Where the Heart Leads by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

three iron tubs of water and a towering mound of dirty clothes.
    She greeted him with a mock scowl. “ There you are. This night-wandering must be a habit you acquired in Boston. You were always early to bed when you were a boy.” She lifted one of Pa’s shirts from a pile on the floor. “Your father waited for you. He had some news concerning a job. But it can wait until morning, I suppose.”
    Thomas crossed to the crock that served as a cookie jar and removed the lid. “I would have been back sooner, but I ran into Belinda Schmidt”—he grinned, realizing his words were literal rather than figurative—“and helped her deliver a wagonful of ironing.” He fished two fat ammonia cookies from the crock and replaced the lid with a soft clank .
    Summer shook her head and dropped a shirt into the tub closest to her knees. “Ironing yet . . . That girl is going to work herself to death.” A puzzled look crossed her face. “I’ve not been able to determine why Belinda is working at all. Her family seemed well-to-do when her father was alive, but since his death, it’s as though they’re impoverished.” Then she raised her shoulders and added, “But I suppose that isn’t my business. I do admire Belinda for being willing to support her mother and sister. I only wish her sister would help by at least taking over the housework. And I worry about her. I’m afraid she’ll spend her whole life tending to Frau Schmidt and Malinda.”
    Thomas finished the first cookie and brushed crumbs from his shirtfront. “I invited her family to our picnic on the Fourth. Is that all right?”
    Summer separated Pa’s pants from the girls’ dresses. “I discussed the picnic with her mother over a week ago and encouraged her to come with Belinda and Malinda.”
    Thomas scowled. “Belinda knew nothing about it.”
    With a soft huff of displeasure, Summer shook her head. “I should have known to mention it to Belinda. I’m glad you said something.”
    “I feel sorry for her.” Thomas examined the remaining cookie in his hand but saw only Belinda’s sad eyes. He glanced up to find Summer fixing him with a speculative look. “What’s the matter?”
    She just smiled. “Nothing.” She returned to sorting, placing each item into its appropriate tub to soak. “I hope they’ll come. They could all benefit from taking a break from mourning.” Then she put her hands on her hips and assumed a stern air. “But right now, young man, I need your dirty clothes. I didn’t want to invade your privacy by going into your room and seeking them out myself. So would you please retrieve whatever items need to be washed?” With an arched brow, she let her gaze rove from his head to his toes and back. “Which includes the pants and shirt you’re wearing.”
    Thomas popped the last bite of cookie into his mouth and grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” And while they were alone, perhaps they could discuss Boston.
    He quickly changed into his nightshirt and robe, then gathered up all of his dirty clothes. Heat filled his face as he stepped back into the kitchen with his hairy legs and bare feet sticking out from beneath the hem of the nightshirt. His stepmother had seen him in his nightclothes many times when he was a boy, yet he felt somehow exposed standing before her now in such informal attire.
    But she simply took the items from his hands and said, “Thank you. Now schlop die gesunt , son.”
    That was his cue to go to bed. Maybe that was best. Summer looked tired.
    Thomas awakened to the sound of his father whistling. He cocked his head, straining to determine whether anyone else was up with Pa. He detected no other voices.
    Throwing back the light cover, he shimmied into a pair of pants, tugged on a shirt, and headed to the kitchen. He spotted Pa leaning over one of the tubs of water, preparing to lift it. Thomas dashed forward. “Here, Pa. Let me help.”
    “ Dank .” Pa stepped to one side of the tub and took hold of the handle. “The