Free Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren

descended the wooden staircase with a loud, long sigh that blew upward and caused a few stray hairs to lift off her forehead. Mr. Beauchamp had thought it a good idea to spend the evening with her and the boys—to get acquainted, he’d said—and she’d thought it wise, as well, but he’d certainly worn a fatigued expression at the close of the night, the boys having run him ragged with their rounds of tag, hide-and-seek, and leapfrog. She figured he hadn’t played much of anything of late, except for that newfangled gramophone he’d recently ordered from the Sears & Roebuck Catalog and couldn’t stop talking about. The boys had winded him so badly that gigantic sweat circles formed under his armpits, inflicting havoc on his neatly pressed Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt. She tried to imagine washing his sweat-stained shirts, and felt her nose scrunch up all on its own.
    While he’d treated them all with kindness, it had been clear he wasn’t accustomed to being around children, and she worried he just might call off the whole arrangement, deciding their raucous play was more than his ticker could handle, not to mention his wheezing lungs. No wonder John Roy thought the poor man had swallowed a whistle. She would have to warn them that Mr. Beauchamp might not be up for that much activity going forward.
    When he’d announced his leave-taking, around eight o’clock, the boys had bid him good-bye, then scampered off to the kitchen for their promised bedtime snack of cookies and milk. He’d hesitated by the door, chewing his lower lip, as if trying to figure out how to break the news that he’d rather live with a family of venomous rattlesnakes than take on two active young boys, but in the end, he’d just given her a tentative smile and nodded good night. Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t given any indication that he’d had a nice time. She let go another heavy wad of air, trying to expel her worries, then shuffled into the kitchen and set the teakettle on the stove to heat water for a cup of tea.
    As she lifted the kettle off the flame and prepared to fill her cup, a gentle knock sounded on the front door. Jolted to attention, she set the kettle down—too fast, causing the liquid to splash. Pricks of scorching heat singed her wrist.
    “Ouch!”
    The knock came again. Mr. Beauchamp, no doubt. She groaned. He couldn’t have waited till tomorrow to tell her of his decision to back out of the arrangement? She scurried through the dimly lit house to the door. Through the glass, she could make out the silhouette of a figure—a silhouette that stretched much taller and wider than the frame of Mr. Beauchamp.
    ***
    Sam prepared himself for a tongue-lashing. What sort of man came calling on a woman at nine thirty in the evening? Why, she might have readied herself for bed; but then, she wouldn’t have come to the door. At least, that was his assumption. She stopped and stared at him through the glass, mouth agape.
    He cleared his throat. “Good evenin’. May I come in?”
    She swept a few stray hairs out of her face and straightened her shoulders, then slowly turned the lock and opened the door a crack. “I’m afraid I’m not a hospital, Mr. Connors. If you’re still having medical problems, you’d best go see Doc Trumble.”
    He wedged the toe of his boot inside the door to keep it from closing, which prompted a tight little gasp from her throat. “I’m glad to see you, too, Miss Evans.” He grinned and hoped she’d take his remark as playful. “I don’t need medical care. I’ve come to talk to you.”
    Her face contorted in a mix of annoyance and confusion. “Have you no idea of the time?”
    Even with that frown, you’re flawless . “Yes, I know. Sorry about that, but it’s urgent. May I?”
    Rather than open the door so much as a hair further, she adjusted her stiff stance, as if prepared to slam it shut. “What could you possibly need to tell me at this hour?”
    A mosquito buzzed around and