Love Finds You in Poetry, Texas by Janice Hanna Page A

brow wrinkled. “Do you tell the women that you will cover the cost of their train tickets home if things don’t work out?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then leave it in the Lord’s hands, child.” Her aunt patted her hand. “These women made the decision to come of their own accord. They were not manipulated, merely presented with an opportunity. I daresay most were wise enough to figure out ahead of time that things might not work to their best advantage, but they were willing to take that risk. And I can’t help but think the Lord has had a hand in all of it. Bringing them here, I mean. It’s not up to you to shoot Cupid’s arrow into anyone’s heart. You simply act as a mediator.”
    “True.” Belinda threw her arms around her aunt’s neck. “Oh, thank you, Aunt Hilde. You always have such a way of making me feel better.”
    “I think we’re more alike than we admit,” Aunt Hilde whispered. “I’ve often been accused of being an arranger, myself.” She gave Belinda a wink. “Oh, and by the way...Samuel Bromstead was in the store earlier today. Want to guess who was with him?”
    “Really?” Belinda grinned. “The widow Hanson?”
    “Yes, and he and Ella looked quite happy to be together. So you see, my dear, many of your instincts are right. Just be careful how you apply them. Otherwise it will be two steps forward, one step back.”
    “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I will move cautiously.”
    Over the next couple of hours, Belinda did her best to focus on the customers. Still, she couldn’t help but think about how all of this might end. In many ways, this whole thing felt like a train barreling down the track. Where it landed was anyone’s guess.

    Georg spent all afternoon getting the menfolk spiffed up. His shop had never been so full. Turned out every single fellow in town had his eye on one or more of the women who’d arrived last week. And not necessarily the men who were supposed to be interested in them.
    He couldn’t help but laugh as he thought about the woeful mismatches. Poor Myles Lott. Everyone in town had already figured out that Marta Schuller didn’t exactly have eyes for him. But what a sad dilemma, to face rejection from your bride-to-be in such a public fashion. Myles had shuffled into the barbershop for a few moments early this morning. After taking a look at the crowd of men, he’d left immediately. Surely he knew that a good many of these rowdy fellas now had their eye on his intended.
    The situation with Reverend Billingsley and Sarah Jo Cummings was as humorous as Myles’s story was sad. All morning long the menfolk had speculated about that one, and the chatter continued as Georg worked through the afternoon.
    “I think the reverend will feel compelled to marry Sarah Jo, even if he doesn’t want to,” Charlie Grundy said, as he settled down into a chair for a haircut.
    “But how could a man marry a woman he didn’t love?” Old Man Miller asked. “It’s not fair—to either party.”
    “Indeed.” The word slipped out of Georg’s mouth, but he realized just how close he’d come to doing that very thing. He didn’t love Corabelle, and yet he’d nearly offered her a ring. Oh, how he thanked the Lord that he hadn’t made that mistake. In so many ways, he felt liberated by his decision not to look for a wife.
    Still, there was some fun to looking, as evidenced by these men and the enthusiastic expressions on their faces.
    “I think the reverend’s caught between a rock and a hard place,” Peter said, walking in the door.
    Georg turned to smile at his good friend. He’d never quite figured out why Peter Conrad spent so much time at the barbershop. The man’s beard hung to his chest, and his hair—what was left of it—he wore long behind his back. Quite different from the other men in town, for sure, but no one dared question it. No, everyone loved Peter far too much to quibble about his looks. Or lack thereof.
    Peter took a seat and then pulled out a scrap of