much as a peek.
Give me strength, Lord. As prayers went, this one ranked low, but it was a start. After digging up his Bible and reading from it last night, particularly the verses his uncle had recommended, he’d been seized with a hunger to figure out God’s plans for his life. He had a strong suspicion they included Mercy Evans, but convincing her of that wouldn’t be easy.
He dropped the flowers to his side and considered his next words. Might as well just come out with it. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?”
“Mr. Connors, I thought I made it plain that—”
“And have you prayed about it?”
“What?”
He could hardly fault her for her disbelief. It wasn’t often he did the preaching. Shoot, he hadn’t even darkened a church door since last Christmas. “Because I have. Prayed and also read God’s Word. Last night, I memorized Jeremiah twenty-nine, verse eleven: ‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the L ord , thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you hope in your latter end.’ I think my ‘latter end’ involves marryin’ you and helpin’ raise those boys. Harold Beauchamp is not your man. He doesn’t even like kids that much. He told me so, just this mornin’.”
“You went to see Mr. Beauchamp?” She pressed her hands to her temples. “Mr. Connors, I—”
“Sam, just call me Sam.”
A low growl came out of her. “I don’t know what to make of you.”
He smiled. “You’ll learn over time.”
“What? No. I’ve already told you, our families—”
“—will have to learn to mind their own business,” he finished. “We shouldn’t let a long-ago feud kept alive by our relatives rule the way we live our lives.”
Her eyes rounded like two brown billiard balls. “Your father killed my daddy.”
He closed his eyes and put his face to the sun. The truth stung. “I know.” He lowered his face and met her gaze. “I doubt anyone from my family has ever apologized for that, so I’d like to do that now. Truly, truly , I am sorry for what my father did. We may never fully learn what transpired between them that day.” He swallowed hard at the sight of her, several strands of hair framing her cheeks, her dark eyes filled with tears to the point of brimming over. The emotion seeping out of her made him want to draw her close, but he didn’t even dare touch her arm, for fear of frightening her. He couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to broach the subject of marriage again, but he’d been compelled to at least try, spurred on by his uncle’s remarks.
Maybe he’d been wrong to go see Harold Beauchamp this morning, but the man needed a little reality drilled into him if he thought marriage to Mercy was going to be easy. He didn’t have a clue how much work it took to raise two boys. Granted, neither did Sam, but he’d had plenty of practice keeping up with his energetic young cousins. He almost grinned, remembering the gray pallor Harold’s face had taken on when Sam had painted a picture of life with two young boys who were likely to live at home for at least fifteen years more.
By the time Sam had finished talking to him, the poor man had confessed that he wasn’t Mercy’s best choice, no matter that he liked her well enough. It was those kids and their seemingly inexhaustible energy that worried him. He didn’t think he had what it took to work ten hours a day, then come home to a bustling household of rollicking boys—not when he’d grown accustomed to the simple solitude bachelorhood afforded. He’d admitted to long having admired Mercy Evans; that, when the opportunity to wed her had presented itself, he’d seized it—with no thought for the boys’ welfare. Now he regretted it, he’d said, especially after speaking with Sam.
In the end, they’d shaken hands, and Beauchamp had actually thanked Sam for talking some sense into him. He’d told him he would visit Mercy mid-afternoon to announce his change of heart, so
Give me strength, Lord. As prayers went, this one ranked low, but it was a start. After digging up his Bible and reading from it last night, particularly the verses his uncle had recommended, he’d been seized with a hunger to figure out God’s plans for his life. He had a strong suspicion they included Mercy Evans, but convincing her of that wouldn’t be easy.
He dropped the flowers to his side and considered his next words. Might as well just come out with it. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?”
“Mr. Connors, I thought I made it plain that—”
“And have you prayed about it?”
“What?”
He could hardly fault her for her disbelief. It wasn’t often he did the preaching. Shoot, he hadn’t even darkened a church door since last Christmas. “Because I have. Prayed and also read God’s Word. Last night, I memorized Jeremiah twenty-nine, verse eleven: ‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the L ord , thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you hope in your latter end.’ I think my ‘latter end’ involves marryin’ you and helpin’ raise those boys. Harold Beauchamp is not your man. He doesn’t even like kids that much. He told me so, just this mornin’.”
“You went to see Mr. Beauchamp?” She pressed her hands to her temples. “Mr. Connors, I—”
“Sam, just call me Sam.”
A low growl came out of her. “I don’t know what to make of you.”
He smiled. “You’ll learn over time.”
“What? No. I’ve already told you, our families—”
“—will have to learn to mind their own business,” he finished. “We shouldn’t let a long-ago feud kept alive by our relatives rule the way we live our lives.”
Her eyes rounded like two brown billiard balls. “Your father killed my daddy.”
He closed his eyes and put his face to the sun. The truth stung. “I know.” He lowered his face and met her gaze. “I doubt anyone from my family has ever apologized for that, so I’d like to do that now. Truly, truly , I am sorry for what my father did. We may never fully learn what transpired between them that day.” He swallowed hard at the sight of her, several strands of hair framing her cheeks, her dark eyes filled with tears to the point of brimming over. The emotion seeping out of her made him want to draw her close, but he didn’t even dare touch her arm, for fear of frightening her. He couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to broach the subject of marriage again, but he’d been compelled to at least try, spurred on by his uncle’s remarks.
Maybe he’d been wrong to go see Harold Beauchamp this morning, but the man needed a little reality drilled into him if he thought marriage to Mercy was going to be easy. He didn’t have a clue how much work it took to raise two boys. Granted, neither did Sam, but he’d had plenty of practice keeping up with his energetic young cousins. He almost grinned, remembering the gray pallor Harold’s face had taken on when Sam had painted a picture of life with two young boys who were likely to live at home for at least fifteen years more.
By the time Sam had finished talking to him, the poor man had confessed that he wasn’t Mercy’s best choice, no matter that he liked her well enough. It was those kids and their seemingly inexhaustible energy that worried him. He didn’t think he had what it took to work ten hours a day, then come home to a bustling household of rollicking boys—not when he’d grown accustomed to the simple solitude bachelorhood afforded. He’d admitted to long having admired Mercy Evans; that, when the opportunity to wed her had presented itself, he’d seized it—with no thought for the boys’ welfare. Now he regretted it, he’d said, especially after speaking with Sam.
In the end, they’d shaken hands, and Beauchamp had actually thanked Sam for talking some sense into him. He’d told him he would visit Mercy mid-afternoon to announce his change of heart, so
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