Free Stealing Mercy by Kristy Tate Page B

Mercy slept and dreamt of him.
    Central Park. Springtime. Blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds. Dandelions, buttercups, tulips and crocus. A bear growling at the peacocks wandering past his cage.
    “ The bear was visiting from Russia,” a child beside her said. “Supposedly, it can dance.”
    Mercy replied, “It does little but lumber and complain.”
    “ It seems unkind to allow these flocks to congregate around the bear,” Steele said.
    “ He looks very well fed. I’m sure he’s not tempted by a few sheep,” Mercy replied, sizing up the animal that resembled a furry tree stump.
    “ I don’t like the sheep,” the child said before moving away to watch the one-man band.
    Mercy silently agreed. The sheep were the color of slushy snow and had stragglers hanging from their wool. They moved and smelled like a sluggish creek and littered the paths. She much preferred the goats; they had intelligent eyes and darted about as if they had a sense of humor, if not a sense of purpose. Humor, frankly, was a much underrated attribute and she’d begun to despair of Steele’s.
    “ Temptation,” Steele murmured. “I understand temptation.”
    Mercy considered him. Rich, handsome, charming, why did he set her teeth on edge? When did she realize the jitters he sent her were unpleasant? “Are you fond of mutton? Should I warn the sheep?”
    He turned to her and ran a finger down her bared arm, sending a shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, undone buttons in particular.”
     
    Mercy woke in a sweat, her breathing labored and heavy. With sleep a distant and unpleasant memory, she flung back the covers and swung out of bed. The floorboards felt cold and solid against her feet. She covered the small room in ten strides. She needed answers, she had decisions to make, she had to be on solid ground.
    A cheery quilt on the feather bed, a night table large enough for a book and candlestick, a wardrobe bursting with clothes, she loved her new home and she wanted to stay. She thought about Trent, and how it felt to be close to him in the warm, secluded coach. He’d foiled her plans earlier, but was there still time? She went to the window and watched a pink sunrise tinge the sky.
    Six thirty am. Was it sane? Had she completely lost her mind?
    Crouching, she pulled the worn knapsack out from under the bed. With shaking fingers she drew out her father’s clothes.
     
     

CHAPTER 10
     
    A healthy breakfast will not only provide energy for the day but will also promote concentration, problem-solving skills, and eye-hand coordination.
    From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
     
    Trent had been wrong. She was good at trellis climbing. Of course, it held more risk in the breaking day, as opposed to the dark night, but Mercy moved quickly, quietly and soon landed on the second story balcony. Not Steele’s room, but close. She hunched beneath the railing so she couldn’t be seen by anyone other than a lazy Tom cat that watched through slit eyes while he took his morning bath.
    Through half-open shutters on an opposite window she could see Steele standing in the middle of the hotel room. If he moved too far to the left or the right he’d be out of view. She thought about the first time she met him; he’d been as handsome as Melanie had claimed. He’d fallen for her pies, he’d said, and it had been so close to the story of her parents that she’d warmed to him immediately and made sure his pies were generously sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Now she wished she’d laced the pies with something that would have kept him in New York.
    A safe lay at Steele’s feet, in kicking range. His eyes kept straying to the unmade bed where a collection of jewelry had been dumped into glittering piles on the pulled back sheets. Had he slept with them? It seemed unlikely.
    His fingers tightened on his whiskey bottle as if he fought back the urge to fling it against the wall. Who drinks before dawn? Mercy wondered.
    Wandering over to the