Free Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren Page A

lit on his forehead. He slapped it before it could start feasting. “I’d rather talk inside before I’m eaten alive. I promise not to overstay my welcome.”
    She arched a dark eyebrow. “You already have.”
    “I guess I asked for that one. Let me rephrase. I’ll take just a few minutes o’ your time.” He batted at another mosquito, hoping she would relent.
    Ever so slowly, the door inched open. “Say your piece, then.”
    Before she could change her mind, he scooted past her and removed his Stetson. He sure had a talent for stirring up her ire. In all the years of knowing her, even though only on a formal basis, he’d never managed to wrangle a smile from her, but it didn’t dampen his determination to try.
    While turning his hat in his hands, he gave a hurried glance around, remembering certain aspects of the expansive yet cozy house from the brief time he’d spent there after the fire: the wide oak staircase; the parlor; the wrought-iron coat tree, which he would bet money his uncle Clarence had crafted and sold to May’s General Store for resale.
    “Nice house,” he said.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Connors?” she asked, not bothering to acknowledge the compliment.
    “Um…could I come in?”
    “You are in.”
    Feisty little mite .
    “Oh, all right. Come into my parlor, if you must.”
    He nodded and entered the room. On the west wall hung a large painting of a little girl with big eyes and wispy hair sitting on a child-size chair, legs crossed at her ankles, and holding an open book in her lap. Under the canvas print stood a long sofa with side tables on either end, a vase of flowers on one and a small stack of books on the other. A floor lamp towered over the table with the books. On the inside wall was a brick fireplace, flanked by a pair of wing chairs upholstered in a dark burgundy brocade, and the wood floor was covered with an ornately patterned wool rug.
    “Is this the room I was laid in after the fire?”
    She gave a quick nod, minus any semblance of a smile. “Yes. Have a seat there.” All business, she pointed at the sofa, where he must have lain mere weeks ago. He walked over and sat down. “Can I take your hat?” she asked.
    He glanced absently at the tattered thing and realized holding it gave his hands something to do. “No, thanks. I’ll keep it with me.”
    She remained firm as a starched collar staring down at him. “I was just making myself a cup of tea. Would you care for some?”
    He let out a whiff of air. “Sounds great.”
    “Fine. Make yourself comfortable.” Her long skirts ruffled as she left the room.
    “Well, this is a little better than standin’ on the porch gettin’ gnawed to death by mosquitoes,” he muttered to himself. He spread his knees, settled back, laid his hat beside him, and twiddled his thumbs in his lap. That kept him occupied for about a minute. He glanced around, his gaze falling on the side table with the stack of books. Reaching over, he plucked the book on the top of the pile. The Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life , by Hannah Whitall Smith. The title struck him as odd. He’d never considered the Christian life a necessarily happy one. More like dutiful. Every so-called Christian he knew didn’t come off as excessively joyful, his mother a prime example. While she wouldn’t think of missing Sunday service, she was always grousing about one thing or another; more often than not, she wore a sour face, suggesting to him that living happily as a Christian didn’t come naturally.
    The sole exception was Uncle Clarence, who was always humming or whistling a hymn when he came to the shop in the mornings. Folks about town knew him to be friendly, kindhearted, generous, and fair. In fact, Sam couldn’t recall him ever uttering a harsh word—quite the opposite of his brother Ernest. Sam’s father.
    “Are you a reader?”
    Mercy’s voice gave him a jolt. He hadn’t heard her approach. “I like to read, yes.” He quickly set the book