judith was the one for him as soon as he met her. But he’d never felt that immediate draw to a woman, the certainty that she was the one. He’d been making it a matter of prayer for the last year or so. But God hadn’t seen fit to answer those prayers. Unless…

He stared down at the book he’d pulled from the box, a vision of a lovely face with beautiful blue-green eyes framed by soft waves of chestnut-colored hair dancing against the leather cover. His pulse quickened. Was what had happened to him in the schoolhouse God’s answer to his prayers? There was no denying his immediate attraction to Miss Wright. An attraction so strong that he’d lost his normal good sense and eyed her like a besotted schoolboy. That had never happened to him before. But was it the beginning of love? Or only an aberration caused by his loneliness and grief?

He slid the book onto the top shelf of the bookcase behind his desk and reached into the box for another. It had been a humbling moment when the church council had asked him to leave the pulpit of his well-established church in Albany for two years to come and establish a foundation for the church here in Pinewood. But he’d been inclined to turn them down because of his loneliness. If he couldn’t find a woman to love and marry among his large congregation and abundant friends in the city, what chance had he to find one in a small, rural village nestled among the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains in western New York?

He scowled, put the book on the shelf and picked up another. Robert’s death had made up his mind. He had accepted the offer, hoping that a change of scene might help the children over their grief. Two years out of his life was a price he was willing to pay for the children’s healing. That was his plan.

He reached into the box for the last book, then paused. What if God had placed that yielding in his heart because He had a plan? One that helped the children, but also included the answer to his prayers? He blew out a breath, put the last book on the shelf and tossed the empty box to the floor. And what if he were simply letting his imagination run away with him? At least he knew the answer to that question. “Thy will be done, Lord. Thy will be done.”

He picked up the box with his desk supplies, cut the cord and started putting things in the drawers.

Chapter Two

Willa spotted their gray-haired neighbor sweeping her walk next door and sighed. Mrs. Braynard was as plump as her mother was lean, and as cheerful as her mother was bitter. She was also kind and concerned and…nosy. She closed the door and walked down their short, plank walk to the leaf-strewn beaten path beside the street. “Good morning, Mrs. Braynard. How is Daniel today?”

“He’s doing better. He was able to move his arm a little when I was getting him up and around. The Lord bless you for caring.” Her neighbor cleared the leaves and dirt from the end of her walk, paused and looked at her over the broom handle. “I heard the new pastor brought his children to your school. His wife a pleasant woman, is she?”

Willa clenched her fingers on the handle of the small basket holding her lunch. She hated gossip. She’d been on the receiving end of too much of it. But Mrs. Braynard meant no harm. She was simply overcurious. Nonetheless, whatever she said would be all over town within an hour. She took a breath to hold her smile in place. “I haven’t met Mrs. Calvert. The pastor was alone when he brought the children. I’m looking forward to meeting her at the welcome dinner after church this Sunday.” She turned away, hoping…

“Are you getting on all right, Willa? I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Mrs. Braynard.” The sympathy in her neighbor’s voice grated on her nerves. She hated being the object of people’s pity—even if it was well-meant. She smiled and gave the same answer she’d been giving since Thomas had abruptly left town. “I’m fine. Now, I’m afraid I must hurry off to school. Tell Daniel I’m pleased to hear he is mending.”

“I’ll tell him. And I’ll keep praying for you, Willa.”

As if prayer would help. She pressed her lips together, lifted her hand in farewell and hurried down the path to the corner, a choked-back reply driving her steps. Mrs. Braynard, of all people, should know God had no interest in her or her plight. The woman had been praying for her mother and her ever since the day her father had said goodbye and walked out on them, and not one thing had changed. Not one. Except that now Thomas had deserted her, as well. So much for prayer!

She wheeled right onto Main Street and onto the bridge over Stony Creek, the heels of her shoes announcing her irritation by their quick, staccato beats on the wide, thick planks. She avoided a wagon pulling into the Dibble Smithy, passed the harness shop and livery and lowered her gaze to avoid eye contact with anyone heading across the street to the row of shops that formed the village center. She was in no mood for any more friendly, but prying, questions.

She crossed Church Street, then reined in her pace and her thoughts. Her students did not deserve a sour-faced teacher. She took a long breath and lifted her gaze. Oh, no! Her steps faltered, came to a halt. A clergyman was the last person she wanted to see.

On the walkway ahead, Reverent Calvert was squatted on his heels, his hands clasping Sally’s upper arms, while he talked to her. It seemed Sally was in disagreement with him if her stiff stance and bowed head was any indication. Joshua stood off to one side, the intent expression on his face a mirror of the pastor’s. The boy certainly looked like his father. He also looked unhappy.

Something was wrong. Had it to do with school? Her self-involvement dissolved in a spate of concern. Joshua must have felt her attention for he raised his gaze and caught her looking at them. His lips moved. The pastor glanced in her direction, then surged to his feet. She put on a polite smile and moved forward. “Good morning, Reverend Calvert. I see Joshua and Sally are ready for school.”

A look of chagrin flitted across the pastor’s face. “We were discussing that.”

So there was a problem. Joshua and Sally did not want to go to school. She glanced down at the little girl and her heart melted at the sight of her teary-eyed unhappiness. “Well, I hope you are through with your discussion and Joshua and Sally may come with me. I am running a bit late this morning and I…could use their help.” Something flickered in the pastor’s eyes. Puzzlement? Doubt? It was too quickly gone for her to judge.

“I’m certain they will be happy to help you, Miss Wright. What is it you want them to do?”

What indeed? The schoolroom had been set to rights last night before she left for home. She looked at the tears now flowing down Sally’s cheeks and scrambled for an idea. “Well…I am going to begin a story about a cat today. But the cat…has no name.”

Sally lifted her head and looked up at her. Joshua stepped closer. Ah, a spark of interest.

“I see. And how does that require the children’s help?”

She glanced up at the pastor. A look of understanding flashed between them. So he had guessed she was making this up and was trying to help her. Now what? How could she involve Joshua and Sally? “Well…each student will have a chance to suggest a name for the cat—” she felt her way, forming the idea as she spoke.

“Ah, a contest.” The proclamation bore the hint of a suggestion.

A contest. An excellent idea. “Yes. The class will choose which name they like best.” She shot the pastor a grateful look. He inclined his head slightly and she glanced down. Sally had inched closer, and there was a definite glint in Joshua’s eyes. So the boy liked to compete. “And the student who suggests the chosen name will…win a prize.” What prize? She stopped, completely out of inspiration. That still did not require the children’s help.

“And you need Joshua and Sally to help you with the prize?” Reverend Calvert’s deep voice was soft, encouraging.

“Yes…” Now what? She took a breath and shoved aside her dilemma. She would think of something by the time they reached the schoolhouse. She stared at the tree beside the reverend. Ah! A smile curved her lips, widened as the idea took hold. “The prize will be a basket of hickory nuts from the tree behind the school. And I need someone to gather the nuts for me.” She shot the reverend a triumphant look, then glanced from Joshua to Sally. “Will you collect the nuts for me?”

The little girl looked at her brother, followed his lead and nodded.

“It sounds like an interesting day for the children, Miss Wright.”

She glanced up. The reverend smiled and mouthed “Thank you.” Her stomach fluttered. He really did have a charming smile. She gave him a polite nod and held her free hand out to Sally. “Come along, then. We must hurry so you children can gather the nuts before the other children come. The prize must be a secret.” She halted, tipped her head to the side and gave them a solemn look. “You can keep a secret?”

They nodded again, their brown eyes serious, their blond curls bright in the sunlight.

“Lovely!” She smiled and moved forward, Sally’s small hand in hers, Joshua on her other side, and the Reverend Calvert’s gaze fastened on them. The awareness of it tingled between her shoulder blades until they turned the corner onto Oak Street. A frown wrinkled her brow. Twice now she had seen the pastor with his children. Where was their mother?

* * *

“It was a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen.” Matthew shook hands with the church elders and watched them file out through the small storage room at the back of the church. They seemed to be men of strong faith, eager to do all they could to make the church flourish. He was looking forward to working with them.

He scanned the interior of the small church, admired the craftsmanship in the paneled pew boxes and the white plastered walls. He moved to the pulpit, the strike of his bootheels against the wood floor echoing in the silence. The wood was satin-smooth beneath his hands. He brushed his fingers across the leather cover of the Bible that rested there, closed his eyes and quieted his thoughts. A sense of waiting, of expectation hovered in the stillness.

“Almighty God, be with me, I pray. Lead and guide me to green pastures by the paths of Your choosing that I might feed Your flock according to Thy will. Amen.”

He opened his eyes and pictured the church full of people. Would Miss Wright be one of them? He frowned and stepped out from behind the pulpit. He was becoming too concerned with Miss Wright; it was time to get acquainted with the village.

He stretched out his arms and touched the end of each pew as he walked down the center aisle, then crossed the small vestibule and stepped out onto the wide stoop. Warmth from the October sun chased the chill of the closed building from him. Did someone come early on Sunday morning to open the doors and let in the warmth?

Across the street stood an impressive, three-story building with the name Sheffield House carved into a sign attached to the fascia board of the porch roof. Passengers were alighting from a long, roofed wagon at the edge of the road that bore the legend Totten’s Trolley.

He exchanged a friendly nod with the driver, then jogged diagonally across the street and trotted up three steps to a wide, wooden walkway that ran in front of a block of stores standing shoulder to shoulder, like an army at attention.

He doffed his hat to a woman coming out of a millinery store, skirted around two men debating the virtues of a pair of boots in a shoemaker’s window next to Barley’s Grocery and entered the Cargrave Mercantile.

Smells mingled on the air and tantalized his nose, leather, coffee and molasses prominent among them. He stepped out of the doorway and blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim indoors. The hum of conversation stopped, resumed in lower tones. He glanced left, skimmed his gaze over the long wood counter adorned with various wood and tin boxes, a coffee mill and at the far end a scale and cashbox.

He gave a polite nod in answer to the frankly curious gazes of the proprietor and the customers, then swept his gaze across the wood stove and the displays of tools along the back wall. On the right side of the store was the dry goods section and the object of his search. A glass-fronted nest of pigeonhole mailboxes constituted the post office. He stepped to the narrow, waist-high opening in the center of the boxes. A stout, gray-haired man, suspenders forming an X across the back of his white shirt, sat on a stool sorting through a pile of mail on a high table with a safe beneath it.

“Excuse me—”

The man turned, squinted at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, then slid off his stool and came to stand in front of the small shelf on the other side of the window. “What can I do for you, stranger?”

Matthew smiled. “I’ve come to introduce myself, and see about getting a mailbox. I’m Matthew Calvert, pastor of Pinewood Church.” The conversations in the store stopped. There was a soft rustling sound as people turned to look at him.

The postmaster nodded. “Heard you’d arrived. Figured you’d be along. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Pastor Calvert.”

“And I, yours, Mr… .”

“Hubble. Zarius Hubble.” The man stretched out his hand and tapped the glass of one of the small cubicles. “This is the church mailbox. Lest you have an objection, I’ll put your mail in here. Save you having to rent a box.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hubble. That will be fine.”

The postmaster nodded, then fixed a stern gaze on him. “I can’t do that for others with you who will be getting mail, mind you. Your missus or such will need their own box.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Matthew turned and almost collided with a small group of people standing behind him. The short, thin man closest to him held out his hand.

“I’m Allan Cargrave. I own this establishment, along with my brother Henry. You met him this morning. I’ve been looking forward to your coming, Pastor Calvert. We all have.”

Matthew took his hand in a firm clasp. “Then our goal has been the same, Mr. Cargrave. I’m pleased to meet you.” He smiled and turned to the others.

* * *

Willa glanced at her lunch basket, now half-full of hickory nuts, going out the door in Trudy Hoffman’s hand and smiled. The impromptu contest had proved successful in a way she had not expected. Trudy and Sally Calvert had both suggested Puffy as a name for the cat in the story and friendship had budded between the girls when the name was chosen as the favorite by the class. The friendship was firmed when Sally told Trudy she could have the basket as they shared the prize.

Her smile faded. She was quite certain there was something more than shyness bothering Sally. She’d seen tears glistening in the little girl’s eyes that afternoon. She walked to the door to watch Joshua and Sally cross the town park to the parsonage. Another smile formed. If the squirrels didn’t get them, the park would soon be boasting a trail of hickory nut trees started by Sally’s half of the prize falling from Joshua’s pockets.

She pulled the door closed and watched the children. Why weren’t they running and laughing on their way home? She studied their slow steps, the slump of their small shoulders. Something was amiss. They looked…sad. Perhaps they missed their friends in Albany. It was hard for children to leave a familiar home and move to a strange town where they knew no one. She would make certain the village children included Joshua and Sally in their games at the welcome dinner Sunday. And she would speak with Mrs. Calvert about the children. Perhaps there was something more she could do to help them adjust to their new life in Pinewood. Meanwhile, she had a new lunch basket to buy. She hurried down the stairs and headed for the mercantile.

* * *

Matthew blotted his notes, closed his Bible and pushed back from his desk. Moonlight drew a lacy shadow of the denuded branches of the maple in the side yard on the ground, silvered the fallen leaves beneath it. An owl hooted. His lips slanted into a grin. Miss Wright was correct. Pinewood was very different from Albany.

His pulse sped at the memory of her walking toward them, neat and trim in her dark red gown with a soft smile warming her lovely face. She had, again, stolen his breath when their gazes met. And the way she had solved Sally’s rebellion against going to school today…

A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. She had made up that business about a cat with no name and the contest with a prize right there on the spot.

It was obvious Miss Wright loved children. How did she feel about God?

He clenched his hands and set his jaw, shaken by a sudden awareness of the expectation in his heart of seeing her sitting in the congregation Sunday morning.

Chapter Three

“How could you be so wrong about those children? They are his wards.”

Willa placed her platter of meat tarts on the plank table and looked up at Ellen. “Pastor Calvert brought them to school, they look like him and their last name is the same. I assumed he was their father, not their uncle. It was an understandable mistake.” Tears stung her eyes. Those poor children. To lose both their mother and father at such a young age. No wonder they looked sad.

“Perhaps, but— Oh, look at this old gown.” Ellen batted at the ruffles on her bodice. “If I had known Pastor Calvert was a bachelor I would have had Mother hem my new gown. She says the color makes my eyes look larger and bluer.”

Willa squared her shoulders and gave Ellen a look permitted by their years of friendship. Her friend hadn’t given a thought to the children—other than to be thankful the pastor was not their father. “You look beautiful in that gown, and you know it, Ellen. Now stop pouting. It’s wasted on me. I’ve watched you looking in the mirror to practice protruding your lower lip, remember?”

The offending lip was pulled back into its normal position. “Very well. I suppose I understand your error. And I forgive you. But all the same, I am distressed. Had I known the truth of Matthew Calvert’s marital state, I could have thought of a plan to catch his attention. Look!”

The hissed words tickled her ear. She glanced in the direction Ellen indicated. Matthew Calvert was coming across the church grounds toward the tables, his progress hindered by every young, unmarried lady in his congregation and their mothers. “So that’s where all the women are. I wondered. Usually they are hovering over the food to— Billy Karcher, you put down those cookies! They’re for after the meal.”

The eight-year-old looked up from beneath the dark locks dangling on his forehead and gave her a gap-tooth grin. “I’m only makin’ thure I get thome.”

Willa fought back a smile at his lost-tooth lisp and gave him her teacher look. “Those cookies are to share. You put that handful back and I promise to save two of them for you.”

The boy heaved a sigh, dropped the cookies back onto the plate and ran off to join the children playing tag in the park. She searched the group. Where were Joshua and Sally?

“Selfish little beast.”

Willa jerked her gaze back to Ellen. “Billy is a child, not a beast.”

“They seem one and the same to me.” Ellen glanced toward the church and sucked in a breath. “Pastor Calvert is coming this way. And he seems quite purposeful in his destination. I guess I caught his attention when Father introduced us after all.” A smug smile curved Ellen’s lovely, rosy lips. She turned her back, raised her hands and pinched her cheeks. “Are my curls in place, Willa?”

She looked at the cluster of blond curls peeking from beneath the back of Ellen’s flower-bedecked hat and fought down a sudden, strong urge to yank one of them. “They’re fine.” She turned away from her friend’s smug smile. Ellen’s conceit had alienated most of their old friends, and it was putting a strain on their friendship. She sighed and moved the cookie plate to the back side of the table out of the reach of small, grasping hands. Ellen had been different before Callie Conner’s family had moved away. Their raven-haired friend’s astonishing beauty had kept Ellen’s vanity subdued. And Callie’s sweet nature—

“May I interrupt your work a moment, ladies?”

Matthew Calvert’s deep voice, as warm and smooth as the maple syrup the villagers made every spring, caused a shiver to run up her spine. She frowned, snatched the stem of a bright red leaf that had fallen on a bowl of boiled potatoes and tossed it to the ground. With a voice like that, it was no wonder the man was a preacher of some renown.

Good manners dictated that she turn and smile—indignation rooted her in place. Joshua and Sally were nowhere in sight, yet Matthew Calvert had come seeking out Ellen to satisfy his own…aims. Well, she wanted nothing to do with a man who neglected the care of his young wards to satisfy his own selfishness. She looked at the people spreading blankets on the ground in preparation for their picnic meal and silently urged them to hurry. Beside her, Ellen made a slow turn, smiled and looked up through her long lashes. Another ploy perfected before the mirror. One that made men stammer and stutter.

“May I help you, Reverend Calvert?”

Willa scowled at her friend’s dulcet tone and moved a small crock of pickles closer to the potatoes, focused her attention on the green vine pattern circling the rim of the large bowl. She had no desire to hear the pastor’s flirtatious response to Ellen’s coyness. She wanted to go home—away from them both.

“Thank you, Miss Hall, you’re most kind. But it’s Miss Wright I seek.”

Shock zinged all the way to her toes. What could Matthew Calvert possibly want with her? Ellen evidently thought the same if the hastily erased look of surprise on her friend’s face was any indication. She turned. “You wished to speak with me?”

Something flashed in the pastor’s eyes. Surprise? Puzzlement? Shock at her coolness? No doubt the handsome Matthew Calvert was unaccustomed to such treatment from women.

He dipped his head. “Yes. I’ve come to ask if you would be so kind as to keep watch on Joshua and Sally this afternoon, Miss Wright.” He glanced at the tables and a frown furrowed his forehead. “I see that you are busy, and I hate to impose, but I am at a loss as to what else to do.”

His gaze lifted to meet hers and she read apparent concern in his eyes. Guilt tugged at her. Had she been wrong about him neglecting his wards?

“As this welcome dinner is in my honor, I must visit with my parishioners, and Joshua and Sally are uncomfortable among so many new people. I thought, perhaps, as the children know you and are comfortable with you…” He stopped, gave a little shrug. “I would consider it a great favor if you could help them. But, of course, I will understand if you must stay here at the tables.”

So he wanted to be free of the children so he could get acquainted with his parishioners…like Ellen, no doubt. She forced a smile.

“Not at all. Ellen can help in my place.” She ignored her friend’s soft gasp. Let her flirt her way out of that! “Where are the children?”

“They’re sitting on the front steps at the parsonage. I didn’t want to force them to join us.”

Of course not. That would hamper his…getting acquainted. She nodded, reached under the table and drew a plate from her basket, placed three meat tarts and three boiled eggs on it, then lifted the cookie plate in her other hand and started across the intervening ground. The pastor fell in beside her.

“Let me carry those for you, Miss Wright.”

She halted, glanced up and shook her head. “I think it best if I go alone. You go and meet the people of Pinewood, Reverend Calvert.” From the corner of her eye she saw Ellen shake out the ruffles on her long skirt and glide across the leaf-strewn ground toward them. She hurried on toward the children, but could not resist looking over her shoulder. It did not seem to bother the pastor that Ellen had left the table of food unattended. They were laughing together as they walked toward the blanket Mrs. Hall had spread on the ground. It seemed Reverend Calvert would partake of his first church dinner in Pinewood with the prettiest girl in the village by his side.

* * *

Willa glanced toward the church. People were beginning to gather their things together. She moved to the top of the gazebo steps. “Children, the game is over. Come and get your cookies, then go join your parents. It’s time to go home.”

“First one to touch wood wins!” Tommy Burke shouted the challenge, then turned and sprinted toward the gazebo. Children came running from every direction. Joshua put on a burst of speed surprising in one so young.

Willa smiled and gripped the post beside her, secretly rooting for him to outrun the older boys. Joshua needed something fun and exciting to think about. So did Sally.

She glanced over her shoulder, her heart aching for the little girl curled up on the bench along the railing. It was easy to get Joshua involved in games because he was very competitive. But Sally was different. The little girl had said her stomach hurt and stayed there on the bench while the other children played. Was it shyness or grief over her parents’ deaths that made her so quiet and withdrawn?

She lifted the plate of cookies she’d saved from the bench and held them ready for the racing, laughing boys and girls. Billy Karcher stretched out his hand and touched the gazebo rail, Joshua right behind him.

“I win!” Billy tripped up the steps, snatched a cookie from the plate, grinned and took his promised second one. He lisped out, “Thee you tomorrow, Joth!” and jumped to the ground. Joshua waved at his new friend, turned and grabbed a cookie.

Willa resisted the temptation to smooth back the blond curls that had fallen over his brown eyes and contented herself with a smile. “A race well run, Joshua.”

He grinned, a slow, lopsided grin that lifted the left side of his mouth, and flopped down on the bench beside his sister. “I’ll beat him next time!”

He looked so different! So happy and carefree. The way a six-year-old should look. If only Sally would have joined in the games. She sighed and turned her attention back to the children grabbing cookies and saying goodbye.

* * *

“I find no words adequate to express my appreciation for your having come to my aid this afternoon, Miss Wright.” Matthew smiled at Joshua busy kicking maple leaves into a pile while Sally leaned against the tree trunk and watched. “Or for engaging Joshua in the games.”

“It was easy enough. Joshua is very competitive.”

His gaze veered back to fasten on her. “I suppose I should correct him for bragging about that race, but I’m too happy to see that smile on his face. And, truth be told, I feel like bragging about it myself. I saw those boys, some of them had to be two or three years older than Joshua.”

There was a definite glint of pride in the pastor’s eyes. It seemed the competitive spirit ran in the Calvert family. “You’re right, they are.” She turned to look at Joshua, smiled and shook her head. “I’ve no doubt I will have my hands full at recess time tomorrow. Joshua declares he will beat Billy the next time they race, and I hear the ring of a challenge in those words.”

“Do you want me to speak with him about it?”

The pastor’s voice was controlled, but there was an underlying reluctance in it. She glanced his way. “No, I do not, Reverend Calvert. I am accustomed to handling the exuberance of young children. And I believe a few challenges, given and taken with his new schoolmates, is exactly what Joshua needs—under the circumstances.”

She bent and picked up the plate she had left on the porch after her earlier, impromptu picnic with Joshua and Sally.

“I believe today proved that to be true, Miss Wright. This is the first time since Robert and Judith’s deaths that Joshua has really played as a youngster should. I think he’s going to be all right. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. But I’m concerned about Sally.”

There was a heaviness in his voice. She turned. He was looking at the children, his face drawn with sorrow. She drew in her breath, told herself to keep quiet and leave. But she couldn’t turn away from a hurting child. “I don’t mean to pry, Reverend Calvert, but it’s very difficult to engage Sally’s interest in playing with the others. She is very quiet and withdrawn for a young child. And, though she tries very hard to hide them, I have seen tears in her eyes. I thought it was her shyness, but perhaps it is grief?”

“She misses her mother terribly. And it’s hard for me to understand about girl things. Joshua is easier—I know about boys.” He scrubbed his hand over his neck, turned and looked at her. “It’s difficult dealing with their grief. It’s only been six weeks since my brother and his wife died in the carriage accident. It was such a shock that I am still trying to handle my own grief. But I have talked to the children, tried to explain about God’s mercy, and that they will see their mother and father again…” He took another breath and looked away.

She drew breath into her own lungs, forced them to expand against the tightness in her chest. “Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude on your privacy.” She started down the path to the wood walkway.

“Wait! Please.”

She paused, squared her shoulders and turned.

His lips lifted in a wry smile. “Once again I must appeal to you for help, Miss Wright. I am a pastor, not a cook, and the children and I are getting tired of eating eggs for every meal. I need a housekeeper, but it must be someone who understands children and will be careful of their grief. I thought, perhaps, as you are familiar with everyone in the village, you could suggest someone I could interview?”

She drew her gaze from the sadness in his eyes and gathered her thoughts. Who was available who would also understand the special needs of the Calvert children? “I believe Bertha Franklin might suit. She’s a lovely, kind woman, an excellent cook…and no stranger to sorrow. And she definitely understands children. She has raised eight of her own. If you wish, I can stop and ask her to come by and see you tomorrow. Her home is on my way.”

“I would appreciate that, Miss Wright.” His gaze captured hers. “And thank you again for watching the children this afternoon. And for helping Joshua remember how to play.”

His soft words brought tears to her eyes. She nodded, spun about and hurried down the wood walkway toward town.

* * *

Willa dipped her fingers in the small crock, rubbed them together, then spread the cream on her face and neck. A faint fragrance of honeysuckle hovered. She replaced the lid, tied the ribbons at the neck of her cotton nightgown and reached up to free her hair from its confining roll. The chestnut-colored mass tumbled onto her shoulders and down her back. She brushed it free of snarls, gathered it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon and stepped back from the mirror.

The touch of her bare feet against the plank floor sent a shiver prickling along her flesh. She hopped back onto the small, rag rug in front of the commode stand and rubbed her upper arms. The nights were turning colder, the air taking on the bite that announced winter was on its way. Thank goodness the company loggers kept her mother well supplied with firewood. And the parents of her students provided wood for the stove at school. There was already a large pile outside the back door.

She sighed, stepped off the rug and hurried to the window to push the curtain hems against the crack along the sill to block the cold air seeping in around the frame. Tomorrow morning she would start her winter schedule. She would rise early and go to school and light a fire in the stove to chase away the night chill. And then she would make a list of boys to help her keep the woodbox full throughout the winter.

She stepped to her nightstand, cupped her hand around the chimney globe, blew out the flame then climbed into bed. Two boys working together in weeklong rotations should be sufficient. Joshua and Billy would be the first team. She gave a soft laugh, tugged the covers close and snuggled down against her pillow. Those two boys would probably race to see who could carry in the most wood in the shortest time.

An image of Joshua’s happy, lopsided grin formed against the darkness. He certainly looked like his uncle. And so did Sally, in a small, feminine way. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Those poor children, losing both of their parents so unexpectedly. She had been devastated when her father left, and she’d had her mother to comfort her. Of course, Joshua and Sally had their uncle. He had looked concerned for the children when he talked with her. But that didn’t mean his concern was real. Her father had seemed concerned for her before he turned his back and walked away never to return. But why would Matthew Calvert bother to put on an act for her? The children were not her concern.

Once again I must appeal to you for help, Miss Wright.

Oh, of course. Her facial muscles drew taut. She was a teacher. The pastor must have reasoned that she cared about children and played on her emotions to enlist her aid. And it had worked. She had been so gullible. Because of the children? Or because she wanted to believe there was truth behind Matthew Calvert’s quiet strength and disarming grin?

She jerked onto her side, opened the small wood box on the nightstand with her free hand and fingered through the familiar contents, felt paper and withdrew the note Thomas had left on her desk the day he deserted her. There was no need to light the lamp and read it, the words were seared into her mind. Willa, I’m sorry I haven’t time to wait and talk to you, but I must hasten to meet Jack. He sent word he has funds for us to head west, and I am going after my dream. Wish me well, dearest Willa.

Her chest tightened, restricted her breath. Three days before their wedding and Thomas had forsaken her without so much as a word of apology or regret. A man’s concern for others was conditional on his own needs.

She clenched her hand around the small, folded piece of paper, drew a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. When her father abandoned her he’d left behind nothing but a painful memory and a void in her heart. Thomas had left her tangible proof of a man’s perfidy. She had only to look at the note to remind herself a man was not to be trusted. Not even a man of the cloth with a stomach-fluttering grin.

Chapter Four

“Thank you for coming by, Reverend Calvert.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Karcher.” Matthew inclined his head in a small, polite bow. “I find making personal calls is the best way to get acquainted with my parishioners. And it is beneficial to do so as quickly as possible.” He included the Karcher daughter, who’d had the misfortune of inheriting her father’s long-jawed, hawk-nosed looks, in his goodbye smile.

“Well, Agnes and I are honored to be your first call.” A look of smug satisfaction settled on the woman’s face, one of her plump elbows dug into her daughter’s side. “Aren’t we, Agnes?”

“Yes, Ma.” Agnes tittered and looked up at him, her avid expression bringing an uneasy twinge to his stomach. “I’m pleased you liked my berry pie, Reverend Calvert. I’ll make an apple pie the next time you come.” Her bony elbow returned her mother’s nudge.

The next time? The expectation in Agnes’s tone set warning bells clanging in his head. “Indeed?” A lame reply, but there was no good answer he could make to her presumption. He looked down at his hat and brushed a bit of lint from the felt brim, then stepped closer to the door. Perhaps he could get away before—

“Agnes’s pies are the best of any young woman in Pinewood. And she’s a wonderful cook.”

—and perhaps he couldn’t. He braced himself for what he sensed was coming.

“Mayhap you can come for dinner Saturday night, Reverend? I’m thinking those wards of yours would be thankful for some of Agnes’s good cooking.”

And there went his chance for an uneventful leave-taking. Mrs. Karcher’s invitation could not be ignored. He looked up, noted the eager, hopeful gleam in both women’s eyes and held back the frown that tugged at his own features. Both mother and daughter seemed to have forgotten his visit included Mr. Karcher and decided he had come because of Agnes. He cleared his throat and set himself to the task of disabusing them of that notion without hurting their feelings and damaging the pastor-and-congregant relationship. “I appreciate your kind invitation, Mrs. Karcher, but I’m afraid I must decline. My Saturdays are spent in prayer and preparation for Sunday. As for the children, I have hired Mrs. Franklin as housekeeper and cook. She feeds us well.”

Surprise flitted across their faces. They had apparently not yet heard that piece of news. He hurried on before Mrs. Karcher recovered and extended another, amended, invitation. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Karcher. I regret that I had so little time to spend visiting with him. I shall make another call on him when he is less busy at the grist mill.”

His slight emphasis on the word him dulled the hopeful gleam in the women’s eyes. They had understood. He dipped his head in farewell, stepped outside and blew the air from his lungs in a long, low whistle. He was accustomed to the fact that young ladies and their mothers found bachelor pastors attractive as potential husband material, but he’d never before been subjected to anything quite so…blatant.

He ran his fingers through his hair, slapped on his hat and trotted to his carriage. Thunder grumbled in the distance. He glanced up and frowned at the sight of black clouds roiling across the sky. They were coming fast. The other visit he’d planned for this afternoon would have to wait.

“Time to head for home, girl.” He patted his bay mare on her shoulder, climbed to the seat and picked up the reins. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed. The mare jerked, danced in the traces. “Whoa, Clover. It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

The bay tossed her head and turned her ears toward his voice, calmed. “Good girl. Let’s go now.” He clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, glancing up as lightning glinted along the edge of the tumbling clouds. The black, foaming mass was almost overhead now. He would never make it back to town before the storm hit, and the children…

His chest tightened. Joshua would be all right. But Sally— “Lord, please be with Sally. Please comfort her, Lord, until I can get home.” He reined the mare onto the Butternut Hill Road, stole another look at the sky and eased his grip on the lines to let her stretch her stride as he headed back toward the village.

* * *

“The…hen…is on the…b-box.”

Willa smiled and nodded encouragement as Micah Lester shot her a questioning look. “Box is correct. Continue, please.”

The boy lowered his gaze to the English Reader book in his hands and took a deep breath. “The rat ran…fr-from…the box.”

She nodded as he again glanced her way. “And the last sentence, please.”

“C-can the…hen…run?”

“Very good, Micah. You may take your seat.” She stepped to his side and held out her hand for the book. Thunder grumbled. Her students straightened on their benches and looked up at her. She placed the book on her desk and went to the window. Black clouds were rolling across the sky out of the west. She turned back, looked at the expectant expressions on the children’s faces and laughed. “Yes, school is over for today. A storm is coming, but if you hurry, there is time for you to reach home before it arrives. Gather your things. And remember…you’re to go straight home.”

She moved to the door, stepped out onto the small porch and held the door open against a rising wind. The children scurried past her and ran down the stairs still donning their coats and hats, calling out their goodbyes as they scattered in every direction. “Hurry home now, or you’ll be caught out in the open and get a good drenching!”

She glanced up at the dark sky. Lightning glinted against the black storm clouds. Thunder crashed. She stared at the gray curtain falling to earth from beneath the approaching clouds and frowned. She was in for a soaking. By the time she snuffed the oil lamp, adjusted the drafts on the heating stove and gathered her things it would be impossible for her to reach home before the storm hit. Those clouds were moving fast. Should she wait it out? No. If she waited it could get worse. There was no promise of clearing behind that black wall of froth. She sighed, stepped inside and closed the door.

“C’mon, Sally. We got to get home. Miss Wright said so!”

Joshua. She turned and peered through the dim light in the direction of the boy’s voice. He was tugging at his sister who was huddled into a ball in the corner. “Joshua, what’s wrong with Sally?” Her skirt hems skimmed her shoe tops and swirled around her ankles as she hurried toward them.

The boy jerked to his feet and spun around to look up at her. “I’m sorry, Miss Wright. I know we’re supposed to go home, but Sally’s scared. She won’t get up.”

His face was pale, his voice teetered on the edge of tears. “It’s all right, Joshua.” She gave him a reassuring touch on the shoulder, then knelt down. “Sally—”

White light flickered through the dark room. Thunder cracked. The little girl screamed and launched herself upright and straight into her arms with such force that she almost tumbled backward. She caught her balance and wrapped her arms around Sally’s small, trembling body.

Rain pelted the roof. Lightning streaked against the darkness outside the window and lit the room with a sulfurous yellow glow. Thunder crashed and rumbled. Sally sobbed and burrowed her face hard into the curve of her neck. She placed her hand on top of the little girl’s soft, blond curls and looked up at Joshua. The boy’s eyes were watery with held-back tears, his lips trembling.

“Joshua, what is—” The door jerked open. She started and glanced up.

Matthew Calvert stepped into the schoolroom and swiveled his head left and right, peering into the dim interior. “Josh? Sally?”

“Uncle Matt!” Joshua lunged at his uncle. Sally slipped out of her arms and ran after him.

She rose, shook out her skirts then lifted her hands to smooth her hair.

Matthew Calvert dropped to his knees and drew the children close. “I was out on a call. I came as quickly as I could.” The pastor tipped his head and kissed Sally’s cheek, loosed his hold on Joshua and reached up to tousle the boy’s hair. “You all right, Josh?”

Joshua straightened his small, narrow shoulders and nodded. “Yes, sir. But Sally’s scared.”

“I know. Thanks for taking care of her for me.”

She noted Joshua’s brave pose and the adoration in his eyes as he looked at his uncle, Sally clinging so trustingly, and turned away from the sight before she gave in to the impulse to tear the children out of his arms. She well remembered how loved and safe she had felt when her father had held her—and how devastating it had been to learn that the love and security had been a lie.

She swallowed to ease a sudden tightness in her throat and stepped to the open door. Those children have no one else. Please don’t let Joshua or Sally be hurt by their uncle. Her face tightened. Who was she talking to? Certainly not God. He didn’t care about such things.

Lightning crackled and snapped, turned the room brilliant with its brief flash of light. Thunder growled. A gust of wind spattered the rain sluicing off the porch roof against her and banged the door against the porch railing. She shivered, grabbed the door and tugged it shut. Murky darkness descended, too deep for the single overhead oil lamp she had lit.

“Forgive me, Miss Wright, I forgot about the door.”

She turned and met Matthew Calvert’s gaze, found something compelling there and looked away. “It’s of no matter.” She rubbed the drops of moisture from her hands and moved toward the heating stove, then paused. She would have to walk by him to reach it, and she did not want to get close to Matthew Calvert. Something about him stirred emotions from the past she wanted dead and buried. She busied herself brushing at the small, wet blotches on her sleeves.

“Joshua, get your coat and hat on. Sally, you must get yours on, too. It’s time to go home.”

She watched from under her lowered lashes as he gently loosed Sally’s arms from around his neck and urged the little girl after her brother.

“Miss Wright…”

His deep voice was quiet, warm against the drumming of the rain on the roof. She lifted her head and again met his gaze. It was as quiet and warm as his voice. And dangerous. It made her want to believe him—as she had believed her father and Thomas. She clenched her hands. “Yes?”

“I need to speak with you…alone.” His gaze flicked toward Joshua and Sally, then came back to rest on hers. “Would you please stop at the parsonage on your way home? I need to explain—” Another sizzling streak of lightning and sharp crack of thunder brought Sally flying back to him. Joshua was close behind her.

She swallowed back the refusal that was on her lips. She wanted no part of Matthew Calvert. The man had already used her once to free himself from his responsibility to the children so he could spend time with Ellen at the church dinner. But she was a teacher, and his wards were her students. She needed to learn whatever she could that might help the sad, frightened children. Especially if their uncle continued that sort of behavior. She well knew the pain a man’s selfishness could bring others. She gave a stiff little nod and went to adjust the drafts on the stove.

* * *

“Thank you for coming, Miss Wright. Let me help you out of that wet cloak.” Matthew stepped behind her, waited until she had pushed back the hood and unfastened the buttons, then lifted the garment from her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She took a quick step forward, squared her shoulders and clasped her hands in front of her.

He stifled an unreasonable sense of disappointment. Willa Wright’s expression, her pose, every inch of her proclaimed she was a schoolmarm here on business. Well, what had he expected? No…hoped. That she would come as a friend?

He hung her damp cloak on one of the pegs beside the door and gestured to the doorway on his left. “Please come into the sitting room. We can talk freely there. Sally has calmed, now that the lightning and thunder have stopped, and she and Josh are playing checkers in his room.” He urged her forward, led her to the pair of padded chairs that flanked the fireplace. “We’ll sit here by the fire. The rain has brought a decided chill to the air.”

“Yes, and it shows no sign of abating.” She cast a sidelong glance up at him. “You had best be prepared for cold weather, Mr. Calvert. It will soon be snowstorms coming our way.”

Would they be colder than her voice or frostier than her demeanor? Clearly, she was perturbed over his asking her to come. “I’m no stranger to winter cold, Miss Wright. We have snowstorms in Albany.” He offered her a smile of placation. Perhaps he could soothe away some of her starchiness. “In truth, I enjoy them. There’s nothing as invigorating as a toboggan run down a steep hill with your friends, or as enjoyable as a ride on a moonlit night with the sleigh bells jingling and the snow falling.”

“A sleigh ride with…friends?”

“Yes, with friends.”

She nodded, smoothed her skirts and took a seat. “A very romantic view of winter in the city, Mr. Calvert. I’m afraid there are harsher realities to snowstorms here in the country.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “You wanted to speak with me. I assume it is about the children?”

He looked down at her, so prim and proper and…and disapproving. He glanced at the rain coursing down the window panes. Small wonder the woman was irritated with him. He turned and pushed a length of firewood closer to another log with the toe of his boot. What did it matter if she was upset with him? This was not about him or his confusing feelings for the aloof teacher. “Yes, it’s about the children.”

He looked into the entrance hall, toward the stairs that climbed to their bedrooms, then sat on the edge of the chair opposite her. “Miss Wright, as I have previously explained, I had parenthood thrust upon me a little over seven weeks ago under extremely stressful circumstances, and I—well, I’m at a loss. As I mentioned, there is much I don’t understand. Especially with Sally. However, I did not go into detail.”

He stole another look toward the stairs and leaned forward. “I asked to speak with you because I believe you are due an explanation of Sally’s behavior during a storm. You see, the day my brother and his wife died—” The pain of loss he carried swelled, constricted his throat. He looked down at the floor, gripped his hands and waited for the wave of grief to ease.

The fire crackled and hissed in the silence. The rain tapped on the windows—just as it had that day. He lifted his head. The firelight played across Willa Wright’s face, outlined each lovely feature. He looked into her eyes, no longer cool, but warm with sympathy, and let the memories pour out. “I was teaching Joshua to play chess, and that day Robert and Judith brought him to spend the afternoon with me while they went to visit friends. Sally went with them.”

He pushed to his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the fire. “When it grew close to the time when Robert said they would return for Josh, a severe thunderstorm, much like the one today, blew in. We were finishing our game when a bolt of lightning struck so close to the house that it rattled the windows and vibrated my chest. A horse squealed in panic out front. I jumped to my feet and hurried to the window. Josh followed me.”

He stared down at the flames, but saw only the carnage of a memory he prayed to forget. “There were two overturned, broken carriages in the street. One of them was Robert’s. His horse was down and thrashing, caught in the tangled harness. I told Josh to stay in the house and ran outside, but there was nothing I could do. Robert and Judith were…gone.”

He hunched his shoulders, shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and cleared the lump from his throat. “Sally was standing beside her mother, tugging on her hand and begging her to get up. She was scraped and bleeding, but, thankfully, not seriously injured.” His ragged breath filled the silence. That, and the sound of Sally’s sobs and Joshua’s running feet and sharp cry that lived in his head.

“I’m so sorry for you and the children, Reverend Calvert. I can’t imagine suffering through such a terrible occurrence. And for Sally to—” there was a sharply indrawn breath “—it’s no wonder she is terrified of thunderstorms.”

The warm, compassionate understanding in Willa Wright’s voice flowed like balm over his hurt and concern. The pressure in his chest eased. “Yes.”

“And it’s why Josh tries so hard to protect her and take care of her, even though he hates thunderstorms, too.” He looked down into her tear-filmed eyes. “He recognized his father’s rig and followed me outside. He…saw…his mother and father.” He shook off the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when he thought of the children standing there in the storm looking shocked and lost and made his voice matter-of-fact. “I thought you should know—so you could understand their behavior. I’m sure you have rules about such things.”

She nodded and rose to her feet. “There are rules, yes. It is the custom in Pinewood to close the schools and send the village children home when a storm threatens, lest they be caught out in it.” Her voice steadied. She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I’m thankful you called me here and told me what happened, Reverend Calvert. Now that I understand, should there be another thunderstorm, I will keep Sally and Joshua with me until you come for them, or should the hour grow late, I will bring them home and stay with them until your return.”

“That is far beyond your duty as their teacher, Miss Wright.” A frown tugged at his brows. “I appreciate your kindness, as will the children, but I assure you, I meant only to explain, not to impose upon you.”

She went still, stared up at him. “Nor did you, Reverend Calvert. You did not ask—I offered.” A look he could only describe as disgust flashed into her eyes. She tore her gaze from his and turned toward the door. “I must get home.”

He held himself from stopping her, from demanding that she tell him what he had done to bring about that look. “Yes, of course. I did not mean to take so much of your time.”

They walked out into the entrance hall and he lifted her cloak off the hook. The sound of rain drumming on the porch roof was clear in the small room. “You cannot walk home in that downpour, Miss Wright.” He settled the still-damp garment on her shoulders. “If you will wait here, I will get the buggy and drive you home.”

“That is not necessary, Reverend Calvert.” She raised her hands and tugged the hood in place. “I’m accustomed to walking home in all sorts of weather. The children need you here.”

Why must the woman be so prickly when he was trying to do her a kindness? The stubborn side of his nature stirred. “I insist, Miss Wright. The lightning has stopped. The children will be fine with Mrs. Franklin. Wait here.” He snatched his coat off its hook and hurried out the door before she could voice the refusal he read in her eyes.

* * *

The buggy moved along the muddy road, each rhythmic thud of the horse’s hooves a step closer to her home, yet the way had never seemed so long. She had done it again! She’d allowed the man to reach her heart in spite of her resolve. Willa stared down at her hands and willed her gaze not to drift to the handsome profile of Reverend Matthew Calvert. The sense of intimacy created by the curtain of rain around the buggy did not help.

The horse’s hooves struck against the planks of Stony Creek bridge and the carriage lurched slightly as the wheels rolled onto the hard surface. She grabbed for the hold strap to keep from brushing against him and held herself rigid as the buggy rumbled across the span, splashed back onto the mud of Main Street, then swayed around the corner onto her road.

“Miss Wright, may I ask your opinion about something that troubles me with Sally?” Matthew Calvert turned his head and looked at her.

She lifted her hand and adjusted her hood to avoid meeting his gaze. She was too easily swayed by the look of sincerity in his brown eyes. And she knew better, although her actions didn’t reflect it. Hadn’t the man just manipulated her into offering to watch his children if he was delayed, perhaps deliberately, in coming for them during a thunderstorm? What did he want of her now?

“To be fair, I must tell you it is a personal situation and has nothing to do with school. I simply don’t know what to do for the best. And I thought a woman would have a better understanding of a little girl’s needs than I.”

If it did not pertain to school, why involve her? She opened her mouth to suggest he ask Bertha Franklin, then closed it again at the remembered feel of Sally clinging to her. “What is it?” She fixed her mind on her father’s and Thomas’s selfishness and brought a “no” ready to her lips.

“Sally misses her mother terribly. It seems especially difficult for her at bedtime. That first evening, when I put them to bed in the parsonage, she wanted to sleep in Joshua’s bedroom. She cried so hard, I moved a trundle bed in for her.” He glanced her way again. “Perhaps I should not have done so, but it…troubles…me when she cries.”

She steeled her heart against the image of the grieving little girl and boy, and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the rain splashing off the horse’s rump. Sympathy came too easily when she looked into Matthew Calvert’s eyes.

“When we moved here, I decided permitting Sally to sleep in Joshua’s room was not for the best, and, in spite of her tears, I put her in a bedroom by herself. When I went to check on her later that night, I found her asleep—with one of Judith’s gloves clutched in her hand.”

The poor, hurting child! Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and, under the cover of her cloak, rubbed at the growing tightness in her chest. “That is my cabin ahead.”

The reverend nodded and drew back on the reins. The horse stopped. The drum of the rain on the buggy roof grew louder.

“Miss Wright, Sally takes comfort from Judith’s glove, but it seems she is becoming more dependent on it. It was the first thing she wanted when we came home earlier.” He turned on the seat to face her. “I don’t know what to do, Miss Wright. And, though I feel it is unfair of me to ask for your advice, I feel so inadequate to the situation that I find myself unable to refrain from doing so.” The sincerity in his voice tugged her gaze to meet his. “In your opinion, should I let Sally keep the glove? Or should I take it away?”

She couldn’t answer—couldn’t think clearly. Her memories were too strong, her emotions too stirred. This man and his wards were a danger to her. She squared her shoulders and shook her head. “I’m afraid I have no answer for you, Reverend Calvert. However, I will consider the problem, and if a suggestion should occur to me, I will tell you.” She pulled her hood farther forward and prepared to alight.

He drooped the reins over the dashboard, climbed down and hurried around to offer her his hand. She did not want his help, did not want to touch him, but there was no way around it. She placed her hand on his wet, uplifted palm and felt the warm strength of his fingers close over hers as she stepped down. The gesture was meant to steady her, but the effect was the opposite. She withdrew her hand, clasped the edges of her cloak against the driving rain and looked up at him. “Thank you for your kindness in bringing me home, Reverend Calvert.”

“Not at all, Miss Wright. It was the least I could do. Watch that puddle.”

His hand clasped her elbow. He guided her around the muddy water onto the wet planks that led to the stoop. Water from the soaked yard squished around his boots as he walked her to her door, released his hold and gave a polite bow of his head.

“Thank you for allowing me to unburden myself of my concerns over Sally and Joshua, Miss Wright. It was good of you to listen. Good afternoon.”

She nodded, opened the door and stepped inside, but could not resist a glance over her shoulder. He was running to his buggy.

“I expected you home when the storm started, Willa. Was there something wrong? I heard a buggy. Are you all right?”

She closed the door, turned and shoved the wet hood off her head. “I’m fine, Mama. Reverend Calvert’s ward, Sally, is frightened of thunderstorms and it took a bit to calm her. The reverend drove me home because of the rain.”

“You were scared of thunder and lightning when you were little. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” Too many things. The memories keep rearing up and betraying me. “You used to hold me and tell me stories.”

Her mother smiled and nodded. “I hope the reverend’s little girl gets over her fright. It’s a terrible thing when a child is afraid.” She narrowed her eyes, peered closely at her. “Are you certain you’re all right, Willa? You look…odd.”

“Well, I can’t imagine why. I’m perfectly fine.” She was. Or at least she would be, as soon as the tingly warmth of Matthew Calvert’s touch left her hand.

Chapter Five

Willa wrapped her bread and butter with a napkin, placed the bundle in the small wicker basket, added an apple and slammed the lid closed. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about yesterday? About the way her heart had sped at Matthew Calvert’s nearness when he removed her cloak? About that carriage ride, and the way her breath had caught when he took her hand in his? Those things were mere courtesies. Yet here she was mooning about them. It was disgusting. Why wasn’t she thinking about the way he had again manipulated her into offering to help with the children to free his time? Where was her self-control?

She dropped the dirty knife in the dishpan, swirled her cloak about her shoulders, grabbed her lunch basket and strode to the kitchen doorway. “I’m ready to go, Mama.”

Her mother nodded, poured the iron kettle of steaming water she held into the washtub, then turned and stepped to the pump to refill it. “I figured you’d be going early to stoke up the stove. It turned right cold last night.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. She hated the tiredness that lived in her mother’s voice. Hated that her mother worked from dawn to dusk every day but Sunday to keep the small cabin they called home. Most of all she hated her father for walking away and leaving her mother to find a way for them to survive without him.

She lifted the hem of her long skirt and stepped down into the lean-to wash shed.

Her mother raised her head and gave her a wry smile. “One thing about scrubbing clothes for a living—you’re never cold.” Her green eyes narrowed, peered at her. “What are you riled about?”

“Nothing. Except that you work too hard. Let me get that!” Willa plopped her basket on the corner of the wash bench and grabbed hold of the kettle handle. “You need to eat, Mama. I made a piece of bread and honey for you. It’s on the kitchen table.”

Her mother straightened and brushed a lock of curly hair off her sweat-beaded forehead. “Don’t you know it’s the mother who’s supposed to take care of the child, Willa?” There was sorrow and regret in the soft words.

“You’ve been doing that all my life, Mama.” She grabbed a towel and pulled the iron crane toward her, lifted the newly filled kettle onto a hook beside the one already heating and slowly pushed the crane back. The flames devouring the chunks of wood rose and licked at the large pot. The beads of water sliding down the iron sides hissed in protest. “I hope that someday I will be able to take care of you, and you will never have to do laundry again.”

Her mother smiled, dumped the first pile of dirty clothes into the washtub, set the washboard in place and reached for the bar of soap. “You’re a wonderful daughter to want to take care of me, Willa. But your future husband might have something to say about that.”

She snatched the soap out of her mother’s reach. “I told you there’s not going to be a future husband for me, Mama. I am never going to marry. Thomas cured me of that desire.” And Papa. “Now please, go and eat your bread while the rinse water is heating. I have to go.”

She put the soap back in its place, hung the towel back on its nail and picked up her basket. “Please leave the ironing, Mama. I will do it tonight. And I’ll stop at Brody’s on my way home and get some pork chops for supper. Danny told me they were butchering pigs at their farm yesterday. Now, I’ve got to leave or I’ll never get the schoolroom warm before my students come.”

She kissed her mother’s warm, moist cheek, opened the door of the lean-to and stepped out into breaking dawn of the brisk October morning. Dim, gray light guided her around the cabin to the road and filtered through the overhanging branches of trees along the path as she hurried on her way.

* * *

The stove was cold to the touch. Willa grabbed the handle of the grate, gave it a vigorous shake to get rid of the ashes that covered the live embers, then opened the drafts. The remaining coals glowed, turned red. She added a handful of kindling, stood shivering until it caught fire, then fed in a few chunks of firewood, lit a spill and closed the firebox door.

The flame on the spill fluttered. She cupped her free hand around it, stepped to the wall and unwound the narrow chain to lower the oil-lamp chandelier. The glass chimneys fogged from her warm breath as she lifted them one by one, lit the wicks, set the flame to a smokeless, steady burn and settled them back in place. Heat smarted her fingertips. She lit the oil lamp on her desk and blew out the shortened sliver of wood.

Everything was in readiness. Almost. She grabbed the oak bucket off the short bench and headed for the back door to fetch fresh drinking water from the well.

The door latch chilled her fingers. She stared at her hand gripping the metal and a horrible, hollow feeling settled in her stomach. This would be the sum of her life. She turned and surveyed the readied classroom, then looked down at the bucket dangling from her hand. She would spend her years teaching the children of others—until her mother’s strength gave out and she had to take over doing the loggers’ laundry to keep their home. Her back stiffened. “Well, at least I won’t have to live with a broken heart.” She hurled the defiant words into the emptiness, squared her shoulders and opened the door. If she hurried there was still time for her to write her letter before the children came.

Dearest Callie,

I was so pleased to receive your latest letter. And I thank you for your kind invitation to visit, perhaps I shall, later when school closes. I do apologize for being so tardy in answering, but you know helping Mama with her work leaves me little time for pleasurable activities.

I must tell you about Reverend Calvert and his wards. I am certain your aunt Sophia has written you about him as there is little talk of anything else in Pinewood since his arrival. And, truly, I am grateful for that as talk of Thomas’s hasty departure has ceased.

Willa frowned, tapped her lips with her fingertip and stared at the letter, then dipped her pen in the inkwell and made her confession.

You, and Sadie, and Mama are the only ones who know the truth of Thomas’s desertion of me. My pride demands that others believe I told him to follow his dream and go west without me, that the choice to remain behind was mine. I could not bear to face the pity of the entire village! Sadie knows well what I mean.

Oh, Callie, the folly of believing a man’s words of love. But I know you are aware of that danger. How my heart aches for you, my dear friend. I am so sorry your parents persist in their desire to find a wealthy husband for you, no matter his character. You write that you are praying and trusting God to undertake and bring you a man of strong faith and high morals in spite of their efforts, but I do not believe God troubles Himself with the difficulties and despairs of mere mortals. He certainly has never bestirred Himself on Mama’s behalf. Or mine.

Reverend Calvert is tall, and well-proportioned, and exceedingly handsome. He possesses an abundant charm, and a very persuasive manner. A dangerous combination, as you might imagine. One must stay on one’s guard around him lest

Light footfalls raced across the porch. The door opened. Willa wiped the nib of her pen, stoppered her inkwell and blotted the unfinished letter.

“Good morning, Mith Wright.” Billy Karcher shucked his jacket and hat, hung them on a peg on the wall and gave her a grin. “I’m getting a new tooth. Wanna thee?”

“Good morning, Billy. I certainly do.” She folded the letter and tucked it into her lunch basket to finish later.

The second grader tipped his head up and skimmed his lips back to expose the white edge of a new front tooth.

* * *

“Thank you for the prompt service, Mr. Dibble.” Matthew watched the fluid stride of his bay mare as the blacksmith led her in a tight circle. She was no longer favoring her left rear leg. “She seems fine now. What was the problem?”

“Nail was set wrong. Irritated the quick enough it got sore.” The blacksmith shook his head and led the horse over to him. “It’s a good thing you brought her in. Shoddy work like that can maim a horse.” He handed over the halter lead. “I checked the other shoes. They’re all good.”

“That’s good to know.” He stroked the bay’s neck, got a soft nicker and head bump in return. “What do I owe you?”

“Fourteen cents will take care of it.”

He counted out the coins, smiled and handed them over. “Thank you again, Mr. Dibble. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ll look forward to seeing you in church Sunday.”

The man’s gray eyes clouded, his hard, callused hand dropped the coins in the pocket of the leather apron that protected him. “I don’t go to church, Reverend. I figure all that praying and such is a waste of time. God’s never done anything for—” The livery owner’s straight, dark brown brows pulled down into a frown. “I’ll leave it there. Details don’t matter.”

“They do to the Lord. But He already knows them.”

“He don’t pay them no mind.”

“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Dibble.” He smiled to take any challenge from his words, stroked his mare’s neck and framed a careful reply to the man’s acrimony. “God doesn’t always answer our prayers as we hope or expect He will. Or perhaps God hasn’t had time—”

“I understand all right. There ain’t no way to not understand. And He’s had time aplenty.” David Dibble gave a curt nod and strode off toward his livery stables.

He watched him disappear into the shadowed interior. “I don’t know what is causing Mr. Dibble’s anger and bitterness, Lord, but I pray You will answer his prayers according to Your will. And that You will save his soul. Amen.” He took a firm grip on Clover’s halter and started for the road.

A buggy swept into the graveled yard, rumbled to a halt beside him. He glanced up, tugged on the halter and stopped his horse. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hall.” He lifted his free hand and removed his hat, dipped his head in the passenger’s direction. “Miss Hall.”

“Good afternoon, Reverend Calvert.” Ellen Hall’s full, red lips curved upward. “How fortunate that we have chanced to meet. Isn’t it, Father?”

The words were almost purred. Ellen Hall looked straight into his eyes, then swept her long, dark lashes down, tipped her head and fussed with a button on her glove. A practiced maneuver if he’d ever seen one—and he’d seen plenty back in Albany. He ignored her flirting and shifted his gaze back to Conrad Hall.

“Fortuitous indeed.” The man’s blue eyes peered at him from beneath dark, bushy brows. “Mrs. Hall and I would like to extend you a dinner invitation, Reverend. Tomorrow night. Our home is the second house on Oak Street, opposite the village park. We eat promptly at six o’clock.”

The man’s tone left no room for refusal. And it was certainly impolitic to turn down an invitation to dine with one of the founders of the church, but he had no choice. He chose his words carefully. “That’s very kind of you and Mrs. Hall, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’m not yet fully settled in and my children—”

“Will be welcome, Reverend. We shall see you at six tomorrow night.” The man glanced at his daughter, then flicked the reins and drove off.

Ellen gave him a sidelong look from beneath her lashes, lifted her gloved hand in a small wave and smiled. He dipped his head in response, then replaced his hat and tugged the bay into motion.

“Did you see that, Clover?” His growled words were punctuated by the thud of the bay’s hooves as he led her across the wood walk into the road. “If I ever see you flirting with a stallion like that, I’ll trade you to Mr. Totten and you can spend the rest of your days pulling his trolley.”

The horse snorted and tossed her head as he turned her toward home.

* * *

“What are you doing in here, Willa? The children are gone. And I’ve been waiting…” Ellen closed the door and swept down the aisle between the bench desks.

Willa snuffed the flame of the last lamp, raised the chandelier and turned to face her friend. “I was finishing a letter to Callie. I want to post it on my way home. You wanted something?”

“I have news.”

She looked at Ellen’s smug expression and shook her head. “Obviously, it pleases you.”

“Oh, it does.”

She nodded and stepped to the stove and twisted the handles to close the drafts for a slow burn that would preserve the fire for morning.

“Don’t you want to hear my news?”

“Of course.” She turned and grinned up at her friend. “And you will tell me as soon as you have your little dramatic moment.” She stepped to her desk and picked up her basket.

“Oh, very well.” Ellen hurried up beside her and gripped her forearm. “Reverend Calvert is coming for dinner tomorrow night!”

It took her aback. There was no denying it. And there was absolutely no reason why it should. She nodded and smiled. “That’s quite a ‘coup,’ Ellen. Every young woman in the village has been hoping to have the reverend for dinner.” She started for the door. “Was the dinner your father’s idea, or—”

“He thinks it was.” Ellen laughed and tugged the velvet collar on her coat higher as they went out the door. “I planned it, of course—with Mother’s help.”

Of course. “I’m surprised he accepted.” Really? “I know he’s turned down other invitations because of the children.” But those young women don’t possess Ellen’s beauty. She stifled a spurt of disgust and hurried down the porch steps and turned toward town.

“Yes, I’d heard, so I planned for that. I had father tell him the children were welcome.”

She stopped and stared up at Ellen. The smug look on her friend’s face made her want to shake her. “And are they welcome?”

“Of course, as long as they don’t get in the way. And they won’t. I’ve made certain of that. They will have their own meal in the breakfast room. And Isobel has been instructed to keep them there until my performance is finished.” Ellen smiled and patted her curls with a gloved hand. “I’m going to recite a Psalm. I want the reverend to see my spiritual side.”

“I’m certain he will be duly impressed.”

“He will be when he sees my new gown.” Ellen laughed and moved ahead. “Bye, Willa.” She waved a gloved hand and turned onto the stone walkway to her house.

Willa released the white-knuckled grip she had on the basket handle and marched down the sidewalk. Her disgust carried her all the way to Brody’s meat market. She took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face and went inside to buy pork chops for their supper. A supper that would have included children at the table—if she had had any.

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